"Come in," a voice called from inside.
Sansa entered. The office was medium sized and nicely but sparsely furnished. At the desk was an overweight man in a well-tailored and expensive-looking outfit. He was absolutely bald.
He glanced up from his writings with glittering, intelligent eyes. He stood at once and with marked courtesy approached her. His steps were surprisingly silent and quick given his girth.
"My dear Miss Stark, I believe," He took her hand in his. His voice was like the soft hum of a bee, full of honey as he inclined his head. His cheeks were lightly powdered. "Won't you please sit down, my dear girl?" He stretched his hand out to the seat in front of his desk.
He sat her down and then bowed again. "I am Varys, manager here. I am at your service." His exquisite manners were oddly jarring coming straight from Mr. Clegane. Compared to the head stagehand, this man's attentions seemed…oddly false and insinuating.
She shook the thought away. Nonsense. This man is a gentleman, and very sympathetic, obviously.
He was at his desk again. "I take it you had a pleasant journey here?"
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Varys. I…I do apologize I couldn't apply for a position here earlier. Um, circumstances, um, dictated it." She decided 'demanded' would be overdramatic. Nonetheless, she sounded to herself like a simpleton.
Ever a gentleman, Varys ignored her awkwardness with ease. "Nonsense, my dear. Lord Baelish knows your dear mother and what an honorable family you come from. He is sure you will do splendidly here. You found our offices all right?"
"Mr. Clegane showed me."
Sansa didn't notice the slight shadow in Varys's eyes. "Sandor Clegane showed you here? The Hound?" He masterfully kept any surprise out of his voice.
Sandor. His first name's Sandor. "Yes."
"Hm. I was unaware Lord Baelish would have him lead you here. The Hound – er, Mr. Clegane is a priceless employee, but his manners are admittedly a bit gruff. I hope he did not shock you too much? Particularly in his appearance?"
Sansa felt oddly rankled by the insinuation, though she had indeed felt nothing but shock, at first. She felt now almost…protective. "Oh, no. He was quite helpful."
He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "Well, there you are, anyhow." Another ingratiating smile and Sandor Clegane was dismissed from memory. "I'm afraid my associate is running a bit late, my dear. Once he arrives, we will more thoroughly discuss your audition." The blood rushed to Sansa's head. So she would audition! Truly! That was of course what she'd come to the opera house for, but she'd no idea if they'd truly let her, or would want her for a spot in the chorus instead.
She bit her bottom lip giddily, and Varys couldn't lie to himself that she was a charming thing in her excitement.
Woe for her.
Varys leaned back in his chair, arms folded on his stomach and fingers tented. "You are a very pretty young lady, if you do not mind my saying so, Miss Stark." Very plainly dressed, however, he mused.She's every inch the schoolgirl. With Baelish's…patronage, that certainly won't last long. "You should be wary, my dear, that you don't stir our prima donna's jealousy." His tone was light and playful. The look in his eyes wasn't.
Sansa ignored it. "I'm sure a great beauty like Mrs. Baratheon need not resent my looks"—
"Ah!" Varys stopped her, holding up a finger. "Whatever you do, sweet girl, do not refer to her by her married name. Always, always use her unmarried, professional name: 'Ms. Lannister'. To be honest, the lady had no great fondness for her late husband, loathe as I am to speak so to the daughter of his dearest friend. They were…ill-suited. She does not like to be reminded of him."
Sansa bowed her head. She knew that, of course. How could she not when she'd devoted her whole life to reading the gossip columns in the papers, of how Cersei and Robert Baratheon were constantly at each other's throats during their marriage, until his heart failed him three years past? Sansa remembered how empty her father's face went when he saw the announcement of his death in the papers. Catelyn had quietly enquired if they should go to King's Landing for the funeral. "No," had been his clipped response. He'd put the paper away and never spoke of his friend again.
"Of course the feeling was more than mutual," Varys was saying. "He never had any love for her. He never got over your aunt, poor man."
Sansa was shocked he'd mention her aunt to her so blatantly, and in such context! His manners might be far more polished, but Mr. Varys was just as blunt as Mr. Clegane in his own way.
"I see," Sansa said quietly.
