Chapter 117: Kneel!
After that flawless exchange, time itself seemed to freeze.
Staring at Odin standing proudly in the center, both nobles and commoners couldn't help but murmur in disbelief—the scene before them had gone far beyond anything they expected.
"He… he blocked it?" someone whispered.
Ser Balman rubbed his eyes, utterly incredulous.
That was Gregor Clegane.
He had once "had the honor" of facing the Mountain in a tourney. The force behind that lance strike was something he would never forget.
If not for the fragile practice lances that shattered on impact, that blow might have killed him outright.
And yet—
This time, Odin had taken the strike head-on.
And made it look effortless.
"How is that possible?!"
"Not just blocked," another older knight muttered, voice low.
"Didn't you see? He deflected Gregor's sword!"
"That's impossible! That strike could split a warhorse in half—I've seen it myself!"
"Luck!"
A sharp voice cut in.
"It must be luck!"
"Didn't you notice? Gregor was standing on a seam in the stone—maybe the ground slipped! He just lost his footing!"
The explanation sounded reasonable.
Too reasonable.
And quickly, the crowd seized upon it.
"Yes, that must be it!"
"The ground was slippery—otherwise that blow would've cut him in two!"
"A peasant knight, barely knighted—how could he possibly have that kind of skill?"
"Heh, a commoner is still a commoner. Just a lucky strike. Not everyone is born like Ser Duncan the Tall!"
The murmurs swelled—shock turning into doubt, then into disdain.
In Westeros, hierarchy ran deep.
A lowborn knight, no matter his title, could never—never—bridge the gulf between himself and a monster like Gregor.
And so—
That stunning counter was reduced to mere coincidence.
—
Among the crowd, Jaime Lannister frowned deeply.
For a brief instant, he had been genuinely shaken by Odin's technique.
But now—
Listening to the "reasonable" explanations around him—
Even his own wild suspicion began to fade.
Two months…
He remembered the training yard at Harrenhal—Odin barely able to swing a sword more than a few dozen times before his arms trembled with exhaustion.
Even a genius couldn't bypass the accumulation of strength, the building of muscle memory.
That kind of thing couldn't be faked.
It must have been luck… or the ground…
His gaze dropped to the stone beneath Gregor's feet.
His left hand tightened unconsciously around his sword hilt.
Luck won't happen twice.
The next strike would be fatal.
And he… only had his left hand now.
—
Across from him—
Gregor's chest heaved violently.
His eyes burned red—not from fatigue—
But rage.
He looked at the sword embedded in the ground… then back at Odin.
Fury twisted his expression.
He—
Gregor Clegane—
Nightmare of the Seven Kingdoms.
The most brutal hound of Tywin Lannister.
At seventeen, he had stormed King's Landing and butchered his way through the Red Keep.
During the wars, he had led cavalry across the Riverlands, leaving fire and slaughter in his wake.
And now—
Now he had failed to split this scrawny man in half with a single blow?!
Worse—
He had stumbled.
Even with his dull mind, Gregor understood one thing clearly—
Everything he had, everything he was allowed to do—
Came from Tywin.
If Tywin saw him struggle against someone like this…
"ODIN—YOU WILL DIE!!!"
No more holding back.
No more playing.
He gripped the greatsword with both hands.
The massive weapon, unwieldy for any normal man, seemed almost light in his grasp.
He surged forward—
A sweeping upward slash aimed at Odin's waist.
Faster.
Stronger.
More lethal than before.
—
But just as Odin prepared to meet him—
"STOP!!!"
A sharp shout rang out.
A figure in white burst between them.
CLANG—!
A golden-hilted longsword was knocked from its grip, spinning high into the air before crashing to the ground.
But a one-handed sword against a two-handed greatsword—
The difference in strength was immense.
After deflecting the blade, Gregor's strike barely slowed.
It continued downward—
Until—
A golden hand caught it.
SCREEEECH—!
Metal shrieked against metal.
Sparks burst between the golden prosthetic and the blade—
And somehow—
The strike stopped.
Gregor's massive body lurched slightly from the halted momentum.
His blood-red gaze shifted upward—
To meet a familiar face.
Jaime Lannister.
The scene froze once more.
Only now did everyone realize—
The man standing before Odin…
Was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Jaime's left hand was torn open, blood soaking into his white cloak.
His body swayed slightly—
But he did not move.
He stood firm.
Protecting Odin.
Gregor growled low in his throat, like a beast denied its prey.
He knew that face.
That white cloak.
Even in his rage, he understood—
Harming Jaime in public would have consequences.
Reluctantly, he pulled his sword back, resting it on the ground.
"Move, Jaime."
Facing those bloodshot eyes, Jaime could feel warm blood dripping from his fingers… and the tearing pain where his prosthetic met flesh.
But he forced himself to stand tall.
"Gregor Clegane."
"In the name of the Kingsguard—"
"I order you… step aside."
Silence fell again.
Some in the crowd sighed, disappointed.
With Jaime intervening, the spectacle seemed over.
But—
Gregor had other ideas.
"Hahahaha…"
He bared crooked yellow teeth.
