The Winter Witch XIV
Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort, was participating in something as mundane as manual labour. Normally, he wouldn't even deign to lift a single finger in sifting through rubble and collapsed, rotted wood beams, but his men were following the orders Lady Hermione had left before she Apparated back to Riverrun with Arya Stark.
Torrhen Karstark cheerfully followed the Lady's commands, and that meant that those who had seen her fight - and the man at her side fighting - would rather follow the command than argue. No one wanted to be hit with the cool blue light that nearly killed Tywin Lannister.
Besides, Roose was pragmatic: he knew which side he'd rather be on.
Tywin Lannister might be a fellow practical bastard, rational and coolly collected and calm in the face of storms, but… he didn't have a witch at his side.
To be fair, Roose wasn't sure what to make of Hermione when he first met her. Initially, it was all talk; the young Stark and his men had returned, victorious, from their battle at the Whispering Woods, with an unconscious Jaime Lannister. They were silent, completely and utterly solemn as they worked through their own thoughts of what they saw. At least, until Eddard Karstark's mouth began spilling his thoughts under the influence of milk of the poppy.
Rumours swirled around Riverrun in the days that followed - that there was a woods witch that had helped them take down Jaime Lannister; that she lived in a tent in the forest; that she had unspeakable powers, strong enough to save a dying man.
Roose had scoffed - scoffed - because no woods witch had that kind of power! No woods witch was worth more than the few coppers spent on homemade remedies and draughts for upset stomachs, and even then, it was the small folk who would attend to a woods witch, as proper lords and ladies had their well-trained Maesters.
So he hid his disdain, hid his annoyance at having to travel back to the Whispering Woods with the young Stark leader and the annoying Karstarks, as well as that overgrown bloodthirsty twat, Umber - if only to see the woods witch.
Only to have her shout, "I'm not buying whatever it is you're selling!"
He hid his surprise well. The others, not so much (although, he noted with a beady look, that the young Stark was grinning widely).
The surprises kept coming: the moment he saw the young witch - all curly brown hair and odd clothing but keen, sharp and shrewd eyes; the moment he entered the tent, only to be shocked at the difference in not only exterior but interior design; the moment she used her magic to float something as mundane and simple as drinks from her kitchen to the Stark!
He knew then he didn't hide his surprise or admiration well - because, well, his mind was working ahead.
Oh, he was no fool. Eddard Stark - Ned, as he preferred - was only a few years younger than he was, and he was well acquainted with the Stark family. The Boltons were once the Kings of Winter, the men who ruled the North with fear and blood, but that time had long passed but Roose kept his eye on the Starks for the opportune moment.
He thought he found it: Ned Stark had been powerful, strong, silent but utterly merciless as he demonstrated during Robert's Rebellion with his clever and devious battle plans and then, later, his cutting down of the entirety of Rhaegar Targaryan's kingsguard while attempting to rescue his sister, held captive in the Tower of Joy.
Robb Stark, on the other hand, while fairly devious and merciless as a military leader on the battlefield, was rather… simple when it came to the same charisma and leadership abilities. He was unable to broker alliances or maintain the same awe and strength his father employed to keep his men under his control. Roose remembered shaking his head at the foolish deal Catelyn Tully - for she was a Southern woman who married into the North but still didn't quite understand their ways fully - had brokered with that odious Walder Frey.
But Lady Hermione - well, Hermione Granger as it were; she was no highborn girl - she was something else. Different. Special.
Roose could see all the plans, all the ways she could improve the Northern army, the ways she could strengthen his position in the North. The Boltons might never reach the same heights as they had before (and he felt like he had pinned all his hopes on his dear Domeric, the Stranger take those who killed his son) but she breathed the same life back into him.
And the looks Robb Stark kept sending her? Well. Perhaps his worded advice was a bit premature, but with her at the young man's side - there was nothing that they wouldn't be able to do.
Although -
Roose turned at the crack her Apparation made, and saw the young witch gently sway where she stood in the middle of the inner courtyard. He strode across to her, ignoring the veiled looks his men, as well as the few Frey men they had freed from the dungeons, sent her.
