II-3: The Beginning’s End II

Greg had been walking for what felt like an eternity, though in reality, it had only been about five days. Five long, grueling days of trekking through the wilderness with only Ash for company. All this walking always feels like forever.

That was something that hadn’t changed no matter how many weeks he had been walking around the North.

He'd left the Lonely Hills behind a while back, his green tunic standing out against the muted colors of the forest as he followed the trail of evil energy he could feel deep in his bones.

My own little spidey sense but for bad vibes instead of danger, he mused, although I think I do kinda have one for danger. Shaking his head, Greg frowned at the winding forest path ahead of him. If you could even call this a path. Sure, people had definitely walked here before, but the melted snow and stubborn underbrush seemed determined to obscure any semblance of a clear trail.

Snow is only pretty until it starts melting, Greg thought with a sigh, his boots squelching in the muddy ground. Then it's just a pain in the ass. He'd learned that lesson the hard way back home in New England, but apparently, Westeros hadn't gotten the memo.

Ash, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself, happily munching on the few blueberries and blackberries they'd managed to find along the way. Lucky bear, Greg thought, his own stomach gurgling after a meal of salted pork, dry biscuits, and really hard cheese. What I wouldn't give for a cheeseburger right about now. Or even just a pizza. Hell, I'd settle for some chicken nuggets at this point.

But the forest was sadly lacking in fast food options.

And the less said about the bathroom situation, the better.

Instead, Greg had to navigate a treacherous landscape of damp, rocky ground and patches of soft moss covering stones and roots. In some areas, the soil was so thin that rocky outcrops broke through the forest floor like jagged teeth, while tree roots wound their way through the ground like gnarled fingers.

It's a good thing I've got these new ninja instincts, Greg mused as he nimbly flipped over a particularly large root. Otherwise, I'd probably have face-planted a dozen times by now. He could just imagine the headline: "Westeros News Weekly: Local Teen Dies in Tragic Tripping Accident; Bearly Missed by Companion." The thought brought a wry smile to his face, even as he rolled his eyes at his own terrible pun.

Granted, it wasn't like the forest wasn't pretty occasionally. Even with the overcast drab gray skies that seemed determined to make everything look like a depressing black-and-white movie, small streams cut through the forest, clear and cold with little bits of sunlight cutting through the dense trees that made it almost look storybook-like. It was like the forest couldn't decide if it wanted to be ominous or enchanting, so it settled for a weird mix of both. Greg half-expected a singing woodland creature to pop out, only for it to start crooning death metal instead of a cheery Disney tune.

But as pretty as the forest could be, with its clear, cold streams and the occasional ray of sunlight cutting through the dense canopy, Greg couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had been growing steadily over the past few days. It was like an itch between his shoulder blades, a constant prickling sensation that set his teeth on edge.

I need to make sure I'm still going the right way, he thought, his frown deepening as he reached into the pouch at his back. His fingers closed around something at the very top, and he pulled it out with a grimace.

The little straw and cloth doll was stained and dirty, caked with mud and dried blood. Even though the blood was old, it somehow felt fresh and cloying every time he held it, the wrongness of it seeping into his skin like poison.

It's not the doll's fault, Greg reminded himself, scowling at the innocent toy. It's the sick bastard who killed its owner. The thought sent a surge of anger through him, hot and bitter. And I'm gonna fucking gut him for it.

He really didn’t feel bad about that.

Which should be worrying.

Nope.

He knew he should feel bad about that thought, knew that the old Greg would have been horrified by the casual violence of it. But the new Greg, the one who'd seen and done things he'd never imagined, the one who'd watched people die and had blood on his own hands...that Greg just felt a grim sense of determination and he felt Good about that.

The first time you disembowel someone, you vomit. The second time, you just gag a little. By the tenth time, you're wondering how long it’s gonna take for this guy at your feet to stop fucking screaming. Greg figured by the fiftieth he would know how long down to the second. Welcome to the desensitization program, Westeros edition, he thought as he felt his eye twitch.

I'm going to find this guy, and I'm going to make him pay for what he did, he thought, his grip tightening on the doll. Because somebody has to do it. Somebody has to make things right.

