Chapter 36 — Shameless Odin
That abrupt voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
For a moment, everyone froze—then instinctively turned toward the sound.
Odin was standing not far away.
No one had even noticed when he'd arrived.
His arms were crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly as he shook it with an expression of genuine heartbreak—like a man who had just lost several hundred million in a single bad investment.
"What do you mean, 'such a waste'?"
The guard captain's irritation flared immediately. He frowned and barked harshly,
"This mad dog killed so many of our men! Falling into our hands is a blessing from the Old Gods!"
"Know your place, healer. Don't think saving Hogg gives you the right to speak loudly in front of me."
"Continue!"
With a sharp wave of his hand, he ordered the soldiers to proceed.
But Odin, instead of backing off, kept his arms folded and began making exaggerated clicking sounds with his tongue.
"Tsksktsktsktsk…"
"Godsdamn it!"
The guard finally snapped.
He spun around, yanked his sword free with a metallic rasp, and pointed it straight at Odin.
"You'd better explain yourself, you bastard. And if your answer doesn't satisfy me, I swear you'll go to the Seven Hells before that wild dog does!"
Odin merely shrugged.
He didn't even bother arguing.
He didn't even look at the man.
Instead, he strolled forward at an unhurried pace—slow enough to be infuriating—until he was only a few steps from the Hound.
Only then did he stop.
"I've heard of this one."
He spoke casually, as if discussing a piece of livestock at market.
"Sandor Clegane. Tywin Lannister's hound."
The soldiers paused, uncertain.
Odin continued, voice level, calm, almost conversational:
"They say he killed a man when he was twelve."
"They say he once served as King Joffrey Baratheon's Kingsguard."
"And during the Battle of the Blackwater, he did quite a bit of heavy lifting."
His gaze slid over the Hound's ruined face.
"Later, he was stripped of his white cloak for publicly insulting the king… and for desertion."
"I wasn't a deserter!"
The Hound exploded.
He spat viciously onto the ground, eyes burning with rage.
"At the Blackwater I killed more enemies than any of them!"
"I was just sick of bleeding for those so-called 'great lords'!"
"I threw away that white cloak myself—"
"—and that cloak was filthier than dog shit!"
His roar echoed through the trees like thunder.
But the Northmen didn't even blink.
They simply stared at him with cold, dead eyes—like wolves watching a trapped beast.
They weren't merciful men.
Not after losing their lord. Not after burying comrades.
And certainly not when none of them had ever been the soft-hearted type.
"We don't have time for your pathetic sob story, traitor!"
The guardsman spat—his phlegm landing squarely on the Hound's body—then turned and snapped at Odin:
"Hurry it up, boy. If I hear even one more useless word out of your mouth, I swear I'll shut it for you. My patience is thin."
This time, the threat worked.
Odin finally stopped dragging it out.
"I said… it's a waste."
He repeated it, voice heavier now, sweeping his eyes across the gathered Northmen.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Not long ago—back when King Robert was still alive—he held a grand tourney to welcome Lord Eddard Stark to King's Landing."
He nodded toward the hanging man.
"And this Sandor Clegane… was the champion."
Odin paused deliberately, studying their faces.
Blank stares.
Total confusion.
Gods, these Northmen were stubborn as rocks—couldn't bend their thinking even an inch.
So Odin sighed and spelled it out for them.
"If I recall correctly…"
"The champion's prize… was forty thousand gold dragons."
The camp exploded.
"WHAT?!"
"Forty thousand?!"
"How many times could you visit the Red Mill with that kind of coin?!"
"I heard Tywin Bloody Lannister's shits are gold—if I had that much money, I'd have my saddle made of pure gold!"
"Bullshit! I heard Tywin's toilet is gold!"
"No, no—you idiots! Tywin doesn't just own gold toilets, he shits gold!"
The moment the number hit them, it was as if a fuse had been lit.
Forty thousand.
That was beyond imagination.
Forget soldiers—forget loot—forget raiding villages.
That was enough to raise an army of ten thousand men.
Enough to buy Karhold outright and still have coin left over.
Men died for far less.
In a heartbeat, greed sparked in every pair of eyes like wildfire.
Even the guardsman—Regg—was breathing hard now, staring at Sandor like he was a walking treasure chest.
"Where's the gold, Hound?!"
Regg lunged forward and began patting him down violently, tearing open his filthy leather, yanking at every strap and pouch, digging through every fold of clothing—
Nothing.
Sandor had nothing on him but dried blood, mud, and misery.
Not even a copper.
"Regg, you moron!"
Another soldier hissed.
"Do you even know what forty thousand dragons looks like?! Who carries that around on their body?!"
"So… he spent it all?"
"Bullshit!" someone shouted. "The tourney wasn't that long ago—less than a year!"
"Even if he bathed in gold every day, he couldn't spend forty thousand!"
"That's right!"
Regg slammed a palm against his own head, as if enlightenment had struck him.
"Then the bastard hid it!"
He pointed at Sandor like he'd cracked the code.
"He hid the gold—somewhere only he knows!"
That conclusion spread instantly through the crowd like plague.
It was too perfect.
Too satisfying.
And above all—too profitable.
The beating began.
Fists.
Boots.
Sword pommels.
Wooden clubs picked off the ground.
All of it raining down on Sandor's body.
"Speak!"
"Where's the gold?!"
"Tell us or I'll peel you alive!"
"Hit him harder! Break him until he talks!"
But Sandor Clegane was pure stubbornness.
Pure pride.
He endured the brutality without giving them a single syllable.
Because yes—he had won.
And yes—he had possessed a fortune.
But it had all been stolen by Beric Dondarrion—that bastard who deserved to burn in all Seven Hells.
They'd taken everything.
Coin, valuables, even food.
They'd left him only his horse and his weapons.
That was why he'd been starving—two full days without a proper meal.
That was why he'd been caught.
And could he admit that?
Could he, the infamous Hound—the terror of children and soldiers alike—tell these Northmen that his money was stolen and that hunger made him weak enough to lose?
That he'd been dragged here like a stray animal and hung up for interrogation?
That humiliation was worse than death.
And the part where he beat Dondarrion in the tourney?
Please.
Who would believe that?
Sandor clenched his teeth and decided he'd rather die than talk.
His ugly eyes didn't dim.
They burned hotter.
The beating continued. The Northmen grew more frantic, more impatient.
And the longer Sandor refused to speak, the uglier their fury became.
It was clear where this was heading.
If this kept going, Sandor would be beaten to death—and they still wouldn't get a single coin.
On the ground nearby, Arya Stark—still bound and tossed aside like baggage—finally couldn't take it anymore.
She gritted her teeth, searching desperately for an excuse inside her own pride.
His life is mine to take…
That could be her justification.
That could be her "honor."
But just as Arya was about to speak—
That hated healer's voice rang out again.
"STOP!"
"Don't hit him anymore!"
"If you beat him to death, you still won't get a single copper."
The soldiers hesitated, their arms suspended mid-swing, turning toward him in confusion.
Odin stepped forward calmly, as though he were stopping children from ruining a butchered carcass.
"Still don't understand?"
He extended a finger and pointed, unshakably steady—
Not at Sandor.
But at Arya.
"A loyal Lannister hound…"
"Why would he be traveling with the North's king's sister?"
His lips curled into a thin, icy smile.
"Obviously… this girl matters to him."
He glanced back at Sandor, then at the soldiers, his voice low and poisonous.
"We don't need to waste our strength breaking a hard dog…"
"We only need to…"
His smile sharpened.
"…take good care of Lady Stark—"
"Right in front of him."
---