Nerd In the North 5-15 Outline (Patreon)

Greg sits at the war table, still in bloodstained armor from yesterday's skirmish

His fingers drum against the oak table—a nervous habit he picked up somewhere between getting his first kill and his hundredth

The great hall feels smaller with all these lords packed in—too many banners, too many opinions, too much political bullshit

Five and a half months of this. Five and a half months of healing their guys, winning their battles, and they still look at me like I'm the help.

Robb stands at the head of the table, Grey Wind beside him

The direwolf's gotten huge—bigger than any wolf has a right to be, nearly as tall as a horse now

"We've pushed the Lannisters back to Harrenhal," Robb says, voice carrying new authority that sounds practiced

"But they still hold King's Landing. They still hold my sisters."

The assembled lords shift in their seats

Karstark's perpetual scowl, Lady Dustin's calculating stare, the Greatjon's impatient fidgeting

All of them trying not to look directly at Greg

Yeah, pretend I'm not here. Pretend you haven't been watching me patch up your men for months.

Hoster leans forward, color back in his cheeks thanks to Greg's healing three weeks ago

"The girls have been their hostages for months now, grandson. What's changed?"

His voice carries that lordly weight, like he's used to being obeyed without question

Greg catches the dismissive tone; the girls, not my granddaughters

Real piece of work, this guy.

The Blackfish stands behind his brother, arms crossed like a statue of disapproval

"Changed? We're winning. Time to press the advantage."

"Strike fast, strike hard. That's how you end wars."

His accent clips each word short, no patience for debate or hesitation

Eyes flick to Greg for half a second, then away

Greg keeps his mouth shut but his jaw tightens

These are Robb's sisters we're talking about. Actual people. Not chess pieces.

His fingers stop drumming, clench into a fist instead

Lord Karstark speaks up from across the table, voice gravelly with age and scorn

"Your Grace, with respect, King's Landing's walls have never been breached."

"You'd throw away good Northern lives for two girls?"

The word girls hits like a slap, dismissive and cold

Lady Dustin nods her agreement

"The Stark name carries weight, but not enough to justify a siege."

"Better to consolidate our wins, secure the North proper."

Her eyes dart to Greg again, calculating

She's been pushing for this. Pushing to get me out of the picture.

The Greatjon pounds his fist on the table

"Bah! Send a few good men with sharp steel. No need for armies."

"King's Landing's full of soft southerners anyway."

His voice booms across the hall, but there's something forced about the bravado

Robb's jaw works silently

He wants to save them. Course he does. But he's outnumbered by his own lords.

Greg can see the tension in the young king's shoulders, the way his knuckles go white on the table edge

Robb straightens, and when he speaks again, his voice carries royal command

"Then we'll send a small force. Fast, quiet, in and out."

His eyes find Greg across the table

"Lord Veder. You'll lead this mission."

The words cause ripples of reaction from the assembled lords—relief, calculation, barely hidden satisfaction

There it is. The dismissal dressed up as an honor.

Greg keeps his expression neutral

"Of course, Your Grace. How many men?"

His voice comes out flatter than he intended, but fuck it

Hoster clears his throat

"A dozen should suffice. Any more draws attention."

"This is a rescue, not a conquest."

That dismissive tone again, like he's explaining something obvious to a child

The Blackfish adds with military precision

"Take men who know the roads. Avoid the main thoroughfares."

"Get in, get the girls, get out. Clean and quick."

His eyes meet Greg's for a moment—no hostility, just cold assessment

Lord Glover mentions previous correspondence

"Your Grace, any word from Winterfell? From young Greyjoy?"

"Those letters you sent north, asking him to raise the Iron Fleet against the throne?"

Robb's expression tightens slightly

"Nothing yet. Theon knows his duty."

"The Ironborn move slow, but when they move, they hit hard."

Optimistic. Real optimistic, considering Theon's track record.

Maester Vyman shifts uncomfortably

"Ravens from the North have been... sporadic, Your Grace."

"Could be weather. Could be worse."

The old man's fingers worry at his chain

Greg files that away for later

Something's wrong up north. Question is how wrong.

Robb stands, effectively ending the discussion

"Lord Veder will depart within the sennight."

"Choose your men carefully. Bring my sisters home."

The formal tone feels like a wall between them

The lords begin filing out, murmuring among themselves

Greg catches fragments: "about time," "necessary," "should have been done months ago"

Yeah, real subtle, guys. Real fucking subtle.

Hoster rises slowly, assisted by his maester

Pauses beside Greg's chair for a moment

"Boy."

Just the one word, loaded with meaning Greg doesn't like

Then he's gone, leaving the scent of medicinal herbs and old authority

The hall empties except for Robb, Dacey Mormont, Smalljon Umber, and Greg

Grey Wind settles beside Robb's chair, golden eyes watching Greg with unnatural intelligence

The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable

Robb finally speaks, voice softer but strained

"Greg, I need you to understand—"

"This isn't just about Sansa and Arya. It's about the war. About perception."

His hands fidget with a piece of parchment, not meeting Greg's eyes

Greg leans back in his chair

"Perception. Right. Whose perception are we talking about here?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke

Dacey Mormont shifts, hand moving to rest on her mace handle

"Your Grace has to consider the opinions of his bannermen."

"The North follows strength, but it also follows tradition."

