The Grind (And Helping Heather Potter) [Book 2]

We knew about Neville's actions at the Dreadfort before anyone else. So we knew to prepare ourselves for the fallout and backlash. It wasn't nearly as bad as we were expecting. The Boltons didn't have many friends even among their own vassals, much less the rest of the North.

I wasn't a party to the immediate aftermath. A small group of Smallfolk were Portkeyed straight to Hogwarts. They were in a sorry state when Madam Pomfrey began to treat them. Tortured and traumatized and terribly confused. But miracle worker that she was, Poppy quickly had them right as rain. Physically, at least.

Mentally and emotionally were two different beasts entirely. Dumbledore and Snape would be helping there — using Legilimency to soothe and suppress their troubles and traumas — but it'd likely be a long, healing road for them to walk. They'd have a home in New Hogsmeade as they walked it though. Every single one of them took us up on the offer. They would sooner die than return to Bolton lands, even after they were told that the Boltons were no more.

Neville, Hannah, and Susan soon returned with another victim in tow. They didn't stay long, just long enough to give reports of the Bolton-flavored horrors and how they were dealt with. Then they decided it was best to make themselves scarce. I didn't think they necessarily had to but it was the course of action they were set on. The things they'd seen in the Dreadfort had only fueled their determination and inflamed their senses of justice. They'd be much more use out in the world than holed up in Hogwarts until everything here in the North blew over.

It took a few weeks for news of the Dreadfort's fall to spread. When it did, the reception was… mixed, to say the least. More than a few Northern Lords sent thinly veiled congratulations. Greatjon Umber didn't even bother with that, saying it outright with a booming laugh I could practically hear through his handwriting. People were more than happy to see the Boltons gone. The only thing they took issue with was the way it was done.

Guest Rights were one of the core pillars of the North. The practice was common throughout Westeros but never more prevalent than here north of the Neck. It ensured peace and parley for even the worst of enemies. To break Guest Rights was to go against common sense and decency, to go against the very fabric of society, to make oneself akin to beasts. It was a sin, not just against morality and honor, but also against the Old Gods themselves.

And there was some magical backing to that idea, I knew. The Old Gods held Guest Rights sacred. Once broken, the oathbreaker would feel their… displeasure. It wasn't so simple as divine smiting. But it also wasn't anything to scoff at. Violaters would find themselves unwelcome everywhere there was a Heart Tree. They would find themselves utterly without protection as if they were sleeping deep in the forest in even the most fortified castles. They could not be trusted to keep the peace of hospitality and so the favor would be returned everywhere they went. Powerful forces scorned their very existence and every endeavor they underwent. For breaking Guest Rights, it would seem that the past, present, and future conspired to never one's let rest and respite come easily.

Yet even with that knowledge, I didn't worry too much for Neville and his girls. The Old Gods may scorn them but Magic itself didn't. They would be left to forge their own fates, especially in places where the Old Gods held strong, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. And they had Hogwarts on their side, 'advocating' for them in the astral realm. Individually, Hogwarts was more powerful than any Old God (Heart Tree). She would offer them the protection that the Old Gods no longer would.

There was also the context of the violation to consider, for even the Old Gods were not blind to it. Not completely. Neville, Susan, and Hannah had broken Guest Rights on behalf of another. Or put more succinctly, Roose Bolton did it first. He'd let his own heir come to harm beneath his roof. Domeric Bolton had every reason to believe he'd be safe under his father's protection. Yet Lord Bolton had also harbored a kinslayer — no, a kin-torturer — and the Old Gods had seen as much. Neither party could be completely condemned for breaking Guest Rights and I got the feeling that the ever-neutral Old Gods were simply wiping their hands of the matter.

Of course, it also helped that they were going to be spending most of their time in Essos for the foreseeable future. Essos had long been free of Weirwood roots. There, the Old Gods couldn't truly reach them to conspire against them. There would be no worrying premonitions and dreams to precede them. No tainted, biased warnings or turning of the land against them or long-dead spirits haunting their steps and sleeps. That wasn't to say that they would get off scot-free but they'd certainly be left to their own devices, with only Magic, Hogwarts, and themselves having any say in their fates.

In a way, that was something of a shame. The Old Gods' blessings would have been a welcome boon to the trio's quest. There were few things the Old Gods despised more than slavery. For them, blood, sacrifice, and worship needed to come from free choice or be done in their names. Only then would it truly feed the roots of their magic.

Neville, Susan, and Hannah's crusade against slavery could have been a crusade for the Old Gods as well. A grand undertaking to spread one of their core tenets. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. Both parties lost their chance. The Old Gods wouldn't reap the benefits of abolition in their names and Neville and his girls would have to face the continent of a thousand 'gods' alone.