He took a deep breath, letting the anger settle into a cold, hard knot in his gut. Focus, Veder, he told himself, shaking his head. You've got a job to do. He held up the doll, letting the malevolent energy emanating from it wash over him like a foul breeze.

This way, it seemed to whisper, tugging at his mind like an insistent child. Follow me.

A strained smile on his face, Greg put the doll back in the pack, shaking his head again. This is...justice.

The word felt strange in his mind, too big and too heavy for a fifteen-year-old to be throwing around. But then again, he wasn't really a normal fifteen-year-old anymore, was he?

Nope.

Accepting this quest to hunt down some sick serial killer was something Greg didn't regret, per se, but he certainly wished that tracking the bastard down didn't feel so... gross. Every time he held the doll and focused, he could feel the trail of the guy strongly, like a slimy, invisible rope leading him onwards. It was a sensation he very much did not enjoy, but one he forced himself to endure for the sake of justice.

Or vengeance.

Or whatever you wanted to call it.

He preferred justice, though.

It's like I'm a human dowsing rod, but instead of water, I'm detecting pure evil, he thought, shuddering as the now-familiar miasma crawled over his skin. Definitely not the superpower I would have picked out of the catalog.

He did his best to ignore the feeling, pushing the ants-on-arms sensation to the back of his mind until he barely noticed it anymore, only calling on it when he needed to reorient himself. Which, given his less-than-stellar sense of direction, was more often than he cared to admit.

I swear, these trees all look the same, he grumbled internally, glaring at the seemingly endless expanse of forest around him. It's like being stuck in a Bob Ross painting, but without the happy little clouds.

The long, irritating walk out of the Lonely Hills had served as a distraction from the feeling, at least. Hate these fucking Hills, hate the fucking snow, hate the fucking forests, he mentally chanted, a litany of frustration. Where are my elf babes? Isn't that supposed to be a thing in fantasy worlds?

To further take his mind off the serial killer he was tracking (and the distinct lack of attractive elven companionship), Greg had been practicing with the weird little things he'd felt inside his soul, the two motes of light he'd gained after rescuing the women and kids from the bandits.

If there was anything that could certainly distract him, real magic was definitely at the top of the list.

On the first day, he'd managed to bring out the feeling of both of them, watching with wide eyes as the energy coated his hands. The first was a bright aqua blue that felt distinctively... wet.

Wispy tendrils of moisture had appeared around his fingertips, forming a delicate mist that shimmered in the overcast sunlight. The droplets were fine, almost microscopic, creating a thin veil of dampness that clung briefly to his skin before dissipating into the air. The more he focused, the more droplets condensed, beading together like morning dew on grass, evaporating or dripping to the ground in isolated, silent splashes.

He would have to be a literal fucking idiot not to know what this was. "Water," he'd said aloud, his voice tinged with equal parts wonder and amusement.

Greg had laughed his head off the first day, playing with his new ability until he felt drained and needed a quick nap to ease off the tiredness. When he woke up again, he kept laughing, the sheer absurdity of the situation hitting him all over again.

He had water magic. Actual, honest-to-god (or gods, he supposed) water magic.

Well... the beginnings of water magic, at least. Water droplets had dripped from his hands the longer he held it, a small pool of perfectly clear and clean liquid forming between his cupped palms, fresher and purer than any he'd encountered since showing up in this weird, dark, low-fantasy world.

He wasn't able to do much with it that first day, but it was enough for Ash to get a drink from his hands, at the very least. Greg still didn't speak bear, but the approving grunt was pretty much unmistakable. Great, now I'm a walking, talking water fountain.

The second power was... well, he wasn't entirely sure what it was, to be honest.

He thought it might be healing, but he really, really wasn't certain.

All he knew was that his hands had glowed.

Not strongly or all that brightly, mind you. It was a faint, weak glow, like a low-watt bulb struggling valiantly to put out light—soft gold or pale white, but not exactly eye-searing. Shimmering motes danced around his fingers, and while it wasn't hot or anything, he did feel a gentle warmth, like standing near a candle. But not too near.

