Nerd In the North 4-10

The Great Hall of Winterfell was colder than Greg expected—not just the kind of cold that bit through layers and settled into your bones, though there was plenty of that, but the deeper, older kind, the kind that clung to the stones, settled into the banners overhead, and sat thick in the air between the gathered northern lords. It wasn’t the polite, distant kind of tension he was used to in the Brightfort when someone disagreed with him. 

No, this was the full force of generations of history pressing down on him, turning every breath into a test he hadn’t studied for.

And maybe it was just in his head, but damn if it didn’t feel like the walls were judging him just as much. Winterfell was fuck-huge, he knew that much. He thought that the Brightfort was big, but just because it was tall, didn’t mean much when the Stark’s castle was a whole fucking complex at least a couple square miles around.

Banners hung limp from the rafters, Stark direwolves stitched in black against white, the weight of the sigil more real than it should have been. The lords below it weren’t much better, their hard faces unreadable, swords hanging at their belts like punctuation marks in a conversation Greg wasn’t allowed to be part of. Great. Medieval middle school cafeteria, except the bullies have axes.

He’d barely made it three steps into the hall before someone moved to stop him.

“On yer knees,” one of the guards growled, stepping into his path. “Ye stand before the Young Wolf.”

Greg blinked. What.

A sigh slipped out before he could stop it. He was tired, still half-pissed from the ride here, and the absolute last thing he was in the mood for was another power play. He wasn’t kneeling for Robb Stark, or anyone else, not after months of being hunted like a fucking animal.

“Yeah, no,” Greg said flatly, brushing the guard’s hand off his shoulder as he kept walking.

The man stiffened, his hand darting toward his sword, but Greg didn’t stop.

The second guard tried stepping in front of him, blocking his path, but Greg shoved past, his voice sharper now. “If Robb Stark wants me to kneel, he can tell me himself. I’m not here to play your games.”

Silence.

The kind that makes your stomach twist, because it’s never just silence, it’s a choice being made. Every eye in the room turned toward him, and he felt the weight of expectation, of judgment, of all the ways this could go to shit at once press down on him at once.

Perfect start. Totally nailing the diplomacy thing.

At the far end of the hall, a boy that didn’t look much older than he did sat in the high seat, watching Greg with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and disapproval, a fuck-huge wolf the size of a pony standing right beside him.

He didn’t speak. 

Didn’t move. 

Just watched.

So this is Robb Stark. Blue eyes met blue eyes and Greg took in his thick head of hair, strong jaw, and well-built frame as the lord probably did exactly the same to him. Wow, they let a ginger rule.

The whispers started immediately, a low murmur from the gathered lords, more disgust than curiosity. Greg caught pieces of it without even paying attention—“disrespectful whelp,” “Bolton usurper,” “bastard magic.” Every single fucking word was another nail hammering into his skull.

Greg stopped a few feet short of the throne, ignoring the lords lined up to both sides — especially the piercing gaze of Lady Dustin — and met Robb’s eyes.

“Lord Stark,” he said, keeping his voice level.

Robb’s knuckles whitened slightly on the armrest of his chair, gaze flickering between him and Guts and back to him then down to Ash and then finally, as if forcing himself, back to him. Greg had to admit that it was funny, but not nearly as funny as the way Ash and the wolf refused to break eye contact. “You have a habit of making an entrance.”

Greg shrugged. “Figured I’d skip the part where I grovel. Saves time.”

Another ripple of murmurs through the hall, some disapproving, others amused. Robb’s face didn’t change, but Greg could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled just a little tighter against the wood.

One of the older lords stepped forward. He was tall, skinny, with that particular brand of Northern disdain that made it clear Greg wasn’t worth the dirt on his boots.

“And yet ye’ll take our bread and salt,” Karstark said, voice like a blade being sharpened. “That much honor, at least?”

Greg didn’t hesitate, because he wasn’t an idiot—he knew what was being offered. He stepped forward, took the bread, took the salt, and ate it without a word. He barely tasted it.

