Chapter 34 — No Bad Reviews
Odin's voice rode the wind, crisp and unmistakable as it cut down into the chaos below.
As expected, it didn't take long.
A few northern riders followed the sound uphill, galloping straight toward the ridge—and quickly formed a loose half-circle around Odin's group.
Haragg Stour led them, as always.
His grey eyes locked onto Odin with open suspicion.
"Hey—you!"
He tightened his grip on the warhammer, gaze narrowing.
"Did you just say you're a… healer?"
The distrust in his voice was thick enough to choke on.
But Hogg's injury had forced him here anyway—desperation turning even pride into something pliable.
Odin straightened his back, though he wasn't especially broad-shouldered. With [Presence Lv.2] reinforcing his posture, he lifted his chin—face calm, expression carrying the effortless confidence of a professional.
"I already told you," Odin said evenly.
"I'm a healer."
Then, meeting Stour's eyes without flinching, he repeated the claim with emphasis:
"And the best healer in the entire Riverlands."
Stour frowned. He glanced toward the cloaked figure—Jaime—whom he'd already labeled a "plague-ridden freak." He remembered Odin had indeed claimed to be a healer earlier.
And right now, with Hogg bleeding out, he couldn't afford to be picky.
"Good," Stour barked, lifting his warhammer like a judge's gavel.
"Then come with me, healer!"
"One of my men is badly wounded—he needs treatment now!"
Odin immediately let his expression shift into the perfect shade of reluctance.
He looked troubled—hesitating. His eyes flicked toward Jaime's cloaked form, and when he spoke again, it was hesitant, weighed down with reluctant responsibility.
"But… young Master Derek's illness—he can't be left unattended. I have to—"
"The hell with that plague freak!"
Stour snapped brutally, cutting him off.
His patience had already run dry.
"Let him rot and die on his own!"
Then his voice dropped into something uglier.
"Or…"
He suddenly raised the warhammer and pointed straight at Jaime.
"I'll kill him right here—so you can free up your hands to save my man."
"You choose."
The moment the threat landed, several northern soldiers drew steel in unison.
Blades flashed—cold, sharp, murderous—every tip aimed straight at Jaime beneath his cloak.
For a heartbeat, Odin looked stunned.
Then his face slowly crumpled into resignation.
Like a man being squeezed dry by reality, he let out a defeated breath and lowered his eyes.
"Fine…" Odin said quietly.
"If that's how it has to be… then I'll go with you."
It was perfect.
A believable surrender.
A reluctant compromise.
And just as he turned his horse to lead the way—
"Stop!"
Stour raised a hand sharply.
Everyone froze.
He stared at Brienne, Sandor's direction, the others—his gaze sharp as a hunting dog's.
Only then did he speak, cold and deliberate.
"Only the healer comes with us."
"His companions stay here."
"That's impossible!"
Brienne exploded instantly.
Her massive, bear-like frame shifted forward, planting herself in front of Odin like a living wall.
"Odin is our—"
She cut herself off, jaw tensing, then forced the words through with blunt certainty:
"He's the only healer in our group. I'm not letting him walk into danger alone."
Her voice was harsh and rigid—but the intent behind it was unmistakable.
She wasn't just protecting Odin.
She was protecting Arya too.
As Brienne's furious roar echoed across the ridge, Iggo and Walton drew their weapons at the same time, stepping forward to form a hard, tense line against Stour's men.
Steel glinted.
The air sharpened.
Yet instead of exploding into rage, Haragg Stour actually grinned—yellow teeth bared like a wolf enjoying the scent of blood.
"Good!" he barked, laughing. "That just means your healer's damn worth it—must be a miracle-worker for you lot to guard him like this!"
He thought for a moment, then—still not backing down—offered a compromise.
"You can come," Stour said with mock generosity, "but you stay half a league away."
He swung the warhammer lazily, as if it weighed nothing.
"Wait there. When my man's patched up, I'll return your precious little healer to you."
His grin widened.
"Otherwise…"
The warhammer tilted in his hand—slow, deliberate.
The threat didn't need words.
At this point, Odin knew the boundary.
Push further, and Stour would snap.
The trap was set. The hook was in.
Anything more would be overacting.
"Fine." Odin exhaled, calming his expression as he gave a measured nod.
"We'll do it your way, Captain Stour."
He turned back toward Brienne and the others, voice crisp and controlled.
"You stay here. Don't move. I'll treat the patient and return."
Then Odin's gaze landed on the cloaked Jaime.
His tone sharpened—just slightly too sharp to be casual.
"And remember," Odin said pointedly, "give young Master Derek his medicine on time."
Beneath the hood, Jaime's green eyes met Odin's.
There was a flicker—something unspoken passing between them, quick as a blade-tip.
A message only the two of them understood.
Odin didn't hesitate any longer.
He kicked his mount forward and rode out toward Stour's group.
---
Because Hogg's injury was serious, no one wasted time with more threats or talking.
They spurred their horses hard.
Within a dozen breaths, they reached the wounded man.
Hogg lay on the ground, his face pale as parchment from blood loss.
One soldier was pressing both hands against the top of Hogg's thigh—right near the groin—but blood still forced its way through his fingers, spilling out in fast, obscene pulses.
Odin swung down immediately and dropped to a crouch beside him, movements clean and practiced.
He inspected the wound.
With [Insight Lv.1] and [Surgery Lv.2] stacking together, the diagnosis snapped into place almost instantly.
The cut was on the inner thigh—not long, but deep.
The blood was bright red, and it wasn't oozing—it was surging in timed bursts.
That meant only one thing.
Arterial bleeding.
Critical.
If they didn't stop it properly—and now—Hogg would be dead in minutes.
Still…
The entry point wasn't large.
The flow was fast but not completely unstoppable.
There was still a chance.
Lucky… in a grim way.
Frankly, the man's luck was absurdly bad too—getting sliced on the inner thigh during a fight was borderline ridiculous.
But Odin wasn't about to complain.
Because Hogg's injury was exactly what gave Odin the opening he needed to slip inside this northern pack.
---
Stour crouched beside him, eyes locked on Hogg's grey face and the flooding blood.
"So?" Stour demanded, voice tight. "Can you save him?"
Odin frowned deeply, the very picture of a professional under pressure.
"Complicated," he said, voice calm but grave. "He hit the main vessel in the leg. Blood loss is rapid."
Stour didn't understand arteries, vessels, or anatomy.
But he understood rapid blood loss.
The northerner—usually so hard and brutal—suddenly reached out and grabbed Odin by the shoulder with desperate strength.
"Save him," Stour said, the edge of pleading slipping into his voice.
"You have to save him!"
Then, panic twisting into bargaining:
"If you save Hogg, I'll return every gold dragon I took from you… no—double. I'll give you double!"
Odin lifted his head and looked at him.
Slowly, the corner of his mouth curled upward into something confident… and faintly predatory.
Good.
He's panicking.
He's invested.
---
Odin opened his medical kit swiftly.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the distance—where Sandor Clegane, the Hound, had been strung up by bound hands and hoisted onto a tree limb, jerking slightly as soldiers hauled the rope tighter and tighter like they were hanging meat.
Then Odin looked back down.
He pulled out clamps.
Needle and thread.
Hands steady.
Movements surgical.
"Relax," Odin said, flashing Stour a wide, assured grin.
"With me here… even the Stranger doesn't get to take him without permission."
His eyes gleamed with certainty.
"After all…"
"I'm the best healer in the Riverlands."
"And every patient I've treated—"
He leaned closer, voice dropping into something dangerously confident.
"has never left a single bad review."