Nerd In the North 6-19B

Thwak!

His jaw worked slow, a piece of dried apple tucked in the left pocket of his cheek. A year of eating medieval food had gotten him used to food that wasn’t exactly fresh, but it still didn’t really do much to change the fact that it still tasted like…

Dust and disappointment. Greg tilted his head as he kept chewing. Yeah, that’s pretty much it.

Speaking of disa—Thwak!

Speaking of disapp—Thwak!

Speaking of disappointments — Thwak! — Greg leaned his shoulder against a roughly made fence post, watching the biggest one in his current vicinity. Okay, I’m just being mean now.

That was true enough, probably, but the guy just got on his first and last nerve with everything he did. Greg had only been around the man twenty-four solid hours but Barryn still managed to fill him with a month's worth of annoyance all the same.

Thwak!

The hedge knight had been working since the sun dragged itself over the horizon and started rising into the miserable grey of the Riverland sky, and he’d been working his ass off at least. Thwak!

The heavy iron axe sunk deep into a thick gnarled stump, wood split clean down the middle with another sharp Thwak as Barryn tossed it off to the side and placed down another. Working at this pace, the man had already managed to put together enough firewood to last the village a solid month by the looks of it.

By the time the sun was fully up, dragging itself over the dull canopy, Greg had watched Ser Barryn chop enough firewood to last the village a solid month.

Even still, Greg doubted the man was doing all this out of the goodness of his heart. He definitely didn’t buy that this was something normal for the guy either.

For one, Barryn was glowing. 

Like, literally.

It wasn’t exactly blinding and it wasn’t all that impressive either; more a wavy distortion like heat off a sidewalk in the middle of July than… well, pretty much anything Greg could do. Even still, the subtle aura clung to the knight's sweat-soaked skin.

Barryn grunted again, hoisting the axe up again before bringing it down one more time as villagers watched him work not too far away. Murmurs and whispers reached Greg’s ears as the hedge knight kept going, the smallfolk acting like he was turning water to wine.

Literally trying not to be outshined. Greg bit back a snort, shaking his head as the axe dropped down again. Not slick, Barry.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The night before, the village had gone entirely out of their way to throw a feast.

At least, what counted for a feast for a bunch of smallfolk living in the middle of a war.

Long wooden tables — more roughly cleaned and shaved logs than anything else — were hauled out near a bonfire set up in the middle of the village. Smallfolk spent all day cooking and dragging out whatever food they had; everything from elk to rabbits to various kinds of birds along with salted pork and some sour watery ale that had been sitting in cellars for who knew how long even. 

Greg’s own place at the head table had pretty much been forced on him, not that he argued all that much or that it was really much of a place in the first place. Either way, both Myrcella and Sansa took their place on the rough bench at his side. Both princesses were quiet for their own separate reasons, though Greg had the feeling that the quality of the food they were picking at had something to do with it. 

Guts didn’t even bother with a seat at the table, not like Lobb or Wat or Daeric or any of the Stark men. No, Ser Guts took a place against a wooden post, leaning up against it with his head down. If it wasn’t for the entire roasted chicken he was currently tearing into, Greg might have thought the guy was just too cool for any of this.

Ser Barryn stood up at the far end of the long table, a wooden goblet raised high into the smoke-filled air. "To the Bright Lord!"

“The Bright Lord!”

Voices of the smallfolk boomed loud into the night as Ser Barryn shouted louder. "Sent by the Seven Who Are One to stand by our side in the dark!"

Wooden cups slammed violently against the tables, ale sloshing over the sides as the villagers cheered and roared.

Smile on his face that he didn’t feel, Greg raised his own cup and watched the hedge beam at his flock. 

“...oooh, this is gonna be bad.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

It definitely was, even when the village didn’t seem to actually notice it.

"Exactly what a knight should be."

Greg blinked to find a shock of red hair right next to him, Sansa’s heavy shawl pulled tight around her shoulders against the morning chill. Her blue eyes were locked firmly on Barryn, sighing as she joined the adoring audience staring at the twenty-something man splitting another set of logs.

“And why is that, princess?”

