Nerd in the North 6-7 (Patreon)

Westeros never seemed to change.

The geography and the people; just a constant wave of misery.

No matter where they went, it seemed like the whole of the Crownlands was falling apart at the seams. Every village they passed was a potential issue, some kind of monster sighting or bandit attack making him get sidetracked with sidequests he’d call pointless if it wasn’t for the fact that… well, people were dying.

A sigh spilled out of Greg’s mouth, heavy enough to deflate his chest. If it wasn’t people in danger, I wouldn’t do shit.

And if he had a spell to summon ice cream, he’d be munching on a strawberry shortcake popsicle right now; the kind with the crumbly coating that got everywhere. Unfortunately, hypotheticals were hypotheticals, and reality was reality.

And the truth of that reality was that two hostage princesses meant the most obvious noble ladies in existence. Especially considering that with a fresh ‘Purify’ twice a day, they ended up looking as clean as ever. Even with their hair getting messier day after day, tangles fighting a losing battle against the magic, it didn’t take away from the fact that they both still looked Disney-worthy. 

Like they’d walked off a movie set and into a survival horror film.

It also didn't help their situation that, even without Sansa and Myrcella, he and Guts stuck out like a neon sign in a darkroom. A giant man with a slab of iron and a teenager in shining silver armor. So, yeah, stealth was… conceptually difficult.

Guts especially, for obvious frickin’ reasons, considering the guy was a landmark.

Either way, the journey back up North had felt like a descent into something darker than the North ever managed. The North had been pretty cold, but it didn’t care. It killed you because you were slow, or stupid, or just unlucky. The Riverlands in general were actively malicious and actively annoying just like the lords that ran the place. Shitty greedy grubbing lords… 

Right now, though, the Crownlands seemed just as bad; a festering wound full of monsters and bandits, and they were walking right down the middle of the infection.

"Are you certain this is the correct path, Lord Veder?"

Greg didn't stop walking, one foot kicking aside a root as he let out another sigh. Less a sigh, really, and more a burst of breath that was ninety percent annoyance and ten percent exhaustion. "No, Princess Sansa,” He’d learned his manners, even though Sansa hadn’t been aware she was actually a princess till Greg told her. “I'm wandering aimlessly in the hopes we stumble upon a magical portal to Winterfell. Maybe a wardrobe.” Rolling his eyes, Greg gave the princess a look as he rubbed at his jaw. “Yeah, I’m pretty darn certain, princess. I'm certain, okay. We're cutting through these woods to avoid the Kingsroad. Unless you want to wave hello to…” 

He clicked his tongue and jabbed at the other blonde in the party. “You know her grandpa’s guys? I hear they’re great talkers."

Sansa flinched, shoulders hunching slightly under the grey cloak she wore for the cold. It already swamped her frame, but the princess had a talent for looking even smaller under it. "I... I only meant..."

Guts cut her off with a rumble of a grunt, voice like rocks shifting under his feet. “The bird lord knows where we’re goin’.” The giant man was carrying enough gear for three people, plus that slab of iron sitting pretty on his back and, as usual, Guts looked about as bothered by it as Greg would be carrying a backpack. "Kid's got a map in his head."

"It's called a sense of direction.” Greg tapped his temple with a gauntleted finger. That was only half true. Sure, he knew the sun rose in the East and all that, but it was mostly just telling Ash where to go and trusting the dragon to guide them from the skies. “Some of us have it. Others get lost in their own castles looking for the bathroom."

"I have never been lost," The first hint of steel finally crept into that soft, courtly tone Sansa kept all the time, the first spark of fight she’d shown in the half a week since the escape from King’s Landing. "Even though Winterfell is quite large. And the corridors all look similar in the dark."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Keep telling yourself that." Greg glanced back to see Myrcella still sitting behind Sansa on Guts' horse, the girl completely quiet as she had been since the last village. Green eyes stared back at him, the blonde princess not even smiling.

It was creepy.

Like being judged by a silent, blonde cat that was plotting to knock a vase off a shelf just to see what you’d do. "You doing okay back there, Princess Silent Treatment?"

Myrcella blinked at the question like he’d just given her a riddle. "This saddle is rather hard.” Her voice was soft, precise even; each word weighed before spending. "But the travel is instructive.”

