Nerd in the North 5-10 (Patreon)

The smell was something he didn’t even notice anymore—iron and sweat and shit and piss and whatever it was that happened when open wounds festered too long in the heat. Greg’s stomach didn’t flip anymore when he caught a whiff of gangrene starting to set in around the edges of a slash wound. That was probably a red flag, the kind his mom would’ve written on one of those therapy intake forms she’d threatened him with back when skipping third period was his biggest problem. He was so far past squeamish it looped around to bored, which wasn’t the right word either because he definitely wasn’t bored.The tent walls didn’t even shake anymore—too hot for wind. One of the canvas flaps had been tied open hours ago for air circulation on his order. It hadn’t helped. The bloody shit smell just escaped into the field instead of staying trapped inside.

He’d barely had time to wipe the sleep out of his eyes after Robb summoned him before he was back to healstud duty, which was becoming a daily thing that Greg was definitely not keeping track of because that would require admitting he was keeping track of things. Now it was hours of nonstop one-on-one healing, which was the only way that actually worked when you got down to it. Mass healing took far too much effort and barely did as much good as you’d think against deep wounds for anything more than a couple dozen people.

At the very least, his healing magic had gotten stronger. Now, he could heal five times as many people as he could with a full tank, compared to before when this war started back about four months ago. Unfortunately, being able to heal five times as many people as before just meant he could heal five times as many people.

Greg crouched over a cot near the left aisle, hand already buried past the second knuckle into some guy’s chest cavity. The man, maybe early twenties, pale and sweating like he was trying to die faster just to spite the healing process. One, two, three… okay, no, that’s too deep—back off, don’t liquefy his lungs. 

The magic had a tendency to get enthusiastic when he wasn’t paying close enough attention, which was most of the time lately. Focus. Focus. His fingers twitched, realigned, following the path of shattered ribs and punctured tissue like he was playing some kind of fucked-up game of Operation.

The glow flared, bright enough that he had to squint against his own light show. The guy spasmed once, twice, then went still. Not dead—just unconscious, which was honestly the best possible outcome for everyone involved.

He slumped back on his heels, feeling the familiar tremor starting in his wrist. That meant he was a little under half tank, still enough juice to keep going but it’d start getting dicey soon. 

He turned around and felt a frown form on his face. A boy with a mop of dirty black hair, no older than Greg and maybe younger, was trying to press a wet cloth to a jagged gash on some old knight’s thigh. Guy was doing his best, which wasn’t saying much considering his best involved a lot of frantic dabbing that was probably making things worse. He flinched as Greg reached over, which was fair considering Greg knew he looked at least a little bit sick when he used too much… mana?

Yeah, it was probably mana.

“You’re gonna make it worse,” Greg muttered at the guy. The words came out sounding deader than he’d intended, but that seemed to be his default setting now.The boy blinked at him like he hadn’t heard the words in English, then he nodded and stepped back, clutching the bloody cloth like it might still be useful for something.Greg turned back around and prepared to-

“Greg.” A voice cut through his thoughts, rough and low but clear. 

Familiar. 

Robb, who was apparently the King in the North now, from what everyone kept saying. Greg wasn’t entirely sure what that meant considering the North was already technically a kingdom and the whole Warden thing had seemed pretty important before, but he didn’t really know enough about medieval politics to argue about Westerosi orgcharts.Greg didn’t look up right away, too focused on making sure all the important bits were properly attached to the guy in front of him before he pulled his hand back and wiped the blood on a scrap of linen that was already soaked through with four other people’s fluids.

Then he turned back around and put a smile on his face, one he half felt.

Robb Stark stood near the tent’s open flap, framed by harsh sunlight that made him look older than his sixteen years. The light caught the red in his hair, and generally gave him that whole young king bearing the weight of the world aesthetic that someone would probably paint in a portrait one day. Behind him stood Dacey Mormont, the tall warrior woman with a face that managed to be both pretty and completely unreadable, like she’d practiced expressing exactly nothing in a mirror. Smalljon Umber loomed beside her, arms crossed, nearly too tall for the tent and clearly trying not to accidentally demolish anything with his elbows.

