Nerd In the North 4-16 (Patreon)

The council chamber was thick and musty, for as big and cold as it was. Too many big men who hadn't had a proper bath in probably days, wrapped up in furs that had never seen the inside of a washing machine. The hearth was lit, sure, but the heat didn’t do a thing for the ice-cold looks being thrown his way like knives with dull edges.

Or sharp ones.

Hard to tell, half these old men looked like they ate steel for breakfast and shit contempt.

Banners dangled overhead—direwolves, mermen, flayed men (well, not anymore), a whole quilt of grudges stitched into linen—and they rustled every time the door banged or a lord shifted too hard in his seat. And they did that a lot. Everyone kept moving. Fidgeting. Adjusting their cloaks, tapping fingers, gripping goblets like if they let go, they’d fall out of history.

Greg sat near the middle of the table. Not at the foot. Not near Robb either at the head.

Just… there.

Planted like a weed. Which, yeah, he could live with. He wasn’t here to blend in. He wasn’t here to play pretend.

Hell, it made sense, if he thought about it for a second or two. Keeping the new "Lord" far enough away that you don't look like you're giving him favoritism but also close enough that you're probably not insulting the guy who could juggle bolts of fire.

Not that he could.

Juggle fire bolts, that is.

That was an entirely different skillset to throwing them, but he was getting there. He could tell.

Ash lay curled beside his boots, one big paw twitching occasionally, ear flicking every time someone coughed too loud or said something stupid. Which was constant. The bear wasn’t even growling yet, just watching. His eyes pulsed like coals, steady and bored. Greg felt that.

The Greatjon slammed the table.

It didn’t echo. It boomed. Cups rattled, ink splattered, one old maester flinched so hard he knocked his scroll off the table. Greg didn’t blink.

“This boy,” the Greatjon barked, and it wasn’t just volume—it was tone, like he was pissed that language hadn’t evolved to a word more insulting than boy. “He kneels, he swears—but that don’t make him one o’ us. There’s lines, and he weren’t born on the right side.”

Greg’s chair creaked slightly as he leaned back. He didn’t slouch, but it was close. He let the weight of the room roll past him for a second, pretended the shaking in his right leg was just from the cold and not instinct. “I’m not sure who you are,” he said, voice deliberately calm, even though his eyes had already narrowed at the name before it even left the man’s mouth.

“Umber,” the Greatjon snapped, cutting in like a blade.

“Lord Umber.” Greg nodded like he was filing it away, even though the name had been burned into his skull since the words of other men that followed him had flowed his way, speaking of Umber and Bolton in near-equal breaths. “You might not think I’ve got a place here, but I fought to get where I am right now. Literally. You think I care what side of the line I was born on?”

Umber’s face darkened. His knuckles were white against the wood. “Watch your tone, lad, when you speak to a Lord of the North, or I’ll put ye through the bloody table myself.”

And that’s when Ash shifted.

The growl wasn’t loud. Not really.

But it rolled across the stone like thunder building up behind a mountain. The bear didn’t move much, just uncurled one paw and showed his teeth. Fire licked the back of his throat like a warning flare.

Low and controlled, for Ash at least, but one hundred fucking percent a threat the way only a half-dragon/half-bear could deliver one.

The room quieted. Not all at once. A few muttered curses, a goblet being set down too quickly. But it quieted.

Greg didn’t smile. That would’ve been too much. Instead, he looked back at Umber and let his voice drop half an octave. “You might want to rethink threatening me, Lord Umber. Ash didn’t get much to eat last night.”

The sneer that twisted across Umber’s face could’ve split stone. The big man, taller than Guts, and definitely wider opened his big mouth and—

“You will silence yourself, Lord Umber.”

Robb’s voice cut clean. Not loud. But sharp. The kind of voice that expected people to obey.

The young wolf rose to his feet, and dropped his hands on the table, clenched into fists and knuckles down. His face didn’t twitch as bis huge-ass wolf was beside him, silent and still, but his hackles were up and his gaze locked on the Greatjon with the same level of focus and intensity as his giant pet.

“This is not a place for threats,” Robb said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. “Nor posturing. We are here to discuss war, not drag blades over old grudges.”

Umber sat. Slowly. His glare didn’t fade.

Robb waited a beat longer, then shifted his weight and turned to the room like the moment hadn’t happened.

“Lord Veder is sworn,” he said. Still calm. Still that quiet edge that made every word land like a drawn arrow. “His strength is ours. If any here doubt that we’ll use every weapon at our disposal to win, then say so now.”

Nobody spoke.

Greg ran his fingers down Ash’s back, felt the fur and scales bristle under his touch. Still keyed-up and waiting for action, same as him and Guts. That seems a little like a problem we should work on. Maybe too mch stress.

The lords shifted again. Some couldn’t meet Robb’s eyes. Some tried. Some just… watched Greg with wary eyes narrowed to slits, almost like he was a wild animal allowed to sit at the dinner table, with too-big claws and too-big teeth. Blue eyes darted to the two actual wild animals at the table and Greg could only shrug.

