A/N: Wow, so everyone is probably wondering why there hasn't been an update since the 13th, which was last Sunday. Well I had a family emergency and only got back from family in Detroit after a week of being out. I'll try my hardest to update, and make sure you guys aren't left in the dark anymore. This is Odyn Sand's second chapter and Stafford Baratheon will get his POV after another OC will be introduced, which will end the OCs until another OC is killed off. I try to keep OC's to three living OCs in each story. Again, thanks for all the patience people have had with this story, and I promise I won't ditch you people again. Also, on an unrelated note, I have released a new fanfiction, a parody/comedy of A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones where all the characters including Stafford and Odyn become modern day high school boarding school students. It has longer chapters than this one, but will only be updated most likely once every week (usually Saturday). I released it to make up for the fact that I haven't uploaded in about a week. Please, give credit also to my editors. Especially the user Deus_Vult_Inf1del, who help edit and even write some of this. It is my side project and will be the first one to receive time cuts in work if need be to focus on Ours is the Fury. Anyway, sorry for the longer rant today.

Enjoy

Odyn

Whilst Odyn sat against the wall of Tobho Mott's great stone barn, he lost himself in the snarling grind of his whetstone across the dull, grey edge of a guard's longsword. Perhaps Mott should enchant it. Dull old blade can barely cut butter. Quickly honing the edge in a few long strokes of the stone, he held it close to his unshaven beard, and dragged. The hair of his cheeks covered the longsword, and the streak of tanned skin glistened paler and pinker after the brief yet sudden shave. Chuckling to himself on his handiwork, he gently polished the sword's edge for one last time, and set it aside for the next blade out of eighty-three more.

Lost in the smoke and fumes of the shop, he wiped his grimy face and reached for his wineskin. It had been an hour since his last drunken stupor, and he yearned for it already. But before his quick hand made the instinctive grasp to his wine, a rough, calloused hand grabbed his wrist. He looked up, bewildered and boiling with rage, until his wild eyes met the sight of Tobho Mott's protege.

He stood over the Odyn, casting shadows upon his whole body. He was tall and muscular, his youthful, square-jawed face and his great arms stained with grease. His muscles rippled beneath his apron. As he looked down upon Odyn, he gazed at the wineskin and back to Odyn. His eyes shone icy blue beneath his mop of wild black hair. Those eyes rolled and the young apprentice let out a sigh, as if he was chiding a little boy who spilled his flagon of milk on the floor. "Odyn Sand, I like your help with the swords and all, but you know the rules: No drinking in the forge. Sober men with sharpened swords have ruined a great deal of many things. I couldn't even imagine all the terrible things drunk men with sharpened swords could do."

"Well in my defense, Gendry, drunk men with bloody big hammers have done far worse." Odyn Sand gave a light laugh and loosened the young bull of a man's grip on his wrist, and gave a him a cloying look in his eyes.

"Aye. I've never been born with pockets flowing with coin like our good king, but I'd at least know blowing it all on hunt and tourney and feast after feast while half of Westeros starves away isn't the best idea. For all his faults, I'd have to give him some praise for his second son he raised. Stafford's a good lad. You'd get along well with him, I wager." Every other word was punctuated by the clang of Tobho Mott's hammer upon a white-hot blade, ringing all the way down the Street of Steel as the sun was high in the sky.

"Can we drink to that?" Odyn replied.

Gendry, rolling his eyes with a good natured smile, walked back to his forge, shaping chunks of metal into spearheads for the City Watch with his mighty hammer. Its heavy falls echoed across the forge, yellow sparks bathing the dimmer corners of the room in golden light.

