Chapter 166
The moment the sigil appeared, Garin swept his gaze around the camp.
Several of the men nearby immediately grinned.
Some looked excited.
Others looked openly bloodthirsty.
To them, the iron sigil felt less like a disguise and more like a medal earned in some dangerous game.
One burly man missing his front teeth let out a low chuckle.
Another, his face still marked with fresh scratches, slowly licked his lips, violence gleaming in his eyes.
Across from them, Andrey silently stared at the black gate emblem swaying in the firelight.
Cold iron.
Dancing flames.
Both reflected in his dark pupils.
Yet his expression never changed.
A suffocating silence lingered over the clearing.
Only the fire continued crackling stubbornly.
Then—
with a flick of his wrist, Andrey sheathed his sword in a smooth blur too fast for most eyes to follow.
The deadly chill pressing against Garin's throat vanished instantly.
Andrey picked up a soft cloth from beside the whetstone and calmly began polishing the sword's hilt and guard, as though the threat of murder moments earlier had never happened.
"The blade's ready."
After wiping the weapon spotless, he fastened it at his waist in one fluid motion.
Then he casually brushed dirt and grass from his clothes before letting his gaze drift across the camp.
Past the pale-faced Garin.
Past the silent men around the fire.
And finally toward the endless darkness beyond the trees.
"I'm leaving."
His tone carried no emotion at all.
"I need to reach the shallow ford along the Blackwater before dawn. A boat will meet me there."
"You lot clean this place up."
"Withdraw according to the original plan we reviewed before leaving."
"Meet at the designated point afterward and prepare for the next stage."
"And don't be late."
Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply and strode into the darkness, his figure quickly swallowed by the forest.
Morning arrived.
Mist curled through the hills along the northeastern edge of the Kingswood.
Odin reined in his horse and surveyed the clearing before him—the place Olyvar Chelsted had described as the bandits' hideout.
Empty.
Too empty.
No dying embers.
No scattered supplies.
No piles of horse dung.
Even the ground itself looked unnaturally clean, as if someone had deliberately erased every trace.
Olyvar's hopeful expression immediately turned awkward.
He opened his mouth to explain, but only a few useless sounds escaped.
"I swear, ser… they really were here. My hunters saw them…"
But the more he spoke, the quieter he became.
Eventually his voice faded into a mutter.
He couldn't even meet Odin's eyes.
Odin, however, showed no irritation.
He merely gestured once.
At once, Iggo dismounted.
Unlike the others, the Dothraki warrior did not search aimlessly with his eyes.
Instead, he crouched and pressed a palm flat against the earth.
Then he closed his eyes.
Several moments later, his dark brown pupils narrowed sharply as he stood.
He began moving through the clearing in an odd rhythm.
At times he bent to smell the soil.
At others he traced faint scratches on tree bark with his fingertips.
Occasionally he even tilted his head, listening to how the wind sounded as it passed through patches of vegetation with different densities.
This was the tracking craft of the grasslands.
Completely unlike the southern nobles who relied on hounds and footprints while hunting.
The Dothraki believed the earth remembered everything.
And the wind told every story.
Only true hunters could understand nature's whispers.
"Here."
Iggo finally stopped beside what appeared to be an ordinary patch of moss.
"At least twenty people stayed here."
"For over half a month."
Using the tip of his boot, he brushed away the moss layer, revealing hardened soil beneath, compacted from repeated footsteps.
"They were careful," he continued.
"They buried their fire pits before leaving and cleared away most of the trash."
"But the smell remains."
"And not all the tracks disappeared."
Without another word, Iggo moved toward a dense thicket at the edge of the clearing and pulled apart the tangled branches.
The sight beyond made Olyvar suck in a horrified breath.
It was a shallow depression in the earth.
A makeshift latrine.
Filthy beyond words.
Flies swarmed thickly above it.
But worse than the stench were the scattered clothes lying half-buried in the weeds nearby.
A coarse wool coat.
Patch-covered trousers.
Worn leather boots with broken soles.
The sort of clothing poor hunters and peasants wore.
"They stripped the victims," Odin said calmly as he dismounted and approached.
"But not to wear the clothes."
He crouched beside the mess, studying it carefully.
"So was it for disguise?"
"Or simply a habit born from looting?"
Iggo did not answer.
He merely shook his head and pointed deeper into the depression.
The soil there looked different.
Recently disturbed.
Several Mafia men stepped forward and began digging with short knives.
Before long, the first corpse emerged.
