Chapter 37 — Valar Morghulis
"Go fuck yourself!"
The moment those words left Odin's lips, the Hound exploded first.
His voice was a thunderclap—raw, furious, animal.
But only a heartbeat later, he snapped into a different expression, throwing his head back with a harsh, mocking laugh.
"Hah! You idiot!"
"That girl is nothing but my prisoner!"
"I was taking her to Riverrun to ransom her to the King in the North!"
"And you think you can threaten me with her?"
"Hahahahaha!"
That unrestrained laughter hit Arya like a slap.
She jerked her head up, grey eyes widening—first with disbelief—
then with a tidal wave of rage and humiliation that drowned everything else.
You bastard…
"I knew it!"
Arya screamed, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.
"Go fuck yourself, Hound!"
"You disgusting monster—your face deserves to be burned off by your brother!"
"You're a rabid dog nobody wants—may you rot in the Seven Hells!"
She spat poison with the precision of a seasoned street thug, every filthy phrase she'd learned wandering the Riverlands firing out like arrows.
Even the Hound faltered for a second.
Then his mouth curled up, and he deliberately put on an even more furious expression, snarling back as if he meant every word.
"You little shit—say it again!"
"Once I'm free, the first thing I'll do is snap your neck—then I'll crack your skull open and drink wine out of it!"
"COME ON THEN!" Arya roared back without missing a beat.
"You useless piece of shit—hanging there like a dead dog!"
"You're worse than Joffrey and Cersei!"
"Fuck you—don't think I won't!"
"You can't even touch me!"
The two of them went at it like wild animals, hurling obscenities so vicious they echoed through the trees.
It was so chaotic—and so utterly out of sync with the tense interrogation from earlier—that the Northmen were left completely dumbstruck.
They blinked.
Looked at each other.
Wait… what?
This didn't look like some deep, emotional bond worth exploiting at all.
More like two enemies trapped in the same nightmare.
Confusion spread through the soldiers like smoke.
Then—almost unconsciously—every head turned toward the same person.
Odin.
Not even the men themselves realized it, but after several rounds of pushing and pulling, they'd begun treating the "doctor" like a strategist.
Like the one who was supposed to tell them what the hell to do next.
Since the camp had silently elected him, Odin didn't hesitate to assume the role.
He lowered his gaze toward Arya, speaking slowly and clearly, every word deliberate.
"Please… calm yourself, Lady Stark."
"These vulgar expressions… coming from a young woman of your noble birth…"
"…are unbecoming of a lady."
Arya was already in full rabid-wolf mode.
She snapped her head toward him instantly, seamlessly switching targets like a knife changing hands.
"I'm NOT a lady—I'm a swordsman!"
"My sword teacher was the First Sword of Braavos!"
"He could cut down every single one of you by himself!"
Before Odin could even reply—
the Hound burst out laughing again, loud and contemptuous.
"Hahaha!"
"The First Sword of Braavos?"
"The one who got killed by fuckin' Meryn Trant?"
"I could give my grandmother a sword and she'd cut down ten Meryn Trants—"
"—if she were still alive!"
Arya snapped back, voice sharp as a dagger:
"I TOLD YOU—he didn't have a sword!"
Sandor immediately sneered.
"Oh? Listen to that. A First Sword with no sword?"
The two of them immediately fell back into their argument, the rhythm almost returning to the ridiculous back-and-forth from earlier.
But this time—
Odin had no intention of letting it spiral.
He turned slightly toward Regg, bowing his head in polite restraint.
"I need him to quiet down, ser."
Regg instantly understood.
He strode forward and drove a brutal knee straight up into the Hound's crotch.
Sandor's mouth snapped shut on the spot.
The impact was… solid.
Watching the Hound fold in pain, Odin subconsciously clenched his thighs for half a second—then calmly pointed at the enraged "Lannister hound."
"Whatever reason a loyal dog of House Lannister might have for valuing a Stark girl so highly…"
Odin's voice softened into something almost regretful.
"I have to say, Hound…"
"Your acting is terrible."
He straightened his spine.
[Presence Lv2] bled into the air like invisible smoke—subtle, but absolute.
His gaze swept across the soldiers' blank, confused faces, and he spoke slowly, as if announcing a verdict.
"There is only one truth."
"This dog is clearly trying to protect her with this little performance."
"But he never imagined…"
"…that his clumsy show could fool all of us."
Odin paused, then delivered the final blow with perfect confidence:
"Because…"
"We are all… quite intelligent."
For a moment the camp fell into an awkward silence.
Then—
"YES!"
A soldier suddenly slapped his thigh so hard it echoed.
"That's it! I knew something felt wrong!"
"Your brain's slow," another one scoffed instantly, scrambling to sound smarter than everyone else.
"The Hound was obviously pretending to fight with her to make us think they hated each other!"
"Crafty bastard! You think you can trick my wise eyes?!"
Instantly the entire group surged into enlightenment.
Not real enlightenment—ego enlightenment.
Every man rushed to claim he'd seen through it from the beginning, nobody daring to admit the truth:
They'd all been dragged along like idiots by two people yelling at each other.
Arya stared at Odin like he was a plague given human form.
A chill crawled up her spine, turning her blood cold.
Even facing Cersei Lannister, she had never tasted something this vile—
this shameless—
this perfectly weaponized manipulation.
"You…"
Arya's voice trembled, not with fear—
but with pure hatred.
Her Stark-grey eyes burned like storm clouds.
"Tell me your name, bastard."
In that instant, she swore silently:
I'm putting you first.
Top of the list.
The list.
The one for vengeance.
But Odin didn't get angry.
He didn't even flinch.
Instead, he lowered himself into a squat, meeting her eye level.
Then he smiled—slow, mysterious, unsettling.
"A name isn't important, girl."
His voice dropped to something almost like a whisper, but every syllable slipped cleanly into Arya's ears.
"Because…"
He leaned in slightly.
And then he spoke, not in the Common Tongue—
but in a language she had heard once before.
A sentence carved into her memory by a faceless man.
"Valar morghulis."
The words detonated inside Arya's mind.
Her eyes widened so sharply it looked like her soul had been stabbed open.
Because she understood.
That was High Valyrian.
That was—
the words Jaqen H'ghar had spoken.
All men must die.
This "doctor"…
Who the hell was he?
Odin's lips curled just a little higher.
He hadn't expected this either.
Two years ago, back when the body's former owner was still in Harrenhal, he'd learned those words by accident—from some prostitute's pillow-talk.
And now?
They were worth their weight in gold.
The Northmen, of course, didn't understand a word of Valyrian.
All they saw was Arya frozen stiff, as if she'd been stunned into silence—
which, in their simple minds, could only mean one thing:
She was scared.
She was guilty.
"Hahaha! She's got nothing to say now!"
Regg crowed triumphantly.
"Doctor, stop wasting time!"
"Do it!"
"Use the most vicious way you know—make her scream, make her cry!"
"I want to see how long that wild dog can keep his mouth shut!"
"Yes!"
"Do it!"
"Make her pay!"
Weapons waved.
Voices rose.
The camp turned feverish.
A storm of ugly excitement gathered and focused on one point:
Odin—
and the small bound girl.
Odin was shoved forward, stumbling slightly.
His face remained blank.
He simply reached for Arya, moving as if to undo the ropes binding her—
And then—
A furious roar ripped through the trees.
"STOP!"
"You damned SOUTHERN RAT!"
"What do you idiots think you're doing to Lady Stark?!"