Chapter 120: The Season of Farewell
Oberyn Martell eventually disappeared around the corner of the long street. Odin withdrew his gaze, and as he turned back, he saw Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth already walking toward him side by side.
Jaime's face was still pale. The sword that had been knocked from his hand had been retrieved by a servant and now hung once more at his waist.
"Sorry, Odin." Jaime spoke first, his voice hoarse, his expression faintly dim. "I still… didn't manage to help. I almost became a burden instead."
"You once told me, back on the river road, that staying alive matters more than being a hero. Looks like I was never meant to be one."
He let out a self-mocking chuckle. "If only my right hand were still—"
"This hand is fine. It suits you."
Odin cut him off before he could finish. He took Jaime's right hand and raised it between them.
Jaime froze.
Under the torchlight, the golden hand gleamed brilliantly, every scratch from the earlier clash still visible.
"You remembered what I said. That's good."
Odin released his hand, then placed a steady grip on Jaime's shoulder.
"But let me tell you something else. Great men are not born great—they grow into greatness."
"When you stepped in front of me just now and faced the Mountain, I saw that potential in you."
"It has nothing to do with which hand holds your sword. It depends on why you fight… and how you rise after you fall."
He paused, then added with a hint of teasing warmth, "Though honestly, that left-handed sparring partner of yours must be terrible. You've trained this long and still haven't improved much."
"Come here every morning starting tomorrow. I'll spar with you myself. You've had knightly training since childhood—you just need time to adapt."
Jaime listened, and something softened in him. A genuine smile surfaced—one that hadn't appeared in a long time.
He had slain the Mad King and been branded Kingslayer. Captured, maimed, stripped of honor and pride in the mud of the Riverlands…
Perhaps all of it—every hardship—had been necessary just to lead him here.
But after a long silence, Jaime slowly shook his head.
"No, Odin."
His gaze drifted past Odin's shoulder, toward the dark northern sky.
"I'm going north. To the Wall."
Even Odin was caught off guard. "The North? Now? Moat Cailin is still in Ironborn hands, and the situation isn't stable. Tywin Lannister won't—"
"This is my decision."
Jaime interrupted him, his voice firm despite the faint curve of self-mockery on his lips.
"The Mountain was wrong about many things. But one thing he said was true—the king doesn't need a Lord Commander who can't even hold a sword."
"The white cloak… it's no longer an honor. It's a mockery."
"I endured the scorn of the Seven Kingdoms because I still had the strength to protect what I swore to defend—to cut down anyone who threatened it."
"But now… I no longer have that right. The king doesn't need me. And Cersei… doesn't need me either."
He clenched his left fist, speaking more openly than he ever had.
Odin understood—this was rare honesty from a man as proud as Jaime Lannister.
After a pause, Jaime's eyes sharpened.
"I want to meet someone."
"Who?"
"The one you mentioned before… a ranger of the Night's Watch."
"Qhorin Halfhand."
Jaime grinned, and for a moment, the fire of his youth returned.
"I want to see how a man who lost his sword hand became stronger with the other… how he became someone even wildlings fear."
"I want to know… in absolute ruin, what swordsmanship—what fighting—even means."
His voice carried a fierce clarity.
"I'd rather fight than rot in King's Landing—watching my hair turn white, watching everything decay… watching Joffrey Baratheon run wild, while my father turns people into numbers on a ledger."
"A lion that can't hunt… is cast out to die in the marsh. Isn't it?"
He raised a brow at Odin.
After a long silence, Odin spoke quietly.
"You've already made up your mind."
He didn't try to stop him.
Because what he saw in Jaime's eyes wasn't impulse. It wasn't escape.
It was a man broken from a great height, picking through the shattered pieces of himself… searching for something sharp enough to rebuild with.
That was a lion's courage.
"When do you leave?" Odin asked.
"After the wedding of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell."
"I'll stand my last watch."
Odin nodded. He understood.
That wedding would also be Jaime's farewell—to King's Landing, to the Iron Throne… perhaps even to his former self.
"Odin…"
Jaime suddenly looked at him seriously.
"If you can… keep an eye on Cersei."
"She's changing. Ever since Father tried to force her to marry Loras… she's become more reckless. She reminds me of Aerys II Targaryen."
"I know it's not easy. But if anyone can do it… it's you."
Odin didn't answer immediately. After a moment, he frowned deliberately.
"You're increasing my workload—and the risk is enormous, Jaime."
"This isn't something a bathtub full of gold dragons can repay."
He raised a brow slightly.
"You owe me another favor."
Jaime blinked, then laughed—tired, but bright.
"Another one, huh."
"Ever since you brought me out of the Riverlands, I've been drowning in debt anyway."
"A Lannister always pays his debts… though I doubt I'll ever finish paying you."
They looked at each other—and laughed.
There was helplessness in it. But also quiet understanding.
"Alright," Odin said finally. "I understand."
He gave Jaime's shoulder one last, firmer pat.
Some roads had to be walked alone.
Some answers had to be found alone.
Jaime Lannister—the golden lion of Casterly Rock—was breaking free from his gilded cage, heading toward the cold and the Wall… to rediscover himself through steel and snow.
Jaime said nothing more. He nodded once to Odin, once to Brienne, then turned and walked toward the Red Keep.
His white cloak fluttered in the night wind—still spotless, yet heavier than ever.
He didn't look back.
He never did.
A wounded lion does not retreat to hide.
It walks into harsher wilderness—to prove it can still hunt.
Odin and Brienne watched him go.
After a long while, Odin turned back—and found Brienne looking at him.