And behind them, someone Greg didn’t recognize. Fiery red hair that matched a beard that had seen better days. The guy looked like someone had taken Robb, aged him up about ten years, made him more tired and less of a pretty boy, and then added this indefinable quality that could only be described as sad. 

Family resemblance is strong with this one.

“Greg,” Robb repeated, stepping forward with that careful way he moved when he was trying to look kingly instead of like a teenager who’d accidentally inherited a war. “This is my uncle, Lord Edmure Tully.”

Greg squinted, brain taking a half-second longer than usual to process the information. Right. Edmure Tully. Riverlands. Basic political awareness, Greg. Try to keep up.

“Greetings,” he managed, because hello seemed too casual and my lord required more energy than he currently had available.Edmure blinked, clearly expecting more elaborate courtesies or at least something that resembled actual conversation. The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable, which seemed to happen a lot when Greg was involved. After a few seconds that felt like several minutes, Edmure’s smile took on that strained quality that meant someone was trying really hard not to say what they were actually thinking.

“I regret not seeing you at the feast last night, Lord Veder,” Edmure said, his voice carrying that careful politeness that meant he was probably used to dealing with difficult people but hadn’t quite figured out what category Greg fell into. “The Sorcerer-Lord of the North was the toast of every hall, from what I’m told.”

Sorcerer-Lord. That’s new. Also terrible. Greg blinked slowly, processing the title like his brain was running on dial-up internet. “Uh-huh.”

Behind Robb, Dacey coughed politely into her fist, which was somehow both the modern and fantasy medieval equivalent of awkwaaaaard. Smalljon pulled his face, the huge guy trying not to laugh. Edmure’s smile stiffened like it was trying to fall off his face entirely, which would’ve been an improvement honestly.

Maybe it was just because he was tired but… I don’t like your face.

Robb gave a very tired sigh, the kind that suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d had to explain Greg’s complete lack of social skills to someone important. “He is not one for idle talk.”

Not true. He loved ‘idle talk’. He was just too tired to care right now.Greg hummed to himself, already eyeing another soldier groaning on a cot two rows down. The guy’s arm was bent at an angle that definitely wasn’t supposed to happen in nature, and there was a concerning amount of blood pooling under his shoulder. Priorities. I’ve got priorities.

“I wish to offer you my thanks at least,” Edmure spoke up again, “for your healing of my lord father this morn.”

Yeah, you can keep those, Greg thought. Doing that for that fat old dick this morning was honestly something he already regretted.

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –

Morning inside Riverrun was not comfortable at all.The castle was a shitshow, packed full of people, and just trying to get to sleep last night had been hellish with all the fucking singing and yelling and stomping and a bunch of general merry-making that made him feel like Old Man McCluskey down the street yelling at kids for being on his lawn. I’m only fifteen. I shouldn’t feel old.Granted, he’d probably feel a lot more comfortable if he hadn’t been woken up in the weeeee hours of the early morning by a messenger from Robb of all people while everyone the fuck else was still dead asleep.Finally, they reached a door, a somewhat fancy looking door, but still just another door in the tower. The messenger knocked slowly, the kid clearly nervous, and the door opened barely a full second lanter, swinging wide open as the kid stepped back and behind Greg.Robb stood there, slightly wide-eyed, but calm despite that as he caught sight of Greg. “You arrived.”“I have arrived,” Greg parroted. “That is what I did.” It might have been sarcasm, Greg wasn’t sure, but he didn’t give it much thought as his eyes traced across the room as he stepped in.Blue eyes took in the room in the tower where an old man lay propped up against pillows that looked nice but had probably seen better decades, and another old man in armor standing at attention like he was guarding the stick firmly up his asshole. The whole scene had this weird formal quality to it, like walking into a painting where everyone was trying really hard to look important.

