Opposites Attract Chapter 11: The Phantom and the Songbird, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

A/N: Hey, everyone. Sorry for another long delay. I'd like to say it won't happen after this, but that is not a guarantee I can make. As for this chapter...well, first off, it's based on The Phantom of the Opera, in honor of its slightly belated 30th Anniversary. And by "based on" I mean that it draws from the musical, the original novel, and the 2004 movie. It's primarily based on the musical because that is my preferred version of the story (I got to see it live for the first time on West End this summer and it was the most incredible experience of my life. Seriously. I cried so hard. It was perfect.) But yeah, anyway, because I prefer the musical, but...it's a musical...the music itself will appear primarily as dialogue and in some of the narration. I didn't want to bog all this down with a bunch of singing, because it doesn't translate well to a story. That being said, there is some singing, where an opera is actually being performed, or when the lovely Phantom is doing his hypnotic jazz. Cause who can't fall for that voice. Ugh. So yeah, all of that. Most of the dialogue is just the lyrics, adapted slightly to sound less rhymey and musical, with the exception of parts of both Notes and Masquerade cause the rhythm of those songs fit well with their respective tones. And I made "Carlotta" and "Piangi" French, because I know French and not Italian. Also, I've ended it the way I wish it really ended, and made changes so that I could pull that ending off somewhat realistically at least, so just be ready for some differences, primarily with our two main gents and toward the end of where act 1 is and into act 2. In addition, keep in mind that though I adapted to ASOIAF characters, the relationships between the characters in canon are not the same here. So assume no relation unless otherwise stated. To try and cut down on that I just used ASOIAF first names with canon last names from the book/musical for the people who would've caused problems.

I'm done now so go ahead and just read and I hope you like it. Phantom is really special to me and it's rather fortuitous that my OTP fits it so well. It was only a matter of time before I did this.

Also, thanks to magnus374 and Mari88 for reviewing ch. 10.

Disclaimer: The original story belongs to Gaston Leroux, the musical adaptation (and thus parts of the dialogue and narration) to Andrew Lloyd Webber, and the 2004 film to Lloyd Webber, Joel Schumacher, and Warner Bros. Studios. And A Song of Ice and Fire is George R. R. Martin's.

Rating: M for language, violence, murder, abuse, suggestive content, Sandor being creepy, etc. Mostly the same reasons as the story always would be.

Perros-Guirec, 1915

The cemetery in Perros was quiet and still, its tombstones and mausoleums capped with a light dusting of snow and hazy in the grey morning light.

A man stood alone at its far edge, his gaze trained on two of the graves, side by side. One was that of Eddard Stark, a once famous violinist taken too early from the world. The other, his daughter. Once, she had been no more than a chorus girl, until the strange events that spread her name throughout the whole of France.

Sansa Stark, no longer a Stark by the name on the epitaph, the rising star of the Opéra Populaire, and the only one who had ever known the complete truth of that strange year, and the mysterious affair of the Phantom of the Opera...

Paris, 1881

"Attention! Attention, please!"

Robert Baratheon stepped to the center of the stage, arms outstretched, and the rehearsal came to a faltering stop.

"I have an announcement to make!" he continued, ignoring the glare from Madame Tyrell as her chorus girls were interrupted mid-pirouette. There were two men at his side, one nearly as pretty as the disgruntled prima donna center-stage, and both in gilded clothing that marked their status.

"As some of you know," Robert continued. "There has been a rumor regarding my retirement..." He looked about and deflated slightly when nobody gave any indication of surprise or disappointment. Without further pretense, he gestured toward the men beside him. "These are Messieurs Loras André and Renly Firmin, the two gentlemen who now own the Opéra Populaire."

Monsieur Baratheon seemed somewhat mollified by the few murmurs that followed his statement, and the latter of the two new managers stepped forward and gave a brief, polite bow. "And we in kind are deeply honored to introduce our new patron, the Vicomte Lannister."

The handsome young man who stood behind them stepped forward at the sound of his name and bestowed the cast with a brilliant smile. "I am beyond honored to support the arts, not least of all the magnificent Opéra Populaire."

The Opera's members looked appropriately flattered by his words, but their impatience at being interrupted was evident nonetheless and so the Vicomte withdrew with a tip of his hat.

"I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal. I will be here this evening to watch the performance." He bowed toward the director and made his exit alongside the retiring owner. "My apologies, Monsieur."

The slamming of the door was followed by another long silence as the gathered performers looked toward their new managers, their inexperience in the arts written plainly in the mixture of confusion and curiosity on their features as they took in the elaborate set before them.

It was Monsieur Loras who spoke first, his gaze lighting on the exasperated prima donna and a handsome smile spreading across his face.

"Madame Cersei, I have heard tell of your gifts all the way from London. I could not imagine my fortune at having the honor to manage the very theater where you sing."

The haughty disdain faded from her painted features and was replaced by the inflated pride for which she was known. "You flatter me, Monsieur," she replied with fake modesty, preening herself beneath his glowing praise.

"Perhaps you would do us the honor of letting us hear you sing?" he suggested in a further attempt to quell her annoyance at the rehearsal's interruption. His partner made to protest, but Cersei gave him no chance, strutting to the center of the stage and waving away the dancers who were idling in her spotlight.

"Out of my way," she commanded, rather unceremoniously pushing a young woman out of her way and then snapping her fingers. "Maestro?" The orchestra leapt to their places at a pointed glare from the soprano and as they began to play, she broke into the aria of Hannibal's third act.

"Think of me, think of me fondly,
When we've said goodbye.
Remember me, once in a while,
Please promise me you'll try.

"When you find, that once again, you long,
To take your heart back—"

Cersei's warbling soprano was swiftly cut off by the crashing of the set piece behind her, nearly falling upon her and sending the chorus skittering with murmurs on their lips.

"The Phantom..." The words spread through their midst in echoing whispers. "He's here! It's the ghost!"

Loras and Renly exchanged a glance at the mention of the opera ghost, about whom Monsieur Baratheon had warned them. They had laughed him away despite the solemnity of his advice and Loras scowled as the superstition made itself known once again.

"Good heavens, will you show a little courtesy?"

He moved to the side of the fallen soprano and his partner gave a stern look to the still whispering chorus girls. "Mademoiselles, please!"

They quieted at the command, though still shifted restlessly and turned their eyes to the rafters as if the famous ghost himself were lurking about above the stage, overseeing the rehearsal and evaluating the Opera's newest additions. Safely hidden, he ignored their searching stares, eyes fixed on a young woman at the edge of the stage.

"These things do happen," Loras soothed, but Cersei pushed him away abruptly and accepted the offered hand of her lover, the opera's star tenor, Jaime Lyon.

"Oui! 'These things do happen!'" She cried in outrage, smoothing the bountiful skirt of her costume and fixing a glare at the still kneeling Loras. "Well, until these things stop happening...this thing does not happen!"

She stormed from the stage with Jaime on her heels, leaving the new managers to helplessly watch her go.

"What are we going to do?" Renly murmured, anxious at the prospect of having to cancel a performance the very night of their arrival.

"Sansa Stark can sing it, Monsieur."

The voice came from the gathered dancers, a pretty young girl by the name of Margaery, who had earned her place on stage by the merit of moderate talent and her mother's position as choreographer.

"A chorus girl?" Renly asked incredulously, eyeing the young woman in mention. She blushed beneath his scrutiny, and the sharp stare of the man who watched her from the darkness.

"Let her sing for you, Messieurs," Madame Tyrell said in her defense. "She has been well taught."

When they conceded, Sansa stepped forward, her hands folded timidly before her as she stepped into the spotlight which had for five long years belonged to Cersei, and no one else. At the urging of the orchestra she began to sing. Within the very first notes, the truth of Madame Tyrell's claim was revealed, and the events that would become a part of the Opera's infamous history began to unfold.

"Think of me, think of me fondly..."

Viscount Joffrey Lannister watched from his box with nothing short of awe as the opera played out before him. The managers had told him of Cersei's departure, and of her last minute replacement by a young chorus girl, at the recommendation of the choreographer. They had not told him the name of this new soprano, but as he watched her on the stage before him, it mattered not.

She was Sansa Stark. Quite a different woman from the shy and gawkish girl he had known as a child, but he knew it to be her. Once, he had fancied himself in love with the girl he had known and as he saw her once more, the pounding of his heart suggested that he might still, even so many years later. No woman had pleased him long and he had blamed his fickle heart on old allegiances to the sweetheart of his bygone childhood.

She had become a beauty without parallel and the voice he heard onstage was not that of any mere mortal, but surely of an angel from the heavens themselves. Cersei was talented, no doubt, but where the prima donna's soprano warbled with bravado, Sansa's was clear and bright. Every eye in the theater was trained on her as she sang and when the aria finished with a flourish, the audience rose to their feet, drowning the music in thunderous applause.

When the curtain fell, she was rushed from the stage and Joffrey moved to follow. She may not remember him, but that was of no matter. Many a young woman had fallen to his charms and he was sure she would prove no different. This time, however, he would not let her go.

"Bravi, bravi, bravissimi..."

The voice that echoed from the shadows was interrupted by Margaery's arrival in Sansa's dressing room, her eyes bright with pride. "Where in the world have you been hiding?" she teased, smiling when Sansa avoided her gaze and giggling in excitement. "I heard that the new patron is anxious to see you."

Sansa smiled nervously at the insinuation and Margaery sighed dreamily. "He's so handsome. If only I had a voice like yours..." When Sansa raised an eyebrow, her friend returned to her praise. "Really, you were perfect!"

Sansa accepted her words with a slight smile, still lost in her own thoughts, and Margaery eyed her for a moment before speaking again, her hands on her hips. "Tell me true...who is this mysterious tutor mother spoke of?"

The new star soprano hesitated for a long moment and looked about her dressing room before speaking softly. "My father used to tell me stories of an angel, and as a child I would dream he'd appear. Now..." Her gaze fell to her reflection in the mirror before her. "Now as I sing, I can sense him. Margaery, I know that he's here!"

At Margaery's incredulous gaze, she continued hastily, rising and taking her friend's hands with her own. "Here, in this room, he calls to me...softly. He's here, I know it: somewhere inside, hiding." Her eyes flitted about and she spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "Somehow, I know he's always with me," Her gaze grew distant and her tone was one of reverence. "He...my unseen genius."

Margaery looked to her friend in concern. "Sansa, you must have been dreaming. Stories like this can't come true." Sansa moved to shake her head, but she continued on, firmly. "Sansa, you're talking in riddles. This isn't like you."

"Angel of Music," Sansa all but moaned, her eyes lighting on every shadow and corner of the room with a feverish gleam. "Guide and guardian…hide no longer," she pleaded, though there came no reply. "He's with me even now," she whispered, trying in vain to prove herself true. She had heard his voice in her mind and though he would not reveal himself, she could sense his presence.

"Your hands are cold," Margaery urged in growing distress, holding them tighter with her own. "Your face, Sansa, it's white! Are you feeling well?"

She looked to her friend, and her voice was quiet when she spoke again, breaking as her eyes welled with tears. "It frightens me..."

Smiling softly, Margaery drew her close and ran a soothing hand over her hair. "Don't be frightened. I'm here with you. It's only us, and no one else...There is no Angel of Music."

"A tour de force!" Loras crooned, well into a bottle of champagne. "There's no other way to describe it!"

"What a relief," Renly agreed, supporting his unsteady partner as they walked alongside their patron. "And not a single refund!"

He nodded emphatically and took another drink from the bottle. "My friends, I think we've made quite the discovery in Miss Stark!"

The more sober of the managers regarded the growing smile on Joffrey's handsome features and gestured knowingly toward a short hallway on their right. "Here you are, Monsieur le Vicomte. The dressing room of young Mademoiselle Stark."

Joffrey smiled appreciatively and took an unopened bottle of champagne from Loras' other hand. "Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind, this is a visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied."

Renly nodded, smirking slightly. "As you wish, Monsieur..."

They retreated back the way they had come, Renly's arm finding its way easily around Loras' waist, and Joffrey took a deep breath before striding purposefully toward the door at the hallway's end. It opened as he approached and one of the chorus girls hurried out, apologizing softly as she brushed past him. He had not noticed her onstage, so entranced had he been by Sansa's voice, but she was quite pretty. Not as naturally beautiful as her friend, but enhanced greatly by the makeup of her role. Once, he might have followed her into the darkened corridors behind the stage, but tonight, he had eyes only for Sansa Stark.

He watched her go for a moment before returning his thoughts to the woman before him. She was seated at her vanity when he opened the door, amidst a veritable deluge of roses, and he grinned at her look of surprise.

"Sansa Stark, where is your scarf?"

Her eyes held confusion and even a hint of fear and she drew her dressing gown tightly about her figure as she stood. "Monsieur?"

"You can't have lost it," Joffrey continued, adding a bountiful bouquet of his own. "After all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin..."

A bright smile broke through her guarded expression and she laughed, a beautiful and musical sound. "Because you had run into the sea to fetch my scarf! Oh, Joffrey, it is you!"

She ran into his open arms, laughing gaily, and then drew away abruptly, a strange expression flashing across her features. A soft smile returned just as swiftly and she sat once again at her dressing table.

"Little Lotte..." Joffrey sang softly, smiling as he kneeled before her. "Let her mind wander..."

"You remember that too?" Sansa asked with a sweet smile.

He nodded and continued, his eyes roaming from the stockings on her feet to the gentle glow of her smiling features, lingering a moment on the silhouette of her corset. "Little Lotte thought: am I fonder of dolls..."

"Or of goblins, of shoes..."

