Chapter 38 — Need More Money!
As the shout fell—
A Northman strode in with heavy steps.
He was exceptionally tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of man who looked like he could wrestle a boar barehanded. He lifted off a slightly loose helmet, revealing a weather-beaten face carved with hard lines and harsher years.
Four soldiers followed behind him.
At the sight, Odin's lips curved faintly.
Because what he'd just done wasn't random provocation.
With [Insight Lv1], he'd already noticed something crucial:
These Karstark men weren't a single solid block.
Whether during the earlier fight, while resting, or even now while watching the interrogation—there were always three to five soldiers who unconsciously kept some distance from the majority.
Their expressions were colder.
Sharper.
And beneath that coldness, Odin had even caught something else—
a thin layer of contempt.
When Odin suggested using Arya to threaten the Hound, those men's faces had flickered with unmistakable disgust and anger.
And where there's disagreement…
There's a crack.
And where there's a crack—
there's leverage.
"Let's take a look!"
The tall soldier's voice boomed as he swept his eyes over the camp, dripping with ridicule.
"So this is what the brave warriors of House Karstark are doing now?"
"Gathering in a pack to bully an unarmed little girl?"
The scorn on his face was absolute.
Regg immediately stepped forward and blocked his path.
"Stop right there, Halsen!"
"We're questioning her about the gold dragons!"
"If you want a share, then stand aside and watch."
"But if you're stupid enough to refuse money, then don't stand there wagging your tongue at us like some damned septon."
Halsen snorted again, eyes filled with contempt.
"Smart. Truly smart, Regg."
"So all it takes is a stranger's random few words…"
"and some imaginary gold…"
"…and suddenly you're willing to put your hands on a helpless little girl?"
He pointed, voice sharpened like steel.
"Open your eyes and look properly."
"Her name is Arya Stark."
"The King in the North's own sister."
"Stark blood runs through her veins."
"They ruled the North for ten thousand years."
"They are respected by every man and woman who calls the North home."
"And you think your filthy hands are worthy of touching her?"
His tone turned colder with every word.
Then the final sentence dropped like a slap:
"Shameless."
The accusation was so righteous and clean it left Regg choking.
His face flushed red.
"You—!"
"I'm doing this for the brothers, don't you understand?!"
"How is that bullying?!"
Then came the stuttering, clumsy scrambling for excuses—
words like honor and gold dragons bouncing around the trees like pathetic shields.
The air itself became awkward.
Halsen sneered, about to press the knife deeper—
when a darker voice cut in from behind him.
"You've got quite the mouth on you, Halsen."
Halsen turned.
Haragg Stour.
The man who'd been tending to Hogg's wound had already walked over, sometime during the argument. Now he approached slowly, like a wolf circling into striking distance.
He stopped directly in front of Halsen.
The two men were nearly the same height, the same build—
and their auras collided without either yielding.
Stour's face was cold.
He spoke again, stepping closer, forcing the space between them smaller.
"So?"
"Feeling big now because you're a squad leader?"
"If you ever become captain of the Karhold guard…"
"will you start thinking House Karstark itself isn't worth respecting?"
His voice lowered—quieter, but far more dangerous.
And then he delivered the true warning:
"Don't forget who you serve."
"You serve the White Sunburst—"
"not Winterfell's damned direwolf."
He leaned in, eyes burning.
"What has House Stark ever given us?"
"That bastard—Robb Stark—cut off Lord Rickard's head with his own hands!"
Halsen narrowed his eyes slightly, meeting Stour's glare without flinching.
"Of course I haven't forgotten," he said coldly. "Not for a single moment have I forgotten Lord Rickard's vengeance."
Then his tone shifted—sharper, harder.
"If you want to hunt the Kingslayer for revenge, I'll follow."
"If you want to drag Lady Stark out and force Robb Stark to admit fault and repent, I won't interfere either."
"But humiliating and torturing a little girl right in front of me—using that kind of gutter filth?"
His voice rose, ringing with iron certainty.
"No."
"A Stark or not—it's still a child."
"And the honor of Karhold warriors does not tolerate that stain."
"Honor?" Stour burst into laughter as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the world.
"Ever since we left Karhold and marched south, you've stopped the brothers again and again from taking spoils, saying slaughtering those damned peasants 'isn't honorable.'"
"Fine."
"It was just a little money."
"I swallowed it."
Then his voice turned shrill—dangerously sharp.
"But today? These forty thousand gold dragons decide whether we live or die in the future!"
"They're our capital for revenge!"
"With that money I could buy a stretch of land big enough to become a lord—hell, I could even trade it for a Lord's title!"
His eyes burned, overflowing with naked greed.
"I'm taking that gold."
"Even the Seven can't keep it from me."
"That's my word!"