Sunlight bled through gauze curtains, dust swimming in the golden shafts thick enough that the room looked half-haunted. It would have been almost beautiful, the way the light caught on everything and made it glow, if the place didn’t stink like old man piss and whatever happened when someone spent too much time dying slowly in their own bed. The smell hit Greg’s enhanced senses like a physical slap, making him wish he could turn off his nose the way he could tune out conversations.

The man in armor looked Greg up and down like he was appraising livestock, his weathered face set in the kind of expression that suggested he’d seen a lot of bullshit in his time and wasn’t particularly impressed by whatever fresh variety Greg represented. “That the one, then? The one they call the Bright Lord?”

Robb turned toward Greg, and there was something careful in his expression, like he was trying to read Greg’s mood before committing to whatever he was about to say. “He is. He saved Bran.” He paused, staring at Greg with a weight in his eyes didn’t like. “Also done more good than a hundred blades in a moon’s turn.”

I mean… yeah. His mind flicked through what little he’d managed to absorb about Robb’s extended family tree during various conversations that had happened while he was trying not to fall asleep standing up. Robb only had one close family member on his father’s side still alive, some bastard brother doing time on the Wall fighting off Wildlings in what had to be the worst job assignment in human history. Which meant these had to be Tully relatives, his mother’s side of the family. Uncle Brynden, he said that… so that’s the Blackfish. 

Greg’s gaze snapped to the man in armor first because he looked like the kind of person who’d stab you for looking at him wrong. Grizzled face, steel-gray hair, wearing his armor like it was a second skin. The kind of guy who probably hadn’t smiled since puberty and considered that a point of personal pride. Yeah, that had to be the Blackfish, Robb’s great-uncle. Greg didn’t know much about him but apparently, he was a great knight or something…There was also other stuff, but Greg figured that was just soldiers being soldiers, rude as it sounded. Which makes the dying guy…

Said dying guy had skin like sour milk, and hair even whiter than that, the old man scowling at Greg like a lemon had just punched him in the face and he was trying to figure out how to punch it back. Greg could see that the guy was a warrior just like his brother, or at least he had been at one point. Even now, the guy was big everywhere, even in the gut, like the kind of old man who’d been built wide on purpose and hadn’t figured out how to shrink with age. His face had the kind of bulk Greg’s gym coach would’ve called “meat-fed,” and even as old and sick as the old guy looked, nothing about him felt weak.Kinda fucked up sure, but not weak.Making this Lord Hoster Tully, Robb’s grandfather, lord of this castle and apparently sick as a fucking dog.

“Quit gaping, gold-head,” Hoster rasped, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from decades of being obeyed without question. “Speak your name… or get out.”

Gold-head. That’s new. Also terrible. Greg let out a low breath and turned toward Robb, blinking slower than he should have. Everything was still soft at the edges from yesterday’s healing marathon. He’d pushed himself harder than usual, trying to get to everyone before infection could set in. Waiting too long always made it worse for everyone involved—the body started fighting him for the right to die, and Greg had to argue with biology itself just to keep people breathing.

Robb cut in before Greg could tell the old man exactly what he thought of his attitude, which was probably the smart play considering Greg’s filter had been getting thinner every day. “Lord Tully, this is Lord Veder. I’ve asked him here to heal you.”

Greg held himself back from rolling his eyes, but just barely. That was definitely news to him, and he had a pretty solid memory these days. It came with the ability to run like a horse and break a man’s neck with a punch.

His blue eyes met Robb’s, and he could see the apology there, the silent request for cooperation that Robb was too polite to say out loud. Please don’t tell my dying grandfather to go fuck himself.

“A healer, is he?” Hoster’s chuckle was an ugly noise that sounded the way old parchment looked, the sound made even uglier by the fact that it caught halfway through and turned into a cough that sounded like it was trying to bring up pieces of his lungs. Phlegm flew out of his mouth, maybe blood mixed in with it, Greg didn’t look close enough to really check, not that he wanted to. “Thought you brought steel and banners, not hedge-witch trickery.”

