Nerd In the North 5-16

"H-happy birthday to me..."

The fire crackled in the center of their camp, orange light doing that weird dance thing flames always did when you stared too long. Most of the Stark men-at-arms had already rolled into their bedrolls hours ago, snoring like a bunch of broken lawn mowers. Tomard Snow and Wat huddled together on the far side of camp, as far from Ash as they could manage without actually leaving the light entirely. Smart move, honestly. Not everyone's cool with sleeping next to a fire-breathing murder lizard.

Three days on the road. Three days of hard riding and those particular brand of awkward silences that happened when nobody wanted to talk about where they were going or why.

Greg sat cross-legged by the flames, still in his armor. "Happy Birthday to me, happy birthday to me..." The words came out barely above a whisper, and he tried real hard not to think about his last birthday. Mom making pancakes shaped like cartoon characters because she thought he was still into that shit, and Sparky showing up with some bootleg anime DVD he'd probably shoplifted from Best Buy.

About a year ago now… give or take. Hard to tell when you didn't have calendars or clocks or any of the basic shit that made time make sense. Just took me realizing I've seen about sixteen full moons to figure it out.

That wasn't sad, though.

He hoped.

"Happy birthday, dear Gre~eg, Happy birthday to me." The tune died in the night air as he looked up at stars that still looked wrong after all this time. Different constellations, different moon phases. I miss you, mom. The thought hit like a sucker punch to the gut, and he had to focus on his white plate catching firelight instead.

Probably looked like some fairy tale knight sitting here. Except storybook knights didn't get drenched in blood after carving through a dozen guys like they were playing Dynasty Warriors on easy mode. Also, his nose wrinkled, I feel like people don't talk enough about how dead bodies shit. Not just smell like shit—they actually shit themselves when they died, which was both insane and deeply gross on multiple levels.

Half the reason he tried to avoid kills these days. You get tired of smelling literal shit all the time.

Ash lay curled directly on top of the burning logs like some kind of demented cat, scales shimmering in heat that would cook anything else stupid enough to try it. Wings twitched in sleep, probably dreaming about hunting or flying or whatever dragons dreamed about. Small puffs of smoke drifted from his nostrils with each breath, and Greg had long since stopped worrying about carbon monoxide poisoning from his pet.

Night air carried woodsmoke and horse sweat, two smells that pretty much defined life on the road in medieval fantasy land. Somewhere in the distance an owl called, lonely sound that made the wilderness feel bigger than it probably was. King's Landing's still weeks away. Plenty of time to think about all the ways this could go wrong.

"Can't sleep neither, eh m'lord?"

The former “poacher” who Greg was pretty sure stole more than just deer and rabbits settled down across from him, handy-dandy bow within easy reach as always. Greg raised an eyebrow at Daeric as the young lord poked at the fire with a stick. 

"Mind if I sit, m'lord?” his bowman asked, already seated. “Ground's cold everywhere else."

Lobb approached more carefully, half-stumbling in the dark as he kept both eyes firmly on the sleeping Ash. It had been a long time from way back when he could barely look Greg in the eye without flinching. “M’lord.”

“M’squire,” Greg responded with a nod, “surprised you guys aren’t asleep yet.”

Guts emerged from the shadows with barely even the slightest sound. “Sleep’s for the dead.”

Just nothing and there he was looming with enough presence that Lobb flinched towards the sleeping Ash, rather than away. It was almost enough to put a smile on Greg’s face the way the big man could move silent despite being built like a refrigerator with legs. "I ain’t dead yet," he continued in a rumbling tone.  “Had to piss anyway, couldn’t sleep yet.”

…good to know. 

“Anyway…” Greg gestured to the space around the fire. Mi casa es su casa. 

Or whatever the Westerosi equivalent was. Probably something about hearth and home and guest right. "Pull up some dirt, my guys."

They all got comfortable with the usual symphony of groaning joints and clinking mail, except for Guts who just dropped to the ground with a sound louder than anybody else made, and not with his mouth. Greg stared into flames, watching Ash's peaceful sleep and trying not to think about how much simpler life had been when his biggest worry was algebra homework. I really do miss algebra.

"You guys ever think about how the lords look at us?" The question slipped out quieter than intended, but it slipped out anyway, forcing its way past thought and teeth.

“Us? Or you, m’lord? You and the big one?” Daeric snorted, tossing his stick into the fire where it caught and blazed. "More than that, which lords? The ones pissin' themselves when ye walk into a room?" His grin showed all teeth in the firelight, sharp and mischievous. "Or the ones pretendin' they ain't pissin' themselves?"

Lobb shifted uncomfortably, bedroll bunched in his lap like a security blanket. "They look at ye like... like ye might set 'em on fire for sport, m'lord." His voice dropped rough and low. "Not that I blame 'em, after what happened to Lord Bolton."

Greg laughed, but even he wasn't sure what was funny. "Monster. That's what they see when they look at me." Mom would hate that. The thought hit sideways, unexpected, and his forced smile died faster than it had come. "Some kid who showed up out of nowhere and started burning people alive."

