Nerd In the North 4-11 (Patreon)

This old stoneheap of a castle was built to last. Old stone, thick walls, towers cutting into the sky like they had a grudge against it. Not a castle, not really. A fortress first, a home second. Guts had seen places like it before—built for war, held by the strong, never meant for comfort. 

But never this fucking big.

The kid walked ahead, shoulders set, steps sharp and even, his actions clearly a performance to anyone that knew him well enough, even if there was real emotion behind it. Guts knew it when he saw it—Greg wasn’t new to this anymore, but that didn’t mean he belonged. And everyone in the room knew it. The wolves sitting in their high chairs, the lords whispering in the shadows. Greg might’ve carried himself like he owned the place, but they were watching for the moment he didn’t. The second he slipped, they’d gut him. Simple as that.

The boy lord—Stark—sat forward, hands steady on the arms of his chair. Young but set like stone. “You’ve made your case," he said, words even, but held tight like a blade against his ribs. "The North will have its answer soon enough. The guardsmen will show you to your guest chambers.”

That was it. Decision made.

Greg stood there for a second longer, just long enough to be noticed. Guts saw it—thought forming, then dying before it could reach his mouth. The kid wasn’t reckless, not in the way a real fool was. 

He picked his moments. 

This wasn’t one of them. He turned, followed the guard without another word, his little baby dragon beastie at his feet..

Guts followed.

The halls were tight, stone pressing in. Not a place to relax. Not a place to let your guard down. He felt the eyes as they passed, lords’ men and house guards, swords at their belts, hands never straying far. Not fear. Not yet. Just waiting.

Greg’s room was deep in the keep, fire struggling in the hearth, warmth already losing to the weight of the stone. He stepped inside, let the door shut behind him, but his shoulders didn’t drop. Didn’t even sit down. Just stood there, staring at nothing.

Guts didn’t bother knocking.

The door creaked open. Greg didn’t look up.

“Subtle as ever,” he muttered.

Guts snorted, stepping inside, shutting the door with the heel of his boot. Place was bare. Walls thick, meant to hold in heat that wasn’t there. No banners. No color. Just stone and the fire that wasn’t winning. 

He crossed the space in a few steps, dropped onto the bench across from Greg, who had his arms crossed, his head tilted toward the ceiling like it held something he’d lost.

A moment passed.

Guts stretched his fingers, rolling his wrist, and watched Greg for another few seconds before finally speaking, voice low, weighted, rough at the edges.

“What’s the plan, little lord?”

Greg snorted, dropping his head back against the stone. “Plan? Oh yeah, I’ve got a great plan. Step one: don’t get stabbed in my sleep. Step two: figure out what the hell Robb Stark actually wants from me before step three, which is probably more people trying to kill me."

Guts sat across from him, arms resting on his knees, boots planted firm against the stone. He watched him. The way he exhaled slow, rolling his shoulders, like that’d shake something off. 

Like it’d settle what was already decided.

“Yeah,” Guts said. “That’s the problem, ain’t it?”

Greg shot him a look.

“They’ll nod. They’ll smile,” Guts continued, voice flat. “But they already made up their minds. You walked in here a dead man. Just gotta figure out if they wanna go through the trouble of actually doin’ it.”

Greg let out a low, humorless laugh, blue eyes fixed his way as Ash curled himself around his legs, a little plume of flame leaving the thing’s nostrils that both he and the boy didn’t even bother paying attention to. “Comforting.”

Guts shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders, the faint clink of armor filling the quiet. “You already knew that before we got here.”

Greg exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming on the wood, that restless tick he did when he had too much in his head and no good way to say it. He didn’t argue. Didn’t have to. “Yeah. I did.”

That was what pissed him off the most.

“You’re one to see the good side, aren’t ya?” he told the boy with a snort.

“It’s a gift.” 

The fire popped, a dull crackle, the only thing in the room moving besides the slow drag of Guts’ boot against the stone. 

Greg rubbed at his eyes like that’d push the problem out of his skull, then let his head drop back against the wall. “Seriously, though? This whole thing’s a joke. Robb’s fine. Young, stressed, whatever. I get that shit, and I’m not mad at him for it. But the rest of these fucks? Dustin, Karstark, Ryswell. They don’t want peace. They want me dead. And the worst part is, I get that shit too.”

Guts’ brow creased. “You get it?” His voice came out rougher than before, humor gone.

