Nerd in the North 4-9

The road down from the Eyrie was treacherous even under the best of conditions—narrow, steep, littered with loose stones waiting for a misstep. A careless rider could send themselves tumbling to their death with the smallest error in judgment.

Tyrion hardly noticed.

His pony trotted along at its steady, unhurried pace, hooves clopping dully against the path. Beside him, Bronn rode with the same effortless ease he seemed to apply to everything, reins held loose in one hand, the other resting easy on his knee. Like a man with nowhere to be, no one to answer to, and nothing on his mind worth troubling over. Tyrion might have envied him if he weren’t too busy feeling his way back into his own skin.

It lingered still—that weightless, breathless sensation of the sky cells. The endless drop waiting just beyond the stone, the way the wind howled as though eager to swallow him whole. He had never been afraid of heights before. He wasn’t afraid of them now, he told himself, but he could still feel the phantom pull, the memory of nothing beneath his feet but cold air and the long fall down. It had been the stillness that got to him, in the end. The waiting. The sheer helplessness of it.

He had spent his life moving, talking, maneuvering—turning wit into armor, words into weapons. But in the sky cells, there had been no one to outtalk, no one to charm, no one to twist around his finger. Just cold stone beneath him, the endless drop beside him, and the silence.

Too much silence.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if to shake the thought free. He was done with the Vale. Done with Lady Arryn and her precious little horror of a son. That sickly little creature, clapping his hands in delight at the thought of watching him die.

Justice. That had been the word Stark clung to, hadn’t it? Catelyn Stark had seized him in the name of justice, dragged him across the Riverlands with fire in her eyes and no patience for reason, convinced of his guilt because it was convenient. But justice had not been what she found at the Eyrie.

No—what she found was the reality of her mistake.

She had put him in the hands of a woman half-mad with grief and power, in a court ruled by sycophants and knights too polite to name her foolish. She had given him to a child who thought executions were entertainment. If she had hoped for an honorable trial, she had miscalculated. Badly.

But Tyrion had not.

His gaze flicked to Bronn.

The hedge knight had stepped forward to fight with all the enthusiasm of a man tossing a coin into a betting pot he already knew was rigged. No flourished speeches, no lofty talk of honor—just a simple, practical decision made by a man who understood exactly what mattered.

Victory.
Survival.
Gold.

And he had fought like a man who knew all three better than most.

Tyrion had watched the duel with something close to fascination. He had seen fighters before—good ones. Jaime had been the best swordsman he had ever known, as quick as a striking viper, as graceful as a dancer. Bronn was not graceful. Bronn was efficient.

Ser Vardis had been armored, disciplined, trained in all the arts that made a proper knight. And it had done him no good at all. His sword had whistled through empty air more often than it found its mark, each missed strike just one more step toward exhaustion. Bronn had danced around him—not a graceful dance, not an elegant one, but the kind a man does when he knows the longer he lets his partner stumble, the easier it will be to kill him.

The assembled lords and knights had not cheered him. They had not respected what they saw. Perhaps they didn’t even understand it. Because Bronn had fought without dignity. Without honor. Without hesitation.

And he had won.

Tyrion had seen the moment it ended before Ser Vardis had. The knight was slowing, movements just a fraction off, his sword arm leaden, his body heavy under the weight of the steel meant to protect him. Bronn had seen it, too. And unlike the rest of them, he had not hesitated.

One clean stroke to the throat.

Ser Vardis had gurgled, staggered, and collapsed.

Tyrion had almost pitied him. Almost.

But there was no room for pity in a fight like that. Just another corpse cooling in the dirt, another lesson the highborn would never learn.

Victory mattered. Survival mattered. Gold mattered.

And honor?

Honor was a thing for dead men.

The sound had been wet. A gurgle. And then silence.

Justice? No. But it had been a lesson.

Tyrion exhaled, shaking the thought loose. Dwelling was for men with time to waste, and he had wasted enough already. “You fight well,” he said, voice light.

Bronn didn’t so much as glance at him. “I fight to win.”

Tyrion chuckled. “A distinction lost on most knights, but one I rather appreciate.”

He studied the sellsword from the corner of his eye, watching the way Bronn sat his horse—loose, comfortable, as if riding down from a mountain prison was no different from strolling through a marketplace. The man carried ease like a second skin, his sword an afterthought at his hip. A man like that didn’t need ceremony, didn’t waste movement. He had moved like that in the duel too. Not like a warrior, but like a man waiting for his moment.

Tyrion tilted his head. “You saved my life.”

