Chapter 27 — Walton's Shadow
Jaime looked like an entirely different man—gone was the hollow-eyed prisoner, replaced by the arrogant, rakish heir of Casterly Rock.
Seeing him so revived, Odin couldn't help but shake his head with a crooked smile.
"You're looking lively, Lannister.
What happened—did Lord Bolton arrange a dragon for you last night to rekindle your manhood?"
He chuckled, lowering his voice conspiratorially:
"I hear Harrenhal has a few decent brothels.
I've visited before myself—twice.
Never the expensive ones, mind you…
but even a starving man deserves to spend money where it matters."
Months of scrimping, gone the moment a pair of legs opened and closed.
Such was life in Westeros.
Jaime waved his hand dramatically, a grin blooming across his face like a mischievous child caught stealing pies.
"No, no, dearest Odin."
His emerald eyes slid toward Brienne—who was already fidgeting in that ill–fitting gown—and he raised his voice several notches, making sure everyone in the yard heard:
"My night was far more exhilarating than any brothel tryst!"
"Yesterday, I bathed with a highborn lady—a shared soak I shall remember for the rest of my life!"
"A glorious experience! It washed away every speck of road-weariness!"
Odin blinked.
Images from the original timeline stirred—yes, that scene existed.
But Jaime was deliberately twisting the tale to poke at Brienne's pride.
And it worked.
Brienne's face flushed crimson in an instant.
"Shut your filthy mouth, Jaime!"
She stomped forward, fist clenched, looking every bit capable of yanking him straight off his horse and into the mud.
Notably, she didn't call him "Kingslayer."
Odin noticed. Jaime noticed.
Even Iggo noticed.
The Dothraki warrior's eyes narrowed, his hand drifting unconsciously toward his hilt as he studied Jaime with animal suspicion—
as though contemplating a challenge for Brienne's "ownership,"
the way a khal might for a prized mare.
But after a moment's internal struggle, Iggo released the hilt and exhaled.
To fight a half–crippled man would bring no glory.
And if Brienne truly desired strength… she would not choose a maimed lion.
Jaime, oblivious to the restraint he'd just been granted, basked in Brienne's outrage like a cat in the sun.
Odin, too, couldn't resist adding fuel to the fire with a dry remark or two.
For a brief moment, the training yard felt light—
as if laughter could wash away the blood, betrayal, and exhaustion of the past weeks.
That fragile peace shattered beneath a roar soaked in venom.
"You filthy cur! Rat from the sewers!
Finally caught you, you worthless piss-stain!"
"Drag him to the stables!"
"Today I'll cut off whatever hangs between his legs—feed it to my horse and make him watch!"
The cruelty in the voice sliced through the yard, freezing every motion midair.
They turned.
"Steelshanks" Walton, Bolton's captain, marched across the yard with several hard–eyed soldiers in tow.
Something—someone—was being dragged behind them like a sack of grain, bound and gagged, legs scraping against the dirt.
Odin's first instinct was to look away.
This was Bolton territory—blood and cruelty came with the walls.
Interfering now, when their departure was imminent, would be foolish.
He turned—
—but Insight Lv.1 pulsed like a spark behind his eyes.
Recognition snapped into place.
"Rorge."
Jaime and the others followed his gaze, squinting.
The tangled hair, the squat build, the black fuzz on arms and neck—
there was no mistaking him.
"One of the last surviving Brave Companions, wasn't he?"
Jaime leaned down from his saddle, voice low:
"Didn't you stash him in a room? Why is Bolton's man dragging him through the yard like a sheep to slaughter?"
Odin exhaled through his nose, voice a notch darker:
"Harrenhal belongs to Bolton now.
If you had five chest hairs, they'd have tallied each one by morning."
Then his tone shifted—sharp as a pin:
"By the way, Jaime… do you wear underclothes?"
Jaime scoffed, as if the question itself were offensive.
"What sane man wears underclothes? They chafe."
He didn't miss a beat before adding,
voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper:
"So? He was your prize.
Do you want to take him back?"
Odin stared at the bound figure.
A twitch of muscle tugged at his jaw.
A choice waited in that question—
and choices always came with consequences.
Odin's brows drew together, his mind racing.
Rorge was useful—violent, loyal in the crude way of a beaten dog, and aware of information most would never share.
But picking a fight with Roose Bolton's men on the eve of their departure?
Too risky.
Too messy.
Too soon.
He hesitated for two seconds—three at most—then exhaled through his nose and shook his head with reluctant finality.
"Forget it, Jaime. We're about to leave—let's not—
I swear to the Seven—dammit!"
"Don't you—"
But Jaime had already straightened up in the saddle, eyes widening as though struck by divine revelation.
"I understand!"
You understand what?!
Odin didn't even get the chance to ask.
Jaime flashed a grin that belonged on a sellsword about to start a bar fight and dug his heels viciously into his stallion's flanks.
"Hyah!"
The horse screamed and launched forward, churning up clods of mud as it sprinted straight toward Walton and his men.
Odin froze.
Then:
"Oh for—
Motherf—
MOVE!"
Jaime Lannister, one-handed, half-healed, charged headfirst into Bolton's best men like the very concept of self-preservation had slipped his mind.
Odin spat a curse that made even Iggo blink.
"He doesn't understand anything!
What the hell does he think he understands—?!
Damn it—GO!"
There was no time to reconsider.
Jaime had already committed to stupidity at full speed—
and Odin wasn't the type to let a comrade hang in the wind.
He sprinted after him.
Brienne and Iggo exchanged a single bewildered glance, then followed without hesitation.
Brienne—still in that blue gown pulled tighter than a sausage casing—actually overtook both men and, on the way, snatched up a manure rake from near the stables as if grabbing a warhammer.
Gods, what a woman, Odin couldn't help thinking as he ran.
---
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Hoofbeats hammered across the yard like a war drum.
Walton—who had been directing his men to drag Rorge like a carcass while occasionally kicking him in the kidneys—turned with an irritated scowl.
That scowl evaporated instantly.
A stallion was bearing down on him at full gallop.
And on it—Jaime Lannister, leaning forward with a wolfish grin, reins in one left hand, the wind tearing through his golden hair.
For one absurd heartbeat, Walton had a single coherent thought:
Isn't that my damn horse?
Then came the instinct older than pride—
fear of being trampled to death.
The world shrunk to sound and motion— hooves beating like thunder, the horse's breath hot and heavy, leather and sweat stinging his nostrils.
Walton's legs buckled.
"Gods above—!"
He toppled backward onto the dirt, scrambling to crawl away.
"LEO—!"
Jaime's shout cracked through the air like a whip as he jerked the reins.
The stallion reared, front hooves pawing at the sky, mud spraying in all directions.
The nearest hoof slammed into the earth less than half a meter from Walton's head, throwing clumps of wet soil across his pale face.
For a moment, the shadow of a steel horseshoe hovered like an executioner's axe.
Walton didn't dare breathe.
Slowly—almost leisurely—Jaime lowered his gaze, chin resting on the back of his hand over the horse's neck.
He looked down upon Walton with a smirk sharp enough to draw blood.
He raised a brow—pure arrogance distilled into expression—and purred:
"My apologies."
"Did I frighten you, my dearest lady?"
---