Chapter 11: Each with Their Own Designs
Autumn in the Riverlands was always a mire.
Even after the rising sun burned away the morning fog, the highways remained drowned in sludge, every step the horses took dragging heavy through churned mud.
By the time the sun climbed overhead, a wagon piled high with looted goods sank deep into a bog, its wheels hopelessly stuck. The entire column was forced to halt yet again.
Seizing the pause, Odin—under the watchful eyes of two Brave Companions—began changing Vargo Hoat's bandages.
Vargo slumped between two trees.
One was an oak.
The other was also an oak.
Why say it twice?
Because it padded the word count.
By afternoon, the march had grown stiflingly dull.
Up ahead, Urswyck was barking orders at his men, trying to lever the wagon free. Their chants sounded weak and breathless in the damp air.
Listening to them, Vargo suddenly shuddered.
The dizziness surged harder than before.
For the first time, he felt it clearly—something inside him was slipping away, like sand running through clenched fingers.
That helplessness terrified him more than steel ever had.
"Zollo!" Vargo snarled hoarsely at his lackey.
"Go tell those useless fucks to move faster! They're wobbling like whores who just took twenty clients in a row!"
What he wanted—desperately—was Harrenhal's walls.
Only there, under Qyburn's hands, could he feel safe again.
The fat man named Zollo scurried off, leaving only Iggo and Odin behind.
Vargo's bloodshot eyes fixed on Odin. He lowered his voice, but the barely contained rage leaked through.
"Why do I feel worse?" he growled. "How's the wound, doctor?"
"Poorly healed, my lord."
Odin deftly loosened the bandages. Their edges were already stained a sickly yellow-green.
He didn't sugarcoat it. His tone was calm, professional—honest.
"The infection is severe. More aggressive than anticipated."
"You quack!"
Vargo exploded, lunging forward and grabbing Odin by the collar.
"Did you even fucking treat me properly?!"
Odin let fatigue—and just a hint of grievance—surface on his face.
"My lord, I swear by the Seven, I've done everything I can."
"But you forcibly pressed necrotic tissue back into the wound, and drank heavily while running a fever. That's nothing short of embracing the Stranger."
"All I can do now is slow the infection."
"Slow it?"
Vargo sneered, suspicion instantly replaced by murderous intent.
"You swore you could heal me!"
He thrust a finger at Odin and roared at Iggo:
"I've had enough! Kill this butcher—now!"
The silent Dothraki didn't hesitate.
He drew the longsword Vargo himself had given him and stepped forward—his body subtly positioning itself between Odin and Vargo.
"Captain!"
Urswyck's voice rang out just in time.
He'd been watching closely. The moment Vargo reached for violence, Urswyck abandoned the wagon and hurried over, his face plastered with false concern.
"My lord, how are you feeling?"
"You look unwell—perhaps you should rest a little longer?"
And none of them were thinking the same thing.
However, Vargo paid no attention to Urswyck's concern at all. He merely repeated his order, voice hoarse and savage:
"Kill him, Iggo!"
Iggo raised his arm—
But Urswyck once again stepped forward, deliberately placing himself between Iggo and Odin. His tone turned earnest, almost pleading.
"Easy, boss! Don't do this!"
"Your wound still needs a doctor. Even if this man isn't particularly skilled, he's still better than a bunch of ignorant brutes like us. If you kill him now and your injury worsens on the road, what then?"
As he spoke, Urswyck leaned closer to Vargo and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"If you ask me, we wait until we reach Harrenhal. Once Maester Qyburn takes over… then you can skin him alive if you like."
His words sounded sincere—almost as if every sentence was spoken for Vargo's sake.
And that was precisely why Vargo grew suspicious.
His gaze flicked back and forth between Odin and Urswyck, uncertainty gnawing at him.
Urswyck—normally the cruelest, most bloodthirsty of them all—was protecting this useless peasant doctor?
Coupled with the dizziness from his fever, a surge of betrayal flared hot in his skull.
"The wagon…" Vargo growled, suppressing his urge to kill.
"How long will it take?"
Urswyck's face twisted with apparent difficulty as he shook his head.
"Buried too deep. The mud's gripping those wheels tighter than the old virgin of Tarth clutches her virtue. It'll take a while—might not even be free before nightfall…"
"Then what the fuck—" Vargo snapped, cutting him off.
"—are you still standing here for?!"
"Go help them! Or do you plan on wintering in this miserable forest?!"
Urswyck froze for a heartbeat, his sword hand tightening—then he broke into a grin.
"On my way, boss!"
With no excuse left, he turned and stalked off, shooting Odin a long, subtle glance over his shoulder—half warning, half threat.
Odin inclined his head almost imperceptibly.
Unfortunately, Vargo caught that gesture perfectly.
His certainty hardened.
That damned quack has already allied himself with Urswyck.
What were they plotting?
Vargo narrowed his eyes, a thin, icy smile creeping onto his lips, as if the earlier outburst had never happened.
"So, doctor," he asked calmly,
"Based on what you see—what do you think is the best course of action for me now?"
"My recommendation, my lord."
Odin met his gaze without fear and answered honestly—far too honestly for Vargo's liking.
"You should abandon the slow-moving main force and return to Harrenhal at once, riding hard with only me and Iggo."
"The infection and fever are progressing rapidly. Time is critical. If we hurry, we might still control it before it worsens beyond saving."
Vargo said nothing at first.
He studied Odin coldly.
He had expected the doctor to echo Urswyck's suggestion—delay, stall, buy time.
Instead…
Separate me from the men?
So they could split the loot Urswyck had scavenged along the road?
Heh.
Short-sighted fools.
Too cowardly to rebel outright, obsessed only with immediate gain.
Vargo became more convinced than ever—this was a conspiracy.
Still, he couldn't kill Odin outright.
That would mean tearing the mask off completely and pushing Urswyck into desperation—and a cornered dog was dangerous.
A different plan began to form.
Vargo waved his hand dismissively, as if Odin were already dead.
"Your medical skill has clearly reached its limits."
"Get out of my sight."
Then he pointed toward the captives.
"Perhaps you can use that mediocre talent of yours on the Kingslayer instead. And if you happen to kill him…"
He chuckled darkly.
Odin quietly packed away his tools and stood, hesitation flickering briefly across his face, as if he wanted to say more.
But he didn't.
Under Iggo's watchful eyes, he turned and walked toward Jaime and Brienne. Shadows from the trees swallowed half his face, hiding both expression and the faint upward curl of his lips.
Good advice cannot save a man determined to die.
As a doctor, Odin had already given Vargo Hoat the best counsel possible. If the patient refused to listen, there was nothing more to be done.
After all, doctor–patient relationships had always been difficult.
Westeros was no exception.
Beneath the oak tree, Vargo stared after Odin's retreating back, cold light flashing in his eyes.
After a moment's thought, he turned to Iggo and gestured for him to lean closer.
In a low voice, he whispered:
"Keep an eye on that quack."
"And…"
"Quietly inform Zollo, Timeon, Pyg and the others—tonight, find an opportunity to deal with Urswyck… and the three newcomers with him."
Kill first.
Ask questions never.