Back in the North, however, the Starks soon came calling. Even with as reviled as the Boltons were, they'd been Stark bannermen. Having them obliterated overnight was an affront to their authority and it weakened their realm. The breaking of Guest Rights was the biggest sticking point though. Ned had no choice but to officially exile Neville, Susan, and Hannah for it.

We didn't do much of anything to hide their involvement. Neville was more than ready to take the blame — and fame and 'in-fame' — that came with killing a major House. It was justice. 'They deserved much worse', as Neville put it. And though he couldn't say it aloud, I think Ned agreed. The Bolton truly were the most reviled House in the North, even before their deeds saw the light of day. After some of the things Neville shared with Hogwarts and Hogwarts then shared with Ned, no one wished to stand up for them any more than they absolutely had to.

In the end, Neville and his girls were 'exiled' in name but celebrated in private. They took the last living member of House Bolton to Essos with them. He'd have to give up his name but "Domeric 'Rightie' Noname" wasn't too bad a calling. He'd felt the sharpness of his family's blades and wished no more part in it. Not that he'd had much part in it to begin with, having fostered with his aunt and then squired in the Vale for the majority of his life.

Hogwarts was left to deal with the 'fallout' (read: forwarding congratulations to Neville that were spoken behind closed doors) and the arrangements of the Smallfolk who'd suffered for so long under Bolton predations. We used the chance to attract more people to New Hogsmeade. The Bolton lands and their vassals — decently diminished after Hogwarts' 'advertising' campaign — were split up between House Manderly, House Umber, House Karstark, and House Stark.

And so life went on. Cedric's fostering arrangement with the Starks wasn't overly unaffected. Not after the truth of Domeric Noname's situation was made clear in whispers that quickly spread. If anything, Dumbledore received more requests to foster Hogwarts students. Many Lords wished to thank Hogwarts for removing such a scourge from the North.

By large, the Southern Kingdoms didn't concern themselves with the dealings of the North. Many of their Lords likely didn't even notice House Bolton suddenly going extinct. Those who did were told that 'Justice has been served and the one who passed the sentence swung the sword'. Few inquired any further after that.

Hogwarts did feel emptier these days. But it was the good kind of empty. The kind associated with progress and children leaving the nest. Plenty of students still stayed in the castle and the staff weren't about to leave anytime soon. Hogwarts was still home. But there was no denying that things were happening and changing in our new world.

The most key change of all… my change. Authority. 'Most Learned Are Ye'. My reward and evolution for finally maxing one of my skill disciplines. It was… ridiculous. A blessing of a blessing. I thought of it as the most useful Authority I could have gotten. It boosted almost every other pursuit I undertook, the ability to see through the mysteries of Magic with a glance.

Of course, it wasn't omniscient. Far from it. But it did give me at least a glimpse at everything. It was the reason I could discern so much about the Old Gods' feelings about Neville, Susan, and Hannah. It showed me some of the consequences of breaking Guest Rights and allowed me to lay out why it was a bad idea for the future — even if they weren't divine, the power of the 'gods' in this world couldn't be understated. It even went so far as to give me a blinding peek into Fawkes' (a fucking Phoenix!) true nature — he was a living star, a nuclear furnace of pure, fiery magic that I still saw imprinted on the backs of my eyelids at times.

The best way I could describe it was the ghost of an impression over the real world, visible only to my eyes. One I was learning to trust more than those same eyes. It was more than a gut feeling but less than reading information from a book. A sort of visible intuition that left me with eyes on the inside — Insight, if you will…

I'd glimpsed Fawkes with my new eyes backed by Authority. I'd examined the Weirwood Trees and their astral network. I'd beheld the eternal burning of R'hllor and how it mirrored the everlasting freeze of the Great Other. I'd looked inward, watching my own magic dance in my breast. I'd watched Dumbledore, Flitwick, McGonagall, Sprout, and Snape work miracles in their fields of specialty — from the subtle arts of alchemy and potion-making to the solid command of transfiguration changing reality. I'd turned those all-seeing eyes onto the wonders of our new world — awakened bloodlines and runic writings lost to time.

As one might expect, I'd seen a fair bit of progress in the Grind over the month and change since Harrenhal…

< Magic (T7) >

< +2 to Charms, +2 to Transfiguration, +2 to DADA, +3 to Magic Theory, +4 to Runes, +5 to Potter's Clay >

< Charms 69+2=71/100, Transfiguration 74+2=76/100, DADA 75+2=77/100, Magic Theory 100+3=103/+++, Runes 73+4=77/100, Potter's Clay 33+5=38/100 >

Mostly, I'd been spending my focus on the new magical fields of this world and expanding on an old field. My Runes discipline didn't just cover runes anymore. It also contained the Old Tongue of the First Men and the High Valyrian of the Valyrians. They were much more complete languages than I was used to working with.

