Sandor never felt so constrained as he did now, watching his girl stand rooted on the stage before the curtain rose opening night. She was so vacantly submissive as attendants fussed around her.

If only she'd look at him once….

Every seat in the theater was sold, filled. Sandor had not expected this. He knew that despite her waning talent, Cersei Lannister was an institution here, and therefore the crowds flocked to her; but to an inexperienced understudy?

However, curiosity won out in the audience – more to the point, curiosity about the scene of Joffrey's gruesome demise, Sandor imagined.

None of this truly mattered to Sandor now. What mattered was her pale face, empty but staring up into the rafters, staring, staring.

Gods, but she was beautiful.

She did not wear a wig, as her natural hair was so full and the shade so memorable it was decided there was no need of one. Instead, she wore curled extensions to amplify her thick mane. Oakheart concurred with the makeup department that Sansa's delicate complexion was better suited by lighter makeup, and that the visibility of her features would not suffer for it.

She was a vision, but to the brooding stagehand she was missing now that spark of innocent vivacity and animation that made her so…Sansa.

Yet Sandor knew the routine by now: once the curtain rose, the animation would come back in a flash and she was sure to charm those present.

The change in her these past few weeks was marked. Everyone noticed, but no one knew how to broach the topic with the once friendly but now withdrawn Northern singer. Not even friends like Tyrell, Stone, or Royce could reach her.

What was keeping her in such deathly thrall?

She asked him not to wait for her outside her dressing room anymore. She sought him out in his little office backstage near the rafter's ladder in the moments when she seemed herself. Blushing, she said there was too much risk of him running into her maid outside her door.

She was lying, but how could Sandor accuse her? What evidence did he have except his gut feeling?

As for her behavior toward him, there was an urgent, childlike clinging to her now. She seized every opportunity to sneak into his small office. She practically leaped into his lap and pinned him to his seat. She buried her face in his neck, his shoulder, or his broad chest. She'd cling, cling.

Sandor was surprised how quickly this feeling became home for him. Having never experienced this sort of closeness before, he expected an awkward adjustment period. Instead there was right away a warm, unspeakably sweet familiarity to holding the girl in his arms this way.

His all-consuming concern also took precedence over any self-doubt.

Each day he'd murmur into her coppery locks, "Little bird, what is it? Tell me."

And each day she'd shake her head wordlessly, and after more insistent prompting say, "Nothing, nothing, just nerves, that's all. About opening night."

Again, a lie, a lie, but how to call her out?

He found himself more protective of keeping their relationship secret than she. He'd gently push her out of his lap and stand, pulling her behind him, whenever he heard the faint sound of footsteps outside. Once the footsteps passed, he'd note a slight question in her blue eyes: Why secrecy? If we're to keep it secret, where will it all end?

The first question Sandor readily had an answer for. It would soil her ladylike reputation, her parents would hear and be outraged, and they both might be pressured to leave the opera, who knows!

The second question he dodged answering to himself. They'd never said those certain words to each other, never discussed the future. Hell, all they really did now was hold each other, Sandor patting the frightened girl's back as she clung to him like a rope thrown to one shipwrecked.

Besides, despite her questioning glances, the girl herself never verbally pressed him on the issue. So why should he bother right now? Might as well just soak in as much of her as he could in the few moments they managed.

But still, the question nagged.

He couldn't bring himself in his heart to answer it. For one thing, too much of himself was spent worrying about her to properly attend to such vague questions. For another…if he faced the question, he'd have to answer it fairly.

Where did he want the relationship to go?

All he knew for sure was that he wanted her safe, safe, safe.

His fear for her had become an obsession. He could barely sleep for it.

His little bird…staring dead-eyed into the rafters….

The orchestra started. Sandor watched from the wings. Anyone catching sight of his face would think him merely surveying the props and set pieces, searching for anything out of place.

The curtain rose.

The chorus began singing in High Valerian about the great fool Florian coming to town, and of the great beauty of Lady Jonquil and her three sisters (the soprano Lollys Stokeworth filled in for the sister Sansa had played, though the girl lacked both beauty and brains in Sandor's opinion).

Sansa came to the center and sang.

A great gasp spread throughout the theater.

Sandor's heart about stopped.

It was a brief solo, but Sansa in her few moments sang in such unworldly seraphic notes, full of gaiety, that the audience was immediately won over.

They applauded after the verse, which had never happened before.

That was only the start.

The opera itself was a blur for Sandor, as he suspected it was for her as well. How she lit up the stage though, took control in such a seamless, lighthearted way. And her voice, her voice – her voice!

Sandor knew that whatever became of them, her voice would be the last thing he heard in his head before he died.

