Chapter 5: The Art of Odin
Walking across the farm's soft earth, every step came with an unpleasant, sticky resistance—thick, clammy, and wrong.
When he lifted his foot, there was a faint, wet squelch.
Odin couldn't tell whether what clung to his boots was damp mud—or blood plasma that had long since cooled, congealed, and seeped into the soil.
All around him, from the branches of the orchard trees, hung the very farmhands who had once labored beside him in Ser Finn's fields, sweating shoulder to shoulder.
The dark silhouettes swayed gently in the night breeze, like overripe fruit dangling from the boughs.
Odin didn't dare look around.
He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, walking as if he were a complete stranger—someone utterly unmoved by the tragic fate of those who had been his own kind.
His status among the Brave Companions hadn't meaningfully changed just because he'd treated Vargo Hoat. He was still a prisoner who could be executed at any moment—merely a prisoner with temporary usefulness.
And that sliver of usefulness was nowhere near enough to grant him freedom of movement.
Perhaps once Vargo Hoat sobered up from his drunken stupor in the hut, Odin would be strung up on an apple tree without so much as a reason.
Freedom?
It didn't exist.
Escorted by a bandit, Odin was brought to the edge of the woods. The two stopped.
"Go on in, doctor."
Rorge the Noseless jerked his chin forward.
He was hunched, bulky, and covered in coarse black hair—more ferocious-looking than anyone else in the Brave Companions.
Yet appearances were deceiving. Of all these criminals, he was oddly the most polite.
For this meeting, Odin had rehearsed his words countless times in his mind.
But to his surprise, when he made the request to Rorge—who had been assigned to guard him—the man agreed without asking a single question, sparing him the trouble entirely.
"Thank you very much for bringing me here, my lord,"
Odin said sincerely, bowing slightly, his voice steady.
"No need for thanks."
Rorge grinned, his hairy hand clapping Odin on the shoulder.
"I never refuse a doctor's request. No one can be sure they won't get hurt someday, right?"
"Go on. Urswyck's inside. But I suggest you wait until he's finished before speaking—he doesn't like being interrupted when he's entertaining himself."
As he spoke, his smile grew wider. On that vicious face, something almost like goodwill appeared.
"I'll remember your kindness, Lord Rorge."
Odin returned the smile, nodded slightly, and didn't say another word.
Taking a deep breath, he lightened his steps as much as possible and walked alone into the dim forest.
After circling several apple trees, a small clearing opened up ahead.
At its center stood a thick tree trunk.
Bound to it was a mass of pale, wobbling flesh.
Odin recognized him at once.
It was Derek, Ser Finn's only son.
The landlord's idiot son, Odin thought coldly.
Not far in front of him, Urswyck was fully absorbed in his "game."
Young Lord Derek—fatter than a hog—had been stripped of his upper garments and tied to the tree like livestock awaiting slaughter.
Urswyck wasn't using a blade.
Instead, he held a sharpened wooden stake, slowly and methodically prodding and piercing the boy's greasy flesh.
Blood seeped out, mingling with liquefied fat as it dripped down.
Listening to the suppressed screams and pleas, a trace of sickened satisfaction actually crept across Urswyck's face.
"As a physician, Lord Urswyck, allow me to offer a professional suggestion."
Ignoring Rorge's earlier advice, Odin boldly stepped forward and spoke first.
"What you're doing is far too inefficient. And it's very easy for him to go into shock from blood loss or pain, losing consciousness too early—where's the fun in that?"
Urswyck, who had been raising the sharpened stick, didn't even have time to get angry.
He froze.
He had tortured many people before, but this was the first time anyone had offered professional advice on his methods—using this tone, no less.
"…What did you say?"
Frowning, he turned back toward Odin, almost wondering if he'd misheard.
Odin shrugged, then pointed calmly at the chaotic wounds covering Derek's body.
"Superficial cuts hurt, but heavy bleeding dilutes the sensation of pain and easily causes shock."
"Damaging areas dense with nerve endings—like fingertips or armpits—does cause intense pain, but it doesn't last very long."
As he spoke, he seemed to drift closer without meaning to.
"If you want more sustained, more profound feedback…"
"I suggest avoiding major blood vessels and vital organs. Try piercing non–weight-bearing muscle groups—like the front of the thigh or the upper arm. Control the depth to about half a finger to one finger's length, and stay clear of the femoral and brachial arteries."
"That way, you create persistent, burning pain and functional impairment—without killing him outright."
His explanation was so precise, so coldly composed, that even a veteran like Urswyck felt a shiver crawl up his spine.
But that chill was quickly replaced by a rush of excitement—of curiosity—like discovering a kindred spirit, even an expert.
So this is what you call professionalism.
"Fuck me…" Urswyck muttered. "Doctor, you're a real monster."
He lowered the stick and stared hard at Odin, his eyes filled with a mix of shock, admiration, and intense interest.
"I like it. Keep talking."
"Please give me a dagger."
Odin extended his hand toward Urswyck, his tone calm, natural, as if this were the most reasonable request in the world.
Raising an eyebrow, Urswyck smoothly pulled a knife from his clothes and handed it over.
Taking it, Odin walked up to the fat boy bound to the tree. Meeting Derek's desperate, hate-filled gaze, he spoke softly.
"I don't hate you, Young Lord Derek."
"Even though you always enjoyed whipping us with the overseer—using your three-hundred-plus pounds to pin farmhands down and ride us like horses."
"Remember? You crushed two people to death. Three others were crippled."
As Derek's eyes grew unfocused, fear creeping in, Odin shook his head with a hint of regret.
It seemed he didn't remember.
That was hardly surprising. From the look of him, his intelligence was clearly below average—likely the result of inbreeding.
It was said that Ser Finn had married his own cousin.
"I don't hate you," Odin repeated calmly.
"What I'm about to do has nothing to do with revenge. This is simply a necessary transaction."
"And in every transaction, not everyone benefits. Someone always has to pay a price."
"For example—you."
Shhk—
The dagger plunged swiftly into the thigh, twisted, then withdrawn—cleanly avoiding all major blood vessels.
Derek let out a piercing, agonized scream. His body convulsed violently, yet his consciousness remained cruelly intact, forced to endure the sharp, unrelenting pain.
"See?"
"Like this, he can suffer for a long time—without dying right away."
Turning back, Odin handed the bloodied knife to a stunned Urswyck, his tone carrying a faintly instructional air, as though conducting a medical demonstration.
"This is what I meant earlier—control and efficiency."
Urswyck was utterly dumbfounded.
The bloodstained dagger was right there, already removed from the victim's body—yet the fat boy was still writhing and screaming. The sustained agony was unmistakably real.
Professional.
Too professional.
"Teach me."
Urswyck licked his lips, his eyes blazing with hunger for knowledge and violent excitement.
"Doctor—I want to learn this."
The corners of Odin's mouth lifted slightly.
The first step—establishing a sense of shared identity—was complete.
"You may call me Odin, Lord Urswyck."
"Rest assured, I'll teach you everything."
Smiling, he placed the bloodied dagger into Urswyck's hand. Then, abruptly, his tone shifted.
The calm smile remained—but now it carried an unsettling force of persuasion.
"Still, tormenting an insignificant fat boy is merely a trivial skill."
"Don't you want to apply this kind of precision and control to something greater?"
"For example…"
"Deciding who truly deserves to sit—permanently—in the seat of Lord of Harrenhal?"