The knight did.

  Assume he knew nothing, that is. And Ser Arryk told him everything he thought he would need to know.

  As Greg trudged through the thick, sucking mud of the woods, his boots making wet, squelching sounds with every step, he couldn't help but turn over the flood of information he'd gotten from Arryk. It was like trying to drink from a fire hose, except instead of water, it was a torrent of medieval politics and power struggles. Westeros 101, taught by Professor Stonehall.

  He shook his head as he walked. I shoulda taken notes.

  Westeros, from what the knight told him, was less a singular empire and more a huge, entangled feudal web, wrapped up in layers like one of those Russian nesting dolls his mom liked to buy. Except instead of cute little wooden figures, it's a bunch of backstabbing assholes all trying to one-up each other.

  At the top of the asshole pyramid, the Great Houses like the Starks lorded over everyone, with big names like the Lannisters—apparently a bunch of rich pricks—and the Baratheons—a bunch of strong pricks?—right up there with them when it came to power.

  That part made sense, at least. It's just like high school. The popular kids rule the school, and everyone else just tries to stay out of their way. But then Arryk got to explaining about what he actually knew about the North, and things got... complicated.

  "Fuck meeee," Greg muttered under his breath, dodging a low-hanging branch that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. This place is like the fucking Amazon rainforest. Except with more snow. And no pandas.

  The North, as it turned out, was massive. Like, mind-bogglingly huge. Fucking Narnia without the wardrobe. According to Arryk, it was as large as the other six kingdoms combined, which sounded like the kind of bullshit you'd hear from a used car salesman.

  But who was Greg to argue with a knight that actually fucking lived here? For all he knew, maybe everything really was bigger in the North. Everything except the average lifespan, probably.

  The whole place was carved up like a giant pie at a particularly aggressive family gathering, with everyone from the Great House Stark to the somewhat less mighty but still pretty important Major Houses like the Boltons and Manderlys grabbing a big, meaty slice. Probably with some fingers getting chopped off in the process. These people seem to really like their swords.

  Then there were the minor houses, which Greg figured were like the kids at the table getting the thin, runty slices that were mostly crust. The hand-me-down houses. The Goodwill of Westeros nobility.

  Below them were the petty houses, like Arryk's own House Stonehall, which sounded like they got the leftover crusts—still part of the pie, technically, but not exactly fighting over the juiciest pieces. More like scraping the burnt bits off the bottom of the pan and hoping no one notices. A lot of the smaller towns in the North were apparently part of those sad little crusts of land, with their keep or whatever usually smack dab in the middle like a cherry on top of a shit sundae.

  And then, at the very bottom of the barrel, were the Masterly and knightly houses. The poor fuckers like Arryk who got tossed whatever scraps were left after the bigger kids had their fill. Probably just enough land for a village. A really shitty village. With a lot of inbreeding. Arryk had just shrugged when he talked about them, saying most of them weren't even worth thinking about. Ouch. Even among the bottom-feeders, there's a pecking order.

  The whole thing was a tangled mess of loyalty and duty, with everyone owing something to someone else, sort of like a medieval pyramid scheme but with more armor and fewer opportunities for upward mobility. It made Greg's head hurt just trying to keep it all straight. No wonder these people are always stabbing each other in the back. It's like a fucking soap opera, but with swords instead of sex.

  It had all been confusing, sure, especially when Arryk had started going on about religions and stuff. Apparently the North are a bunch of tree-huggers… which is weird with how violent these guys are.

  But it was the knight's description of the whole fucking House system that had really made Greg's brain feel like it was leaking out of his ears.

  Major Houses swaggering around with their armies and massive fuck-off castles, Minor Houses nipping at their heels like angry chihuahuas, Petty Houses scrapping for whatever glory they could get... and all of them apparently going to war at the drop of a fucking hat over gods-knew-what. Probably who has the prettiest sister or the biggest dick. Knowing these people, those two things might be the same.

  Hell, there'd been two major wars in like the last fifteen years.

  It was all just... a lot.

  Too much, if Greg was being honest with himself. Which he tried not to do too often, because fuck that noise. Introspection was for people who didn't have to worry about getting eaten by bears or stabbed by random assholes in the woods.

  Speaking of random assholes... After Arryk had given Greg that whole rundown on the North and its endless tangle of politics and dick-measuring, the knight had hefted himself back up on his horse, his wound healed up good as new thanks to Greg's magic fingers. Phrasing!

