"STANNIS! STANNIS! STANNIS!"
The night was alive with the overexuberant moans of Stannis fanboys, echoing off the stone walls of the Tower of Ghosts, burrowing into Saskia's muddled brain.
By the time Saskia had made herself only slightly more presentable and barely tidied the mess of inky papers and books she'd left in the Wailing Tower study, she was well on her way to being late to darling Robbie's lecture. Darling Robbie wasn't there yet—and, to the detriment of her aching head, neither was Stannis. There were more fanboys than she'd originally guesstimated on her first night in Westeros; there were certainly more than twenty-five of them at the most. More like fifty, she estimated, if there were twenty of them now here— twenty madded, mostly Stannis-obsessed fanboys she was extremely glad tended to not be in her regular modules (not in such droves, at least) and were housed elsewhere, because the noise they made was bordering on worse than the shrieks Orla and her friends let out whenever Sandor was within two metres of Sansa.
"STANNIS! STANNIS! STANNIS!" the near-collective moan continued. "WHERE IS STANNIS?"
In that moment, the Mannimals were euphoric in anticipation of their master, their idol, their god. Underwood, Gavin, a pasty, mouth-breathing Scot, shot Saskia a nasty look; she had dared to enter the classroom and not be Stannis the Mannis. Both Mr Underwood and Novak, Ethan were moments away from foaming at the mouth. Ramirez, Alejandro, who wished he were Stannis' son and wrote three terrible fics about being Alexx Baratheon, a broadsword-wielding boy commander, probably would've swooned had he been a sissy lady or suffering from low blood pressure as he eagle-eyedly watched the door for the entrance of the Mannis, because everything the Mannis ever did was praiseworthy and godlike, no questions asked, no alternative beliefs considered. Lawson, Justin (or, as he preferred, Orion Fireblade), whose patchy black neckbeard was offensive in its ugliness and stereotypicalness, was muttering something incomprehensible (well, the only things Saskia could comprehend were Stannis, king, and Blackwater) to himself as he rocked in his chair, bulge-eyed and kind of crazed in the coming presence of God like some sort of tubby anchorite gone mad. The Cryptkeeper, aka Hockins, Archibald, was sneaking a hand into his pocket, as – seven hells, ew – he rubbed his engorged meat snake, his lanky frame ashudder with creepy, creepy pleasure.
"Stannissssssss. Stannisssssss," he whispered, twitchily slumping over the desk as he ceased to battle his purple-headed yoghurt slinger.
And one of the only remaining seats was next to that… thing, whom everyone else was ignoring, whether out of desensitisation or Mannis mania. It was either sitting next to Orla or the Cryptkeeper, and, as annoying as Orla was wont to be, she wouldn't be spunking all over herself. Saskia threw herself into the empty chair next to a yawning Orla before Flannery could heave herself into it, earning yet another annoyed glare.
"STANNIS! STANNIS! STANNIS!"
And there the stunning and esteemed and perfect Mannis was, looking right stone-faced and even more unamused than Tywin was wont to be as he surveyed the massive horde of morons he would have to call his pupils. It was three in the morning, and it was doubtful that any instructor would be happy about lecturing at that hour, but Saskia suspected that Stannis was habitually much grumpier than Gragor and Allisar, the dragons guarding him, at any and every hour of the day.
"M'LORD! M' GOD! M' MANNIS!"
"You will cease this noise," the Mannis ordered in a way almost Tywinesque in its calmness and demanding simplicity. He ground his teeth. "At once."
As Stannis strode into the classroom, Robb followed. Robb. Robb. Robb. If she were writing a narrative of this, she'd say that her loins were atremble and her heart was on fire with blazing lust. Robb, ginger and glorious and gorgeous. Robb, with eyes as deep and azure and still as the seas. Robb, in brown britches that were just the perfect amount of tight and a green tunic that would've made those eyes even more stunning had it not been so dark in that dreary, draughty classroom. Robb, with something very nice dangling between his legs, most like. Robb, perfect in every way.
Stannis was not perfect. Stannis was not Robb, after all. The Iron Throne was Robb's—or, failing that, Khaleesi's. Daenerys'. Stannis had no right to it, as far as she was concerned, and couldn't see what the fuss over him was about. And she could never forgive the esteemed Mannis' most fatal blunder. She'd cried over the deaths of Ned and Catelyn and Lady and the old guy at Castle Black— and, of course, she'd wept enough to flood London over Robb and Grey Wind. But the death that destroyed her the most was Shireen's, and she'd never forgive Stannis for being a cold-hearted, insufferable, daughter-burning twat, even if she knew Shireen was alive in this strange canon in which she was living.
