Nerd In The North 5-11

The bailey of Riverrun was a shallow bowl of beaten earth ringed by ramparts and half‑mended siege scaffolds, still littered with splinters from the ladders Edmure’s men had torched four dawns back when the Lannisters had attempted to siege the castle.

This morning it held a different kind of kindling: two—maybe three—hundred soldiers, pages, smiths, washer‑women, and whatever other bored camp followers could cram onto the steps. They pressed shoulder to shoulder, armor clinking, linen rustling, breath smoking in the chill. All eyes trained on the rectangle of packed dirt centered around the hundreds of watchers, and on the two figures inside it: Greg Veder—young, blond, and currently fiddling with the straps of a helm he still thought made him look like a medieval bobble‑head—and Ser Ronald Vance, hulking inside gleaming trident‑etched plate like a sour bull stuffed into a cathedral bell.

Greg rolled his neck, feeling the joint pop. His visor was up for the moment; no point limiting his field of view from the inside before the party even started. “Whole crowd’s out,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but the words carried because the hush around the training area was church‑quiet. “Guess nobody trusts the healer not to explode.”

At the line, his entourage clustered like mismatched chess pieces: Guts leaning on the Dragonslayer—sheathed, which really did not help the giant slab of metal his first human partner called a sword look any less menacing—expression blank and dangerous; Daeric perched on the railing, boot tapping in time to some song only he heard; Brennor standing square‑footed, arms folded like a patient wall; and Lobb shifting from heel to heel, rubbing his palms down his cuirass every five seconds.

Daeric cupped one hand around his mouth. “Oy, m’lord! That quip about Vance needing his first blood—you really say that, or was it just a rumor floating on the river?”

Greg slid his visor halfway, peek‑a‑boo style. “Course I said it. Does it not sound like me?”

Lobb’s freckled face blanched several shades lighter. “M’lord—no! Thought them words were jest! Y‑ye ain’t truly gone an’ called a River lord a lass with moon’s blood in front o’ his own men?”

“Can’t lie to you, Lobb.” Greg clicked the visor back up and winked. “That was me. I couldn’t help myself”

“Wonder if ‘e’ll be breathin’ in an hour,” Guts rumbled, voice like slate dragged over oak.

Greg rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Planning on leaving him mostly intact, thanks.” 

He thumbed the release catch on his scabbard—no sense sheathing a sword that he could pretty much keep in his soul anytime he wanted. A thin curl of white light spiraled into his open hand, solidifying into the blade’s moon‑pale edge. The crowd gasped, as if half of them hadn’t watched him do that trick a dozen times since Winterfell. Greg twirled the hilt once for show. “Just scare him a little. Maybe bruise the ego. Maybe the skull.”

Iron clattered as the taller form of Ser Ronald stomped forward, visor down as he somehow managed to look angry even with his face hidden. “Devilspawn,” he snarled, voice echoing in the bucket helm. “Did y’mother weep when she bore you, or piss herself from shame?”

Greg blinked. “Wow, starting strong. Did you rehearse that, orrr…?”

“Witch‑born little cunt. Come test them pretty hands on iron!”

At the edges, Lady Dustin actually smiled—knife‑thin, delighted, glee clear on her face like Greg couldn’t fucking see her.

Robb, crownless but unmistakably king, folded his arms and kept any opinion off his face, despite Greg well aware he was annoyed at all this. Hoster Tully watched from a padded chair brought out for the occasion, color finally back under his beard thanks to Greg’s miracle cure; it didn’t make the old lord’s stare any warmer. Beside him, the Blackfish crossed both hands on a cane he didn’t need, attention flitting between the fighters and the perimeter the way a commander scopes arrow angles.

Vance planted his greatsword in the dirt, leaned forward like an accusing gargoyle. “You play at lord, boy, but your knees still know how to beg.”

Greg rolled his eyes so hard his helm clinked against the gorget as he glanced around at the audience. “Really? You guys are cool with this?” A few River knights near the lord of Riverrun shuffled, clearly uncomfortable.

Vance’s gauntlet creaked. “Filth like you knows only blood an’ shit. I’ll see you bathe in both.”

A flick of Greg’s gaze toward the high table found Hoster’s mouth curve not in approval but something more satisfied—oh great, so the old man was pulling strings. I should have let that cancer kill you, you old fuck. Greg let his sword rest tip‑down. “Your son’s known me two days, Ron, and he already likes me better than you do. Maybe ask yourself why.”

Vance reacted as if stung, shoulders tensing beneath his armor. Hoster cleared his throat, the sound deeper and more resonant days after the healing, cutting the tension like a gavel. “Lord Vance. Lord Veder. This duel is sanctioned before the lords of river and north. To first blood, and no sorcery. Honor the gods in your actions.”

The Blackfish stepped forward, voice steely. “On first blood, the bout ends. Any attempted magic or unnaturalness”—his eyes drilled Greg—“and the yield’s forfeit.”

Greg raised his hand, in a slow lazy salute. “Scout’s honor.” He didn’t bother clarifying he’d never been a scout, not that they even knew what scouts were.

Robb lifted one hand. “Begin.”

Ser Ronald Vance surged at once, breastplate flashing; the man’s initial thrust was textbook through the center in a straight line, power from the hips, trying to punch straight through his opponent’s belly before fancy tricks started. Greg sidestepped, pivoted his torso, and let the greatsword roar past harmlessly. The crowd oohed; mostly Northern cheers, Riverlander lords, knights and soliders hissing through clenched teeth.

“Fast for a lad.” Vance recovered, hacking down diagonally. 

Greg caught it on the flat, the clang sounding like an aluminum bat against a metal pole, but it barely even shifted his wrist in the slightest. He slid away again, boots ghosting over dry dirt.

