The Winter Witch XII


Robb spent the next few days either in seclusion or in closed-door meetings with several of his Lords. Often, when that happened, the men would have their squires rushing back and forth, often with messages that were taken to Maester Vyman for his ravens to send elsewhere.

Hermione spent the first day after their - not-fight, but fight - in her room, going over what items she had with her and cataloguing them. Initially, she needed some time to herself. There were things she had to refocus on, which the fight emphasized.

Since her arrival, and upon meeting Robb, Hermione had felt like an interloper - an outlander - to Westeros. In ways, she still felt the same. She was a modern woman from the twentieth-century and many of the attitudes and social customs of Westeros and the Northern army was foreign and alien to her in ways that she assumed her own cultural habits were to them. She barely understood their social pecking order, and despite being born in a country that had a Queen, the British monarchy was a mere figurehead for the House of Lords and the House of Commons, despite the veto power the Queen had.

Robb's coronation and absolute power was something hard to swallow at times, especially when she observed the chain of command surrounding him. His father, Eddard Stark, had been well liked and oftentimes spoken about fondly and with respect. Robb didn't carry the same weight, and despite his successes in battle, he was not his father. Watching the way the men tiptoed around him, constantly testing the new King, made Hermione realize how precarious Robb's position truly was - something she noticed in retrospect, after their disagreement. Her questioning him in front of these men could just have easily spelled his death.

He was her friend, though. In the four months she had been in Westeros, Hermione had come to know and like Robb Stark. He was young, untested in some ways and utterly charming and sweet. But then there were times when his eyes went cold and hard, and she was reminded that this was a young man who had heard about his father's execution and raised armies in his name - a man who had executed others in the name of the North, as well as killed in battle.

That was a bitter pill to swallow, Hermione knew. To think that her friend would then question her about her abilities - after all she had done so far for him and his men! - on the heels of Black Walder Frey's sneering accusations, had left her chilled. Did he truly think so lowly of her? Was she some token, cute ornament for the Northern army to trot out before the masses? "Oh, look, we have a witch!"?

Those thoughts built the foundation of her insecurity, and coalesced into her emotional outburst: she was a witch out of her environment, stuck in a world she didn't understand fully nor wanted to. Hearing Robb degrade her talent and ability, - something she was proud of and had always been proud of as a witch - hurt.

It hurt a lot.

She raced to her tent and sought out the comfort of knowledge that she had fought in a war and succeeded; that she fought for her right to be considered a citizen, something important to the wizarding world despite the slur on her arm and despite the glaring accusation Purebloods sent her, wondering why someone like her could do so much with magic that they couldn't. She needed a reminder of home - of Harry, Ron, Dumbledore's Army and the Order of the Phoenix - people who knew her and what she could do and would say, "you're scary Hermione - brilliant, but scary," with fondness and affection.

Would she ever get home? Hermione had wondered, looking around her tent and the numerous texts she had piled here and there, many filled with useless information. Was she doomed to remained in Westeros for years on end, cataloguing their magic until she had enough information to attempt a portal to her universe? Could she even create a portal? She would need to make a new equation for something no one had ever done before.

Until then - she had two choices: work with Robb and his army, throwing her lot in with them; or go her own way, alone, and fuck them all.

The choice wasn't hard - not after she and Robb spoke.

Since, something had shifted between the two: there was a new kind of understanding, respect that hadn't quite been there before. And maybe… maybe Robb learned something from the situation, just as she did. After all, she made her choice.

And once she did, Hermione always followed through.

Currently, that afternoon several days after her conversation with Robb, Hermione was wandering from her bedchambers at Riverrun, searching for Bolton.

You'd think the man was easy to find, given how most people hated him and kept an eye out for the man whose family sigil was a flayed man, thought Hermione darkly. Instead, everyone she stopped to ask, which ranged from a maid to Lord Ryger. None were able to tell her anything.

Grumpily huffing, Hermione turned the corner and found herself in a different part of the castle than where she normally would end up: she was on a balcony overlooking another inner courtyard, but this one was large and had several covered alcoves. In the middle, however, was a large practice ring. And in that practice ring, several of Robb's Kingsguard were carefully sidestepping one another in a steel-and-dagger melee, a free-for-all, where the last man (or, woman in Dacey's case) standing was the winner.

Hermione rested her elbows on the balustrade above them, leaning forward slightly and eyes fixed on the two she knew the best: Torrhen and Dacey.

Torrhen's shirt was stuck to him, darkly streaked where sweat had bled through. He and his brother Eddard wove and ducked around and under one another in a beautiful display of two people working in symphony against their enemies. Their footwork and the swings of their blades were reminiscent of the first night that Hermione met them, when they fought Jaime Lannister in the Whispering Woods. The two had been taught together, clearly, and knew that where one brother's weakness was, the other's strength would compliment it.

Dacey, being the only female of the group, may have felt like she needed to prove herself, but she had done so time and time again at Robb's side, and was now using two shorter Gladius-style swords: longer than a dagger and thicker, Dacey's Roman-inspired gladius blades gave her the protection of length that a dagger didn't, but the heft and feel of a shorter, stunted sword. She was swinging them with wide arcs, and then quick jabs and chops, with wrist rolls similar to a 1950s greaser with a switchblade.

