Chapter 171 – The Tragic Hound
The special operating room on the third floor of the Hall of Order was the brightest room in the entire building.
Just past noon, sunlight streamed through a row of tall windows, softened by specially crafted frosted glass so the light spread evenly across the room without producing any harsh glare over the operating table.
Brass candle stands occupied the four corners of the chamber, fitted with smokeless white candles that illuminated the darker edges of the room.
Oberyn Martell lay unconscious on the operating table, his upper body stripped bare and cleaned of blood.
The injuries covering him were horrifying.
The stab wound in his chest had missed the heart by less than an inch.
The gash across his left shoulder exposed bone.
The puncture wound in his right thigh still oozed blood.
His right ankle had swollen into a dark purple mass.
At least four ribs were broken.
And that didn't even count the countless cuts, bruises, and abrasions scattered across his body.
Massive blood loss had turned his skin an unhealthy grayish white.
His breathing was shallow and ragged.
His pulse was so faint it was almost impossible to feel.
Odin stood beside the operating table dressed in a clean white robe.
A cloth mask covered the lower half of his face, revealing only a pair of focused black eyes.
On his hands were specially crafted leather gloves he had commissioned long ago.
They were nowhere near as effective as modern latex gloves from his previous life—
but still vastly better than operating barehanded.
Enhanced by the terrifying proficiency of Surgery Lv4 and medical knowledge thousands of years beyond this world's understanding, Odin's surgical skill had already reached an almost miraculous level.
Even so—
Oberyn's condition was severe enough that not even he could guarantee survival.
The fact that the Red Viper had managed to kill several attackers while carrying injuries like these could only be described with one word:
Monstrous.
The room remained silent except for the faint clinking of surgical instruments and Oberyn's fragile breathing.
Time slipped away unnoticed.
The sunlight gradually shifted from noon toward afternoon.
Eventually, the deepest wound—the stab injury in Oberyn's chest—had finally been repaired.
The displaced intestines had been repositioned.
The bleeding vessels ligated.
Only the final stitches remained.
Sandor Clegane leaned against the wall beside the door, arms crossed over his chest.
Under the sunlight, the burned side of his face looked more grotesque than ever.
He had watched the entire procedure.
Every moment.
From cleaning the wounds to stopping the bleeding.
From repairing internal organs to setting broken bones.
Three full hours.
At first, the Hound's eyes had carried only mockery and amusement.
But slowly—
that expression changed.
He had seen plenty of "healers" before.
Men who cauterized wounds with red-hot irons.
Who wrapped amputated limbs in filthy cloth.
Who drowned injured soldiers in milk of the poppy until they died quietly in their sleep.
But watching Odin work felt strangely like watching art.
And the Hound despised art.
"You stitch better than the finest tailor in King's Landing."
He finally spoke, the grudging respect obvious in his rough voice.
Odin didn't even look up.
The needle pierced skin.
The thread tightened.
The knot tied cleanly.
The excess cut away.
Every movement flowed naturally into the next.
"A tailor stitches cloth," Odin replied calmly.
"I stitch people."
"If cloth tears, you can sew it again."
"If people tear apart, they die."
"So that's why you're so careful."
The Hound snorted.
"You afraid he'll die?"
Odin finished the final stitch and straightened slowly.
"Afraid he'll die on my table."
"That would be troublesome."
"My fighting arena still needs him alive to attract crowds."
As he spoke, he rolled his stiff neck slightly.
The surgery had lasted too long.
His shoulders and back were protesting heavily.
"Shame."
The Hound pushed away from the wall and walked closer, heavy boots thudding across the stone floor.
Stopping beside the operating table, he looked down at Oberyn's pale face with open mockery.
"At this rate, he won't be fighting in your arena anytime soon."
Odin removed his bloodstained gloves and tossed them into a nearby copper basin.
The water inside had already turned dark red.
"At least he won't die today."
He spoke calmly.
"As long as someone's alive… there's still hope."
Those words made the Hound think back to his own time wandering the river roads.
After a moment, he gave a thoughtful grunt.
He stepped closer and stared at the stitching across Oberyn's abdomen.
The lines were terrifyingly precise.
Every stitch evenly spaced.
Every knot elegant enough to resemble some lost craft.
"Your work…"
The Hound spoke slowly.
"…is a hundred times better than that old fool in the Red Keep."
"They ought to hang the Grand Maester's chain around your neck instead of letting that senile idiot drug people to sleep at the Small Council."
Odin was washing his hands.