Sansa laughed and continued on her own as he stopped to open the bottle of champagne. "Or of riddles...of frocks..."

"Those picnics in the attic?" Joffrey recalled, pouring a glass for them both and chuckling. "Or of chocolates...?"

"And father playing the violin," Sansa said wistfully.

"As we read to each other dark stories of the North..."

"No, what I love best, Lotte said," Sansa continued in her soft, sweet, soprano, finishing the tale her father had so often told them as children. "Is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."

Joffrey chuckled again and took a drink from his glass, urging her to do the same. She obeyed respectfully but only sipped it, her expression growing thoughtful and grave. He took her silence as opportunity to look fully at her, as he hadn't been able to from his box in the theater. Womanhood had been kind to her, and the curves of her breasts and hips swelled gently beneath the thin fabric of her gown. He would take her to dinner, for the sake of propriety, before reuniting with her fully, as they had never understood in their childhood.

He was reaching a hand to her waist when she spoke suddenly, her eyes almost feverish in their brightness. "Father always said, 'when I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' Well, father is dead, Joffrey, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music!"

Joffrey laughed heartily, though it was annoyance that tainted his gaze. He had brought up such memories of their childhood to help her remember him, but they were children no more, and he had no interest in continuing the playful stories of their youth. They were grown now and he wished to know her as a man should know a woman.

"No doubt," he jested, humoring her. "And now we'll go to supper!"

He moved to stand, but Sansa gripped his hands, suddenly and urgently. "No, Joffrey, the Angel of Music is very strict."

"I shan't keep you up late," he answered, rising to his feet and pulling her to hers.

"No, Joffrey," she protested, trying to break his hold on her wrists. He gripped her firmly and tried to hide a sneer as she struggled against him. Forcefully, he pulled her against his chest, and he felt her stiffen as he pressed his lips firmly to hers. Two pairs of eyes regarded him as he pulled away, one wide with fear, the other narrowed in jealous resentment.

"Lovely as this is...you must change," he commanded, rubbing the thin fabric of her gown between his fingers and brushing his knuckles against the soft swell of her breast beneath. Perhaps if he took her from the theater her fancies would leave her and she would come to her senses. "I must get my hat."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held a finger to her lips, still moist from the touch of his own. "Two minutes..." His eyes sparkled playfully and he withdrew to the door. "Little Lotte."

He hurried away, shutting the door behind him, and Sansa rushed to it in a panic. "Joffrey!" When the footsteps beyond the door continued their retreat, she sank hopelessly to her chair once more. "Things have changed, Joffrey." Her hand traveled to rub the ache from her wrist. And so, it seemed, had he.

Her gaze turned to the mirror and she met the vision of her own eyes, worried and troubled. It was a mere moment later that he came to her, as she knew he would, his voice harsh and filled with anger.

"Insolent boy!" he yelled. "Basking in your glory." He swore fiercely. "Ignorant fool, sharing in my triumph."

Sansa stood swiftly and looked about, wringing her hands nervously. "Angel, I hear you. Please, forgive me." His silence added to her desperation and she pleaded with the voice, the voice of her angel. "Enter at last, master..."

When he responded, the ire had faded from his tone and she was surprised to hear it change so swiftly, once stern, then soft and not ungentle. "Very well. Perhaps it is time you should know me, and see why I must hide in the shadows. Look at your face in the mirror—I am there inside."

Her gaze fell once more to her reflection, and as she stared, the mirror stretched and bent before her, revealing a dark passageway and at its edge, mere feet from where she stood, a man. He was tall and broad, imposing in a dark suit and a white mask that obscured the left half of his features.

"Angel of Music..." she breathed, her heart caught in her throat. Her hand reached forward, but came to rest on the pane of glass still between them. "Hide no longer," she begged of the figure. "Come to me."

Her words were met with unfailing obedience and he stepped forward, one hand outstretched, his voice deep and rich as it called to her. "I am your Angel... Come to me: Angel of Music."

There was a pounding at the door, but Sansa heard nothing, so enthralled was she by the powerful tones of the voice she had grown to know so well.

"Whose voice is that?" came Joffrey's angry cry. "Who is that in there?"

A smirk curled beneath the edge of the mask and the phantom before her reached for her hands, a thrill passing through him as he touched her at long last.

"Come to me..." he urged, and ever his servant, she complied, joining him in the darkness as her dressing room faded behind her, the cry from behind unheard and unheeded.

"Sansa! Sansa!"

They walked down, down winding stairs and darkened passages, down further and further into the depths beneath the opera house, down, for what felt like forever.

She stumbled through the blackness as he pulled her after him, glancing over her shoulder though she could see nothing but the man before her. She followed him deeper and deeper and her mind whirled with strange revelations.

This was her angel: this ghost, this phantom. She was as much his mask to the world as the cloth that hid his face, and she knew that when she sang, it was the powerful culmination of his spirit and her voice that burst from her throat.

He led her to the edge of a lake, where a boat awaited them and helped her aboard, her hand in his as he pushed them from the dock.

In sleep he had sang to her, and in her dreams he had come. She had thought them mere fantasies, but she knew the voice which now called to her and spoke her name. It felt as though she was dreaming again as they traveled ever onward, and though she knew it was a waking moment, she fell deep beneath the strength of his power over her.

His childhood had not been kind to him, leaving him an outcast and his face a monstrous ruin. But, perhaps in recompense for the curse of his mask, he had been given the gift of his voice. It was the voice of an angel, her Angel of Music, and it held in its smooth timbre the power to enchant even the strongest of wills.

"Sing, my little songbird," he commanded, his dark eyes filled with desire as he regarded her.

Her voice rose in the darkness to obey him, clear and strong as it filled the night.

"Sing..." There was desperation in his voice as she continued the chord, her voice climbing higher with each further supplication.

A glimmer appeared in the distance, shimmering strangely over the black waves that surrounded them. Candles rose to meet them as they approached the other shore, their flames dancing to the tune of her entrancing song.

"Sing for me!"

Her voice reached heights she did not believe were possible and as he stepped ashore to the realm he had claimed as his own he took her hand, his large, gloved one cold in her grip. As the final note pierced the air, he led her on, his arms opening in a grand gesture to the scene before them as he met her gaze with rapturous pleasure.

"Welcome. It is here and not on the stage above where sweet music reigns. This is the kingdom where all must pay homage to music." His gloved fingertips trailed across her lips as his voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "Music..."

Her strength left her as his hand caressed her cheek and he caught her with little effort, his arms encircling her waist as his lips fell to her ear.

"Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me. To serve me; to sing for my music..."

He breathed in the sweet air that surrounded her as he pulled her against his chest, his hands tightening reflexively on her hips as his mind was flooded with feverish ecstasy.

For a brief moment, she tensed, but as his voice slipped through the darkness, she abandoned her defenses and relaxed in his embrace.

"Nighttime sharpens...heightens each sensation...darkness stirs and wakes imagination..."

It was a song he had written for her, long ago, as he stood beyond her window and watched her dream. He didn't think he would ever sing it for her, but now she was here, in his arms, fulfilling the tamest of fantasies that had first brought the words to life.

Her gaze was clouded, dim even in the light of the candles that surrounded them. Her mind was not her own as she was pulled beneath the spell of his song, a gentle, rich baritone against her flushed skin.

He held her tightly, reveling in the feel of her skin against his. He knew not how long she would remain beneath his influence, and he could do nothing more than savor each sensation while it lasted. In all the time he had watched her and taught her, he had loved her from afar, but now, she was there with him at last. Perhaps here, in the darkness, she could love him: her Angel of Music.

Touch me, he begged. "Trust me," he murmured.

She sighed as he sang against the soft curve of her neck, professing his love to her in the only way he knew how.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams...purge your thoughts of the life you knew before."

Her pulse fluttered delicately beneath the uneven touch of his lips, tremulous and tender, and for a moment he allowed himself to imagine loving her in the way he most desired. Her thin dressing gown left little unrevealed to his gaze and he ghosted his hands up from the swell of her hips, to the curve of her breast, hidden only beneath her corset.

"Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar...And you'll live as you've never lived before."

He wondered if she would resist were he to take her there in the darkness, candlelight flickering to illuminate skin that shone with sweat. One glance at the hazy blue of her eyes was his answer and he stopped his hands from their descent. She was deep within the trance of his voice and he would not have her at long last if it was only her body that was his, and not her soul.

"Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the world you knew before...Let your soul take you where you long to be! Only then...can you belong to me..."

Slowly, he released her from his embrace, leading her to the mirror against the farthest wall. Her eyes met his in their reflection and he quelled the sudden loathing that rose in his chest at the sight of her beauty against the harsh indifference of his mask.

His voice quavered as he whispered in her ear and she fainted in his arms as his words grew rough with the tone of his spoken rasp.

"You alone can make my song take flight. Help me make the music of the...night..."

Sansa woke slowly, gradually, her mind foggy and her memories cast in darkness. Beside her was a papier-mâché music box in the shape of a barrel organ, with the figure of a monkey sat upon it, its tiny hands crashing together a pair of cymbals beneath the sleeves of its ornate Persian robes. It played an unfamiliar tune and she looked at her surroundings in confusion, sitting up as strange images began to form before her eyes.

She remembered there was mist. Swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake... There were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat...and in the boat there was...a man...

He was there before her when she turned her head, his back to her as he played at an impressive organ, sheets of music strewn haphazardly about him.

Her mind struggled to piece together the sensations she remembered: her angel singing to her in the darkness of this strange land beneath the theater. Who was that shape in the shadows? She rose from the bed, approaching him quietly on stockinged feet. Whose is that face in the mask...?

Slowly, she raised her hand and in one fluid movement, she tore it from his face. The organ gave a single discordant protest as its master jerked at her touch, his voice rising in swift and sudden fury.

"Damn you!" he swore, hands flying to cover what he hid behind the mask. He whirled toward her, with eyes dark in anger. "Curse you! You little demon!"

When she moved to back away, he tore his hands away and gripped her by her shoulders, forcing her to stare into the grotesque burns that stretched across the left half of his face, scars that wept in the candlelight, glimmering frightfully.

"Is this what you wanted to see?"

Eyes filling with tears, Sansa backed away from him in horror, but he advanced with every step, looming over her as she fought to escape the wrath of his dark stare.

"Stranger than you dreamt it?" he taunted her cruelly, forcing her to look away from the snarl that twisted his ruined face. His hand reached out to grip her chin and he forced her gaze to return to his, hissing through clenched teeth. "Can you even bear to look?"

She closed her eyes to escape his fury, and after a moment, she felt a cold hand reach up to brush the tear from her cheek. Just as swiftly as it had appeared, his anger was gone, replaced with something close to desperation that laced the rasp of his words.

"Sansa..." His features swam before her as she looked up at him through her tears and he met her gaze with a hope that was almost cruel in its sincerity. "Fear can turn to love...you'll learn to see. You'll find the man behind the monster." His ruined lip curled in disgust and he spat in anger, eyes dark. "This repulsive carcass I must hide."

Her lip trembled and he tore himself from her, his voice fading to a whisper as his hands returned to cover his scars. "Oh, Sansa..."

For a long moment, she watched him. His broad shoulders were taut with tension as he waited in anticipation for her to curse him as so many others had. But beyond that, she could see his shuddered breath, ragged and broken as he fought to suppress the festering sorrow that rose in his chest. She could see the empty wine bottles scattered over the surfaces of his lair not covered in music, and she wondered if it was his anger that the drink inspired, or the hateful self-loathing that she saw now.

Slowly, she approached him once more and when he turned to face her, she silently extended her hand. His gaze fell to the scrap of cloth that lie between them and when she met his gaze with unflinching resolve, he took it, hastily replacing it and smoothing his long hair from his forehead to hide what the mask could not.

"Come, we must return," he said brusquely, boots clicking on the floor as he strode toward the water's edge. He turned to gesture for her to follow, his expression one of tired exasperation. "Those damned fools who run my theater will be missing you."

As rumors concerning Sansa's disappearance continued to swirl about, fanciful stories spread like wildfire, all concerning the mysterious ghost that lurked within the theater, the phantom who stalked its halls and watched from the rafters.

The stage manager, Bronn, had claimed to see him once, in the black halls beneath the stage. The chorus girls circled around him to hear his tale, eyes wide as he described the monstrous creature that haunted the Opéra Populaire.

"Like yellow parchment is his skin..." he began, dragging a hand across the side of his face that hid behind the mask. "A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew..." He reached out to pinch the nose of one of the youngest girls and she squirmed away, earning nervous giggles from the others.

"You must always be on your guard," he warned them, grabbing Margaery by the arm and whirling her around to wrap his hands about her throat. "Or he will catch you with his magical lasso!"

Margaery feigned a broken neck and the girls let out a cry at the thought of it, one falling faint as her fellow dancers rushed to catch her.

From the shadows, Olenna Tyrell appeared, leveling a harsh stare at her daughter and the stage manager both. "Silence is wise, Monsieur," she warned, leaning close. "Hold your tongue, or he will burn you with the heat of his eyes…"

Margaery giggled at the thought, but there was no laughter in her mother's gaze, and for a moment, she thought she caught a flash of white around the corner, and the hasty sweep of a deep black cape.

Renly Firmin stood at the edge of his desk with a hefty stack of newspapers, his new opera house featured prominently on the front page of each.

"'Mystery after gala night'," he read. "'Mystery of sopranos flight!'. '''Mystified,' baffled Sûreté say 'We suspect foul play!'" He sighed heavily and threw them down as he took a seat, muttering under his breath. "First Cersei, now Sansa."

