Nerd In the North 6-26

“Fou!”

The camp pot pinged out a thin rattle of metal against blackened stone, the fire choking on damp bark and wet pine needles that spat gray smoke right back into his eyes.

“Fou!”

He dragged a wooden spoon through thick broth, the pot filled and bubbling strong with all sorts of vegetables and herbs; onions, potatoes, roots that Lobb had dug up, and a rabbit that Daeric had pinned to a tree a good hour back.

The smell was strong enough to cover up the smell of everything else — wet horse, sulfur breath and the scent of a dozen sets of unwashed traveling clothes that even a ‘Purify’ spell could no longer cover up.

The cooking pot was aluminum, bright and modern; a piece of gear he’d yanked out of his brown backpack a little bit ago — the thing rattling as the rabbit stew hit a roiling boil. It might not have been gourmet and it might not have been the heartiest meal, but it was enough and it was boiling.

Boiling meant safe.

Boiling meant not getting the runs or whatever medieval parasite lived in this river mud.

God, I need a bed. Greg bit back a sigh as he kept stirring the pot. A bed and a big fat pheasant leg. And all he needed to do was walk another two days.

Two days out from Riverrun.

A solid forty-eight hours until he could dump the VIPs behind overbuilt stone walls, slump in a bed that wasn’t just cloth and fur over some grass and stones, and figure out how the hell they were gonna end this war.

"Fou!"

Something small, white, and aggressively buoyant bounced off the toe of his boot; exactly the same as it had been all morning since it woke him up by using his chest as a trampoline.

The spoon scraped against the bottom of the aluminum, Greg refusing to look down as he did his best to unstick a stubborn chunk of rabbit meat.  "No."

"Fou!"

It launched itself high, clearing the gap between the mud and his waist in a quick burst, catching the edge of his light armor. Claws — oddly sharp needle-point hooks — dug into him, scrabbling for purchase for a bare few seconds before scrambling up his ribcage like the squirrel-shaped little demon it was. 

It came to a perch on his pauldron, a wet little nose shoved right toward the rising steam of the pot.

“Off.” Greg jerked his shoulder, swatting blindly at the air near his ear. "Off. Hey, get off the armor."

It didn't get off. 

In fact, it dug those stupid little claws deeper into his silver plate and leaned further down toward the aluminum rim of the camp pot.

“Fou!”

I swear to God, I will eat you.

It was a glitch. It had to be a glitch. 

Whatever his isekai cheat code had given him, it couldn’t be this annoying little gremlin. At the very least, Shirou had listened. This thing — this annoying little anime mascot — refused to even pay attention to anything he had to say.

He didn't even know what kind of mascot it was or what kind of sicko god had put this chimera together. The compact frame of a squirrel mixed with the basic shape of some kinda purse-dog and ears that belonged to… maybe a fox? A rabbit, even? Whatever animal the ears belonged to, they were tall and just as fluffy as the little lion’s mane of fur around its neck; all that white fur on its body tapering down to a tail so aggressively fluffy it looked like a cartoon cloud. 

And, if all that wasn’t enough, right in the middle of the mane nestled perfectly into the pristine white fur, was a little blue bow.

A literal ribbon tied around its neck.

Just like Shirou and Ash, he knew this little thing was his; one of his ‘gifts’. Unfortunately, that didn't make it any less annoying. "Fou!" The creature batted at his cheek, purple eyes wide and demanding as it fluttered tiny white paws into his face “Fou! Fou!”

"Ain't never seen a rat look quite like that, m'lord." Daeric called from the edge of the clearing, the man working a piece of oiled leather down the silver engravings of his magic bow. "Shoot it for ye?"

"...hold off on the shooting," Greg swatted at it again, missing the squirrel-thing completely as it ducked his hand. "I don't think it's a rat."

“Dunno, m’lord.” Lobb scraped a whetstone down the edge of his own silvered blade, the metal singing with a faint hum. "Dunno, m'lord. Reckon it might make decent spit-roast.” Dark eyes squinted at the thing on Greg’s shoulder. “Ain't got much meat on 'er, though. All hair, by the looks of it."

The beast turned its head, those big purple eyes narrowed right back at Lobb.

"See?" The squire wiped a line of snot off his lip with the back of his wrist. "Lookin' at me right foul, it is."

"Fou!"

