Manderly's Pies
Lord Tywin's eyes were heavy upon Saskia as she squirmed in her seat. So were the eyes of hundreds of her classmates amidst the silence, here and there punctuated by hisses and a beep from Wyman Manderly's noble steed.
"Oh my god, she's toast."
"Totally toast."
"Maybe literally toast. He eats people!"
"Just look at that gut flab! How many of us has he eaten to get that large?!"
"Eh, could just be doughnuts and Mars Bars."
"Come forward, Saskia Crockett," said Tywin once more.
Shaking horribly, she rose, stumbling over her feet and her gown as she made her way towards Tywin. I was right, she thought with a shudder. I am going to die today. Not from falling off a tower. Not from being toasted alive. Not under the soul-wilting stare of Tywin Lannister or the ding-ding shame lady. Not in the Hunger Games, not in a PE lesson from all seven hells, and not at the hands of Corpse Control afterwards. I survived all that to become a pie.
Miss Ellie, now by Tywin's side, smiled in her Umbridgey way. "Did you think you would skirt punishment for your deplorable behaviour? Oh, sweet summer child. This is not a Mary Sue fic in which your character gets away with everything."
"Saskia Crockett," said Tywin, "thought it wise to sneak outside after dark and climb the tallest tower in Harrenhal in a desperate bid to enter the staff section, which, as you know, is off-limits to students without a chaperone and express permission from both myself and Miss Ellie. Miss Crockett was lucky that Daenerys was feeding the dragons precisely during those ten minutes, otherwise she would be ash and dragon droppings. She was also lucky that Sandor caught her when she fell. All the same, she will be punished. You will say farewell to her now, for the next time you see her, it is possible she will be a pie."
Everyone was still staring at her, and from the raised dais up by the staff, they all seemed a sea of faces—faces she hadn't even got to come to hate, or like, or get to know the fannish and likely twisted and insane souls behind. And now she was going to die. Be eaten. In a pie. She'd wake up back in Ealing with the beginnings of a hangover, with a massive essay on Childe Harold's Pilgrimage to write, and she'd never, ever, write fanfiction again. She'd not remember Westeros or Lucy or Orla or the way that Robb's dimples were so cute when he laughed, how Robb was real and gorgeous and so military commander-y and trying so hard to act as stern as Stannis… and it would kill her. She'd never remember she'd met Robb Stark.
"Was the promise of Robb worth this? Hmm?" Miss Ellie crooned.
"No," she choked.
And Miss Ellie shepherded her down a long corridor, down what felt like an infinity of twisty castle stairs, to an enormous door at the end of another long corridor.
"So… am I dead or what? Going to meet my executioner?"
"Did you really think that you were going to be killed or that you'd be sentenced to some form of horrendous torture?" Miss Ellie laughed, her blue-green eyes only half kind, as she pushed open the door with a grunt. "Oh, sweet summer child. We're only allowed to kill you if you attempt to kill one of us—if the dragons don't get you first. You didn't know that? We are allowed to punish you and take points from your House, though, and Jaqen is allowed to smack you with a stick. We decided not to sentence you outright due to the marvellous historic death rate on the first day of archery. We figured we might as well build up the psychological torture, too, although I do admit it was all a bit extreme. Well… here we are."
Here was a kitchen, a massive kitchen staffed by tall, scarred, bald men in furs. Thenns. Who eat people. But these Thenns were bustling about and cutting carrots, and basting turkeys, and… not eating people, not even minding that their work was interrupted. Thenns couldn't be all that bad, right?
"So… I'm being sentenced to work in the kitchens?" Saskia breathed with half-relief.
"Indeed. You must learn the value of hard work. You will do twelve hours a week in the kitchens until the end of term. You're allowed to come whichever twelve hours you like, barring when you're in lessons, though do check with Lord Manderly if he'd prefer you to come at certain times. Oh. Here he comes."
