Thanks a lot to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights!
This short fic in two chapters is a metafiction about those characters we know but probably don't have the popularity they deserve. I'm not judging but truth is, we focus on a handful of characters. Every character mentioned in this fic - except one - is already the hero of some stories, which means he or she has fanfiction authors or readers who care about him or her and that's great. When I realized the gap between some very popular personalities and the other ones, I had this crazy idea of a group therapy with Martin's characters. This is just for fun, so don't take it seriously...
This story is completely different from what I've done before, so reviews would be appreciated. Really.
Chapter 1
Once more, I checked the address on the crumpled paper. This nondescript building hosted the offices I was looking for. I struggled with the revolving door and took the elevator. Third floor, the girl had said. A few seconds later, the elevator door opened and I stepped out. In front of me, FanFiction's big white and blue logo welcomed the visitors. What am I doing here?
I received an email from FanFiction on a Monday. It was the beginning of a new week and after spending too much time reading and writing fanfiction, I was going to work, determined to get back to real life. I had to focus on my job, on my family and on my friends, too. I suddenly met life under the guise of a doe emerging from a bushy hedge. The animal hit the hood of my car, causing a bunch of troubles. After work, I had to call the insurance agent, take an appointment at the repair shop and face my guilt: the doe threw itself headfirst on my car, yes, but the poor animal didn't survive. That's when Chloe sent me an email and told me I could be useful. I love being useful, just like everyone, and what she added was tempting: a stay in Los Angeles paid by FanFiction, and more information than I could ever imagine about the characters of A Song of Ice and Fire. All I had to do was child's play, according to her: take part in a study on fanfiction and give my opinion about Martin's characters. Why would a successful writer need my opinion about his characters, I didn't know, but I certainly needed a trip to Los Angeles.
Chloe's next email was not as enthusiastic as the first one; she wanted to test my knowledge about A Song of Ice and Fire and make sure I deserved a week in Southern California. However, the test was a walk away, every fan could have succeeded. All this seemed too easy and left me puzzled, but when I received a plane ticket with my name on it, my doubts vanished.
FanFiction's offices looked like a hive of activity, with people going from one desk to another and answering phone calls. Overcoming my apprehension, I walked towards the reception desk where a skillfully disheveled boy smiled at me.
"I have an appointment with Chloe," I said. "It's about..."
"I know. Please have a seat. I'll be right back."
I nearly sank in the leatherette chair he had pointed to and found it surprisingly cozy. Though he came back quickly, he apologized for the waiting time and offered me some coffee. I felt confused: too much attention could only hide something bad. A tall woman in her mid-thirties looking even taller with her wedge heel shoes showed up as I was burning my tongue.
"I'm Chloe," she said, grinning. "You must be Lucia. I'm sorry for the waiting time. Is your hotel comfortable? Please come with me."
I tried to keep up with her long strides. Her office was a small room with a glass door, but at least, she could work quietly.
"So you came for the Misunderstood Characters Project?" Despite her tone, it looked more like a statement than a question. "That's very nice. I mean... you had quite a long journey. We really appreciate that."
What is she talking about? I frowned, but she ignored my reaction.
"Where should I begin, Lucia?" Chloe said. "Our site is the biggest fanfiction archive. Which means we have an overview on popular culture and best sellers like A Song of Ice and Fire. We know what fans love. We know what you love and what you read."
She paused and I swallowed hard, realizing this woman could blackmail any user of the site if he or she had only run their eye over a daring fiction.
"We know what people prefer and what they don't care about. That's why you're here. Readers cherish some characters and practically don't give a damn about the others. You probably don't know it, but it's like a disease affecting the ignored characters. And what affects the characters affects the writer. So you're here to talk to some of the characters and do your best to restore their self-esteem."
"You must be kidding me," I said. "Is this a joke or something?"
She folded her arms, and gave me a cold stare. I felt the urge to get things straight.
"I thought I had won some contest. I thought I would have to talk with users of the site, about fanfiction."
