Nerd In the North 6-19A

“…so you’ve just been like this the whole time.”

A growl rumbled right through the damp air, the low sound enough to shake the morning dew off the wet ferns.

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, but…”

Greg rode along the winding Riverland path, careful to avoid the surprisingly deep puddles as he shot a sideways glare at Ash. The pony-sized dragon-bear plodded along beside him, looking a hell of a lot more bear than dragon today. Those oversized wings were nowhere to be seen, tucked back and hidden away somewhere underneath all that fur. 

Sure, little jagged nubs of horn were still poking up around Ash’s head, but most of those thick jet-black scales had smoothed out to nothing, if they hadn’t completely vanished into all that matted hair. “I mean, I’m your best buddy. You couldn’t share this info with your own special amigo? Et tu, Ash?”

Another low growl answered him along with a hot chuff of sulfur-scented breath this time. It blasted out of Ash’s nostrils as the bearish dragon deliberately turned his massive head to look at the trees, ignoring the very reasonable complaint.

“Absolute dickhead.” Blue eyes rolled the opposite direction, Greg adjusting his grip on Cloud’s reins.

“I did not know you could understand Ser Ash, my lord.”

Ser Ash… Greg glanced back over to eye his blonde hostage. “Oh, I can’t.”

“I…” Green eyes blinked his way, confusion fighting calm. “…oh.”

Greg shrugged, eyes turning back to the muddy road ahead. “Just giving him the business for not telling me about his magic trick.”

Sure, he’d never actually bothered badgering Ash to ease up on the whole winged-lizard aesthetic but, and he was being completely straight-up, he hadn’t even known ‘retract all the scary bits’ was a feature that came standard with the whole dragon-bear thing.

At least, not until Myrcella had bothered asking Ash with a polite little curtsy.

Do I have to wear a skirt to get you to listen to anything other than attack moves? Greg fought a grumble in his throat. Not like he’d been waiting this whole time for Ash to get big enough to ride or anything, in the air or not. All that had stopped him were those wings in the way. ‘Cause I’m man enough to crossdress, you dumb lizard.

The thirteen-year old golden princess sat perched perfectly atop Ash’s broad back, riding the apex predator instead of being in her usual spot on Guts monster of a warhorse. Which left the poor ginger princess sitting the massive war-saddle alone, white-knuckling the reins with her face paler than usual.

She needs to relax. As much as Sansa liked to pretend she was protecting Myrcella, it was clear as day the older girl relied as much on the Lannister’s unsettling calm as a buffer for pretty much every terrifying experience she had to deal with. 

Riding a horse built for Guts was definitely one of those.

“Relax, girl.” Guts shook his head as he kept pace easily even with Dragonslayer resting heavy on his back, the iron-clad giant trudging through the muck right at the warhorse’s side. “Bastard won’t throw you.”

“I…” Sansa nodded, movement as stiff and tight as the thin line she held her mouth in. “I trust your words, Ser Guts.”

“Ser Guts…” A snort ripped through the quiet of the wooded path, bouncing off the wet trunks of the pines, loud enough that even the squelching footsteps of the Stark men-at-arms bringing up the rear were drowned out for all of a second. “Ser Guts, she says. Better than Black Lord, why not?”

“Oi! Ser Guts.” Dark eyes turned Greg’s way as he flicked his own bright blues between the giant man, his black warhorse, and back again. “That his name?”

Guts looked over at the warhorse. The horse snorted back.

“Now it is, ye.”

“Bastard’s a beautiful name, Guts.” More than that, it was exactly the kind of name Greg expected from the big guy. “Real family friendly kinda name. Very classy.”

“Better than Greg.”

…ouch. Greg opened his mouth, a half-formed joke already on his tongue to force another snort out of the big man a—

“M’lord, a village! Up ahead!”

—nd he didn’t even get a chance before the hitching gravel of Lobb’s voice yanked his attention away from all that. Eyes pulled sharply back down the path as his squire jogged up alongside Cloud, a dirty finger aimed off to the right just past the thinning treeline.

His eyes blinked slow.

Wooden spikes… wicked.

Usually, the villages they passed in the lower Riverlands — and upper Crownlands — were all pretty much the same: a depressing mess of wet thatch, sucking brown mud, and the distant screaming or crying from whatever was trying to make a meal out of the smallfolk that day. 

This place, though… “Huh.”

