Nerd In the North: 3-8

3-8: A Lot Of

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The sun hung high in the sky, a dull orange coin right above the gates of Frostall. Far below it, Greg sat cross-legged against the rough wooden posts, right next to the spot where his sword once stood in the ground, each rough splinter from the walls digging into his back a little too eagerly. 

Better than nothing, though.

His breath puffed out in faint clouds, the cold doing its best to bite, but he barely felt it. Blood crusted on his blue tunic, stiff and flaky, clung like it belonged there. Didn’t bother him much, though. Dunk it in water, give it a rinse, and boom—good as new. or at least close enough.

His fingers flexed, slow and deliberate, as dried blood tugged at his knuckles like old tape. 

Every movement felt off, like his body was still running on leftover adrenaline. It wasn’t pain exactly, more like his hands were whispering, Hey, we’re still weapons, don’t forget.

Each punch, each blast of fire, each concussive wave—everything had come out of him smooth as breathing. No hesitation, no second thoughts. A month ago, he might’ve paused, might’ve thought, some of these guys don’t deserve this. 

Now? His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Yeah, no.

He’d woken up in Frostall to a graveyard: bodies scattered, blood streaked across snowbanks, and villagers with hollow, thousand-yard stares. Something in him had snapped, or maybe it just froze over. 

Not that it mattered. Frostall wasn’t just a name now; it was what his chest felt like, a solid block of ice.

Funny, though, how his veins still buzzed with heat.

The smell of smoke clung to everything, sharp and bitter. The kind that crawled into your nose and stayed there. Maybe it was from the village. Maybe it was from the Bolton men he’d chased, their blood still tacky on his skin.

Greg glanced down at his hands, flexing them again. Gotta get the rest of them. His stomach twisted, tight with frustration. He’d sprinted after those bastards, snow crunching under his boots, swearing he’d get his sword  if it killed him. And yet here he was, sitting in the same spot they’d stolen it from, empty-handed. Pathetic.

His fists clenched, blood cracking over his knuckles. That Bolton fucker dies.

The cold wind whipped at his face, biting at the edges of his ears. Greg didn’t bother pulling his hood up. He tilted his head back, watching the breath fog out of his mouth, fading fast into the growing twilight. The scene looped in his head, the screaming, the smoke, the blood splattered on white. 

It felt like some kind of sick slideshow.

“You should’ve fought harder,” he muttered, his voice low and scratchy. 

His hands curled tighter, shaking a little now. Every strike in that fight had landed with lethal precision, every move a perfect blend of instinct and power. 

It should’ve felt good. 

Worst part about it… it kinda did.

Back in Brockton Bay, people would’ve laughed if they saw him now. Greg Veder, the kid who couldn’t shut up about capes and video games and anime imports, sitting here caked in someone else’s blood. They wouldn’t be laughing anymore, though. 

Not if they saw what he’d done.

Greg let out a dry, humorless laugh that died almost as soon as it left his mouth. The wood dug harder into his back as he leaned on it, the chill from the snow seeping through his pants. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. The stillness of the village felt oppressive, like even the wind was holding its breath.

He stared at the snow, dotted with Ash and dark patches he didn’t care to examine too closely. His throat tightened, but the heat in his chest didn’t waver. Every second of the day flAshed behind his eyes, clear as broken glass. The screams, the crackling flames, the look of sheer terror on the villagers’ faces. 

He should’ve been faster. 

I should’ve done more.

Greg clenched his jaw, his breaths coming sharp and shallow. His body was still now, but the fire in his veins stayed lit, simmering just under the surface. Next time, he told himself, no mercy.

The Boltons weren’t done. Not even close. So that means I’m not done.

Greg muttered under his breath, the words slipping out like they had a mind of their own. “You’re gonna have to do worse. A lot worse.”

The crunch of snow jerked him out of his head. His body snapped upright, muscles winding tight like a coiled spring. Hand low, fingers twitching just above the ground as tiny sparks of mana flickered at the tips. The magic didn’t care if his thoughts weren’t clear—it just wanted out.

