Nerd In the North: Season 3, Ep 13 Outline (Patreon)

the forest was dense, shadowed, and silent except for the crunch of boots against frostbitten leaves. greg moved at the head of the column, his steps steady but his chest heavy with a frustration he couldn’t quite shake. six hundred men followed behind him and Ash, villagers turned soldiers, clutching spears and axes, their breaths fogging in the cold northern air. their faces were grim, a mix of fear and determination, and greg knew they had every right to feel both.

in truth, this was a bit less than half of the men he'd picked up, the other half following Guts as they took a different path to the Dreadfort.being packed too tightly was a bad idea, he knew that.especially when they were definitely outnumbered, compared to the thousands of men this "Leech Lord" definitely had.this was the best compromise he could make.

he rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache in his muscles from days of marching. his sword—his sword—still hung in the dreadfort, displayed like some kind of trophy. the thought made his blood boil, the anger simmering just beneath his skin. he flexed his fingers, heat sparking at his fingertips, and ash padded alongside him, the not-bear’s red eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.

the men behind him whispered sometimes, when they thought he couldn’t hear. about the “sorcerer boy,” the one who had torn through bolton men like they were paper. they whispered about the fire he wielded, about the beast at his side, and greg wasn’t sure if they followed him out of loyalty or fear. maybe both. maybe it didn’t matter.the first ambush hit hard and fast.

bolton scouts emerged from the trees, arrows slicing through the air like black streaks. the first scream cut through the cold, followed by the dull thunk of an arrow hitting flesh. greg snapped his head up, instincts kicking in before thought. he thrust out his hand and snarled, “ard!”

the air rippled with force, a concussive wave blasting through the underbrush. two men went flying, slamming into trees with sickening cracks. another scout charged at him, a short sword raised high, but ash was faster. the not-bear leaped, claws ripping into the man’s chest as he fell back with a gurgling scream.

“hold the line!” greg shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “close ranks!”

the villagers-turned-soldiers moved as best they could, shields raised and spears out. greg threw fire with altered Ignis—large blasts of flame that lit up the darkened forest, scattering the bolton men who weren’t fast enough to dodge. the smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air, sharp and acrid, but greg didn’t flinch.

the skirmish was over in minutes. the bolton men fled, disappearing into the trees, leaving behind their dead. greg stood in the clearing, his breath heavy, his hands trembling with residual magic.

“everyone alive, regroup,” he called, his tone clipped. “we keep moving.”----------------

second ambush hits them just as the forest begins to thin early the next morning, Greg spreading out a blessing from his Vestal memories to keep the men strong and energetic as they marched through most of the night.an arrow ambush hits themgreg reacts fast, using instinctive shadow magic and crushing several archers with shadow tentacles and aards.he had never used shadow magic before, his fragmented memories as Genji not really giving him much because the guy was shit at it, but it felt wrong, almost.as they marched, greg’s mind replayed the fight. the shadow magic had come to him instinctively, but its pull had felt...dangerous. addictive. he shoved the thought aside. whatever it took to get to bolton, he’d use it. he had no other choice.

he had to keep these men aive----------------

the third attack was worse.

the settlement looked abandoned, its huts dark and lifeless, the well at its center ringed with frost. greg’s men approached cautiously, weapons drawn, their eyes darting to every shadow. the village seemed empty, silent except for the crunch of boots on frozen earth.

and then the ground erupted in fire.

the explosion was deafening, a wave of heat and force that knocked greg off his feet. he hit the ground hard, his head spinning as shouts and screams tore through the air. the oil had been hidden well—barrels buried under the dirt, rigged to ignite with a single flaming arrow.

twenty men were gone in an instant, their bodies consumed by the blaze. greg pushed himself up, coughing as smoke burned his lungs, and saw the devastation. arrows rained down from the treeline, the bolts cutting down another seven before the men could retreat.

greg’s hands burned with golden light as he threw them out. a wall of fire roared to life between his men and the hidden archers, forcing them to fall back. the flames danced in his peripheral vision as he turned to the survivors, his voice raw.

“fall back! get to cover!” he bellowed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

the retreat was messy, frantic.

greg stayed at the rear, his hands glowing as he healed the worst of the injuries while they all moved. the golden light poured into torn flesh, sealing wounds and dulling pain, but it couldn’t bring back the dead.

----------

they reached another settlement by nightfall. this one was just as empty as the last, but greg didn’t trust it. he ordered sentries posted, every corner of the village watched. ash prowled the perimeter, his red eyes glowing like embers in the dark.

greg crouched beside one of the injured men, his hands glowing faintly as he worked to heal a jagged cut across the soldier’s thigh. the man winced but didn’t pull away, his expression a mix of pain and awe.

“you’ll live,” greg said shortly, rising to his feet.

the sound of heavy footsteps made him turn, and he stiffened instinctively until he saw who it was. guts stepped into the firelight, his massive frame casting a long shadow. the towering warrior looked as battered as greg felt, but his eyes were sharp, and the faint smirk on his face was as unshakable as ever.

