Nerd In the North 6-5

“A h-hundred thanks, m’lord.”

The blue-white light of a simple Cure faded away as the scruffy older man stood just a bit straighter, eyes wide and watery as he looked down at his hands. “You’re welcome, Col.”

“M’lord knows my name!”

…yeah, I know your name. You… you introduced yourself. The smile on his face was all he had to say as the villager shuddered where he stood; the man staring with a wide smile on his face before he finally scampered off.

A few seconds later, another villager took his place.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Jesus Christ. The morning sun made him blink as the last villager finally walked away, looking cleaner and feeling healthier than they had been since they were born, probably. Finally… It was over with and not a moment too soon, considering he’d been at this since he woke up. Speaking of waking up, he’d slept off the fight of last night at the village, resting in the elder’s house, only to open his eyes to the sight of a half-dozen faces peering in through the window and whispering like he couldn’t hear them.

They stopped kneeling, at least, after Greg had made it clear enough times that he didn’t want them kneeling.

That didn’t do a thing to stop them from bowing every damn sentence.

I’m not even a lord of their… Greg hissed out a sigh, one gauntlet held in his left as his right dragged itself up and down his no longer muddy or bloody face, a simple Purify having cleaned him up — teeth and all. Lord of their land or whatever. He had no idea how these songs had made it all the way down here in half a year, but apparently that damn bard was working his ass off.

“Alright,” Greg stood up from the rickety wooden chair they’d given him. “Let’s get moving before we’re even more off schedule.” It was bad enough that he’d found out they had gone South instead of North, but the guys didn’t apparently have much choice but to hide in the woods to the south of King’s Landing when they got chased out by the guards.

Now, they were close to the north of some place called the Stormlands and not too far from the Reach. The Stark men he had with him already mentioned that it would take them almost two weeks to get close to Riverrun, and Greg had no reason to stretch that fortnight any further than he had to.

Plopping a yelping Sansa back up on Cloud, Greg dropped to a squat as he did a little check on the horse’s body; a touch of Cure doing pretty much all the work in upkeep as his steed let out a neigh at the feel of the blue-white power clearing out any soreness from yesterday’s travel.

“You burn so brightly.”

J-jesus! Tongue nearly getting the guillotine as his teeth slammed down together, Greg whirled around to stare at the pale face of the platinum blonde princess. “…what?”

Despite standing right over his shoulder, she wasn’t looking at him for some reason. No, Myrcell was looking off at the sky, seemingly unbothered by the sun staring right back at her. “You burn brighter than all others. Why do you think that is, Bright Lord?”

Greg couldn’t help the frown on his face as he stood up straight, wiping mud off his bracer with a sigh. “Well, it’s called Igni. It’s a spell. For… uh, burning things. Pretty practical, as cantrips tend to be.”

“No.” She shook her head slowly as she finally lowered her gaze to face him, green eyes still flickering like the fire from two nights ago. “The storm is dying. But the father’s light burns too bright.”

…yeahhhh, okay. Blue eyes narrowed back at her. “Are we gonna be attacked by more demon dogs or what?”

She didn’t answer, because that would be too easy or something; Greg just felt his left eye twitch as Myrcella turned around without another word and walked back off to bother Guts for another ride around his neck. 

The father’s light.

He looked up at the sun hanging in the sky, wincing in the way Myrcella didn’t.

“…Fucking oracles.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

There were a good many things she found rather foolish.

In fact, it would be quite the task to find a good many things she didn’t consider near the height of foolishness. A matter of age and a lack of patience had scoured her ability to tolerate fools to such a great degree that it was a miracle she could bear to hear her own son prattle on half the time.

Truly, a long life was a gift to the same degree as it was a curse.

However, said age came with education; many a lesson that she had gained in her time that made the simple nature of life much more understandable.

For one, Olenna Tyrell had come to learn long ago that armies did a rather good job of announcing themselves before they arrived.

The banners, as hard as they were to miss, were not those that came first.

Not truly.

Bright splashes of Reach green and gold stitched too carefully to belong to men who expected to die may have drawn the eye, but they were a far thing off in the distance even on the clearest of days.

A witless knight might claim it to be the noise; though with his own helm echoing all the din back into his ears, it was a simple misunderstanding to make. No, again, though the sound traveled far: iron complaining, horses breathing, men talking too loud because silence would mean thinking, an army arrived first in the air. 

There was a pressure to it all, a tightening behind the eyes, and the raw sense that the ground itself was being asked to choose a side before blood was spilt upon it. Men’s eyes and ears only went as far as the obvious, a sword in hand or in the gut, and very rarely did they pay attention to the little things that made up everything else around their annoying little lives or their quick painful deaths.