Lucas Blackwood and Daryn Hornwood had their personal blades, shorter than a Great Sword like the one Robb liked to tell her his father carried, Ice, but still impressive weapons. Dacey was fighting both men at once, while Torrhen and Eddard attacked all three from the outside, forming intricate layers of Dacey, then Lucas and Daryn, and then Torrhen and Eddard.

The courtyard was filled with the shouts and grunts of the Kingsguard below, and the clang and clear ring of steel hitting steel. Sparks flew as the metal clashed, and Hermione did her best to hide a wince here or there whenever someone got a good slash in. They were not using blunted blades - this wasn't just practice for fun, but practice for war.

A crowd had formed, mostly of squires and a few Lords, watching the young men and woman battle - after all, these were the people who were protecting their King. Eventually, Dacey managed to get the tip of her blade under Daryn's hilt, hooking it and then spinning it from his grasp; Daryn swore loudly and called, "Out!"

Immediately, the others drew rank around his empty spot as the man walked off from the center of the practice ring to the edge, leaning against the wooden fence that separated the ring from the courtyard walkways and spectators.

Torrhen and Eddard changed their attack, launching themselves at Lucas, who grimaced at the onslaught as Dacey joined them, the three forming a triangle around the black-haired young man. He parried but was on the defensive, his footwork sloppy and eventually, he found himself up against the fence. With four different blades at his neck, he called his own end. "Out!"

There was a moment of pause, as Dacey scurried to the far end of the ring and Torrhen and Eddard took drinks from waiting servants. Hermione grinned at the image: it was just like boxers retreating to their corners while their coaches fanned them or gave them pep talks.

Torrhen guzzled from his goblet, head tipped back and drank so deeply that liquid spilled over the rim of the cup and dribbled down his chin and onto his wet shirt. When he pulled away, he was facing and looking up to Hermione on the balcony. Their eyes met and he grinned, waving.

Hermione gave a tiny huff of a laugh and waved back.

"Lady Hermione!" he called, a large grin on his face and his voice carrying, "Would you not join us? I am eager to see your magical abilities against our swords!"

Immediately, heads swiveled to look up at Hermione.

Her smile slid off her face quickly.

Fuck. You, she thought pointedly at Torrhen, and some of her thought must have translated in the glare she sent, because his smile faltered.

Then, there was a clamouring of others, and Hermione sighed. Not only was it getting harder to hide her abilities - not like she was trying too hard, mind - but she didn't want to go announcing to all of Westeros just what she was capable of, either.

Grudgingly, Hermione turned on her heel and Apparated down into the ring in front of Torrhen; Eddard and Dacey jumped in shock, and there were a few startled cries from spectators, but her bodyguard-cum-friend merely grinned.

"Does this mean you'll be joining us, Lady Hermione?"

Goddamn him, thought Hermione, looking up at the tall Karstark. His eyes were twinkling enough with amusement that he would make Dumbledore weep with envy. Hermione sighed. "I suppose so."

She rolled her shoulders and heard a few pops, and then began backing up her steps, until she was far enough from the Karstark brothers and Dacey to keep them all in her line of vision. She flicked her wrist, and her wand slipped from her ever-present wand holster into her waiting palm. A sudden hush overcame those watching.

Hermione slowly turned herself sideways, presenting left shoulder at the front with her wand at hip-height, hidden behind the bulk of her lithe form. Dacey spun both her gladius blades, her entire form square and large, presenting the largest target while Torrhen and Eddard began to weave between each other; one brother was at the front, and then the other stepped in front instead. Their movements were serpentine, their bodies constantly in motion as they sidestepped one another and began to flick their eyes between the two women.

"You won't take it too hard when I beat you, will you, Lady Hermione?" asked Eddard pleasantly.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione's eyebrows shot skyward.

Unlike his brother Torrhen, Eddard had dark brown hair that was shaggy and longish - Torrhen was the exact opposite with light brown hair that was cut close to his head. Both, however, shared the square face with a high forehead and small, narrow eyes over a heavy brow. Torrhen was far more built like an army man from Hermione's world, whereas Eddard had the mass of a warrior with large shoulders and a barrel-chest - making Hermione think that Torrhen took after his mother, given he was the smaller of the two (although not by much) but was the second eldest of the Karstark boys - their elder brother Harrion, Hermione knew, had been taken prisoner earlier on the war before she arrived and was currently a captive of the Lannister's.

The rakish grin on Eddard's face, of course, could only come from being the one without the responsibilities that the heir would have.

"Edd," cautioned Torrhen, pausing behind his younger brother, "Perhaps it's best to not-"

"Best not to, what?" Eddard grinned.

Hermione pursed her lips and deliberately turned to Dacey, ignoring the brothers and Torrhen's put-out expression. "Hey, Dace. What do you say - a girl team up?"

Dacey, despite the strange words, understood the message Hermione was trying to convey. She nodded. "Very well."

Hermione moved to her friend's side, and an anticipatory hush fell over the group. Then -

Eddard raced forward, Torrhen just steps behind him. Dacey met them head on, one gladius reaching up to block Eddard's downward stroke and then the other flashing off to the side as she blocked Torrhen's side swing. Hermione stepped forward and brandished her wand, turning the hard, packed earth under Eddard's feet into quicksand.

The young man stumbled, gapping down at his leather boot as the muddy earth suddenly sucked him down, and he wobbled forward.