Then the second.
The third.
Eventually, eight half-rotten bodies were uncovered, buried carelessly beside the filth like discarded garbage.
All were male.
Each had died differently.
One throat slit.
Another stabbed through the heart.
One with his skull crushed open.
But as Odin examined the wounds with the eye of a skilled surgeon, he noticed one horrifying similarity shared by every corpse.
Excessive violence.
The man with the slit throat had nearly been decapitated, his spine almost severed.
The victim stabbed in the chest bore more than a dozen additional wounds.
And the one whose skull had been smashed—
his face had been reduced to bloody pulp.
Odin pulled on leather gloves and crouched beside the nearest body.
"This wasn't robbery."
His voice remained calm.
Cold.
"This was slaughter."
He studied the ruined corpse silently for a moment before finishing:
"They did this for fun."
He remained perfectly calm.
Beside him, however, Olyvar Chelsted had already collapsed onto the ground, covering his face, too horrified to keep looking.
The two retainers he had brought from Chelsted Castle were no better.
Their faces had gone deathly pale, and their entire bodies trembled uncontrollably.
Meanwhile, Iggo continued tracking.
It was as if some invisible thread guided him onward.
He left the burial pit behind and moved toward the northeastern edge of the forest.
There, a dense cluster of ferns spread across the ground, their broad leaves overlapping like umbrellas.
Iggo stopped beside them and crouched.
Carefully, he parted the layers of foliage.
Then he froze.
"Blood of my blood."
For the first time in a long while, a trace of gravity entered Iggo's voice.
Slowly, he rose to his feet and turned around, extending an open palm.
Resting there was an iron sigil.
The emblem was small.
Its edges had been worn smooth from years of friction, and dirt and dew still clung to its surface.
But beneath the brightening morning light, the symbol engraved in its center stood out with painful clarity.
A closed black gate.
Odin took the sigil.
The cold touch of metal pressed against his fingertips, and his pupils narrowed slightly.
"Yronwood…"
He murmured the name softly as countless fragments of knowledge surfaced in his mind.
House Yronwood.
One of the most powerful noble houses in Dorne, second only to House Martell.
Their ancestral seat, Yronwood, guarded the final pass along the Stone Way, earning them the title of Wardens of the Stone Way.
Since the Age of Heroes, the Yronwoods had ruled the valleys and green hills surrounding the mountain pass.
They once called themselves the Bloodroyal, Lords of the Green Hills, Kings of Dorne, and Lords of the Stone Way.
The mountains protected fertile lands rich with timber and mineral deposits, allowing House Yronwood to grow into one of the wealthiest and strongest royal houses in Dorne.
At the height of their power, they had ruled over more than half of Dorne.
Even after House Martell rose to dominance and forced them into submission, the Yronwoods never truly accepted their place.
The family had always harbored ambitions of replacing the rulers of Sunspear.
Even after Dorne joined the Targaryen dynasty, the Yronwoods had participated in three separate Blackfyre Rebellions.
Their relationship with House Martell had always been tangled and unstable.
Outward loyalty.
Hidden defiance.
Only in recent years had tensions eased somewhat, after Doran Martell sent his eldest son, Quentyn Martell, to be fostered at Yronwood.
And now—
a group of brutal killers carrying Yronwood sigils had appeared in the barren hills at the edge of the Crownlands?
They slaughtered local peasants…
yet left the nearby, defenseless Chelsted Castle completely untouched?
It made no sense.
None at all.
Odin clenched the sigil tightly as his thoughts raced.
Then suddenly, a familiar face surfaced in his mind.
Wild.
Arrogant.
Smiling.
If the Yronwoods had a likely target…
It would be Oberyn Martell.
Back when Oberyn was sixteen, he had slept with the mistress of Lord Edgar Yronwood and been caught in the act.
The two later fought a duel.
Because Oberyn was both a prince and still young, the duel had been restricted to first blood.
Both men were wounded.
Yet several days later, Lord Edgar died after his injuries festered and rotted.
Ever since then, rumors had spread that Oberyn had coated his blade in poison.
The scandal eventually forced him into exile across the Free Cities.
And later, Doran had fostered Quentyn with Lord Anders Yronwood—the grandson of Edgar—in an attempt to repair the damage between the two houses.
Revenge?
Odin frowned.
No… that didn't fit either.
Too many years had passed.
If the Yronwoods wanted Oberyn dead, they could have arranged an assassination long ago.
And why would striking in King's Landing be easier than killing him in Dorne?