The Blackfish shifted his weight, armor creaking like old leather. “Trick or not, men walk that should be in the grave, brother. I’ve seen it.” His voice carried the flat certainty of someone who’d watched impossible things happen and had given up trying to explain them. “Wounds that should’ve killed closing like they never happened. Boys who should be corpses walking around asking for seconds at supper.”

Hoster gave his brother a glare that somehow managed to be both milky and menacing… which was definitely an accomplishment. “Mmmm, I’ve seen sellswords swear sunrise comes from the… west. Seeing… is cheap when a man wants to… believe badly enough.”

He turned away from the Blackfish, beady old eyes red-rimmed and sick-looking as they fixed themselves on Greg. “So… I hear you’ve got yourself a title… Veder. Old name. Shit house, but old. No blood to it. No line. And yet here you are.” The man made a noise that was definitely something dying in the back of his throat, Greg was placing his bet on a frog. “Titles come easy these days, don’t they? What coin bought yours from my grandson? Fool, that one,” he spat the three words as if Robb wasn’t standing right beside him.“Fool enough to lift you higher than your place.” The noise came up again, this time from deeper in his chest, and Greg changed his guess to toad. “What makes you… deserving, witch-child?”

Greg blinked at the old lord, wondering if he stalled long enough whether he’d get to watch him cough himself to death and save himself the effort. “Killed a lord, took his castle,” he answered back, voice bland and bored, but with a little edge to it at the reminder of everything Bolton put him through. He honestly could forget about it, with the castle all different too. “You could say I bought it in blood.”

Hoster’s lips twitched angrily. “No better than a damn Iron Man. You think your blood fit to stain mine?”

Before Greg could say at least one of at least a dozen things that would probably start another war, Robb stepped forward with a firm expression. “He risked his life for my brother, Lord Tully. Your other grandson.”I did what now? Greg blinked, wondering what life he risked for Bran.

Hoster’s attention snapped to Robb with the kind of focus that probably made grown men nervous back when he was healthy enough to do more than glare from a deathbed. “Your brother’s a boy with years ahead of him. I am Riverrun. I am the continuation of a bloodline that goes back thousands of years, grandson.”

Oh, we’re playing the importance Olympics now? “Am I gonna heal you or not?” He honestly didn’t care but if he was doing it, he wanted it to be over.

Silence fell over the room like a blanket, broken only by Hoster’s labored breathing and the distant sounds of the castle going about its daily business. The old lord studied Greg with those sharp eyes, probably trying to decide whether his pride tasted worse than the prospect of dying slowly and painfully over the next few months.Finally, Hoster spoke, the old man trying to sound threatening despite being half-dead. “Do it, then. But hear me, boy, and hear me well. Fail, and your keep burns with you in it. A lord’s promise.”

The other old Tully in the room let out a loud rough-sounding snort that had Greg wondering if he was sick too “My brother means to say thank you.”

Greg’s eyes flicked back to Robb, catching the tension in the young king’s jaw, looking like someone who was cornered and trying not to show it. Like he was more worried about that threat than Greg was, which was probably smart considering Robb understood the type of threat Greg could be. I have a dragon, man. He’s still a baby, but not for long.

Greg took a breath deep enough to feel the familiar spark kindle in his fingertips, but not deep enough to calm the twitch that had started in his jaw. He didn’t like this old man, even if he was someone Greg was supposed to give a shit about. Hell, he didn’t like ninety-five percent of the lords he’d met in Westeros so far, so at least Hoster was in bad company.

Hoster’s eyes widened as Greg’s palm came to life with golden light that seemed to push back the dusty shadows in the room, his mouth falling open with clear shock. The light pulsed with Greg’s heartbeat, warm and alive and full of holy power.

“Curaga.”

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –

The old knight on the cot went still under Greg’s palms like someone had pulled his plug, no twitch or gasp or any of the usual sounds people made when they stopped being people. One second ago the man had been wheezing like a punctured bellows, trying to suck air through lungs that were more hole than organ; now he was just a sack of cooling meat wearing chainmail that would probably outlast him by a couple centuries. The wound had been too deep, the blood loss too fast, Greg’s magic spread too thin across too many bodies that all wanted to die at the same time. Fantastic. Another one for the failure column.

