Chapter 81: The Red Viper of Dorne
Blood poured freely from the wound, pooling across the tabletop.
Standing opposite the pinned knight was a powerfully built man, a dagger still clenched in his hand.
He wore a loose silk robe, the front hanging open to reveal a bronzed, muscular chest. Long black hair fell carelessly over his shoulders, and narrow, dark eyes lent a dangerous, predatory edge to his handsome features. He looked like a venomous serpent poised to strike—relaxed, confident, lethal.
The instant Odin laid eyes on him, he knew exactly who this man was.
The Prince of Dorne.
The Red Viper.
The famed libertine warrior.
A legendary spearman cursed by fate itself.
—Oberyn Martell.
Petyr hurried forward at once. He might delight in chaos, but allowing the Prince of Dorne to kill a Lannister knight on his premises would bring him nothing but trouble.
"Seven save us," Petyr exclaimed, forcing calm into his voice.
"What in the world has happened, Your Highness? Why such anger?"
Oberyn didn't even bother looking at him.
His gaze remained fixed on the knight writhing in agony, his thick Dornish accent dripping with mockery.
"I thought this was merely a place for pleasure, Petyr Baelish," he said lazily.
"I didn't expect Lannister vermin to scuttle in as well, fouling the air."
Petyr's lips twitched, irritation flashing through his eyes before he masked it.
"Now, Your Highness, you put me in a difficult position," he said smoothly.
"A brothel opens its doors for business. Gold coins don't bear house sigils. As long as the price is paid, my girls must honor their profession—whether the guest is you, or anyone else."
"If this knight offended you, I'll apologize on his behalf. A prince of your stature surely doesn't need to soil his hands with such filthy blood."
"I should apologize to this damned Dornish bastard?!"
The knight, driven mad by pain and rage, completely lost his senses and hurled abuse at both Oberyn and Petyr, his language foul beyond restraint.
"Fuck you—"
Oberyn laughed.
He twisted his wrist ever so slightly.
"AAAAAAH—!"
The scream that followed was even more shrill, echoing through the room.
"Idiot. Absolute idiot," Petyr cursed inwardly.
Ever since the victory at the Blackwater, Lannister men had grown unbearably arrogant. But this was just a knight—no title, no weight—daring to provoke the Prince of Dorne to his face.
Did he really not see Petyr trying to give him a way out?
Oberyn watched the man's face contort in agony, the smile on his own lips deepening.
"Scream," he murmured.
"I enjoy the sound. Wherever Lannisters appear, my mood turns sour."
"That stench on you lot—"
"I can smell it even back in Dorne."
Then, cutting cleanly through the tension, a calm voice spoke:
"An adult male contains roughly five to six liters of blood," Odin said evenly.
"At his current rate of bleeding, his blood pressure will drop to a critical level in ten to fifteen minutes."
"After that comes confusion, organ failure—"
"and then he dies on this expensive table, like a fish left flapping on dry land."
Oberyn finally looked up.
Odin was walking toward them, eyes cool and focused as he examined the wound, his tone flat—as if reciting experimental data rather than describing a man's death.
Oberyn's brows rose slightly as his gaze met Odin's—dark eyes mirroring his own.
"…You're very precise," he said, interest flickering to life.
"I studied at the Citadel once," he said. "Earned six links of a maester's chain. But most of what you just described—I didn't truly delve into until my time with the Second Sons across the Narrow Sea."
He tilted his head slightly.
"What is your name?"
"Odin," he replied calmly, meeting the prince's gaze without flinching.
"I'm a healer."
"If I'm not mistaken," Odin continued, "you're here in King's Landing on behalf of your brother, Prince Doran, to attend the king's wedding."
As he spoke, his right hand extended with unhurried composure, resting atop the hilt of the dagger pinning the knight's hand to the table.
"Forgive my frankness, Your Highness," Odin said evenly. "But if a Lannister knight dies by your blade on Silk Street—King's Landing's most conspicuous pleasure district—it will complicate matters."
"You are a man of long vision," he went on. "Why waste precious time on someone so insignificant? It will only invite needless trouble."
The tension in Oberyn's posture eased—just slightly.
He studied Odin, weighing the words.
"He's right, Oberyn."
A woman's voice spoke from behind them.
She wasn't a classic beauty, but there was something unmistakably exotic about her—an allure steeped in foreign heat and confidence.
Ellaria Sand.
Oberyn's lover.
In the permissive culture of Dorne, formal marriage was often seen as unnecessary. A paramour of fixed status was, in practice, little different from a wife.
