Nerd In the North 5-5 (Patreon)

“...I hate Mondays.”Again, what even counted as a Monday? He still didn’t know, but five months into being a Lord and he really didn’t feel like getting someone to teach him his days of the week.

He blinked up as gray light clawed its way through the tent flap, already pissed off and only half-tired, his body not really doing groggy anymore. 

Not that it really had for the last freaking half-year, honestly. Groggy or not, it didn't help the fact that his eyelids were still sticky, and his body was caught in that sour stretch between “too early” and “fuck this.”

Before he even rolled over, before his eyes even focused, his brain flashed through last week again, the memory of that tiny little farm girl handing him bread with shaky hands something he hadn’t been able to get out of his head since then.

A sigh left Greg as he laid there on his cot-thing. I miss that.

Being a healstud was fine and all, but he missed being a hero. 

All the swashbuckling and… wait.. Big blue eyes blinked that thought away. No, that’s pirates. 

Well, whatever you called what knights did. He missed that.

He knew it was kinda wimpy and childish to complain about shit like that when he was saving lives in the middle of a war, so he kept those inside thoughts exactly where they belonged.

Unfortunately, those inside thoughts had to make room for other things, like Robb's voice from that same day that still echoed loud in his head; telling him he had to follow orders, talking about his family and House like something from a thousand years ago mattered.

He sat up, dragging his hands down his face. His fingers caught what might have been peach fuzz that hadn’t been there last week, pulling another groan out of Greg’s mouth. Everything was speeding up lately; growth, drain, expectations. 

“God, mornings suck.” It was good to know somethings never changed, though. He used to hate this time of day back in Brockton Bay too. He could still remember Mom trying to be cheerful, even as her threats got louder and less loving to get him out of bed; rattling plates and shouting about throwing water on him. 

Not today. He sighed loud. No ghosts before breakfast.

The tent flap rustled as he stepped outside, the sounds of scraping metal and loud voices from all the different soldiers and varying lords saying whatever. 

He scratched his eyes, gunk falling off, as he spotted Lobb off to the side, shining a sword that they both knew didn’t need it. 

The kid (his squire or whatever) was crouched over the blade like it was going to whisper secrets to him if he stared long enough. That sword glowed faintly even when it wasn’t even being swung, enchantments baked deep into the metal by one of the better power drops Greg had gotten before the war even started.

The thing was smarter than half the lords in this camp, considering it never got dull. Heh. It guided your hand too, and barely needed maintenance. If Greg didn’t already have something like ten times better since day one, he might have been greedy and kept it. 

Lobb noticed him and lit up like they were headed to prom instead of a strategy meeting. “My lord! Word from the command tent. War council’s starting. All commanders called.”

Greg didn’t answer immediately as he fastened the last buckle on his bracer. He hadn’t seen most of the lords since the last meeting in Robb’s tent, but a war council meant the same thing it always did. Someone was going to suggest charging, someone was going to accuse him of being unnatural, and someone else was going to do both of those things.

Ash wasn’t in sight, which meant he was out hunting again. Little guy’s been growing faster than ever. His scales might not be the toughest thing around, but the dracoursa was already strong enough to risk Greg’s arms if he was playing too rough. There a cap on his size? It was a good question, because he wasn’t sure if he was ready to end up with Ash shrugging his wings around a mountain like a blanket. How big was Smaug, anyway?

He looked back at Lobb, his squire swinging his silver sword like it was going to tell him he was the chosen of Albion or something. “You know these meetings? Every time, I swear someone stands up and says we should just charge straight at these Lannister guys and hope they get so scared they shit themselves.”

The squire frowned, brow pinching like that hadn’t occurred to him before. “But that’s what lords and soldiers do, m’lord. Ride out. Glory. Victory. That kind of thing.”

Greg snorted loud as he adjusted a gauntlet that didn’t need it. “That’s also why knights die in stories. In real life, they mostly die confused and loud.” Blue eyes stared up into gray sky. “You want glory, get Oren to follow you around or something.”

Lobb went quiet at that, the squire just mulling that over.