Robb cleared his throat. "Good morning, children. I'm aware that it's early. I'm also aware that many of you are in love with me," – Saskia whimpered just a bit too loudly at this – "and that the other half of you are in mad love with Stannis and Jon and Jaime and Sansa—"
"And Daenerys!" Jay whinged.
"Daenerys!"
Gavin whimpered. "Brienne! M' fair lady!"
"Cersei!"
"MORE MANNIS!" the Cryptkeeper howled.
"Arya!" shouted a group of neckbeards in the corner.
…which was extremely sickening, because Arya was… what, twelve or so? Certainly not old enough to be involved in relationships that were anything more than silly fancying, that was sure.
"Silence," said the Mannis, grinding his teeth.
"Right, right. Does it matter? And Arya, so you know, is fifteen in this aged-up canon, and is currently in Braavos, where she teaches at our Essosi sister school, and is therefore off limits. You are to treat my sisters with respect, regardless of whether or not they're here. That said, let us keep our sessions civil, sane, and productive. Which means no masturbating, you in the back, unless you'd like your cock fed to dragons. Wouldn't be much meat for them."
"M'lord," the Cryptkeeper rasped, jerking his left hand out of his trousers pocket as Gragor descended upon his desk, a bright red tinge creeping across his normally death-pale, pockmarked face. "Mannis."
How the fuck could the Cryptkeeper have been at it again? At least the Mannis had the power to stop the insanity, though.
"As in war," the Mannis said to a whimpering class hanging on his every perfect word, "skill and discipline ensure victory in the classroom, which is why, today, we will start with our exercises at once. Basic weaponry, as you'll also learn tomorrow in your Slaying lessons, will be of paramount importance here. For now, we will be marching without our weapons."
And so the Mannis and the King in the North led the pack of tittering Mannimals outside, despite that it was dark and cold and wet, because real commanders had no choice and Stannis had no had given them sticks for the formation of some… marchy military formation thing. The Mannis had positioned them all in something called a phalanx, which was… some kind of legion of people with sticks and spears and shields? Stannis had explained it, and had mentioned they'd be learning more in the lecture portion of the lesson, but she hadn't been listening. It was some massive group of soldiers, she reckoned stupidly, for close and stabby combat. Soon enough, though, Justin broke formation, panting from the exhaustion inherent in marching the length of a building, to wave around his stick and screech, "Go go Fireblade!", which did not earn him the love of the Mannis.
Shivering and cursing her aching legs and hoping that Robb would show some mercy, some love, and the Mannimals some decency, Saskia's mind began to wander.
Robb was away too often from her, she wrote in her head, knowing full well she'd do so there and neglect to take it down later. Whenever they were apart, they looked up to see the same stars that had reigned at their births, their marriage, and all the nights of their love—the same stars that would reign at the birth of their son, now stirring beneath her heart. Lyalyah missed her lord husband with every last remnant of the soul that died at his departure, but when she looked to the stars above, she knew he'd be watching, too, and was at last comforted.
"I love you, Robb," Lyalyah whispered. The North Star twinkled as if to communicate Robb's love right to her. The moon was a curved sliver, as curled and pale as the body that adorned the empty bed of night without him.
"Miss Crockett."
She startled. Robb Stark was looking right at her.
And Robb was talking to her! Granted, the only thing he'd ever said directly to her was "Miss Crockett," but he was talking to her and that counted, even if he were only super formal when saying her name, even if he seemed bemused by her and all the other girls. Robb was talking to her! His voice was so gravelly and sexy from lack of sleep. He was looking at her, right in her eyes! Her breath stopped as she stared at his angelic, scruffy face, so soft in the waning moonlight, and practically every organ inside of her was in sickening tumult as she awaited his next word. Was he going to say anything? He was looking at her so… oddly… and… and… oh, gods, he was even more fit up close!
It slowly dawned on her. Maybe Robb was going to declare his admiration of her! That's how it would be in a fanfiction, how it was with Lyalyah! In her story – well, she'd not written that bit yet – Robb caught Lya off guard and confessed how much he admired her skill with a bow and a blade… how strong and beautiful and unconquerable she was…
"Do not shuffle your feet. Eyes ahead and march. Get back in formation," he finished.
Her ovaries exploded.
After the lecture ended and Saskia sat alone in an empty classroom that smelt of sweat and ale and unwashed neckbeard greasiness (and not, sadly, like Robb's wonderful musk), her eyes exploded with tears.
