II-21: Blood on Snow I
"Bloody Snow's paying Frostfall a visit."
Greg's heart didn't just skip a beat - it fucking stopped.
The six words hit him like a punch to the gut, Dael's gravelly voice cutting through the morning air with all the subtlety of a hammer to glass. Bloody Snow's paying Frostfall a visit.
His lungs seized up, breath catching painfully in his throat as the chill morning air seemed to drop another ten degrees. Greg's fingers tightened around the doll in his hand, knuckles going white from the pressure. The thing's aura thickened instantly in his senses, like soup left too long to simmer on the stove, heavy and oppressive against his palm. His stomach churned and goosebumps rose on his skin as another wave of that thick-as-custard feeling washed over him in waves.
This guy, Lord Bolton's kid…
The bastard had to be the killer, Greg knew it.
Lord Bolton's bastard. The thought alone made his stomach twist. Greg had never met the guy, but everything he'd heard painted a picture that belonged in a horror movie. Hunting, flaying, and raping, what kind of triple fucking threat is that?
The doll's aura pulsed, spreading that thick soup-like sensation up his arm as his brain kicked into overdrive. It wasn't just guesswork or paranoia telling him Snow was the killer - it was something deeper, more primal.
Like how prey animals knew a predator was nearby before they even saw it.
The prickling in his head wasn't just his imagination; it was a warning, screaming at him that the bastard was the one they were looking for.
And now that same psychotic piece of work was heading to Frostfall.
Looking for me. The thought spun in his head.
And Greg doubted the guy was just gonna leave just because he wasn't there to kill and take his sword. No, a psycho like that… he would… he…
His hands started to shake, and he had to fight to keep his breathing steady. Because Snow wouldn't just give up and leave if Greg wasn't there to kill.
No, guys like that... Greg had seen enough crime shows back home to know how they operated. If they couldn't find their target, they'd take out that frustration on whoever was unlucky enough to be nearby. The images flashed through his mind before he could stop them - burned houses, bloody snow, bodies left frozen in the winter air.
There's no telling what he would do.
"I... I gotta..." The words caught in Greg's throat, barely louder than a whisper. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear his own voice over the rush of blood in his ears. "I gotta go..."
He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the movement just made him dizzy. His eyes darted between Oren's face - all furrowed brows and concerned frown - and Dael's satisfied smirk as the older man pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. The villagers around them had gone quiet, faces blurred in Greg's peripheral vision as they picked up on the tension crackling through the air.
The doll in his palm felt heavier now, its aura pointing north-west like some kind of fucked up compass. Greg didn't need anyone to tell him that was the direction to Frostfall - he just knew, the same way he knew Snow was the killer. The same way he knew he had to move, had to run, had to get there before…
Before what? Before Snow started killing people? Before more innocent villagers died because Greg wasn't fast enough? Before everything went to shit even worse than it already had? Before I have to look at Gwenna all chopped up and know I could have stopped it?
"Ah, well, tha's me bit done, it is," Dael drawled, already backing away from the group. The villagers who'd dragged him over were glaring daggers at his back, but none of them made a move to stop him. Greg's word was enough for them, even if they didn't like it.
Dael's cracked lips twisted into what might have been a smile as he nodded at Greg. "Glad t'help, lad."
Wait. The thought hit Greg like a brick to the head, his fingers tightening around the sword's grip before his brain fully caught up. The weight of it felt good in his hand - familiar, almost comforting in a seriously messed up way.
"Dael." His voice came out steady, no heat in it, as the man turned around with that smug smile still plastered on his face.
"Aye, what else you nee-" The guard's words choked off mid-sentence, his throat working silently as his eyes dropped downward.
The smile slipped from his face like melting wax. "...me 'and?"
More than just your hand, you backstabbing prick. Greg's eyes flicked to the floor where Dael's arm lay in the dirt, severed clean at the elbow. Blood pooled around it, dark and thick against the packed earth, spreading outward like spilled wine.
The cut was clean - perfectly clean, actually - like slicing through melted butter. The blade had done its work so fast, so smooth, that Dael hadn't even felt it.
At first.
Greg lowered his sword, the white metal gleaming dully in the morning light. His stomach should have been churning at the sight of the severed limb, at the bright blood slowly seeping into the dirt.
Four months ago, he probably would have puked.
Definitely.
But that was before - before the betrayal, before the running, before he learned what people in this world were really capable of. Instead of nausea, all he felt was a cold sort of satisfaction. Funny how getting stabbed in the back changes your perspective on violence.
