Looking back, she thought that the horror of speaking with Jaime Lannister, which proved even worse than Sansa had anticipated — How could people say such things and not catch fire from shame? Oh, right, like Jaime Lannister knew what shame was! Ha! — was worth it the moment she had unlocked the back door of the Lannister Ballet Company building and slipped inside the welcoming darkness. The quiet reminded her of the bustle that reigned this place during the day. It seemed that the halls and studios were resting from the commotion, dozing peacefully under the soft cover of night. She loved being here alone with no one but the mirrors to see her, not a single instructor to judge whether her movements were performed well or not. In the night, she could dance any way she wanted; she could be silly and make mistakes; she could forget the world altogether.
Barely restraining her triumphant giggle, Sansa rushed down the familiar route to the studio in which she usually danced. She loved its roof windows, which let in the last rays of sunlight and then filled the studio with magical moonlight. The lively yellow street light would mingle with the coldness of the moon, creating an enchanting atmosphere.
Fixing her phone to the arm band and putting on her headphones, she thought with ridiculous pride how she had fooled Tyene, who, like every other one of her friends, was part of the conspiracy against Sansa's dancing. Tyene was having bad cramps in her left leg, so Sansa ran her a bath. The careless and happy sound of her roommate's humming coming from the bathroom suggested to Sansa that if she were to quietly, very quietly, dress, pack her bag, and leave, Tyene might not even hear her. It turned out she had been right. She thought herself pretty clever.
Finally, she was about to dance. How she had missed it. Her heart was beating faster as she started the music. There was no one to chide her, to stop her. She had never felt so free. She started moving, her body still sore, but she did not care. There it was, the beating of her heart synching with the rhythm of the music. She started off with easy, soft movements, mindful of all the warnings she had received. But the music bewitched her, and she had forgotten the danceless days had ever existed. Recovering her body's strength with every motion, she became bolder and followed the crescendo. Pirouette, fouetté arabesque. She felt her body shake off its fatigue and staleness. The petit allegro had never seemed like a liberation before. The soubresaut had never filled her with so much life. She had never felt her feet leave the floor so acutely with every part of her being. Glissade, jeté. How beautiful it was to dance! Coupé, step, jeté. Her muscles were as flexible as well-kneaded dough, she felt like a fountain — unrestrained, exultant, elastic. Pas de chat. What a wonder it all was!
Dancing again after such a long break filled her with deranging joy. She forgot about caution, dancing ecstatically, almost laughing her merriment. Her limbs moving of their own accord, proclaiming the end of captivity, the dawn of a new era. She felt omnipotent, unstoppable. She could overcome every obstacle, her body now stronger than ever before. She dashed around the studio in a celebration of freedom, of happiness, of dance, metamorphosed into one of the snowflakes she had watched twirl nonchalantly over Winterfell. She pirouetted, she jumped, feeling the youth of her body and the abandon in her heart, reveling in her quiet power.
That was how Jaime found her. A swift vision of innocence and bliss. In the dusk of the studio, slipping in and out of the light, she looked surreal, ephemeral. A magical spirit, perhaps a jubilant sylph, or a fictional memory. Her limbs graceful, her body energetic, her movements filled with a distracted, guiltless glory. Weary of Tyrion's papers, he had come to tease her when he had heard the light, hurried footsteps. He stayed to watch her, captivated. He did not admire ballet as a dance anymore: it was his life, his work; he invented, criticized it. But she had stopped him in his tracks with the ingenuous beauty of her movements. Enchanted by the spellbinding harmony she brought into being, he watched her. The considerable skill and good technique he had noticed in her before acquired a flow of even greater delicacy, and her motions were replete with the same passion that had transfixed him when they had danced together.
She did not observe him in the shadows of the doorway. She did not see anything at all, her eyes turned inward. In her mind, kept flashing the visions of him dancing all those days ago. She missed the bemused smile that now played on his lips, the wonder in his eyes as they followed her form. When she stopped, standing with her hands on her hips, breathing deeply, he was suddenly reminded of reality. Shaking his head, he left noiselessly, the look of an awakened sleepwalker on his face.
"Where have you been?!" Tyene was fuming. "Oh. My. Gods. Did you sneak off to dance at night?!"
Sansa, still in her dancing leotard, legwarmers, and hoodie, was covered in sweat, but her eyes were glowing.
"Yes, I have."
"Are you out of your mind?!"
Sansa, too content to pout, smiled happily.
"Apparently not. I've danced for three hours, and I feel great. Better than great, actually: I feel reborn."
Tyene raised an eyebrow at her skeptically.
"It's true," Sansa said, more at peace than Tyene had seen her in weeks. "I've danced for three hours without pause, I feel great. I am going to class tomorrow, and I don't care what they say to me — I'm going to dance."