With Elder Futhark (and other ancient Earth scripts), so much — the majority of it, even — had been lost to time. Here, the Old Tongue was mostly forgotten… but not completely. There were still some in the North who spoke it. Not just the forgotten writings and scriptures we used to piece together dead languages but living speakers with their stories and lives preserved. High Valyrian was even more widespread thanks to the sheer scope of the Valyrian Empire in Essos and the Targaryen Dynasty's influence on Westeros.

Because of that, much of the Mystery (capital 'M') and the magical potency Elder Futhark (among others) brought was lost in these new languages. But they more than made up for it with the overall integrity of still-spoken languages. They were less potent — as far as individual runes went. But much, much more versatile. Instead of piecing together a few lines of Elder Futhark and packing double, triple, and quadruple meanings into each rune, I could write whole stories in High Valyrian or Old Tongue with themes, and nuances, and characters to compensate.

It was a wholly new approach to Runes than what any Wizard was used to. It went from a blunt but potent magic to a magic of storytelling and narrative. Like going from unfortunately primitive cave paintings to an extensive, fully-fleshed-out digital art studio. If I could dream it, picture it, and put it into words, anything was possible.

They weren't inherently magical languages. But then, neither was Elder Futhark. It was only used because it'd been lost, rediscovered, and repurposed. There was no magic inherent to its runes and symbols. Only the magic we gave it — quite literally with each rune carved or painted — and the Mystery of a language that'd been mostly lost. The same thing could be done with the Old Tongue and High Valyrian. Perhaps more effectively too, with still-living proverbs, axioms, innuendos, and idioms to pull from.

Currently, I was attempting a project to combine the Old Tongue and High Valyrian for a single purpose. I already knew my final result would be primitive. This was likely the first time it'd been attempted, even in the extensive history of this world. The two languages hadn't had much contact before the Targaryens came to Westeros and this world certainly hadn't seen anything like Wizards and Witches. I was perhaps the first one in Planetos' history who could make it work, much less dreamed of it in the first place.

It was… challenging. And exhilarating. Progress was coming slowly, but it was coming. The main issue I ran into was the two languages' diametrically opposed natures. High Valyrian — like its originators — was touched by the concept of fire. Not quite to a 'R'hllor' level but close. Valyria lived and died by flames. They'd tamed and mastered Dragons. Then they'd died by a magical eruption of 14 (four-fucking-teen) volcanoes.

On the other end, the Old Tongue was inherently tied to the Weirwoods and the Children of the Forest. High Valyrain was a language of fire and ash. The Old Tongue was a language of stream, forest, and stone. It was a druid's tongue, inherently tied to nature and the natural order. But there was one place of common ground between the two languages: Blood.

I was using that as a sort of control factor. A limiter and a link. It also played into the nature of magic in this world. There was a reason blood was the common ground between two seemingly opposite languages. Blood was powerful, even more so than in Earth's magical system. It was life. It was sacrifice. It was the connection between something as massive as a Dragon to something as small as a single mouse.

The ink I wrote with had been transfigured from my blood. I didn't bother mixing blood-ink. It seemed like a messy, complicated process that I wouldn't know where to start with. I didn't even know if it was strictly possible. Thankfully, magic saved the day there and allowed my project to continue.

The project itself was something of a novelty. At least, it was for modern British Wizards. Staves had fallen out of style… But I figured if we were 'stuck in the past', I might as well revive some old practices. And I just so happened to have the perfect materials to bring the best out of both languages.

The Weirwood cutting that had acted as a torch in the astral realm would be the base of my staff. The connection to the Old Tongue was obvious. But it was also touched by Dragonfire. One end of the long, straight length was still burnt. Then I'd taken a bit of Dragonglass from my Valyrian Fiendfyre testing site, chipped and carved it into a sharp, single-edged blade, and mounted it atop the burnt end of the Weirwood length. It was more a glaive than a mere staff but the Dragonglass brought out the Valyrian yin to the Old Tongue yang.

< Creation (T5) >

< +3 to Crafting >

< Crafting 43+3=46/100 >

< The High-Tongue Glaive-Staff >

< A staff of symbolically potent Weirwood with a blade of symbolically potent Dragonglass. The Runic writings on the staff and blade tell a tragic, fairy-tale romance that says more than it appears to at first glance. The staff acts as a powerful magical focus and… something new — never before seen by the world — is born from the combination. Do you call upon Valyrian flames or Old Tongue growths? Or perhaps… something else entirely… >

The crafting of the staff was relatively easy. The real meat of the project came with the Runes I was applying. They weren't carved into the Weirwood length, being much more extensive than I was willing to whittle away. And carving Runes into brittle obsidian was a fool's errand anyway. Instead, they were painted on, a veritable novella of black blood-turned-ink that would cover the bone-white wood and catch the light just right on the dark obsidian blade.

