Nerd In the North 6-30

Four hundred daggers of good quality.

Two hundred one-handed swords of fine make,

One hundred properly forged and finished greatswords.

Each one of these were worth a lot of ‘coin’ and, by nature of being weapons, they meant a lot more when it came to danger. Five hundred pounds of iron on its own usually wasn’t worth much past simply being iron, because what could you do with that much iron other than use it to outfit a fighting force?

“God-!”

When your name was Guts, however, you could do a lot.

“-Damnit!” Riverrun’s training yard didn’t appreciate five hundred pounds of solid iron dropping down onto it, the earth shuddering at the impact. Greg’s head wouldn’t have appreciated it much either, which is why he got the hell out of the way.

Darting back as quickly as he could tore twin gouges through packed earth, Greg not alone in that as Dragonslayer bit into the dirt and threw up a full wall of it — enough of the stuff to sting the side of his face. Greg shook his head as wind snapped his blond hair back, grit in his eyes and nose thick with a layered smell; rust, sweat and churned-up mud.

Those same five hundred pounds roared inches above his scalp as he dropped low, boots sliding in the loose Riverrun dirt. In front of him, a wall of black swung a wall of black, Guts throwing an entire structural pillar around as if it was a frickin’ wiffle bat.

His white sword held at his side, Greg twisted another second before that black barrier blurred into the ground again — so much dirt sent flying it was near a smokescreen. Eyes narrowed, the young lord rushed forward into the fog of dust, white blade coming around low as he shouted out with a triumphant, “Gotch-!”

Triumph turned to terror as Guts refused to pull the sword back out, the giant simply leaning on the hilt and wrenching. The whole slab ripped apart the ground, tearing free in a sweep that looked like it could cleave through the whole horizon and definitely Greg’s ribs.

Nope.

The ground left him behind as Greg kicked off one foot, wind punching beneath his boots and causing another storm of dust and wind. Landing again, Greg brought his white sword up in front of him; not daring to run from Guts.

Hell, he wasn’t even going to backpedal.

Turning your back to Guts was a fantastic way to not see death coming.

And when death could come your way at two hundred miles an hour on a bad day, you wanted to see it coming.

As black passed him by, Greg rushed forward with white and the snow-colored blade struck black armor at the shoulder. Guts turned with the hit, forearm angled and the strike slid off him like Greg had aimed at the broadside of a barn.

No. The broadside of a barn would have had a new window carved into it.

“Slow.”

“I’m—” One blue eye twitched. “I’m faster than an unladen swallow, you heathen!”

“How fast is that?”

“African or Euro-”

The backswing came for his head the second Greg opened his mouth again, eye twitching a second time as his hair swung back like he was speeding down the highway with his head out a window.

“You learned!” Bright white teeth flashed Guts' way.

“That you can’t close those lips?” The big man scoffed. “Ain’t much to learn.”

Those lips didn’t bother to close as Greg rushed forward again, a laugh as loud as he’d ever let out bursting free with the motion. Before Guts could swing again, an elbow landed in the space between pauldron and breastplate, the blow enough to force a grunt out of him. The big man shifted to better eat the force and swung an elbow out at a target that was already gone.

“Answer to your question is faster than you!” 

Greg was still cackling as he kept out of Guts' reach, the smell of wet horse and old leather strong and heavy around him while he ran literal circles around the man in black. They weren’t alone in the training yard either, several Riverland knights and soldiers eyeing the fight with wide eyes and open mouths as they stood behind some of Greg’s men and the three princesses; Sansa, Arya, and Myrcella.

“Fou!”

And of course the white little bastard tearing into a strip of dried meat up on the shoulder of princess number three.

“You gonna swing, little lord—!”

There was a mistake people always made about Guts, something almost everyone who looked at him got wrong. One glance at the overbuilt mass he called a sword and they figured he was a walking target. 

Thing was, Guts really wasn’t slow.

Sure, he was slower than Greg, but those were extremely different sentences as long as you paid attention.

“Or are ye just doing laps?!” Guts roared his way, his legs following his words as six feet and five inches charged forward at speed twice that of the average warhorse.

A five hundred pound pillar on his shoulder and the acceleration was still insane, enough to paste you if you even blinked.

Greg didn’t.

He met the downswing with all his strength — “Hooo, shit!” — and was reminded once again that Guts size and sword wasn’t just for show. Greg’s boots plowed back a solid yard through the earth, forearms screaming as much as his mouth wanted to against the whole weight of the man mixed with metal and momentum.

