Nerd In the North 5-15

The oak groaned under his gauntlets, or maybe that was just the sound his jaw made when he clenched it too hard. Five and a half months of this shit. Fingers drumming against wood because sitting still felt like admitting defeat, and Greg Veder didn’t do defeat. Not anymore. 

Not since—

Focus.

The great hall pressed close, too many banners hanging limp in air that smelled of old wine and older men. Stark direwolf. Tully trout. Karstark sun. A whole fucking zoo of heraldry and political dick-measuring, and Greg sat right in the middle of it, basically the hired help at a family reunion. 

Which, essentially, he was.

Grey Wind padded behind Robb’s chair, Greg’s gaze tracking it as it moved silently. The direwolf had gotten massive, too big, really.

Honestly, bigger than anything had a right to be for an animal that was just a wolf.

Greg knew that was kinda hypocritical considering Ash was a dragon and already the size of a pony, but Grey Wind was pretty much the same age and somehow even taller. 

Yesterday’s blood still crusted his armor. Should’ve cleaned it or at least taken it off to let the thing clean itself, the way it always did when he wasn’t looking. 

“We’ve pushed the Lannisters back to Harrenhal, aye,” Robb said, voice carrying that practiced kingly authority he’d pulled out of his ass one day and held tight to his chest ever since. The northern cadence grounded every word—aye coming out like bedrock, consonants landing hard. “But they still hold King’s Landing. They still hold my sisters.”

Karstark’s scowl deepened, if that was even possible at this point, while Lady Dustin stared with those dark bird-like eyes of hers, the Greatjon tapping the table with meaty man-fingers the size of sausages.

Hoster Tully leaned forward, color still strong in his cheeks after Greg dropped a Curaga on the  bedridden man. “The girls have been their hostages for moons now, and that is yet to change.”

Greg’s fingers stopped drumming, and formed a fist instead, tight enough to break a man’s bones from the force of his squeeze.

The Blackfish stood behind his brother, a statue carved from disapproval, arms crossed. “Yet to change? We’re winning.” Each word came out short, clipped, no time or patience for debate in between any of them. “Time to press the advantage. Strike fast, strike hard. That’s how you end wars.”

His eyes flicked to Greg for half a second as he finished speaking, the man tilting his head in a nod.

“Your Grace, with respect, I must say, King’s Landing’s walls…” Lord Karstark started and then paused, the man’s face tight and strained. “You’d throw away good Northern lives for two girls?”

Greg watched Robb’s knuckles go white on the table edge as Karstark spoke. These are his sisters we’re talking about. 

Lady Dustin nodded, voice smooth as poisoned honey. “The Stark name still commands respect, Your Grace, but not enough to bleed men beneath the Red Keep. Better we hold what we’ve taken. Let the South rot behind its walls.”

“Bah!” The Greatjon snorted, the sound loud and scornful, fist slamming down hard enough to rattle the goblets on the table. ““Rot, is it? I say we carve through them like butcher’s meat. No need for hosts. Just a dozen good blades and one man with balls enough to use them!”

Right. Greg’s jaw worked silently, teeth grinding behind closed lips. 

Robb straightened, royal command bleeding into every syllable. “Then we’ll send a small force, a focused one, with a strong leader.” Blue eyes found Greg across the table. “Lord Veder. You’ll lead it.”

There it is.

The words slammed hard, ripples of reaction spreading through the assembled lords, relief on more than a few faces. Why? Greg wasn’t sure but he had at least one idea. 

The young blond lord kept his own face calm even as his fingers twitched, hand clenched tight into a fist.

“Of course, Your Grace.” The words came out flatter than intended. Mostly because ‘No thanks, find another sucker’ weren’t necessarily an option here. “How many men?”

Hoster cleared his throat, that particular sound of old men getting attention in the phlegmiest way possible. “A dozen should suffice. Any more draws attention. This is a rescue, not a conquest.”

Thanks for the tactical briefing, General Obvious. 

“Take men… men who know the paths,” The Blackfish spoke up again, gruff words spilling out as his eyes cut to Greg for a single moment, “Stay off the roads. No noise, no banners.”

Lord Glover shifted uncomfortably. “Your Grace, any word from Pyke? From Greyjoy? You called for his father’s ships, asked for the Iron Fleet? Has the lad answered?”

Robb’s expression tightened, teeth meeting teeth for just a second before the Stark king closed his mouth. As subtle as it was, it wasn’t enough to hide the clench in his jaw. “No, no word yet, but Theon… Theon’s no fool. He knows what he swore. He’ll come. The Ironborn will come.”