"Lord Commander?"
He spat the words.
Then, louder—mocking, contemptuous:
"A commander who can't even hold a sword?"
"One who needs a fake hand to block a strike?"
"A cripple who lost his sword hand—HAHAHAHA!!!"
The laughter exploded through the street.
The crowd erupted.
"He actually said that to Jaime Lannister?!"
"This is incredible!"
Now this was entertainment.
For many, seeing someone of Jaime's status humiliated—
Was deeply satisfying.
—
Nearby, Margaery Tyrell frowned slightly.
"Your Grace," she said softly to Cersei Lannister,
"Isn't Ser Gregor sworn to House Lannister? Why would he openly mock Ser Jaime?"
Cersei's nails dug into her palm.
Her gaze locked onto Jaime's trembling back.
At the question, she turned sharply—her green eyes cold.
"Gregor Clegane?"
"He's just a mad dog my father keeps."
"Dogs only recognize the hand that feeds—or beats them."
"And Jaime…"
She paused.
Pain. Anger. Something more complicated flickered across her face.
"…My father's intentions are not for you to guess, Lady Margaery."
She didn't explain.
But after speaking, she couldn't help glancing toward Tywin.
He hadn't moved.
Hadn't reacted.
Father… are you truly doing nothing?
—
At the center—
Gregor's laughter still echoed.
Jaime's chest rose and fell violently.
He could hear it all—
"Cripple."
"Fake hand."
"Pathetic."
The words pierced like needles.
He looked down at his missing right hand—
Phantom pain surged, tearing through him.
If it were still there…
I could beat him.
I could save Odin.
Damn it…!
Despair and humiliation threatened to swallow him whole.
But he did not step back.
Instead—
He stepped forward.
"Move…"
His voice was hoarse.
"Move aside, Gregor."
"Odin… is my friend!"
But the words—
No longer sounded like a command.
They sounded like a desperate stand.
—
"...And mine."
A firm female voice cut through the tension.
The crowd turned.
A towering armored figure stepped forward.
A woman.
Tall enough to dwarf most men.
A nasal helm concealed her face, leaving only a pair of sapphire-blue eyes burning with resolve.
Brienne of Tarth.
"Gods… that's the freak from Tarth!"
"That's a woman?!"
"Look at her armor!"
Mockery. Curiosity. Lust.
Eyes devoured her.
But Brienne ignored it all.
She stepped beside Jaime—slightly ahead, shielding him.
Her presence alone seemed to steady him.
Slowly, she drew her blade—
Oathkeeper.
Valyrian steel rippled under the torchlight.
She did not point it forward like most knights.
Instead, she took a defensive stance.
"Ser Odin is my friend."
"I owe him… more than I can repay."
"He may not yet be a master of the sword."
"He only began training two months ago."
She spoke plainly.
Then, her voice hardened.
"But if you insist on fighting…"
"I will stand with him."
"And I will take your head."
Jaime and Brienne exchanged a glance.
A nod.
Side by side—
A fallen legend and a mocked woman—
Standing against a monster.
Absurd.
Tragic.
Powerful.
Gregor licked his lips, amused.
"HAHAHAHA!"
"Odin… you've got quite the collection of friends!"
"A cripple… and a freak!"
"Is this your 'order'? Hiding behind them?!"
His voice roared across the street.
"Where's your sword?!"
"Weren't you going to make me kneel?!"
"Or are you just going to hide like a coward?!"
The insult wasn't just mockery.
It was a trap.
Forcing Odin to step forward.
All eyes—
All pressure—
Focused on him.
And yet—
No anger.
No retreat.
Odin moved.
He stepped forward, placing a hand on Jaime's trembling shoulder.
Then another on Brienne's armored one.
"Relax."
His voice was calm.
Steady.
Reassuring.
"Leave this to me."
Both turned.
"Are you mad?" Jaime snapped.
"You've trained for two months!"
"That's Gregor Clegane!"
Brienne added firmly, "I can handle him."
Odin smiled faintly.
Then—
With a gentle push—
They both stepped aside.
Effortlessly.
Shock flashed across their faces.
Even Brienne—
Who knew her own strength—
Was stunned.
Odin stepped between them.
"This is my fight."
He glanced back.
Firelight illuminated his face.
No fear.
No anger.
Only absolute calm.
"Don't forget…"
A faint smile touched his lips.
"I am… Odin."
—
"Oi, Odin!"
From the side, Oberyn Martell called out.
Arms crossed, leaning against a pillar, eyes gleaming.
"Let me handle this beast."
"I owe you."
"I promise… it'll be creative."
Odin didn't even turn.
"You'll get your chance."
"But not here."
—
He stepped forward.
Stopping just within Gregor's reach.
Dangerously close.
His sword hung loosely, angled toward the ground.
Relaxed.
Unbothered.
Gregor sneered.
"No more hiding?"
Odin looked at him—
Like a judge.
Not a fighter.
"Brienne of Tarth," he said calmly,
"is more honorable than you… or most here."
"Her blade protects the innocent."
