Nerd In the North 4-5 (Patreon)

The Northern coalition moved through the snow, banners waving, a crawling tide of steel and purpose intent on slaughtering his people and returning the Brightfort back to what it was; a place of dread and horror. He knew the North wasn’t going to win this, not with Ash or Guts on his side, they just didn’t have the power. 

From what the Maester had said, magic was… rare in Westeros these days.The fat man had tried to say it was gone, the word nearly having left his lips with casual and dismissive ease until his watery eyes had fixed on Greg and he carefully reconsidered that decision. The last public wizards had apparently been connected to the dragon people ruling down sourth and that had been over a hundred years ago. Woods witches that Greg had met clearly had magic of some kind but not his kind. Extremely strong adventurers existed like some guy called the Mountain and the king’s Secret Service but that was all Tybald could tell him.

If I could find Guts just walking around the North, there’s gotta be more people like him, Greg thought to himself. He was sure of that much, and he doubted Tybald really knew anything about the world that wasn’t in his books.From on top of the Brightfort’s walls, Greg could hear the muffled thud of marching boots, the distant, low hum of men talking, the occasional sharp bark of a commander keeping order. They were close now. Too close.

And they weren’t stopping.

Greg had tried. 

He’d sent ravens, messengers, offers for any kind of peace, to keep talking. He had even ridden out himself that first time, sitting on his horse in the cold, trying to explain to these people that he hadn’t come here to conquer, that he wasn’t their enemy, that they had all suffered under the Boltons.

They didn’t care.

To them, he was an outsider. A southerner who had murdered their lord, taken his castle, and now ruled over their lands like some petty warlock king.

No amount of reasoning was going to change their minds.Fine by me.

Minutes later, he stood at the front of his gathered men, their lines uneven, their grips tight around whatever weapons they had scavenged or reforged. Some were soldiers, but most weren’t. His forces were a patchwork of his men, former Dreadfort soldiers who had bent the knee, and the smallfolk of the Brightfort; farmers, hunters, tradesmen who had taken up spears and shields because they didn’t have any other choice. 

They weren’t warriors. 

Not really.

But he could make them into something close.He stepped forward, boots crunching against the frost, and looked over them, really looked at each one of them. Blue eyes tracked the tension in their shoulders, the way they clenched weapons like lifelines, the way they held themselves in the cold air.

“We’ve been here before.” His voice cut through the morning air. “You bled for this place. You fought for it. And you won.” He let out a harsh breath that was almost a laugh before he pulled it back. “But they don’t care.”

A ripple ran through them. They already knew.

“They think we’re squatters. Thieves. That this was theirs, and we just borrowed it for a little while.” He tilted his head, letting out a loud exhale that was almost a hiss as he started to work himself up. “Like we didn’t dig their dead out of the rubble. Like we didn’t bury their mess. Like we didn’t carve something real out of their ruin. Like we didn’t put Roose Bolton and his monster of a son in the ground where they belonged.”

His fingers flexed around thin air. “Well, I don’t give a shit what they think,” he barked, the words harsh as they left his lips. “And you shouldn’t either.” He took a step forward, clenching one hand into a fist. “This isn’t theirs. Not anymore. It’s ours.”

He took another step forward. “I want all of you to know that I hate war. I hate men having to suffer and die for people that don’t care about them. But I also know that peace only lasts one way.”

He raised his hand and pulled, white steel flashing in the morning light as his sword appeared from his soul.

“Through cutting down everyone that wants to break it.”

The roar came like thunder.

Greg exhaled slowly as the men cheered and stomped their feet, lowering his sword and pressing his free hand against his chest. The leather of his gauntlets were cool against his palm, but beneath it, his heart beat fast and steady.

"Alright then."

He closed his eyes, pulling at the magic in his veins, in his soul, reaching for the power that had become second nature over the past months. The air around him pulsed, heavy with unseen force.

It rose inside him like water breaking through a dam, starting from his stomach, spilling out from his core and filling his veins with a burning, golden light. It wasn’t fire, not like Igni, not the destructive kind. This was something else.

Something holy.

