As Saskia climbed higher and higher, fuelled only by sheer desperation and trepidation of additional mini dragons beginning to flock beneath her, her fear only grew. She'd presumed it'd have been otherwise, for wasn't stupidity, of all things, the source of bravery? It had been so every other time in her life. Saskia remembered sitting what had seemed a lifetime of examinations, having only revised in a manner that could be described as 'not revising and looking at past papers as much as everyone else seemed to be', because what would be would be, and if she were going to spend the remainder of her life under the pressure of looming failure, also known as Bs, she'd best ignore work whilst she was at liberty to ignore it— though, really, exams were a big deal and she truly wasn't at liberty to ignore them. She remembered being so idiotically brave, so stupidly confident, at least after the fear from what she'd not done had subsided a bit, because every major decision she'd ever made, every last thing she'd ever done, was done on foolish whims born of laziness and ennuistic nonchalance. If she failed and got a B, she got a B, and that's what gap years and spending the rest of her life as a hobo in Romania were for, and that didn't sound too bad an option at all.
Now, though, if Saskia failed, she died. Probably. She could easily smash her head open on… oh, fuck, were there rocks below? A quick glance to the ground said yes, small sharp ones, the kinds that would stab nicely into eye sockets if you fell on them face-first and leave you as mangled as Oberyn Martell. Even then, the ground would be hard, she was almost all the way to the top of the wall now, and the dragons wouldn't delay a second in consuming her splatty brains. The thought of splatty brains made her hand slip on the protruding bit of she'd been gripping, but she managed to hang on, the strength of her hold burning stone into her palms and fingers.
Marjeryn, looming on a thin branch overhanging the wall above her and snapping its wee jaws at her as it stretched its olive green wings, looked right hungry, and let out a hiss that sent a jolt of fear right through her heart.
Robb, she thought with a gulp. Think of Robb. Robb is on the other side. He's having a picnic and a wank all by his lonesome in the godswood, and the wind's blowing his hair the way you like so much. He's waiting for you, Saskia. He's going to propose to you tonight after fucking you under the stars. You can't die today or ever, Saskia Crockett, if you've not snogged Robb Stark, if you've not made love to him, if you've not truly loved him and had him love you as he was meant to…
"Oh… oh my god!" she could hear Amy Moore crying. "She's, like, Spiderman! Saskia, free us!"
"Free us!"
"Free us!"
She nodded as best she could without taking her eyes off the slippery route up, and pressed on. As soon as she was up, not seconds later, she swung her leg over the opposite side of the wall, dangling over the godswood, and glanced down.
The woods were dark and deep. And terrifying. That, too. And, in all that dead, rain-damp foliage probably lived an infinity of spiders. She'd never notice if a harvestman crawled on her in there, and the mere thought of those unspeakable crawlies being anywhere near her made her shudder. Saskia didn't know how big the godswood truly was, but it was certainly Harrenhalesque in terms of proportion—meaning, immense, and who knew if anyone would find her or her maggot- and spider-infested corpse if she got lost in there? Could she even jump down there?
The dragons made that decision for her fast enough; Thorax of Myr and Danearyes were creeping towards her along the wall, their beady eyes fixed directly into hers, their nostrils flaring as if they could scent her fear and craved it. Down it was, then, and down it was now. Better harvestmen, if they even existed in Westeros, than dragons. The stones on the other side of the wall were a lot smoother, and that side seemed to lack footholds. She could lower herself down without breaking her legs, but maybe if she were to jump for the tree not too far away, before Thorax could get to her, then—
"Miss Crockett! Whatever are you doing?"
Saskia was lucky she'd a good grip on the wall, and straddled and gripped it with her thighs as she would an horse, else she was sure she would've fallen for shock. The dragons, equally started, flew off at once and roosted in a nearby tree, still leering at Saskia as they lay in wait. Lady Stark, accompanied by Jeyne and Sansa, stood at the entrance to the courtyard, looking absolutely and unequivocally miffed.