  "I'm in yer debt, young Veder," he'd said, all solemn-like, as if that meant fuck-all to Greg. What am I gonna do, call 1-800-MEDIEVAL and cash in my Knight Points? But he'd just nodded, watching as Arryk galloped off into the woods like he was fucking Lancelot or some shit.

  Sure, I'll just swing by the Stonehall or whatever the fuck and pick up my reward. He thought with an eye twitch as he stopped for another snack break, scratching a happy bear cub behind the ears. Maybe they'll give me a shiny new sword, or a carrying pack for Ash. Or maybe they'll just stab me in the face for shits and giggles. Fifty-fifty chance, really, considering what a lot of these North guys are like.

  Greg snorted as he thought of the knight's words from yesterday, shaking his head as he slogged onward through the mud and the muck. Like I'm gonna be able to collect on that.

  The sun was setting, the sky darkening to a deep, dusky blue as Greg continued his trek through the forest. Gettin' late, he thought, eyeing the lengthening shadows with a touch of unease. Better set up camp soon, 'fore it gets too dark to see my own nose.

  He came to a small clearing, the trees opening up just enough to let a sliver of fading light through. Perfect. With a grunt, Greg shrugged off his canvas pack, setting it up against a tree with a dull thud. Home sweet home, or whatever.

  Glancing down at Ash, who was snuffling around the base of a nearby oak, Greg smirked and clapped his hands once, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet of the woods. "Ash, fetch!"

  The bear cub's head popped up, ears twitching. For a second, Greg thought he might actually have to repeat himself - c'mon, buddy, we've been over this - but then Ash was off like a shot, darting back into the underbrush with an excited little growl.

  Atta boy. Greg snorted, shaking his head. It had taken weeks of patient (and not-so-patient) training, but he'd finally gotten the little guy to understand at least one command.

  Kinda.

  While Ash was off doing his thing, Greg set about the task of making their temporary home a bit more livable. He circled the clearing, picking up stones and bringing them back to his pack, laying them out on the ground in a small, neat circle.

  Windbreak, check, he thought, sitting back on his heels to survey his work. Gotta keep that fire goin' somehow.

  Windbreaks, as it turned out, were pretty damn important when it came to camping in the North. Something Greg had learned the hard way, thanks to those traitorous assholes who'd tried to gut him for his sword.

  Fuckin' Merek, he thought, his hand twitching towards his side, fingers brushing the hilt of the blade. Fuckin' Dael. Fuckin' Jory. Fuck 'em all.

  He pushed the anger down, forcing it back into the dark little corner of his mind where it belonged. Not now, Veder. Focus on the task at hand, yeah? Worry 'bout revenge later.

  The North, as Greg had quickly discovered, was a cold, windy bitch of a place. Keeping a fire going in these conditions was like trying to keep a candle lit in a hurricane - damn near impossible without some kind of shelter.

  Heh. 'Break the wind,' Greg snorted to himself, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a wry grin. Guess fart jokes are still funny, even in Westeros.

  Some things, it seemed, were universal.

  A rustling in the bushes announced Ash's return, the bear cub trotting into the clearing with a mouthful of sticks clenched between his little teeth. He dropped them at Greg's feet with a proud huff, as if to say "look what I did, Dad!"

  "Good boy, Ash!" Greg praised, reaching out to ruffle the soft fur between the cub's ears. "Go fetch!"

  And off he went again, fluffy butt waggling as he disappeared back into the forest. Greg shook his head, still grinning, and gathered up the sticks, tossing them into the center of his improvised fire pit.

  It had taken some trial and error (and more than a few singed fingers) but Greg had finally gotten the hang of using the flint and steel he'd picked up back in Wintermoss. It still took a few minutes of striking and cursing - c'mon, c'mon, friggin' thing - before the sparks caught, the dry tinder smoking and then flaring to life.

  And Prometheus said, 'let there be light,' Greg thought, sitting back on his haunches to watch the flames lick at the bigger sticks, the fire slowly growing. Or heat, anyway. Same diff.

  Ash came trotting back a few more times, each trip yielding another mouthful of sticks and twigs and even a few larger branches. "Good haul, buddy," Greg complimented, rewarding the bear with a head scratch as he added the new fuel to the steadily growing blaze. We'll be toasty warm in no time.

  With the fire crackling away merrily, Greg turned his attention to the next order of business: bedding down for the night. He rummaged through his pack, pulling out his bedroll and laying it out at the base of a tree, close enough to the fire to feel its heat but not so close that stray embers might catch.

  Gettin' to be a real pro at this whole 'roughin' it' thing, he thought, a touch of self-deprecating humor in the words. Bear Grylls ain't got nothin' on me.