Dacey laughed, loudly and derisively, and Eddard scrambled to bring his sword up to block her gladius. However, the long sword had barely enough room to clear the churned earth, which Hermione grimly turned back solid.

"Fuck!" shouted Eddard, struggling yank his foot up while performing some impressive backbends to avoid Dacey's double blades.

Torrhen shook his head, and braced himself in front of his brother, rapidly parrying against Dacey's rhythmic blows, wheeling forward in on/off timed arcs and sweeping glances. Hermione, for the most part, was able to stand by the side, unchallenged.

Eventually, she stunned Eddard and he keeled over, face-forward onto the ground.

"Edd!" Torrhen groaned, quickly backpedaling and out of Dacey's reach, and leaving his unconscious brother completely undefended.

The other woman grinned and followed, chasing the older Karstark. Hermione followed in the opposite direction, and soon the two women were circling Torrhen, who kept his sword in front of him with both hands on the hilt, his eyes following them when he could.

Dacey moved, quickly, and Torrhen swung the sword up and over his shoulder to block the swipe she was making towards his back; Hermione took the opportunity to slide in front, where Torrhen's entire front was open, and point her want at him. "Stup-"

Torrhen's eyes widened and he hit the floor, sweeping a leg out behind and knocking Dacey, behind him, to the ground with a loud 'oof'. He rolled away and Hermione scuttled back, out of his leg's reach. Dacey moaned and rolled from her side to her back and then to her feet, but by then, Torrhen had moved well out of physical reach.

"Do you trust me?" muttered Hermione to Dacey, while the crowd around them catcalled and hollered.

"Suppose so," the woman muttered back, eyes firmly fixed on Torrhen who was eyeing both women cautiously.

"You take high, and I'll get him when he's focused on you," said Hermione, "But we need to make it showy. Can you jump at him?"

"Jump at him?" Dacey's incredulous voice was matched by her wide eyes as she stared at Hermione in surprise. Then, she stopped. "Jump at him. Oh. Oh."

She swung her head back around and Torrhen grit his teeth in response. Dacey nodded and muttered, "When you're ready, Lady Hermione."

"Ready," muttered back Hermione, and then Dacey was racing forward, her gladius at her side and one extended in front. Torrhen braced himself, sword up like a baseball bat, but Dacey changed direction from going directly towards Torrhen in a straight line to the side, only to push off the far fence, launching herself into the air with impressive Parkour skills.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" cried Hermione, directing her wand and Dacey. The spell caught the woman, and she gained a higher lift than physically possible. With Hermione pointing her wand forward, she launched Dacey towards Torrhen quickly like a projectile.

Torrhen swore loudly while the crowd roared their approval, and his sword hit Dacey's gladius as it swung down. But with his focus on the woman high above him, he left his front and what was closer to the ground open as Hermione pointed her wand at him, ending her spell on Dacey. She watched impassively as a bright blue light hit Torrhen and he crumpled to the ground, stunned.

Dacey landed hard, and then rolled over her shoulder and braced back up on her knees and then stood in a smooth motion, her swords out and extended behind her. She tossed her hair and glanced over her shoulder.

"Did we win?" she called back to Hermione and the rowdy crowd of squires, servants, and Lords, all cheered and whistled.

"I think so!" grinned Hermione, letting her wand slip back into her holster. She dusted her hands off on her thighs and then walked calmly over to Torrhen, closer to her than Eddard. She placed a finger on his forehead, murmured, "Eneverate," and the man blinked, taking in a raspy, gasping breath.

"What was that?!" he gapped, turning to Hermione who smirked at him. "No, really, Lady Hermione - what was that? That was amazing!"

Hermione shrugged and moved to Eddard, doing the same to him. He gasped awake. He braced his elbows on his upturned knees and hung his head between.

"How did that happen?" the younger Karstark moaned.

Torrhen, wobbly, moved to his brother and clapped him on the shoulder. "I told you not to underestimate Lady Hermione! And Dacey has become quite skilled with her blades."

The elder of the two Karstarks turned to Hermione and narrowed his eyes on her. "But don't think I won't be asking for a demonstration of that move again, Lady Hermione."

"Of course," she demurred, nodding. After all, Robb had placed Torrhen as her guard, and if they were going to fight together, it made sense that they both knew what the other was capable of.

"Lady Hermione," called a voice, and Hermione turned to see the Greatjon leaning against the fence, a wide grin on his face. "My apologies for interrupting that exciting match, but His Majesty is asking for you and Lord Bolton in the war room."

She sighed. "Duty calls."

"Later then, Lady Hermione," said Torrhen with an easy smile on his sweat-tinged face. "We're going to practice that together." He frowned as he looked down at Eddard, still stuck in the muddied earth Hermione made, calling loudly, "Does anyone have a spade?"

Hermione waved and followed the Greatjon, meandering through the crowd a many murmured their praise, in awe of her skills and saying things such as, "That was extraordinary!" and "Amazing!". A few young squires blushed a furious red when she walked by and gave them tiny smiles, making the Greatjon chortle beside her.

Eventually, they entered Riverrun proper, and the Greatjon joined her in the war room. Inside, a merry fire cracked in the large heath. At the head, Robb sat, speaking quietly with Lord Bolton to his left. The Greatjon pulled up a chair and sat himself in his usual spot; around the table were several other Lords and Lady Maege Mormont. The seat next to Robb was vacant, and Hermione took that to mean it was hers.

