Chapter 23 — You'll go to hell for this, Odin
"Impossible!"
Roose Bolton's demand struck Brienne like a slap.
Her blue eyes widened—not with confusion for long, but with a fury that ignited like dry tinder.
She shot to her feet so abruptly that her chair clattered backward, skidding across the stone floor with a hollow thud.
"No! I will not stay behind!"
Brienne glared at Bolton, voice hoarse with outrage, every syllable ringing with steel:
"I am not a bargaining chip in your negotiations, nor some trinket to be bartered away!"
"By Lady Catelyn's command, I vowed to return the Kingslayer to King's Landing in exchange for her daughters—do you mean to betray your liege and condemn her girls to death, Lord Bolton?"
Roose's gaze didn't flicker.
To Brienne, her words were a clarion call of honor.
To Roose, they were… noise.
He regarded her with chilling calm—
the way a man watches a fly that insists on buzzing near his ear.
"Mind your tongue, Lady Brienne."
There was no heat in his voice, only a frigid finality.
"Let us set aside—for the moment—that Lady Catelyn Stark's unilateral release of a prized hostage borders on treason."
"The promise you claim to uphold was utterly devoid of honor to begin with."
The words fell like ice shards.
"What I do now is to ensure the safety of the Stark girls."
He leaned forward slightly, his pale fingers steepled:
"And since honor is what you cling to so dearly, Lady Brienne… this is your chance to demonstrate it."
Brienne's breath caught.
"Remain here in Harrenhal as a hostage—
and I will grant Ser Jaime safe passage to King's Landing,
to exchange for the Stark children."
"Well?"
That last word landed like a guillotine blade.
Brienne froze, as though pinned in place by the weight of two impossible choices.
She knew there must be a hidden trap—Bolton's schemes always had hooks beneath the surface.
Yet if she refused, if she recoiled from sacrifice…
would she not be abandoning the very honor she claimed to uphold?
Two paths, both salted with humiliation.
Roose sensed her silence—and pressed the knife deeper.
"In every negotiation, someone must pay the price."
"And your anger, Lady Brienne…"
"…burns like the northern sun—bright, but powerless to melt even a grain of frost."
His tone was almost pitying.
"Whether you accept it or not, the decision is already made."
"I and Lord Odin have reached an agreement."
Brienne stiffened as though struck.
Slowly—almost mechanically—she turned her head toward Odin.
He remained seated in the shadows, unreadable, silent.
He had not interrupted, had not corrected Bolton—
had not offered her even a single word.
Which meant—
He agreed.
The realization detonated inside her chest.
Her fury surged beyond containment—
not only at Bolton's cold logic,
but at the man who had stood beside her these past days…
…seemingly as an ally.
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with betrayal sharpened to a point:
"I knew it…"
Her eyes blazed.
"I knew you couldn't be trusted."
The truth finally dawned on Brienne—
this despicable, cunning, honorless farmer had struck a bargain with Roose Bolton.
And she—not Jaime—was the only expendable piece on the board.
Her freedom, her vow, her honor—bartered away to guarantee the safe passage of the true prize: Ser Jaime Lannister.
"I knew it!"
Brienne's voice cracked with rage as she tore her gaze toward Jaime, the words almost bitten through her teeth:
"Open your eyes and look at him, Kingslayer!"
"This is the 'friend' you trust so much—using my freedom to purchase your safety!"
"This was his plan from the very beginning!"
She would have said more—but Roose merely raised a hand.
Walton stepped forward at once.
Two soldiers followed, clamping down on Brienne's powerful arms as though she were some captured beast rather than a knight.
"No—"
Jaime surged half out of his chair, instinct driving his remaining hand toward his hip—
only to grasp at empty air.
No sword.
No scabbard.
No hand.
He froze for a heartbeat, breath shuddering in his chest before his fury snapped back like a whip.
His glare burned through Walton and the guards, rage twisting in his gut.
Yes—Brienne could be insufferably stubborn.
Yes—they had clashed more times than he could count.
But her loyalty—her honor—had been a mirror he hadn't realized he still needed.
In Brienne, Jaime saw everything he once believed himself to be.
And now—
to let her be sacrificed for him?
Impossible.
He had killed the Mad King to stop a massacre.
He had slit a tyrant's throat and, in doing so, killed the naive boy he once was.
How could he watch that same tragedy play out again—
with Brienne?
He braced himself to intervene—consequences be damned—
when he caught movement in the corner of his vision.
Odin.
Half-hidden in the shadow of the fireplace, unreadable as ever—
eyes calm, voice silent, guilt nowhere to be seen.
Only a stillness sharp enough to cut.
And then—
His hand moved.
Just a fraction.
A downward gesture, so small that Jaime almost doubted his own eyes.
Yet it spoke louder than any word:
Hold.
Trust me.
Jaime's breath trembled.
He hated surrendering control.
He hated entrusting his fate to another.
But he also knew—deep in his marrow—that if he acted now, he would shatter everything Odin had worked to build.
He inhaled once, slow and painful—
and sat back down.
The decision tasted like blood.
He forced a smile—a brittle thing stretched too tight—and lifted his gaze to Brienne:
"Endure it, Brienne."
"Trust me."
But to her ears, it was no comfort—
only the last nail hammering shut the coffin of their fellowship.
The encouragement of a comrade had twisted into the hollow reassurance of a victor.
Jaime watched her eyes—
saw hope gutter and die in them, like a candle deprived of air.
What remained was grief… and something worse—disbelief.
Her stare said everything she didn't voice aloud:
I misjudged you.
The realization lanced through Jaime like a blade—
yet Brienne saw none of his turmoil.
Her gaze slid past him and found Odin's silhouette in the shadows.
Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper—
but it cracked like thunder in the silent room:
"You will burn in the Seven Hells for this, Odin."
"The gods do not forgive such deeds. Your life will be a long march through regret and shame."
And with that—
she struggled no longer.
Brienne straightened her back—broad-shouldered, unyielding—
and walked with the dignity of a true knight as the northerners escorted her away.
Each step echoed like a tolling bell.
The heavy doors closed behind her with a deep, echoing thud—
like the lid sealing a coffin.
And with that sound—
the last fragile thread of trust between them finally snapped.