Melisandre did not wake her the next morning. The first thing that Hermione noticed was the pressure on her chest, like an iron weight, heavy and suffocating. Her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering wildly. She opened her eyes, but the room around her was only a blur– a chaotic swirl of colours in the dim light of her tent. Panic crept into her mind, and her body tensed, the hairs on her neck standing up.
What's happening?
A sharp, metallic twang broke through the fog of her sickness, soon followed by the unmistakable crash of wood splintering. Her eyes darted around, still struggling to focus and she saw the flap, her tent flap splitting wide open like a violent gust of wind had torn through it.
Papers scattered, dishes everywhere, scattered shards of glass and metals littering the floor like the poor imitations of the star charts that were floating down in pieces.
Oh, sweet merlin, no- no! What now?
Her breath quickened, her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. She tried to sit up, but her legs felt like jelly. Her room was too quiet, too still in the aftermath of the chaos. The sound of the partial wards breaking had snapped her out of sleep, but now she was paralyzed, frozen in a fog of terror and confusion.
Suddenly, a hand gripped her wrist with an iron-tight grasp, jerking her out of bed in one brutal motion. Hermione gasped in shock, her pulse racing as her head spun. She was yanked upright, her bare feet slamming against the cold stone floor.
"My lady!" a voice hissed, urgent and low. It was familiar- too familiar.
She blinked hard, trying to focus on the face looming over her in the dim light. Her face was distorted by shadows, but she could tell it was Melisandre, her auburn hair falling into her eyes. Breaths coming in quick shallow gasps. Her eyes were wide with fear, but there was something else there, something dangerous that flickered in the low light of the candles.
"Get up! It's been days!" she shouted, shaking her hard. "They're taking the slaves!"
Before she could react, the older woman pulled her out of her room, dragging her down the narrow hallway. The walls around her felt like they were closing in, and the sound of her heartbeat was so loud, it drowned out everything else. Her bare feet slipped across the cold stone, the rough texture scraping against her skin.
She barely had time to think, to understand as Melisandre yanked her toward the opening of the tent, a distant shout echoed from outside. Hermione's breath hitched in her throat as the realisation hit her– there were others with them in the campsite. Others who weren't supposed to be there.
Melisandre shoved her down and through the opening of the tent, her grip unrelenting.
Stepping outside was similar to old war movies of ages gone by. Large men with larger beards riding by on horses, throwing the slaves down onto the ground, looking by she noticed one of the men raping the women in a gruesome fashion. It was a scene of pure horror.
Her body was moving on instinct, her legs pumping furiously as they stumbled through the darkness towards the woman lying prone on the ground.
"Rapax Avibus!" she shouted out, followed quickly by an "Oppungo!"
A deep wave of satisfaction course through her watching as the flock of raptors attacked the man. Behind her, the sound of breaking glass and the rhythmic thud of boots on the sand dunes sent a flash of terror through her chest. They knew she was the threat.
Looking back at Melisandre, she saw the desperation in the older womans eyes. There was something else, too. A flicker of something that felt too familiar.
The realisation hit her in a slow, aching wave: This wasn't just an attack on the tent. It wasn't just random chaos. This was personal.
Whatever hunting party they were being received by, was large. Clearly not a form of a scout, and they knew what they were doing. This for them, was a dance as old as they themselves were. The casual confidence that spoke volumes that here in this place, they were the lords of the land. Gripping her wand, she targeted the men on the horses and letting loose a volley of spells that sent dazzling sparks spinning every which way.
It was the bloodcurdling screech from above that let her know that regardless of how long she'd really been asleep for and the time that the gryphon was missing, it had at least finally came back. Above her, the mighty gryphon circled the sky, its massive wings cutting through the air like blades. The golden eyes gleamed with an almost unnatural intelligence and its beak clicked in anticipation.
With a sharp whistle, the gryphon swooped down, landing in front of her with a gust of wind that nearly knocked her off her feet. She mounted the beast with a nervous anticipation, this now would be a battle of magic, not just whatever weaponry these warriors had.
"Are you ready?" she asked the creature, her voice firm.
The gryphon screeched in response, a sound that was part warning and part battle cry. It seemed to split through the air drawing attention to the pair. Taking off on a running start, the gryphon took to the skies with a breathtaking speed, the wind howling around them like the harbinger of doom.
Blasting curses, knee-reversing hexes, sectumsempras and wand arrows: all left the men either stumbling, falling or crushed by their own steeds as Melisandre gathered the weakened slaves and brought them into the tent.