The room moved on as the day went on. Sort of. Maps came out. Names were listed. River crossings, supply lines, banners they could call, banners they couldn’t. Greg caught half of it, maybe. His brain snagged on weird stuff—why did Lord Ryswell talk through his teeth like he was chewing leather? Who the hell designed this table, and why was there no food yet? Not even a snack?

Then the conversation dipped to almost nothing, leaving very little but the non-sound that was empty air.

Greg filled it.

“You’re planning a war,” he said, keeping his voice smooth. Low. Like a warning, not a complaint. “But most of you spend more time arguing with each other than talking about the enemy. And from what I heard, they’ve got more men, more coin, and more hostages.”

The noise in the hall didn’t quite bounce. It lingered. That weird, humid kind of silence that still felt crowded, like every word that had been shouted minutes ago was still stuck to the ceiling beams trying to figure out how to echo properly. Greg barely registered half of what had just been said—he caught the tail end of a Karstark grunt and the last flick of Robb’s wrist as he leaned back from the map, and then everything shifted again.

Lord Karstark, who might’ve been carved from a single slab of bitterness, gave this snort that wasn’t even derisive so much as exhausted. "Sorcery has no place on the field. Not among men."

Greg felt his lips pull down before his brain finished catching up. His neck ached from sitting up straight too long, but he didn’t lean back. Not this time. He looked across the table like he was assessing a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit, like maybe Karstark wasn’t trying to start a fight, just… had no idea what century they were in. "Yeah, what I know," he started, slowly, like maybe if he gave the guy time to interrupt he’d take the bait and spare him from having to finish the sentence, "a bunch of you tried to kill me. Didn’t work. Not even close, actually. And then I sent your guys back to you in one piece, after patching ‘em up better than your own maesters could manage."

He paused, letting that hang like steam off boiling water.

"That was me being nice."

He didn’t smile. His voice didn’t lift. He wasn’t trying to be dramatic. But Karstark’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and that was enough.

Greg rolled his shoulder once, quiet. "The Lannisters’ll torch their own grain fields before they let you hold them. They’ll buy every sell-sword in Essos and tell ‘em you’re the devils from their nursery rhymes. So unless your grand plan is to frown them into submission, I kinda wanna know what your strategy is. Lord."

Karstark didn’t respond. Just… set his jaw like the words physically offended him. His fingers curled against the wood. Greg didn’t think the guy was used to being called out by someone younger than the wine in his cup.

Robb didn’t say anything at first, but his gaze cut sideways toward Greg, and there was something different in it. Not approval, not quite. But not cold. Maybe halfway between curiosity and fuck, he might have a point.

"Lord Veder will ride with us," Robb said, calmly, just like that. Like it was decided already, which considering he was pretty much king of the North (if only not because of a technicality), then yeah... makes sense. He leaned over the table again, hands braced, one finger dragging a clean line across the map—south. Toward the Triden-Wait, how the fuck do I know that?

Greg exhaled through his nose, arms crossed, eye twitching as he suddenly realized he knew what any of those rivers were called. ‘Abilities’ made it sound like he was a utility spell card Robb could slot into his deck. Which, honestly, wasn’t wrong. Wasn’t wrong, but felt off.

"An edge, is it?" Karstark’s voice came quieter this time, but heavier. He spoke like a judge about to sentence someone he didn’t hate, but didn’t trust to stay clean. "Or a blade without hilt nor sheath? What happens when the boy fails? Or turns? Magic’s never stayed loyal."

Greg tilted his head. "You got better options?"

Silence again. This time, actual stillness. Even Ash stopped his low, half-audible rumbling.

Robb rose slowly. Straightened his back like he’d grown another inch. "Loyalty is earned. Not assumed. Lord Veder gave me his oath, and I accepted it. That ends the matter."

Karstark didn’t speak. His hand twitched slightly on the chair arm. Whether from disagreement or restraint, Greg couldn’t tell.

The hall wasn’t loud anymore. Just low muttering. Side-bar glances. Nobody seemed all that keen to kick the fire again. Greg flexed his fingers against Ash’s fur. Still warm. Still steady. The bear’s eyes were half-lidded, but one twitch in his lip showed flame behind the teeth. Nobody in the room forgot it. Least of all him.

"Lord Veder’s power belongs to the North," Robb said again, but different this time. Emphasis on North, like that was the only thing that mattered anymore. Maybe it was. "The Lannisters buy loyalty with gold. We’ll match it with steel. And whatever else we have."

Maeg Mormont gave a small, sharp nod from her place near the table’s edge. "Magic or not, he fights like he means it. Better he burns for us than against us."

Across the table, Lady Dustin made this soft, annoyed exhale—half a laugh, half contempt. "And if the flame spreads during and after the war? You’ve no firebreak, my lord."

Greg didn’t lean forward, instead just shifting his head, voice not changing in the slightest. "With all due disrespect, shut the fuck up. There's another war in front of you, maybe focus on that, old lady."

That landed. Not like a bomb. But like a nail hammered halfway in. No one replied right away. Ryswell’s fingers twitched against his goblet.