Once she sat, Robb nodded at her, his blue eyes as bright and clear as a warm summer day. "Now that we're here, let's begin: the first thing on the agenda is Harrenhal."

There was a tense air in the room, and several people shifted in their seats.

"Lady Hermione and Lord Bolton will commence a joint operation together," continued Robb, his voice stern and making no room for arguments. "They will leave within the next day, heading to where Lord Bolton's men are currently camped. From there, they will begin their assault on Harrenhal and, as it is primarily a rescue mission, bring my sister Arya back."

"What's our time frame on this?" asked Hermione, frowning, drumming her fingers on the table.

"As quickly, but safely, as you can," replied Robb, his mouth turning down as he turned back to her. "I know that things will likely go wrong, but I'm hoping you can… Apparate or… use one of those - erm, Portkeys? - to travel the distance between Riverrun and the camp to cut down on travel time."

Hermione nodded absently, wandlessly and wordlessly summoning a map of the Riverlands from a table off to the far side of the room, where numerous other maps were rolled up - most had been the ones she was using previously to figure out Jaime Lannister's path.

Once it zoomed towards the table, nearly clipping the Greatjon's head, she unrolled it and stood, leaning over the table to look at key points. "Lord Bolton, where is the camp now?"

"Ten leagues north of Harrenhal," replied the soft-spoken man confidently. "Where I have a host of nearly ten thousand."

"I don't think we'll need that many," replied Hermione.

"Why ever not?" protested Lord Glover, eyes narrowed. "Harrenhal is a fortress; it was only won by the Targaryens because they had dragons. What will you do?"

Hermione glanced up at the man, looking at him from under her brows. It hooded her eyes and her glare looked rather menacing as she said, arrogantly, "I'll think of something." She then shot a look at Bolton, who nodded minutely, understanding immediately she didn't want to say anything.

The look Lord Glover sent her was rather dry and conveyed what he thought of her arrogance. Hermione didn't bother replying to him or responding to his look.

The meeting went on for another hour or so, until there was a natural break. Eventually, groups splintered off and Lords went their own way. Hermione slowly stood, stretching her back and popping it. At her side, Robb glanced at her, pausing, and she hid a smile by turning her head - he wanted to speak but wasn't sure where to begin.

"Shall we walk?" offered Hermione, making sure Robb couldn't see her smile. "I should head to my room and begin preparations."

"Yes, of course," agreed Robb, and he offered her his elbow.

Hermione took it and they wandered the hallways of Riverrun slowly, a gentle pace to their steps.

"If I can ask," began Hermione tentatively, "What's happening with your mother?"

Robb heaved a deep sigh. "She has been confined to her room, under guard," he said quietly. "When she's not in her room, she remains by my grandfather's side as his health declines."

Hermione immediately deduced the problem. "You haven't decided what to do."

"No," agreed Robb. "There is - too much inconsistency, to be honest. I know I need to harden my heart to what she did but… she's my mother. Even still, her actions are not of someone's sound mind or logic. I've had the unpleasant duty along with many of the Northern Lords and Lady Mormont who knew my parents better than I to go over my mother's previous actions."

He grimaced. "The results are… not good."

"Oh?"

"She jumps to conclusions far too quickly and then stubbornly keeps to them, beyond all other information that provides alternative perspectives," clarified Robb. "Even her brokering of my marriage with the Freys was short-sighted and heavily one-sided."

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"Enough of this," said Robb, turning his head down a bit to look at her, "I wanted to ask you something."

He steered them away from an upcoming staircase through an arch, and then they were in a small courtyard overlooking the Trident, framed by the mountains. There were a few trees in pots and a couple rose bushes growing up vines, and a low, stone seat.

They sat.

"Your Portkeys," began Robb, "Must you be around to activate them?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. They can be premade with a password or keyword activation sequence." She paused, narrowing her eyes on him. "Why?"

Robb shifted on the seat. "Well… if I have some of our blacksmiths create house sigil pins… could you turn them into Portkeys? Password activated ones?"

"... in case something goes wrong somewhere?" asked Hermione, her voice low and gentle.

Robb nodded silently.

Hermione tilted her head back and looked up at the sky, there the light blue of the early afternoon was beginning to bleed into a darker hue of purple as twilight began. "I think I can do it, but I wouldn't want to do too many at once. Magic isn't the same here as it is back home for me, Robb. And created those wards for Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge really threw me a loop."

She turned back to him, and saw Robb mouthing, "threw me a loop," amusement all over his face. He saw her and chuckled. "I apologize; I'm not laughing at you, Lady Hermione."

"Uh huh."

He grinned. "I was thinking, there are a few locations that I think would be suitable for the Portkey to take us," he continued, a smile still on his face. "Perhaps when the Harrenhal siege is done, we can scout a few of these?"

Alone, Your Majesty? thought Hermione, eyebrows raised. "Sure."

They stood and began to walk again, this time towards Hermione's room. At the door, Robb lingered, his upper body swaying towards her - just a bit - but nothing but his quiet sigh fluttered across her lip.

Instead, he reached forward, took her hand in his and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. "Until later, Lady Hermione."

"Until later, Robb," she replied quietly, watching the tall, redheaded King as he disappeared down the hallway, a strange flutter in her stomach.


