Chapter 177: Order Belongs to Everyone!
The moment those words left his mouth, the entire Ring of Order fell into a long silence.
"I will hold everyone present responsible."
Odin's voice carried across the noble stands, passed over the cold gleam of armor in the knights' section, and reached every ear in the arena.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
Even Cersei and Falyse—who moments earlier had been clawing at each other like wildcats, ready to tear each other's hair out strand by strand—had fallen silent.
Cersei stood motionless, the hem of her dark green gown fluttering gently in the breeze.
Her chest still rose and fell rapidly.
A faint flush from the argument lingered on her cheeks.
But her mouth remained firmly shut.
Almost instinctively, she turned toward the man seated at the center of the royal box.
Her father.
Hand of the King.
Lord of Casterly Rock.
Warden of the West.
Tywin Lannister.
She wanted to see something in those green eyes.
A flicker of displeasure.
A trace of anger.
Anything that would justify continuing the confrontation.
But she saw nothing.
Tywin sat there without expression.
His green eyes were as still as a frozen winter lake.
They reflected Odin's figure, yet revealed no emotion whatsoever.
It was as though when Odin said "everyone present," Tywin Lannister did not consider himself part of that category.
Cersei pressed her lips together.
Suddenly, she remembered a lesson from many years ago.
One of the first lessons about power her father had taught her and Jaime.
Tywin had summoned them to his study and pointed toward the fire burning in the hearth.
"Power," he had said.
"Is like fire."
"It provides warmth."
"It gives light."
"It draws people around it."
"It cooks food, melts steel, and burns alive those foolish enough to oppose you."
Then he had taken a poker and pushed a burning log away from the center of the flames.
Looking at them, he asked:
"But when the fire becomes too hot... too bright... too close... what do people do?"
Jaime had immediately straightened his back.
"I would draw my sword, Father."
Tywin shook his head.
Cersei had sneered.
"I would order a servant to extinguish it."
Tywin shook his head again.
Finally, he pushed the log back into the heart of the fire.
"You step back."
"That is what people do."
"When the fire grows too hot, no one moves closer."
"No one dares."
"Everyone retreats instinctively and gives it space."
"That is the essence of power."
Now, as she looked at Odin, Cersei felt as though she were stepping away from that fire.
She took a deep breath.
Then, unwillingly, she stepped back.
Falyse stepped back as well.
The heiress of House Stokeworth lowered her head.
Her eyes were still red, but all the sharp, cutting hostility had vanished from her face.
She grabbed Balman by the sleeve and tugged him backward.
Before long, an empty circle had formed around Odin.
As though power itself were moving through the crowd.
Only the eight-year-old king remained beside him.
Tommen looked up at Odin's profile.
It wasn't a handsome face.
His features were ordinary enough to belong to any peasant returning from an orchard with a basket of apples.
Yet beneath the afternoon sunlight, there was something about that profile.
Something difficult to describe.
It wasn't authority.
It wasn't murderous intent.
It wasn't anything that language could properly capture.
Tommen didn't know what it was.
He only knew that when this hand rested on his shoulder...
He wasn't afraid.
Even though Odin's words had silenced the entire arena.
Even though his grandfather had remained silent.
Even though his mother had stepped back.
Tommen wasn't afraid.
It was strange.
Very strange.
He suddenly remembered the nightmare he'd had the previous night.
In the dream, the Iron Throne had ceased to be a symbol of power.
It had become a literal throne of iron.
Countless swords pointed upward.
Their sharpened edges gleamed with cold light.
He sat upon them.
Every breath brought fresh pain as the blades pierced his flesh.
He wanted to stand.
But couldn't.
He wanted to call for help.
But no sound came out.
Then a hand emerged from the darkness.
It rested lightly on his shoulder.
Just as it was now.
And suddenly the pain disappeared.
Tommen didn't know what the dream meant.
But he knew one thing.
Right now, with Odin's hand on his shoulder, he wasn't afraid.
That was enough.
Throughout the arena, countless eyes remained fixed upon Odin.
The nobles could scarcely believe what they had heard.
When was the last time someone had dared speak like that?
Perhaps one had to go all the way back to the aftermath of the great tournament at Harrenhal.
