Nerd In the North 6-2 (Patreon)

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

More than just air was screaming in Greg’s ears, the shriek of the wind drowned out by the even higher-pitched shriek coming from directly over his right shoulder. Unfortunately, he couldn’t really be mad about that, considering it was his fault as the momentum from his jump carried him high and far over the courtyard of the Red Keep in the dead of night.

But there was no time to assign blame, not when gravity decided to do her thing as it grabbed hold of him and all the glass shards flying in his wake; those invisible hands yanked downward, Greg’s eyes going wide at the cobblestones rushing up to meet his face at a speed that scream—shitshitshit.

His brain stuttered, every thought going sideways at the realization that all he had in this equation was just open air, hard stone, and two princesses who weighed… surprisingly little, actually. Either way, combined with velocity, it was still enough to turn all three of them into a pancake on pavement.

Blue eyes squeezed themselves shut for a microsecond—bad habit, bad, open them you idiot—as Greg felt the magic scraping the bottom of his reserves. It was like trying to suck the last dregs of a milkshake through a collapsed straw. 

But it was enough.

“Ventovox!” The word ripped out of his throat, three syllables raw and desperate.

It wasn't elegant. 

It wasn’t pretty.

Hell, it fucking hurt.

A front of wind, compressed and powerful, tore its way out of his mouth with the last syllable of the spell, a concussive force punching against the fall. Breath ripped from his lungs, he could feel the vacuum in his chest, ribs compressing enough to squeeze his organs as his body fought the last-second spell. 

All that aside, though, it worked. For a split second, the fall stopped being the clean cold grip of gravity and turned into something much worse.

Wind caught them, a violent push of air blasting all three of them upward as they began to level out into something close to a messy, shaky glide. The taste of iron, warm and thick trickled up his throat, Greg suddenly feeling the sudden use of a spell he just made up and cast through his mouth.

And not for the first time in the last ten minutes either.

“Ow.” The sound was wet, streams of red running down the sides of his mouth. “O-ow.”

Greg glanced down, blue eyes scoping out the ground as it got closer and closer, but now slower and slower than before. Smooth as silk, b-baby.

“You can fly, Bright Lord?”

The voice was too calm, especially considering it came from his left shoulder, where a certain someone was hanging on like a spidermonkey. Greg turned his head to see a pair of wide green eyes blinking against the wind. Wide, but not surprised; if anything, the princess’s face was almost… bored.

What is with this girl, man? Either way, Greg felt he had to answer anyway, a ragged laugh spraying blood into their slipstream as he opened his mouth again. “Noooo, just f-falling with style.”

Buzz Lightyear, eat your fucking heart out.

They buffeted, Greg’s teeth grit as the wind petered out; magic failing just as the roof of a stable block loomed up. F- He hit the slate tiles hard.-uuuuuuck!

The impact traveled up his legs, the shockwave shooting all the way up and exploding behind his teeth as he grunted. Knees buckling to absorb the force, the young lord kept his grip iron-tight on the girls over his shoulders as the Stark princess yelped again; the sound doubling up into a much longer wail of a scream almost immediately as Greg kicked off with barely a break in motion. Don't stop. Stopping is death. 

Slate clattered apart as he bounced, tiles and roofing splitting with each step. Stopping is arrows in the ass.

One bound carried him to a lower balcony, a cart filled with hay spilling out onto the cobblestones as he finally hit ground level. Safe.

Left knee screaming like he’d taken a hit from Guts, Greg hoisted the princesses higher in one quick movement. Okay, let’s… Teeth gritted tight, the blond charged out into the cobbled streets of King’s Landing. Let’s do this.

“Unhand me, you monstrous villain!”

Sansa Stark, voice hoarse from screaming and legs flailing against his chest, was hard at work in the important job of finding all sorts of new and creative ways to call him an asshole. Pretty much felt like holding onto an angry, annoying and very well-dressed sack of cats, if he had to be honest. “ You brute! You... you usurper!”

Seriously? He couldn’t help but pull a face, blood still leaking through his teeth. Usurper? Lady, I have my own damn castle. I literally just saved you.