The next day, Hermione stood with Bolton in a courtyard that she was beginning to become too familiar with. Instead of dressing in just her jeans and her jumper, the air that morning was chilly; she wore her jeans tucked into half-calf height winter boots, and wore two layers of a cardigan and form-fitting black jacket with a scarf for her top. Her curly brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but several strands were escaping and curling around her forehead and nape of her neck.

Beside her, Torrhen was checking his sword sheath, as well as other odds and ends he had tucked away in pockets and pouches. Bolton stood immovable on her other side, a veritable rock in the tide that was the early morning bustle of Riverrun.

"Have you everything you need?" called Robb, striding towards her from the interior of Riverrun.

Hermione felt her lips twitch. What a reversal from before! Then, I was the one left behind. "I think we're good. It wouldn't be difficult for me to pop back, anyway."

He nodded, eyes darting over to Bolton, who nodded deeply to his King, and then to Torrhen, who bowed. "Be safe," he finally said, his exhaled air puffing in the cold, a small cloud that rose from his lips.

Hermione grinned. "What's the fun in that?"

Robb's mouth dropped open, a startled laugh erupting from him, and Hermione reached forward at the same time to touched both Bolton and Torrhen, spinning on her heel and disappearing with a smart crack.

They reappeared in the east, hidden by a tree line that Bolton had known of previously and had passed on to her through Legilimency. Below them, on a desolate, flat piece of earth surrounded by boulders and trampled grass, was the Bolton camp. Several banners of the Flayed Man were spread throughout, the black background and an upside-down flayed man on a cross as eye catching and memorable as the Jolly Roger in Hermione's own world.

Their arrival was noticed, and a small contingent of men on horseback quickly approached them, weaving back and forth as their horses picked their way up the craggily ground, the hooves carefully finding purchase on loose rubble and stones.

The scenery was beautiful, Hermione noted, with the area closer to the east looking more like northern Scotland: either lush, green rolling hills, or jagged, brownish hills with grey rocks jutting up to impede people. The sky was grey, and there was the hint of a cold rain with dark clouds rolling in from further east.

And, in the near distance, was Harrenhal: a large, black ruin of a once-majestic castle. Several towers remained, but many of them were open to the elements, and even from where she stood, Hermione could see moss growing up and into several open nooks and crannies, as well as the gaping holes in the battlements and walls, where greenery was trying to reclaim the property. Exposed, half-rotted, or fallen wooden beams crisscrossed throughout whatever rooms were left bare, and even with a few Lannister lions flying from serviceable posts, the castle was a sorry sight.

Eventually, the group of horses, led by a tall, hulking mass of a man on a warhorse, stopped in front of them.

"Vorgos," said Bolton quietly, nodding at his man.

"My Lord Bolton," the man greeted with a deep and accented voice. "We stand ready at your command."

"Excellent," replied Bolton, turning to Hermione and Torrhen. "Shall we?"

Hermione found herself behind Torrhen on a spare horse, while Bolton led the procession back towards the camp. There was an uneasy feeling in the air, and Hermione found herself huddling closer to Torrhen, tightening her arms around his stomach as she looked over the soldiers and men that Bolton had under his command.

Many wore the black, red, and white colours of their house, but others wore simple leathers or chainmail. Despite whatever they wore, they all had the same hungry, cruel look to their eyes. Hermione shivered and Torrhen, with his free arm, patted the one she had wrapped around him before sliding to the hilt of his sword, if it was necessary.

He doesn't trust these men either, thought Hermione, feeling the subtle shift of his muscles under her cheek as he sat stiff. Good.

Eventually they reached the command tent. Bolton dismounted from his horse easily, and turned to help Hermione, who took his offered hand with some reluctance. The moment her feet were on solid ground, Bolton turned and was ushering her in to the tent, Torrhen quickly on her heels. The moment Bolton's soldiers pulled back the tent flap, the man began barking out orders - as much as the quiet man could bark, anyway. There was still a steely ring of command in his voice when he spoke.

"What are our numbers?"

"Ten thousand or so, strong, milord," replied back one of the men in the tent, standing respectively by a table. There were three others with him - all dressed in boiled leathers and fur.

"What numbers does Harrenhal hold?" Bolton moved to the head of his table, and Hermione slid herself in quietly to a spot between two of the burly looking men, both who scowled down at her. Bolton noticed and snapped, "Lady Hermione is a close friend and confident of our King; furthermore, she has my full and complete trust. You will treat her with respect."

The men went contrite, even if they looked at her oddly; but they bowed their heads.

"Harrenhal's numbers change almost daily," one of the men spoke up. "They're constantly coming and going."

"From where and to where?" asked Hermione, glancing around.

Vorgas, Bolton's man when he wasn't on the field, shrugged. "Mainly they scour the countryside for folks hiding out in the villages - the ones not burnt, anyway. They then bring them back into Harrenhal."

"It's a big place," added the first one who spoke about the numbers, "And I'd imagine they're using them as slave labour. To keep everything running, that is."

And other things went unsaid. Hermione's lips thinned.

"But we estimated somewhere in the hundreds," continued Vorgas, seeing Hermione's face. "Not more than five or so. It's an outpost, but they don't have access to food and steel to keep a full garrison, nor do they have access to run back somewhere else for a garrison to help them retake Harrenhal."

