Nerd In the North 4-20

The banners came first.

Of course they did.

They were the most obvious thing, held up high, and bright as hell. Even if his eyes weren’t as good as they were now, he could probably still see them at least half a mile away.

Big dramatic fuckin’ parade of old beefs on linen, flapping like they had somewhere better to be. Suns and giants and axes and moose (meese? no—still dumb), stitched stiff in all sorts of different colors. All of them lined up like someone had programmed a low-fantasy wargame and said go wild.

Each one heavier than it looked. Heavier in memory. In blood.

Greg shifted in the saddle as Cloud trudged past the first wave, steel clinking soft against steel. The armor didn’t squeak. Didn’t rattle. Which should’ve helped. But somehow, it made him feel louder. Like the silence was only worse for it.

It fit too well. That was the problem. Not just that it hugged right in the joints or that the enchantment had tuned to his rhythm or whatever, but that it made him look like something he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

Made him look like he belonged here.

I don’t remember packing this.

The thought was automatic. Greg muttered it half out loud as he adjusted the gauntlets—so clean it glinted like someone buffed it and waxed it right before he put it on. “I don’t even remember getting this,” he told Cloud. The horse flicked an ear back.

No comment.

Of course he didn’t remember. That was how his inventory backpack worked since the day after he got it… usually. He stopped asking questions after a while, once he realized the answers didn’t arrive the way a lot of the other stuff did. Sometimes some potions, sometimes some magic books. Sometimes a full set of armor crafted by some probably-dead master-smith. Sure. Why not.

Behind him, the line curled in crooked. A jagged snake of boys playing soldier and men who’d stopped playing a long time ago. His. His men. His army. His… problem. Official count said four thousand, which was laughable. Reality was closer to three and a half, and that was if you counted everyone with a pulse and something vaguely stabby in hand. Real trained? Maybe two thousand. If he was generous.

He wasn’t feeling generous today.

The banners for Brightfort rode behind him now. Sky blue, white sword, and the silhouette of Shiro mid-screech with his wings spread wide like he was ready to fight a god. Gwenna’s design, obviously. Looked stupid when she sketched it. Looked noble now.

Greg hadn’t seen the real bird in two weeks. Leaving him behind wasn’t the plan, but it was the only option. He’d shredded his own tent the last time someone tried to cage him. And yeah, maybe Greg kept looking up like the little guy might fly in out of nowhere with some explosive entrance and a snarky chirp, but whatever. Not like he missed him. Not like he noticed the absence in his ribs.

His hand flexed on the reins.

They passed the cookfires. The wagons. Faces. Not eyes. Faces. Because no one looked at him. Not directly. They looked near him. Past him. Through him. Like he was a ghost, or worse, a prophet. Because the truth was, when you were the guy who killed every single remaining member of a noble house to steal back your magic sword and you hung out with an unkillable pet dragon, people didn’t think of you as one of them anymore. They thought of you as a story.

And stories didn’t need eye contact.

Greg exhaled through his nose. Adjusted in the saddle again. Sat taller this time.

He passed the Umbers first. Their banners snapped in the wind, bright red and loud as hell, like they were pissed about the sunlight. Then came the Cerwyns, all understated axes and permanent frowns. Karstarks. Tallharts. Hornwood with their goddamn moose giving judgmental herbivore energy.

Each house shifted near the road like they were trying to edge closer to the front without getting too close to him. A dance of power and discomfort. A parade of inherited ego.

Greg didn’t wave or nod at them as he rode past on Cloud. He definitely didn’t smile either because none of them were doing any of that for him. Instead, he just looked, and watched, as their weight shifted in saddles, the fingers flexing on reins, and the little sideways glances.

The new lord of Brightfort. That’s what he was. Like he still wasn’t trying to memorize the dozen minor houses he was in charge of or wasn’t still figuring out how the hell taxes worked or which fork went with venison.

The Bolton-killer. That one stuck harder. That one had shape. Had fear all wrapped up inside it, because most of the North was scared of Lord Bolton but didn’t exactly know all the dirty details.

They thought he’d asked for all this.

They thought wrong.

But he sure as hell wasn’t giving it back.

He slowed up as the ridge evened out, saddle creaking under him, breath fogging in front of his face like the world wanted him to see it. The Weeping Water murmured somewhere off to the right—close enough to name but far enough it might as well’ve been a ghost humming in the trees. Fifteen miles in. If that. Barely a dent.

And already, the air was splitting sideways.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just—off. Like two conversations were happening under the same sky and neither of them knew the other one existed. Greg didn’t need to look to know which houses had real beef, which lords were trying too hard not to glare, which retainers were already regretting saddling up under someone half their age with a name no one could pronounce the same way twice.

He passed two younger knights who straightened too fast. One tried a salute. Missed. The other nodded with his mouth open, like he meant to say something but the thought died mid-launch. Greg didn’t acknowledge either. Couldn’t. Not with the way the rest of the line behind them locked into place the second he was through, all stiff spines and muttered breaths like his presence had changed the shape of the air. Maybe it had.

