Nerd In the North 5-23 (Patreon)

Stone steps curved up into the keep's guts, each one worn smooth in the center where centuries of boots had tramped the same path. Even as he snuck from alcove to alcove, ducking away and hiding in shadows, Greg couldn’t help but wince every other second at the sound of the scrape of his armor against stone.

Too loud, but every sound he made was too fucking loud when you could hear a pin drop on the other side of a room. His nose wrinkled at perfume clinging to tapestries, cloying sweet stuff that made him think of his mom’s nurse friend who came over at Christmas, the one who used too much of the stuff to cover up her chain smoking.

Company's coming. He didn’t need to hear it to know it, the base of his skull twitching just enough to draw his attention. It felt like part of him had fallen asleep but was also extremely awake at the same time, the same odd feeling that had kept him breathing through a year of medieval bullshit. Everytime it started going off like a smoke detector with a dying battery, he knew there was bound to be trouble. Time to be invisible.

Voices bounced down the stone shaft, distorted but clear enough to make his stomach twist just a little as they sounded just around the corner.

"...told you, Arn, saw it with me own eyes. A beast black as sin with wings like a flying bear. Just... flew over me 'ead while I was near the wall." Young voice, nervous, probably never seen anything scarier than a tavern fight before tonight.

"And I'm tellin' you, Pate, you've been at the cheap swill." Older guy, rougher, the kind of voice that came from years of telling people what to do. "The King wants every room searched twice over. Not for dragons, for bloody Northerners. Now shut your gob and keep your eyes forward."

Dragons. Greg's mouth twitched. Yeah, that would be Ash. Sorry for the nightmares, buddy.

"But the sorcerer they talk about..."

"Is probably just some southern bastard with a Valyrian blade and a few tricks up his sleeve. He'll bleed same as any other man. Now move."

Southern bastard with tricks. Wow, so close.

He held back a snort at the clank-clank-clank of armored boots coming his way, pushing himself tighter against the shallow alcove. His body flattened as much as it could against cold stone, shadow magic coiling around him with some  hissed Japanese he barely understood. All of a sudden, the colors drained away again, leaving him as nothing but another patch of darkness in a castle full of them as the sun finally passed the horizon. 

The sound was getting closer, echoes of armor bouncing off stone walls designed by someone who apparently hated stealth. "...illed four and twenty good men in the market square, they did,"

Two guards marched past, close enough that he could smell their sweat and count the rusty spots on their mail. Both wore cloaks that were almost as bright a red as his tunic was blue, swords bouncing at their sides, the looks on their faces closer to half-scared than serious, as they walked right by him like he was furniture.

"Just... like that. One moment they were shouting, the next..."

The other one grunted, hand going to some star thing hanging around his neck. "With sorcery, I heard. Flames and shadows. Black magic. The kind the septons warn you about." His voice dropped. "This whole city's gone to shit since the Hand died."

The Hand… He blinked, only to shake his head a second later as it clicked. Robb’s dad.

Their footsteps faded into the lower levels, voices becoming muffled echoes until even his ears couldn't pick them apart from the general background noise of a castle full of people. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding spilled out of his lips as soon as they were gone, muscles unclenching one by one as Greg allowed himself a second to relax.

So far, so good. Darkness dissipated, fading back into his shadow, as he stepped out of the alcove, colors bleeding back into the world. 

Movement from above ble faint sounds of armor and voices too distant to make out words. More guards. Probably lots more guards. Granted, he didn’t expect this to be simple, because nothing ever was anymore. Still, he wished it was a little less packed in this place. 

Really, this castle was huge but for some reason, there was always someone around every goddamn corner. It made no damn sense. Frustrated for many reasons, Greg let out a long low sigh.

Right. He rolled his eyes. Time to go find some heavily guarded princesses and hope they don't scream when they see me.

