Chapter 31 — I Can't Read, Damn It!
"White sunburst…"
Odin narrowed his eyes, staring at the sigil rippling on the banner, murmuring under his breath.
His mind raced, flipping through fragments of knowledge about the great houses of Westeros he'd memorized back before transmigrating.
He was certain he'd seen that aggressively striking emblem somewhere before—but for the life of him, he couldn't recall where.
The feeling was maddening, like a bone lodged in his throat.
Just as he was forcing his memory, Walton blurted out almost reflexively:
"Karstark!"
"That's House Karstark! Why the hell are they here?!"
Karstark.
The name hit Odin like a hammer. His heart skipped, his brow snapping into a tight frown as his gaze instinctively slid toward Jaime.
When it came to grudges with House Karstark, Jaime Lannister was practically a walking monument.
The Battle of the Whispering Wood.
In that battle, the Kingslayer had charged alone straight for the King in the North. Though he ultimately failed, he had cut down over a dozen of Robb Stark's personal guards—
—including two sons of Lord Rickard Karstark.
And after that…
Catelyn Stark, desperate to save her daughters, had secretly released Jaime, the most valuable hostage of the war.
Lord Rickard Karstark, consumed by rage, soon led men to the Riverrun dungeons and butchered two captive boys—Tion Frey and Willem Lannister—to vent his fury.
Then the so-called "just" King in the North lost his mind and insisted on sentencing Rickard Karstark to death over two insignificant prisoners—
—and personally swung the sword that took his head.
House Karstark broke with House Stark from that day on.
In Odin's eyes, not one of these people had been thinking straight.
First, releasing the most critical hostage without authorization.
Then, again and again, alienating and destroying their strongest, most loyal ally—
—all in the name of "justice."
It was… indescribable.
But none of that was the real issue.
The real question—just as Walton had snarled—
was why Karstark banners were appearing near the Gods Eye.
South of here lay Lannister-controlled territory.
This was no coincidence.
"Trouble…" Odin muttered softly, the word barely audible even to himself.
But the gravity on his face was unmistakable, enough to make Jaime and Brienne exchange puzzled looks.
After all, Odin was usually calm to the point of arrogance—even when facing Roose Bolton, he'd never looked like this.
He thought for a heartbeat longer, then lifted his head.
"All of you—follow my lead."
His gaze swept across the group, his voice firm and measured.
"Hold yourselves in check. First, we find out what they want."
"Unless we have no other choice—do not provoke them."
The others nodded in unison.
Not a single person questioned Odin taking command.
And just like that, without discussion or dissent, the group quietly prepared themselves—
for whatever the white sunburst had come to bring.
Despite the group including the heir of Casterly Rock, the eldest daughter of Tarth, and a formidable Dothraki warrior, everyone—without discussion—had tacitly accepted Odin as their commander.
Perhaps this was what people called presence.
As the northern riders drew closer, Odin glanced at the approaching formation, then suddenly looked at Jaime.
A spark of realization flashed through his mind—something crucial.
He twisted in the saddle, yanked open a bulging pack tied behind him, pulled out a thick cloak, and tossed it straight at Jaime.
Jaime caught it on reflex, staring at it in bewilderment.
"???"
"Don't talk back!"
Odin shot him a sharp look and snapped in a low voice,
"If you don't want to end up like a Karstark—with your head chopped off—put it on. Now."
"And pull the hood up," he added coldly.
"Hide that pretty golden hair of yours."
---
Boom—boom—boom!
The thunder of hooves came to an abrupt halt roughly twenty paces ahead of them.
Dust drifted down slowly, revealing the true appearance of the northern cavalry.
Just over twenty riders.
Unlike the polished elegance of southern knights, these men were the embodiment of northern brutality.
Most wore roughly forged black iron half-helms and heavily worn mail, layered with thick animal pelts—wolf, bear, even seal by the look of them.
Their weapons were a brutal assortment: greatswords, heavy axes, spiked maces, and the wide-bladed spears common to the North.
Their skin was weather-beaten and coarse, every face carved with hardship.
They weren't many—but the ferocity they radiated was enough to make one's scalp prickle.
At their head rode a man on a particularly massive northern warhorse.
Broad-shouldered and thickly built, his beard was dense and streaked with gray, a wolfskin cloak draped over his armor.
He didn't bark a challenge or announce himself.
Instead, he urged his horse forward at a measured pace, eyes sweeping across Odin's group like a butcher assessing meat.
"Ser—"
"I'm no 'ser'!"
Odin stepped forward to speak, but was rudely cut off.
The man raised a warhammer and roared theatrically at the sky.
"That title's horseshit! Just a bunch of armor-hiding soft-bellied pansies—armor that won't stop my hammer! One swing and it caves in!"
"Since marching south, how many 'knights' have I smashed, Hogg?"
"Lost count, Captain!"
"HAHAHAHA!"
The northern riders erupted in laughter.
They slapped shields and saddles, whistled sharply, and bellowed meaningless war cries.
Odin's frown deepened.
He wasn't afraid of dealing with men like Roose Bolton—or even Tywin Lannister.
At least they followed rules, however cruel or corrupt.
What he despised were soldiers like these.
True brutes.
Men driven purely by blood and hatred, incapable of reason—liable to swing an axe before you finished a sentence.
Still, Odin forced down his irritation and tried again, his tone carefully measured.
"My lord—"
"I'm Haragg Stour!"
The man cut him off again, shouting proudly.
"Captain of Lord Rickard Karstark's personal guard—the man he trusted most!"
At the mention of the dead lord, hatred flickered in his eyes.
"We're hunting the Kingslayer, boy."
"You and your lot seen that bastard who fucks his queen-sister?"
At those words, Odin felt it instantly.
Beneath the cloak, Jaime's body tensed, just slightly.
Anger.
"Kingslayer?"
"No—Captain Haragg Stour!"
Odin immediately stepped forward again, deliberately drawing all attention to himself.
He shook his head, adopting a weary, harmless tone.
"We're kin of Lord Finn. Our farm was destroyed by a band called the Brave Companions."
"To survive, we crossed the Gods Eye, heading for Duskendale to seek refuge with relatives. You know how it is—war everywhere, the Riverlands in chaos. We just want somewhere safe to live."
"Fortunately, Lord Roose Bolton is a just ruler. To make amends for his men's wrongdoing, he personally issued us a writ of passage."
As he spoke—face straight, heart steady—Odin carefully withdrew a rolled parchment and unfolded it, revealing Roose Bolton's signature and wax seal.
"You're welcome to inspect it, Captain Haragg."
He held the parchment out with both hands, calm and unafraid.
That made Haragg pause.
He clearly hadn't expected refugees to be carrying Roose Bolton's personal writ.
Suspicion flickered in his gray eyes. He gestured for a subordinate to take it.
The soldier rode forward, accepted the parchment, and passed it to Haragg.
Haragg theatrically opened it—
—and promptly did not read a single word.
Instead, his gaze flicked over Odin's group again.
A woman more manly than most men.
A hulking brute even wilder than a northman.
A guard with the look of eternal bad luck.
A bound captive.
And finally—
"Heh."
His eyes lingered on Jaime, wrapped head to toe in a cloak.
Haragg Stour lifted his head, a sly grin spreading across his face.
He tossed the parchment aside to a nearby soldier and planted his hands on his hips.
"Good thing for you…"
"Because I can't read."