Professor Tywin Lannister gestures to the seat on the other side of the desk, and he waits (posture perfectly straight, hands folded on the tabletop over her recently-graded paper) for the girl to lower herself into the chair (her eyes are wide and frightened and it excites him more than he cares to admit) before sliding the thesis (covered in red marks, like blood dripping from countless wounds) across the table to her.
“Miss Stark,” he begins, gold-green eyes unblinking and cold, “I asked you to write an analysis of an American literary theorist. Can you explain why you chose to blatantly disregard the assignment?”
Sansa Stark’s nostrils flare, and he is surprised by the flicker of defiance that appears in her blue eyes. She shifts in her chair and shrugs her shoulders, but she does not look away from him as she replies, “She might not have been an Emerson or a Thoreau, but I believe that Emily Dickinson’s poetry tells us more about the potential of American literature than any essay could possibly do…Professor.”
Tywin narrows his eyes at her, but she does not look away, and he catches another bright flash in those pretty eyes as she nudges the red-stained paper back in his direction.