Chapter 172 – Odin Had a Good Eye for People
"Want to make some extra coin, Clegane?"
After a moment of thought, Odin's gaze settled on the Hound's scarred, terrifying face.
His tone was calm, casual even—
as though he were simply asking whether Sandor wanted breakfast.
The Hound narrowed his eyes immediately.
Instead of greed or curiosity, the first thing to appear in his gaze was caution.
Like a wild beast catching the scent of a trap.
After everything that had happened between them, Sandor felt he understood Odin well enough by now.
Ever since he had owed the man a favor on the river road, every job tied to Odin—whether hunting down Amory Lorch or saving Oberyn Martell—had come with hidden costs.
Odin's gold and favors were never easy to earn.
And even harder to repay.
"Another two-hundred-gold-dragon job?"
The Hound spoke in a raspy voice, jerking his chin toward the unconscious Oberyn on the operating table.
"If you want me guarding this bastard, I charge by the day."
"And I want payment up front."
His tone carried the usual rough sarcasm and defensive hostility, practically screaming:
Don't think you can cheat me with pocket change again.
But Odin merely waved a hand dismissively.
"No."
"Prince Oberyn is perfectly safe inside the Hall of Order."
"He doesn't need your protection."
He paused.
Then his eyes slowly swept over the Hound's towering frame.
Sandor Clegane stood at least half a head taller than Oberyn, with broader shoulders and thicker arms.
His build resembled that of a pure power fighter—closer to Gregor Clegane than the agile, assassin-like Red Viper.
Not quite as monstrously huge as the Mountain—
but terrifying in a far more grounded, practical way.
And based on what Odin remembered of the man's combat ability in the original story…
with the proper guidance, Sandor absolutely had a chance.
"What I'm planning," Odin said slowly, pronouncing every word clearly,
"is for you to replace Oberyn."
"And fight the Mountain."
Silence instantly swallowed the operating room.
Even Rorge froze.
The noseless thug stared in shock, his mouth hanging open as if he wanted to ask:
This guy? Fight the Mountain?
The Hound's reaction was even more direct.
His eyes widened so far it looked as though he'd just heard the most ridiculous madness in his entire life.
"What?"
He practically roared the word.
The shout exploded through the operating room hard enough to make the medicine bottles along the wall vibrate.
"You…"
"You want ME to fight HIM?!"
Odin didn't flinch in the slightest.
If anything, the smile on his face deepened.
There was even a trace of encouragement in it.
"Don't you want revenge?"
Odin asked quietly.
"For the scar on your face."
At Odin's words, the Hound's body tensed instantly.
His right hand clenched unconsciously into a fist, veins bulging beneath pale skin, knuckles turning white.
The burned half of his face twitched violently, the twisted scars seeming to come alive as his jaw tightened.
Because Odin had struck the truth dead center.
Lies could never truly wound a man.
Truth was the sharpest blade of all.
That night when he was seven years old had carved itself into Sandor Clegane's memory deeper than any scar.
The fire.
The agony.
The terror.
Even now, the mere sight of flames stirred an instinctive fear deep inside him.
And that pain—
that freezing, soul-piercing pain—
had felt colder than the winds beyond the Wall.
"I can give you the chance for revenge."
Seeing the flicker of temptation in the Hound's eyes, Odin pressed forward smoothly.
"Not only revenge."
"You'll make a fortune too."
"Think about it."
"In front of everyone."
"In front of all the people who mocked you, feared you, treated you like a monster…"
"You knock your brother to the ground."
"With your sword."
"With your fists."
"With all the hatred and humiliation you've carried for years."
"And afterward…"
Odin's voice lowered slightly.
"You take everything that belongs to the victor."
"Glory."
"Gold."
"And…"
"…release."
As Odin spoke, the Hound stared at him silently.
His breathing gradually grew heavier.
His chest rose and fell.
The emotions churning behind those eyes became so violent and complicated they almost looked painful.
"That's my brother you're talking about."
After a long silence, he finally spoke in a hoarse voice.
"Everyone knows he's not easy to kill."
It sounded like rejection.
But Odin heard something entirely different.
If Sandor truly wanted to refuse, he would have simply said no.
Or turned around and walked away.
He wouldn't say Gregor was difficult.
That wasn't refusal.
That was bargaining.
More importantly—
it was him searching for a reason to accept.
In other words…
Two hundred gold dragons isn't enough.
Sure enough, the Hound lifted his chin and threw out the exact line Odin usually used himself.
"You'll have to pay more."
Odin froze for half a second.
That line normally belonged to him.
He almost laughed out loud.
"Interesting."
Shaking his head slightly, he answered seriously:
"Five percent."
The Hound frowned.
"Five percent of what?"
"The total betting pool for the arena's opening match."
"I'll give you five percent."
"Five percent?"