He rubbed at his aching temples and sighed again as he looked at the box office reports. Soprano or not, the seats still sold. Half his cast had disappeared but…the crowd still cheered! He scoffed and threw his hands in the air in disbelief. "Opera! To hell with Gluck and Handel; it's a scandal that'll pack them in the aisles."

His complaint was met with the sound of hurried footsteps and Loras stormed into the room with an exasperated cry. "Renly, will they all walk out? This is damnable!"

Renly extended a placating hand. "Loras, please don't shout. It's free publicity, and the take is vast."

His partner laughed hysterically and thrust a finger toward the glaring headlines that adorned his desk. "But we have no cast!"

"Loras," he soothed. "Have you seen the queue?"

The younger man sighed and shook his head, raising a balled fist to reveal a crumpled note within. When Renly cocked an eyebrow, he began to read it, his tone one of mocking sarcasm.

"'Dear André, what a charming gala! Miss Stark enjoyed a great success. We were hardly bereft when Cersei left; otherwise, the chorus was entrancing but the dancing was a lamentable mess.'"

Renly frowned as Loras tossed the note onto his desk with disdain and rummaged about in a drawer until he found the one he had been sent, written in the same hand.

"'Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid. Send it care of the Ghost, by return of post. P.T.O...No one likes a debtor so it's better if my orders are obeyed!'"

"Who would have the gall to send this?" Loras cried in outrage.

Renly shrugged wearily and examined them both in kind. "Someone with a puerile brain." He frowned again. "These are both signed "O.G.". Who the hell is he?"

They thought in silence for a moment, each reaching their conclusion at the same time with respective annoyance and disgust. "Opera ghost!"

"It's really not amusing," Loras huffed. "He's abusing our position."

Renly nodded in agreement and pointed to the letter he had received. "And in addition, he wants money." He sighed and threw both notes into the waste bin. "He is clearly quite insane."

Loras nodded emphatically in agreement and they turned their heads as the door slammed open to reveal a glowering Viscount Lannister.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

They exchanged a glance before Loras weakly tried to avoid the coming confrontation. "You mean Cersei?"

"I mean Miss Stark," Joffrey snarled, unamused by the deflection. "Where is she?"

"Well, how should we know?"

"I want an answer!" He withdrew a folded piece of parchment from his waistcoat and threw it onto Renly's lap. "I take it that you sent me this note?"

"What's all this nonsense?" he protested indignantly.

"We're in the dark," Loras added.

"Messieurs don't argue," Joffrey warned, pointing an accusing finger to the still folded note. "Isn't this the letter you wrote?"

Renly unfolded it and looked at his patron with a cocked brow. "And what is it that we're meant to have written?"

A pointed gesture was all his answer and he began to read it. "'Do not fear for Miss Stark, the Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again.'"

The shock on Loras' face was genuine and Joffrey softened slightly, confusion smoothing his features from their anger. "If you didn't write it, who did?"

The musing silence that followed was broken as the door slammed once again, and this time, it was Cersei who saw herself in, her face red with indignation.

"Ah, welcome back!" Loras cried, trying in vain to find any relief in the maddening scene that was playing out before them.

The displaced prima donna ignored him and looked to Joffrey, shaking a letter in his direction and earning a groan from the men at the sight of it.

"I got your letter!" she cried. "A letter which I rather resent!"

"I didn't send it!"

"As if he would," Renly interjected, eager to come to his patron's defense.

"You dare to tell me you didn't send this?"

Answering with a glare, Joffrey sighed and held out his hand to take it. "'Your days at the Opéra Populaire are numbered. Sansa Stark will be singing on your behalf again tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune should you attempt to take her place.'"

"Far too many notes for my taste," Renly complained, sinking into his chair once more. "And most of them about Sansa."

Loras nodded in agreement and crossed his arms over his chest. "It seems all we've heard since we arrived is Miss Stark's name."

As if on cue, Madame Tyrell appeared in the doorway, with Margaery at her side. "Miss Stark has returned."

"Where precisely is she now?" Renly asked wearily.

"I thought it best if she went home," she replied, to which Margaery added, "She needed rest."

Joffrey strode toward them, not blind to the flush that rose on Margaery's cheeks. "May I see her?"

"No, Monsieur," Madame Tyrell said quietly. "She will see no one."

"But will she sing?" Cersei cried. "Will she sing?!"

Madame Tyrell held out a hand. "Here, I have a note."

The four of them leapt forward with a simultaneous cry. "Let me see it!"

Renly arrived first and firmly presented his palm when Joffrey made to grab it away. The Viscount glowered but withdrew, turning his gaze to the dancer at the door while the manager began to read.

"'Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature...'" Loras cringed nervously. "'Detailing how my theater is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance.'" He looked about before continuing. "'Sansa Stark has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of Il Muto you will therefore cast Cersei as the pageboy and put Miss Stark in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Stark plays calls for charm and appeal; the role of the pageboy is silent, which makes my casting in a word: ideal. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.'" Renly looked up, his own expression now mirroring the despair of his partner's, and recited the rest in a wretched tone. "'I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant. O.G.'"

For a moment, silence reigned. It was the soprano's piercing voice that ended it. "Sansa!" she wailed. "It's all a ploy to help Sansa!"

"This is insane," Loras moaned.

"I know who sent this!" Cersei continued in an outrage. "The Vicomte, her lover!"

"Indeed!" Joffrey sneered derisively and gestured toward the hysterical soprano. "Can you believe this?"

"Madame," Renly approached her in an attempt at placation. "This is a joke, it changes nothing."

Loras joined his partner. "Madame, you are our star and always will be!"

Renly nodded in agreement. "This man is clearly mad, and we don't take orders." He exchanged a glance with his partner before continuing with a deep breath. "Miss Stark will be playing the pageboy, the silent role. You, Cersei, will be playing the lead."

She brushed them aside and lifted her nose, but looked pleased nonetheless. "It's useless trying to appease me."

"Your public needs you..." Renly begged.

"We need you too!" Loras groveled.

Cersei huffed haughtily. "Would you not rather have your precious little ingénue?"

The managers scoffed and replied in unison. "Madame, no. The world wants you..."

As they soothed and flattered their returning prima donna, Joffrey paced across the room. Sansa had spoken to him of an angel, and though he had not believed her, he had heard a man within her dressing room, calling himself the Angel of Music just as she had claimed.

He looked about the room, at the notes scattered across Firmin's desk and cluttering his waste basket. Could this be her Angel of Music?

"Think of your muse," Loras crooned from Cersei's side, to which Renly added triumphantly, "and of the queues round the theater!"

Margaery approached the Viscount's side, her thoughts following his own. "Sansa told me she heard the Angel of Music, and this man, the opera ghost…"

Joffrey met her gaze with confusion and growing anger. "Is he an angel or a madman?" In either case, he was a man who had surely procured a promise from Sansa which she had denied him, and Joffrey was not a man to be refused.

Madame Tyrell regarded the managers with disappointment, her expression one of worry and consternation. "This miscasting will invite damnation. You men are fools to have flouted his warnings."

"Surely, for her sake..." Joffrey began, but Renly gave a firm shake of his head.

"Surely, he'll strike back," Margaery attempted, but she too was rebuffed.

Renly and Loras withdrew as Cersei preened before their looking glass, and the former shook his head in exasperation and disbelief. "Who'd believe this? A diva, happy to relieve a chorus girl who's gone and slept with the patron!"

Loras nodded in agreement, his gaze on the Viscount. "Joffrey and the soubrette, entwined in love's duet!" He could see the headlines now. "Although he may demur, he must have been with her!"

"His game is over!" Joffrey vowed, clenching his hand into a fist. "And in Box Five, a new game will begin..." He turned to the dancer at his side and gripped her by the arm. "I must see her!"

Hesitating only a moment, Margaery nodded and they rushed from the room. Madame Tyrell followed close behind, and after continued assurances from the managers, Cersei retreated too, leaving Loras and Renly alone once more.

They had just released a collective sigh when the door slammed shut and a voice cried in anger from above them, around them, in the rafters and behind the walls.

"So!" it cried in fury. "It is to be war between us!" The managers went white and the voice rose in its anger. "If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination...will occur!"

Margaery took Joffrey to where Sansa lived with her benefactress Madame Mordane, lingering for a brief moment after he was let in before returning to the carriage and ordering the driver off to the opera house once more.

The old woman was gone when Joffrey arrived and he found Sansa alone in her bedroom, her face pale and wan. She smiled weakly when he entered, but at the cold expression on his face, it faded.

"Where have you been?" Joffrey asked harshly. "When I came to get you for dinner I heard a man in your room."

"It was the Angel!" Sansa cried defensively, drawing her gown tightly around her shivering frame. The ghost, the phantom, the man? She no longer knew. "I told you! I warned you!"

"The Angel of Music," Joffrey sneered. "That was a story your father told us and nothing more. Can you think of no better lie to hide your faithlessness?" He had believed her to be an honest woman, but it seemed her only intention had been to deceive him, and Joffrey Lannister did not relish being made a fool.

"It's not a lie!" she protested indignantly. "I was with the Angel. He came to me...sang for me..." Her gaze grew distant and Joffrey felt a hot anger burst within him.

"And did you sing for him?"

His tone was harsh and Sansa flushed at the insinuation. She remembered his touch, his strong hands on her body, ruined lips on her throat. Some faint memory seemed to recall the brush of those lips against her own, but she did not know if he had truly kissed her, or if it was nothing more than a delirious fantasy. Entranced, she had not resisted, and now, as her mind swam with sweet sensations, she longed for a touch as tender as his had been. Seeking it in the man before her, she placed a hand on his arm and the other on his cheek, imploring the boy of her youth to return.

Instead, he regarded her coldly. "Do you love him?"

Her answer was quick but there was hesitation in her gaze. "No." She feared him, his temper and the strength of his feelings for her. She had thought it would be easy to fall back in love with her childhood sweetheart, but she was quickly learning that Joffrey was no better than the Phantom, obsession keeping them both terrifyingly jealous.

Grabbing her around the waist, Joffrey pulled her into a hungry, possessive kiss, earning a gasp. She endured it for a moment, but when he pushed her toward her bed, she struggled in his grip.

"Joffrey, please!" He ignored her cry, nudging apart her thighs, until she repeated it, loudly and forcefully. "Let me go!"

He withdrew with a snarl and before she could flee, his hand connected sharply with her cheek. "You do love him don't you?" He growled, eyes dark with envy and rage. "You were supposed to be mine."

He had been with other women in the years of their parting, but the moment he saw her again, all thoughts of them had left. He had waited for her, in his heart if in nothing else, and this was how she repaid him? Falling under the spell of her Angel, whatever demon or madman he proved to be behind the sound of his voice. She had betrayed him, and he too could show her how it felt. He thought of a dark haired ballet dancer who would be willing where Sansa was not. Her loyalty to her friend might make her hesitate, but Joffrey had not been blind to her stares, nor she to his.

Sansa was crying when he looked back toward her, her hand to her swelling cheek, and he sneered down at her as he grabbed his hat and turned to the door.

"Don't worry. It's nothing the makeup won't hide."

Despite their warnings, rehearsals for Il Mutto ran as the managers had promised, with Cersei in the role of Countess and Sansa as Serafimo, the silent pageboy. Sansa did not mind being out of the spotlight, but she was nervous nonetheless. They did not know the Phantom as she did, did not understand the lengths to which he would go to share his gift through her voice.

She had finally heard the tale of the mysterious notes from Madame Tyrell, who thought she deserved to know. Margaery had been avoiding her and Sansa, lost in her own thoughts, had not guessed why. To assuage any possible suspicions, Joffrey had grown almost kind to her over the past few weeks, even apologizing for the way he had treated her, and for the bruises still fading on her wrists and cheek.

Believing that the Joffrey of her childhood fancies had returned at long last, she allowed herself to love him once more, and though he enjoyed her willing affection, she still disappeared and spoke of her Angel, and so his suspicion remained strong and his affair with Margaery continued in secret.

The Phantom, for his part, still came to her, his voice calling to her from beyond the looking glass. He saw the bruises that rose on Sansa's skin, and her blind affection for her abuser infuriated her tutor, far beyond mere jealousy. She pleaded with him to reveal himself once more, and eventually, as the opening night approached, he gave in to her desires.

Escaping an argument with Joffrey, she fled to her dressing room, in tears and with new marks to prove his distrust and anger. When she entered, her tutor was waiting for her, the illusion of the mirror cast aside as he regarded her.

Weakly, she attempted to gather her wits, but when her lip continued to tremble, he stepped toward her, his white glove turning red as he brought a hand to her lips.

"Still you go to him?" he asked, his voice dark with rage.

Sansa avoided the heat of his gaze, frightened and ashamed. "Sometimes he's sweet," she tried to argue. "When we were children…"

The Phantom stopped her from continuing, his eyes roaming across her body. "You are no longer a child, Sansa. He wants nothing more than to fuck you—bloody by the looks of it, and with or without your consent." He couldn't claim to have purer motives, but he would never force himself upon her. If she was going to love him, he wanted her feelings to be true, and wholly her own.

She raised her gaze to his in horror. "Does it give you joy to scare people?"

He scoffed and released her, stalking to the opposite side of the room as he replied with a cryptic murmur. "It gives me joy to kill people." Once, it had given him joy to compose the music she sang, but even that had been taken from him. She was all that he had left, and it would give him joy to do anything that kept her by his side.

Her tears began anew at his words and after a moment, he softened and returned to her side, the smooth leather of his gloves brushing softly across her mottled face. "I would never hurt you, little bird." There was a sincerity in his tone that she wanted to believe, but she knew that he would hesitate at nothing to earn her love, and she was learning that even a motive such as that could inspire violence.

