Chapter 82: Blade-Dance!
At Odin's words, a spark of interest flickered through Oberyn's narrow eyes.
He gestured for Ellaria to wait, shifting into a more comfortable position as he regarded Odin with relaxed curiosity, silently urging him to continue.
Odin spoke slowly and clearly.
"I intend to build something unprecedented—on the edge of Flea Bottom—a free combat arena unlike anything this world has seen."
Oberyn yawned, unimpressed.
"So… an arena?"
"No."
Odin raised a finger and shook his head. "Your Highness, it will be far more than a crude pit of blood and sand."
As he spoke, [Presence Lv.3] unfurled without sound. He spread his arms, his voice gaining weight and cadence.
"What I will build is a city that never sleeps on the banks of the Blackwater—a comprehensive palace of entertainment."
"There will be no rules," he continued, "only victory and defeat. Knights, sellswords, savages, even beggars—anyone with the strength and courage may win everything here."
Then his tone shifted.
"It will not be only combat. There will be the most luxurious inns in the Seven Kingdoms. The finest chefs. Service fit for kings."
"And of course—"
His fingers tapped the tabletop, as if coins were chiming.
"—opulent gaming halls where nobles and merchant princes may wager fortunes without blinking."
"From Braavosi board games to Dornish dice—every game of chance imaginable will be offered. And I will personally guarantee absolute fairness."
"When the doors open," Odin concluded, "this place will not merely become the center of desire and consumption in Westeros—it will eclipse the Narrow Sea itself."
"It will be the most lavish, most dangerous, and most intoxicating meeting point of power and gold—"
"A legend."
The vivid vision clearly struck home.
Oberyn's interest deepened.
He had always been drawn to novelty, danger, and the thrill of breaking convention—else he would never have crossed the Narrow Sea to live as a sellsword for years, princely title notwithstanding.
(Though admittedly, fleeing Westeros after bedding Lord Yronwood's paramour and killing the old lord with a poisoned blade had also played its part.)
Odin's proposal spoke directly to his nature.
Still, Oberyn remained cautious.
"It sounds… exhilarating," he said slowly.
"But tell me—what does this have to do with me, Odin?"
The moment had come.
Odin straightened, meeting Oberyn's gaze squarely. His tone carried respectful confidence.
"That is precisely the point, Your Highness."
"Even the grandest stage needs a star worthy of illuminating it."
"On opening day, I need a warrior whose name and skill can command the crowd—someone who can ignite the blood of every man present and set the tone for everything that follows."
"And if one looks across the Seven Kingdoms—"
Odin smiled faintly.
"—who could surpass the Red Viper of Dorne? Who bears a fiercer reputation, or deadlier skill, than Prince Oberyn Martell himself?"
The flattery was unmistakable—and expertly placed.
Oberyn had never doubted his own prowess or allure. Rather than bristle, he accepted the praise with a satisfied nod, as if Odin had merely stated the obvious.
"You're honest," Oberyn said at last.
Oberyn split into a broad grin.
"But why should I lend my name to your venture?" he asked lazily. "What tangible benefit does this bring me?"
Odin answered with a smile that suggested he had already prepared this response.
"As you can see, I am first and foremost a healer."
He gestured meaningfully toward the bloodstains on the table.
"I believe you've already witnessed a glimpse of my methods."
"And I happen to know that your brother, Prince Doran Martell, has long suffered from gout—so severely that he has been confined to a wheelchair for years."
Odin's voice remained calm, precise.
"If you agree to attend the opening of my arena and lend it your dignity, then once affairs in King's Landing are concluded, I will personally accompany you to Sunspear."
"There, I will do everything in my power to treat Prince Doran with my own hands."
The moment those words left his mouth, the laziness drained from Oberyn's face.
Doran's condition was no secret. Many knew of it—and it was precisely why the Prince of Dorne rarely appeared in public, unwilling to reveal his weakness.
But believing it could be cured was another matter entirely.
"I told you," Oberyn said coldly, "I studied for years at the Citadel."
He let out a short, mocking laugh.
