Chapter 179: Do You Dare?
"Lyn Corbray!"
The moment the name left his mouth, murmurs erupted throughout the Ring of Order.
In the standing section, the smallfolk dressed in roughspun clothes exchanged confused glances.
"Corbray?" one man asked, scratching his head. "Who's that? Is he supposed to be famous?"
The person beside him merely shrugged.
He looked just as lost.
To them, the name was no different from the thousands of noble surnames they could never remember—just another lord living in some distant castle, completely unrelated to their lives.
The reaction among the nobles, however, was entirely different.
"Lyn Corbray?!"
An elderly knight with graying hair shot to his feet, his eyes widening as he stared at the man standing in the aisle.
Not far away, Reveray's hand jerked.
His wine cup slipped from his grasp and shattered against the floor with a sharp crack, golden wine splashing everywhere.
Yet he paid no attention to it.
His gaze remained fixed on the challenger.
"Lyn Corbray..." he muttered.
"Is that really that damned Lyn Corbray?"
Lake blinked in confusion.
"You know him, Father?"
Reveray shook his head without answering.
His eyes never left the man.
Respect.
Caution.
Admiration.
A trace of fear.
All of those emotions flashed through his expression at once.
Seeing the crowd's reaction, the man calling himself Lyn Corbray smiled smugly.
This was exactly what he wanted.
Everyone needed to understand one thing:
He was no nobody.
He was Lyn Corbray.
The finest knight in the Vale.
On the main platform, Odin narrowed his eyes.
Because he knew that name.
Not only had he heard it before—he had studied it.
More than once.
Late at night, beneath the dim glow of oil lamps in his office at the Hall of Order, he had pored over The Great Houses and Histories of the Seven Kingdoms until its pages were practically worn thin.
Lyn Corbray.
A man of the Vale.
The second son of House Corbray.
Yet what earned him a place in history was not his title.
It was his sword.
Or rather—
His swordsmanship.
According to the records, during Robert's Rebellion, when blood soaked the realm and war engulfed the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Jon Arryn raised the banners of rebellion against the tyranny of King Aerys II Targaryen.
Not every lord of the Vale followed him.
House Corbray officially joined the rebellion.
But Lyn Corbray himself, then stationed at Gulltown, chose a different path.
The young second son swore loyalty to the Iron Throne.
At the time, he was barely more than a boy.
Yet he donned armor and stood atop Gulltown's walls beneath the command of Lord Marq Grafton, facing the armies of the Vale head-on.
The Siege of Gulltown became one of the bloodiest battles of the early war.
The pounding of battering rams shook the city gates.
Catapult stones thundered through the sky.
Arrows darkened the heavens like storm clouds.
Yet the most unforgettable sight was found upon the walls.
When the rebels finally breached the defenses, they encountered a teenager.
A boy.
A boy holding a sword.
Standing amidst mountains of corpses and rivers of blood like a god of slaughter.
One young knight held back seven or eight rebel knights by himself.
Not merely held them back.
He killed four of them.
Later, a giant of a man wielding a warhammer charged onto the walls.
A warrior who would one day become king.
Robert Baratheon.
The two met in direct combat.
How long did they fight?
No one remembered.
The chronicles merely stated that when the battle ended, Lyn Corbray carried more than a dozen wounds.
Yet he remained standing.
Of course, so did Robert.
And Robert was wounded as well.
Eventually, reinforcements from Gulltown arrived.
Even Robert Baratheon, who fought like the Warrior himself made flesh, was forced to withdraw and prepare for another assault.
In the end, however, Gulltown still fell.
Not because Lyn was weak.
Because the Iron Throne abandoned him.
No reinforcements ever came.
The stories claim that King Aerys sat upon the Iron Throne listening to reports from the battlefield before issuing a single command:
Hold position.
Do nothing.
Let the rebels and loyalists slaughter one another.
Let the "disloyal dogs" die.
The result was inevitable.
Lord Grafton's forces became isolated.
Their supplies ran out.
Their defenses crumbled.
Gulltown fell.
And Lyn Corbray—the blood-soaked youth who had fought upon its walls—eventually joined the rebellion himself.
Not because he wished to betray the Crown.
But because the Crown had betrayed him first.
From then onward, he fought for Jon Arryn.
He fought for Robert Baratheon.
And his sword turned against the very king he had once served.
His greatest achievement came later.
At the Trident.
History remembered that battle for many reasons.
Most famously, for the duel between Robert Baratheon and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Robert's warhammer shattered Rhaegar's breastplate.
