Nerd in the North: 3-11 (Patreon)

3-11: The Gathering Storm

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Training didn’t come naturally to most of them. 

The older men grumbled about their aching joints, the younger ones stumbled over their own feet, and many were far more at home with a scythe than a spear.

Still, they tried.

The main gate to Frostfall buzzed with the sound of clashing wood and labored breaths, the sharp tang of sweat and iron mixing with the crisp northern air. The men gathered there—several hundred strong—were not just Frostfall’s own. The village itself could barely muster five and seventy able-bodied men, their numbers thinned from years of hardship and further culled by Bolton cruelty. The rest had come from the outlying villages: carpenters from White Hollow, herders from Shadyfen, even fishermen from towns on the northern side of the Last River. 

Young and old, hale and grim, they had answered the call, one and all.

“Keep yer elbows in, or that spear’ll be yer damnation,” barked Daeric, his voice carrying over the din. He was a farmer by trade, his face weathered like old leather, but here and now, he was their instructor as his knotted hands gripped a wooden staff as if it were an extension of his own body.

“Aye, Daeric,” muttered Karl, a lanky youth barely old enough to grow a beard. His spear wobbled in his grip, the shaft slick with sweat.

Daeric smacked him across the knuckles, not hard enough to injure but firm enough to make Karl wince. “No ‘aye, Daeric.’ I ain't yer mam. I'm here to keep you alive long enough to see a Bolton bleed. Now, again!”

The men formed ragged lines, their breaths misting in the cold as they thrust their spears in unison. The rhythm was off, the line crooked, but it was improving. 

Each repetition scraped the rough edges away, though progress was as slow as frost creeping across a windowpane. The wooden tips of practice spears struck padded targets with dull thuds, some glancing off harmlessly, others driving home with a satisfying smack.

“Ye call that a thrust?” Daeric bellowed, his voice like the crack of a whip. “A flayed man’ll laugh and gut ye before ye take a second swing!”

Toward the back of the formation, Tomlin, an older man with a face carved by time and toil, wiped a hand over his weathered features. his shoulders heaved with each breath. He'd spent his life shoeing horses, not stabbing men, but his grip on the spear was steady. The old leather of his gloves creaked as he adjusted his hold, his knuckles pale against the dark wood.

Around him, the less disciplined recruits shifted uneasily, sneaking glances at each other as Daeric’s voice rang out. A young lad beside him fumbled his grip, nearly dropping his spear as he aimed a forward thrust. Tomlin caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and stepped closer, nudging the lad with his elbow. “Hold it firm, lad,” he spoke aloud to him, voice low but steady with the patience of a father of many. “Fingers tight, elbows in. like a tree — sturdy ‘n straight, aye?”

The boy nodded silently but surely, swallowing hard as he readjusted his stance.

Daeric’s gaze turned their way, his sharp eyes - nearly as keen as a poacher in lordly woods - narrowing at the sight of them both. “Tomlin!” he barked, striding over. “You planning to lead the lad in polite conversation, or are you gonna show him how to kill a man?”

“Tryin’ to keep his spear from flyin’ into the woods, Daeric,” Tomlin replied evenly, not bothering to mask the weariness in his voice.

Daeric grunted, looking the boy over with a critical eye. “At least someone’s showing sense,” he muttered before turning back to the lines. “Form up! again!”

Karl’s spear wobbled as they resumed the drill, the motion jerky and uncertain. The older man's teeth grinded together in his mouth, jaw tight as he watched the lad struggle. Every misstep, every faltering movement, felt like a crack in their hope. “Straighten yer line, damn ye!” Daeric roared, stalking the front of the formation. He yanked a spear from one man’s hands, demonstrating a thrust that was quick and precise, the motion fluid despite the bulk of his frame. “That's how you put a man in the dirt. Ye lot keep poking like it’s a harvest dance, and ye’ll end up buried.”

His words cut through the air like the bite of the northern wind, leaving no room for argument. 

Still, they tried. 

Trying was all they could do.

Near the edge of the group, a carpenter from White Hollow—a broad-shouldered man with hands scarred from years of handling timber—paused to adjust his stance. His movements were slow but deliberate, his thick fingers tightening around the shaft of his spear. He'd always been good with his hands, crafting things meant to last. Now he found himself praying that same skill could be turned toward breaking bones instead of shaping beams.

“Lord Veder’ll see us through,” tomlin said, his voice low but resolute. The words weren’t meant for anyone in particular, but a few nearby men turned their heads toward him.

Training pressed hard against their spirits, as unforgiving as the cold, but they persisted against it as Northmen always did.