The arrival of Wyman Manderly was heralded by shakes and rattles and beeping and dust creaking out of the stones of the walls. And then the panting. Gods, the panting and wheezing. Wyman Manderly, screeching to a halt before Miss Ellie on his trusty scootypuff, came rolling in, accompanied by such awful noise and plate-clattering and smashing that it made Saskia's head hurt a bit.
"Wyman, this is Saskia Crockett, the little climber I was telling you about. The others shall be down presently, once Tywin's called them out."
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep beeep bbbbbbrbrbrrrrrrrrrpppeeeepppp brbebhfrufhdufshsfsdfbbbppppeeee! said Wyman Manderly.
Saskia stuttered. "I… I have no idea what… what you're saying!"
"Lord Manderly says hello," said the small brown-skinned, almond-eyed girl beside him. She was so wee and unobtrusive, and Wyman so massive and turquoise and Jabba the Hutt-esque, that Saskia hadn't noticed her before, if she'd been there at all.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep beeeeeep bbbbbbrbrbrrrrrrrrrpppeeeepppp brbebhfrufhdufshsfsdfbbbppppeeee! Bbbbeeeeepp bbppprrrppprprrrrrrr beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
"His lordship is asking what you did to get yourself in trouble."
"Oh… I, um, I tried to climb Kingspyre Tower to stare at Robb." As ridiculous and pathetic as it sounded, she'd best be truthful about it, even to Wyman and… whoever that was.
The girl just shrugged. "One usually does, though last year one of you tried to stalk the Hound. Didn't get any higher up than the ground."
"Who are you?"
"This one is Missandei, Miss Crockett."
Saskia reckoned she wasn't going to be doing any Missandei/Grey Worm shipping now because Missandei was about thirteen, by her shitty estimation, and Grey Worm wasn't even on staff. And among such languages from which Missandei could translate were the Common Tongue, Dothraki, High Valyrian, Old Valyrian, Naathi, Old Ghiscari, and… Mobility Scooterese.
"His lordship says there's a Scooterese to Common Tongue translation guide in the knife drawer."
"Is it true you're a Faceless Man, Missandei? Faceless Woman?" Hannah gasped, spilling into the room with Evie at her side. She straightened, corrected herself at once. "Faceless Non-Binary Genderfluid Individual? What're your pronouns?"
"What?"
"Your pronouns! She, her, hers? Xe, xim, xirs?!"
"This one is female, Miss Quinn, not Faceless or… genderfluid."
"You're black. You're a Person of Colour."
"Nathalie Emmanuel is black. This one is not. This one is Naathi."
"I know it is not in your nature to be cross, Missandei," said Miss Ellie, turning to go, "but be as cross with them as you must. Wyman and Her Grace never mind, do they?"
BEEEEEEEEP. That seemed to mean "no".
"But he eats people, Miss Ellie!" Evie cried as the door slammed shut behind Miss Ellie. "He eats people!"
Lord Manderly laughed, his chuckle choked by his immense rolls of neck fat. I'm not Shelob. I don't eat things live. And you're too thin for eating, besides, Miss Hawkins. But no worries. My Thenns and I will fatten you up. Hehehehehehehehehehehe.
"You're… you're going to kill us after, aren't you?!"
Don't worry, Wyman beeped. We're forbidden to kill you unless you try to kill us. Dragons usually get you first. Anguy got a pervy Blackfish fanboy last year. Arrow through the thigh. Shame. The thigh is the best part, he said before he beeped something even more disturbing, looking hungrily right at Saskia. I hear Miss Jones had a nice crisp to her. Did her skin crackle up like a pig's?
"I, uh… didn't look. Sorry," Saskia squeaked. But despite that she'd not looked, she'd heard and smelt, and from now on, she was staying away from fires and meat and dragons for time foreseeable.
Wyman shook his bulbous head and chortled, apparently at the look on Saskia's face. Mind that you work, now. Those carrots won't be cutting themselves, girls. Let Baldur help you.
