Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
your hands shake as your body prepares itself for a war it never asked for.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The fire crackled and roared as Bran, perched on his bed, implored for another tale. His wide, eager eyes followed Hermione as she adjusted the logs in the hearth, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows across his face. "Tell me another one... about Camelot," he begged, his voice a soft murmur of expectation.
Hermione, her patience stretched thin by the day's trials, shot him a wry smile as she prodded the fire. "You're supposed to be asleep," she chided, her tone light but firm as she turned to face the young boy.
This brief moment of respite was rare for Hermione. The two younger lads had long since been put down for their naps, leaving only Bran awake. Despite the ongoing conflict with Robb, Hermione had been pulled into every strategy meeting concerning the war, and her correspondence with Ser Gillian had become a daily routine, coordinating the supply of men and resources from the south to bolster the northern defenses.
"Hermione, you cannot keep avoiding him like this," Thalia had insisted, her voice tinged with exasperation. "It's not healthy for any marriage to bicker so, but you and Robb—it's as if you're children squabbling."
"I can do as I please. Besides, I'm not even certain I'm marrying him," Hermione had retorted, the bitterness evident in her voice.
Yet, despite the discord, the war loomed large, and Hermione had pledged her aid to the Starks. Camelot's involvement in the conflict was inevitable, even if it meant enduring her strained relationship with Robb.
The flames leapt higher, and Hermione inhaled the acrid smoke before settling beside Bran on his bed. He shifted restlessly, his small form sinking into the pillows. "Just one more," he pleaded, his voice small and vulnerable. "My mum always did... when she was here."
Hermione sighed, pulling Bran closer. The boy was on the cusp of twelve, and his grief was palpable. Lady Catelyn's absence weighed heavily upon him, and Hermione had overheard Maester Luwin discussing Bran's growing despondency and inattentiveness during lessons—his refusal to engage with the old man's teachings on geography, mathematics, and history.
