Nerd In The North 6-17 (Patreon)

MAKING THIS CHAPTER OPEN TO ALL MEMBERS JUST TO BE CHILL.

FELT LIKE AN IDEAL ONE TO MAKE AVAILABLE.Mercy…

His sword was clean.

Freshly sharpened, newly polished, and without a single drop of Lannister blood to christen the steel. Rickard Karstark stood atop the ridge, the lord’s hands resting heavy on the pommel of a greatsword that had remained dry since he knew freedom.

Knuckles stretched white, skin pulling tight against aging bone.

Beneath furs and armor was a neck rubbed raw, ghost of the block pressing hard against it in a cold line along his throat. Mercy.

The boy-king named it mercy. 

Murder the sons by letting the Kingslayer live to escape, then deny him even the honor of death by letting the father live to suffer it. Strip a man of command and order a Karstark to watch from the rear like a crippled old hound.

Mercy…

The Lannisters knew none and received none as down below, the slaughter churned thick and heady. 

The pike wall held, the shield of the Lannisters braced hard against the muddy earth. Red cloaks packed tight together, iron points waiting for the northern charge.

“For the North!”

Then Smalljon Umber hit the line.

Breath caught sharp in his chest at the sight of it, the heir of Umber no longer a simple man. He hadn’t been for moons now, and the reason was clear as the sun above as he charged through Lannister shields. 

No trick of the sun, no shadow playing against the eyes, Rickard watched as leather snapped and the metal rings of a hauberk burst apart in a shower of steel. With another roar, the man hit the Lannister line standing a full hand taller than he stood a scant few breaths before and swung the stripped trunk of a young pine.  

The pike wall shattered, three men in red thrown bodily into the air and dropping back into the mud broken and unmoving.

"Foul." The whisper scraped his throat. "It is foul."

The line crumpled, men screaming as the Umber giant waded through them, tree trunk swept wide and hard.

A voice carried up the ridge, one that House Mormont crowed over nearly as loudly as the daughter herself sang proudly.

Each word from her lips was guttural, a hymn stronger than any Rickard recognized. Yet, as it struck his ears, his hand flew to his chest. The lord staggered where he stood, heart beating stronger than it ever had; heat flooding his veins as an urge he hadn’t known since the wild of his youth nearly overtook him. 

Teeth met tongue instead, the Karstark biting down until he tasted copper. The pain was enough of an anchor to hold him steady, pulling him free from the hold of witchcraft. The bear-bitch had done as she had for moons, digging inside his head and grasping his heart; words sending his blood aboil. 

Even now as he looked down the slope, true men of the North — of all banners, including those of the Karhold — abandoned their formations, shields tossed aside as they rushed the broken Lannister lines like feral dogs, hacking at armor with manic strength.

Maege herself, the stout woman grey of hair and as short as any lady, roared alongside her daughter as she caught a Lannister spear with a bare hand. Ashwood snapped as she screamed forward, song burning in heart and eyes. The spearman had no breath in him to scream back as her axe tore into his breastplate, the redcloak’s head flying free with another motion. 

And the Greatjon…

“THROW ANOTHER ONE, BOY!”“AYE, DA!”The less said about the Greatjon, the better.

Karstark swallowed the blood on his tongue as he took in what had become of good men, men of the North, since this war began. The Whiteblade. That foul boy in the silver armor, the one who spread the rot of his like greyscale, turning good men into monsters with foul magicks.

And at the center of it all was the one who allowed it.

First with elevation, and then celebration.

He needed no Mormont magic to make his heart pound as his eyes caught the boy-king tearing through broken Lannister lines, overgrown beast at his side. 

They did not fight like a man and his hound; their actions of one bloody mind.

That same sickening haze — red as the blood he freely spilled — clung to the Stark’s plate armor, blade tearing through steel like it was the lost Valyrian sword of his house.

A Lannister man dropped his sword, knees falling to blood-soaked mud. Tears poured down his face before the boy even raised a blade his way. 

This was no son of House Stark.

Rickard knew kin and this was no kin of his. They crown a monster.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“They came up North with banners bright!

All shining steel and polished might!”

Umbers were loud, them and their men.

“But when the wolves began to howl

Those pretty boys began to foul!”

Laughter and bellows echoed through camp, the air thickened with ale and the voices of men who believed themselves blessed by the Old Gods themselves. Fire roared nearly as loud as those same voices, the daughter of Mormont singing — always singing — beside Robb Stark, sparks climbing high into the black sky.

He bore no interest in songs or ale as he slipped between the tents, the dark of night hiding him from eyes that bore him no interest. He knew his sons would have sung and he would have joined in with them; Harrion on his right and Torrhen to his left. 

They would clean their swords of Lannister blood, boasting of the day's kills to him; eager to hear a good word from the father they loved. 

Instead, they rotted in the ground. 

