Chapter 7: The Principles of the Dothraki
By the time Odin was escorted back toward the hut by Rorge, it was already close to midnight.
His conversation with Urswyck had lasted a long while. For most of it, Odin had been educating the pervert—systematically—on the structure of the human body.
The distribution of blood vessels.
The pathways of nerves.
The layering of muscles.
The weak points of bones.
These professional terms were like a key, opening an entirely new world to Urswyck.
After a lifetime of indulging in cruelty, he had never realized that the human body possessed such depth and intricacy.
The torture methods he once took pride in now seemed crude and amateurish under Odin's clear, methodical breakdown.
If Urswyck had possessed even a trace of the ambition of some legendary warlord—say, a certain wife-collecting chancellor—he might have immediately showcased his personal charisma and taken this "talent" under his wing.
Of course, that was impossible.
No matter how ruthless or vicious Urswyck was, he was still just the deputy of a bandit company.
That said, under Odin's persuasive words, Urswyck quickly began to see him as one of his own—and even granted him certain benefits.
Feeling the satisfying weight of ten gold dragons in his pocket, Odin couldn't help but reflect.
He had earned his first pot of gold in this world far sooner than he'd expected.
It had to be said: when it came to buying loyalty, Urswyck clearly knew what he was doing. At the very least, he wasn't stingy.
In Urswyck's own words, Odin had already proven his resolve by personally killing a lord's son—and now it was Urswyck's turn to ensure that Odin stayed firmly on his side.
In this world, profit was always the strongest rope—binding together two otherwise unrelated people.
Ten gold dragons.
That was no small sum.
In peacetime, it would be enough to fully equip a true knight—armor, horse, weapons, the lot.
Even now, with the war having dragged on for over a year and prices soaring, ten gold dragons could support a family of five for more than half a year.
Urswyck's generosity was plain for anyone to see.
After all, even Jaime Lannister—arguably the wealthiest "second-generation heir" in all Seven Kingdoms—had only a one-thousand–gold-dragon bounty placed on his head by the Lord of Riverrun after his escape.
"Recharge. Begin the draw."
As he walked, Odin opened the system interface.
Though he had never seen this much money in his life, he still poured every last gold dragon into the system without hesitation.
Right now, the priority was simple: increase his strength. Only by surviving could he earn more wealth—and only with wealth could he continue feeding the system, over and over again.
At present, aside from [Surgical Operation Lv.2], Odin possessed no innate skills at all. Under such circumstances, even a single Lv.1 draw was crucial.
At his silent command, the ten gold dragons in his pocket vanished without a trace. The system roulette immediately began spinning at high speed.
Ding~~~
[Skill acquired: Insight Lv.1]
There was no explanation—just a single, lonely line hovering before his eyes, much like [Surgical Operation Lv.2].
It seemed that, in the system's eyes, low-tier skills weren't even worth the effort of a description.
Odin frowned slightly.
Given his current situation, a skill that directly boosted combat power—Swordsmanship, Brawling, something like that—would have been ideal.
Compared to those, Insight sounded like a mere support ability, somewhat underwhelming.
But just as a hint of disappointment surfaced, a cool current flowed into his consciousness—and suddenly, the world felt… different.
Tilting his head slightly, Rorge's ferocious face came into view.
Attention unfocused. His gaze repeatedly drifts toward companions drinking by the distant campfire—distracted.
Left leg shows extremely subtle irregularity while walking—likely an old injury.
In barely two seconds, details he'd never consciously noticed before were automatically analyzed and organized.
"So that's how it is…"
Odin's eyes lit up in realization.
This skill was practically tailor-made for his current circumstances.
"You can go in yourself, doctor."
Sure enough, when they reached the hut, Rorge didn't escort him inside as before. Instead, he patted Odin's shoulder amiably and spoke with forced heartiness.
"Deputy Commander Urswyck says you're one of the Brave Companions now. If I ever get hurt, I'll be counting on you to patch me up."
"Just one warning."
He jerked his chin toward the hut, a hint of disdain on his face.
"That Dothraki savage inside isn't easy to deal with. The captain trusts no one but him."
"Don't do anything that makes him uncomfortable. If he tries something, shout—and Fang and I will rush in immediately."
With that, he turned away and strode toward his companions, clearly eager for a drink.
This guy… probably figured something out.
Watching Rorge's retreating back, Odin calculated silently.