Her sapphire-blue eyes were clear now, no longer burdened by worry.
Only a quiet sense of release… and a trace of loneliness.
"Your swordsmanship," she said at last, her voice low but warm, "was excellent."
"It's far beyond 'basic' now. Much stronger than when you trained at Harrenhal. You have talent, Odin—more than any knight I've seen."
Odin smiled and bowed slightly.
"You taught me, Brienne."
"Every movement. Every technique. Even your exact words back then—I remember them all."
"A good teacher is worth ten years of blind effort."
For a moment, her lips curved into a simple, genuine smile.
"I'm glad," she said.
But soon, that softness faded, replaced by her usual resolve—though something deeper stirred beneath.
"I'm leaving too, Odin."
"Tomorrow."
He frowned. "That soon?"
She nodded calmly.
"You've surpassed me. I have nothing left to teach you."
"Staying here… would only mean stagnation—for both of us."
She glanced around at the lights of the Order Hall, at the clean streets of Flea Bottom beyond.
"This place is good."
"Better than Tarth."
She hesitated, then spoke more quietly.
"In Tarth, they call me 'Brienne the Beauty'… but I know what they mean."
"Here, people call me 'Lady Brienne'… even 'Ser.' There's curiosity, respect… but not mockery."
"This place is warm."
She paused, as if unused to speaking so openly.
Then her voice steadied again.
"Like Jaime… I don't belong in King's Landing anymore."
"Sansa Stark has found protection. She doesn't need a failed protector like me anymore."
As she spoke, Brienne turned her gaze northward—just like Jaime Lannister had—but hers was sharper, more resolute. Her grip tightened around her sword as she declared:
"I… am going to find Arya Stark."
"I swore to Lady Catelyn Stark—before the old gods and the new—that I would bring her daughters home to Winterfell."
"Lady Sansa Stark is safe for now. But Arya is still out there… wandering, perhaps in danger. I must honor my oath."
Her fist clenched slightly, her voice filled with unwavering resolve.
"And I will kill Stannis Baratheon. He murdered Renly. Kinslaying demands justice."
Odin listened in silence. He made no attempt to stop her.
He looked at her tall, upright figure… at the sense of purpose burning in her eyes.
She was a blade of integrity—like the sword she carried—driven to uphold her vows.
Her path was clear. Dangerous, perhaps… but it shone with a light that was entirely her own, untouchable and pure.
"Then I wish you a safe journey, Lady Brienne."
Odin spoke solemnly, using a formal address.
"May you find the Stark girl. And as for the blood debt Stannis owes… someone will collect it."
He paused, meeting her gaze, his voice soft but firm.
"As for this place—the Hall of Order will always have a place for you."
"Not as a guest. Not as a subordinate. But as a friend… and a knight worthy of respect."
"I am not a knight," Brienne corrected quietly.
"Titles don't matter. Actions do."
Odin shook his head, his tone resolute.
"Whenever you return—so long as these lights are still burning—you'll have a seat here. A cup of wine… and a friend you can always speak to."
Brienne froze.
Her blue eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn't expected such words.
She said nothing—only nodded heavily. Her jaw tightened as always, but there was something different now.
After a long moment, she spoke again, her voice steady.
"Thank you. I… I'll remember that. If the gods are kind, and I fulfill my oath…"
She didn't finish.
Instead, she looked at him one last time—her gaze filled with something complex, something unspoken.
Then, like a true knight, she raised her right hand to her chest and gave him a perfect knight's salute.
Without another word, she turned and walked away—her steps firm and steady—toward her lodging, to prepare for her departure at dawn.
The night wind swept through once more, carrying the chill of late autumn… and scattering the last traces of blood and chaos from the entrance.
In the blink of an eye, the once-crowded doorway was left with only Odin standing alone.
Since arriving in this world, his two most important companions—one heading north to reclaim a shattered pride, the other setting out across the Seven Kingdoms in pursuit of a fading oath and vengeance—
Both had chosen their own paths.
Or perhaps… he had never truly possessed the wings to shelter them.
Three people. Three roads.
No embraces. No tears.
Only brief words… and the quiet respect between warriors.
The farewell was clean—like a blade cutting through air.
Odin felt no sorrow.
Only clarity.
In this world, everyone was a lone vessel, drifting through the stormy seas of power, each with their own course.
To walk together for a time was fortune.
To part ways… was inevitable.
Trying to bind everyone to your side would only lead to ruin.
"...Cold tonight."
A gust of wind passed. Odin tightened his cloak, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly.
A withered yellow leaf drifted down, landing gently in his palm.
"So… it's autumn."
He murmured, rubbing it lightly between his fingers.
The brittle leaf crumbled apart… turning to dust, falling back into the earth—feeding the buds of the next spring.
After a long while, Odin lowered his gaze and straightened his slightly disheveled coat, smoothing the black hand emblem on his cloak.
When he looked up again, all traces of warmth had faded from his face.
He turned back toward the brightly lit hall of Order.
The music, the laughter, the murmuring ambitions of those who remained—
That was his battlefield.
He stepped forward, returning calmly to the grand hall, a composed, confident smile reappearing on his face.
The moment he entered, the music faltered.
Conversations rippled and shifted.
Nearly every gaze turned toward him.
Under the watch of nobles, merchants, knights, and commoners alike, Odin walked unhurriedly to the center platform and raised one hand.
Silence fell.
His eyes swept across the crowd—each face carrying its own thoughts, its own schemes.
Then he cleared his throat, his voice ringing clearly through the hall:
"Lords, knights… and friends of the Black Hand."
"I have a very, very important announcement to make…"