"Now, don't worry, my dear. Not many people are around now who remember the Scandal. I'm one of the very few. I was Rhaegar Targaryen's valet." Sansa's mouth dropped open again, ever so unladylike.
"Were you?" She breathed.
He inclined his head. "A fact which Ms. Lannister remembers very well, and likes to remind me of with her 'cool, haughty gaze', as a novelist might say. She detested your aunt. Cersei is a good singer, but your aunt…your aunt was on another plane entirely. It was a constant struggle to know who would play the leading lady each season: she with the talent, or she with the influential father." A small, pleasant smile. "Your aunt's untimely death answered that question for good."
Sansa shivered, fighting her repugnance. She suddenly wished her mother was here.
"But tell me!" He said, almost chipper now. "What do you make of our great opera house?" He spread his hand out over his office, eyes to the ceiling, as if laying the whole house before her for inspection.
Sansa was glad she could finally join in the conversation in full. "It's all so much more beautiful than I ever dreamed, Mr. Varys." She shifted forward in her seat, her eyes sparkling.
Varys felt a painful twist in his heart. Such unsullied enthusiasm….
"It's like a palace! I'll bet the Red Keep where the council sits isn't as nice!" A mischievous fire appeared in her eyes, a spark seen mostly in Arya's eyes but once in a while peeked out of her older sister's eyes, too. "And I'm very excited about the opera Phantom."
Varys registered no surprise, but no great humor, either. "I see. You've heard about him. The Hound telling tales?"
Sansa felt a stab of fear for Sandor. Damn her tongue! "Oh, no, no, no! In fact, he told me to never mind the gossip. I…heard some people talking about it as we passed by." She didn't want to get this Hollard person in trouble, either. She shrugged, trying to look casual. "It's…all a little silly, isn't it?"
His placid gaze never altered as he answered, "Possibly. But I wouldn't talk about him much or explore this place unaccompanied if I were you, my dear."
His words echoed Sandor's so much that she was now completely intrigued. As the air grew thick between them, the door opened and Sansa turned.
And looked down.
"Hello," said the shortest man she had ever seen. A dwarf.
There was a wry, tipsy look about him as he tipped his already askew top hat at her. He winked. He was dressed very elegantly. As he passed her by, Sansa caught a heavy whiff of perfume that didn't smell like it belonged to a man.
He seated himself in a chair near a cart full of drinks. Narrowing his eyes at the coat hook, he hurled his hat there and raised his firsts triumphantly when it landed where aimed.
"The gods are with me today," He announced. He leaned over to the cart and poured himself a drink.
"This is Mr. Tyrion Lannister," Varys explained in his pleasant voice. Cersei Lannister's brother! Is this opera house crawling with Lannister people? "My fellow manager. He is drunk."
"No!" Tyrion corrected him. "Getting drunk. There is a difference, Varys." He turned his attention to the dumbfounded Sansa, studying her over his glass. "Have you offered our pretty guest libations, Varys?"
"I have been remiss. Would you care for a drink, Miss Stark?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine." She felt so dull, slow, plain.
This wasn't helped by Tyrion's laughter. "You look like you came straight from the convent. Who is this again?" He asked Varys.
Varys maintained his even expression as he answered, "As I just said and as we discussed this morning, Tyrion, this is Sansa Stark. From Winterfell. Up North. In Westeros. Which is the country we live in."
"Ah, that's right! Another Stark girl in the opera house! This should be fun!" Sansa felt her temper rising, but before she could say anything, Tyrion suddenly recalled something and sat up straighter. "Wait a minute!" He pointed at her, almost accusingly. "I know your brother!"
Sansa blinked, surprised. "Robb?"
"No, no, not him. Jon."
"…Oh. My half-brother," she said. Her tone was as frigid and cold as the Northern winds.
Tyrion Lannister was not a gentleman.
When Ned returned from King's Landing after almost a year looking for his sister and investigating her death, he returned with a surprise for his young Tully bride:
A bastard boy. Jon Snow.
Sansa knew Jon was the one great heartbreak of her mother's life. Most wealthy men would pay someone to look after the bastard and then send him to school. They would pretend the child was a nephew from a dead sibling.