"The boy is effectively a greathammer with a sharp hilt, blunt and sharp and dangerous to all," Ryswell said. No mockery. Just… resignation with a sigh.

Robb turned, slow, purposely keeping his eyes off Greg as his lip twitched. "Then I’ll wield it myself. As I would any weapon in this war. Lord Veder’s loyalty is mine. That’s all that needs saying. Unless someone wants to say otherwise."

He let the silence stretch.

Greg watched. Waited. Nobody spoke even as Karstark and Dustin exchanged looks, their skepticism clear.

The fire had burned too low, or maybe his focus had. Something about troop placements, somebody pointing at a river like it owed him money, someone else arguing about bridge stability like that was the part of this whole apocalypse-in-slow-motion that needed urgent moral debate. Greg wasn’t listening. Not really.

Ash shifted at his side. Heavy. Restless. A huff of smoke slid under the table and curled past Greg’s boots like a cat that knew better than to be seen. Greg scratched behind one of his ears without looking. Still warm. Still steady. Still—

“Lord Veder rides in the vanguard.”

The words hit like a dropped hammer.

Greg blinked. His head snapped up too fast, spine going poker-straight before he even registered it. Robb’s eyes didn’t move from the map.

“His strength will scatter their line. The lions won’t be ready.”

Oh. Okay. Right. Just like that.

Greg blinked as his back straightened before he meant to. He tilted his head further at Robb Stark, staring silently as he began to wonder when all this was decided. “Cool,” he said, voice dry. “Coolcoolcoooool, no pressure.”

It didn’t even echo, but the Greatjon laughed anyway—loud and hollow, like someone knocking on a door that wouldn't open. “You’ve got a mouth on you, boy. We’ll see if your spine holds when Lannister steel’s in your gut.”

Greg tilted his head slightly, but didn’t smile. “I can take a sword to the gut, maybe five and still be fine, just letting you know," Umber's laughter halted at his words, dying off as he realized Greg was being dead serious. "Either way... if I fold, I die, you win, the North has a much harder fight in front of it. Either way, we both lose.”

The laughter stopped. The lords started to shift again, chairs pushing out, furs rustling, boots scraping old stone. The conversation didn’t exactly end—it just sagged under its own weight and broke apart as Robb gave the final word with that commanding voice that Greg was still trying to figure out himself. Something about the diaphragm.

Either way, he stayed put at his seat thinking to himself. Fingers rested against Ash’s fur, watching the way the flames reflected in the bear’s half-lidded eyes. Ash yawned, slow and wide, teeth glowing for half a second with lazy heat.

Lady Dustin was the last other than him to begin leaving the hall, her eyes occasionally drifting over to him as Greg pretended not to notice. Apparently, that was the wrong move.

Finally, she fully turned his way, of course she turned, and gave him a full-on look, like he'd pissed in her porridge. The one she’d been sharpening all day like a sword.

"The North remembers, Lord Veder, if it does anything else," she said, voice like dust through a silk veil. “Best you remember that you will never be loved in this land, usurper you are.”

Greg didn’t stand. Instead, he let out a sigh as all the noble acting he'd been keeping up all day gave away with only one person in front of him, a person he didn't like. “Listen, lady, just give it a rest, okay. You don't like me, cool. Guess what? I don't caaaaaare,”

Her lip curled, but she didn’t answer. Just disappeared through the archway like a bad thought.

The hall echoed in her absence. Even the fire had stopped crackling like it knew it wasn’t the loudest thing in the room anymore. Greg flexed his hand once against Ash’s shoulder and let his breath slow.

Robb approached with that Stark gait—measured, quiet, like the silence came with him. His giant wolf was at his side, pupils glinting like knives, and Greg swore the damn wolf blinked in time with the hearth.

“You held your ground.”

Greg snorted. “Did I? They still want me dead. I'm surprised you don't, honestly.”

The young Lord Stark shook his head. "What? And risk the smallfolk rebelling when the North is already in need of unity? Bards across the North have been flush with coin singing new songs of the White Blade."

Greg sighed to himself, unable to hide the smile on his face. "Fucking Oren..."

Robb’s face didn’t change at Greg's curse, but his lip twitched. Just a little. “The lords... they are wary. And they’re proud. It comes with being of the North. You’ll be tested again.”

Greg rolled a shoulder. “What, like a dog? Make sure I don’t bite the wrong hand?”

“If they question your loyalty, they’ll answer to me.” Robb’s voice came colder now. Not louder. Just… more final.

Greg glanced down. Ash hadn’t moved.

“You say that now.”

“I’ll say it again when it matters.”

Greg didn’t have a good answer for that. Didn’t try to find one. Just let the silence stretch into something uncomfortable and brittle.

Robb didn’t let it break. “The North needs your fire.”

Greg snorted. “Needing someone and liking ‘em aren’t the same.”

“No. They aren’t.”

Ash let out a low rumble. Not quite a growl. Not quite not.

Greg exhaled through his nose. “Long as nobody tries to slit my throat in my sleep, we’ll get along.”

Robb’s jaw moved once, tension barely visible. “Come with me.”