He muttered, “Dammit,” under his breath and yanked his hands away before the golden light sputtered out completely and left him looking like an idiot who’d been pretending to heal someone who was already dead. 

Robb still stood a few paces off, arms folded across his chest like he’d been planted there for the last half-hour, blue eyes following every failure Greg couldn’t hide behind bravado and casual indifference. His expression was carefully neutral, which meant he was probably keeping score of how many people Greg had managed to save versus how many had slipped through his fingers like water through a broken cup. Beside him loomed Smalljon Umber, all hulking mass that somehow managed to have a few inches on Guts… which was wild, honestly, considering Guts could have easily been like a major guy in the NBA as tall as the guy was.On the other hand, Dacey Mormont’s sharp gaze flicked between corpses and the still-breathing like she was keeping some kind of count for her own purposes. Edmure Tully tried to look anywhere but at the growing pile of bodies; he’d settled on staring at the bloody floor and swallowing hard like he was trying not to add his breakfast to the mess.Smells like blood and shit, my guy. Greg honestly wasn’t sure what the lord expected.

Smalljon’s voice cut through the tent’s oppressive quiet like an axe through kindling. “Seven hells, lad, ye stitch guts faster than a cooper seals barrels.”

Greg kept both hands buried in the ribcage of his next patient, golden light flickering like a dying lightbulb as he tried to convince some poor bastard’s liver to stop leaking, but his eyes flicked up long enough to register the giant’s attempt at what passed for encouragement. Thanks, I guess. Really know how to make a guy feel special. 

Dacey clipped Smalljon with an elbow that would’ve cracked ribs on a normal person but just made him grunt slightly. “Try hushin’ a moment, Umber. He’s keepin’ folk from joinin’ the Old Gods.”

At least someone gets it. Greg appreciated the attempt to shut up the peanut gallery, even if he doubted it would work for long. Lords seemed physically incapable of keeping their mouths shut when something interesting was happening, like they thought their commentary was somehow essential to the process. Maybe if I’m really lucky, they’ll start offering helpful suggestions next. ‘Have you tried healing harder?’ ‘What if you used more magic?’ Real galaxy brain stuff.

Robb edged closer, his voice pitched low like volume might somehow distract the magic and cause it to malfunction. “If you’ve need of anything—water, fresh linen, more hands to help—say it. You saved my grandsire this morning.”

Greg grunted, which was about the best he could manage without dropping the healing light that was currently the only thing keeping his patient’s interiors from becoming exteriors. The reminder of Lord Hoster’s successful treatment felt like a lifetime ago even though it had been maybe six hours since he’d watched the old bastard go from death’s door to bitching about the fact that House Tully ‘owed a bastard a favor’.More nobles drifted into the tent like vultures circling a dead possum on the side of the highway, drawn by the promise of witnessing miracles. Rickard Karstark arrived wearing his permanent frostbite glare, the kind of expression that suggested he’d been disappointed by everything he’d ever encountered and expected today to be no different. Galbart Glover whispered with Maege Mormont and some Cerwyn lord whose name Greg hadn’t bothered to learn, hovering around before the three of them took their leave a few minutes later. A handful of Southern lords followed behind them and took their place, Greg recogning

At least Lord Vance wasn’t among them; Greg still hadn’t forgotten the man demanding a personal miracle for a bastard son he wouldn’t publicly acknowledge. Greg had told the guy to ‘go fuck himself’ in a much more polite way, of course, but he pretty much said exactly that.

Every new arrival brought fresh commentary, Greg ignoring all of them until his work began to slow.