The Queen of Thorns sat with her fingers folded loosely around a cup she had no intention of finishing. Said tea — an Eastern Palebloom — had gone cold not long after it was poured, something she had let pass. 

Letting things cool was a skill all its own.

Her eyes roamed upwards to trace the awning above her head, set just high enough to let the light in without allowing the wind to interfere. The wind may not have done much to obstruct her morning, but the warriors certainly did that all on their own. Those same aged eyes cast themselves upon the field to where scores upon scores upon nearly uncountable scores of men drilled, drilled and drilled yet again in fierce formations that would dissolve into screaming scrambles the moment blood was spilled in earnest. 

Spears of the Reach rose and fell again.

Shields of the breadbasket knocked against each other.

Above all else, steel rang out in rhythms both dull and eager.

All of it familiar. All of it… insufficient.

Those same aged eyes narrowed further; the hitch there, that momentary misstep in the rhythm of the camp. Like a thought interrupted, she felt it every time their king made one of his speeches, every time Loras ventured into the training yards, and whenever that giant of a woman in the Rainbow Guard — the very same to discard her skirts for steel — stomped around with a greatsword.

This, though, it was a sharper thing than what she had grown accustomed to, threading through the clamor like the sound of the steel outside. Yet it bore to it a ringing insistence in her ears she did not like.

No such simple steel. Irritation prickled beneath her wimple, hairs on her head rising up. Nothing like prayer either. Gods preserve us… Whatever this was, it was quite bold; the magic to it quite the stronger flavor than anything within the camps of the King in the South. “Hmmm.”

“What is it now, Grandmother?” Her dearest flower stood at the side of her chair, hands folded demurely with posture perfect in the way only a true queen-to-be could manage. As expected for a girl raised since infancy for such a thing, her Margaery. “Does she speak to you?”

“…Hmmm.” Olenna could only echo, lips pressed together as her tongue worked silently. If only, my dear. It was at times like these that Olenna wished the Crone would do her the simple favor of speaking to her in words, as tedious as she would have found such a thing. These bits of knowledge arriving upon her sideways, impressions atop memory like ledgers set askew proved rather hard to think past too often. 

With a sigh, the old woman kept her eyes forward and shook her head, voicing the simple answer. “If only.”

Margaey followed her gaze outwards and smiled, soft and warm and entirely deliberate. “The men do look strong indeed, Grandmother.” Her tone, soothing as it was, nearly felt gentle enough to insult. “Very eager, they are, even without Renly’s words.” 

“Eager, my dear?” Olenna could only sniff at that. “Eagerness is for puppies and fools, not men who should know better of this new world we find ourselves in.”

She didn’t need to turn to see the smile shift on the face of her flower, just a fraction. “They believe in Renly.”

“Men always believe in their king… until they don’t,” the Queen of Thorns scoffed again. “Belief is cheaper than steel and twice as loud.”

“Steel…” Margaery tilted her head, tongue tasting the word. “You’ve been watching the training yard for quite some time, haven’t you, grandmother?”

“I am watching what is wrong with it, granddaughter.” The correction had little heat to it but her queen of a granddaughter required no . “Which is where one should always look first.”

Down below, a small knot of soldiers had gathered tighter than the rest, Olenna feeling that same pull again. Oh. The knowledge tugged at her skirts, persistent in the way Mace had been as a child. So that’s where you’ve been hiding.

The matriarch of House Tyrell leaned forward, cane tapping once against the stone. “Come, my flower. If we are to be in the presence of the Warrior, we may as well have a proper view.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Dickon Tarly did not feel divine.

He felt sweaty.

The taste of grass, blood, and mud thick in the back of his throat didn’t help that either, all of them fresh from the last time he fell. Hands tight around the haft of his sword, his knuckles were pale and ragged underneath the cloth wrapped around them. The day had not been an easy one, bout after bout in the yard at his father’s order bone-deep in his muscles.

He’d already fought three men the past hour, men with big scars and bigger bellies and voices loud enough to rattle his ears. This would be the fourth.

Slow in. The boy rolled his shoulders, breathing in through his nose the way Ser Harlon had taught him just the year prior before his tenth nameday. Slower out. The Warrior’s power still thrummed beneath his skin; the pressure of it like a hand between his shoulder blades urging him forward.

“Begin!” The voice of his Lord Father rang out from the edge of it all, his eyes hard as he stood with his arms folded. Face carved from steel and even sterner than stone, Randyll Tarly had not yet spoken since Dickon had stepped into the ring nearly an hour past.

In its own way, that was even worse than shouting.

“You ready, m’lord?” Dickon blinked up as the man opposite him spoke; one of the knights serving a Tarly bannerman. Broad, strong, but wearing the unsteady smile of someone who had witnessed a child of no more than one and ten defeat three grown knights in the yard one after another.