The command tent loomed like every old high school quarterback’s man cave; big, unnecessary, and draped in symbols. Stark banners fluttered with that direwolf frozen mid-growl. Greg clocked the lords outside before they clocked him; Dustin, Karstark, Umber, Ryswell. Their conversations dipped when he neared, then resumed with the exact volume and pitch of people who’d been talking about you.

One week since the last battle, and he was still radioactive.

He could tell because nobody met his eyes, but you’d have to be an idiot to think they didn’t see him. Especially considering his hair, and armor were shinier and more colorful than anyone else here. He was in bright blue, snow white, and steel so damned bright it might as well have been silver.

The trick, though, was to walk in like you didn’t notice. Can’t handle the Veder style, SMH. Along with rolling his eyes at the way half of them reflexively gripped hilts when he got too close, he barely even looked back at anyone else. He stepped inside the tent with just enough delay to be noticed, but not enough to be dramatic as every head turned like they were trying not to. 

Only Robb faced him without flinching. The otther boy still wore the war costume he hadn’t figured out how to take off, but the look he gave Greg wasn’t angry or anything.

No, it was lordly.

“Lord Veder,” The quarterback of the North sounded off, still sounding like a grown man despite looking all of junior varsity. Go Winslow Walruses. “We were just discussing our next move against the Lannisters.”

He nodded slow in Greg’s direction.

“Join us.”

Greg nodded back silently, lowering his head more than usual out of respect. Least he knows there's no heat over yesterday, right? Withotu saying a word, he took his place at the war table, silent, palms flat against the oiled wood, to the point he was pretty much feeling the grain. 

Lord Ryswell’s voice filled the space first. “A decisive strike at their main force would-”

“Be exactly what they’re expecting,” Greg’s voice wasn’t loud, but the whole tent went quiet anyway, his eyes still on the map. “I mean, c’mon, what’s the plan for that? Clump up and hit them till they die?”

Lady Dustin took in a quick breath, the sound as sharp as her words usually were. “Ah, the Lord Veder speaks out of turn. How unusual." Greg had to wonder if ladies in Westeros weren't supposed to be nice and whatever, because this old bitch was far from it. "Perhaps you'd prefer a strategy other than Northern steel?”

He raised his eyes and met hers, looking more bored than tired. “I mean, do you like throwing people in a meat grinder for the fun of it or…?”

Robb cleared his throat, a few Lord’s seats groaning as they shifted in them like they were hearing what they sounded like. A pair of blue eyes roamed other faces, no one else speaking up, before finally turning to meet Greg again. “What would you suggest, Lord Veder?”

Uhhhh… Greg’s brain tripped over the question, three different things hitting him out of nowhere as he realized the position he was in; Robb trusting him, Robb testing him, Robb giving the other lords a front-row seat to the fallout.

He stared down again, all the noise and faces fading away until all that remained was geography; the river line and the Lannister front staring back at him.

“They’re primed for a straight shot. Northern weight. Iron from ice, smash the center. Real cinematic.” He picked up one of the wooden war pieces and slid it across the field on the map, right to where their camp was. “So we let them watch that show.”

He didn’t pause as rotated another piece; smaller and on the western edge. “And then we send something quiet where it hurts.”

Lord Ryswell snorted, full nose-flare enough for him to feel the air from where he stood. “And who would lead this... knife?”

Greg looked at Robb. He didn’t even need the answer because he could tell from the look sent back his way.

Robb met his eyes, voice even but not hollow. “Lord Veder will. With a company of his choosing.”

“A Veder, leading tactics.” Lady Dustin again with the words of encouragement, bless her kind heart. “The gods help us all.”

The muscle in Greg’s jaw tried to punch through skin but he swallowed it. “My men will be ready at your signal, Lord Stark.”

Greg just stood there while the other lords folded into muttered clusters, each group saying their own piece and probably unaware he could fucking hear them, not like they would have cared if they knew. “No sense of strategy,” “blood clearly runs true,” “should’ve stayed dead.”

Right. Because family legacies matter more than not getting turned into decorative corpses.

He left without another word.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Three hours later, they stood at the edge of the world; well, camp perimeter, but close enough counted when you were fighting in a war before the age of gunpowder or artillery.

Thirty men. 

Enough for a distraction. Not enough for a tragedy. 

