Chapter 32 — Catch That Dog!
Odin's expression darkened.
Just as he suspected—this was a pack that didn't reason, didn't negotiate, and didn't care. Brutes through and through.
He clenched his fist, then pulled a pouch from his coat. As it opened, the crisp, pleasing clink of coins rang out, drawing involuntary glances from several of the northern soldiers.
He tossed it toward Stour, his voice deliberately softened, carrying just the right note of concession.
"We're nothing more than poor folk trying to reach Duskendale alive and stay clear of this war, my lord."
"There are one hundred gold dragons in that pouch. Consider it our toll."
As he spoke, Odin offered a sincere, almost weary smile.
In times like these, bribery was the most reliable key in the world. Gold was precious, yes—but a corpse couldn't spend it. And as long as they survived to reach King's Landing, Jaime's promised bathtub of gold dragons would make this loss insignificant.
Stour caught the pouch one-handed and weighed it thoughtfully.
He snorted, slipped it into his coat without even looking inside—and made no move to leave.
Instead, he raised his warhammer again.
This time, its head pointed squarely at Jaime.
"You've got guts," Stour said.
"But that's not what I want."
He jabbed the hammer forward.
"That skulking bastard hiding under the rags—strip him. Now."
Odin's jaw tightened.
Damn these northern animals. Zero manners.
That was every last gold dragon I had.
Forcing himself to stay calm, his mind raced. He inhaled slowly and activated [Presence Lv.2]. His posture straightened, his presence sharpening into something cold, professional, and authoritative.
"No! My lord—absolutely not!"
His voice came fast, edged with urgency, amplified by the pressure of his bearing.
"He's gravely ill. He must remain fully covered—or the disease will spread!"
"Bullshit!"
Even with Presence reinforcing Odin's presence, the distance was too great to fully affect Stour.
"I've butchered my way from Karhold to the Riverlands. Never heard of a disease that needs wrapping like a corpse. Stop fucking lying to me!"
"It's true!"
Seeing Stour still unconvinced, Odin's pupils contracted. Then, with deliberate weight, he spoke a name that made the air itself feel colder.
"Greyscale."
"Greyscale?"
"What the hell is that?"
The northern riders fell noticeably quieter. The name alone sounded like something cursed.
Then, beside Stour, an older soldier spoke up hesitantly.
"Captain… I think I've heard of it. My uncle—he sails. Said he saw it in Essos."
"They say the sick… their skin turns hard. Like bark. Like stone."
"Even if you cut it off—doesn't matter."
A hush spread through the riders.
And under his cloak, Jaime went perfectly still.
He swallowed hard, fear plainly written across his face.
"Let's just go," he said nervously. "If we catch something like that—something you can only wait to die from—it's not worth it!"
"Exactly."
Seeing that someone finally understood, Odin immediately pressed the advantage.
"This disease comes from beyond the Rhoyne—unnatural, deeply cursed."
"Once infected, the skin turns the color of ash and stone. Sensation fades, inch by inch, until it spreads across the entire body. There is no cure."
His eyes darkened, his voice turning grim and unsettling.
"The victim can only watch, fully conscious, as he turns into a living statue—waiting to die in agony."
"Anyone who gets close…" Odin let the words hang. "Anyone could be infected."
"But he's Lord Finn's eldest son. We couldn't abandon him."
With a subordinate's confirmation and Odin's deliberately vivid embellishment, Stour's expression finally wavered.
Instinct screamed that something was wrong with the man beneath the cloak—but he didn't dare gamble. What if it really was that kind of plague…?
He stared at the motionless gray cloak as if trying to pierce it with his gaze.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, he forced out an ugly grin and tugged his reins.
"Tch. Fucking bad luck."
He spat on the ground, cursing loudly.
"Wasting my time over a plague-ridden freak!"
"Come on! Let's find that incestuous bastard who crawls into his own sister's bed!"
"I hear the mongrel on the Iron Throne is their bastard too—spawn of the Kingslayer and that whore-queen! Hahaha!"
"The lion house? More like a cursed house! The gods must've punished them for all their sins—made them give birth to a half-man demon!"
His voice grew louder, filthier, each insult more venomous than the last as he turned away.
"I'd bet Tywin Lannister's wife was eaten alive by that monster—starting from between her legs!"
"Hahahahaha—!"
The obscenities became unbearable.
Odin's heart slammed against his ribs.
Damn it.
He knew Jaime too well—especially when it came to his sister, his dead mother, and that complicated brother of his.
Those words were like red-hot irons pressed again and again into Jaime's pride and soul.
Don't react… don't react…
Odin's entire body tensed. He subtly signaled both Igo and Brienne—ready for Jaime to explode at any second.
But to Odin's surprise…
Beneath the gray cloak, there was no reaction.
Except—just once—when his mother was insulted, the cloaked figure trembled ever so slightly.
That was all.
Haragg Stour eventually ran out of breath. Seeing no response, he lost interest.
He shot one last hateful glare at the cloak, then waved his hand dismissively.
"Move out!"
The riders turned away, cursing as they went, following the lakeside road until they vanished beyond the trees.
Only when the dust fully settled—when nothing remained but wind and rippling water—did the tension finally ease.
Slowly, under everyone's gaze, a pale, strong hand lifted the gray hood.
Golden hair spilled into the sunlight like a blade cutting through cloud.
Jaime turned toward Odin. There was no rage on his face.
Only calm.
"What?" he said lightly.
"You think I'd leap at them like a rabid dog—get us all killed to keep Rickard Karstark company in the grave?"
He chuckled.
"I'm Jaime Lannister. My life is worth far more than theirs."
Odin shook his head with a soft laugh.
Easy to say—for someone who once charged dragons alone.
Though that moment hadn't yet come.
"Just watch, Odin," Jaime said quietly.
His gaze fixed on the road the riders had taken. A steady fire finally burned in his eyes.
"When we reach King's Landing, I'll deal with that foul-mouthed bastard in my own way."
"Don't forget."
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Odin froze—then smiled in genuine approval.
The man before him was no longer the reckless, arrogant Kingslayer of old.
Loss, pain, and humiliation had carved him down—yet in doing so, had left behind something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous.
"You've grown," Odin said sincerely.
Jaime raised an eyebrow, clearly about to reply with his usual sarcasm—
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!
Suddenly—
Chaotic, frantic hoofbeats thundered from the very direction the Karstark riders had vanished!
Shouts—raw, desperate, furious—tore through the air.
"Catch that damned dog!!"
"Take Arya Stark back!!!"