A green boy named Lob, barely past four and ten namedays, clutched his spear as though it would bolt from his grip if he dared relax. His wide eyes darted toward Tomlin before he spoke, voice trembling beneath a thin veneer of bravado. “Aye,” he piped up, “he’s got magic, and a dragon... thing, and they say he’s stronger than ten men. If anyone can bring the Boltons down, it’s him.”

Daeric, passing nearby with his staff balanced across his shoulders, spun on his heel so fast the boy flinched. The farmer-turned-drillmaster fixed Lob with a glare that could strip bark from an oak. “Ye think Lord Veder’ll fight this war for ye, lad?” His words bore the weight of stones, each syllable weighted with disdain. “His power means nowt if you can’t hold the line. Stop flappin’ your lips and thrust, damn you!”

Lob’s freckled face reddened, shame painting his features as he nodded stiffly. his jaw clenched tight, and he resumed his stance, shoving the spear forward in a series of awkward, jerky thrusts. the wood vibrated in his hands, the strain of the effort obvious in the tremble of his skinny arms.

Not far from the spearmen, the twang of bowstrings punctuated the air. Crude targets, stitched from burlap and stuffed with straw, sagged under the weight of arrows. Most shafts landed off-center, some wobbling in the frozen ground nearby. Jory, a rangy hunter from Shadyfen, strode behind the archers with the easy gait of a man who knew the woods like his own hand. his bow, an elegant weapon of yew, rested lightly over one shoulder.

“Loose yer shoulders,” Jory instructed, his voice roughened by years of cold wind and woodsmoke. “Yer aiming like a bloody statue. Breathe with the bow, let it guide you.”

A shepherd from Coldstream drew back his string, fingers quivering with the tension. The man released his pull, and the arrow veered wide, slicing past the target to bury itself in the slush beyond.

Jory sighed, his exasperation tempered by patience. Stepping up beside the lad, he clapped a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “Better to miss now than when it counts. But ye’ll aim true when the time comes, or the worms’ll be the only ones thankful for yer troubles.”

Low chuckles rippled through the ranks of archers, though the laughter carried little joy to speak of—mostly the grim camaraderie of men facing death together.

“This is no time for jests,” muttered an older man, his furrowed brow shadowing a face lined with worry. “The flayed men won’t care if we’re ready or not.” His knuckles whitened around the grip of his bow, the wood groaning softly beneath his hold.

Near the edge of the training yard, two men squared off with staves. One, a broad-chested fellow with two fingers missing on his left hand, swung with deliberate force. His opponent, Hal, a wiry man with a crooked leg that didn’t bend properly, limped a bit as he dodged and countered. Their movements were slow, careful, the kind of pragmatism that came from lives spent working fields and patching roofs.

“Yer telegraphing, Dern,” Daeric barked, his sharp eye catching every flaw. “And Hal, stop favoring that leg like it’s made o’ glass. I'll give ye summat to limp fer if ye don’t shape up!”

Dern grunted like an auroch straining under weight, the man wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand before adjusting his grip on his stave. Hal muttered something under his breath that was far from complementary, the words swallowed by the cold air as he shifted his weight and struck forward with renewed purpose.

The clamor of training rang out across the yard: the dull thud of staves clashing, the rhythmic chants of spearmen, the hiss of arrows splitting the frigid air. Boots churned the frozen ground to a muddy treacherous slush, all the while as the air grew heavy with the mingling scents of sweat and frost.

Then came a sharp whistle, slicing through the noise like a blade. It echoed from the far end of the south gate, where the archers had gathered. Heads turned instinctively, a momentary hush falling over the yard as the source of the sound drew their attention.

The straw dummies leaned against the stone walls, bristling with arrows. Most shots missed their mark. Some skewered arms or legs; others glanced at the wood frame, leaving the burlap intact. Closer strikes looked more like accidents than skill, the arrows tearing jagged rents that spilled straw like innards.

“Not bad, if yer aim’s to cripple the poor bastard,” called one of the younger archers. His grin was wide enough to show the gap in his teeth. The shot he mocked had struck low, squarely in the dummy’s knee.

“And you’d best hold that grin, Arry,” someone shot back, “or i’ll aim fer it next.”

Laughter rippled through the line. A few bows sagged, the archers relaxing in the moment.

“Draw!” Jory’s voice cracked like ice underfoot, cutting short their jests. The hunter’s wiry frame moved with a coiled tension, steps deliberate as he paced behind them. The humor drained from the group, their hands snapping to bowstrings.