  He imagined the survival expert's reaction to seeing him now - a scrawny teenager cuddling up with a bear cub in the middle of a fantasy forest. He'd probably have some choice words about proper wilderness protocol, Greg thought, smirking. And then I'd sic Ash on 'im. See how he likes a faceful of bear breath.

  With that amusing image playing behind his eyes, Greg climbed into his bedroll, the thick wool and fur lining immediately enveloping him in blessed warmth. He glanced back at the flames and nodded, the small, low fire burning slowly and unlikely to cause any sort of fire if he let it burn while he slept. Ash, as if on cue, padded over and nestled down at Greg's feet, the heat of his furry little body seeping through the fabric.

  "G'night, bud," Greg murmured, his words already starting to slur with encroaching sleep. The cub huffed softly in response, a gentle growling sound that Greg had come to recognize as Ash's version of "love you too."

  D'aww. Greg smiled, his eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion of the day's trek finally caught up with him. Love you too, ya fuzzball.

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  ?

  Greg's breath froze in his chest as his eyes snapped open, the sudden howl of wolves piercing the night like a sharp icicle through his skull. He jerked upright, his heart pounding against his ribs like a frantic drumbeat, pulling Ash from sleep with his sudden movement. What the fuck?

  The bear cub blinked sleepily, his fuzzy little face scrunched up in confusion, still unaware of the impending danger. But Greg knew, with a bone-deep certainty that sent icy tendrils of fear curling through his gut, that something was very, very wrong.

  As soon as Ash sat up, Greg's eyes widened even further as a dark shape bounded out of the forest, rushing towards them with terrifying speed. Ohshitohshitohshit—

  His hand lunged to his right, fingers scrabbling against the ground in a desperate search for his sword. The cool metal of the hilt met his palm and he gripped it tight, the smooth white material reassuring against his skin.

  He swung the blade instantly, his muscles moving on pure instinct, faster than his sleep-addled brain could even process. He felt the sword connect with something solid, the impact juddering up his arm, and he felt the now-familiar drain on his stamina as the blade's supernatural sharpness activated.

  Blood splattered over him and Ash in a warm, sticky spray, the coppery scent of it overwhelming in the chill night air. The bear cub let out a confused, startled growl, his fur bristling as he pressed closer to Greg's side.

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  Greg's breath came in harsh, ragged pants as something heavy thudded to the ground beside him, followed by an even heavier weight landing right in front of his feet. His eyes flicked left first, instinctively drawn to the object closest to him, and he scrambled backwards with a strangled yelp, his back slamming into the rough bark of the tree behind him.

  A wolf's head lay on the ground, its eyes glassy and lifeless, dark blood pooling beneath it and soaking into the earth. "What the f—"

  Because the woods around him were coming alive with the rustling of leaves and the low, menacing growls of predators on the hunt.

  More shapes emerged from the darkness, eyes reflecting the moonlight like eerie, glowing orbs. Twelve wolves, maybe more, their bodies low to the ground and tense, ready to strike at any moment.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

  Greg leapt to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins like liquid lightning. He could feel Ash pressed against the back of his legs, the cub's small body trembling but holding his ground. It was a hell of a difference from when Ash used to run anytime somebody would approach unexpectedly, either that or the bear cub was just too terrified to move.

  He preferred the optimistic version.

  Brave little guy, Greg thought distractedly, even as his grip tightened on his sword, bringing it up into a ready stance. Braver than me, that's for damn sure.

  The first wolf lunged from the shadows, little more than a blur of motion in the darkness, but built like a horse anyway. The dying firelight glinted off its bared fangs, its eyes burning with a feral intensity that sent a chill down Greg's spine.

  Fuck me sideways, that thing is HUGE.

  Greg's body moved on instinct, muscle memory taking over as he swung his blade to meet the wolf's charge. The sword cleaved into the beast's shoulder with a sickening crunch, slicing through thick fur and flesh like they were made of butter.

  Blood sprayed in a fine mist, warm droplets splattering across Greg's face and chest as the wolf yelped in pain, staggering back from the force of the blow. Gotcha, you furry fuck!

  But even as the thought crossed his mind, Greg frowned, a niggling sense of wrongness tugging at the back of his consciousness. Wait. Something's not right here.

  The wolf, though clearly injured, wasn't retreating.

  It wasn't running away to lick its wounds like any sane animal would do. Instead, it was circling, its eyes fixed on Greg with an almost unnatural focus.