"Alright, that's it." Greg dropped the spoon into the bubbling stew, hand snapping out quick as he caught the little albino lion-squirrel by the scruff of its mane. A frown on his face, Greg held it up to eye level as it dangled there, kicking its little hind legs in the air. “I don’t have a lot of patience in me anymore.”

“Fou!”

"So, here’s what’s gonna happen.” Blue eyes met purple and he stared the little thing dead in the face, sure it understood him. “You make that noise one more time and I'm feeding you to Ash."

A thumb jerked over to the far edge of the clearing where the horse-sized dragon was currently wrapped around the trunk of a scarred oak, one massive wing draped out wide. Ashcalagon had one molten-red eye cracked open, the dragon rubbing at an itchy spot against the thickness of the bark. Splinters of wood showered down into the damp weeds with every scrape of his iron-hard scales.

“Y’hungry, Ash?”

Ash paused to exhale a lazy puff of black smoke out of his nostrils, before he went right back to destroying the tree.

The squirrel-thing dangling in his fist didn't even bother to look at the dragon. No, it just stared right back at Greg, too much intelligence in those little purple eyes as it stared silently.

"..."

Three seconds of absolute silence.

"Fou."

Pain spiked through his thumb. “Motherf-!”

“Fou! Fou! Fou!” The creature dropped from his grip with liquid grace, hitting the mud on all fours as Greg shook out his hand. By the time Greg glanced back down, the thing vanished into a white streak. "Fou! Fou! Fou!" 

It bounced over a rotting root, dodged Daeric’s boot, and hurled itself directly into the dark silks of Myrcella’s skirts. “Fou!” The golden princess didn't flinch as the white squirrel-thing scrambled up her dress, burying itself into the crook of her arm.

"Bright Lord…” 

Greg huffed at the title as he eyed his finger, doing his best to make sure those little teeth hadn’t broken skin. “Yes…”

Myrcella blinked big green eyes as her fingers stroked the creature’s ears. “Why must you trouble Bane so?" 

His hand went to his breeches, wiping lion-squirell spit off him before he bothered even answering the princess. "Seriously, why do you call it that?"

"Because he is a little bane." Myrcella kept on rubbing the little guy, soft little ‘Fou’ noises sounding off as it leaned into her fingers. "What else would I call him?"

"I mean, anything," Greg lowered his head, checking the stew again. "Spot. Whitey. Lord Fluffington the Sixth. You know, a normal pet name. You don't name a squirrel Bane."

 "What could he even be the bane of?” Sansa shifted on the log next to the Lannister girl, the other princess trying very hard not to reach out for Fou herself. She'd been like that since the morning, almost desperate for anything to comfort her since news of her brothers. “Toes?"

Green eyes fell down, Myrcella silent for a moment at the question. Those same eyes took in the white fur of the cooing little creature, before she looked back up at the gray Riverland sky. "The bane of us all, I believe."

She said it like she was talking about the weather, just a little fact that everyone had to sit with all of a sudden.

Greg stopped wiping his hands to stare at her as she dropped another one of her weird little statements. It would make things so much easier, at least on him, if she could separate her actual prophecies — as annoying as those were — from when she was just being a normal little weirdo.

"Okay." Did he have better things to do than to spend his  time picking apart the Lannister princess?

No.

Was he going to anyway?

Also no. "Alright. Cool. Stew's done anyway."

Unfortunately, no one got the chance to eat as a heavy thud rattled the stones around the fire pit; stew rippling in the pot.

Guts raised his head.

The massive black swordsman had been sitting by the horses, silent and near-unmoving for the last two hours. That didn’t stop him from bursting to his feet, jaw tight as his hand went for Dragonslayer. “Riders.”

Of course. Greg didn't bother to ask how many as he cracked his neck, silver plate armor shifting over his shoulders. “Daeric.” The name left his mouth without the need for yelling, his voice steady as his gauntleted fingers flexed for a weapon that rested nowhere physical. 

"Aye." The archer was already on one knee behind the log, silver-engraved bow fully drawn with an arrow flush and waiting. Lobb scrambled up, silver longsword gripped in both hands as he took his place in front of Sansa. "Ain't just riders, m'lord. Sounds heavy."

“No.” Guts grunt came quick. “Just riders.”

A flock of crows burst out of the canopy to the north, a black cloud scattering against the gray sky as the treeline just below erupted with the bulk of three heavy warhorses. Thick underbrush fell as they passed, low-hanging branches falling to the ground. Thick, yellowish foam sprayed from the mouths of the mounts, flanks heaving violently as the near-spent animals whinnyed loud. The riders — somehow — looked just as bad, chainmail splattered in mud and cloaks torn like rags. 

