Nerd In the North: 3-24

III-24: The Fall of the House of Veder

The newly designated meeting chamber wasn’t as large as Greg’s new office—apparently those were called solars—or particularly well-lit, but it served its purpose: giving Greg a headache every time he sat down to listen to people talk in circles. The thick wooden table in the center bore fresh scratches, and the flickering torches cast long, shifting shadows across the worn stone walls. A new map had been unfurled across the tabletop, its edges curling slightly as Maester Tybald smoothed it out with careful hands, his fingers long and bony like a corpse’s.

Greg leaned back in his chair, resisting the urge to rub his temples. Five months ago, he’d been in a world where meetings meant sitting at a desk, watching a PowerPoint, maybe bullshitting a group project if he had to. Now, he was here, leading war councils with men who looked like they’d walked out of a grimdark novel.

If Guts were here, it’d look even more like that, but the big guy was probably off somewhere drinking something as hard as he could find.

The air in the room had that same heavy weight it always did when something he was about to dislike was going down. Not quite suffocating, but thick enough to settle in his bones. Ivar, the former castellan’s assistant, sat across from him, his hands twitching against the hem of his tunic like he was debating whether or not he should even be speaking. He was an odd one—had pledged loyalty after his master got himself killed, though Greg didn’t think that meant much.

Loyalty was a funny thing in Westeros.

He knew that well.

Ivar cleared his throat and finally forced the words out. “The Northern lords won’t tolerate this.”

Greg watched him, saying nothing, waiting. He knew how to play this game by now. If you let them talk, they’d either tell you exactly what they thought, or they’d panic and say something stupid.

Ivar fidgeted. “House Bolton was a cornerstone of the North, however much we might despise them. What you’ve done—”

Greg cut him off before he could get any further. “What I’ve done,” he said flatly, locking his gaze onto Ivar’s, “is end the fucking Boltons. Unless you think skinning people alive was worth preserving.”

Ivar flinched, looking away quickly, fingers curling into fists against his lap. Greg didn’t press the issue. He didn’t need to. The Boltons were gone. Whatever fear their name once carried was just a whisper now, soon to be lost to history like all the other monsters that had gotten too comfortable at the top.

Across the table, Eren shifted in his seat, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. He was younger than the others, barely twenty, with the rough hands of a man who’d spent most of his life in the fields before luck and bloodlines pulled him into something greater. He wasn’t highborn, not really—just the grandson of some lord’s bastard on his mother’s side, but that was enough to make him useful. Guy knows how to read and write, least I can do is give him a better job than farmer or soldier.

Eren spoke up, his voice slow but firm. "The North don’t forget, m'lord. They don’t forget names, nor deeds. Aye, the Boltons were monsters, but they were our monsters, an’ men don’t much like seeing their own fall to an outsider. They might not have liked ‘em, but they knew what to expect.”

Greg tilted his head, considering. “What they expected was a lifetime of watching their backs. I’d call this an improvement.”

Eren held his gaze. “Aye, maybe it is. But ye don’t get to tell ‘em that. Not yet.”

A rasping breath came from Greg’s right, and Maester Tybald shifted where he sat, his thick fingers laced over his stomach. The man was sweating despite the cold draft slipping through the stone walls. “Lord Gregor,” he wheezed, his voice scratchy with age, “if I may... House Stark has long governed the North’s traditions. They will wish to address this in their own manner.”

Greg exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking toward the maester. “Meaning?”

Tybald hesitated. “Meaning, my lord, that they will see this as... overreach. That it is not your place to decide the fate of a Great House, no matter how—” He coughed, his fingers twitching against the edge of the map. “—reviled.”

Greg let that sit for a moment. Then, voice dry, he said, “So, what, should I have sent a raven first? Asked nicely?”

Silence. Ivar shifted again, looking like he was chewing on his tongue.

“The North won’t like this,” Ivar said finally. “They’ll talk. They’ll meet. They’ll find cause for offense, and once they do, they’ll demand Stark justice.”

Greg shrugged. “Then let them.”

Ivar stared at him. “You don’t care?”