"Huh..." He'd stared at his hands, turning them over and examining them from every angle, as if the secrets of the universe might be written on his palms. Nope, just the usual lines. No hidden cheat codes here.

There was a sense of slight purification in the air around his hands, a vague feeling of cleanliness or freshness, but overall, it was pretty... underwhelming.

"Healing magic, huh?" He couldn't help the note of disappointment in his voice. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for any new ability, because he totally was. It was just...

Well, it was just...

"I thought it'd be cooler, you know?" He said to Ash, who cocked his furry head and blinked at him, uncomprehending. "Like, I dunno, glowing runes or sparkly energy beams or something. Not just a nightlight in the palm of my hand."

Honestly, it's like the universe heard me wishing for superpowers and went, "Okay, but make it budget."

Still, he had to admit, even if it wasn't the flashiest thing in the world, the idea of being able to heal people (or himself without relying on his weird healing factor) was sounding pretty damn appealing. Especially considering the kind of trouble he seemed to keep finding himself in these days.

With my luck, I'll probably need it sooner rather than later, he thought wryly, images of sword fights and angry bandits flashing through his mind. Better start practicing now, before I end up as shish kebab.

Progress was slow, and more than a little frustrating at times.

Where water magic had come pretty easy, with each day showing distinct improvements and actually managing to figure out several spells, spells he could actually use without half-passing out — Looking at you, ninja shadow magic — his healing magic hadn’t done much in the way of growing.

But he still kept trying.

And trying.

Gotta keep trying. And so he did, spending hours each day trying to coax out more of that faint, golden light, to will it into doing... something. Anything, really, beyond just making his hands look like he'd dipped them in radioactive fairy dust.

Four days later, something seemed to just click.

Like a key turning in a rusty lock, or a lightbulb flickering to life in a dark room. Magic, well... magicked, and Greg finally figured out his first healing spell.

By the end of the day, high on his newfound success, he'd managed to conjure up another spell. And today? "Numero three, baby!" He crowed, fist-pumping the air in triumph as the golden light danced around his fingers. "I'm on a roll!"

Sure, they might have been simple little cantrips in the grand scheme of things, but they worked. And that was enough to put a little extra pep in his step as he navigated the dense forest, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves.

Look at me, Greg Veder, magical prodigy, he thought, his chest puffing up with pride. Maggie fucking Holt, eat your heart out. I'm the new kid on the block.

That is... until now.

Greg's footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves as he navigated the dense forest, his newfound good mood slowly evaporating as he trudged onward. These trees all look the same, he grumbled internally, scowling at the endless expanse of trunks and branches. It's like being stuck in a screensaver. A really boring, repetitive screensaver.

He was just about to voice his complaints aloud to Ash (who, being a bear, was probably not going to be very sympathetic), when he came to another clearing. Something in the back of his mind made him pause, a niggling sense of unease that had him slowing his pace as he approached yet another nondescript clearing.

Spidey-sense tingling, he thought, frowning slightly. Or is it Jedi intuition now?

Greg was just about to check the doll again when a soft groan cut through the quiet. His steps halted instantly, attention snapping to the sound. Through the trees, a flash of metal caught his eye - definitely not what he'd been tracking, but maybe something just as important.

Is that...?

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Peering through the dense foliage, he spotted a figure slumped against a tree trunk, the weak glint of metal barely visible under the cloak of shadows cast by the leaves overhead. It had to be a knight, Greg realized, his heart rate picking up.

It had to be a knight. The rugged gear the man had on wasn't exactly the polished, fancy stuff Greg had seen on the knights in movies or at Renaissance Fairs. But it looked more... realistic, somehow. Like something out of a gritty medieval war movie, all dark steel and battle-scarred mail.

A mix of dark steel and mail, the metal was scuffed and dented from what must have been a brutal fight. A heavy wool cloak, matted with mud and grime and darker stains that could only be blood, draped over the knight's shoulders, offering little warmth now. A steel helm covered most of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed - eyes that were currently closed, the knight's head lolling to one side.