I'm fucking climbing, Saskia wanted to retort, but no sassiness came out. It were all the better for it, anyway, as Lady Stark would someday be her mother-in-law, she hoped, and she'd best not strain their relationship any further.
"No climbing! I'll not have you crippling yourself or dying, not on my watch, you won't."
Well, you weren't watching proper, or at all, were you?!
"Lecture!" Saskia shrieked instead. "I've Jon's lecture!"
"Lectures!" her classmates echoed. They were beginning to form a colossal blob of a crowd around Lady Stark, all ambling and pushing each other to get through the Sansa and Jeyne-blocked door.
"Of course we're not allowed to let you miss your lectures!" Jeyne yelled over the whimpering horde. "That would defeat the purpose of you coming here to learn. We hope today you've learnt an important lesson about insisting on acting upon your unladylike whims."
Catelyn tutted. "And proper ladies do not stampede anyone for anything. We shall let you through one at a time, dears."
"That'll take months for them to learn. Poor Robb. Get back, Miss Barnes, and wait your turn," Jeyne warned Keeley, who was, in desperation, struggling to climb over Eve and Ilze to get inside, knocking into Sansa's legs as she stumbled over her own dress. "Fanbrats," she muttered with disdain.
"Months, or however long it takes for one of them to anger the dragons in with their lust, anger, haste, or stupidity," Sansa said as the girls began rushing past in a staggered queue. "One or two always make an example of them all."
"A week, then, at most. A pity it wasn't today," Jeyne sighed to Sansa. "Robb's already got a nasty headache from these things, and his first lecture's not even until tomorrow."
"Has Eleanor sent for more aspirin from England? It'll be very much needed this term, I fear."
Saskia was still at the top of the wall, her lip quivering, her eyes watering, her thighs beginning to hurt from the stone digging into them and the tension in her muscles. She wasn't a thing. She was Saskia Louise Crockett, Comparative Literature student, Game of Thrones addict, Guinness-fuelled pervy fancier, Walpole Park-loitering wannabe hobo, too afraid of failure to reasonably think anything through, too fond of bad nightclubs and curry chips, and a right coward. She was Lyalyah Ranford, too (or wanted to be)— brave, spunky, feisty, strong, skilled with a blade, and loved and in love with the hottest man in Westeros who accepted her exactly as she was, despite her being infinitely exasperating. She was also kind of an idiot, she suspected, if she was bad enough to be whisked off somewhere she'd assumed was fictional for the express purpose of being rehabilitated, but in no way was she a thing.
"There is no need to be upset, dear. Do get down. Jon is looking particularly rugged today, and it would be a terrible shame if you were to miss a moment of lusting over him."
"I love Robb!" she howled, gripping the wall tighter.
"And I love Jon!" Lucy shrieked.
"Well, usually one or the other," Catelyn said dismissively. "It's not as if it matters. Inside now, dears, before you miss your lectures and are punished."
"I want Davos to punish me," said his lone fangirl, and the lone fangirl other than Saskia and Lucy who had not hauled serious ass out of the garden, in vain attempting to prettify herself a bit by shaking chunks of Lorass' meaty sick out of her blond dreads, "very, very severely."
Jeyne snorted. "Then ask him to cut off your fingers, Miss Deane, so you can write no more Stannis/Davos slash ever again. The Onion Knight will oblige, I'm sure, more readily than he would ever oblige Stannis sexually."
"What about Saskia?!" Lucy cried.
Saskia was still clutching the wall with her thighs and with her hands, too terrified to attempt descent.
"Perhaps soon you will understand that this university and life in general do not revolve around Saskia Crockett and her issues, Miss Hothersall, much less around yours. Miss Crockett, you found your way up there. You certainly did not fly. You can certainly climb down on your own, unless Miss Hothersall and Miss Deane feel inclined to assist you."
Saskia looked to Lucy. Although Saskia liked the funny-accented, Mary-looking girl, she didn't trust her and her lack of athleticism and coordination to help her any. It'd have to be the godswood way.
