Saskia had a thousand first-world-white-girl reasons to cry. It was cold. It was dark. Her blue underdress and ugly black pinafore were… well, ugly. Her feet hurt from unbroken-in boots. She'd not be getting any more sleep soon, for it was nigh on four now, second breakfast was at six, and she'd have to sign up for her final subject right after. All the pie she'd eaten was only making her sleepier. Lucy, beside her, had deplored her 'loss' of Jon Snow the entire walk to the barracks; too many other pupils were also inconsolable over trivial bullshit, but all the weeping was over, and the stillness of the night was punctuated with annoying sniffles and whimpers. And that walk was outside. Even colder, and, in the haste of getting dressed, she'd not thought to bring her new cloak.
And the man she loved, the man she was sure she could cherish and honour for all of eternity (okay, that was hyperbole), was apparently married. To someone who wasn't her, who wasn't even in the show. And they had an adorable child together.
And, most imminently, she was about to walk into a den of flying, fire-breathing, vicious death. The tiny comfort of doing so with the Mother of Dragons was barely a comfort at all.
Khaleesi was even more beautiful in person, and more so up close. Her hair was just so… silvery-gold, like that metal shirt thing Bilbo had given Frodo, whatever that was called. Mirtil? Mittil? Something shiny and silvery, anyway, even in the light of the moon and a couple of torches. Khaleesi's eyes were the colour of faded violets – or that's how Saskia would describe Lyalyah's eyes, too, when they changed colour again. Khaleesi was gorgeous even now, waiting somewhat irritatedly for everyone to shut up and listen, and it looked as if almost all of the males present were straining to keep it in their pants at the mere sight of her. The Cryptkeeper's hoarse, phlegmy moans were particularly disturbing.
"Before we begin our tour, allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, D-A-E-N-E-R-Y-S T-A-R-G-A-R-Y-E-N, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and Dragon Tamer at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros. You will address me as Your Grace. My name is not Khaleesi. Khaleesi is not a name."
"My daughter's called Khaleesi Sansa," offered a girl in the front.
"Then she was born to at least one idiot fanbrat, Keisha Cole. Let us hope that little Khaleesi doesn't inherit her mother's lack of intelligence."
"The sooner you lot shut the cuntin' fuck up," Sandor barked, fumbling with the key to the barracks, "the sooner you go inside, and the sooner you see dragons."
Saskia did not want to see any more dragons. Not now, not ever.
"And that," Daenerys said, "is Sandor Clegane, S-A-N-D-O-R C-L-E-G-A-N-E, gravedigger and Corpse Control officer at OFUW. He is one of the most dangerous men in Westeros, and it is inadvisable to cross him. Should you perish, he will be responsible for the disposal of your remains."
(Saskia had, after much deliberation, settled on being cremated. By… someone terrified of fire. How exactly was that sort of disposal going to work? She'd best not die, then.)
"That's nice to know," little Orla said tersely. "But is he in a relationship with Sansa?"
"You could've asked me that, not Her Grace," the Hound grunted, "and the answer's no, and not Arya, either. Fuck off, you shit."
Saskia could have sworn she saw Sandor jump a bit as he opened the door to fiery, dragony hell. As Daenerys led the pack of brats forward, he slinked off as stoically and quietly as possible, leaving the door ajar.
Daenerys Targaryen was indeed the mother of dragons— one hundred and fifty-four poorly-trained, spoilt, and blood-thirsty, bacon-hungry mini dragons, to be precise, that were a little too interested in the procession of fanbrats visiting them before dawn. Dragons were also, frankly, fucking terrifying. Their bodies were about the size of a human newborn, and would grow no larger, but their wingspans were easily thrice that. And they were everywhere in the massive barracks reserved for their upkeep— in the rafters, on the tables, on the floor, nestled in armchairs, fighting each other in a pit of half-eaten pig carcasses that stunk to high heaven, lounging on hay bales, perched in the windows, flying in and out of the gaping hole in the roof, and one, soon enough, landed on an unfortunate boy's shoulder.
He was in awe— at Daenerys or the dragons, Saskia couldn't tell. Maybe a bit of both. She doubted that baby dragons could make anyone weak-kneed (but, of course, that must've been someone's nasty fetish), although there was an overfed, onyx-scaled dragon perched on his shoulder, nuzzling his friend's mop of black hair. His friend was just as awed. Saskia was sure her own knees and bowels would give out in such close proximity to fire made flesh. Even now, with the nearest dragon a good two metres away and not at all interested in her, her heart was pounding something furious.