  What the hell? Greg blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. This isn't... this isn't normal. Animals don't… they never act like thi-

  His train of thought was derailed as two more wolves surged forward, their movements eerily coordinated, almost like they were working together. Oh fuck. Oh fuck me.

  Greg backpedaled, his boots slipping a little on the blood-slick ground. He brought his sword up just in time to parry a snap from the second wolf, the impact ringing through the blade and up his arm as teeth clanged against steel.

  Pivoting, he used the momentum to swing the sword in a wide, sweeping arc towards the third wolf's exposed neck. The preternaturally sharp edge sliced through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter, and the wolf crumpled to the ground in a twitching heap.

  As it fell, Greg felt a familiar sudden rush of warmth flood through him, the aching wound on his arm tingling as the skin knitted itself back together, slower this time and noticeably weaker but still helpful. Without giving him even a moment to breathe, the next wolf was already launching itself at him, its powerful jaws aiming straight for his thigh.

  Greg twisted aside, but not fast enough to avoid the glancing blow that tore through his jeans and into the meat of his leg. White-hot pain lanced through him, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to scream.

  Fuck you, Cujo! With a snarl of his own, Greg brought his sword down in a vicious two-handed strike, driving the point deep into the wolf's back, right between its shoulder blades.

  The beast collapsed with a whimper, and once again, Greg felt that strange surge of invigorating energy, the wound on his thigh sealing itself shut as if it had never been.

  Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can totally do this, he thought, even as his heart raced and his breath came in harsh, ragged gasps.

  The thing they didn't tell you about swordplay was that it was fucking tiring, especially in a real fight when hits jarred your entire body and you were constantly on the move. Just gotta… just gotta fight them off.

  He tightened his grip on the sword, the blood-slicked hilt slippery against his palm. His eyes darted from one snarling face to the next, trying to anticipate where the next attack would come from.

  The wolves seemed to sense his determination, his refusal to go down easy. They paced around him, their eyes glowing in the darkness, their fangs bared in anticipation.

  Okay, Greg thought, taking a deep, steadying breath. Yeah, just gotta fight them off.

  With nearly a third of the pack dealt with, Greg's breath came in heavy, visible puffs in the frigid night air. The remaining wolves circled him, their movements more cautious now, but still driven by a desperate hunger or perhaps a burning rage at the loss of their packmates. They should be running, Greg thought wildly, his heart pounding against his ribs. Why aren't they running?

  They lunged, eyes gleaming with an almost unnatural focus.

  One of them managed to slip past Greg's guard, its powerful jaws clamping down on his upper arm like a vice. Jagged teeth sank through the fabric of his green tunic, the enchanted cloth more akin to leather or mail than simple fabric. The teeth dug into the flesh beneath, and Greg cried out in pain, the sound torn from his throat.

  With a desperate swing of his sword, he caught the wolf across the face, the blade slicing deep into its muzzle. The creature fell away with a yelp, its grip loosening as it staggered back, blood streaming from the wound. "Goddamn-ngggh!" He gritted his teeth against the sensation, half-pain and half-relief, as the rest of the arm wound sealed itself shut.

  But even as one wound closed, another opened. The onslaught was relentless, the wolves attacking with a coordination that seemed almost military in its precision. It's like they've done this before, Greg thought, suddenly a bit more worried.

  He spun to block a lunge from another wolf, the impact jolting up his arm and into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he pushed back against the beast's weight, using the momentum to his advantage as he sent it tumbling back. With a grunt of effort, he thrust his sword forward, a blue thin beam of light shooting out and the point driving deep into the wolf's chest with a spurt of blood.

  The animal let out a high, keening yelp, staggering away as its lifeblood poured out onto the carpet of leaves underfoot. Another one down, Greg thought grimly, his breath coming in sharp, painful gasps.

  He could feel his stamina waning with every swing of his blade, the magical sharpness and sword beams that made it so deadly also sapping his strength like a leech. Fuckin' double-edged sword, he thought, a slightly manic giggle bubbling up in his throat. Literally.

  But even as his energy flagged, something else surged within him. His soul expanded, that strange feeling of potential from earlier in the day growing, swelling, until the darkness of the night seemed to recede, everything thrown into stark relief as if illuminated by the midday sun.

  What the fuck? Greg blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift in his perception. And in that split second of distraction, a searing pain lanced through his thigh, forcing a scream from his throat.

  "FUCK!" He swiped blindly with his sword, feeling the blade connect with yielding flesh, hearing the splash of blood and the pained yelp as a wolf scrambled back to join the others circling him once more.