"Not since the Young Wolf destroyed the old Lion's armies in the Westerlands, anyway," chortled gratingly the last man of the group.

"Until we have better numbers, this isn't helpful," sighed Hermione. "Robb wants us to destroy Harrenhal completely - but only after we rescue Arya. Does anyone know what she looks like?"

There were blank faces around the table. Fuck, thought Hermione moodily, her mouth pulling down into a frown.

"If there is to be a rescue mission first," began Bolton quietly, firmly, "Then we must rescue any prisoners before attempting to destroy the castle."

"It won't be an attempt," replied Hermione, "I already have quite a few ideas on what I can use to blow the place up. Or… well, at least make it useless to hold anyone other than maybe a few people going forward." She glanced around. "I think our first plan should be getting inside Harrenhal."

"Agreed," sad Vorgas, crossing his arms. "But they will see us if we try sneaking in. And we cannot scale the walls. It was an impenetrable fortress once."

"Could you do what we did at Stone Hedge?" asked Torrhen, speaking up for the first time from just off to Hermione's side.

She turned to look at him and shook her head. "From what I can see, that place is a monster. There are too many nooks and crannies for us to get lost in - no," she sighed, realizing what her next step would be and already knowing that Torrhen was going to protest, "We're going to have to get in the same way everyone else is."

There was a silence, and then, as she predicted, Torrhen grit out, "What?"

"You're speaking of being taken prisoner," said Vorgas, something strange in his voice as he eyed her. Bolton had a thunderous expression on his face.

Hermione nodded. "Yes - it'll be the only way. You've mentioned they have a high turnover for prisoners… it's the easiest way to get in. Make them think we're - because I know I won't be going by myself - are defenceless villagers. I can cast a glamour on us so they overlook our weapons."

"And my face?" asked Bolton, throwing in his lot of being one of those with her.

"Easily done," answered Hermione. "I won't be holding it for long, anyway - just long enough for us to get in, do a quick headcount and have an idea of how many guards are there at once and where the prisoners are. Once we're in, it'll be easy to sow discord with some spells, and we can open the gates for the rest of the soldiers to come in and take over."

Torrhen muttered something under his breath, and Hermione, despite not hearing what he said, could guess at the feeling. She reached back and swatted him. He swatted gently back at her hand and she resisted the urge to end up returning the favour.

"The whole of the army is unnecessary," decided Bolton, after thinking for a few minutes. "Vorgas," he said, turning to the man.

"My lord?" the man straightened.

"Choose several units to be part of the infiltration once Lady Hermione and I open the gates. They must be told and aware that there is not to be a bloodbath of any kind - all prisoners and servants at Harrenhal are to be left alone. The men will only attack the Lannister guards."

Vorgas looked slightly put out at the order, but nodded. "At once, my Lord."

He then left the tent quickly, the slap of his boots hitting the hard, packed earth beneath them. Bolton turned back to the other three men. "Alvar, Rogar, Harlys - maintain position around Harrenhal in case there are those who try to escape. Contain them."

"My lord," the men said, all murmuring their agreement.

Bolton turned to Hermione and Torrhen. "How many men would you need?"

"The less is better," said Hermione quietly. "They're not going to take in more than three villagers running from bandits. More would seem odd."

Bolton eyed her. "You realize that these men might attempt to rape you? That they could possibly succeed and neither Karstark nor I could intervene."

Hermione swallowed thickly. "I am aware, but if I need to, I'll figure some way to stop that from happening first."

"And if you lose your wand?"

That was something Hermione didn't want to consider just yet, but she knew that she would have to account for that possibility. "I'll figure something out."

Torrhen groaned behind her, but realized it was futile to argue. "We're going to do some combat training when this is all over, Lady Hermione."

Bolton's sour face meant that he too, agreed with Torrhen and Hermione sighed noisily. "Well, are we doing this or what?"

When there were no disagreements, Hermione called her wand from its holster and pointed it first at Torrhen. "This is going to feel weird, like something slimy trickling down your back."

"What-?"

Then he shuddered, and Bolton watched with fascination as Torrhen's face subtly changed, becoming dirty and smudged with soot and dirt. His boiled leathers, including the buckle straps of the Stark direwolf and sunburst of Karstark were blurred, then disappeared. it looked like he had shrunk several inches, and his clothing was soon mismatched rags, all dirty and greasy.

"What?" repeated Torrhen, looking at Hermione and Bolton. "How do I look?"

"Like a beggar," answered Bolton, absently, as he continued to stare. He turned his pale blue eyes to Hermione. "And this is just an illusion?"

Hermione nodded, eyes still on Torrhen. "Reach for your sword," she instructed him.

He did so, and Bolton saw a shimmer - Torrhen was reaching for something that didn't exist to his eyes, but then, if he squinted, he could see the brown of the scabbard, although his mind was trying to tell him he was imagining things. "How interesting," he breathed.

"Your turn," said Hermione, and the spell was repeated with Bolton shivering.

She finished by turning the wand on herself, and the three stood for a moment staring at one another. Finally, Torrhen cleared his throat. "Ready?"

"As ready as we can be," replied a grim Hermione.


Hermione couldn't lie. It was something she had accepted years ago, after her disastrous attempted at Borgin and Burkes before their sixth year, wondering what Draco Malfoy had been doing in the store in Knockturn Alley. Her lying skills did not improve with age, but she was damn good at blagging her way through things if she had to, especially when her life was on the line - Dolores Umbridge had shown her that, and Bellatrix had cemented it during torture.