The young lord of the Brightford finally let out a long, loud sigh, the sound enough to silence most of the muttering behind him, which he honestly was thankful for. After a moment, he turned to the side and wiped his hands clean on a rag that used to be off-white but was now… very much not.A quick Purify rid his hands of the remainder and sanitized him to Heaven and back, Greg allowing himself a smile at the feeling. He then glanced down and fished around in the brown backpack resting against his knee until his fingers found what he was looking for. Three thick bottles came out, the glass glowing with soft amber light from within like radioactive honey or the world’s most expensive mood lighting. The bottles felt warm in his hands, humming with contained magic that he knew could heal deeper than his own magic could, even if not as fast. This should be fun.

He walked the bottles straight to Robb, cutting through the wall of gawking lords who looked ready to snatch anything that shimmered with clear and desperate interest. Their eyes tracked the glowing bottles like cats following a laser pointer, which would have been funnier if he was a lot less tired.

“Yours,” Greg said, his tone flat but allowing the corner of his mouth to pull up in what might’ve been amusement if you squinted hard enough and had a generous definition of humor.

Robb raised an eyebrow, accepting the bottles cautiously, one by one. “What am I holding, Lord Veder?”

“Insurance, your majesty?” Greg replied, lowering his voice just enough to sound appropriately lordly in front of all these people who expected a certain level of formal respect. 

Robb looked confused at his words but nodded anyway, because that was apparently his default response to Greg doing things that somehow worked out. Smart policy, really.Greg shrugged, the gesture carrying more weight than it should have, considering these lords were so prissy about respect. “I’m not always going to be in arm’s reach, and if you get shot full of crossbows, everything I’ve busted my ass for these last four months goes straight down the dr-.” He caught himself before the full analogy could escape, clicking his tongue against the teeth. “Goes nowhere good, I mean.”

He nodded toward the bottles, already aware of what they did and how they worked in ways that he wasn’t sure how to describe. “These things will probably heal any wound that’s not immediately fatal. Drink fast, try not to die while they’re working, and don’t waste them on papercuts because I’m not making more anytime soon.”

Robb turned one of the bottles with careful fingers, amber light sliding over his knuckles like liquid gold as the magic inside responded to his touch. Around him, eyes widened with various degrees of surprise, hunger, and barely concealed greed; Edmure Tully, Rickard Karstark, and Tytos Blackwood respectively.

“S-surely you jest, Lord Veder,” Edmure said, his voice cracking like he hadn’t spoken in an hour and had forgotten how words worked. 

Greg smirked at Robb, more than just a little smug at the gift he was offering. After all, he knew how big of a deal something like this was, and how rare it seemed to be. Magic healing on demand in the middle of a war? House Stark and Tully already owe me a bunch. What better way to keep them digging a hole?  “You underestimate my power, Lord Tully,” he answered back, smirk still on his face. “They even refill after a couple hours parked near a campfire. Convenient, right?”Lord Piper leaned forward, the man’s boots squelching in the bloody mud beneath them. “You hid these for yourself, rationing as men fight and die around you.”

The accusation was almost a slap, Greg’s left eye twitching as he shot the older man a look that could’ve proabably curdled cheese. “I’ve been healing,” he shot back, ice creeping into his voice as he tried to talk around the fact that he had no fucking idea how to make more of  these things. “Can you do that? Heal?“

Karstark’s perpetual glare sharpened a little more, shooting Greg a look like he could actually do something and not get folded in half. Or sliced, Greg really wasn’t picky.  “Northmen aren’t fond of secrets, boy.”

“That makes two of us,” Greg replied, tilting his head. “Funny how I keep asking how you guys plan to treat your wounded if I suddenly fucking vanish.”

Lord Blackwood folded his hands in front of him, but that didn’t stop his fingers from twitching like he wanted to snatch away the bottles. “Magic carries a price, young lord. What payment have these cost?”

Greg shot a glance his way. “Why are you asking me anything about these and expecting an answer? These are for the king, not you.” 

The nameless Southern lord cleared his throat with the self-important sound of someone who believed his opinion mattered to people who could crush him like a bug. “Why not share the method, then? To make more of these… potions. Surely such knowledge could benefit the realm.”

