Chapter 25 — Lady Brienne
"…Brilliant."
Roose Bolton had remained silent for a long time before finally speaking, offering that single, measured verdict.
He leaned forward, studying Odin as though reassessing the shabby young man in torn peasant's clothes before him.
His pale eyes lingered—ten seconds, twenty, thirty… nearly a full minute—before he drew a slow breath.
Then something extraordinary surfaced on that corpse-pale face.
A rare expression—so rare it could almost be called admiration.
"Odin… you possess a mind both dangerous and captivating."
Roose Bolton had never spoken such words lightly.
And in the depths of his gaze, something else flickered—hunger.
Yes—hunger.
Because if a mind like this could be bound to House Bolton, kept close at hand to advise, to scheme, to sharpen their blades unseen…
"What do you want?"
The glimmer vanished, replaced by composed calculation.
Roose spoke again, his voice carrying an almost polite curiosity:
"As with any business, beyond the safe passage I've promised… I imagine you've already settled on what reward you desire."
"Gold? Or land?"
His long white fingers tapped the table—an invitation, a lure.
"If you wish, I could grant you a fief within the lands of the Dreadfort—along with a noble title."
"And later… perhaps something greater still."
It was both probe and temptation.
Odin straightened fully in his seat, letting [Presence Lv.2] flow outward without restraint.
Calm, steady confidence radiated from him—not arrogance, not pleading—merely the natural assurance of someone used to being listened to.
He smiled faintly.
No trembling excitement.
No greed.
Only ease.
"What I want…?"
A pause.
A breath.
Then—almost casually:
"Is a hot bath."
---
Dawn
The night's frost had not yet lifted when the courtyard of Harrenhal rang with the steady rhythm of steel on wood.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Odin gripped an iron longsword with both hands, striking a wooden training post again and again.
The ragged, blood-stained peasant garb was gone; in its place, a fitted leather jerkin clung to his frame.
He still looked lean—almost slight—but the air around him had changed completely.
Gone was the half-dead farmer beneath an apple tree.
This man moved with purpose.
Sweat ran along his temples.
His chest rose and fell.
Beside him, Iggo stood with arms crossed, a silent pillar of muscle, occasionally offering curt corrections in his broken Westerosi tongue:
"Twist the waist!"
"Lower wrist—like reins on horse."
Simple words—yet Odin found every strike exhausting.
Iggo's explanations were blunt, imprecise; Odin could hardly expect more.
The man, in many respects, was illiterate.
So Odin clenched his jaw and forced his body to obey—feeling the path of power from heel to crown, from spine to blade—chasing the elusive alignment of movement and force.
The training dragged on until his palms tingled with numb pain and the base of his thumb throbbed sharply with every strike.
Finally, he had to stop, leaning on the sword for support as he caught his breath.
A thought flickered—and the familiar panel surfaced before his eyes:
[Name: Odin]
[Profession: Physician]
[Skills: Surgery Lv.2 / Presence Lv.2 / Insight Lv.1]
[Non-tiered Skill: Fate's Wager]
[Skill Draws Remaining: 0 (Recharge Available)]
Nothing had changed.
No new entries.
No Basic Swordsmanship, no One-Handed Weapon Mastery—not even a hint of them.
Just empty space where a swordsman's foundation ought to be.
Odin exhaled—long and slow.
"Haaah…"
A thin cloud of white breath drifted into the morning air.
Odin let out a long breath, shook his head, and forced the restlessness from his mind.
"Break's over."
He said it to Iggo—but also to himself.
Haste leads only to failure.
His hunger for strength was real—urgent, gnawing—but he couldn't gamble everything on the fickle whims of the system.
Yes, he still carried a pouch heavy with coins stripped from the Warrior's Brotherhood… yet relying solely on random draws was the fastest shortcut to disappointment.
After all, with his current luck for support-oriented skills, who knew what might come next—
Baking, perhaps.
Wine tasting, maybe.
He would truly weep.
No—better to save the gold, train until he grasped even the lowest rung of martial skill with his own blood and sweat, and then use the system to refine it.
That was the sensible path.
He sat down beside the feed trough outside the stables and accepted a waterskin from Iggo, taking deep swallows of cool water.
Wiping his mouth, he raised his eyes to the warrior.
"Tell me, Iggo—if I keep training like this, how long before I can defeat a properly trained soldier in honest combat?"
Iggo hesitated.
He was many things, but a flatterer was not one of them.
"…Hard."
His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"You have some talent—good eyes, blood of my blood.
But your body is finished growing. Your strength is low.
Your muscles do not remember battle.
Your bones lack toughness."
A brief pause—then the blunt truth:
"In the Dothraki Sea, boys ride at ten and fight at ten."
"Ten…"
Odin echoed softly.
When he had been ten, he was studying for entrance exams—
while children of this world were already bleeding for survival.
Iggo eyed his fatigue and added, almost gently:
"You need not push so hard.
The gods have blessed you.
Even my arakh could not cut your flesh.
On the battlefield, you are already unbeaten."
Odin merely smiled—a thin, unreadable curve.
He knew Iggo referred to the Fate's Wager—that moment when Odin had endured the Dothraki's full strike without taking so much as a scratch.
To Iggo, it was divine proof.
To Odin, it was… a seven-day cooldown.
And that was something he could never explain.
Sometimes, mystery itself is a weapon.
He rose suddenly, joints cracking, resolve hardening.
"Enough. If I can't reach their level—then I'll reach what I need."
He tossed the empty waterskin back to Iggo, jaw tight with determination.
He didn't need to fight like Jaime or Brienne.
He just needed to reach Level 1—entry level.
Because once he touched that threshold…
He could make it stronger than anyone else.
He had a cheat, after all.
"No supper unless I swing three hundred times!"
A roar to steel his resolve.
He took up the heavy iron blade again, returning to the wooden practice post.
The strikes resumed—
steady, relentless.
Until footsteps approached from behind.
A voice cut through the air—firm, clipped, unmistakably annoyed:
"Your power sequence is wrong."
"Strength begins in the soles—
drives through the waist—
twists through the core—
then the arms follow."
Odin froze mid-swing and turned—
and nearly dropped his sword.
Standing behind him, as tall and solid as ever—
was Brienne.
But not the Brienne he remembered.
She stood there in a powder-blue gown embroidered with delicate flowers.
A dress clearly meant for a petite noble lady—
yet stretched across her broad shoulders and muscular frame until the seams threatened to burst.
The sleeves were too short, exposing thick forearms;
the hem hovered awkwardly mid-shin;
her enormous feet stood bare at the bottom like immovable stone.
She looked like a warhorse forced into a ball gown.
A tragic, magnificent, utterly absurd sight.
Odin blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
his lips twitched.
He fought—valiantly—against the laughter bubbling up.
"Gods… Roose Bolton truly outdid himself.
Where in the Seven Hells did he find such a dress?"
This time, he lost the battle.
A muffled snort escaped him.
To his utter astonishment, Brienne's stern face flushed a soft shade of pink.
Brienne—the woman who had gutted bandits with dry eyes,
endured mockery from half the realm without blinking,
and faced knights twice her size without hesitation—
blushed.
And Odin found himself speechless.
So the mighty Brienne of Tarth could be embarrassed after all…