Nerd In The North 5-8

Greg’s consciousness dragged itself up from sleep like a boot pulled from thick mud, which was pretty much exactly what happened to his brain every morning now. His mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on leather all night—stale, bitter, with that particular tang that came from too many days eating field rations and too much drinking water he purified himself. God, I miss orange juice. And toothpaste. And literally any food that didn’t come in a burlap sack. All his supplies in his backpack... well, they had run out months ago, honestly.

The familiar weight against his ribs told him Ash was still there, his pet’s scaly-furry bulk pressed against his side. Said living furnace was still asleep, still occasionally making small huffing noises as he hunted Boltons in his dreams.

Ash had been twitchier lately. More alert.

Greg wasn’t sure if it was the cold, or the fact that they were marching deeper into territory where people definitely wanted to kill them, or what. Maybe dragons just got grumpy when they didn’t get to burn things for a few days.

Greg raised his right hand to his mouth, fingers still stiff from the cold that didn’t really touch him anymore. “Purify,” he muttered, and golden light poured from his palm like liquid sunlight. The taste vanished instantly—not just masked, but gone, along with the grime between his teeth and the film on his tongue. Way more convenient than brushing teeth. Hell, more convenient than most things he’d taken for granted back home.

Back home. The phrase still hit weird. 

Greg was pulling on his boots when he heard voices outside. Not his men—Lobb would have announced himself, and Guts didn’t do morning small talk unless someone was about to die. These were regular Northern soldiers, probably passing by on their way to the cook fires to pretend whatever they ladled into their bowls counted as breakfast.

“—eard tell he dragged back Ser Rodrik’s boy, lad took a spear clean through ‘is chest.”

Greg froze, boot half on. Ser who now?

“Bugger that, ain’t right. T’was his gut, fool.” another voice said, probably from the same gene pool as the first guy based on the accent.

“Shows what ye know.”

“Aye, I do know. Me wife’s brother were at Winterfell, swears it, even. Bright Lord went down t’the crypts, stirred up all t’dead Starks. Had ‘em fightin’ for young Robb, he did, before killing Lord Bolton.”

Oh, come on. Greg’s other boot hit the ground harder than intended. Ash stirred beside him, one golden eye cracking open to fix on Greg with lazy curiosity, like he was wondering if it was time to eat someone yet.

“Dead Starks, ye say?” The first voice sounded skeptical but intrigued, which was the worst possible combination. “…That’s a new one, that.”

“Reckon it fits, don’t it? Bear he had were just a beast, now it’s got wings an’ spits fire like a drag’nlord’s wet dream. If’n the Bright Lord be one with the power t’twist a brute like that…”

Shoot me in the fucking head, Jesus Christ. The blond lord stood up, brushing off his blue breeches, and did his best to keep his eyes from rolling all the way out of his head as he tuned out the rest of the conversation. I should kick Oren in the balls. Breath left his mouth in a long, low sigh. At least they’re not calling me the Demon of the Dreadlands anymore. That was getting old.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The village was a small one.

Honestly, he had no idea what the hell counted as small or big in Westeros anymore. It was just as hard to tell as age half the time.

Losing my sense of perspective, maybe.

Maybe.

Lord Veder rolled his eyes again as he continued atop Cloud, blue eyes scanning over the maybe thirty houses clustered around a well and a sept that had seen better decades. Greg paused as he rode past, the sound of children playing in the dirt behind the kneeling adults catching his attention. Cloud snorted underneath him, probably wondering why they’d stopped when there wasn’t anything obviously threatening nearby.

“I’m the Bright Lord!” one boy declared, maybe eight years old, holding a stick like a sword. “And you’re the evil Bolton!”

“No fair,” complained his opponent, who looked like he’d been rolling in the dirt for the better part of the morning. “You always get to be the Bright Lord. I want to do the magic!”

The first little boy pointed his stick with more flair than Greg had ever used his Celestial Blade with, face all screwed up. “Storm magic! Wind magic! Fire magic! Dragon breath!” Each ‘spell’ was accompanied by sound effects that would have made a bad fantasy movie proud. Like, direct-to-VHS bad.

Greg watched, one eyebrow up excessively high as a third child ran up with both of his arms spread wide at his sides as he made loud whooshing noises with his mouth, doing his best at copying an airplane a good thousand years before anyone would ever see one. “I’m the dragon-bear! I’m going to eat everyone!” The ‘dragon’ proceeded to chase the other children around in circles while they shrieked with laughter, stumbling over their own feet and probably bruising half their limbs in the process.

Beside him, Lobb was trying not to grin. “Accurate portrayal, m’lord?”

Greg snorted. “Kid’s got the wingspan wrong. Ash is way bigger now.” Also, real dragon-bears didn’t make whooshing noises, they made sounds like a freight train having an argument with a garbage disposal. But close enough.

One of the smaller boys shrieked, “Die, traitor!” and collapsed, clutching his chest in what was probably supposed to be a dramatic death scene but mostly looked like he was having a seizure.

The “Bright Lord” raised both hands and shouted, “Burn them all!”