Hermione turned tired eyes on him, light bruising underneath that was magnified by the pale pallor of her skin, and - the father part of him he had long ago buried when he buried his son - sighed in worry.
"When did you last sleep?" he asked, pointedly.
Hermione - she could no longer be Lady Hermione in his mind - paused. "Umm…"
Bolton sighed, loudly. "There are bedchambers untouched from the fire in the far tower. I'll have Karstark escort you and stand guard outside the room."
"I don't need a guard," the young witch protested, crossing her arms and scowling. "I can set up my own protections."
"Lady Hermione," he began, as courtesies had to be followed, "You look like you're about to collapse."
"Thanks. A lot," muttered the witch, taking a step forward in a very uneven line.
Bolton frowned. "You can't even walk straight. Were you like this in front of the King?" Please say no, please say no. Because if you say "yes," I'll have to wonder what in the God's name Stark was thinking letting you go.
"S'course not!" she retorted hotly, beginning to slur her words, uncrossing her arms to point a finger at him. It wavered back and forth a bit and he looked at it impassively. Hermione caught his look and tilted her chin up so her nose was pointed to the sky. "'M purfectly 'ine - fine. Perfectly. Fine."
"You are not," replied Bolton, his voice low and hard. "Why?"
Hermione gave a careless shrug. "J'sabit tired, s'pose." She frowned, focusing on the center of his chest. Bolton felt his worry increase. "Used t'much."
"Magic?" Bolton was horrified. He had no idea she had a limited resource, but then again - he had only seen her to little things over time. Looking back on it, in the past day, she had Apparated him and Karstark to his men, and placed glamours, holding the magic; then, she engaged in a fight with several men, did some other spellwork - he mentally grimaced as he realized she hadn't truly rested in some time.
Hermione began to move towards the tower, her wand out, but Bolton reached forward and caught her wrist, the one with the wand in her grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Karstark startle and move a few steps forward.
"No," he said firmly, looking down at the curly-haired woman. "No magic for at least a day." At her mutinous look, Bolton's voice lowered, and he said, emphatically, "Please."
They stared at each other for a few, brief moment, before Hermione's face seemed to crumple in on her, and her shoulders hunched. Bolton took that as a victory, and turned, his eyes seeking out Karstark, watching the two of them warily.
At Bolton's silent wave, the Karstark jogged over, concerned eyes racking over Hermione's form. He then placed a hand on her back and began leading the young witch from the courtyard, head bent as he said something in her ear. Bolton watched carefully, eyes taking in the numerous others who were watching them - ranging from Vorgas, his own man, a few other soldiers, the Frey men, as well as Princess Arya's companions, Gendry and Hot Pie.
Once Karstark entered the base of the tower - one of the few untouched by the recent fire - Bolton turned back to the courtyard, and snapped, "Well? Back to work!"
The men jumped and continued their work, although curiosity burned in their eyes. Bolton sighed. It was going to be a long night.
There was something skeezy about waking up in a bed that Tywin Lannister also slept in, thought Hermione the next morning.
A soft, early morning light poured into the room through the open shutters. There were noises slowly filtering in from outside the tower - repairs, minute ones at least - and the shouts of some of the men as they began a watch rotation. It was chilly and breezy in the tower, despite being the most fortified and restored; without a burning fire, the room was nearly icy. However, Hermione, still under the covers, was toasty and warm.
Stretching, she sat up in the bed, brushing her wild curls off her face. She then made a face at the very red sheets around her. She wasn't sure how well she'd take the bastardization of her beloved Gryffindor House colours with the knowledge it was also the colours of House Lannister. She fingered the silky material and admitted that the man had good taste, at least; but that probably had something to do with the amount of gold he had.
With a yawn, Hermione cut her eyes to the far side of the room, where the man's desk rested, filled still with loose paper and notes, a hurried mess that showed that he wasn't expecting the attack the other night.
Hermione slipped from the bed, her bare toes touching the cold stone beneath her. She yelped, and scrambled for her wand (under the pillow), and quickly cast a nonverbal warming charm, not on the stone, but her feet. There was a soft tingling, and then she was able to touch the chilly floor with nothing but a gentle sigh.