He's real. He's real and I can't have him. He barely knows I exist when I thought he was going to tell me he admires me or loves me. He was beautiful when he said my name, though. Robb Stark was a character in a book, of course, that she could play with, force to marry her own characters, and return slightly used and degraded to the rest of the overeager fandom, but here, it was Westeros. Robb Stark was real, and Robb Stark wasn't hers to use. And, hell, Robb Stark wasn't hers to love, and the thought stomped her heart to a bloody mess; thus her heart did break, yet brokenly live on.
The rest of the day went by in a haze of self-induced, fannish misery and despair that was only exacerbated by the absolutely shite weather. As the rain came down in torrents even heavier than the ones that had fallen yesterday, the dirt floors ubiquitous in Harrenhal muddied up, and water poured through cracks in the stone and through the gaping crevasses in many of the roofs. It was cold, most of all so in the library, where Saskia was holing up to read the first few chapters of A Game of Thrones for Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats. It was miserable. She wouldn't feel so miserable, she reckoned, if she knew that Robb, at least, was happy, if she could see him totally and irrevocably content with Jeyne and their son.
What would I even do with him if I had him? He'd not love me. It wouldn't hurt so bad if Robb weren't the only reason I chose to come here. Fuck. I came here for Robb, and if I can't have Robb, what's the point of it all? I just want to be happy, too. Loved. Maybe she'd learn to be a better writer here, but what deep-seated wish-fulfilment was that?
Her Honour and Dignity for Twats lecture with Davos and Brienne was also a blur, so much that she wouldn't be able to tell anyone what transpired there— well, other than that Gavin Underwood, one of the Mannimals from that morning, had literally and desperately thrown himself at Brienne during her introduction to proper comportment for Westerosi knights, and had, in repayment, had a couple chunks bitten off his bum by Bruce Bolton and Joffery. That much and Gavin's high-pitched screams as the Hound carted him off to Qyburn were memorable, at least.
Luckily for her, Brienne had let them all out early, leaving Saskia with an hour to herself. She was going to have a nice long bath. She was going to relax for once, and lose herself in A Game of Thrones and find evidence of that R + L = J theory that was so important. She was going to stop sulking, goddamnit.
But as soon as she entered the Wailing Tower bathroom, all hopes of relaxation went right out the window. A shadow of girl was cursing in Afrikaans as she knelt on the stone floor and picked a spider out of her afro, surrounded by ropes and her own personal posse. Just Lilanie, she breathed,though whatever Lilanie was doing lounging on the bathroom floor in the dark with a ragtag clique was beyond her comprehension. The fat one startled.
"Oh, it's all right, Hannah," Lilanie calmed with a wave of her hand. "Saskia's one of us."
"One of what?" Saskia asked.
"Us. Fanciers."
'Us' included Ilze, the willowy New Yorker who wrote bad Targaryen OCs who married Robb, and Hannah, the blue-haired Tumblrina from Los Angeles who thought that Robb and Theon had been hiding their secret gay relationship for years, and made too many bad .gifs of the two for her eye-rapingly bright blog. Theon – or anyone not gay but gay in fandom – was Hannah's one true love. And then there was… some girl who was crouched on the floor, holding on for dear life to the base of a standing sink. She was in the black and red garb of House Blackwood, and had long light brown hair that shook into her face as she sobbed and quaked herself into a stupor, making her look just a bit like Cousin Itt having a seizure.
"Oh, do you know Evie? That's Evie," Hannah said with a nod to the sink-clutching weirdo, "and she's batshit."
"GENDRY!" she wailed.
"Not part of the plan, Evie!" Ilze flicked a hairy spider at her. "Calm your tits! He's not here! Miss Ellie said he's teaching in Essos. It's not like he's dead!"
"GENDRY!"
"Well, um…" Saskia started. "What plan?"
"Operation Robbery. In which we rob Robb. Soortvan. Sort of. What I mean to say is that Robb's what we're taking," Lilanie explained. "Not, like, physically, though. We're not so bad as to kidnap."
Just then, Hannah whimpered.
"We're not rummaging through or taking his stuff, Hannah, and that's final! You're not going to find any love letters from Theon rolled up in his laundry!" Ilze hissed. "Or in his pockets! Or under his pillow! Or in Baby Ned's cot! Or anywhere!"
"But we might find 'em if we looked."
"We won't! Because he's not gay! He loves Marylean Targaryen! He loves me!"
"Bly stil! You want her helping us? I mean," Lilanie continued to Saskia, "we're not really going to take Robb, just... look at him. Stare at him. If we find his chamber, of course. So we're scouting the staff quarters tonight from the outside. You know, how many windows are there and where, how anyone could break in, where are their bedrooms and common areas, that kind of thing, depending on how high we can climb. And if we find anyone's room, excellent. Unless it's, you know, like one of the kids' rooms or a dragon den or something. Ideally, we'll scout out where all the staff live, and… somehow that'll be useful. You know, for stalking and seduction and selling the information. You in?"