Greg let out something that could’ve been a laugh if it had any humor in it, throwing his hands up in something close to exasperation. “Yeah! Sure! Fuck it, why not, right? I killed the Boltons and took their castle. If I were them, I’d probably wanna gut me too.” 

His voice didn’t match the smile on his face at all. There was tension there, something pinched behind his eyes, like the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “But here’s the thing—they already lost that fight. I didn’t come to this huge fuck-off castle to start another one. I came ‘cause Robb called me. ‘Cause maybe, just maybe, I thought he’d be different. And now I’m here, dodging knives in the dark, wondering why the hell I’m even bothering.”

Guts let his elbow rest on his knee, watching the kid. The way the firelight cut against the sharp angles of his face, too thin, too tired; he knew what it was like to look older than you were. “So, why are ya?”Greg blinked as his eyes flicked to the fire.

“’Cause I don’t have a fucking choice,” Greg muttered finally, voice quieter now. Like sayin’ it out loud locked him into it. “It ain’t just me here. It’s Gwenna. The people. The kids that followed me, that I’m training. The ones that fought with me, with you,” he grunted under his breath, clearly frustrated. “If I run, if I give up, they’re fucked. The lords’ll burn the Brightfort to the ground just to prove a point, and they won’t give a shit how many people they kill doin’ it.”

Guts let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair, feeling the grit of sweat and dried blood against his scalp.

Greg let out a short, bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You know what the stupidest part is? I don’t even want this. Bein’ a lord, ruln’ a castle—it ain’t me. I’m a kid, for fuck’s sake. I should be worryin’ about passin’ algebra, not tryin’ to survive political bullshit in the North. But here I am, playin’ the game ‘cause if I don’t, everyone who put their trust in me gets crushed. It’s... it’s a lot.”

Guts frowned slightly. “...What’s algebra?”

Greg groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I hate you.”

A low, rough chuckle scraped from Guts’ throat. “Tch.”

This was the part where other people would probably say something. Try to be helpful. Maybe put a hand on the kid’s shoulder, tell him shit would work out, that things’d get better if he just held on long enough. But Guts wasn’t other people. He wasn’t here to comfort him. Wasn’t here to tell him what he wanted to hear.

The world didn’t care what you wanted. Didn’t care what you were built for.

The only thing that mattered was whether you kept fighting.

And the brat was still standing and Guts had no doubt he would rather go down fighting than anything else. He could see it everytime he looked at the boy. For all his bitching, for all his talk about how unfair it was, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t making excuses, not really. He was pissed. Bitter. But he wasn’t looking for a way out.

That was the difference.

Guts leaned back, the chair creaking under the weight of him and his armor both. “Sounds like you already made your choice.”

“What do you mean?”

Guts rolled his shoulders, shaking his head as he did so. “You’re here. Simple as is simple does. You’re fightin’, aren’t ya? Doesn’t matter if you want it or not. Nobody wants a fucking fight unless you’re insane or wanting to die.” He clicked his tongue. “When you’re already in a fight and there’s blood running down your face, you don’t stop to sit aroundbitchin’ about what you don’t got a choice in. You figure out how to fuckin’ win.”

Greg stared at him, like he was waiting for more. Like there should be more.

There wasn’t. That was all there was.

Greg let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Wow, thanks for the motivational speech, coach. I’ll be sure to put that on a poster: ‘You’re here, so stop whining.”

Guts pushed himself up, heading for the door, stretching out his shoulders as he walked. “You’re a smart fuckin’ brat with enough power to make up for what you don’t got. Figure it the fuck out first and you can worry about anything else later.”

He didn’t need to look back as the door shut behind him.

Greg’d still be sitting there. Still thinking.

But the blond brat lord was already in this fight.

And there was no getting out.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The great hall was exactly the way it looked yesterday with all the lords sitting on both sides of the huge room as Greg walked in, Ash and Guts once again behind him. Robb sat where he sat, above them all as the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, quiet and still, almost like he was already a corpse.

Greg exhaled slow, his boots scuffing the ground slightly as he shifted. They were waiting for him to speak. To kneel. To beg.

“Bend the knee,” Robb said, the other teenage lord's voice calm, but edged like a goddamn sword either way. “Swear your loyalty, or face the might of the North.”

Right on cue. The unintended laugh that spilled out of Greg’s mouth almost made him jump, it was that unexpected. It definitely made a few of the lords stiffen, he saw that much. Sharp blue eyes caught exactly how Ryswell’s fingers twitched near his belt, the man still itching for a round two after he had lost at the Brightfort. Karstark’s lips pressed thin, the way a man’s did when he was deciding whether or not to take a swing.