Even the knight's shield had that rough, utilitarian feel to it—heavy wood, rimmed with iron, and emblazoned with a sigil that looked like a silver hammer on a gray field. House IKEA? Greg thought wildly, before mentally slapping himself. Focus, Veder. Not the time for jokes.

"Hey, hey, uh... you okay?" he called out softly as he approached, his voice surprisingly steady despite the churn of concern in his gut. What do you think, dumbass? his mind supplied sarcastically. He's just taking a little power nap, that's all. Probably tuckered out from all that knightly stuff, like jousting and rescuing damsels.

His eyes flicked over to the sound of a whinny, widening slightly at the sight of the knight's horse not too far away. It was a sturdy brown steed, standing there unscathed, its saddlebags and reins still intact. Lucky horse, Greg thought, even as a pang of sympathy went through him. The animal flicked its ears towards him but remained still, its loyalty to its fallen master clear.

The knight stirred at the sound of Greg's voice, his helm askew and revealing a face pale with pain and streaked with sweat. His eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, flickered open as the teen drew closer.

"Who... g-goes there?" The knight's voice was a ragged gasp, each word sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. "F-friend... or foe?"

Greg stepped closer, hands held up in a universal gesture of peace. "Friend, I guess." I hope, he added silently, eyeing the knight's blood-streaked armor warily.

As he neared the wounded man, Greg could see the knight's gauntleted hand clamped around the shaft of an arrow buried deep in his ribs, the projectile sticking out at an awkward angle. The dark stain of blood was spreading across his chainmail, each labored breath seeming to make it grow.

Okay, that's... that's a lot of blood. Like, a lot a lot. Holy shit.

"Help... me," the knight gasped out, the words barely a whisper as he struggled for air. Each inhale was sharp and wet-sounding, a horrible sucking noise that made Greg's stomach turn. Punctured lung, he thought, his limited medical knowledge from health class and a lifetime of watching ER suddenly rushing back. That's bad. Like, really bad.

He knelt down at the knight's side, Ash hovering nearby and making distressed little bear noises. You and me both, buddy, Greg thought, his own heart hammering against his ribs. What are the fucking odds of stumbling across a dying knight in the middle of nowhere?

"Who did this to you?" He asked, even as his gaze flicked down to the arrow again. It was a bad wound, the kind that could kill a man if left untreated. Greg wasn't sure how long the knight had been lying here, or how much time he had left.

"Bandits," the knight managed to rasp out, his voice gaining a bit of strength even as his face twisted in pain. "Ambushed us... north of here. T’was..." He broke off, coughing wetly, fresh blood staining his lips. “‘T’was seeking glory, foolishly. I'm a second son of House Stonehall. Not much glory in that, usually."

Greg nodded slowly, only half-listening to the man's words as he focused on assessing the wound. "Stonehall, huh? Never heard of it."

"Aye," the knight confirmed, his accent thickening as pain and emotion color his words. "We serve... serve Lord Bolton.

Bolton. Why does that name ring a bell? Greg shook his head, pushing the thought aside. Doesn't matter right now. Focus on the task at hand, Veder. “I’m Greg… Veder. Greg Veder.”

The knight's breathing was growing more labored by the second, his face ashen beneath the sheen of sweat. “M'name is... Arryk. Ser Arryk Stonehall."

Greg nodded slowly, barely paying attention to the man's words as he stared hard at the wound, his mind racing. Okay, think. What do I do? I can't just leave him here. But I'm not exactly a doctor. I'm barely a fuckin' wizard.

… He blinked. Holy shit, you idiot. You’re a wizard.

He had the power to help and he couldn’t just walk away. That's not what heroes did. And I'm trying to be a hero, aren't I? Even if I don't really feel like one most of the time.

"Let's get this arrow out of you first, then we can worry about the rest later," Greg said, trying to inject some confidence into his voice. Fake it 'til you make it, right? "I'm not gonna lie, this is gonna hurt like a bitch. I need you to stay as still as you can, alright?"

The knight, Arryk, gritted his teeth, a low groan escaping him as he shifted slightly, jaw clenching tight under his beard. "Do... what you must," he managed, his voice strained. "I've faced... worse…”

I seriously doubt that, but okay. Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself. He'd seen worse than this, he reminded himself. Blood didn't faze him, not anymore. He'd seen too much of it lately, spilled just as much.