Hhe spun toward the sound and—oh.

Ash. 

The dracobear cub barreled toward him, paws tearing through snow like it owed him money. For a second, Greg’s pulse spiked. The glow of Ash’s red eyes locked onto him was anything but reassuring. 

But then he caught the rhythm of the cub’s movements—loose, almost playful. no immediate threat. 

Greg’s shoulders dropped a fraction, though the tension clung stubbornly to his spine. He couldn’t just drop the edge right now, not fully. good. keeps me alive.

Ash skidded to a halt, sending a small flurry of snow spraying toward Greg’s boots. but something else caught Greg’s attention—Ash wasn’t alone.

Ash barreled to a stop a few feet in front of him, his breath billowing out like smoke from a chimney. Steam rose from the patches of snow that dared get too close to his face. Greg frowned, eyes narrowing as something else caught his attention.

What the hell?

Something waddled after him, stubby legs struggling but keeping pace. The movement was jerky, like a wind-up toy gone haywire, but surprisingly quick. Greg leaned forward, squinting to make sense of it. “What the hell is that?”

Ash snorted, hot enough to melt the snow in front of him. Greg was almost impressed. almost.

The fluffy thing toddling behind Ash finally came into full view. round, impossibly white, and soft-looking—like someone rolled a snowball through a craft store and stuck legs on it. it clucked softly, a noise too small for something that size.

“Is that a… chick?” Greg muttered, blinking like he might’ve missed some crucial detail. but nope, still a giant marshmallow with legs. it didn’t fit. not here. not anywhere.

The fluffy thing gave a soft cluck, tiny black eyes gleaming like polished pebbles. it shouldn’t have been that cute. Nothing in Westeros was supposed to be this cute. Isn’t this a grimdark isekai fantasy world? It was too big for a normal chick, too fluffy, too… perfect. 

Even its feathers caught the fading sunlight like a glow. Greg stared, baffled, as it clucked again, tilting its head like it was mocking him, the thing entirely too pleased with itself.

Ash plopped onto his haunches, swiping at the snow like this was just another day. Greg, meanwhile, felt his brain short-circuiting. Ash huffed again, shaking snow off his fur like he was above explaining himself and the blond boy felt his mind kick back into motion as he raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, what kind of giant chicken—” he gestured vaguely at the puffball, “—spat that thing out?”

The chick fluffed itself up, as if offended, before scurrying closer to him.

Ash rumbled again, his glowing eyes half-lidded with lazy amusement. great, Greg thought, rolling his eyes. I’m being judged by a bear cub and a walking marshmallow.

“Okay, fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’ve got weird taste in friends, Ash.”

The chick, apparently unbothered by Greg’s skepticism, flapped stubby wings and clucked another time, louder this time. Ash, on the other hand, just stared at him, unimpressed. Greg could almost hear the unspoken really, bro?

The cub swiped at the snow again, sending another puff of steam into the cold air. The chick wobbled over to investigate, pecking at the damp patch like it might find something interesting. 

Greg tilted his head, still staring as the thing waddled around, its stubby legs kicking up tiny puffs of snow.

It was definitely bigger than a chicken—almost double the size—but its proportions were all wrong. Round, fluffy, and somehow sporting what looked like a mohawk? 

Greg blinked. Why does it have a mohawk? 

He wasn’t sure why, but the detail seemed weirdly significant. like it had walked out of some saturday morning cartoon, feathers slicked back for its close-up.

Ash groaned beside him, settling down with a heavy flop that sent a fresh spray of snow into Greg’s lap. 

Greg didn’t flinch, though. 

He was too busy watching as the chick waddled right up to his leg, completely unfazed by the massive dracobear huffing out steam like a cranky furnace. The little fluffball pressed itself against him, its soft body radiating warmth like a portable heater.

“You brought me a giant baby bird?” Greg shot a look at Ash, whose glowing red eyes half-lidded in what could only be interpreted as don’t ask me, dude.