Bronn smirked, still watching the road ahead. “Aye. And you’ll pay me for it.”

The honesty was almost refreshing. Tyrion had spent his life among liars—lords and ladies who dressed their greed in silk and courtesy, who wrapped their self-interest in oaths and honor. Bronn, at least, had the decency to be blunt about it.

Still, there was something else there, wasn’t there? Tyrion had seen it in the fight—the way Bronn had measured each step, each strike, as if weighing them in the same way a merchant weighs coin. A man who knew exactly how much life was worth, and when to spend it.

“You’ve found yourself the best fighter in Westeros,” Bronn said after a moment. There was no jest in it, no arrogance—just the simple, matter-of-fact truth of a man who had killed and survived long enough to say it.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Have I now?”

Another shrug. Bronn was full of shrugs, never giving more than necessary. “You’ll not find a man quicker. Not one who fights like I do.”

Tyrion hummed, glancing at the road ahead. The mountains of the Vale stretched before them, treacherous and winding, but beyond them lay the Riverlands. The Kingsroad. The game that never stopped moving.

He was alive. That was the important thing.

But it was not the only thing.

Tyrion did not believe in luck. He believed in opportunity.

And he had just found his.

A sellsword with no loyalties, no morals, no reservations about cutting down men who stood in his way? That was valuable.

Perhaps the most valuable thing.

He let the silence stretch, let the wind carry it, let Bronn fill it with nothing at all. Then, casually, as if it were an afterthought, he said, “Tell me, Bronn. Have you ever been to King’s Landing?”

Bronn smirked. “Not yet.”

Tyrion smiled. “You’ll like it. Filthy, dangerous, full of liars and cutthroats.”

Bronn gave a short, amused grunt. “Sounds lovely.”

Tyrion turned back to the road, his grin widening.

Yes. He had found himself the best fighter in Westeros.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

“M’lord, you must be the best fighter in Westeros.”

Greg barely held back a snort, rubbing under his nose with a knuckle. He could tell Lobb meant it—kid looked genuinely awestruck, wide-eyed and solemn, like Greg had just split the sky with a single swing. 

Which was funny, because Greg had absolutely not done anything special today. 

Just fought Guts in a practice match. That was not impressive.

He shot Lobb a look. The boy was practically vibrating with excitement, hanging off Greg’s every word like some squire in a bard’s tale.

Oh, god. He actually meant it.

Greg exhaled. “Well,” he said, stretching the word, dragging it out like he was actually considering the question. “I don’t like to brag.”

Lobb nodded, dead serious, which made it so much worse. Greg sighed, shifting in his saddle, reins loose in his hands.

They were taking their time toward Winterfell, and not just because Greg wasn’t exactly rushing to throw himself at Stark’s judgment. The journey itself was slow, the kind of long, unhurried march that stretched time out like taffy—just endless miles of open road, the steady clop of hooves, the occasional clatter of armor shifting. Nothing but space and thinking time.

He glanced back at the group trailing behind. Guts loomed as usual, silent and unmoving, his black armor dull in the midday light. Daeric rode easy, casual in the saddle, his posture irritatingly relaxed for someone who’d spent the last two hours on horseback. The rest—boys from the Brightfort, handpicked for this trip—moved in loose groups, muttering quietly amongst themselves, eyes flicking toward Greg now and then, like they weren’t sure whether they were allowed to stare.

Lobb, though—Lobb was practically bouncing.

Greg watched him for a second, then exhaled sharply. “Alright,” he said, already swinging himself off his horse. “Time to stretch.”

Lobb’s head snapped up. The other boys hesitated for half a beat before following suit, already knowing what came next. Greg rolled his shoulders as they moved toward a clear patch off the road.

Training had started casually—corrections here and there when Lobb did something especially stupid. Then it had turned into actual lessons. 

Now? Now it was just part of the routine.

Greg took a step back, arms crossed, watching as Lobb squared up against one of the older boys, wooden training blades raised between them.

“Feet apart,” Greg called, voice easy but firm. “Not that far—you’re not riding a damn horse. Bend your knees. Loose grip—loose but firm—do not death grip the sword, I swear to God—”

Lobb adjusted.

His opponent swung first.

Lobb dodged, stepped in, knocked the blade aside like it was nothing.

Greg frowned.

They were getting better.

Not just Lobb. All of them.

At first, they’d been sloppy. All wild swings and wasted movement, no real control—just a bunch of kids trying to copy what they’d seen Greg do. But now… now they were moving right. Too right.