Uh-huuuuh. Greg filed that away, mental alarm bells starting to ring in his head. Is he trying to convince us or himself? Greg didn’t know much about this Greyjoy guy, other than what Robb had told him and he’d generally heard, but the guy was a hostage in his family’s castle for ten years. Friendly or not, trusting that guy to go back to his slaving pirate family… 

He tried very hard not to pull a face but he was pretty sure he failed anyway. Not the smartest move, king.

“Your Grace…” The Maester of Riverrun, a very old man with hands as wrinkled as his face, along with short hair and beard that were both snow white, fingered his chain links as he spoke up. “Ravens from the North have been… sporadic. Could be weather. Could be worse.”

Robb nodded slowly, carefully, only to stand up just as slowly, a firm look on his face. “This meeting is over. Lord Veder will depart within the sennight. Choose your men carefully. Bring my sisters home.”

The formal tone felt like a wall going up; brick by careful brick, keeping distance between king and friend. Right. Business, not personal. I get it.

Lords began filing out, boots echoing on stone, conversations pitched just loud enough for Greg to catch fragments. “Finally.” “Necessary sacrifice.” “Should have been done months ago.”

The Greatjon clapped Greg’s shoulder hard enough to rattle plate as he rumbled past, the big man with the usual over-loud laughter in his voice. “Don’t get yourself killed, lad. The North would rather you stay breathing.”

How touching. Greg fought the urge to roll his bright blues at the sudden love. My heart is deeply fucking moved.

The hall emptied slowly but Greg stayed seated, armor creaking with each breath, watching Robb stare silently at the map spread across the massive oak table. 

Hoster Tully rose slowly, the man still old enough to be white-bearded, and his body still showing it even after the healing. The old lord paused beside Greg’s chair, weathered hand resting on table edge.

“Boy.”

Greg looked back up at the man with a smile as sarcastic and smug as he could manage, modern teengage rebelliousness pulling its weight. “Old man.”

Hoster snorted slightly under his breath and walked past, robes rustling against stone.

Boots echoed off stone, voices trailing away as the hall emptied. Eventually all the sound died out in corners, leaving Robb slumped in his chair like a freshly destringed Pinnochio, Dacey Mormont standing behind him against the wall all leather and steel looking like a medieval chapstick lesbian who also did hair commercials and (not so) Smalljon Umber leaning against a pillar on the opposite of Dacey like he owned the place.

Just four people in the room, staring across from each other.

Well…

Four people and one horse-sized magical wolf. 

The magical wolf in question padded around Robb’s chair, Grey Wind’s paws near-silent as he settled beside the king in his usual position after a prowl that was entirely unnecessary, in Greg’s expert opinion. It was as if the direwolf had leveled up in menace and presence along with Robb once the new king took up the position. Would make as much sense as anything, honestly, he admitted to himself. Those two are more in sync than me and Ash. 

Silence stretched between everyone in the hall like a guitar string about to snap and then finally…

“Greg.”

Robb’s hands roamed across a piece of parchment, the King in the North creasing and uncreasing the edges of it in a decidedly unkingly manner. “What we discussed, Greg… this mission-” The words came out careful, measured, but not like he’d practiced them. No, it was more like he was thinking of them as they left his mouth. “It’s not just for them,” he continuedm jaw tight. “Not just for my sisters. It’s the war itself. The realm watches. So do my men.”

The king still couldn’t meet his eyes.

Oh, great. Greg slumped in his chair, the thing creaking as he threatened to lean back on the wood that was probably older than he was. “What do you think they’re watching for, then?”

Dacey shifted, hand drifting toward her mace handle already. “His Grace has to weigh the words of his bannermen,” Her voice carried that rough northern confidence, words clipped and practical, like she was explaining basic math to a slow kid. “The North follows strength… but it follows its customs too.”

Greg’s eyes flicked to her hand. “Right. Guess patching up your broken men counts as treason now.”

Robb finally looked up, blue eyes meeting blue. “None of that, now,” he continued again, voice almost a growl before he pulled back his tone. “It’s about what it looks like if I name you… and what it says if I don’t.” 

He trailed off, words dying in the space between them.

Greg filled in the blank because someone had to, and he definitely wasn’t going to let this bullshit go just yet. “So, this… this is why you’ve had me stuck healing all this time?”