The rubies adorning the prince's armor scattered into the river.
And ever after, that place became known as the Ruby Ford.
Yet another duel was remembered as well.
Far from Robert and Rhaegar.
In the bloodiest heart of the battlefield.
There rode Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard.
The greatest knight Dorne possessed.
Leading his men through the chaos, cutting down rebels wherever he went.
Lewyn Martell.
The uncle of Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn.
One of the most formidable knights ever to wear the white cloak.
Legend claimed his lance never failed him.
But that day, fortune abandoned him.
Because that day—
He encountered Lyn Corbray.
A young man not yet twenty years old.
The two met amidst the carnage and immediately fought to the death.
No one remembered how long the duel lasted.
Everyone remembered how it ended.
Lyn Corbray's sword pierced Lewyn Martell's chest.
The white cloak of the Kingsguard turned crimson with blood.
It became one of the few recorded instances during the war where a Kingsguard knight was slain in open battle.
Not through treachery.
Not through an ambush.
Not by overwhelming numbers.
A straight duel.
A single rider killing a Kingsguard amidst thousands of soldiers.
Perhaps it did not quite equal the legendary feat of Ser Barristan Selmy charging alone into enemy lines during the War of the Ninepenny Kings to slay Maelys Blackfyre.
But it was close enough.
And it was more than enough to shock an entire generation.
From that day forward, every man who fought in the rebellion remembered the name:
Lyn Corbray.
And now that same man stood within the Ring of Order.
A black sword in his hand.
A mocking smile on his face.
Looking directly at Odin.
Odin looked back.
His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Under the afternoon sun, they seemed deeper than ever.
With Insight Lv4, distance meant little.
He could study every detail clearly.
Lyn was around forty years old.
In the prime of his life.
He wasn't especially large.
But every muscle was perfectly honed.
This was a body forged through countless battles.
A body tempered at the edge of death again and again.
His stance appeared casual.
Yet his center of gravity sat incredibly low.
Stable.
Rooted.
The fingers gripping his sword were thick with calluses.
The hands of a true warrior.
But none of that was what interested Odin.
His gaze slowly moved downward.
From Lyn's face.
To his hand.
And finally—
To the sword itself.
The black blade.
The distinctive rippling patterns.
Under the sunlight, the waves seemed almost alive.
Flowing across the steel.
As expected.
Even Odin's composure cracked slightly.
The corner of his mouth rose.
He had read too many books not to recognize it.
Valyrian steel.
The strongest metal in the known world.
The lightest.
The sharpest.
Forged through lost sorceries that vanished with Valyria itself.
Every blade possessed a name.
A history.
A legacy passed from generation to generation among the great houses of Westeros.
And House Corbray's blade bore a famous name.
Lady Forlorn.
Odin recalled the passage almost word for word.
Forged before the Doom of Valyria.
Perhaps two thousand years ago.
Perhaps six thousand.
No one truly knew.
Older than most known Valyrian steel swords.
Light as a feather.
Deadly beyond compare.
Capable of shearing through ordinary steel with ease.
Traditionally, Lady Forlorn belonged to the Lord of House Corbray.
Yet tradition also dictated that the family's finest warrior wield it.
Upon that warrior's death, the blade would return to the lord and await its next bearer.
Lyn's father, Lord Corbray, had carried the sword for many years.
Then he was wounded during the Battle of the Trident.
Lyn took up Lady Forlorn and led the charge against the Dornish forces commanded by Prince Lewyn Martell.
It was his extraordinary performance in that battle—especially his slaying of Lewyn—that finally earned his father's full approval.
And so Lady Forlorn remained in Lyn Corbray's hands.
Sunlight reflected from the ruby set into the pommel.
The crimson gem shimmered with an almost magical beauty.
Beautiful.
Odin's smile widened.
A dangerous smile.
One that became harder and harder to suppress.
I want it.
After all, when Odin had commissioned Jaime's sword, he had practically visited every smithy in King's Landing.
Master Tobho Mott's craftsmanship was undoubtedly superb, but ordinary steel was still ordinary steel.
It simply couldn't compare to Valyrian steel.
His original intention had been to acquire a genuine Valyrian steel sword for Jaime.
He had sent people throughout the Seven Kingdoms making inquiries, even tracking down impoverished noble houses on the verge of ruin.
Not a single one was willing to sell.
Some families were so poor they could barely afford food, yet they would rather leave their ancestral blades hanging on a wall gathering dust than exchange them for gold.
Because in Westeros, a Valyrian steel sword represented far more than military power.
It was family honor.
It was bloodline and legacy.