But Ned Stark raised Jon with them, never lying about who he was. He was brought up as one of their own, but always a bit outside, as well.
His addition to the family so soon after Lyanna's death compounded the Scandal. Many believe the weight of dishonor to the Stark name was what finally killed old Rickard Stark, Ned and Lyanna's father. Some wondered if Catelyn would even seek a divorce, but she never did.
Often were the times when Sansa would have liked to treat Jon as she did Robb, Bran, and Rickon. As her true brother. But just as often were the times when Sansa would be playing with Jon, she the princess and he the knight come to rescue her from Arya the dragon, when Sansa would chance looking up to the window. There she'd see her mother. Catelyn stood watching them, to the naked eye as proud and honorable as ever, but her daughter could see the pain in her blue eyes.
And so Sansa learned to call Jon her half-brother. She was never cruel to Jon; she still played with him, still gave him advice about girls. But in Jon's dark gray eyes, Sansa could see he noticed the slight difference, the distance.
Sansa thought of this now with a pang. She hadn't seen Jon in three years, since he left for the army.
"Where did you meet him?" She asked Tyrion quietly.
"He was on his way to his regiment with a few other soldiers, if I recall correctly. I was meeting with some Northern investors of Father's at an inn when his squadron came in. Well, a drinking match ensued, which your brother stayed out of. That's why he was able to fight off the rowdiest recruit who did not take kindly to a rich dwarf out-drinking him. I probably owe my life to your bastard brother."
He seemed to finally notice her cold glare. She looked just like one of those icy Others his governess used to tell him about to scare him as a child.
Half-facetiously, half-genuinely, he said, "I hope I haven't offended you, miss."
The naïve and sweet-tempered child seemed vanished. The proud beauty who sat with ramrod straightness in her chair was more wolf than dove. "Not at all, sir," she said with quiet dignity. "I love my brother. There is nothing to be ashamed of."
Varys and Tyrion both noted she'd dropped the "half".
Varys skillfully steered the conversation back to her audition for understudy. Secretly, Tyrion was gleeful that Cersei would have to face a Stark girl again. By god, wouldn't it be fantastic if this girl could upstage his sister as her aunt once did? Unlikely. Then again, this girl had more steel in her than he'd originally surmised….
"…And so we'll see you in our amphitheater at the end of the week for the audition." Varys stood. "I believe that is all; do you have anything else to add, Tyrion?"
He raised a glass to her. "Nothing but my sincerest admiration for the lady. It takes courage to make the leap you have, my dear. I honestly salute you."
While Sansa was a bit befuddled about what she considered his hyperbole, she was nevertheless flattered. Her manner softened a bit to him. "Thank you, sir. Thank you, both."
"Someone will see to you outside, my dear. Good night," Varys bowed again.
Sansa curtseyed and then was gone.
"Well," Varys said, turning to Tyrion. "An interesting turn of events."
"Maybe," Tyrion said, pouring himself another drink. "Could be quite embarrassing if the girl can't sing."
"Oh, I'm sure our good Lord Baelish will find a place for her regardless."
"Gods pity the poor girl," Tyrion said. He shuddered at the thought of his employer in name, Lord Baelish. Of course, Littlefinger truly worked at the behest of Tyrion's father, a ruthless businessman who controlled the majority of such operations in the country – mostly illegally.
Still, Tywin Lannister would not begrudge Petyr Baelish his fun with the child of his lost love.
So yes, may the gods pity poor innocent Sansa Stark.
"By the way," Varys said, without looking up from a note he'd started writing. "It is time now to pay him."
Varys didn't even flinch when Tyrion slammed down his drink, yet he could hear the anger in Tyrion's tight voice. "Varys, I'm getting awfully sick of spending the opera's precarious funds on someone I don't know and someone I've never seen. Varys?"
Varys did not acknowledge him.
Tyrion squeezed his fists so tightly he felt the fingernails leave marks on his palms. "Varys, do you hear me? Father put me in this position, he obviously intended me to know a little of what goes on here. Who the hells is this 'Phantom' and why are we beholden to pay him?"
Eyes still on his papers, Varys's voice was nonetheless quite serious. "Believe me, my dear Tyrion. You will stay far happier not knowing."