Chapter 84 — The Wise King (I)
"This is impossible!"
Inside the room, the dull thud of a dagger striking wood echoed again and again.
Oberyn Martell's right hand rose and fell mechanically, his lips muttering in a broken whisper.
"Impossible… absolutely impossible…"
He looked unhinged.
He was the Red Viper of Dorne—
the terror of the Second Sons,
the man who had forged his reputation across Essos atop countless defeated foes.
And yet today—
Today, he had been completely outpaced in blade dance by a… healer?
He could not accept it.
Pride burned through his reason like venom.
Oberyn raised his hand higher, struck faster, again and again—desperately trying to break past his limits, to reach, to surpass the speed Odin had just demonstrated, to prove that he was still the invincible Red Viper.
But reality was merciless.
Ellaria, watching with growing alarm.
Petyr Baelish, silent, eyes glittering with amusement.
Even Oberyn himself—
All could see it clearly.
He couldn't keep up.
Just as Odin had said, when the body senses the threat of injury, the brain intervenes. Instinct takes over, forcing hesitation, recoil, restraint.
Even someone as battle-hardened as Oberyn could not fully escape that law.
As long as he remained human, the survival instinct etched into his bones would assert itself the moment real danger was perceived—compelling the body to flinch, to evade.
But Oberyn was no longer thinking.
His eyes were bloodshot, locked obsessively on his own fingers, as he tried to shatter that biological cage through sheer willpower—
to challenge the limit,
to break it.
He had lost himself.
To chase one's limit is one thing.
To break it—
That is another matter entirely.
The reason it is called a limit
is because it cannot be crossed.
Of course, if at this moment he were to open and close his eyes, letting them glaze over and tremble coldly—
Well. That would be a different story altogether.
Thud.
The sound this time was slightly duller.
Oberyn froze.
Slowly—almost fearfully—he lowered his gaze to his left hand.
At the edge where his little finger met his ring finger, a thin red line had appeared.
It spread.
Bright crimson beads welled up, as though his body itself were betraying him—
like tears forced out against his will.
They gathered, then slid down between his fingers, dripping onto the table below.
The pain was unmistakable.
Clear. Sharp. Undeniable.
He had been injured.
"Oberyn!"
Ellaria cried out, lunging forward. She snatched the dagger from his hand and whirled it toward Odin.
"Get out, Odin! Get out now!"
"I will not—I will never—allow you to hurt Oberyn!"
She stood like a mother panther, eyes blazing with fury and desperation, baring her teeth at Odin.
The dagger's tip trembled in the candlelight—
not with fear,
but with resolve.
"Put the knife down, Ellaria."
At that moment—
Oberyn spoke.
His voice was slightly hoarse as he raised his uninjured right hand and gently pressed it against Ellaria's tense arm.
Ellaria turned back in disbelief.
What met her gaze was a pair of jet-black eyes that had already regained their calm.
The madness and obsession from moments ago had vanished without a trace, leaving only an unquestionable, commanding resolve.
"Put it down," he repeated, his tone heavier now, unmistakably that of the proud Prince of Dorne once more. "I lost. And when you lose, you accept it."
"…No!"
Ellaria bit her lower lip, stubbornly gripping the dagger as tears welled in her eyes.
"I won't—I won't watch him hurt you—"
But her defiance was futile.
Oberyn answered with action.
He seized her wrist with overwhelming force, leaving her no chance to resist, and effortlessly wrenched the dagger from her grasp.
Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist.
Clang.
The dagger landed at Odin's feet.
"Do it, Odin," Oberyn said calmly. "By the terms of the wager, my life is yours now."
At that moment, Ellaria's tears finally fell.
She stared at Odin with fury and despair, as though he were the source of every tragedy unfolding before her.
Yet Odin, faced with this tragic and heroic tableau, could not stop himself from rolling his eyes inwardly.
What the hell is this supposed to be?
It made him look like some heartless villain forcing lovers apart, a caricature ripped straight out of a melodrama.
What, was he supposed to be playing the Moon-Worshipping Cult Master now?
These two were completely...unhinged.
For a moment, he almost wondered if he had wandered onto the wrong stage.
With [Insight Lv3], Odin could clearly see what others could not—
beneath Oberyn's seemingly submissive posture, his right hand was inching, almost imperceptibly, toward his waist.
You're called the Red Viper for a reason, Odin scoffed inwardly.
You think I don't know that?
If Odin truly moved to take Oberyn's life now, would this man really submit without resistance?
If he were that obedient, he wouldn't have slept with another man's wife, poisoned a blade in a duel, killed a lord, and fled to Essos afterward.
Just then, Petyr Baelish stepped forward, eyes wide with feigned concern, voice urgent.
