Chapter 181: Pride Has Never Meant Invincibility
"It is the man who wields the sword, not the sword that wields the man."
Lyn Corbray froze.
Lady Forlorn rested in his hand—the Valyrian steel blade that had accompanied him for twenty years, the very weapon that had slain Prince Lewyn Martell.
When he had revealed the sword, he had expected Odin to react like every awestruck bumpkin before him.
To hesitate.
To fear.
To stare at the legendary weapon with reverence.
But Odin had done none of those things.
Instead, he stood there in plain black armor, holding an utterly ordinary castle-forged steel sword, and calmly uttered something so absurd.
"So that's your answer."
Lyn let out a mocking laugh.
"Interesting. Very interesting."
He stepped forward.
His sword still pointed toward the ground, but his grip tightened around the hilt.
Sunlight gleamed across his dark-blue plate armor. The eagle-claw pauldrons seemed almost alive, while House Corbray's sigil—three ravens clutching bleeding hearts—shone brightly upon his breastplate.
"A man who's never seen snow talking about the cold of winter?"
He lifted his chin proudly.
"Who do you think you are, Odin? A peasant who crawled out of the mud of the Riverlands, and you think you're qualified to lecture me about swordsmanship?"
Raising Lady Forlorn, he let the sunlight dance across the rippling patterns of the black blade.
"We men of the Vale learn the sword from the day we're born."
"Not because we love fighting."
"Because we live in the mountains."
His voice rang across the arena.
"Do you even know what the Vale is?"
"Towering peaks on every side. The shadow of the Mountains of the Moon hanging over every castle."
"Mountain clans lurk everywhere. Descendants of the First Men. Raiders."
"They'll slip into your keep while you sleep and cut your throat before dawn."
"In the Vale, a sword isn't a weapon."
"It's your life."
"A knight whose swordsmanship isn't good enough doesn't live to see twenty."
His confidence swelled with every word.
"I, Lyn Corbray, first picked up a sword at six years old."
"I swung it thousands of times a day."
"For ten years without fail."
"I went to war at sixteen."
"At seventeen, I stood atop the walls of Gulltown and held off seven rebel knights by myself."
"I killed four."
"At nineteen, on the Trident, I slew Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard with my own hands."
A cold smile spread across his face.
"So in my entire life, I've learned only one lesson."
"A fast sword lets you live."
"A slow sword gets you killed."
He pointed Lady Forlorn at Odin.
"And now you dare tell me it's the man, not the sword?"
Lyn laughed.
The sound dripped with contempt.
"Then show me."
"Show me how skilled this 'man' really is."
The instant his words ended—
He moved.
Lyn Corbray's sword flashed like black lightning.
Fast.
Precise.
Deadly.
The swordsmanship of the Vale was unlike that of any other region in Westeros.
Riverlands knights favored powerful, sweeping blows.
Western knights emphasized rhythm and technical refinement.
Dornish fighters preferred speed, deception, and unpredictability.
The North...
The North hardly produced knights at all.
But the Vale was different.
Its swordsmanship had been forged among mountains, narrow castle corridors, and treacherous mountain paths.
There was no room for grand flourishes.
No space for wide swings.
No crowds to impress.
A knight of the Vale had to strike fast.
Strike true.
Hit a vital point immediately.
Because if he missed, the next blade might enter his back.
So Lyn's first attack went straight for Odin's throat.
The most vulnerable target on the human body.
One hit.
The fight would be over.
Yet when Lady Forlorn came within inches of its mark—
Odin simply shifted slightly to the left.
Barely an inch.
The black blade sliced through empty air, brushing past his neck and leaving only a razor-sharp gust of wind.
Lyn's eyes narrowed.
No wonder he'd defeated the Mountain.
His reactions were extraordinary.
But it didn't matter.
Because the second strike had already begun.
With a flick of his wrist, Lady Forlorn transformed from a thrust into a sweeping slash aimed at Odin's neck.
Faster.
Sharper.
The angle perfectly blocked any retreat.
Yet Odin didn't retreat.
He merely leaned backward.
An inch.
Again.
The blade skimmed past the tip of his nose.
Lyn frowned.
Ordinarily, those two attacks were enough to overwhelm almost anyone.
So the peasant truly had some skill.
Fine.
Then it was time to get serious.
The third strike came.
Then the fourth.
The fifth.
One after another.
Faster and faster.
More deceptive with each attack.
The essence of Vale swordsmanship unfolded in its purest form.
Every strike targeted a vital point.
Every movement sealed escape routes.
Like a mountain shadowcat pouncing upon exposed flesh.
Yet Odin continued to evade.
Perfectly.
Every single time.
By mere inches.
Gradually, a sinking feeling began to form in Lyn's stomach.
Before every strike landed—
Odin had already moved.
It was as though he could see the future.
As though he could read the path of the blade before it existed.
As though this outsider understood Vale swordsmanship better than Lyn himself.
Impossible.
They had never crossed blades before.
They had never even met.
How could this be?
Grinding his teeth, Lyn attacked harder.
More fiercely.
