Chapter 28 — Isn't This Just Bullying a Honest Man?!
That man was standing far too close.
So close that Walton could practically smell the horse's breath blasting straight into his face.
He could swear—by the Old Gods, the New Gods, and every cursed god in between—that this horse was his.
Absolutely his.
This horse had followed him for over ten years!
An old horse…
A loyal old horse!
"Damn you, you thieving bastard—you stole my horse!"
Walton pointed at Jaime and shouted.
Jaime straightened his back in the saddle and shot back coolly,
"Watch your words, soldier. I'm a Lannister—when I take a piss, it's gold."
"This horse was clearly a gift from Lord Bolton himself."
"If your horse is gone, what's that got to do with me?"
Hearing this, Walton flew into an even greater rage. He wiped the mud off his face and opened his mouth to keep cursing.
"You—"
At that very moment, a sudden burst of warm liquid shot out from between the horse's hind legs.
Luckily, Walton reacted fast enough. He kicked off the ground and jumped backward, narrowly avoiding being sprayed in the face.
The foul-smelling stream skimmed past the tip of his nose and splashed onto the muddy ground where he had just been sitting.
Too damn close…
Walton scrambled away in a panic, rolled over, then staggered to his feet, his face instantly flushing with fury.
"You—!"
Just as he was about to erupt again, Odin and the others arrived at the scene, forcing him to swallow the rest of his curses.
Brienne and Iggo, both veterans of countless battles, didn't need any instructions. They moved immediately, forming a semicircle with smooth coordination.
Walton's side had slightly more men, and in short order the two groups stood locked in a tense standoff.
Odin didn't rush to argue. His gaze first fell on the man bound on the ground like a trussed boar.
Rorge.
To be fair, the man was tough. He'd still been unconscious when they arrived at Harrenhal yesterday, and now he was already wriggling around on the ground.
Look at that—he was even glaring at them.
Seeing that Rorge was bleeding but not in any real danger, Odin finally turned to Walton.
He spoke softly, and as he did, the invisible pressure of [Presence Lv2] spread outward.
"Captain Walton."
Just those two words.
Yet they made Walton's raging heart stutter violently.
It was as if some unseen force had seized his attention, pulling it away from Jaime and forcing him to meet Odin's gaze.
"This man," Odin said, nodding toward Rorge, "is a prisoner I took after wiping out the Brave Companions."
His voice was low, but every single word carried clearly to the ears of every northern soldier present.
There was something about him—
that calm, unhurried composure—
that made Walton feel the same tight unease he experienced when standing alone before Lord Roose Bolton himself.
Odin stood there, unruffled, as though the moment he appeared, the world's attention naturally centered on him.
And Walton, despite himself, felt a flicker of discomfort.
Still, Walton was a veteran who had survived countless battles. He swallowed hard and forced his voice to remain firm.
"Lord Bolton has given orders—to eliminate every last remnant of the Brave Companions!"
"This bastard was scurrying around the castle like a rat. I caught him red-handed. I'm simply carrying out the lord's command, my lord!"
He deliberately stressed Lord Bolton's command, trying to secure the moral high ground.
Odin, however, only gave a cold laugh.
"That argument doesn't hold water, Captain."
"He is my prisoner. Which means he falls under my authority. To put it plainly—he is my property."
"And Lord Bolton's orders do not apply to him."
"Your property?"
Walton snorted derisively.
"Don't give me that nonsense, Odin!"
"This filthy bastard dared to compete with me for Wells—the top prostitute at the Red Cave—half a month ago! Even if your Seven Gods descended in person today, I'm still killing him!"
"Men—take him!"
At Walton's command, the northern soldiers surged forward.
"Stop."
Odin's voice cracked like a whip.
His gaze turned icy, and [Bearing Lv2] surged outward, almost tangible in its pressure.
Brienne and Iggo stepped forward instantly, their battle-hardened presence flaring like drawn blades. For a moment, the northern soldiers faltered.
Still, Harrenhal was Bolton territory. If things escalated too far, reinforcements would arrive—and then it would be impossible to cleanly disengage.
Seizing the instant of hesitation, Odin's sharp eyes locked onto Walton. After a brief pause, he suddenly changed tack.
"Very well, Captain Walton. Since you insist on having this man… then let's talk business."
He paused, then raised a single finger beneath Walton's startled gaze.
"One thousand gold dragons."
"By the long-standing customs of Westeros, if you wish to ransom him, then pay one thousand gold dragons."
"After that, he's yours. Do with him whatever you like."
"How—how much?!"
Walton nearly jumped out of his skin.
The fury drained from his face, replaced by sheer disbelief.
"This piece of shit is worth one thousand gold dragons?!"
"Have you lost your mind?!"
"The bounty on the Kingslayer is only a thousand!"
He jabbed a finger at Jaime, as if accusing Odin of lunacy.
Odin's expression didn't change.
He merely tilted his head slightly and began explaining with maddening patience.
"You're calculating it wrong, Captain."
"Ser Jaime is a one-time ransom. He's a Kingsguard—no wife, no heirs."
"As for Rorge…"
Odin nudged the bound man with his foot.
"He's different."
"He'll work for me. Create value. Then he'll marry, have children. His children will work for me. They'll have children of their own…"
"Generation after generation. Endless."
"By that measure, one thousand gold dragons to buy out him and his entire future bloodline—isn't that a bargain?"
"And that price is already discounted, out of respect for Lord Bolton."
Odin shrugged, wearing the unmistakable expression of a man convinced he was offering a steal.
Walton stood there slack-jawed, unable to speak.
What kind of insane arithmetic was this?
It almost sounded reasonable—
until you thought about it for more than a second.
Then it was obvious: he was being played for a fool.
The more Walton thought about it, the angrier he became. His chest heaved, blood rushing to his face, frustration choking him red.
Wasn't this just bullying an honest man?!
Just as he was about to explode and refute this shameless logic—
Jaime spoke up from horseback, perfectly timed.
"I suggest you give Lord Odin's offer some serious thought, Captain Walton."
"Right now, you have only two choices."
"Pay the gold. Or release the man."
He leaned forward slightly, green eyes flashing with unmistakable menace.
"Otherwise, when I return to King's Landing, I might casually mention to my father…"
"That it was Vargo Hoat who ordered my hand cut off—"
"And the one who carried it out…"
"Was you."
The moment the words landed, a chill shot straight up Walton's spine.
That damn Kingslayer!
If Tywin Lannister believed even a fraction of that accusation, then with the old lion's methods, not even Lord Bolton could protect him!
"Slander!"
"He's slandering me!"
Walton screamed, hopping in place and pointing at Jaime, his voice shrill with terror, as if the word misery were written across the air.
All his earlier bluster and rage collapsed, utterly replaced by raw fear.
This accusation…
Was vicious beyond belief.
Lannisters!
You people aren't human!
Yet seeing Walton's near-collapse, Jaime only grew more satisfied.
He straightened in the saddle, a cold smile on his lips, looking down at the almost-broken man.
Softly, he asked,
"Tell me…"
"Do you think my father would believe you—"
"Or me?"
"Northerner."