Chapter 8: Let's Make a Bet
"What did you just say?!"
The words had barely left Odin's mouth when a low growl sounded—and a blade of cold steel pressed instantly against his throat.
Iggo stepped forward, one hand gripping his curved sword while the other seized Vargo's chin, forcing his head to the side for a closer look.
Sure enough, the edge of the wound behind the ear had already turned ashen and dull. A small amount of yellow-green, viscous discharge oozed out, carrying with it a faint but unmistakable stench of decay.
The Dothraki had seen countless wounds—and deaths.
He knew exactly what these signs meant.
"You promised!"
"You promised you would heal him! You liar!"
Iggo turned and roared at Odin, fury blazing in his eyes, feeling as though he'd been played for a fool.
The chill of the blade was painfully real. With [Insight Lv.1] enhancing his perception, Odin could clearly see how Iggo's rage pulled at every muscle in his face.
Yet Odin didn't struggle.
He let the blade rest against his skin, his voice unnervingly calm.
"I am a doctor, Iggo. A professional doctor."
"I removed every bit of necrotic flesh from his wound. I did everything within my ability. But even the finest physician cannot save a patient who is determined to die."
Odin stared straight into Iggo's eyes, his tone gradually hardening.
"He pressed dead tissue back onto an open wound—then drowned himself in alcohol during surgery like a slaughtered hog."
"This isn't a failure of my skill. This is the gods reclaiming his life. His own stupidity rang the death bell ahead of time."
Iggo's breathing remained heavy. His teeth were clenched so tightly they creaked—but he couldn't find words to refute it.
Odin caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes and knew the moment had come.
He stepped forward instead.
Completely ignoring the blade at his throat, Odin calmly began rewrapping Vargo's wound.
"Face reality, Iggo."
"The fever will come back. The wound will keep leaking foul-smelling pus. At most, three days."
"After that, he'll rot into a corpse in the midst of agony."
With a knife at his neck, Odin displayed a level of composure that bordered on frightening.
He locked eyes with Iggo. Insight allowed him to clearly read the violent contraction of the Dothraki's pupils—and the restless flicker beneath his forced calm.
Just as I thought.
Odin said nothing aloud, but certainty settled in his heart.
The Dothraki would never offer loyalty to a khal who had lost his strength—and was already half a corpse.
Iggo was not loyal to Vargo the man.
He was loyal to what Vargo represented.
The title of khal.
The authority of command.
The power to kill without hesitation.
And once that power began to rot—
So would that loyalty.
As the source of that power began to dry up and collapse, the Dothraki warrior's instincts awakened—stirring a primal anxiety over survival and belonging.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Iggo withdrew his curved blade and fixed Odin with a cold stare.
"You could have pretended nothing was wrong. You could have dragged things out a little longer."
"What is your purpose?"
He came from a nomadic people and lacked formal learning—but that did not make him a fool. Quite the opposite. Compared to most of his fellow Dothraki, Iggo was far sharper; otherwise, he would never have survived more than a decade in Westeros.
Odin responded with a calm smile—and, unexpectedly, took a step closer, narrowing the distance between them.
His voice dropped lower, yet carried unmistakable force.
"Urswyck told me to tamper with the surgery—to quietly kill Vargo Hoat."
"I agreed."
The words were explosive.
Shock deepened in Iggo's eyes.
He instinctively started to call out to his companions—but before he could, Odin stepped closer again and spoke in a low, steady voice:
"Dothraki follow only the strongest stallion on the grasslands, Iggo."
"When a khal loses the ability to lead, the wisest choice is to seek someone new—someone with greater potential—to guide your path."
"You want me to swear loyalty to Urswyck?"
A cruel curve appeared at the corner of Iggo's mouth, his right hand tightening around the hilt of his blade.
One more word, and Odin's head might have rolled.
To Iggo, Urswyck was vicious and treacherous—but in terms of strength, swordsmanship, or sheer brutality, he was nowhere near Vargo Hoat.
For a Dothraki warrior like Iggo, serving such a man would be nothing short of disgrace.
With [Insight] enhancing his perception, Odin caught every subtle movement—but instead of reacting, he slowly raised a hand and lightly tapped his own temple.
The gesture left Iggo staring in disbelief.
"Power doesn't always reside in blades and muscle, my friend," Odin said calmly.
"It also lives here—in the mind that pierces the fog, the eyes that see into men's hearts, and the hands that bend fate."
"A man who sees the essence of things in a single heartbeat lives a very different destiny from one who spends a lifetime blind."
"Someone like Urswyck will never understand the true nature of power. If he gains it, it will destroy him faster than any enemy blade."
"What are you really trying to say…?"
"I, Odin, give you this choice: swear loyalty to me."
Odin's tone grew solemn, as though invoking a sacred pact.
Iggo burst out laughing.
"You? A farmer? Can you even lift a sword?"
Faced with the ridicule, Odin didn't grow angry. Instead, an oddly confident smile spread across his face.
"How many years has Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, gone without personally charging into battle with a sword?"
"Ten years? Twenty?"
"And yet with a single sentence—with one decision—he can determine the life or death of tens of thousands."
Odin spoke with such certainty, with such natural authority, that even Iggo froze for a moment.
"But you're not Tywin Lannister," Iggo shot back.
"You're just a farmer who was hanging from an apple tree. If we hadn't passed by, you'd be a dried corpse by now."
"A man who can't even protect his own life—what right do you have to talk about power?"
At those words, Odin's gaze seemed to pierce time itself, returning to that apple tree.
"Hanging from a tree?" he chuckled softly—there was something reborn in that laugh.
"You're right. That cowardly, ignorant, helpless man died on that tree."
Odin spread his arms, as if embracing the world anew. His voice rang out, firm and resolute.
"I am no longer who I was."
"I was reborn on that apple tree. The gods granted me revelation—eyes that see through the mist, and the power to seize destiny."
As Iggo watched in uncertainty, Odin slowly drew something from his pocket—
A gold dragon, its surface glowing with a dim, muted light.
Pinched between his fingers, held up between them, the coin seemed almost alive in the firelight, emitting a faint, indescribable hum.
Odin lifted his head. His eyes were sharp, brimming with confidence and provocation.
"You don't believe me?"
"Good."
"Dothraki settle matters with strength, don't they?"
His fingers flicked.
The gold dragon spun high into the air, tumbling end over end, its reflected light alternately illuminating the two faces inside the hut.
"Let's make a bet."
"Swing your blade at me, Dothraki."
The coin fell back into Odin's hand. He grinned, his voice carrying a strange, indefinable force.
"Let's bet on whether your blade…"
"…can take my head."