Chapter 180: It's the Man Who Wields the Sword
The preparation room inside the Ring of Order was built with thick oak doors reinforced by iron plating.
It had been Odin's idea.
Every fighter stepping into the arena deserved a quiet place—a place to steady their breathing, inspect their weapons, and face the possibility of death.
At that moment, the Hound sat on a crude wooden bench, holding a piece of chamois leather as he carefully polished his sword.
The weapon was utterly ordinary.
It wasn't forged by a famous smith.
It bore no decorations.
Several small chips marked the blade, scars left behind by years of combat.
The leather wrapped around the guard had been worn smooth from constant use.
Yet to the Hound, this sword was everything.
More reliable than any Valyrian steel blade.
Because it had stayed with him for twenty years.
That Stark pup might have stolen all his gold—
But he hadn't taken this.
Sunlight streamed through a high window, casting a bright streak across the blade.
The Hound polished it slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Each pass reflected half of his face.
The burned half.
Scar tissue stretched from forehead to jaw.
The skin was twisted and shriveled, a horrifying mix of blackened and dark-red flesh.
Part of his nose had collapsed.
His lips were permanently warped.
And now his eye stared back from the steel, burning with rage he had carried for decades.
He never looked away.
He had never hidden from his own face.
He remembered being seven years old.
Almost thirty years had passed in the blink of an eye.
Countless times he had dreamed of tearing that monster apart.
Countless times he imagined driving a sword through his brother's chest.
Watching blood pour from the wound.
Watching Gregor kneel and beg.
But he had never been given the chance.
Because the Mountain was House Lannister's hound.
Tywin Lannister's favored executioner.
And what was he?
Just the Hound.
A dog that bit people.
A dog that could never stand as an equal beside lions.
The Hound wasn't stupid.
He knew Odin was using him.
The man needed someone to replace Oberyn.
Someone to keep the arena's momentum alive.
Someone to protect the hundreds of thousands of gold dragons tied up in wagers.
And he happened to be the perfect candidate.
A man with a blood feud against the Mountain.
A reckless bastard with nothing left to lose.
And flat broke.
But so what?
The Hound turned the sword over and continued polishing.
He was in his thirties now.
He had killed many men.
Protected a few.
Hated countless more.
But he had never truly lived for himself.
Now, for the first time, he had a chance.
A chance to earn a fortune.
A chance to exact revenge.
A chance to be used—
And to use someone else in return.
If he won, he would gain a mountain of gold.
More importantly...
He would kill the Mountain with his own hands.
And if he lost...
A crooked smile appeared on his scarred face.
Then he lost.
So what?
His life wasn't worth much anyway.
Chuckling to himself, the Hound suddenly looked up toward the closed door.
Faint sounds drifted in from outside.
The crowd was cheering.
Waiting for him.
Though he knew they weren't really waiting for him.
They were waiting for blood.
Violence.
Death.
They didn't care who won.
They only cared whether the spectacle was entertaining.
Fine.
He didn't care either.
All he needed was one opportunity to drive his sword into Gregor Clegane.
That would be enough.
After a while, he finally slid the blade back into its scabbard and rose to his feet.
The monster who had ruined his life.
Soon.
He rolled his shoulders.
His battered black plate armor hung on his frame.
Years of use had left deep scratches and dents across the metal.
Several sections still needed repair.
His iconic hound-shaped helmet rested on the bench beside him.
The empty eye sockets stared back at him.
Looking at it, he suddenly remembered Joffrey.
The little bastard had once ordered him to wear the helmet, kneel on the floor, and bark like a dog.
And he had complied.
Well...
Not exactly.
He had remained standing and frightened Joffrey badly enough that the boy had nearly pissed himself.
"Damn."
Why was he thinking about that little creep now?
Bad luck.
The Hound quickly shook the memory away.
He picked up the helmet and tucked it beneath his arm.
It should be about time.
Taking a deep breath, he moved toward the door.
Then—
A thunderous roar erupted from outside.
The cheering was so loud that even the thick oak door couldn't block it.
The noise penetrated straight through the walls.
His ears rang.
The Hound froze.
Was it his turn already?
He frowned.
No.
If he was due to enter, someone should have come for him.
According to the schedule, an attendant was supposed to escort him through a designated passageway and into the arena.
He waited.
A few seconds passed.
The cheering only grew louder.
Wave after wave.
Stronger than before.
Finally, curiosity got the better of him.
He grabbed his sword, tucked the helmet under his arm, and headed for the door.
His boot struck something.
Looking down, he found a leather-bound booklet lying on the floor.
A dark red wine stain marred the cover.