"Instructive," Greg nodded, echoing her words. "Yeah, why not? Let’s consider this a field trip. Lesson one: mud. Lesson two: more mud. Lesson three: dodging people trying to kill you. There will be a pop quiz."

"Is there a test?" Myrcella hummed.

Smart mouth… Greg snorted, face screwing up as the question hit him. "Yeah. It's called 'survival'. Don't fail. The grading curve is harsh."

"You speak so strangely for a knight or a lord," Sansa’s voice was a whisper more than anything, low enough that he almost missed it over the sound of wind in the trees. “And you are quite lacking at reassurance.”

"I'm great at reassurance," Greg sucked his teeth, the blond hopping over a falling tree. "Like, I reassure you that no one’s gonna kill you. I reassure you that you’re safe. I reassure you that shit sucks, so you're pleasantly surprised when it doesn't. It’s called managing expectations, princess. It's a strategy.” 

He winked her way. “Underpromise, overdeliver."

"It speaks of the mind of a lesser man,” Sansa’s chin lifted up, a scoff leaving her to punctuate the words, “a man who cannot imagine more." Go back to screaming, Greg almost shot back, only to immediately bite down on that. Actually, scratch that. Anything was better than Sansa’s screaming again; the ginger girl had some goddang pipes on her.

"It's realistic," Greg answered instead, throwing his hands up. "Welcome to the real world, Princess. Sure, there’s magic and dragons. But most of it is just mud, blood, and guys like Guts."

The guy in question grunted.

"You know I mean it with love, big guy.” Greg smiled at the big man. “You’re charming in a menacing way. But people’s insides go outside when you hit them."

Greg turned his head back to the younger princess, slowing his pace just a fraction. "So, instructive. What have we learned today, Princess Myrcella? Besides the fact that saddles are hard and Sansa gets lost easy?"

“I do not…”

Myrcella looked up at the path ahead, expression thoughtful as the redhead in front of her went quiet. "The trees change, the further north we go. The leaves are sharper. The bark is darker."

"Good eye," Greg raised an eyebrow of his own, genuinely impressed. Even he only knew that because he asked the Northerners. "That's the hardy stuff, the tougher trees.”

"And the silence," Myrcella went on. "It is deeper here. In the city, there is always noise. The trees eat the noise.”

"Yeahhhh?," Greg blinked slow, unsure what to do with that. "I mean, yeah, technically. It does that… I wouldn’t use that word, but yeah."

Sansa let out a soft huff of breath, the sound sharp in the quiet air. She adjusted her cloak, the movement stiff. "It is just a forest. We have forests in the North. They are... they are just trees."

Greg ignored her, bright blues firmly on Myrcella. "You catch on quick. Keep listening. If the waiting stops, that usually means something's coming."

"Like monsters?" Myrcella asked, not sounding scared, just curious.

"Or bandits," Greg said. "Or just a really big squirrel. But usually monsters or bandits."

Sansa took in a loud breath as her eyes flicked from him to Myrcella, frown deepening even further on her face. "You shouldn't frighten her. She is a princess."

Myrcella looked up at Sansa, her face calm as ever. "I am not frightened, Sansa. I am learning."

Sansa’s lips pressed into a thin line as she looked away from them both. "R-regardless, it is improper talk.”

They slid back into silence again, the only sounds the crunch of their boots and horseshoes on the dry leaves and twigs littering the ground. 

It should have been peaceful.

The silence in this country refused them that much as very rustle in the brush made Greg's hand twitch to summon his blade again. Something was buzzing at the edge of his consciousness, senses as strong as his body that told him people were nearby.

Not close enough to be a threat yet, but close enough to worry about. 

It didn’t take long for that worry to become another reality.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The sun bled out hard over the horizon of the Crownlands, staining the clouds a bruised purple that matched the bags under Greg’s eyes. They had pulled off the road, all twelve of them hiding in a copse of dense trees and scrub with their horses kept muzzled as they tried to let the group in front of them pass.

Greg’s eye twitched as soon as he saw them; bright red cloaks letting him know exactly who they were dealing with. Lannisters…

Almost two dozen of them rode past slowly in clanking plate and mail, their laughter loud and against the otherwise quiet evening. The smell of ale and unwashed bodies carried through the air, pit-stink and even worse fighting the scent of the woods and settling in the back of Greg’s throat.

Greg crouched in the brush, blue eyes peering through the leaves as he took in all of their faces flushed with drink and victory. Each one boasted to each other, stories getting larger as their voices carried clearly in the stillness.

