Nerd in The North 4-6

The gates swung open way too loudly for his precious lordly ears, iron hinges screeching like nails across a chalkboard. 

Greg cringed, ears ringing, momentarily overwhelmed by the jarring noise even though he'd been perfectly fine with literal explosions an hour ago. Weird how that works. He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to straighten up, and managed a tight, practiced smile at the cheering around him, even as a tiny, irrational part of him wondered why exactly everyone was so excited—it's not like he'd solved anything permanently. 

Or maybe he had. Or not. 

He really couldn't quite figure out which would end up going worse in the long run. For him, at least. Everyone cheering was probably better off.

Greg swung off the saddle, landing awkwardly enough that he almost stumbled. He winced slightly, silently cursing himself for looking dumb in front of—well, basically everyone important. His fingers were numb as he handed Cloud’s reins off to some stableboy he vaguely recognized. Hopefully the guy didn't fuck it up; 

Greg liked that horse. 

Inside the hall, though, his mild embarrassment vanished into confusion, quickly followed by raw irritation at the sight before him.

"What the hell?" He froze on the edge of the doorway, mouth hanging open. 

Bodies—well, not bodies, exactly; they were still breathing—but men, actual men, Bolton retainers, sprawled awkwardly across the cold floor like they’d all decided to nap simultaneously and forgot to tell him. Greg’s eyes flicked around quickly, counting, because he felt he should be counting for some reason, but he immediately lost track at like, thirteen. Wait—were they bodies if they were still alive? 

Maybe just…people? 

Unconscious people. Whatever.

His attention snapped to Gwenna rather than focus on his own rambling thoughts.. 

Gwenna, standing straight as a rod, looking completely and utterly out of place in some frilly, embroidered blue dress that was about as practical for a ruined fortress in winter as a sundress in a snowstorm. It was definitely new, though, and kinda nice. 

He blinked. Wait, what was he supposed to say? Something formal, definitely formal.

"What—er," Greg cleared his throat, drawing himself up, consciously shaping his voice into something he hoped sounded lordly, authoritative, mature, all those adjectives people expected from him now. "What's the meaning of this?"

That sounded pretty good. Right?

Gwenna curtsied awkwardly, wobbling a bit on her way back up, cheeks flushing as if she'd messed it up. Probably because she did. "Sorry, milord," she murmured, biting her lower lip anxiously. "They panicked when you rode out. Thought you might lose. Decided they'd run off with whatever they could carry."

Greg stared at her, processing this a second too late. They thought he'd lose. Lose? Had they not seen him literally throw a cart like a baseball over a week ago? He started to say something sharply sarcastic, but Gwenna shifted nervously again, tugging at her gown—blue, sparkling, seriously way nicer than it should’ve been—and Greg instantly lost his train of thought. It fit her…well. 

Really well, actually. Weirdly well.

"Nice, uh, dress," he muttered without thinking, his ears burning immediately. What the fuck are you doing, dude, focus—

Gwenna blushed deeper. "Oh—me mam fitted it. Said a lord's…uh, steward should look proper."

Greg nodded vaguely, still fixated on the embroidery along the hem. Had that always been there? 

Damn, it was kinda impressive, actually. But it also looked super uncomfortable. Probably itchy. But…maybe not? Gwenna looked comfortable enough, if nervous. Okay, stop looking at her dress. Seriously.

He snapped his gaze back to the floor of unconscious men. His brows knitted together, annoyance finally overriding distraction.

"Hang on," he said, abruptly sharper, his voice regaining that low, practiced rhythm he'd recently started doing without really meaning to. "You said they tried to run? These guys—Bolton's people—thought I'd lose and their big solution was stealing whatever wasn't nailed down and legging it?"

"Aye, milord," Gwenna answered quickly, shifting on her feet and looking very much like she'd rather be anywhere else right now.

Greg laughed abruptly, startling himself.

It wasn't even funny—except it kind of was, in that really bleak, ironic way that made his gut clench uncomfortably afterward. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to shake the weird mix of amusement and anger bubbling beneath his ribs. This really really wasn't supposed to be funny. Seriously. Get it together.

"And…you stopped them," he finally managed, carefully formal again, if somewhat grudgingly. He glanced pointedly down at the nearest man who shifted uncomfortably on the floor, not daring to meet his gaze. "Impressive."

Greg felt like he should say something encouraging here, but he had no clue what that would actually be, so he settled for a tiny nod he hoped was lordly enough.