"No, Miss Crockett. You will come down the way you came. Best not risk running into the grumkins and snarks on your way through the wood."
Lucy's eyes boggled. "What… what're grumkins and snarks? No, Saskia, no, down here, this way!"
Sansa just smirked and Catelyn just tutted, leaving Saskia, Lucy, and the Davos girl behind.
By the time Saskia managed to clamber down, shaking the whole way and, not a metre from the ground, slipping and landing flat on her face on a convenient grassy area, it was time for her next lecture. She looked a right mess with her dress all soaked and grass-stained, and her black hair plastered to her neck, and was all the more unsightly for wheezing and gasping the whole sprint to the Tower of Dread.
Jon Snow was looking rather attractive, though. He was, really, very, very pretty for a man, Saskia had to admit. He wasn't as pretty as Robb, to be sure, and his dark hair and broody demeanour did nothing for her, but he was nice to gawk at, or he would be if she weren't so distracted and overstimulated and coming off a fear-high from her climbing adventure. Robb, she thought to ease the tension. Robb's abs. Robb's arse. Robb naked.
"My Jon's so sexy!" Lucy chunnered, interrupting Saskia's pervy thoughts, choking through her lack of breath from having had to flailingly run thirty metres at a laughable pace. "And look at his arse Sass look at his arse it's so squeezable and mmmff oh my sweet Jesus I need my hands on it like you get Robb and I'll get Jon and we'll have ourselves an arse party. Their wives and like everyone else totally not invited. Oh my God Sass look at his stubble! Imagine where else he's got hair?! Do he shave down there you think cos we've not ever seen It. You think he'd let me kiss him? Like I want to touch his face and everywhere else like nah it's a need not a want and—"
Saskia didn't even need to shush Lucy or punch her in the arm to quiet her. A growl from Ricken and Aria did that well enough.
Jon Snow might not have looked particularly terrifying, but the menagerie of baby dragons overhead and the enormous albino direwolf lounging adorably on top of the desk certainly did, as did… who was that guy petting the direwolf? The beard guy. The big ginger guy who… wasn't Mance, was he? No, Mance was Forest Fire Caesar. This was… Tormund? The Growly Sex Advice Viking. She knew that some of the teachers who were more lusted-over weren't allowed to be left alone for stampeding reasons, and required a second teacher or some type of security presence, but as for why this guy was here, she had no idea.
The gruff beardo waved. "Welcome, you lot. Me name's Tormund. Adjunct lecturer 'ere at OFUW, for a while."
"Tall-talker, Horn-blower and Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, and Father of Hosts," Jon added. "Fucker of Bears, too, he'll have you know. And constant intruder in my personal life."
"Who's Tormund?" a bunch of fangirls wondered aloud. Despite that sexy, ginger, highly recognisable show!Tormund stood before them, anyone who wasn't Jon, Tyrion, Robb, Daenerys, Jaime, or Ser Friendzone did not have a name to them, and might not have existed at all, as far as they were concerned.
"Him," Jay said plainly.
"Oh," said Keisha, who, upon her own admittance, had confessed to not paying attention to scenes in the show that didn't involve the Lannisters. "I don't remember him."
Saskia thought a moment on how to explain it. "He's, like, the big lumberjack who eats chicken with Julius Caesar and hates Thenns? The bald Russian cannibals? And his friends are Gareth from The Office who's also the roll-away eye guy on Pirates of the Caribbean, and the maid from Downton Abbey, and they have a jolly time killing whores and peasants? Beard guy who kills zombies with Jon Snow? He's in hotel adverts?"
"You watch way too much TV," Lucy panted. "A girl after my own heart."
"Ohhhh," came the collective realisation. "That guy. The beard guy. I thought that was Mance."
Hannah raised her hand. "Are you a transvestite?"
Tormund ignored her. "You lot'll remember me th' next time I'm 'ere. Remember, remember me forty-foot member. You'd better."
