Nerd In the North: 4-19 (Patreon)

There’s no place like home.Greg wasn’t sure who said that. Actually, wait, he did. He’d watched Wizard of Oz so many times with his mom growing up and she had read him all the Oz books, too. Even the really, really weird ones, like why were those ducks talking? He frowned to himself, face actually doing a downturn at the wholesomely odd memory. How did that help the story at all, like in the slightest?

Anyway, unlike Dorothy, he couldn’t simply click his heels together and wish himself back home… yet.Until then, he was simply going to have to make do.And if making do meant living it up in a giant fuck-off fantasy castle, he was gonna make all kinds of do. Greg frowned a half-second later, his face screwing up even tighter as he processed that last thought. The fuck is wrong with me?Shaking his head, Greg sat up on Cloud, the brown stallion trotting over the frost-crusted slope that led to the Brightfort proper. He didn’t ride like a noble.Not yet, at least.His posture was a hell of a lot better than it had been a couple weeks ago, before he left to Winterfell. His back was definitely straighter, his hands steadier on Cloud’s reins, yeah, but it still felt like he was trying to cosplay Aragorn more than anything else.Cosplaying Aragorn and not even committing to the bit, he thought to himself. I gotta figure out a vague British accent to fit in with the North people.The frost-crusted slope beneath Cloud’s hooves crunched like broken teeth with every step, the wind dry and biting and full of the kind of sunlight that only existed when the gods were trying to be sarcastic. The Brightfort came into view below as it waited for his arrival, smooth and pristine stone towers catching the low slant of morning light, all shiny and white like he was a Disney Prince and he had just kicked the dragon queen off the mountain.

It was all his. Officially.

A grin split across his face. That’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about.

Greg cast a glance behind him to keep an eye on the  jagged line of riders that stretched unevenly down the trail. Lobb was close behind, his “squire” busy trying to sit like a knight even though he had never seen an actual knight in his life, and somehow managing to do a worse job than Greg when it came to riding. Daeric flanked him with the other two boys—one of them still wearing a helmet too big for his head like it made him important. Greg didn’t bother correcting him anymore. Let him pretend. That’s half the job anyway.

He caught Guts in the corner of his eye. Always just right of center. Always too big. Too quiet. Still hadn’t said more than twenty words since Winterfell, and most of those were grunts. He rode like he was born in a saddle. Like the horse moved around him. The horse didn’t blink. 

Neither did Guts.

Greg side-eyed him, the fuck-huge adventurer still somehow silent after their days-long trip from Winterfell. “You gonna say something eventually or just keep trying to soul-crush me with that look?”

Guts didn’t look over, the man simply snorting dismissively. “Your dragon’s about to.”

That’s when the fire hit the sky.

A sharp arc of fire twisted into the air, clean and cocky and definitely not subtle. It spiraled high enough to kiss the sky, heat trailing in a lazy shimmer before vanishing. Nobody screamed. No panic. Just heat and showmanship. Greg didn’t have to squint up to know who and where that came from, but he did so anyway.

Ash.

The little bastard was perched on the main gate’s arch like the world’s most arrogant gargoyle, one wing half-lifted for effect, tail twitching like a cat that knew exactly how dramatic it was being.. His neck craned down when he spotted them, smug as hell.

Rolling his eyes, Greg let out a groan that sounded more like a cow in pain as it split off into a yawn halfway. “He’s announcing us now?”

The grunt from Guts was an answer all its own, but surprisingly Guts wasn’t done. “He’s got better timing than your bannermen.”

“Fair.”

The gates swung open slow. Not ominous, not majestic, just… slow. Heavy like they’d rather stay shut, and only opened because they were told to. And standing there in the doorway, framed in chill air and the last gold curl of Ash’s victory-lap fire twirling off the sky, was Gwenna.

Of course it was Gwenna.

The dress was new. That much hit first. Ice-blue, slit at the sides with sleeves that flared out like she’d mugged a noble’s daughter on her way to the tailor. And the hair—gods, the hair—twisted and braided up in a shape that probably required prayer and two separate ladders to build. The look in her eyes was sharper than her outfit. She knew how she looked. Knew he’d look. Dared him to.

Shiro sat on her shoulder like a brooch with attitude. The little white demon blinked once—then launched.

“KWEH!”

Greg yelped, half because of the bird and half because Shiro was faster than he remembered. His hands moved on instinct, catching the flying gremlin just before it could land a beak in his left eye. “Alright, alright, Jesus—okay—dude, stop flappin’, I get it. Missed you too, little monster.”

Shiro made an offended chirp and burrowed under his cloak like he hadn’t just attempted murder.

“Warm little traitor,” Greg muttered, scratching at the dumb stripe of mohawk feathers on the bird’s head.

The column behind him dismounted slow. Nothing polished about it. Just armor creaking, knees popping, cold fingers fumbling with stiff straps. Greg slid off Cloud last, adjusting Shiro with one hand and catching Gwenna’s eyes for the first time with the other.