  Greg glanced down, his stomach turning at the sight of his own blood seeping through a jagged tear in his jeans, staining the denim a dark, glistening red. Fuckin' hell, that hurts!

  But there was no time to dwell on the pain, no time to worry about the steady drip-drip-drip of his life essence pattering onto the forest floor. Because the wolves were attacking again, their eyes glinting with a feral, desperate light.

  Two of them came at him simultaneously, one from the front and one trying to flank him, their movements synchronized like a pair of dancers in a deadly ballet. Greg reacted on instinct, his body moving almost before his mind could catch up.

  He spun, the motion fluid and deadly as faded blue light formed around him drawn from the pool in his stomach and his flagging stamina both, his sword whistling through the air in a gleaming arc as a blue crescent of light built up around shot from it. The beam caught the first wolf across the chest, parting fur and flesh like paper, opening up a deep, lethal gash that poured blood onto the ground in a steaming crimson flood.

  His injured leg screaming in protest even as he felt the wound begin to seal itself back up, Greg extended his arm, the point of his sword catching the flanking wolf in the shoulder at the end of his spin, sending it hurtling back.

  It was a far less fatal blow than the one he'd dealt to its packmate, but still enough to send the beast yelping back into the underbrush, tail tucked between its legs as it fled.

  Two more down, Greg thought, his chest heaving with exertion. But fuck, I'm getting tired.

  And he was.

  Each movement, each parry and thrust and desperate dodge, seemed to drain a little more of his flagging reserves, not as much as the sword beams had… but still. His arms felt like lead, his legs quivering with the effort of keeping him upright. Yet, as another wolf fell to his relentless defense, he felt his body knit together, the physical recovery slower and less potent than when he faced bandits.

  And more than that, it didn't do a damn thing for his fuckin' stamina, meaning he was still tired.

  Another pair of wolves darted in, their coordination speaking to a keen intelligence that went beyond mere animal cunning. It's like they're fucking soldiers or something, Greg thought, a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. Wolves with military training. Sure, why the fuck not?

  He parried the first one's lunge, the impact shuddering up his arm and into his shoulder, making his teeth rattle in his skull. Sidestepping the second wolf's snapping jaws, he brought his blade down in a sweeping diagonal slash, the razor-sharp edge slicing through both animals like a knife through butter.

  One of the wolves fell immediately, its body toppling to the ground in a boneless heap. The other limped away, whining piteously, a trail of blood marking its passage as it vanished into the shadows.

  And then there were... Greg blinked, vision swimming slightly as he tried to count the remaining wolves. Fuck, I don't know.

  But even as the thought crossed his mind, the last of the beasts fell to his relentless defense, their bodies littering the ground like macabre confetti. Suddenly, the night was quiet again, the silence broken only by Greg's labored breathing and the soft, worried whimpers of Ash at his side.

  The bear cub nudged at him anxiously, its small snout smeared with the blood of their attackers, its eyes wide and searching as it checked Greg for injuries.

  "'S okay, buddy," Greg mumbled, his words slurring slightly as he leaned heavily against the rough bark of the tree behind him. "'M okay. We're okay."

  But even as he said it, he could feel the adrenaline beginning to drain away, the last dregs of his stamina evaporating like mist under the sun. His sword slipped from his fingers, the blood-slick blade thudding to the ground, forgotten. He knew it would clean itself in minutes, the magic sword being especially handy that way, meaning less work for him.

  Fuck me sideways, he thought, his knees starting to buckle. I could sleep for a week. A month. A fucking year. Even as his vision swam, though, his mind was awhirl. It doesn't make sense, he thought, confused. I get why wolves would attack, but they have instincts, right? They shouldn't be crazy for no reason….

  He blinked. Or can wolves get rabies?

  Wait, no, anything can get rabies, right? Blue eyes blinked again, even more confused. But they didn't look rabid?

  No, if anything, they looked oddly focused on him. He knew he wasn't exactly an expert on animal behavior, his knowledge mostly limited to what he'd gleaned from the occasional nature documentary or Disney movie. But even he knew that predators, even fierce ones like wolves, tended to avoid fights they couldn't win.

  They should've run, he thought, shaking his head slowly. Should've fucked off back into the woods the second they realized I could fight back. But they didn't. They just kept coming, like they didn't care how many of them I killed.

  Which was weirdddddd.

  With a groan, Greg sank to the ground, his back still against the tree. Ash cuddled closer, seeking comfort and offering it in his simple, animal way.

  Greg whispered into the dark, "God, at least that's over."