Saskia was sure that she was going to die of boredom in Domestic Arts, particularly because today's lesson was You're a Lady, Now Sew and Like It, courtesy of Catelyn, Sansa, and Jeyne. She'd never been one to fuss over ladies or princesses, or wish to be one – her nine-year-old sister Tillie's Elsa obsession more than made up for the entirety of her own childhood indifference to anything that wasn't Harry Potter – and she'd never been one to care for crafting unless it involved poring over craft books and never doing any of the projects they contained. She wasn't one to feel comfortable in the presence of dragons, either. In lieu of Sandor's protection (as Sandor in the same vicinity as Sansa at this point in the school year, when no one was reformed, was not advisable), and in lieu of Jaime's (he was off guarding and watching Tommen at his private lessons with Bronn, because aww), there were way too many mini dragons present. Peter Balish, Obreyn, Bryenn, Edmule, Salsa, Sharine, Gendrie, Rheager, and Sandore – the most cantankerous of all – hovered around the sewing circle, gnawing on bones that looked oddly human femur-like.
Fanfiction-wise, she'd also never been one to care that much for Sansa as, it seemed, most of the other girls in her class did. Sansa, in turn, didn't seem to care that much for her pupils, and sat straight-backed and regally in her chair, focussed on her own embroidery when not assisting anyone with their own work.
Sansa's mother Catelyn – Lady Stark – was tough as nails, fiercely protective, and stronger than Valyrian steel. With Sansa and Jeyne and wee Ned, though, it was clear that she was sweet and warm, a devoted mother and grandmother. But she was also, it seemed, kind of a bitch, at least to Saskia and the other pupils, and ruled her classroom with stern looks and an intolerance for unladylike, Sueish behaviour. This is how you hold a sampler, Catelyn had taught them. This is how you thread a needle. This is how you make a running stitch; now stitch along these lines for the remainder of the hour, preferably in total silence. This is how you bore yourself to death, as far as Saskia knew and thought, digging her needle and brown thread in and out of the fabric, and stabbing herself half the time.
"I LOVE YOU, SANSA!" Keisha wept in thanks for Sansa's help in correcting her very shoddy-looking stitches. "MY DAUGHTER'S CALLED KHALEESI SANSA IN YOUR HONOUR!"
"I hate you, Sansa," the girl next to Saskia muttered, well out of earshot of the one for whom it was intended. "Such a cunt to my sweet Petyr, after all he's done for you and your mother."
"Creepy things. He's even got a paedostache," Saskia whispered.
"ARE YOU IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH SANDOR?!" Orla inevitably cried.
"No," Sansa said coolly, picking up her own embroidery again and giving Orla a quick 'I'm sick of your bullshit' stare, "I am not in a relationship with Sandor. I never have been, and I won't be. My marriage to Tyrion has not yet been annulled."
Orla pouted, and looked very much like a cross little bulldog when she did so. "But it will be, right?! And you should be with Sandor!"
"With Petyr!" the girl next to Saskia hissed.
"Sandor!"
"No, Jon! And Robb!" said Letty.
"Tyrion!"
"Benedict Cumberbatch!"
"Theon!"
"Margaery!"
"Legolas and Thorin and Bilbo and Smaug!"
"Sandor!"
"A tractor and a Zamboni!" said the Jaime/Moon Boy girl.
"Eponine!"
"Rhaegar Targaryen!"
"Varys!" (Bitch, he's not got any genitals, Eve had to point out to Amy.) "But he can love her with his flippers!"
"No, Sandor!"
"Yes, Sandor!"
"Sandor!"
Many of the other girls nodded and tittered, squeeing about just how cute their OTP and the unkiss were. A fair lot of them also bitched about Sansa not running off with Sandor right this instant, or ever, because they were absolutely the best ship ever, and it totally wasn't creepy at all for a crabby, thirty-something-year-old not-knight with half his face burnt off and considerable anger issues to go running all over the Riverlands, romancing and fucking a thirteen-year-old. Sansa, now, looked to be about seventeen or eighteen or so, but it was still a rather creepy thought.
"There is to be no gossiping or whinging about your ships, girls. It is uncouth and unladylike, as is shouting, Miss Dwyer, Miss Cole, Miss… everyone. Quiet, all of you, at once," Lady Stark warned. "Sansa, dear, you do not need to explain yourself or entertain their foolish notions of anything."
"Of course not, Mother."
"You, Miss Dwyer, need to mind your posture as well. A lady neither slouches nor lounges."
Orla sat up in her chair, squirming and glowering.
"A lady keeps her back straight and her feet on the floor, Miss Dwyer. She does not cross her legs so. She does not act or look petulant when told what to do by those in authority to command her to do so."
"This lady doesn't like being told what to do," Orla retorted. "This lady hates needlework."
Eve agreed. "This lady hates all of this domestic bullshit."
"In your modern stories and fanfictions, yes. In Westeros, such a lady will meet with much resistance to her ill-mannered ways."
"What about your daughter Arya? What about Lyanna? Hm?"