“Elbows high, aim true,” Jory growled as he passed, his voice pitched low. “and gods help me, if one more fool lets the string slap his wrist, i’ll—”

“And you’ll what, Jory?” a stout smith from a neighboring village called out, his grin crooked and sly. He stood apart from the others, arms folded over a chest broad from years at the forge.

Jory stopped short, fixing the man with a look that carried no humor, and at once, the smith’s grin faltered.

“You'll find out if yer tongue keeps waggin’,” Jory said, soft and sharp.

The line went silent, the smith’s cHallenge crumbling as he lowered his gaze. Jory waited a beat before stepping back.

“Loose!”

The air filled with the sharp hiss of arrows in flight. They struck the dummies in a ragged volley, some thudding home while others splintered on stone or buried themselves in the frozen earth.

Across the yard, Daeric worked the spearmen harder. His voice carried above the clamor, harsh words a saw through timber.

“Stand straight! No! Not like that. You’re holding the thing like it’ll bite you!” he barked at Lob, the boy fumbling to adjust his grip under the scrutiny. “Feet apart, lad, unless you fancy falling flat on yer arse the moment steel meets steel.”

Lob, red-faced and rigid with effort, muttered, “Aye, ser,” his voice barely audible.

“I ain't no ser, and you’ll earn no mercy from a Bolton for calling me one,” Daeric snapped. “Do it again.”

The boy reset his stance, his spear wobbling as he thrust forward in time with the others. The rhythm was uneven, each movement a step out of sync, but the line was starting to hold.

“He'll see us through,” Karl murmured to no one in particular, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his spear. The fisherman’s words were meant to steady himself, but they carried to the others, who glanced toward him.

“Aye,” someone said, a young smith with soot-streaked cheeks. “Lord Veder’s strong as ten men. And he’s got the gods on his side.”

“If he does, then mayhaps he’ll teach you lot how to hold a line,” Daeric growled, his scowl deepening. “A lordling risks his life for Frostfall, and this is how you repay him? I've seen better lines from drunkards holding their piss.”

The words bit deep, but the spearmen tightened their ranks, their movements sharpening under Daeric’s harsh gaze.

Near the sparring circle, Garen paused to catch his breath, the farmer’s broad shoulders heaving under the weight of his exertion. His hands, rough from a lifetime of labor, adjusted on the haft of his spear.

“We’ll hold,” he said quietly, though the words carried weight. “Lord Veder’s strength is ours. and they say he’s no ordinary man.”

“He threw a man higher than a tree,” Lob said, his voice tinged with awe. “Smashed another clean through a wall. He'll make the boltons pay.”

Daeric’s voice lashed across the yard, sharp enough to cut through the murmurs. “Stop dreaming! There's no magic saving a fool who breaks rank. again!”

The spearmen snapped back to focus, their thrusts driving forward in unison. The chant rose, first hesitant, then gaining strength, their voices cutting through the biting wind:

“For Frostfall. for Lord Veder.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The wild roads of the North had always been treacherous, to some degree.

Yet over the past few moons, the news had shifted darker and more fantastic, as well as even more worrisome.

Jonys had heard the murmurs, the cautious warnings traded over cups of thin ale in nameless villages: There were things stirring in the cold, creatures dragged from the deep dark by winter’s long shadow. tales spun by simple men to frighten children, Jonys had told himself. Now, crouched behind the shattered remains of his cart, a knife trembling in his grip, he found himself choking on his own disbelief.

His breath came in shallow bursts, white plumes curling into the freezing air. The snow around him was churned to filthy slush, streaked with the blood of his horse. The beast had fallen fast, too slow to outpace the nightmare that had charged from the treeline, snapping and shrieking like some cruel joke of the gods.

The trader dared a glance over the cart’s splintered edge. The demon lingered in the road, half-shrouded by the looming pines. It might have been a deer if the Seven themselves had been drunk when they’d made it. Its body was a grotesque tangle of sinew and exposed bone, bones atop its flank gleaming with blood that he doubted belonged to it. Too many legs shifted in slow, deliberate patterns, and its ember-red eyes pinned Jonys with a stare that felt almost human.

It shrieked again, the sound slicing the air. Jonys flinched, the knife slipping from his fingers and landing silently in the snow. His hands flew to his ears, but the sound had already dug deep, an ice pick to his skull.

“Gods,” he muttered, though his voice barely rose above the drumming of his own heart. His back pressed hard against the gnarled trunk of a tree, his legs frozen beneath him. The bark bit into his shoulders, grounding him in a reality he no longer trusted.

The creature pawed at the snow, steam rising in faint wisps where its jagged claws touched. its movements were unhurried, deliberate. It knew he had nowhere to run. 