Greg leaned forward, his voice steady, quiet, but sharp as steel. “I care about the people here. I care about the ones who spent their lives afraid to step out of line because the Boltons might decide they were in the mood for some decoration. If that offends the high lords sitting in their halls, they can come and tell me that themselves.”

Another stretch of silence. Ivar’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he gave a short nod.

Eren ran a hand over his jaw, glancing toward the maester before settling his gaze back on Greg. “The North don’t forget,” he repeated, softer this time. “They won’t see this as justice, Lord Gregor. They’ll see it as an insult.”

Lord Gregor. 

Greg resisted the urge to rub at his temples, settling instead for stretching his fingers against the wood of the chair. Not even my name. You forgot the -y, His name was Greg. It was short for Gregory, but it had always been Greg. He was still getting used to the ‘Lord’ bit but Westerosi formality didn’t make room for a guy just being Greg, and at this point, correcting them wasn't worth the breath. He sighed through his nose, tilting his chair back slightly as he drummed his fingers against the armrest.

"Yeah?" he said, leveling a flat look across the table. "Well, if the North’s got a problem, they can dig up Roose Bolton and complain to him directly." His fingers tapped once against the armrest. "Oh, right. They can’t."

Silence.

Eren coughed, poorly smothering something that might've been a laugh. Brennor’s mouth twitched, but he was already looking back toward the map, scratching at his jaw like he was weighing something. Maester Tybald, though, barely blinked.

"You may have stripped the name from the North," the old man rasped, his voice thin and wheezing, "but a house is more than its Lord. A name is more than just blood." He adjusted the heavy chain around his neck with thick fingers, the metal links clicking dully together. "And the North does not let such names vanish without consequence."

Greg exhaled, slow. Course it doesn’t.

Brennor leaned forward, arms braced against the table. "Tybald’s right." The deep-set lines of his face made him look even grimmer than usual. "Doesn’t matter how much folk hated ‘em. Their bannermen won’t just sit on their hands, and neither will the ones that owed them favors." His fingers curled against the wood. "One way or another, there’ll be blood over it."

Greg’s gaze flicked to the crude map spread across the table, its edges curling where Tybald had weighed it down. It wasn’t much—barely better than something scribbled in a notebook—but it did its job. Symbols and rough lines marked holdfasts, villages, and keeps, a messy sprawl of land and names he was still getting used to.

Names he now apparently had to manage.

"Then we’ll give them something else to focus on," Greg said, voice even.

Tybald inhaled, slow and deliberate, before shaking his head. "There is no—" A cough rattled out of him, and he took a moment to compose himself. "—there is no simple distraction, my Lord. There is only debt and memory, and the North carries both on its back."

Greg flicked him a glance. "Then maybe it ought to lighten the load."

Eren shifted slightly in his seat. "Don’t work like that," he murmured.

Greg exhaled sharply through his nose, looking up again. "And why not?"

Brennor scoffed, shaking his head. "Ye’re thinkin’ like a Southerner."

Greg arched a brow, but let him go on.

"Down there, ye kill a man, take ‘is land, an’ that’s that." Brennor gave a humorless chuckle. "Up here, land carries more weight than its worth. Houses don’t die ‘cos their lords do. A name holds longer than a man’s bones. I hear Castamere’s still empty, ain’t it?" He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Ye killed the last Bolton. But ye didn’t kill the last o’ his banners. That’s the fuckin’ difference, m’lord."

Greg’s jaw ticked. "Then maybe I should."

Tybald exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat, but it was Ivar who finally spoke up, his voice somehow even raspier than the maester’s all of a sudden. "I-if ye did that, m’lord, there’d b-b-be no turnin’ back. No bargaining, no truces. The North would close ranks, an’ no matter how strong ye think we are, we can’t hold against all of it."

Greg glanced at him, then at the map again, at the carved wooden pieces scattered across its surface. 

Eren exhaled slowly. "Aye, we’re standin’. But if the North thinks this is an insult?" His fingers tapped idly against the table. "Then we best be ready for how they’ll answer."

Greg’s gaze stayed on the map a moment longer before flicking up, meeting each of theirs in turn. "M- our strength is why we’ll keep standing."