“Fast for anyone,” Greg corrected, loud enough for row three. “Keep up.”

They danced. 

Well, Greg danced; Vance lumbered, each miss digging new furrows. Ten passes in, Greg hadn’t swung once, just parried or dodged, barely even doing a thing.

“Ronald the Bad, huh? What’s up with that?” Greg asked, actually confused at the guy’s nickname. He’d heard it over the night and it sounded incredibly confusing as an actual title or whatever.

Parry.

“‘Bad’ feels unfinished. Like your footwork.”

Slip, spin.

“You self-brand in the mirror?” Greg clicked his tongue. “Power move, bro.”

The yard’s initial roar faded to stunned quiet. Even common spearmen recognized humiliation when they saw it. Vance’s breath rasped louder inside his helm as sweat visibly darkened the red surcoat beneath.

Lobb popped his head up, hands cupped around his mouth as he whisper‑shouted, “M’lord, y’can end it any time, yeah?”

“I could but he’s not tired yet,” Greg murmured back, though Vance’s shaking sword arm suggested otherwise. Another wild overhand that Greg ducked under, had him grin as he cuffed the pommel with a gloved knuckle. “Try aiming where I am, not where you think, Ronnie.”

Vance growled and  hurled a clumsy thrust. Greg batted it sideways, then, and pivoted inside with a move that was far too flashy, and tapped Vance’s visor with two strong fingers. Metallic ding like a bell rang loud.

The soldiers broke into disbelieving laughter.

Greg hopped back, sword lazily guarding. “Tag. You’re it.”

Vance bellowed wordless fury, and charged forward with a blow that was so telegraphed, it was downright sad.

Sad or not, that was the cue.

Greg stepped off to the side, twisted, and let the white blade flip once, blunt pommel rushing forward. It cracked into Vance’s gorget seam with a klang. Not lethal, not even messy—just enough shock through the neck to scramble balance as Greg tossed his helmet off and to the side.

Before the knight could recover from his stagger, Greg lunged forward, fingers grabbing a fistful of that same gorget. He pulled the man forward, and smacked his bare forehead into Vance’s helm.

CRUMP.

A dent blossomed dead center above the face‑plate and, as expected, Vance’s legs went pudding. Ronald The Bad slumped, greatsword slipping from his hands, as he collapsed face‑first into the dust.

Then, there was nothing but silence.

The blond stood up straight with a wide smile on his face, palm pressed to his own brow where a thin trickle of red seeped from hairline to cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed as he felt somethign inside of him twist, another familiar sensation locking in as he realized he had a new ability. “Nice.”

He raised the back of his gauntlet to his face, and wiped the blood off before it could get into his eyes.

Greg sheathed his sword—meaning, dismissed it into shimmering nothing—and held out a single hand toward his discarded helm, eye twitching slightly as he flexed his willpower.

As if pulled by an invisible rope, the silver helm shot toward his hand and the instant it made contact with his palm, he tossed it underhand to Lobb, who juggled but secured it. Then Greg faced the high table, white grin wide enough to show gums.

“A win to your man, Lord Tully.” He tapped the cut on his forehead with two finger, middle and index. “First blood—claimed fair. Fine example of a River lord you have.”

A ripple of hesitant laughter from Northern ranks; Riverlanders still stiff as tombstones. Robb’s mouth twitched even as Hoster’s eyes were flint and Edmure looked stunned, surprised at seeing his friend laid so low.

Greg executed the deepest bow ever recorded, copying the kids he’d seen in school plays before he turned on his heel, and walked—not hurried—through the parted crowd. Northern spears clacked on shields in rough salute; someone whooped. 

Guts fell into step beside him without comment, but after a dozen paces he rumbled, “Thought you weren’t gonna kill him.”

Greg rolled his sore neck. “Oh come on, Guts, I didn’t kill him. His helm took the worst of it. He’ll be up in a few minutes with a headache at worst.”

“Could’ve been quicker,” Guts observed, voice half admiring, half critical.

Greg shrugged, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Entertainment value, man. If I’d blink‑and‑missed it, half these clowns would claim sorcery anyway. Now they watched him gas out.”

Guts grunted with a sound that could almost be approval. “Next time, end it faster. Had me bored soon’s you started.”

The blond lord snorted at that, chuckling under his breath. “Next time maybe Lord Tully sends a contender who can spell ‘strategy.’” He cast one glance back and his smile widened into a grin. Hoster Tully’s knuckles were white on the chair arms; the old lord’s stare followed like a crossbow sight.

Good, Greg thought, blood still tacky on his brow. Let him stew. Let them all realize he was more than just a healer. Let them plan their little frost‑out committees—he’d just melted a chunk of fear into respect.

Somewhere overhead, ravens shrieked against the castle sky, black wings slicing winter air as Ash continued his hunt.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

First Duel Victory (150 GP)


ROLL: Psychic Abilities – Psychokinesis (One Dot) (100 CP) [World of Darkness: Sorcerer] {Modus}: “In the World of Darkness, psychic abilities and mythic sorcery are, at first glance, completely different. However, both manipulate the same powers, albeit in very different ways, and are both considered forms of linear magic. While a sorcerer utilizes numerous tools and ceremonies to harness supernatural powers, a psychic makes do with lots, and lots, of willpower. Furthermore, the majority of psychic powers are innate, and can be improved, but not gained, without outside interference, in stark contrast to sorcery.

Also known as telekinesis, this ability allows the psychic to move objects with their mind, so long as they can see them. Lifting multiple objects is exponentially more difficult.

[1] At this level, the psychokinetic’s power is extremely weak, allowing them to move only a few pounds worth of objects, at a maximum rate of 7 yards per three seconds.”

Grimoire Points: 300