He refused to believe it.
There was no way someone could understand his swordsmanship after seeing it for the first time.
"No."
His attacks grew more violent.
"Impossible!"
He poured more strength and speed into every strike.
Lady Forlorn became a swirling mass of black light.
The rippling patterns on the blade seemed to spin wildly alongside their master's fury.
Yet Odin continued dodging.
Calm.
Effortless.
Unhurried.
"Lyn Corbray."
For the first time, Odin spoke during the fight.
His tone was as casual as if he were chatting with an old friend.
"Your swordsmanship is excellent."
"I've met knights from the Vale before."
"Like them, you grew up in mountain castles."
"You learned from childhood how to kill in confined spaces."
"Your sword is as swift as the mountain wind."
"In fact, I don't think I've ever met a knight whose mastery of pure swordsmanship exceeds yours."
Then his voice softened.
"But do you know why you can't hit me?"
Lyn's heart tightened.
He offered no answer.
Instead, he attacked even more desperately.
It accomplished nothing.
The blade he had always taken pride in could not touch the black-armored knight before him.
Worse.
It couldn't even stop Odin's voice from reaching his ears.
"Because your sword has only one rhythm."
"Since the fight began, you've thrown thirty-seven attacks."
"Throat."
"Neck."
"Left ribs."
"Right ribs."
"Then attempts to cut off my retreat and force me into a corner."
"You've repeated every pattern at least three times."
Odin sighed.
"What a foolish thing, Lyn Corbray."
"You're fighting."
"Not practicing."
"Combat requires adaptation."
"It requires responding to your opponent."
"But you?"
A faint smile appeared beneath the helmet.
"You're simply repeating the same things you've practiced for twenty years."
Lyn's face began turning pale.
Had he not been wearing a helmet, sweat would already have been pouring down his cheeks.
His assault faltered.
Seeing this, Odin did not counterattack.
Instead, he stopped dodging altogether and simply stood there, watching.
"You believe that being faster, more precise, and more ruthless is enough to defeat anyone."
"But have you ever considered what happens when your opponent understands your swordsmanship better than you do?"
"What happens when your opponent doesn't need years to study you?"
"When observing you in battle is enough?"
Lyn looked up.
Through the visor, he met a pair of dark eyes that seemed bottomless.
Eyes that appeared capable of seeing through armor, flesh, and bone.
Straight into the soul.
[Insight Lv4]
And beyond that—
Odin merely standing there exerted a pressure so intense it felt almost physical.
Every movement Lyn made suddenly seemed heavier.
Slower.
[Presence Lv4]
"You know, Lyn Corbray..."
Odin smiled.
A gentle smile.
But somehow that made it worse.
"Your pride has already betrayed you."
Lyn froze.
"Proud people all share one trait."
Odin's voice remained calm.
"They prefer solving every problem using the method they know best."
"Because they believe the thing they're best at is also the best thing possible."
He raised his sword and pointed it at Lyn.
"And for you..."
"It's this sword style."
"For twenty years, it has won countless battles."
"So naturally, you've come to believe it's invincible."
"Perfect."
"Beyond improvement."
"That's why every time you attack, you unconsciously return to the patterns you're most comfortable with."
Lyn's breathing became ragged.
He wanted to argue.
Wanted to deny it.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because Odin was right.
He was using the same patterns.
Again and again.
Returning to familiar sequences.
Returning to comfort.
Returning to certainty.
He had been too proud.
Too proud to consider how an opponent might adapt.
Too proud to believe adaptation was necessary.
Yet Odin wasn't finished.
"But that's not your biggest problem."
The words cut through Lyn's spiraling thoughts.
Lyn stared at him.
"What is?"
Odin didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he lifted his steel sword and pointed it toward Lady Forlorn.
"What's the name of that blade?"
Lyn blinked.
"Lady Forlorn."
"Good sword."
Odin nodded.
"A magnificent sword."
"Valyrian steel."
"Lighter than ordinary steel."
"Harder."
"Sharper."
"With it, you can cut through weapons."
"Split armor."
"Fight several opponents at once."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"But do you know what that means?"
Lyn remained silent.
"It means you've become dependent on it."
Every word struck like a hammer.
"For twenty years, you've wielded this blade."
"You've won battle after battle."
"And every victory convinced you that you were extraordinary."
Odin's eyes locked onto his.
"But have you ever wondered how many men lost to you..."
"And how many simply lost to the sword?"
Lyn's lips trembled.
Yet the questioning continued.
"If that blade were ordinary steel, would you still win?"
"If Lady Forlorn were taken from your hand..."
"Would you still be Lyn Corbray?"
He took a step forward.
The entire arena seemed to hold its breath.
"Tell me."
"Do you trust your swordsmanship..."
"Or do you trust the sword?"
Lyn's breathing caught in his throat.
His lips tightened.
Twenty years ago, on the Trident, when he faced Prince Lewyn Martell...
Lady Forlorn had been in his hand.
He won that battle.
He had always believed he won it.
But what if, back then, he hadn't been holding Lady Forlorn?
What if it had been...