Jon smirked. "It was eighty-foot last year."
"Still a thousand times th' size o' yours."
"As you know, or so I should hope by this point, that's Tormund, and he talks about his privates too often. Don't ask him about the bear. He's not Mance Rayder, not Ygritte's dad, not my gay lover, not Benjen, or any combination thereof. And I'm Jon Snow. For the record, before you inevitably comment on me being a lecturer here when I purportedly know nothing, I do indeed know a lot of things."
"That thing with your tongue!" Sara cried, slavering.
"What windmills are!"
"Where to put it!"
"IN ME!" Kayleigh shrieked, echoed by at least a third of the lust-filled, snivelling pupils.
"IN THEON'S ARSE!" Letty cried. "AND ROBB'S!"
"No," Jon replied firmly, "and if anyone has anything else to add about how much I don't know anything, which is not a comment on how daft I am, but how uninformed I was to certain aspects of life, as well as perhaps Ygritte's way of flirting with me and telling me she loves me, then I will show him or her exactly how much I know about killing."
"Is that a lot?"
Jon nodded, and so did Grace, who, unlike practically everyone else, remained unshaken from having avoided being locked outside in the rain with too many dragons.
"Hardhome, Craster's Keep," she listed, "at least in the show. The Wall. Don't want to fuck with that."
"I want to fuck that," Kayleigh whined, shimmying and leaning forward in her seat so that her crotch grazed the edge of the chair. "I'm going to fuck that."
"You won't," Jon said coolly, looking the randy Texan teen right in the eye. "Ever."
Kayleigh, however, did not desist with her very unsexy squirming until Tormund's fist smashed down on her desk, and his mammoth, scruffy mess of a face was millimetres from her own.
"Try anythin' wi' Jon," he growled, "an' I'll slap your cunt arse 'alf th' way t'Asshai wi' me member, an' tha's a fookin' you'll not like. You're 'ere t' learn, girl. You wan' t' fook, I'll give you a rusty blade t' do it wi'. No? Then shut your gob an' keep still."
Am I that bad about Robb? Saskia wondered. I'm not that pathetic. She had standards of behaviour, you know. Low standards, but standards nonetheless. Then again, she'd never rubbed her crotch on a chair before Robb, or crassly and publicly told him that she wanted to fuck him—but she would if driven further into drunken desperation, which, admittedly, she could feel wasn't all that far off if she could find strong enough alcohol or the willpower to drink thirty pints of watered-down ale.
"As Tormund said, you're here to learn," Jon continued. He pointed to an anachronistic blackboard. "To start, your Do Now. Don't tell Lord Tywin. He does not approve of progressive educational practices. For those of you desperate to share something with me, let Do Nows be our titillating little secret ritual. Parchment and quills are in your desks."
Do you believe R + L = J? Why or why not?
Saskia had a feeling that Tywin would definitely not like the Do Now. She also had a feeling that Tywin would not approve of a discussion that was not a one-way, canon-only ranting. But Tywin was off being a controlling mudkip overlord type elsewhere, Saskia presumed, if the incidents of that morning were enough to go by.
She'd heard of R + L = J before. It'd been mentioned in a forum on a Stark-centred "what if" thread, and knew that it had something to do with Jon's mother, who was probably Lyanna, she thought, though she knew nothing of Lyanna other than that she was Ned's sister and she was dead. His father was maybe Robert Baratheon, maybe Rhaegar, whose surname she wasn't even going to attempt to spell. Was Rhaegar the same as the Mad King? She wasn't sure. She wrote nothing.
Two minutes in, Amy Moore raised her hand.
"I don't understand, Lord Snow. To be honest, I never have, but I've never looked at forums or anything for fear of spoilers, and my cousin says…" Amy trailed off. "Well, how can Renly and Loras be Jorah's parents, and why is that relevant to current issues in Westeros?"