The Hound looked utterly unimpressed.
"What the fuck is that supposed to be worth?"
Odin wasn't surprised by the reaction at all.
Instead, he casually turned toward Rorge.
"Tell him the current total for the central betting pool."
Rorge, who had been standing there dumbfounded this whole time, finally snapped out of it.
He hurriedly pulled a small notebook from his coat—his personal habit for recording important financial figures.
Flipping through several pages, he licked his finger and found the correct line.
"As of this morning…"
"For the Free Combat Arena's opening event—the originally scheduled 'Red Viper's Revenge Match'—"
"The total betting volume has reached…"
"Two hundred forty-seven thousand, eight hundred and fifty-two gold dragons."
The room went silent.
The Hound's expression completely froze.
His good eye blinked once.
Then again.
The muscles on the burned side of his face twitched as if struggling to process the number.
"How… how much?"
"Two hundred forty-seven thousand, eight hundred and fifty-two."
Rorge puffed out his chest proudly.
"I counted it personally. No mistake."
"Two hundred forty thousand…"
The Hound ignored Rorge entirely, muttering to himself blankly.
Back when he won the Hand's tourney, he had fought through countless opponents for a prize of forty thousand gold dragons.
And that tournament had been hosted by Robert Baratheon himself—a king famous for wasting money.
The reward had already been absurdly high compared to every previous tourney in memory.
Yet now—
Odin had collected more than two hundred forty thousand gold dragons in wagers within only two days.
Just from a single trial by combat.
Holy shit.
Was running a fighting arena really this profitable?
If he'd known earlier, Sandor genuinely felt he might have opened one himself.
"You…"
His voice sounded dry.
"You're fucking joking."
He simply couldn't believe it.
Even five percent of that amount would mean—
ten thousand?
Maybe twenty thousand?
The Hound had never been particularly good at arithmetic.
But even he knew it was an outrageous amount of money.
Odin merely smiled calmly.
There were still two days left before the grand opening.
And every single minute, more gold kept pouring into the betting houses.
True, Oberyn's injuries meant the famous "Red Viper's Revenge Match" could no longer happen.
But with Odin's skill for manipulation, publicity, and spectacle…
he was fully confident he could transform this into something even bigger.
A battle between brothers.
A once-in-a-generation event for all of Westeros.
After all, many of the gamblers weren't truly betting because of Oberyn.
The prince had boosted the hype, certainly—
but much of the attention came from Odin himself.
From the favors he had called in.
From the reputation he had built.
House Lefford had wagered ten thousand gold dragons.
House Stokeworth had put down five thousand.
Rumor even claimed that Tywin Lannister had secretly placed ten thousand through an intermediary betting on the Mountain's victory.
But the single largest wager came from the Faith itself.
The Church had placed fifty thousand gold dragons under the name of the "Black Hand Relief Foundation."
At this point—
this was no longer merely a trial by combat.
It had become a game of power.
"I never joke about business."
Only after the Hound had more or less processed the shock of the numbers did Odin continue.
"But I do have one condition."
"What?"
"You must win."
Odin stared directly into Sandor's eyes.
"If you lose, you won't receive a single copper."
"And the Mountain will kill you in that arena."
"When that happens, your corpse will be dumped into a mass grave."
"Your name will be forgotten."
"And your revenge…"
"…will never happen."
He spoke slowly.
Clearly.
Making sure every word drove itself into the Hound's skull.
"So this isn't a game, Clegane."
"It's a gamble."
"You wager your life for enough gold to live the rest of your days in luxury…"
"…and for a chance at revenge."
"Of course, you can refuse."
Odin spread his hands casually.
"I can still offer you employment here at the Hall of Order."
"Head of security."
"Fifty gold dragons a month."
"A stable, peaceful life."
"Or…"
His smile widened slightly.
"You can gamble big with me."
Silence returned to the operating room.
This time it lasted much longer.
The Hound finally looked away from Odin.
For a while, he seemed genuinely uncertain.
Then—
a twisted grin slowly spread across his scarred face.
The burned corner of his mouth curled upward crookedly, exposing pale teeth.
"You really know how to read people."
His voice remained rough, but it carried unmistakable resolve now.
"I'll take the job, Odin."
"And make sure the money's ready."
"If I survive and don't see my cut…"
"I'll burn your entire business to the ground."
With that, the Hound cast one final glance at the unconscious Oberyn before turning toward the door.
The operating room door shut behind him.
The hallway outside was far darker.
Sandor walked ahead, heavy boots echoing against the stone floor.
Rorge followed behind almost silently.
Neither man spoke.
The corridor stretched long and narrow, lined with tightly shut doors.
This was the third floor of the Hall of Order—
Odin's private domain.
Only trusted confidants were allowed here.
As the Hound reached the corner—
Rorge suddenly moved.