The arrow jutted obscenely from the knight's side, the shaft dark with drying blood, the head tangled in torn chainmail. Greg grabbed it firmly, feeling Ser Arryk's body tense beneath his hands as he braced himself.

"Hold still," Greg muttered, his voice low but steady. Please don't let me fuck this up.

With careful movements, trying not to jostle the wound more than necessary, Greg steadied the arrow, preparing to pull it free. "I'm going to pull it out on three, okay? One, two—"

Three. With a quick, sharp yank, the arrow came free with a sickening squelch, slick with fresh blood. A thin spray of it hit Greg's fingers, warm and sticky, but he barely noticed. His attention was on Ser Arryk, who let out a low, guttural groan, slumping harder against the tree. The knight's hand immediately pressed against the wound, trying instinctively to stem the new flood of blood.

Greg tossed the arrow aside, not caring where it landed. Hard part's over. Now for the harder part. "I'm not done, okay? I'm going to try something. Just... just hold on."

He held up his hands, letting the faint golden glow of his newly discovered magic coalesce between his palms, a small sphere of light that pulsed gently. Please work. Please please please work.

As Greg's hands hovered over the wound, the soft golden illumination intensified, chasing away the shadows and throwing Ser Arryk's grimace of pain into sharp relief. "This might feel weird," Greg warned, his brow furrowing in concentration as he focused intently on channeling the magic into the knight's battered body. Weird and hopefully not painful. But I can't make any promises.

As he held his hands over the wound, the soft golden glow intensified, casting warm light over Arryk's pain-lined face. The knight's eyes were wide, disbelief warring with desperate hope as he watched the magic gather.

The golden light seeped into the wound like honey, slow and thick. Greg could feel it flowing through his hands, a warm tingle that raced up his arms and down his spine. This is so fucking crazy. I'm actually doing magic. Real magic.

Under the gentle invasion of the spell, Ser Arryk's body tensed, a low, strangled moan escaping through his clenched teeth as the magic began its work. Slowly, bit by bit, the blood ceased its relentless flow, the ragged edges of the wound knitting together beneath the steady glow of Greg's power.

It's working, Greg thought, a surge of relief and elation rushing through him. Holy shit, it's actually working! Greg watched, amazed and relieved, as color began to return to the knight's face. Arryk's breathing evened out, the raw agony in his eyes dulling to a more manageable pain as the magic soothed his hurts.

Gradually, as Greg poured his stamina into the knight's wound, Ser Arryk's labored breathing began to even out, the raw, agonized edge of pain dulling as Greg's magic suffused his body, seeking out and soothing the damage. The knight's hand, still pressed to his side, relaxed fractionally, no longer clenched in a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

"Thank... you," Ser Arryk managed, his voice hoarse and thready but infused with a bone-deep gratitude. "Thank you."

Tired, sweating and drained, Greg opened his mouth to say something in return to Arryk, only to blink as he felt that same feeling bubble up inside him — the familiar, powerful sensation of his soul expanding. It was like a balloon being inflated inside his chest, pushing against his ribs and making it hard to breathe for a second.

Pop.

And just like that, it was over.

As quickly as it happened, it was done, and Greg found himself blinking rapidly, trying to process the sudden change. Something had settled deep in his gut, like he'd swallowed a lead weight. But it wasn't heavy, not exactly. More like... dense.

Is this what it feels like to be pregnant? he wondered wildly, then immediately wanted to smack himself. Don't be an idiot, Veder. You're a dude. Dudes don't get pregnant.

...Right?

Shaking off that disturbing thought, Greg focused on the new sensation. It was like a well of energy had opened up inside him, pulsing and surging with every breath he took. He couldn't quite put a name to it, couldn't understand exactly what it was, but he felt its presence all the same. It was there, undeniable and unavoidable.

With each inhale, each exhale, the energy seemed to grow stronger, thrumming through his veins like liquid lightning. Is this my magic powe—

Before he could even finish that thought, another change ripped through him, more intense than the first. It was like someone had lit a match inside his soul, the sudden flare of heat and light almost blinding in its intensity.