Her voice carries warning, though she's trying to sound reasonable

Greg's eyes flick to her hand on the weapon

"And what tradition says a lord can't serve his king effectively?"

"What tradition says healing your men makes me a threat?"

Robb finally looks up, meeting Greg's gaze

"It's not about effectiveness, Greg. It's about... balance."

"The lords need to feel they have a voice. That their king isn't..."

He trails off, unable to finish the thought

Greg fills in the blank

"Isn't overshadowed by the guy who actually wins your battles?"

"The guy who keeps your men from dying of infected wounds?"

His voice stays level, but there's ice underneath

Smalljon Umber laughs, a sound like boulders rolling downhill

"Lad's got stones, I'll give him that."

"Most men wouldn't talk to a king like that."

But there's approval in his voice, not censure

Dacey's grip tightens on her mace

"Most men know their place."

The threat is subtle but clear

Greg stands slowly, deliberately

"I've barely done anything. I've been healing your fucking guys for half a year, Robb."

The profanity cuts through the formal atmosphere like a blade

Dacey's voice turns sharp

"You mean, Your Grace."

Her knuckles go white on the mace handle

Greg turns to face her fully

"I mean, Robb. And if your hand goes to that mace again, Lady Mormont..."

"I might let you heal your own arm next time you break it."

The words are soft, conversational, and absolutely lethal

Smalljon's laughter booms across the hall

"Ha! Boy's got teeth after all!"

"I like this one, Your Grace. Got proper Northern steel in his backbone."

Robb slams his hand on the table

"Lord Veder, enough!"

The royal authority cracks like a whip, Grey Wind's ears pricking at the tone

Greg doesn't back down, but his voice becomes quieter

"So, no Greg anymore, huh, Your Maj... Your Grace?"

The near-slip is deliberate, a reminder of what they used to be

Robb's expression softens slightly

"Greg... I need you to understand that while I would ask this of you anyway, to save my sisters..."

He pauses, struggling with the words

"Your casual defeat of the Kingslayer has raised murmurs in my camp."

The admission hangs between them

"We cannot have you win this war for us, for me."

"Not if I wish to rule the North without voices and eyes turned your way."

The honesty is brutal, but it's honest

Greg absorbs this, nodding slowly

"I understand. I'll do it. No problem."

His voice is carefully neutral, giving nothing away

"One thing though..."

Robb looks wary

"Yes?"

Greg's tone stays conversational, but there's steel underneath

"I healed your grandfather, but it's not gonna stick."

"He's got something real deep eating at him. Imagine tiny little crabs taking you apart from the inside out."

The medical metaphor is deliberately crude, clinical

Robb flinches at the imagery

"What are you saying?"

Greg continues relentlessly

"Next time he needs me, I might not feel like helping the Lord of House Tully fuck me over."

The words are a declaration of war, politely delivered

Robb's face hardens, understanding the implications

"I understand."

Two words, heavy with meaning

Greg nods, then adds almost as an afterthought

"Your grandpa's a dickhead, Robb."

Robb flinches again

"...I am aware... Greg."

The return to the informal name is a small concession, but a meaningful one

Greg turns to leave, then pauses

"I'll need a week to prepare. Choose the men, plan the route."

"Any preferences on who I take?"

Robb shakes his head

"Your choice. Just... bring them home, Greg."

The plea in his voice is real, cutting through the politics

Dacey speaks up, voice grudgingly respectful

"Take good men. This won't be easy."

An apology, of sorts

Smalljon claps Greg on the shoulder

"Aye, take fighters. King's Landing's full of surprises, none of them pleasant."

His massive hand nearly knocks Greg off balance

Greg nods to all of them

"I'll bring them back. Both of them."

Then, looking directly at Robb: "Because that's what friends do."

Dawn breaks gray and cold over Riverrun's towers

Greg sits atop Cloud in the courtyard, checking his gear one last time

His armor gleams despite yesterday's blood—enchanted steel that cleans itself

Wish everything else was that easy.

His companions assemble around him

Guts on his massive destrier, Dragonslayer strapped across his back

Lobb on a smaller horse, trying to look confident and failing

Daeric checking his bow strings for the third time

Two other young soldiers, Tomard Rivers and another boy called Wat

Several Stark men-at-arms, faces grim but determined

Greg calls out to the sky

"Ash, Fly!"

His voice carries across the courtyard, drawing stares from guards and servants

The dragon-bear appears from the battlements

Wings spread wide, catching the morning light

No longer the cub he was months ago—now the size of a large dog, scales gleaming black

He circles once, then takes position overhead

Guts rides up beside Greg

"Ready for this, tiny lord?"

His voice carries that familiar mix of affection and mild disdain

The massive sword on his back catches the light ominously

Greg looks back at Riverrun's towers

Windows glowing with candlelight, banners snapping in the wind

Somewhere up there, Robb is probably watching

This is what loyalty gets you. A one-way ticket to the most dangerous city in Westeros.

He turns back to his men

"Alright, gentlemen. Time to go fetch some princesses."

"Try not to die on the way. I'd hate to explain that to Robb."

The joke falls flat. "...yeah, yeah, everyone's a critic."

They ride out through Riverrun's gates

Hoofbeats echoing off stone, the sound swallowed by morning mist

Ash soars overhead, a dark shadow against gray clouds

This is gonna suck.