"Are ya fookin' serious, girl?" Tormund fumed whilst Jon, shockingly, laughed. A slight nod from Amy, coupled with her unblinking, mousy stare and her cowered stance in her chair, said yes, she absolutely was serious, and was indeed absolutely stupid. "Amy fookin' Moron."
"R means Robert Baratheon there," Lilanie sighed, "and Lyanna. You know, Ned's dead sister?"
"Rhaegar and Lyanna," a quiet voice corrected. It came from a Chinese-looking, Aussie- or Kiwi-sounding lad in the back row. He was so quiet and strangely unobtrusive (for the setting of rabid fans, anyway) that Saskia hadn't even noticed him before—not that she had had the opportunity, as he was in the red garb of House Blackwood, and their two houses hardly were ever grouped together.
"Right, Andy. We presume R + L = J due to the enormous amount of hints throughout the books, which Tyrion has told me you're starting to read for homework tonight, as well as in the show—namely, fathering bastards not being 'Ned Stark's way,' the 'Targaryen alone in the world' line coinciding with my random entrance, Melisandre's interest in me and king's blood, and Sansa and Littlefinger's conversation in the crypts. If R + L = J isn't canon, it's poor writing, so we're going with the idea that it is canon. Odds are very, very good that it is. If this makes no sense to you now, Tyrion's lectures next week on Robert's Rebellion and other pre-canon events should clear this up rather quickly. As for why it's relevant, you'll learn this week. And men cannot bear children, Amy Moore."
Eve was indignant. "But why can't they? This is fanfiction!"
"This isn't Harry Potter, Eve. Or The Hobbit. Or Lord of the Rings," Jon said. "There is absolutely no mpreg allowed. The fandom may be sick and strange, and going that way fast with Gendrya with a side of autistic headcanons and the Ramsay/Reek torture porn you love so much, but it's not reached 'weird pervy mpreg everywhere' level quite yet."
"An' it best not, you lot," Tormund warned. "Don' make me 'ang anyone wi' their own guts."
"Ooh, I love that fic where Hodor gets knocked up the arse by Treebeard," the Jaime/Moon Boy girl squealed, ignoring Tormund's threat and clapping her hands together with excitement. She had a very strong Cockney accent and, apparently, no filter when it came to the batshittery and destruction of all that was good and holy in a canon that she loved so much to ruin. "Their son is Groot."
Sophie Jones made the O_o face. "Are those, like, the giant talking tree things?"
"Yeah. And Groot only says I am Groot. 'E gets it from his mum-dad. In the sequel, Groot ends up 'getting it' from Treebeard in more than one way, in more than one 'ole, and—"
Three-fandom crossover. Male pregnancy. Ents having homosexual sex with humans. Ents having homosexual, incestuous sex with their own sons. It was a recipe for vomiting, to be certain, and whatever the Moon Boy girl was smoking, Saskia never wanted to so much as smell it second-hand, and it didn't look like anyone else did, either— other than that girl, though, who was clearly odd enough to write something like that and get sent here for it, if crackfic could get you sent to OFUW.
"Esther, that's disturbing. Amy, R is for Rhaegar, R-H-A-E-G-A-R, as Andy has been so kind as to clarify for you. L is for Lyanna, L-Y-A-N-N-A. J is for Jon. Me, not Jon Connington or Jon Arryn, if any of you even remember who either of them are. Certainly not Jorah, who is older than Renly and Loras, and thus could not possibly be their son."
"Aye," Tormund grunted. "Now can we be gettin' t' issues o' succession in your bloody kingdom an' why R + L = J matters?"
"But I've a question, Lord Snow. How did Rhaegar—"
It was going to be a very, very long term.
It was maybe midnight – too early to wake for a three o'clock lecture, but Saskia couldn't sleep. She'd awoken from a distressing dream in which Robb was dead in a patch of harebells, naked, and she couldn't get to him, couldn't revive him, and his mother hissed at her and wouldn't let her near him. Sansa, Arya, Jeyne were allowed by his remains, and they bathed him, covered him in a blanket of poppies that Sansa was weaving. Not yours, Arya mouthed. Never yours, Jeyne echoed. Give him to the woods, to the gods.
