Chapter 133: The First Sword Upon Landing—Strike Down the One You Love First
The roar of the warhammer tearing through the air still echoed.
At the last possible moment, Sunglass had thrown himself aside on instinct, narrowly avoiding a crushing blow to the head. But the jagged wound on his left arm, carved open by flying debris, and the terrifying crater smashed into the stone floor made one thing clear—
Whoever had arrived was anything but ordinary.
Half-kneeling on the ground, fury and shock twisting together, he looked up at the antler-helmed warrior emerging through smoke and fire.
Around him, Dragonstone soldiers roared in unison:
"For King Robert Baratheon!"
"Robert Baratheon?"
Sunglass spat out a mouthful of blood, disbelief twisting into a savage grin. "Bah! Cheap tricks!"
A seasoned knight, he didn't believe in ghosts walking out of graves.
Even the Seven Gods he devoutly worshipped would never drag a man dead for two years back into the world—let alone drop him onto Dragonstone in an instant.
Impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
Shaking off the shock, he roared, "Let's see what kind of ugly face is hiding under that helmet!"
With a bellow, he surged forward.
His sword flashed in a deadly arc, thrusting straight for the narrow slit of Gendry's visor!
Fast. Precise. Ruthless.
A textbook knight's strike.
Gendry hadn't expected such speed. Until now, every enemy had either been smashed apart or terrified into retreat—none had dared counterattack like this.
Caught off guard, he could only raise the haft of his hammer in a clumsy block.
Clang!
Steel met iron. Sparks burst. The impact numbed his arms and forced him back two steps.
He had fought his way up from the lower levels through sheer brute strength, crushing enemies with overwhelming force—but that strength had come at a cost. His stamina was draining fast.
And now, against a true master…
His hammer suddenly felt heavy. Slow.
Sunglass gave him no room to breathe.
His sword flowed with disciplined precision—tight, efficient, relentless.
Slash!
A cut tore across Gendry's thigh. Mail links snapped. Blood seeped through.
Gendry roared and swung his hammer in retaliation—but the massive weapon felt sluggish against such a nimble opponent.
Sunglass sidestepped easily and drove his blade into Gendry's side.
Thud!
The tip pierced leather and rings, sending a lance of pain through his ribs.
"Urgh!"
Gendry staggered.
"So this is your strength?" Sunglass sneered. "And you dare pretend to be Robert Baratheon?"
He had already seen through him—immense strength, yes, but crude technique. Easy prey.
He began circling, striking again and again.
More wounds appeared.
None fatal—but enough.
Blood loss. Fatigue. Slowing reactions.
Gendry's breathing grew ragged. His vision blurred.
The sword seemed everywhere.
Every block drained him. Every dodge came a fraction too late.
A flicker of despair crept in.
"Ser Odin…"
The image of that cold, composed man surfaced in his mind.
Regret followed.
He shouldn't have acted on his own.
But when another strike tore across his shoulder, pain and fear finally broke through—
"Ser Odin! Help me!!!"
His shout echoed across the platform.
No answer.
The man he expected to descend like a savior… never came.
Another stab struck his side—partly deflected, but still biting into flesh.
Gendry staggered back until he hit the battlements.
His hammer nearly slipped from his grip.
Behind the visor, his young face was filled with helpless fear.
What was he even expecting?
Maybe Odin had already left with Shireen.
Maybe… he never cared at all.
From the beginning, he had only been a pawn.
A pawn that made its own foolish move—and walked straight into death.
Sunglass didn't wait.
Seeing his opponent spent, he raised his sword for the killing thrust.
"Time to end this, imposter."
"Go join the real Robert Baratheon."
The blade shot forward.
Gendry shut his eyes.
Then—
A blur.
A grey shadow flashed from behind him.
A plain sword—nothing special—arrived faster than Sunglass's strike and intercepted it perfectly.
Clang!
The blow stopped dead.
The recoil alone numbed Sunglass's wrist, nearly sending his weapon flying.