"We wouldn't need you here in this case, would we?" she answered with a hint of exasperation. "Why do you think we bought tickets for you and sent them to..." She gave a look at her computer, as if checking my address. "Well, never mind. Your place has got a tricky name, by the way. You didn't read my last mail?"
"Obviously not." I sighed.
"Well, you didn't win any contest, Lucia," she stated. "You're here because we need people to take care of the misunderstood characters ego. And fanfiction authors and readers are good at it, because they know everything about this book."
"What's wrong with you?" I asked, wondering if there was some hidden camera in the tiny office. "You understand what fiction means? It's not for real. And stop calling me Lucia, it's not my real name."
She pouted and stared at me again, then picked up her phone. "Send him in," she said.
I sighed again, took my purse and got on my feet.
"I'm really sorry," I said. "I shouldn't even be here. Just tell me where I can repay for the plane tickets and all this. My banker is going to freak out, but..."
We heard someone knocking at the door and I froze. Behind the glass door, a brown-haired man hesitated and pushed the door handle slowly, as if he was afraid of breaking something. When he came in and planted himself in front of me, I noticed his medieval clothes: breeches, boots and a woolen cloak. A pair of leather gloves completed his outfit.
"My lady," he said, bowing slightly.
I had never seen this man, yet he seemed familiar to me. A beard with silver threads covered the lower half of his face and there was something about his eyes...
"I called Ser Davos because we know he's one of your favorites," Chloe said triumphantly.
"Pretty Halloween costume," I commented. "But if you think..."
"Please show her your hands, Ser."
He obeyed Chloe, removed his gloves and showed me his left hand. The first joints of his fingers were missing.
"Et merde!" The swear word escaped my lips as soon as I realized who was in front of me. "I...I'm sorry," I said, turning to Chloe, then to the man. I felt completely lost.
He looked at Chloe, brow furrowed.
"Never heard this language before. Is she from Essos?"
"Sort of," Chloe answered, repressing a smile. Then she stood up and towered above me. "Quite impressive, huh? You can touch his hand, if you want."
I looked at her, ill at ease, feeling like a doubting Thomas.
"I'd rather not. Tell me your coworker put something in my coffee," I begged.
She giggled and tilted her head.
"We have to discuss further," she finally said. "Please leave us."
Ser Davos peered at me again and exited the room, as I collapsed on the nearest chair. Chloe sat down and leaned forward, elbows on her desk.
"Do you realize this chance we are giving you? You can talk to him and to many others. And they need your help; don't you want to lend a hand to them?"
Though it seemed difficult to take in all this, I nodded silently. Everybody wants to be helpful, I guess.
"There's something I don't understand," I said. "Why would they need any help?"
"You're a teacher, right? So you're familiar with high school issues. The whole thing works like a bunch of kids in a high school. There's the football team, the cheerleaders and on the other side you have the spotty boys and girls to whom nobody talks to. It's the same for Martin's characters: Jon Snow, Sandor Clegane and Gendry would be the captains and the quarterbacks and the Stark girls would be the cheerleaders. They have so many fanfics! In comparison, most of the POV characters are neglected. My boss prefers to say they're misunderstood, but that's an understatement."
"I don't agree; there are fics about them, too!"
"Oh, I see, you want some proof." Chloe typed on her keyboard. "Jon Snow. If you total all the ratings, he has 353 fics. On A Song of Ice and Fire's page only, I didn't check on Game of Thrones' page. Samwell Tarly: 7 fics. Some of them feel neglected, because most of the authors and readers, including you, my dear, focus on a handful of characters. Please come with me."
I followed her out of the office and we walked through a corridor illuminated by aggressive neon lights. Chloe stopped in front of a one-way mirror. On the other side, a dozen of people in breeches and long gowns were sitting in plastic molded chairs, waiting. I could recognize everyone: Melisandre wore her distinctive red dress, Barristan Selmy's noble face turned to me for a second and Brienne of Tarth crossed her long legs, a sad look in her eyes.