The whole process might have left a lot to be desired, he wasn’t gonna deny that, but Greg also wasn’t gonna pretend like he hadn’t just yanked her out of the lion’s den.

This the thanks I get? He fought back a cough, throat a silent scream of pain. Insults and an earache?

One glance over his shoulder as he took a quick turn had the gates of the Red Keep shrinking in the distance, the night sky dark as they left the castle behind. Unfortunately, Greg knew that didn’t really mean shit yet, especially considering the sounds… 

Well, the sounds didn’t really ease his nerves much. Bells were clanging all over the city, shouts coming from every corner enough to let him know that shit had hit the fan. 

The capital city flew by in a blur as he pushed harder; people scrambling out of his path as he ran almost as fast as a horse in full gallop; every eye on him wide and every mouth open with something to say.

And why wouldn’t they be staring, right? He knew he was barely any less conspicuous as he had been on the roof. A boy in silver armor, moving fast enough to put somebody in traction and carrying two fucking princesses. Yeah. Low profile? Not so much. 

“Let me go! The guards will find you! They’ll beat me!” Sansa’s voice was constant and shrill, both her fists pounding against his back with useless little hits.

Your father’s dead, the guards are a joke and no one’s beating you. Greg bit down what he wanted to say, mouth full of the taste of blood and sweat by the time he opened his lips again to actually speak. “Just for the record, this was your brother’s idea.”

He didn’t know why he bothered saying it considering she probably couldn’t even hear him over the sound of her own voice. Probably thinks I’m lying or crazy anyway. Again, not an entirely unreasonable assumption considering the whole kidnapping and suicide jump part of his non-plan.

Still, though… 

Villain. Usurper. Monster. 

Sticks and stones, whatever, but he had feelings too.

In surprisingly stark (heh!) contrast, the Baratheon princess was the perfect non-dead weight on his other shoulder. Not fully limp or anything, just perfectly still like she wasn’t being carried at high speed and hadn’t just fallen a good thirty stories; not even struggling, which was weird.

Her platinum hair, lighter than the Lannister gold they said was supposed to look just like this, whipped all over and across his back and even without looking at her right now, he knew those green eyes were just… just staring.

 It was weirder than the screaming.

The same way they had when he’d grabbed her and thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Just accepting it. Definitely weirder.

The street opened up ahead, Greg’s jaw tightening into a frown at the sight of nightlife; it was one thing to see merchants packing up, and women with their boobs almost all the way out, but he had to wonder how there were already drunks stumbling out of bars, considering the sun just went down like barely an hour ago.

Whatever. He shook his head. “Coming througggghhhh!” Like his first grade teacher had complained to his mother, Greg Veder didn’t know the meaning of ‘slow down’ and ten years later, that was still a fact as he rushed forward as a human battering ram. 

“I said, fuckin’ move!” There was no magic to his voice, just pure teenage lung capacity, but he might as well have summoned a tornado in his path the way people scattered.

He weaved; left, right, dodging a handcart pushed by a wide-eyed woman and a split-second later, clearing a puddle of questionable liquid with a hop. 

“Y-You’re hurting me!” In the few minutes he had known Sansa Stark, she always had something to say.

“I’m saving you!” Voice still raw, his words came out with a spray of blood. “Stop wiggling!” With a grunt, Greg rounded a corner, boots skidding on slick stones, and another splatter of scarlet came flying free as the path at the end of the street was blocked by a wall of gold.

A patrol of them, really; more than a wall, but it was still a good dozen gold-cloaked guards, all with raised weapons and wide eyes.

“Halt!” One of them raised his sword higher, the red-faced man at the front of the pack shouting past a beard thicker than his belly. “In the name of the King!”

“BLOW ME!” Greg didn’t bother to even slow down, confusion sparking in the eyes of the Goldcloaks as they faced down a charging ‘green boy’ moving like he was possessed by the spirit of a destrier.

Unfortunately for them, Greg Veder wasn’t confused in the slightest about what he had to do right now. Hesitation is defeat, assholes.

Greg plowed into the line, momentum carrying him as he raised a single leg and the center guard took a sole to the chest as his soul left his chest.