As for the 'novella' itself… It truly was a story. Not an almost brutalist description of what the Runes should do and how they should interact with each other like with Elder Futhark. It had characters. Themes. An actual plot. Instead of describing the Runic function, I told Magic a story and let it make something nuanced and complex and more brilliant than I could ever describe.

It was an original tale of tragic romance that referenced both Valyrian and First Men legends. Very 'fairy-tale-esque'. An intimate telling of a girl kissed by fire who found peace and solace beneath an ancient tree. The tree shielded her from the elements, nurturing her flames. It loved her enough to birth a seedling that grew into a wooden man for her. Yet the love could never be. For together, they could only burn and burn until something new was born from their ashes. And it just so happened that I had plenty of inspiration to pull from as I carefully scribed every Rune of blocky Old Tongue and flowing High Valyrian script.

"Oh, it was a tale most fine~," Margaery swooned breathlessly. "The Love Triangle of the Great Bastards! Oh, oh, how dreamy~! How steamy~! The intrigue, the romance, the tragedy~! Lady Shiera was said to be simply gorgeous. A Lady of enchanting mismatched eyes and thick silver curls, bonny and fair. She was a Lady who would not be tamed, yet two men held key places in her heart. Her bastard half-brothers Brynden — Bloodraven — and Aegor — Bittersteel. They fought and schemed and even killed for her favor."

She leaned in close to share her romantic story with Hermione with a grin, "It is said she never wed in the end. That she instead preferred to make Bloodraven jealous and keep his passions ever-inflamed. Imagine! Oh, imagine~…"

… I didn't say it was good inspiration. Just that there was plenty of it…

"That…" Hermione considered, much more serious than the subject matter deserved. "I can work with that… Yes… But we'll need more accurate descriptions for the, ahem… pictures…"

Margaery gasped, her eyes just about lighting up with excitement, "You mean to include the same kind of sinful, stimulating, sensual moving pictures in our new rendition~?!"

Hermione glanced at me while trying her best to hide it, "We'll need some… help there… but I think it's only right for the first book of its kind in Westeros."

"Ohohoho~!" Margaery clapped her hands, her laughter like bells. "We shall be made legends among Ladies for this, my dearest friend!"

"It's rather exciting to be on the cutting edge of a whole new field," Hermione smiled slightly.

"Smut," Olenna cut in flatly. "Yes, congratulations. You're on the cutting edge of the lewd and promiscuous."

"Grandmother," Margaery frowned, making her displeasure known. "Ladies need entertainment too. Or are you saying you wouldn't have killed to have a book like Hogwarts, A History or some of the others like it in your youth?"

Olenna chuckled, "Oh, you're not wrong, Little Rose. I'm just saying it as it is. Your father would have a fit if he knew just what you were doing with your time here in the North."

"Hmph," Margaery sniffed imperiously. "I would very much prefer if you kept my confidence for this, Grandmother. What Father doesn't know won't kill him."

"Of course, what he does just might…" Olenna retorted with a grin.

Margaery looked away shiftily, "… Perhaps. I'd rather not find out firsthand. Good Gods, I would just about perish along with him from the mortification."

"Well, we can't have that now, can we? There's so much you've yet to experience, Granddaughter. Would you truly only write smut and not experience it for yourself?" Olenna smirked.

It was Margaery's turn to glance my way, though she hid it much better than Hermione had, "… I think I shall refrain from commenting or continuing this conversation, Grandmother. Hermione and I have work to do, after all."

With much more grace than was called for, Margaery turned back to Hermione, "Come, my dear friend. Let us put beautiful, flowery words to parchment and change the world for Ladies across Westeros."

I didn't quite snort but it was a close thing. Olenna didn't even bother hiding her amusement, chuffing rather loudly. She gave me a knowing look. I shook my head.

"Don't drag me into this now, Olenna. They'll do that for themselves soon enough."

"Oh, I know. Aren't they just precious?"

"That's one way to put it. Personally, I would have chosen 'precocious'. Ravenous. Thirsty, perhaps. Lewd, even."

"Atlas~…" Hermione whined, a luminescent blush overtaking her cheeks.

"Ignore them," Margaery advised, acting as noble as ever despite her current blatantly smutty pursuit. "They may tease and torment us but we… we will come out on top."

"Or bottom," I sniped. "Or to the side as a little spoon. Or on your knees. Or folded into a pretzel."

"Your words are noted, my Lord," Margaery said, not deigning to meet my eyes as a slight blush broke through even her composure. "… And surprisingly helpful…"

"I'll say," Hermione muttered. "He's giving me… ideas…"

Practically without warning, she had pen and parchment out and was hurriedly scribbling down those 'ideas' while Margaery peeked over her shoulder. The pair of them seemed to lose themselves in their own little smutty world and work. Margaery giggled and tittered. Hermione stuck her tongue between her lips in intense concentration. At the same time, both of them began to shift and fidget in their seats with excitable, aroused energy.

