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The Winter Witch by Kneazle
 Harry Potter & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: T, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [Hermione G., Robb S.] Roose B., Words: 281k+, Favs: 3k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Oct 16, 2017 Updated: Mar 20 2,575Chapter 9: I:IX
the Winter Witch IX
For Robb, there was no indication that time passed. One minute, he was slipping into the bed Lady Spicer had shown him to, Olyvar following dutifully behind him, and then he was sucked into his dreams - strange dreams.
He was back at Winterfell, standing in the inner courtyard while next to his horse. Jon stood behind him, looking solemn as usual with his black curly hair and long pale face; always looking more like Eddard Stark than Robb did, but Robb never cared. He wore black boiled leathers and a black fur coat over top, a sword belt around his waist and thick boots tucked into his trousers, all signs of the coming winter and the temperature difference at the Wall.
"Next time I see you, you'll be all in black," he joked, although his heart ached at seeing his half-brother feel so unwelcome at Winterfell that he would run at the first chance he got to be somewhere else, to belong somewhere else.
"It always was my colour," quipped Jon back, a tiny smile breaking his serious visage and warming his eyes.
Robb grinned back and his arms extended around his brother, pulling him tight against his chest for a moment while he savoured the feeling of being with blood. He thumped him on the back goodnaturedly, and then stepped back.
No! No! Robb railed in his mind. Don't let go! You need him! You need Jon at your side! He's the brother that didn't abandon you! That didn't betray you!
The inner courtyard of Winterfell disappeared and then he was in the Godswood, at the base of the ancient Heart tree, staring up at its thin blood-red leaves that swayed in a gentle summer breeze, the rustling of those leaves blending into a calming song that paired with the bubbles from the pool next to the tree.
The face on the Heart tree stared into Robb and he shifted his eyes away to light on a figure who sat on a low boulder, its edges worn smooth after hundreds of years of other's behinds carving their mark into the granite. His face was hunched over his Valyrian blade, Ice, as he ran a bloodied cloth over and over the gleaming metal, cleaning it.
The man looked up and smiled. "Aren't you going to sit, Robb?"
Robb did so, gingerly. His father was dead.
"You have quite the task in front of you," he continued, turning back to his sword, spinning it by the handle to see the other side of the blade. "You've called the banners, rallied the North and Riverlands to your side and yet you are unfulfilled. Why?"
"You know why," mumbled Robb, looking at his hands in his lap. He curled them into fists. "I want to avenge you."
Ned nodded. His voice was calm when he asked, "And have you?"
"Not yet."
"How will you achieve this?"
"By continuing to raze the Lannister lands and take their castles and keeps," declared Robb hotly. "By making Tywin Lannister scurry from one battlefield to the next until he is too broken to continue."
"Will that bring me back?"
Pain lanced through Robb at the words. "Nothing will bring you back."
Ned turned to look at his son, straight in the eyes. "Exactly, Robb. Nothing will bring me back. You have a duty to your brothers and sisters, yes; to the North as well. But remember: Winter is Coming."
And then the Godswood was disappearing and Robb could only reach out and cry, "Father!" before he was in the Great Hall, sitting in his father's chair and Bran, in his chair with Hodor behind him, was at his side. He looked around the Hall in confusion, realizing that Luwin was staring at him.
"Lord Robb?" Luwin asked, and Robb blinked before realizing he was meant to be settling some dispute or another.
"I-" he broke off, shaking his head and wondering if it even mattered what he said; he was barely keeping his head above all his duties. Winning a battle was nothing compared to the delicate dance between small folk and their grievances and his Lords and their grievances and…
"I'll do it," offered Bran kindly, his young voice piping up from beside Robb.
Robb opened his mouth - Bran was too young, he couldn't rule Winterfell on his own - and then Rickon was racing through the Hall, wild and dirty and carefree with Shaggydog scrambling after him, his nails clicking against the stone and then Winterfell was burning - the fire was hot and bright and Robb squinted, wondering where his younger brothers went - why did he leave them alone in Winterfell to go south? WHY?
And then they too were gone in the flame and he cried out, loudly, "Bran! Rickon!" but no one answered.
