Chapter 119: You Will Owe Me Another Favor
Outside the Hall of Order, the night wind swept through, carrying with it the thick scent of blood and dust, stirring Odin's bloodstained clothes and his gray-white cloak. The black hand sigil stood out starkly under the firelight and dark crimson stains.
Silence gripped the crowd. The fallen Gregor Clegane lay on the ground, his faint breathing barely audible.
One by one, people's gazes lingered on Odin's terrifyingly calm figure—then shifted, almost instinctively, to another man.
Tywin Lannister.
The Hand of the King walked forward at his usual measured pace, as if he were merely strolling through a courtyard, utterly indifferent to the blood-soaked chaos before him.
He descended the final step and arrived at the center of the scene.
His face remained expressionless, but everyone could see the cold sharpness in his green eyes.
He didn't even spare a glance at the Mountain lying in a pool of blood. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Odin.
"You killed him."
His voice was steady, without rise or fall—neither accusation nor reprimand.
Just a statement.
Yet beneath that calm tone, it felt as though a lion was roaring.
Odin sheathed his sword in one smooth motion.
Then he placed his right fist against his chest and bowed slightly, his voice clear and composed.
"I did not, my lord."
He lifted his head, meeting Tywin's gaze without hesitation.
"I merely gave him a necessary lesson."
"Given that Ser Clegane lost control tonight—damaging your reputation, disrupting the order of this banquet, and gravely insulting my companions."
"I removed his tongue. As a hound of House Lannister, I believe… a dog that cannot bark may bite all the more viciously in the future."
His words were logical, measured—and respectful enough to preserve Tywin's dignity.
After a brief pause, he added, "Of course, the pain and blood loss require prompt treatment."
Tywin's brow lifted slightly.
"A dog that cannot bark…"
He repeated the phrase, almost amused.
"There is truth in that. Such dogs… do tend to bite harder."
His tone remained calm. There was no visible anger at the severity of Odin's actions.
His gaze finally shifted to the fallen Gregor. The massive body still twitched, blood flowing freely—an unsettling sight.
After a moment of silent assessment, Tywin looked back at Odin.
"You're certain… he lives?"
"Please trust me, my lord."
Odin answered with professional calm.
"As you know, I am first and foremost a physician."
"The damage is limited to the tongue, facial muscles, and some nerves. The bleeding is significant, but the carotid artery remains intact. For a man of his size, it is not fatal."
"As for his hand…"
He gestured toward Gregor's left hand, now missing three fingers.
"The injury affects his non-dominant hand. It will not greatly diminish his combat ability."
"With proper treatment, his chances of survival—and recovery of most of his strength—are very high."
He even added, almost casually, "Of course, if you wish, I can personally oversee his treatment. Though… professional medical services are rarely free."
A chill ran through the crowd.
Even seasoned knights felt it.
Cruel.
Precise.
And shamelessly practical.
This man not only understood the human body—he profited from the damage he inflicted.
Best never to cross him.
Tywin, however, remained silent, studying Odin.
At first, he had allowed—even encouraged—Gregor's provocation. It was a test.
Odin had risen too quickly, too unpredictably. Tywin needed to see how this "hand in the dark" would react to raw violence and open humiliation.
He had expected cunning. Perhaps reliance on allies like Jaime Lannister. Maybe even manipulation of the Flea Bottom masses.
But not this.
Odin had faced Gregor head-on.
Defeated him.
Crippled him.
Decisively.
Brutally.
And beautifully.
Too beautifully for Tywin to openly criticize.
After all, Gregor had provoked the conflict. By the customs of Westeros, even killing him would have been justified.
Yet Odin hadn't killed him.
He had spared him—
While ensuring he would never speak again.
A living humiliation.
But this… was not the behavior of a simple, obedient tool.
Was he demonstrating strength?
Or proving he was more valuable than Gregor himself?
"You must be tired, Ser Odin."
After a moment, Tywin spoke again, his tone returning to normal.
Whatever Odin intended, Tywin had absolute confidence he could control him.
Because he was Tywin Lannister.