"Isn’t that threat a little old by now?" he said, tilting his head slightly. He tried to keep the smile on his face, but his jaw felt tight, and okay, maybe, just the tiniest bit maybe, the whole thing was pissing him off a little more than he’d realized. 

Ryswell leaned forward in his seat, his lip curling into an actual sneer. "You think war a game, boy?"

Greg’s eyes turned his way at the very same moment that Robb shot Ryswell a sharp look that was as easy to read as a stop sign.But Greg was already talking before he could think twice.

“I mean, if it is, you lost already,” he said, tone flat as a skillet. “So maybe don’t talk to me about that. Makes you look stupid.”

That got a reaction.

The air in the room changed, muttering rippling through the assembled lords. Greg caught Dustin’s narrowed eyes, and the way the fattest man in the room was watching him with the exact expression of a man who was watching a movie he was already spoiled on; half-bored and waiting for the good part. Greg almost did a double take as he looked back at the fat man. Santa?

Karstark leaned forward in his seat, hands braced on his knees. "A boy with fire in his blood and arrogance in his head," he said, voice thick with something close to disgust. "You speak like you've bested us already."

Greg turned to face him fully, jaw tight. 

"Again, stop talking." He shook his head, actually and visibly irritated by how little they seemed to get his whole deal.

"Like, seriously, I beat you and him. You didn’t think I would, but I won. I know, you’re surprised, right? It may have only been a couple battles, but you lost. You had more men. More experience. More skill. But tell me, my loooooords—" he rolled his eyes as he spoke the word, let it drag a little, soaked in every bit of their irritation, "—you ever fought magic? Have your swords been tested against that?"His eye twitched. “Clearly. Fucking. Not.”

The hall went silent. He let the pause stretch, watching how even the most vocal of his detractors shifted in their seats. He could feel the tension now, the weight of their uncertainty pressing down. They didn’t know. They had never known. And that—that—was why they were afraid of him.

Robb didn't flinch. His hand curled around the armrest of his chair, fingers whitening slightly, but when he spoke, his voice was still steady. "And what would you have us do?" he asked. "Give you a crown? A kingdom?"

Greg blinked. Stared at him. 

Then scoffed, shaking his head. "Are you—no, listen to me." His voice came sharper now, exasperated, like Robb had just asked him if the sky was real. "No. I don’t want a crown. I don’t even want to be here. I kinda hate it here, being real. No, I really hate it here. I’ve been trying to put on a happy face, but most of you people suck. Like, just the worst." 

His eyes flicked toward the woman to his far left. "Looking at you, Dustin."

Lady Dustin’s lips curled, her scowl deep enough to crack stone.

Greg kept going. "But I’ll tell you what I do want. I want my people—the ones who followed me, who believed in me—to have a place to call home. The Brightfort isn’t a castle for me; it’s for them. And if the North is so concerned with honor, then accept me as its lord, not for my sake, but for theirs. As recompense for my ancestors and the crime done against them, Stark."

The room shifted. Lords straightened in their seats. Some turned to glance at each other, quick, assessing. He had them now. Or some of them, at least.

Then Umber, the giant of a man with almost a foot on Guts, surged to his feet, the motion sending his chair scraping back. His face twisted with rage, red creeping up his thick neck. "You dare—"

His hand moved for his sword.

Ash sat up on his haunches and roared.

The sound was nothing close to natural. It wasn’t supposed to be.Nothing that small should make a sound that big.It shook the hall like a living thing, rattling banners, making men jolt like startled horses. The smell of burnt air curled around the edges of the moment.  Swords were drawn, steel rasping against leather and it was only the nowhere-near-as-loud growl-barking of the giant wolf by Robb’s side that brought order back to the room.

Greg didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

“I don’t care who you are, big man," he said, eyes locked onto Umber’s, unblinking. "But I’ll rip your world a-fucking-sunder if you try me right now.”Greg turned away from the stunned Lord Umber as he heard a sound from his back that made it clear Guts was doing his best to hold in a laugh. He shook his head and swallowed, but it didn’t go down right. He was stuck here, inside a decision he hadn’t made yet, and the longer he stood, the heavier it got.

Robb Stark’s face was a fucking puzzle. The guy sat there, staring at Greg like he was waiting for something, but what? What was he waiting for? For him to throw a tantrum? For him to storm out? For him to actually kneel?