It had been a long week in King's Landing for Odyn Sand. He had been drifting inn to inn, staying for his supper and for a good night's sleep. It wasn't a bad way to live, as he wandered like such back in Dorne, The North, Riverlands, The Reach, Braavos, and even scoured the ancient dragonforts in Volantis, of black stone fused by Valyrian dragonfire. New castles, friendly faces, wines and women of all tastes, free to see the world and enjoy it as so many others his age never get to. Who wouldn't want to live such a life as mine? He occasionally stayed at workshops for artisans of all sorts, a dockyard in Pentos, a barn nearby Storm's End, and even a rock cave in the side of Casterly Rock. Tonight, he decided, he shall take refuge in the Tobho Mott's shop, and offered to help around the shop with their deeds as his payment for a bed.

Odyn had heard whispers of Tobho Mott's from all around Westeros. He was a Qohorik master smith, one of the only few around who could reforge Valyrian Steel. According to his father, Qohor refused to reveal its secrets of Valyrian metalworking, along with its history of human blood sacrifice. These Qohorik and by extension the Valyrians must have used blood magic to forge their weapons. Odyn could only wonder what these smiths have done to keep to their lost art.

Lost in thought, Odyn was still going through the motions of sword sharpening, and as he looked to the rack of dull swords, their numbers thinned from eighty-two to sixty-four. Gendry, leaning over his anvil for a brief drink, was watching Odyn's unmatched efficiency agape.

"I'll be damned, Odyn Sand. I didn't think you'd work out as fine as you did. But you certainly proved me wrong. I know I don't have much to give, but I hope I can repay your service here." Gendry spoke warmly, all the while never losing focus on quenching a new longsword in oil, a brilliant burst of fire like a dragon's breath bursting from the cylinder.

"I hope I can repay you and Mott for letting me stay here. It's been a joy to work with you two." Odyn rose from his seat and laid down some of the last swords to be sharpened. He strode over to the countertop near the barn's entrance, and took a swig from another skin he took from the folds of his crimson silk robes.

"Odyn, what have I told you? No drinking in the sho-"

"Relax, my friend. As much as I would like it to be wine, this skin only holds water. I've been boiling it with some of the fires to keep it clean and safe to drink." Odyn raised the waterskin high above his head, and tilted his head back. Water flowed from the skin, straight down Odyn's throat, without even a stain upon his clothes. At the last gulps, he turned back to Gendry. "See? I haven't had a flagon since the last hour and a half ago."

Gendry eased himself and leaned on the countertop with Odyn. He had taken a brief break after quenching his tempered blade, and had set it upon his anvil. The two looked out to the busy street, Mott already bartering with a couple of bearded traders from Norvos, greedily eyeing and gesturing at a gleaming longaxe.

Its design was sleek and elegant, yet unadorned save for its carved shaft, etched in runes of unknown meaning. Its wicked edge was sharp as broken glass, and its rippled head shimmered in the sun, as if its swirls were still molten waves in an ocean of steel. He knew that the head of his house's guard would treasure such a fine axe. In the distance, Odyn watched as Tobho Mott exchanged angry words with the Norvosi, and they left indignant and axe-less. He dusted off his arms and apron, and went back to his counter, sorting desirable sheaths for the axe.

"Tobho Mott? Did those men bother you?"

Odyn asked him, following Gendry from his seat.

"Those damned Norvosi have been trying to buy that longaxe from my shop since before King Robert's family left for the North. Prince Stafford has been rather fond of axes, and I was hoping to give this to him as a token of my esteem. I forged it in the style of Valyria, you see? Layer upon layer upon layer, folded unto itself countless times. It may not be not have the secret Valyrian enchantments spellforged into it, but it's still a bloody masterpiece." Tobho Mott let out a sigh and went back to deciding the best varnish for the leather sheath of Stafford's axe.

"Stafford's back in King's Landing. The Starks came with them recently. He's betrothed to Arya Stark, while that Joffrey has Sansa. I never liked him very much. Quite rude to me whenever his father brought him along." Gendry explained to Odyn.

"That's why they hired us to sharpen their swords, no? Their security needs better armament. More valuable targets for discerning enemies to strike down." Odyn stated matter-of-factly.