“figured i’d find you here,” guts said, his voice a low rumble. he gestured to the men trailing behind him—six hundred more, his half of the force. 

greg stood, wiping his hands on his tunic. “didn’t think you’d take this path.”

guts shrugged. “roads lead where they lead. besides…” he glanced at the wounded men greg had been tending to. “looks like you could use the help.”

greg exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. “about time you showed up.”

guts chuckled, the sound dry. “looks like you’ve had fun without me.”

greg snorted. “if you call losing men fun.”

“they knew what they signed up for,” guts said, his tone matter-of-fact. then he clapped greg on the shoulder, the force of it nearly knocking him forward. “but you’re still standing. that’s what matters.”

greg didn’t answer, his gaze shifting to the darkened treeline. the dreadfort wasn’t far now, and he could feel its shadow pressing down on him like a weight. his sword was there, and so was roose bolton. whatever came next, greg knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t leaving until the bastard was dead.

------------

the night settled over the abandoned settlement like a shroud, the kind of quiet that prickled at greg’s nerves. the air was still, the faint crackle of campfires the only sound. his men were scattered across the ruins, huddled in small groups, their voices hushed.

greg sat near one of the fires, ash at his side, the not-bear’s glowing red eyes scanning the darkness. he leaned back against a crumbling stone wall, trying to shake the nagging feeling crawling up his spine. the shadows seemed too long, the quiet too heavy.

“you’re wound tighter than a spring,” guts muttered, seated across from him. his massive blade rested against his shoulder, its jagged edge catching the firelight. 

greg exhaled through his nose. “We’re too exposed.”

guts smirked, leaning back as if the world itself wasn’t worth worrying about. “We don’t have walls. Of course we’re exposed. It’s war.”

greg didn’t answer. his hand absently brushed ash’s fur, the not-bear huffing softly in response. he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to will away the tension.

and then it came—the whistle of an arrow splitting the air.

“down!” greg shouted, throwing up a quen sign instinctively. the blue barrier flared to life just as the first volley rained down. screams erupted as arrows found their marks, and the camp exploded into chaos.

greg surged to his feet, his heart pounding. “shields up! get in formation!” his voice carried over the din, the soldiers scrambling to obey.

the shadows moved, figures darting between the ruins. bolton men, their sigils barely visible in the flickering firelight. greg’s teeth clenched as he raised his hand, summoning a burst of fire with igni. the flames roared to life, forcing the attackers back, but it wasn’t enough.

“they’re everywhere!” one of his captains yelled, his shield splintering under a heavy blow.

“hold the line!” greg shouted, his voice raw. he turned, casting aard to send a wave of force slamming into a group of advancing soldiers. the magic crackled through the air, scattering men like leaves, but more came.

from the corner of his eye, greg saw movement—too fast, too close. he spun, but the blade was already descending.

then, like a shadow himself, guts was there. his sword swung in a wide arc, cleaving through half a dozen men as if they were nothing. the sheer force of it sent blood and bodies flying, the ground shaking under the impact.

“pay attention, kid,” guts growled, his eyes gleaming with something primal. “you’re not immortal.”

greg didn’t have time to respond. more attackers surged forward, and he met them with fire and force, his magic tearing through their ranks. the air filled with the screams of dying men and the acrid stench of burning flesh, but the tide didn’t stop.

“we’re pinned!” one of his soldiers yelled. “archers in the ruins—mounted knights cutting off the escape!”

greg’s stomach dropped. he’d missed it, the trap laid bare too late. they were caught, the narrow path ahead bottlenecked by mounted knights while arrows rained from above.

“guts, take the knights!” greg barked, his voice hoarse.

the swordsman grinned, his blade already swinging. “thought you’d never ask.”

greg turned his focus upward, his magic flaring. he raised both hands, channeling a destructive spell that made the air around him hum with power. “ignis caeli!” he roared.

a wave of fire erupted skyward, tearing through the ruins and silencing the archers in an instant. the heat was blistering, the flames consuming everything in their path.|Moments later, the fight was clearly over.

but the cost was clear.

thirty more men lost. their screams fading, their lives snuffed out in all the chaos. greg’s chest heaved as the fire died down, leaving only ashes and silence. he staggered, the weight of it hitting him like a blow.

ash growled low at his side, his eyes fixed on the carnage. guts returned, blood-slicked and grinning, his armor dented but his spirit unbroken.

“path’s clear,” guts said, his voice almost casual.

greg nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “move out,” he ordered, his voice tight.

the survivors gathered, their faces pale and grim. greg didn’t meet their eyes as they moved forward, the weight of their losses pressing down on him. his anger burned hotter than ever, not at the boltons, not at his men—but at himself.

he clenched his fists, the heat of his magic still coursing through him. there was no room for doubt. no room for hesitation.