Greg’s arms uncrossed as he watched closer, something in his brain picking up on an off note he couldn’t place yet. Lobb’s stance was solid. His reaction time was sharp. He wasn’t just learning fast—he was skipping steps.

Greg narrowed his eyes as the kid parried, his movement unnaturally smooth, stepping into his opponent’s space with a fluidity that should not be there yet.

It wasn’t just skill.

It was strength.

Real strength.

Which made no sense, because Lobb still looked like the same scrawny farm boy Greg had taken in. He wasn’t bulky or gaining real muscle at all..

But he moved like he had at least six months of experience behind him. Like he already knew what he was doing, and was just going through the motions.

Lobb twisted, knocked the older boy’s sword aside with a single clean strike, then tapped his own blade against his opponent’s chest—clean, precise, undeniable. A clear kill.

The other boys clapped.

Lobb turned, grinning at Greg.

Greg just stared back. Is this what those guys felt when they saw me fight? That made them so suspicious of me?

Something was off.

He didn’t know what yet.

But he sure as hell was going to find out.

–  –  –  –  –  –  – –​

He didn’t get a chance to find out.

The night felt wrong. 

Not dark, he could see in the dark perfectly fine. It was just… thick, too still, like the whole world had inhaled and was just waiting for the inevitable exhale. The kind of silence that pressed down like a held breath, squeezing way too tight around the ribs. Greg had hated this kind of dark since the moment he landed in Westeros—city nights weren’t like this. City-dark was never complete, always interrupted by a barking dog, people talking, the sound of a television, something…

This? This was absolute.

And somewhere in it, they were waiting.

Cloud snorted beneath him, ears twitching, the horse clearly nervous. Greg really didn’t blame him. The road had been bad enough—narrow, winding, trees thick as prison walls on either side—but now? Now it felt like a fucking trap. Which, considering the last three ambushes, was probably because it was.

The first attack had come three days in. 

Arrows from the trees, swords glinting in the moonlight. Greg hadn’t even been awake for that one, barely out of his bedroll before they were on him. The Northern lords had sent their reply to Robb’s summons for him, and it wasn’t a polite no.

Death to the usurper, the first group had said.

Guts had slapped those three men to death with one hand.

Ash had ripped the next five apart the next day like he was opening a bag of chips and it hadn’t been pretty.

And now? On the third day, they were trying again.

Greg felt the shift in the air a second before everything broke.

“IGNIS!” Fire roared into his palm, heat blooming against his skin as he squeezed his fingers tight around it. The first figure lunged—sword half-drawn, mouth opening for some kind of war cry before Greg punched a bolt of flame straight through his head. The guy crumpled, sword clattering against the dirt.

Second attacker—left side, blade flashing. 

Greg whirled, hand outstretched—“INCENDIUM!” Fire lashed out in an arc, a molten whip of destruction. The assassin barely screamed before the flames swallowed him whole, his sword dropping into the snow with a useless thud.

Greg straightened, breathing hard. “What’s the matter?” he barked into the dark, voice raw, snapping. “Too scared to fight me head-on?”

Movement came from his left as Lobb jumped aside, cutting aside an arrow with his own blade..

Guts was off his horse in half a heartbeat, sword flashing upward in a clean, perfect line. The assassin jumping at him with a sword barely had time to blink before his entire body separated into two distinct halves. Blood hit the ground before either half of him did.

“Idiots,” Guts muttered, voice low, disgusted. “They keep sending lambs to kill a wolf.”

Greg blinked. “Am I the wolf, or are you?”

“What?” Guts smirked. “Two wolves can’t hunt together?”

Greg almost laughed, mouth half-open, but then—

Snap.

His hand shot up, fingers clenching around something midair. Cold wood pressed against his palm, familiar texture—an arrow. An arrow inches from Cloud’s eye. Cloud let out a sharp, shuddering whinny, hooves shifting anxiously as he reared back.

Greg let it drop. Patted Cloud once. Quick, we’re fine, don’t freak out. Then he turned as his boots hit the snow hard, breath fogging the air.

The trees moved and Greg’s jaw clenched. "You think this is how you defend the North?" he shouted, voice tearing through the trees. “Sending killers in the dead of night like cowards?!”

Bowstrings creaked but Greg didn’t wait for them to fire.

The sword appeared in his hand in a flash of white light. He dragged his palm down the blade, runes igniting blue, flickering into existence like waking embers. "IGNIS FALX!"

The fire detonated outward, his blade sweeping in a crescent arc, molten light carving through the dark. The flaming edge extended past the weapon itself, a wave of raw destruction that sliced through trees, through shields, through armor, through flesh.