Playing a hysterical housewife as a bunch of Lannister soldiers in goldcloaks manhandled them towards Harrenhal wasn't difficult, especially as two took to beating the shit out of Torrhen first, being the youngest in appearance.

"Stop it! Stop it! You're killing him!" she was shouting shrilly, while Bolton had a tight hold on her arm to kept her from rushing forward.

The Lannister guards laughed and jeered at her, one coming forward and trailing his fingers down her cheek and her neck, ending near her jacket's collar, even if it looked like a cloak for them. "What'll you do for me t'call 'em off?"

Disgusted, Hermione reared back, reminded back to the Snatchers and Scabior, who enjoyed playing with her pink scarf. "I-"

"What's this?"

Hermione turned to see a large, square man on horseback along with several other Lannister guards ride up to them, just a mere league from the doors to Harrenhal.

"Ser Lorch," the man who was nearest to Hermione turned to address the knight, "We found these peasants on t'road, begging for scraps. Thought t'bring t'em in."

The man, with his long, scraggly face scars pulling down lines from his cheeks, frowned as he looked them over. Finally, he turned to those restraining Torrhen, ordering, "Let him go - he can't work if he's too damaged. Bring the rest in. Lord Lannister will decide what to do with them, since he took over the prisoners."

"Took 'em over how?" another soldier asked snottily.

Lorch growled. "From the Mountain. Apparently he was wasting manpower."

Hermione shuddered. She sidled up to Torrhen on one side and Bolton the other. Quietly, they supported him as they were marched over the solid, hard grass and mud that led to the gates of Harrenhal. They opened at their approach, a few guards calling down or from behind to determine their identities.

And then they were in.

Inside, the bleakness of the weather seemed to be a living presence, as everywhere Hermione looked, people were downtrodden or painfully thin. Everyone avoided looking up as they passed two men slopping horse manure, and even the burly young blacksmith pounding away at his sword merely sent them a wary glance before turning his back deliberately.

Ser Lorch led the three new prisoners towards an outdoor pen. The smell of urine and feces wafted over to Hermione and she gagged at the smell. Had they been keeping people there?

"Stay here," ordered Lorch, leaving them with the same lot that initially found them. The men were clearly put out with babysitting duty, but Hermione didn't care; already, she was looking around, breathing through her mouth as she took in the tall, looming ruined towers, and slick, dampened grey stones, and the crumbled wood and stone piles around the base of these towers.

The soldiers who remained inside were less than two hundred - if even that. Many dark corners of the castle were abandoned, left as tricky, hidden traps for unaware people getting lost in the dark and the labyrinth of what remained of Harrenhal. It wouldn't be hard for them to disappear as well.

After what felt like a significant amount of time for the soldiers around them to lose interest in them, and therefore, not watching them closely, Hermione nudged Torrhen.

He turned to her, hiding his wince. She bought at hand up and murmured a soft episky under her breath, healing the bruise on his cheek and straightening his nose.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"There are less than I thought," breathed Bolton quietly from the other side, speaking for the first time in hours.

Hermione nodded. "It won't be hard to make them look the other way and we can disappear. Maybe through that passage?" she jerked her head in the direction of the darkened passage she saw earlier.

Bolton's nod was miniscule.

"How long have we been waiting?" muttered Torrhen, wheezing slightly.

"A few hours I think," answered Hermione. "I can probably make them forget we are here-"

Somewhere, a horse whinnied nervously and immediately the people still hovering around the courtyard froze before scattering. Fear and terror were physically present and Hermione neared fell to her knees as her magic screamed warnings at her.

Hermione turned to see what had caught their fear when she saw the giant scowling man striding towards them. His hair was closely shorn to his scalp, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. But there was something about him - his large size that would put the Greatjon on par or even smaller than him, as he was closer to Hagrid's height and size - that had Hermione's skin crawl.

At her side, Torrhen hissed and Bolton stood straight.

"Ser Clegane?" one of the Lannister guards asked in confusion.

The man - known also as the Mountain - turned and scowled deeply. "You! Gather your men. We ride out immediately."

Wait - no - thought Hermione, thinking back to Barbara Bracken. This man hurt her. She couldn't let him get away!

She made to step forward, but Torrhen stepped on her foot heavily and she yelped.

Clegane turned to her at the noise. His eyes raked her tiny form, and dismissed her easily. "Lorch is dead - wolfsbane. Lord Lannister believes that there is a Brotherhood without Banners man inside the castle. We are to flush him out."

"Yes, Ser Clegane!" the soldier replied, quickly leaving along with the three others who were guarding them. The Mountain stood for a moment, surveying the scurrying soldiers, and then turned back to them.

"Bitch," he snapped, pointing at Hermione, making her jump at the tone but bristle at the name. "I doubt you'll be useful for anything, but go to the kitchens. Help the wenches there. You two?" He nodded his head at a tall, round man with protruding belly, chin-length dirty blond hair, and nasty gleam in his eyes. "Rorge, have them clearing out the rubble."

The round man nodded. His eyes lingered more on Hermione's body as Clegane strode away. In her belly, embers of anger began to stir.

"Kitchen's that'away," he sneered, pointing.