Robb sat back in his chair, expression unreadable. “You stand accused of murder, Greg Veder. Of taking the Dreadfort. Of killing Roose Bolton and his son. You will explain yourself.”

Greg exhaled slowly. He glanced around at the gathered lords—so many of them looking at him like they already knew what he was going to say, like they were just waiting to watch him squirm.

Fine.

“You want an explanation?” Greg said, lifting his chin slightly. “Fine.” He met Robb’s gaze again. “I killed Roose Bolton because he was a monster. I killed Ramsay because he was worse. I didn’t do it for glory. I didn’t do it for power. I did it because someone had to.”

He let that sit.

The room had gone quiet again, but not in the same way as before. 

This wasn’t shock. This was waiting.

“And as for the Dreadfort,” Greg continued, forcing his voice to stay steady as he rolled it the shoulders, “I renamed that ugly place the Brightfort. And his lands the Brightlands. Maybe you’ve heard of them, had my maester send the news out. Figured it was time to start turning Bolton rot into something halfway decent.”

A sharp inhale from several of the lords. Someone muttered something that sounded like sacrilege, which, honestly, Greg wasn’t expecting to find funny. 

But it was. 

A little.

Then the thin-faced man moved, stepping forward like he had something to prove.

“And what gives you the right to judge?” he demanded, voice rising. “To kill? You’re no Stark, no Northern lord. You’re a boy with fire in his blood and delusions of grandeur.”

Greg’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep his voice steady.

“Delusions?” he said, and he let himself laugh, because it was that or start burning things. “You think I wanted this?” He turned slightly, taking in the room, taking in the boredom, the disdain, the absolute fucking hypocrisy of it all. “That I wanted to be hunted like a dog? That I wanted every Northern lord with a grudge to send killers after me?”

His fingers curled into fists, and it took everything in him not to light up again.

“You wouldn’t know the first thing about what I’ve been through,” Greg said, and his voice was still steady, but it was tight, like a bowstring ready to snap. He met the gaunt man’s glare head-on. “So maybe don’t talk about rights and delusions.”

The room exploded. Not in fire, though Greg could feel the heat thrumming beneath his ribs, his hands curling tight at his sides, nails biting into his palms just to ground himself. Lords surged forward, voices rising like a storm, accusations hurled so fast and tangled he couldn’t pick them apart. Whelp, upstart, usurper, murderer. 

The words meant nothing—just noise, noise, noise. 

Some were standing now, arms waving, red-faced, their fancy cloaks billowing as if that made them more intimidating.

Greg forced himself to breathe through his teeth. Not here. Not now. The fire wanted out—a flick of the wrist and the whole place would burn and that’d be the end of this entire bullshit charade of savages that called themselves lords. Why can’t I… can’t I just burn it down?

Robb Stark didn’t move.

Then he did.

A single hand lifted, fingers splayed in the air like a command.

And the hall obeyed.

“Enough.” The single word came out sharp and sudden, slicing through the noise.

It wasn’t shouted. 

Didn’t have to be. Not with the way the giant wolf at his side stood up as he said it.

Robb leaned forward slightly, shoulders squared, blue-grey eyes fixing on Greg. There was something heavy in the way he looked at him, something Greg couldn’t place—not anger, not yet. 

“You speak of justice and necessity,” Robb said, voice steady, deliberate, “but the North has laws. Order. If every man took justice into his own hands, we’d be no better than the Boltons.”

Greg scoffed before he could stop himself. Oh, fuck you.

“And what would you have done, then?” Greg shot back, louder than he meant to. His voice carried, bouncing off stone, shoving through the weight of centuries. “Let Roose keep flaying people alive? Let Ramsay keep hunting women for sport? If that’s what the North calls order, then maybe it’s not worth saving.”

Another ripple, angrier this time. 

He saw men shift, some bristling, others with their mouths pressed into thin lines, and for the first time since stepping into this hall, Greg thought—no, he knew—some of them agreed with him. 

Not enough to speak. Not yet. 

But he could tell he planted a seed.

Robb’s face didn’t change.