Greg scanned them like a paranoid dad checking for curfew violations as Lobb bounced on the balls of his feet right next to him, sword damn near humming in his grip. Daeric checked arrowheads like they were teeth and Brennor stood statue-still, shield strapped like an oath and spear longer than most family trees.

They looked ridiculous but the silver subtle glows on the weapon, armor, and shield made them look cool as fuck though, the three of them shining like lords even compared to the jealous-looking lords eyeing the magic tools Greg had gifted them.

Granted, that shine did a good job at making them extra targets for the Southerners and odd men out for other Northerners. But function beat fashion, especially when fashion involved boiled leather and dysentery.

It might have been favoritism, but first come, first serve.

Guts approached with human monolith energy, every step a threat with Dragonslayer held behind his neck like that. Greg opened his mouth, ready to assign him point, only to pause as he blinked off to the side and noticed Robb making his way over, Grey Wind ghosting behind him, that direwolf getting bigger and bigger every day.

“Lord Veder,” Robb said, nodding. “I hope you’ll forgive the change. I’d like your man Guts to ride with the main force.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Uh…huh, reason?”

“Gregor Clegane’s position is uncertain on these fields. If he appears, I want someone who might survive him.”

Greg turned toward Guts, and caught the barest twitch on his face; the kind of thing that screamed finally to anyone paying attention. Might.

“Sure,” Greg said, shrug light as day as he looked Guts right in the eye. He’d heard plenty about this Mountain guy but considering Guts was probably strong enough to rip Greg’s arm off in an arm wrestle… 

Yeah, he wasn’t worried. “Try not to make it look too easy.”

Guts nodded as something dark in his eyes flickered like an itch on a scar. “I’ll do my best, tiny lord.”

Then he turned, following Robb like a war dog had just been leashed.

“Ash!” Greg’s voice sliced up through the cold.

Then something tore from the clouds; black wings, hooked claws, scale-light flashing through mist. Ash landed hard and fast like a period at the end of a too-short sentence, muscular legs catching him, With a wide yawn of his maw, black wings folded themselves in with slow, deliberate disdain. 

The horses almost lost their minds.

Not Cloud, though. His little guy just breathed out his nose like he was tired of Ash showing off.

Greg shook his head and stepped forward, armor creaking faintly as he rested his hand against black fur and scaled hide and looked the bear-dragon in the face.

“You’re not arrow-proof, so keep pace.”Ash exhaled smoke thick enough to choke a biker gang. Greg frowned back, smacking the scaly idiot on the nose as the dracoursa’s chest rumbled, wings twitching like he was bored already. “Don’t be stupid, y’hear me?”One more grumble and he was pretty sure Ash got the message.

With a huff, Greg just grabbed the reins, and vaulted back onto Cloud in a single motion, armor clicking home like it was made for him, which... it probably was. Let’s go hunt some lions.

He kept that thought to himself, the only thing leaving his mouth was, “Ride.”

The woods of Riverrun took them whole, canopy breaking the sun apart as they charged right into it. Ash flickered above them, occasionally visible as a silhouette that wasn’t cloud or shadow, just their airborn recon in the form of a fiery apocalypse.

Thirty minutes of hard ride bled into Greg’s thighs as his spine buzzed with that pre-fight static, and by the time he threw up a closed fist, his pulse had already slowed to something nonhuman. The river ahead gleamed like a blade being shown off as red-and-gold banners flapped like the enemy was trying to win a Renaissance fair. 

Their formation looked theatrical and pointless, until he realized they’d called in backup.

More than expected. A lot more.

Greg dismounted and slinked forward, cloak dragging mud like a secret. He squinted over a ridge and counted… you’ve got to be kidding me.

Lobb appeared beside him, all whisper-quiet and careful. “My lord?”

Greg didn’t look back. “Either our scouts got bad math skills, or these lions doubled up last minute. Either way, it’s not looking good.”

He scanned for the flaw. There had to be one. These assholes weren’t gods. 

He didn’t have to look all that long.

The entire enemy position angled toward Robb’s front line; as if the forest behind them didn’t exist. If Greg’s smirk didn’t have teeth, he’d have grown an extra set right then and there as a horn split the air.