"Take your time," Chloe said, her voice suddenly soft. "Have a look at them. They can't see you."
The big office they were sitting in looked like a classroom, because someone had lined up the chairs. In the first row, Tyrion Lannister whistled, while a redheaded man who could only be Jon Connington leaned back on his chair. At the back of the room, Asha Greyjoy sighed heavily and gave a bored look at Davos. There was only one man, wearing armor, I couldn't identify. Despite his white hair, his face seemed still young.
"Who is he?" I asked Chloe.
"Areo Hotah, the captain of Doran Martell's guards. He doesn't have a single fiction. Sad, isn't it?"
She was sincere; I turned to her.
"All right. How can I help?"
Chloe gave me a few tips before starting the session. A solemn look on her face, she escorted me to the room where the characters waited for me. As soon as she came in, her dress and wedge heel shoes drew everyone's attention; Melisandre frowned at the flower-printed fabric while Tyrion seemed fascinated by her wooden soles.
"Hey guys," Chloe said in an unexpected informal tone, "this is Lucia. She's here for your group session."
I met curious eyes and as Jon Connington's puzzled gaze lingered on me, I suddenly rued the morning impulse that made me pick a pair of jeans and a sleeveless blouse. Way too casual.
"... and she's a long way from home..." Chloe added.
"She's from Essos," Davos whispered to Melisandre. "She speaks the Common Tongue, but with a strong accent."
"I wonder if she speaks Valyrian," Melisandre answered.
"… you'd better be kind with her. Tyrion, can I count on your good will?"
Eyelids closed and half-smiling, Tyrion played the innocent. Be kind with her? What did Chloe mean? My apprehension grew when she left me and closed the door. I looked at them, trying to collect myself, and saw both curiosity and disbelief in their eyes. They don't take me seriously, I mused.
"Well, I'm very happy to meet you," I said shyly. "Chloe gave me a list, so I'm going to call the roll."
I said their names one by one, as I would do at school, except that my pupils do not have their own page on a Wiki of Ice and Fire; a few people were missing.
"Cersei Lannister?" I said.
As Tyrion's brow raised in his scarred face, I swallowed hard.
"I mean, Queen Cersei..."
He burst out laughing and Brienne face palmed.
"The Lannister bitch usually doesn't feel like coming," Jon Connington answered. "Perhaps her penance walk and her now bald head have something to do with it. What do you think, dwarf?"
Tyrion nodded, trying to regain his composure.
"Cersei Lannister will not come today," Barristan summed up, "nor Eddard Stark, nor Quentyn Martell. You have to understand that our appearance depends on the progression of the story. Lord Stark is now beheaded and Prince Quentyn is burnt."
"And Ser Barristan is more wrinkled and decrepit than ever," Tyrion explained with a devilish smile. "Ned Stark was here when your... predecessor came. He had his head resting on his lap. The poor girl collapsed when he tried to talk. But the best moment was Theon Greyjoy's arrival. He was late and when he closed the door behind him, he brought with him a foul odor of dead kraken..."
"Shut up, dwarf!"
Without any warning, Asha Greyjoy got on her feet and threw herself on Tyrion. I did what I would have done in a classroom and tried to separate the two enemies, but as Asha squeezed his throat, Tyrion did his best to give her a punch. He missed Asha's face but not my stomach. I winced in pain and Barristan gently took my arm and made me step backwards as Jon Connington and Areo Hotah grabbed Asha.
"Are you hurt, my lady?" Barristan asked, towering above me. He looked concerned.
"I'm... I'm fine, Ser," I mumbled.
Did you ever ask yourself why girls like A Song of Ice and Fire? Well, that's why. That's because from time to time a Sansa Stark stirs inside us and sighs for true knights.
"Anyway," Tyrion said, rubbing his cheek, "Theon's arrival made your predecessor faint again and the session was canceled."