Ellaria, though never wed to Oberyn, lived as his equal. She had borne him four daughters and carried real influence even within House Martell.
With Ellaria adding her voice, the combative fire in Oberyn's eyes finally dimmed. He slowly loosened his grip on the dagger.
Odin took the opening.
He drew the blade free in one smooth motion—and as he did, the edge just so happened to slice across the tendon at the base of the knight's thumb.
A faint tearing sound followed.
The knight screamed again as his hand went slack, instantly useless.
The motion was subtle. Clinical.
And it did not escape Oberyn's experienced eye.
The corner of the Red Viper's mouth curved upward—barely perceptible. Far from angered, he found his interest in Odin sharpened.
At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
A squad of Gold Cloaks burst in, clearly drawn by the commotion.
"Lord Baelish," the captain said respectfully, taking in the scene. "This is…?"
Though no longer Master of Coin, most of the City Watch understood one thing very clearly:
Petyr Baelish was still one of the most powerful men in King's Landing.
He had once controlled the kingdom's purse strings. His influence still ran deep. He could grant wealth—or erase a man without a sound.
"Oh, Captain Jeff," Petyr said pleasantly, his familiar genial smile returning now that the situation was under control. "You've arrived just in time."
He gestured toward the knight writhing on the floor.
"This brave knight had a bit too much to drink and injured himself while playing blade-dance."
"Since you're here, I'd appreciate it if you escorted him to a maester. The best one you can find. All expenses on my account."
Jeff understood immediately.
Blade-dance was a well-known gambling game among sellswords—hands flat on a table, a dagger stabbed rapidly between spread fingers. It tested nerve and precision, often for high stakes.
A moment's slip could cost a finger.
But even the dumbest mercenary wouldn't end up with a blade through the palm.
And knights, as a rule, didn't play such games.
Still, Petyr had spoken.
Truth was irrelevant.
"Understood, my lord."
He signaled his men.
"Take him."
Two Gold Cloaks hauled the groaning knight to his feet and dragged him away.
The moment they were gone, Ellaria Sand wasted no time. She wrapped herself around Oberyn's neck like a water serpent and pressed a heated kiss to his lips.
Oberyn returned it with equal enthusiasm, utterly unbothered by the audience.
Dornish, through and through.
Petyr, long accustomed to such displays, merely smiled and bowed slightly.
"My apologies for disturbing your evening, Your Highness. Please allow me to prepare a cleaner, more comfortable room—and summon a few companions to help ease the earlier unpleasantness."
He turned to leave—
Only to realize Odin was still standing there, unmoving.
"My lord?" Petyr asked, puzzled.
Oberyn, still entangled with Ellaria, spared Odin a glance. His narrow eyes glinted with amusement.
"What, Odin?" he drawled. "Reluctant to leave?"
"Care to join us? I don't mind. As long as you're attractive enough—man or woman, I'm not particular."
He grinned, yellowed teeth flashing.
The blunt invitation made Odin's mouth twitch despite himself.
Though his inherited memories—and [Bed Skills Lv.3]—meant he was no stranger to intimacy, even highly adept, Dornish openness of this sort still carried a distinct cultural shock.
Still, he recovered quickly.
"I appreciate the invitation, Your Highness," Odin said evenly. "But I don't find myself especially devoted to such pursuits."
"In my experience, most affairs begin with awkwardness… and end with disappointment."
Oberyn blinked, momentarily caught off guard—as if hearing a novel philosophy.
Then he laughed sharply, unimpressed.
Almost spitefully, he pulled Ellaria closer, yanking aside the already-thin silk at her shoulder to bare her panther-like physique.
"Disappointment?" Oberyn scoffed, pointing at her.
"Look at this body. This fire. You'd call this disappointing?"
The display was practically feral.
Odin felt a flash of secondhand exhaustion.
Debating passion with a Dornishman who worshipped indulgence was like arguing theology with a drunk septon.
Ignoring the spectacle, Odin met Oberyn's eyes calmly.
"Your paramour is extraordinary, Your Highness. I don't dispute that."
"But I'm here for business."
"Business?" Oberyn's expression shifted—interest sharpening into focus.
"Yes." Odin nodded.
He stepped forward, pulled out a chair, and sat across from the Red Viper with deliberate ease. His hands folded loosely on his knees, gaze steady and sincere.
"I believe," he said, "that we can become… mutually valuable friends."
"And I'd like to discuss a matter—one that allows both our values to be fully realized."