"You're so stupid," a derisive feminine voice snorted, and Robb looked down to see Arya looking up at him, her long black hair pulled back into a braid and tucked into Bran's old tunic and trousers. She had a small, thin blade at her hip, held tightly in her left hand. They were somewhere grassy, the riverlands perhaps.
"Me? Stupid?" he replied, affronted. "Why?"
"You're a King, aren't you? You make the rules," said his youngest sister simply.
"I have to follow the rules more than anyone else," argued Robb, while another part of him wondered what rules they were arguing about.
Arya shook her head. "Rules are meant to be broken, especially if you want to break them."
"There are consequences, Arya!" snapped Robb.
She sighed. "Aren't there always?"
Then she turned and began walking away, leaving Robb gaping after her. "Wait - Arya, wait!" and he took a step forward to follow her but found himself in a large courtyard, a bubbling fountain of clear water in the middle with several blooming flowers that gave off a sweet scent.
A cool, thin feminine hand reached forward and slipped into the crook of his elbow. Robb startled and looked down, only to see two similar blue eyes look up at him. Wearing a pretty green dress with yellow trim, Sansa tilted her head to the side and let her long curly hair shift and gleam in the sunlight.
"Sansa," he sighed, eyes tracing over her delicate face for signs of harm. Although tired, she seemed fine.
"Your Grace," chirped Sansa, keeping to her teachings and politeness. "You're making enemies everywhere."
Robb sighed, and they began walking around the courtyard, down meandering paths that wormed under curling branches and leaves that created pockets for intimacy and past rose bushes. "I know."
"Do you?" his sister demurred, casting her eyes ahead of them and to the side. Robb followed her eyes and spotted a lithe shadowy figure behind a hedge. "The Lions grow desperate and angry, and a beast when cornered is not a beast you wish to face."
Robb hummed, and then Sansa nodded in a different direction towards a nearby tree. On several branches were different sigil ornaments of the various Great Houses in Westeros: a stag for the Baratheons, which was hanging precariously by a single thin thread; the Lion hung by a thick, red silk cord that was severely knotted in several places; the Wolf for his family was threadbare grey, one side of the cord badly frayed while the other seemed to have something white beginning to braid itself into the cord. Between them, and others, was a shimmering spider's web in the sunlight where a spider was weaving between multiple points, most predominantly the Targaryen dragon and the Martell sun of Dorne.
"Or perhaps you are aware of the story of the Spider and its web? Of shadow puppets and greed?"
Behind the tree, a thick ooze climbed like an aggressive fungus, its mould creeping along and into many of the branches where the sigils hung from; the Vale was entirely engulfed.
"Sansa," pleaded Robb. "What do I do? I can't let the Kingslayer go for you and Arya - I just can't, I'm sorry!"
Sansa shook her head and smiled gently at her older brother. "You'll figure it out."
And then the courtyard was empty, the fountain frozen over, frost thick on the ground turning the grass white and the leaves all gone from the branches in the trees around him. The house sigils froze over, crusting in blue and white until they became too heavy and snapped from the branches, landing on the frozen ground and cracking, splintering into tiny pieces.
Robb's breath misted and he shivered. Something was watching him.
He spun in tight circles, eyes peering past bare trees into the bushes and hedges, hearing only the hiss of the wind and a creaking noise; or was it something rattling?
Robb exhaled slowly, his breath forming a cloud in front of his face, and then when it was gone, he saw nothing but two, vivid blue eyes - he scrambled backwards with a yell on his lips and -
"My lord!"
Robb's chest burned and he could barely move his left shoulder, the agony sharp and hot as it pierced through his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed heavily in through his open mouth.
"My lord, please," a soft, feminine voice said, and cool hands stretched across his chest to urge him to lie back down, "Please rest - you'll tear your stitches."
"H'mione?" he slurred, allowing himself to be guided back to the bed, turning his head towards the voice. Lady Hermione doesn't call you "my Lord," he chided himself, she'd rather be a chew toy for Grey Wind!
The feminine voice shushed him, and brushed back his hair. Robb opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, dark. There was only the light from a low burning fire in a fireplace across from the bed he was in, and whatever moonlight spilled in through the drawn curtains.