Gwenna gave him another awkward curtsy, stumbling slightly. "Thank you, milord."

Greg opened his mouth again, prepared to deliver some carefully thought-out, reassuring, noble-sounding thing—only to find himself stuck once more on her dress, caught on how weirdly intricate it was for something she'd only just started wearing. Was that lace at the sleeves? Seriously, how’d they have time—

His brain stuttered again, and this time frustration rose quickly, hot, sharp-edged irritation drowning out embarrassment and confusion. Focus. Priorities. You idiot.

"But…that doesn’t explain why they're all knocked flat," Greg snapped, forcing himself back to the matter at hand, ignoring how his voice cracked awkwardly at the edges. "What? The guards handle it?"

Gwenna shook her head so fast her braid whipped over her shoulder. “No, milord. It was me.”

Greg squinted at her. “Wait—you? Like...you-you?”

She nodded, biting her lip like she was trying not to smile, which was immediately suspicious. “I—I dinna ken exactly how, but when they started runnin', I just—” She lifted her hands, staring at them like they were gonna give her an answer. “—knew what to do. Felt it in me hands, like I had somethin’ ready to spill out. Then...then all this rainbow stuff came out.”

Greg just looked at her.

“…Rainbow stuff,” he repeated blankly. She's picking up my words?

She nodded again, practically bouncing now. “Aye! Sprayed out all magic-like—proper colors, bright an’ shinin'—an’ it hit ‘em and—” She clapped her hands together suddenly, making Greg flinch. “Bam! Out like snuffed candles.”

Greg opened his mouth. Closed it. Pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You…rainbowed them unconscious.”

Gwenna hesitated, then shrugged. “I suppose I did, aye.”

Greg just stood there, trying to not look at the pile of drooling bodies Gwenna had apparently My Little Pony’d into a coma.

“…Show me.”

Gwenna’s excitement hiccuped for a second, her fingers twitching, like she wasn’t sure if he was serious. But Greg just crossed his arms, waiting. Finally, she swallowed, straightened, and turned to face Maester Tybald, who had very clearly been trying to make himself as invisible as possible behind a table.

He twitched as Gwenna’s gaze locked onto him.

“Uh,” the maester started, holding up a hand like that was gonna stop whatever the hell was about to happen. “I—”

A soft, whispered phrase—”Color Spray”—and suddenly, Gwenna’s palm flared as a shimmering spray of color burst outward, slamming straight into Tybald’s chest.

The fat maester made a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a wheeze, teetering backward like a knocked-over sack of grain before hitting the floor with an impressive thud.

Silence.

Greg’s jaw tightened as he fought the instinctive urge to rub his temples.

He took a slow breath through his nose. “Okay,” he said, nodding carefully. “That was…”

He glanced down at the sprawled-out, gently snoring Maester Tybald.

“…Effective.”

Gwenna beamed, looking way too proud of herself for someone who had just rainbow-slapped a grown man unconscious. Greg glanced around again at the groaning, twitching bodies littering the hall—grown men, trained fighters, all taken down by what was, apparently, teen girl sparkle magic.

He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or deeply, deeply concerned.

A long, slow exhale forced its way out of his chest as he ran a hand down his face. Right. Processing later. Ruling now.

He turned back to Gwenna, schooling his expression into something at least vaguely composed.

“You’ve done well,” he said, formal, steady—hoping that if he sounded more confident, it would somehow make him confident. “The Brightfort stands because of you.”

Gwenna dipped into another awkward curtsy, like she hadn’t quite figured out how legs worked yet.

Greg clenched his jaw, then forced himself to not react when he caught the way the servants were staring at him, at her, like this whole thing was something out of a fucking fairytale. They looked...awed. Nervous. Like they weren’t sure if they were supposed to clap or run.

His stomach twisted.

He exhaled sharply. “Alright,” he said, louder this time, his voice slicing through the weird, lingering tension in the air. “Let’s get this cleaned up. I don’t like trash on the ground.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg moved through the Brightfort’s halls, his boots tapping lightly against the polished white stone as he passed servants who barely knew what to do with themselves. They bowed, nodded, or—more often than not—just froze in place like startled deer when he made eye contact.

Yeah, that was new.

He wasn’t sure he liked it. Not the fear, not the stiff nods or the uncertainty in their eyes. They didn’t trust him, not really. Not yet.