When she made no move to respond, he went back to the mirror. "Your return to the stage approaches," he said as he turned to face her once again. The surface of the mirror clouded to obscure him, but she heard his voice from behind it, deep and rasping. "Your time to sing again has come at last..."

When the opening night arrived, nearly all concern for the opera ghost's revenge was forgotten in the midst of preparation and nervous excitement. The cast and crew scurried about backstage, and Joffrey watched from the managers' sides as the audience murmured their delight.

"Gentlemen," he said when the lights began to dim. "If you would care to take your seats? I shall be sitting in Box Five."

They exchanged a nervous glance and Loras' fear returned swiftly and suddenly. "Do you really think that's wise, Monsieur?"

Joffrey laughed and shrugged carelessly. "It seems Box Five is the only seat available."

Conceding, they departed and he moved to his seat in open defiance of the Phantom's demands. He still believed Sansa to be lying in an effort to cover her relationship with another man, and so he expected no disaster. When none came, she would finally be forced to abandon the lie.

The first act ran smoothly and they all began to relax, believing that they had simply let their imaginations run wild and were at the end of nothing more than a practical joke by the former manager.

The curtain opened once more to reveal an eighteenth century salon, with a canopied bed center-stage, its drapes drawn. Two men stood onstage, one a hairdresser and one a jeweler, with the latter attended by a costumed Margaery. Beside them stood an older woman, the Countess' confidante, gossiping with relish about the Countess' secret liaison with the page boy, Serafimo.

"They say this youth has set my Lady's heart aflame!" The confidante tittered, to which the two men responded with brash laughter.

"His Lordship sure would die of shock!" the hairdresser crooned.

"His Lordship is a laughing-stock!" cackled the jeweler.

"Should he suspect her, God protect her!"

They shook their heads and condemned her in unison. "Shame! Shame! Shame! This faithless lady's bound for Hades! Shame! Shame! Shame!"

The drapes of the canopy drew apart and the audience was awarded with the sight of the Countess and Serafimo melodramatically enacting a passionate kiss which earned a round of laughter.

In their box, Loras and Renly exchanged a glance, wide grins on their faces. "Hardly a disaster beyond all imagination!" Renly said in triumph, meeting the gaze of their patron and nodding in satisfaction. He nodded back with an answering grin and the three of them returned their attention to the scene that played out before them, oblivious to the masked figure watching from the rigging high above.

"Serafimo," the Countess sighed. "Your disguise is perfect!" Her adoration was interrupted by a knocking on the door and she sat up abruptly, one hand to her ear. "Who can this be?"

From behind the door came Jaime Lyon's voice. "Gentle wife, admit your loving husband!"

Serafimo leapt from the bed and, true to his disguise as the Countess' maid, scurried about the room, tidying as he went.

Don Attilio hobbled into the room, an old man with a cane, hideous makeup hiding the tenor's typically handsome features. The audience snickered.

"My love," he declared. "I am called to England on affairs of State, and must leave you with your new maid." He turned to the audience with a wink and a chuckle. "Though I'd happily take the maid with me."

The Countess turned similarly to the audience as her husband admired what lay beneath Serafimo's skirts. "The old fool's leaving!"

She returned center-stage, feigning forlorn, and Don Attilio looked away once more. "I suspect my young bride is untrue to me. I shall not leave but shall hide over there to observe her!"

He turned to his wife and blew her a kiss. "Addio!"

"Addio!" The Countess returned sweetly, before they exchanged the goodbye once more in unison. "Addio!"

Unseen to the Countess, Don Attilio hobbled from her sight, concealing himself behind a column at the rear of the room and peering around it as his wife turned to her 'maid'.

"Serafimo—away with this pretense!" She pulled away his skirts to reveal a pair of breeches beneath and the audience chuckled at Don Attilio's shocked reaction.

"You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence!"

Serafimo dipped his lover into a low kiss, and the audience laughed again as Sansa waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

When he pulled away, the Countess approached center-stage, her hands on her stomach as her mirth escaped. "Poor fool, he makes me laugh!" She gave a trilling laugh. "Time I tried to get a better better half!"

The chorus joined her as she continued to sing. "Poor fool, he doesn't know!" They laughed throatily at the Count's misfortune. "If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go—"

Tiring of Cersei's performance, the Phantom cupped his hands to his mouth and the laugh that began was cut off abruptly by the voice which reverberated through the theatre, deafening in its sudden rage. The managers paled and the audience looked about in confusion, a murmur running through them.

"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?!"

Sansa hurried from her assigned position, looking to the rafters, before turning her frantic gaze to Joffrey, where he stood in the Phantom's box. "It's him, I know it! It's him!"

Enraged by the interruption, Cersei whirled on the younger woman with a cry of indignation. "Your part is silent, little toad!"

The voice spoke once more, sardonic irritation lacing its words. "A toad, Madame? I think it is you who are the toad..."

It faded once more to silence and Cersei floundered for a moment in the center of the stage, her painted cheeks flushing brightly at the insult. When the audience looked to her expectantly, she ordered the conductor to begin again, from the top of the scene, demanding their attention once more.

Sansa's eyes remained wide, but she obeyed the command from the prima donna, hurriedly reassembling her skirts.

"Serafimo—" Cersei cried. "Away with this pretense! You cannot speak but kiss me in my h—cro-ack!"

A horrible croaking sound escaped the soprano's throat and her eyes grew wide with horror as her hands flew to her neck. Above her, the sound of laughter could be heard, a satisfied snicker over the swell of the music.

Her voice trembling, the prima donna continued bravely. "Poor fool, he makes me laugh. Hahaha—cro-ack! Cro-ack!"

The laughter echoed louder as Cersei tried in vain to continue the song, her mouth issuing forth nothing but the horrid croaking.

The managers took to their feet as the laughter rose to drown out the music, a triumphant cry booming from all around them as the theater began to tremble. "Behold!" it sneered, taunting and derisive. "She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"

Cersei looked to the managers with tears in her eyes. "I cannot...I cannot go on!"

Jaime rushed from the edge of the stage to his lover's side, soothing her as best he could as he walked her behind the curtain. "I'm here...it's all right. Come, I'm here..."

Loras and Renly rushed to the stage, and the latter spread his hands toward the audience in a desperate gesture of supplication. "Ladies and gentlemen, the performance will continue in ten minutes' time!" His gaze flicked toward Box Five, half expecting to see a ghost within, and not his patron. "When the role of the Countess will be sung by Miss Sansa Stark."

"And in the meantime ladies and gentlemen," Loras added helpfully. "We shall be giving you the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera." He leveled a stern glance at the composer. "Maestro, the ballet—now!"

As the music started, the chorus rushed to their places, beginning the steps which they had so often rehearsed. A tense silence filled the theatre, broken only by the music and the soft brush of the dancer's slippers on the stage. From behind the curtain, a shadow began to rise, and Margaery caught sight of it, faltering in her dance and missing a step. The shadow grew and just as the audience began to point and murmur, the curtain fell with a crash, sending the dancers running and revealing the garroted body of Bronn, hanging from the rafters on a red rope, the "magical lasso" of which he had once so fatefully spoken.

The audience burst into cries of terror and the theater erupted into chaos. Joffrey rushed to Sansa's side onstage, pulling her toward her dressing room. "Come with me."

She shook her head and gripped his hand, dragging him in the opposite direction. "No, to the roof!" she cried, her gaze wild as it searched the darkened corners of the theater. "We'll be safe there."

Onstage Loras and Renly tried in vain to calm the audience, but their desperate cries were drowned out by screams and the stamping of feet as they ran from the theater.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats!" Renly looked about in despair. "Do not panic. It was an accident..." His eyes found the swinging body and he wondered if his words were true. "Simply an accident!"

When they finally reached the rooftop of the opera house, Sansa seemed to calm, though she still looked about nervously as Joffrey pulled her to a halt.

"Why are we here?" He asked, annoyance lacing his tone. "We should go back."

"We can't!" Sansa cried, whirling to face him. "He'll find us there." Her gaze grew distant, remembering the tales of the former stage manager, and of what she had seen for herself, far beneath the theater. "With those eyes that burn..."

Joffrey sighed impatiently. "Don't say that. Don't even think it."

"If he has to kill a thousand men," she cried desperately, gripping his hands. "The Phantom of the Opera will kill and kill again!" She still remembered what he had said to her. It gives me joy to kill people. She did not think he had meant it.

Joffrey tore his hands away, disgust written plainly on his features. "This "phantom" is a fable, believe me."

Sansa ignored him, pacing restlessly to the edge of the roof. Who was this man, she wondered. This man who hunted to kill, in the name of his love, for her and her alone.

"I can't escape from him," she whispered, her eyes filling with helpless tears. She was trapped, and so unsure of what to do or what to feel. "Perhaps I never will."

"There is no Phantom of the Opera!" Joffrey shouted, eyes burning with anger. Sansa shook her head, returning to his side and taking his hands once more.

"Joffrey, I've been there, to his world of unending night. To a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness. Joffrey, I've seen him! And I'll never forget that sight…" She saw him in her dreams, not the masked Angel she had believed him to be, but the scarred man that he had revealed behind the façade she had so willingly believed.

"Can I ever escape from that face?" she lamented. "So distorted, deformed...it was hardly a face." She trailed off, his image in her mind, his gentle expression as he examined her bruises. Behind the horror of his scars were the grey eyes that haunted her dreams. In those eyes was all the sadness of the world, those pleading eyes that both threatened and adored.

She dropped his hands and returned to the edge of the roof, her chest tight as she sought to understand what she was feeling. In her waking moments, she thought only of his terrible fury, and his selfish disregard for her feelings, in spite of his declarations of love. But as she slept, she dreamed of that warm darkness, and of what had transpired within. Her voice was soft and distant as she spoke.

"His voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound. In that night there was music in my mind. And through music, my soul began to soar..." Her eyes welled with tears. "And I heard as I'd never heard before."

Joffrey's jaw clenched tightly. One moment she spoke of his treachery, and his twisted plot to earn her love. The next, she remembered him with fondness, the man she called her angel.

"What you heard was a dream," he said firmly. "And nothing more."

When she looked up at him, face wet with tears, he continued, putting his hands on her crossed arms. "You must return to the theater. No doubt the managers will want to continue the show, lest the audience dare to give a bad review. They'll be needing you for the final scene." Though she still looked frightened, she nodded in acceptance. He gave her a parting kiss, and she returned it.

As he left her side, she thought she heard a sigh, carried softly over the wind.

"Sansa..."

She stopped at the sound and looked about, before returning her gaze to Joffrey, desperately seeking comfort. "Say you love me," she begged.

"You know I do."

His answer seemed to soothe her and without further delay she scurried off, leaving him alone to overlook the city.

Behind one of the statues that adorned the rooftop, a pair of gloved fists clenched tightly, eyes blazing in anger. "Say you love me," she had implored so sweetly. When he asked her to do the same, she refused him, unless under the spell of his voice. But she was so willing to seek it in her foolish suitor, and to give herself to him in return. He had seen the marks on her fair skin. He had watched her cry at his harsh words and false accusations. But still she asked for his love, and denied that of her Angel.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs broke him from his dark thoughts and he peered around the statue, dreading the sight of Sansa returning to her lover. Instead, it was Margaery that ascended, and Joffrey's features softened in a way they hadn't for Sansa since her debut performance.

She looked about furtively for a moment before rushing into his arms and accepting his returning embrace. "Oh, Joffrey!" she cried. "I was right there...It was so awful!"

He hushed her softly and wiped the tears from her face. "I'm here with you now," he soothed, his words warm and calming.

"Say you need me," Margaery whispered, laying her head against his shoulder and turning her dark eyes toward his face.

"Now and always," Joffrey replied, kissing her full lips.

The Phantom turned away again, his chest heaving with labored breaths as they hurried down to some darkened corner of the theater to continue their sordid affair.

"I gave you my music," he whispered, looking down at the single red rose in his hand. A gift that had been meant for her. "And now, how you've repaid me." He thought of her in the arms of the Viscount and threw the flower to the cold stone at his feet. "Denied me and betrayed me!"

Sansa did not deserve the disgusting, faithless, boy she was so besotted with. She deserved a man who would love her and protect her from the merciless cruelty of the world above. He would make her understand. Only he could be her guide and guardian, whether she would admit it to herself or not.

He could hear the applause of the audience below and knew that the curtain would soon fall. With a purposeful step, he returned to his domain, watching as Sansa stood below, searching for praise from her lying lover. She was a stupid, innocent child and it was time she learned her lesson.

As the chorus took their bows, the chandelier began to sway above them, unnoticed until the tinkling of its crystals overshadowed the sound of the orchestra. A cry of alarm rose from the back rows as Sansa moved to the center of the stage, and with a resounding crash, the chandelier fell, shattering to pieces as a dark voice rose above the din.

"You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!"

Six Months Later...

A man in the antlered mask of a buck whispered a quiet aside to the man beside him, his face obscured by gilded roses.

"Monsieur André...?"

"Monsieur Firmin...?"

Abandoning their feigned intrigue, the two managers laughed and clapped their arms about the other's shoulders.

"Oh, Loras," Renly crooned. "What a splendid party! A prologue to a bright new year! Quite a night..." He praised his companion, who puffed up with suitable pride. "I'm impressed!"

Feigning modesty, Loras shrugged. "Well, I did my best."

They exchanged a look and laughed, in a mixture of triumph and relief, before clinking the glasses of champagne that were handed to them.