The woman next to him had long curly hair - is this not Hermione? wondered Robb with a frown. He grit his teeth and tried to shift so he could look at her. As he did, pain burst from his shoulder and he stared down, looking at a bandage that wrapped around his upper arm and chest, holding gauze in place.
"Wh-what happened?" he demanded, although his voice was shaky, soft. Gods! he thought angrily, how hurt am I?
"You took an arrow, milord," the young woman whispered. Robb turned to face her fully, eyes narrowed in the dark. She had a round face, with round brown eyes and a pert nose, but more importantly, Robb didn't recognize her.
"Who are you? Where am I? What are you doing in my room?" he asked, gritting his teeth and sitting up. The girl hovered at his side, helping him with cool hands that had him jerking from her when they touched his bare skin. He glanced around the room and saw Olyvar snoring on a chair near the fireplace, and empty mugs on a nearby table.
"Please, milord," implored the young woman again, reaching into her dress and bringing out a glass vial. "You need these tonics to get better."
"What?" Robb looked at the vial in her hands and then his bedside, which had a tray littered with glass bottles and jars of various liquids.
"Just a sip," the woman offered, holding the vial out to him.
"What?" he repeated. He stared at her, his brain foggy and body shaking with exertion as he tried to hold himself up with his one good arm. No one was in the room but them and a useless Olyvar Frey; had he been taken captive? Had they lost the Crag? Where was his Kingsguard? Daryn? Dacey? His great-uncle, or hell, even Lord Bolton?
The girl pushed the vial at him again. Her cool hand slipped up his chest and curled around the back of his neck, urging his head down. "Just a few sips, please. Please - you'll get better, I promise. Everything will be better once you drink this."
"I - ah -"
Several things happened then that Robb catalogued in short order: there was a loud crack, one that burst through the air so that it blew out the glass window in the room and the vial the woman held in her hands.
As it shattered, she shrieked and fell off the side of the bed, landing hard on her rear on the cold floor, staring up in horror at the foot of the bed. Olyvar also woke up, throwing himself to his feet, but completely discombobulated and unable to help.
The door to his bedroom crashed open, and Daryn and Lucas Blackwood charged in, their swords out and ready to fight the new enemy; but as their roaming eyes found the intruder, they both lowered their swords and shared a grin. Behind them, the Greatfish, Bolton, and Umber filled the door, and their tension-filled faces quickly eased into relief.
And there, at the foot of the bed, stood Hermione, her eyes locked on his. Her jeans were muddy and torn, and her pink knitted sweater had pulled and loose threads hanging from it. But most worrying, however, was the large bloody mark across her chest and up over her neck and one side of her face, a long thin streak that looked like it came from flying blood.
Her eyes were a bright amber, almost yellow in the firelight, and narrowed exclusively on the scene in front of her. Her curly hair was beyond riotous. Robb even fancied that he could see sparks of lightning bouncing from one curl to the next.
Robb was relieved to see her.
He was horrified to see her bloody - what happened at Riverrun?
He was enthralled by her.
"Hermione!"
"Robb," said Hermione lowly, her eyes falling on the girl on the floor at his bedside. "Who's this?"
"I have no idea," he cheerfully said. Perhaps his pain was addling his brain?
"L-Lady J-Jeyne," the girl sputtered, slowly rising to her feet.
Hermione pursed her lips together. "Jeyne," she repeated, as though tasting something gross. "I see. And what are you doing here, at this time of night?"
"G-Giving h-his G-grace h-his m-m-medicine," the girl continued, eyes wide and horrified on Hermione.
Hermione's eyes disdainfully looked over the tray. She took a few steps forward, striding towards them and then picked up the nearest, sniffing it. Her face twisted.
"Lady Hermione," called Bolton, his voice carrying in the quiet room. He eased around Daryn and Dacey. "His Grace took an arrow to his shoulder and its festered."
It had? Robb looked down at his bandaged shoulder again and realized that was why he wasn't feel too well. Oh.
Hermione rolled her eyes at Bolton. "I can see that."
With a sigh, she sat on the edge of Robb's bed and leaned forward.
What-? Robb's eyes went wide as her eyes got impossibly large, and she was close enough for him to make out the dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose. His breath hitched and he was suddenly holding it. He felt dizzy and was sure it wasn't from using his precious energy up just so he didn't look like a wet trout when he eventually would fall back onto the bed.