"Exactly. That's also why I need this delivered to Stafford as soon as possible." Mott's eyes lit up as they met Gendry's. At first Gendry returned with a quizzical look, and when Mott gestured to Odyn, he soon shared his enthusiasm for whatever plan they had.

"That's it! Odyn, would you mind if you delivered this axe to Stafford? He's up in the Red Keep, and if you're quick, you can run there and return to my shop before the sun sets. And I know that this may not be in the deal for your lodgings at my shop-"

"Say no more, Mott. I'd be glad to help you. It's an honor to work with a master smith of your caliber and deliver to the Royal Family." Odyn replied, a warm smile spreading across his face.

Mott, enthusiastic, tenderly lifted the longaxe from its display, and sheathing its great head with a yellow-gold leather sheath, the black stag of Baratheon prancing upon it, woven from onyx cloth. "Take care not to unsheathe it unless necessary. The last idiot whom I entrusted a forged axe to deliver lost his hand. Grabbed it by the blade. Good riddance to him."

Odyn held the shaft in his two hands. Its carved and rune-etched haft was light, and its weight was concentrated in its head of rippled Valyrian-style steel. He was used to fighting with long-hafted weapons like spears, trained from a young age by his father Oberyn Martell and his bodyguard Areo Hotah from a young age, and he knew that this weapon felt beautifully agile and deadly in his arms. A grin spread across his face, ear to ear. "Tobho Mott, you will not be disappointed."

"I hope Stafford feels the same." He gave a grunt, and waved at Odyn. He went on his way. As he looked behind him, Gendry raised his hammer with a smile on his face, bidding Odyn farewell. He turned around and walked back into his shop, reinforcing the City Watch's armory.

Odyn broke into a sprint, leaping and diving through the crowds, axe faced down as to avoid injury to himself or others. Sweat raced across his face, deep in unfettered focus to achieve his goal. Nothing will stop me. I will deliver this axe to Stafford. Nothing will stop me. He raced across the streets, too fast for the commoners to bother him or for the guards to accost him. Even after vaulting over trading stands, jumping across carts, and dipping through alleyways, nobody could hold him back from his delivery. He desired to run across rooftops, but decided that the risk of his fall would be his ruin.

Odyn saw brief glimpses of the Grand Sept of Baelor and the Alchemist's Guild. The Sept's magnificence in its architecture of white stone and glass stained windows of the Faith's stories starkly contrasted the black marble guildhall, at the foot of Visenya's Hill. In its twisted labyrinth, Odyn was told there are caches of Wildfire, connected to an ancient series of winding passageways beneath the city streets. Thank the Gods no one's attempted to detonate these caches. They would be enough to level the entirety of King's Landing, given the proper placement around those tunnels.

Racing up the last street straight to the Red Keep, he could already see it. Atop Aegon's Hill, facing the Blackwater, it was an imposing sight. It was made of pale crimson stone, its curtain walls peaked with spikes of black iron and riddled with murder holes and archer's nests, surrounding a palace topped with seven massive towers that could survey all of the city, crowned in iron. Its walls had great bronze gates and portcullises. Filled with anticipation, Odyn quickened his step.

Running through the alleys and shortcuts he remembered from wandering the city nights before, and amid reverent awe of the Red Keep, Odyn failed to notice a mud caked black boot jut from an alley's entrance, and he was sent to his feet, tumbling into a puddle of mud, deep into the foul smelling alleyway of run-down shops and cluttered slums. Despite rich silks dirtied and his bag of his personal effects torn, all he could think of was the axe he swore to deliver to Stafford Baratheon. As his hands found their way around the axe's shaft and lifted it up, he felt the cold kiss of a long dirk across his cheek. Though mud blurred his eyes as he and the axe fell to the ground again, he could still hear and see the steps of a man's black boots around him. Still on his knees, Odyn could still hear the man step to the alley's entrance and lean back on a wall, blocking his way out. As his eyes cleared, he found a clearer view of his assailant.