In one clean move, he mounted his Cloud and rolled his shoulders once just to hear the armor sing. “We’re the knife in the dark,” he said without volume. “Stay tight, stay fast, don’t get clever unless your name starts with Greg and ends with fucking Veder!”“VEDER!” They screamed his name at once, as they burst from the forest, sudden sunlight cutting across their armor as the Lannisters turned around, confused and already too late.

The white blade formed in his grip like it missed him as the first swing took a man’s throat, the sound more wet than dramatic. Cloud pivoted under him, hooves dancing like he’d been choreographing violence.

It was all just motion and pressure and onto the next victim.

A helmet split, a ribcage folded, and blood misted against sunlight before splattering against mud like a Jackson Pollock.

Lobb screamed—no, yelled—and spun under someone’s blade with that silver sword catching the next stroke in a hiss of magic. Greg caught it in the corner of his vision. Kid looked better, sharper, and unfairly faster against normal fighters.

That sword was doing more than glowing.

As he slowed down for a second to scope the field, a Lannister knight came at Cloud’s side, blade raised to cut the horse down. Greg pivoted, bu-

Brennor intercepted; shield forward like a brick wall with opinions. The enchantment pulsed as the blow bounced and the counter was clinical: one spear, one scream, one corpse. 

If Guts was a mountain of a man, his Brennor was a hill.

And both knew how to use their bulk.“For the Bright Lord!” 

More red and gold flooded in, and Greg knew it was time to flip the board.

It licked up his spine like bad electricity as he tasted metal and whispered without thinking. Kage no odori. 

The world skipped frames.

One moment on horseback, riding hard as a knight roared towards him.

The next, he had left Cloud behind ten feet back and was inside the knight’s blind spot, blade punching through chainmail, cartilage, spine as he dropped like a bag of dirty laundry. Greg blinked again with another burst of Japanese, and he was somewhere else.

Three knights screamed his way,

One spun, and the second didn’t even get that. Greg’s blade carved clean across the third, armor parting like it knew better than to resist. A split second later, he moved, body dragging light behind it like it owed him interest.

The world stuttered as he flickered with shadow magic, darkness clawing at what was left of his magic after days of nonstop healing. One man left.

Said man started to shout. “Fu-!”

Greg ended the sentence for him the exact same moment a sharp pain tore through his side and forced him to stumble back. The blond lordling glanced down to see a crossbow bolt embedded in his armor, just below the ribs, where the plates didn't quite overlap. 

Blood seeped through, hot and sticky against his skin. Shit.

He teleported again, sinking into his own shadow and vanishing a half-dozen feet away to the nearest one behind a fallen tree trunk. Quick check; the bolt hadn't penetrated deep, considering his armor was enchanted for a reason, but it had broken skin still. 

“Christ on a-” He gripped the shaft and gritted his teeth, biting back a grunt as it tore free with a yank. “Cracker!” Golden light flickered under his palm as he applied just enough healing to stop the bleeding without draining himself.

Three seconds. That's all he allowed himself before he was back in it.

The chaos was spreading now across the backfield. Lannister men on horseback shouted contradictory orders as they tried to reorient their forces, a red lion bannister down in the dirt and muck, some dead man still holding onto it. Some turned to face Greg's attack, others held position against Robb's main force. 

It was crazy, it was panicked, it was exactly what they'd wanted. "Ash!" Greg called, blue eyes tracking skyward. "USE BRAVE BIRD! CANCEL! THEN FLAMETHROWER!"

Months of training had gotten Ash used to his orders, even some of the more esoteric ones that were outright just Chinpokomon battle orders.

Just like that, the dragon-bear dove from the clouds, wings tucked tight, a dark meteor streaking toward the battlefield. At the last moment, his wings snapped open, his roar splitting the air as fire erupted from his jaws. A wall of flame separated a section of the Lannister forces, cutting them off from reinforcement.

Greg charged through the gap Ash had created, Cloud's hooves thundering over ground baked suddenly dry by dragon fire. Lobb fell in beside him, blood streaking his armor but eyes alive with battle-fever. Behind them, Daeric provided covering fire, arrows finding joints in enemy armor with unerring aim almost every time.