“...ooohkay.” Blades locked in front of them, Greg couldn’t fight the grin on his face  — Guts matching him with one of his own — even as his arms trembled. He’d doubted for a while now if he could even match the man going blow for blow when fully flooded with his magic. “Oooh-.” 

With just raw physicals and nothing else — like right the hell now — he knew for certain the big man had him outdone by a good three times or so. “-Kaaaayyyy.”

Good thing neither of them were serious.

Well, not deadly serious.

Greg wasn’t ready to go up against one of those rock-cleaving strikes without reinforcing his body to compensate.

“Nggggh-okay-okay-okaaaaayyyy!” Even still, eight hundred pounds of leverage minimum was nothing to sneeze at. “This was a bad idea!”

A twist of Guts grip and the sword went with it, Greg’s whole body moving on the same uncertain path — the world cartwheeling wild before his back came to a stop hard against a rickety fence.

Old oak didn’t survive him, splinters flying everywhere as Greg found himself flat in the dirt with noise all around him from onlookers.

“Fou!”

And animals.

“M’lord!”

“...’m’fine, Lobb.”

“Are you s-”

“Isaidimfine!” The words were spat out with a mouthful of grit, Greg already on his feet the second he heard heavy steps rushing his way.

Another kick off and Greg blurred forward — it might only have been half as fast as the sword could swing, but it was good enough — rushing under  the big man’s blade and already turning around to take his back before Guts could reverse his momentum.

Hell, before the big man could do any more than widen his eyes, Greg’s arm was already out and swinging — a clean punch to the adventurer’s massive elbow.

Guts let out a noise like a gravel-packed driveway, as if the hit hadn’t hurt Greg nearly as much, fist stinging at what felt like bare-knuckling a grown redwood. “The hell are you made of, man?”

The man in black didn’t bother answering and didn’t even make an attempt to force the sword back around. No, all Guts did was let go of the hilt.

That was the first warning.

A dropped shoulder was the only other Greg got before calloused knuckles wrapped in leather flew out in a hook.

One aimed right for his jaw.

Slow. Greg ducked the punch and countered with a right ankle, hooking it behind Guts knee as he pulled himself forward.

Physics did the rest.

By the time Dragonslayer hit the dirt and forced another jump from it, Guts was dropping down hard not too far from the blade, the giant on his back like Greg had just been. The big man didn’t have a second to so much as breathe before Greg was already on and over him, tip of the white blade an inch from his nose.

Both of them breathed hard and heavy, the sound of their chests loud in the suddenly quiet yard as everyone stared their way in silence.

“Aye.” Guts let his head fall back into the dirt. “Y’have me, little lord.”

“C’mon, say it right.”

“Nay.”

“Say ‘Lord Veder is the strongest man in Westeros and also the most handsome a—”

"Get th'sword out of m'face."

The blade went to nothing once again — gone in a snap of white light back into the shining little star at the center of the solar system he knew as his soul. Chuckling to himself, Greg held a hand out and Guts took it.

With all the effort of lifting an over-full gym bag, Greg hauled the armored man to his feet as the yard finally found a reason to be loud.

Well, the Stark and Veder men at least.

The Riverland guys who’d been finding excuses to be in the training yard were still staring, and at least one of them pointing like they were at a circus. Greg’s eyes slid off all of them to land on the three princesses, Myrcella eyeing him from where she sat atop a stack of crates — face half in a familiar book.

"You move as quick as your sigil, my lord." The blonde princess’s voice drifted over the noise of the other men, book slapped shut with one hand. “One might think you bore the wings of your sigil, bright and large.”

"Pretty much the idea, flame princess." He was only half-listening as he wiped a smear of mud off his cheek, too used to Myrcella’s odd way of putting things together. "Try not to get squished to death is the first rule of survival."

Myrcella blinked his way, green eyes curious. "Is the first rule not to avoid a greater beast?"

“Well…” He thumbed his nose with a smirk. “I wouldn’t call myself great, but if you say so, I guess…”

“Oi!”

Greg blinked to the left, eyebrow rising at the sight of a dark-haired little brat sitting up on the fence with Nymeria’s head under one hand. Following her human’s lead, the wolf was glaring his way too. “You cheated.”

“...Alright. I’ll bite.” Greg breathed in, stretching back as he prepared for whatever bullshit he was about to hear from Arya. “How?”

“You went round the back!”

“That’s called strategy.” His tongue clicked as he stretched forward, fingers reaching his toes as he forced his leathers to move with him despite its creaking. “It’s not cheating, Princess Mononoke.”

“N-nothing. Hey, Guts!” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the giant picking up his oversized sword. “Was that cheating?”

“S’not cheating.” Dragonslayer up on his shoulder already, Guts grunted back. “S’called winning.”