Greg snorted, shaking his head. “Seriously, you’re too cute to be real,” he muttered, reaching down to lightly stroke the chick’s feathers. He half-expected them to feel coarse or wiry, but they were softer than fresh snow. The sensation tugged at something in his chest, loosening the knot of tension that had been there since—well, since Frostfall turned into a warzone.

The chick tilted its head, one beady black eye meeting his, and let out a low, musical coo.

Greg paused, fingers hovering mid-stroke. There was something weirdly… calming about that sound. 

Not like Ash’s presence, which roared at the back of his head like a bonfire, but gentler. 

Quieter. 

Like the first flakes of snow drifting down before a storm. It felt light, but solid—if that made any sense. It doesn’t, he told himself, but the feeling lingered.

The chick shuffled closer, its tiny claws clicking faintly on the frozen ground. It was practically in his lap now, and he found himself tilting his head again, studying it like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“Imma call you Shiro,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue without a second thought. The chick chirped in response, the sound bright and cheery, like it was all in on the joke.

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he leaned over and scratched lightly at the soft down near its neck. “Guess that settles it,” he said, smirking as the chick leaned into his hand. “Shiro.”

Shiro leaned into Greg’s touch, a soft chirp escaping its beak as Greg let out a breath he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding. He pressed his back harder against the gate, the rough wood grounding him, while Ash stretched out beside him. 

The dracobear’s eyes drooped, glowing red slits watching the snow like it might spring to life. Shiro nestled against Greg’s leg, its downy feathers a little too warm for something that size.

For the first time in hours—though it felt like weeks—Greg let himself loosen. His muscles stopped coiling for the next fight, his fingers fell and rested on his knees instead of twitching for a spell. A second to breathe.

And then came the crunch of boots on snow, sharp and clear. 

Greg’s head snapped up, his instincts jolting him upright, and his hand jerked toward the faint heat of magic coiling under his skin. His eyes caught the silhouette first, broad shoulders, the massive slab of iron strapped to his back. At once, Greg’s pulse steadied.

Guts trudged forward, his shadow cutting across the snow, looking like he’d just walked out of some myth about giants and monsters. The light caught the edge of his sword, and Greg wondered for the hundredth time how the hell someone carried that thing, let alone swung it.

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Took your sweet time.”

“No reason to run,” Guts replied, voice low and rough, like gravel grinding under heavy boots.

Ash growled softly, his head lifting from his paws as his eyes narrowed. the hybrid’s claws flexed, leaving faint furrows in the snow. Greg rolled his eyes and waved him off. “He’s with us, relax.”

Ash snorted, the sound thick and annoyed, but he settled back down, though his gaze never left Guts. Greg knew the feeling. being wary around that guy was just common sense.

Guts stopped a few paces away, his breath fogging in the cold. his eyes flicked over Ash, barely registering the creature’s scaly patches, before locking onto Shiro. the chick chirped softly, pressing itself tighter against Greg’s leg.

“What the hell’s that?” Guts asked, jerking his chin toward Shiro. Leave it to this guy to ignore the half-dragon half-bear and zero in on the giant chick.

Greg glanced down at the fluffball, who tilted its head and let out another cheerful chirp. “My new sidekick,” he said, deadpan.

Guts snorted, his lips twitching like he might actually smile. “You collect weird ones, kid.”

Greg didn’t miss a beat. “Like you?” His grin edged into a smirk, just daring Guts to argue.

The black swordsman’s laugh came low and rough, like the sound had been dragged through mud, but it was real. “Fair enough,” he said, shaking his head.

Greg pushed himself to his feet, brushing off the snow that clung to his pants. Shiro flapped its stubby wings, hopping off his leg and onto the ground, where it waddled in circles before finally settling behind him. Ash followed suit, shaking himself like a dog before standing with deliberate, heavy steps.

The gates loomed ahead, tall and dark, the wood streaked with frost. They looked more solid now, less like something about to break apart and more like they belonged to a place that still stood. Greg felt a flicker of warmth somewhere deep in his chest, faint but steady, like a spark refusing to die out.

“Let’s head in.”