She padded across to the desk, curiosity overtaking her as she began pushing through the stacks on top.
Receipt, grain report… receipt… complaint from a vassal house… complaint, complaint, complaint, she sighed. If this was a portion of what Robb had to go through on a daily basis, Hermione swore to herself she was going to introduce the idea of a Personal Assistant to Westeros, and find the equivalent to Percy Weasley and hire them.
Hey, now, what's this? She shifted from the top letters to those buried underneath, eyes caught on words like Stark, Baratheon, missing and ships.
She pulled on the letter and began to read, quickly skimming it, and then rereading it a second time, slower. The letter detailed the disappearance of Stannis Baratheon, the last living male of the Baratheon line except a bastard of Robert's somewhere; something about him ordering his fleet, numerous upon numerous ships, leaving Storm's End. The letter was from a spy in the area, and had mentioned the possibility of Stannis and Robb forming an alliance.
Hippogriff dung, thought Hermione, knowing exactly what Robb's plans were and it certainly wasn't to curry favour with any Baratheons.
There was no reply - as Tywin must have either sent it off before they arrived, or never got around to it - but there were a few odd notes in the margin of the letter in a very spiky font: WF - Disgruntled? and Who is M?
Hermione scowled. Great questions. Who is WF and why are they disgruntled - or not? And who is M? I like that. Mysterious. She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. I wish Arya was here. She was his cupbearer and might have a better insight into things. I'll mention it to Robb to question her.
Hermione then spent the better part of the morning in her underwear and a tank top, perched in Tywin Lannister's desk chair, and began the odious task of organizing his letters. She transfigured an inkwell into the hard front and back of a binder, and then turned three quill pens into rings. She then began sorting through the parchment into categories.
"Lady Hermione-" Torrhen barged into the room, his eyes swinging around from the messy, unmade bed, to Hermione sitting at the desk. He strode forward, leaving the door open. "Are you hungry? What are you doing? Are those things Lannister left? What are you maki-GODS ABOVE!"
Hermione, rolling her eyes at his questions, stood from the chair and came around the desk to speak to her guard, completely forgetting her lack of attire.
The tall man turned on his heel, face beet red and staring out at the hallway. "My apologies, my Lady. I didn't realize you weren't properly ready!"
Hermione, blinking, looked down and then squawked. Being surrounded by men the majority of her time in Westeros reminded her far too much of her year on the run with Harry and Ron - and living in a small tent meant that there were a few…. uncomfortable… moments over the months they were Horcrux hunting.
Hastily summoning her beaded bag and digging through for her jeans and socks, Hermione began jumping in place as she yanked one leg up first and then the other, nearly crashing into the desk and bracing herself against it.
Torrhen's shoulder tensed at the sound of the crash and he visibly steeled himself from turning around.
"Sorry! Sorry! Cultural habit!" sputtered out Hermione, running her hands over her messy hair self-consciously and then down the front of the jumper she pulled out of her bag and then on top of her tank top. "I'm fine now, Torrhen."
"You're… decent?" he asked, hesitantly.
"Yes."
He turned, eyes quickly darting to her and then away several times until he finally realized she was telling the truth and actually dressed. He sighed deeply, bowing low, bent almost half at the waist. "My apologies, again, my Lady," he said, his voice partially muffled by the fact that his face was parallel with the floor.
Hermione stared. "Oh, get up, Torrhen. I highly doubt that I have anything you haven't seen before."
He blushed a furious red, and looked away. "Erm… Lady Hermione… shall we attempt the kitchens for a meal? And then Lord Bolton wishes to speak with you."
Hermione nodded, feeling her own cheeks heat, and followed behind Torrhen as they left the tower. Once beside, Hermione's nose was assaulted with the stench of burning flesh and hair, and it made her gag. She brought the sleeve of her jumper to her mouth and nose and asked, "Torrhen! Good Merlin, what is that?"
Torrhen's own face with twisted in disgust. "It's that Vargo Hoat and his - Brave - Companions, my Lady. They're burning the dead."
Hermione frowned behind the sleeve. "How many did we lose?"