“There we go, thank youuuu.” He grinned back at the grumbling little twelve-year-old. “See? He knows what he’s talking about.”

Clearly, the little Stark didn’t agree as she said something even Greg couldn’t catch under her breath, Nymeria’s ears going flat like she agreed.

“Right.” Greg rolled his eyes and his shoulder as he turned around, eyes roaming the yard until they finally fell on exactly who he was looking for. “Lobb! You’re up!”

His squire went pale against the fence, hands flying up. “Agai- against you, m’lord?”

“No.” Greg pulled a face, almost choking on a laugh as he stared at the terrified teenager. “God no, I’d break you in half. No…” 

Blue eyes slid over to a group of men leaning on the western side of the fence; all of them Riverlands men and already armed and ready, two older soldiers with the look of people that had made fighting a career and three younger. “Oi, you five.”

When the men paused and stared back at him, Greg fought the urge to sigh. “Yeah, I’m talking to you. Don’t do the thing where you look behind you. You’re fighting my squire. A stag for each of you and a golden dragon for whoever knocks him down.”

That got their attention more than anything, eyes wide and hungry for coin, while several other soldiers — Northern and Southern both — looked like they’d been punched in the gut. “That’s good that you heard me. Now get those swords blunt and those helmets off. I expect you to go hard.”

“M’lord…” Lobb walked up to him. “Five men?”

“Five at the same time, Lobb.”

“At the s—”

Greg didn’t give him the time to argue, shoving the squire further into the yard as he went to lean up against the fence.

“As your lord commands, m’lord squire!” Daeric leaned over the fence at Greg’s side, the archer grinning bright as he tossed a tourney sword out into the yard. “Try not to swallow yer own teeth!”

A single hand caught the blunted blade, rolling it in his grip as he spat into the dirt. “You’ll be swallowing yours soon enough.” The mutter only made Daeric laugh harder, the boy of fourteen squaring shoulders that had filled out over the past year under Greg.

Five Riverrun men fanned out around him, their own dulled steel hefted in heavy hands as they stared at what they assumed would be easy coin.

"Also, Lobb…" Greg lifted his voice just a bit, the squire turning around to look at his lord. "You win this, I've got a gift for you."

Lobb's head came up, a hungry glint in his eye enough to outdo any of the Riverrun men. "What kind of gift?"

"The kind you get for winning." Greg leaned into the side of his pack, the brown leather sitting at the fence and looking oddly normal for something that held the space of a small shed. A hand slid into the side pocket, fingers brushing against cold metal before he pulled free a familiar thick ring — titanium shining under the sun.

“Puts a little extra in your muscles.” Greg tossed the jewelry underhand and caught it again with his eyes still on Lobb. “Bumps your strength up a little bit.”

The blond lord held it up, rolling the shiny thing between finger and thumb. “I’m guessing you want it?”

“I…” The squire swallowed. “I do, m’lord.”

“Then fight.”

The fight started without another moment, Lobb spurred on by thoughts of power and the men by desire for coin.

"He will break a door by day’s end.”

“Jeez-” Greg nearly jumped, head snapping to the side where Myrcella now stood. “Need a bell on you.”

“Fou!”

“You too.” Shaking his head, Greg blinked as he put together what Myrcella just said. “He’ll what?”

“The one near the barracks. It’s loose.” Myrcella handed the white rat another piece of dried meat as she kept her eyes on the fight. “It will not survive his new strength.”

Well… Greg couldn’t hide the smile on his face as he looked back at the fight, Lobb bursting forward across the yard twice as fast as any of the men as he threw one aside with a clash of blades. “...it was already broken anyway.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The Princess Diaries II – 400 GP
Accomplish Robb’s last mission for you.

The Glory of the Clash – 600 GP
Elden Ring | Control
Even among nominal rivals or strangers, even after the ultimate downfall of their general, the Redmane Legion remains a beacon of hope in the lands between. Yours is a grand charisma and talent for inspiration-able to say just the right things to keep your soldier’s spirits up in the direst of battles and a bravery that rouses both glory and loyalty from those who fight at your side. Those who fight for and with you wring out reserves of talent, courage and perseverance beyond what they normally find yourself capable of, strangers find themselves drawn to your cause from far and wide, and even nominal enemies can be converted into fast friends by finding common cause or values. In the heat of battle, cohesion is maintained even in the face of odds as dire as another demigod leading an army-and defeat will not stop your forces from carrying out your legacy. This even extends to animals you treat with all the respect due to fellow soldiers, who will go above and beyond the call of duty to do you proud.

Grimoire Points: 200