Chapter 17 — Friends
Dawn returned to the Riverlands with a thin veil of mist drifting once more across the road.
A heavy stench of blood hung over the abandoned camp.
The fires had long since died.
No more screams.
No more clashing steel.
The uprising—long brewing beneath the surface—had burned itself out overnight.
Most of the Brave Companions had never understood what sparked the slaughter.
They were too stunned, too drunk, or simply too slow to react.
By the time Iggo and Brienne—those two walking calamities—waded into the fighting,
the outcome had already been sealed.
By sunrise, almost none of those who joined the melee still drew breath.
---
Among the trees, Iggo moved swiftly and silently.
From corpse to corpse, he gathered what could still be used:
coin purses, intact swords, a half-loaf of stale bread—anything not yet spoiled.
His movements were efficient, almost methodical.
There was no grief, no disgust, no hesitation.
He looked less like a looter and more like a reaper harvesting grain.
Of course, Dothraki never planted grain to begin with.
---
Not far away, Brienne of Tarth knelt with one knee to the ground, sword planted before her, forehead resting against her perspiring wrist.
Her lips moved in silent prayer—likely to the Father, perhaps the Mother—
the familiar cadences of the Faith of the Seven.
No one approached her; the aura of sincerity around her made even corpses feel like they should avert their gaze.
---
At the center of the camp, beneath the least bloodstained oak tree they could find, Odin worked.
The small surgical blade in his hand glowed red each time he heated it over a rekindled flame.
When the metal cooled, he made clean, deliberate incisions along Jaime Lannister's ruined wrist.
With the chaos finally quelled and prying eyes no longer watching his every move, Odin could—at last—practice medicine properly.
His hands were steady.
His breathing, calm.
His mind, unshaken.
The trial run he'd conducted on Vargo Hoat had tempered him.
After that ordeal, even performing surgery in a forest thick with filth, mold, and death no longer raised his pulse.
In truth, it felt as though some unseen force had decided Jaime Lannister was not meant to die yet.
After all—when the Kingslayer first lost his hand, he rolled through mud, soaked in urine, even brushed against horse dung,
and yet his wound never once showed signs of infection.
Odin had no explanation for it.
No anatomy, no theory of humors, no alchemical chart could make sense of it.
So he did what every rational man eventually does in Westeros:
He blamed it on fate.
---
The heated blade slid through necrotic flesh with practiced ease—
removing what could no longer be saved, carving away decay,
cutting down to clean, bleeding red where life still clung stubbornly to bone.
Jaime clenched his jaw but did not cry out.
Odin worked without comment.
The silence between them was not awkward—
merely quiet, like two soldiers tending wounds after battle,
as if they had done this a hundred times before.
Far away, a crow cawed.
And through the mist, the first rays of sun glinted against the surgical knife as Odin sliced away the last strip of dead flesh—
like a tailor cutting away ruined cloth to prepare a garment worth wearing once more.
There was only one person who truly felt every motion of his blade.
"NGH! HHH—!!"
Sweat poured from Jaime Lannister's brow.
Even with his teeth clenched shut, raw cries escaped him—loud, unrestrained, and utterly undignified.
His remaining hand dug into the soil beneath him, packing mud beneath his fingernails as he fought the urge to thrash.
"Relax a little, ser," Odin murmured without looking up, his tone maddeningly even—like someone discussing tomorrow's weather.
"Your screams are more pitiful than a little girl being cornered by a septon."
A beat.
"Oh, but septons don't like little girls, do they?"
Another beat.
"Tell me—were you ever bothered by a septon in your youth, Ser Jaime? Gods, listen to me rambling. You're Tywin Lannister's firstborn—lord of Casterly Rock in all but name. Who in the Seven Kingdoms would dare?"
"Shut your mouth, Odin!"
Jaime hissed the words through his teeth, face twisted in agony and outrage.
It felt unfair—wrong—that someone could cut into his flesh with such ease, and yet still find breath to speak.
