Chapter 12 — He Truly Understands Me
Odin carried his medical satchel toward the edge of the camp. Two members of the Brave Companions immediately stepped in front of him, alert and wary.
"This is Lord Vargo's order."
Before either of them could question him, Odin lifted his chin, putting on an air of borrowed authority and cold arrogance.
"I'm here to treat the Kingslayer's wounds. If he dies on the road to Harrenhal, don't expect to see a single gold dragon."
The two guards exchanged glances, then grudgingly stepped aside, their eyes full of resentment as they watched Odin pass.
Damn it—what's a peasant acting so high and mighty for?
If it weren't for Lord Vargo's orders, I'd cut you down right now.
Under their hostile stares, Odin strode up to Jaime, crouched down, and began unwrapping the bandages around the mangled stump of his wrist.
"The treatment is working," he said evenly. "At least the rot hasn't spread much further. But the necrotic tissue still needs to be surgically removed as soon as possible—otherwise, you may lose the entire arm."
His voice was pitched just loud enough for the guards to hear. Professional. Detached. All business.
Jaime kept his head lowered, his voice deliberately weary.
"And what good would that do? Would it let me grip a sword again—swing it like before?"
As he spoke, he lifted his eyes slightly. A flicker of inquiry passed through those green irises.
Odin's hands moved deftly as he replied, pointedly:
"At the very least, a clean wound won't give you a raging fever in the middle of the night—one that kills you before dawn."
Jaime's pupils contracted.
He caught the implication at once.
Nightfall.
Yet he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he let out a soft scoff, his tone laced with scrutiny and mockery.
"Even if you save my arm, I won't thank you, boy."
"And perhaps once my father pays the ransom, I'll immediately ask Roose Bolton to have your head chopped off."
"The gold of Casterly Rock may not be enough to avenge my lost hand—but it's more than enough to buy the life of an insignificant… peasant doctor, just to vent my anger."
"Let me guess—how many gold dragons would it take to make the Dreadfort's lord agree? Five hundred? A thousand?"
Odin didn't pause his work.
Jaime was clearly warning him: Helping me may not end well for you.
But Odin understood Jaime Lannister all too well—perhaps even better than Lord Tywin himself.
He raised his eyes and met Jaime's probing, derisive gaze. His voice was calm, steady, yet carried a strange certainty.
"A lion may be forced by circumstance to roll in the mud, its golden fur stained and sullied."
"It may be driven to kill intruders to protect its den… or even bear a terrible accusation to prevent a far greater catastrophe."
"But I have never heard of a proud lion betraying a vow it once swore with its own mouth."
"And if such a day ever came," Odin continued softly, "it would never be because of the lion's own baseness or greed."
"It would only be because it faced a choice more noble still—something so important that it outweighed even its own honor."
Jaime froze.
Odin's words were like a surgeon's blade—precise, merciless—cutting straight into the deepest wound he had spent years refusing to touch.
For years, the name Kingslayer had echoed across all of Westeros.
Yet never—not once—had anyone interpreted his actions from this angle.
Not even Eddard Stark, the man famed for justice and honor, had ever looked at him this way.
For the first time in a very long while…
Jaime Lannister felt seen.
He understands me…
He truly understands me.
An indescribable surge of bitterness and comfort crashed through Jaime's heart, shattering the wall he had built from anger, humiliation, and self-destruction.
He stared blankly at the lowborn peasant doctor before him. His mouth opened slightly—then closed again. Not a single word came out.
Beside him, Brienne was utterly perplexed.
With her straightforward way of thinking, all she had heard was a strange exchange about "wounds" and "lions." She couldn't connect those words to anything tangible, much less grasp their deeper meaning.
She wasn't the only one.
Even the two guards standing nearby looked completely lost, unable to comprehend that anything profound had just passed between the two men.
Then Urswyck's roar shattered the moment.
"Hey! You two—Timeon! Pyg!"
"Are you both blind? Can't you see everyone's so exhausted they look like they've just bedded an entire brothel? Get your asses over here and push the cart!"
The two guards froze, exchanging uneasy glances.
"But… the Kingslayer and this woman—"
"I'll watch them!"
Urswyck strode over, cursing loudly, his clothes conspicuously free of mud.
"Useless trash," he spat. "This mercenary band would fall apart without me!"
Seeing his foul temper, the two guards didn't dare argue further. They hurried off toward the wagon stuck in the mire.
Taking their place, Urswyck folded his arms and cast a dark glance over Odin and Jaime. Without warning, he lifted his foot and kicked Odin hard in the shoulder, sending him stumbling.
"Dragging your feet again! Get over here—scraped my hand pushing the cart. Take a look!"
He marched off to a tree and sat down as if the matter were settled.
Odin quickly finished wrapping Jaime's bandages. Before standing, he raised an eyebrow at him, his gaze flicking meaningfully toward Urswyck.
"Tonight, Ser Jaime," he said quietly.
"Remember to remind me to change your dressing."
---
Odin picked up his medical satchel and walked toward Urswyck beneath the tree.
There was no trace of anger on his face from the kick. He crouched calmly in front of the man, opened his kit, and took out clean cloth and a waterskin—behaving as though there truly were a wound to treat.
"Your 'treatment' seems to be working," Urswyck murmured, scanning the surroundings. His lips barely moved.
"He's swaying badly in the saddle."
"But it's not enough," he added urgently. "Best if he meets the Stranger before dawn."
Odin dampened the cloth and wiped Urswyck's smooth, unblemished hand.
"He no longer trusts me," Odin said softly.
"Just now, he ordered the Dothraki to cut my throat. I can't get close to him anymore—let alone tamper with anything."
"Damn it!"
Urswyck cursed under his breath, scowling.
"Figure something out!"
"Before dawn, try one last time. Poison his waterskin. His food. Anything!"
"If that doesn't work…"
A vicious glint flashed in his eyes as he clenched his jaw.
"We move early. No more waiting."
"He cannot be allowed to reach Harrenhal alive."
Lost in his own scheming, Urswyck took Odin's silence as agreement.
"And you," he continued after a moment, his gaze shifting toward where Iggo guarded Vargo. A cruel smile tugged at his lips.
"When it starts, you get close—and kill that Dothraki brute."
"He's Vargo's most loyal dog. He has to die first."
"Me?"
"Kill him?"
Odin pointed at his own nose, disbelief written all over his face.
Are you out of your damn mind?
The man's arm was thicker than Odin's thigh.
"What, you don't want to?"
Urswyck sneered. "You took my ten gold dragons. Earn them. Otherwise…"
His hand drifted toward his weapon.
"I'll kill you right now."
Hah.
Odin laughed inwardly.
A neat little plan.
Send him on a suicide mission—whether Odin succeeded or failed, Urswyck would conveniently eliminate two obstacles at once: Iggo, and Odin himself.
Yet Odin's face remained composed. He even frowned slightly, showing just the right amount of reluctance.
"If you've decided," he said quietly, "I'll try… but you'll have to back me up when it turns ugly."
Odin's compliance pleased Urswyck greatly. The man's grim face twisted into a satisfied grin.
He yanked his hand back and shouted loudly for show:
"Get lost! Clumsy idiot—can't even treat a scratch!"
Odin packed up his tools and walked away.
But as Urswyck reveled in his smug triumph, he failed to notice—
Not far away, his captain was staring at him with a dangerously cold gaze.
Every word.
Every gesture.
Had been seen.