They reached the Lannister command position for this attack as quickly as they could, cutting down men with little to no thought. Greg honestly didn't give a fuck anymore, months of dealing with these guys and hearing from civilians how they had been treated at their hands.

The blond dismounted in a fluid motion, sword already seeking the enemy captain; a grizzled man with a red beard and hatred in his eyes.

"The Northern sorcerer," the captain spat, literally, raising his blade. "Come to die by Southern steel."

Greg didn't bother responding, a little surprised they had heard of him already. Either way, he moved forward, blade weaving patterns the captain couldn't follow. A feint, a twist, and the man's sword skittered away across the dirt.

Shock flashed in the man’s eyes, followed immediately by fear. "Fall back! Fall back!"

Greg blinked at that, glancing down at his sowrd before looking back up, surprised enough to let the guy run away. Really, dude? I just disarmed you.

No matter what, the cry spread across the field like contagion. "The sorceror is here!" Panic rippled through Lannister ranks, discipline fracturing as men broke formation. “The Bright Lord!”

Greg froze for a second, the title a sudden gut check when said with so much fear.

The retreat became a rout. Lannister forces abandoned positions, fleeing south across the river, leaving their dead and wounded scattered across bloodied grass. Northern soldiers pursued briefly before regrouping, victory shouts rising from Stark banners.

Greg wiped his blade clean on a fallen Lannister cloak, ignoring the ache in his side where the bolt had struck. It was already healing over, Greg having killed enough for his draining power to work but he’d taken more than a few hits in that fight and it was a slow work backwards.

Lobb approached, face flushed with victory, eyes bright with something like worship. "That was magnificent, my lord! The way you moved"

Greg let out a grunt, unsure what to say and how to even say nothing. How does Guts do this all the time? I feel dumb as fuck. The other dude’s open admiration was just…

A lot.

"Clean your blade properly," he said instead, the statement pointless given that it was self-cleaning but he had nothing else to say. "Blood ruins steel if you let it."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Robb found him pretty quickly, the Northern vanguard securing the battlefield as the Young Wolf made his way to Greg’s side, Grey Wind right next to the blue-eyed ginger. Ash, perched on a nearby boulder, watched the direwolf and Grey Wind stared back.

"Well fought as always, Lord Veder," Robb nodded at him again, this time with an actual smile on his face. "Lannisters ran like dogs after you broke their formation."

Greg shrugged, eyes roaming his armor as he picked at the spot where the crossbow got him earlier "Got lucky with the timing."

"Fortune mayhaps, but skill of arms played their part,." Robb's blue eyes tracked across the field, focused and lordly as usual. "My men report you moved like a wraith through their lines. Some claim you appeared and disappeared at will."

"Your guys really should spend a lot more time watching their own backs," Greg deflected again, this time with a sigh. "I had to save a bunch of them."

Robb studied him silently for a moment. "The casualties from your force?"

Greg felt himself frown at the thought. "At last check... three dead, I think." He knew exactly how many. "And then seven wounded, none too serious."

At least, not anymore.

Compared to the mess Robb’s men waded through, mud caked with blood and armor stripped off corpses like receipts, the losses to the flankers were only a rounding error. Well, ten percent wasn't much of a rounding error, but Greg had always sucked at math anyway.

He had counted at least thirty Northern bodies on the way back.

More, if you didn’t skip the ones with no heads. His own crew apart from the three dead and the ones he healed up? Just some surface-level cuts and basic bruising.

Lobb’s armor had some new dents. Brennor's knuckles were raw from punching a guy off his spear. At the very least, not dead.

But yeah, his flank? Pretty intact, which made another tally for the scoreboard and another reason for the lords to mutter like old ladies in church.

Robb didn’t posture as he shifted in place, and still somehow managed to look like he was about to be on the cover of Old Navy or something. “I meant what I said,” he told him, voice low but clear. “Today was well done. The plan.... No, your plan... it worked exactly as you described.”

Greg looked up. Robb was watching him without the usual military squint. 

He forced a smirk back onto his face “Yeah, well. Even a broken clock, right?”

Robb paused, expression catching on the unfamiliar shape of the metaphor. 

Medieval brain, meet modern bullshit. 

