Chapter 83 – Unscathed
"Beautiful."
Despite his lingering displeasure at Odin's status as a so-called Lannister hound, the courage and composure he had just displayed still earned Oberyn Martell a low whistle of appreciation.
He clapped lightly, the sound crisp and unnervingly loud in the silent room.
"A surgeon who handles a dagger meant for killing with such ease," Oberyn chuckled.
"I'm starting to find you rather interesting, Odin."
He then tilted his head and cast a casual glance toward the corner.
"Baelish—come over here and serve as our judge. This is your establishment, after all. No one's more suitable to bear witness."
"Seven save us, Your Highness!"
Petyr cried out theatrically, spreading his hands as he shuffled forward a few steps.
"You truly put me in a difficult position. Everyone knows I detest the sight of blood—just imagining it makes my fragile heart ache."
"But since it's your wish," he added with a helpless sigh, "how could I possibly refuse?"
His performance, however, was entirely wasted.
No one spared him so much as a glance.
Oberyn's attention returned to Odin. He licked his dry lips, eyes gleaming like a serpent that had finally sighted prey.
"So," he said eagerly, "you first—or me?"
Odin calmly opened his right hand and replied without hesitation,
"Your Highness has traveled far and is the initiator of this little game. Naturally, you should go first."
"Perfect," he added evenly. "It'll give this beginner a chance to properly learn the rules of Blade Dance."
At the word beginner, Oberyn broke into a grin and reached for the dagger.
Yet just as his fingers were about to brush the cold hilt, Odin's voice rang out again:
"Wait."
Oberyn paused, brow creasing.
"What—are you afraid now?"
Odin met his gaze, the corner of his mouth curling into a provocative smile.
"Not at all."
"I simply think that since we're already standing at the gambling table," he continued, "we might as well raise the stakes."
"Raise them?"
Oberyn's thick brows shot upward, his expression caught somewhere between insulted and exhilarated.
He genuinely couldn't comprehend where this man—who hadn't even fully learned the rules—found such outrageous confidence.
"What do you have in mind?"
Odin answered slowly, each word clear and deliberate.
"Very simple."
"If I lose, it won't just be my right hand. If you wish, you may take my head as well—carry it back to Sunspear as a trophy."
He paused. His eyes sharpened.
"But if I win…"
"Win against me?"
Oberyn burst into arrogant laughter.
"I can't lose."
Odin's tone remained flat.
"Never say 'impossible.' Nothing is impossible."
"Especially at a gambling table—no one can predict what will happen in the next heartbeat."
Oberyn's laughter stopped abruptly.
His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint surfacing. Odin's near-reckless confidence had fully ignited his competitive instinct.
He wanted to see just how far this man dared to go.
"Fine!"
"If you're wagering your head, then I'll match that stake!"
"No!"
Ellaria cried out instinctively, grabbing Oberyn's arm.
"Oberyn! This is madness!"
She had assumed the wager would end with what they'd already discussed—but somehow, it had spiraled into a bet of lives.
But Oberyn, already drunk on provocation, paid her no heed.
He violently shook her off, his face flushed with manic intensity.
"Let go!"
"When have I ever lost?" he snarled.
"I will not lose!"
He looked like a maddened beast, eyes locked onto Odin.
"By the name of House Martell," he snarled, "shut your mouth—and let us begin."
"Be my guest."
Odin spread his hand, saying no more.
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Candlelight stretched their shadows across the walls as everyone held their breath.
At this moment, there was no Dornish prince, no royal special agent.
Only two gamblers, seated face to face, with their lives laid upon the table.
Whoosh!
Oberyn moved first.
His long, powerful fingers closed around the dagger's hilt. His left hand spread open and pressed flat against the tabletop.
"Watch closely, Odin."
The blade whistled through the air, plunging down beside the skin—cleanly into the space between thumb and forefinger.
Then between forefinger and middle finger.
Between middle and ring.
Between ring and little finger.
"The beauty of blade dance," Oberyn said lightly, "lies in progression."
He smiled, never once glancing at his own hand. His eyes stayed fixed on Odin, calm and predatory.
"One round is a complete cycle."
"From the outside of the hand to the inside—every angle where a finger might be injured must be covered. One round takes no fewer than ten stabs, circling all five fingers."
As he explained, the dagger's pace quietly increased.
Cold steel flashed between the gaps of his fingers, stabbing and withdrawing in fluid rhythm, each strike precise to the fraction of a hair—as though he had practiced it thousands of times.
"In Essos, I served with the Second Sons," Oberyn continued evenly.
"I've played this game with more than twenty men."
His words matched the accelerating cadence of the blade, forming a rhythm that pressed down on the room like a physical weight.
