Chapter 115: Draw the Blade!
As Odin strode toward the entrance of the Hall of Order, the argument outside had already escalated into the unmistakable clash of metal.
The conflict had turned violent.
Frowning, he stepped past the threshold—and the first thing he saw was Iggo lying on the marble floor.
This hardened Dothraki warrior, long accustomed to injury, now wore an expression of pain and disbelief, as if he could not accept his own defeat.
Odin focused his gaze.
A clear, sunken imprint of a fist marred Iggo's chest. His leather armor was cracked throughout, making it obvious just how terrifying the force of that blow had been.
Iggo tried to push himself up, but with every breath, his face grew paler. Bloody foam bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
Rib fracture. Possibly punctured lung.
Odin made the diagnosis instantly.
"Don't move, blood of my blood. Moving will only worsen it," he said in a low voice.
Then he turned to a nearby servant. "Bring a stretcher. Take him to a side room—I'll treat him shortly."
In Flea Bottom, Odin's medical authority was beyond question.
Within moments, several men carried Iggo away.
Only then did Odin lift his head—and look at the source of the chaos.
A man built like a mountain.
No helmet. A low, sloping forehead. Brow ridges jutting like cliffs. Eyes sunken in shadow. Thick lips curled outward.
He wore full plate armor, and upon his breastplate, three black dogs glistened under the torchlight.
That monstrous size… that pitch-black armor…
Odin recognized him instantly.
Gregor Clegane — the Mountain.
What is he doing here?
Odin frowned. He had never invited Gregor—and they had never even met.
Then he turned his gaze.
Ten paces away stood another man, eyes sharp as a viper, gripping two curved blades as he stared the Mountain down.
Oberyn Martell.
Odin's heart tightened.
He didn't know why Gregor was here—but if these two met…
Conflict was inevitable.
The Dornish prince wore tight leather armor in crimson and gold, with a silk cloak light as air draped over his shoulders.
In his hands were two slender Dornish blades, their edges glinting with a faint blue sheen—clearly poisoned.
His stance looked relaxed, but every muscle was taut, like a fully drawn bow.
"Say it again, Dornishman!"
Gregor roared, his voice rumbling from deep within his chest.
"I've never seen your sister!"
"Don't you dare deny it, bastard!" Oberyn hissed.
"Elia Martell, princess of Dorne!"
"On the night King's Landing fell—you raped her, you murdered her, and you slaughtered her children!"
Gregor tilted his head slowly, like a beast trying to recall something.
"Many women."
"What?" Oberyn froze.
"There were many women that night," Gregor said flatly, as if discussing dinner.
"I don't remember which one was your sister."
That single sentence shattered the last thread of Oberyn's restraint.
"I'LL KILL YOU!!!"
With a feral roar, he lunged forward—his twin blades flashing like streaks of crimson lightning.
One cut aimed for Gregor's throat, the other for his eye—like a venomous serpent striking the most vulnerable points.
Gregor didn't dodge.
He simply raised his massive greatsword, blocking one blade, and lifted his armored forearm to intercept the other.
Clang! Clang!
Sparks burst into the air.
Then Gregor swung his sword in a brutal arc, like a battering ram.
At the last instant, Oberyn twisted his body. The massive blade grazed past his ribs, the wind of it whipping his cloak.
But Gregor wasn't done.
He followed with a kick—his iron-shod boot driving toward Oberyn's abdomen.
The force was immense. If it landed, Oberyn would end up just like Iggo.
But Oberyn was fast.
He rolled away, landing five steps back.
His breathing was slightly uneven—but his eyes burned even wilder.
"Tell me!" he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Who gave the order?!"
"Who told you to kill Elia and her children?! Speak, before the Seven!"
Gregor glanced at the cut marks on his vambrace, then looked back at Oberyn with a vicious glare.
"The child cried too loudly."
"So I smashed him against the wall."
"He stopped."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Oberyn's lips trembled. His fingers tightened around his blades until his knuckles turned white.
In that instant, his eyes held more than hatred—
They held every nightmare that had haunted him for over a decade.
His sister's cold corpse.