"Oh, look what you've done now, man!" Olenna laughed.

"I take absolutely no responsibility for my actions," I said, not even looking up from my project.

Olenna shook her head in amusement, "And isn't that just typical? Just like a man to leave a young woman wanting more."

"I think you'll find that all of my girls will disagree with you on that," I deadpanned. "Every. Single. One."

"But not my Margaery," Olenna noted knowingly.

"Well, nothing's been made officially official there yet, has it?" I jabbed.

"Not for lack of trying."

"It seems your Margaery needs to up her game."

"Why, Atlas, I almost resent that. My Margaery could seduce a Silent Sister."

"Yet there she sits. Still entirely virtuous."

Olenna shot me a raised eyebrow at that but didn't say anything. Margaery demonstrated her unspoken point well enough on her own.

"Oh, her tits! Her glorious teats! Describe her bountifully bouncing bosom more~! Yes, wax poetic about her most sublime bust! Pushed-up cleavage in a swooping neckline that makes Lord and Smallfolk alike stop and drool over themselves! Shiera Seastar was a woman to start and stop wars! We must do her justice!"

"'Her breasts bounced boobily down the stairs…'" Hermione spoke, nodding along as she wrote and brought Margaery's wanton vision to life.

"She was like that when you brought her to me," I said.

"She certainly hid it better back then," Olenna snorted in good humor. "Honestly, I can't decide if you Wizards and your… pleasures… are a blessing or a sin most foul."

"I like to think I bless everything I touch," I sniffed. "Our dear Margaery is no exception. But I can only claim a portion of that credit."

"Yes, your Witches have been hard at work during our stay," Olenna agreed.

"They've helped her blossom spectacularly," I claimed with a sense of finality to my voice.

"And Bloodraven!" Margaery exclaimed. "So uniquely handsome~… Who needs flowing locks and perfect features~? He was striking! Isn't that just as important~?"

"Bittersteel was more traditionally handsome anyway," Hermione readily agreed. "With both, our lovely protagonist has the best of both worlds to choose from. Striking and conventional, roguish and dutiful."

"And both were deliciously dangerous men~," Margaery purred. "Goodness, Lady Shiera lived a thrilling life!"

"And we get to put her true story — or at least our version of it… — to paper!" Hermione excitedly exclaimed.

"It's a shame our time here is coming to a close soon," Olenna mused to me as her Granddaughter and my Hermione put their heads together to craft the most sordid romance Westeros had ever seen. "It's not home but Hogwarts has been good for us. Both of us. Margaery was free to explore her magic and explore friendships of her age. She was so lacking for such things in Highgarden."

"The same could be said for you, couldn't it?" I pointed out.

"Yes, I suppose it could. Albus, Minerva, Filius, Pomona, even Severus to an extent… It's been a long time since I've had so many worthy peers and honest friends," A soft smile claimed Olenna's face.

"Yet time continues to move forward and events will always continue to occur," I said, stating the obvious that had been on most everyone's minds these past few weeks.

"Indeed," Olenna nodded, her lips pursing. "Jon Arryn… I won't mourn for the old Falcon but his death does represent something of an end to an era. The King marches for Winterfell now. No doubt, he'll return south with his closest friend as his new Hand."

"You think Ned will accept?" I asked.

"I think he won't have a choice," Olenna snorted. "But perhaps that's for the best. I've been hearing novel things from King's Landing. The Robert from years past is seemingly nowhere to be found, taken with his ability to get drunk. Yet at the same time, an older Robert is returning to the fore. Not the Fat Stag King, but the Demon of the Trident…"

"I never met either," I shrugged. "But I've met Ned. A moderating influence beside the throne might be welcome."

"Moderating influences never last long in the Game of Thrones," Olenna warned.

"He'll last," I said firmly. "I happen to quite like Ned. As does Albus."

Olenna eyed me with a calculating look in her eyes, "… Yes, I suppose you're both allies that the players in King's Landing cannot hope to predict."

"It's a good thing you've just spent a year with us then," I suggested casually. "King's Landing might not be ready for Hogwarts at all but you're not nearly as clueless anymore."

Olenna's lips twitched, "Quite. Of course, I think I've largely grown past the appeal of the Iron Throne in my old age. What use is a Queen when I could have a Witch and a lasting lineage of the same beyond?"

I nodded matter-of-factly, "The Iron Throne could never offer you the same."

"Then perhaps something should finally be finalized?" Olenna suggested.

"That's Margaery's decision first and foremost. You know that's how we do things in Hogwarts," I reminded. "It's up to her, not you or her Father."

"Bah, you and your woman's rights!" Olenna waved dismissively. "Just take my Margaery and ravish her already, man!"

I chuckled, "She might not give me any other choice soon enough."