It was definitely different.

For one, they had actually gone to the effort of digging out a fresh perimeter trench. Sharpened pine logs pointed away from the village itself, creating a nasty external wall jutting free from the mud.

A dozen men blocked the mud-thick road leading up to the heavy timber gate, each one of them gripping spears tight to their chests. 

Actual, iron-tipped spears. Not pitchforks or rusty scythes, and…

Well, they looked jumpy as all hell.

“Halt!”

A sigh flared free from his nostrils, Greg’s teeth grit shut as he held a gauntleted hand out to the side. The column stopped at the sight of his closed fist, almost dozen pairs of trudging feet going quiet in preparation for another pointless fight over a patch of dirt.

Next to him, Guts came to a halt, the entirety of the peasant militia taking a unified half-step backward into the mud. Greg stared at the men in their path with his fist still raised, as — behind him — Myrcella hopped off Ash to join Sansa. Both girls played the parts they’d grown used to, pulling heavy wool shawls over them to cover red and gold heads of hair as they hid behind the group of Stark and Veder men.

They hadn’t heard of any Lannister patrols after them since a while after King’s Landing, but Greg honestly doubted it was really that much of a secret that both princesses were missing at this point… right? 

A man shoved his way through the trembling wall of spears with the exact energy of a townie who’d been waiting his whole life to say “not in my neighborhood”, only with a plate of heavy ringmail over his chest with a thick leather jacket instead of a Sox jersey. Brown eyes looked Guts over, not missing the hunk of steel on the big man’s back, and flicked down to the bear standing on the other side.

In complete silence, the man swallowed hard enough that Greg could hear it from almost two dozen feet away. 

Either way, it didn’t stop the guy from shoving his chest out as he spoke. “You stand in front of Lowmead. I am Ser Barryn, sworn protector of this village.” His leather-gloved hand rested flat on the broadsword at his side, as if that would stop his hand from shaking. “Who approaches this sanctuary? State your names or face my steel.”

Okay chief, let’s take about twenty percent off the top. Guts turned his head to face him, Greg holding back a snort of his own. Yeah… I got it.

The young lord let himself slide out of Cloud’s saddle, sabatons hitting the mud with a squelching noise he didn’t like. “There are those who call me…” Both hands planted themselves firmly on his hips as he stood up straight, striking a pose. “…Greg.”

“…Greg?” The knight blinked.

The teenager blinked back. “That’s the one, buddy.”

The knight opened his mouth, only to close it a moment later. What he was waiting for and clearly expecting was obvious — a long-ass list of titles, probably a House name, or at the very least something fancy.

Unfortunately for him, Gregory Lucas Veder of the Brightlands and High Lord of the North didn’t feel like giving him any of that.

After a few silent breaths, the knight pulled himself together and raised a scarred chin high. “You stand in front of a village united in the name of the Warrior. When the Red Comet bled across the sky, the gods spoke their will!” Both hands went out to his side, leaving the hilt of his weapon as he started preaching. “The Warrior above blessed me with his holy strength to fight the darkness creeping over these lands, elevating all faithful and true who stand by my side!”

Blue eyes stared. “…uh-huh.” Way way too early for some cult pitch. 

The knight with chainmail and a savior complex paused his roadside church speech to take a breath and before he could launch into the second verse of his sermon — hands already reaching higher above him — Ash let out a growl loud enough to draw attention.

Greg turned to his side to see the dragon-bear shudder, flesh along his spine rolling beneath dark fur. With another growl, Ash put those powerful muscles to work as he launched straight up into the morning air. 

“Really?” Hands cupped around his mouth, Greg shouted up into the grey Riverland sky, wide leathery wings bursting free from thick shoulders in a shower of loose fur. “You choose right now to stretch your wings? Drama queen!”

A shadow swept directly over sharpened walls as Ash let out a low roar from a few hundred feet up, circling lazily in the sky. Shouts and screams went out, a dozen wide eyes flicking between the black-winged monster above and the teenager standing in the mud.

“The armor…” A man in the back let his weapon fall to the mud, the tip of the spear clattering against stone. “The dragon…”

“It’s the Bright Lord!” A militia member barely any older than Greg shouted the title, brown eyes almost bulging from his head. “From the songs!”

Barryn frowned hard, brow furrowed as he looked between the teenager in armor and his own wide-eyed flock, chest deflating just a little bit. “Bright Lord? What songs?”