Fuck fuck fuck, what the hell?! Greg gasped, tensing up as the sensation intensified, dots of sharp pain popping into existence throughout his body. Each new point was like a tiny cigarette being pressed against his skin, only from the inside. He gritted his teeth against the pain, eyes watering as he struggled to breathe through it.

Greg could feel the dots inside him multiplying, spreading, linking together in a complex web that seemed to encompass his entire being. They pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each throb sending a new wave of sensation washing through him. Hot and cold, pleasure and pain, all tangled together until he couldn't tell them apart anymore.

Gradually, the intensity leveled off, the searing heat fading to a more manageable warmth. The dots settled, and Greg could almost visualize them - a glowing, intricate network of fifty points, each of them half as dense as the one in his stomach, all connected by gleaming threads of power and linking to the small pool. It was like a small solar system had been born inside him, fifty planets swirling around a larger star in his stomach-soul.

It's not literally glowing, he reminded himself, even as he glanced down at his arm, half-expecting to see the luminous web pulsing there. All he saw was sweat, beading on his skin and soaking into his shirt. Well, that and the dirt. And the blood. I'm a mess.

"Are... are ye alright, lad?" Arryk's voice cut through Greg's dazed contemplation, the knight's brow furrowed with concern. "Ye look a bit peaky."

Peaky. That's a word Northerners use, isn't it? Greg blinked his tired eyes, then shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Focus, dumbass. He's asking if you're okay.

"I think I should be asking you that, man," Greg replied, forcing a grin that he hoped didn't look as manic or as exhausted as he felt. "You're the one who took an arrow to the gut."

Deciding to shove his existential magical crisis aside for the moment, Greg dug into his pouch, rummaging around for the food he'd picked up in Wintermoss. "Hungry?"

Arryk eyed him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye," he said, the word little more than a sigh. "Aye, I could eat."

As Greg pulled the provisions out - some hard jerky, a hunk of cheese, a few pieces of stale hardtack - Arryk watched him with a mix of curiosity and awe. "Yer no ordinary lad, are ye?" he commented, his voice still weak but tinged with wonder. "That healin' touch o' yours... 'tis not natural, that."

Greg shrugged, tearing off a piece of jerky with his teeth and chewing methodically. Tastes like old shoe leather. Awesome. "'s nat'ral t' me, I guess," he mumbled around the mouthful, the words slightly garbled. He swallowed, then tried again. "I mean, it's just something I can do. Like whistling, or wiggling my ears." Or making an idiot of myself in front of pretty girls. I'm great at that.

“Blessed by th’ Gods, ye must be?” the man muttered, seemingly more to himself than Greg.

Greg didn't even bother to say anything. Instead, he passed the food over to a distracted Arryk, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. The knight bit into the hardtack, grimacing as he chewed. Yeah, that stuff's not winning any culinary awards, Greg thought, watching him. But beggars can't be choosers, right?

"So..." Greg cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation away from his magical healing hands. "You said bandits got you?" He pulled out his own waterskin, taking a long pull to wash down the taste of the jerky. Ah, lukewarm water. The champagne of the Middle Ages.

Arryk shifted against the tree, wincing as the movement pulled at his freshly-healed wound. "Aye," he said, his voice growing firmer as he chewed and swallowed. "My men an' I were ambushed by what I thought were mere bandits. But th’ tactics, th’ equipment... 'tweren't typical o' mere brigands. Too prepared, too skilled... an' too well-armed, at that."

That caught Greg's attention. He leaned forward, listening intently as he took another bite of cheese. This part of the world's not big on convenience, he thought sourly. What I wouldn't give for a nice pepperoni pizza right about now...

"Whod’ya think they were, then?" he asked, forcing his mind back on track. "If they weren't just regular old bandits, I mean."

Arryk frowned, his gaze going distant as he considered the question. "I suspect they were men o’ House Darkvein, mayhaps Coldmyre," he said at last, his tone grim. "Both rivals o' Stonehall, ye see, an' closer vassals o' Bolton than we."