His nephew's shattered skull.
Blood that could never be washed away.
"DIE!!!"
Just as Oberyn was about to charge again—
A familiar figure stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
Very familiar.
"Ser Gregor."
Odin spoke first, his tone steady, edged with warning.
"This is my celebration banquet. Do not cause trouble here."
Gregor looked down at him, as if at an insect crawling near his boots.
"Move."
At the same time, Oberyn's voice came from behind:
"This doesn't concern you, Odin. Step aside."
Caught between two monsters, most men would already be trembling.
Odin did not move.
He tilted his head slightly, spotting Rorge hiding behind a pillar.
"Come here," he said calmly. "Tell me what happened."
Rorge stumbled out, pale and shaking.
"S-Ser Gregor returned from Harrenhal to report back… and heard the Hand was here, so he came."
"But at the door, he ran into Prince Oberyn… and they—well—they started fighting."
"Iggo tried to stop them, but… he got knocked down with a single punch…"
Odin nodded slightly.
Then he turned to Gregor.
A surge of commanding presence radiated from him, his voice carrying undeniable authority.
"Ser Gregor."
"Tonight is my knighthood banquet."
"Whatever grievances you have with Prince Oberyn, settle them elsewhere. This is my ground—you will follow my rules."
Gregor stared at him for two seconds… then sneered.
"Who are you? I don't know you."
"I follow Lord Tywin Lannister's rules. Everyone else is shit."
He said it plainly—without even intending insult.
In Gregor's mind, Odin simply wasn't worth remembering.
Odin looked at him for a long moment… then nodded.
Then he turned to Oberyn.
"You owe me a favor, Your Highness. Remember that."
"Now—stand down. Tonight is not the time."
Oberyn's gaze flickered.
But then he shook his head.
His hatred ran too deep—deep enough to burn away reason itself.
"I'll repay the favor later."
His voice was hoarse.
"But tonight—I must hear him confess. I must know who gave the order!"
"And what will you do with that truth?" Odin asked calmly.
"Kill him here?"
"Lord Tywin will never allow his most loyal knight to be slain before his eyes. Dorne and the Westerlands will go to war. Thousands will die."
"And the truth… will never be revealed."
He was speaking reason.
But tonight—
No one wanted reason.
"Dornishman… your sister tasted—"
"Enough!"
Odin's voice suddenly cut through the air.
It carried such force that even Gregor paused, glancing down at him.
Under everyone's gaze, Odin took a breath. His black eyes locked onto Gregor's.
Then, word by word:
"You disappoint me, Ser Gregor Clegane."
"Tonight is my celebration banquet. You were not invited. Yet you came—and struck my men."
"I chose not to hold it against you. I even spoke politely, to preserve your dignity."
"And now—"
"I am ordering you to leave. Immediately."
—
Meanwhile, inside the hall, in the shadows near a side door—
Petyr Baelish had quietly slipped toward the exit.
With everyone focused on the chaos outside, this was the perfect chance to leave.
His hand had just touched the door—
"Leaving so soon, Lord Petyr? The banquet isn't over yet."
He froze.
Turning back, he saw a short figure standing three steps away, holding a goblet of wine.
Tyrion Lannister.
Beside him stood his wife, Sansa Stark—her face pale, hands clutching her skirt tightly.
At her side, a slender dark-haired maid stayed close, holding onto her.
Petyr turned fully, already wearing his usual harmless smile.
"Ah, Lord Tyrion."
"I was merely… stepping out for some air. It's quite crowded in here, you know. My health hasn't been the best lately."
"Poor health?" Tyrion snorted.
"Well, staring at an empty treasury and endless debts would ruin anyone's constitution."
"But you're fortunate—the mess is mine to handle now."
Petyr cursed inwardly.
Damn it… why is everyone out to get me tonight?!
Outwardly, he forced a chuckle.
"You jest, my lord."
"I am merely following Lord Tywin's orders—traveling to the Eyrie to wed Lady Lysa Tully, to secure the Vale for the realm."
"How wonderful," Tyrion said, swirling his wine.