"My sister and aunt are the exceptions, not the rule," Sansa interjected, not even looking up from her own embroidery. She was certainly not interested in entertaining the idiocy of fanbrats unless it was to put them in their place. "You are not an exception. Quiet, now. That goes for everyone," she said to Lilanie and Sara, still squeeing about the unkiss.
You're a twit and a Robb-stealer and an arse, Saskia wanted to add, but held her tongue.
They managed to work a while in relative silence— and by a while, that meant about two minutes at most. Saskia bit her lip as her needle traced the basic pattern, cursing under her breath each time she pricked herself. The last time she did, she yowled and glanced up. Jeyne, in the corner of her eye, had just finished feeding Ned and was bouncing him in her lap, babbling his baby gurgles back to him. Truth be told, it was cute, way too fucking cute, but if it was so adorable, why were tears stinging her eyes, and why was she so jealous that she wanted to puke and cry and mope for days and throw rocks at poor innocent trees?
Don't look, she told herself. You're only going to make it worse. Orla's right. You can't have Robb. Maybe you can, but it's wrong, isn't it? Isn't it? He's married. He's got a son. Who am I to come between him and his happiness? Maybe he just needs to know I exist, and he'll love me proper. Maybe he's not happy, and I'll be the truest source of his love and his joy. But he doesn't know me yet. Will he ever? Quibbling and sniffling a bit, she turned back to her work. She must've looked a picture of defeat, hunched over and trembling.
Orla noticed the baby, too. "Tell Jon to make one of those!" she squealed as the baby cooed and tugged at loose locks of Jeyne's hair. Orla's sampler, of course, lay in her lap, no more than a few stitches completed. "Except you've got to somehow ensure that his is more ginger and freckly and feisty and has Targaryen eyes but more like violet-blue and—"
"If you are not quiet immediately, Miss Dwyer, I will tell my brother to sic Ghost on you. All of you should have finished the most basic of stitches by now. Miss Crockett has made some progress, finally, as have Miss Keely and Miss Barnes. You, Miss Dwyer, have done nothing more than what Jeyne helped you with earlier."
"She's pestered everyone," Jeyne pointed out. "That she's certainly done."
"I just want your cousin-brother to be happy! Babies make everyone happy! And I'm assuming he died and came back, didn't he, so is he really bound to those stupid vows now? Let him be happy! Let yourself be happy with Sandor!" Orla was practically shrieking now.
"With Petyr!"
"And a Zamboni!"
"Ghost, Grey Wind, Lady, Shaggydog, Tormund, Bronn, the Mountain, Oberyn, Stannis, Brienne, and twenty dragons, now, including Her Grace's full-sized ones," Sansa listed. "Which will get you first?"
"My bet's on Shaggydog," Jeyne said. "Has Rickon been training him lately?"
"Rickon's been training him never. Osha's tried. It would be a pity if Rickon didn't feed him all day and set him loose in the Wailing Tower, wouldn't it, Jeyne?"
"Oh, no, that would be a delight."
Saskia had no doubts that Sansa and Jeyne were exaggerating just a little, or that they – or any of the staff, really – would be jumping at the chance to punish any of the pupils for the even the most minor but exasperating of infractions. The fear in Orla's eyes and the new quivering to her lips brought Saskia an immense rush of pleasure. A sick, immense rush of pleasure she knew she shouldn't have felt over trivial and likely true remarks about her and Robb and their shared and admittedly shallow view of love, but still. It felt kind of wonderful to watch Orla squirm.
Lucy stuck her needle into her sampler and threw it to the floor, hmmf-ing like a bratty toddler after struggling to rethread her needle. "I hate needlework, too," she fumed. "It's borin' and oinin' me senseless, and what's the point of it if we're learnin' to write?"
"Oh?" Sansa said.
"We went over this at the beginning. Your Mary Sues would be expected to know this," Catelyn commented, "and would, if they were well-written characters of a noble house in the Seven Kingdoms, likely enjoy sewing, as Jeyne and my daughter and I do. You must learn to act like ladies if you are going to write about ladies. Next lesson we'll be teaching you some ladylike songs in addition to a new stitch."
"Does sewing not please and soothe you?" Jeyne asked. "I find it rather calming."
"It's not real needlework. Not the kind of needlework I want to be doin', anyways."
Lady Stark looked long and hard at Lucy, almost as if anticipating a particular insipid answer. "And what kind of needlework would that be, Miss Hothersall?"
"The stabby-stabby assassin kind that Arya does."
"Me too," Sara said.
"Me three," said Saskia.
"Me four," chimed Eve.
So grumbled and bitched the vast majority of the brats.
"Girls, girls!" Catelyn called their attention. Sansa and Jeyne sighed deeply, almost as if resigned to give up and give in, and nodded to Catelyn. "If anyone wishes to try the form of needlework favoured by Arya, we do have such needles for you to use, if you do not mind having to do so outside. It is a little rainy, mind."
"They've not got their PE kits, but I suppose that will be all right for just today, Mother?"
"Just today, if they're careful about not mussing their frocks," Catelyn conceded. "Well, my dears, all of you for real needlework against the wall."