Fast.
Without warning.
He lunged forward and slammed both hands onto Sandor's shoulders, driving him violently against the wall.
BANG!
Stone rattled from the impact.
"You bastard…"
Rorge snarled through clenched teeth, shoving his noseless face inches from Sandor's.
"When you speak to Ser Odin…"
"You'd better show some fucking respect!"
"That's Ser Odin!"
"Not one of your drunken backwater friends from the Westerlands!"
The Hound looked momentarily surprised by the sudden attack.
But not alarmed.
He could feel Rorge's strength.
For an ordinary man, it was impressive.
Street-brawler strength forged in Flea Bottom alley fights.
But to Sandor Clegane?
It wasn't nearly enough.
Not even close.
Then he smiled.
"Let go," he said calmly.
"I said show some respect!"
Rorge tightened his grip instead.
His brute force was enough to crush the throat of most men.
But the Hound wasn't most men.
He lazily raised his left hand.
The motion looked slow.
Almost casual.
Yet somehow, his fingers effortlessly locked around Rorge's wrist—
and twisted.
CRACK.
The movement happened so quickly Rorge barely understood what occurred.
The next instant, iron-like fingers clamped around his throat.
His eyes widened in shock.
Instinctively, he released the Hound and clawed desperately at the hand crushing his neck.
But Sandor's grip didn't move an inch.
"Listen carefully, you noseless bastard."
The Hound shoved his burned face close enough for the scarred flesh to nearly touch Rorge's skin.
"This is how I talk."
"I've spoken this way my whole damn life."
"To kings."
"To knights."
"To my worthless brother."
"To everyone."
His grip tightened further.
Rorge's face turned red.
His eyes bulged.
"I hate knights."
"I hate nobles."
"I hate every hypocritical bastard who talks about honor."
"But your Ser Odin…"
Sandor paused.
Then loosened his grip just enough for Rorge to gasp in air.
"…I wasn't disrespecting him."
Rorge coughed violently, desperately trying to pry Sandor's fingers away.
It was hopeless.
The Hound's hand felt forged from solid steel.
"This is simply how I speak."
Finally, Sandor released him completely.
At that exact moment, several gray-uniformed neighborhood enforcers came rushing upstairs with clubs in hand, clearly responding to the noise.
The Hound stepped back and raised both hands mockingly.
"So stop with the loyalty performance."
"Nobles and knights never care how loudly their dogs bark for them."
"Idiots."
Then he turned and walked toward the stairs without another word.
The enforcers hesitated briefly before automatically stepping aside.
They remembered this man had been personally brought here by Odin earlier that morning.
Rorge leaned heavily against the wall, gasping for breath.
His wrist throbbed painfully.
His throat already bore dark purple finger marks.
Replaying the brief clash in his mind, Rorge realized something horrifying.
The Hound had been toying with him.
Like an adult playing with a child.
Damn it…
Rorge clenched his teeth.
Of course he knew who the Hound was.
Gregor and Sandor Clegane were infamous throughout King's Landing.
Though not for good reasons.
Still…
Rorge had never truly believed the gap between them was so enormous.
The Hound didn't possess the Mountain's monstrous, overwhelming size.
And Rorge had always considered himself fairly strong.
Not a great warrior perhaps—
but capable.
Part of his outburst had genuinely come from anger over Sandor's tone toward Odin.
But another part…
had been a test.
He wanted to see whether the Hound truly possessed the strength to challenge the Mountain.
Because honestly—
Sandor didn't look capable of defeating a monster like Gregor.
But today's exchange had slapped Rorge hard across the face.
Compared to a true warrior…
he was weak.
Pathetically weak.
"Are you alright, Chief?"
One of the younger enforcers approached cautiously.
"I'm fine."
Rorge waved them off.
"We were just messing around."
Messing around?
The enforcers exchanged uncertain looks, but eventually obeyed and left.
Once the hallway was empty again, Rorge slowly slid down the wall until he sat on the cold stone floor.
Too weak.
These past months, he had been buried in arena preparations and rivers of gold.
So consumed with managing money and business that the violence he once relied upon had dulled.
The pain in his wrist and throat reminded him of that weakness.
But it also reignited something he thought had died long ago.
Ambition.
Not ambition for power.
Not for gold.
Something simpler.
The desire to become stronger.
He needed a teacher.
No—
more than one.
The best instructors money could buy.
Swordsmanship.
Daggers.
Brawling.
Staves.
Every killing skill imaginable.
He would learn them all.
He would become strong enough that the next time someone disrespected Ser Odin…
he could silence them forever.
Instead of being slammed against a wall like a helpless child.
And perhaps…
As Rorge slowly stood and headed toward the stairs, a particular figure suddenly surfaced in his mind.
A perfect choice.
(No further updates for a few weeks.)