The young Veder opened his mouth, memories of both holy lives guiding him, and words rolling off his tongue in a steady chant."With steadfast hearts and spirits bright,

Stand firm as dawn defies the night.

Let courage steel both blade and bone,

No step forsaken, no path unknown."

The air changed.

Light began to glow around him as the men’s roars died all at once, curling up from his skin like smoke before spreading outward in waves. It shone from his fingertips, trailed down the length of his sword, gathered in the air above his head until it formed a halo, radiant and pulsing with warmth.

A hushed murmur spread through his men.

Some stared in awe, others in terror.

The moment it touched their own skin, the change was clear as day. More than anything else, it was immediate. Spines of even the oldest men straightened like the spears most held, their grips steadying around their weapons as they held them with ease. 

Greg let out a slow breath, opening his eyes.

"Hold the line," he said, voice strong and clear. Then, with one last pulse of golden light, he let the magic settle into them, a final blessing before the charge.

The gates of the Brightfort opened.

And the roar rose again.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The first impact was chaos.

Greg surged forward, every muscle coiled, every instinct screaming to move. The front line of the enemy formation braced, shields locked, spears leveled. At their center, the Karstark commander, the sunburst obvious on his banners, barked orders, with a face twisted in determination.

A proper formation. A well-trained wall of men. The kind of thing that had held against Wildling hordes, against Ironborn raids, against any half-starved fool stupid enough to charge headlong into it.

Greg hated proper formations.

He hit them like a storm.

The first man thrust—Greg dropped low, faster than the soldier could track, the spear whistling over his head as he twisted, his sword coming up in a blinding arc. He didn’t cut—he didn’t have to. Instead, his free hand snapped out, magic coiling around his fingers before unleashing.

Ignis.

A burst of fire slammed into the shield wall like a battering ram, the front rank erupting in shrieks as heat and force knocked them off balance. One man stumbled back, his spear falling from burned fingers, the wood blackened from the sudden burst of flame. Greg didn’t stop. He twisted, shadows pooling at his feet, lashing out like living things—grabbing, pulling.

The enemy collapsed in on itself.

A Bolton bannerman had barely recovered before Greg’s magic yanked him off his feet. He flailed, eyes wide, before the shadow flung him backward like a ragdoll—straight into the men behind him, their formation rupturing under the sudden weight crashing through them.

"Push," Greg thought sharply, turning to his own men, his warriors. His ragtag force of Brightfort soldiers and armed villagers. "Now’s the time. Move. Move!"

"Hold the line!" he shouted instead, voice carrying over the battlefield. "Break them!"

And they did.

The Brightfort men surged forward. Greg’s magic had changed them, had made them something more—made them faster, stronger, their bodies pulsing with the power he had sunk into them. He saw it in their movements—the way a farmer, barely trained, swung his axe too fast, too hard, cutting straight through a man’s shield.

Greg didn’t stop moving.

Another spear lunged toward him—he turned sharply, stepping into it rather than away, his shoulder slamming into the soldier before his knee came up, hard and fast, driving into the man’s gut. He staggered, gasping, and Greg shoved him back into the enemy line, throwing them into further disarray.

And then, Brennor.

Greg barely saw it happen—one moment an arrow was screaming toward his face, the next Brennor’s shield was there.

Not just blocking. Deflecting.

A perfect angle, a flick of the wrist, and the arrow bounced away, harmless.

Greg’s eyes snapped to him.

The older man stood firm, his shield lifted, his face unreadable. It was glowing—a faint shimmer, a silver edge to the metal that wasn’t natural, wasn’t just polished steel.

Not magic. Not his kind of magic.

Something else.

Brennor moved—another arrow deflected, another step forward, the shield slamming into a soldier’s face with a sickening crack before he bashed another aside, the former farmer wasting no time.

Greg had no time to dwell on it.

More enemy soldiers pushed in, desperate to reform their lines, to stop the chaos Greg had torn into them.

"Kage Tsuki!" Greg turned, shadows curling around his arm before snapping outward.

Two men lifted off their feet.

One crashed into a half-broken cart, the wood splintering on impact. The other hit the frozen ground with a grunt, trying to scramble up only for a thrown axe to bury itself into his back—one of Greg’s men, moving faster, hitting harder, taking the opportunity.