Tybald’s breath scraped in his throat, the sound dry and rattling as he adjusted the weight of his chain. “Strength an’ survival ain’t the same thing, my lord,” he murmured, each word measured, like he had to think them through before he dared speak them. “Ye’ve stepped bold, aye, but the North is a knot o’ feuds an’ debts. Different from the South but not where it matters. Ye pull one string too hard, an’ it all tightens round our throats.”

Ivar latched onto that immediately, fingers drumming against the table too fast, like he couldn’t sit still. “Aye,” he cut in, voice sharp with the edge of nerves. “Ye think just ‘cause the Boltons were hated, that means folk’ll cheer? I’m sorry, m’lord, but they won’t. Umbers, Karstarks, Ryswells, Dustins—they’ve all got reckonings t’ make, an’ none of ‘em’ll be pleased t’ see ye decidin’ what’s what. They might’ve hated the Flayed Man, but they knew him.” His throat bobbed. “Ye ain’t them. An’ that makes ye worse.”

Greg let the silence settle. slow. heavy. the weight of the room pressing in as he watched Ivar—just watched him—until the man looked down, fingers curling against the edge of the table.

Good.

Near the hearth, Ash stretched out, the slow, deliberate movement drawing flickering shadows over his dark fur. His ears flicked once as Greg exhaled through his nose. “Let them come.”

Eren tensed across from him.

Brennor let out a low breath, rubbing his knuckles over his jaw. “Bold words, m’lord.” He didn’t sound doubtful. 

Greg leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Then we won’t wait,” he said. “We make sure they know what coming here costs.”

Ivar swallowed hard and the man’s voice dipped lower. “This ain’t just one house ye’re speakin’ of, m’lord,” he said. “Ye press ‘em too hard, the North’ll close ranks, an’ once they do—”

Greg tilted his head, eyes still locked on Ivar’s.

“—no words’ll open ‘em again,” Ivar finished, voice faltering.

There it is.

Greg let the quiet stretch again, the slow rise and fall of his breath the only movement. Then, with the same even weight, he asked, “So what?”

Ivar blinked.

“They'll send assassins?” Greg asked, voice flat. “Already dealt with that.” 

He held up a hand and ticked off the next point. “Burn villages? They already have. Sit around talking about what should be done while their people die?” He let his hand drop, slow, deliberate. “I've seen what these lords think of their own people. They’d rather slit throats and use them to appease other, more powerful lords, than help them.”

Greg sat back in his chair. “If they come, they come. But I won't sit here waiting for them to decide whether we live or die.” He raised a hand lazily and pointed it towards the hearth. A silent and small Igni — barely more than sparks — shot from his fingers and the hearth crackled again, burning brighter.

Ivar swallowed again, Tybald's eyes widening in time with the sound.

Eren shifted in his seat, mouth pressing into a thin line. Not disagreement. Not quite agreement, either.

But Brennor—

Brennor was smiling. Just a little.

It wasn't humor. Greg didn't doubt that if he knew what a salute was, the man would probably be snapping one off right now.

Tybald coughed, shifting, the motion slow, heavy. “Boldness has its place, m’lord,” the maester murmured. “But so does caution. The north is not forgiving.”

Greg tapped his fingers once against the table.

His grip tightened.

He didn’t look at them when he spoke.

“Neither am I,” he said.

His voice was quiet. “Neither am I.”

---

The Brightfort’s walls shone clean in the northern sun, sharp as a blade’s edge, but the air in the guard hall was thick—sweat, iron, leather, the old bite of blood worked so deep into stone that no scrubbing would ever quite pull it free.

Greg stepped through the heavy wooden door, boots striking hard against the floor in an unhurried rhythm. Ash padded at his side, a hulking shadow with mismatched eyes that swept the gathered men like a silent judge. Shiro followed close behind, flitting from the rafters to Greg’s shoulder in a blur of white feathers.

The room changed the moment he entered.

Voices died mid-sentence. The scrape of a whetstone against steel paused, half-done. More than three hundred men packed this hall alone—some barely past sixteen, drowning in armor too big for them; others lined and grizzled, their bodies cut with the memory of battles too old to be worth telling. Some were veterans of the Dreadfort’s fall, their faces set like old war banners, unmoved by blood. Stll, these were the first ones to join up with him.

