Chapter 116: In the Name of the Black Hand
Odin's voice echoed across the forecourt of the Hall of Order. The tip of his blade remained perfectly steady, aimed straight at Gregor Clegane's chest.
The night wind whipped his gray-white cloak, the black hand sigil snapping sharply in the air.
Gregor lowered his head, looking first at the sword—then at Odin's face.
And then—
He laughed.
"HAHAHA!!"
With lungs like a bellows, the Mountain's laughter boomed loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Kneel?" he repeated, as if savoring the most ridiculous joke in all the Seven Kingdoms.
He slowly raised his left hand, spread his fingers—then clenched them into a fist.
"The last time I knelt… was the day Prince Rhaegar Targaryen knighted me."
"Since then…"
"My knees don't bend."
As he spoke, his deep-set eyes never left Odin.
That gaze didn't see a man—
It saw something to be split apart.
Something to be crushed.
To Gregor Clegane, perhaps no one in this world mattered—save Tywin himself.
Five paces away, Oberyn Martell had retreated beside a pillar.
His twin blades remained raised, but he did not advance.
Instead, he watched Odin's back—his eyes filled with something complex.
Curiosity.
He wanted to see—
How this self-proclaimed architect of order intended to make that monster kneel.
—
Inside the hall, the crowd had surged toward the entrance.
Nobles, merchants, knights, servants—everyone craned their necks, eager for blood.
Curiosity toward violence knew no class.
But at the head table—
Two figures did not move.
Tywin Lannister calmly lifted his goblet, taking a slow sip. His eyes lingered on the crimson wine, as though admiring its legs against the glass—seemingly deaf to the chaos outside.
"Your little friend is about to die, my lord."
Across from him, Olenna Tyrell spoke.
She didn't turn her head. Her sharp eyes remained fixed on Tywin.
A trembling servant approached to refill her glass—
But suddenly, Olenna's hand shot out, gripping his wrist with surprising strength.
"Stop, boy."
Her eyes narrowed at his shaking fingers.
"Can't you hear what's happening outside? If you spill wine on my dress now, what then?"
"Get out of my sight, you witless fool."
The servant went pale and hurried away.
Only then did Olenna release him, take out a handkerchief embroidered with a golden rose, and calmly wipe her fingers—as if she had touched something filthy.
Then, almost casually, she said:
"That brute out there is yours, isn't he? And yet you won't stop him from causing trouble?"
Tywin set down his goblet.
"He is a knight," he said evenly.
"He serves the realm."
"A knight?" Olenna let out a mocking laugh.
"Indeed. A knight."
"Maegor the Cruel was a knight. The Mad King was a knight. Titles are so easily given, aren't they?"
"Oh—and if I recall correctly, you were the one who granted the Mad King his knighthood, weren't you?"
Leaning back, she added lazily:
"But a title doesn't change what something is, Lord Tywin. A dog, even with a crown on its head… is still a dog that bites."
A vicious remark.
Yet Tywin's expression didn't change.
He didn't even look at her.
Instead, his gaze drifted toward the doorway—toward Odin's figure, blade drawn, facing the towering Mountain.
"Dogs have their uses," Tywin said slowly.
"They are loyal. Obedient. They do not ask why."
"You point—they bite. You command—they stop."
"As long as the hand holding the leash is steady… and strong."
Olenna's brow furrowed slightly.
Then she smiled.
"But sometimes," she said lightly, "dogs go mad."
"I saw it once, back on the Arbor. A hunting hound—gentle as could be—suddenly turned on the man who raised it, nearly tore out his throat."
This time, Tywin turned to look at her.
For the first time, something flickered in his cold green eyes—
Scrutiny.
Warning.
"What are you implying, Lady Olenna?"
"If you believe Ser Gregor has acted improperly, speak plainly. I will consider it in my capacity as Hand of the King."
"Oh ho~ I'm just a forgetful old woman," Olenna replied, taking a sip of wine.
"I'm not implying anything."
"I'm simply talking about dogs. How you interpret that… is your business, my lord."
Yet even as she spoke, her eyes drifted toward the entrance.