“You stand here now,” he said slowly, voice measured, “because I must decide whether to accept your allegiance or name you a traitor to the North.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the words felt like a noose tightening around Greg’s throat. “So I’ll ask you plainly, will you bend the knee and swear fealty to House Stark?”

Something inside Greg snapped.

“Bend the knee?” His breath hitched, betrayal mixing with something uglier, hotter. His hands twitched, the heat coiling in his fingertips. “You want me to kneel after everything I’ve done? After everything I’ve seen?”

His voice was rising now, shaking, barely contained. “Do you think that’s what the North needs right now? Someone else on his knees in front of lords who think their banners give them the right to do whatever the hell they please?”

Robb’s jaw clenched. 

Greg barely saw it because he was moving, taking another step forward onto the stone like he could plant himself into it. Rage boiledin his stomach, and before he could stop himself, before he could think, the words came spilling out, fast, sharp, relentless.

“Tell me, Lord Stark,” Greg said, his voice cutting now, weighty and cold, “do you think it’s right that a lord, a man who calls himself a protector of his people, have an innocent farmer and his son killed because he no longer had faith in a lord that failed him?”

The lords shifted. Some crossed their arms, others stilled. 

A handful avoided his gaze. He knew who they were.

“Northern lords—your lords—hunted girls for sport or allowed it, raping and killing them like it was all a game,” Greg nearly spat the words. “I had the people begging me to bring them and their daughters justice, and who did I find at the end of that trail? The fuckin’ Boltons!”

A murmur, louder now, but no one interrupted him.

“I’ve walked through villages that were supposed to be under your protection, villages burned to the ground because the wrong lord had a petty grudge to settle.” His breath was coming too fast now, chest rising, falling, hands shaking at his sides.

“You sit here,” Greg’s voice echoed, filling the hall, “calling yourselves men of the North, men of honor. You wear your direwolves and swords as if they mean something, as if they make you better than the Boltons, better than the monsters you claim to despise.”

His throat tightened, but the words didn’t stop.

“But I’ve seen what you are. I’ve seen the evil in the hearts of men of the North.”

His voice dropped, softer now, but still just as loud. “I’ve seen what your honor looks like when no one is watching.”

Greg’s hand tightened into a fist, the memory of the assassins — every single fucking group of assassins that had been sent his way, recently and a while back when he was still roaming the North — still fresh in his mind. 

“Your lords sent men after me. assassins. killers. They came at night, with knives and poison, and arrows after I already agreed to peace. I made my intentions clear, but that wasn’t enough, was it?” Greg spread his arms wide, looking at each and every one of them gathered. “No. because to the lords of the fucking North, a man without a banner is a man without worth. a threat to be ended before it gains enough power to be called one of them.” He shook his head, something like a grunt escaping his lips. “One of you? You should pray every single day you could hope to have as much power as me!”

He locked eyes with Robb, his voice rising again, raw and edged with the weight of six months of anger and betrayal and general fucking dickhead behavior he had pushed down. 

“And now you stand here, asking me to kneel? To swear fealty to men who think they can buy loyalty with a word and break it with a knife? You say I must prove myself to the north, but tell me one thing… What has the north done to prove itself to me? To it’s own fucking people!”

Greg’s chest heaved, his rage momentarily spilling over before he caught himself, drawing in a long, shuddering breath. He wasn’t done yet.

“My ancestors stood for what was right; for honor, for justice, for goodness in a land that called them weak for it,” his gaze didn’t leave Robb’s for a single second as he spoke. “The Veders, the White Kings ruled not with fear, but with fairness. They were slaughtered for it—betrayed by the same bloodlines that now call themselves noble. So, why exactly should I kneel to the sons of the men who butchered mine?”

He paused, his voice lowering to a growl, fiery and trembling.

“Tell me, Lord Stark, if you were me—if you had walked in my boots if you had bled as I’ve bled, if you’d seen the tears in a man’s eyes as he pledged himself to your army after his wife was butchered because her limbs were needed to serve as a fear tactic, adistraction—would you bend the fucking knee?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Grimoire Points: 200