“Ser Barryn has stayed to protect these people. He speaks gently to them, and they look to him as they would any true knight of the Faith.” She turned her head, fixing Greg with a look that reminded him that this was the girl that expected to be queen. “A man who gives them courage with word and deed alike.”

“But…” Greg stopped chewing the apple, mouth drier than it was when he started. "I do that."

"You don't."

"I totally do that. Without trying to, even." Greg snapped, the annoyance flaring up fast. "What are you even talking about? I pulled you out of a castle and fought dozens of guys while keeping you safe. Hell, I’m keeping you alive right now. I save people, like… like daily."

"You jest over dead men!” Sansa stepped forward, finger raised and voice shrill enough to make a passing farmer flinch and scurry away. “Men are cut in twain before you, and you laugh as if all this were nought but some lark!”

Not… not all the time. Hell, it’s been a week since the last time. And, in his defense, Guts had said something really funny. “...tell me how you really feel, Red.”

"I have said enough.” Dainty arms folded themselves over her chest, the red princess raising her chin. “A lady need not waste her words.”

“No waste here.” Greg raised an eyebrow. “C’mon, let it out. Tell me how I’m worse than that fake knight over there.”

“He gives them hope. All you offer is blood and fear."

“Uh-huh.”

“Even now you jest like a mummer!” Sansa shook her head. “You terrify these people!"

“...then they should really stop singing songs about me and asking for blessings.” Greg blinked back. “Forget that, though. Terrify them? You sure you don’t mean, terrify you?”

Sansa let out a sharp huff, fists clenched tight at her sides as she stomped off back towards the men preparing for their departure.

Greg just rubbed his forehead, a headache already throbbing hard behind his eyes. Yeah, great talk. Ten outta ten. Would definitely get yelled at for saving lives again.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“My lord, begging your pardon, might I have a word?”

Greg bit back a sigh as he watched Lobb tighten the leather straps on Cloud, Daeric and Wat doing the same to Guts’s big black Bastard. After a day or so stuck in Lowmead — or whatever this village was called — they were finally ready to go as the afternoon sun began to drift low in the sky.

"It is truly a matter of importance, my lord."

I bet. Arms crossed, Greg turned on his heel to finally face Ser Barryn. 

The hedge knight wasn't puffing himself anymore, not even a smile on his face as he held his hands close to his chest. “I know you see it.”

Blue eyes narrowed at the man. “See what?”

"The blessing. My blessing." Barryn spoke quietly, low enough that villagers nearby couldn't hear him. "The Warrior gave me a spark, but it is no fire. I can carry a wagon on my shoulders but the lives of these people are too heavy for me, my lord. I know that."

"Then why are you lying to them?"

Barryn fought the scowl on his face, but it was clearly stronger than him. "Because their fear will only hasten their deaths. My presence is all that keeps them safe behind these walls. I beseech you, my lord…” Barryn took a step closer, hands open. "Stay.” 

Greg raised an eyebrow. What?

“You have the strength, and I their trust. Together, we could actually save them."

"...no."

“You…” Barryn stared at Greg as the young lord just shook his head, one word saying it all. "You would just abandon them to the dark?"

"I. Just. Got. Here." Greg hissed each word out with every step he took, getting right up into the hedge’s personal space. “I can’t abandon people I don’t have any actual responsibility to. I have that… up North. I’m also not the one lying to them and trying to make them worship me.”

“But you accept it all the same.”

“Again, nooo~oooo.” Frown on his face, the teenage lord of the North leaned back to shoot the man a glare. “Not me. Not this Greg. I know not what Greg you’ve mistaken me for, ser, but pity to him for setting your expectations so low.”

A second later, Greg found himself blinking. What the fuck did I just say? 

Pushing that to the back of his mind with a shake of his head, he looked back at the hedge in front of him. “Look, when something comes out of those woods that you can't handle, people are going to die because you fed them your bullshit. That’s not on me, buddy. That’s all you."

Barryn’s face hardened, desperation fading to be replaced by an ugly anger that left the hedge knight looking more bitter than chivalrous. "And when you leave, when the demons come, they'll die knowing their Bright Lord never cared enough to even try."

“...Cute. You trick these people into worshipping you, and somehow I’m the asshole?”