From outside came the harsh scrape of metal—like a greatsword dragging across stone.
"Come to think of it…"
Olenna added, as if suddenly remembering:
"Those two outside—weren't they both knighted by you?"
Her eyes gleamed with mischief.
"And now one knight you raised… is trying to make another knight you raised kneel."
"Would you say that's… your left hand striking your right?"
The trap was obvious.
If Tywin claimed Gregor represented him, then Odin opposing Gregor meant opposing Lannister authority.
If he denied it, he admitted his most "loyal" knight was out of control.
Either way—
A loss.
But Tywin Lannister did not fall into traps.
"They are both maintaining order," he said calmly.
"Ser Gregor is a soldier—he speaks with his sword. Ser Odin is a builder of order—he must prove his rules cannot be defied."
"As for who is right or wrong…"
His gaze fixed on the doorway.
"I believe…"
"…Ser Odin is capable of resolving this."
Olenna's pupils shrank slightly.
She understood.
This wasn't trust.
It was a test.
Tywin's support for Odin's "order" was never free.
Gregor was the first trial.
If Odin failed—if he was crushed like an insect—
Tywin would discard him without hesitation and find another "hand in the dark."
Olenna smiled faintly.
"Throwing two men you raised into an arena… and watching from the best seat."
"How very wise of you, Lord Tywin Lannister."
—
At the entrance—
The overwhelming difference in size between the two men had already stirred murmurs among the crowd.
"Seven save us… has Ser Odin lost his mind?" someone whispered.
"That's the Mountain! He's not human!"
"I saw him in the tourney—he unhorsed me with a single strike!"
"We should stop him—he'll die!"
"Quiet!" his wife hissed, pulling him back. "The Hand hasn't moved—what right do you have to interfere?"
"Don't get involved. Not tonight."
Across the crowd, the same thought spread like wildfire.
He can't win.
"The difference is too great," an old knight muttered.
"His sword is longer than most men are tall. His strength… incomparable."
"I saw him cleave a horse's head in a single blow last year…"
"Ser Odin is brave… but—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Nearby, noble ladies half-covered their faces with their hands—yet watched eagerly, unwilling to miss the spectacle.
Closer to the front, Cersei Lannister played idly with a strand of her hair, a smile curling at her lips.
Her green eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Fight.
Go on—fight!
In her mind, she had already written the ending.
At the moment Odin was about to be killed—or humiliated into breaking—
She would step in as the savior.
His life would be hers.
And he would kneel willingly.
The thought nearly made her laugh aloud—
In fact—
She did.
Beside her, Margaery's fingers tightened around her skirt, knuckles paling.
Odin's earlier words about growth had revealed something rare—something beyond ordinary nobles.
Instinct told her—
He might matter.
As she parted her lips to speak—
A voice interrupted.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!"
"Please—calm yourselves! This must be a misunderstanding!"
To everyone's surprise—
Petyr Baelish had returned.
He pushed his way to the front, wearing that ever-sincere smile, hands spread in a gesture of peace—while carefully maintaining a safe distance.
He bowed slightly toward Gregor.
"Ser Odin! Ser Gregor!"
"You are both noble knights of the realm—why let a trivial matter harm your harmony?"
"Tonight is a joyous occasion. How about this—"
"Ser Odin, perhaps you could apologize to Ser Gregor. Let bygones be bygones?"
As he spoke, his eyes flicked toward Tywin.
A last attempt to appear "reasonable."
Perhaps even to plant a seed in Odin's mind.
But beneath the surface—
It was a shove.
A push toward the edge.
Apologize… in public?
That would shatter Odin's authority instantly.
"You…"
Odin's voice turned cold.
"You want me to apologize to him?"
"Of course!" Petyr turned back smoothly.
"Ser Gregor may have injured your man, but in the end, he was only a lowborn commoner."
"You, as a noble knight, shouldn't cling to such a trivial matter—"
His words stopped abruptly.
Because he finally noticed—
Odin's eyes.
Dark.
Cold.
Bottomless.
Locked onto him.
In that instant—
Petyr's smile froze.