"Not many," replied the guard, glancing back at her over his shoulder and then waiting to have her drawn even with him. He seemed to quickly get over his embarrassment at catching her nearly naked. "Those they are burning are Lannisters."
In the courtyard, Hermione saw many familiar Bolton men, making hasty, patchwork repairs in the barracks, and some Freys; but a great many of the men in the courtyard and around were dressed similar to Vorgas, in boiled leathers and with scraggly hair and lean, hungry looks to their eyes. She inched closer to her friend in response, especially when quite a few looked directly at her as they walked towards the kitchen.
Inside, Hot Pie was nervously puttering about, as were the other women with him. Hermione immediately felt worry creep into her chest.
"Penelope!" greeted Hot Pie enthusiastically. Then, he blushed and bowed shallowly, lowering his eyes and toning his enthusiastic call to a much more subdued tone. "Excuse me, milady."
"Hi, Hot Pie," greeted Hermione, ignoring the formalities. "D'you think Torrhen and I can grab something to snack on? I'm starved."
Hot Pie had some meat pastries for them, and they ate while they walked. Torrhen directed Hermione to Bolton, who was standing with his arms crossed, two men at his side, discussing something in low tones as he oversaw the burning of bodies. One of the men Hermione knew - Vorgas - and the other she did not.
Hermione surreptitiously cast a bubblehead charm around her to keep the smell out, and then, with a glance at Torrhen's rather pale face, did the same. His head jerked back in surprise at first, no doubt wondering what the barrier was around his face but when the stench disappeared, he glanced down at her and grinned.
Bolton saw their approach and turned partially towards her. "Ah, Lady Hermione. Karstark. Have you met Vargo Hoat? He and his men, the Brave Companions, had their own plan to attack Harrenhal from the inside. Vorgas was just explaining it to me."
"I haven't had the pleasure," said Hermione, eyeing the lean man that stood next to Bolton. His black hair was long and slicked back from his forehead, hanging lankily at his shoulders. He had a long and narrow face, and a black goatee that hung down his chin - nothing as prodigious as the beards Hermione saw in the wizarding world, but it was long enough that it looked odd compared to the bushy or neat trims the northern men wore.
His eyes, though - the man's dark eyes made Hermione shiver.
"My Lady," the man said, his voice low and gravelly. His head gave a tiny, respectful dip, but he kept his eyes on her.
Torrhen's jaw worked as he stared hard at the man. "Brave Companions? You mean sellswords. Mercenaries."
Hoat shrugged, his s's slipping into a slur. "A job s'a job, and money s'money."
Hermione did her best not to let her thoughts show on her face, turning back to the large fire in the pit in front of her. Left were ashes and charred bones, having been raging for some time, but the smell lingered. Luckily, she couldn't tell, and turned with half an ear to Bolton as he explained Hoat's plan.
"He met with Vorgas and a few others, and helped smuggle in the Frey and Bolton men in the dungeons, similar to how we got in, as prisoners," the Lord of the Dreadfort explained quietly. "It seems that Lorch was more than just a useless Castellan of Harrenhal - he was unable to tell when he was being played."
"Good thing Arya's plan worked then," commented Hermione idly. "She had inside help, and it seems like the two plans collided."
"Indeed," agreed Bolton, his thin lips quirking into a tiny smile. "The timing, along with ours, for quite fortuitous."
"S'hos' wolves of yours," began Hoat, eyeing Hermione, "S'hey were helpful. Were s'hey real?"
Hermione shook her head. "No. I transfigured them. I used magic."
Hoat's perusal of Hermione took on more intensity. "Oh? And where d'you come from, Lady Hermione? Asshai? Qarth? Pers'aps further?"
Hermione coolly returned the gaze and replied, stiffly, "Something like that."
Bolton glared at Hoat. "Where Lady Hermione hails from is hardly important, Hoat. You and Vorgas can finish the cleanup of the bodies and begin a perimeter. We have orders from the King that Lady Hermione and I need to prepare for."
Vorgas nodded, and Hoat mulishly ran his hand down his goatee with a frown. However, both wandered away, leaving Bolton, Hermione, and Torrhen behind by the mass grave. Bolton glanced at the grave in disgust, and then turned and led Torrhen and Hermione away. "Have you had thoughts on destroying Harrenhal?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, but I'll probably need some time to prepare - rest and the like. It'll take a lot out of me."
