Chapter 45: Swordsmanship
From the shadows, a grim face slowly emerged.
It was Walton.
But this time, there was no drunken swagger, no greedy grin—only a cold, predatory focus. His eyes shifted slightly, locking onto Odin like a wolf sighting prey.
"How did you know I'd come?"
His voice was low, controlled.
And as he stared at Odin standing with sword in hand, Walton felt no real pressure—no sense of danger at all.
He had seen Odin practice back in Harrenhal's training yard.
That awkward grip. Those stiff, amateur swings.
Walton had been certain of it then:
Odin was a beginner who'd only just picked up a blade.
And the Hound…
Yes, Sandor Clegane had a reputation. Yes, he had once won a tourney.
But right now?
The man could barely stand.
Odin's wrist shifted faintly, and the sword tip carved a chilly arc of moonlight.
His tone was playful—almost amused.
"All the way here, I've been thinking."
"About what exactly Roose Bolton wanted you to bring back from King's Landing—this 'payment' he mentioned."
"I ran through countless possibilities."
"But none of them felt right."
He paused, smiling faintly.
"Until yesterday… when I accidentally noticed the look in your eyes when you glanced at Lady Stark."
"And suddenly, it all made sense."
Odin's smile deepened—calm, confident.
"I heard Lord Bolton's only son is dead."
"But he still has a bastard."
"And if he wants to truly seize the North…"
"There's nothing more convenient than marrying a daughter of House Stark."
Odin lifted his chin slightly.
"Isn't that right?"
Walton listened without interrupting.
He stared at Odin for a long moment, curiosity in his gaze—almost admiration.
Then he finally spoke, voice thick with genuine respect.
"You're really smart, Lord Odin."
"I've never met anyone smarter than you."
"Sometimes I even think your mind surpasses Lord Bolton's."
He exhaled softly.
"But that's exactly why clever men don't live long."
"Today, I have to take her."
Odin didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't step aside.
Instead, a new voice erupted like thunder—
"You—motherf—!"
The Hound suddenly roared, charging without warning, both hands lifting his sword to chop down at Walton—
But just as Walton had judged…
Sandor couldn't even keep his footing.
Much less land a strike.
Walton sidestepped casually.
A single smooth motion.
Then—
BAM!
His fist smashed into the Hound's face.
Sandor collapsed instantly, hitting the ground hard—right beside Arya.
This time, he didn't get back up.
"Move."
Walton sounded almost bored.
Beating the champion of the King's Landing tourney meant nothing to him—like swatting a mosquito.
His sword returned to Odin.
"You're interesting."
"I don't want to kill you."
But Odin still didn't budge.
Instead, the corner of his mouth curled upward.
"Honestly, Walton…"
"You're interesting too."
He shifted his stance.
Raised his blade.
And calmly—almost cheerfully—said:
"But I really want to find out…"
"What it feels like…"
"To kill you."
Odin settled into a fighting posture, sword leveled, intent crystal clear.
Walton blinked.
Then he smiled—wide and sharp, like a man finally offered something fun.
"Ha."
Walton let out a cold laugh.
"Don't be naive. Your Dothraki guard and that giant woman are still busy butchering those Karhold dogs."
"You can't stop me."
"You don't have the ability."
"There's no such thing as can't." Odin replied evenly.
Walton studied him for a beat, as if weighing the words.
But duty was duty.
In the next instant, he strode forward and snapped his blade into a clean, vicious diagonal slash—straight for Odin's right shoulder.
"Die—!"
It wasn't the fastest strike in the world.
But it was heavy—full-bodied—meant to end this immediately.
In Walton's mind, a man with Odin's clumsy swordplay could never stop it.
A fight that begins like this…
…usually ends like this.
And yet—
CLANG!
Steel rang out, sharp and bright in the night.
Walton's eyes flew wide.
He stared in disbelief as his blade was blocked again—cleanly, solidly, without hesitation.
Once could've been luck.
But twice…?
Walton's brow tightened.
A veteran's instincts took over.
His wrist rolled, he retracted his blade, and then—
A storm.
Rapid thrust after thrust after thrust, the point snapping toward Odin's chest and gut in murderous rhythm.
This was Walton's signature.