"Hold t' damn line, ye thick b-" The words left one of them in a rush as the man swayed in the saddle, blood leaking freely from his thigh over the horse's flank. “Ye thick beast!”

“Halt!” Greg’s bark came loud as he stepped forward in front of the charging horses. “You stand in front of Lord Gregory of House Veder!” He bit down the urge to wince at the way he had to speak but, after a year or so, it was more or less second-nature. “Announce yourselves!”

The lead horse skidded in the muck, throwing its head back with a whinny as the rider hauled back. The destrier came to a standstill barely a few yards away from Greg’s boots, the rider still fighting the reins.

It was close enough for Greg to have a closer look; the sigil painted on the cracked oak shields was visible through the grime; a giant.

House Umber.

The man wore heavy boiled leather and mail, face entirely gray under a thick beard, his eyes sunken into bruised, dark pits as he stared around. He didn’t bother to dismount, simply leaning heavily in his saddle with his gaze aimed down at Greg. “Y-ye be the Sorcerer of the North?”

“...That’s me.”

The two other men on horseback finally came to a stop behind the first, eyes on the entire camp. Only one of them, the youngest, seemed brave enough to speak again as the others pulled in tight breaths. “Ye… The North thinks ye dead.”

Greg blinked back. “Well, I’m not.”

That same horseman looked past Greg with tired eyes, quickly spotting the red hair of Sansa Stark even behind Lobb. “That be… that…”

“Quiet.” The oldest and most haggard of the three breathed out. “M’lord, that be the Stark Princess?”

“...” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Aye. She be… she is, I mea-” 

An annoyed breath had him close his eyes for a moment before looking back at the three men-at-arms of House Umber. “She is Princess Sansa Stark, the purpose of my mission to the South, yes.”

“Your Grace…” The lead man took a breath, looking past the silver-plated boy-lord in front of him like Greg didn’t even exist as he stared at Sansa. “King’s dead.”

The words might as well have been dropped anvils for all the care the man took into letting them fall into the clearing. The thick rumble to his voice barely sounded like grief, more long exhaustion.

The crackle of the damp fire sounded suddenly deafening as Greg’s brain stalled and the gears caught on those two words. King's dead. The phrase just didn’t seem to slot anywhere that made sense.

Robb Stark, the guy he swore to. 

The Young Wolf.

The same one he’d hung around for half a year.

"Robb?" The word came out incredibly small, Lord Veder armor fracturing just enough for the sixteen-year-old kid to leak straight through the seams. “What?”

"Betrayed.” The old man rasped, voice tearing in his throat as his eyes stayed on Sansa. "By Karstark and Dustin and Ryswell."

Behind Greg, a sound tore through the camp; forcing Greg to turn around.

Sansa wasn't sitting on the log anymore. The girl dropped to hit the mud on her knees, hands digging into the cold wet dirt and shoulders heaving as the last of her courtly manners shattered to pieces. Tears ran thick down her face, mouth open without words, as she simply sobbed all her feelings.

Myrcella stood up, the white thing still balanced on her shoulder, and dropped again to join Sansa in the dirt; gentle arms wrapped around the crying girl. “...I told them not to give you such news in the mud.”

"S-Sansa…" Greg’s voice stuttered, the words taking too long to form. "I... look, we..."

"Quiet."

The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the camp like a physical blade.

Greg snapped his head to the side.

Guts hadn't moved to look at the Umber men or even turned around to look at Sansa crying in the mud. The massive swordsman was staring dead ahead, past the fire, past the horses; all to look directly into the dark tangled treeline to the east.

"We're being followed." The massive iron slab of the Dragonslayer scraped against the leather of its harness. "And it ain't no riders."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The Fine Print Bled - 100 GP

Escape a vow through the death of one party.

ROLL: Puppy! (100) [Fate/Grand Order] {Control}:

Who’s that cute little thing on your lap? I’ve never seen a dog quite like that. Apparently it calls itself Cath Palug, no relation to another Cath Palug you may or may not know. It’s decided that you are its new friend/guide/servant and settled into your home. It’s awfully cute and fluffy, but you get the feeling that it’s a little smarter than it lets on. But surely, animals can’t talk or anything, right?

Grimoire Points: 400 GP