Nerd In The North: 3-17

III-17: A Throne of Blood

God, what's that smell? Greg's nose wrinkled. 

Paper and ink and... something else. Like when his mom forgot to air out the basement, but worse. Way worse. Like old clothes and dust and something dead maybe. 

Men screamed outside, metal rang on metal, but in here everything felt weirdly muffled for some reason. His fingers wouldn't stop twitching, leftover shadow-stuff making his skin crawl. Hate that feeling. Like spiders but not.

Roose fucking Bolton stood behind his fancy-ass desk like this was just some normal Tuesday meeting. Look at me, I'm not bothered at all, I’m being so cool and so fancy with my stupid fancy room and my stupid fancy... everything. His hands hung loose but Greg wasn't buying that bullshit for a second. 

The man looked like a 

Those dead eyes watched him like - fuck, like when that creepy science teacher used to stare at the class fish tank. Calculating something behind that corpse-face. Greg had seen that look before. 

Right before Ramsay-

No. Don't think about that shit right now.

Greg sucked in a breath, winced when his ribs protested. Stupid fucking arrows. Stupid fucking castle. Boot scraped stone as he stepped forward, nearly slipped on something wet - blood maybe? The sword felt right in his hands though. Like coming home, if home was sharp and metal and- focus, dumbass. Everything about this screamed trap. 

His muscles burned to move, attack, something, but - no.

This wasn't like Ramsay. The memory made bile rise in his throat, copper taste flooding his mouth. Different kind of monster here. Patient monster. The kind that waited.

"I trust you're aware of who I am." Voice like ice but wrong ice. Each word just placed down like he was reading from a script he wrote himself. 

No fear. 

No nothing. 

Not even when the remnants of the shadow-stuff still wisping around Greg’s arms twitched in his direction like it wanted a taste.

Eat shit and die, you discount Dracula looking motherfucker. Greg kept that one inside though, despite how much he really wanted to call him out for cribbing off the fucking count with the pale skin and long black hair and general… vibe.

Instead he forced out a breath, tried for a smirk. Probably came out wrong - everything felt wrong in here. "Name's Killer. Bolton Killer."

Bolton's mouth twitched. Barely. 

Like someone drew a line with a pencil and erased it quick. 

Greg's hands tightened on the sword. Just fucking try something.

"Attempting wit now? How... quaint." Each word dropped precise as a knife, starting to circle the desk like some weird museum exhibit come to life. Every step measured like he was counting them out. "Though I suppose I shouldn't expect more, given your... previous displays of judgment."

Greg's head tilted, tracking him. Shoulder screaming where that arrow tagged him. Blood trickling warm down his back. Didn't matter. He knew this game - seen enough movies. 

Read enough comics. Stalling stalling stalling.

Those corpse-eyes flicked to the door. Fast, but - gotcha, asshole. Greg's feet shifted wider, ready. "Waiting for friends?" He almost wished he didn’t speak, flinching as the words left him, as the sentence came out all raw and wrong, rage mixing up his throat like acid.

Bolton kept circling, ignoring him like brushing off a fly. "Do you imagine my death will craft you into some hero?" He sounded bored now, finger trailing the desk edge, stopping by some thick book and tapping it gently with that same long pointer finger. "These smallfolk you've roused - you believe they'll follow you? Such things never last. Especially for some upstart boy who thinks himself a liberator."

Greg's fingers trembled around the sword, regretting having pulled on so much of that weird Japanese-ish power. Shadow-magic made everything feel weird and buzzy and wrong and his shoulder hurt so bad he could barely-

His eyes narrowed as he realized something, a “son of a bitch” leaving his lips in a barely heard whisper. Did they fucking poison that arrow?

Meanwhile, Bolton kept talking.

"Led them to blood and fire, haven't you?" Voice like ice but worse somehow. Each word dropped into the room like- god his shoulder really fucking hurt -like something sharp and cold and- "What happens when winter comes? When the food runs dry?"

Not scared, huh? Not even a little, Greg realized as he took in the guy. At least with Ramsay, he had looked dead on his feet and bleeding from like every major visible orifice but Ramsay’s dad didn’t even have that to feel confident about his chances of survival. Just... standing there with those dead fish eyes like- wait, did he just move his hand? 

No. Standing still again. 

"When the other lords march North?"

Greg's stomach lurched at that line. Actual physical lurch like he was gonna puke. 

Because that- that was-

Shit.

He'd been ready for threats, maybe. Or like an evil villain monologue, a cold calculated speech about politics, order, power, or whatever. 

This was worse though. Way worse.

Because Bolton wasn't wrong.

Greg couldn't even blink. Something cold and heavy sat in his gut like- I am going to gut the bastard that poisoned that fucking arrow, fuck! -truth hurt worse than arrows. Food. 

Yeah he hadn't figured that out yet. 

Other lords weren't just gonna let this slide. And loyalty-

His mind skipped away from that one fast. Too fast. 

But the thought chased him anyway - people turned on you. 

They always did. 

Always.