It was something more precious than gold itself.
Odin understood that those families were not rejecting him because he was a peasant-turned-knight.
Even House Lannister was no different.
After the Lannister ancestral sword, Brightroar, vanished, generations of Lannisters crossed the Narrow Sea searching for it. Countless men died in the attempt.
Tywin himself had spent years trying to purchase another Valyrian steel blade.
The answer had always been the same:
No.
Had Eddard Stark not brought his family's ancestral greatsword, Ice, with him to King's Landing, the inability to obtain a true Valyrian steel sword would likely still be one of Tywin's greatest regrets.
Now, however...
It had become Odin's regret.
And because of that, seeing a Valyrian steel sword right in front of him—
A genuine one—
Being wielded by a man who intended to challenge him with it—
Made Odin smile.
Lyn Corbray noticed the look.
He mistook it for fear.
He believed Odin had recognized both him and the sword.
He believed the man was intimidated.
"What is it?" Lyn sneered.
"Recognize it?"
Proudly, he raised the blade higher, allowing the sunlight to shine fully across its surface.
The rippling patterns shimmered brilliantly, breathtakingly beautiful.
"This is Lady Forlorn."
"The Valyrian steel sword of House Corbray."
"For thousands of years, it has followed my ancestors into battle."
"It has drunk the blood of countless enemies."
His voice lowered.
"Today..."
The sword's tip pointed directly at Odin.
"It will drink yours."
Silence fell once more.
Two thousand five hundred spectators watched Odin, waiting for his response.
Many expected him to back down.
After all, it was a Valyrian steel sword.
Nobody doubted the tremendous advantage such a weapon provided in single combat.
And the man wielding it was none other than Lyn Corbray—a warrior whose reputation had been forged on battlefields twenty years earlier.
Even though Odin had defeated Gregor Clegane head-on, the Mountain's fame rested largely on his monstrous strength and brutality.
Compared to a master swordsman carrying Lady Forlorn...
Surely there would be no shame in refusing.
Right?
Yet, to everyone's surprise, Odin showed no sign of hesitation.
He simply looked at the sword.
Then at the proud knight holding it.
And nodded.
"Fine sword."
Lyn blinked.
That was not the reaction he expected.
Ordinarily, once people learned his name, he saw fear.
Respect.
Awe.
Something.
Anything.
Not this calm expression, as though someone were admiring a beautiful work of art.
"However," Odin continued, "I do have a question."
Lyn frowned.
"What question?"
Odin's eyes drifted back toward the dark blade.
He studied the flowing patterns along its surface for a moment before asking:
"Is it for sale?"
For a heartbeat, the arena was completely silent.
Then—
The entire place erupted in laughter.
For sale?
That was Valyrian steel!
More valuable than lands.
More valuable than castles.
More valuable than any treasure of gold or jewels.
Asking a knight—a nobleman—whether he would sell his family's Valyrian steel sword, in front of thousands of spectators, was practically a public slap across the face.
And judging by Lyn Corbray's expression, that slap landed hard.
His face turned white.
Then red.
Then purple.
Then nearly black.
The speed of the transformation was remarkable.
It looked as though all seven hells were burning across his features.
He pointed at Odin with a trembling finger.
"You dare...!"
The laughter only grew louder.
Some spectators were clutching their stomachs.
Others had tears streaming down their faces.
At last, unable to bear the humiliation any longer, Lyn snapped.
He raised Lady Forlorn and pointed it directly at Odin.
"I'll kill you!"
His roar echoed through the arena.
"I'll kill you right now!"
"I swear I'll gut you where you stand, you bastard!"
Yet Odin merely stood there.
His dark eyes were as calm as the sea at midnight.
"There you go again."
"Getting emotional."
As he stared at Lyn, a subtle pressure seemed to radiate from him.
"If you won't sell it..."
"Then wager it."
Odin raised a hand and pointed directly at Lady Forlorn.
"You said this sword would drink my blood."
"You sounded so confident."
"So proud."
"So certain of yourself."
"Fine."
"I'll give you that opportunity."
Then his voice hardened.
Every word fell like a hammer blow.
"If you're truly as strong as you claim."
"If you can truly defeat me on that sand."
"Then wager everything."
"If you win, your honor remains yours."
"Your fame remains yours."
"Everything you possess remains yours."
"But if you lose..."
His finger never left the black blade.
"Then you leave all of it behind."
"Including that sword."
Odin smiled.
A calm smile.
A dangerous smile.
Then he asked:
"So, Lyn Corbray..."
"Do you dare?"
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