"We have time," said Torrhen, and then they were back in the original tower Tywin was using, their steps solid and echoing in the silent tower as they followed the curling stairs up to the different floors.
"Mmm," agreed Bolton, following behind Torrhen and Hermione, who was leasing them. "And what did you get up to, this morning, Lady Hermione?"
Hermione launched into a detailed explanation of the letters and receipts she found on Tywin Lannister's desk and her methodology of organizing them, all the while ignoring Torrhen's red face, or Bolton's slightly disapproving one as he glared at the guard.
However, upon seeing the binder she had made and her own added notes to each letter, Bolton was impressed, and forgot about whatever breach in decorum there might have been. He flipped through some of them, skipping past the first entries which were receipts and notaries from Lannister on who was providing them with what money from nearby villages - blood tax, essentially - and went straight to the correspondence.
"WF," he mused thoughtfully. His finger traced the letters. "And this M - King Robb should know of this, immediately."
"I agree," replied Hermione. "I can pop over and deliver it-"
"No," said Bolton sharply.
Hermione frowned, resisting the urge to cross her arms or tap her foot in irritation. "Why not?"
"You should be recovering," said Bolton firmly, glancing up at her from the book. "Does Apparation not take more energy from you than creating a Portkey? We shall send someone else to Riverrun with the book, as well as inform the King with the communication parchment."
"I'm not that tired," muttered Hermione.
"Lady Hermione, our orders were to destroy Harrenhal, and you said you'd need rest before that happens," said Bolton sternly, while Torrhen quietly watched, his head moving back between the two as they spoke. "You are to limit your magic until then. Rest. Karstark will guard you and, if necessary, I can assign others if you feel uncomfortable without your magic."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's not like a switch, Lord Bolton. I can't just turn on or off my magic - it's instinctive." She sighed heavily. "But I'll try to avoid it where possible."
Bolton nodded, glancing at Torrhen. "Good. Now: who shall we send this with?"
A week later, Hermione was done with her Bolton-mandated, Torrhen-approved imposed week of vacation. She had significantly cut down on using her magic, and had spent the majority of her time either sleeping, eating, taking long baths in front of the fireplace to ward off the autumn chill that was settling deep in Westeros. When she wasn't resting, she was spending time with Hot Pie in the kitchens, Gendry in the smithy (both on Arya's request sent through her brother's parchment), and Torrhen in the training square.
At first, Torrhen had suggested, that due to her size and skill with her wand, she should take up the non-magical defense of daggers.
A solid glare, including a pointed look at her left forearm, had him blanch and realize his mistake. He went away, thoughtful and chastised, and returned with a few other non-magical weapons that she could try her hand at: a bow and arrows, a short gladius-inspired sword like Dacey's, a long, thin staff, and several swords of varying length and width. Hermione immediately discarded the morning star, hammer, and mace.
Although Hermione dislike them all, she dutifully spent a few hours every afternoon with Torrhen, learning the basic skills of each. He was waiting to see which she preferred or was proficient with; Hermione didn't have the heart to tell him that she wasn't fond of any of them and did her best to hide her distaste for their training.
With Bolton, Aenys Frey, Vorgas, and Hoat, Hermione often spent time discussing the plan for destroying Harrenhal totally, so that it couldn't be used in the future by anyone.
Vorgas and Hoat were rarely at Harrenhal or in these meetings, often riding to various villages and houses, routing out Lannister supporters and returning with those to execute and coin purses filled with silver stags. Hermione never remained for the executions, just like the one she near-witnessed at the Crag.
Frey and Bolton, on the other hand, often brought up various points and suggestions until the three of them felt comfortable with the plan to move forward, once they heard back from Robb, who would give permission to proceed. Ultimately, it was decided that Vorgas and Hoat would remain nearby, continuing to find Lannister supporters and maintain a Northern presence in the area to deter Lannister forces from moving north - the plan was to keep them south for as long as they could.