Jonys felt the weight of its gaze, sharp and invasive, like needles threading through his skin.

The knife. 

His hands fumbled blindly in the snow, but the blade was gone. A cruel irony for a man who had traded in steel.

His thoughts scrambled, slipping through his mind like water through broken fingers. 

No way to fight, no way to flee. 

His goods were scattered across the road, bolts of cloth and jars of spice lying useless amidst the churned snow.

“Please,” he whispered, the word a rasp more than a plea. 

He wasn’t sure who he was begging.

The creature tilted its head, the ember glow of its eyes narrowing. Jonys could see its teeth now, jagged and glistening, the edges yellowed with decay. 

Jonys tried to push himself upright, but his cloak tangled in a heap around his legs, pulling him back to the ground. The cold seeped through the wool, biting deep into his flesh as he let out a shiver that was equal parts cold and fear.

The monstrous beast took another step forward, legs moving with unnatural precision despite the great number of them, splayed wide like a spider poised to strike. Its bulk filled the narrow road, casting jagged shadows across the snow.

“Please,” Jonys said again, louder this time, though his voice cracked on the word.

The forest felt suffocating. 

The pines loomed like crooked spears, their branches clawing at the sky. no sound came from the woods—no rustle of leaves, no distant birdsong. Even the wind had stilled, leaving only the steady crunch of the creature’s claws in the snow.

Jonys’s chest tightened as he struggled to breathe. His hands clutched at the tree behind him, the rough bark cutting into his fingers.

“Oh, gods,” he muttered, the words tumbling from his lips in a shuddering breath.

The creature stopped a few paces away. Its head lowered, ember eyes burning brighter, the heat of its breath fogging the air between them. Jonys wanted to move, to flee, but his legs wouldn’t obey.

There was nowhere to go. the realization sank deep, heavier than the cold.

“Please,” he repeated, the word thin and desperate. He wasn’t sure if he was calling to the Seven, the Old Gods, or some nameless force that might pity him. 

It didn’t matter.

The creature lunged, its grotesque body slicing through the cold air. Jonys flinched, his body tensing, and the acrid scent of his own piss burned his nostrils. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his back hard against the tree. His hands clawed at the bark, desperate for some anchor as he braced for the inevitable—the tearing of flesh, the spray of blood.

But the blow never came.

Instead, there was a sound. Faint at first, like the wind threading through frost-laden branches, but rising. It chimed, delicate and deliberate, like distant bells or the ripple of ice breaking on a frozen stream.

He cracked one eye open. The creature stood frozen mid-motion, its jagged limbs trembling, its ember-red eyes locked on something beyond him.

Jonys dared to turn his head. Just beyond the overturned cart loomed a weirwood, stark against the twilight. Its pale bark gleamed like old bone, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky. The face carved into its trunk bled streaks of sap so dark they seemed almost black, the lines cutting down its cheeks like weeping wounds.

The chiming grew louder, and Jonys’s breath came shallower now.

The creature hissed, its ribs expanding powerfully, the bone creaking with each breath. its ember eyes flicked back and forth—from Jonys to the tree and back again.

Then it happened.

From the tree’s highest branches, a light slowly stirred. 

Faintly at first, a soft glow against the gathering gloom, but it grew steadily and strongly brighter. 

Jonys squinted, his gaze fixed on the small orb of blue-white light as it descended. It moved slowly, its glow dancing like a shard of moonlight breaking free of the heavens.

The creature reeled back, its movements jerky and frantic. It let out a guttural shriek, louder than before, the sound clawing at Jonys’s ears.

The light hovered between him and the beast now, close enough for him to feel the faint warmth it gave off. Jonys’s heart pounded against his ribs as he watched, his breath frozen in his throat.

The creature staggered, its many legs splaying wide. Its claws dug into the snow, but it couldn’t seem to hold its ground. With a final, furious cry, it spun and fled, its skeletal form vanishing into the dark embrace of the pines.

Silence rushed in.

Jonys’s limbs slumped with the weight of an anvil as he slumped against the tree, head lolling back. the light lingered, bobbing faintly in the air above him. Its glow illuminated the wreckage—the cart, shattered and bleeding spilled spices into the snow; the dark stain where his horse had fallen as well.

“Thank you,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. He didn’t know who he was speaking to and the peddler couldn't find it in him to care all that much.

The light above him pulsed, brightness flaring, and then, to his utter disbelief, a voice answered.

“You’re welcome.”

He found himself frozen again, this time from shock rather than fear. 

The voice was high, musical, like the faintest echo of a child’s laugh. His lips parted to respond, but before he could form words, the light darted away. It slipped back toward the weirwood, weaving through its branches with an effortless grace.