At those words, he glanced sideways at the Hound.
Truthfully, he had noticed long ago that Sandor had remained in the room throughout the entire operation.
The man had leaned beside the doorway like a silent overseer the whole time.
Technically, it violated every medical principle imaginable.
Surgery required sterility—
not maximum bacterial warfare.
But Odin hadn't thrown him out.
He was already accustomed to operating under horrific conditions.
Treating Jaime's severed wrist in a broken hut along the river road.
Cleaning wounds inside the Brave Companions' filthy camps.
At this point, Odin could proudly claim he had never once received a negative review from a patient.
Drying his hands, he finally turned fully toward the Hound.
"Pycelle didn't become Grand Maester because of medicine," he said evenly.
"He earned recognition from the Citadel in history, law, astronomy, higher mysteries, and six other fields."
"To forge a maester's chain, a man must spend years—sometimes decades—beneath the arches of Oldtown."
"Medicine is only one link in that chain."
"And often not the most important one."
The Hound let out a disdainful grunt.
"So they're all book-reading fools."
"The people who actually save lives never get recognized."
He paused, staring directly at Odin.
"What about you?"
"Where'd you learn all this?"
"Don't tell me some peasant taught you."
The candlelight flickered briefly within Odin's eyes.
But he did not answer.
Instead, his gaze drifted toward the Hound's ruined face.
The burns stretched from forehead to jaw.
Shriveled flesh twisted together in blackened red scars.
Part of the nose had collapsed.
The lips were warped sideways.
Most of one ear was simply gone.
It was the kind of face that made children stop crying out of fear—
and adults instinctively look away.
Yet Odin studied it with remarkable focus.
Almost like admiring a work of art.
"I can fix it," he said.
The Hound's expression vanished instantly.
"…What?"
"Your face."
Odin gestured toward his own cheek.
"Third-degree burns. Deep tissue damage. Severe scar contraction."
"But not irreversible."
"Skin grafts. Tissue reconstruction. Scar release surgery."
"A series of procedures could restore sixty to seventy percent of your facial appearance and functionality."
"Of course, you'll never completely return to how you looked before."
"But at least…"
He met Sandor's eyes directly.
"…people won't look at you that way anymore."
For a brief instant, something incredibly complicated flashed through the Hound's eyes.
Hope.
Pain.
Bitterness.
Then mockery returned immediately afterward.
"And what's the price for that, Odin?"
"One thousand gold dragons."
Odin smiled faintly and raised a single finger.
"Or…"
"You owe me another favor."
The Hound fell silent.
His fingers slowly drifted toward the burned half of his face, tracing the uneven scars unconsciously.
One thousand gold dragons.
Enough money to purchase a small castle.
Or maintain a five-hundred-man army for an entire year.
At his wealthiest, the Hound could once have afforded it easily.
After all, winning a grand tourney had earned him a prize of forty thousand gold dragons.
Unfortunately—
someone had stolen it all afterward.
"I already owe too many debts."
The Hound gave a harsh snort.
"And your favors are too damn expensive."
"To repay you for saving me and that wolf cub on the river road, I spent two months searching fishing villages around Blackwater Bay for Amory Lorch."
"That bastard hid like a rat."
"I broke three men's arms before someone finally told me where he was."
Odin raised an eyebrow.
"But you found him."
"I found him."
The Hound's voice turned cold.
"And then you dragged him before the Small Council just so the Mountain could crush his skull before he spoke the truth."
"What a fucking profitable deal."
"I owed you a favor."
"You got a dead witness."
"And the Dornish prince got a corpse."
Odin walked back to the table, poured two cups of ale, and slid one toward the Hound.
"Lorch was never going to live long anyway."
"Tywin would never allow him to say that name."
"Even if the Mountain hadn't killed him, someone else would have."
"At least now everyone knows he was silenced."
"That's more convincing than testimony."
The Hound accepted the cup but didn't drink immediately.
Instead, he stared into the liquid as though weighing something in his mind.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"…Forget it."
"What?"
"My face."
The Hound took a slow drink before touching the scars again.
"I don't have that kind of money."
"And I don't want to owe you another favor."
He paused briefly.
"Besides… this face isn't so bad."
"It helps me see people clearly."
"Children cry when they see me."
"Women avoid me."
"Men grip their swords."
"But at least their reactions are honest."
"No masks."
"No fake smiles."
"No noble bullshit."
"They fear me, hate me, or both."
"But they don't lie to me."