In the background, Margaery continued to write her lewd, smutty vision with Hermione and revel in the process, "Magnificent! Simply magnificent! Ah, make sure to stress the jealousy and romantic struggle for Shiera's hand. Yes, Bloodraven almost gets through her defenses and then Bittersteel does the same~. And Shiera is torn. Torn, I say! Which way will her heart reach in the end~? The sorcerous Bloodraven or the treacherous Bittersteel~?

"Then-! Then she's cast down beneath her chosen man, her center dripping flames~… A throbbing rod stands strong over her~… Barely fitting in her small hand, she guides his glorious girth to the lips of her quivering quim~… For a moment, it feels as if it will never fit but her body eventually submits to his love~… And she's taken again and again and again and again, O-Oo~hh~!"

She was quite literally drooling at the end of it as she hungrily devoured every word Hermione wrote down. She practically panted as her beloved smut was born right before her eyes. Hermione was hardly better. Her eyes were dazed — almost swirling and spiraling with her creative lust — even as her writing hand continued automatically. Soft feminine thighs rubbed together futilely and the air around them seemed to broil with red-hot arousal. Both of them looked like the slightest breeze would set them off explosively.

"'She gave herself over to him entirely. He commanded her body and heart alike. His touch sent burning chills across her skin. No one told her it would feel so sinfully sublime~…'," Hermoine panted, reciting her words as she wrote them down. "B-Blimey~…"

Olenna just rolled her eyes at their antics, telling me, "She'll have a moon or so yet to make her final move. We'll stay to meet the King in Winterfell. After that, I don't think we'll be able to avoid the call of home any longer. Will you visit Highgarden, Atlas?"

I chuckled, "I don't think Margaery would allow otherwise. Or Hermione. The rest of the girls as well but this pair has grown the closest. Seems that it pays to have something in common."

"I'm sure her mother will be ecstatic to hear that Margaery has found such a sinfully shameless ally," Olenna deadpanned.

I shook my head in amusement, "We'll win her over. It's a shame Margaery won't be able to join us on our adventures throughout the South though."

"Eventually, perhaps," Olenna said. "She might be allowed to travel throughout the Reach. But likely not any farther afield than that. I'm much too old and brittle to be cavorting around as a chaperone for 'you youngins', as Albus says."

"Maybe we'll just have to steal her way for ourselves then," I smirked.

Olenna snorted, "She'd swoon until she fainted. I can hear her now, 'Oh, how romantic, how scandalous, how delightfully dreamy~!'. Of course, she'd never say that much to your face, but I'd never hear the end of it."

I laughed, "We may just end up testing your patience in the future, Olenna. My apologies for stressing you so."

"Don't worry, you both do enough of that already," Olenna deadpanned.

In the background, as if quoting Olenna directly, Margaery moaned a wanton noise to match even Fleur, "Hhnn~aaaahhh~… Oh, how romantic, how scandalous, how delightfully dreamy~!"

And Olenna just huffed in exasperation at how 'far' her Granddaughter had 'fallen' after a year at Hogwarts.

IIIII

"For some reason, I can't help but feel this is a terribly thought-out plan," I muttered to myself.

"Whhaaaaaattt~? Naaaaahhh~," Astoria faux-denied, her love of chaos shining her true feelings like a Dumbledore-esque twinkle in her eyes. "We're so high! There's no way they can see us! We're like spy planes! Spy brooms! Spy Witches!"

"Perhaps he meant the motive and purpose behind this excursion, not just the method to your madness, Story," Daphne deadpanned.

Astoria cocked her head as if nothing was or ever could go wrong in her world, "Are you sure? That doesn't sound right, Daph. We're just spying on the King. What's wrong with that?"

"Snrk! Yeah, what could go wrong~?" Heather snorted, an ever-present mischievous grin stuck on her face.

"You know exactly what could go wrong," Daphne shot back flatly. "You both do. And yet, here we are."

"At the very least, it's a useful risk," I reasoned, playing Devil's — Astoria's — Advocate. "I'd like to get a feel for the King and his party before they reach Winterfell. I can't see them not calling on Hogwarts when they're in the area. We tentatively have the King's approval through Ned Stark but that's hardly set in stone. Best if we know what we're getting into. Get to know them from afar so we can see if they have any preexisting grudges against us, who holds the King's ear, and so on."

"And that's fair reasoning," Daphne nodded in agreement. "But that doesn't make the solution spying on the fucking King of the realm."

"Says you," Heather stuck her tongue out at Daphne.

Daphne's flat stare could have cut glass, "Yes. Says me. The only one of us with any inclination toward politics and consequences."

"Bah, consequences, smosh-sequences, Daph!" Astoria waved off her sister's concern with long-familiarity. "If you're gonna be such a buzz kill, I might as well go and smoke some Kingsguard before we leave."