The other kids roared with laughter. Greg didn’t. Something cold settled in his stomach, the kind of cold that had nothing to do with the weather. Burn them all. Great. That was definitely the message he wanted eight-year-olds to take away from his story.

“Children, away with you!” Greg glanced up as the headman shuffled over with wide eyes, the bearded older man with arms like small tree trunks. shooting the children a look that promised later discipline as they scurried away like startled chickens. “Forgive them, my lord. They know not—”

“It’s fine,” Greg cut him off, even though it really, really wasn’t. “They’re kids, man. Kids… I…I really don’t care.”

The headman bobbed his head gratefully and hurried away, probably to go yell at the kids for playing games about the scary lord with the fire magic in front of the scary lord with the fire magic. 

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

An hour later in front of his camp, Greg was checking Cloud’s shoes when he heard shuffling behind him. Great. More people wanting things. He turned to find five kids clustered together like they were working up courage for something stupid. The oldest couldn’t have been more than fourteen, brown-haired and serious-faced in the way kids got when they’d been working since they could walk. The youngest was maybe twelve, all knees and elbows.

Oh, fuck me.

“G-greetings, m’lord Veder,” the oldest said, voice cracking despite the fact he’d clearly practiced this. “We… all of we… all of us would serve. Serve your house…”

Greg blinked at them, eyes roaming over all the children in front of him. “Serve? You’re…” No, these were honestly kids. Like, actual kids. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen namedays, m’lord,” the leader said, standing straighter. “And Wat here’s got his thirteenth nameday last moon.”

Wat?

The boy called Wat nodded eagerly. “I can fight, m’lord! My da taught me with the quarterstaff ‘fore he went with Lord Tully’s levies.”

Before he went and got himself killed probably. Greg kept that to himself, all too well aware these kids had enough problems. “We heard the stories,” another boy chimed in, soft hands that meant his family had coin. Had. “About how you fight for smallfolk, not just lords. How you healed folk after the Battle of the Fords.”

The oldest of the boys nodded. “And how your dragon ate the Kingslayer’s horse!”

Greg winced. “That’s not—Ash didn’t eat anyone’s horse.” Who the hell is the Kingslayer?

“But he could, couldn’t he, m’lord?” Wat asked with a level of eagerness and downright enthusiasm that had Greg eyeing him a little weirdly. “If you told him to?”

Probably. He nodded at that thought, unable to help himself. Along with the rider. “That’s not really the point.”

Greg rubbed his forehead. Back home, these kids would be in middle school, worrying about math tests. Here, they were talking about joining an army. The worst part was, in a year or two, they’d probably be conscripted anyway. Better to choose your lord than have one chosen for you.

“Your families know you’re here?”

The boys exchanged glances. The oldest cleared his throat. “My ma says… she says the Bright Lord takes care of his own. That you don’t let your men starve or get left behind when they’re hurt.”

No pressure. “And we don’t have nowhere else to go,” Wat added quietly. “Da’s gone, and ma can’t feed us all with the harvest burned.”

Greg looked at them. Really looked. Wat was skinny in the way that meant missed meals. The soft-handed boy’s clothes were good quality but patched. Even the oldest had that hollow-eyed look Greg was starting to recognize.

They weren’t asking to play soldier. They were asking for a chance to eat.

“I don’t take children,” Greg said, because he had to say something responsible. Even if responsibility was more theoretical at this point.

“But m’lord,” the oldest said, desperation creeping in, “I can read! And write! I helped the septon with his letters. I could… I could help with messages and such.”

Greg paused. A literate teenager was actually valuable when half the knights could barely sign their names. And the kid wasn’t asking to carry a sword, exactly.

“You can read?”

“Aye, m’lord. And numbers too. My da wanted me for a merchant ‘fore the war came.” His voice cracked on ‘da.’

Greg was quiet. These kids weren’t going to give up. If he sent them away, they’d probably attach themselves to some other part of the army. Maybe one that wouldn’t keep them out of fighting. Or they’d starve.

Starving is definitely worse.

“What’s your name?”

“Tomard, m’lord. Tomard Rivers.”

Rivers, Greg nodded slowly. That meant the guy was a bastard of some kind of noble from the Riverlands. Apparently, these nobles couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants and Westeros was just frickin’ full of them. Whatever.

“Alright, Tomard Rivers. You can help Lobb with supply lists and message copying. The rest of you…” Greg looked at the younger boys. “You stay in camp. Help with horses, carry water, whatever. But you do not go near any fighting. Understood?”

The boys’ faces lit up. “Aye, m’lord!” Tomard said, grinning. “We won’t let you down!”

As they scampered off to collect their belongings, Greg shook his head. A year ago, he’d been complaining about homework. Now he was employing child laborers, just to keep them from fighting.

Mom would have opinions about this. Lots of opinions. 

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Y’know the other lords won’t like it, m’lord,” Lobb said, settling down across from Greg with his own thick bubbling bowl of what passed for stew, a very optimistic and hopeful name for something that tasted like boiled leather with hunks of hot salted meat in it somewhere.

Greg shrugged, spooning up one of said chunks of meat with a thick carrot slice in it. “They’re kids who need food. We need people who can read. Seems fair to me.”