"Do you know how it feels," he asked softly,
"when sharp steel slices the skin over a finger bone and severs the delicate tendons beneath?"
"It's like a part of your body suddenly disconnects from you."
"Once it's cut, even the finest maester can't restore it. The finger will hang forever—useless. A strip of dead flesh."
He spoke with unsettling calm, as though describing how to prepare a dish.
The Red Viper of Dorne clearly understood psychological warfare—how to awaken humanity's most primal fear of pain and mutilation.
Thud!
The final strike slammed down just beside the outer edge of his little finger.
The force made the dagger's hilt hum.
The entire round was complete—so fast it felt like only a few heartbeats had passed.
Oberyn lifted his left hand and held it up before Odin's eyes, fingers spread, gently shaking.
"As you can see, Odin."
"This is the hand of one of Essos's finest sellswords."
"After more than twenty games of blade dance, it remains unscathed."
Ellaria exhaled in relief.
All the pressure shifted—onto Odin.
Petyr Baelish smiled faintly.
"Your turn, Lord Odin."
Odin's expression never changed.
He calmly adjusted his collar, then extended his own left hand, fingers spread, palm pressed flat against the table.
Only then did he pick up the dagger.
He weighed it briefly, feeling its balance. His fingertips brushed the cold edge—gently, almost tenderly, as though touching a lover's cheek.
"Fair enough," he said.
There was no tremor in his voice, as though Oberyn's earlier intimidation had been nothing more than a passing breeze.
Then he moved.
The first strike.
Between thumb and forefinger—same angle, same placement as Oberyn's opening move. Precise, measured, unhurried.
Then the second.
The third.
He followed the exact same sequence and path Oberyn had demonstrated.
What unsettled everyone most was this:
Like Oberyn, Odin never once looked down at his own hand.
Those dark eyes remained calm, level—fixed on Oberyn himself, faintly provocative.
Oberyn's earlier disdain faded, replaced by focus.
This was not the control of a novice.
"Although this is my first time playing this game,"
Odin spoke without slowing, his words aligning perfectly with the rhythm of the blade, mimicking Oberyn's method to the letter.
"You should remember—I told you I'm a healer."
His speed increased, steadily matching the latter half of Oberyn's first round.
Yet his tone remained academic, composed, as if addressing a symposium.
"To me, a dagger and a scalpel are fundamentally the same."
"They're tools. Extensions of intent. Means to solve a problem."
The blade fell again, grazing the joint between ring finger and little finger—close enough to kiss the skin.
Yet his voice remained clear, structured, precise.
"In surgery, you can't expect ideal instruments at all times. You use whatever is at hand."
"A dagger. A sword. Even a shard of broken glass."
As his words sharpened, so did his movements.
The dagger's silver flash wove into a net around his fingers.
"You possess extensive knowledge of human anatomy," Odin said suddenly, shifting tone.
"That is admirable. It speaks to learning—and to respect for danger."
Thud!
The blade struck beside the little finger.
The first round—complete.
Oberyn reached instinctively for the dagger—
But Odin didn't stop.
He flowed straight into the second round.
"However,"
Odin continued, the dagger now a blur, slicing the air with an unnatural hiss.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes almost level with Oberyn's face.
"You overlooked one thing."
"You use pain to frighten opponents—to break their will. But you failed to mention this—"
As the blade danced faster and faster, to the point where even Oberyn's eyes struggled to follow, his expression finally darkened.
"This speed…"
"It's beyond my limit."
Odin had already completed the second round.
Then the third.
The fourth.
No pause. No hesitation.
And still—he never looked down.
[Surgery Lv.3]
[Insight Lv.3]
[Basic Swordsmanship Lv.3]
Their combined effect was far more than simple addition.
"When pain signals reach the spinal cord and brain," Odin said calmly,
"they trigger involuntary defensive reflexes."
"A tremor born of survival instinct—enough to throw a blade off course."
"Even half a millimeter of deviation can be catastrophic."
"And I…"
His speed increased again.
For the first time, absolute confidence rang in his voice.
"As a healer, I deal with those reflexes every single day."
"My steadiness isn't just in my wrist or fingers."
"It comes from knowing when pain will arrive—how muscles will react."
"So I can suppress its influence—"
"Before it happens."
The final strike fell.
So fast that it left only a silver afterimage on their retinas.
THUD!!
The dagger buried itself deep into the table.
The hilt vibrated violently, humming with residual force.
The room plunged into absolute silence.
Only then did Odin slowly lift his left hand—just as Oberyn had before.
Five fingers spread.
Every one intact.
Smooth skin.
Not even the faintest red mark.
"Look, Prince Oberyn."
"This is the hand of the finest healer in the Seven Kingdoms."
He met Oberyn's dark gaze and grinned.
"And it—"
"—is perfectly intact."