"I earned six links. The archmaesters praised my talent. And because of that, I know exactly where the limits of medicine lie."
"Gout," he continued, eyes sharp, "is a curse of the gods. It can be managed, eased—but never cured."
"We have sought out every maester, healer, septon, and even witches from the Free Cities. All of them were helpless."
He stared at Odin.
"So tell me—why should I believe you?"
Odin did not hesitate.
"Ser Jaime Lannister."
The name landed cleanly.
"After escaping Riverrun, his right hand was severed at the wrist. When I met him, the wound had been soaked for three full days in mud, horse dung, and filthy blood."
Odin met Oberyn's gaze without blinking.
"Your Highness—given your education, you know the odds of survival under those conditions."
"Infection and fever alone would have killed any man within ten days. Even the strongest would not have endured."
"But he lives."
"Not only did the wound heal cleanly—he has already begun training with his left hand."
"That alone," Odin concluded, "is proof that my art bears no resemblance to the work of ordinary healers."
He paused, then added quietly, pressing his advantage:
"And you also know this—I am a healer, not a madman."
"In this world, only a lunatic would dare deceive you, Prince Oberyn Martell."
Fact reinforced by flattery—the combination struck deep.
The Red Viper fell silent.
He had heard that the Kingslayer survived his mutilation, but not under such horrific circumstances. If Odin spoke true, then his skill truly surpassed that of any maester alive.
Even the Citadel's finest could not have saved such a wound.
"You saved Jaime Lannister," Oberyn said slowly.
Then, just as agreement seemed inevitable, his voice turned glacial.
"You saved the Kingslayer."
The atmosphere froze.
"You saved a Lannister."
He slammed the bloodied dagger back into the table.
"Do you know who I hate most in this world? Every last one of them!"
Oberyn leaned forward, eyes burning.
"You want my help? Fine."
"Then we do it Petyr Baelish's way."
"A game of Blade Dance."
"If you win," he snarled, "I'll grant your request—and I'll fight gloriously in your arena, no matter who stands across from me."
"But if you lose—"
He leaned so close his breath brushed Odin's face.
"I will personally cut off your right hand."
"And then I will watch you—the great healer—attempt to reattach it."
The room fell deathly silent. Even Ellaria stopped smiling.
She knew Oberyn well enough to understand—this was no joke.
Odin, for his part, felt only exasperation.
This man's mind truly is wired differently.
If he lost his hand, what surgery? What cure? What future?
Though [Surgery Lv.3] could not yet fully cure gout, reaching Lv.4 would give him a solid chance to dramatically improve Doran's condition—through joint puncture and minimally invasive cleansing.
But all of that required two functional hands.
At that moment, Petyr finally found his voice.
"Please, Lord Odin," he said hurriedly. "This is far too dangerous!"
"Blade Dance is no trivial game. A single mistake could maim you. You are the Hand's personally appointed Chief Special Agent!"
"If your right hand were injured, how would you continue to serve Lord Tywin? How would you maintain order in King's Landing?"
His concern sounded sincere—almost touching.
Odin shot him a sidelong glance and sneered inwardly.
This bastard is pouring oil on the fire.
Oberyn had just declared his hatred for the Lannisters, and Petyr immediately emphasized that Odin was "personally appointed by Tywin."
The provocation was blatant.
Enjoy it while you can, Littlefinger, Odin thought coldly. One day I'll show you how real power handles business.
As expected, Oberyn's gaze grew even colder.
"So that's it…"
"Not only the savior of the Kingslayer—but Tywin Lannister's dog as well."
"I serve the Iron Throne," Odin replied evenly. "That is true."
"But that does not conflict with the respect I show you—or the deal I've offered. Would you not agree?"
He paused, then continued calmly:
"Since you wish to play a game…"
In full view of everyone, Odin reached out, gripped the dagger buried in the table, and yanked it free.
Steel scraped against wood.
He spun the blade once with practiced ease and placed it gently between himself and Oberyn, the point centered perfectly.
Odin lifted his gaze, unwavering.
"Blade Dance, then."
"I, Odin, accept."