Chapter 26 — I Owe You a Debt, Lord Odin
"The wrist."
"I said—keep your wrist steady!"
Whether out of embarrassment or sheer pride, Brienne chose to ignore Odin's earlier teasing.
She strode forward in that ill-fitting powder-blue gown, snatched the long sword from his hands without the slightest hesitation, and in that moment—everything changed.
Yes, the dress clung awkwardly to her powerful frame.
Yes, the sight of it was nearly farcical.
But once steel touched her palm, Brienne of Tarth was no longer a woman in a dress.
She was a knight.
Her stance settled—weight rooted, hips turning, shoulders driving.
She whipped the blade through the air with economical precision.
"Watch closely."
Her voice was low, clipped, and serious.
There was nothing fancy in her movements—no theatrical flourishes, no waste.
Only force, control, and clarity.
Each cut carried the same flow:
ground → waist → shoulders → arms → blade
—momentum passing through her body as though her bones were forged from iron.
Steel hummed through the air.
Chips of wood flew.
The practice post shuddered beneath her strikes.
Compared to that effortless unity, Odin's own attempts suddenly felt childish—
like a boy swinging a stick at shadows.
But envy never touched his face.
Because he knew exactly who Brienne was.
Brienne of Tarth—the woman whose swordsmanship had once humbled even Jaime Lannister himself.
Few men alive could stand equal to her in earnest combat.
Odin remained silent, eyes sharp.
With Insight Lv1, he saw the real difference—not just in strength or grace, but in how she moved her center.
Every strike began before her arms even shifted, driven from the ground and spine like a drawn bowstring.
After several minutes, Brienne finished with a final downward cut that bit deep into the post.
She hadn't even broken a sweat.
With a casual motion, she tossed the sword back to Odin—just as naturally as breathing.
"The Dothraki favor the arakh," she said, turning to Iggo without looking at Odin.
"Good for chopping and horseback skirmishing.
But a knight's sword requires structure—footwork, stance, and disciplined power."
Her gaze flicked to Iggo, steady and stern—not mocking, simply factual.
"I'm not questioning your teaching.
But if the fundamentals are wrong from the start, they'll harden into habit.
Later, breaking them hurts more than starting fresh."
"And if he ever becomes a true knight, he won't be fighting unarmed peasants.
He'll be striking at iron."
Iggo's jaw tightened—momentary displeasure flashing across his dark features.
But the logic was undeniable, and after a long breath through his nose, he grunted his acceptance.
He knew the truth as well as anyone:
a curved blade could do little against plate.
Odin ignored their exchange.
He stood still, eyes closed, replaying every motion Brienne had shown.
The breath of her steps.
The twist of her hips.
The path of her power.
Only after a long silence did he open his eyes again.
This time, when he raised the sword, his movements were still clumsy—yet undeniably improved.
The blade no longer drifted like an orphaned feather.
It carried weight.
It followed intention.
The difference was small—barely visible to most.
But Brienne saw it at once.
She did not interrupt.
She merely watched, blue eyes following every attempt, her expression unreadable—
save for the faintest glimmer of approval.
For a farmer, his talent was… respectable.
Not exceptional—not compared to the heights she had once climbed—
but more than many knights who'd trained since childhood.
And even if she refused to admit it aloud,
Brienne of Tarth knew—
Odin was learning.
Brienne had once broken Ser Humphrey Wagstaff's ribs—three of them—when she was only sixteen.
For her, strength and precision were not gifts, but years of sweat and bruises.
Odin, on the other hand, had picked up the sword far too late to ever reach such heights.
He might never carve his name into the annals of Westerosi knighthood—but with perseverance, perhaps one day he could pass for a competent knight.
Perhaps.
These were the thoughts circling Brienne's mind when she suddenly felt a stare burning into her side.
She turned.
Iggo's dark eyes blazed with something like admiration… or was it awe?
Brienne's brows twitched.
"…lunatic."
The sheer intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable, but she bit her tongue and kept her attention fixed on Odin's training rather than start a scene.
By the time the fog thinned and sunlight washed the yard, Odin finally stopped.
He had pushed himself far harder than any beginner should.
His arms felt like molten lead—too heavy to lift.
His fingers trembled.
His breath came in ragged heaves.
With a dull clang, the sword slipped through his numb grip and fell to the dirt.
Odin dropped beside it, sitting without dignity or grace, gasping for air.
Only then did he realize his padded jerkin was drenched through—sweat clinging to his skin like a second shirt.
After a long moment, he lifted his head and smiled at Brienne—worn-out, but genuine.
"Thank you, Lady Brienne.
Your guidance was… invaluable."
Brienne stood tall, the morning light stretching her shadow across him.
For a heartbeat, something gentle flickered across her stern features.
She shook her head slowly, voice low yet steady:
"It wasn't exceptional.
Any trained knight could have shown you the basics, Lord...Odin."
The honorific came stiffly, as though it caught in her throat.
"But your resolve is admirable.
If you continue like this, I believe you will amount to something someday."
Her sincerity made Odin laugh aloud—bright and unguarded.
He shot Iggo a triumphant look.
"You hear that, blood of my blood? I do have a future in swordsmanship."
Iggo shrugged with the stoicism of a man who would rather die than gush with praise.
Brienne allowed herself the faintest smile—quickly smothered.
Then her expression shifted—uncertainty, pride, guilt, all warring behind the blue of her eyes.
She drew a steadying breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward.
"Lord Odin… I owe you an apology."
The words were heavy—dragged from deep within.
She continued, voice unwavering though her gaze lowered in humility:
"Ser Jaime told me everything.
To secure my freedom, you surrendered the gold, the lands, the title Lord Bolton promised you."
Brienne bowed—deeply, formal as any knight at court—
to a sweat-stained man sitting in the dirt.
"You are a man of honor.
Please accept my apology for misjudging you."
The scene was absurd to behold: a statuesque woman in a too-small embroidered gown
bowing to a scrawny swordsman who could barely lift his arms.
Yet Odin showed no embarrassment—only a widening grin.
He didn't hurry to stand, nor did he pretend humility.
He simply looked up at her and spoke evenly:
"Call me Odin.
And spare me apologies.
I've always preferred planning ahead to repenting afterward."
Those words struck Brienne like a mailed fist to the chest.
For the first time, she truly looked at him—
at the clarity in his eyes, the mind working behind them.
No wonder Jaime trusts him…
Odin shifted, straightening despite his exhaustion.
"The past is done.
Don't look back."
"And don't drown yourself in regret.
We came here as four—
we leave as four."
His voice deepened, carrying weight beyond his size:
"I told you—I never abandon a friend.
And someday… should I ever call upon my friends,
I hope they will answer with everything they have."
"Even if that day never comes."
He extended his calloused, cracked hand toward her.
Brienne hesitated—remembering her own words: "You are not my friend."
Shame tightened her chest.
But Odin's expression held no accusation—only sincerity.
At last, she grasped his forearm and hauled him to his feet with ease.
Her voice was soft—yet resolute:
"I owe you a debt, Lord Odin.
By the name of a warrior."
Thundering hooves broke the quiet.
They turned.
Jaime Lannister rode toward them, golden hair clean and shining, beard trimmed, looking every inch the storybook knight—aside from the bandaged stump of his right wrist.
He reined in his horse and whistled, one brow arched.
"Well, well—reconciliations and handshakes all round."
"Ladies, I must say—your fashion sense offends the Seven."
He flashed a rakish grin.
"Pack your things—we ride for King's Landing."
"And once we reach the Red Keep, I insist the royal tailors rescue you both from your wardrobe tragedies."