"Okay, don't completely give into the chaos, Astoria," I chided. "Spying is… Well, it's not fine but it might just be necessary. But I'm not going to let you go pick fights we don't need to."

"Try and stop me!" Astoria cackled.

As she did, she hunched down on her broom and almost shot off into the distance before anyone could stop her. Almost… I snagged her by the scruff of her neck before she could, holding her up and giving her a disappointed look. She hung in my grip like a troublesome kitten, looking back at me with an all-too-sheepish expression on her face.

"Teehee~!"

I could only sigh and resign myself to carrying her from there. Someone had to keep an eye on the little Pure-Blood gremlin. And didn't that just sum up this whole excursion? It started because Astoria got antsy. A large part of recent weeks — and the weeks to come — was a lot of 'hurry up and wait'. The King's visit to Winterfell was a big deal. And not just for Westeros, the North, or Winterfell itself. Hogwarts' future situation — and a royal warrant to expand New Hogsmeade even further — relied on the impression we made on the visiting royals. Royal disapproval could make things difficult for us. Not impossible. Never impossible. But… difficult.

Eventually, Astoria hadn't been able to contain herself any longer. She originally intended to undertake this 'spy mission' on her own. Daphne warned me of her intentions, well-used to preempting and supervising her chaotic younger sister. Since Astoria couldn't be dissuaded, we indulged her in a calculated and controlled manner. That is to say, Heather, Daphne, and I went along for the ride to ensure Astoria didn't do exactly what she'd just tried.

Now, a few hours later, we'd made something of a 'day trip' out of it. We took brooms down into the Riverlands, flying high in search of the King's traveling party. Even Heather was using a broom. Usually, when she flew, it was under her own power. Or at least, under the power of her Runic Tattoo — something I needed to remember to update for her, Hermione, and myself. As it was, the tattoos were impractical for extended flight, and thus, Heather settled for the close second best of lounging atop a broom as if she'd been born to it.

Once we got into the Riverlands proper, we began to note trouble below us. Smoking towns of burnt-out buildings. Decimated battlefields with some unfortunate bodies still left buried in bloody mud. We even saw a caravan of Smallfolk fleeing their homes, made refugees by some recent conflict we were just now hearing of.

"It seems this day trip is becoming important for more than just spying on the King," Daphne said, a somber tint to her usual monotone.

"Shouldn't we have heard something about this," I muttered rhetorically.

"Must be recent," Heather answered anyway, shaking her head. "Doesn't matter. I know how we can put a stop to it."

"Do you now?" I raised a suspicious eyebrow at her.

Even with the serious subject, a teasing grin spread over her lips, "Yup~! Just let Astoria run wild down there. She'll bring both sides to heel."

Astoria perked up in my lap where she was trying to 'sneak' her hand into my pants, "I accept-!"

"Denied," Daphne cut her off.

Astoria put on a dramatic gasp, "Do you doubt me, dear Daph~?"

"No," Daphne deadpanned. "And that's exactly the problem."

After that exchange, we found traces of the King's party within the hour. Also, notably, the traces of two armies that we could see from the air. Or at least, that was our best guess at what the large, messily abandoned campsites, suspiciously empty villages, and tracks visible from above meant. We didn't exactly have any experience tracking armies but thousands of men, horses, and their supply trains weren't subtle.

It just so happened that the paths of all three groups were set to intersect. The King's party came north along one of the only major roads in the Riverlands — the King's Road. The two armies were ranging east from unidentified origin points, angled alongside each other so they would meet at the King's Road or near enough that it didn't matter. Seeing the movements from the air was a novel experience, one that likely hadn't been had in this world since the days of the Dragons. But even our inexperienced eyes could tell that trouble was brewing.

Trouble was certainly what we found when we caught up to them. The two armies had sighted each other before we arrived. They were skirmishing heavily, looking about ready to break into an all-out brawl. And the King's party was caught right in the middle of them. They should have been neutral. Hell, the two armies should have bowed to their King immediately. That… was not happening, it seemed.

The King had a hundred or so men with him — no more than 200 — but they were dwarfed by the thousands of men on either side. A quick glance had both armies equally matched at maybe 5,000 men apiece — mostly footmen and archers but close to a thousand cavalry each as well.

One side flew banners of a rearing red horse on brown and yellow. The other flew banners of black ravens on red with a dead Weirwood Tree in the center. They were only the most prominent banners — of which I recognized Houses Bracken and Blackwood respectively. There were a dozen or so minor banners to each side, along with two that matched the Bracken and Blackwood banners in prominence. A silver eagle on purple for Blackwood's side and a nude pink lady on blue for Bracken's.