The gaunt man wore black, mottled leather, beneath a long coat of fine cloth, its colors faded from the sooty stains it had sustained. His breeches were as black as his mud caked leather boots. His arms were crossed as he let out a mirthless laugh. Odyn was filled with boiling rage as the man's vaguely frog-like face started a toothy grin. His teeth were rotten and yellow, and his sour breath could be smelled all the way down the alley. Above his head swung a rusted sign, and though the colors were weathered away, Odyn could still read the inscription that still remained. Gin Alley.

"You look like a fookin ballsack." The man's raspy voice was like gravel across slate. He slowly walked over to Odyn, his rotten, slimy teeth glistening as he smiled. Odyn, recovering his senses and cold fury, dropped into a low stance fit for the close-quarters combat he had anticipated. As he reached for his sword and buckler, his eyes had grown wide and his hands twitched nervously. In the rush to deliver Stafford's axe, he had forgotten the most important gear to bring along in one's travels. And no, it wasn't his wineskin.

So he picked up the longaxe from the ground, unsheathed its head, and after making sure to put the sheath in his bag, he lunged at the gaunt man, still laughing. The man parried the longaxe and glanced the axe into a nearby wall, almost dancing into striking distance of Odyn's face, had it not been a responded to by a quick recovery and a brutal counterslash across the gaunt man's leathered chest. He leaped back, circling Odyn. He still barked a terrible laugh, twirling his dirks and savoring the glorious sound of the clinking blades. The alley wasn't as wide as Odyn wanted, but it was wide enough. Followed by a long silence, he looked into his eyes. "You just stepped into the wrong fookin alley, cunt. You're a long way from your coward knights in fookin steel plate and your high fookin castles. Some old soldier teach you how to fight? How to stand and parry?"

He lightly stepped within Odyn's axe, past its head, and slashed across Odyn's arm, darting out of his axe's reach as quickly as he had entered it. Deep in rage, the wounds were ignored, and the two men began their dance of death around the alley, the kiss of their blades followed by sparks.

Odyn's longaxe jabbed at the man's head, but the man glanced off its beak with his daggers, sidestepped it and charged at Odyn, daggers flaring. Odyn spun away from the blow, the man and his daggers crashing into the wall behind him. The axe fell upon him. The vagrant attempted to parry his axe head with his blades, Odyn darted his axe away, and drew its head back and forth across the man's arm, leaving a nasty cut and a gus of blood staining the vagrant's clothes. It sliced through the leather and tore at the skin beneath.

The vagrant roared and charged at the Dornishman again. Odyn waltzed side to side, the man managing to slam himself against the wall again. "Do you know who I am?" The vagrant hissed furiously, cutting at Odyn's chest, and missed, falling to the ground yet again.

"Some dead man."

The axe jabbed at the man's arms. Like lightning made flesh, Odyn flickered and danced around the man, feinting a jab to his groin and slashing his leg, darting close to his eyes and stabbing his stomach. As if his hands were guided by the Warrior himself, he rarely missed. He circled, darted, jabbed, then darted again, and dodged the scoundrel's charges, leaving the man spinning across his own alley. His uncontrollable rage left the man an open target, his own parries and dodges of Odyn's axe growing sloppy.

Occasionally sweeping low to keep the man tired and on his feet, Odyn kept him at whatever distance he could afford in the alley. Close-quarters had always been a bit of a sore spot for his father to learn, and he had trained specifically for situations like this to avoid his father's mistakes.

The man furiously rushed Odyn, hacking at his axe's haft, but to no avail. With the fine wood Tobho Mott had made the shaft from, he might as well have tried to hack apart a mountain. "Gods have mercy on you," Odyn spat, "I won't."