"Don't listen to him, dear," Melisandre told me. "He's trying to frighten you."
"And... the Greyjoys? What about Victarion?" I asked.
"The Greyjoys spend their time fighting each other," Jon Connington explained. "So now they come one after the other. Today is Asha's day."
I tried to regain my composure and took the paper Chloe gave me before leaving; it was her directions about the group session I was supposed to follow.
"All right," I said. "Let's meditate."
Though all I had to do was read the damn paper and tell them to repeat my words, I was petrified, because of the content of those lines. Chloe had told me in all seriousness that Alcoholic Anonymous and their twelve steps inspired her boss when he wrote this. Unlike me, Melisandre was beaming and quivered on her chair with anticipation.
"We admit we are powerless over fanfiction - that our lives had become unmanageable." I began, after clearing my throat.
They repeated docility – Melisandre bright-eyed while the majority muttered. Only Tyrion repressed a fit of laughter.
"We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves - our creator - could restore us to popularity."
Tyrion looked at his companions, still smiling, and Barristan glared at him.
"We make the decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of George R.R. Martin, as we understand him."
I felt relieved once the "meditation" was over.
"Why don't you tell me what you've been doing during the previous group sessions?" I asked, an encouraging smile on my lips.
Brienne lowered her head and scrutinized her worn-out leather boots and so did Samwell. Davos suddenly felt the urge to look through the window.
"I'm sorry," Tyrion said, "but I think you should introduce yourself first. We don't even know who you are."
"Oh my God, this is so weird..." I began, a nervous laugh escaping my lips.
"Excuse me," Melisandre said, "but you said 'My God'. Does it mean you're not a worshiper of the Seven? Do you believe in the Lord of Light?"
"Shut up, woman!" Davos hissed. "Are you from Essos?"
"I'm sorry, ser, I'm not from Essos... and I don't believe in R'hllor. I'm... I'm a teacher..."
They frowned and I remembered education was the maesters prerogative in Westeros.
"I work with children and young people, like the maesters do in noble houses, but I work with children coming from all ranks. I teach them..."
"She's a septa!" Tyrion exclaimed.
He burst out laughing while Brienne sighed heavily, understanding my exasperation.
"I'm not a septa!" I protested. "Where I come from, people who teach children are not septas or maesters. And I came here to help you, so you'd better cooperate."
My cheeks were reddening and Tyrion suddenly lowered his head.
"So what did you do with my predecessor?" I asked a bit stiffly.
"Well, the dwarf spent his time questioning your predecessors," Asha answered, crossing her thin legs, "and trying to frighten them so no one stayed for long."
An accusing silence surrounded Tyrion.
"I don't know why I'm here!" he complained, shrugging.
"We don't know either why you're here," Asha approved. "After all, you're our creator's favorite child. I mean, you have the best cues, you have more chapters than every other character. You're the blue-eyed boy!"
"If you have had a good look at me, my dear, you'd know I've got one green-eye, one black eye, I'm certainly not blue-eyed."
He paused, waiting for our reaction but only saw puzzled looks.
"All right, this was probably not my best cue."
"I know why he is here," a hesitating voice said on the third row.
We all turned to a bright red Samwell Tarly wriggling on his chair.
"Please tell us more," I said.
"Well, it's not easy to say." Samwell wrung his hands and his tone seemed apologetic. "Most of us are here because we have few chapters of our own, or because we are minor characters. I mean I am a minor character, I admit it. Tyrion is quite different. He's one of the heroes, if not the hero of the book and that's why so few fanfiction authors think about him. There's not much to write about Tyrion; our creator does it already."
It felt strange to hear Samwell say "Our Creator". Despite the black brother's shyness and lack of charisma, everyone in the room listened carefully.
"Yet, Tyrion is here. Lady Chloe once said we were here because when we feel neglected, it's difficult for our creator to write. To give our point of view. I think that's why you're here, Tyrion. Because you're so important. Because you're the key."