Back when the Seven Kingdoms were consumed by rumors that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had passed over his wife, Princess Elia Martell, as Queen of Love and Beauty.
Instead, he had placed the winter rose crown in the lap of Lyanna Stark.
The realm had been shocked.
Then came an even greater scandal.
Lyanna Stark had been "abducted."
No one knew exactly what happened.
No one knew whether she had gone willingly or by force.
People only knew that Rhaegar had vanished with her somewhere in the south.
Then Brandon Stark, Lyanna's elder brother, had ridden for King's Landing without hesitation.
Accompanied by Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, Jeffory Mallister, and more than twenty young nobles from the North and Riverlands—many of them heirs to great houses.
They had galloped through the city gates.
Brandon rode straight to the Red Keep.
He dismounted beneath the walls and shouted at the guards above.
"Rhaegar Targaryen!"
"Come out!"
"Come out and die!"
And then...
He died.
Terribly.
His actions ultimately led to the death of his father as well—Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell.
Now, seated in the Ring of Order's noble stands, more than one person found themselves remembering that story.
They looked at Odin.
The man dressed entirely in black, standing before twenty-five hundred spectators.
And somehow, Brandon Stark came to mind.
Yet the situation felt fundamentally different.
The Hand sat silent.
The Queen Regent had retreated.
The commoners...
The men in roughspun tunics.
The women carrying children.
The bakers whose hands were still dusted with flour.
The laborers with scars running across their legs.
They looked at Odin the way pilgrims gazed upon a sacred idol.
With reverence.
With devotion.
With near-religious fervor.
Different.
Completely different.
Brandon Stark had stood alone.
All he possessed were twenty young nobles, a heart full of passion, and a brother's love for his sister.
But Odin...
Odin had forty thousand people in Flea Bottom.
More than that.
He had earned the love of King's Landing's entire lower class.
He was the Black Hand.
Under the gaze of thousands, Odin removed his hand from Tommen's shoulder.
Then he turned and faced the arena.
"Today."
His voice wasn't loud.
Yet everyone could hear it clearly.
That was one of the Ring of Order's unique features.
When designing the arena, Odin had instructed the builders to embed hollow ceramic tubes within the walls, allowing sound from the center to carry effortlessly into every corner.
"Today is the opening day of the Ring of Order."
Odin continued.
"I stand here not to boast."
"Not to perform."
"Not to show you how powerful I am."
A brief pause followed.
Then his voice rang across the arena.
"I stand here to tell you something."
"This place belongs to all of you."
The crowd stirred.
Many frowned in confusion.
What did he mean?
Belonged to everyone?
But Odin didn't give them time to speculate.
He immediately continued.
"Do you see that sand?"
He pointed toward the center of the circular arena.
The arena floor was covered in fine white sand.
Eighty feet across, it lay empty beneath the afternoon sun, which spread across it like a blanket of gold.
The sand layer was three inches deep—thick enough to soften impacts, yet firm enough not to hinder movement. Every grain had been hauled from the banks of the Blackwater Rush, cartload by cartload, then sifted, washed, dried, and carefully laid into place.
"That," Odin said, pointing toward it, "is a battlefield."
"But it is also a stage."
"In the Ring of Order, anyone—and I mean anyone—can step onto that sand."
His gaze swept across the entire crowd.
"It doesn't matter whether you're a noble or a commoner."
"It doesn't matter whether you're a knight or a street vendor."
"It doesn't matter whether you wear silk or roughspun cloth."
"If you have the courage, you can challenge anyone you wish."
"And if you win, you can claim everything you desire."
"Honor."
"Gold."
"Status."
"Because this is the Ring of Order."
"Here, there is only one standard."
"Can you win?"
"Here, every person has the chance to prove themselves."
The moment those words landed, eyes throughout the audience began to shine.
Many stared at the arena floor with naked excitement.
But Odin's voice continued, spreading through the crowd like fire racing across dry timber.
"Do you know what kind of people I admire most?"
His gaze moved from face to face.
"Not nobles born with golden spoons in their mouths."
"Not lords who live comfortably on lands inherited from their ancestors."
"I admire those who start with nothing and still dare to fight."
"Those who stand at the very bottom and refuse to accept their fate."
"Those who are trampled into the dirt, yet rise again, brush off the dust, and keep walking forward."
