Chapter 118: I No Longer Need Your Apology
At the entrance of the Hall of Order, dust drifted slowly through the torchlight, outlining the figure standing there with sword in hand.
Not tall—but upright, unyielding.
The crowd stared at the scene, stunned into silence, struggling to accept what they were witnessing.
After all, the gap in size and reputation between the two was immense. Yet the one who had fallen—
Was Gregor Clegane.
Near the front of the crowd, Shae's lips parted slightly.
Under the flickering firelight, Odin's figure seemed almost radiant in her eyes.
She couldn't help recalling that night not long ago—right here—when this man had dined with effortless elegance, speaking with calm composure.
And now—
That same man stood above the Mountain, a creature rumored to be more terrifying than a demon… reduced to kneeling like a crippled beast at his feet.
Admiration. Desire. Ambition.
All of it surged within her, nearly overwhelming her reason.
For a moment, she could almost see herself in fine silk, standing proudly at his side as the mistress of such a man.
Her legs pressed together unconsciously, and a soft, restrained murmur slipped from her lips.
"Ser Odin…"
It wasn't loud, but a few nearby heard it.
No one questioned it.
His victory had been too stunning. That effortless dominance had already captivated more than a few noblewomen.
Realizing herself, Shae quickly covered her mouth, glancing around nervously. Seeing no one paying attention, she finally relaxed.
But not far from her, Tyrion Lannister caught that faint sound.
He frowned immediately, casting her a quick glance. Seeing her eyes fixed so intently on Odin, something twisted painfully in his chest.
Yet when Tyrion himself looked toward that figure holding the sword—
What stirred within him was not just irritation.
But envy.
Jealousy.
If… if I had not been born like this… if I had a whole body…
I could stand there too. Sword in hand. Winning glory. Earning my father's recognition.
Instead of being seen as a disgrace.
Odin—
A man of peasant birth—
Had achieved what he could only dream of.
Tyrion shook his head, forcing himself to look away. Then he glanced at his wife, Sansa Stark, before subtly stepping back, pulling Shae behind him, using his smaller frame to block her from view.
The gesture was unnecessary.
Because Sansa hadn't noticed any of it.
Her entire attention was fixed on the man in the center.
She remembered the name clearly—
Gregor Clegane.
She had seen him in the tourney, crushing opponents, even cleaving a warhorse in half.
And yet now—
This monster was being toyed with like a clumsy child.
If… if I could have such a knight serve me…
If someone like him would fight for House Stark…
A flicker of hope ignited within her.
Winterfell.
Vengeance.
Home.
An unshakable thought took root in her heart, her blue eyes shining under the torchlight.
I want him.
I want him to be my sword. My shield. To take me home.
But that look—
Did not go unnoticed.
From the shadows of a nearby pillar, Petyr Baelish saw everything.
The smile had long vanished from his face, replaced by something cold.
Something sharp.
His fist clenched, nails digging into his palm, as a familiar, suffocating frustration rose within him.
Again…
It's happening again…
Nearly twenty years ago—
Riverrun.
He had challenged Brandon Stark for Catelyn Tully.
And what happened?
He was defeated.
Humiliated.
Left lying on the ground like a joke.
And Catelyn—
The girl he loved—
Looked at Brandon with admiration.
With reliance.
That instinctive attraction toward strength—
Burned into his soul like a brand.
And now—
History repeated itself.
Sansa Stark—
Catelyn's daughter—
Was looking at Odin the same way.
Why?
That man doesn't even look stronger than me—so why does he have that kind of skill?
Why does he get that look?
But Petyr Baelish was still Petyr Baelish.
After a brief lapse, he forced himself to calm down.
Anger solved nothing.
His mind began racing.
Odin's rise was too fast. Too dazzling.
A threat.
Especially… regarding Sansa.
But it doesn't matter.
I still have time.
No one will take her from me.
Not again.
—
At the center of it all, Odin paid no attention to the gazes or whispers.
His focus remained entirely on the man kneeling before him.
The cold night wind carried away some of the scent of blood and dust.
With a light flick of his wrist—
The sword slid cleanly back into its sheath.
"Ser Gregor Clegane."
He spoke again, using the formal title—but without the slightest hint of respect.
"I did not invite you tonight."
"Yet you came unbidden, stepping into my ground."
"You attacked without cause and severely injured my companion."
"You used foul language to insult my friends."