Some of the men struggled to regain their balance, but it was already too late.
Seeing the body of Thornos, far from the tent, a small child tucked under his arm and a spear lashing through both of them erupted a calm sort of fury that settled upon her shoulders.
Casting an incendio, she watched as a streak of fire shot from her fingertips, racing across the ground and catching the dry foliage near the campfires. The flames spread quickly casting a sickly orange glow across the battlefield. The men scrambled in the way of such magic, but Hermione was already in the midst of them, the gryphons talons flashing in the light and gutting one of the men from sternum to chest.
She parried one attack with a protego, ducked under another and in the same fluid motion summoned another spell.
"Levis impetu!"
With a whispered word and a flick of her wrist, the earth beneath the raiders' feet turned to mud. They slipped and fell, unable to regain their balance as Hermione advanced. The ground churned like quicksand, swallowing their feet and sending them into a panic, but they were far from defeated.
The gryphon soon joined the fray, swooping down low and raking his claws across the raiders' ranks. His beak snapped viciously at anyone within reach and his screeches echoed over the battlefield, a warning to those foolish enough to stand against them.
The gryphons wings beat once more, and he lifted himself into the sky, a majestic blur of feathers and power. He banked sharply, beginning his flight off and into the distance.
She held her breath, focusing on the magic within her, letting it build until it thrummed in her veins readying itself as she cast out once more.
"Bombarda maxima!" A massive explosion rocked the earth, sending most of the men flying back.
Stepping towards one of the men gasping on the ground as his body was pecked by one of the raptors conjured earlier, she reached towards him, ripping out a chunk of his hair.
"Linguae semper," She hissed, moving her wand in a gentle upward spiral followed by a sharp downward thrust.
"Melisandre, help me gather the men and horses that are still alive, and bring out the slaves, we leave for Pentos now."
Rounding up the wild men, she bound them in ropes to ensure they wouldn't be able to escape.
"Who leads you? Who's your master?"
Laughing, the men spat at her face and at her feet. Getting even more rowdy as one of them actually hit her in the eye.
"The only thing a heifer like you should know is how good you feel when mounted by a young cock. You and your red woman are the greatest whores here, you should be eager to have your legs spread wide by any dothraki man."
"Stronger words, I think, have been spoken by men far more ferocious than you could ever hope to be."
Stepping towards the men so eager to cast insults, she silencio'ed the group entirely. Reaching towards the man, she yanked his face back.
"You'll die here and in these sands. We'll take your horses and when more come for us, for surely they will, we'll take those too. You'll die. As all men must do and not a single soul will hear your screams as your ashes ascend to the heavens. For a people so cruel, no god will have mercy on your souls and you'll find yourself descending into the furthest pits of an inferno and that is where your soul will burn for all eternity. You'll never know peace and neither will your descendants."
Turning back towards Melisandre, she motioned towards the woman whose face looked very much like the cat that had eaten the canary.
"The last that we spoke, Melisandre. You said you needed a sacrifice? Well look at how your lord provides for you. Shall I start things off for you?"
"Yes, my lady. I would truly be much honoured."
Spinning around and with a sharp jab from her wand, "Fiendfyre!" She hissed. In an instant, the spell takes form and the world seems to hold it's breath.
A feral roar fills the air, louder than thunder, as the magic erupts in a violent burst of fire. The fire is alive, and it is ravenous. It burst from her wand with a speed and a ferocity that took her by surprise. The flames were a twisted, ever changing writing mass of draconic shapes and monstrous forms. Dark, shimmering tendrils of flame snuck through the air. Lashing out like serpentine wyverns, each snap igniting each of the bodies in their path. It's not just fire– its a manifestation of a pure sentient and destructive force.
Hermione watched with a detached expression as the flames scorched the earth, devouring the enemy and erasing all in their path. The scene is pure chaos– fire, destruction and raw, unbridled power. A living nightmare conjured from the darkest recesses of magic, unleashed with a single word.
As the fire begins to dissipate, leaving only blackened ruins in its wake, one thing stood clear to her: There was nothing left but scorched earth and a lingering sense of dread. That maybe, she really shouldn't have done that.
Happy Thanksgiving! We'll be moving forward with a Hermione who grapples with the thought that she used dark magic, and just what does it do to the soul?
If she uses dark magic, does that mean that she herself is dark? Even though it was in defense of herself and the livelihoods of others?
RIP Thornos. He didn't say much, but I guess he really didn't need to