Chapter 4: I'll Make You an Offer You Can't Refuse
After finishing the flatbread and washing it down with a small pouch of water, Odin regained a fair amount of strength.
Still, he deliberately rested a little longer, making sure he didn't look overly eager. Only then did he stand, walk over to Jaime, and squat down to examine his injuries.
"Criminal! Accomplice to evil!"
Before Odin had even touched Jaime's severed hand, a torrent of abuse rang in his ears.
"That damned man would've died from infection sooner or later, but you saved him! Do you have any idea how many innocent people will die because you let him live?!"
"Spare me, my lady."
Odin didn't get angry. He calmly lifted Jaime's severed wrist as he spoke.
"Don't try to bind me with moral high ground. I don't happen to possess much in the way of morality."
"You… shameless!"
Seeing how utterly unconcerned he was, Brienne found herself momentarily speechless, her face flushing red as she struggled to find words.
"Shameless?"
"That's irrelevant, Brienne of Tarth."
He glanced at the woman—who stood nearly half a head taller than Jaime—and called her by her full name with precision.
"Everything I do is simply to survive."
"This world has never known true innocence. Can you honestly say you've never lied, or never done a single wrong thing?"
"If I remember correctly, you once swore to protect Renly Baratheon—yet he was killed right before your eyes."
Brienne froze. Her anger flared even hotter, but she couldn't find a single word to refute him.
Odin, however, had no intention of letting her off the hook.
"I'm alive because I have a skill. Compared to those who were butchered, I'm lucky."
"By the same logic, the two of you are lucky as well."
"A lion may have lost a claw—but that's still better than losing its head."
"At the very least, you still have me—this so-called 'accomplice to evil'—working myself to the bone to examine your wounds, making sure you both live long enough for your families to pay the ransom. Isn't that right?"
Though his words sounded like a lecture aimed at Brienne, they were, in truth, meant for Jaime.
Odin had noticed it long ago: the man who once took pride in his swordsmanship had been utterly crushed by the loss of his right hand. He hadn't spoken a single word all day.
If Odin wanted to carry out his plan, the first step was to make this lion stand again.
Sure enough, Jaime—who had shown no reaction until now—suddenly twitched. He slowly lifted his head.
In the shadows, those emerald-green eyes seemed veiled in ash.
He looked at Odin, who was carefully cleaning the wound with a warm cloth. There was no emotion in his gaze, only a deathly stillness in his voice.
"What difference is there between a lion without claws… and one that is truly dead?"
Hearing such profound self-denial, Odin wasn't disappointed at all.
Instead, he grinned.
A reaction was enough.
With Jaime Lannister's mental fortitude, losing a single right hand could never truly break him. He was simply trapped in a moment of despair—what he needed was guidance.
Rather than launching into a long sermon, Odin picked up the severed hand—finally cleaned of the filth that had caked it—and examined it closely.
"Let's see… uneven cut, classic chopping injury. They probably didn't use a fine steel blade—more like an axe."
"Cartilage mixed with shattered bone fragments. The wound's in terrible shape. The fact that it hasn't become infected or caused a fever yet means your constitution is exceptional, Ser Jaime."
At the sound of "Ser," rather than "Kingslayer," a faint flicker passed through Jaime's green eyes.
He lowered his gaze slightly and used his left hand to flick the severed hand hanging against his chest, making it sway.
"If you can reattach it," he said quietly,
"I guarantee my father will name you a Grand Maester…"
"One million gold dragons."
"What?"
Jaime froze for a moment, then slowly lifted his head. What met his eyes was Odin's utterly serious expression.
"Give me one million gold dragons, and I can try to reattach it."
Odin repeated himself, his tone unwavering.
He wasn't joking.
If he could recharge enough gold dragons and raise [Surgical Operation] to Lv.5, it might truly be possible.
But instead of hope, his words ignited Jaime's fury.
"Get lost! I don't need your treatment!"
The lion who had lost his claws felt mocked. He tried to yank his arm back—
—and Odin pressed down hard on the wound with pinpoint precision.
"AAAH!!!"