Nothing more needed to be said.
He turned away and gave his orders.
"Take Ser Clegane to the Red Keep. Deliver him to Grand Maester Pycelle."
"Ensure he is treated. I want him alive."
"Yes, my lord!"
Several Lannister knights stepped forward. It took four men to lift Gregor's massive armored body, carrying him heavily toward the waiting carriage.
Blood still dripped from his ruined mouth, leaving a crimson trail across the stone.
Tywin then addressed the crowd.
"Ser Gregor Clegane, in a state of drunken disorder, caused deliberate trouble and disrupted this gathering."
"His actions violate the code of knighthood and betray the trust placed in him by House Lannister."
"It seems that prolonged war in the Riverlands has made him forget both his place… and my rules."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Odin—a silent reminder.
Odin bowed again, respectful.
Tywin continued, "He has paid dearly for his arrogance."
"This matter ends here. Any further retaliation will be considered defiance of the Hand of the King."
Odin immediately responded, perfectly in tune.
"Of course, my lord. Your judgment is fair and wise. I fully accept it."
"Good."
Tywin nodded slightly.
"Come to the Tower of the Hand tomorrow morning. We will discuss the expansion of Flea Bottom—your plans, your budget, and the support required."
"Bring your proposal."
"I will not disappoint, my lord."
Tywin said no more. His gaze swept across the silent crowd—no one dared meet his eyes.
Except one.
Oberyn Martell stared back coldly—but said nothing.
Tywin turned and departed, escorted by crimson-clad guards, without a single glance back.
Not even toward his son.
Not a word. Not a look.
As if Jaime Lannister no longer existed.
Perhaps it was a message—without his right hand, Jaime could no longer fulfill his role.
Watching her father leave, Cersei Lannister looked back at Odin.
He had won.
Brilliantly.
And that victory filled her with something darker than admiration.
Unease.
Jealousy.
The stronger he became, the harder he would be to control.
She bit her lip, gathered her skirts, and left without a word.
Soon after, Olenna Tyrell approached, supported by Margaery Tyrell.
"Well now, boy," the old woman said, eyes narrowing as she looked him over. "You've truly outdone yourself tonight."
"That swordsmanship… almost reminds me of Arthur Dayne in his prime."
"Oh—what was the name of that sword again?"
"Dawn," Odin replied with a slight bow.
"You flatter me, my lady. I've only been practicing under Lady Brienne for two months. I'm nowhere near Ser Arthur."
"Two months? If that's true, the knights of the Seven Kingdoms might as well throw themselves into the Blackwater."
She snorted, then added, "But be careful, child. You've cut out the tongue of a hound."
"When it recovers… it will bite back."
"Then I'll knock out all its teeth."
Olenna chuckled. "Such energy."
After a few more words, she departed with Margaery.
Despite the earlier chaos, most guests did not leave. If anything, they were even more excited.
Witnessing one of the most feared monsters in the Seven Kingdoms brought low—this was better than any performance.
As Odin called out, "Music! Continue the dance!" the crowd erupted in agreement, flowing back into the hall.
Many bowed or nodded respectfully as they passed him. The earlier disdain in their eyes had turned to something else.
Respect.
Even fear.
Odin remained where he stood, watching calmly.
At his side, Rorge appeared silently, speaking in a low voice.
"Ser. Iggo's been checked—two broken ribs, some internal bleeding. Possibly a punctured lung, but we stabilized him like you taught. He's not in danger for now."
Odin nodded.
That was expected. Surviving Gregor's punch at all was a testament to Iggo's toughness.
Rorge continued, "Also, per your orders, our men kept watch at every street entrance tonight. Aside from necessary personnel, no one from Flea Bottom was allowed out."
"Other than Iggo… we've taken no further losses."
Odin nodded again.
Though he had the people's support, the time was not yet right.
Until he held absolute power—or firmer official authority—dragging Flea Bottom into noble conflicts would be foolish.
They were his foundation.
His future.
Not expendable pawns.
And tonight—
His objective had already been achieved.
Gregor was a symbol of brute force.
