Nerd In the North 4-8

Greg walked fast enough that his boots hit the stone too hard, every step echoing down the corridor like it was making a point. He wasn’t trying to stomp, but he wasn’t not trying to stomp, either. 

Just—whatever. It wasn’t his fault the floors were built for dramatic exits. The old Bolton servants slinked out of his way before he even got close, flattening themselves against the walls like he was carrying the plague.

Not respect. Just ingrained self-preservation.

Greg barely noticed.

"Summoned." He muttered it under his breath, rolling the word over his tongue, the taste of it just as sour the second time.

A passing retainer—one of the Bolton’s old guard, gray at the edges, probably some knight or steward or something—flinched like he’d been slapped. Greg tracked the movement too late, catching just a glimpse of the man’s hands clenching at his sides, shoulders stiff like he expected a blow. 

Greg blinked, already past him, and just kept moving, rolling his eyes.

"Summoned." Like he was a page boy being called to heel. Like Robb Stark could snap his fingers and Greg would just show up. Like Greg didn’t have more important shit to do.

His jaw ached. He was clenching it again.

The main hall doors loomed ahead, tall and solid, catching just enough of the dim torchlight that the iron hinges gleamed dull red. He shoved them open with both hands and stepped through into the cold light spilling from the high, narrow windows. The stone stretched out ahead of him, cavernous, empty, the kind of space that made a man feel small if he let it.

Greg didn't let it.

He stopped in the center of the hall, inhaled sharp through his nose, exhaled slower through his teeth. The urge to throw Ignis at something flared hot in his hands before he forced it down. Not helpful.

Winterfell.

Robb Stark.

The North.

It pressed in all at once, expectation curling around his ribs, the weight of what they thought he was, what they thought he should be, squeezing against the back of his skull. Being called, like some second-grade kid told to sit down and listen, obey, was enough to make his fingers twitch for a fight he wasn’t allowed to start.

His breath hitched against his teeth before he ground it down into something steadier.

Let’s just get it over with.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg stood on the front steps of the Brightfort, his arms crossed tight, as he watched the chaos in front of him with a raised eyebrow. The whole place was moving with too many people shoving past each other, calling orders, hauling gear like the whole damn castle was about to be uprooted and carted off to Winterfell.

Which was stupid. It was just a meeting. A meeting.

Someone barked an order near the stables, and a destrier kicked out, nearly catching some poor stablehand in the ribs. The boy flinched back, cursing under his breath, but kept moving, weaving through the mess of men strapping down packs, armor, weapons. Preparing like they were marching to war, not just escorting their idiot lord north for a chat.

Greg exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of it press between his ribs. He didn’t want to leave.

Which was insane, because just two weeks ago, he hadn’t wanted to stay.

Now, though, the Brightfort actually felt like it belonged to him. 

Not just a stronghold taken by force, not just some old bloodstained fortress with a new owner, but something in the middle of becoming a home. And leaving it now, even just for a ride to Winterfell, felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. It’s just a meeting. Just Stark wanting to get a read on me. I’ll be back before anything falls apart.

Hopefully.

He pushed off the steps, rolling his shoulders, shaking off the thought before it got stuck. His boots hit the packed dirt hard as he made his way across the courtyard, toward the one cluster of men that weren’t running around like beheaded chickens.

Brennor stood at the front, tall and steady, one arm crossed over his chest while the other rested casually on the slightly glowing silvered edge of his shield. He was already watching Greg approach, unreadable, patient in that way that somehow made him seem twice as immovable, especially for a former farmer. The rest of the garrison behind him stood in formation, quiet, disciplined, the exact opposite of the yard’s chaos. Greg didn’t need to worry about them.

Which was why he wasn’t.

“Alright,” Greg said, stopping in front of Brennor. “Try not to let anyone storm the gates and take my castle while I’m gone, yeah?”

Brennor raised an eyebrow, his expression not shifting an inch. “I will keep your seat warm, my lord.”

Greg snorted. “Glad to hear it.”

The castle was safe in Brennor’s hands. That much, Greg knew. The man wasn’t flashy, wasn’t loud, wasn’t the kind of leader that inspired frantic loyalty with words—but he didn’t need to be. 

If someone tried anything, Brennor would handle it.

Which meant the real problem wasn’t the soldiers.

It was Gwenna.

Greg turned toward the castle entrance. She was already standing there, watching him. She seemed to look prettier every day, but especially since last night, she seemed especially beautiful. Maybe it’s that golden apple that appeared in my bag I gave to her. He shrugged. Maybe.

And with her?

Shiro.

Greg exhaled slowly through his nose. Right. That.

He walked over, boots crunching against the stone. She didn’t move, didn’t fidget. Just stood, hands clasped behind her back, that same sharp, knowing little smirk on her lips. And sitting on her shoulder, nestled against her thick braid, Shiro fluffed his bright white feathers, blinking those big, deceptively innocent eyes.

Greg stopped in front of them, tilting his head slightly. “You sure you can handle him?” He nodded at Shiro, who let out a soft kweh, tilting his own head like he was insulted.

Gwenna arched a brow. “Ye mean can I handle yer wee bird?”

Greg scowled. “He’s not little. And he’s not just a bird.”

Gwenna made a small, amused sound, scratching Shiro under the chin like he was some pampered house cat. The damn bird preened under her touch, fluffing up even more.

“Ye worry too much, milord,” she said easily. “He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. He knew she was right. He just didn’t like it.

Not leaving Shiro behind. Not leaving her behind.