Hermione cast a glance back at Torrhen and Bolton; Bolton nodded at her, and she eased around the large man, eyes on him until she passed, dropping them quickly, and scurrying in the direction he pointed.

The kitchen was busy, if not quiet. There was one robust woman, although she was pale with bags under her eyes, leading those with her through several stations of prep. "Oi, who're you?" she snapped, turning to Hermione as she eased into the warm, low-ceiling room.

"Penelope Clearwater, ma'am," she stuttered, falling back on the old girlfriend of Percy's for her cover.

The woman looked her up and down. "You new, girl?"

"Yes," said Hermione cautiously.

"Fine. Take a spot next to Hot Pie there," the woman said, pointing to a tubby teen, who was sprinkling flour on a wooden table top with a small smile on his face, "But wash them hands first! And then start kneading the dough!"

Hermione did as she was told, moving to a bucket in the far corner. She did her best to make sure no one was looking, and then charmed the dirt from her hands instead of washing. Afterwards, she moved to Hot Pie's side.

"What are you making?" she asked quietly, looking at the nervous teen as he glanced up at her and his cheeks turned red.

She smiled and he nervously smiled back.

"Lord Lannister wants fresh bread with his meals," the teen said, glancing at her from under his curly dark hair, his cheeks still stained a deep red. "An' my friend Arry said they're serving up stew tonight."

Arry? Hermione's head turned sharply at the name. Was that a diminutive of "Arya"?

"Arry?" asked Hermione carefully, reaching forward to the dough Hot Pie pushed in her direction. She sprinkled flour down on the table as well, thinking back to her mother and Mrs. Weasley doing similar things in their kitchens, and plopped the sticky dough ball on to it. She allowed some of her aggression to bleed through as she pinched and rolled and kneaded the dough.

"Yeah," Hot Pie said, happily, if not quietly in the kitchen. "She's always asking for more food. Greedy thing, she is." He looked up. "She's serving as Lord Tywin's cupbearer."

Hermione frowned. "Is she now…?"

Hot Pie nodded, eyes darting to the entranceway Hermione came from - door less and open to the courtyard. She could no longer see Torrhen and Bolton, but she had a good line of sight towards the smithy. "She usually visits our other friend in the smithy. Gendry." He paused, and then said, "See?"

Hermione glanced out and saw a tiny, thin figure sticking to the shadows slip across a stone wall and into the smithy, her features barely lightened by the fire raging inside. But it was enough for Hermione to see she was wearing men's trousers and a tunic, and had short dark hair.

Hot Pie sighed, a little despondent. "She'll be a while now."

"What do you mean?"

He continued, "She likes Gendry better I think. I wasn't too nice when we first met. But she'll come and try to weasel food from me later…"

"Oh," chuckled Hermione, thinking of Ron when she was back at Hogwarts and he wanted to see her homework. "Well, she likes you well enough if she's asking you for favours."

Hot Pie nodded, and they shared a grin.

They fell silent and once Hot Pie determined Hermione had done enough to the dough she was working on, traded it for another that needed attention before going to a bowl to rise. They worked in a companionable silence for several hours. Conversation was sparse, but Hermione learned a few things about Hot Pie, whenever it got loud and noisy in the kitchen: he had stolen a loaf of bread (hence his name) in King's Landing and was chosen by Yoren, a Night's Watch man, to take the Black. The man, Yoren, had been killed by goldcloaks several months ago, and he, along with his friends Gendry and Weasel, were taken prisoner by them and left in Harrenhal to work for the Lannisters.

Hermione's arms growing tired quickly with the hard, repetitive movements. She sighed in relief once dinner was served. The serving maids with pale faces taking platters of food up to wherever Tywin Lannister was in the castle, probably planning against Robb at that very moment. Slowly, Hot Pie and Hermione began cleaning up their station.

Dusk had fallen outside, and there were several loud drunken laughs from Lannister guards placed around the courtyard. Hermione heaved silently, her shoulders falling. What should my next move be? Slip away with a Disillusionment before anyone notices me? Find Torrhen and Bolton?

The decision was taken from her as the drunken laughs turned into screams, and steel rang against steel.

Hermione raced towards the door, even though Hot Pie grabbed her arm. She twisted to look at him, eyes wide, and lips trembling. "NO! Don't! It's not safe!"

Hermione shrugged him off. "Nothing's safe here," she snapped back.

"No, you don't understand!" he protested. "It's Arry! It's her plan! You won't be safe!"

"What?" but Hermione shook her head, and pushed past him. She darted out the empty doorframe, eyes adjusting to the dark of night and the flickering of torches lining some of the walls and the fire pits scattered around the courtyard.

She stepped into chaos.


Note: This chapter - despite all being laid out - was really hard to write. I hope you still enjoy it, though.

I'd also like to take a moment and thank all of you who have followed this story; favourited this story; or added it to C2s and constantly leave (positive and nice) reviews. Soon, this story will surpass all others I have written over the twenty-odd years I've been using FFNet in reviews and alerts... that means a lot to me!

So, for the 500th reviewer, if you're a logged user, you will receive a "gift" from this story - I'll contact you for more details once we get there, either this chapter or the next.

As a side plug, if you like seeing the Hermione I write, check out my newest story: "crooked stars (line up for your destiny)", which is a Hermione-in-the-Star Wars universe.