Halsen stared straight into those greedy eyes, his voice dripping with contempt.
"I knew it, Stour."
"You keep shouting about vengeance for Lord Rickard…"
"But deep down, this was never about vengeance at all."
"It's about money."
SHING!
The moment the last word landed, Stour's patience snapped.
Steel flashed—he ripped his sword from its scabbard and leveled it at Halsen.
"You want to test whether my blade is sharp?"
Halsen's expression didn't change.
His own sword slid free with a harsh whisper.
"My blade isn't dull either."
In an instant—
the camp turned into a powder keg.
Stour's men drew weapons as well. Regg looked like Christmas had come early—he raised his sword eagerly, practically begging for blood.
And behind Halsen, the four soldiers with him stepped forward without hesitation, blades in hand.
They were outnumbered—
but their pressure didn't weaken at all.
For a heartbeat, the air froze.
Steel reflected steel, cold light dancing across faces—
and the mood carried the unmistakable smell of no turning back.
But Odin saw it.
A flicker of hesitation passed through Stour's eyes.
Tch.
So it wasn't going to happen after all.
Odin gave a faint, disappointed shake of the head—then stepped forward.
"Stop."
The word cut cleanly through the tension.
"This isn't your business, you shameless bastard!" Halsen snapped, throwing Odin a murderous glance.
"Say another word and sooner or later I'll cut you down too!"
Stour also glared at Odin—
yet the tension in his eyes clearly eased.
Odin spread his hands calmly, as if he'd wandered into a tavern argument rather than a near-mutiny.
"I'm simply saying…"
"I have a solution that satisfies everyone."
"A solution?" Stour seized the chance like a man grabbing a lifeline.
He sheathed his blade in one clean motion, then demanded eagerly:
"What solution?"
"Let me return to my camp," Odin replied smoothly.
"In my luggage, I have certain… specialized medicines."
"They can pry open even the hardest mouth."
"In other words—"
"I can use them on the Hound alone."
"And I won't need to lay even a finger on Lady Stark."
As he spoke, Odin turned his gaze from one man to the other, placing the bait down gently—exactly where it would bite deepest.
"This way, Captain Stour gets the fortune he's dreamed of…"
"And Lord Halsen—"
"You protect honor, and you don't block your comrades from taking the 'spoils' they feel entitled to."
He smiled faintly.
"Isn't that perfect?"
Silence.
Long silence.
On both sides, faces began to shift—resistance softening into temptation.
The proposal was simply too sweet.
It didn't just resolve the deadlock—
it dissolved it.
Especially for Stour.
Since Lord Rickard's execution, he'd struggled to keep this unit together, clinging to what little authority he'd earned.
He'd tasted what it meant to be the one giving orders.
He didn't want to lose that.
And Halsen—
he wasn't here to spill brothers' blood over ideology.
He was here to stop atrocities and preserve dignity, not die in a pointless tantrum.
Halsen finally threw down a last warning like a knife.
"If I see any of you touch Lady Stark again—"
"You know what happens."
Then he turned, took his men, and returned to his earlier position.
A step back.
A staircase offered.
An exit given.
Stour's mood brightened instantly.
He slapped Odin on the shoulder with enough force to rattle bones.
"Healer—beautiful work!"
"Your brain's sharper than Maester Veyl's!"
Then without waiting for Odin's response, he snapped at Regg:
"You."
"Take four men and escort him back to get the medicine."
"Now."
"Yes, boss!" Regg answered eagerly, practically glowing.
Odin's heart settled.
No hesitation, no nonsense—he turned to leave.
But just as his foot took the first step—
Stour's voice rang again, this time laced with suspicion.
"Wait."
"Healer."
Odin paused, turned back slowly, wearing the exact kind of polite confusion that soothed nerves and lowered guards.
Stour squinted at him, scanning him like he'd finally noticed something off.
"You've done all this…"
"What exactly are you after?"
A lethal question.
Answer wrong—and everything Odin had built would collapse in an instant.
But Odin was Odin.
He smiled.
The calm professionalism on his face dissolved into something more… human.
Greedy.
Streetwise.
A little calculating.
And somehow, on that harmless-looking face—it became more convincing than honesty.
He laughed lightly.
"Ah."
"I forgot to mention, Captain Stour…"
"I love doing business."
"Whether it's saving Hogg…"
"or helping you solve a problem within my power."
He leaned in slightly.
"But let's be clear."
"I don't do charity."
Then he delivered the only reason that no one—no one—could question.
"If I really find out where those forty thousand gold dragons are…"
"Then the two hundred gold dragons you promised me earlier…"
He smiled wider.
"…won't be enough."
A beat.
Then he said it brightly, cheerfully—like a merchant discussing bread prices.
"You'll have to pay more."