All of them looked at him like he was something more than what he was.

Greg hated it.

But he stepped forward anyway.

"I’m not good at speeches."

A few chuckles, quiet but real. The tension cracked, just a little.

"But I owe you one."

Greg let his eyes settle on them, not just scanning, but seeing—the hollow-eyed soldier with a scar that cut too deep into his temple, the boy who had wept when they pulled his father from the Dreadfort’s rubble, the ones who still looked at him like they were waiting for something worse to come.

"You fought harder than any man had a right to ask of you," he said, voice steady. "Harder than I thought was even possible. Some of you—" He swallowed, barely a pause. "Some of you, I pulled back from the brink. Others, we lost."

The silence in the hall thickened as a few heads bowed. No one spoke.

"But you stayed," Greg went on, voice sharper now, cutting through the quiet. "You bled. You made this place ours." His jaw tightened. "The Boltons are done. The Dreadfort is ours."

The murmur that rose was low at first building until Greg raised a hand, cutting it off before it could break.

"I swore you’d have food. Homes. Coin in your hand." His eyes swept the room, steady. "That wasn’t just war talk."

"Aye, but words are wind," a man called from near the hearth.

A blue-eyed gaze flicked to him. He didn’t know his name but Greg knew that he was one of the older men—a former Bolton levy who had no love for them..

"Then you’ll have your proof," Greg said, even. "The stores in the keep have already been counted. Every man who fought gets a share. No one who stood with me will go hungry." He let the words settle before he spoke again. "The Brightfort’s town is yours to live in."

He let that settle, watching them as they all stared with wide eyes. The weight in the room wasn’t silence, not really—it was waiting. Holding. The kind of quiet that came before the first crack of thunder.

"But I need to ask one more thing."

No one moved. No one spoke.

Greg exhaled, slow. "Will you fight with me again?"

It wasn’t an order. 

He didn’t need to raise his voice as he let the words drop. 

"Because this isn’t over. Not by a long shot." His hands curled at his sides, but his voice stayed steady. "The lords fear men like us—men who won’t kneel. They’ll protect the likes of Roose Bolton, let his bastard son ride down your kin and call it justice, so long as it keeps their tables full and their sons safe." His eyes swept the room, meeting theirs. "But they don’t fear him anymore. They fear us."

The hearth crackled. Someone shifted. Leather creaked.

Greg took a breath. "Will you fight for what’s right?"

For a moment, nothing. Just the firelight playing over worn faces, over scars and rough hands curled into fists.

Then—movement.

A chair scraped against stone. A man stood. Grizzled, shoulders squared, hands steady even as his jaw worked. His voice was iron. "We’re with ye, Lord Veder."

Greg barely had time to take it in before another stood.

"Aye, with ye."

Then another. And another.

The noise grew, swelling like a tide, rolling through the hall until it rattled the walls, until it was felt more than heard, thick as smoke, solid as steel.

Greg nodded once, short. No flourish, no ceremony. 

Just a step back, turning toward the doors as the roar of his men carried behind him. It wasn’t pride sitting in his chest. Not really. It was heavier than that, thicker, like something had been set on his shoulders, and now he had to carry it.

Trust.

He could feel it pressing at his ribs, more solid than any armor he’d ever worn.

And that was the problem.

Trust meant expectations. Expectations meant responsibility.

And responsibility? That’s where shit got messy.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the courtyard. There was something he could do, at least—Still got that gear. His power had dropped three things into his lap: a set of armor, a kite shield, and a longsword. He had no real use for any of them—his own armor and sword were already enchanted to hell and back, and he didn’t need a shield when he could just make one whenever he wanted.

Daeric and Brennor can each take one, he thought, filing it away in the mental list of shit he needed to deal with. But Eren’s gonna be stuck with office work, so… who’s number three?

The morning air was sharp, edged with winter even as the sun fought to burn through the cold. Men moved in every direction—some hauling the last of the bodies out past the gates, some scrubbing blood from the stones. The clang of hammers rang out from the smithy. Someone barked orders near the stables.

Greg leaned against the Brightfort’s outer wall, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze swept the yard.