Stone changed under his boots as he climbed higher, rough utility giving way to polished floors that caught torchlight and threw it back like dark mirrors. His enhanced hearing picked up the shift in acoustics, sound bouncing different off smoother surfaces. Heavy tapestries replaced bare walls, golden lions and crowned stags woven into fabric that probably cost more than most people saw in a lifetime. The air got warmer too, stale humanity smell replaced by something sweet and spiced that made him think of the fancy soap his mom bought for company.

This is where the important people live. His steps slowed, shadow magic coiling tighter around him as threat assessment kicked into high gear. Which meant more guards, more servants, and way more chances to get caught with his pants down.

Dishes clinked somewhere ahead, delicate crystal-on-porcelain sounds that were nothing like the wooden bowls and pewter cups he'd gotten used to in the North. A woman's voice drifted down from an upper floor, singing some lullaby that sounded too pretty for a world this fucked up. Children laughed somewhere far off, bright and jarring in the tense quiet of a keep, this giant freaking fortress with better interior decorating than the Dreadfort used to have.

I need new furniture… Thoughts of decor aside, Greg kept his eyes moving from place to place as he slunk between torch brackets where shadows pooled deepest. There was only so much he could do so far other than avoid the main corridors where he could hear the steady tramp-tramp-tramp of guard patrols on his way through the castle. Mission Impossible, eat your heart out. Really, all he needed was the theme music and a pair of those wraparound sunglasses that looked stupid on everyone except Brendan Frasier.

Something caught his eye near the ceiling of a long corridor that stretched ahead into more darkness. A grate, carved stone in some decorative pattern of flowers and vines that was probably supposed to look artistic but mostly looked like a pain in the ass to clean. Wide enough to squeeze through though, if you were flexible and didn't mind tight spaces.

Unfortunately, he did. 

The blond pressed gloved hands flat against the wall, feeling for the mortar joints between massive stone blocks. Muscles coiled under armor as he channeled strength that was way beyond what any sixteen-year-old should have, finding purchase and starting to climb. In seconds, he moved across the ceiling with speed and silence that definitely defied gravity.If he could think of any other laws of physics right now, it probably defied them too.

Thank God for super strength. This would suck otherwise. He moved from grate to handhold to grate again, eyes scanning the rooms below through gaps in the stonework. Empty chambers with beds made so tight you could bounce quarters off them, servant quarters that were cramped and spartan, reminding him of the dorms at summer camp and storage rooms piled high with linens and barrels that smelled like wine and preserves.

But one corridor held something different.

Guards. Lots of guards. 

Six of them standing sentinel outside a heavy door banded with iron that screamed "important shit behind here, do not enter."

Greg dropped down in an empty adjoining hallway, both feet hitting polished stone with silence and grace that only a cat could’ve pulled off better. The floor here was layered with expensive rugs that muffled footsteps even without any magic help, along with doors with actual locks and shiny gold valuable-looking handles.

Definitely noble territory. Getting warmer.

Moving with the kind of care that came from a year of not wanting to die horribly, he crept to the corridor's edge and peered around the corner. Six guards in red cloaks that stood out against grey stone like bloodstains, all of them looking nervous as hell. Hands resting on sword hilts, eyes darting at every shadow flicker.

"Lon’s sayin’ we double the watch on all the royal chambers," another muttered, voice coming out in a low rasp that Greg would have said was from too much smoking if these people even had tobacco. "King's spooked proper."

"Shut it, Mer!" Another hissed back, glancing around like the walls had ears. Which, considering Greg was currently hiding in them, wasn't entirely wrong. "Don't let 'im catch you sayin' such."

"Aye, but..." Third voice, younger, uncertain. "Mer's an idjit, but he's right, innit? If Northmen can get into the city, what's stoppin' them gettin' into the keep?"

"That's why we're 'ere, you daft sod," the first guard replied, but his gaze kept flicking down the empty corridor like he expected trouble to come walking out of the shadows. Which, again, wasn't wrong. "King wants every door watched twice over."

Greg studied the tactical situation from his hiding spot, glancing down the straight corridor, twenty feet of open well-lit space between him and that door. Alcoves for statues that offered about as much cover as a wet napkin. Getting to that door without being seen was impossible, at least through conventional means.