"You're taking the piss. You wouldn't really eat people."
Mayhaps I already have. The North remembers. Hehehehehehehehehehehehehe.
All in all, though, working for Wyman Manderly wasn't too horrid, despite the whole 'lack of pay' thing. Sure, it was work – she'd not done any of that since her three weeks at a Starbucks a few months ago – and work of any sort to Saskia was unpleasurably dull. To her slight disappointment, there were no house elves in Wyman's kitchen to ease the workload and be right Hogwartsy, and the company was lacking. Lilanie and Ilze had been spared the kitchen punishment by virtue of getting slightly injured and having to go to Qyburn's evil hospital lair was punishment enough if you lived through treatment. They did seem to be shockingly okay, though, aside from the hiccoughing thing, so if there were any undisciplined victors in the whole situation, they were probably Ilze Ziguzis and Lilanie Cloete. Lilanie still wouldn't talk to her and wasn't even here to boot, and Hannah and Evie weren't her type of company, but at least Wyman's Thenns would talk in broken, harsh English as they showed her how to chop carrots and brew spiced mead.
And the Thenns, as Saskia learnt weeks before she'd learn through the books, were the most advanced of the wildling tribes, and were certainly not cannibals. They did everything they could, though, to encourage that show-only belief, going as far as to lick their lips at her and Hannah and Evie (until the biggest one, Baldur, yelled at them to quit it), and the other wildlings around seemed to love being complicit in perpetuating it. Rickon and Tommen, accompanied by Rickon's nanny Osha, could often be seen begging the Thenns to have a bit of wine from the skulls of their victims ('better to hold the sparkling grape than nurse the earthworm's slimy brood', after all). The Thenns did oblige, but with those of animals, because, really, they weren't that bad, and little cat-obsessed Tommen taking after his mum and drinking watered-down wine out of a stopped-up deer skull was adorable. Tormund stopped by on Friday afternoon and offered to pay Saskia and Evie five silver stags each to slap a Thenn and let him watch. Verys and Margry were hovering nearby, however, and she had had to refuse, which was a shame, as that was quite a lot of money for her now.
And the Thenns weren't even that bad. Sure, they were all tall, scarred, and imposing, and barely spoke the Common Tongue, but they were nice enough. For fookin' Thenns, at least.
Wyman could take a few lessons in being nice, though.
Is that why you sulk and whine? Because you can't have Robb? he beeped as he scooted behind Saskia at the meat table. Fair enough, she had been rather sulky that afternoon, and being in the presence of Wyman and Thenns and Hannah (and, just recently in Domestic Arts, Jeyne and Neddy) didn't help much.
"Pretty much, yeah, I reckon?"
Well, boohoo. Life is pain and misery. We can't always get what we want, Miss Crockett.
Wyman, despite being surrounded by twenty good Thenns, good ale, and very good food, must have found life a bit of misery as well. It gets so lonely here, he murmur-beeped all of a sudden, dabbing his fat squirrelly cheeks with the mush-stained sleeve of his turquoise tunic.
"Haven't you children to dote on?" she asked, her hands deep in a squelchy rabbit carcase, figuring she might as well try to be nice to avoid ending up as Saturday morning breakfast. She was rather sure he had, because she'd come across a fic once that paired Robb with a Manderly girl, the lucky bitch.
Wyman did have sons, but not in the Riverlands. White Harbour, wherever that was, was very far from Harrenhal. Besides, as Wyman beeped, the younger, Wendel, had been slain at the Red Wedding, and fuck Freys, fuck Boltons.
"Grandchildren?"
Aye. Two precious granddaughters. Wylla and Wynafryd. Used to.
"Oh. I'm sorry." Wynafryd was the one she'd seen paired with Robb. She'd not be pressing that further. Whatever had happened to Wylla and Wynafryd Manderly was likely very Game of Thrones-y and horrible.
I ate them, Wyman beeped. We were out of everything but neeps. I was hungry.