A few feet away, Guts stood like a damn statue, his massive sword slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. The man barely looked like he belonged in the North, with his dark armor, and the sheer size of him — seriously, most of the people he’d seen in Westeros were barely up to his chin — but then again, he had heard stories of some giant guy called the Mountain who was even taller than Guts apparently and some old paladin called Barristan and even a knight called Duncan, who was also really fucking tall. Guess all the adventurers are down South. He wiped a finger below his nose. Even the king was apparently some fuck-huge guy with a giant warhammer or something.

Greg exhaled, watching the way the men still looked at him. 

The way their gazes lingered. "They look at me like I’m a demigod or something," he spoke out loud, rubbing a hand over his face. It made his skin itch. "Like I’m not even human anymore."

Guts shifted, rolling his shoulder like something in it ached. The smirk tugging at his mouth was more knowing than amused. "You’re surprised, are you?" His voice was rough, words dragging like a whetstone on steel. "You fight like a mad bastard, run like you’ve got wings on your feet, drag men back from deaths door, and there’s a dragon thing followin’ you around like a trained hound. What’d you think they’d see?"

Greg let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Not what I want." His fingers curled into his sleeves, nails pressing into the cloth. "I want them to trust me. Not… worship me."

Guts didn’t answer right away. He just studied him, eyes dark and steady in a way Greg had learned meant he was thinking, really thinking, like he was weighing something out in his head.

Then, quieter—almost absentmindedly, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it—"Trust comes with time. Respect, though…"

Greg glanced at him. "What?"

Guts’s smirk had faded. He was looking past Greg now, like he was seeing something else. "Had a friend once. Or thought I did. Griffith." The name sat heavy in the air, like an axe driven into wood. "Prettiest fucker you've ever seen, wouldn't doubt at least one noble lady tried to have him killed out of jealousy."

The blond blinked as he craned his head to look up at Guts, eyes narrowed and mouth half-open. "...oookay?"

Guts didn't seem to notice, though. "Followed him for years. Thought he was worth it. Thought we were the same." His jaw tightened for half a second, then loosened again. "But he didn’t see me as a friend. Just a sword he could point."

Greg frowned. "And you left."

"Aye." Guts huffed, gaze flicking back to him. "Those men of yours, they know you respect ‘em. Even if they can’t hold a fuckin’ candle to me or you."

Greg’s mouth twitched, some of the weight in his chest shifting. "Respect?" He parroted the word, tilting his head like he was rolling it over in his skull. "That’s earned in blood." His lip curled, wry. "And I’ve got plenty of that to spare."

Guts snorted. "You don’t say."

Greg shook his head, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. "You think they don’t do the same to you?" He gestured vaguely at the slab of steel slung over Guts’s back. The thing looked like it had been meant to kill castles, not people. "Walkin’ around with that like it’s a damn battering ram?"

The smirk widened. "Fair point," Guts admitted. "Dragon Slayer tends to leave an impression."

Greg let out a sudden laugh, raw and unfiltered. It cut through something tight in his ribs, left him feeling lighter, at least for a moment. "Yeah, I bet."

A soft huff of breath near his hip made him glance down just in time to see Ash padding up to them, claws clicking against the stone. The not-quite-bear sat heavily beside him, his massive frame settling like a stone pillar. But his red eyes weren’t on Greg. They were locked on Guts’s sword, head tilting, ears flicking forward, his muscles shifting like he was—

Greg raised an eyebrow. "No way."

Ash made a noise in his direction — like an insulting yawn — followed by a chuffing sound that was clearly some sort of, Man, I can't have any fun.

Greg snorted and reached out, scratching behind one of Ash’s ears—only to pause.

His fingers brushed against something new.

Huh.

Two small nubs of black scales, just barely pushing up from the top of Ash’s skull.

Horns.

Greg’s lips pressed together. That was new. A half second later, he shook his head. Something for later.

"Don’t even think about it," he muttered, giving Ash a firm pat on the head. The little beast huffed but didn’t look away from the absurdly massive blade.

Guts chuckled, deep in his chest. "If he wants a swing, he’s welcome to try."