"Here's to us!"

They downed their drinks and took fresh ones before continuing into the hall, Renly adding jovially and with amusement, "I must say all the same, it's rather a shame that 'Phantom' fellow can't be here!"

The foyer was decorated lavishly for the affair and the room was filled with swirling gowns and dapper suits, each face hidden behind a mask, and each mask more elaborate than the last.

The quartet of musicians wound their way through the dancers, adding their lyrical commentary to the events of the evening, and bowing appropriately as they passed the entering managers. The tune they played was one composed long ago, by a man who had worked for the opera during a time long since forgotten. Sansa had heard it once before, played on the golden cymbals of a monkey.

"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade...masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!"

At the wall, a flash of mauve, on the stairs, a splash of puce. In one corner, a fool and king; the other, a ghoul and goose.

"Take your turn, take a ride on the merry-go-around...In an inhuman race!"

One woman with an eye of gold, the next a thigh of blue. There was the curl of a lip, the swirl of a gown, a paper ace of hearts, the painted face of a clown.

"Drink it in drink it up, till you've drowned in the light, in the sound..."

A woman in a silver and white frock placed a bird mask coquettishly over her pretty features and sang from beneath it, her bright soprano gay and playful. "Who can name the face?"

"Masquerade! Take your fill...let the spectacle astound you!"

One partner was traded for another, spinning in endless delight to the sound of the music and the laughter that filled the room.

"Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads...Masquerade! Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you!"

Cersei descended the stairs in a resplendent gown of red and gold, Jaime at her side in a matching coat. Though they both wore lions' masks, they were unmistakable amongst the rest of the crowd, an air of feigned superiority following them as they joined in the merriment.

"Masquerade! Seething shadows, breathing lies...Masquerade! You can fool any friend who ever knew you!"

The managers moved to meet their prima donna and Madame Tyrell joined them, Margaery at her side.

"Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes...Masquerade! Run and hide—But a face will still pursue you!"

Cersei curtseyed to Loras and Renly, clapping happily at the gaiety that surrounded them. "What a night!"

Madame Tyrell nodded in agreement. "And what a crowd!"

Loras and Renly exchanged a glance, smiles straining their cheeks. "It makes us glad!" the former crooned. "It makes us proud!" the latter swooned.

"All the crème de la crème..." Renly murmured conspiratorially, eyeing the wealth on clear display.

"They're watching us watching them," Margaery remarked, catching the stare of an older gentleman, who winked from beneath the face of a mockingbird.

"All our fears are in the past!" Cersei sighed, fanning happy tears from her eyes. In the six months since the fateful performance of Il Mutto, her horrible croaking misfortunes had been forgotten, and she had been restored as Prima Donna once more.

"Six months of respite," Jaime said with a nod, downing another glass of champagne.

"Of delight!" Cersei cried.

"Of Elysian peace!" The managers looked to each other with relief. "We can breathe at last!"

"No more notes," the soprano said wistfully.

"No more ghost!" Jaime scoffed.

"Here's a toast," Loras called, lifting his glass. "To a prosperous year!"

"To the new chandelier," Renly offered.

Jaime and Cersei exchanged an adoring glance, quite happy to be in the spotlight once again. "And may the splendor never fade!"

"What a joy," Madame Tyrell said, clinking her glass and sipping the effervescent liquor.

Margaery did the same, but with an unhappy sigh, her gaze on a man with a golden mask, hand in hand with the woman in the shining silver dress. "What a change..." 'Now and always' had proven to be not more than a few months.

"What a blessed release," Renly said to his partner, grinning with unending relish. "And what a masquerade!"

Across the room, Sansa lifted her bird mask to gaze adoringly at her partner, his lips curving into a smile beneath his own at her excitement.

"Think of it!" she whispered, silver dress swirling about her ankles. "A secret engagement! Look—" She gestured to herself and smiled widely. "Your future bride!"

He had asked her to marry him the month before, after seemingly coming to his senses and ending his affair with Margaery, and she had accepted happily. It had been nearly half a year since they had heard anything more than whispers about the twisted genius beneath the opera house, and Sansa wanted so desperately to live a normal life. With Joffrey, she was reminded of a better time, before her father's death, and it was that nostalgia that kept her by his side.

Joffrey nodded, but his smile curved into a slight frown. "But why is it secret?" he asked. "What have we to hide?"

"Please let's not fight," she said quietly, wringing her hands.

"Sansa, you're free!" he insisted, but she shook her head firmly.

"We must wait until the time is right."

"When will that be?" Joffrey pressed. "It's an engagement, not a crime." He sighed and took her hands in his own. "Sansa, what are you still afraid of?"

"Please just pretend," she begged, kissing him lightly beneath their masks. "You'll understand in time."

Her fiancé accepted without further resistance and took her into his arms, enjoying the feeling of her soft body beneath his hands. She had promised to give all of herself to him once they were married, and he had not hesitated long before asking for her hand, nor would he continue this strange secrecy for long, with such a prize waiting for him in the marriage bed.

The merriment was cut to a sudden and abrupt halt when the lights flickered, and when they rose once more, there was a figure at the top of the stairs. It was a man, face obscured not by its usual mask, but by a death's head, grinning manically. It was Red Death that descended, his footsteps loud in the silence of the room.

"Why so silent, good Messieurs?" he taunted mockingly, his black gaze on the pale faces of the managers. "Did you think that I had left you for good?"

When they continued to tremble, speechless, he sneered beneath the laughing skull. "Did you miss me, gentlemen?" He reached the bottom of the stairs and put a hand beneath his cloak, withdrawing a thick stack of yellowed paper, held together by a length of black ribbon. He tossed it to Loras who caught it clumsily, then swept aside his cape and strode menacingly to the center of the room.

"I have written you an opera." He nodded toward the paper. "This here is the finished score: Don Juan Triumphant!"

When the silence stretched on, he stalked menacingly toward the two fools who had failed so miserably in the running of his theater. At least they had conceded to the funds that he demanded, after he threatened to reveal a secret they wanted dearly to remain unknown.

"I advise you to comply," he warned them lowly. "My instructions should be clear." He turned once more to the room with a snarl that pulled at the misshapen skin beneath his mask. "Remember: there are worse things than a shattered chandelier!"

A murmur ran through the guests at that and Cersei fainted in her lover's arms at the reminder of the night she had tried so hard to forget.

Without warning, the Phantom whirled about, fixing his black gaze on the object of his affections, her blue eyes wide and frightened beneath her mask. His eyes fell to the curve of her breasts, between which rested a diamond ring of impressive size, hanging on a golden chain. His jaw clenched and he strode toward her, a gloved hand darting out to tear it from her throat. He bent close to her, her skin nearly as pale as the starch white of the Red Death's skull.

"Your chains are still mine," he growled, before retreating to the center of the room and disappearing in a flash of light and cloud of smoke. "You will sing for me!"

"This is ludicrous!" Loras cried in outrage, tossing the music onto his partner's desk and collapsing into the chair at his own. "Have you seen the score?"

Renly nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "Simply ludicrous!"

"It's the final straw," Loras raged. "It's...it's lunacy! Utter lunacy!"

"Well," Renly sighed. "You know my views, but, we daren't refuse..."

His partner moaned and let his head drop to his desk with a thump, his voice muffled by the stack of papers in which he had landed. "Not another chandelier..."

Absently, the older man brought a comforting hand to the nape of his neck, but quickly remembering himself, he pulled it back and reached for the paper at the top of the stack upon which Loras was still prone, waving it in front of his face with a grimace. "Look what we have here."

Loras grudgingly raised his head once again and snatched away the dreaded letter, sighing heavily as he began to read it aloud.

"'Dear André, Re my orchestrations: we need another first bassoon. Get a player with tone—and that third trombone has to go! The man could not be deafer so please preferably one who plays in tune.'"

When he shook his head, Renly removed the matching one from his pocket and continued. "'Dear Firmin, vis a vis my opera: some chorus members must be sacked. If you could, find out which has a sense of pitch—wisely, though, I've managed to assign a rather minor role to those who cannot act.'"

"He's insane!" Loras lamented.

Renly snorted and tossed aside the note in disgust. "He even writes in damned rhymes as though he means to put us into an opera!"

Their miserable laughter was interrupted as Cersei stormed in and the managers groaned audibly, not blind to the horrid déjà vu unfolding before them.

"It's an outrage!" Cersei screeched. "This whole affair is an outrage!"

Renly looked at her in defeated resignation, his fingers absently rubbing his throbbing temples. "What is it now?"

"Have you seen the size of my part?!"

"Madame, listen..." Loras attempted, cut off by Jaime from behind her.

"It's an insult!"

"Not you as well!" Renly lamented, at which Jaime bristled indignantly.

"Just look at it—it's an insult!"

"Please, understand..." he begged.

Cersei huffed and turned away, fanning herself with a fury. "The things I have to do for my art!"

Jaime snorted. "If you can call this gibberish "art"!"

The managers sent him a warning look, but any argument was delayed by the arrival of Sansa, with Joffrey close behind.

"Ah!" Cersei cried, lip curling into a sneer. "Here's our little flower!"

"Miss Stark," Renly greeted blandly. "You're quite the lady of the hour."

Loras nodded, jabbing a finger against the script that sat atop his desk. "You have secured the largest role in this "Don Juan"."

Cersei gasped in outrage. "Sansa Stark?! She doesn't have the voice!"

"Madame, please," Renly warned.

"Then I take it you're agreeing?" Joffrey asked, looking to the managers. They exchanged a glance before nodding in resignation. The damned ghost that haunted them knew things, had seen things which they could not let him reveal.

"It appears we have no choice."

"She's the one behind this!" Cersei shrieked, an accusing finger pointed at the younger woman. "Sansa Stark!"

Sansa's eyes flashed in indignation and she took a step toward the reigning prima donna. "How dare you. You evil woman...how dare you!"

"You think I'm blind?" Cersei sniffed, looking at her with distrust and disdain.

"This isn't my fault!" Sansa insisted. "I don't want any part in this plot!"

The managers looked up in alarm at her declaration and Renly stepped toward her, placing a hand on her arm. "Miss Stark, surely..."

"It's your decision," Loras added. "But...why not?"

"She's backing out!" Cersei cried triumphantly, and in a near panic, Loras quickly changed his tune.

"You have a duty!"

"I cannot sing it," Sansa said firmly. "Duty or not."

Joffrey gripped her arms and she tensed reflexively. "Sansa, you have to," he urged. "Even if we have to make you."

She opened her mouth to protest, but a soft knock at the door stopped her and Madame Tyrell appeared, paper in hand.

"Please, Messieurs," she greeted, holding up the piece of parchment. "Another note."

They let out a collective groan, but when Renly waved her on, she began to read.

"'Fondest greetings to you all. A few instructions just before rehearsals start: Cersei must be taught to act, not her normal trick of strutting around the stage. Our Don Juan must lose some weight—it's not healthy in a man of Lyon's age. And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts. As for Miss Sansa Stark...No doubt she'll do her best—it's true her voice is good. She knows, though, should she wish to excel she has much still to learn; if pride will let her return to me, her teacher...'"

The ballet Madame looked up briefly before reading the final words. "'Your obedient friend...and angel...'"

A moment of silence reigned in the crowded office and in the end, it was Joffrey who broke it, a look of dumbfounded realization on his face.

"My God, we've all been blind," he began. "And yet, the answer is staring us in the face." He turned to the managers. "This could finally be the chance to ensnare our clever friend." He said it with a sneer and Sansa shrank away. The Joffrey of her youth had been hers again for a short time and she was glad to be his fiancée, but since the night of the masquerade and the Phantom's return, she was beginning to fear him again. His old cruelty was returning and not even her wish for a return to her past was enough to overlook the new scars.

"We're listening."

"Go on," Loras urged.

"We...should play his game," Joffrey said, looking to Cersei and Jaime for dissent and for once, finding none. "We'll perform his work, but remember: we hold the ace. For if Miss Stark sings, he is certain to attend..."

He trailed off and Loras jumped to his feet, realization dawning in kind as Joffrey nodded in encouragement. "We make certain the doors are barred!"

Renly joined him, a grin splitting the despondence of his features. "We make certain our men are there!"

Joffrey nodded emphatically. "We make certain they're armed!"

"The curtain falls..." Loras decreed.

"His reign will end!"

They looked to the others in excitement, and Madame Tyrell was the first to disagree. "This is madness!"

"I'm not so sure," Loras mused, still mulling over the idea, and its possible repercussions. "Not if it works..."

"The tide will turn!" Renly added with confidence.

Madame Tyrell shook her head. "Monsieur, believe me. There is no way of turning the tide."

"Then help us," Joffrey urged.

She turned away, shaking her head once more. "Monsieur, I can't."

"Instead of warning us...help us!"

"I wish I could!" she cried, but the managers and their patron had no time for resistance, descending on her in suspicion.

"Madame, could it be that you're on his side?"

She put out her hands to stop their advance and looked at them firmly. "Messieurs, believe me, I intend you no ill, but...Messieurs, be careful. We have seen him kill!"

Sansa looked away at that, moving to the window and crossing her arms tightly about her own waist. What Madame Tyrell said was true, but still, she found she could not stomach the thought of the Phantom finding his end in such a cruel and scheming manner.

Cersei watched her walk from the others and resumed her accusation with fervor, asserting herself into the conversation once more. "It's all a ploy to help Sansa!"

The men ignored her and Joffrey looked to his two managers, his expression one of hope. "This will be his undoing!"

They nodded in agreement. "If you succeed, you'll free us all."