Sansa hugged Tyene in passing and headed to the shower. She felt strong. She felt bold.
The next day, there were no masterclasses, just the regular training sessions. Sansa walked in, ready for a fight and was stunned to find that no one tried to prevent her from practicing. Despite her brave words and her inspired dancing the day before, her body was still recovering. She decided to reign in her eagerness and, since she had a day worth of training, replaced the night practice with a nice long bath. Another reason for her caution was that on the morrow she had a masterclass with Ellaria, and she wanted to look as fresh as she could in hopes of convincing her unbendable instructor to let her rejoin the class. A part of her, which was conscious of a change in the way she danced and the way she felt when moving, wondered if she could do better in Ellaria's class now.
Ellaria was already in her studio by the time Tyene and Sansa arrived.
"I heard that you were practicing!" the older woman said by way of greeting. "I thought Tyrion had that under control."
"Guess he decided it was all right," ventured Sansa.
"Well, I certainly haven't decided that," Ellaria stated.
Before Sansa could begin to argue, the atmosphere in the room had somehow shifted. Turning, she saw Jaime Lannister, who bore a resemblance to a self-assured lion, walk into the studio.
"I think, Ellaria, you're taking it too far. She's made it through my masterclass. She can certainly handle yours," he spoke with playful condescension.
"I'll thank you to mind your own business and never to attempt to mandate what I do in my studio again!" Ellaria bit back with venom. "She needs a break."
"And she's had it. Four days is more than enough," he answered, unperturbed by her acrimony. "Besides," he added, "she's been training yesterday and looks fine to me."
"The regular training sessions only last an hour with twenty- and forty-minute breaks between them. This masterclass lasts three hours. She's not ready for it."
Jaime sounded annoyed:
"Ellaria, when I hired you into this company, I don't remember seeing a degree in medicine on your CV. Did I miss it, or have you acquired one in the time you've been with us?"
"I don't need to be a certified maester to know her body will give out if she practices without stopping for three hours!"
Jaime smiled in a sly, triumphant way.
"She's already done it," he said calmly.
"What?"
"She's danced for three hours the night before yesterday and was feeling well enough to attend class the day after."
Wait! He knew I would practice at night, but how does he know for how long I've danced?!
"I still think she should not have done it and is not ready to resume her full schedule. I'm doing this for her own good."
Jaime's smile was unsettling — even for Ellaria, Sansa suspected. She herself was glad not to be at the receiving end of it.
"Her own good?" Jaime asked, a quiet challenge in his voice. "Very well, then. If you don't allow Sansa to resume her normal schedule, your masterclass included, I will offer her an additional masterclass. Taught by myself," he ended with a smirk that said he knew he had Ellaria just where he wanted her.
Sansa was not sure if she hoped Ellaria would acquiesce or refuse. But when the woman said, "Fine, Lannister," signaling to Sansa to get onto the dance floor, the girl could not help feeling a pang of disappointment.
"Pass the message along to your husband and Margery," Jaime said before walking out the door. Sansa followed his retreating form with a mixture of gratitude and regret.
Having agreed to Sansa's participation, Ellaria would not go easier on her than she had in the past. Despite Sansa's high hopes, in the first hour of the class, she kept hearing the same old "you're too stiff," "relax that back, Sansa!"
During the break, Ellaria approached her.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, making a poor attempt at hiding her concern. Sansa placed a hand on her forearm, smiling with all her heart.
"I feel great! I'm all right, truly. Thank you."
"Here's what I want you to do, then. Try to remember what you were thinking when you were dancing with Jaime the other night. I don't know what it was, but you do. Look for it, find it, use it. Got it?"
Sansa nodded.
The only thing that had been different was Jaime's presence. She remembered dancing two days ago when she was imagining his eyes. Maybe that was the secret? Jaime's eyes?
"All right, everyone!" Ellaria called. "Let's do it again!"
Sansa shut off the world surrounding her, calling up the memories. The music entered her bloodstream and filled every cell of her being. Her motions grew certain; her body's stiffness fell away.
"Yes!" came from somewhere far away. "That's it, Sansa, hold it. Yes! Faster! Arms a little higher! Loose that tension in the hips! Good! Spin, spin, spin, and… jump! Yes! Again! One, two, three — move! Beautiful!"
When the music was cut off, Sansa returned from her daze to find Ellaria's triumphant eyes on her. The woman looked practically bloodthirsty as she smiled with pride.
"Finally!" she said. "Fire. Again!"
It was the first class during which Ellaria had been fully satisfied with her performance. It would not be the last.
Sansa was only too happy to resume her full daily schedule. No matter how much strength she felt in the morning, however, by evening she was too tired to drag herself out of bed, so her nightly practice would have to wait another week. It was not all bad, however. The same magic that had worked in Ellaria's class helped her in Oberyn's studio as well.