“Ain’t ‘ow they’ll see it,” Lobb’s voice was careful, which usually meant he was about to explain something that would make Greg’s life more complicated. “They’ll say you’re makin’ your own lot. Not leanin’ on the old…”

Greg paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. They say a lot of things, man. What do you want me to do about that? Instead of saying that, Greg just sighed and asked, “Old…?”

“Lords serve the king. Knights serve lords. Folk serve who they’re born under. But you—” Lobb glanced down, the smallfolk boy his age who he had taken as a squire clearly unsure whether he should continue at all, “You’re takin’ ‘em in your own name. Makes it look like they ain’t no one’s folk no more.”

“But their lords are dead or fighting somewhere else.” Or fled to Essos with all the gold they could carry, Greg thought back, thinking of Snowthorne and how a good chunk of his people had made envoys to the Brightfort before he left. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Don’t matter none. Ain’t about sense, m’lord. It’s about how things sit. Like water down a hill, aye?” He stirred his bowl, not meeting Greg’s eyse.

Greg set down his spoon, thinking. Back home, hiring people based on skills instead of family connections was called good business. Here, apparently, it was political rebellion. Of course it is. Because why should anything be simple?

“How much trouble are we talking about?”

Lobb considered, chewing thoughtfully on what was definitely a piece of gristle. “Ain’t much trouble, long as we keep winnin’. Wins wash near everything clean, m’lord. But if we lose…” He shrugged. “Men loyal to you ‘stead of their lords? Looks like you’re buildin’ summat.”

Planning something. “Something like what?”

“Somethin’ like maybe you reckon the king ain’t king. Or Lord Stark ain’t your liege. Summat like that, m’lord,” Lobb’s voice dropped lower, like he was worried someone might overhear. “Lords get twitchy when one of ‘em starts walkin’ sideways. They start thinkin’ maybe they’re next.”

Greg looked out through the tent flap at the campfires dotting the darkness. Somewhere out there, five kids were probably sharing whatever food they’d managed to scrounge, excited about their new positions and the fact that they wouldn’t go to bed hungry tonight. Tomorrow, Tomard would help Lobb with the morning reports, and the younger ones would carry water and tend horses and do all the small, necessary work that kept an army moving.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. And maybe that was enough.

“Let them worry,” Greg said finally. “I’m not going to let kids starve because some lord gets pissy about proper arrangements.”

“That’s very noble, m’lord,” Lobb said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made Greg look up. Something that sounded almost like pride.

Greg sighed. “Noble. Right.” Because that’s what I am now. Noble Lord Greg, Savior of Starving Children and Destroyer of Social Norms.

Lobb finished his stew and left the tent, probably to go check on the sentries or count supplies or do one of the dozen other things that kept them all alive out here. Greg reached for his cup and took a pull from the wine in it. He’d gotten used to the taste, honestly, but he didn’t make it public that half the time he filled his own cup—apparently, Northerners called them horns, which was just weird—with freshwater he magicked up or purified.

No need to let everyone know their fearless leader has the alcohol tolerance of a twelve-year-old girl.

He put it down and sighed, thankful the day was over. Another day of marching, another day of not getting killed, another day of pretending he knew what the hell he was doing. Tomorrow they’d march some more, and maybe he’d make some other decision that would piss off the lords while accidentally doing the right thing.

Story of my life, really.

Ash stirred beside him, one golden eye cracking open. His pupils were slit too narrow, like when he was tracking something. Watching the flap, not Greg.

“What is it, boy?” Greg glanced over at him, hand instinctively moving toward where he kept his sword. Ash didn’t get twitchy for no reason.

He reached over for his cup again but his hand hovered as the tent flap rustled—and then the voice came, sharp and uncertain.

“Begging your pardon, m’lord.”

One of Lobb’s friends. Greg wasn’t sure what his name was—Darren? Derren? Something with a D—but he was standing just outside, probably shuffling his feet and trying to work up the courage to actually step inside.

“It’s begged,” Greg said with a roll of his eyes. 

“Thank you m’lord.” His voice was tight as he walked in, eyes darting down to a staring Ash nervously. Smart man. Ash had his playful attempts of taking fingers off people who annoyed him, and tonight his little buddy looked like he was in a finger-taking mood. “Th-there’s a man from the lord’s levy asking why his cousin’s boys are in your camp.”

“Okay?” Greg waited for the rest of it, because there was always a rest of it. Nothing was ever simple.

“Says they belong to House Vance. Wants to know if you’re planning to keep ’em.”

Greg blinked. His hand was still hovering over the cup, but now it just stayed there, frozen halfway between his face and the table. House Vance. Of course. Of fucking course.

“House Vance.” He repeated it slowly, like maybe saying it out loud would make it make more sense. It didn’t. “As in, one of the Riverlands houses that’s supposed to be on our side?”

“Aye, m’lord. Says… says the boys ran off without leave, and he’s come to collect ’em.” The soldier—Derron, that was his name—shifted uncomfortably. “Says it’s his right.”

His right. Greg’s hand finally found the cup, and he took a long swallow of wine that tasted like flavored vinegar. 

So much for doing good.