Growling and snarling like a deranged animal, the leathered scoundrel and the Dornishman traded blow after blow, parry after parry, Odyn being more successful in making his mark. As the fight wore on, the man's daggers were nicked and blunted in many areas. His leathers were torn, and gore flew and dripped from his ragged body. His blackened leathers were turning a muddy red, his face an open wound from the slams of the axe's haft and slices of its edge, sharp as glass and harder than dragonstone. The man was breathing hard, while Odyn barely made a sound. Something in Odyn's heart felt a pang of pity for the fool. He went to find peace in the grass and found a viper instead.

After what seemed to be an eternity to the man, he has dropped into the wrong stance, leaving him wide open to Odyn's axe. Hate filled Odyn to a degree he never known. He stopped trying to defend himself long ago. I walked into this alley fighting for my life and wound up fighting to end another.

But cat-quick, the vagrant whirled around the unfatigued and furious lad, and took him from behind. Holding him close, he slashed him across his silked belly, before Odyn could return a strike back to him. Heart filled with the fury of seven hells, Odyn wrenched him off, and dizzy from the man's finesse in his blow to his stomach, he charged the vagrant. Having anticipated it, the vagrant caught him and threw him out onto the main street, in full view of several onlookers. Bleeding faster and harder than he had prepared for and knocked prone by his crash to the ground, he lifted himself up, leaning on his axe, and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, to the only place he had on his mind: The Red Keep.

Behind him he heard screams of onlookers, the toppling of merchants' stands, the falls of hapless innocents who stood in that ruffian's way, and his ferocious screams. "CUUUUNT! I'LL FOOKIN KILL YOU! I'LL FOOK YOU TILL YOU'RE DEEAAAD!" The savage pummeled people to the ground, stabbing bystanders as he ran with his dirks, all while proclaiming his undying hatred for Odyn Sand. Blood flowed in the main street like shit poured from the windows of Flea Bottom's slums.

It had been as though he had been running for an eternity, bobbing and weaving with cat-like finesse over walls, trading stands, a few carriages, and even through a corner filled with whores. His pursuer never gave up chase, bent on the single-minded destruction of his foe. And as the sun set over the city and Odyn ran up the last hundred yards to Aegon's Hill, he could see the Red Keep's bronze gates looming into view. His mind felt relieved, holding onto whatever strength held in his bowels from spilling forth, as he sprinted through dwindling crowds beneath a darkening blue sky, bathed in orange-gold light.

But it was at this moment the gaunt man lunged from Odyn's side from another alley and threw him into a small cranny filled with trash between a pub and a whorehouse, leaving him soaked and covered in the vilest garbage he ever smelled. As Odyn raised his axe valiantly to defend himself, the man kicked him in his ribs, laughing at the sound of them cracking like a baby's skull against a wall. Odyn's arms faltered and he dropped his axe.

"I am the fookin legend of Gin Alley. The Mother-FOOKIN LEGEND! I'm going to drink your fine fookin wines out of your cuntish sku-" Odyn spat in his face, blinding him as he screamed in fury. As he rubbed his eyes, he blindly flailed about, covered in blood, shit, his own vomit, garbage, and Odyn Sand's spit.

"Stop RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM!" The incredulous vagrant, still screaming, turned to face yet another assailant, and was promptly met by an iron cudgel to the chest and stomach, crumpling over. Odyn watched as an entire horde of King's Landing's City Watchmen tackling him, beating him again and again, overcome with zealous fury. "YOUR STOLEN GOODS ARE NOW FORFEIT!"

Amid this awesome sight of dozens of City Watchmen needlessly beating the dirk-twirling fool, Odyn slipped out of the garbage, grabbed his axe, and made a mad run for the last yards to the bronze gates of the Red Keep. They towered over him, and had they been closed nary a force on earth could penetrate them. But dozens of guards in cloaks both of gold and red had abandoned their posts in a mad rush of zeal, longing to bring lawbreakers to justice. The gates were left open, and even the watchers on the portcullises were watching the Watchmens' glorious rage, forgetting to close them.