His voice stayed level, casual even, but something colder rode beneath. “Me, Ash, Guts, anyone of us…” The only blond in the hall shook his head, a scoff spilling out as he tried not to laugh like a crazy person. “You know we could’ve turned half these skirmishes into routs? Easy, even. Kept more of your men alive, too. But no, you kept me in the middle of the pack, and only brought me up front to heal… even though you said I was in charge of the vanguard.”

Greg clicked his tongue, shooting Grey Wind a look as the direwolf growled his way. “You know what I didn’t do, though? Unlike your lords? I didn’t complain. I kept doing the work. Even put those same lords and their shit sons back together like they aren’t straight dickheads to me the next day.” The grimace on his face was one he didn’t have to fake, Greg thinking back on half a year’s worth of bullshit. “I figured I’d at least get some respect back, but noooooo.”

Smalljon’s laughter boomed across the hall, the sound like boulders tumbling down a mountainside. “Lad’s got stones, I’ll give him that.” His accent thickened like bark as he tried to hold in his humor, words chewed and spat out rough. “Most men wouldn’t talk t’a king like that.”

Dacey’s grip tightened on her mace handle, knuckles going white against dark leather. “Most men know their place.”

The threat hit subtle but clear, like a knife between the ribs. Greg stood slow, deliberate, steel plate shifting with the movement. “I’ve barely done anything. Just healed your fucking men for half a year, Robb.”

The profanity cut through the formal atmosphere like a chainsaw through tissue paper. Greg watched Dacey’s face harden, her shoulders square.

“You mean, Your Grace.” The Lady Mormont’s voice turned sharp enough to shave with as her knuckles went white.

Greg turned to face her full-on, weight shifting to the balls of his feet without thinking about it. Training kicked in—assess threat, calculate distance, plan response. “I mean, Robb. And if your hand goes to that mace again, Lady Mormont…” His eyes narrowed, voice dropping to something conversational and deadly. “Next time your arm’s shattered in three places, you can fix it yourself.”

Smalljon’s laughter exploded again, bigger this time, echoing off stone walls. “Ha! Lad’s got teeth now!” He turned toward Robb, still grinning like Christmas morning. “Told you before, I like this one. Got proper Northern bite!”

But Robb wasn’t laughing. His hand slammed down on the oak table nearly as hard as the Smalljon’s father had minutes before, the half-full goblets on the table rattling still. “Lord Veder, enough!” Grey Wind’s ears pricked at the tone, golden eyes shifting between king and lord like he was watching a tennis match.

Greg didn’t back down, but his voice dropped quieter, more dangerous. “So, that’s how it is? No Greg anymore, huh, Your Maj…” He caught himself, shook his head. “Your Grace?”

Something flickered across Robb’s face; maybe guilt, maybe regret. Whatever it was, Greg didn’t really care, not even as Robb’s expression softened just enough to show the boy underneath the crown. “Greg… If it were only my sisters, I’d ask this of you all the same.” He paused, struggling with words that almost hurt to get out. “But you took Jaime Lannister like he was nothing. The men saw it. They talk. Some cheer. Some… don’t. And now they look at me.”

The admission was its own punch to the gut, Greg unable to deny that. Yet it burned even more, because they had asked him to do it, and now he was being punished for it anyway.

“We cannot have you win this war for us, for me.” Robb’s voice carried the weight of hard truths and harder choices. “Not if I wish to rule the North without voices and eyes turned your way.”

Brutal honesty. Greg could respect that, even if it sucked. He nodded slow, processing, filing away the implications for later analysis. “I understand. I’ll do it. No problem.”

Greg sucked his teeth. “One thing though…”

Robb looked wary, shoulders tensing. “Yes?”

Greg wasn’t sure what Robb expected him to say but it probably wasn’t this, which made it even better. “I healed your grandfather, yeah, but it’s not gonna stick, and before you say anythiiiiing,” he held a hand up, shaking his head, “I gave it my all but your grandpa’s sicker on the inside than he thinks. He’s got something deep eating at him and it’s been in there for too long. Like… real deep. Imagine tiny little crabs having a meal from the inside out.”

The medical metaphor was as crude and deliberate as they came, mostly because Greg didn’t have much medical knowledge himself but also because he was pretty sure these people didn’t know cancer from the runs, so this would have to do. Close enough to get the point across, at least.

Robb flinched like Greg had slapped him. “What are you saying?”

“Next time the Lord of House Tully needs the help of House Veder,” Greg emphasized the names like he was literally pulling them through the gap in his teeth that no longer existed, “I might not feel like doing them a favor if it’s to fuck me over.” 