"Hear my warning," Madame Tyrell begged. "Fear his fury!"

"What glory can she hope to gain?" Cersei scoffed, still more to herself than to anyone else. "It's clear to all—the girl's insane!"

Sansa watched as the men paced about the room, as Cersei and Jaime continued to regard her with distrust, as Madame Tyrell shook her head in dissent. They all spoke at once, hardly listening to one another, and she found it hard to think over the sound of their fighting.

"Sansa sings, we'll get our man..."

"She is crazy! She is raving!"

"If Sansa helps us in this plan..."

"Say your prayers, black angel of death!"

"Please don't..." Sansa whimpered, but her voice went unheard.

"If Sansa won't, then no one can..."

"Messieurs, I beg you, do not do this..."

"This will seal his fate!"

Her eyes welling with tears, Sansa stepped away from the window and shouted into the din, her voice breaking with emotion. "If you don't stop I will go mad!"

The room quieted at her outburst and she rushed into Joffrey's arms, hiding her face against his shoulder. "Joffrey, I'm frightened," she murmured. "Don't make me do this. Please, I'm scared. Don't put me through this."

She raised her face and looked pleadingly up at her lover. "He'll take me I know...We'll be parted forever—he won't let me go..." Joffrey moved to speak, but she continued, tears falling to smear the makeup on her cheeks. "If he finds me, it won't ever end, and he'll always be there..." She looked about as though expecting to see him there, her voice fading to a whisper. "Singing songs in my head..."

"She is mad!" Cersei breathed, though she said it less as an accusation, and more as a horrified realization.

Joffrey held her out before him, his expression stern and unyielding. "You said yourself that he was nothing but a man." He wiped a tear from her cheek, a splotchy purple beneath the fading rouge. "But if he lives, he will haunt us until the end."

Her tears falling anew, Sansa tore herself away and returned to the window. She was being twisted every way and she did not know what answer she could give. She could risk her life to earn the chance to live as she had once imagined, but her trust in that future wavered dangerously beneath the lack of sympathy in Joffrey's gaze. Or, she could betray the man who had once inspired her voice. She did not want to be his prey, but felt she had little choice. He killed without a thought and she didn't doubt that he would do anything to return her to his side.

She wished she could refuse, but knew that she mustn't. And God, if she agreed...what horrors might find her in the pages of the Phantom's opera?

"Sansa," Joffrey urged. "Every hope and every prayer rests on you now..."

Taking a deep breath, she nodded her consent, and his expression shifted to one of triumph. Lifting his head to the rafters, he raised his voice in a fateful promise. "So, it is to be war between us! But this time, foul ghost...the disaster will be yours!"

Sansa was frightened, and loathe to be a mere pawn in the dangerous game that the Phantom was playing with Joffrey and the managers. She had agreed because there had seemed to be no other choice, but now she spent every waking moment wondering what fate might befall her.

As his note instructed, Sansa had continued her training with her tutor once more, letting him teach her things she could never have hoped to achieve. Her voice grew stronger, clearer, brighter, the perfect vessel for the masterpiece he had so long been crafting.

When they met, they spoke little beyond the realm of their lessons and she wondered if he came to her at other times, watching her from behind the looking glass as she shed silent tears of grief and shame.

One night when she returned to her room at Madame Mordane's, he was waiting for her. He sat on the edge of her bed, silent and still in the darkness and when her candle illuminated his hulking figure, she pressed herself against the closed door, a hand to her chest.

He eyed her for a long moment, head cocked slightly as though he were listening to the frantic beating of her heart. Finally, he spoke.

"Did you think I would come?"

Silently, she shook her head. She had never seen him outside the opera house and she could think of little that might possibly have drawn him from his sanctuary. Eyeing the bed, she remembered Joffrey's attempts to force himself upon her and wondered if the man before her was entertaining similar thoughts. She could smell the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath even from the door and was unable to suppress a shiver.

"I've seen you with him." She expected him to say it with anger, but it was defeat that colored his tone instead. "Your future husband. Monsieur le Vicomte." That, he sneered at.

When Sansa stayed silent, he continued. "Do you think I haven't noticed what he does to you, little bird? When calling you a whore isn't enough, he hits you, and still you stay with him." They had once had a conversation of a similar nature and it seemed that, drunk as he was, he remembered it too. "I told you once that I would never hurt you and I meant it. I have never lied to you. Not about the way I feel."

She nodded slowly and he stood, moving toward her. His breath was warm on her face as he looked down at her and his fingers found the newest mark upon her pale cheek. "I could take you away," he murmured. "They're all afraid of me. Their ghost. Their phantom." His mask was wet with tears when he spoke and she brushed them away with a gentle hand. "I am not what you thought I was, Sansa. I am not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a phantom. I am only Sandor, but I could never be anything to you as such."

He spoke his own name with difficulty and Sansa repeated it softly, a whisper in the darkness.

"I could keep you safe," he pressed on. "No one would ever hurt you again. If they tried, I would kill them."

Sansa turned away at the mention of more death, but he was quick to catch her chin, raising her gaze to his once more.

"Please, Sansa," he begged. "Let me lead you from here; save you from your solitude." His cold finger met her lips and she couldn't help the shuddering breath that escaped them. "Say you want me with you here, beside you. Anywhere I go, say you'll go too. Sansa, that's all I ask of you."

Her eyes welling with tears, she considered it for a brief moment. This man was so different from the Phantom he presented. He was broken before her, vulnerable, but still he frightened her. If she agreed, she could not guarantee that this would be the man she gave herself to, and not the one who had left Bronn's body swinging from the rafters.

"I can't," she whispered. She closed her eyes to avoid the wrath of his gaze, but there was no retaliation and when at long last she opened them again, he had disappeared into the darkness once more, leaving her alone.

"Hide our sword now wounded knight!
Your vainglorious gasconnade!
Brought you to your final fight
For your pride, high price you've paid!

"Silken couch and hay-filled barn
Both have been his battlefield.

"Those who tangle with Don Juan...!"

The director cut off the music abruptly and shook his head. "No, no, no! Please. Don Juan, Monsieur Lyon—here is the phrase: 'Those who tangle with Don Juan...'." He emphasized a difference in the tempo and tone of the line and then gestured toward the tenor. "If you please?"

Jaime nodded and took a deep breath before beginning the line again, in the exact same fashion. "Those who tangle with Don Juan...!"

"No, no!" Reyer cried in exasperation. "Nearly, but no." He demonstrated once again. "Those who tan...tan..."

Jaime attempted to follow the direction, but the resulting line came out just as it had each time before. "Those who tangle with Don Juan...!"

When the director lifted a hand to his temple, Cersei scoffed and soothed her lover's frustration with a haughty declaration. "His way is better! At least he makes it sound like music!"

"Madame," Olenna Tyrell said sharply. "Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?"

"The composer is not here!" Cersei cried. "And if he was I would..."

Her claim of action was cut off as the ballet choreographer spoke over her. "Are you certain of that, Madame...?"

Cersei's anger wavered slightly at the implication and the Phantom scowled as she conceded and dropped back to her position. He had been curious to hear what threat the prima donna could possibly think to level against him.

Monsieur Reyer sighed and nodded his thanks to Madame Tyrell before looking to his tenor once more. "Once again, after seven: five, six, seven..."

"Those who tangle with Don Juan...!"

"Oh, je ne peux plus le faire!" Cersei exclaimed dramatically. "What does it matter what notes we sing?"

"Have patience, Madame."

"No one will know if it is right or if it wrong!" To prove her point, she raised her voice to its warbling soprano, raising and lowering each consecutive note in a cacophonous trill that made its composer grimace. "Those who tangle with Don Juan!"

Jaime sighed and shook his head, looking to Sansa. "Those who tan..." He frowned. "Tan...is that right?"

"Not quite, Monsieur," Sansa said softly, imitating the director's notes. "Those who tan...tan..."

The tenor threw up his arms in exasperation and Madame Tyrell rapped on the stage with her cane, earning a glance of thanks from the director.

"Mon dieu...Ladies, Monsieur Lyon, if you please..."

Abandoning their efforts, they all returned to their places and the chorus continued after the dreaded line, hoping that by the night of the performance, it would have been learned to the Phantom's liking.

"Poor young maiden!
For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets
You will have to pay the bill—
Tangled in the winding sheets!"

For once, it was quiet beneath the opera house. The seat before the organ was empty and the music box sat still, its cymbals silent. Listening to months of rehearsals which did nothing more than butcher his composition had grown tiresome and Sandor was grateful for the relative calm.

He stood before an ornate mirror, his gaze hazy with the sheen of drunkenness as he stared at his reflection.

The last time he had sought courage from the bottom of several bottles he had gone to see her. She had looked so small, so frightened. There, alone, in the dark, he begged her to leave with him and still she had denied him.

The burns across his face twisted mockingly as he scowled and he threw the empty bottle at the mirror, turning away as it shattered.

He had hoped it would not have to come to this, but she had forced his hand. If she stayed with the Viscount, she would only be happy for a short while before his true nature resurfaced. He was cruel and uncaring and it could only be here, in the darkness beneath the theater, that she would be safe.

Sandor would not force himself physically upon her, he had sworn that, but he would not hesitate to drag her to his realm if that was what it took. In time, she would come to see that he had saved her. He did not know how to show his love for her, but she would learn to see that, in his own way, he cared.

Bitterly, he walked toward the organ, running a gloved hand across the rope that lay beside it. If she would not save herself, then he would be forced to act. But first, he would give her one last chance...

Sansa gazed out the window of the carriage as it approached its destination: a graveyard in Perros where many years ago, the famous violinist Eddard Stark had been laid to rest.

Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing...

She remembered so clearly those stories of her childhood which had once brought her such happiness. Those had been better times, simpler, and free of the worries which plagued her now.

Her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music...

She stepped from the carriage, her boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow as she walked to the tomb where her father had been buried.

Her father promised her...Her father promised her...

She dropped to her knees in the snow, ignoring the chill as it soaked through to her skin. She pressed her forehead to the cold stone of the steps before his mausoleum, and wept.

Once, he had been her one companion, not just a father, but her closest friend, until he had been taken from her. Now, she felt so alone and she wished more fervently than anything that he were somehow there again, somehow near to her. Sometimes it seemed that if she just dreamed, he could be there, but the waking world kept him far away.

She wished she could hear his voice again, though she knew that she never would. Dreaming of him wouldn't help her to do all that had once told her she could. She lifted her gaze to the name etched in the cold, unforgiving stone, wishing that she could leave her past behind and face what lie before her.

Try to forgive, she prayed to the angel that adorned her father's tomb. Teach me to live, she begged. Give me the strength to try. She was glad at least that he was not alive to see the scars that rose to mark her skin. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she placed a gentle kiss against the ground beneath which he rested, before looking to the statue once more. Help me say goodbye. She would run, while she had the courage. It was her only chance. Run, and never look back.

She was just rising to return to the carriage when a voice issued forth from the very angel to which she had spoken, a calming voice that soothed her battered soul and pulled her beneath its thrall.

"Wandering child," it sang. "So lost, so helpless...yearning for my guidance..."

Sansa looked to the statue with tears in her eyes, hoping, wishing, fearing... "Angel?" She whispered. "Or father, or friend, or...phantom...? Who are you?"

"Have you forgotten your Angel?" It asked her, and she allowed herself to believe the voice that spoke to her, desperate for an answer to her prayer.

She stepped toward the figure, hands extended in a gesture of supplication. "Angel, speak!" she pleaded. "I listen."

"Too long you've wandered in winter..." it whispered, the voice heavy with endless longings. "Far from my far reaching gaze..."

They did not hear the footsteps from beyond the trees, nor see the angry gaze that fell upon them, a pair of green eyes dark with rage.

Once again she is his, Joffrey thought with disgust. Once again she returns. He had followed her under just such suspicions, and here she was, proving them to be true despite her protestations. It seemed the marks on her skin hadn't been enough to teach her a lesson.

"My mind beats against you..." Sansa breathed, each step drawing her further under his spell.

His voice was dark with satisfaction as he called her onward. "You resist, yet your soul obeys."

"Angel of Music!" Sansa sang to him, her voice breaking as her tears flowed freely. "I denied you...turning from true beauty..."

"Still he calls to her," Joffrey spat, drawing his sword from his hip. "Who are you, dark seducer?"

"Do not shun me...Come to your strange angel..."

"Angel of Darkness!" Joffrey shouted, running forward to the steps of Eddard's tomb. "Cease this torment!"

A figure separated itself from the statue at his words, his ruined features twisting in a snarl as Joffrey called out to Sansa.

"Sansa, whatever you may believe, this man—this thing—is not your Angel!" He turned his gaze upwards. "Let her go, foul creature!"

Broken from his spell, Sansa looked up and gave a cry of alarm, falling back into Joffrey's arms as she recognized the figure above.

"Bravo, Monsieur," the Phantom sneered. "Such spirited words!" He gestured for Joffrey to move closer, but the younger man held his ground.

"More tricks?"

Sandor gave a shrug of his broad shoulders, lips twisting into a grotesque smirk. "Let's see, Monsieur, how close you dare come!" Joffrey pushed Sansa from his side and advanced toward the mausoleum, sword in hand, incensed by the taunt. Above him, the ghost snarled in delight. "That's right, Monsieur! Keep walking this way!"

"You can't win her love by making her your prisoner!" Joffrey yelled. His pride kept him from speaking his mind, for in truth, he would be happy to give her to the monster. She was not worth the trouble that followed her and it seemed that she would always return to him regardless, unless he were to die.