It felt as though a northern winter wind had pierced straight into his bones.
His throat tightened, as if gripped by an invisible hand.
All his carefully prepared words—
Vanished.
That gaze held no visible killing intent.
Yet it carried something colder.
A quiet, absolute superiority.
As if he were nothing more than a noisy insect at someone's feet.
The weight of it—
Crushing.
—Presence, Level 3.
That crushing pressure forced Petyr Baelish to instinctively take half a step back. His face went pale, his throat tightening—no words would come. He could only stand there awkwardly, caught between advancing and retreating.
Then—
Gregor's laughter erupted again.
Gregor Clegane hadn't paid Petyr the slightest attention. His gaze was fixed entirely on Odin.
He raised his massive greatsword with one hand, pointing it toward the black hand emblem emblazoned on Odin's cloak.
"HAHAHA!!"
"'Black Hand'? What a ridiculous sigil!"
"I'll tell you what, Odin—cut off your right hand yourself, and I might forgive you. How about that?"
His voice brimmed with anticipation, as if he could already hear the screams.
To Gregor, the agony of others was the sweetest music in the world.
Faced with such naked humiliation and threat, Odin finally looked at him directly.
His expression remained calm.
There was even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
"Kneel, Ser Gregor."
His voice wasn't loud—but it cut through the noise around them with eerie clarity.
"While you still have the chance."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Gregor's towering physique and thick plate armor, shaking his head slightly—as if appraising a poorly made product.
"Only wild dogs bark endlessly to prove their strength."
"And everyone knows—that's just insecurity."
That sentence ignited the already savage Mountain completely.
"I'LL GRIND YOUR BONES INTO DUST—ONE INCH AT A TIME—AND CHEW THEM DOWN!!!"
His eyes turned bloodshot, veins bulging across his forehead like writhing worms.
Without warning—
His massive body lunged forward.
That enormous greatsword—one most men could barely lift with both hands—was swung again with a single arm.
A brutal, full-force downward strike.
The speed was terrifying—completely at odds with his size.
It was as if he meant to split the earth itself.
"STOP, GREGOR!"
Jaime Lannister, rushing down from upstairs, saw the scene and felt his heart nearly stop.
He knew Gregor's strength better than anyone.
Even at his peak, with his right hand intact—he would never dare take that blow head-on.
In his eyes—
Odin's comparatively slender figure was about to be cleaved in two.
"Ahh!!"
Several noble ladies screamed, covering their eyes—
Yet leaving wide gaps between their fingers, unwilling to miss the moment.
In that instant—
Everyone believed the outcome was decided.
The tragedy inevitable.
And then—
Odin moved.
Facing a strike that could split a man in half—
He did not retreat.
Instead, at the very last moment before the blade fell—
His right hand flicked upward.
The ordinary longsword in his grip swept diagonally from below.
The angle was impossibly precise.
At the instant the blades met—
His wrist twisted.
CLANG—!
A sharp, piercing burst of steel rang out.
The expected scene—shattered sword, torn flesh—
Never came.
Instead—
Before everyone's stunned eyes—
Gregor's massive blade was knocked off course by a far greater lateral force.
It slammed into the stone pavement just inches from Odin's side, carving a shallow crater as shards of stone flew outward—proof of the terrifying strength behind the strike.
But even more shocking—
It wasn't just the sword.
Gregor himself—
That mountain of a man—
Was dragged forward by his own momentum, stumbling several heavy steps before jamming his blade into the ground to steady himself.
When he turned back—
Odin still stood where he had been.
Not a single step back.
He casually flicked his sword in a clean arc, as if that flawless counter had been nothing more than brushing away a falling leaf.
The night wind stirred again, lifting his gray-white cloak.
The black hand sigil fluttered high.
His dark eyes remained calm—
Locked onto Gregor's stunned face.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Only the torchlight danced across Odin's composed expression as he spoke:
"I regret that you made this choice, Gregor Clegane."
"Now this is no longer business."
"This is personal."
"And you will pay the price."
He lifted his blade slightly.
His voice, steady and cold, carried across the night:
"In the name of the Black Hand."