Robb’s face hardened, blue eyes widening for a half-second before narrowing despite themselves as he sighed out two simple words, “…I understand.”

“Do you, though?”

“I do.”

Greg nodded slowly, unable to ask for more. After a second more of non-thought, he couldn’t help himself, “Your grandpa’s a dickhead, Robb.”

Another flinch, smaller this time. “…I am aware… Greg.”

The return to his first name felt like a small victory, a concession on its own. Greg turned toward the door, then paused. “Any preferences on who I take?”

Robb shook his head, exhaustion bleeding through royal composure. “Your choice. Just… bring my sisters home, Greg.”

The plea in his voice sounded real enough, as real as anything Greg had ever heard from Robb.

Dacey spoke up, voice grudgingly respectful now. “Take good men. This won’t be easy.”

Smalljon clapped his massive hands together, bear paws he called palms loud enough to be heard from this far away. “Aye, take fighters. King’s Landing’s full of surprises, none of them pleasant.”

Greg nodded to all of them, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. “I’ll bring them back. Both of them.” He looked directly at Robb with a nod. “Because that’s what friends do.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Dawn broke gray and cold over Riverrun’s towers, mist rising off the river. 

Greg sat atop Cloud in the courtyard, checking his gear one last time; sword belt secure, armor plates aligned, everything where it should be. The enchanted steel gleamed, already having cleaned itself completely overnight till the metal shone like silver. Wish everything else was that easy.

His followers, both his own and the Stark men already assembled around him. Guts strode strong on the massive horse he had claimed as his and had yet to his name, Dragonslayer strapped across his back like some kind of medieval surfboard. The man was a walking siege engine, all black armor and casual violence. Lobb sat his smaller horse trying to look confident and failing spectacularly, his squire’s face three shades too pale, hands shaking just enough to notice. Daeric checked his bow strings for what had to be the fourth time, nervous energy bleeding through practiced competence.

Two other soldiers flanked them, Tomard Snow, a bastard friend of Lobb’s, and Wat, a farm boy and another friend, who’d picked up a sword and discovered he was good with it. Several Stark men-at-arms filled out the group, faces grim but determined. Northern steel, through and through.

“Ash, Fly!” Greg’s voice carried across the courtyard, drawing stares from guards and servants going about their morning routines.

The dragon-bear burst off the top of the castle in a burst of draconic motion. Black springs spread wide at least a dozen foot across, catching the pale morning light like giant sails as Ash let out a roar loud enough to make a lion blush. No longer the cub he’d been last year, Ash was now the size of a pony, scales gleaming black as midnight, eyes burning a fiery red. The winged half-reptile circled once, testing the air currents, then took position overhead like a feathered missile waiting for targets.

Guts rode up beside him, destrier’s hooves clipping and clopping off cobblestones. “Ready for this, tiny lord?”

The massive sword on his back was still all edges and implied violence, Greg still pretty damn sure he wouldn’t be able to use the thing a fourth as good as Guts. Hell, I’m pretty sure I’m at least half-again as strong as I was when I first got the upgrade and I still don’t think I could swing that thing. 

Thoughts of inadequacy aside, Greg looked back at Riverrun’s towers, banners snapping in the morning wind. Somewhere up there, Robb was probably watching, feeling guilty and kingly all at once.

This is what I get for being a hero, huh? Greg shook his head, barely sure how to take all this bullshit, along with the fact. Least I’m going on vacation.

He turned back to his men, forcing a grin that he hoped looked a dozen times less fake than it felt on his face. “Alright, gentlemen. Time to go fetch some princesses. Try not to die on the way. I’d hate to explain that to Robb.”

The joke fell flat, like a dead bird a bored Ash had swatted out of the sky last week. Aren’t you supposed to laugh at your boss’s jokes? Greg almost complained out loud. What’s the point of being a lord otherwise, Christ?

Internal grumblings and critical audience aside, all of them rode out through Riverrun’s gates, hoofbeats echoing off stone.

King’s Landing. Greg threw his head back and sighed. This is gonna suck.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Strategic Pawn (150 GP)

ROLL: Divine Physiology (Unnatural) (50 CP) [God of War (2018)] {Benevolence}: “Oh, you are something different, aren’t you? Either through magic, training, or just good genes, you are sturdier than most mortals and are highly resistant to normal diseases and poisons.

A mundane weapon would injure you, but it wouldn’t kill you unless you stood still and took a stab to the heart or some similarly vital point. Additionally, you are able to move faster than a normal human.”

Grimoire Points: 400 GP