He didn’t smile. They didn’t, either.

Cloud’s pace stayed steady, hooves catching the gravel and dirt in practiced rhythm. Greg leaned forward slightly, one hand loose on the reins, the other tightening without him noticing. The ground ahead widened where the vanguard gathered, banners fluttering like they were trying to find reasons to belong next to each other. No Stark colors. Not yet. Greg knew why, or he thought he did. Robb was playing the long game. Letting the rest of the North decide how to fall in line without him having to say it out loud.

But the Brightfort colors? Those flew already. Ten full poles. Sky-blue banners, sword and eagle wings stitched like Gwenna had sketched the damn thing herself.

Which she had, personally.

Shiro’s outline above the blade, wings splayed like a threat or a hug depending on how close you stood. They looked cleaner than most of the men under them. That mattered more.

Greg barely tilted his head. Heard the half-whispers before he even reached the front.

“That’s him.” 

“He killed the Dreadfort’s lord. Burned ‘im inside out, they say.” 

“Heard he got his power from a cursed cave.” 

“Heard he don’t bleed.”

He heard all of it. Almost wished he didn’t.

Ash made a low sound behind him. Not a growl. Not not one. Something like a warning tuned to the shape of his breath. Wings shifting over muscle. Tail flicking in a motion too precise to be idle. Greg didn’t look back. He could feel the heat radiating off the bastard like a coiled wire. Ash was getting bigger again. Almost fully teenage bear-sized now, which was crazy considering he was at most nine months old, more like eight. 

Doberman-sized only if you were blind or nostalgic.

“Fucking Oren,” he muttered.

The bard was the one who’d started it. One dumb song, catchy and myth-washed, and suddenly Greg was half a god to the people too scared to admit they were just looking for someone else to believe in.

He passed Guts to the right. The guy silent and massive, still looking like he’d kill someone mid-blink and keep riding. No words. Just presence. Like if you stared too long, you’d forget what you were scared of in the first place.

Lobb rode at his left like always, him and the rest of the Silver Trio alongside him—Brennor, Daeric, the usual suspects. His sword, shield, and armor, fit all of them well.

They reached the top of the incline. The vanguard thinned, made room. Greg scanned the curve of it automatically—habit, now. Not even military, just… survival. That instinct that told him where people might try something stupid.

One face caught.

Greg blinked and pulled up slightly, hands tightening around the reigns.

Arryk.

Stonegate armor. Worn down, but still marked. Pale eyes. Same way he’d looked up at Greg months ago like he’d seen a miracle and hadn’t decided if it was a good one.

“…my lord.”

Greg met his gaze. “Arryk,” he said, a tight curve in his mouth that almost passed for a smile. “It’s been a while.”

The man nodded, slow. “That it has, my lord.”

Greg didn’t stop, the young lord not slowing much more than the blink. “We’ll talk later.”

He rode past.

He looked ahead, past the trees. Past the churned-up road and the uneven pike lines and the colors flapping harder the closer they got to Riverland wind. 

Toward the war.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The army slowed like it didn’t want to. Like even the horses felt it now—whatever that pressure was, the thing sitting just under the horizon line, breathing wrong through the wind. Greg didn’t say anything. No one did. The sound of it—the stop—crawled through the whole line like a shiver that didn’t know where to land. Metal clanked. Dirt scuffed. Banners shifted like they were nervous.

They’d reached the rise just past the Weeping Water, that stupid lumpy hill where the grass gave up pretending to live. Dirt and loose stone, pale weeds like snapped bones, and this brittle patch of cold air that tasted like dried blood and forge smoke. Nothing had even happened yet.

Greg stayed mounted for a second longer than he meant to. Cloud’s breath curled visible, steam and heat pushing past the stillness like he wasn’t buying any of this either. Armor sat easy on Greg’s shoulders—stupidly light for what it was, the spellwork humming low like a reminder.

He swung down, landing light, one foot then the other. Didn’t take the helmet off as he walked to the edge.

Behind him, the boys didn’t move. Lobb held the banner tight, wind cutting through the wool and fabric like it was trying to find a seam. Daeric and Brennor sat on their horses like statues painted silver, armor polished so sharp it caught the firelight off the west ridge. The way they all waited made his skin crawl.

Ash loomed bigger than he had any right to. He was quieter now, maybe feeling it too, or maybe just focused in that way animals got when something old stirred the air. Tail twitching. Wings low. One eye on the valley, the other on Greg.

The wind snapped again. Sharp. Loud. Banners answering back like they didn’t care.

Greg stepped up to the crest. Stared.

His magic stirred without being called. Not loud. Not flashy. Just… there. Like a breath he hadn’t taken yet. Like something warm tightening behind his ribs. Ready. Wanting. Almost hungry.

He let it sit. Didn’t call it up. Just let it curl.

He heard one of the Karstark men mutter behind him. Didn’t catch the words, but the tone was familiar. Suspicion. Doubt. The kind that stuck. That spread.

Greg didn’t turn.

He closed his eyes Felt the wind slide past the edges of his helm.

And then he released it. “Sanctuary.”