"I, Odin, went from picking apples in the Riverlands to building the Hall of Order in King's Landing."
"I became a knight."
"And if I can do it..."
"So can you."
Thunderous applause erupted.
No one knew who started it.
All they knew was that it began in the commoners' section.
Then it spread.
Like wildfire.
Like a tidal wave.
Amid the roar of approval, Odin spread his arms wide.
"In the Ring of Order, every person can become whoever they wish to be!"
"Every dream can take root here!"
"Every drop of sweat can be rewarded with what it truly deserves!"
The crowd exploded.
All twenty-five hundred spectators erupted at once.
The noise was so overwhelming that the walls seemed to vibrate.
Even the sky overhead felt as though it trembled.
Countless arms waved frantically toward Odin.
Some people dropped to their knees.
They kissed the stone beneath their feet.
They kissed the place that had given them hope.
The scene was even more fanatical than the devotion of the most zealous followers of the Seven.
Because when a person reached the end of the road, the Seven merely told them:
"You are guilty."
Odin, on the other hand, had offered something tangible.
A platform where anyone could change their fate with their own hands.
From the shadows of the royal box, Tywin Lannister sat silently.
His green eyes narrowed slightly.
He had witnessed countless displays of fanaticism throughout his life.
But those passions had always been temporary.
Fueled by alcohol.
Driven by fear.
Purchased with gold.
Like a summer storm—arriving quickly and disappearing just as fast, leaving nothing behind.
What he saw now was different.
This fervor was built upon real benefits.
Real results.
Real gratitude.
And that made it dangerous.
Very dangerous.
As he thought, Tywin's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest.
Odin's prestige had clearly reached a remarkable height.
High enough that even Tywin found it necessary to yield ground—for now.
Even Tywin Lannister had to admit it.
The peasant he had personally knighted had become a threat.
A genuine threat.
But Tywin was nearly sixty years old.
He had seen threats before.
House Tarbeck.
House Reyne.
And where were they now?
Reduced to nothing more than a song.
Whenever someone challenged Lannister authority, Tywin simply had that song played in their castle.
No speeches.
No explanations.
No further action required.
Now he watched Odin.
Watched the man standing beside the king, receiving the cheers of twenty-five hundred people.
A man who looked more like a king than the king himself.
Slowly, Tywin's lips curved upward.
Fly as high as you wish, Odin.
The higher you rise...
The harder you fall.
And when you fall...
There won't even be bones left behind.
The cheering inside the Ring of Order continued unabated.
Even many nobles in the VIP section had joined the applause.
After all, the idea was intoxicating.
In a world where class was fixed.
In an age where birth determined everything.
In a society where who your father was mattered more than who you were.
The future Odin described felt like a dream.
A dream everyone wanted.
A dream everyone had secretly imagined.
A dream no one dared to speak aloud.
People shouted.
People screamed.
People embraced one another.
Some were already rolling up their sleeves and cracking their knuckles in anticipation.
The atmosphere resembled a grand festival.
Had dozens of Order Circle stewards not been present to maintain discipline, the celebration might have spiraled completely out of control.
And then—
"Save your grand speeches, Odin!"
A mocking voice rang out.
Loud.
Clear.
Impossible to ignore.
The cheering stopped instantly.
As though a song had been cut off in the middle of its most triumphant chorus.
Every head turned.
Everyone searched for the source.
Who would dare interrupt Ser Odin?
The answer soon appeared.
In the third row of the VIP section, a man rose to his feet.
He wore a dark gray knight's tunic.
The tailoring was exquisite.
The fabric expensive.
Clearly the work of a master craftsman.
A longsword hung at his waist, its pommel set with a ruby that glittered beneath the sunlight.
His face was stern.
His chin slightly raised.
A faint, perpetual smirk lingered on his lips, projecting equal measures of arrogance and confidence.
Odin didn't recognize him.
The man didn't look like a noble of King's Landing.
He didn't even seem to be from the Crownlands.
But some people did recognize him.
The instant he stood, Cersei noticed movement beside her.
She glanced toward her father.
Tywin's fingers had twitched ever so slightly.
And when she looked into his green eyes...
She found something there.
A faint smile.
A knowing smile.
A smile filled with unmistakable meaning.