“I’m sorry, do you have magic?” Greg answered, voice taking the same tone he had to use when he was grouped with football players back at Winslow. “No? I figured. So, I’m gonna request everyone here, stop asking me any questions unless your title starts with King and ends with In the North. Thank you.”

Robb’s expression tightened as he carefully passed the bottles to a wide-eyed Dacey, who accepted them like they contained the secrets of the universe. Which, considering they were magic, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. “Thank you, Lord Veder. House Stark and House Tully both owe you a debt we can’t easily repay.”

“Put it on my tab,” Greg muttered, already turning back toward the rows of cots. “Now if everyone could clear my workspace, I’d be soooo happy.”

Smalljon barked a laug, while Dacey’s mouth twitched upward in what was probably approval. The cluster of lords hesitated for a moment, clearly torn between their desire to keep gawking and their sense of self-preservation when faced with Greg’s thinly veiled hostility, then shuffled back toward the tent entrance with their greed and suspicion still thick in the air but checked by Robb’s silent authority.

“We shall see you come the next evening,” Robb announced, his voice somehow full of royal command and authority that Greg could have sworn wasn’t there a couple days ago. “At the war council.”

…is he faking that voice? Greg nodded his head slowly, already mentally cataloging how best to copy the way Robb sounded for himself. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The great hall of Riverrun felt smaller than it should have, all that flag-draped stone squeezing itself around too many banners and twice as many egos. Greg sat halfway down the alder-wood table, close enough to watch the map, far enough that Hoster Tully didn’t have to look at him unless he turned his head. Which the old lord very pointedly did not do. Jesus Christ, I saved your life, you old fuck.

Robb occupied the high-back chair to Hoster’s right; the Blackfish prowled behind them like a lean shadow, arms folded, eyes scanning. Every other seat was filled by Northern sigils or Riverland trout, steel shoulders brushing wool sleeves, low coughs echoing in rafters that still smelled of smoke.

Greg folded his arms and tried not to bounce a knee. His hair was almost down to his shoulders now, bright and thicker than it ever had been. On top of that, his armor looked shiny and clean. The thing was enchanted and made him look like a boss fight nobody had asked for. The problem was no one here wanted that boss on their side. They wanted him boxed, labeled, and stored out of reach until the war wrapped.

Yeah, well, tough shit.

Hoster cleared his throat, a gravel scrape that rolled up the length of the table. “Lord Bracken’s riders report Lannister outriders regrouping near the Willow Wood. If they dig in at the crossroads, the supply trains out of Seagard die on the road.”

Blackfish tapped a mailed knuckle on the map. “We wheel left, cross here, here, and here. Smash their screen before they smell us.”

Murmured assent from the River lords. Karstark grunted approval. Lady Dustin looked bored but her eyes flicked toward Greg the second the Blackfish’s finger left the parchment.

Robb’s voice cut low and certain. “We commit Umber and Vance in the van. Stark and Tully hold center. Veder…” the King paused, clearly thinking about his next words, “…bolster the right.”

Bolster the right. Greg exhaled through his nose, brain flipping through every Total War video he’d binged at two a.m. Maybe don’t speak. Let the grown-ups handle it.

But then he saw the line of retreat, a single arrow slicing east toward a ford he could tell would flood based on its position to the river. That’s gonna be a shitshow.

His hand went up before he had time to stop it. “That ford won’t hold two hundred fighters, never mind the rest of you.”

Silence rolled down the table, slow but steady like warm and sweet maple syrup on a stack of freshly-made warm and fluffly p… Am I hungry?

The question went unanswered as several sets of eyes turned his way. Tully blue, Ryswell gray, Dustin black. The old lord by Robb’s side didn’t bother hiding the disdain (again) as he looked past Greg like he was garbage.

Robb, to his credit, nodded for him to continue.

Greg pressed on, realizing keeping his mouth shut now wouldn’t do him any favors considering he already blabbed. More like the opposite. “Look, you throw five hundred in plate across that and the first forty collapse the muck. You’ll bottleneck so tight the Lannisters could fill you full of arrows with a bunch of blind men holding bows.”