Boltons... The name rang a vague bell in Greg's mind, but he couldn't quite place it. Still don't know any of these Houses...

"Who're the Boltons again?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Arryk blinked at him, confusion and disbelief warring on his face. "How... how are ye not knowing o' House Bolton, lad?" he asked slowly, as if talking to a particularly dim child. "They're one o' th' most powerful Houses in th' North, second only t' th' Manderlys, and th’ Manderlys only behind th’ Starks."

Shit. Okay, think fast. Greg plastered on his best innocent look, all wide eyes and guileless smile. "I, uh... I lost my memory," he said, the lie tripping off his tongue with unsurprising ease, considering how often he used it. Well, it's not a total lie. I've definitely lost a lot of things since coming here. My way, my dignity, my sanity...

"Been roamin' around the North for a couple months now," he continued, trying to sound convincing. "Ever since I woke up in the middle of nowhere with no idea who I was or how I got there." Nailed it.

"Truly?" Arryk looked skeptical, but also faintly sympathetic. "Tis a hard fate, lad. Th' North's not a forgivin' place for those without kin or keep."

You're telling me, dude. Greg shrugged, trying to play it off. "I get by," he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Fake it 'til you make it, right?

Arryk shook his head, still looking a bit dubious as he cast a glance at Greg's sword and the ring on his finger, but apparently willing to roll with it for now. "Well, th' Boltons are th' lords o' th' Dreadfort," he explained, slipping into what Greg privately thought of as a 'teacher voice.' "One o' th' most feared Houses in th' North, known for th’... unsavory acts of their ancestors, th’ Red Kings."

Unsavory? Greg's mind immediately went to cannibalism, human sacrifice, really kinky evil sex stuff. Oh god, I'm in a world of murderous BDSM cannibals. He swallowed hard. "Unsavory like... what? They don't use napkins when they eat?"

Arryk shot him a look that said 'are you serious right now?' "Nay, lad. Unsavory like flayin' their enemies alive. 'Tis said they wear man skin as cloaks."

Greg's mind whirled at the implications. Flaying people alive wasn't just serial killer stuff - this was institutional, generational evil. And these guys are the ones in charge? He fought down a shudder. No wonder everyone up here looks so grim all the time.

Before he could say anything else, Greg's breath hitched, the familiar sensation of his soul expanding sweeping through him like a sudden gust of wind through an open window. He forgot what he was about to say, his focus snatched away by the growing potential within him. It wasn't the first time he had felt this—by now, the process was beginning to feel almost expected, if erratic.

Each time it happened, he sensed his capabilities stretching, latching onto something profound and ineffable. This time, he didn't fully understand what it was—no memories, no powers, no objects—but he knew it was significant. Shaking his head, he tried to continue the last thought on his mind.

"S-so you're saying those delightful folks are the' ones your House serves?" he managed, trying to keep the horror out of his voice. Just when I thought this place couldn't get any worse...

"Aye," Arryk sighed, looking pained. "Stonehall's sworn t' th' Dreadfort, same as most th’ Houses o’ th’ Dread Lands. We're their vassals, bound by oath an' honor t' serve."

Serve the skin-wearing cannibal lords. We’re in the Dread Lands. Got it. Greg nodded slowly, trying to look like this all made perfect sense to him. "Right. And these... these Boltons, they're vassals too? To someone else?"

"Aye, t' House Stark o' Winterfell," Arryk confirmed, looking at Greg like he'd grown a second head. "Th' Starks've ruled th' North since th' Age o' Heroes, nigh on eight thousand years ago."

Eight thousand years? Jesus Christ, how do they keep track? Do they have a really big calendar or something? Greg shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around the sheer scope of it. Eight thousand years ago back home, we were still figuring out how to make fire and shit in holes.

"Okay, okay," he said, holding up a hand to forestall any more history lessons. "Comin' back t' that later. What's a Great House? Is that like, a really big castle or somethin'?"

Arryk stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he blinked.

Once.

Twice.

"...How little do ye know, lad?"

Buddy, you have no idea. Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Assume I know nothin'."