"Iggo."
Odin's voice suddenly sharpened.
"The direction they fled. And when."
Iggo had already returned fully to tracking mode.
Kneeling on one knee, he brushed aside leaves covering a nearly invisible footprint before lifting his head to sniff the air.
"Northeast," he said.
"They left last night."
Last night?
Odin's brows tightened.
He had only decided yesterday afternoon to travel to Chelsted Castle.
He hadn't gone out of his way to keep it secret, but news shouldn't have reached these isolated hills so quickly.
Coincidence?
Or did someone have informants watching him?
No.
This wasn't the time to dwell on that.
"Ser Chelsted."
Odin turned toward the still-shaken lord, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Return to Chelsted Castle immediately."
"Seal the gates."
"No one enters. No one leaves."
"Maintain maximum alert until we return."
Then he looked toward Iggo.
"You'll lead the pursuit."
"These aren't bandits."
"All riders—mount up."
"Then… what about you?" Olyvar asked blankly.
Odin swung himself onto his horse in one smooth motion.
Carefully, he tucked the black gate sigil into his coat.
"I'm returning to King's Landing."
The instant the order was given, eleven riders shot forward like arrows loosed from a bow, disappearing into the deeper mist-covered hills along the route Iggo had identified.
The thunder of hooves echoed through the silent forest, scattering flocks of birds into the sky.
Olyvar remained standing there long after they vanished.
His entire body felt cold.
At first, all he had wanted was his stolen game returned.
A chance for his people to survive the winter.
Now the bandits were gone.
He should have been relieved.
Yet somehow…
it felt as though he had accidentally pulled back the corner of a grand curtain and glimpsed the vast, bloody stage hidden behind it.
Whether that was fortune or disaster—
he no longer knew.
At the same time, in King's Landing, Silk Street.
Outside the luxurious suite of the "Hummingbird" brothel, two Dornish guards stood watch on either side of a carved wooden door.
They wore light studded leather armor and curved Dornish blades hung at their waists.
Their posture remained disciplined.
But the sharpness in their eyes had long since dulled from endless waiting.
From inside the room came faint sounds—
women laughing,
wine cups clinking,
and the unmistakable lazy, magnetic voice of Oberyn Martell himself.
The prince was clearly in excellent spirits.
At the moment, he seemed to be loudly reciting something—perhaps poetry, perhaps an improvised vulgar song.
The laughter of Ellaria Sand and several prostitutes mixed freely with his voice.
One guard, Kallen, slowly rolled his stiff neck, leather creaking softly.
He glanced sideways at the younger guard beside him.
Maros fought desperately against sleep, though his eyelids kept drooping despite his efforts.
Kallen sighed inwardly.
This kind of duty…
In some ways, it was easier than marching through the desert.
Safer than war.
Yet somehow more exhausting than both combined.
You had to remain alert.
Remain standing.
Listen endlessly to the laughter, moans, and drunken revelry inside.
Smell rich food and wine drifting through the cracks beneath the door.
And still not relax for even a second.
Because the man inside was Oberyn Martell—
the Red Viper.
Prince of Dorne.
A man with enemies everywhere.
Near the edge of the hallway carpet lay a leather-bound booklet tossed carelessly aside.
Dark red wine stains soaked into the cover, warping several pages.
If someone picked it up and read through it, they would discover detailed notes describing the fighting habits of a giant warrior, possible weaknesses, and theories regarding his physiology.
It was the "gift" Odin had sent earlier.
Now it lay abandoned on the floor, as though the Dornish prince would never need it.
Before long, footsteps echoed from the staircase.
Kallen and Maros immediately straightened.
Hands instinctively moved to sword hilts.
Bodies leaned forward slightly.
But once they recognized the newcomer, their posture relaxed again, though they remained cautiously respectful.
It was Daemon Sand.
Once a squire to Oberyn himself, he had later been knighted personally by the prince.
Daemon was strikingly handsome.
Firm jaw.
Sky-blue eyes.
Light sandy-brown hair.
His beard was trimmed short, and the faint smile on his face carried both warmth and the pride of a gifted swordsman.
The young knight moved lightly down the third-floor corridor.
Behind him walked a fully armored knight wearing a massive barrel-shaped greathelm.
"Kallen. Maros."
Daemon stopped before the door, greeting both guards by name in a calm voice.
"Is Prince Oberyn still entertaining himself?"
(KEEP SUPPORTING ODIN EVERYONE]
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