The shield wall was breaking.

And Greg wasn’t done yet.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg barely had time to recover before a horn blast sounded from the left flank.

Shit.

His head snapped toward the sound, scanning through the chaos of steel and blood, trying to track the movement before it was too late. There—banners shifting, bodies surging forward. They were flanking.

Fast.

Too fast.

Except—no. Not them.

One figure was moving differently—cutting through the enemy ranks, too quick, too precise, faster than any man should be.

Daeric.

Greg caught sight of him weaving through the battlefield, his movements a blur, his light armor barely weighing him down. His bowstring snapped back and forth, the sound barely audible over the din of battle, but the effect was unmistakable.

Every shot landed.

Every arrow killed.

A soldier raised his shield—Daeric’s arrow slipped through the gap, punching through his throat before he even finished raising his weapon. Another man charged, sword raised—Daeric shifted, ducked under the swing, loosed a shot mid-roll, and dropped his attacker in the same movement.

It was almost unfair.

Greg had fought alongside archers before, had seen them move in battle, but this was something else. This wasn’t a man fighting with a bow.

This was a man becoming one with it.

And then Greg saw the problem.

The enemy saw it too.

A group of soldiers broke from the larger formation, moving toward Daeric with purpose, cutting him off, forcing him into tighter quarters.

Shit—

Greg moved.

He sprinted forward, barely feeling the ground beneath his feet, using his momentum to launch himself toward the flank.

A Bolton bannerman turned at the last second, raising his sword—Greg threw out his hand, shadows snapping from his fingertips, coiling around the man’s legs like living tendrils before yanking him back, slamming him into the ground with bone-cracking force.

Another rushed in—Greg twisted, palm snapping forward—Ignis burst from his hand, a concentrated blast of heat and flame slamming into the soldier’s chest. His armor blackened, and he crumpled with a ragged scream.

No time to check if he was dead.

Greg turned just in time to see Daeric take on three men at once.

The first one lunged—Daeric sidestepped smoothly, grabbed his bow by the grip, and cracked it across the man’s jaw hard enough to send him sprawling.

The second swung his axe—Daeric ducked, pivoted, drew another arrow in the same movement and shot point-blank straight through his attacker’s knee.

The third closed in. Too fast.

Greg reacted.

"Move!"

Daeric didn’t hesitate.

He vaulted off a fallen soldier’s shield, kicking off the ground with unnatural grace, flipping over Greg’s head as Greg threw out both hands, releasing a wave of shadow force that slammed into the last attacker, hurling him backward.

Daeric landed behind Greg, light on his feet, already drawing another arrow.

Greg turned slightly, breath heavy.

"You love being extra, don’t you?"

Daeric grinned, his green eyes flashing. "Gotta put on a show."

Greg exhaled sharply, turning back to survey the damage.

The flank had collapsed before it could even form.

A decisive win.

"This is the stupidest war I’ve ever fought." It was only the second war he’d ever fought, but still.

Daeric just laughed.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The coalition’s center was buckling.

Greg was running hard, his soul more than his body feeling the drain as the little stars inside them were half-screaming from overuse. Healing, shadows, buffing, shielding, it was all a drain, but he kept it going and he could keep it going for a bit more, but his mana was not as deep as his well of stamina. The magic in his veins was still thrumming, but the more he pushed, the heavier it became—like running full speed while dragging weights behind him. 

His forces were winning, but it wasn’t over.

Not yet.

And then the shouting started.

Not the usual war cries. Not orders being barked across the battlefield.

This was different.

It was fear.

Greg turned toward the western side of the field, where the coalition's men had been pressing toward a less defended gatehouse—

And saw a fucking hurricane of death tearing through the enemy lines.

Guts.

It wasn’t a fight. It was slaughter.

The massive warrior moved through the battlefield like a force of nature—dragging that impossible slab of iron through men like they were nothing.

Dragonslayer wasn’t a sword.

It was an executioner’s block, moving at the speed of a scythe.

Greg had seen strong men. Had fought people enhanced with magic, trained killers, warriors who were fast. But Guts? Guts didn’t fight like them. He fought like something that didn’t care if it got hit, didn’t care if it bled.