The blond raked one hand through his hair as his voice dropped quieter, eyes still firmly on the fire and Ash’s dark scales. "Want to know the really fucked up part? I don't feel bad about it. Any of it."

Daeric raised an eyebrow, glancing from fire to dragon to Greg with confusion clear on both his face and in his tone. "Should ye? Feel bad, I mean? Bolton was a right bastard. North’s better without him."

Greg shook his head, fingers drumming against his knee in a rhythm that wasn’t nervousness, not panic, not anything but too much energy with nowhere to go. "That's not what I mean. I mean... before all this started, before Bolton..." He paused, watching sparks spiral up into darkness, Ash fanning the flames just by being among them. "I would've thrown up half the time, I’m pretty sure"

Like when I accidentally ran over Mrs. Peterson's cat with my bike. Greg had cried for a whole three days straight back then. Now he could carve through a dozen men and be hungry in the middle of it, which was… weird.

Lobb leaned forward, bright and curious as ever. It was times like this that Greg was sure his squire had to be younger than “five and ten”, at least a year younger, because he looked too excited half the time, to be past that yet. "What changed, m'lord?" The words came out rough, like his throat was full of gravel, but there was genuine interest there. Kid had gotten comfortable enough to actually ask questions instead of just following orders.

Greg stared at Ash, still sleeping peaceful as a house cat, despite the open flames that should have cooked any other animal alive. "I did. Somewhere along the way, I just... stopped caring about the right things." Admitting that tasted a whole different kind of bitter. "Started caring about the wrong ones instead."

Guts shifted on the log he had dropped down on, the movement making the wood creak in protest. Dragonslayer's pommel caught the firelight, the black metal invisible otherwise in the darkness "You think too much." His voice came out flat, as it usually did. "Dead's dead. Doesn't matter how you feel about it after."

Greg looked up at him, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "That's... surprisingly bleak, even for you." And that's saying something, considering this is the guy who probably uses corpses as pillows.

Guts shrugged. "I've killed more men than you've seen. Good men, bad men, men who didn't deserve it." The black knight paused, dark eyes serious in the firelight. "You know what I learned?"

Silence stretched until Daeric couldn't stand it anymore. "What's that then?" The archer grinned bright and excited.

Guts' voice dropped lower, grinning back at him. "Sometimes when things are being annoying... you just gotta keep killing till your head's on straight again."

The space around the fire was silent and nobody moved for a few heartbeats.

Then Greg poked at the fire again, more sparks flying into the sky like tiny stars. "See, that's what I'm talking about. That right there." He shook his head, half-laughing even as he tried to force it down. "You say shit like that and wonder why people are terrified of us."

Daeric's grin widened, showing teeth in the firelight. "...y'terrify me, Black Lord, y'do, but ye give the worse advice I've ever heard in me life."

Guts scoffed, a sound like rocks grinding together leaving his throat. “Fuck off.”

"Aye, and ye know what I like about ridin' with ye, m'lord?" Daeric turned toward Greg, voice picking up that particular tone he got when he was building up to something. "Ye don't pretend. Nobles, they're always pretendin' to be somethin' they ain't."

Guts nodded with grudging agreement.

Something warm bloomed in Greg's chest that had nothing to do with the fire or the armor or the medieval fantasy bullshit. "Thanks, I think."

Lobb's grin showed up bright and boyish. "Takes a special kind of mad to charge a Bolton fortress with just smallfolk." 

Greg laughed, and this time it sounded real. "Hey, it worked out. Mostly." He gestured toward Ash, who chose that moment to shift deeper into the burning logs. "Plus, I had my secret weapon. Hard to lose when you've got a dragon, even a tiny one."

"We're a right strange bunch, ain't we?" Daeric leaned back, studying both Greg and Guts like they were particularly interesting specimens. "Dragon rider, giant swordsman, hunter, and farm boy."

Greg considered this, watching flames dance across familiar faces. "Former hunter, current badass. Don't sell yourself short, Daeric." 

The flames popped and Ash finally stirred, lifting his head from flames with eyes as red as the firepit blinking sleepy and content. Greg reached over to scratch behind ears that were definitely getting bigger and a pair of horns that were no longer dark nubs. "Hey buddy. We being too loud for you?"

The dragon-bear just settled back down into burning logs, apparently unbothered.

Guts suddenly frowned, like something had just clicked in his head with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Dark eyes narrowed as he looked at Daeric. "Wait. Hol’ on."

"What's got ye thinkin' now?" Daeric raised an eyebrow.

"Earlier. You called me something." Guts' voice was equal parts confused and irritated, like someone had just told him two plus two equaled fish.

Daeric's grin widened, realizing what Guts was getting at. "Oh aye, that I did."

The scowl deepened, and Greg could practically see the gears turning in Guts' head. "...y'terrify me, Black Lord, y'do, but ye give the worse advice I've ever heard in me life."

"The worst," Greg nodded fast, half-biting his lip as he tried not to laugh.

"Horrid," Lobb chimed in, grinning despite himself.

Guts pulled a face like he'd just bitten into a full-sized lemon and was too proud to spit it back up. "Black Lord? What kinda shite name is that? Who's calling me that?"