Six guys. 

Each one armed and armored and probably trained since they could walk. His mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. Really, this whole sneaking thing was getting old anyway. 

Time for the direct approach.

Greg’s chest ballooned under his armor as he took in a deep breath, shadow magic peeling off him in strips and tatters of darkness that went nowhere. Without even taking another moment to think about it, Greg stepped into the torchlight, boots hitting polished stone with the kind of casual confidence that said yeah, I belong here, what of it? 

"Hi, I’m looking for a couple princesses—" his mouth was running faster than his brain again, words already rushing out, "—any of you, uh, know the way?"

Because sometimes the best way through a problem was straight fucking through it.

Six heads snapped toward him in perfect unison, six pairs of eyes going wide and half as many mouths still open mid-sentence. 

“That a no?”

Hands flew to sword hilts. "You! Stop right—"

He was already moving before the guy could finish his sentence. Super-strength coiled as Greg grinned, the force of his jump launching him across twenty feet of corridor in what probably looked like a blur to them and anyone lucky enough to catch him.

The first guard barely managed to spot him as he slowed for a split second.Barely.

He didn’t get the chance to spot anything else as a gauntleted elbow slammed square into the side of his skull with a thump. It was a wet and meaty impact, the kind of sound that meant lights-out and, without a word, the guy dropped like his strings got cut, armor clanking against stone.

Sheer momentum and nothing but carried him into a tight, powerful spin. In a split second, his other elbow caught the second guard under the jaw with precision that was born of several lives of mish-mashed instincts coming together in a beautiful symphony of violence.

Clatter. Another one down.

Two down, four to go. Math is fun.

Guard numero tres had better reflexes, the guy nearly managing to get his sword out of the scabbard, a shout on his lips. 

Ribs caved in with a loud and sudden crunch that echoed off vaulted ceilings, sword half-drawn and useless. Folding around the impact like origami made of meat and bone, the unlucky bastard crumpled. The shout was still in his lips, and would go nowhere else.

Three. So close.

Air shifted behind him, the whistle of steel cutting wind and boots on stone way too close,  forcing his focus to his surroundings. Torchlight flashed in his eyes as he flipped backward, gravity temporarily optional as the fourth guard's wild swing passed through empty air where his head had been. Greg dropped into a crouch, and snapped out with a low kick.

Shin bones snapped with the kind of crack that made his teeth ache in sympathy, but sympathy didn't keep you alive in fights. The fourth guard went down screaming, voice echoing off stone walls that had probably heard plenty of screaming over the years.

Four down. Halfway there.

He sprung up, the world spinning as he met the fifth guard's panicked charge with an uppercut that started somewhere around his ankles and ended with a jaw relocating to somewhere far closer to an ear than it should’ve been. Blood and teeth sprayed across tapestries in patterns that people a thousand years from now would probably spend a small fortune on. 

Five. Almost done.

The sixth and final guard stood frozen, face cycling through emotions and expressions, a sick Powerpoint of terror, desperation, acceptance, more terror. Greg didn't give him time to land on any of them permanently. “You’re in my way!”

He launched himself forward, feet forward. 

Both boots slammed home, and everything gave way with a noise that was part wood, part man, all wrong. Door shattered, ribs shattered, Greg wasn’t sure which sound belonged to which. At the end of it, the door was in pieces.The guard… well, his funeral could be an open casket.

And six.

Greg stepped through the wreckage, eyes flickering from the high ceilings, to the silk hangings, and all the way down to the kind of four-poster bed that he still missed from the Brightfort. 

Then he saw her.

Her long hair caught the light like dark blood, a color he was familiar with, blue eyes wide with terror as she pressed her back against stone walls. It was the unmistakable family resemblance to Robb that made him sure who he was looking at… well, the red hair at least.

He took a single step forward, broken wood crunching under his boot in the sudden silence. Let his hands fall to his sides, open palms facing outward in the universal gesture of not immediately planning to murder you.

One down.

Found her.

One to go.