Odyn Sand sprinted audaciously past the great bronze gates, beneath three portcullises, and into a red stone courtyard. He had to thank whoever that scoundrel was. Had he not provided a distraction for the guards, they would've delayed his delivery to the Red Keep.

He had no time to praise or note of the Keep's architecture and storied history as he stumbled into the courtyard, stumbling and bleeding from exhaustion, holding his slashed stomach. He leaned on to Stafford Axe, his legs worn and cramping. His vision was blurry and he began to feel nauseous, soon left praying the garbage and mud won't infect his wounds.

He observed two younger teenagers deep in intimate conversation. One was a beautiful young girl, tall and proud, her red-gold hair like molten stars. Her blue dress' hue mingled with the golden sun setting over the city. She was slender yet growing shapely.

Beside her saw a strongly-built, towering young lad, muscular and powerful. His black hair fell over his eyes. He laughed raucously at whatever indiscernible things she was saying. He dressed in a golden tunic, with a symbol upon his breast that Odyn's blurry eyes failed to interpret. As he approached the two, he stumbled on his cramped legs, wincing in pain as his stomach's wounds bled. Gendry, what are you doing here?

The girl noticed Odyn first. She let out a scream, falling into the young man's arms. He soon noticed a shambling figure, covered in garbage and mud, bleeding from multiple wounds, and leaning on an axe with his arms. The young man stepped in front of the lady to protect her, and drew two handaxes from his belt. But before he could walk up to this attacker and finish him off, Odyn fell to his knees, drawing the axe's sheath from his bag and sheathing its head. He laid down his axe and held both his hands over his head.

"Stafford, d-do something! Please!" The lady was filled with fright at this morbid sight, while the situation only hardened the boy's steely resolve, walking to Odyn's ragged body. Stafford. Stafford Baratheon. I have your axe.

"Seven Hells," He swore, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Stafford brandished his axes. At this Odyn smiled, wiping the muck from his face and shoulders. And with great effort, he got himself up with his one good arm, wincing with pain as his other wounded arm held his bleeding stomach. It's just a flesh wound. It didn't cut as deeply as he thought, but it bled all the same.

"Stafford Baratheon. I have a delivery for Stafford Baratheon." He stood as tall as he could, his voice calm and cordial as he could manage. Stafford Baratheon looked at him wordlessly, eyes filled with suspicion. He looked at the ragged Dornishman, then to the axe upon the ground. He gazed back at Odyn and then to the axe's sheath. Upon a field of yellow pranced the proud black stag of House Baratheon, same as it did on the breast of Stafford's yellow tunic. Odyn's eyes met Stafford's, and his ice-blue eyes stare back into his. Gendry, what are you doing all the way over here.

At this, Odyn fell to the ground, crumpling in a heap from the pain from all his wounds. Stafford's suspicion left him, and after belting his hand axes, he lifted up Odyn by his shoulders and helped him to his feet as he roared in pain. Stafford carried his new axe in his free hand. "Sansa. Sansa, come and help me with him. He's bleeding all over. Come on now, don't be afraid."

Odyn laughed heartily in between roars of anguish. "'Tis but a scratch." He japed to Sansa in one of his moments of clarity, and she laughed at the absurdity of his strength until one of his legs failed beneath him, and he cried out, anguished.

Sansa Stark. I've heard of her beauty during my forays, but the words failed to capture how utterly gorgeous she was in person. Recovering her composure, she walked to Stafford, and held Odyn's other side up as they walked back into the Red Keep, holding him close to keep him from falling. "Come on now. One step, then the other. One step, then the other. Just keep calm, alright?" Sansa was whispered to Odyn as he winced with every step, his willpower abandoning him. He wanted to stare into her piercing, sky-blue eyes as long as he could, but his the world was spinning and slipping away like footprints in the sand.

And with his last rage he held in his heart, he bellowed a furious roar up into the heavens, as his pain plunged the world into darkness.