Hermione touched his forehead gently, and felt the heat emanating from it. She clucked her tongue and within seconds, potions were floating out of her beaded bag - ever present at her side - and lining themselves up by floating in front of him.
"This will flush the bad bacteria out of you," she started, pointing at a red bottle, which he obediently downed; it tasted of cinnamon and spices. Immediately he began to sweat profusely, and shivered as the heat travelled through his throat and stomach and then warmed him from the inside out.
She pointed at the next, "Fever Reducer," a cold blue potion that tasted of wet snow and mint, which he eagerly drank. He sighed in relief as it cooled his burning tongue and settled his stomach.
A final one, green, that she called "Wiggenweld Potion," had Robb looking at her strangely. She sighed and said, "It's a general cure-all, although it's strength is for restoring someone who took Draught of Living Death. It's a healing potion though, and I can make some more with my ingredients if I need. It'll heal you up right quick."
Within minutes, Robb was feeling better than he had when he woke, and the effects of his fever and the lingering pain from the festering wound were gone. When Hermione vanished the bandages over his chest and arm, there was nothing but a bit of pink, puckered flesh where the arrow went in, and behind, where it was pushed through.
Hermione cautiously ran her fingers over the scarred skin and Robb held himself so still not to shiver. However, when he looked up over Hermione's shoulder, he saw Daryn's smirk and quickly moved his eyes to where his great-uncle and Lord Bolton and Lord Umber stood by the table near the fire (he did his best to ignore how amused they looked as well).
Finally, Hermione declared him "all good," and stood. Robb scowled, perversely upset at her leaving and desirous of her to stand far, far away from him. He ran his hands through his hair and said, tersely, "What news? And how long have I been - unconscious?" he then frowned at Hermione. "And why do you look like that?"
She crossed her arms and said, flatly, "I beg your pardon?"
Robb backpedaled quickly. "Oh, no! Not like that! I mean -" he gestured at her clothes, "You're all… bloody."
"Well spotted, Robb," replied Hermione coolly. "Anything else escape your notice that you wish to share?"
Robb sputtered for a moment and then deliberately turned to the Lords in front of him at the table and ask, "Where do we stand with the Crag?"
"We hold it," replied Umber, badly suppressing a smirk. "Ah, Lady Hermione? As lovely as you are, perhaps you and Lady Dacey can go in search of some new clothes for you? Perhaps Lady Jeyne can offer you a dress, or a bath at the very least."
Hermione sniffed, tilting her chin up, but her voice was all sugar when she replied, "What a wonderful idea, Lord Umber."
And then she strode out of the room, never glancing back at Robb except for when she reached for the heavy door to the chamber. The look she gave him made him feel about two inches tall, like Arya when she was scolded by their mother for running around and ruining her dress.
Robb did his best not to hunch his shoulders, but his ears rang with the loud slam of the bedroom door long after Hermione had left.
Dacey hadn't particularly warmed up to Hermione in the two and a half weeks' since they last saw one another, but compared to Dacey and Lady Jeyne, she and Hermione were practically BFFs.
The timid girl led Hermione and Dacey to a spare bedroom, this one without any glass in the window except two shutters. It was cool and drafty, but Lady Jeyne directed a servant to stoke the fire in the fireplace and it quickly warmed the room.
"I'll have a tub and water brought up for you, my lady," the girl said, not even looking Hermione in the eyes before she scurried from the room.
Dacey snorted. "Dozy bint."
Hermione shot her a look. "Now, now, you think that of any female that hangs around. At least be creative."
Dacey rolled her dark eyes and sauntered to a chair in the corner of the small room, flopping down in it. "How goes things back at Riverrun?"
"If you mean with my research, slow," replied Hermione, pulling off her grimy sweater. Once her arms were out, she held it aloft in front of her and grimaced at the large puddle of hard, dried blood that came from when Torrhen had stabbed the one soldier. "I got a bit busy with a few things."
"Well, were you able to discover anything else?" prompted Dacey, reaching a hand out to the table to draw shapes on it lazily.