The air stank of burning wood, burning metal, burning skin.

Greg barely had time to breathe before Guts was already moving.

His massive sword carved through another assassin like he was cutting through air. The body hit the ground in pieces.

"KEEP MOVING!" Greg shouted, twisting toward his men—the few Brightfort warriors still standing. “They want us dead before we reach Winterfell—we’re not giving them the satisfaction!”

The road ahead was still open.

They just had to cut their way through.

His men rallied, swords meeting steel with ugly, wet crunches, but the fight was over before it ever really began. Not a battle, not even a skirmish—just another damn slaughter.

Greg stood there, breathing hard, body still thrumming with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. The last assassin lay in the dirt, his sword half-buried in the snow, fingers curled loosely around the hilt as if even in death he was still trying to fight. Pointless. Greg flicked his fingers, and the embers still licking at his skin guttered out, but the fire inside him—that stayed.

“That’s the third attack in three fucking days,” he muttered, voice rough, more to himself than anyone else.

Guts slung his sword onto his back, stepping over a corpse like it was nothing, his expression unreadable. “If this is peace in the North,” he said, “I’d hate to see war.”

Greg snorted, but there wasn’t really anything funny about it. “Peace? I’ll show them fucking peace.” His eyes flicked to the smoldering remains of the last man he’d burned alive. The air still reeked of cooked flesh, and Greg did not want to get used to that smell. But he barely felt sick anymore. 

Just… tired. Tired and furious.

“Peace only happens when you’ve killed everyone else who doesn’t want it.”

His voice came out colder than he expected.

As they rode on, Greg’s thoughts coiled, twisted in on themselves like a vice, looping back to the same rotten core. The last few months, every ugly thing that had happened, the northern lords sending killers like it was some sick fucking sport, burning villages and calling it justice, hunting girls like animals.

Maybe I should’ve killed them all.

The thought didn’t shock him. 

It didn’t even feel like a new thought—just one that had been sitting there for a while, waiting for him to say it out loud. The Boltons were monsters, but at least they were honest about it. These lords, these so-called honorable men, they smiled while they did the same damn things. 

They just had better fucking branding.

He glanced at Guts, who rode beside him, silent as ever, dark eyes scanning the trees like he was still expecting another attack. Greg wondered what he thought of all this. If it even mattered to him.

“Ever think we should’ve just stayed at the Brightfort?” Greg asked, voice quiet.

Guts turned his head slightly, like he was considering it. “And what?” he said. “Wait for them to come to us? They’d send armies, not assassins.” He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Fun as that would be, this way, at least, you get to choose where the fight happens.”

Greg let that sit for a second.

“Besides,” Guts continued, voice almost amused, “you and me, surrounded by those soft-bellied lords? We’d leave the place bloody, and the North’d be better for it.”

Greg exhaled sharply. Didn’t make him feel any better.

Was this what power was supposed to feel like? The weight of it? The ugliness of it? 

He thought of Robb Stark, the boy-lord of Winterfell, the one waiting for him at the end of this road, at the end of this mess. Greg wanted to believe he was different. That he could fix things.

That he wasn’t just another asshole wearing a crown.

But he wasn’t sure anymore.

By the time they reached Winterfell, the exhaustion had turned into something else. Heavier. Harder. His men dismounted in silence, their faces grim as they led the horses toward the stables. Good. They should be pissed. They should be tired. They should feel it, too.

Greg paused at the gates.

Looked up at the walls, at the towers, at the thick doors Gwenna had told him were supposed to guard something good. Winterfell was supposed to be righteous. 

Just. 

A place where order meant something.

All Greg could feel was the weight of every betrayal, every attack, every life he’d taken to get here.

“Come on,” he muttered to Guts, his voice flat, devoid of anything sharp or bright. “Let’s get this over with.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k Words (100 GP)

ROLL: Paradigm System (100 GP) [Final Fantasy XIII] {Modus}: "Perhaps you opt to take a class. You may choose one of the following:

• Commando: Heavy, relentless physical assault

• Ravager: Rapid, brutal magical assault

• Sentinel: Defensive focus on blocking

• Saboteur: Undermines enemies with conditions

• Synergist: Supports allies with boons

• Medic: Heavy focus on healing allies.

In addition to learning all the abilities in such a class with time and experience, you may also teach your class to your companions.

Can be taken multiple times, but each class can only be taken once.

May be Purchased Multiple Times."

Grimoire Points: 200