“Aye.” His voice came out steadier than he felt as he adjusted his grip, Dickon swallowing a mouthful of spit.

The horn sounded.

The first strike came fast, metal ringing as Dickon raised his shield without thinking.

The blow skidded off as he jumped back, boots already squelching as he charged back forward and brought his own blade down in a clean arc. The impact jolted his arms — tourney sword hitting the man’s armor — but the blessing answered and carried it through.

The knight stumbled and another murmur rippled through the onlookers.

Dickon’s eyes narrowed, world and breath both tightening as the ground held him steady. A shout spilled from his lips as he stepped forward to meet the man jumping back, pressing the advantage he still had. Stepping inside the man’s reach, Dickon snapped his shield forward in a sharp bash that his opponent met with his own in a hard charge.

“D-” The heir of House Tarly grit his teeth as he caught the charge and held tight, feet planted firm in the mud against the grown man’s strength and holding his own. Damn!

Another swing came in low, sword flashing toward Dickon’s ribs.

The squire twisted with a grunt as the blunt sword grazed his chest, and swung back out with a strike that felt guided by something older than his lessons.

For the fourth time today, the blade flew from the man’s hand and silence fell hard across the training yard.

The lordling stood there, chest heaving as another knight stared back up at him with eyes wide and mouth open. “I y-yield.”

Randyll Tarly’s jaw tightened, mouth already moving in a familiar order. “Again.”

Again… Dickon stared up at his father, eyes wide. Not even the usual rest that had come before the other men. Father?

The fifth man stepped forward, even more hesitant than the fourth.

Dickon shuddered through another breath and raised his sword once again.

“Begin!”

This one fought dirty.

The cut came after a feint made the moment Randyll Tarly gave the other, Dickon hissing from a sharp sting along his forearm where steel kissed flesh.

The lord had little time to feel, and less time to think.

No, he moved.

The exact sequence slid from his thoughts as his Lord pushed him further, the power in his veins singing loud as the world leaned in towards him. Blows slid aside as if the air itself had opinions, strength pushed further with each strike and every thrust. When it ended, the last man was on his knees, sword knocked wide, and the tip of a tourney sword pressed firmly to the chest of the knight.

“Yield.” The word was breathless; five men in one hour gathered and beaten aside.

The yard erupted, cheers and shouts pushing in on him like weight as Dickon lowered his weapon slowly, heart pounding hard enough to shake his ribs. 

Blue eyes raised to meet his Lord Father.

There was no smile that greeted him. Randyll Tarly did not smile.

But he nodded.

Once.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Olenna watched the boy wipe blood from his arm, men twice his age stepping back without quite realizing they were doing it. “One and ten.” The murmur slid from her lips. “Seven help us all.”

Margaery’s large eyes landed on her. “Grandmother?”

“One and ten, my flower.” The words came just a bit sharper now. “And already the Warrior has claimed him.”

Margaery followed her gaze, brow furrowing just slightly as she schooled her surprise. “The Warrior? But he’s so young.”

“War cares little for age. And yet men insist on it.” The blessing clung to the boy like a second skin, bright and raw and deeper than that of Renly or Loras or the ugly woman; as deep as the gift she could feel beneath her own flesh.

“Well…” Margaery clasped her hands together, her granddaughter doing her best to maintain the air of a queen. “Another sword for the king’s army. His father must be proud.”

Proud? Olenna nearly bit her tongue before another scoff could pass her lips. “Lord Tarly has no pride in others, only expectations. And Seven help the child who fails his or meets them too early.”

Olenna’s gaze drifted eastward, beyond the training yard, beyond the camp; toward a glint of steel a line wide catching the sun.

Her breath stilled, the sound of Margaery’s voice in her ears. Olenna could not hear to answer as she leaned forward, eyes squinting and cane forgotten as her body was filled with the strength of her own blessing.

The heavens passed her by, the ground vanishing up in leagues, as her eyes darkened to the color of a twilight sky — the same hue she had witnessed in her bedchamber’s mirror. Her gaze passed where the noon sky pressed against the earth, a long column of movement on the horizon.

Banners not yet distinct even in her gaze, but something shone among them; something bright enough to wound the eye.

“A sword.”

Margaery’s voice softened as Olenna blinked, the world in front of her returning as her blessing left her eyes. “Whose?”

The Queen of Thorns turned to face her granddaughter, lips thinning as she straightened as much as she could. “If the rumors are to be believed? A man who thinks himself righteous by name above all else.”

The light flared again, unmistakable now even without her gaze as the world hitched.

Gold.

Where the Tarly boy was red, this was gold.

The sigh from Olenna’s lips was deep as the camp began to stir, commands shouted and helms lifted as many voices began to rise. “It appears the storm has decided to introduce itself.”