Hermione chucked the sweater onto the bed and then toed off her runners, standing only in her socks. She turned to face Dacey and shrugged. "Maybe. I definitely need to know more about magic here - and not just in Westeros, but everywhere else. Only recently did I hear Lord Blackwood, Bracken and Torrhen mention woods witches - but I haven't had a chance to look into that."
"They're just women who live in the wilds and sell potions to unsuspecting fools," scoffed Dacey. "Love potions, medicine, herbs - whatever they can."
"Does any of it work?" asked Hermione, just as there was a knock on the door and two maids entered carrying a large bucket of water between them, with two men behind carrying the tub, and once more bringing a tray of drinks and bread and smoked meat. Lady Jeyne slipped in behind, bundles in her arms.
"I think you are taller than me, Lady Hermione," she said quietly, peeking up at the witch only to look quickly back down. "But I brought some of my dresses, and a few of my mother's for you to try on."
"Oh, no, I really couldn't," protested Hermione, watching as hot water was beginning to fill the tub in front of the fireplace.
Dacey snickered. "Lady Hermione prefers trousers, Lady Jeyne. She barely wore the dress I got her in last time."
Thinking back to the victory dinner of the Whispering Woods, Hermione blushed and shot Dacey a look - it wasn't like Jeyne would understand the context behind the reason why Dacey was laughing.
"Oh," the other girl said, gently placing the dresses on the bed some distance away from the sweater. "Well, I'll leave them behind for you anyway. Shall I have the maids wash your-" she trailed off and looked at the bloody sweater on the bed, and then at Hermione and her grass-stained and muddy jeans, "clothes for you, instead, Lady Hermione?"
"No, it's fine, Jeyne, thanks," said Hermione, dismissing her by turning her back on the girl and moving towards the water. She didn't see the face the girl made, but Dacey did. The older Mormont woman smirked nastily at Jeyne and then shot Hermione a look that was made up of raised eyebrows and wide eyes.
Having only Ginny and Luna as girl friends growing up, Hermione was completely unprepared for the cattiness of Dacey which was more akin to Lavender and Parvati; instead, she shot the other woman a glare back and heard the door behind her close.
"Are you going to turn your back?" sniped Hermione, moving her hands to her jeans' button fly.
"We're all women here, aren't we?" replied Dacey, leaning back and reaching for a mug of ale, as well as the bread to rip off.
Hermione sighed, and steeled herself for the inevitable: Dacey would see her scars. While she was proud of them, like she told the men the other night - Merlin, was it only less than twenty four hours ago? - she didn't exactly like having her entire body on display. Still, she yanked her jeans off, and then her camisole and bra and panties last, presenting her back to Dacey the entire time before slipping into the steaming water.
"There's soap, too," called Dacey, and Hermione glanced over the rim of the rub to see her gesturing with a chunk of bread at a stool by the tub's side. Hermione leaned over and grabbed it, sniffing and identifying the cloying sweet scene as roses.
She began to vigorously scrub. "How did everything go here?"
"Not a problem," replied Dacey, swallowing thickly. "Except for when King Robb took the arrow." She paused. "Well… no…"
Hermione turned. "No what?"
Dacey looked down. "I shouldn't say. It's the King's business."
"Am I going to hear about it?" questioned Hermione.
Dacey looked indecisive for a moment, and then nodded. "He'll want to talk to you, I think."
Hermione glanced back. Dacey's voice had been different; and the older Mormont woman was looking at Hermione with a bit more focus than she had before. "What?"
"You've got some interesting scars, witch," the woman said instead.
Hermione turned away from Dacey, her right hand clenched around the slippery soap. She raised her left arm and began scrubbing it with the soap, over the scarred Mudblood. "It's a slur," Hermione found herself explaining. "It means dirty blood."
Dacey hummed from her spot by the table. "Did you kill them?"
"I didn't," replied Hermione evenly, "But they're dead now." And then, perversely, Hermione twisted so the side of her neck was bared to the dark-haired woman. She traced a silver line from below her ear for an inch. "She tried to slit my throat too. Maybe that's why I knew how to heal Eddard Karstark so quickly - because I wanted to learn so it wouldn't happen to anyone."
