Chapter 18 — No Friends
"You may call me Odin, my friend."
The farmer and the knight clasped hands—
a gesture that bridged class, history, and bloodshed.
For a brief moment, both men shared a weary smile…
…until raised voices shattered the quiet.
They turned simultaneously.
Across the clearing, Brienne and Iggo stood locked in argument over a man collapsed at their feet—broad-shouldered, noseless, barely breathing.
His chest rose and fell in shallow jerks; not dead, but close.
---
"I struck him first!"
Brienne's back was straight as an oak trunk, her voice firm and absolute.
"I broke his collarbone with the flat of my blade.
He lost the strength to fight.
Final claim belongs to me."
Iggo folded his muscular arms, face expressionless.
"Wrong."
"Your strike made him stumble. I finished it—"
he tapped his own forehead, indicating the spot—
"a single blow with the pommel.
He dropped like a butchered lamb.
So, he is mine."
Brienne's jaw tightened.
"I clearly remember landing the first decisive hit."
"Your memory fails," Iggo replied flatly.
"In the Dothraki Sea, women remember less than men.
Sometimes they cannot even recall who lay with them the night before.
Perhaps you should think harder."
A vein pulsed in Brienne's temple.
"You crude Dothraki oaf—your brain is walnut-sized at best.
Say it again.
He. Is. Mine."
The two circled the unconscious man like rival hounds quarreling over the same bone—
half comical, half terrifying.
Odin and Jaime exchanged a look.
In each other's eyes they saw the same thing:
resignation, amusement, and a dull headache forming.
They moved forward as one.
---
"Iggo."
Odin's voice wasn't loud,
but Iggo stopped mid-retort as if someone had yanked on a chain.
He stepped back at once, taking position half a step behind Odin—silent, waiting.
Jaime placed a hand on Brienne's arm—
only for her to jerk away as if burned.
"The knight's code is clear," she snapped.
"Right of finishing blow belongs to the first disabling strike. It should be mine."
Jaime opened his mouth to reply—
but Odin spoke first.
He had meant to let her have the man, end the squabble cleanly…
until he saw whose face lay buried in the dirt.
Recognition flickered in his eyes—sharp, intentional.
---
"This man," Odin said quietly,
"must come with me.
He is… useful.
And in earlier matters, he served his purpose well."
Jaime blinked in surprise, glancing down at the noseless man—Rorge.
But the knight did not question it.
He turned to Brienne, voice low.
"Let Odin take him, Brienne.
He saved our lives."
Brienne swung toward Jaime, breath catching—ready to argue—but her gaze fell on the ridiculous bow tied neatly around his bandaged stump.
Words died in her throat.
A beat of silence.
Then she stepped back.
Odin dipped his head in brief gratitude, then turned to Iggo:
"Carry him. Alive.
We'll need him."
Iggo nodded once.
The matter was settled.
And somewhere behind Odin's calm gaze,
a deeper plan clicked into place—
one that required a man with no nose
…still breathing.
Iggo didn't argue.
He hoisted Rorge's heavy body onto a horse as if tossing a grain sack—rough, efficient, final.
"Time to move."
To cut through the lingering tension, Odin clapped his hands once, forcing a wry grin.
"We still need to get back to King's Landing—and claim that bath-tub of gold dragons I'm owed."
Jaime let out a short laugh—
but it faded as quickly as it came.
His gaze sharpened toward Odin.
"Tell me then… Odin."
"How do you plan to get me past the Northern encirclement?"
"We're stuck between Riverrun and Harrenhal—right under Roose Bolton's nose. And in front of us? Thousands of Northern soldiers."
Odin drew breath to answer—
—but Brienne cut in first, stiff-backed and certain:
"I will take you to King's Landing, Kingslayer."
"If I must, I will cut a road through with my own sword.
It is my duty."
Her voice rang with blunt conviction—almost like she was announcing her rightful claim to Jaime himself.
Odin only gave her a sidelong glance.
"One warrior against thousands of Northerners? Admirable courage, my lady."
"Unfortunately—courage alone won't get us five leagues."
He meant it as a caution.
She heard it as a challenge.
Brienne's jaw clenched.
"At least I can swear my life to his safety.
I will not put my faith in some peasant who speaks only of profit and gold."
At that, something cold flickered behind Odin's eyes.
The woman had honor—no one could deny that.
But gods, she was unyielding to the point of blindness.
"And what about you, Brienne of Tarth?"
He stepped forward—not cruel, but deliberate—stripping away the last of her armor of certainty:
"You swore to protect Renly Baratheon—and he died."
"You swore to Lady Catelyn Stark, to bring Jaime to King's Landing and trade him for her daughters—and where did that vow lead you?"
"If not for this 'profit-seeking peasant,' as you call me—
you and your sacred mission would already be trussed up like livestock and dragged to Harrenhal to warm Roose Bolton's purse."
"Your oaths—what guards them, Brienne?
Your sword?
Or just your tongue?"
The color drained from her face.
The words hit her where she was weakest—
where she was most honest.
Her hand flew to her sword-hilt.
"You dare—!"
"Enough, Brienne."
Jaime's voice cut through her fury like cold steel.
He seized her wrist before the blade could clear its scabbard.
"To bare steel at the man who just saved our lives—
is that your knightly code?"
Brienne froze—breathing ragged, eyes bright with rage, hurt, shame—
a perfect storm of emotions swirling in blue.
Then she ripped free from Jaime's grasp,
dropped heavily to the ground,
and curled her arms around her knees like a furious, sulking child of two hundred pounds of stubborn.
She refused to meet anyone's gaze.
Jaime exhaled through his nose—equal parts frustration and fondness—then looked back to Odin.
Waiting.
Odin didn't spare Brienne so much as a second glance.
He wasn't petty enough to quarrel with a wounded pride.
Instead—
"After Vargo Hoat captured you," he asked Jaime evenly,
"where was he planning to take you for ransom?"
Jaime blinked—then the realization struck.
"Harrenhal."
The moment the name left his lips—
Brienne shot upright like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"I knew it!"
"You plan to sell us to Roose Bolton just like Hoat—
you're no better than that butchering swine!"
Odin didn't even sigh.
Arguing with a fool was harder work than arguing with a schemer—
but he had long accepted the world had more of the former.
"Sit back down, my lady," he said quietly.
"If gold were my goal,
delivering you safely to Tywin Lannister would fetch ten times what Bolton or Robb Stark could pay."
Brienne's lips parted—
no words came out.
"Then why—?" she finally forced.
"Because we have no choice."
Odin's tone was iron.
"To avoid Harrenhal, we must circle the God's Eye—adding three times the distance and five times the danger."
"And by the time we reached King's Landing—
the war would be over."
He let the silence settle like dust.
Then he looked Brienne straight in the eye.
"Either you trust me—
or you return to Riverrun alone and tell Lady Catelyn Stark
how you lost her final bargaining chip."
That broke her restraint.
She surged to her feet, grabbed Jaime's wrist, and dragged with all her strength:
"Come with me, Kingslayer!
This peasant is mad—
he'll get us killed!"
But Jaime did not budge.
She pulled harder—
nothing.
Her eyes widened.
Jaime's left hand—
only one he had left—
closed gently around her arm and patted once.
His voice was soft but unshakable:
"I trust him, Brienne."
"He is my friend."
"…just as you are."
That struck her like lightning.
For one heartbeat, her expression was raw—
unbelieving, wounded, vulnerable.
Then pride slammed down like a visor.
She jerked her arm away—
as though his touch burned.
"He is not my friend, Kingslayer."
"And neither are you."
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