Just an ordinary sword?
Would he still have won?
He didn't know.
And what frightened him most was that, in twenty years, he had never once asked himself that question.
"You see?"
Odin's voice rang out again.
Like a mirror, reflecting the deepest fear hidden within Lyn's heart.
"You've never thought about it, have you?"
"Because you've trusted that sword too much."
"You made it part of yourself."
"You made it your pride."
"Your identity."
"The meaning of your existence."
"But you forgot what I told you earlier."
Stepping forward, Odin repeated:
"It is the man who wields the sword, not the sword that wields the man."
The moment the words left his mouth—
He moved.
For the first time since the duel began, Odin attacked.
His ordinary steel sword swept upward in a diagonal arc.
Slowly.
So slowly that Lyn could clearly follow every inch of its path.
Instinctively, he raised Lady Forlorn to block.
The Valyrian steel blade met the incoming strike.
And at that moment, Lyn's eyes flashed.
Just touch it.
Just one collision.
The steel sword will break.
But he had imagined too much.
At the very instant the two blades were about to meet, Odin's sword slipped around Lady Forlorn.
It glided along the black blade's surface.
Then—
With a gentle flick—
Clang!
A crisp metallic chime echoed through the arena.
Suddenly, Lyn felt his right hand become weightless.
His eyes widened.
He looked down.
Then up.
And saw it.
Lady Forlorn.
The Valyrian steel sword passed down through generations of House Corbray.
Spinning high through the air.
The black blade traced a graceful arc beneath the sunlight before plunging into the sand.
The sword quivered.
A faint hum echoed from the steel.
It sounded almost like weeping.
Like a sigh.
Like a farewell.
For a heartbeat, the entire arena stood frozen.
Then the crowd erupted.
"Ser Odin!"
"Ser Odin!"
"Ser Odin!"
The cheers crashed like ocean waves.
One after another.
Growing louder and louder.
The entire arena trembled beneath the roar.
Amid the deafening applause, Lyn Corbray slowly collapsed to his knees.
His knees struck the sand with a dull thud.
His arms hung limply at his sides.
His head lowered.
His shoulders trembled uncontrollably.
He had lost.
Completely.
Utterly.
He couldn't even summon the courage to look at Odin.
Because every word Odin had spoken had cut deeper than any sword.
A simple steel blade had defeated him.
Along with his pride.
His honor.
His reputation.
Lyn expected mockery.
Expected ridicule.
Expected the victor to grind salt into the wound.
Instead—
A pair of black armored boots appeared before him.
Slowly raising his head, Lyn realized Odin had removed his helmet.
Those dark eyes looked down at him quietly.
Strangely...
There was no contempt in them.
Only sincerity.
"You know, Lyn Corbray..."
Odin's voice sounded again.
This time it was gentle.
Like an elder teaching a younger man.
"I know someone."
"He was once the proudest knight in the Seven Kingdoms."
"He joined the Kingsguard at sixteen."
"He thought he was invincible."
A faint smile touched Odin's lips.
"Then he lost a hand."
Lyn froze.
Because he knew exactly who Odin was talking about.
Jaime Lannister.
"What do you think he's doing now?"
Odin continued.
"He's in the North."
"At the Wall."
"Learning to fight left-handed from a man called Qhorin Halfhand."
"Because he finally understood something."
Odin tapped his temple.
"True strength doesn't come from a sword."
"It doesn't come from a hand."
"It comes from here."
Then he placed a hand over his chest.
"And here."
Lyn stared silently.
"You didn't lose because your swordsmanship was poor."
"Your swordsmanship is exceptional."
"Exceptional enough that only a handful of men in the Seven Kingdoms could match it."
"You lost because you're too proud."
"Too proud to change."
"Too proud to learn."
"Too willing to place all your faith in a single sword."
Odin's gaze remained steady.
"And pride..."
"Has never been the same thing as invincibility."
Lyn's eyes became unfocused.
For some reason, he remembered a scene from long ago.
The first time he had ever picked up a practice sword.
The first time his father had taught him.
His father had worn the same expression.
Patient.
Disappointed.
Hopeful.
It was strange.
Very strange.
Odin was barely half his age.
Yet, in this moment, he felt like the older man.
Odin didn't wait for a response.
Turning away, he walked across the sand toward Lady Forlorn.
He grasped the hilt and pulled the blade free.
The sword sang softly as it left the ground.
What magnificent steel.
Even Odin couldn't help admiring it.
Without looking back, he spoke once more.
"According to our wager..."
"I'll be taking this lady with me."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Remember what I told you today, Lyn Corbray."
"It is the man who wields the sword."
"Not the sword that wields the man."
Then his expression softened.
"And when you finally understand that..."
"When you've let go of your pride."
"When you've stopped relying on things outside yourself..."
He pointed toward the distance.
"Come find me at the Hall of Order."
A small smile appeared on his face.
"I'll teach you."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Across the sand.
Toward the iron door leading into the preparation chambers.
Then he disappeared from everyone's sight.
Want faster updates? Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier. Read early at [email protected]/A_divin5