Dacey stared at Hermione for a moment, and then was standing up, hiking her tunic up and baring at stomach. There was a thick, jagged pink scar. "Lance. Against a squid raiding the coast and trying to snatch salt wives."
Oh, game on. Hermione knelt, ignoring her bared front, and pointed at the long scar that wove from over her left breast down her sternum and ended just to the right of her belly button. "Entail-erupting curse. I was fifteen!"
Dacey let her shirt drop and then shoved a sleeve up. "Arrow! Two of them! I was thirteen!"
Hermione pointed to her hip. "Falling mortar when Hogwarts was invaded by Death Eaters!" and then another, "Stray cutting curse! Sixteen!"
Dacey swept her hair back and pointed at a line at the base of her neck. "Sword! Siege of the Pyke! Greyjoy Rebellion! I should be headless! Fourteen!"
For a moment, they both stopped and stared at one another, and then, like a switch flipped, they burst into laughter. Hermione sank back down into the cooling water and Dacey fell back into her seat.
"Well, aren't we a pair?" she chuckled.
Hermione ruefully shook her head in agreement, and then wandlessly summoned her clothes to the side of the tub. A quick scourgify and her clothes were clean, scrubbed and dried. Hermione leapt from the tub and cast a drying charm on her and then a warming charm, quickly slipping into her underwear and jeans. She decided against the same camisole and sweater, stuffing them in her beaded bag and instead withdrawing a thick, white long-sleeved sweater she favoured and brown ankle boots.
Dacey was shaking her head when Hermione turned around. "I need a bag like that."
"I can charm you one," offered Hermione.
Surprise flashed across Dacey's face, but then she settled on a smile. "I'd like that." She then stood. "Shall we go back at see his Grace?"
"Yes, let's."
The walk back to the chamber Robb had been given was short. Outside the room, Daryn - whom she knew a little - and a tall gangly black-haired man that looked familiar, stood guard. Daryn nodded at Dacey and Hermione, while the other man looked at her curiously.
Daryn opened the door with a loud knock and announcement, "Your Grace? Lady Hermione is here."
"Send her in," called Robb, and Hermione smiled at the Hornwood heir. Dacey remained outside with them.
While Robb was still weak, he had managed to rise from the bed and seat himself at the table with the other man, looking over the communication parchment and maps of the area. Little wooden wolves' heads indicated which keeps and castles the Northern army had taken in the Riverlands. The amount was impressive.
Hermione peered at the map by leaning over Robb's shoulders. She pointed at Stone Hedge. "Lord Bracken's home was overrun with Lannisters. We liberated it the other day. It would be safe to assume though that there are smaller bands of Lannister soldiers roaming the riverlands for easy targets."
Robb frowned. He fingered one of the communication parchments and then peered up at her, but was clearly addressing the men, "Can you give me privacy please?"
Umber was the first to leave, but Bolton shot Robb an unreadable look, while the Blackfish heaved a heavy sigh and motioned for Robb's squire to leave the room, too, despite the young teen's protests.
Hermione slid into a vacant seat. "What's wrong? Dacey said something happened but didn't want to tell me what." She made a face. "Beyond your shoulder wound, of course."
Robb turned away, his face a mask of anguish.
"Robb?"
Hermione reached forward and placed her hand over one of his in his lap. Under her hand, his clenched his into a fist.
"My brothers-" Robb cleared his throat. "We received word that Winterfell was taken by my childhood friend, Theon Greyjoy. My brothers are dead." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Bran was twelve. And Rickon only six. Six."
He breathed heavily and Hermione leaned forward, closer to him and brought her other hand up to place over the one she already held. "Merlin, Robb, I am so sorry."
Robb swallowed thickly, biting back tears by gritting his teeth and squaring his jaw. He sniffed, and tilted his chin up, cutting his blue eyes towards Hermione. "Lord Umber and Lord Bolton have mentioned that it's possible that Theon was lying. That they may be alive… but… with my sisters in King's Landing and my brothers in Winterfell - or not -"
He turned to face Hermione, his hands unfurling and then clutching at hers. "How can I do this, Hermione? I am so far from home, away from my family. Everything I do, I think I'm doing the right thing, but how is it right when this happens?"
"I don't know," she said quietly, holding his gaze steadily.
