Chapter 39 — Dizziness Is Normal
Movement in the distance immediately put everyone in the camp on alert.
Brienne and Iggo stepped forward with hands resting on their sword hilts. When they saw Odin walking at the front, their faces lit up with relief—
but the moment they noticed several Northmen trailing behind him, that relief instantly curdled into grim suspicion.
Brienne shot a quick look over her shoulder.
Jaime understood at once.
Without a word, he pulled the hood of his cloak up and lowered his head, hiding that too-conspicuous golden hair as he slipped back into shadow.
"Where's the medicine, healer?!"
Regg rode in at the front of the group, barking before he'd even reached them.
His voice was sharp with impatience, his eyes sweeping across the camp with arrogant contempt—like a man inspecting livestock.
The attitude made Brienne's temper flare immediately. She stepped forward, fingers tightening on her hilt—
but before she could speak, Odin urged his horse forward and arrived first.
"Easy now, Captain Regg."
He deliberately cut in ahead of Regg, wearing that same harmless, friendly smile—as if he were greeting old neighbors at a market.
His gaze flicked across his companions with lightning speed…
and then, almost imperceptibly, he made a small gesture over his chest.
Instantly, everyone's eyes sharpened with understanding.
Only then did Odin turn back to Regg and speak again.
"That mixture takes time to prepare," he said calmly. "The dosage has to be precise—off by even a little, and the result is completely different."
"If the Hound doesn't talk and we accidentally kill him instead…"
His smile didn't change, but his tone sharpened.
"…then those forty thousand gold dragons will vanish into smoke, and none of us get a single coin."
He shrugged lightly, as if discussing business terms.
"And I don't joke around with my own profits."
As he spoke, he strolled slowly toward the corner of the camp where a pile of luggage lay in deliberate, messy disorder.
Regg clicked his tongue in irritation.
But the moment the forty thousand gold dragons were mentioned, he swallowed his temper by force.
That reaction did not escape Odin's eyes.
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
He casually pointed toward an open spot beside the fire.
"The sun's down. Night winds get cold around here."
"Sit by the fire for a moment."
"I promise it'll be quick."
Iggo also grinned wide, all simple, earnest friendliness.
"Yes. Sit! Warm!"
He shifted his large body aside, clearing a path—so naturally that it almost felt rude not to accept.
Even Brienne, who had been ready to explode, stepped back and moved out of the way.
Under the group's apparently welcoming invitation, Regg glanced at the men behind him…
Even though they were all Northmen, if there was a fire to warm oneself by… who would choose to freeze outside the camp?
Besides, Regg hadn't taken Brienne's little group seriously from the start.
A sick man, a woman, a barbarian who could barely speak properly, and one who looked half-mute.
No matter how he judged it, it didn't look like a combination capable of threatening his side.
"Move."
With a flick of his hand, Regg led the way and sat down beside the fire.
Even so, their formation remained disciplined—backs to one another, naturally forming overlapping angles of defense.
Odin rummaged through his pack with apparent focus, pulling out bottles and jars, deliberately making clinking sounds as if busy preparing something important.
Regg and his men stayed wary, scanning the camp without speaking much.
A small pot hung over the flame, meat stew bubbling glug-glug, filling the air with a rich aroma.
Walton used a knife to hook pieces of meat out and split them into portions.
Everyone ate immediately—no one even bothered to wait for it to cool.
Even Jaime, sitting further away in the shadows, received a small piece.
Only Regg and the men he'd brought could do nothing but stare, swallowing hard.
"Here. Eat a bit."
Walton, noticing their embarrassment, speared a chunk of meat with his dagger and held it out to Regg.
So this bastard isn't mute after all…
Regg thought grimly.
The scent hit him like a punch. He swallowed again—then refused anyway, lifting a hand.
"No need. We brought rations."
At once, another soldier who had started to reach forward quickly pulled his hand back, awkwardly pretending nothing happened.
In the camp, the five Northmen gnawed their dry rations while glaring at Walton's group like starving wolves. You could practically hear their teeth grinding.
Only when Walton went glug-glug and drained even the last mouthful of stew did they finally relax.
And while their attention was trapped by the meat…
Odin, with his back to them, calmly slid a sharp surgical scalpel into his sleeve—letting it settle into his palm.
"Captain Regg," he said, still sounding busy, not even turning around. "I hear you're all from Karhold, right? Must be freezing up there?"
"Stupid question."
Regg tore into a piece of dry bread, snorting irritably.
"What part of the North isn't freezing?"
"You soft southern bastards wouldn't last a day in Karhold. I guarantee the cold would freeze your balls right off!"
Odin chuckled.
"Medically speaking, the freezing point of the human body is identical for everyone. Which means if it could freeze off my balls… it could freeze off yours too."
"The hell is that supposed to mean?"
Regg didn't understand a word of the "medical terms," but he argued on instinct anyway.
"We Northmen drink liquor that sets our blood on fire! We could stand naked in the wind a whole day and night and still be fine!"
Nearby, Walton almost laughed out loud.
"I see." Odin didn't argue further. Instead, he wandered toward Regg as though absentminded. "The North really is a marvelous place… just too cold."
"I've always wanted to see the Wall, you know. That great wonder at the edge of the world."
As he spoke, he reached Regg and sat down beside him as naturally as if they were old friends.
"Oh, right."
Odin tilted his head, smiling mildly.
"I can tell you're skilled with a blade, Brother Regg. Lords everywhere are desperate for men like you these days."
"When we get the gold… why not come with us to Duskendale?"
"Lord Rykker and Ser Finn are close. If you go there with money in your pocket, swear yourself to him—someone of your ability…"
Odin's voice grew warmer, more persuasive.
"Maybe Lord Rykker will be so pleased he makes you a Lord on the spot."
"A title. A castle."
"A wife. Children."
"Wouldn't that be better than rotting away in the freezing North?"
The image struck Regg like a hammer.
His hand trembled around the ration bread.
A Lord…
A castle…
His eyes flickered.
But he still forced out a shred of reason, pretending to resist.
"N-no… I've already sworn loyalty to House Karstark."
"Lord Rickard treated me well. Northern honor doesn't allow—"
PFFT.
Before he could finish, a cold, precise blade punched into the soft triangle beneath his ear, sliding in like it belonged there.
"Ghh—!!"
Regg's eyes bulged.
Blood burst out along the groove of the blade, spraying across Odin's sleeve in hot arcs.
At the same instant—
The four others moved.
One per man.
No shouting. No clanging steel. No drawn-out struggle.
It was so clean, so synchronized, it looked like a rehearsed stage performance.
Only a few heavy thuds answered the night as bodies collapsed into the dirt.
Still clinging to a fading sliver of consciousness, Regg finally realized—
At some point, without him noticing…
They had already closed in.
They had already positioned themselves.
And now it was too late.
His eyes rolled weakly toward Odin—toward the man who had been calling him "respectfully" only moments ago.
The world dimmed.
And somewhere, as if drifting down from a great distance, he heard a voice:
"Deep breath."
"Dizziness is normal."
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