Defeating him head-on was a declaration to all of King's Landing:
Odin is not just a schemer.
He has power.
From beginning to end, he upheld order.
And in the end, he handed final authority back to Tywin.
Defeating Gregor was never the goal.
Maintaining order was.
This way of handling things placed him firmly on the moral and procedural high ground. It reframed his violence as justified, even necessary—making it far easier for the noble class to accept.
As for Tywin Lannister's reaction, Odin saw it clearly.
The old lion was terrifyingly composed. He hadn't shown anger at Gregor Clegane's defeat—because it proved that the "hand in the dark" he had chosen was strong enough.
Nor had he immediately rewarded Odin. Elevating him too quickly would upset the balance.
Instead, Tywin handled everything with cold, bureaucratic neutrality—maintaining the appearance of fairness while quietly allowing Odin room to operate, all within a framework firmly under his control.
After tonight, Tywin had seen both Odin's value… and the potential threat he posed.
From here on, the game would become subtler.
And far more dangerous.
Odin would need to expand faster—forge Flea Bottom into something unbreakable. At the same time, he would have to open new paths beyond it.
"Good work."
After a moment of thought, he praised Rorge, then added calmly, "Have the entrance cleaned. Wash away the blood. Repair the broken stone."
"And tell the kitchens—add another cask of Arbor gold to every table."
"Yes, ser." Rorge bowed and quickly moved off to carry out the orders.
Just then, a slightly teasing voice sounded beside him.
"Well, well… I thought you were only skilled at that little 'knife' game. Didn't expect you to handle a longsword this well too."
Odin didn't need to turn to know who it was.
He slowly faced Oberyn Martell, who had already sheathed his poisoned blades and stepped closer. The Dornish prince wore a playful smile, though deep in his dark eyes flickered both admiration… and faint regret.
"A man needs more than one skill to survive in this world, Your Highness," Odin replied evenly. "Swordsmanship, medicine—just the more practical ones. I can also climb trees and pick apples."
Oberyn burst into laughter. "Well said."
Then his gaze sharpened slightly. "But I am curious…"
Odin raised a brow.
"You were ready to tear that dog apart earlier. Yet when Tywin appeared… you said nothing."
At the mention of Tywin, a flash of hatred crossed Oberyn's eyes—deep, searing, unforgettable. But he quickly suppressed it.
"You punished that dog yourself," he said, glancing at Odin. "That satisfied me more than killing him outright."
"I can tell—you're not truly on the Lannisters' side. At least… your ambitions go further."
"My vengeance is my own. But tonight… you were the one on stage."
His tone was casual, yet sincere enough to surprise Odin. After a brief silence, Odin chuckled lightly.
"Well, that's unexpected. The Red Viper of Dorne… thinking of someone else for a change?"
"I've heard stories. You stole a man's lover—and poisoned him on your blade."
Oberyn didn't take offense. On the contrary, he laughed proudly, as if being praised.
"Ha! I won't deny it—the woman was worth it."
Then his expression grew serious again.
"But that was for pleasure. Some things… some hatreds… are worth waiting for."
They held each other's gaze for a moment—then both let out a quiet laugh.
There wasn't much joy in it.
Only mutual understanding.
"So, Your Highness," Odin said, glancing at the nobles flowing back into the hall like a tide, "the wine tonight is decent. Care to stay for a few more cups?"
Oberyn shook his head.
"No. Sharing a roof with Lannisters—even the wine turns sour."
He paused, then cast a subtle glance behind him.
Following his gaze, Odin saw Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth walking side by side.
Oberyn's expression grew complicated.
He hated all Lannisters—save perhaps the one dwarf who stood as Tywin's shame.
As for Jaime… whether they had dealings or not made no difference. To Oberyn, he was still a Lannister.
After a moment, his gaze returned to Odin, tinged with regret.
"A pity. I didn't get to tear that mad dog's head off myself."
Odin reached out and gave his arm a light pat, his tone calm but certain.
"You'll have your chance."
He paused, then added quietly—
"But when that day comes… you'll owe me another favor."