---

The gates of the Brightfort groaned as they swung open, heavy iron and oak moving with the slow, grinding reluctance of something long at rest. The wind swept in sharp and cutting, sending loose snow swirling across the stones, biting at exposed skin.

But the people of Frostfall pushed forward, hunched against the cold, their footsteps steady.

Greg stood at the entrance, watching as they trickled in. Less than two hundred.

They had packed what they could onto carts, dragging what was left of their lives behind weary horses, moving like ghosts through the pass. Their faces were drawn, hollowed by exhaustion, but their eyes—when they met his—held something else.

This wasn’t the way soldiers looked at him. It wasn’t the awe, the reverence, the unease that came with watching a man do the impossible. These people had made a choice.

Even still, they stepped through the gates hesitantly, mouths open and eyes wide as they stared at the massive white stone walls surrounding them and each and every one of the Brightfort's tall spires.

Greg exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he watched them enter the main courtyard of the keep.

Ash sat at his feet, tail curled over his paws, his glowing red eyes tracking the newcomers, unblinking. Gwenna stood at the front of the group, arms crossed, her breath curling white in the air, saying nothing as she stared.

He let them pass, let the moment stretch as they walked forward to meet him. Then, when the last cart had rolled over the threshold, his voice cut through the cold.

"Eren."

The younger man was already there, lingering near the gate. He straightened at the call, stiff-backed.

"Aye, m’lord?"

Greg let his gaze sweep over the crowd again before he spoke. "See they have what they need. Food. Warmth. Space of their own. They’re my people." His voice didn’t rise, but the words carried.

Eren didn’t hesitate. "Aye. I’ll see to it."

Greg barely acknowledged the answer, already scanning the faces again. The old men leaning on canes, the women clutching children bundled in too-thin furs, the boys carrying more than their weight in supplies. They had made it.

But Frostfall was half what it had been.

He exhaled, barely aware he’d spoken aloud when the words left him. "They’re my people."

The Brightfort loomed behind him, its white stone clean and bright even under the dull northern sky, the blue of its rooftops standing stark against the gray. It didn’t feel like the Dreadfort. There were no shadows lurking in its halls, no ghosts clinging to its walls. But it was a place won with and by blood, and that weight settled deep in his chest as he watched the villagers step cautiously through the gates, their shoulders tensed like they were waiting for something to go wrong.

They had spent too many years knowing places like this weren’t meant for people like them.

This was different. But that was something they would have to see for themselves.

The murmurs rose, hushed words passing between them as they took in the towering walls. He caught flashes of them—low voices, uncertain tones. The old stories still lingered. The Dreadfort’s name had stretched long and far, and even with its stones scrubbed clean, even with its halls filled with new voices, some ghosts wouldn’t be so easily buried.

Then Gwenna spoke, finally stepping closer, her red hair catching in the wind as she smiled in his face, her cheeks pink from the cold.

"It’s beautiful," she said simply, her gaze sweeping over the spires.

Greg glanced at her as the corners of his mouth rose.

"It’s home now," he said. He let the air stretch between them before he spoke again.

"Your home."

Gerda wasn’t far behind her daughter, the busty woman moving through the courtyard with the same sharp-eyed wariness she always carried.

But there was something different about her today.

She was smiling.

Greg barely kept his expression from twisting in confusion. Gerda was kind, sure, but she was still a Northern woman, and that came with a certain bluntness, a kind of hard-edged pragmatism that had nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with surviving in a place that spent a hundred percent of the time with temperatures below freezing. Even before her husband had died, she’d carried herself like someone who expected to be screwed over eventually. And after?

Well. Trust hadn’t come easy for her.

So she had never been openly hostile to him, but she had never been warm, either. 

Not like this.

And then—

She curtsied.

Greg blinked. Okay. That’s new.

"Milord," she said, dipping her head, and for half a second, she looked exactly like Gwenna. Same striking green eyes, same high cheekbones, though hers were more lined, her auburn hair streaked with silver where Gwenna’s was still bright.

Greg barely caught himself from frowning. His fingers flexed at his sides, shoulders rolling back as he let out a slow breath. "Didn’t expect you this early," he said, words measured. The question he didn’t ask was clear enough. How?