"You're all going?"
They all nodded.
Saskia nodded, too. "I'll go. Myself." As soon as she said it, her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. Hadn't she wanted to creep on Robb? Hadn't she wished she could see him happy, as he probably was undisturbed at home, far away from fangirls? It seemed so weird and invasive and wrong and deadly now, particularly when she was hearing it from Lilanie. "I can climb," she choked. "I almost got out of Lady Stark's trap, remember? And… and… it'll attract attention if we're all gone. One upset girl who skips supper because she's having a meltdown is understandable. Everyone goes, they'll suspect something."
"You're not going yourself. What if you fall?"
Saskia blanched. "Then I die, I reckon." And get out of this mess to boot. What the fuck had she just volunteered to do?
"All men must die," Ilze said with a sigh. It was probably the first thing Saskia had ever heard her not yell. "If we die, we die, but first we'll attempt to gaze upon Robb Stark."
Saskia returned to her chamber on the verge of being sick. Really, what the fuck had she volunteered to do, and how was she going to survive it? What if she got caught? Toasted? Dead? Did sneaking around the staff quarters, even just outside, fall into any of the 'this is what dragons can attack you for' categories that Daenerys had mentioned? Should she back out? Should she try to see Robb? Would it make her feel any better? Her heart was pounding so fast that she felt as if she were going to throw it up, and she was trembling so hard that she had to steady herself on her bed as she pulled on her PE skirt.
"What're you doing?" Orla asked, looking up from a copy of A Clash of Kings thumbed through for sex scenes. "We're not allowed to wear that unless it's to Slaying."
"I… know," she said carefully, "but it's not like Tywin can tell me off for that if it's in private, can he?"
Orla shrugged. "Suppose not. You okay?"
"I'm… I'm okay, just a bit queasy," That certainly was not convincing. "Just going for a walk outside. Had a shit day and need to clear my head. Don't look for me at supper."
Lucy was sat cross-legged on her and Saskia's bed, joyful tears glistening in her blue eyes. "But burritos for tea! You can't miss burrito night! Like, for the first time in my life, I've not got to drive to Burnley or Keighley for burritos. I can just go across the courtyard. Across the courtyard, Saskia!"
"Poor dear from the grim and lonely north," Letty cooed, patting Lucy on the head. Letty reminded Saskia of an even more bored, overdramatic Mary Crawley with her flat face, obviously dyed black hair, penetrating eyes (though Letty's were very, very grey), and expression that rarely seemed to waver from stiff but sardonic amusement, just as it was now. "Welcome to burritoful civilisation, Lucy Hothersall. She's just found out about burrito night, you see," Letty explained, continuing to pet Lucy as if she were some sort of strange dog, "and I'm not sure she'll manage to act sane, poor dear."
"Do I ever, Letty? Act sane, that is?"
"Not really, no. Do sane people write 'property of Jon Snow' on their tits?"
"Yes?"
"Not sane, Luce. And I'm not hungry," Saskia muttered. If she had turned down burritos, she had turned down life.
And, indeed, she felt as if she were taking, whilst she could, a lingering, last farewell of her friends. Or so Byron had written. What was that from? Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow? She almost wished she were back in London, working on that shit paper. And were Letty and Lucy and Orla her friends? Lucy was making out to be, for sure. You couldn't really share a bed and take most of the same subjects at the same time with someone and not be forced to grow close to them, especially when that person was also a pervy fancier—one who didn't fancy the same person, so there was no real competition.
She was going to miss these little scenes of somewhat domestic bliss when she was dead. Letty was now doodling a bum with a face in her Canon for Feeble-Minded Fanbrats homework packet (Letty couldn't shade properly with that quill, but if she could, Saskia thought it'd be a very nice behind), and Orla and Sara, who just had come up from downstairs, were at a bullshitted game of draughts using a cyvasse board and were rambling feverish blabber about Jaime Lannister.
"Well, no, we need un diversivo!"
"You're in Swordfighting in the afternoon, right? Bronn says Jaime likes to visit because he used to teach swordfighting, and he is Corpse Control. So you get injured at 15.05 sharp and Jaime'll bring you to the infirmary. And Brienne doesn't teach on Wednesday afternoons, and I've nothing then, either. I'll ask Brienne to tutor me whilst you're in Swordfighting, and at 15.05 sharp I'll start screaming and crying and she'll have to bring me to the infirmary. And then when they see each other carting sweet injured children, they'll think it's cute and realise how nice it would be to have wee ones of their own. They'll probably bond more if they stay to make sure we're safe."