“The songs, Ser!” Another man wheezed all three words, hobbling three steps forward on suddenly weak legs. Arms as thick as Greg’s thighs gave up as the burly bearded man dropped his weapon and nearly fell to the mud with it. “The boy with eyes like the sky, hair like gold, and the face of a maiden untouched by any man!”

Face of a what? Fingers found his face and Greg pinched the bridge of his nose right between the eyes, tight enough that it hurt almost. Face of a what?

“The one who commands bears and dragons!”

He dragged that same hand down his face, a growl building in the back of his throat loud enough to rival a hungry Ash. Fucking bards.

“The warrior that wields the blade of pure light!”

Oren, when I get my hands on you…. Gossip traveled faster than dysentery for a place that relied on goddamn bird-mail and stupid bards. I’ll break that lute over my leg and beat you with it.

“Show us.” The bearded man begged, hairy hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Please, m’lord. The blade.”

Greg looked at the desperate, dirt-smeared faces looking at him like he was Christ on the actual cross. His eyes slid over to Barryn, the hedge knight staring daggers his way with a jaw locked tight and knuckles clenched white. 

“…yeah, sure, why not?”

A flick of his right wrist and the white sword snapped into his hand from nowhere, the snow-whiteblade bright enough to reflect what little sunlight beamed down from the overcast sky above. 

Not bothering to strike any kind of pose — at least not again — Greg tossed the blade three feet up into the air, the blade spinning end over end just for Greg to catch it lazily by the hilt on the way down. 

“Ta-Da.”

The crowd lost their shit, grown men going feral as they dropped to their knees. Cheers and prayers to the seven poured out even as Greg dismissed his sword right back into its space, Ash still flapping around above the village.

They cheered, a raw, ragged sound of pure salvation. Men dropped to their knees right in the sucking mud, weeping openly, shouting desperate prayers to the Warrior and the Smith.

Ser Barryn stood in the center of it all, looking exactly like a man who had just swallowed a lemon whole.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Ten minutes later, Greg sat on a turned-over barrel not too far from the village’s stone well, the blond once-again doing the usual that he always found himself up to.

At least every time he entered a new village.

“P-praise the Bright Lord!”

Yeah. yeah. He cleared his throat. “Next!!”

Hands glowed a bright blue as Greg pressed both palms up against a middled-aged farmer’s black-bruised collarbone, basic injuries and bones that had long-since healed badly slowly began to recover with a muttered “Cura.”

The sickening wet pops of flesh and bone were almost drowned out by the noise in the background, Lobb running back and forth barking orders with his gravelly voice. The orders from the squire went to three smallfolk women of various ages, all four of them bringing over water and cloth.

Along with that, they had one other simple task; to scrub the caked mud and dirt from the bodies and wounds of any villager in need of healing before Greg did his laying on hands. Sure, his healing magic could absolutely handle minor infections and sepsis, but he didn’t really see the point in working harder than he had to just because the smallfolk hadn’t had a bath in a week or so.

“It’s… quite a feat.”

And, of course, the one guy nobody had invited was currently halfway up his ass and looking over his shoulder at the exact same time.

“More than that.” Ser Barryn stood just a little too close, fat thumb hooked right into his sword belt. “An illusion of the light? Or a true blessing of the Seven Who Are One?”

“Yep.” The non-answer slid out smooth and flat, all of Greg’s attention locked on the farmer’s rapidly purpling shoulder as the bone slid back into its proper place. 

“Same as your dragon, I assume?”

“Yeppers.”

“Ah, the… the gods above truly do have their favorites.” Barryn nodded. “Pray tell, what is the name of such a great beast?”

“…Ashcalagon, Lord of Sky and Cinder, the Flame Without End, Beast of the North, and Devourer of All the World’s Evils.”

“…truly?”

Greg blinked as he realized the man was actually taking him seriously, eyes flitting over to Lobb to realize his squire was frozen in place as he listened in. Why the hell not, right?

“Yes.” 

“W…w-well, we could use a true lord of the people like you.” Barryn tried again, chainmail-clad chest puffing out again as he spoke loudly enough for everyone around them to overhear. “With my divine blessing and your own… grand gifts… we could hold this river crossing forever. A beacon in the dark against those that seek to consume the weak.”

“Uh-huh.” Greg slid glowing hands down, the farmer letting out a choked breath as his ribs began to shift as well. “I hear ya.”