Which was so stupid because this was just a trip. He’d be back before anything happened. Probably. And yet, the thought of stepping away from the Brightfort, from Gwenna and the girls learning magic like it was some casual afternoon hobby, made something knot up tight in his stomach.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “...Just keep an eye on him,” he muttered. “And—uh. Yourself. Y’know. While I’m gone.”

Gwenna’s smirk softened slightly. “Aye, milord. The Sisterhood of Magic awaits the return of our Lord of Magic eagerly.”

Greg winced. “Oh, god. That.”

She’d taken to magic too well. It had started as a joke, but the moment the girls managed to cast a spell, she decided that meant something. And now, Maester Tybald had written out some kind of official charter declaring Greg the ‘Lord of Magic,’ which was just—

“You do know that title means nothing, right?” he said flatly.

Gwenna tilted her head in that way, the one that made Greg’s teeth clench because it meant she knew something he didn’t.

“It does when ye say it does, milord.”

And then, because the universe hated him, she curtsied.

Greg immediately looked away, muttering something about needing to leave before it got dark.

Of course, Gwenna wasn’t the only person he had to deal with before leaving.

Greg turned, glancing over at the maester as the man stumbled out into the courtyard, who was currently having what looked like a mild existential crisis over at the foot of the steps.

Tybald had always looked a little stressed—his round, red face was permanently flushed, his thinning hair always slightly askew—but now?

Now he looked like a man who had just learned the world was round and full of dragons at the same time.

Greg sighed, stepping up next to him. “You gonna be okay, old man?”

Tybald’s head snapped toward him, and Greg immediately regretted saying anything.

“Magic,” the maester said, voice strained, like he had too many thoughts trying to escape at once.

“Uh.” Blue eyes blinked. “Yeah?”

Greg could see Tybald’s fingers twitching like he wanted to grab a book and start furiously writing notes about all the magic happening around him.

“It should not be here,” Tybald murmured, shaking his head. “It was gone, lost, only remnants in shattered scrolls, whispers in old tongues—but now it—” He turned to Greg, eyes wide. “They cast, my lord. Dozens of them.”

“Yep,” Greg said, popping the ‘p’ at the end.

Tybald’s eye twitched. “They should not be able to.”

Greg just stared at him, half-lidded, unamused.

“Tybald,” Greg said, gesturing vaguely toward the entire castle. “I have been casting magic since the moment I got here. I literally turned the Dreadfort into the Brightfort with magic.” Don’t know how it happened, but I’m not gonna say that out loud.

Tybald inhaled through his nose. “Yes, but—”

“And we have Ash.”

Tybald rubbed his temples.

“And Shiro.”

Tybald muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

“And now Gwenna and her horde of teenage witches.”

Tybald closed his eyes like he was trying to physically block out reality.

It was genuinely hilarious to watch him process the dozen or so girls in the keep suddenly casting spells like that was a normal thing now.

Greg shook his head, still baffled by why people kept insisting magic had been dead in Westeros for centuries when he’d seen it literally every day since waking up here. The blond lord simply patted him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the new world, Maester.” 

Tybald made a strained noise but didn’t argue.

Greg took that as a win.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg adjusted the reins of his horse, shifting in the saddle as he eyed the group forming up behind him. The Brightfort’s gates loomed behind them, the morning sun catching on the white stone like it was glowing. It wasn’t.

Obviously.

But it looked that way, and Greg figured that was probably why people in the villages around it kept praying at it, which was still weird.

His party was small, but solid. Handpicked. Or, well, mostly just the people he trusted enough not to stab him in his sleep.

First, there was Guts, who looked like he belonged anywhere except in the North. Or on a horse. Or in a society that functioned under any normal human laws. The man was sitting on his massive destrier like it was a piece of war machinery rather than a living thing, all dark armor and an air of 'don’t talk to me unless you want to die.' He had his usual thousand-yard stare, probably thinking about something horrific from his past or maybe just whether he wanted to eat a raw elk for breakfast. Greg honestly wasn’t sure.

Then there was Daeric, sitting way too comfortably on his horse, because of course he was. The guy was moving like a goddamn show-off in his shining silver light armor, his bow slung lazily over his back, a faint smirk always threatening at the corners of his mouth. If Greg had to pick someone who looked the most ready to attend some noble’s tournament, it was Daeric. But that was half the appeal—he was too quick, too dangerous, and too damn sharp to be dismissed as just some pretty boy archer.

Then there was Lobb, who looked like he was vibrating in place with too much excitement, like an over-eager golden retriever who’d just realized he was finally getting to go on a road trip. His armor was too new, his sword too polished, but there was fire in his eyes, and Greg could respect that, even if the kid was probably about three bad decisions away from getting himself killed in a duel he didn’t need to fight.

A couple of the other boys who had fought with Greg came along too—Jory, who was good with a spear and always seemed two seconds away from a sarcastic remark, Harald, a relatively skilled archer who liked to boast, and Wilkin, a quieter one, but fast as hell with a dagger. They weren’t the most seasoned warriors, but they were the ones Greg trusted, and that was what mattered.

And then, of course, there was Ash.

The still-growing, utterly unpredictable draconic beastie that was currently padding alongside Greg’s horse like a very well-trained—but absolutely not tame—dog. His scales were coming out in patches but still dark against his already dark fur, rippling black, his wings half-folded but twitching, and his glowing red eyes constantly scanning the terrain.

They were a sight, that was for sure. Not quite an army, but enough to make an impression.

Greg exhaled, adjusting his leather bag on the side of the saddle and gripping the reins again. Winterfell was waiting.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Johnny Magicseed (100 GP)

ROLL: Golden Apple (50 FP) [Final Fantasy IV] {Benevolence}: "An apple with a golden sheen. Increases your health and vitality by a small amount when eaten. You find a new one every month."

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