Nerd in the North 6-6A

“Are we there yet?”

Nature was pretty and all, the vistas and unspoiled elegance of the environment beautiful to look at, sure. Thing is, it all got tiring real quickly when you couldn’t full-tilt to your destination on your rusty-trusty horse.

“Not complainin’, just sayin’.” 

And part of what he wasn’t saying was that the woods of the Crownlands were less “enchanted forest” and more “muddy hellscape designed specifically to twist ankles and ruin boots.”

Lord Gregory of House Veder shifted in the saddle of his noble steed Cloud, the leather creaking in a way that sounded suspiciously like it was mocking him. His mood hovered somewhere between ‘exhausted’ and ‘ready to punch a tree’ as he stared up at the canopy above; a tangled mess of grey branches and brown leaves dripping condensation back down the back of his neck one too many times.

“Swear to God…” Which one exactly he didn’t specify, too focused on scanning the tree line for the fiftieth time that hour. “If we run into another patch of swamp, my socks are going to start growing the worst kind of mold.”

Guts shrugged as he walked, a movement that rolled his massive boulder-shoulders and sent his even-bigger sword bouncing up a bit. “I’m not th’ one holding the map, tiny lord.”

“Where is ‘there‘, exactly?” Princess Sansa’s voice was brittle, too much time spent screaming and crying doing a number on it. She sat stiffly behind Myrcella on Gut’s massive black warhorse; clutching the waist of the other princess like she was a lifeline. Knuckles white and strained against the dark fabric of the princess’s dress, it was obvious for anybody paying attention that the Stark princess was still not entirely relaxed after the demon dogs of a few days ago.

“North.” Greg’s answer came with a sigh as he rubbed a hand over his face. The fresh layer of grime smeared over his forehead didn’t even get a blink out of him, well aware he could wipe it away with a simple ‘Purify’, the same as he’d done to himself and the crew every morning and night. He was pretty sure most of them had never looked or felt so clean before. “Away from the blond psychopaths.” 

A second later, Greg blinked as he realized who was listening. “No offense.”

Myrcella tilted her head, the Baratheon princess’s expression a bit less flat than it had been the first few days. Still, it was way too calm in a way that thirteen-year-olds shouldn’t be. “I took no offense to your words, Bright Lord. Only…” Her lip twitched a little bit. “Only a moment of confusion, at first.”

Greg raised an eyebrow her way. “What about?”

That lip twitched again, arcing upwards at the ends. “I merely thought you were speaking of yourself.”

Wha… Greg’s mouth fell open as the blonde princess tightened her grip on the reins, Gut’s warhorse picking up the pace a bit as the girl rode shoulder-to-shoulder with her chosen bodyguard. …I liked her better quiet.

Greg shook his head as he looked around at the other men on horses keeping pace as Guts continued lumbering on, unbothered by the princesses using his still-unnamed monster of a destrier. Lobb and Daeric hadn’t said much in hours, which he knew Lobb was fine with but must have been torture for Daeric the motormouth. Glass houses, Greg…

Granted, nobody had spoken much — not even Wat and the rest of Lobb’s friends, or even the half-dozen Stark men-at-arms — since they’d left the last village south of King’s Landing. Whole frickin’ days of silence as they rode north; finally north, instead of south like a bunch of morons running the wrong way. 

Necessary morons, sure, since the Lannister hunters and maybe even those city guards would’ve caught them otherwise, but still, though…

The blond lord sighed as he looked around, hoping to catch sight of Ash near them if the dragon was done with his regular multi-daily hunts. We’re not moving fast enough, man.

That fact sat in his stomach like some of Gut’s cooking and, like the guy’s meals, there was no fixing it. Even without the Lannisters hunting them, the sheer volume of bad guys per square mile was ridiculous. It was some encounter rate bullshit, bad enough that he felt personally targeted. Random encounters twice a damn day.