"You disrupted my banquet and trampled the order I established here."
Each accusation fell like a hammer.
Clear.
Measured.
Unavoidable.
Odin lifted his chin slightly, firelight dancing across his sharply defined profile.
"Each of these offenses… is enough to warrant punishment."
"Therefore—"
"I hold you accountable."
He stepped forward half a pace, closing the distance.
Gregor suddenly raised his head, red eyes blazing with murderous intent—but his body refused to obey.
In that short exchange, he had suffered over twenty wounds.
None deep—
But all precise.
All crippling.
Odin met his gaze coldly.
"Now."
"Apologize."
Pain.
Humiliation.
Rage.
Gregor felt like his chest was about to explode.
Yet he still forced out a roar, spittle and blood spraying from his mouth:
"Apologize? Hah!"
"You filthy peasant! Worm! Hiding behind women and cripples!"
"I'll tear you apart! Crush your bones one by one! Feed your guts to dogs!!!"
The most vicious curses poured out.
Even now—
He refused to yield.
Because in his world—
Gregor Clegane did the crushing.
Not the kneeling.
Odin listened without expression.
His eyes didn't waver in the slightest.
As if the insults were nothing more than meaningless noise.
Because—
He had already expected this outcome.
The beast's savagery was rooted deep in its soul. Simple force was never enough to make it bow—especially not in front of a crowd.
Push too far, and it might provoke a desperate, all-or-nothing counterattack—just like what had once happened to Oberyn Martell.
But…
Was an apology ever what Odin truly wanted?
His ear twitched slightly, catching the sound of footsteps approaching from within the hall.
A faint smile curved his lips.
Right on time.
"Enough, Ser Gregor."
The Hand's authoritative voice rang out—
But at that exact moment, Odin moved.
Instead of stepping back, he advanced.
One step forward—
Straight into the attack range of the kneeling Gregor Clegane.
"ROAR—DIE, YOU LOWBORN FILTH!!!"
As expected, Gregor's fury devoured what little reason he had left.
He surged forward, massive arm lunging out—
Trying to seize Odin.
To crush his throat.
To feel bones shatter in his grip.
"Not good!"
"Watch out, Odin!"
Jaime and Brienne shouted almost at the same time.
Several seasoned knights widened their eyes in alarm.
Too close.
There was no time to intervene.
No time to save him.
At that distance—once caught—even the greatest swordsmanship would mean nothing.
With Gregor's strength, he could crush a man like a twig.
"Damn it…"
"That was careless—if it were me, I would've broken all his limbs first!"
Not far away, Oberyn's fingers had already curled instinctively around the hilt of his poisoned blade.
But in his mind—
Odin was already dead.
Too late.
No thrown blade could cross that distance in time.
And just as everyone braced themselves—
For blood and flesh to explode into the air—
A cold flash of steel cut through the night.
So fast—
That all they saw was a blur.
Shhk—!
A sword pierced through Gregor's outstretched hand—
Driving straight through the palm—
And without stopping—
It punched through the side of his face.
The blade tore through flesh, muscle, fat—
And burst out from the other cheek.
At that very moment, Tywin Lannister had just stepped out from the hall.
His sharp green eyes caught everything.
"Stop—"
He began.
But he was already too late.
Odin, standing inches away from Gregor—
Grinned.
Then—
He reversed his grip.
And pulled.
RIP—!!!
A grotesque mass of torn flesh—
Mixed with spraying blood and shattered teeth—
Was ripped violently from the side of Gregor's mouth and flung onto the cold stone floor.
It was his tongue.
Nearly severed at the root.
Still twitching.
Gregor's throat emitted a wet, broken gurgle—
Blood poured uncontrollably from the torn opening in his face.
His massive body swayed—
As if trying to speak—
But he had been stripped of that ability.
No more insults.
No more rage.
Under the stunned gaze of everyone present—
The once-invincible Mountain collapsed.
His massive frame crashed to the ground like a falling tower—
Dust rising on impact.
Blood spread rapidly beneath him—
Pooling into a dark red stain.
Odin flicked his wrist lightly—
Shaking the blood from his blade with effortless grace.
Then he lowered his gaze—
Looking down coldly at the twitching giant.
His voice was calm.
Almost indifferent.
"I've changed my mind, Ser Gregor Clegane."
"My friends and I…"
"No longer need your apology."
A brief pause.
"And you…"
"Don't need a tongue anymore."