Gerda’s smile dimmed, something heavier settling in its place. Her fingers curled into the edges of her cloak as she exhaled.

"We had the thought they might come for us again if we stayed," she said. "So we packed up and followed after. Village to village, slow, but steady. If ye won, we’d be at your side. If ye lost…" Her mouth tightened. "Weren’t long for this world, simple as."

Gwenna nodded beside her, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Greg let that settle.

"Okay," he said, after a second. "Huh."

Gerda’s lips pressed together.

 Her eyes flicked to Gwenna for a moment, then back to him. "Was good that we did," she admitted, voice lower now, like speaking it too loud might make it worse. "We heard the village—Frostfall—was burnt not long after we left. Likely to hide the bodies."

Greg’s stomach clenched.

Of course Roose Bolton had made sure there was nothing left. The bastard had always been too smart to leave loose ends.

His jaw tightened, fingers twitching toward the hilt of his sword before he forced himself to still. He could feel Gwenna watching him, waiting.

"Of course," he muttered. "Of course they did."

—————————————

The Brightfort had several kitchens, apparently, though Greg hadn’t bothered to figure out where all of them were. This one, at least, was empty—quiet in the way that only thick stone walls could make a place feel, the air still even with the faint glow of a dying hearth in the corner. He leaned against a long wooden table, arms crossed, watching Gwenna with the kind of focus that was half-intentional, half-something he didn’t really want to think too hard about.

The castle at night barely made a sound. It didn’t sit right with him. A place this big, with this many people, shouldn’t feel this empty when the sun went down. Maybe it was the walls, maybe it was just him. Didn’t matter.

Right now, the person he was focused on stood a few feet away, brow furrowed, lips pressed together, the tip of her tongue just barely visible between her teeth.

In front of her, a wooden cup sat untouched.

A shimmer flickered in the air between them.

A translucent blue hand formed—thin, unsteady, its fingers curling awkwardly around the handle. The thing wobbled in place, jerking slightly before lifting, hovering in the air with all the grace of a half-drunk chicken. A few drops of water sloshed over the rim as it drifted toward him.

Greg caught it before she could accidentally chuck it at his head.

"Thanks," he said, taking a sip, trying not to smirk. "See? Way more useful than setting things on fire."

Gwenna flushed immediately, her eyes darting away as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The dragon-shaped ring on her finger caught the light, brushing her cheek. "I’m still learnin’, m’lord," she muttered.

Greg’s fingers tightened around the cup.

There it was again. That fucking hesitation.

She didn’t say his name that often anymore. He wasn't sure exactly why. She occasionally did but sometimes... sometimes she pulled back.

To be fair, he pulled back too.

It was hard for him not to.

After all...

His hand flicked down to the silver dragon ring on her finger and exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to keep his tone light. "You don’t have to call me that when it’s just us."

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, like she was thinking about it, but she didn’t say anything.

Greg rolled his shoulders, tipping the cup toward her in a silent toast and decided to ignore that. "Seriously, you’re doin’ great, though. From what I’ve heard, most people can’t even lift a feather, let alone a cup."

Her blush deepened, but this time, she didn’t look away.

"Well… ye did give me a magic ring," she said, tilting her chin slightly, voice almost teasing. "That helps, don’t it?"

Greg huffed, half a laugh, half something else. "Sure. But that’s just a tool. You’re the one actually doin’ it."

His gaze flicked to the ring on her finger—his ring.

Still there.

The dragon’s head gleamed in the dim firelight, metal bright and solid against her skin.

Just like the weirwood necklace she had given him was still sitting against his collarbone, warm where it rested under his shirt.

Neither of them had taken them off.

Gwenna shifted, weight moving from one foot to the other. She was looking at him now, really looking at him, like she was trying to read something in his face.

Greg swallowed, fingers tapping absently against the side of the cup. He could still remember what her hands felt like, gripping his wrist, pressing something small and carved into his palm the day he left Frostfall. She hadn’t let go until the last second.

Two months.

That was how long her marriage had lasted before her husband died.

It wasn’t long, not really, but it was still something.

It was something Greg had never really let himself think about. Not when he was fighting, not when he was running, not even when he was trying to sleep in his castle.