She curtsied. Not deep, not formal, not like a noblewoman at court. Just enough to say she’d acknowledged the title without bowing to it. Greg felt his stomach tighten and absolutely no reason for it that he wanted to unpack. Not right now.

Behind her stood a bunch of girls, about six of them. All of them were dressed in matching pale blue dresses, simple cut with better stitching than what they’d had before. Gwenna’s crew. The Sisterhood. Whatever she had named them before he left for Winterfell. They stood in a line that looked like it was supposed to be straight and wasn’t. One girl waved. One whispered. One stared like Greg was about to cast a spell and make her disappear.

Which was all kinds of ironic.

He raised a hand and gave a vaguely diplomatic sort of nod. Not quite a wave. Not quite not one.

“Lord Veder returns to the Brightfort!” someone bellowed from the wall.

Greg’s eye twitched. His mouth moved like it wanted to laugh but couldn’t find the shape. Lord Veder. Jesus Christ on the fanciest Ritz cracker, he hadn’t even gone to the Dark Side yet and he already got the title. He snorted at the thought. Man, I crack myself up.

His boots hit the stone and suddenly the courtyard were too huge and too small all at the same time. The walls were both taller and closer than he remembered but more than anything else, it was all his. His keep. His name. His people.

The doors to the great hall swung open without ceremony and Greg took a breath as he spotted the inside of his perfect castle. Shiro clambered down his arm like he had a schedule to keep, claws careful but familiar, wings tucking in as he perched on Gwenna’s shoulder like he belonged there.

Gwenna hadn’t looked away.

He stepped forward.

Time to make an entrance. Again.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The hall didn’t fill. It collected. Like water in the wrong kind of bowl—too slow, too quiet, rippling the wrong way. Greg felt it before the second door even thunked closed behind him. There was noise, sure, but none of it matched. Not the kind that meant celebration or ceremony. A few too-early claps died before they could build, scattered along the walls like bad echoes. Mud-heavy boots squeaked where they shouldn’t have. One of the Frostfall girls sneezed and muttered something sharp about wool. Greg didn’t even try to figure out which one.

And two of the old Bolton retainers were standing too damn straight. Like they were watching him for a grade.

Greg didn’t know what grade he was supposed to be aiming for. Probably not a B-minus in public lord-ing.

He could still bail. That thought blinked across the inside of his skull and refused to go away, for some reason. Just turn around. Hop the bannister. Dive into a moat that probably didn’t even exist.

But then Gwenna.

She stood near one of the empty braziers, hidden enough that it felt deliberate, dress deep blue like midnight rain and sleeves cut to look expensive even if they weren’t. Her hair was up again, pinned and twisted into something aggressive, with a shine that didn’t look like it belonged to this part of the world. Shiro sat on her shoulder like a failed taxidermy project, looking down on the proceedings like he was the one who was about to grant titles.

Greg cleared his throat.

“Thank you all for… coming.”

That came out wrong. Already. 

He sounded like a guy apologizing at the start of a talent show bit he knew was going to suck. He adjusted instead, shifted his stance, and straightened everything that could be straightened. Then again:

“By order of Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North—”

There. That was the voice. That was the cadence. The capital letters practically wrote themselves. He could feel them now, standing behind his teeth.

“—and in recognition of service to House Stark, namely the aid rendered in the healing of Lord Bran Stark, I have been granted the right to name one petty title.”

He paused and let the words sit. He did not throw up. Why is this so much harder than facing a bunch of angry old lords who want to kill me?

His eyes flicked to Gwenna.

She blinked, once. Didn’t move otherwise.

He extended his hand.

And God, the silence was so sharp around it. You could hear fabric shift and someone somewhere clear their throat like they were trying to cover up the moment.

Gwenna stepped forward. No hesitation. Just a few steps. Her fingers curled into his, warmer than expected, slightly damp. Callused. Real. He squeezed once and led her down the steps.

The steps took longer than they should’ve. Because the air moved again. Like the whole room leaned in.

They reached the center. He didn’t let go.

“For her actions in service to the North,” Greg said, his throat dry again, voice stiff but trying, “and by the rights granted to me as Lord of the Brightfort, I name thee Lady Gwenevere.”

There was a flicker of a reaction—her eyes shifted, her jaw ticked, but she didn’t flinch. Not really.

He added, lower, closer, just for her: “If you want… you can name your house.”

She held his gaze.

“I would keep the name Gwenevere.”

Greg nodded. Once. It was enough.

The Frostfall girls clapped first. Of course they did. Gerda was practically vibrating, tears in her eyes, clapping like she could make the whole moment louder on her own. A few servants followed, one of the older guards grunted in something that might’ve been approval, and, finally, the noise began to feel like applause.

Gwenevere leaned close. “My lord… what does a Lady… do?”

Greg didn’t miss a beat as he leaned over her way. “…ask the maester.”