Chapter 44 — You Owe Me a Favor
"She's mine, Healer!"
Even though his strength was spent—so drained he could barely stay upright—the Hound still forced himself forward.
He staggered one step ahead, dragging his heavy longsword up with him, and planted himself directly in front of Arya, blocking her completely with his body.
His show of menace was almost convincing.
Almost.
The sword shook faintly in his one-handed grip, the tip trembling as it pointed straight at Odin. Yet Sandor bared his teeth and roared anyway, forcing rage into his voice.
"Take one more step and I'll kill you… just like I killed that bastard!"
Odin didn't mock him.
He didn't sneer at the Hound's obvious weakness, even though it was plain to anyone with eyes.
He only walked forward—slowly, steadily—until he reached the closest distance Sandor would tolerate.
Then, calm as ever, he swung down from his horse.
Shing—
Steel hissed against leather as Odin drew his sword.
Not his own, technically.
It had belonged to Stour.
"No!"
The moment Odin advanced with the blade in hand, Arya screamed.
She lunged forward and clutched Sandor's armored boot with both arms like her life depended on it.
"He's helping me! It's him!"
She shouted desperately, forcing the words out before the situation exploded again.
"He told me to make chaos after dark! He told me to convince Halsen to turn on Stour!"
After the blood she'd just seen—after Halsen's death—Arya had finally learned something important:
explain first.
fight later.
"What…?"
Sandor's one good eye flickered with shock. He looked down at Arya, then snapped his gaze back to Odin.
His mind raced.
He replayed everything that had happened during the day—the infighting, the way events had twisted perfectly toward collapse—
And slowly, unwillingly… he tasted the shape of the truth.
But just as the Hound started to lower his guard—
Odin still didn't stop.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink.
Sword leveled, posture steady, he kept closing the distance—step by step—like an executioner walking to the block.
Not tall.
Not bulky.
Yet the pressure rolling off him felt heavier than armor.
"Don't come any closer!"
Even with Arya's explanation, the Hound's instincts screamed danger. His voice sharpened into a furious warning.
This time, Odin finally stopped—only a few steps away.
Sandor panted harshly, forcing his body to hold the shape of strength.
"I don't know why you helped us, Healer," he growled.
"But she's my prisoner. I'm taking her. Now. Immediately."
Only then did Odin speak.
"I did intend for that to happen," he said calmly.
Then—without the slightest change in expression—he added:
"But…"
His eyes rested on Sandor like he was weighing livestock at market.
"What do I get out of it, Lord Clegane?"
The Hound stiffened.
"Benefit?" he spat.
"The benefit is you don't die here for nothing. Is that not enough?"
"Oh?"
Odin tilted his head slightly, as if actually considering the offer—thoughtful, almost polite.
That expression made Sandor believe he'd succeeded.
That the Healer had finally decided not to gamble with death.
Sandor turned, intending to leave—dragging Arya with him.
Then Odin's voice came again.
Soft. Flat.
"Not enough."
"…What?"
Sandor froze.
For a heartbeat, he thought he'd misheard.
He turned back slowly, staring at Odin like he was looking at a lunatic.
Odin met his gaze without flinching.
"I said…"
Odin lifted his gaze.
Moonlight filtered through the leaves above, catching in his eyes—so bright it looked almost unnatural.
For the briefest instant, the Hound felt as if this man had already peeled away flesh and bone… and seen straight through the disguise he'd wrapped around himself.
"The terms you offered… aren't enough."
Odin didn't bother reacting to whatever was flashing through Sandor's mind. He simply continued, voice calm and measured.
"I'm a man who enjoys making deals."
"But for a deal to mean anything… both sides must stand on equal ground."
He spoke lightly, almost casually—his eyes gliding from the trembling tip of Sandor's sword to the pallor in his face.
"And it's obvious, Lord Clegane…"
"What you're offering isn't fair."
Then Odin took another step forward.
That single step sent Sandor's heart plunging straight into his gut.
He knew it—his bluff was crumbling.
If this were any other day, he could break men like Odin in half with one arm.
But now?
Now he'd burned every last scrap of strength.
He hadn't eaten in three days.
Sandor clenched his jaw and made one final attempt to talk his way out.
"I don't have gold dragons for you. Not a single coin."
"Before those bastards caught me, Beric Dondarrion robbed me clean."
"Their precious Brotherhood doesn't know how to lose with honor—lost the tourney, then confiscated most of my winnings. Left me only my horse and armor."
His voice turned bitter, furious—humiliated.
"If they hadn't done that, I wouldn't have spent three goddamn days starving!"
Sandor explained it like it mattered—because instinctively he believed Odin was here for one thing:
the four thousand—no, forty thousand—gold dragons.
But the answer Odin gave made him freeze.
"No. No…"
Odin slowly shook his head.
"Forty thousand gold dragons is tempting, yes."
"But I'm not here for that."
"Dondarrion and his Brotherhood are nearly untouchable in the Riverlands. I have no reason to stick my hand into a wolf's jaws."
Then his gaze drifted—Sandor… Arya… then back again.
Odin grinned.
"What I want is you."
He paused, amused by the correction.
"Or rather… I want both of you."
"To owe me a favor."
The demand hit Sandor like a fist to the skull.
A favor…?
He blinked, genuinely stunned.
What kind of lunatic demanded a favor at swordpoint?
He had expected something real.
Armor. Weapons. A kill order. A specific mission.
But this?
"A favor"?
Sandor stared at Odin's calm face and felt something cold crawl up his spine.
This Healer was stranger—more dangerous—than he had assumed.
"…Fine."
Sandor didn't understand it, but he didn't want to stay near this man for another second.
"I owe you a favor. Both of us do."
"Now we're leaving."
He grabbed Arya's arm and turned to go.
"Wait…"
As expected, Odin's voice came again—like a curse chasing him.
Sandor snapped.
"What now?!"
His temper finally blew through exhaustion, through pain, through restraint.
"This damned Healer is more annoying than the Mountain!"
But Odin's tone remained perfectly even.
"You weren't serious, Lord Clegane."
"That answer was careless."
"It means you didn't grasp the weight of what you just promised."
Then Odin said the line that made Sandor's annoyance curdle into something darker.
"You didn't even ask my name."
"Enough!"
Sandor felt like his skull was going to split.
"I remember! I'll remember, damn you!"
"No," Odin said quietly, shaking his head.
"You won't."
"People forget—especially what they don't want to remember."
His eyes sharpened.
"I need you to remember this favor for the rest of your life."
"And when I call for payment—no matter what…"
"You will repay it."
He stepped forward again.
"So to make sure it stays burned into your mind…"
Odin moved.
Fast.
His sword flashed forward—
CLANG!
Sandor reacted purely on instinct, throwing up his blade with everything he had—
Only to find nothing in front of him.
His heart lurched.
He spun—
And saw Odin's blade locked perfectly against another sword that had silently stabbed out of the shadows beside him.
Odin twisted his wrist, knocking the strike away.
Then he tilted his head toward the darkness, grinning like he'd been expecting it all along.
"You're late."
He spoke with teasing ease.
"What—did your iron leg rust over?"
"…Captain Walton?"
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