He stumbled back, stunned.
The one who blocked him… looked like nothing more than an ordinary soldier—dust-covered armor, stained with blood.
But the stance.
The positioning.
Every angle sealed.
Every path cut off.
And those eyes—
Cold. Calm. Unshaken.
This was no ordinary man.
Odin didn't even glance at Sunglass.
He stepped forward slightly and tilted his head, looking at Gendry out of the corner of his eye.
That gaze was colder than the sea winds of Dragonstone.
Sharper than any blade.
No concern.
Only judgment.
Gendry froze.
He couldn't even speak.
Odin's gaze lingered for less than a second before shifting back.
"You looked pretty cool just now, didn't you, kid?"
His voice was calm—mocking.
"…Talking about 'my woman', were you?"
Then his tone hardened.
"Idiot."
The word struck like a whip.
"I told you to gather men and support Stannis. But you just had to put on that ridiculous antler helmet and play hero."
"You really think you're Robert Baratheon?"
"You're nowhere close."
Each word cut deeper than any blade.
"This is war," he continued coldly. "Not some love-struck fantasy."
Gendry trembled.
Not from pain—
But shame.
He turned his head toward Melisandre.
She stood by the flames.
Unmoved.
Unbothered.
Not once had she looked at him.
Not once.
Everything he had done…
Meant nothing.
"I…"
His voice choked.
Then—
He dropped to his knees.
The hammer slipped from his hand.
"I was wrong… I'm sorry, ser…"
Odin exhaled slowly.
Annoyance faded slightly.
Still just a kid.
But if he didn't break that foolishness now—
He'd die for it later.
Behind them, Sunglass snapped.
"Are you serious?!"
"You dare ignore me?!"
Rage exploded.
He lunged forward, thrusting straight for Odin's back.
A perfect killing strike.
But—
Odin shifted, just a fraction.
The blade missed by inches.
Then—
A casual flick.
Slash!
A line of blood opened across Sunglass's forearm.
"I'm teaching a kid," Odin said flatly. "Who the hell asked you to interfere?"
Sunglass roared and unleashed everything he had.
Perfect knightly technique.
A storm of strikes.
But Odin—
Barely moved.
Minimal steps.
Effortless evasion.
Every attack avoided with uncanny precision.
As if he could see the future.
And while evading—
He spoke.
"My woman, huh?"
Slash.
A cut across Sunglass's thigh.
"Trying to look cool?"
Clang.
A deflection, followed by a strike to the wrist.
"Acting on your own?"
Stab.
Blood burst from a shoulder gap.
Every sentence—
Another wound.
Words for Gendry.
Pain for Sunglass.
A grotesque, absurd scene.
Gendry knelt, head lowered in burning shame.
Around them, soldiers stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
Who… was this man?
This wasn't a soldier.
This was a monster.
Under that relentless pressure, Sunglass finally broke.
Wounds covered his body.
Strength faded.
Fear crept in.
"Stop… please stop…"
"I know I was wrong!"
Gendry's voice cracked as he slammed his forehead against the ground.
Odin finally ended it.
A flick of the wrist—
Both of Sunglass's knees were cut.
He collapsed.
Odin didn't even look at him.
Instead, he stepped into the battlefield.
His target—
The red-armored Lannister knights.
From the moment the fleet landed, he had already been marked.
He couldn't let any of them live.
Not one.
His sword moved.
Fast.
Precise.
Deadly.
Every strike—
A kill.
Meanwhile—
Gendry staggered to his feet.
Dragging his hammer.
Step by step.
He approached the broken Sunglass.
The knight looked up—bloodied, defeated.
"I surrender!" he shouted.
"By knightly code, I can pay ransom! You cannot kill a surrendered noble!"
"That would be dishonorable!"
Gendry stopped.
Then slowly raised his hammer.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "That would be dishonorable."
Hope flickered in Sunglass's eyes.
Then—
"It's a shame…"
The hammer lifted higher.
"…I'm not a knight."
Sunglass: "???"