Odin watched him quietly for several moments before nodding slowly.
"That makes sense," he admitted.
"A real face is worth more than a fake smile."
"So."
The Hound clearly didn't want to drag the topic further.
He downed the rest of the ale in one swallow and set the cup down heavily.
"The surgery's done."
"The man's alive."
"Where's my payment?"
Without hesitation, Odin untied a small cloth pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the table.
The bag landed with a dull metallic clink.
"Two hundred gold dragons."
But the Hound only stared at the pouch instead of taking it.
"Two hundred?"
The dissatisfaction in his voice was obvious.
"I saved the life of a Dornish prince."
"That's all his life is worth to you?"
"In my eyes, every life has a price."
Odin answered calmly.
"Oberyn Martell's life is extremely valuable."
"But right now he only has half a life left."
"And your labor fee for saving it is worth two hundred."
"You're free not to take it."
The Hound's hand immediately moved toward his sword hilt.
But after remembering what Odin had done on the river road, he slowly released it again.
Odin blinked curiously.
"…You short on money or something?"
Given Sandor Clegane's strength and personality, surviving through robbery alone should have been easy enough.
Maybe not wealth—
but certainly survival.
The Hound's face twisted.
"That little bitch."
He practically ground the words through his teeth.
"She stole everything while I was sleeping."
"Forty-seven gold dragons."
"And a Valyrian steel dagger."
"Then she ran off."
Odin couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from lifting slightly.
"Arya Stark?"
"Who else?"
The Hound sounded furious.
"I took her all the way from Harrenhal to Riverrun."
"I taught her how to use Needle."
"How to kill."
"How to survive in the wild."
"And what did I get?"
"That little wolf bitch stole my coin pouch and even took the horse."
"I ended up having to rob a five-man mercenary knight company just to keep going."
Odin's smile became even harder to suppress.
He could practically picture the scene—
the Hound waking up to discover the girl, the money, and the horse had all vanished.
Then exploding with rage and swearing he'd find her and hang her upside down from a tree.
Yet strangely—
there was less anger in his voice than expected.
Instead, there was something almost resembling pride.
As though he felt genuinely satisfied that the stubborn little girl he'd trained had finally grown into a proper thief.
"Heh…"
Odin shook his head.
"Did you ever try looking for her afterward?"
"I did."
The Hound nodded.
"For half a month."
"I followed the Green Fork south."
"Asked at every inn and every village."
"Nobody had seen her."
"Eventually I gave up."
"Maybe she died."
"Maybe someone caught her."
"Maybe she found her family."
"Who knows."
Silence settled over the room.
Only the distant noise of the city and occasional footsteps downstairs could be heard.
Then suddenly—
BANG!
The door burst open violently.
It was Rorge.
"Boss! You were right! Something happened!"
He strode into the room without caring that the Hound was present and spoke directly.
"The whole city's going crazy right now!"
"Rumors are spreading everywhere that House Yronwood orchestrated the assassination attempt on the prince!"
"They're saying Dorne's about to erupt into civil war!"
Odin's pupils contracted slightly.
He had already guessed parts of the truth behind the assassination—
but he hadn't expected the rumors to spread this quickly.
Oberyn had been attacked only a few hours ago.
This felt less like spontaneous gossip and more like a prepared script waiting for the right moment to explode across the city.
House Yronwood had been dragged directly into the spotlight.
And if they truly were responsible, then the last thing they should be doing right now was attracting attention.
No—
this looked more like someone intentionally trying to cement their guilt.
But ultimately…
none of that mattered to Odin.
Whether Dorne descended into chaos or not had nothing to do with him.
What truly mattered was something else entirely.
The Free Combat Arena.
He had spent months planning it.
Invested enormous amounts of gold.
Built it as the centerpiece of a complete transformation of King's Landing's entertainment and gambling industries.
He had even openly clashed with Tywin Lannister just to generate publicity and draw attention.
And the grand opening's main event—
the spectacle already shaking the entire city—
was supposed to be:
The Red Viper's Revenge Match.
Oberyn Martell versus Gregor Clegane.
It wasn't merely a duel to the death.
It was the single greatest attraction tied to massive betting pools and the attention of the entire Seven Kingdoms.
Tickets had already sold out.
The gambling houses were overflowing with wagers.
But now—
Oberyn could no longer fight.
Which meant the arena's legendary opening match was on the verge of complete collapse.
The financial losses alone would be devastating.
More importantly—
this would become the first public blow to Odin's authority and reputation.
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