Odin had sent it to him earlier.
Apparently some maester had compiled detailed notes about the Mountain's fighting habits, likely weaknesses, and even theories regarding his anatomy.
The Hound had never bothered opening it.
He didn't need notes.
Or analysis.
Or tactics.
Or any of that bullshit.
He had grown up with Gregor.
He knew that monster better than anyone alive.
His strength.
His speed.
His weaknesses.
Every detail had been burned into his mind for more than twenty years.
With a dismissive snort, he kicked the booklet aside and pushed open the door.
The corridor beyond was empty.
No attendants.
No guards.
No one.
Only distant cheers rolling through the passageways, making the walls tremble faintly.
The Hound quickened his pace.
At the end of the corridor stood a small door leading directly into the arena.
Contestants normally emerged from there to receive the crowd's applause.
But the door was closed.
He continued onward.
After turning a corner, he finally spotted people.
Several attendants.
They were rushing through the hallway in a panic.
Excited.
Nervous.
As though something extraordinary had happened.
The Hound called out.
They didn't even look back.
They kept running.
Annoyed, he lengthened his stride and caught up within seconds.
Grabbing the last attendant by the collar, he yanked him backward.
"The fuck's wrong with you?"
The young man stumbled and nearly fell.
Instinctively, he turned around to curse.
The words died in his throat when he saw who was holding him.
"Y-you..."
He stammered helplessly.
The Hound dragged him closer.
"What's happening out there?"
"Why's everyone making so much noise?"
The attendant swallowed hard and tried to compose himself.
"You... you don't know?"
"Know what?"
The Hound's brow furrowed.
The attendant's eyes immediately lit up.
As though he had just been given permission to share the greatest gossip in King's Landing.
"Ser Lyn Corbray!"
He practically shouted it.
"The finest knight in the Vale! Ser Lyn Corbray has publicly challenged Ser Odin!"
"What?"
The Hound frowned even harder.
Seeing that he hadn't reacted, the attendant repeated himself, louder and more excited than before.
"Lyn Corbray!"
"The man who killed a Kingsguard knight at the Trident!"
"He challenged Ser Odin in front of everyone, and Ser Odin accepted!"
"They've already stepped onto the sand!"
"They're about to fight!"
"If you don't hurry, you'll miss it!"
The Hound froze.
Lyn Corbray.
He knew the name.
A man from the Vale.
A swordsman of legendary reputation.
One of the few warriors universally acknowledged as elite.
Though in recent years Corbray rarely appeared at tournaments, and the Hound had never crossed blades with him.
And Odin...
Actually accepted?
The Hound released the attendant's collar in a daze.
The man looked as though he had been granted a royal pardon. He immediately turned and ran, chasing after the others toward the stands.
The corridor fell silent once more.
Only the Hound remained.
He stood there with his sword in hand and the hound-shaped helmet tucked beneath his arm.
Why had he come here?
To wait for the Mountain.
To settle a lifelong score.
To make a fortune while doing it.
But now?
Odin was about to fight someone else.
A real swordsman.
A man who had slain a member of the Kingsguard.
If Odin lost...
If he died...
Then who was going to pay him?
Would his duel with the Mountain even happen?
The Hound's brow furrowed into a knot as the seriousness of the situation finally struck him.
If Odin died out there on the sand, the Ring of Order would collapse.
The three hundred thousand gold dragons wagered on today's events would vanish with it.
And him?
A wanted fugitive.
Would anyone still let him stand here and wait for the Mountain?
They'd probably throw him out before sunset.
Taking a deep breath, the Hound realized something unsettling.
He was actually worried about that peasant.
Gripping his sword tighter, he strode toward the arena.
He wanted to see for himself.
Could this peasant who supposedly defeated the Mountain actually beat the finest swordsman in the Vale?
Pushing through the small door leading to the stands, sunlight stabbed into his eyes.
He instinctively squinted.
Then the noise hit him.
A tidal wave of sound.
A roar so overwhelming it nearly knocked him backward.
Two thousand five hundred people were shouting at once.
"Ser Odin!"
"Ser Lyn Corbray!"
"Fight!"
"Fight!"
The frenzy was so intense it felt as though the roof itself might be torn away.
Standing at the tunnel entrance, the Hound raised a hand to shield his eyes.
Once they adjusted to the light, he looked toward the sand.
Two figures stood at the center of the circular arena.
One wore pure black armor.
The dark metal reflected a muted sheen beneath the afternoon sun.
A gray-white cloak hung behind him, emblazoned with a black hand reaching toward the sky.
Odin.
The Hound had seen him several times before.
But never in armor.
