Chapter 29: I Never Make a Losing Deal
Jaime's threat was the final straw—it broke Walton completely.
As the saying goes, only the man who frames you truly understands just how innocent you are.
If that bastard really made it back to his father and embellished everything that had happened in the Riverlands, dumping the blame squarely on Walton's head, the consequences would be unimaginable.
With the Lannisters' power, Tywin Lannister wouldn't even need proof. In fact, he wouldn't need anything—not evidence, not witnesses—only the desire to vent his anger for his eldest son.
That alone was far beyond anything Walton could survive.
Damn that Kingslayer—silver-tongued devil, spewing lies like poison!
The moment Walton truly imagined what awaited him, his face drained of color. His body began to tremble uncontrollably, cold sweat soaking his back.
Staring at Jaime, he forced out a defiant protest:
"This… this is Harrenhal! What you're doing is… challenging Lord Bolton's authority!"
He tried to sound firm, but his chattering teeth betrayed him completely. The threat carried no weight—only panic.
Odin noticed the crack in Walton's resolve immediately. Without a word, he reached up and lightly patted Jaime's thigh, signaling him to stop pushing.
The pressure was enough. Push any harder and it would snap the wrong way.
Odin stepped forward, deliberately softening his tone.
"Captain Walton, I believe we're all reasonable men here. There's no need to let a worthless life and a bit of unsavory personal resentment spiral into something irreparable."
"Lord Bolton's authority exists to eliminate threats and maintain order—not to help you settle grudges or brawl in his castle over a prostitute."
"Wells is a male prostitute."
Iggo cut in bluntly, unable to help himself.
Odin paused mid-sentence, then looked at Walton with mild surprise. Seeing no sign of embarrassment on the man's face, he simply shrugged.
In Westeros, such preferences weren't exactly rare.
And at least this world didn't have syphilis—probably safer than his previous life… hopefully.
Not dwelling on it, Odin shook his head and continued calmly, pressing while the iron was hot.
"Think about it, Walton."
He walked closer and, quite naturally, placed a hand on Walton's shoulder, speaking as though he were sincerely looking out for him.
"If this reaches Lord Bolton, do you think he'll commend your loyalty—or blame you for humiliating him in front of a guest as important as the Lannister heir?"
The words landed like a surgeon's scalpel—precise, cold, and devastating.
Walton lowered his head. After a long silence, he glanced at his subordinates, then drew a deep breath.
"I only know how to serve Lord Bolton," he said hoarsely. "I do my duty. As for the rest… I never thought about it."
His voice carried no anger now—only exhaustion and fear.
Hey—
this guy wasn't stupid after all.
Seeing Walton straighten his back and put on a show of righteous indignation, Odin couldn't help but reassess him slightly.
At least he had a brain. He knew that backing down too suddenly would strip him of all authority in front of his men, so he planted his feet and struck a pose—saving face as captain.
But really, he was only missing one thing.
A step to climb down.
Fine. Odin would lay the money down and give him that step.
"Just as I said before, Captain Walton—we're all respectable men here."
Odin tightened his arm slightly around Walton's shoulder and gave it a firm pat.
[Presence Lv.2] surged to its peak.
His tone softened, but the sense of total control only intensified.
"So here's a respectable solution."
He pointed at Rorge on the ground.
"This man—I'm taking him with me."
"He offended you. I promise you, he'll pay a price beyond what you can imagine. From this day forward, he'll fear you—and he'll never again touch anything or anyone you set your eyes on."
Odin's voice carried clearly across the yard.
People believed him instinctively.
Then he smoothly shifted topics, gesturing toward the horse beneath Jaime.
"As for this horse—this is clearly a misunderstanding."
"Perhaps Lord Bolton never specified which horse was to be gifted. Perhaps the stable hands made a mistake. But either way, continuing to argue over the ownership of a beast is beneath both our stations."
He deliberately repeated the word respectable, hammering it into Walton's mind.
Before Walton could respond, Odin reached into his cloak and pulled out a coin pouch.
He weighed it in his hand.
Clink. Clink.
The crisp sound of gold dragons colliding made the surrounding Northmen's eyes widen.
"There are thirty gold dragons here."
Without ceremony, Odin pressed the pouch into Walton's chest.
"Consider it my personal compensation to you—and payment for the horse."
"Take it. Forget this unpleasantness. Bring your men to the finest tavern in town. Eat well. Drink strong spirits."
"And please—don't think it's too little."
"Gulp…"
Walton stared at the heavy pouch in his hands and swallowed hard.
Too little?
Thirty gold dragons—and he was being told not to complain?
In the south, gold already carried absurd purchasing power.
In the North—where supplies were scarce and men lived hand to mouth—this amount was practically a month's operating budget for the Dreadfort.
"Odin… my lord… I… I really…"
He looked up at Odin's utterly sincere expression and found himself at a complete loss for words.
Yes, they'd looted plenty during the southern campaign—with Roose Bolton's tacit approval—but most of that wealth flowed straight upward.
Holding this much gold personally?
How could he not be shaken?
"Don't cry, Captain Walton."
Odin laughed heartily and gave his back a solid slap before stepping away. His calm gaze swept across the soldiers.
"I know you took a loss. But sometimes, when both sides lose a little—
it actually means everyone wins."
"Look—this way, we each make a small concession and resolve the conflict peacefully and with dignity. Compared to what could have happened… isn't this the wisest outcome?"
Walton swallowed again.
"Well… I only paid ten gold dragons for the horse…"
That's what he said—but his hands moved fast, stuffing the pouch into his clothes as if Odin might snatch it back.
Yeah, right, Odin thought.
That horse was sturdy, sure—but ten gold?
Two at most.
Still, his expression never changed. He nodded politely.
"As I said—we're respectable men."
"Yes! Exactly! Absolutely!"
Gold secured, Walton's fury evaporated instantly. His grin grew so wide it looked painful.
Now he looked at Odin the way a man looked at a long-lost father.
He stepped forward enthusiastically and mimicked Odin's earlier gesture, clapping him on the shoulder.
"We're respectable men, Lord Odin! From now on, you're my—Steelshanks Walton's—best friend!"
"Forget Rorge! Even if you wanted my wife, I'd scrub her clean and put her in your bed!"
"That won't be necessary," Odin said quickly.
"Anyway! If you ever need anything, just say the word! Everyone in the Dreadfort knows Steelshanks Walton is loyal to the bone!"
"Come on—let's drink!"
He shook the pouch proudly and waved his men away, striding off with great enthusiasm.
Notably, he didn't invite Odin—the man who paid—to join them.
Odin watched them leave, then finally turned to Iggo.
"Blood of my blood," he said calmly. "Take our man. We're leaving—now."
"Roose Bolton isn't someone who keeps promises. We move before he changes his mind."
Jaime nodded in full agreement.
Glancing at Rorge slung over Iggo's shoulder, he leaned closer and muttered with a smirk,
"That was a losing deal, Odin. That man isn't worth thirty gold dragons."
"Oh?" Odin replied, the corner of his mouth lifting knowingly.
"This world isn't owned solely by the Lannisters, Jaime."
"Just watch."
"I, Odin, never make a losing deal."