Because he knew it didn’t matter.

A man came at him, swinging his longsword two-handed, aiming for a gap in Guts’ armor—

It didn’t even come close.

Guts stepped in, shoving the man’s swing wide before slamming his meaty fist into the warrior’s skull, breaking it like a melon.

Another two came at him from either side—one with a spear, the other an axe.

The spear lunged first and Guts turned and caught the shaft under his arm, twisting hard. The spearman yelled as his own weapon was ripped from his grip, and before he could react, Guts whipped it back, impaling the second man clean through the chest with his friend’s weapon.

The first soldier stumbled back, reaching for his knife—

Guts swung Dragonslayer.

The edge caught the man mid-step and he didn’t get a chance to even scream before the hunk of iron landed, bisecting him from shoulder to hip in a single stroke.

Greg swore under his breath, unable to look away, the men in front of Guts doing the exact fucking same. He had seen people hesitate before a fight.

He had never seen men stop mid-charge, look at an opponent, and just decide:

No. Not worth it.

Unless that opponent was Ash.

And then the sky screamed.

Greg flinched, looking up, just in time to see the black-scaled form of Ash dive out of the clouds. At first, he was a speck.

In seconds, he was already at the treetops.

The dragon was a blur, twisting midair as arrows shot toward him, the bolts whistling past his wings, narrow misses as he spun and let out a column of fire into the enemy cavalry.

The charge collapsed instantly as Ash shot his first cone of fire. Horses reared, throwing riders. Men broke ranks, screaming as fire swept through them, igniting cloaks, cooking armor from the inside out.

Greg could see it happening in real-time. First, a few turned and ran.

Then a dozen.

Then the entire center collapsed.

They weren’t just retreating anymore.

They were fleeing.

Routing.

Leaving their fallen and captured behind and running for their lives.

Greg stood in the middle of the carnage, breath heaving slightly, watching the battlefield fall apart beneath the weight of sheer, overwhelming terror. This wasn't what he'd wanted; not the blood, not the bodies, not the blind fear in their eyes as they fled. 

But they'd left him no choice.

Even still, for the first time since the battle started—

Greg let himself believe it.

They had won.

The silence after the battle was unnatural.

Greg stood in the middle of it, every muscle in his body thrumming, his breath heavy, sweat dripping down his back despite the cold. The ground was littered with the dead and dying, but his mind barely registered the bodies anymore. He was too focused on the emptiness.

The battlefield, once alive with the clash of steel and the screams of men, was quiet.

Then…

Voices.

Loud. Raw. Victorious.

Brennor raised his sword, his shield flashing silver in the dying light as he pumped that too. A roar went up from the Brightfort ranks, a sound that shook the air, reverberating in Greg’s chest like a second heartbeat.

They were cheering, cheering for him

Greg exhaled sharply, forcing his hands to unclench, forcing himself to pull his thoughts away from the lingering heat in his veins, the way his body still wanted to fight, still wanted to keep going.

They had won.

But the war wasn’t over.

Greg turned, scanning the field.

Brennor was still standing there, blood streaking his armor, even with his silver-lit shield looking almost untouched despite the battle. “For you, m’lord!” The man’s face was calm, but his eyes were burning with something fierce, something unbreakable, as he gripped his shield tight and raised it high.

Daeric stood nearby, catching his breath, his quiver half-empty but his bow still in hand, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he needed to keep killing or not. He caught Greg’s glance and smirked. "Told ya I could put on a show, m’lord," he muttered.

Greg let out something close to a laugh.

Then there was Guts.

The swordsman stood motionless, Dragonslayer stuck in the ground beside him. His armor was drenched in blood, clearly none of his own, and his expression was the same as it had been during the fight. A casual smile on his face, and barely bothered.

Like this hadn’t meant anything to him.

Like it was just another day.

Greg wondered if his own face looked close.

Ash landed last. The wind from his wings sent dirt and blood scattering, his talons digging into the earth as he shook his massive body, embers still glowing between his teeth. His eyes flicked to Greg, and he let out a low, rumbling growl.

Greg let out a slow breath and the men roared loud again, weapons thrust in the air.

They had won.