"And then we both die because Qyburn!"
"Oh, yeah, forgot about that. Maybe not."
It was the most idiotic plan Saskia had ever heard, although the Harrenhal Moon Tea Party did come rather close—so idiotic and naïve that it made her grin. Then again, she remembered, what she was about to do now was likely at an equal level of stupidity.
Kingspyre Tower was waiting.
Kingspyre Tower was the tallest of the five in Harrenhal, and was colossal by all standards. However many metres high the tower was, it was much too tall and slippery, and Saskia knew she'd never be able to reach the top. Evie, who had chosen to spot Saskia in an attempt to perhaps locate Gendry if he happened to wander along, was actually and shockingly quiet as she glanced up at it—solemn, even, or reverent in the presence of the K2 of Harrenhal that may, if she were lucky, have been secretly sheltering that beautiful bastard and his marvellously toned abs.
Night was falling fast at this hour; it must've been 18.20 or so, according to Saskia's estimation and the complete lack of anyone hanging around anywhere that wasn't the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. As the sun sank below the cloud-streaked horizon and darkness began to settle on the sodden grass, there came a sudden rustling in the windless wood behind them that she didn't like one bit. Evie twitched, cursing under her breath (so she did have a vocabulary larger than that of a Pokémon).
"I don't like the sound of that," she shivered.
"The godswood? It's just a deer or something," Saskia whispered back, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. Or a grumpkin or a snark.
And, as much as Saskia didn't want to admit it, she was terrified.
It's not like you're climbing the South Face of K2 without oxygen in winter, she told herself, regretting even more her idiotic decision. You're just free soloing because the rope Hannah found is brittle and fucked, just free soloing a nice wee castle tower at least twenty storeys high… that happened to be defended by loads of tiny dragons. She'd no better off if everyone came with her, just as she wasn't with Evie here. Where were the dragons, though? She'd not seen any since entering the godswood. Perhaps they were just as excited by the prospect of burritos as Lucy was, and were terrorising the pupils for bites of their food. They did guard the staff, too, and the staff were presumably all at supper, so it wasn't too odd. Right? Right?!
There was nothing for it. She had to climb. Again. Before she followed through with calling the whole stupid thing off. Crossing her heart and hoping not to die, Saskia set to her task.
She was maybe a tall storey up the tower when she spotted a well-lit slit of a window about two metres up, to the left. She'd not be able to climb through it; that much was certain. Castles were built for defence, after all, and it'd be beyond the realm of common sense to have windows in them that an enemy could easily climb through, though she did reckon she could maybe stick her head inside at the most. And if the windows did become wider higher up, well, a limit did exist to Saskia's cowardly form of daring, as well as to her physical prowess and fannish lapse of decency. But, now that she was up here, she might as well have a peek. Besides, who knew if that was Robb's chamber? She could be getting a glimpse of her one true love, her lord, her King, her Robbie, and she could also be winning the approval of half of the Hawick girls if she could actually accomplish this bullshit mission…
Just one look. Could be Robb's chamber. Could be Jaime's, anyone's… could be Robb, crying over his behaviour towards me, or snuggling Baby Ned and Jeyne… could just be a storage room… but just another two metres up and I'm done and coming down…
Heaving herself forward and signalling Evie to move below her, Saskia hauled herself up to the window and peered inside.
She was not prepared for what she saw.
Boring chapter, I know, but needed for plot. And yes, many characters and angsty Saskia (she'll get over it and grow some balls and learn to say no), but… well, valar morghulis :D
Many thanks to Trap3r for the wonderful recommendation of De Re Militari! It's been good reading, and is worth looking into if you're writing any war-heavy ASOIAF fics, medieval-based fantasy, and/or historical fiction involving military matters. Most of Stannis and Robb's military lessons will be based on this. Also, as we go into lectures and the like, I'll put any resources in author's notes at the end in case anyone will benefit from them. (Latin text of De Re Militari for those who like to read the original here)
I do apologise for sporadic updates; I'm back at uni now and, even before that, life's been a total mess of hecticness and depression. But good news: I'm doing NaNoWriMo for the first time… sort of. My goal, really, is to write 50,000 words of fanfiction, which mostly comprises of this but likely won't totally, as I do want to be able to work on other things (like my other fic that's on here and some one-shots; might venture into Downton Abbey, Harry Potter, and Tolkien if I'm brave enough). I need to learn how to write for a sustained amount of time. Username is ellsy on the NaNo website if you want to befriend me x