What in God's name was she supposed to say to that? "Uh… I'm sorry to hear it. Is that the time?" she asked awkwardly. "I've a meeting now, if you don't… need me anymore…"
Jaqen H'ghar, eh? Do you think – Wyman panted, nigh on hacking up a lung, over the beeps of his noble scootypuff – you could get Jaqen to… set aside any corpses that should fall during stick-slapping time?
"Um, no?" Robb would definitely not find her brokering a deal for corpses to bake into pies sexy or sane, not at all, and nor would Jaqen, who was sexy and available—at least, to her knowledge, more available than Robb.
For Jon. Here, Wyman wheeze-beeped, pressing a shiny gold dragon into Evie's palm as she shook potato peels from off her gown. Tell him to kill the boy. Literally. There's more where this comes from if he lets me stew Olly. Have him spear the lad through the face first. Hehehehehehehehehehe.
So it was that Saskia took her leave of Wyman for the weekend.
Saskia was lucky. Her Fridays, unlike some of the girls', consisted of her easy subjects: Canon in the morning (she had a newfound, non-lustful appreciation for Tyrion and his wit), Domestic Arts after lunch, Archery after that, and her meetings with Jaqen H'ghar, also known as Sexy Jesus, at 8.00 pm. She hadn't even known she was to have meetings with Jaqen H'ghar until she'd actually looked at that new timetable she'd got from Miss Ellie a few days ago, and it was, despite being something else to have to do once per fortnight, a damn nice addition to a week filled with embroidery, being ranted at about honour and canon, and marching around outside with Stannis Baratheon in the wee hours of the morning, in things like phalanxes and legions and other formations she'd never care about, even if Robb were telling her about them. She especially appreciated the promise of Sexy Jesus today after The Mad King Was Mad (But Not Mad Enough to Rape Himself Deeper into Insanity with a Kielbasa, Goddamnit, Esther), sewing half a sampler of rudimentary flowers whilst learning some song about Jonquil and desperately trying not to look at Jeyne and wee Neddy lest the emo tears return, Proper Gear and Behaviour for Not Shooting Yourself (Not that Anyone Other than Tywin Particularly Minds If You Do), and a boring hour of rabbit-skinning with Baldur and Trygvi the Thenns.
Saskia skipped off to Jaqen's classroom in the lower level of the Widow's Tower, chortling just a bit madly-happily. Fuck yeah, she was going to be an assassin! An assassin without a sword. A clumsy, wall-climbing, otherwise unathletic assassin armed with a bow, but only capable of shooting floors, finding obvious hiding spots, and pissing herself, if she were thinking at all objectively. (She wasn't.)
As soon as she opened the creaking door to the empty room, she saw someone very smirky-eyed and brunette and attractive leering at her from beside some pool of death thing. In his right hand was a stick, and Saskia's heart beat faster in fear. Hadn't Miss Ellie said that Jaqen was allowed to smack them?
"I know you. You're… Jack in a car," she whispered. Or however anyone was supposed to pronounce that.
"A man is No One. A man once was known as Jaqen H'ghar, spelt J-A-Q-E-N H-apostrophe-G-H-A-R. If a girl had read the books, a girl might also know a man as Pate."
She gave him a quizzical look. "How do you know I've not read the books?"
"A man knows many things. For one, a girl is from Warminster."
"You could've got that information anywhere. Like, you know, the enrolment form I filled out."
Jaqen just smirked. "A girl's favourite pizza topping is tuna. A girl developed her fascination with climbing when she was forced to read Touching the Void. A girl's parents met in a hostel in Freiburg. Other than Richard Madden, a girl would fuck Ryan Gosling and Norman Reedus. Her Shame Collection is in a folder called Tax Documents. A girl has always felt compelled to crawl into moving tumble dryers."
"Who are you really?"
"No One. Come, girl," he gestured towards her. "A girl will play a game of lies."