"Did you see the way that one squealed?" a soldier laughed, slapping his thigh. "Like a stuck pig! Wee, wee, wee!"

"Aye.” Another chuckled as he took a deep swig from a skin, the red wine dripping down his chin like blood. "But the fire shut 'em up quick enough. Roasted 'em in their beds."

Greg’s grip on a branch tightened until the wood snapped, the sound masked almost completely by their laughter. 

"Got some good trophies, though," a third man said, reaching into a saddlebag. He pulled out a bundle of grey fur, the whole thing matted with dried blood. "Look at this beauty. Wolf pelt. Fresh from the Riverlands. Killed it just past Harrenhall."

"Wolf pelts.” The first man snorted loud. "Northmen scum. They die just like the rest, don't they? Bleed red; scream loud."

"Should've heard the big one begging," the man with the fur said, stroking it like he was in love with it. "Please, my leg, please. I put a spear through his other one just to stop his wailing. Then I took his hands too."

“Bor, he ain’t beg.” Another of the men spoke up, clearly confused. “You killed ‘im first before he could, I thought?”“Aye!” The one named Bor groaned out. “But he looked like a weak one, anyway!”

Laughter; cruel, ugly laughter sounded off in Greg’s ears as he looked down at his hands, both of them clenched tight into fists that could punch a half-inch deep into a tree. 

He heard them joke about the "wolf pelts." Northmen. 

Men he could have healed. Men he could have saved if he wasn't playing babysitter to royalty; if he hadn't been sent away to play hero in the South. Men who had looked at him with hope in their eyes when he marched out of Riverrun, thinking he was the turning tide.

The guilt hit him like a physical blow, a sledgehammer to the chest that drove the air from his lungs. It was followed instantly by a surge of heat, the wind magic humming as he felt a new rune instinctively forming in his head, a high-pitched whine that only he could hear begging to be let out. Let me loose. Let me fix it.

He stood up.

"Guts," Greg’s voice was calm, completely calm; the center of a storm where the air pressure drops just before the roof rips off. "Kill them."

Guts didn't ask why. The big man just reached for the sword. "Aye."

Greg stepped out of the brush and onto the road, right in front of the lead riders. All of them pulled up, clearly startled by the looks on their faces. Hands went to weapons, drunk minds struggling to process the boy in the silver armor standing in their path.

"Who the fu-"

Greg thrust both hands forward, gauntleted palms flat. "VENTIFORS!"

It wasn't a slug this time, no precision bullet. It was a wall of wind; a solid compressed sheet of atmosphere moving like a truck as it hit the lead horses.

There was a sound like a wet branch snapping; magnified a hundred times. Legs shattered. Chests caved in. The horses were lifted off their hooves; thrown backward into the riders behind them; a tangled mass of screaming meat and metal crashing into the trees.

Men flew through the air, so many of them ragdolling as they impacted trunks with bone-shattering force. Armor crumpled like parchment.

Then Guts hit the flank.

The Black Swordsman moved through the chaos like a thresher in a wheat field. The Dragonslayer rose and fell; a pendulum of death that obeyed only the laws of momentum and hate. It cleaved through plate armor, through chainmail, through the neck of a horse and the rider on its back in a single swing.

Blood sprayed in bright red arterial arcs, painting the leaves black in the twilight.

Screams, panic, and the smell of voided bowels and spraying blood replaced the stink of unwashed flesh and wine. "Sorcery! It's a-"

Crunch.

"Retreat! Retrea-"

Splat.

Greg walked through the carnage, wind swirling around him as he deflected stray arrows and knocked aside a man who tried to rush him with a dagger. He didn't pull on his sword, no need for it as he watched Guts tear them apart. 

Red cloaks turned redder as he watched justice happen, messy and brutal.

By the time it was over, silence returned to the woods, the quiet broken only by the groans of the dying and the heavy breathing of the big man; Guts had done it all, every single soldier a mess of blood.

Greg stood over a dying Lannister knight, the man who had held the wolf pelt. Pinned under his dead horse, the man didn’t have long; chest crushed under the weight and pink froth bubbling from his lips. "Monster," the word bubbled through the blood. "You're… a monster."

"Yeah.” Greg looked down at the man who had laughed about torture. He reached out, summoning his white blade. "Sure."

He brought the point down.