After the confusion of the beginning and the argument between Asha and Tyrion, the room was now completely silent. Tyrion was still, eyes downcast, brooding on Samwell's words.
"Does someone wants to add something?"
Barristan cleared his throat.
"Let's face it, most of us are here for one reason," the old knight said. "We are boring. Brienne of Tarth may have more stories in the future, we'll see... However, we are somehow boring or less interesting than... the other ones. When our creator referred to me as the 'discarded knight' I didn't pay attention, at first. It's ironic, because now that's how I feel. Discarded."
"Does someone has some sour red to share?" Tyrion suddenly asked. "So that we can drown our misery."
"Drinking is not part of the group session," Melisandre said in a reproachful tone.
Tyrion tried to mimic the red-haired know it all and I repressed a smile.
"Ser Barristan is right," Brienne added. "For readers and writers, we're quite boring."
"Is that how you feel, Brienne? Boring?" I asked.
She nodded and her blue eyes locked with mine. "What would you write about me, for instance?"
"I...I don't know," I answered bluntly.
"By the way, do you read or do you write such stories?" Tyrion briskly asked.
"I read them. And I wrote one."
"I know readers can send ravens and tell the authors they liked or disliked the story," he went on. "So... how many ravens did you get?"
I stared at him, speechless. It always seemed to me that asking about reviews was like talking about money with French people; rude and almost taboo. Everyone looked at them and counted them but no one would admit it.
"I'm lucky," I finally answered after regaining my composure. "In consideration of my... lack of practice of the Common Tongue, people were kind and I received more... ravens than I expected."
"May I ask what your story was about?" Tyrion added, a devilish smile on his face.
At that moment, I understood I wouldn't get off lightly. I was trapped. I took a sharp intake of breath.
"The story was about... Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark."
They all looked at me and I saw a range of emotions in their eyes, from disappointment to anger. Barristan's gaze was just sad and disenchanted while Asha could hardly hide her fury. They must feel betrayed. Strangely, Tyrion was the only one who didn't look surprised. A crooked smile appeared on his scarred face.
"In this case, my dear, you seem to be the worst person to talk to us," he stated.
"All right," I said. "I wrote one story about two popular characters, and you're mad at me. But I'm here for you now and I'm trying to help."
As I could read puzzlement and suspicion in their looks, I wanted to add something but Chloe was already scratching at the door. She entered the room briskly, her flower-printed dress whirling.
"Hey guys!" she said in a cheerful tone. "How was it?"
She seemed relieved that I didn't faint or run away. They mumbled something, then left.
"So?" Chloe asked me.
"Well, it's weird. They are like... unruly children. I don't know if I can go on."
"Just go back to your hotel, relax yourself and call me when you've made up your mind."
Chloe patted my shoulder before walking away and I gathered my things. That's when I saw Areo Hotah getting on his feet and beginning to line up the chairs. You certainly remember that guy who was sitting at the back of the classroom, mute. Maybe you remember his face but not his name, because it just felt like he wasn't there. The guy never contributed, never rebelled against the teachers; he scarcely mixed with the other students, to say the least. He just seemed to wait. Areo Hotah was like this guy: he was there, but you barely noticed him. Silently, he lined up the chairs, made three perfect rows and looked at what he had done. I planted myself in front of him and realized how tall and broad he was, compared to me.
"Thank you Areo," I said, smiling.
He shrugged. Listening quietly while the other ones talked and doing service was his daily routine. He didn't even expect me to thank him. At that instant, I regretted that few people – including me – could relate to him and write his story. Beneath his apparent lack of emotion, he was a complex character. The realization made me feel guilty. I smiled again, a bit confused, and when he cleared his throat I heard his husky voice for the first time.
"Will you come back?"
I stared at him for a few seconds and tried to decipher his look; he stayed perfectly still, towering above me. Was it curiosity or indifference I saw in his eyes? Did he want me to come back or not? I couldn't tell. This one is an enigma.