Greg exhaled hard, sharp, like he could shake the weight off. He wanted to refuse. He wanted to say something sharp, something ugly that would make them all regret dragging him into this, something to shatter whatever illusion they had that he was just another lord bending his head and swallowing the rules. But then— fuck. Gwenna. The others. The people who followed him. The smallfolk.

The people who had nowhere else to go.

He clenched his jaw. His hands twitched, caught between fists and letting go, and for a second, his whole body just didn’t want to move. Then he forced himself down. One knee. Cold stone bit through his pants, and— fuck, that was it. That was all it took.

Greg kept his head up.

He wasn’t sure if it was stubbornness or pride or some deep part of him refusing to break, but he looked Robb dead in the eyes and made sure he knew—Greg was kneeling, but he wasn’t small.

"I, Gregory Lucas Veder," he started, voice steady even though his ribs were too tight, too full of something ugly that wasn’t going away, "swear, by the old gods and the new, that I will—” Shit. Fuck. He should’ve planned this.

Greg shifted his weight, forced the words to come anyway as something . “That I will fight for, and… with Robb Stark, rightful lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North—”

He adjusted as he went, clipping words, fixing them before they left his mouth. He wasn’t going to say ‘for House Stark, with all my strength, my power, and my life’ because that was bullshit—he wasn’t dying for a house he couldn’t trust. He tweaked it, turning the words into something he could actually say without choking on them.

“—so long as he stands for what is right. As long as he fights for his people and the safety of the North, then I’ll fight for him with all my heart and all my power… until I die." 

It wasn’t a perfect oath. It wasn’t clean. But it was true.As if to signify it, golden light burst from his body, wafting around him like sunlight, different from the ethereal glow of what he knew to be his holy affinity, and something more solid and real, kinda like… sunlight? Greg blinked, tilting his head to the side as that seemed to click inside his head. Yeah, sunlight.

He blinked again and realized Lord Robb was on his feet along with several other lords and guards, weapons raised while both Ash and Guts were ready on their own, positioned defensively around him.

The teenage lord looked at him with wary eyes, confusion clear on his face as he tried to wrestle his expression back to something lordly and restrained. To the guy’s credit, it barely took him a few seconds before he managed it, and finally, words left his mouth as the hall dimmed to silence again. “What… was that?”

I just got a weird new power out of nowhere, I don’t fucking know dude, but of course he couldn’t say that. Still on one knee, Greg said the only thing on his mind. “That was a magical oath, my lord Stark. I pledged my life and magic to your service. So, as long as you’re a good and just lord…” he shrugged, the lordly voice failing him as his bullshiting hit a wall in the road that only Wile E Coyote could have gotten away with, “...we’re good, basically.”

Greg watched the realization flicker behind Robb’s face, something sharp at the edges of his expression, something that was almost understanding, almost respect.“We’re… good?” Robb asked.

“...yep.”

The redhead standing in front of his throne nodded slowly. “...You swore to me,” Robb said carefully, “and not to House Stark.”

Greg barely paused. He gave Robb a smile that wasn’t really a smile. Just a quirk of his lips, something that lived somewhere between a shrug and a dare.

“I don’t know anything about House Stark,” Greg said honestly, because fuck it, he wasn’t gonna lie about that. “But I know you… kinda.” His voice dipped just slightly, somewhere halfway between the point where well-meaning and wanting to rather fall down a well than continue whatever this was. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he shrugged again and added, “And… well, you don’t seem that bad.”

It was almost funny, watching Robb’s expression trip. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d just been insulted or complimented. But then —there it was. 

A smile spreading across the face of Robb Stark, real in a way Greg was sure of. “Then rise, Lord Veder, and take your place among the Lords of the North.”

Greg nearly jumped up to his feet, but restrained himself in time as he slowly straightened, and let out a slow breath. His chest still felt tight, but it wasn’t with anger anymore. It was just… full.

Around them, plenty of the lords were still whispering, still watching. Some were glaring. Some were furious. But thing was, none of it mattered.He won this round.

This politics shit is easy.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The Bright Lord (100 GP)

ROLL: Heliomancy - Weak (50 FP) [A Declaration of the Rights of Magicians] {Control}: "Conjure motes of bright light, or shed light yourself. Warm a room with your radiance. Weave light into minor illusions and heat-hazes across a few meters.

Create a sudden flash of bright light. Look at the sun without harm."

Grimoire Points: 250