Fingers went white on the sword grip. Heart still pounding like it was trying to escape. He knew what Bolton was doing. Knew it. But-

"You kill the man who keeps order." Voice dripped fake concern that made Greg's skin crawl in a way different from the poison in his veins. Made him think of guidance counselors and their fake concern. "Who fills that void? You?"

Almost laughed. Not quite. 

But Greg heard it anyway.

"Haven't the faintest notion what rule means, do you, child?"

Greg's teeth ground together so hard something popped in his jaw. 

But Bolton kept moving. Little steps. Careful steps. Looking for weak spots like- god what was that smell? -like something hunting. And finding them. 

Finding lots of them.

Because Greg really didn't know what he was doing. Really really didn't.

His chest felt tigh, the room spinning a little at the edges while people died outside. All those sounds he knew now - screaming and metal and that wet thump of bodies hitting frozen ground. 

Used to make him sick. 

He wished it still did a little.

Guts was out there somewhere. Probably having the time of his life. Ash's fire kept lighting up the windows like some fucked up strobe light. 

Battle had to be over soon.

But Bolton was still here, breathing. Still talking with that voice.

Still talking.

Greg’s hand cramped on the sword as his lip curled back. 

Fuck that.

"You're nervous," Greg said, stepping forward like he had all the time in the world, but keeping his weight loose, shifting. ready. "I can tell."

A pale flicker crossed Roose Bolton’s eyes, almost imperceptible. 

Almost.

“Oh?” the high lord murmured, head tilting just slightly. Calculated, like every movement the Bolton made had been weighed, measured, and deemed just sufficient to do the job.

“It’s okay, though. I get it.” He gave the man a grin. “Dead men usually don’t like being this close to the executioner.””

A crack in the mask. Gotcha.

Greg saw it—the near-invisible curl of tension in his fingers, the way his breath shifted almost imperceptibly in response to the sound outside. Ash, still tearing through the world beyond these walls.

Not as unaffected as he wanted to be.

"Hardly," Roose murmured, smoothing his expression, but not quite fast enough. His fingers twitched. "Though I admit, your beast is... unexpected."

Greg let his smirk sharpen at the edges. “Unexpected’s a nice way to say ‘I’m about to die and I don’t like it.’”

Roose exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like he was forced to entertain the musings of a particularly stupid child. "You are under the impression this will end in your favor."

Greg rolled his shoulders. Relaxed, but not. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn't.”

“Ah,” Roose said softly, gaze heavy, “but you already know better, don’t you?”

His voice never rose. Didn’t need to. It slid through the air like a blade run along silk—low, deliberate, meant to slip past the skin unnoticed before it found the soft place between the ribs.

Greg felt the impact before he wanted to.

“You've seen the doubt in their faces,” Roose continued, smooth as river-worn stone. “Heard the whispers.” His eyes were pale voids, endless and empty. “They fear you as much as they feared me. Perhaps more.”

Greg’s jaw clenched before he could stop it.

Because fuck—he had seen it. 

He wasn’t blind or stupid. 

The way some of them looked at him, like they were waiting for something, watching his edges, waiting to see if he’d tip over, if he’d turn into something worse than what they’d torn down.

The muscle in his jaw ticked. "You're stalling," he said flatly.

Roose’s lips twitched. “Observant.”

Then he moved.

Fast.

Greg’s eyes widened as the man lunged, quicker than should’ve been possible. Faster than a man of his age, of his build, of his type had any right to be. His arm shot out and latched onto Greg’s wrist, grip like iron.

And then—

Wrong.

Ice burrowed into his veins, sharp and unnatural, twisting through flesh and bone like something alive, like something hungry. 

His muscles seized as his fingers spasmed open against his will, his sword nearly slipping from his grip. Fuck—

His breath hitched.

Veins writhed beneath his skin, blackened and thick like something infested. Like the thing burrowing through him had a shape, a will, a purpose.

Greg ripped his arm free, stumbling back, breath sharp and shuddering, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Vision blurred, just for a second.

He shoved up his sleeve, half on instinct.

And there—Jesus fuck—it was.

Darkness. Thick and seeping through the veins of his arm, spreading like a stain under his skin.

Evil.

Wrong.

Roose watched him, head still tilted in that quiet, predatory way. Sweat shone on his brow now, thin and gleaming in the dim light. The dark lord’s fingers twitched at his side, the barest aftershock of whatever the fuck he’d just done.

But his voice? His voice was still the same.

"C-curious," Roose murmured, like a scholar appraising a specimen under glass. “It seems i’ve been gifted as well.”

His pale eyes gleamed, cold and unnatural.

“Magic, is it?” A thin, razor’s-edge smile. “The north is full of surprises.”

Greg clenched his teeth, breath sharp, the ache in his wrist pulsing in time with his heartbeat. he could still feel it—whatever the fuck Roose had done, it had stuck. A ghost of cold seeping into his blood, threading through his veins like something that had no right to be there. 

He forced his grip steady.

Then his head snapped up, and the rage hit.

"I hate surprises," Greg growled, voice rough.

Roose watched him, expression smooth, unreadable. his pale eyes, still bright with that eerie gleam, flickered down to the dark stain spreading beneath his tunic, then back up, unhurried. like he had all the time in the world.