Sansa reached for his arm, grasping desperately at his coat. "Joffrey!"

"No," he said sharply. "Stay back."

She began to cry as her jealous angel continued his taunts, evidently pleased with himself as he drew the Viscount ever closer. "I'm here, Monsieur: the angel of death! Come on, come on, Monsieur! Don't stop! Don't stop!"

"Joffrey! Come back..."

It was the fire in the monster's dark eyes that kept Joffrey from taking another step, his blood running cold. The man before him wanted nothing more than for him to die and the look in his eyes suggested that he wanted him to suffer.

When he retreated, Sandor snarled in fury, calling out after them. "Don't go!"

Ignoring his cries, Joffrey lifted Sansa onto his horse and mounted behind her, casting one last glance over his shoulder before riding off, his final echoing threat following them as they fled.

"So be it! Now let it be war upon you both!"

Finally, after months of rehearsal, the premiere for Don Juan Triumphant had arrived, and it unfolded amidst great fear and apprehension. At the front of theater stood the fire chief, with two marshals at his side. Also near were Loras and Renly and between them, Joffrey, surveying the scene.

"Do you understand your instructions?" the chief asked his men, who nodded in unison.

"Yes, sir."

The Chief nodded but explained once more for the benefit of the nervous managers. "When you hear my whistle, take up your positions. I will then instruct you to secure the doors. It is essential that all doors are properly secured."

A few feet away, Loras chewed at his thumbnail, brows creased with worry. "Are we doing the right thing, Renly?"

His partner shrugged. "Have you got a better idea?"

The fire chief looked their way, eyebrows raised. "Monsieur le Vicomte, am I to give the order?"

Joffrey nodded, legs akimbo and hands on his hips. "Give the order."

The older man nodded in return and blew his whistle, sending his men to do their duty as Joffrey turned toward the stage.

"You," he called. "In the pit. Do you have a clear view of the box?"

A young marksman popped up from between the disgruntled members of the orchestra and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Remember, when the time comes, shoot. Only if you have to, but shoot—to kill."

The young man nodded again, but looked unsure. "How will I know, sir?"

Joffrey sighed and looked toward Box Five with a glower. "You'll know."

"Monsieur le Vicomte," Loras tugged anxiously at his sleeve. "Are you confident that this will work? Will Miss Stark sing?"

"Don't worry, André," he replied with total confidence, before looking to his other manager. "Firmin?"

Renly sighed heavily. "We're in your hands."

The fire chief returned and took his place at Joffrey's side. "My men are in position, sir."

"Go ahead then."

The whistle blew once more, and after a pause, the chief called toward the back of the theater. "Are the doors secure?"

The sound of slamming doors served as his reply, an answering "Secure!" following each resounding thud. As the last closed, the orchestra stopped its playing, the only sound a gentle murmur from a few amongst those gathered.

From the back of the theater, a voice rose, rasping, goading. "I'm here..." it whispered. "The Phantom of the Opera..."

The officers looked about in alarm as suddenly, the voice came again, this time from the opposite direction.

"I'm here!" it repeated, an audible snarl lacing the words. "Your opera ghost!"

A dark chuckle answered their anxious glances, and when the voice repeated its mocking cry, it was from Box Five, amidst the flashing of a dark cloak. In a panic, the marksman fired his shot, and Joffrey turned on him furiously.

"Idiot!" he bellowed. "I said only when the time comes!"

"But," the young man stammered, his finger pointing to where the figure had been only a moment before. "Monsieur le Vicomte..."

Before he could defend himself, the voice came again, filling the theater with its wicked amusement. "No "but"s. For once, Monsieur le Vicomte is right. You thought to seal my fate tonight..." He clucked his tongue disapprovingly at their scheme and then began once again with an impatient sigh. "I hate to have to cut your fun short gentlemen, but the joke is wearing thin. Let the audience in...Let my opera begin...DON JUAN TRIUMPHANT...!"

The first and second acts passed without incident, but there remained an air of disquiet nonetheless. They could still remember the events of Il Mutto and it was not too late for the Phantom's newest revenge to be wrought.

The curtain opened on the final scene, revealing a table lavishly set for two. Behind them, the chorus began to sing, unfolding the scene before them.

"Here the sire may serve the dam
Here the master takes his meat!
Here the sacrificial lamb
Utters one despairing bleat!"

Cersei joined their ranks and sang at their head, her voice carrying its familiar trill to the ears of her once adoring audience; an audience that now came to hear Sansa sing.

"Poor young maiden! For the thrill
On your tongue of stolen sweets
You will have to pay the bill
Tangled in the winding sheets!

"Serve the meal and serve the maid!
Serve the master so that, when
Tables, plans and maids are laid
Don Juan triumphs once again!"

Jaime emerged from behind an arch stage left, and Margaery, a scantily clad dancer, pirouetted coquettishly for him before accepting a purse of coins and flitting away with a final sultry glance.

"Passarino," Don Juan said to the man at his side, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Faithful friend...Once again, recite the plan!"

"Your young guest believes I'm you," Passarino crowed. "I, the master; you, the man!"

Don Juan nodded and rubbed his hands together, pleased with his dastardly plan.

"When you met, you wore my cloak
With my scarf, you hid your face
She believes she dines with me
In her master's borrowed place!

"Furtively we'll scoff and quaff
Stealing what, in truth, is mine
When it's late and modesty
Starts to mellow, with the wine..."

"You come home! I use your voice," Passarino schemed. "Slam the door like crack of doom!"

"I shall say, 'Come, hide with me! Where, oh where? Of course—my room!'"

The two men laughed heartily and Passarino looked toward his friend with a certain measure of pride. "Poor thing hasn't got a chance!"

Don Juan nodded in agreement and began to remove his outer garments, passing them over to his friend. "Here's my hat, my cloak, and sword. Conquest is assured...if I do not forget myself and laugh!"

They broke into laughter once more and Don Juan threw Passarino's large black cloak over himself, effectively hiding his features from the audience before ducking into the curtained alcove upstage as Passarino hurried from the scene.

A moment passed in silent stillness, save for a gentle rustling of the black curtain behind which Don Juan hid, and soon, Sansa's voice could be heard from offstage.

"No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy...No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!"

Passarino peeked his head around the corner at the sound of her voice and whispered toward the curtain. "Master?"

A brief silence met his words and confusion briefly flashed across the actor's features before he repeated the line. This time, Don Juan replied, his voice already disguised from its usual rich and haughty timbre. "Passarino—go away! For the trap is set and waits for its prey..."

As Passarino left once more, Aminta entered opposite. She looked about the room for a moment before removing her cloak and sitting at the table. When no one spoke or entered, she glanced furtively around once more and then lifted an apple from the table, taking a bite and swiping at the juice that ran down her chin.

As she lifted her finger to her lips, the curtain was pulled back and Don Juan entered, in the guise of Passarino. When Jaime emerged from behind the curtain, Sansa could almost believe that the hooded cloak had transformed him from the bow-legged swagger of Don Juan. The man beneath the dark cowl looked taller and broader, a fact no doubt nearly incomprehensible to those beyond the stage. As the first note left his lips, her unrealized suspicions were confirmed, and her heart leapt to her throat.

"You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge
In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent...silent..."

She knew the words well, for they had rehearsed with a zeal that could only be attributed to fear of its composer. But, where once they had carried the snide confidence of the scheming Don Juan, she heard now a dark and sinister promise in them.

"I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge...
In your mind you've already succumbed to me. Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me.
Now you are here with me, no second thoughts, you've decided. Decided..."

Sansa was not an unskilled actress and she kept her features schooled though her chest tightened with fear, anger, and the irresistible longing that his voice inspired within her. Though she could not see his face, she could feel his eyes on her, roving across the elaborate and revealing costume he had written for her.

He circled her as he sang, a song which she now realized had never been written for Lyon. The role of Don Juan belonged to its composer and Aminta to his little bird, in a terrifying truth that strayed far from the pages of his script.

"Past the point of no return—no backward glances:
The games we've played till now are at an end…
Past all thought of "if" or "when"—no use resisting;
Abandon thought,
And let the dream descend..."

His voice held the audience transfixed and as Sansa glanced to the box where Joffrey sat, she saw no realization on his features. She and she alone knew the truth of what was unfolding before the unsuspecting audience and she could find no escape.

"What raging fire shall flood the soul?
What rich desire unlocks its door?
What sweet seduction lies before us...?"

He approached her, his hands finding her arms where they lay stiff against her sides. His chest pressed against her back as his fingers roamed across the frills of her dress and she could feel the pounding of his heart, strong and steady.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold!
What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn?
Beyond the point of no return..."

His hands clasped hers tightly, dragging their arms to embrace her, arms crossed over her chest as her head fell back to rest against her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered shut at his touch before she remembered herself and tore away, rushing to the opposite side of the stage.

Her gaze was one of helpless anguish, but the audience seemed not to notice. Gathering her strength, she answered his song with her own. Though she knew what lie behind that black curtain, she had no choice but to play her part. If she revealed him for what he was, the consequences would surely be dire.

"You have brought me
To that moment where words run dry,
To that moment where speech disappears into silence
Silence..."

Her voice trembled but no one seemed alarmed. Only she knew of Jaime's replacement and for her own safety she could say nothing. Just as it had been written, Don Juan would triumph in the end.

"I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why...
In my mind, I've already imagined our bodies entwining
Defenseless and silent...
And now I am here with you; no second thoughts..."

She approached him once more, standing behind him as he lowered himself to the table. Her hands traced a path down his chest and she felt it contract in a shuddering breath. His fingers flexed at his sides as he resisted the urge to touch her. Once before he had embraced her so, deep beneath the theater as he sang to her in the darkness of the world he had claimed for himself and he wanted with a fierce desire to do so knowing that she resided within her own mind.

Sansa pressed his head to her breast and grasped his hand with her own, raising it to her cheek. She did as was written, caressing him as she would a lover and something deep within her wondered what it would be to act without a script as her guide. Joffrey was no longer the child she had fallen in love with, but neither was this phantom the angel she had thought him to be. Two men loved her and she warred with herself to understand what it was that she felt in return.

"I've decided
Decided..."

When she caught sight of the black curtain once more, her mind was cleared, and filled with an indignant anger. Still, he killed to earn her love. Still, he hid his insecurities behind a temper that blazed ferociously and took everyone victim that stood between them. Once, as a different man, he had told her that he would save her, but in the same breath, he vowed that he would kill to do it. For her, he would claim, but while Sandor may not lie, the Phantom he became did not kill to protect her or to save her. He did it to possess her and she could not love him unless it was a choice that he gave her, and not an ultimatum.

"Past the point of no return—no going back now:
Our passion-play has now, at last begun...
Past all thought of right or wrong—
One final question: how long should we two wait, before we're one...?"

Her hands ran suggestively across his thighs and he trembled beneath her touch, far from the imposing figure that so often hid behind the stark white mask. She had reduced him once again to the man she had seen beyond the lake, and in the darkness of her room. The man, and not the Phantom, who longed for her to love him as he loved her, his passion no longer overtaken by obsession or envy.

"When will the blood begin to race...
The sleeping bud burst into bloom?
When will the flames at last, consume us...?"

He stood again and faced her for a moment, one gloved hand tracing the line of her cheek before he resumed his scripted position, twirling her against his broad chest once more. The beating of his heart now mirrored her own, weak and uneven, and his voice wavered as they sang together in an entrancing harmony.

"Past the point of no return—
The final threshold!
The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn
We've passed the point of no return..."

He held her as the music carried their words, his lips moving close to her throat as her eyes closed and her spirit soared with the final crescendo. Perhaps, in another life, things could have been different. She could never love the Phantom, but her heart held a love that was true and strong for the man he could have been. 'No angel, or ghost, or phantom...', but a man as she was a woman. Sandor Clegane, as she had only known him in fleeting moments, and no other.

The audience seemed to wake from a dream as their voices faded and a murmur ran through the ensemble behind the curtain as the cloaked figure fell to his knees before her. From within his robes he retrieved a ring she knew well. He had torn it from her neck, jealous of what it symbolized. And now here he was, giving it back to her, asking the same of her that Joffrey had.

His voice was soft when he sang to her again, his words an echo of what he had asked of her, that dark night that seemed so long ago. "Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude."

Quietly, she took the ring from him, feeling its familiar weight in her palm. There was desperate hope in his eyes as he looked up at her.

"Say you'll want me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too. Sansa, that's all I ask of—"

Hardly aware of her own actions, she reached toward him and without thinking, gently lifted the mask from his face, brushing back his hood and revealing his scars to the eyes of the audience. A horrified gasp met the sight of his mangled face and he cowered there in the spotlight, his shame revealed plainly for all to see.

When he came to his senses, he staggered to his feet and clasped a hand to the ruined half of his face, using the other to take hold of Sansa's wrist and gripping her tightly as she fought to escape him.

Before the officers could rush the stage, he had dragged her to its center, and with a sweep of his cape, they disappeared, amidst cries of terror that followed them far below the stage, deep into the heart of the Phantom's realm.

On stage, Margaery threw back the black curtain, revealing the body of Jaime Lyon. His throat was red from where the rope had rubbed against it and his head was tilted at an unnatural angle, just as Bronn's had been when he met his similar end.

She screamed at the sight, triggering a panic from the audience, and the police rushed onto the stage alongside the cast members backstage. Cersei appeared in a rage, her voice shrill and high. "What is it? What has happened? Jaime!"

Renly and Loras had rushed to the stage at Sansa's disappearance and now they stood pale at its edge, watching the horror that unfolded before them.

"Oh my god," Loras babbled, eyes wide at the sight of the tenor's body. "My god!"