Saskia tossed and turned in bed for a while after, silently thanking all the gods that anyone had ever worshiped that Lucy and Orla were heavy sleepers and thus hadn't woken to notice her pitiful tears and fuss over and mock at her, respectively. If she were up this early, then she'd get ready. To meet Robb. At last. Finally. In person.
She bathed, braided her hair in the dull mirror in the bathroom, trimmed her nails, donned the scratchy, standard-issue blue frock that was so bright it washed her out. She had to look beautiful for Robb, or at least as beautiful as possible. Is he going to notice me? Is he going to care? He's no reason to, really. No, but he does. You love him. You're clever, or that's what everyone's always said. You've nice eyes. You're easy-going. You write brilliant papers. Maybe he'll learn to love you and not Jeyne, lucky Jeyne, who has him for no reason. What has she ever done to deserve him? Her heart sank. And what have you? Nothing. Love isn't supposed to be something deserved, is it? Fuck. No one loves an overemotional shit. Probably not Robb, either. Fuck.
She was getting weepy and angsty, much too weepy and angsty, and she was going to distract herself with some fanfiction—which, here, you had to write by hand, with no spellcheck, with a quill and ink, and with books as a reference (you were definitely encouraged to do that here). She snuck off to the small study opposite the bathroom, and got to writing.
Lyalyah's oceanic eyes were brimming with tears. Soon her riding party would arrive in Winterfell for her wedding, and with it would arrive her ultimate despair. She wasn't a thing to be bought and sold. No women were. No women should've been forced to marry, and Lyalyah didn't want to marry anyone. Not Robb Stark, either. She was a woman and a warrior, not a maiden meant for breeding or for a man's comfort. And she was better with a blade than her future lord husband ever would be. Why weren't men ever married off?!
"Are you OK?" asked her handmaiden Illeriah, shaking her from her thoughts.
Saskia paused to stretch her hand. It was a bitch writing with ink and a quill by candlelight, and though her hand ached, she was feeling a bit better. And what came next, anyway? Of course Lyalyah would be upset about her marriage, so she had to cry. Not too ugly-ly, though, because despite that Lyalyah didn't care too much about her looks, she was a princess and had to look dignified, much unlike how Saskia looked now. Robb would instantly want to comfort Lyalyah if she arrived in Winterfell all teary and tired, and, naturally, she'd push him away because Lyalyah was a strong woman and would never give in to a man like that.
Lyalyah shook her head. Glistening onyx tendrils shook from her crown of hair, and a tear trickled out of her eye.
"I know the King in the North isn't…"
"I don't want to talk about that!" Lyalyah snapped. "He's not my King! And he won't be my husband!"
But he would be, though. Mayhaps she would come to love him. Or come to hate him more than she did already…
"Hodor! Hodor! Hooooooooooooodddddddooooooooooooooooooorrrr!"
Saskia jumped up. Her hip banged ouchily into the desk, knocking the inkwell over and spilling ink all over her disturbingly bad masterpiece of wangst.
"Stop that!" Saskia shrieked in defence. "You ruined my fic!"
Hodor shrugged. "Hooodor. Hodor hodor hodor."
"You ruined my fic!"
Ramsay popped his head into the room, delight glistening in his creepily pale eyes.
"Look, Hodor, this brat's already wakey-wakey. Did you bother it, Hodor? Let's wake it again." He turned to Saskia, grinning. "Good morning, sweetling," he crooned, before bending down to quickly position his dratted instrument in her face and blowing hard. Ramsay cackled to himself and slinked out of the room, a hodoring Hodor in tow.
"HOOOOOODOR! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODORRRRR!"
Wiping a spray of vuvuzela spit off her cheek, Saskia shook herself off. She might've been ugly, desperate, terrified, ink-stained, and sleep-deprived, or just feeling so, but she was as ready as she'd ever be.
Robb was waiting.