Bolton, some of his men, Aenys Frey, Hermione, and Torrhen would take a Portkey back to Riverrun once the destruction of Harrenhal was complete. Hermione had already created the Portkey, password-set to Torrhen only, as she knew she would be unable to activate it once she poured her strength into destroying Harrenhal.
Bolton and Frey had used Hermione's knowledge of her world, and the well-stocked cellars and manure in the stables to create rudimentary explosives; the stinky and distasteful job meant that most were unhappy, either soaking rags or stuffing manure into empty canisters, and then strategically placing them around the large fortress.
Everyone was nervy, knowing that one small fire could destroy the entire place in a way different compared to dragonfire and time.
The day before Hermione's combined Neville-and-Seamus-styled operation of blowing things up would commence, Hoat and Vorgas returned to Harrenhal, and threw a wrench into the plans.
"THOU THAID THAT I WOULD BE LORD OF THARRENTHAL!" Hoat screamed into Bolton's face, his lisp increased from his swollen tongue in his anger, and surrounded by his Brave Companions.
Bolton didn't flinch at the accusation, standing firm and watching with a wary eye on the incensed man in front of him. Many of his own men were carefully watching him, and Aenys Frey stood off to the side with his arms crossed. All had their hands near their swords if it came to it. Hermione and Torrhen were slightly off to the side, near the smithy, as Hermione had been asking Gendry for help on the canister designs and going over the final pieces before they cleared out in the morning.
"I promised no such thing," said Bolton, turning his head partially to Vorgas, who shifted under the man's icy gaze. "Was that the price of your help to liberate Harrenhal? I thought you dislike Amory Lorch, regardless."
Hoat sputtered something incomprehensible, his rage still purpling his face. In the end, he took his Brave Companions and left Harrenhal that evening.
Hermione sidled up to Bolton as he stood watching them leave through the gate, a tiny frown on his face.
"They might be a problem."
"I'll put up temporary wards for tonight, Lord Bolton," said Hermione quietly. At his glance, she hurriedly added, "It won't take much. We'll still be fine for tomorrow."
Bolton's frown deepened. "Very well."
However, neither were fully convinced that that was the last they had seen of Hoat.
At dawn, Bolton, Hermione, and Torrhen were the last to leave Harrenhal. Everyone had packed and moved what they could over the course of the week to the distant Bolton campsite further north, where Bolton, Hermione, and Torrhen had arrived. It overlooked Harrenhal, and from their current vantage point, the jutting towers of Harrenhal and its dark wash grey stone blended in with the dark pre-dawn sky.
Those who had been - employed - by Harrenhal were given the choice to remain in the Bolton camp, take the risk to return to their villages, or move on. Many remained in the camp for safety, but a few decided to try their luck elsewhere, including Hot Pie.
The teen nervously shifted on his feet, carrying a small bag Hermione had transfigured for him earlier that morning without Bolton's notice, and had stuffed it with a few pastries and kitchen utensils that they had cleared out earlier.
Eventually, Hot Pie turned to Hermione and said, "It's not that I don't want to continue with Lord Bolton an' his men, milady." They were outside Harrenhal, far enough away that Hermione thought they would be protected but not too far, that her spells wouldn't hit. "But I'm not meant for war, I think."
He glanced at Gendry, stood just off to the side of her as well, trying his hardest not to draw any attention. Originally, Hot Pie had been sure that the burly teen would join him – as he was meant to go north to the Wall – but apparently, the lure of Arya Stark, and wariness of her ire, was enough to change his mind.
Hermione smiled - she knew. Not everyone was a fighter; they had to find their own way. "Be safe," she said instead. Hot Pie nodded, and he, along with the few who were moving beyond Harrenhal, turned and began the long trek northwest, towards the Inn at the Crossroads, deep in riverlands territory, and somewhere hopefully now safe from Lannister attacks.
"Ready?" Torrhen asked Hermione. In a fur-lined cloak, to ward off the early morning chill, covered him. Torrhen had a gloved hand resting on his hilt, but there was a relaxed half-smile on his face to indicate that he didn't anticipate any trouble. Bolton stood off to his side, a row of archers from his men and Frey's present. Neither would have anything more strenuous than watching Hermione, Harrenhal, and the archers for the next few hours.