"We're ruined, Loras," Renly cried. "Ruined!"

In his box, Joffrey leapt to his feet, moving to the door. This, if any, was his chance. While everyone was distracted, he could leave this cursed opera house behind, and no one would ever be any the wiser. Superstitious fools that they were, they would probably blame the damned Phantom, and in the end, they would be right.

When he flung open the door, Madame Tyrell was waiting on the other side and she gripped him by the arm, effectively halting his flight.

"Monsieur le Vicomte! Come with me!"

An inhuman wail left the soprano's throat as she realized what had happened and she rushed to her lover's side, her hands ineffectually patting at his chest and cheeks. "Oh, mon chéri, mon chéri...Who has done this to you?"

Cersei looked about and when she caught sight of the managers she rushed toward them, her hands slapping weakly against Loras' raised arms as she cried out in hysteria. "You! Why did you let this happen?!"

Joffrey looked behind him, wondering if he could break away and run toward the exit, but Madame Tyrell's grip was strong and she dragged him further into the theater, away from his escape.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, I know where they are!"

"Can I trust you?" Joffrey asked suspiciously. He had never liked how reluctant she had been to help them in their schemes against the Phantom, and not for the first time, he wondered where her true allegiances lie.

"You must," she replied sternly. "But remember: your hand at the level of your eyes." She demonstrated the gesture and he frowned deeply.

"Why?"

"The Punjab lasso, Monsieur," she said, her eyes wide. "First Bronn, now Jaime!"

Joffrey narrowed his eyes and pulled her to a stop, looking down at her sternly. "Who is he? Who is this Phantom? Tell me the truth."

She gave a heavy sigh, glancing nervously over her shoulder, before beginning quietly. "He is no phantom, Monsieur. He is a man and nothing more, by the name of Sandor Clegane."

"And who is this...Clegane?" he pressed.

She looked distraught as she continued, laying out the tale of the Phantom's tragic past. "His father was a composer here, when I was just a girl. There was another son, Gregor, a cruel boy. When Sandor showed the same gift for music that his father had, Gregor disfigured him, as you have seen, out of jealousy. He burned away his skin, and after that, their father couldn't even bear to look at his son anymore. When a young girl was brutalized and murdered by his brother, the blame was put on Sandor's head, and so he fled beneath the theater, in hidden passageways that no one else had discovered. There, he has remained ever since, cast away in the darkness for many long years. They told him he was a monster, and so that is what he became."

Joffrey felt no sympathy, and instead, his fury only increased. It had never been anything more than a man that they had fought, but still, they had been outwitted at every turn, by the disfigured freak who had claimed the opera as his playground.

When Madame Tyrell saw the expression on his face, she grasped his arm once more, pulling him onward toward a trapdoor, nearly hidden in the floorboards behind the stage.

"Come, Monsieur! Hurry, or we shall be too late!"

His grip on her hand was like iron as he dragged her down to his home, not by the path she had once taken, but from the trapdoor beneath the stage. They ran down the long passage, down a path into darkness deep as hell.

When he felt her shiver, he turned to face her, his eyes dark and wild, no longer hidden beneath his mask which she still held in her other hand.

"Why, do you wonder," he spat. "Was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place?" He scoffed and raised a hand to point at the left side of his face. "Not for any mortal sin, but for the wickedness of my abhorrent face!"

Far above them, they could hear a growing cry, the angry chant of a hundred voices. "Track down this murderer, he must be found!"

He threw a glare toward the sound of their voices, quickening his pace as he raged against them, more to himself than to her. "Hounded out by everyone…met with hatred everywhere!" He looked to her once again, hot, angry tears welling in his dark eyes and spilling across his exposed scars. "Sansa...why? Why...?"

She looked at him with fear and he cast her aside once more, throwing her down into the boat and angrily grasping the pole in his hands to draw them across the lake. He rowed in a brooding silence and above them, the voices seemed to echo through the darkness, haunting whispers in the night.

"Your hand at the level of your eyes..."

"Track down this murderer, he must be found..."

"Hunt down this animal, who runs to ground..."

"He lives across the lake, Monsieur. This is as far as I dare go."

"Too long he's preyed on us, but now we know...the phantom of the opera lives down below...!"

When they reached the shore he yanked her once again to her feet and she wrenched out of his grasp, whirling on him angrily.

"Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?" she demanded, her cheeks spotted with red and her hands clenched at her sides. "Am I now to be prey to your lust for me?!"

The Phantom, as he had become again, regarded her coldly, his jaw clenched and his voice tight with anger. "That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood has also denied me the joys of the flesh..." He brought his hand to her cheek, stroking it softly before gripping her chin firmly and forcing her gaze to his. "This face is the infection which poisons our love."

He let her go and paced to the other end of the room, his voice dropping as his self-loathing rose to push aside his rage. "This face which earned my father's fear and hatred. That mask: a cold, unfeeling scrap of clothing..."

She had turned her back to him when he looked back toward her and he scoffed at her gently shaking shoulders. "Your pity comes too late," he spat, stalking toward her once more and turning her to him. "Turn around and face your fate..." His eyes sparked with fury and she could smell the wine on his breath, but she did not turn away, bravely meeting his gaze. "An eternity of this before your eyes!"

He took the ring from her fist and placed it on her finger, his hands trembling. For a moment, Sansa looked at it, wondering if she could learn to live such a life.

Slowly, gently, she reached a hand to his face, the skin of her palm smooth against the rough scars that marred his features. She looked at him with sorrow in her gaze and she whispered softly as she held his face in her hands.

"This haunted face does not frighten me anymore..." She shook her head and dropped her hands, looking up at him with a mix of pity and resentment. "It's in your soul that the true distortion lies."

His expression hovered between hurt and anger and he did not know whether he should defend his actions or beg for her forgiveness. He was saved from either by the sound of hesitant footsteps and he turned from her sharply.

"It seems we have a guest." Joffrey appeared before them, his clothes and hair dripping. "Sir," Sandor called toward him. "This is an unparalleled delight!"

Joffrey ignored the taunt and gripped the iron portcullis that separated them. "Free her!" he cried out demandingly. "I'll let you be if you just free her."

The Phantom cocked his eyebrow and looked to Sansa. "Your lover makes a passionate plea."

"Please, Joffrey," she begged. "It's useless!"

"She loves me," the Viscount raged. "Does that mean nothing?" He pounded a fist against the bars. "Have you no compassion?"

He snorted, the burns across his face twisting grotesquely. "The world had no compassion for me!"

"Let me see her!" Joffrey yelled.

The older man smirked darkly. "Be my guest, sir..."

With a gesture the portcullis began to rise and as Joffrey stepped forward and eyed his adversary warily, Sandor Clegane carefully reached for the red rope on the table beside him, holding it behind his back as he walked forward.

A horrifying grin stretched across his features as he waded into the water and he extended his free hand toward Joffrey in a dramatic gesture.

"Monsieur, I bid you welcome!" When the younger man glanced toward Sansa, the Phantom clucked his tongue. "Did you truly believe that I would harm her?" He shook his head in feigned disbelief, but it was anger that burned dark in his gaze. "Why should I make her pay for the sins which are yours?"

With surprising speed for a man his size, he lunged forward, and Joffrey, forgetting the words of Madame Tyrell, was strung up in an elaborate noose and hanged just above the ground from the bottom of the iron bars.

"Order your fine horses now," the Phantom sneered mockingly. "Raise your hand to the level of your eyes!" He laughed at the look of terror in the younger man's eyes and returned his gaze to the opposite shore. "Nothing can save you now. Except perhaps, Sansa..."

He returned to her side, his voice booming in the cold emptiness of his cavernous lair. "Start a new life with me—buy his freedom with your love. Refuse me and you send your lover to his death! This is the choice," he growled. "This is the point of no return!"

Sansa looked from the man who had once been her Angel, to the man she had once loved. Tears fell to her cheeks, hot tears of hatred, as one by one, all of her delusions were shattered. Before she could give him an answer, Joffrey's voice interrupted her thoughts, thin and frightened as he struggled to remain on his toes, the rope digging into the flesh of his throat.

"Let me go!" he demanded, face red with fury and a slow loss of breath. "Set me free! I do not love her! Do you hear me you miserable wretch!" His eyes were dark with hatred. "You've won! You can have her, just let me go!"

"It's far too late for turning back," Sandor sneered derisively. "Too late for your prayers and useless pity!" He rounded on Sansa, who wept openly in deep, painful sobs. "Either way you choose, you cannot win. So, do you end your days with me or do you send him to his grave!"

"For pity's sake!" Joffrey yelled. "It's not a lie! I don't love her—let me go!"

"You try my patience," their captor snapped. "Make your choice!"

Her body still wracked with sobs, Sansa turned her face to Sandor's and answered quietly, in defeat. "He tells the truth. Let him free. If I stay with you, do you promise to let him live?" She looked to Joffrey and saw nothing but disgust in his eyes. To think that once she had thought herself in love with him, and he with her. That had been as much a lie as the Phantom's deceptions, but still, he did not deserve to die for his cowardice.

The Phantom regarded her for a long moment, as if trying to decipher her thoughts, but at long last, he waded back to Joffrey and cut him free.

"Go," he snarled. "You pathetic worm."

Clutching at his throat, Joffrey obeyed, cursing them both as he stumbled away. When he had disappeared, Sandor turned to see Sansa behind him, her face wet with tears as she looked up at him.

She smiled sadly, placing a hand once more on his scarred cheek. "What kind of life have you known?" He leaned into her touch and she continued softly. "God, give me the courage to show you…you are not alone."

Standing on her toes, she pressed her lips to his, imbuing all of her helpless longing into their kiss. She showed him the compassion that he had never known and when his shock had faded, he accepted it with fervor, his hands grasping her face as though he was afraid she would turn to mist in his arms.

When she finally pulled away, his eyes were wide with surprise and realization and he slowly dropped his arms to his sides, his scars glistening with fallen tears.

"Track down this murderer, he must be found!"

"Go," he whispered, his voice breaking as he turned from her. "Forget me, forget all of this..."

"Who is this monster, this murdering beast..."

"Leave me alone," he ordered, his voice gaining strength as he returned to the shore, standing before his organ and looking over what had once been his greatest masterpiece. "Forget all you've seen...go now, don't let them find you!"

"Revenge for Lyon! Revenge for Bronn!"

"Take the boat," he urged. "Leave me here. Go now. Don't wait." When she hesitated, he yelled toward her, insistently. "Go. Before it's too late, go!"

"The Phantom of the Opera is here, deep down below..."

His voice was a broken scream as he turned from her gaze and he lifted his hands to cover his face. "GO NOW. GO NOW AND LEAVE ME!"

Without turning to see if she had followed his command, he returned to where once she had slept, on a night that seemed so long ago. The monkey music box beside the bed offered its familiar tune as he took it in his hands and he sang quietly as it clapped its bronze cymbals.

"Masquerade...hide your face so the world will never find you..."

He heard the soft sound of footsteps behind him and when he looked, Sansa was standing there, her hand outstretched toward him. In her palm was the ring he had given her and as he took it from her grasp, he offered one final plea.

"Sansa...I love you..."

Though she offered him a soft smile, she left without another word and as the mob descended to the edge of the lake, he left his world behind. There was no longer a place for him there, beneath the opera house. He had known from the first moment he had heard her voice that Sansa was the only one who could make his song take flight, and without her, there was nothing left.

As his footsteps faded, Margaery rose from the waters of the lake, hoping that she could be forgiven if she were able to rescue Sansa from her fate. Instead, she found an empty room, the only evidence of what had occurred: a single white scrap of cloth, the discarded mask of the Phantom of the Opera.

Perros-Guirec, 1915

The wind was cold and he drew his cloak tighter about his broad frame, looking down once more at the tombstone before him.

The Opéra Populaire had never seen its star again after the events of that fateful night. Some said she had disappeared with the Viscount Lannister, others that she still remained beneath the opera house, forced into a life of wretched slavery as the Phantom's bride.

Only she knew the truth. She left her past behind to start anew, traveling North, as far as she could go, until her name was no longer known. It was there, many years later, that he came to her once more…

Sansa walked to the door and it opened before her to reveal a large man, his hands in the pockets of a heavy coat and a hat pulled down to cast his features in shadow.

"Sansa Stark?" he asked, almost hesitantly.

She nodded, a slight smile playing across her lips though her heart was pounding in her chest. "I think you knew that."

He shifted almost anxiously and was quiet for a moment. "But...you're Sansa...Stark?"

Her smile faltered slightly and she nodded again. "Yes." When he made no move to respond, she spoke again, softly. "Why are you here? So many years later?"

He raised his gaze from his boots, eyes scanning her features from beneath the brim of his hat. "I want to ask for your forgiveness. If you'll give it." His mouth quirked up slightly at the corner. "That's all I ask of you."

For a long moment, she simply looked at him and then she smiled gently and stepped back. "Come in." When he ducked into the doorway, she turned to face him. "What should I call you?"

"Sandor," he said simply. He removed his hat to reveal a face uncovered by a mask. "Just, call me Sandor."

It was when the world had forgotten their story that he returned to her and offered her what she had once thought impossible. He gave her his love, a true love that had matured in her absence and was free from jealousy and bitter anger. Without a mask to hide behind, it was a man that returned to her; tortured and scarred though he was, he was a man as he had never been, and it was that man she learned to love.

After leaving a single red rose on the earth before her tomb, he brushed a gloved hand over the letters of her name.

Sansa Clegane, it read, and then beneath, in cold stone letters: Mon petit oiseau chanteur.