"This - battle - it's so easy," admitted Robb, his voice just as low. "I can lead men into battle and pick up a sword and fight my way to victory. But keep my family together?" he laughed bitterly. "Maybe it's a Stark curse. And I'll be known as the King Who Lost the North."
"So, let's do what's right and not what's easy, Robb," replied Hermione.
"And what's that?" he asked, shaking his head. "I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore. I'll never get my father's bones back. Tywin Lannister will never trade my sisters for his son, even his favourite."
Hermione frowned and squeezed his hands. "So what do you want to do?"
"What I want, and what I need to do, are two very different things," retorted Robb, glancing away from her amber eyes. "But," he began quietly, "But if I had to choose, I'd go back home. Back to Winterfell."
"So go home," said Hermione, ducking down a bit to catch his eyes. "Let me help you. If anyone knows about wanting to go home, it's me."
Robb quirked his lips into a small smile, but it was bittersweet. "True enough."
"First," said Hermione, louder, standing up and pushing away from her chair. She kept her fingers entwined with Robb's, and pulled him to his feet, too. "I think I can help - a bit at least - about your siblings. If you want to know if Bran and Rickon are still alive, this will help."
"How?" asked Robb, curious, and allowing himself to be moved around by Hermione as she positioned them to the bottom of the map on the table.
"Do you trust me?" she asked, and he nodded.
"With my life," he replied solemnly.
"Okay," the witch replied, her curly hair bobbing. "Take your dagger - you have one, don't you? Excellent. You're going to make a shallow cut and let three drops fall onto the map. I'll cast a spell that will use the blood that ties you to your siblings and it'll split off for each one, telling us where they currently are."
"Really?" asked Robb, delight in his voice. "Even Jon?"
"Jon?" she repeated, flicking her wrist and settling her wand in her hand.
"My half-brother. My father's son," he explained, and Hermione nodded.
"Of course, you share blood," she answered, and that was enough for Robb: he took his dagger, one he carried in his boots, but had been discarded during his fever, and gently pricked himself on the inside of his palm, letting the blood pool until Hermione was ready.
He curled his hand into a fist and let precisely three drops fall onto the map. Just as the last drop fell, Hermione muttered something low, and swished her wand; a bright white light beamed from it and coalesced into a smokey whispered that covered the map. Once it soaked into the paper, the map flared white for a moment, and then...
The three large drops that grouped together began to slowly edge apart, sliding over the map like water and oil. One large blob went north, and the other south. The one south then broke into two: a smaller blob went and rested over King's Landing on the map, and the other on Harrenhal. The larger northern blob kept going, and Robb watched it nervously, until it split in two: one heading towards the wall and the other, northeast towards the island of Skagos.
He waited for the blob heading for the wall to break off again, and remain either at Castle Black, or move beyond the wall, but it didn't. He waited a bit more and glanced up at Hermione. "Is it done?"
She nodded, biting her lower lip and frowning. There was a crease between her eyebrows. "I thought you said you have five siblings?"
"I do," replied Robb, his own voice highlighting his confusion. "I mean - this is wonderful! Bran and Rickon are alive! Not in Winterfell, but alive! And Arya - it must be her, since I'm still getting ravens from Sansa in King's Landing - is near! But… where's Jon?"
Note: Less than twenty final essays to grade - four articles to read for the chapter - I can do this! Yet, instead, I write fanfiction!
Robb's line, "What I want, and what I need to do, are two very different things" is a paraphrase to one of my favourite all-time lines in the 100, when Bellamy says "Who we are, and who we need to survive, are two very different things." I hated him, but grew to love Bellamy (as much as I love Murphy - I love a good redemption story like you wouldn't believe. I'm a sucker for them!). Also, Bob Morley is adorkable and surprisingly short! But super sweet. We had a very awkward conversation about Canadian winter and weather and whether or not he had time to sight-see when he was here in September for FanExpo.
Slowburn folks. Strap in tight for a long, long slowburn. :) And a tease: the end to part I is already written, and there's opening scenes for Part II already written, as well.
Also, if I wrote a Boromir/Hermione story, would anyone read it? I'm currently working on a Hermione-in-the-Star Wars-universe one that I'm eager to share...
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