Hermione turned to join them, facing the ruinous structure. The five towers jutted high into the grey dawn, and Hermione felt her lips flatten. This is going to take some work. Best start at the walls, and then break things down from there.
"Ready," she said, drawing her wand with a flick. It rested comfortably and loosely in the palm of her hand. She rolled the handle back and forth as she took a deep breath.
Vorgas turned to face the archers and shouted, "ARCHERS. READY? STRING. NOCK. DRAW. HOLD."
Hermione pointed her wand ahead and visualized she wanted: the destruction of Harrenhal. She knew that the entire structure would not be destroyed in a single blow, and she didn't have any land restructuring spells handy in her beaded bag. All she had to do was ensure that there was no way an army could hold the location and use it strategically.
Visualizing the towers collapsing, the walls blown apart, Hermione, shouted, "bombarda maxima!"
The spell burst from her wand, an electric zigzag of displaced air. It flew across the dewy grass, like the warmth of a hazy summer day until hit the gate and outer wall. The resulting explosion was deafening, even to those who were quite far away. Bits of stone and masonry went everywhere, high into the sky and sideways and a large dust cloud kicked up in the wake of the burst wall. Rocks landed heavily in the earth around them with heavy, dangerous thuds, creating dents in the hard earth around the fortress.
"Bombarda maxima!" she shouted again, and this time the spell soared through the opening made by the outer gate, into the courtyard beyond and past her vision. There was another explosive, this time one with a burst of fire as her spell hit one of the canisters. White smoke mixed with the dark grey of the burst stone and rock, and a thin layer of chalky white began to float down and coat the green grass around Harrenhal.
Then Hermione shouted, again, and again, and again: "bombarda maxima!"
At some point, Vorgas had been given the order from Bolton, and flaming arrows soared above them and into the various parts of the fortress, all chosen ahead of time from where there were large concentrations of their homemade explosives. Even as Hermione's magic and spells blew the heaviest pieces apart, the resulting explosion when the flaming arrows hit their targets rocked the earth. A blast of hot air blew past and Hermione swayed where she stood, utterly exhausted. Her eyes drooped and she jerked her head up to focus on Harrenhal, to watch it burn. The towers collapsed under a large, swirling orange flame, and smaller explosions continued to erupt in tiny booms every so often. Smoke billowed in the sky and coated the light blue of the morning with the dark smudge, wafting gently away from where they stood.
They stood for several hours, watching, silently, as the old castle continue to burn, with Hermione shooting spells it at every so often. Eventually, she aimed for the foundation with the same spell, her voice hoarse and scratchy. That, beyond anything, finally helped the large, old building to topple inwards, loudly, creating air pockets and further explosions as the fires continued to burn and feed into one another.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, and the dark smudge of smoke had thinned, Harrenhal was no more.
Quietly, Bolton spoke for the first time in hours. "It's over. It's time to go."
Exhausted, Hermione could only nod. She couldn't speak, and just swallowing felt like she swallowed glass. There was a white pallor to her skin, from exhausting herself magically, and her hands trembled as she slid her wand back into its holster.
Torrhen propped her up at her side, an arm around her and hugging her to his side securely. Hermione gave an inaudible sigh and closed her eyes as she leaned against his hard body, dizzily reaching out to touch their Portkey back to Riverrun. The Portkey was a long, rectangular Bolton banner of the Flayed Man, and everyone reached out to touch it, either by fisting a part of the fabric or gingerly pinching it between two fingers.
Torrhen glanced around to ensure everyone had a part of the fabric. There weren't too many people with them: about ten archers with sore arms, Bolton, Gendry, Torrhen and Hermione.
With a nod from Bolton, Torrhen clearly said, "Tully blue." What felt like a hook behind their navels grabbed hold of them and yanked them off their feet in a swirl of colour. They were gone.
Note: This chapter ended up being a bit more filler than I was expecting given my notes on Harrenhal were about 3 paragraphs total, so I'm a bit surprised I ended up with 9 pages in Word. Oh well. Coming up: Riverrun, Robb, Catelyn, Arya, a time skip, romance, Portkeys, and perhaps Sansa.