This man, who looked all brawn and no brain, was surprisingly perceptive. He may have guessed parts of Odin's arrangement with Urswyck, yet chose not to expose it—going so far as to offer a quiet reminder.
Interesting.
Odin narrowed his eyes. In times of chaos, it truly wasn't wise to underestimate anyone who had managed to survive the war.
---
Pushing open the hut door, before he could step inside, a solid figure blocked his way.
"You were gone a long time."
The Dothraki's tone was unfriendly, his eyes filled with suspicion.
"Yeah. Took a dump while I was at it."
Odin shrugged casually.
"I was hanging for ages, then did two surgeries back-to-back. Nearly burst."
The suspicion in Iggo's eyes didn't fully fade, but he stepped aside and let Odin in.
Glancing behind him, he asked, "Where's Rorge? He was supposed to guard Captain Vargo with me."
"He went drinking."
Odin walked inside and casually stripped off his tattered clothes and shoes, revealing a body covered in whip marks, tossing them aside.
The movement was small—but deliberate.
See? I'm not carrying any weapons.
Only then did he sit down on the hay, stretching and rubbing his shoulders like an exhausted craftsman fresh off a long shift.
"He said you're here, so everyone can rest easy tonight. No need for his help."
"Looks like both the captain and Rorge trust you a lot, Iggo."
It sounded like casual narration—but in truth, it was a subtle probe.
Sure enough, Iggo snorted.
Dothraki revered strength, and being discussed behind one's back was never pleasant.
Still, he didn't continue questioning. Odin's posture made it clear he was completely unguarded.
Odin glanced around.
Vargo Hoat was still asleep in the most comfortable spot at the center of the hut, lying on a bed of dry hay and rags. His face was unnaturally flushed in the flickering firelight, reeking of alcohol, his snores thunderous.
As for Jaime and Brienne, they'd been taken away by another member of the Brave Companions before Odin left—after all, Iggo alone couldn't watch several captives at once.
Seeing Odin sprawled on the hay with no intention of checking Vargo's wound, Iggo frowned and walked over.
"It's time to change the bandages,
Odin."
"You said yourself—every two hours."
"Ah… already that long?"
Odin reluctantly cracked his eyes open, looking utterly drained.
He didn't argue. He pushed himself up and shuffled toward the still-sleeping Vargo.
After putting on a show of examining him, Odin suddenly sighed.
"What a tough man. Injured so badly, yet still sleeping so soundly."
"Yeah."
Guileless Iggo nodded.
"Captain Vargo is a true khal. Since following him, we've never lost a battle."
Odin merely glanced at him, neither agreeing nor disputing it.
With Vargo Hoat's nature, the Brave Companions never lost—because their enemies were always carefully chosen, always weaker.
His hands moved steadily as he began removing the bandages.
Without turning his head, Insight allowed Odin to read Iggo's expression clearly from the corner of his eye.
It wasn't absolute loyalty.
It was the Dothraki instinctive devotion to following strength.
Odin smiled faintly and continued probing.
"I've heard that, on the Dothraki Sea, there was once an undefeated khal named Drogo. He commanded over forty thousand riders—said to be the strongest in history."
"But later, he fell from his horse due to an infected wound. His khalasar fell apart soon after."
"That's right. I've heard that too."
Iggo seemed glad for conversation, his thick accent unmistakable.
"He was Khal Bharbo's son. They say his braid reached his thigh, and he never lost a single battle."
Odin smacked his lips.
"But in the end, he died. Didn't he?"
"Even the mightiest eagle cannot escape the fate of falling."
"Exactly."
Iggo nodded matter-of-factly.
"That's why his khalasar scattered like startled horses, divided among new strongmen."
"This is the Dothraki way. When the lion falls, the hyenas feast on its corpse. A new lion king is born in blood and fire."
Listening quietly to this cold survival creed, Odin observed Iggo's reactions while skillfully unwrapping the final layers of bandage.
The wound beneath had been cleaned thoroughly earlier—but now, along the ragged edge of the ear stump, a faint yellow-green discoloration had appeared. The surrounding skin was noticeably more swollen and inflamed.
The corners of Odin's mouth lifted slightly as he spoke clearly:
"That's unfortunate, Iggo."
"I think it's time you started looking for a new khal to follow."
"Because our noble Lord Vargo Hoat…"
"…doesn't have long to live."