He didn't want to think about it much. After all, it's not like he hadn't done anything. But the thing with Hyla... that wasn't... He had liked it but that was basically prostitution and...

It wasn't anything compared to marriage.

And he had only done it onc-

Greg frowned. Okay. He had only done it a few times... that he could remember.

Two months, though. He couldn't imagine how many times... he refused to.

But now—

Now she was standing in front of him again, close enough that he could see the way her pulse jumped at the base of her throat. Close enough that he could see the faintest hitch in her breathing when he didn’t look away.

Close enough that if he wanted to do something, he could.

If he wasn’t so fucking aware of the fact that she had been someone else’s wife.

Gwenna licked her lips, and for half a second, he thought she was going to say something.

She didn’t.

Instead, she just held his gaze, fingers curling slightly at her sides, and Greg—Greg wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to do with that.

So he just lifted the cup again, like the conversation was normal, like this was normal, and took another slow sip.

Her mouth twitched.

She didn’t look away.

———————

The maester’s study smelled.

Greg didn’t know what of—mold, dust, damp parchment, maybe something worse—but he knew it was clinging to his clothes already. The air was thick, still, stale in a way that made it feel like the room hadn’t been aired out in a hundred years.

Even with the magical makeover, Tybald still reeked.

Greg stood across from him, arms crossed, watching as the fat man turned the thick, yellowed pages of a book so ancient it looked like it would crumble if he breathed on it too hard. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows over the heavy wooden desk between them. Tybald’s hands trembled as he smoothed the parchment flat, his breath rasping in his throat.

"House Veder." Ivar had asked him about House Veder, if he intended to place his house’s sigil and words on the new banners. That had stopped him short. Since when did I actually have a house?

Greg’s voice was steady, even. Not a question. A statement.

"You’ve heard of it."

The maester hesitated. His fingers stilled on the page. Then, slowly, he adjusted his chains, movements careful, deliberate, like a man handling something sharp.

"Rumors, m-my lord," he admitted, voice thin, wheezing. "Nothing c-concrete." He swallowed, eyes flicking toward Greg like he expected him to lash out. "It is said they were an old Northern house, their seat once near the White Knife. But they were wiped out long ago—over a thousand years, if the stories hold any truth."

Greg frowned, shifting his weight slightly. "Why?"

Tybald licked his lips, gaze flicking down to the page. "Their ideals, perhaps," the man said finally. "Honor, justice and fairness were not… valued in the North of that time. They were a house out of place."

Greg exhaled through his nose, studying him. "How’d they end up…?"

The maester turned another page, fingers moving slowly over brittle parchment. "Some say their last few members fled beyond the Wall," he murmured. "Seeking refuge from their enemies. But such tales are difficult to verify, especially when they stretch back so far."

Greg’s jaw tightened.

A house that valued honor, fairness—exterminated. He bit back a scoff. Sounds about right for this fucking hellhole.

"Keep looking," he said.

Tybald flinched slightly. "O-of course, my lord," he stammered.

Greg didn’t respond. He just turned on his heel and walked out.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The snow fell softly, covering the Brightfort in white.

Greg stood atop the battlements, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, the cold biting at the edges of his exposed skin. The air was sharp, clean, the kind of cold that settled deep in the lungs. Below him, the keep stretched out in quiet stillness—unnaturally so. Even with a thousand people moving through its halls, the Brightfort barely felt alive at night.

Beside him, Ash padded silently, the massive beast’s glowing red eyes scanning the horizon. Shiro perched on Greg’s shoulder, the small white bird chirping softly as he nestled against his neck. He was bigger now. He hadn’t been small before, but now he was the size of a full-grown rooster, his talons digging into Greg’s cloak for balance.

Greg lifted a hand absently, brushing his fingers over the bird’s feathers, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

The North was preparing for war.

He could feel it in the air, in the whispers that moved through the halls, in the tension tightening in his men’s shoulders. War wasn’t just coming—it was already here.

Greg’s fingers curled slightly around the hilt of his sword. The steel was cool beneath his palm, familiar, steady.

He didn’t feel fear.

His lips parted slightly, breath curling in the cold night air as his voice came low. Steady.

"Let them come."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

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