Her voice.

Between act breaks, Sansa turned back into the lifeless thing doing only what it's told, going only where it's led. Her maids led her off like a somnambulist to change costumes.

Sandor swallowed, hot with frustration.

The last act began, the most tragic in the opera. Jonquil was confined to a dungeon for killing her child born out of wedlock in a panic. She was guarded by a malevolent giant. When Sansa appeared behind the bars to sing her lament for her lost freedom, the change in her was so immense from the happy girl of before that the audience gasped again.

Her countenance expressed the numb, weary sorrow of a child who does not understand why her life has collapsed. Her voice was tears personified.

Sandor could hear the sniffing from the audience, from both feminine and masculine noses.

She disappeared for about thirty minutes so Florian and the Stranger could confront and kill the giant (the giant consisting of two long papier-mache legs and the booming voice of Lothor Brune from backstage, the bass singer who was courting Mya Stone).

The prison set was back, and Florian and the Stranger called to the delirious Jonquil. Florian begged her to accept the Stranger's deal for freedom and Florian's hand in marriage in exchange for her soul.

One more universal gasp as the weak and passive look in her face vanished into hard resolution. Her eyes glowed like sapphires lit by flame. She was full of righteous fury. She accused both lover and god of trickery, deceit.

Now came the moment when Sansa sang in a voice unlike any had heard before.

If she sang with the voice of an angel in the beginning, she sang now with the voice of every goddess, old and new. She stood at the center of the stage. The bars were gone. She stared with ecstasy into the rafters as she reached her arms up to the sky, begging the Mother to take her home.

"Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save my soul from Hell, I pray…."

Sandor stared at her profile. The light picked up the copper strands in her auburn locks and turned them to fire. Her simple white dress flowing down about her feet made her look the very picture of the Maiden. He saw the tears pour down her cheeks, and yet she sang in a voice powerfully pure.

Sandor felt like he was entering a fugue state as she sang. Only those who've undergone a religious epiphany could understand the way the gruff, crude head stagehand felt now.

There was no longer any gasp from the audience. No one but Sansa could find their voice.

At last, Margaery as the Mother and other sundry chorus singers as the Father, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, and the Crone sang in unison offstage, welcoming Sansa to the safety of the Heavens.

What had always been comical to Sandor and others before became uplifting now: Sansa was pulled up by ropes, up into the paper clouds and sun. A tearful smile of disbelieving peace graced her beautiful face as the gods forgave her.

Florian and the Stranger stood crushed and defeated below.

The curtain fell.

Such a ruckus in the King's Landing opera house was never heard before or since as the audience jumped to their feet.

Sandor's eyes followed Sansa each time she sped outside the curtain for one encore, then another, then another, then another….

He had never seen so many demands for encore before.

It warmed Sandor's heart and lessened his concern just by the slightest fraction when he saw that she still retained in the midst of whatever state she was in enough of her good nature to insist Loras Tyrell join her in her last bow. Sandor only felt vaguely jealous of the lad; as handsome as he was, and as much as Sandor always had to look away when his Florian kissed her Jonquil, Sandor knew of Tyrell's true desires. Thus, he had no fear of anything happening between them.

Sandor was also glad to note the apparently genuine smile of gratitude on the little bird's face as she shyly accepted a bouquet from her Florian. She looked almost herself.

The curtain fell for the final time.

The bouquet fell to the stage as she fainted.

Sandor snapped into action, not even thinking about it. He pushed the flummoxed Loras out of the way, who had crouched down to pick her up.

"Move," Sandor said brusquely to the panicked crowd around her. He lifted her easily in his arms and carried her away.

"Fetch the doctor," he called over his shoulder as he headed to her dressing room past concerned players and stagehands. She felt light, as if she'd lost weight. He stared at her unconscious face, her mouth open like a sleeping child's. Sweat beaded her oddly furrowed brow.

Sandor felt his throat catch.

He snapped at the crowd that gathered around them, consisting of both the company and privileged admirers that had already rushed in from the audience. Using his height and appearance to full effect, he succeeded in scaring them all off by the time he reached her dressing room door.

He barked sharply at the maid to go see if the doctor was coming. He'd see to Miss Stark. Stunned, the girl absently curtseyed then left, closing the door behind her.

Once they were alone, Sandor set her down gently in an arm chair. She moaned weakly. He pat her cheeks with the back of his fingers. "Girl," his voice was soft but urgent. "Girl, wake up. Sansa." He unscrewed the flask he kept in his vest and poured some of the sour wine into her open mouth.

She spluttered awake. He shushed her and wiped the wine from her lips with a handkerchief. "You're all right now, little bird, you're all right."