Barryn leaned in closer, warmth layered thick as his Riverman accent. “Demons grow bolder with every passing night, my lord. Vile creatures crawl from the dark of the woods with eyes of green fire, black dogs the size of bears and brigands… broken men, no different from beasts, all in search of easy prey.” The hedge shook his head slow, hand over his heart. “I’ve stood for this village through three raids just this moon. The Warrior lent my arm strength enough to send them crawling back into the dark.”

“Ain’t knights s’posed ta be fightin’ in the Riverlands for the fish lords, ser? Wolf King’s callin’ banners.” Greg’s ears pricked up as Lobb wiped down the next of Greg’s patients, his squire’s brow furrowed under a coating of sweat. “Why’s a proper knight sittin’ in a mud fort ‘stead of ridin’ with the host?”

Barryn stiffened, head turning to face the squire. “And whose boy are you, then?”

“He’s mine.” Barryn’s jaw went even tighter, the man looking back at Greg as blue eyes finally turned his way. “My squire. And he asked you a question.”

“Thank you, m’lord.” Lobb nodded Greg’s way as he paused with the bucket mid-pour. “Just wond’rin’, y’see. A knight holds a post for someone, don’t he? Proper one, at least. Lord’s banner, lord’s word, lord’s road. But no colors fly ‘ere. Who you sworn to, Ser?”

“I’ve no taste for wolves or lions wearing the cloak of men. I’m sworn where I’m needed. Same as any true knight ought be.” Barryn’s face lit up in a smile towards Lobb that was nowhere to be seen a second ago. “Kings spill good men’s blood over crowns, but when the comet bled, I saw my path plain as the red sky. Fear runs quicker than fire if ye let it, and these folk need a shield more than some far-off king needs another sword.”

“Uh-huh.” Greg just sucked his teeth as Lobb went to work on the dirt-caked chest of the next guy in line, freshly-wet rag doing its job. “I hear you.”

Barryn stood there for an incredibly awkward thirty seconds longer, waiting for a response Greg didn’t have for him. Finally, the knight cleared his throat with a cough and marched off to the wall; probably to yell at a perfectly innocent sentry or something.

“So. Ser Barryn…” Greg watched the knight’s white coat disappear behind another thatched house, eyes dropping down to the farmer as he finished his healing work. “What’s his deal?”

“His… deal, m’lord?” The farmer rolled his shoulder, eyes wide as he followed Greg’s eyes to where the hedge knight disappeared to.

Alright, how do I… Greg bit back a sigh as the words found their stupid little costume, the right ones dropping into his head with a spare second of thought. “…what manner of man is he, and what do you make of him?”

“Ah… well, he’s chosen, m’lord, blessed by the Seven Who Are One. Performs miracles. Just like you.”

A skeptical eyebrow raised itself higher as Lobb leaned in close, dropping the rag back in the bucket to wash it clean. “What kind of miracles?”

“Strength.” The farmer leaned in even closer than Lobb, words all whispers. “Saw him lift a fallen tree off a girl. Three men lacked the strength and he did it all, m’lord. A moon past, he took a mace straight to the side from a brigand, before cutting a man down. And when he fights beside us on the walls…” The farmer pulled his shirt back on. “…it’s like you can’t feel the fear no more. The Warrior’s fire gets right inside your blood. Makes a craven feel like a giant.”

So, he’s strong and takes hits good. Greg let the glow in his palms fade out, mana retreating back where it belonged as he stared at the empty spot in the mud where Barryn had been standing. Passive courage buff ain’t bad either.

“…huh.”

Clearly not a total scam, then. Barryn was clearly an adventurer, just like Guts and him. Paladin build? Cleric with a melee focus? Whatever it was, the guy had built a small little religion around his stats and skills. 

And that was… worrying. 

For a lot of reasons.

A guy who completely bought into his own hype; armed with exactly enough magic to be annoying, but definitely not enough to back up his bark. And this was the guy standing between an entire village of devoted people and the things waiting out there in the dark.

“…they’re so fucked.” Especially considering this village wasn’t even twice as big as Frostfall, so it made sense they’d never seen real magic. Either that or maybe magic’s just a bit more rare than I thought. “…hell, it might be if this is the guy playing Big J.”

“What was that, m’lord?” 

Greg looked up at Lobb. “Nothing. Also, next!”