Now, clad in black steel, the man seemed transformed.
His shoulders were straight.
His waist tightly cinched.
His entire body looked like a sword drawn from its sheath.
In his hand was an ordinary blade.
Simple steel gleaming beneath the sun.
At the opposite end of the arena stood another man.
He wore deep blue plate armor adorned with intricate engravings.
The pauldrons were shaped like eagle talons.
Across his chest was the sigil of House Corbray—three black ravens soaring across a white field, each clutching a bleeding red heart.
Sunlight danced across his armor, casting a brilliant blue glow.
Magnificent.
Commanding.
And in his hand—
A black sword.
Dark as midnight.
Rippling patterns flowed across its blade like living water.
The weapon was breathtaking.
The Hound narrowed his eyes.
He knew exactly what it was.
Valyrian steel.
A sword capable of shearing through ordinary weapons with terrifying ease.
Compared to that blade, the sword in Odin's hand looked little better than a stick.
And he actually accepted this duel?
The Hound couldn't help shaking his head.
Madness.
Every one of them was completely insane.
Leaning against the tunnel wall, he tossed his helmet onto the ground and folded his arms.
There was nothing for him to do now.
Besides...
He wanted to see whether Odin was really as good as the stories claimed.
So he watched.
In the center of the arena, the two men faced one another.
Long shadows stretched across the white sand.
Lyn Corbray held Lady Forlorn with its tip angled toward the ground.
His breathing was calm.
Steadier, perhaps, than it had been when he faced Prince Lewyn Martell on the battlefield years ago.
Yes.
He had actually agreed.
He had wagered this sword.
Wagered the honor of House Corbray.
Wagered the reputation he had spent a lifetime building.
But there was no turning back.
Perhaps he had come at first for the rewards Tywin Lannister promised.
But the moment Odin challenged him before thousands of witnesses and asked whether he dared wager everything...
Retreat ceased to be an option.
He was no longer Tywin's piece.
He was Lyn Corbray.
The greatest knight in the Vale.
If he backed down now—
If he stood before twenty-five hundred people and lacked the courage to stake everything against a knight born a peasant—
Then he would become a coward.
A joke.
A name people laughed at for generations.
That could never happen.
He would rather lose the sword.
Lose his wealth.
Lose everything.
Anything but his dignity.
And besides...
He knew he wouldn't lose.
Lyn tightened his grip around the hilt.
Lady Forlorn felt familiar in his hand.
The sword had accompanied him for twenty years.
It knew his intentions almost better than he did.
As long as it remained in his grasp—
He would not lose.
And the wager wasn't one-sided.
Moments earlier, he had demanded that Odin stake one hundred thousand gold dragons.
Odin had accepted without hesitation.
One hundred thousand gold dragons.
Against a Valyrian steel sword.
Fair enough.
Taking a slow breath, Lyn raised Lady Forlorn and pointed it at Odin.
Sunlight flowed along the black blade.
The rippling patterns seemed alive.
His eyes shifted toward the sword in Odin's hand.
No.
Perhaps "ordinary" wasn't entirely fair.
Lyn could tell it was forged from excellent steel.
Sharp.
Durable.
Among the finest craftsmanship in the Seven Kingdoms.
But compared to Lady Forlorn...
It was common iron.
Nothing more.
A deeper sneer spread across his face.
"You intend to fight with that?"
He lifted his sword slightly.
"My blade is Valyrian steel."
"Do you understand what that means?"
Raising Lady Forlorn higher, he let the sunlight blaze across its surface.
"A few exchanges."
"A few strikes."
"And your sword will snap in half."
His smile widened.
"And then what?"
"What exactly do you plan to use to stop me?"
His voice grew louder.
More confident.
More arrogant.
"You have no chance, Odin."
"None."
The arena fell silent.
Every eye turned toward Odin.
Inside the black armor, however, Odin merely smiled.
"Of course I know how sharp Valyrian steel is, Lyn Corbray."
"It can cut through ordinary weapons with ease."
"Otherwise, I wouldn't have wagered one hundred thousand gold dragons against you."
His gaze settled on the black blade.
"It is a fine sword."
"A very fine sword."
Then he looked back at Lyn.
"But do you know something?"
With a casual flourish, he spun his sword once before lowering the tip.
Beneath his helmet, those dark eyes seemed impossibly deep.
The kind that made people feel as though they were being pulled into an abyss.
"The reason tournaments and duels excite proud knights..."
"The reason they fascinate us..."
"Is because the outcome is never certain."
He paused.
Then spoke slowly enough for every person in the arena to hear.
"Because it is the man who wields the sword."
"Not the sword that wields the man."
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