Then it was gone.

Jonys’s gaze drifted back to the weirwood’s face. The carved features seemed to stare back at him, its blood-red sap trailing down in long, uneven streaks.

His knees gave out, sending him collapsing into the snow. His fingers dug into the frozen ground, the sharp cold biting at his skin, but he hardly felt it as he stared at the trees of the North.

“By the gods,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

He wasn’t sure which he meant anymore.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The campfires crackled faintly in the early frostfall night, the only sound in the quiet camp now that sparring and shouted drills had wound down. greg sat hunched on a low stone wall, the cold seeping into his palms as he braced against it. His gaze was locked on the forest’s jagged edge, the last few memories of the last week poking their way into his brain.

Gwenna…

The red-haired girl was asleep in her bed, all tuckered out after a full day of practicing what little magic she could figure out. It wasn’t much…

It really wasn’t, but she managed to copy one of his own spells. So now Frostfall had a new flashlight in the form of a teenage girl. 

Ash sprawled at his feet, his dog-sized frame curled tight but still large, glowing red eyes half-lidded as he slowly fell asleep. Shiro was perched in greg’s lap, the puffball of a giant chick letting out a soft, rhythmic whistle with every breath as he dozed.

Behind him, Guts was a steady presence. 

The man sat on an overturned barrel, the sword that was apparently named Dragonslayer of all things, balanced across his knees, the enormous blade catching flickers of firelight as he sharpened it with deliberate strokes. The scrape of metal on whetstone was rhythmic, almost meditative, like the beat of a slow drum.

Greg exhaled sharply, his breath curling white in the chill. “They’re not ready,” he said suddenly, the words coming out like an accusation. He really hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but there it was now and he couldn’t take it back. “None of them are ready, and they’re following me to war.”

Guts didn’t stop sharpening, but his gaze lifted as dark eyes landed on Greg, dark and unreadable. “They don’t have to be ready,” he said after a long moment, his voice low, slow and even. “They just have to want it bad enough. sometimes, that’s all it takes.”

Greg snorted softly, bitterly, his fingers absently brushing Shiro's downy feathers. “Yeah, but what if it’s not?” he muttered. “What if all that ‘want’ gets them killed? What if I'm leading them to their deaths, man?”

This time, Guts paused. 

The scrape of the whetstone stilled as he leaned back slightly, the large man resting his elbows on his thighs. His dark gaze pinned Greg, sharp as the blade he was honing. “Then that’s on them,” he said, as blunt and hard as the rest of his words. “They chose to follow you. don’t take that from them.”

Greg opened his mouth, then closed it. He shifted uncomfortably, his jaw working as he stared down at Shiro, who chirped softly in his sleep. Don’t take that from them. The words settled uneasily in his chest, heavy and prickling.

He didn’t look up when he finally spoke, his voice quieter. “Guess we’ll see.”

The sky was a pale gray when the camp began to stir, the first weak light of dawn creeping over the horizon. Greg stood at the head of the loose column, Ash at his right, Shiro now perched on his shoulder. Guts brought up the rear, his massive sword sheathed but still an imposing presence. The villagers-turned-soldiers filled the space between, a mismatched assortment of men clutching both makeshift and stolen weapons — the latter from dead Bolton men — and wearing expressions that ranged from grim determination to near-dread.

Their boots crunched against the frozen ground as they marched, the sound oddly unified despite their ragged formation. The air was thick with unspoken tension, and every now and then, Greg caught a few murmurs drifting from the middle of the line.

“D’ya think we can really win?”

“If anyone can lead us, it’s ‘im.”

He didn’t turn around, didn’t let himself react. 

Instead, he kept his eyes forward, his jaw tight as they passed the outskirts of another village in under an hour. Even this village was still waking up, thin plumes of smoke rising from chimneys, the distant shapes of people moving in the shadows of their homes. Some of them stopped to watch as the group passed, their whispers carrying just far enough for Greg to catch snatches of them.

“White blade… Heard he killed the Bolton bastard himself.”

“‘e’s just a lad…”

Greg’s empty fists tightened at his sides. The title—White Blade—felt heavier with every step, every murmured word that followed him like an echo. 

But he didn’t stop. 

Didn’t slow. 

His steps stayed steady, pace unwavering, not even a sliver of doubt in the back of his mind as he had already made up his mind.

Ash let out a low growl, his ears swiveling as the dracobear glanced up at Greg. The noise pulled him out of his head, and he reached down to give Ash’s thick fur a quick scratch, his lips twitching into a faint, fleeting smirk.

“Let’s go to war, boy.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

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