A speed-driven killing pattern that had made him nearly untouchable back at the Dreadfort.
But Odin's response shocked him again.
His footwork was still messy—still awkward—like a beginner stumbling through mud.
Yet somehow he wasn't losing ground.
Even when he was slower, he compensated with wide, forceful cuts—big, blunt sword movements that bought him breathing room, forcing space, denying Walton the clean opening he wanted.
It was ugly.
It had no elegance.
But it reminded Walton of someone.
…Brienne.
Yes—this was Brienne's teaching.
But why the hell—
Walton felt a chill crawl up his spine.
He clearly remembered Harrenhal.
Odin couldn't even hold a proper stance back then. His swings looked worse than chopping firewood.
And now?
It had only been a few days.
Even if Odin trained nonstop without sleep, there was no way he should be moving like this.
That kind of familiarity… that timing… that instinct—
You don't grow it in practice yards.
You grow it in blood.
Was he hiding his skill?
Or—
Was this man… truly a genius?
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Steel screamed again and again, the tempo tightening as their exchange turned brutal.
Sweat beaded on Walton's brow.
Not from fatigue.
From fear.
Because Odin was adapting.
Visibly.
His clumsy steps began to stabilize.
His blocks came faster.
Cleaner.
His sword started meeting the thrusts with confidence.
And then—
He even began to counter.
Simple, sharp retaliations.
Nothing fancy… but all of them aimed at the right moments, the right angles.
Walton deflected each one—
But his heart sank anyway.
Those weren't a novice's attacks.
"That's impossible!!"
Walton swung again, hard enough to split bone.
Odin braced with both hands, blade horizontal—
And held.
The strike slammed into him like a battering ram, but Odin didn't break.
And in Walton's furious stare—
Odin was panting, sweat running down his face…
…yet he grinned.
A wide, almost delighted grin.
"Looks like that word—impossible—needs a new definition, Captain Walton."
With a sharp shove, Odin knocked Walton's blade outward, then jumped back several steps.
Odin could feel it.
The tear in his palm.
The ache in his arms.
The screaming fatigue in every muscle.
All of it brutally real.
And yet…
He was drunk on it.
This is insane. This feels insane.
No wonder Jaime and Brienne kept losing their minds and charging into fights the moment their blood heated up—
This damn thing was addictive.
Sadly…
Odin glanced at his system panel.
[Basic Swordsmanship Lv.2]
He'd awakened Lv.1 when he killed Regg.
Then he'd dumped the gold dragons he recovered from Stour into upgrading it to Lv.2.
But even so…
It wasn't enough.
He hadn't lost.
Not yet.
But the truth was simple—his strength and speed were still inferior.
He was surviving on [Insight Lv.1], plus the cold precision he'd developed over years of surgical work—calm hands, fast decisions, no panic.
Still…
Walton was the perfect sparring partner.
In that brief exchange, Odin had already begun to fuse Brienne's fundamentals into his own instincts.
Walton stared at Odin's excited eyes and cursed under his breath.
"Damn it…"
He didn't know Odin was near his limit.
He only saw that terrifying growth rate.
If this kept going—
Was "Steelshanks" Walton really about to lose to a rookie?
No.
Absolutely not.
He couldn't drag it out anymore.
Gritting his teeth, Walton roared, then exploded forward.
Both hands locked onto his sword.
All his weight and power poured into a brutal horizontal sweep—aimed straight for Odin's waist and ribs.
This attack abandoned defense entirely.
A full-commit kill stroke.
Because Walton finally realized his mistake.
He'd been treating this like a sword duel—
When it wasn't.
He was armored.
Odin was not.
Full plate versus flesh.
In this kind of trade, even if Odin stabbed Walton in the torso, the damage would be limited.
But if Walton landed even one clean hit—
Odin's best outcome would be collapsing on the spot, unable to fight again.
Walton wasn't trying to outskill him anymore.
He was going to crush him.
A wound-for-wound exchange.
A soldier's execution.
This strike…
Was unavoidable.
And just as Walton felt absolute certainty—
He saw it.
In the moonlight…
A single gold coin rose slowly into the air.
Spinning.
Gleaming.
And somewhere in the darkness—
Ding~~~~