"A few thrusts in the right direction, and you gain a lordship. Not a bad bargain."
"Shame, though—last time I saw that madwoman, she nearly had me thrown out a moon door. Otherwise, I might have tried myself."
He laughed lightly.
But he didn't notice—
Petyr's gaze had already shifted.
To Sansa.
Feeling his eyes on her, she instinctively stepped back half a step, her grip on her skirt tightening.
Petyr had once been her "friend"—one of the few people Sansa Stark could speak to in King's Landing.
But now, she understood clearly—she was already the wife of Tyrion Lannister.
Even though the dwarf had treated her kindly and had not touched her until now, Sansa did not dare gamble on what might happen if she angered him.
Petyr, however, seemed not to notice her unease.
He offered her a graceful smile—the kind that would once make a young girl blush.
"Lady Sansa, you look much better."
"Perhaps you should come out more often. The air in the Red Keep may be fresh, but lately… there have been many interesting developments outside."
Sansa's lips moved slightly—
But no sound came out.
Instead, she took another half-step back, nearly pressing herself against the wall.
That silence…
…hurt more than any words.
As if she were saying:
Don't come near me anymore. I'm afraid Tyrion will misunderstand.
At last, Petyr Baelish's smile disappeared completely.
He looked at Sansa.
Then at Tyrion.
Then, finally, toward Odin in the distance, who was handling the chaos at the entrance.
And without saying a single word—
He turned, pushed open the side door, and vanished into the dark corridor.
Tyrion stared at the open door for a long time.
"He ran," he said at last.
"Will he come back?" Sansa asked softly.
"Of course."
"Men like Petyr never truly leave the game. They only step away from the table—to reshuffle the deck… and return with new chips."
With that, Tyrion drained his goblet and turned toward the entrance.
"Come. Let's go watch the spectacle, my lady."
—
At the doorway—
Faced with Odin's warning, Gregor Clegane did not move.
He didn't even bother responding.
Instead, he simply turned his attention back to Oberyn Martell, raising his massive greatsword as though Odin didn't exist.
Oberyn, in turn, lifted his blades once more.
The attempt at mediation—
Had failed.
Completely.
Standing between them, Odin could feel the weight of countless gazes from the hall behind him.
There was scrutiny.
Mockery.
Schadenfreude.
Disappointment.
Tonight was his knighting banquet.
Nearly every important noble in King's Landing was present.
If he couldn't even control the chaos at his own door—if he allowed the Mountain and the Red Viper to clash here, spilling blood within arm's reach—
Then by tomorrow, the entire city would be laughing.
Ser Odin would become a joke.
His "order" would be nothing more than something that worked on the poor of Flea Bottom—utterly worthless in the face of true power and violence.
Everything he had built since arriving in King's Landing—
Would collapse in a single night.
Odin stood silent for three seconds.
Then—
Under everyone's watchful eyes—
He did something no one expected.
His right hand moved to the hilt at his waist.
Shing—
The sound of steel sliding free rang out—cold, sharp, unmistakable.
He drew his sword.
It was an ordinary blade.
No Valyrian steel patterns. No jeweled hilt.
Just a weapon—plain, functional, made to kill.
But the moment it settled into his hand—
Everything about him changed.
The calm, steady Odin from moments ago vanished.
In his place stood something sharp, dangerous—his very gaze seeming capable of cutting flesh.
"Step back, Your Highness."
Odin glanced at Oberyn, his voice cold.
"Or our agreement is void. The choice is yours."
Oberyn stared at him for five seconds.
Conflict flickered in his eyes.
At last, he gritted his teeth—
And slowly stepped back.
Only then did Odin turn—
To face the Mountain.
Gregor looked down at him, at this man who barely reached his chest, then pointed at the sword in his hand with open contempt.
"You plan to perform with that?"
"No."
Odin raised his blade, the tip pointing straight at Gregor.
The night wind stirred, lifting the gray-white cloak behind him. The black hand sigil rippled in the torchlight.
His voice was steady.
Cold.
Absolute.
"I'm going to use this…"
"…to make you kneel and beg for forgiveness."