As his words fell, the warhammer fell with them.
Sunglass didn't even have time to scream. His body stiffened violently for a split second—then collapsed limply to the ground.
From beneath the warped helmet, a slow seep of red and white began to spread.
That once-pristine crimson armor, the golden seven-pointed star emblazoned on his chest—now soaked in blood—looked grotesquely ironic.
Gendry loosened his grip, letting the hammer rest against the ground. He stared at the corpse at his feet, chest heaving.
But he didn't stop.
After only a brief pause, he lifted the hammer again and followed Odin back into the fray.
When the final red-armored knight was pierced through the heart by Odin from behind—and his skull crushed by Gendry's hammer as he collapsed into the blood-soaked stone—the slaughter on the platform finally came to an end.
The wind swept across the terrace, carrying with it the stench of smoke and blood.
Tattered stag banners fluttered weakly. Blood-streaked faces were brushed by the cold air.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Baratheon and Lannister alike—soaked in the same pool of blood, indistinguishable in death.
Still standing, besides Odin and Gendry, were fewer than ten of Stannis Baratheon's guards, along with a handful of soldiers who had followed Gendry up.
All of them wounded.
All of them exhausted.
Every gaze shifted between Odin and Gendry—filled with awe, confusion, and disbelief.
That "ordinary soldier" who crushed knights like insects…
And that antler-helmed young man of unknown identity…
Who were they?
Where had they come from?
And what did they want?
Gerald Gower leaned on his sword to stay upright. Though badly wounded, he forced himself to stand straight, supporting the weakened Stannis as they approached Odin step by step.
Stannis looked terrible.
Pale-faced. Blood dried across his brow. Armor shattered in multiple places. He could barely stand without support.
Yet his deep blue eyes remained sharp—locked firmly onto Odin.
He had already guessed who the man was.
But what he didn't understand… was why a Lannister envoy would save him.
"Why… did you save me?"
The king finally asked.
But Odin didn't answer.
He didn't even look at him.
Under everyone's stunned gaze, he simply turned away, stepping over corpses as he walked straight toward Gendry.
Gendry stiffened as he heard the footsteps approaching. His head lowered instinctively.
Odin stopped before him and looked him over.
The blood-stained antler helm.
The damaged armor.
The wounds covering his body.
And the warhammer that had crushed countless skulls.
"For someone on his first battlefield," Odin said at last, voice unreadable beneath the helm,
"you did well."
Gendry let out a breath of relief—
But the next sentence tightened his chest again.
"In my homeland, there's a saying."
He paused.
"It goes: 'The first sword after coming ashore—cut down the one you love first.'"
The phrase, spoken in the Common Tongue, was clear in meaning—yet strange enough that everyone present froze in confusion.
Gendry suddenly looked up, unease flashing through his eyes beneath the visor.
"Ser… I…"
"It's simple."
Odin met his gaze, word by word:
"When you claw your way out of drowning waters—
the first thing you should do is not celebrate, not tend your wounds, and certainly not think about what's still in the water."
"Because those things—
distract you, weaken you, and may drag you right back under."
His voice turned cold as steel.
"You should raise your sword—immediately, without hesitation—
and cut them off."
"Cut your attachments.
Cut your weaknesses.
Cut every foolish thought that might drown you the next time."
Each word struck like a hammer against Gendry's mind.
"You nearly died today."
"Not because your enemy was stronger—
but because you climbed ashore… while your heart was still in the water."
"Your sword—"
He paused slightly.
"…or rather, your hammer—was not decisive enough."
"I… I understand, ser!"
Gendry straightened instinctively, voice firm despite exhaustion.
"I swear—there won't be a next time!"
"No."
Odin's tone remained flat.
"You don't understand."
His gaze shifted—subtly—toward Melisandre.
Under countless uncertain eyes, he spoke slowly:
"When I say 'cut down the one you love first'…"
He held Gendry's gaze.
"I mean it literally."
A pause.
Then—
"Do it."
"I'll be watching."