Those vibrant eyes looked straight through him. She recognized him at last, and with recognition came a rush of warm feeling. Confusion then took over. "Sandor…what…?"

A wry half-smile. "You passed out once the curtain came down, little bird. Stone cold you were. Scared the shite out of everyone…including me."

She was shaking. That odd furrow was back in her brow. "How…how was it?"

He laughed in disbelief. "You were there, little bird! You knocked them all dead. Surely you remember a little."

She looked away from him, and her expression was very grave. "Vaguely. Yes, vaguely. I suppose."

He couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed her roughly by the arms, though still conscious of her vulnerable state. "Dammit, girl. What the fuck's wrong with you lately? First you act like a damned zombie whenever you're not onstage, then you faint dead away, and now you can't remember shit? Girl" –

He stopped at the sudden look on her face. He'd expected more excuses, something about the adrenaline making her forgetful, or something.

Instead she looked tortured and she choked out through sobs, "Sandor…" Her shaking hand cupped his cheek. "I don't know myself when I sing anymore." She looked broken, hysterical. She burst into shuddering sobs.

As piteous a figure as she made, he had no time to react. He was immediately on his feet and standing behind her. The doorknob turned.

A fat, flushed young man entered carrying a black leather bag. "Hello!" He said in a cheerful, candid voice.

Sansa quickly brushed away her tears and answered with a welcoming smile, seemingly in control of herself once more. "Dr. Tarly! So glad to see you again." In spite of her weak state, she sat up and offered him her hand.

Samwell Tarly was not only the opera's resident doctor, but her brother Jon's best friend from the military. He was also married to Sansa's favorite dresser, Gilly. His moon-shaped face was a comfort to Sansa now, a little piece of home in a place so far away.

He pulled up a stool and felt for her pulse. He gazed in a friendly concerned way into her face. "Had a bit of a spell, did we, miss?"

Sansa blushed. "Yes. I guess I fainted."

A dark snort behind her. "No 'guess' about it." Sandor addressed Tarly in a clipped voice, attempting to mask his concern. "Felt her forehead. Don't feel like fever or anything."

"Hm," Tarly said disinterestedly. Something in Sansa's face arrested his attention. He gently moved her head side to side, studying her eyes. "How have you been feeling lately, Miss Stark?"

Only Sandor noticed the slight hesitation before answering. "Oh, all right, I suppose. Nervous, of course."

Sandor saw her trembling hand increase its grip on the chair's arm.

"Hm." Tarly repeated, speculative. Before either Sansa or Sandor could question him, he appeared to snap out of whatever he was contemplating. "Well! Nothing wrong with you physically. Exhaustion and nerves, I think. You should really take better care of yourself, miss. More sleep and drink lots of water. I know this is your debut and all – and you were really smashing by the way, truly smashing! – but that's no excuse not to take care of yourself."

He was graced with another bright smile from Sansa. "Absolutely. In fact, I think I'll go straight home and sleep the whole night through." She shook Sam's hand again. "Thank you, doctor."

"My pleasure. Congratulations, miss!"

He nodded awkwardly to Sandor, as discomfited by the large scarred stagehand as anyone else – especially as the Hound's face now was particularly dark and grim as he loomed behind Miss Stark. Why was the Hound here, anyhow? –

A knock on the door and Tyrion and Varys entered, each with large bouquets.

Varys's eyes glittered more courteously than ever. "Our brilliant new diva! I'm afraid Lord Baelish is held up with greeting the various nobles present tonight, and he sent us along to give you not only his but our sincerest congratulations. Not a dry eye in the house, my dear!"

Even Tyrion was genuinely impressed. "I say, I don't mind confessing one of those damp sets of eyes was my own. Bravo, madam." He kissed her hand.

"You do know the girl just fainted," Sandor growled behind the chair. "You might want to address that before buttering her up."

"San – Mr. Clegane," Sansa said out of the corner of her mouth, scolding.

"No! He's right, Miss Stark. We've been painfully remiss." Varys pressed her hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, much better. Thank you."

In answer to Tyrion's inquiring glance, Dr. Tarly said, "Yes, yes. I think just a touch of exhaustion." Sandor noted how he fidgeted a little when he said so. The doctor suspects something else, but he's not sure….

Varys expressed relief. "Well, thank the gods it's nothing more serious."

"Will she be able to go on tomorrow?" Tyrion asked.

Another derisive snort from Sandor. "Aye, now we come to the heart of the matter, what you really care about."

"Clegane, what are you even doing here?" Tyrion asked in a barbed voice. "We'll see to the lady. Why don't you go find a tree to piss on?"

