Nerd In The North 5-21 (Patreon)

A crumbling wall pressed against his shoulder as Greg studied the maze ahead, the city sprawling like someone had taken medieval city planning and fed it through a blender. 

Evening sun bled orange through smoke that made everything look sepia.

It would have been pretty and pastoral, a medieval kingdom like this, if it wasn’t for the goddamn stench of it all. Greg knew he was stronger than before, everything down from his muscles to his reflexes much much more powerful than anything a normal man could keep up with.

It was also God’s greatest punishment that the same strength went right to his senses.

Particularly his nose.

It was just… shit.

Literally.

Shit and piss and rotting fish and sweat from millions of unwashed bodies and so much more all mixed together with smoke from cooking fires and whatever pre-pre-industrial bullshit they burned here. 

And I thought the Dreadfort was bad, he wrinkled his nose as he did his very best to not breathe in if he could helpt it. At least the Dreadfort only smelled like regular torture and murder.

Greg shook his head, wiping the tears from his watering eyes as he tried to focus on the mission and not the way the tiny little hairs in his nostrils had already curled up and died.They'd left the horses with Ash back at the camp, Ash being what he was, would be damn near impossible to hide. Either way, he had the dragon-bear watching camp not too far outside of King’s Landing, with Greg's explicit instructions being don't eat the transportation because apparently that needed clarifying when your pet was a dragon-bear with questionable impulse control.

Hopefully the psychotic lizard listens. If not, well, when they got back, Guts had his express permission to give the little guy a good smack with the flat side of Dragonslayer.

Narrow alleys of the King’s Landing slums twisted between buildings that leaned so close they practically made out with each other across the gaps. This place is a fucking nightmare. How does anyone navigate this shit? Almost like someone had designed a city specifically to fuck with people who needed to get anywhere quickly.

His men clustered behind him, eight Stark soldiers plus his own people, all looking varying degrees of uncomfortable. Guts was hunched over like Quasimodo, looking a good bit under than six feet and a little pissy about it… Actually, that might just be his face.

Lobb clutched his sword hilt, knuckles gone white, which meant he was either nervous or preparing to stab someone. Hard to tell with Lobb sometimes. 

Daeric kept glancing up at rooftops, bow half-drawn, probably feeling exposed without the enchanted silver armor Greg had given him. Smart man. This place screams ambush territory.

The Stark men looked like they'd rather be literally anywhere else, which showed they had functioning survival instincts.

Greg opened his mouth to tell everyone to huddle up when a door to their right swung open, his jaw slamming shut so hard he almost heard a crack. Fuck. 

He felt his left eye twitch as a woman stepped out carrying a pot full of... ugghh… carrying a chamber pot. Her eyes went wide as dinner plates when she spotted them, all of them armed and wearing thick cloaks and hoods, hermouth opening to yell and hand starting to rise and point.

Shit shit shit.

His hand moved on instinct, already in his pocket before his brain caught up, fingers wrapping tight around metal. Without a thought, he flicked the item in his hands, fast and true, guided the kind of accuracy that came from months of throwing knives at people who deserved it. Please don't scream please don't scream please don't—

The woman caught it with one hand and nearly dropped her chamber pot doing it, which would've been a whole different kind of disaster. Her eyes went even wider as she stared at the coin in her hands, jaw halfway to the floor when she saw genuine gold instead of bronze.

"F-for your discretion, m'lady,” he half-stammered the word out, voice a low whisper.Her gaze went up again, looking at Greg, then the coin, then back to Greg like she was trying to figure out if this was some kind of trick.He nodded.She nodded… slowly.He nodded again, and just as slowly, she placed the coin somewhere underneath her clothes.

Smart lady. 

Without a single word, she stepped back inside, door slamming shut hard enough to rattle the hinges.

"That actually worked?" Daeric whispered, voice tight with disbelief. Next to him Lobb was breathing heavy and fast, the younger boy’s face almost purple from… why were you holding your breath, man? "Thought we were fucked for sure, m'lord."

"Money talks," Greg replied just as quiet, already moving them forward and deeper into the alley. "People listen.”

They kept walking, eyes open and cloaks pulled tighter, easing forward until the sight of something red in the distance caught their eyes.Showtime.

"Right," Greg whispered, voice barely audible because he didn't feel like advertising their presence. "Shadow magic works in about fifteen fo..." He caught himself before finishing the word feet because that would've sounded weird. "Fifteen paces around me. Stay close, stay quiet, don't do anything stupid. And, especially, don’t scream."

Simple instructions. What could possibly go wrong?

One of the Stark soldiers, a young guy who probably wasn't even eighteen yet, nodded with that eager expression Greg had gotten way too familiar with after months of healing soldiers. "Aye, m'lord. We understand." His eyes shone Greg’s way with hero-worship that made his stomach twist, and Greg had to wonder if this was one of the guys he had healed. Maybe… he gave a mental shrug at the thought, knowing Robb would have picked at least loyal guys. Another one who thinks I'm Northern Jesus. 

With a shake of his head, Greg closed his eyes, mentally reaching for the tight roiling pool he knew lived somewhere behind his ribs. The center of it spun up, a giant star surrounded by fifty little starlings that went ignored, as a pool of something dark and cold pooled around his feet like spilled motor oil. He ignored the gasps from the men under his command as it crawled up to wrap around the group in tendrils that felt cold and alive and wrong in ways that still made his skin crawl even after months of using the stuff.The first thing to go was the sound as soon as the darkness touched them. The noise from the streets, people and all, became muffled, distant, as if he and the other Northerners were all underwater.

