Chapter 33 — The Best Healer in the Riverlands
"Arya Stark!!!"
The moment that name rang out, every heart leapt.
Especially Brienne.
Her towering frame jolted violently. She didn't even have time to question why a Stark girl who should have been far away in King's Landing was now in the Riverlands—or why men of House Karstark were hunting her.
"Lady Stark is in danger!"
The words burst from her throat as a low roar.
Ever since swearing her sword to Catelyn Tully, Brienne had regarded the rescue of the Stark daughters as the highest honor and most sacred duty of her life.
She drove her heels hard into her horse's flanks.
The warhorse screamed and surged forward like an arrow loosed from the bow, charging straight toward the source of the shouting—without waiting for Odin's command.
"Damn it—follow her!"
There was no time to scold her recklessness. Odin immediately spurred his mount forward.
Jaime, Iggo, and even Walton followed without hesitation.
No matter what, they were a fragile unit now. They couldn't afford to let Brienne charge into danger alone.
The group galloped hard, cresting a rise where the trees thinned. From that vantage point, the scene below unfolded in full.
More than twenty northern soldiers had formed a tight, disciplined ring.
At its center stood a lone rider astride a massive black warhorse.
The man was enormous—his armor caked with grime and blood. He wore no helmet, revealing a face half-destroyed by fire, twisted into a fearsome ruin.
The Hound. Sandor Clegane.
And clutched tightly against his chest was a child dressed like a short-haired boy.
Odin's breath caught.
Arya Stark.
It really was her.
But… according to the timeline he knew, the Hound and Arya should have been on the road toward Riverrun—or perhaps the Twins.
Why were they here, by the God's Eye?
Was this the butterfly effect caused by his own presence?
Or something else entirely?
He didn't know.
"Lady Stark!"
Brienne cried out again, gripping her reins, already preparing to charge downhill.
Her sense of justice and responsibility simply would not allow her to stand by while her sworn charge was surrounded by more than twenty armed men.
"Calm down, Brienne!"
This time, Odin reacted instantly.
He reached out and seized her reins in a death grip, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Look down there!"
"If we rush in with just the few of us, we won't save anyone—we'll only get ourselves killed!"
"But that's Lady Stark!"
Brienne's blue eyes widened. She clenched her teeth, unwilling to back down.
"I promised Lady Catelyn Tully," she said hoarsely, "that I would bring both of her daughters back safely…"
"I know!"
Odin met her gaze with unmistakable seriousness.
"I'm not saying we won't save her—but we need a plan. Do you understand?"
He paused, then added with bitter emphasis:
"Don't forget—my hundred gold dragons are still on that bastard."
At this moment, Jaime spoke up as well, his voice calm and measured.
"She's right, Brienne. I don't know why Lady Stark is traveling with the Hound either, but there are more than twenty northern soldiers down there—men already drunk on blood. We don't stand a chance in a head-on charge."
He glanced at Odin.
"Trust him. He always finds a way."
Between the two of them, Brienne finally began to calm down.
Her chest rose and fell sharply. She looked once more at Arya, trapped in the tight ring below, then at the grim expressions on Odin's and Jaime's faces.
After a long breath, she forcibly suppressed the boiling urge to protect—and slowly loosened her grip on the reins.
Throughout their journey, every judgment Odin had made had proven correct. She had long since grown used to following his command.
Moreover, just moments ago, even someone as proud and volatile as Jaime had endured the most vicious insults without striking back.
She had no right to let her own impulsiveness drag everyone into danger.
That wouldn't be knightly at all.
Seeing her settle, Odin let out a quiet breath of relief.
He turned his attention back to the battlefield below, eyes narrowing as his mind raced.
He had to admit—Sandor Clegane was terrifyingly formidable.
Sword in one hand, the Hound crashed again and again into the encirclement, his movements savage and explosive. Every swing carried crushing force, cutting down three or four northern soldiers in quick succession. For a brief moment, his ferocity even forced the enemy back.
But no matter how strong a man was, two fists could not fend off four hands—especially when he was burdened with a child.
Just as the Hound struck another man down, a warhammer smashed squarely into his back.
"Eat this, mad dog!"
With Haragg Stour's roar, the Hound collapsed. He and Arya were thrown from the saddle together.
Blood sprayed from his mouth, splashing across Arya's shoulder.
"Hound!"
Arya cried out, scrambling free from his arms.
In the fall, Sandor had instinctively wrapped himself around her, using his body as a shield. The girl was unharmed—but the Hound lay on the ground, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, his chest heaving violently.
He was finished.
The little wolf did not hesitate.
Arya drew the slender blade hidden at her waist and took up a strange stance—the one the First Sword of Braavos had taught her.
But in the end, she was still just a child.
Against more than twenty armed northern soldiers, it meant nothing.
Sure enough, before she could take two steps, Haragg Stour rode forward and smashed her to the ground with a single punch. She didn't get back up.
"Hahaha!"
Stour laughed triumphantly.
"Do you see that, Lord Rickard? I've caught the Stark family's little wolf!"
"Robb Stark, King in the North—you killed my lord. I'll drag your sister before you and make you confess your mistake in front of all the northern banners!"
"I'll make you kneel beneath the white sunburst of House Karstark and beg for forgiveness!"
But just as his laughter peaked, a northern soldier came running, panic written all over his face.
"Captain! Bad news!"
"Hogg—Hogg's been stabbed in the thigh! The wound is deep—he's bleeding badly!"
"What?!"
The grin froze on Stour's face.
Hogg wasn't just another soldier. He was the man he'd grown up with—the brother-in-arms he trusted more than anyone.
"Damn it—find someone!"
Stour roared in fury.
"A maester, a healer, a septon, a monk—I don't care what he is! Bring him to me!"
"Hogg cannot die! He absolutely cannot die!"
From the ridge above, Odin had heard every word.
A sharp light flashed through his eyes as a bold plan snapped into place.
"So… I'll have to return to my old trade after all."
He turned and flashed Jaime a grin, motioning for him to pull the cloak back over his head.
Drawing in a deep breath, Odin raised his voice, lacing it with urgency and irritation as he shouted downhill:
"Don't move, young master Derek!"
"Trust me—your illness can't be treated by anyone else in the Riverlands!"
"Because I—"
His voice rang out, clear and absolute.
"—am the best Healer in the entire Riverlands!"