But Robb nodded anyway, polite as ever, then turned to leave. Grey Wind lingered a half-breath longer, eyes looking at him for a long second before the wolf padded off.

The camp was loud with relief as firelight washed everything in orange, painting shadows that danced like they were glad to still be here. He caught words in pieces:

“—five in one stroke—”

“—like smoke—”

“—they ran just seeing him—”

Jesus Christ. It’s starting.

The stories had already started mutating. Before Greg opened his eyes the next day, people would be saying he was like six feet taller and made of fire and lightning. By next week, they’d say he drank Lannister blood for breakfast and pissed molten steel. 

He veered left, toward a fire surrounded by a bunch of men who were already half-drunk, voices raised in something vaguely resembling rhythm. Greg angled closer, only to roll his eyes before he took a step too far. Son of a-

"The Young Wolf smiled, took his hand, ‘Together we'll defend our land.’"

At the center of everyone and everything, dancing around the fire like the whole space was his stage, was the most annoying bard Greg knew; Oren Snowlute.

Grented, he was the only bard Greg knew and there was good reason for that. Oren defended his territory like a dog with a bone. At least one other bard had tried to approach him and a swift punch from Snowlute settled that quickly.

But now, lute in hand, and dark hair bouncing with every strum and step around the fire, Oren continued to perform. The guy couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and he was probably younger than that, being honest. Either way, he was like top ten in the list of people Greg had met in Westeros who looked like they’d gotten lost on the way to a Renaissance Faire and just never left.

Robb was at the top of that list.

"At Whispering Wood, 'midst clash and cry,He cut through gold like summer rye.Three lions fell beneath his steel,As Lannister pride began to kneel."

He felt his jaw clench, bottom teeth meeting top as he grinded.

Of course it was a song.

Oren, the bright-eyed bard with too much hair and too little shame, had been following Greg since the dungeon debacle back in Snowthorne. Some noble got offended by a ballad about him fucking guys or guys fucking him or something, and instead of taking it on the chin (heh), they’d tossed the bard in chains. Greg had broken the guy out, mostly on impulse.

Now the guy treated him like a muse with a kill count.

"Listening to smallfolk tales of home,Remembering why we fight and roam."

Oren’s voice carried loud and clear, each line twisting deeper in Greg’s gut like the song was a spear. 

"When battle's joined and blood runs free,The Bright Lord fights for you and me.Not gold or glory does he seek,But northern justice, strong yet meek."

That line almost made him laugh. Meek. Right. That’s the word people used when describing a guy who ripped out spines with enchanted steel and could teleport his hand into a man’s ribcage. Totally meek.

He was backing away before he realized it. His legs carried him uphill, away from firelight, and away from the chorus. The song chased him anyway, notes clinging like smoke. It didn't matter where he went because he knew by morning, it’d be gospel. 

With a sigh, Greg found a rock and sat, letting the night do its thing.

Ash arrived without ceremony, wings folded, all his bear-body-bulk sinking into the ground as dragon heat made the frost-damp ground hiss.

Greg didn’t look at him, blue eyes still staring out across the camp like maybe the words wouldn’t sting if they weren’t aimed. “The Bright Lord.”

He said it quiet and let it roll around his mouth like one of those chalky multi-vitamins his mom used to make him shovel down everytime he sniffled.

Ash rumbled.

He exhaled through his nose as the cold settled into him like a blanket, Greg suddenly feeling unbothered by the fact that he was away from the warmth of the fire and equally as unbothered by the overwhelming heat of Ash’s body.

“I fuckin' hate war.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k Words (100 GP)ROLL: Blessings of the Road (100 CP) [God of War (2018)] {Benevolence}: "You have traveled far and wide, haven't you? And during that time, your body has adapted to survive in many environments. You could walk across a country with no footwear and find that your feet would be in need of cleaning but otherwise uninjured unless something stabbed you in the foot.

Stepping on branches, walking over gravel, walking through snow—none of it affects you beyond noticing how it feels on your skin. This also grants you a greater resistance to temperature, requiring supernaturally created temperatures to harm you. Wanna walk out of water that is cold enough to have glaciers? Now you can, though you do have to worry about the whole breathing issue unless you have a solution to that."

Grimoire Points: 350