"Samwise can sense readers, Jay, Edrick," Daenerys said to them, smiling as Samwise nudged Jay's head before taking off to join his black brothers in the rafters. "All of my babies can also," she said, pointing out two enormous yellow dragons clamouring to get up a poor ginger girl's skirts as she whimpered and failed to kick them away, "sense when you are, ah, having your moon blood. They do like the smell. Try not to anger them when you must swat them away. Greger, Gragor, let Sophie Jones be."
Saskia sickened at the realisation. When was her period due again? Two weeks-ish, maybe. She couldn't tell without the requisite app for that, but hopefully it would never come in Westeros, much less ever again. But if Robb got her with child, she wouldn't have to deal with the dragons at all… right? Right? She was not about to ask Khaleesi. Daenerys.
Greger and Gragor stopped immediately, baring their teeth at Sophie and their mother. A great grey dragon swooped down in defence and settled into Daenerys' arms. At this, the Cryptkeeper and several other males groaned (because hot, powerful women and powerful, hopefully-not-seen-as-hot dragons were an incredible recipe for sexiness).
"Do stop that infernal noise, Archibald Hockins." Daenerys kissed the dragon's head as it burrowed itself in her embrace. "This is my dear Sir Bariston, misspelt S-I-R B-A-R-I-S-T-O-N, properly spelt S-E-R B-A-R-R-I-S-T-A-N. Repeat that after me: S-E-R B-A-R-R-I-S-T-A-N. Sir Bariston and these," Daenerys said, nodding towards the horde of tiny dragons, "are the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros' security. Every time you misspell a character's name, one of these is born. You do not want any more of them born. Yes, they are cute, and Sir Bariston is the cutest, but they are adorable now because their mother's presence placates them. When I am not around, there is no telling what they may do. One of these is capable of crisping you in minutes should you attempt anything stupid."
"Define stupid," said the Asian girl Saskia recognised from the Hawick table.
"Likely anything you are wont to do, Amy Moore," Daenerys replied. "The mini dragons can and will attack should you attempt to harm or stampede the staff, as you have seen. What they perceive to be harm, mind, may well be different to what you believe it to be, although you are undeniably safe with insults and doomed should you attempt to kill us or them. Death by dragon has historically been the most common manner of death at this university, and it is neither quick nor painless. My babies will singe you enough to wither and blacken your skin and your flesh, and nip at the parts not too toasty for their liking. They are always hungry for fatty bits. If the burns, nibbling, shock, and blood loss do not kill you, Maester Qyburn's treatments most certainly will."
"Ew," was all that Saskia managed to choke.
As Daenerys explained, her babies tended to have the personalities of their properly-spelt namesakes. Sandore in particular was exceptionally cantankerous and had a fondness for chicken, Salsa acted a finicky and independent cat, Sir Bariston and Jamie were noble and efficient killers, and Cercei was not unknown to dive headlong into barrels of wine, ruining it for everyone else. John Snow was perpetually confused, Thormund was incapable of flight because its member was too large and functioned as a sort of kickstand, Balloon Greyjoy was crotchety, and Joarh Mormunt was utterly devoted to and defensive of his mother, his queen, to the point of getting so underfoot that she had to contain him more often than not.
Daenerys smiled sweetly, stroking Sir Bariston's scaly head. "Would anyone care for a demonstration of Sir Bariston's abilities? Any suicidal volunteers?"
The answer was unanimous. "NO!"
"You're a mad, hideous, pus-weeping cunt of a woman," Eve declared. None of the dragons moved to strike, and Eve, satisfied, smirked and crossed her arms. "Guess they're fine with that, then."
"Her Grace did say insults would be," Jay said.
"Try slapping her," Letty whispered to Eve and an obese Tumblr brat with cat-eye glasses and a fauxhawk so blue it outblued her underdress.
Daenerys was not amused. "That is no way to eliminate those you perceive to be in competition with you, Lettice Postlethwaite. Eve Ludden, that is no way to address your queen. If you dare disrespect me again, I will command my children to burn you alive. All of them."
The Tumblrina raised her hand, trembling. "Khaleesi? Your Grace? How are we supposed to know how to spell without spellcheck and Google?!"
"Reading, Hannah Quinn. If you cannot read, or are less than inclined to do so, Princess Shireen Baratheon is more than willing to teach you. Shireen and Davos' reading circle is held every Tuesday and Saturday after supper in the library, should any of you decide to actually read the books. If you do not read them there, you will be reading them anyway. Sam Tarly and Jon Snow hold a History and Lore discussion circle every Sunday morning from eight until noon, should that interest you."