All but three of them rose at once, Saskia included. Orla elected to stay, and was slowly scooting her chair closer and closer to Sansa and Jeyne's (for what idiotic, not-quite-nefarious but very much annoying purposes Saskia could easily guess). Lilanie, the only testament to the existence of Namibia, was too absorbed in the adorableness of little Ned to care about swords, and sat making silly faces at him between stitches. A dark-haired American in the green and black garb of House Ryger also did not queue up.
"Staying in?" Saskia asked her.
The girl nodded. "I've always wanted to learn to sew. And Jeyne's right. It's calming. Bit stabby now while I suck at it," she said, wincing as she pricked her finger.
"Suit yourself," she said smugly, leaving the girl and cutting into the queue next to Lucy.
Jeyne surveyed the emptying room. "Everyone except Orla, Grace, and Lilanie, then? I'll stay here with Neddy and these three if you'll get the needles."
It was never good news, Saskia would soon learn, if Lady Stark called you a "dear" (unless you were Ned, one of her children, her good-daughter, Little Ned, or one of the direwolves), or if Lady Stark – or anyone, really – suddenly went sweet on you. They really did uphold that learning through pain and torture thing here. It was also never good news if any of the staff led you out into a garden surrounded by four-metre-high walls with mini dragons perched atop them, and told you they'd be right back with something.
"Sansa will be out in a moment with your needles, dears." She turned to Sansa, still in the classroom. "In the cupboard. Sansa? No, not that cupboard, Sansa. Here, let me help. A moment, dears."
And she shut the door in Saskia's face. Was… was that the clicky sound of the bolt locking? And someone laughing?
It was a good minute before anyone else realised what had transpired, and that they were stuck. The rain came in torrents and went, and came again in a persistent drizzle. Denaeryes, Ranly, Marjeryn, Lorass, and Thorax of Myr, despite not liking the rain one bit, would not leave their posts. They didn't like the noise, either – in the form of wailing and shrieks of My lady! My lady! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! and Let us in oh gods let us back in we've got more lectures today oh gods let us back in! – and looked downright murderous if anyone made any loud noises too close to them.
An hour passed, and then another. Kayleigh Evans, scratching at the walls with her remaining glittery acrylic talons, was weeping herself sick, likely over missing Jon's lecture, if Saskia knew Kayleigh and her stupidity any. The lone girl who actually admired Davos, much less remembered who he was and had his and Brienne's lesson next, was sobbing in a corner, and sobbed harder when Lorass, a very flamboyant-looking green and purple dragon, swooped down just to shit and vomit in her dreads. Others whinged and wept, huddled together like penguins to shelter themselves from the cold and from the rain, whilst others still attempted to scale the walls or bang unceasingly on the door back to civilisation, clearly desperate enough to keep pounding despite suspecting that everyone inside had long since left.
Saskia's heart was pounding, too. How long now until her next lesson began? What was it, even? Contemporary Issues in Westerosi Society? She was going to miss it if she didn't hurry; that much was certain. She'd never missed a lecture, ever, for a non-legitimate reason. There was that time she'd decided that the Thai buffet at The Kings Arms was more important than constructions of otherness in the novels of Ann Radcliffe, because it was (and it was only like seven quid, okay?), and the time she'd had a well-deserved, hung-over lie-in the day after Declan's massive birthday out. Other than that, Saskia was diligent when it came to attendance— not that she always or, really, frequently paid much attention the ninety-nine percent of the time she actually attended.
This doesn't count, though. It's not a real lecture, is it? I'm learning how to write fucking Game of Thrones fanfiction. It's not a real uni. Jon Snow doesn't exist.
He definitely existed enough for Kayleigh and Lucy to sound so mental. Lucy, desperate, was clawing at the far wall, making hellish noises as she struggled to hoist herself up any higher than twenty centimetres or so. Lucy had mentioned, when signing up for Slaying, that she was the worst combination of lazy and unathletic, to the point of almost failing PE in Year 9, and now Saskia could see why. Others, too, were just as distressed, and could also not climb much higher.
There was nothing for it. Saskia had to. She had to at least try. She'd been rock climbing once with her cousins in Nottingham, and wasn't dratted awful at it; Jack and Georgina had laughed at her terror at first, but she was quick to learn. That'd been over the summer, though, but there was a chance she could climb four metres now and not die, albeit a slim one because, really, how wet was all that stone? And could she figure out where she'd be on the other side of the wall and be able to get to the Tower of Dread from there, or be able to come back around to free everyone else? She couldn't miss a lecture, not on the first day of term, not when her professors were kind of cruel and murdery, and apparently had direwolves (she'd not seen those yet, but she had no doubts that they existed and that they were bloodthirsty) that could rip out your throat on command.
But there were dragons here. Leering dragons. Leering, bitey, screamy, shitting, vomiting, fangirl-burning mini dragons perched all around the perimeter of the enclosure, watching, mayhaps waiting to strike and burn and devour anyone who came close enough to freedom. There were probably also dragons in Contemporary Issues in Westerosi Society, too, that – who knew? – might torch you for being a minute late.
She had to. She had to, unless she wanted to die. Or fail. Whichever was worst.
Marjeryn's beady eyes met hers.
Here went nothing.
We will certainly be needing a "Shipping Sansa Sanely" chapter…