"What was he like?" Sansa whispers conspiratorially.
"Attractive," I say, without thinking.
"Arya Catelyn Stark."
"Shut up."
"Details."
"Really attractive?" I offer.
"Like Joffrey?"
"No. Forget Joffrey. This guy was the complete opposite of Joffrey."
"And this is somehow attractive?" she asks skeptically.
"Yes," I say firmly.
"I literally do not understand what you are saying to me."
"You wouldn't. But I'm glad you're back."
"Did you get his number?"
"No."
"Have I taught you nothing?"
"Okay. I'm going to bed now. For real this time."
"I can't believe you didn't get his number."
"Good night, Sansa."
"I'm serious, Arya. This is probably the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Yes, it's tragic. Go to sleep."
When her breathing evens out and the house goes silent, I allow my mind to wander. I think about strong hands and long fingers, clutched around a cup of coffee. Of long legs stretched out on Grand Central's marble steps, and ripped jeans, and the worn, burgundy hoodie he'd worn underneath his old, leather jacket. There's no arrogance in the way he sits, only contained self-assurance. I notice everything about him, little details that I could never fully explain to Sansa. She only sees the big picture. Money. Car. Reputation.
I see the scuffs on his converse and the wonder in his eyes when he looks up at an artificial sky. I see his hands shake with nerves when he talks to me, hear the quiet, deep evenness of his voice as he tries to hide it.
I don't notice guys often. Hardly at all.
But I notice everything about him.
"Could you please inform your sister that if she doesn't detach herself from her mirror in the next four minutes, we are going to be late," Jon says to me, shoving books into his backpack. My god-brother pushes his dark, unruly hair out of his face. He's our ride to school today, and he's taking it very seriously. "Robb, let's go! If we're late Ned's gonna kill me."
"No, he won't," I tell him practically, biting into an apple. "Principal Tywin might, but this always happens when Dad gives Madame Mordane the week off. The Stark house descends into chaos."
"That's poetic," Jon replies dryly, finally winning the battle with his backpack, but not with his hair. He straightens his blazer, looking, as always, uncomfortably out-of-place in it.
"Seriously," I tell him, yawning. I should never have started last night's conversation with Sansa, and I'm paying for it now. "I'm pretty sure that when Madame Mordane dies, Jaime Lannister will get voted City Council Chairman the very next day."
He snorts. "Bite your tongue. Oh, but first could you-"
"I'll get her," I laugh, taking the stairs two at a time. I pound on the door to the bathroom. "Sansa! Get your pretty little ass out of the bathroom before Jon has a panic attack."
Sansa emerges instantly, looking radiant. "What do you think?" she says uncertainly, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles from her navy Winterfell blazer. "I mean, I haven't seen him in two weeks, and the construction work has done nothing for my complexion-"
"Sansa, if you make me late because you're not sure if Joffrey Lannister will remember your name after fourteen days apart I swear to God-"
"Just-" She looks like she's about to cry. "-tell me what you think. Please."
I stare at her. "You look like you just stepped off the cover of Seventeen. Joffrey doesn't deserve you. Can we go?"
"Do you mean it?"
I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat, pulling her downstairs by the wrist. "Yes, I mean it. You are flawless and your hair is perfect and your skirt is impractically short for how cold it is outside-"
"I'm wearing tights, the same as you!" Sansa protests.
"-and you smell of lavender and something else that's going to annoy me for the rest of the day until I figure it out. Now you look at me, how do I look?"
Sansa surveys me despairingly. "You look homeless."
"I hear homeless is the new sexy," Robb says, laughing.
Jon doesn't laugh, instead pushing us out the door. "Seriously guys, we're now fifteen minutes behind Madame Mordane's color-coded schedule."
For all of Jon's worrying, we do actually make it to school on time, despite the November sleet that turns the roads to sheets of ice and a last-minute detour to pick up Theon Greyjoy, whose car apparently decided to protest against the early winter. Sansa complains about her hair, begging Jon to let her out at the front steps instead of making her walk from the lot.
"You all might as well go in with her," Jon mumbles, who always seems to handle the harsh weather better than the rest of us. Or maybe its just that he dresses more warmly, his long, black overcoat absurdly practical. "No use everyone getting hailed on."