"Mr. Lannister!" Sansa disparaged the manager. Her face was red and her eyes indignant.

Swallowing more scornful words, Tyrion bowed to her. "My apologies, Miss Stark." Clearing his throat, Tyrion addressed Sandor with barely concealed dislike. "Hound, would you please see to your duties? Mr. Varys and I would like to make our congratulations in private, if you don't mind."

Sandor scowled and looked at Sansa. She gave him an encouraging little smile. "It's all right, Mr. Clegane. Thank you for your service tonight."

Casting one more black glance at Tyrion, Sandor left.

He stood outside her door, flexing his hands. He felt impotent, powerless.

He'd only felt that way twice before: once when Gregor burned him, and the next when he stood over the corpse of the man he killed.

Powerless was his least favorite feeling in the world, side by side with his constant fear.

He thought back on Sansa's behavior since taking Jonquil's role.

She entered her dressing room that first day light of heart, the vivaciously courteous girl that first obsessed him. She emerged almost a different girl entirely, as if she left behind a piece of her soul in her dressing room, a piece that only came back when she sang onstage.

Baelish, Sandor thought seething. Baelish must have something to do with it. Everyone knows he's stuck on her mother, and that's the only reason Sansa's here. I hear she favors her mother. It must be Baelish, bothering her in some way.

But her dressing room…what does that damned dressing room have to do with all this? First Joffrey's strangled corpse, now Sansa's altered state.

For the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane neglected his duties and instead slunk back against the shadows along the wall. Waiting. He had to make her tell him what was going on.

He shrank back further as the door opened and the managers and the doctor came out. They passed by without seeing Sandor, Tarly reassuring them Sansa should be fully recovered after a full night's rest.

Sandor waited a few more moments, making sure no one was lingering in the corridor, no admirer or journalist hoping to steal a quote from the sensational new singer.

Emptiness in the corridor.

Sandor was just about to knock on the door when his fist stilled. His blood turned to ice.

He heard a beautiful male voice within, slightly muffled.

"Sansa, you must love me."

The ice turned to fire in Sandor's veins.

Sansa's teary voice answered. "How can you talk like that? When I sing only for you?"

Sandor's mind and heart raced as one, so that coherent thought wasn't possible for several seconds. The evidence was clear: she had another lover. But no: impossible. Sansa. Sansa did not lie. Not...not about something like this. He knew this truth in the very marrow of his bones. She could not double-cross anyone, not for her very life. But –

The beautiful tenor spoke again, in sweetly concerned paternal tones. "Are you very tired?"

Sansa's voice was so dull and cold it was as if she spoke from her tomb. "Tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead."

"Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, and I thank you. No emperor ever received so rare a gift. The angels wept tonight."

Sandor could take no more. He was about to break down the door if need be to confront the two when he heard footsteps approaching.

He returned to his dark corner and waited.

Margaery Tyrell came into view. She knocked on her friend's door. "Sansa? Hey, songstress? Ready to go, my triumphant girl?"

Sandor couldn't hear Sansa's reply, but Margaery answered, "I'll wait, then." She busied herself fiddling inside her purse until Sansa appeared, back in her regular clothing, coat and hat on.

The two women walked on, Sansa passively taking in Margaery's stream of excited compliments. Like the managers and the doctor, neither girl noticed the heart-stricken Hound.

He watched them until they disappeared from view. Then blood rushing to his head, Sandor fished for his master key on its chain around his belt. Without a moment's reflection, he unlocked the door and entered.

Whoever it was must have had the same idea as he, and was waiting until he made sure the coast was clear before leaving the dressing room. Sandor would beat him at his own game. He would confront the bastard and –

No one was there.

Sandor lit the lamp and looked around the room. No one.

He almost tore off the closet door as he wrenched it open, searching inside.

Not a trace of anyone anywhere.

He breathed heavily, standing in the center of the room. He concentrated on lowering his rage. He had to think. Think.

The mad rush of jealousy and confusion had pushed out the true troubling question now: how did whoever the blighter was get in here? Sandor certainly didn't see anyone when he brought Sansa into the room. Where did the voice come from, and where was he now?

Sandor was confident enough in his own sanity not to question what he heard. He knew he heard someone speak to Sansa, and Sandor heard her answer back.

He recalled the awed fear in Sansa's voice. She did not speak with the fond affection of a lover.

Nor did she speak as if the man was her enemy, either.

She spoke as one would to a cherished but wrathful god.

Who the fuck was this man?

Sandor's clenched fists shook like aspen leaves.

"Baelish…Baelish…" He repeated to himself, as if muttering the vilest profanity. "But fucking how…?"