A mass grumbling of discontent seized the fangirls. What's the point of reading all of the books if there likely won't be graphic descriptions of Robb's arse in the last few?! How plump's it? The arse, not the books, Saskia thought. Others moaned similar complaints. Are there sex scenes with Robb?! And Talisa?! And me, in a 'choose your own adventure' way?! Does Jon get nakie in a cave, and how big is his penis cos we never got to see his penis?! Why are the books so big? I'd read them if they were comics. On a scale of one to ten, how sexy is book Oberyn?! Twelve? Will he be my champion, too?! Can I get a TL;DR?
"I've already read them," Jay said. "They're amazing."
Edrick agreed wholeheartedly.
"The first chapter was good," Saskia croaked, warily watching Samwise overhead to ensure he didn't swoop on her. To her relief, he did not, but he was watching her with cold, dark eyes.
Many brats in the horde had turned to glare at either Edrick, Jay, or Saskia. How dare anyone be literate, it seemed.
"And once you are done with A Song of Ice and Fire," Daenerys continued at last, "there's an entire World of Ice and Fire for you to enjoy. There are the Dunk and Egg tales, too. And A Song of Ice and Fire cookbooks. And The Princess and the Queen and The Rogue Prince. And A Song of Ice and Fire again, and again, and again. We have in-canon texts as well, should anyone wish to read such works as The Seven-Pointed Star and the White Book."
"What's that?" Lucy asked, wrinkling her nose.
"Books," huffed Jay.
"No, that! That noise! That smell!"
"What—"
Near everyone turned when they noticed it— an immense shadow rolling up to the entrance to the barracks, accompanied by a discordance of beeps that made Sir Bariston scream and hiss. There sat an equally immense man in a too-tight aqua tunic that had ridden up to reveal his hairy, expansive gut flab. With him came a cloud of yeasty, beefy, cheesy stink so strong that Daenerys, twenty metres away, had to let Sir Bariston go to hold her sleeve over her face.
"Behold," Daenerys gagged, "Lord Wyman Manderly, W-Y-M-A-N M-A-N-D-E-R-L-Y, Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand, and Pie Master at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros, loyal to House Stark, and gallingly insistent."
"Who?!" blurted pretty much every fanbrat present.
Saskia would have suggested that Daenerys add 'too fat to breathe' to the man's description, for he was, disgustingly and loudly so. He was seated upon a mobility scooter with the seat caving in, so much that its raised sides and arm rests were digging into his own bulbous sides. The thing was emitting strange fizzing noises and now, also, loud, relentless beeps as he urged it forward. It seemed, though, that the scooter could scoot no further due to its rider's colossal weight, yet Lord Whoever pressed it on, attempting to wheeze something over the blaring of his noble steed and the shrieks of a hundred fleeing, hissing, fire-breathing mini dragons. Even Sir Bariston the Bold was not bold enough to face this massive foe.
Daenerys, it seemed, was used to this, and pushed her way through the crowd of brats. Wyman's scooter bbffppffpfeeeeped as it came to a sudden, cacophonous halt, and was silent. For a moment, all was still, all for the rustling of wings of dragons yet fleeing, until Daenerys spoke.
"For the last time, Lord Manderly, no. You cannot have any more children, and you cannot, and will never, eat my dragons."
The furious scootypuff beeping resumed as Wyman wheezed and gesticulated, his rolls and rolls of bingo wing fat undulating with each laboured movement. Even from a good distance away, Saskia could see his pockmarked, cellulitic flesh rippling in a way she didn't suppose a body could actually move. Then again, she supposed, once you got past a certain weight, you were more blob than body, anyways.
"I do not care that they are a delicacy in Yi Ti. We have gone over this many times before. You cannot eat my dragons."
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeeeep beeudiysfdsuhseeeeep bwwwewjsdfdeeeep ppppr pppprrrrbbbbbeeeeep.
And with that, Wyman set the thing in reverse and began puttering away with a last very cross look to Daenerys, gasping something incomprehensible and fat-choked as he went. He shook the one fist he wasn't using to urge on his scooter at Sophie Jones and Sophie Wells, who got in his way and laughed at him. So went Lord Wyman of the House Manderly of… Somewhere Unimportant. So departed the Warden of Something. So scooted away the Pie Master of the Official Fanfiction University of Wes—
Saskia suddenly felt her stomach heave. Pie Master. Who had apparently eaten children and wanted to eat dragons. Pie Master. Miss Ellie had said the pie they'd just had for breakfast was courtesy of the Pie Master. Wyman. That thing.
"Khaleesi? Your Grace?" Saskia cried, shaking. "That's the cook?!"