"Me 'AND?!" The scream ripped out of Dael's throat, high and shrill with dawning horror. His face went chalk-white as he stared at the stump where his arm used to be, mouth working soundlessly like a fish on land. His remaining hand fluttered uselessly near the wound, like he wanted to grab it but couldn't quite bring himself to touch it.
The pain hadn't hit yet - the man's brain still dealing with the shock of such a perfect cut - but it would.
Any second now.
Blood pulsed from the wound in steady spurts, bright arterial red that meant Dael would bleed out soon if Greg didn't do something. And wouldn't that be tragic? But he'd made a promise, hadn't he? He didn't exactly like it - a bitter reminder that even now, even after everything, he was still trying to be the good guy.
The blond raised his hand, fingers already moving into the familiar position, muscle memory taking over. "Igni."
The flame burst from his palm in a tight cone, orange and angry and hungry. It hissed through the air like an angry snake, compressed and focused, latching onto the raw meat of Dael's stump with precision. The sound that tore out of Dael's throat wasn't human anymore - it was the kind of scream you'd hear in horror movies, the ones that made you want to cover your ears and look away.
Raw and broken, like something being ripped apart from the inside out.
The smell hit next - burning flesh and hair, like overcooked pork left too long on the grill. Greg's nose wrinkled as it hit him, but he didn't look away as the flames seared flesh to flesh, cauterizing the wound with brutal efficiency. Dael's screams cracked and broke, dissolving into desperate, hitching sobs that begged without words for it to stop.
Greg watched, expression blank, as the raw edges of the stump blackened and sealed. When he was sure the bleeding had stopped, he cut off the flames and lowered his hand. The sudden silence felt heavy, broken only by Dael's ragged breathing and quiet whimpers, the gathered villagers wide-eyed and still as statues in the space of the main road.
Sweat and tears streaked down Dael's face, cutting clean tracks through the dirt and grime. His thin lips trembled as he sucked in desperate breaths, looking suddenly young and scared - weird, considering he'd had no problem trying to murder Greg in his sleep just a couple months ago. The guard's eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide and glassy with shock and pain as they fixed on the charred stump where his arm used to be.
His whole body shook, whether from pain or fear or both, Greg couldn't tell.
Didn't really care, either.
A pitiful sound escaped the man, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. "...b-b-but ye swore."
Greg felt his lips curl up slightly at the corners, not quite a smile but something close.
"That I wouldn't kill you."
Dael's face went white as milk, like someone had just drained all the blood from it. Heh.
His eyes darted back and forth between Greg and the stump where his arm used to be, reminding Greg of a rabbit that knew it was about to get eaten. The morning sun caught the sweat beading on Dael's forehead, making his skin look waxy and gross.
"B-b-but..." Dael's voice shook so bad he could barely get the word out. Snot started running down his nose, mixing with the tears that were already making tracks through the dirt on his face.
"And I didn't." Greg kept his voice flat, watching as Dael's legs started trembling.
The guy looked ready to piss himself, which honestly wouldn't have done much to surprise Greg at this point. It wouldn't even be the first time it happened today. Two months ago, this would've made me sick. Now it's just... Tuesday.
Not that he even knew what day today was anyway.
In fact… Does Westeros even have days of the week? He frowned. Question for later.
"I... I..." Dael's mouth opened and closed like a fish on land, words apparently failing him completely.
"Before I forget..." Greg held his palm out again, almost rolling his eyes when Dael flinched so hard he nearly fell over backward. The movement sent a clump of burnt skin spattering from his stump onto the packed dirt of the street. "The way out of town is that way."
Dael just stood there staring, his mouth hanging open while snot dripped down his chin. The sight would have been funny if it wasn't so pathetic. Like a bad guy from Home Alone, except with more dismemberment.
"You're welcome." Greg's voice dripped with the kind of sarcasm that would've gotten him at the very least grounded for a week back home as he calmly raised his sword to his head in a lazy salute. "Have a nice life, Dael."
The backstabber spun around so fast he stumbled, tears still streaming down his face as he bolted down the main road like a chicken with its head cut off. The villagers parted like water around a stone, nobody wanting to get too close to the crying, one-armed man running for his life.
He's not gonna live for long, Greg figured, watching his scrambling retreat. Exposure or an animal's gonna get him. Or infection. That's not sanitary at all.
"My lord?"
Greg turned his head as Oren's voice cut through the morning air, the older teenager's words carrying that weird mix of respect and uncertainty that Greg was starting to hate. "What?"
"That was quite impressive. Worthy of a so-"
Greg cut him off with a raised hand, his head already starting to throb. "Not the time."
A weird growling sound caught his attention, and Greg looked down to see Ash happily gnawing on Dael's severed hand like it was a chew toy. His stomach did a backflip. "Ash, no!"