Joffrey is waiting for Sansa just outside the immense double doors. His blond hair is every bit as meticulous as hers as he leans against the one of the wide pillars that lend shelter from the wind and sleet, looking down as though he owns the stone steps of Winterfell High. As soon as Sansa reaches him, he pulls her into a demanding kiss.
"How was Colorado, Sansa? Did you have a good time?" Robb mocks, taking on Joffrey's pretentious tone as he shakes the freezing rain from his hair. "I feel absolutely awful that your father forced you to sit next to the filthy commoners on a public bus…I hope it wasn't too unpleasant."
"Not at all, Joffrey, my suns and my stars," Theon responds without hesitation, playing along. "My unending love for you made the days pass by in minutes…" He winces as Joffrey continues his assault on Sansa's mouth. "Okay, I am now sufficiently turned off. In fact, I may never be capable of being turned on again."
"Oh, by all means continue," I say, laughing. "I was enjoying the subtitles."
"It's too late," Robb replies theatrically. "Theon broke character, the fourth wall is shattered."
Simultaneously, every single phone within Winterfell's stone walls goes off, a messy mix of standard ringtones and personalized music. Joffrey and Sansa break apart.
"Saved by the bell," laughs Theon.
Lateness at Winterfell High is punished harshly, even though there are no bells to signal the beginning and end of class periods. Principal Tywin constantly reminds us that if we are to be permitted to choose our own course curriculum and academic trajectory, we should also be fully capable of checking our watches. The unintended side effect of his strict no-lateness policy was that the entire student body's phones became our alarm system, wired to go off exactly eight times every day at precise, fifty-five minute intervals.
No one is ever late. No one skips class. No one leaves early.
So when the door to Professor Forel's Modern Lit & Poetry classroom opens halfway through his dramatic lecture on Imagism, every single student goes absolutely still. No one moves, except for Joffrey, whose face contorts into a self-satisfied smirk as he watches the intruding student cross the front of the classroom with slow, even steps. The newcomer wordlessly hands Professor Forel the dreaded late pass, with its distinctive Winterfell-blue stationary.
The paper is slightly damp, and even from my place two rows back I can tell that the ink is smudged faintly. The boy's hands shake, either with cold or with nerves, as Forel takes the late pass from him. His messy, dark hair is in his bright blue eyes, wet with sleet, and his clothes are soaked. White crystals still cling to his eyelashes. He's not wearing his blazer, its fabric turned black by the half-frozen rain. Instead, the dark material is thrown over his left shoulder carelessly, half-forgotten. His tie is undone, haphazardly draped around his neck.
Something in his deep, defiant eyes tugs at the back of my mind, startlingly familiar, but for a moment I'm too distracted to place them. Seven hells, I think. Did he walk here?
Mercifully, Forel doesn't comment on the state of his attire, although that too is strictly regulated at Winterfell. Instead, he says in his heavily accented voice, "Mr. Waters, is it? Better late than never."
"It won't happen again, sir," the boy replies simply, turning his unreadable eyes on the class, as if daring us to ask him why he's showed up thirty minutes late to class, soaked through to the bone. And suddenly, without warning, I'm slammed with recognition. I instantly become inappropriately aware of the way his wet dress shirt clings to the lines of his shoulders, the way he's pushed his sleeves up above his forearms. I resist the temptation to avert my eyes to my desk, telling myself that this is stupid. I shouldn't be affected this way by someone I hardly know. And I shouldn't be so self-concious about the fact that I had been described as homeless this morning.
"If you want, you can have a moment to go clean up-" Professor Forel begins quietly.
"That won't be necessary. I think I can thaw out just fine here."
If Forel is taken aback by the boy's harsh tone, he doesn't show it. He clears his throat. "Well then…class, as you can all see, we have a new student. Mr. Waters, is there anything you'd like to tell us about yourself?"
The exercise is absurd, and the whole class knows it. Joffrey lets out a scathing laugh, and the boy's eyes flicker momentarily in his direction.
"I like stargazing, poetry, and taking long, romantic walks in the sleet," the boys deadpans, the corners of his lips quirking up into a half-smile, his blue eyes shining with self-amusement. No one makes a sound.
Then the most unexpected thing happens. From the back of the class, in that last row of empty seats reserved for Sandor Clegane, I hear a bark of laughter. And not a forced, mocking laugh, either, but a real, genuine laugh, the older boy's scarred face contorting into a stunning white grin.
"Hey, kid," Clegane says, still laughing. "There's a couple of empty seats back here."