The Kingslayer breathed, and both his sons were gone. Kin to Stark and all their blood bought was a patch of dirt, Robb Stark and his Lannister-haired sorcerer nowhere to be found to work their magicks when it was needed. 

With a grunt, Rickard Karstark pushed aside the flap of heavy canvas, dim candlelight and the smell of burning tallow awaiting him as he stepped inside. 

The air hung thick with the smell of sour wine and burning tallow, a map of the Riverlands spread across a rough table weighted down by iron daggers and wax markers. Barbrey Dustin sat at the head of it, sour wine in her cup and a look just as sour on her face. Roger Ryswell sat at her side, the acting Lord of the House that never knew peace tapping a dagger against a leather-clad leg.

"Y' saw." Rickard dropped into a chair, Barbrey across from him as his jaw worked slow. “Y’saw as I saw.” 

"I saw beasts." Barbrey’s voice offered as much warmth as the North itself. "I saw an Umber tear free a man from his arm, the Mormont with her foul songs, and the Stark boy breathing bloody mist."

"The men cheer. They name it a blessing." Ryswell let the dagger fall to the table, eyes moving from his sister to the Karstark. "The Old Gods wake to hand us the South, they say. The Greatjon sings about drinking from a Lannister skull and laughs as his son beats a man with another man. These are not mere men we fight with."

"Th' Old Gods do not turn men t’monsters." Rickard leaned across the table, fists clenching tight to fists as he stared at the Lady Dustin, her eyes glittering in candlelight. "That magic came from th' South, from th’ Veder boy. An' th' King is th' heart of it, trading th' North for witch-fire."

“The boy must pay for this… this treachery.” As much as Barbrey forced heat into her words, all Rickard felt was cold from every utterance. 

Still, he cared nothing for her petty grudges. Her hatred made a path to pay for the blood of his sons, and that was all that mattered. "If we wait, I see no North left awaiting us. To survive this, we must cull th' sickness out; cut the head from the beast."

"He walks surrounded by monsters, Rickard." Ryswell gripped the dagger tight again as dark eyes turned down to the map. "To kill a boy who eats the fear of other men? How do you strike a man who commands a direwolf the size of a destrier?"

"You do not fight him." The corners of the lady’s mouth pulled back tight, small even teeth smiling at both men. "You peel him away from the pack. Tully blood is stronger in him than simple coloring.”Roger raised his brow, turning to face the bitter woman. “What do you mean?”“Think, brother. That sorcerer of his only has his position now because of what he did for the second Stark boy.” Barbrey’s lips met her cup again. “He thinks with his heart. He bleeds for family."

Rickard nodded slowly, news of the North still fresh in the camp. "Winterfell."

"The squids burn the coast and hold his home.” Lady Dustin’s smile widened further. “And the boy refuses to believe his brothers dead. So, we send a messenger, running North and back, with a tale of both boys fleeing toward the stony shore. We pull him from his giants and his witches. You have my men for what comes next, Karstark."

Rickard nodded again. A cold certainty settled in his chest, freezing out the terror of the battlefield. "An' th’ Veder boy? If th’ Whiteblade is to return?”

"If he has yet to return from King’s Landing, we can assume him dead." Barbrey moved a marker — a wax figure of an eagle — off the map entirely. "If not, the South has swallowed him in some way or another. The Wolf has been planning a turn North, and only hope for his sisters have kept him in this war. He will not wait for the sorcerer."

"If Barbrey offers her word…" Ryswell shifted a glance toward Lady Dustin. "It is best to learn the cost before you accept it. My sister was never one to deal in charity."

Rickard raised an eyebrow as a stone-faced frown deepened on the lady’s face, candlelight catching severe lines on her cheeks. “An’ what cost would you have of me?”

"Nothing but what this alliance already guarantees, Lord Karstark, and pay my brother’s words no mind." Barbrey kept her chin level, ignoring the sharpness of Roger’s stare. "He does enjoy his quarrels. Too much caution for a man playing at treason."

Foolish. Rickard bit the inside of his cheek. "We lure th' Stark boy, then."

"Into a choke." Ryswell leaned over the table, a heavy finger placed on a narrow pass. "We trap him between the Ironborn and our own steel. My men will move as long as yours will."

"Will they, Roger?" Barbrey scoffed at the interim Lord of the Rills. "Father’s shadow still hangs heavier than your hand."

"Watch your tongue, Barbrey." Words as hard as his stare struck the woman "You speak freely for a woman whose demands brought us this far."

"A point merely spoken, brother."

"A point heard in the spirit intended." Ryswell turned his attention back to Rickard as he lowered his voice. "Our father ails, yes, but ntil he rises, House Ryswell speaks through me. When the Wolf King marches his vanguard into the pass... we trap the beast"

"An' the direwolf?" Rickard’s frown deepened.

"Arrows." Barbrey’s words came crisp as she set her goblet down. "A hundred shafts from the high ground."

Rickard nodded as he leaned back in his chair. "This is how we save th' North.”

Mercy…