The bear cub looked up at him with those big red eyes and actually growled, like Greg was trying to take away his favorite toy. Which, technically, he was, but that wasn't the point.
"Bad Ash, stop."
The bear growled again, softer this time, but backed away from the hand. Great, now I'm teaching a bear cub not to eat people. This is my life now.
Jesus Christ.
Greg rubbed his head, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. I don't know what I'm going to do.
"So what are you going to do, my lord?" Oren asked, somehow managing to echo Greg's thoughts in the creepiest way possible.
Greg cracked one eye open, his stomach dropping. "...please tell me I didn't say that out loud too." Swear I can't be that tired.
Oren blinked, his face scrunching up in confusion. "You said something?"
The relief that flooded through Greg made his knees weak. He let out a long breath, shoulders slumping. "That's good, at least."
The relief didn't last long though. Another sigh escaped him, this one frustrated and tight. "I just... I don't know how I'm gonna get there, man."
"Get where, my lord?" The bard asked, making Greg flinch at that stupid title again. Every time someone called him 'my lord' it felt like nails on a chalkboard.
"...Frostfall," he finally answered, the word feeling heavy on his tongue. "It's so far away."
Oren's mouth formed a perfect 'o' of understanding. "I heard. Last Hearth is quite the distance. Nearly a hundred leagues. You'd need a fast horse to make the distance within a fortnight."
"...Fast horse?" Greg frowned, his teeth grinding together in frustration.
Greg's frown twisted into a full-on scowl as he slid his sword into the side pocket of his bag. The weapon disappeared along with the doll, both vanishing into a space that should've been way too small to hold them. Oren's eyes went wide as dinner plates at the sight, but Greg barely noticed. His mind was too busy spinning with the problem at hand. "I don't even know how to ride a horse."
The leather of his bag creaked as he adjusted it, the sound mixing with the morning bustle of the village around them. People were still staring, still whispering, but Greg had gotten used to being the weird outsider. Months in medieval fantasy land will do that to you.
"Ah... ah... w-w-well," Oren stumbled over his words, blinking rapidly like he was trying to forget what he'd just seen. The bard's fingers twitched toward the lute strapped to his back, a nervous habit Greg had noticed days ago. "It's not as if you can simply run the whole distance," he added with a weak laugh that died in his throat when he saw Greg's expression.
Greg lifted his head slowly, face blank as a fresh sheet of paper. The gears in his head started turning, picking up speed like a runaway train. "...what did you say?"
Oren blinked again, harder this time. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Ah... ah... It's not as if you could simply run the whole distance?"
The words hit Greg's brain like a lightning bolt. Each one clicked into place, forming a completely insane but somehow perfect plan. He nodded his head, slow and careful, like someone handling explosives. "I can run it."
Oren's mouth opened and closed several times, making him look like a fish that had just discovered water wasn't all it was cracked up to be. When he finally found his voice again, it cracked like he was the teenager here. "No, I said you can't. Can not, my lord."
But Greg wasn't listening anymore. His brain had kicked into overdrive, thoughts racing faster than his heart. The village where I first showed up, that's what, two weeks away walking normal? But maybe... just maybe…
Maybe.
He yanked the bag off his back, lowering it to the ground with one hand while scooping up Ash with the other. The bear cub let out a confused growl that was definitely more annoyed than scared, probably wondering why his human had suddenly gone crazy. Greg ignored the protest, plopping the fuzzy troublemaker into the magically expanded bag. Plenty of room in there, buddy. Mary Poppins would be jealous.
The morning sun caught on his blonde hair as he straightened up, long bangs hanging over his eyes and casting weird shadows across his face. "I can run it," he said again, more to himself than Oren, as he swung the bag back onto his shoulders.
The weight settled against his back, familiar and somehow comforting.
"My lord!" Oren's voice cracked again, a mix of confusion and shock that would've been funny if Greg had time to laugh.
"I can run it." Greg brought his hands together in front of his chest, fingers interlaced like he was praying.
Which, technically, he was.
The memories of his other life flowed through him, power building under his skin like static electricity before a storm as he focused hard on the mental image of him gripping his sword tight, gritting his teeth as the galaxies in his soul came alive, all fifty of them revving up as he called on them.
"Light unbound, through flesh and bone, grant strength or speed as need be shown. In faith, I trust, your will be mine, let purpose guide, and path align. Consecration of Fortitude."
The words rolled off his tongue like they belonged there, each syllable carrying weight and power that made the air around him feel heavy. Before Oren could take another step forward, golden light exploded around Greg's body like someone had just switched on a spotlight from the inside.
Without looking back, he shot forward, moving at speeds that would've made Olympic runners quit on the spot.
"My lord!"