"I was promised a great deal by my wife," he said to her when she entered his studio the week after Ellaria's class. "I expect she did no lie to me? What say you, Sparkle?"
"I'll try," Sansa answered with a small smile. Oberyn nodded.
He gave them the starting and finishing points for improvisation. Sansa closed her eyes and breathed in before her turn. She did not worry about pausing before beginning. The music would keep playing: in Oberyn's class, it never stopped and never repeated. No one rushed her. She imagined herself in the darkness of the studio, dreaming of green eyes as she moved. She released her breath as her unseeing eyes opened. She started, allowing the music to overtake her completely, laying on its altar the sacrifice of her embarrassment and her Northern understanding of propriety. She danced the way the music ordered her as it chanted seductively in her ear. She had never dared adding more than two or three steps to Oberyn's two before, but that day, she had rebelled against her own limits. She danced like she did when no one saw her. She did not count the steps, seeing an uninterrupted sequence emerge in her mind as it had on so many occasions in the comfort of her accepting solitude. When she ended on the pas Oberyn had outlined, she looked up at her instructor.
Oberyn had a ridiculous expression on his face. Bewilderment did not even begin to describe it. It took him a few moments to overcome his astonishment. He blinked a couple of times, then he laughed. Heartily, merrily.
He cut off his laugh as suddenly as he had started guffawing, and fixed Sansa with deadly serious eyes. She shifted on her feet uncomfortably.
"Who are you and what did you do to Sansa Stark?"
"What?" she asked, confused by his reactions. He laughed again.
"Well, Sparkle. It appears I'll have to come up with another nickname for you. Ladies and gentlemen, behold fire! Hahahaha! Yes! Great! Whatever drugs you're taking, Sansa, keep taking them! Hahaha! Next!"
Sansa was finishing her lunch alone in a pleasant little restaurant close by the Lannister Ballet Company building. Tyene had rushed off somewhere, with a conspiratorial, up-to-no-good air; Sansa only hoped she was not seeing Bronn again — the man seemed like a total asshole to her.
She was joined by Tyrion and Margery.
"Ellaria and Oberyn are amazed by your progress, Sansa — congratulations," said Margery warmly.
"Thank you. I'm just glad to be dancing again. I look forward to your class next week," Sansa replied and Margery smiled at her.
"I hope you don't hold a grudge against me, Sparkle," Tyrion winked at her as he bit into his sandwich. She smiled.
"I don't. Especially since you did tell my instructors from the regular training sessions to let me practice."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, even before your brother had asked Ellaria to let me return to class, my daily instructors had allowed me to dance."
"I'm afraid I had nothing to do with that," Tyrion stated simply. "I just learned that you were training again on the day you made your triumphant comeback in Ellaria's class and decided to let the sleeping wolves lie."
Margery looked sly.
"I bet it was Jaime's doing," she said.
"Probably," Tyrion agreed.
Before Sansa could ask any questions, they were approached by a rather plump man, bald, whose yellow suit and red tie, though elegant, struck a discordant note with his serious face and intelligent eyes.
"Ah, Varys, friend, good to see you!" Tyrion exclaimed. The men shook hands.
"Likewise, Tyrion, likewise. Lady Margery, you look beautiful as always. But who is this lovely young lady?" he asked, looking at Sansa with interest.
"This is Sansa Stark," Margery introduced them. "Sansa, this is Varys, an old friend of Tyrion. He knows everyone's darkest secrets."
"You flatter me, my dear, truly, you do. I'm simply a good listener. But what is a Northern wolf doing so far in the South?"
"I'm one of the new dancers in the Lannister Ballet Company," she explained.
"How exciting!" Varys exclaimed. "And how long have you remained incognito in King's Landing?"
"I do not hide my identity from anyone," Sansa protested with a confused smile as she watched the strange man.
"You must lead a rather private existence if I haven't known you were here."
"Guilty as charged," she admitted.
"Curious," he mumbled to himself pensively.
"Well, ladies, if you'll excuse us," Tyrion said as he wolfed down the last of his sandwich and got up. "Varys and I have some talking to do about the next fundraiser. Sansa, I'll see you around." He turned to Margery, "And I'll see you later tonight. Still remember we're going to the new restaurant Oberyn suggested?"
"I wouldn't miss it," she smiled at him. They kissed, and the men left.
Margery turned to her:
"Did you know there was a restaurant in the city where Dornish singers performed each night?.."
Email from Varys to Mr. Lannister:
Dear Sir,
I have made a curious discovery today, which may be of interest to you. Did you know that Sansa Stark, Eddard Stark's eldest daughter, has recently joined the Lannister Ballet Company? She is reputed to be a promising young dancer.
Yours etc.,
Varys