"Lord Odin, please don't act rashly!"
He waved his arms dramatically.
"Though Prince Oberyn did insult you repeatedly earlier—even questioning your character—you must think of the greater picture!"
"If a Prince of Dorne dies in King's Landing, the consequences would be unimaginable!"
He spoke with deep concern—
—but inside, he was ecstatic.
Fight. Kill. Spill blood.
Let it all burn.
Chaos was the ladder.
If Tywin Lannister's man and the Prince of Dorne became mortal enemies—if Dorne and the Iron Throne were dragged into open conflict—Westeros would plunge deeper into disorder.
And in troubled waters, Petyr Baelish would fish best of all.
As for this happening on his turf?
Meaningless.
He was about to become Lord of the Eyrie. With the right maneuvering, all blame could be neatly deflected.
After all, this was nothing more than the result of two stubborn madmen gambling with their lives.
At last—
Odin moved.
He bent slightly, casually pinched the dagger off the floor, and weighed it in his hand as though testing a fruit.
Then, before anyone could react, he flicked his arm—
And tossed it away like a scrap of trash.
The dagger traced a silver arc through the air.
Its destination—
Petyr Baelish.
"AH—!"
Petyr yelped and stumbled backward in sheer panic, nearly collapsing.
Thunk!
The blade slammed into the floor inches from his nose, vibrating violently.
Petyr's face went deathly pale. Cold sweat drenched his back as his heart thundered in his chest.
"So sorry," Odin said mildly.
"I was just trying to throw it away."
Petyr stared at the embedded dagger, then at Odin—shocked, furious—
—and utterly speechless.
He did that on purpose.
Absolutely on purpose.
But he had no proof.
And so, he swallowed the humiliation whole.
By then, Odin had already stood, calmly smoothing the wrinkles in his robe.
He turned to Oberyn, his gaze steady—no triumph, no contempt.
"For me, Prince Oberyn," Odin said evenly,
"your head being securely attached to your neck is far more valuable than it ever would be as a useless ornament in my study."
"So please—take good care of it."
He dipped his head slightly, his tone almost courteous.
"But do remember our agreement."
"I still expect you to personally take the stage—for the people of King's Landing, and for our cooperation—and deliver a performance worthy of memory."
With that, he turned and walked away, clean and decisive.
Just before disappearing through the doorway, his low voice echoed back into the room:
"A wager is still a wager."
"I may not want your head—"
"But remember this."
"You owe me a favor, Prince."
Bang.
The door shut.
Only after Odin was truly gone did Ellaria finally collapse against Oberyn, kissing him wildly in relief.
Oberyn returned the passion—but his black eyes remained fixed on the door.
Slowly, silently, his hand loosened from the poison-coated dagger at his waist.
Odin…
Interesting.
---
Stone steps spiraled upward toward the Red Keep.
Odin walked steadily, unhurried, idly surveying the scenery as his mind replayed the blade dance.
His purpose in visiting Silk Street had been clear from the start—
Oberyn Martell.
The fighting pit needed spectacle.
It needed stars.
And the Red Viper was the perfect opening act.
If he could find an opponent equal in fame and strength—
All the better.
What Odin hadn't expected was just how volatile the viper truly was.
A deal that could have been concluded peacefully had turned into a life-or-death gamble, wasting far more time than planned.
Truth be told, before the contest began, Odin hadn't been certain he could win.
But so what?
Even if he lost, he still had a gold dragon in his pocket. One more duel would have settled it.
Still—
The synergy between his skills was terrifying.
For a game that demanded absolute control, focus, and mental resilience, this combination was practically tailor-made.
Lost in thought, he arrived before the towering gates of the Iron Throne's hall.
The Gold Cloak captain escorting him halted and turned.
"Wait here. I'll announce you."
His tone carried a hint of displeasure.
"Much obliged."
Odin nodded and slipped two shining silver stags into the man's hand.
Smooth. Natural.
The captain's expression instantly warmed.
"I'll be right back, Lord Odin. I won't keep you waiting."
And with that, he disappeared into the seat of power.
Money may not move mountains—
—but it certainly moves people.
Watching the doors close, Odin began weighing the reason for Tywin's sudden summons.
Less than an hour ago, he'd barely left Silk Street when Rorge came running, breathless, saying the Hand required him urgently.
No explanation.
Was someone complaining about the Flea Bottom cleanup?
Or had that dwarf gone crying to his father after being bled dry?
Unlikely. He wasn't that stupid.
Possibilities flashed through Odin's mind, one after another.
And yet—
Something nagged at him.
It felt like he'd left something behind on Silk Street.
Something important.
What was it…?