Jaime screamed. Cold sweat burst out across his forehead, his body spasming violently.
"What are you—"
"The pain response is still intact. That means your nervous system is still functioning."
Just as Brienne was about to shout in outrage, she heard Odin speak calmly to himself.
"Congratulations, ser. You're not in immediate danger of dying."
Only when Odin removed his fingers from the wound did Jaime finally gasp for air, glaring at him in fury.
Yet Odin seemed utterly unfazed. As he continued treating the injury, he spoke evenly:
"Among the Night's Watch, there is a ranger of exceptional renown."
"His name is Qhorin Halfhand. As the name suggests, he lost half of his right hand in battle."
"But the resolve of the Night's Watch far surpasses that of a certain Kingsguard knight."
"He trained himself to fight with his left hand—and in the end, made it stronger than his right."
"That's impossible."
Jaime snorted, his voice dripping with contempt.
"No one can make their left hand more skilled than their right—unless they were born left-handed."
Odin still didn't rise to anger. He simply shook his head.
"Don't say 'impossible.' There is no such thing."
"Qhorin Halfhand is well known. Ask anyone in the North—you'll hear the same name."
Jaime's eyes suddenly brightened.
A spark—long smothered—flickered to life in those emerald-green pupils.
He wasn't a man who crumbled at the first setback. Otherwise, he wouldn't have borne the name Kingslayer and still served in the Kingsguard for over a decade.
With a precedent before him, Jaime's pride refused to believe he could be inferior to a mere ranger of the Night's Watch.
He stared at Odin, whose eyes seemed filled with quiet wisdom.
"Why do you know so much?"
"Unlike you great lords, Ser Jaime," Odin replied patiently,
"people as lowly as I am must always keep their eyes open."
"I draw close to my enemies rather than hate them. I observe them from even closer—because only then can I truly understand them."
"You intend to resist?"
Jaime lowered his voice, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly as he pressed the question.
"Just you? A farmer who knows a bit of medicine?"
"Not me."
Carefully wrapping the severed stump in clean cloth, Odin gave Jaime's arm a gentle pat.
"Us, my friend."
"Us?"
Jaime let out another cold laugh.
"Look at the three of us. A farmer. A Kingsguard who's lost his sword hand. And a woman who was nearly raped…"
"Forgive my bluntness—but the moment we reach Harrenhal, they may very well chop off your head."
"Of course. I'm fully aware of that."
Odin shrugged, not denying it.
Expecting gratitude from men like Vargo Hoat was far less realistic than hoping Brienne might suddenly become a refined lady.
But under Jaime's gaze, Odin leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"There's something I understand very well."
"Women and children can afford carelessness. Men cannot."
"In the world I come from, a single misstep—or a single wrong word—can cost you your life."
"So, ser… let's make a deal."
His tone was calm, almost casual—yet deadly serious, as though discussing an ordinary business transaction.
"I will deal carefully with our current predicament and get you and your companion safely back to King's Landing."
"And after that, I expect to receive what I'm owed."
Jaime flexed his injured arm, then exchanged a glance with Brienne.
In her eyes, he saw only one word.
Do it.
Their situation couldn't possibly get worse anyway.
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Jaime Lannister seemed to become himself again—the confident knight of old—as he smiled faintly and spoke in a low voice.
"If you can help us return to King's Landing, I guarantee you'll receive enough gold dragons to fill an entire bathtub."
"But before that, I need to know your plan, Odin."
"I can't tell you everything," Odin replied, nodding.
"But I can reveal one part."
Candlelight split his face in two—one half shrouded in shadow, the other bathed in light.
"That deputy commander—Urswyck."
"He will be our breakthrough."
"You intend to support his bid for power?"
Brienne couldn't help interjecting, her tone disapproving.
"Jaime has already tried every possible means to bribe them. These mercenaries have no honor—"
"No."
Odin shook his head, a faint, meaningful smile curling at his lips.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, brushing against the gold dragon he carried close to his body.
"Urswyck will help us."
"Not because he wants to—"
"But because he has no other choice."
"I will make him an offer…"
"One he cannot refuse."