Before the bandits of yesterday, it was panthers. Before the panthers, it was some kind of half-bear guy strong enough to wrestle Guts, of all people. And before the were-bear, it was Lannisters, and wild boars and so much other annoying shit going back to the stupid frickin’ demon dogs.

Greg rolled his eyes; staring up at the slate-grey sky. He should have expected the chaos would only get worse given each and every one of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros was currently trying to murder the other six; but still. A little break would be nice. 

Yeah, just five minutes without the threat of imminent death or moral dilemmas.

A head of blond hair snapped up, Greg’s neck cracking loud as a scream tore through the damp air even louder, the sound high and shrill. Of course. 

Thick smoke curled up into the gray early afternoon air, just over the ridge to their left. Dense and black, it came with a smell that he’d come to know very well; bitter and sweet at the same time, and too close to pork.

“Stay here.” Greg’s voice slipped into command immediately, not quite Robb’s king-mode, but good enough that he didn’t need to force anything. “Lobb; watch the girls. Guts…?”

The giant swordsman was already reaching over his shoulder; the sound of the Dragonslayer sliding from his back familiar to Greg’s ears. “Aye.”

A single jump took him off his horse, Cloud snorting behind Greg as he ran right towards the danger. Scrambling up the muddy embankment, it didn’t take long before he got to the top of the hill, Guts charging up behind him as he looked down on a small hamlet being turned into kindling.

Screams and shouts rang loud from below as a dozen men in mismatched armor did what bandits did and tore through people and property both. One man was laughing as he swung a torch like a baton, a roof on fire behind him as he ran. Another was dragging a woman by her hair through the mud, her feet digging ditches in the ground as she kicked and screamed.

…fuck! The rage in his gut surging immediately, reaching the top and boiling over. I just want to go home, man! Unfortunately, Westeros was full of monsters that loved to interrupt his travel plans. 

“Hey!” The roar from his mouth cracked like thunder over the valley, enough to make the bandits freeze, all of them looking up.

The man dragging the woman was the last to look his way, less confused than the others. One hand gripped the waist of his pants, a leer on his face as he looked Greg up and down. He didn’t freeze like the rest, leer widening as his eyes scraped over Greg’s clothes. “Well, look ‘ere, the Goat delivers another to the Fine Fellows. Drop the steel, boy.” He shook the woman like a ragdoll, blood trickling down her scalp as she screamed louder. “‘fore I make a mess of your pretty doublet.”

Greg didn’t answer, Guts finally catching up to him as they both looked down. He could see the men below go pale, the sight of a 6’6 giant holding a sword as tall as he was enough to scare them where Greg couldn’t.

Still silent, Greg raised his left hand; palm open; fingers splayed out wide as the pinpricks of light in his gut came to life. Physics check. Newton’s third law says for every action; there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

Magic says; screw Newton.

“Ventrax!”

The spell was an explosion.

Literally, a detonation of raw wind and magic from a spell made by instinct and guesswork blasted him from behind. The force was a truck, the recoil near-lethal, but it did what he wanted it to and launched him down the ridge. Wind tore at his face, roaring in his ears as gravity and momentum sent him hurtling faster, the ground rushing by in a blur of brown and green. Another pull from inside him as he swung his right arm out and white steel appeared in his grip.

He crashed more than he landed, both feet on the ground and boots skidding deep tracks into the mud as he forced himself to a stop on groaning knees. Twelve feet away from the rapist, the man in charge barely had time to widen his eyes before Greg swung.

The white sword flashed, not reflecting the dim light but generating its own as a meter-long arc of pure magic ripped from the blade and went flying free.

It hit the man at the waist.

There was no resistance. No clang of armor or crunch of bone. 

Just a wet shluck sound; like a boot being pulled out of deep mud.

The top half of the bandit slid sideways, blood and guts falling free in clumps as it stained the ground a deep red over the mud. A full second later,  gravity fully took over and dumped the torso into the dirt. 

Huh.