All of us — even Astoria — had been taught to recognize some of the Lordly Houses of Westeros from their banners. And thanks to that knowledge, a dire reality began to emerge in my mind. The Bracken-Blackwood feud was legendary — a monument of the Riverlands to match Harrenhal in 'scale'. It seemed to have broken out into open hostilities now, as it had so many times before in Westerosi history. And it wasn't just those two Houses this time. The silver eagle was House Mallister and the pink lady was House Piper. While not out in the same force as the Blackwoods or Brackens, they'd seemingly joined their respective causes. This wasn't a mere two-house feud anymore… It was leaning dangerously close to civil war in the Riverlands.

The battle that was quickly evolving took place — quite literally — around the King's party. The King's carriages and wagons had been drawn into a tight circle for cover and his royal guards held ground as best they could. While neither army directly targeted the third party caught in the middle of their conflict, the fog of war and chaos of close combat were currently the King's worst enemies.

Bracken men cut down Blackwood men right in front of the royal party, quite literally within range of their swords and spears. Arrows flew like hail overhead. Horsemen charged through the melee, cutting down whatever — whoever — their blades and lances could reach. Pops of varied magic — from small gouts of flames to focused torrents of water, from tamed beasts to spawned steel — littered the two armies as the packed melee became a brawl. Lord, Knight, and Smallfolk alike, bloodline magicks were a major if scattered aspect of the combat. And at the heads of both armies, two young Blackwood and Bracken Lords clashed, notably throwing the same exact magic at each other…

"Dishonorable cur!"

"Lying reprobate!"

"Son of a hairy Giant-bitch!"

"Spawn of the Seven Hells!"

"Old Gods take you!"

"May the Stranger welcome you!"

"By the Old Blood, I shall have your head!"

"With seven miracles, I shall gut you!"

"Maidenless!"

"Whoresbane!"

The young Lords shouted insults at each other as they did. Even in that, they were equally matched… As they dueled, their free hands flashed out. Their opponent's sword was unfailingly drawn toward them. They shoved at thin air, and steel armor crumpled as if trying to get away from the motion. Some kind of focused yet limited magical magnetism… They wouldn't be pulling a 'Magneto' any time soon but the bloodline expression made a certain amount of sense in my mind — like repelling like, and all.

"Should we help?" Daphne asked, her flat tone not giving away feelings either way on the matter.

I made to reply before something caught my eye, "… Ah. I think they'll have the situation well in hand soon enough."

Down with the King's party, the King made himself known. And felt. And feared… He was surrounded by three men in silver armor and white cloaks yet he led the charge. Both sides of the armies closest to the King's party felt his wrath. Sat tall atop his horse, he carved a quite literal swath through two armies.

Leaning back and forth in the saddle, the King felled men on both sides. Lightning cloaked his warhammer. Wherever it struck, men practically exploded into pieces. No armor could withstand his electrifying strength. One man's sternum flew clear out of his back. Another's head pulped like bloody fruit juice. Two more were smashed into each other hard enough that they might as well have become one body.

Astoria giggled and wriggled in my lap with all-too-eager excitement, "Ehehehehe~! Blood! Blood! Blood for the totally-not-trademarked Blood God~!"

I did my best to ignore how she was somehow more disturbing than the brutal violence down on the field…

Behind the King, a gray-haired veteran efficiently cleaned up the few men the King missed. His swordwork was masterful, felling men low before they could blink or know he was upon them. He seemed to take no pleasure in the violence. Not like his King. But he was certainly good at it. Very good. The other two white-cloaked guards held their own but had nothing on the two monsters who preceded them.

Within minutes of the King and his Kingsguard wading into the fray, the area closest to the King's party was clear of men. The earth was scorched by the King's lightning and only decimated bodies remained. Like a mere lull in a thunderstorm, clouds of magic rolled and roiled around him. Then, he dismounted from his horse and climbed to stand atop the royal carriage — not nearly as fat as I'd been led to believe.

The King held his hammer high and there was a great flash, blinding even in the light of day. Lightning was called down from a clear sky. It struck the King's raised hammer. Somehow, his roaring voice wasn't lost in its thunderous boom…

"SIT DOWN, SHUT UP, AND CEASE YOUR PETTY FECKIN' SQUABBLES AS YOUR KING COMMANDS, YOU LACK-WITTED, PUS-BRAINED, MILK-DRINKING, PIG-THUMPING SHITHEELS!"

Deafening silence descended over the battlefield. The King's commanding figure stood atop the carriage like a thundercloud, and twice as devastating. His glare struck like lightning, roaming over every man still standing until even the ever-feuding Brackens and Blackwoods had set down their arms. Then as if to prove his point and displeasure further, the King dropped his warhammer over the side of the carriage to land perfectly upside-down on the open dirt below. It boomed with thunder as it fell and the King almost negligantly followed it.

"Fuck," In the sky, Heather knew the perfect way to break the deafening silence. "Why didn't anyone tell us this world had its own fucking Thor?!"