"And Jaime Lannister—"
"He lost his hand."
"But his courage, his burden, his resolve…"
"Outweigh yours a thousand times."
"They are my friends."
His gaze hardened.
"You insulted my friends."
The air changed.
Pressure surged.
"I've changed my mind, Gregor."
His blade rose—
Pointing straight at the Mountain.
"I won't just make you kneel and apologize…"
"I'll show you…"
"That your armor, your sword, your strength—"
"…are worthless before true skill."
Gregor's expression twisted into pure rage.
"DIE!!!"
He charged—
Sword raised—
A full-force strike at his absolute limit.
The crowd held its breath.
This was it.
But—
Odin moved.
Not fast.
Almost slow.
A simple step.
A slight turn.
The blade crashed down—
Missing by inches.
Stone shattered.
And in that instant—
Odin struck.
Clink.
A precise thrust into a gap in the armor.
Blood.
Then—
Another strike.
Another wound.
Again.
Again.
He moved like he could see the future.
Every step perfect.
Every strike precise.
Joint. Armpit. Knee.
Blood accumulated.
Gregor slowed.
Breathing grew heavy.
Armor soaked red.
Odin—
Unchanged.
Not even his breathing faltered.
"…Impossible…"
"He's not fighting…"
Balman whispered.
"He's hunting him."
His body was stronger, heavier—but his opponent's footwork was light as wind, his swordplay impossibly precise. No matter how wildly he swung that monstrous blade, Gregor Clegane couldn't even brush the hem of Odin's cloak.
And then—
Something happened that left everyone stunned.
Odin slipped aside again, effortlessly evading another downward strike.
But this time—
He didn't counter immediately.
Instead, he spoke.
"Strength… isn't born from brute force and shouting."
His tone was calm. Measured.
Like a lesson.
His voice wasn't loud—yet it carried across the entire courtyard.
As he spoke, his wrist flicked—
The tip of his blade tapped precisely into a gap beneath Gregor's right ribs.
"True power… begins from the feet."
"…pushing against the ground."
"RAAAAH!!!"
Gregor roared, twisting his body into a sweeping strike.
Odin lowered himself, gliding past the arc—
His sword rose—
Piercing the gap between thigh armor and skirt.
"Then it transfers… through the hips."
The voice continued.
Unhurried.
Relentless.
Gregor turned and struck again—
Odin stepped back—
His blade slipped into the small of Gregor's back.
"Stop talking, you bastard!!!"
Pain.
Humiliation.
The sense of being toyed with—
It drove Gregor into madness.
But Odin's voice clung to him like a curse.
"Through the rotation of the hips…"
"…into the shoulders."
Each word—
Matched a movement.
Each movement—
Exposed another weakness.
Gregor had become—
A living demonstration.
Every swing he made…
Proved Odin right.
And opened him up to another precise strike.
"Finally—"
Odin's tone sharpened slightly.
"…the arm follows—"
"SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP!!!"
Gregor lost all control.
He abandoned technique entirely—
Charging forward like a raging beast, swinging his greatsword in a desperate, all-consuming arc!
A final, furious strike—
Driven by pure rage.
And yet—
Odin's expression did not change.
His body turned with effortless precision.
The massive blade screamed through the air—
Passing inches from his face and chest.
And in that same instant—
His sword moved.
A single, clean arc.
And his final words followed:
"…and then—release."
THUD! THUD!
The blade struck.
Not flesh—
But the joints of Gregor's knees.
A perfect hit.
A decisive blow.
BOOM—!
Before everyone's eyes—
The towering giant—
Nearly eight feet tall, clad in heavy armor—
Gregor Clegane—
Collapsed.
His knees gave way.
And with a thunderous impact—
He fell.
Kneeling.
Before Odin.
—
Silence.
Absolute silence.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
They simply stared—
Unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Behind Odin, firelight danced—
Casting his shadow long and imposing.
The black hand sigil on his cloak fluttered above the kneeling giant—
Like the hand of a god, gripping fate itself.
And what shocked them even more—
After such a battle—
His breathing hadn't changed.
Not even slightly.
Too strong.
Far too strong.
The looks in the crowd began to shift—
From doubt…
To awe.
—
Behind him—
Brienne covered her mouth beneath her helm.
Her blue eyes shimmered with tears.
Not from disbelief.
Not from shock.
But because—
Every word Odin had spoken…
Every step of that "lesson"…
She remembered it.
Two months ago—
In the training yard of Harrenhal—
She had taught him those exact words.
Every detail.
Every motion.
And tonight—
He had turned that lesson into something…
Almost artistic.
Something unforgettable.
Odin seemed to sense her gaze.
He turned slightly—
Met her eyes—
And gave a small nod.
As if to say—
Your teaching was perfect. Thank you.
Brienne nodded back, firm and proud.
—
Only then did Odin turn again.
Looking down—
At the kneeling giant before him.
His black eyes were calm.
Cold.
The blade rose—
Resting lightly against Gregor's throat.
But colder than the steel—
Was his voice.
"Now."
"You will apologize to my friends."
"Ser Gregor Clegane."