Armor buckled an instant before the fat guard went airborne, taking two guys next to him down as they all went flying into a stack of crates. 

Armored feet carried him into the air as Greg vaulted over a fallen spearman, one boot connecting with a helmeted head with a clonk as he kept running.

“After ‘im!” “Get th’ bastard!” 

“It’s the kidnapper!”

Focus. Blue eyes narrowed as his head whipped around. Gate. Where’s the gate?

He didn’t have to run or look much longer before he spotted the city walls looming high, dark against the night sky and directly in front of him, so tall it was almost a joke. Shit.

He grit his teeth anyway, deciding to use his brain for all it was worth. Think, Greg. Think. 

He saw a stack of crates, barrels, and a cart in his way. Up? Over? Through? A staircase of garbage against the stone.

A grin spread across his face the second before Greg took a deep breath, the teenager sucking in the stink of the city one last time as he pulled on the little mana he had left in him and planted his feet. Go time.

The ground vanished beneath his feet, no guard close to moving fast enough to stop him. In a second, he reached the crate nearest him. Before the next, Greg kicked off, wood beneath him splintering under the force and power of all his muscle pushing down on one point as he launched himself up. 

For a few good seconds, he felt like flying as he stared up at the world in front of him a good sixty feet up in the air, gasps below from the Goldcloaks and another scream from Sansa sounding off and trailing to nothing. Finally. The night sky was beautiful, the forest in front of him nearly as deep and dark as the sky above it. 

But Greg didn't pause to stargaze as the world fell; no time for it, not with the wind roaring in his ears as gravity took over again.

Thud.

Boots slammed down on the dirt, every inch of the impact traveling up his body as he bent his legs to take it all. He didn’t stop, legs still pushing dirt as he outpaced the shouts and chaos of King’s Landing with each step.

The woods were in front of them as he left the main road behind, somewhere inside that dark treeline was Guts, Lobb, Daeric and the rest of his team. Just gotta… gotta find them. 

“Halt!”His eyes went wide, that shout not alone as the sound of heavy footfalls — galloping — came with it; all of them hard, fast and closer than he liked.

Greg Veder snapped his head to the side, a single eye twitching as he saw what he expected to see. Goddamni-

“Halt!” The man spurred his horse on faster, Goldcloak holding his sword up as he echoed the same command. A dozen and more followed right behind him, each and everyone forcing the most out of their chargers. “Stop! In the name of the King!”

Before Greg could even say a word, something passed above all their heads, blotting out the moon for a split second as a rush of hot wind passed with it. Horses whinneyed, shying up on two legs as everyone looked up into the sky.

As expected, Princess Sansa Stark did nothing but scream, a high piercing sound that was quickly overshadowed and silenced by a roar louder than any elephant’s trumpet and so much deeper. 

“Ash!” The grin on Greg’s face was so wide it almost hurt. “Buddy!”

A black winged shape the size of a pony swung low, talons extended and eyes glowing red as they stared back into his bright blues..

Sansa’s voice went small, only one word escaping her before she went silent, something that sounded suspiciously like, “...D-d-dragon?”

Myrcella, still perched on his shoulder, only had one thing to say as well. “Oh.”

Ash—that glorious, terrifying, half-bear/half-dragon monstrosity—let out another beast of a roar as he opened his mouth wide.

The dark of night knew the sun for a good few seconds as a thick plume of flame — orange, red and angry — washed down over the lead riders before they had a moment to even scream. The ones behind did, though.

Horrible bubbling screams for all of a few seconds.

“Ash!” Greg pointed a finger towards the deep dark forest. “Forget these losers! Show me where Guts and the guys went!”

Ash roared again, mouth snapping shut as he banked sharp, wings beating heavily as he flew off above the woods. Greg adjusted his grip on the girls and started running again, right after his not-so-little buddy.

The Stark princess’s voice trembled as much as her body, no longer kicking or screaming as she asked a single question. “Where are you taking us?”

Greg kept his eyes straight ahead as he broke into the trees.

“Wherever the dragon goes.”