No words left to throw, Barryn just pulled a Sansa; the man turning his back to Greg as he walked back to his people. 

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

By the time the sun had finally disappeared over the edge of the world, the temperature had fallen fast. Nothing as bad as the North on a good day even, but the thick mud had already half-frozen beneath their boots.

Aside from the loud crunch following their footsteps every now and again, they walked in almost complete silence, the suffocating dark of the forest pressing in hard from all sides.

As much as Sansa had complained, she didn’t put up a fight when Greg announced they were heading out. He rolled his eyes as he thought back to how eager she’d been to get going. What happened to inspiring the people?

They kept moving through the woods at the same slow pace, the sky darkening further until Greg was halfway to casting a light spell just so they could go a bit further and find a good-enough clearing to set camp in.

They’d barely been walking for another good five minutes more when Greg frowned, ears pricking up. What?

The noise faint at first and barely there, it didn’t take long at all before everybody else seemed to pick up on it too. The unmistakable clash of steel hitting steel and the sound of screams.

Sitting atop Cloud, Sansa twisted in the saddle; the princess looking back over her shoulder into the dark. "Are you going back… my lord?"

Five steps.

Oh, so now it’s ‘my lord.’ New respect aside, Greg didn't stop walking. "No. Keep moving."

Ten steps.

The screaming got louder, the sounds of people running for their lives.

Fifteen.

"...fuck.” Greg hissed the word through his teeth, coming to a dead halt. Fine. “Celly.” The pale-haired princess turned to face him. “Celly, can I have that second book, please?”

Myrcella didn’t even blink, no question on her lips as she reached into her cloak and handed over the second book she had yet to open; a simple bright orange grimoire covered in blocky yellow text.

Greg snatched it up, not bothering to look at the title as he spun around to look up into the dark night. "Ash! Fly!"

A heavy shadow detached itself from the branches above, the dragon-bear roaring as he took to the sky. With a grunt, Greg pushed off the ground and took to the air, body breaking free of the canopy completely. Razor-sharp claws caught the back of his breastplate with a sudden jerk yanking his shoulders as Ash pulled him violently into the night sky. 

High above the treeline, Greg could make out the way they’d come from; the village a bright circle of fire in the dark. Damn it.

Greg squinted against the wind tearing at his face, realizing exactly what he was dealing with.

Not monsters.

Men.

A heavy party of men cloaked in red had broken down the main wooden wall, Lannisters breaching into the village with weapons ready. In the chaos, he spottted Barryn get backhanded straight into the dirt by a mounted knight in a single charge, the hedge’s "blessing" doing absolutely nothing against the sheer mass of a warhorse.

Idiot! Greg reached deep into his chest, grabbing hold of his magic as the stars inside him began to spin up again, burning bright and hot in his chest.

Right hand thrust out in front of him, Greg aimed directly down at the thickest, most crowded, chunk of red cloaks rushing by the town well. 

"Ignivar!” Words tore free of his throat, raw and loud. “Maxima!"

From his extended palm, a concentrated lance of screaming fire shot down like a bolt of fire straight from God himself. 

There was no fire to actually put out afterward, because one never actually started. 

The impact was a shockwave of heat and force, red-hot flames wiping out panicking horses and screaming men — armor and all — with a blast that rattled the air. The ground shook as well, bodies of all kinds sent flying backward like broken smoking dolls. 

Ash swung low and released his grip, letting Greg drop the last fifty feet into a painful impact that sunk him deep into scorched mud.

Silence slammed back into the burning village.

The surviving Lannisters didn't even bother with swords, the men in red running after just one look at the crater and the boy that fell from the sky. 

Ser Barryn pushed himself up from the mud, face the color of old parchment.

Greg felt his eye twitch, headache pounding again in full force as the massive mana drain throbbed from deep inside him. My fault for making up a high-tier spell on the spot, I guess. He stood up straight, free hand ruffling through his blond hair, and used the other to toss the orange spellbook into the mud right at the hedge knight’s feet.

“Good luck.”

He turned his back on the burning village and the stunned knight, already looking back up at the sky. "Everybody gets one. Fly!"