How had he not noticed earlier that the man was an incorrigible chatterbox?
"The knife isn't in your arm," Jaime snarled, trembling. "Easy for you to—GAHHHH!"
The timing was perfect.
Odin's blade slipped through another strip of necrotic tissue just as Jaime tried to retort.
"True enough, ser," Odin replied—this time without mockery, only a rare hint of respect.
"In a place like this, without milk of the poppy, most men would be unconscious by now. But you're still here—awake, breathing, cursing. I'll admit it…"
He paused long enough to cut away a final stubborn piece of rot.
"You're far tougher than Vargo Hoat ever was."
It was absurd—ridiculous, even—that such a comparison could bring joy in this moment.
Yet Jaime's expression shifted instantly.
Through pain-twisted features and gritted teeth, a proud, foolish grin emerged.
To be told he surpassed the man who maimed him—it delighted him more than it should have.
Neither man spoke after that.
Only the sound of steel, careful stitching, and Jaime's occasional suppressed groan filled the space.
When the final blackened scrap of flesh was removed, Odin rinsed the wound with boiled water, wiped it clean, spread honey across the fresh sutures, and wrapped the bandage with practiced ease.
He finished by tying a neat little bow—an elegant flourish completely at odds with the grisly operation.
The transformation was near farcical:
a brutal battlefield surgery ending with a dainty knot.
Jaime stared at his wrist, face damp with sweat, expression caught somewhere between horror and disbelief.
Then he let out a breathless laugh—half pained, half genuine.
"Your skill is… gods, it's almost unsettling, Odin," he admitted.
"In treating wounds, I daresay even Grand Maester Pycelle would struggle to match you."
Jaime's gaze lingered on Odin's bare neck—no maester's chain, no sigil of training—just rough cloth and bloodstains.
"As a farmer," he asked, genuinely curious, "how did you learn all this?"
For a heartbeat Odin's hands paused.
He lifted his gaze, met Jaime's eyes—and smiled faintly, a smile that revealed everything and nothing all at once.
"Every man in this world carries secrets, Ser Jaime," he said softly.
"I have never asked about yours—why you fell so far, why you wanders these roads, why you bear certain… burdens."
He flicked his eyes toward the discarded golden stump.
"So I hope, as a friend, you can grant me the same courtesy."
---
Friend.
The word struck Jaime like a mace to the chest.
He had titles beyond counting—heir of Casterly Rock, son of Tywin Lannister, the Kingslayer, a knight of the Kingsguard—
but friend?
That one had always eluded him.
All his life, he had stood surrounded by people—laughing, flattering, bowing—but their smiles were for the mines beneath Casterly Rock, their loyalty for his father's power.
Even in the Kingsguard—those brief shining years—he had tasted camaraderie:
Ser Gerold "the White Bull" Hightower, Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold,
and Arthur Dayne—the Sword of the Morning,
the man who knighted him.
Brothers in oath, brothers in arms.
Those days did not last.
War came.
Brothers died.
One by one the white cloaks fell, and of the seven, only Jaime and Ser Barristan survived.
And when Jaime slew the Mad King—
to save a million lives, to stop wildfire from devouring a city—
the world refused to hear his reasons.
Even Ser Barristan turned from him, calling him "Kingslayer" before the court, severing the last bond they shared.
Friend?
Jaime Lannister had everything—but friendship had always been beyond his reach.
Yet here, in a place reeking of blood and feces,
a ragged, nameless doctor—this strange, unreadable Odin—looked at him without awe, without judgment…
…and asked to be his equal.
How could something so ridiculous feel so sincere?
---
"Odin," Jaime murmured, voice hoarse.
He looked at the man—really looked—and something like warmth flickered in his exhausted eyes.
Then, with a slow breath, he extended his remaining hand.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly," he said with quiet dignity.
"Ser Jaime Lannister."
Not Kingslayer.
Not oathbreaker.
Not cripple.
Just Jaime.
And for once, that was enough.
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