Why am I talking? This is stupid. They don’t want to hear this.

Lord Vance snorted. “And you’d propose?”

Greg tapped a different bend of the map, finger hitting a part that looked like it neared higher ground. “Split the force. Light infantry through the ditch while Umber swings north on the ridge. Hit their flank the moment their shields turn. It’s basic envelopment… Austerlitz, Hannibal, pick your poison.”

Blank stares faced him on all sides. Right, nobody here binged the History Channel. He cleared his throat. “Forget that. Point is, uhh, well, terrain beats numbers if you use it.”

Blackfish’s eyebrow twitched. Robb studied the line, then lifted his gaze to Hoster as the old llord of Riverrun exhaled slow. “Intriguing,” he rasped. “For a healer.”

The word dripped from his mouth, all bitter like he’d chugged cough syrup.

Greg’s teeth clicked shut as he did his best to hold a tongue that didn’t really like being all caged up. Unfortunately for everyone including him, while he had the shinest, whitest and straightest pair Westeros had ever seen gritted tight against each other, they couldn’t hold back a mouth used to spitting back insults in-character on the mic for hours at a time playing online. “I heal as I fight, Lord Tully, with great power and skill as you know very well.”

“You hold yourself in high regard,” Hoster murmured, voice low and raspy even after Greg had purged what he was pretty sure was stomach cancer out of his gut, “But true men know battlefields are won by steel and discipline, not Essosi tricks. Leave war to the warriors, boy.”

Translation: Sit down, boy, and shine our boots.Yeahhhhh, fuck that.“I’ve beaten many a warrior, Lord Tully, regardless of standing or numbers,” Greg answered back with a slight smile. “Whether they be rogues, knights, lords, all men have a plan till they’re punched in the face.”Both Robb and Edmure stilled, matching blue eyes going wide as the Blackfish closed his own eyes as he sighed. Lord Tully’s teeth grit and his gaze finally landed on Greg properly for the first time tonight. “Mind your words, sorcerer.”

Before Greg could speak back, Vance shoved to his feet, chair legs scraping tile. “The sorcerer presumes too much authority. He challenges lords in their keeps, rattles off foreign devilry, and steals children to curse their minds with his magic. Let him prove his valor with steel, not tongues.”

Oh, we’re doing this? Fucking finally. He knew Vance well enough from the week before the battle at Riverrun, after the bastard demanded Greg return the boys who chose to stay in his camp, one of which Greg was pretty sure was his own bastard son.Robb rose, palm raised for calm, but Vance had momentum and an audience. “I challenge Lord Veder, here, before the banners of Stark and Tully. Let the gods judge if his power is righteous or damned.”

Greg pushed back his chair, heart stomping crazy jazz in his chest. Part of him screamed don’t; another part, louder, thought finally, something fun.

He met Vance’s glare. “Name your terms.”

“Single combat. First blood…”

“First blood?” Greg shot back, pulling a face. “What are you, a lord or a lass? Have you even had your first blood yet?” Why did I say that? Jesus, man, dial it back.

Vance’s glare darkened, lips curling into a vicious snarl. “I will enjoy this.”

Hoster’s face tightened, a clear frown darker and more imperious than anything Vance could manage. “So be it. At sunset, in the lower bailey.”

Greg stood, focused, willed, and the hall gasped as his white blade slid into existence above his open palm, edge catching the torchlight.

Greg let the sword settle, point down, resting against his greave. He rolled his neck once and smiled as Vaance’s confidence flickered. Good.

“I’m gonna enjoy this too.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k Words (100 GP)ROLL: Plea to the Gods (200 CP) [RWBY: Age of the Gods] {Control}: “The Gods around here are rather present, their domains easily reachable. Not every place is like this, and eventually, they will depart, but right now you can easily come to them for a request.

Any plea you make to a higher power will be listened to. It will always reach them. That being said, their reactions to exactly what you tell or ask them of may vary.”

Grimoire Points: 250