“You think you know power because of magic,” he murmured. The way he spoke, like he was just… stating a fact, the way someone might say the sky is grey today. “You are a child.”

Greg’s fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword.

The cold was still there, slithering through his veins like it belonged. His muscles tensed against it, every instinct screaming to shake it off, but it wouldn’t leave.

But it didn’t matter.

What mattered was Roose was still breathing, still talkin, still acting like Greg was something small, something to be tolerated. 

Like he hadn’t already lost. Like his words still meant anything.

It pissed him off more than it should have.

“Kill me,” Roose continued, tone as steady as ever, “and you’ll bring the entire north down on your head.” A pause, deliberate. “The Starks—”

“Fuck. The. Starks.”

Greg spat the words out like venom, meaning every word.

He was done. 

With warnings. With threats. With people thinking they knew what he couldn’t do.

“if they want to fight me,” Greg said, voice low, shaking with something hot and raw, “they’ll die too. just like you.”

For the first time, Roose’s expression dropped. 

The man’s lips parted.

Greg moved.

His sword arm snapped forward, the weight of the blade familiar, right, and before Roose could take another breath, the steel punched through his chest.

Roose staggered. His back hit the desk with a dull thud, breath leaving him in a quiet, wet gasp.

His pale eyes widened, unfocused.

His lips parted, but no words came out. Just a slow, bubbling trickle of blood.

Greg held the sword and pressed forward, just enough to make sure Roose felt it as he leaned in. “This,” Greg said, voice steady, quiet, each word sharp as the sword in the dying man’s chest, “is for every life you’ve ruined. every village you burned. every person you tortured, you sick fucking psycho."

Roose’s mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything. His lips parted, teeth bared in a slow, shaking breath, the red staining them like rust.

“Fool,” he rasped, voice thin and brittle. “You know… nothing… of what you have done.”

Greg’s jaw tightened. "True," he muttered, voice low as he smirked at the man. "but at least I'm gonna live to learn."

Then he twisted the blade.

Roose's body jerked once, sharp, like something had snapped inside him—then sagged, all at once, like the fight had drained from his bones in an instant. The light faded from his pale, corpse-thin eyes, and the tension that had coiled through him, that eerie, unnatural stillness he carried, died.

Greg let go.

Let Roose drop.

His body hit the floor with a dull, wet thud, the bloodied silk of his tunic dragging against the desk as he slid down, leaving a smear of red against the wood. 

The room went silent.

Greg stood there, sword still clutched in his hand, breath coming sharp through his teeth, staring down at what was left of the man who had ruled over this place with a grip like iron. 

Cold. Merciless. Methodical.

And that grip was gone.

He exhaled, slow, long, rolling his shoulders as the tension bled from them. Something loosened in his chest, something raw, but it didn’t lift. 

Not fully.

His nose wrinkled as he glanced around, eyes trailing over the heavy, joyless decor. Deep wood, dark stone, tapestries that looked older than they should. The smell of old parchment, stale air, something rotting.

"God, this place is shitty."

Then—

Pulling.

Deep, inside him. 

His breath hitched and it wrenched free, all at once.

Greg stumbled, sharp, an instinctive jolt of his muscles to right himself, but his body wasn’t responding right, wasn’t keeping up.

His stomach dropped.

“The fuck—”

His words cut off as white flashed across his vision, searing, overwhelming, a noise that wasn’t quite sound pressing in around him.

He blinked—

His head snapped down—

Not stone.

The floor rippled beneath him, shifting under his boots like something alive. It spread outward, smooth and seamless, swallowing the old darkness in its wake. 

Bright. 

Bright and right, shifting from something dead into something whole.

What the hell—

It moved. out, out, down the walls, through the door. Faster than he could track. Like ink in water, like a switch had been flipped, like the bones of the castle were remaking themselves beneath him.

His pulse hammered as his grip tightened on his sword, but his hand barely registered it.

Then from outside; loud, sudden, confusion laced with shock.

The fighting stopped. Instantly.

Not fading—stopped.

As if someone had just… hit pause.

Greg didn’t need to see it to know.

It wasn’t just this room. 

It was everywhere. The whole castle. He wasn’t sure how he knew that either. His heart slammed against his ribs and hiis throat felt uncomfortably dry.

“W-what…”

He swallowed, staring down at the bright, unfamiliar floor, at the walls that weren’t the same anymore, that weren’t what they were supposed to be. His fingers flexed around his sword hilt.

His tongue flicked over his teeth. “…would that work if I wanted a twinkie?”

Nothing.

Not even a single goddamn Ho-Ho.

“Damn.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Nobilicide (250 GP)

ROLL: Here, have a castle [Star vs the Forces of Evil] {Domain} (25) - There’s more than a few castles, temples, and other ancient structures laying around the universe, and nobody should notice if one disappears. So spend your points and you can have one that matches your preferred aesthetics. You will have to plant it in the worlds as you go, however. There might be a spell for that. Adding sofas and other furniture will take manual labor. (+ 75 points to fit the theme)

Grimoire Points: 550