Greg nodded back at them anyway, trying to look lordly enough that maybe they’d start believing in this whole ‘new ruler’ situation. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

Gwenna walked beside him, and somehow she made the whole ‘being important’ thing look effortless. Her dress swished lightly against the floor, her hands folded primly in front of her, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was actually a noble lady instead of some village girl who’d just recently figured out how to shoot rainbows out of her hands.

He had no idea why she made him nervous. It was dumb. She wasn’t even doing anything. Just existing.

“I wanted to thank ye again, milord,” Gwenna said, voice softer than usual. “For the books.”

Greg blinked. “Oh. Yeah. The books.”

Right. The books.

His mind immediately went to the bag of magic tomes he’d woken up next to days ago, dumped on him courtesy of whatever weird celestial vending machine decided what loot he got.

He had flipped through them, expecting something useful, maybe some next-level spells or actual game-changing knowledge. But no. They had been basic.

First-level spells.

Greg had rolled his eyes then and rolled them again now at the memory. I’m at least, like, sixth level already. Maybe seventh. Eighth if I stretch it.

Not that he knew exactly what class he’d technically be. Paladin was the closest, right? Magic, sword, divine retribution, and a disturbingly persistent tendency to end up in charge of things?

He believed in God. Probably. Maybe.

...Right?

Greg shoved that thought aside with the grace of a man avoiding eye contact with a debt collector. Point was, the books had been useless to him, so he’d done the sensible thing and handed them over to Gwenna, who—unlike him—was actually a wizard. Or witch. Or sorceress. Whatever.

And, apparently, she’d been making use of them.

Which was good, right?

Right.

Then why was Gwenna smiling like she was leading him into some kind of elaborate trap?

Greg gave her a suspicious side-eye as she guided him toward a room near the eastern wing.

“Uh, where are we—”

Gwenna opened the door.

Greg stepped inside.

And immediately stopped dead.

The room was full of girls.

Not just any girls.

Village girls. Servants.

Each one holding books that looked very, very familiar.

Greg’s brain momentarily short-circuited.

He stared, blinking slowly, processing what he was looking at.

A group of teenage girls. With spellbooks.

His spellbooks.

“…Are those—”

Before he could finish that sentence, one of them thrust her hands out with an excited “Burning Hands!”

Fire erupted from her palms.

Greg immediately flinched back, his first instinct to summon magic to shield himself—but the spell fizzled out harmlessly a few feet away, scorching the air but not the walls.

The girl looked delighted. Her friends cheered, crowding around her, jumping and giggling like she wasn’t all of a sudden a living weapon..

Greg turned to Gwenna, slowly, like a man coming to terms with a really bad decision.

Half-lidded eyes. Deadpan expression.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Those are them.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg sat in his chair, hands steepled under his chin, staring at Maester Tybald like he could somehow un-hear what had just been said.

The maester, to his credit, remained composed, though he did adjust his robes like he was expecting an argument.

Greg exhaled, pressing his fingers into his temples.

“…So, it’s over.”

Tybald nodded solemnly. “By order of the Lord Stark, it is.”

Greg had been expecting it. But hearing it out loud made something in his gut twist.

He won. He fought off the Northern coalition, he secured the Brightfort, he crushed Roose Bolton’s legacy beneath his boot, and somehow—somehow—he was still getting a summons like some disobedient kid who’d wandered too far from home.

Figures.

Greg exhaled sharply, sitting back.

“And he wants me to go to…”

“Winterfell, my lord.”

Winterfell.

Winterfell. Greg resisted the urge to rub his face, but only just. He didn’t have a choice in this, not really. And he knew if he ignored the order, it’d just give his enemies more of an excuse to march on him. Again. And he was tired.

God, he was tired.

“…Right,” Greg muttered, shoving down the immediate, visceral desire to say screw this, I’m staying home.

He was the lord of the Brightfort. He had a castle, an army, people who depended on him.

But he didn’t have the North.

And until he did, he was just another upstart with too much power and not enough claim.

Greg sighed. “Get my horse ready,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

Tybald nodded, moving to fulfill the order.

Greg turned to the nearest servant.

“And somebody feed Ash before he gets cranky,” he added.

The servant nodded, practically bolting out of the room.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, staring at the stone ceiling for a long moment before exhaling and walking out.

Winterfell.

Fine.

Let’s see what Robb Stark had to say.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k Words (100 GP)

ROLL: Beginner's Spellbooks (100 FP) [Generic Dungeon Crawler] {Lore}: "You receive a satchel of books that hold the simplest spells for each of the three spellcasting classes. They are very straightforward in application and offer little outside combat applications."

Grimoire Points: 150