Saskia hesitated, despite Jaqen's rather sexy smile. He did kind of look like a sexy version of Jesus, unmanly sandals and all. And Sexy Jesus was just going to smack her with his stick, unsexily.
"A man requires a girl to come. Do not worry. A man will not sentence a girl to pies or death. A man is not Olly, and will not kick a girl in the genitals."
"A man might hit me with a stick!" she protested.
"Indeed," said Jaqen, rapping the stick lightly against his thigh, "a man might, if a girl lies. But a man," he said, approaching her so he was mere centimetres from her face, "will start with an easy question. What is a girl called?"
"Lyalyah Ranford."
"A lie. A bad lie. But a man will give a girl another chance. What is a girl called?"
"Saskia. Saskia Louise Crockett."
"A girl tells the truth. Why is she here?"
"Because I write badfic." No response and no stick, thank the old gods and the new. "Because I write bad fanfic about Robb Stark and a poorly-disguised and more confident version of myself getting to fuck him."
"A sad truth. A pitiful truth. Does Robb love a girl?"
"With all his—OW!" And so Sexy Jesus's stick stung her upper arm. "Christ! Uh.. no, no. He barely knows I exist. Sometimes he says 'nice job' when I've done my coursework, when I don't doze off. Like, yesterday he said 'thank you' when I turned in my coursework."
"Does a girl love Robb?"
"Ye—OW!" Again the stick came down upon her arm, stinging and burning. "Gods! Stop!"
"A girl is lustful."
"I'm not lustful!"
"Sweet summer child. A girl is lustful. A girl has written, 'Robb traced his war-calloused fingers down Lyalyah's porcelain cheek, and Lyalyah felt herself, her heart, tremble with deepest love. She watched the way Robb's perfectly toned chest rose and fell with each breath, how the azure in his eyes deepened when he whispered how much he loved her, how his body was now beginning to respond to her beauty. His member—'"
"How… how do you know that?" Saskia sputtered. She'd forgot all about that passage, which did indeed go into licentious detail about a certain part of Robb Stark's burgeoning anatomy, because why wouldn't it?
"A man is not blind. A man has sources. And a man also reads bad fanfiction. Is not a girl RobbsPrincess on ?"
"I… a girl is," she stammered, mouth still agape. She really shouldn't have been so surprised at Sexy Jesus knowing all that, because, as it was, he knew about the tumble dryers (something she'd never voiced to anyone ever, unless she'd done so drunkenly and couldn't remember).
"A girl will improve her lust and her lies. Now a girl must tell a man one thing she has learnt at the Official Fanfiction University of Westeros."
What had she learnt, after all? Rhaegar and the Mad King were not one and the same, and she was pretty sure now that R + L = J was unstated truth. Then again, everyone knew that. Aeron, who was one of Theon's crazy uncles, was not the unfortunate recipient of arserape from a door, and neither was Hodor, who hadn't been holding off any doors that way. Everyone knew that, too—well, everyone with a brain, which seemingly excluded Esther Whenlock. Benjen, as Tyrion and Sam had reiterated that morning, was only just Benjen. That was obvious enough.
So she said the only other information that came to mind. "Tommen Baratheon is an animal hoarder. He's got an entire playroom full of cats. A girl has climbed Kingspyre Tower and seen it."
Jaqen grinned. "Now a girl is getting somewhere. A girl will tell a man two things she has learnt in a fortnight."
And, boy, there was plenty more to learn here.
I promise that Wyman will actually be relevant in a way more than just "he eats people and is fat", and that he too will find happiness in the arms of… wait, you thought I was going to spoil that? Muahahahhaha. Let's just say "someone not canonically near Wyman Manderly cos I'm Esther IRL".
PS: The nickname "Sexy Jesus" comes from chryswatchesgot on Tumblr, whose recaps are hilarious.
Next on, Benjen is Benjen is Benjen is only just Benjen. Or Daario. Or maybe the Dusky Woman.