Then, as the tendrils reached their heads, the world shifted entirely, colors draining away and fading until everything looked like a black and white movie. Ninth grade art class came in handy because Greg remembered what this type of painting was called, chiaroscuro… There. That should keep us invisible.

"Old Gods take me," Lobb breathed, voice somewhere between awe and fear. Fear was good, fear was healthy. "It's like we're spirits."

Yeah, real Casper the friendly ghost energy right now, Lobb.

Greg opened his eyes, studying the effect. His men were there but indistinct, like looking at them through dark water or smoke. "Remember, fifteen paces. Don't leave the bubble or you'll be visible again and dead pretty quick after that."

They began moving through the narrow streets, single file with Greg leading because he was the one in charge and handling the actual stealth. Shadow magic flowed around them, and he could feel it pulling at something deep in his chest, draining energy he'd need later, the little stars in his chest spinning. Better make this quick.

The street twisted left, then right, then left again, and soon enough they saw it in full; Greg paused for a second, eyes widening at the proper sight of what he’d been told was the unimaginatively-named Red Keep, the massive and red and impossible to miss once they got into the city.

Just have to make it to that big red castle thing.

Streets still crawled with people despite the sun bleeding out behind buildings, merchants hawking whatever crap they hadn't sold during the day, women hauling water jugs that probably weighed more than they did, kids weaving between cart wheels and horse hooves with that particular brand of urban death wish. A baker emerged from his shop, flour coating his apron like he'd been wrestling with bread dough, basket in his hands, eyes sweeping right over them.

Magic is so fucking convenient. Even still, Greg was beginning to realize that, with the way this city was set up, he probably wouldn’t have even needed magic if he came alone. No wonder crime was so bad when you could disappear into alleys like this.

Shaking his head, Greg suddenly came to a stop, breath catching in his chest as he held up a fist. The group came to almost as sudden of a stop behind him as a couple dozen guards in heavy gold cloaks marched past. Their mail caught the faint light of the setting sun, all of them loud as hell to hear each other over the faint roar of the medieval city. "...tell you, that barmaid had it coming when I..." One guard's laugh echoed off stone walls.

"Hold up, guys," Greg murmured, eyes narrowed.

He drew in a breath instinctively, going quiet as twenty armed men walked by them, each one close enough to literally smell their breath, completely oblivious to the Northern fighters.

…finally. The men walked off into the crowd and Greg eased out a breath.

They moved through a market square packed with stalls selling everything from bread to rusted swords that looked like they'd break if you sneezed on them, crowding chaos packed in tight and close and making this whole thing more risky. Just make it to the next alley. Stay together till we make it to the next alley.

Unfortunately, his prayers went unheard.

The young Stark soldier, Benfred, had already started drifting. Not much, just a few steps to avoid a merchant's cart loaded with pottery that probably cost more than most people saw in a year. He still thought he was fully covered by the shadow magic Greg had laid down, still thought he was invisible.

No. I said fifteen paces, not sixteen, seventeen or fucking twenty. Greg hissed, tongue in between his teeth trying to call the guy like a cat. Get back here, you idiot.

Greg tried to gesture him back but the crowd was thick and the movement got swallowed by bodies and noise. Benfred kept walking, oblivious to the fact that he was about to become very visible and very dead. 

Fuck.

A guard in golden armor turned at exactly the wrong moment, eyes drifting lazily across the crowd in a way that made it clear that his job wasn’t exactly his highest priority. Still, it didn’t need to be for him to do it, not when those droopy eyes suddenly narrowed, going as sharp as the sword he carried. "You there! Stop!"

Benfred froze, shadow magic dropping off him like someone had flipped a light switch. Northern colors stood out starkly against southern crowd like blood on snow, the soldier’s hand moving to his sword with reflexes that only came from pure panic.

And there goes the mission.

"Northern spy! Enemies in the city!"

Almost two dozen more, some of the men that had passed them by before, surged in out of nowhere, weapons out and ready to fight. Oh, come on.

The stealth mission was well and truly fucked now and Greg knew it.

Benfred drew steel, the man already moving with desperate courage that would've been admirable if it wasn't so damn stupid. "For the North!" The screaming Northman charged the nearest guard, and before Greg could push through the crowd, his mouth fell open in a soundless scream as Ben got a spear through his chest. Motherf-! 

More guards poured into the square, at least twenty, all armed and looking eager to kill some Northerners. Shadow magic couldn't really hide them from this many eyes, not when half the crowd was pointing and screaming.

"Form up!" Greg shouted, dropping the stealth spell because subtlety was dead along with Benfred. "Defensive circle!"

His men obeyed but they were already outnumbered three to one, surrounded on three sides with only one narrow alley offering escape. Greg gritted his teeth, jaw clenching hard enough to crack molars. Are you fucking kidding me right now?

Magic shifted in his chest, shadows giving way to something hotter as pale blue fire flickered to life in his palm. "Pyraard!" 

Baby blue flames streamed from his left hand with a sound like an air cannon, the wave hitting a wave of guards and toppling them like bowling pins. They patted frantically at singed clothes while Greg's right hand called his white sword from whatever dimension it lived in, blade blazing to life.

Time to make some noise.