After Sansa closed the office door behind her, she turned and gasped. "You're back!"

"Aye, I'm back," Sandor chuckled, reclining against the door frame. "Lucky you." He leaned in, smirking nastily. "Had enough talking about your half-brother and making nice with the Imp?"

Sansa's brows came down violently. "You eavesdropped!"

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Not my fault I came back in time for the best bits."

Sansa wasn't sure where she should go, but anywhere was better than spending one more second with this man. The instant she moved off, however, his hand was on her arm. Its heat burned her like a brand.

"Don't fly away so fast, little bird."

"Let go of me!"

"Can't. I've been instructed to give you a quick tour of the place, then to introduce you to him." His look was ominous, dark.

Sansa swallowed hard. She did not resist when he led her away.

Sandor didn't know what to make of this little Northern girl thrust in his care.

How, for example, had they started this tour with him dragging the frightened girl by her arm, but were ending it now with her hand tucked absently in his elbow as she gazed with childlike wonder at the sights around her?

They'd just made a circle of the amphitheater. She'd traced the curved banisters of the box seats as if they were made from fucking exotic dragonglass. He'd not taken her onstage, but her eyes drank in the space tenderly.

Although he could tell proper ladylike blood flowed through her very veins, it wasn't a very ladylike posture she'd adopted when she'd tilted her head far back to take in the large golden chandelier.

She was enchanted and – dammit – enchanting.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to dissipate the feeling. "Come on," he said. He led her toward the exit.

She blinked her big blue eyes once, like someone waking up. "Oh? Is it time to go?"

"Yes, come on." He pulled her with her hand still tucked into his elbow, pulled not too hard.

"Well, thank you very much for the tour. It's…it's been lovely, lovely."

He snorted at her words. Lovely, lovely. "You're like one of these pretty little singing birds from the Summer Isle, aren't you? Pretty little bird singing all the pretty little words your governess taught you."

The shocked look she gave him was indeed very bird-like. She straightened herself, affecting dignity. "I don't know what you mean."

"Hopefully this will be a nice big cage for you to sing in, little bird." He couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. The soft, grave innocence in this girl…this place would leech it out of her.

Could have knocked him down when he first saw her face. Even the youngest kid in the children's ballet didn't possess such a fresh face of innocence. Not a touch of makeup on her, and with that long thick auburn hair hanging down, she looked like one of those old paintings in books about fairytales.

He couldn't describe, even to himself, how drawn he was to that look of hers. She wasn't as beautiful as Cersei Lannister in the conventional way yet, but Sandor would rather look at this girl than Cersei. The stiff perfection of the diva's face, the sour expression, left Sandor cold (not that he blamed the woman herself as much as other people might – Sandor knew it was probably no picnic married all those years to that fat whoring fuck. Take a toll on anyone's disposition).

And while there was nothing stiff or set in the little bird's beauty, there was a wintry distance to her, for all her warmth and kind attentions. She was so…Northern.

Not that she had the wild, dark looks or habits people associated with the North. No, looks-wise she had what he heard was the Tully coloring and build. He meant…something about her remote air. Not remote like unfriendly, far from it…fuck, he couldn't describe it. It was very Northern.

Or so Sandor guessed. He'd traveled Westeros a bit in his stint in the military, but mostly he'd been consigned to carrying out Lannister's wishes in the backstreets of the Westerlands and then here in King's Landing. He'd never really gotten that far North.

Either way, this girl really did seem like she'd just stepped out of a children's book of fairytales.

He wanted to shake the stars out of her eyes as she looked over the place so happily. Tell her what she was in for.

But he wouldn't let him.

They were in front of his door now, in an area of the opera house remote from the rest and ever more elegant. Sandor knocked. "The Stark girl, sir," He called.

Sandor was surprised but not shocked that Baelish answered the door himself. Already trying to impress her. Why a flame of rage at the thought, he did not know.

So eager to impress her, yet has a dog like me drag her around all day. Probably figured anybody would look better after me.

Baelish's dark salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his mustache neatly trimmed. His suit was smart and so neatly pressed it made Sandor nauseous.

"Sansa," he said, voice thick and warm. Hoping to disarm her with familiarity. Like he was her damned uncle or something. Baelish's green eyes ran over her tall form, up and down, from her face to her feet. He took her hand and squeezed it. Somehow the fucker was able to conjure up tears into his kindly eyes. "You have your dear mother's look." The fucker actually kissed her hand.

Sandor shot a glance at the bird to see how she was taking it. She looked gracious but uncomfortable, and turned her head slightly away – probably from that horrible mint scent Littlefinger always wore, Sandor imagined. And the bastard had obviously overdone it today.

"Now don't you worry about a thing, my dear," Littlefinger said, continuing his front of avuncular good will. "I'll look after you as though you were my own."

Sandor felt sick at the hidden double meaning.

Sansa smiled wanly. "Thank you, Lord Baelish. I'm so happy to meet you." The enthusiasm from moments before seemed slightly tempered now.

Baelish ushered her in solicitously, then started to close the door on Sandor.

He leaned out before shutting, speaking close to Sandor's ear. "Go to Varys now. It is time to collect the salary," he said in a low voice heavy with meaning.

Sandor cast a wary glance over Baelish's shoulder to Sansa. She looked back at him with eyes so wide he wanted to push Baelish away and sling her over his shoulder.

Instead he merely stood there as the door closed shut.

"Sit down, Sansa, sit down." Lord Baelish pulled out a chair for her.

Echoing her movements from before with Varys, Sansa did as she was asked and waited for Petyr to take a seat behind his large ornate desk.

However, Petyr opted to take his seat at the desks' edge, perched there right in front of her, his crossed leg brushing her skirt.

There was something about the way his eyes so slowly raked over her that made her skin crawl.

This is Mother's friend, now. You're safe, she repeated to herself.

He spoke of the lady. "It really is astonishing how much you favor Catelyn. Absolutely astonishing!" He tilted his head, and she could feel his sly eyes bore into her. "Your hair is a bit lighter. And your features are even more refined if it were possible, even lovelier!"

Sansa realized dimly that maybe she should feel flattered by his attentions. Yet she couldn't help comparing his tones to those Robb used when looking over a new horse.
She felt that she herself was not important here, just the ways in which she was identical or not to her mother.

He affected now a sort of rueful, fondly mocking tone. "Did you know I once proposed to your mother? Oh, I was so young then, so brash! Ha, ha! She was very kind to me, of course, and let me down gently. You see, she was engaged to your uncle then, Brandon Stark."

Sansa knew the story, and her toes curled in her shoes in second-hand embarrassment. She didn't want him to continue, but continue he did. "Such a young hot-head I was that I actually challenged your uncle to a duel! Me! As if we were in some medieval romance! Well, I knew not a thing about shooting, of course, while your uncle won the tournament at every hunting party! Remind me someday to show you the scar I still bear to this day from that ill-fated duel! Ha, ha! No hard feelings, of course. I was as distressed as any when I found out about his hunting accident a month or two later. But, then again, without that your father wouldn't have visited your mother to express their mutual condolences and you, my dear, might not be here at all!"

His eyes twinkled and Sansa had no idea how to respond.

Luckily, Petyr gave her no chance to make one as he changed the subject. "You can't imagine, my dear, how thrilled I was to receive your letter. Positively thrilled!"

Sansa felt small and afraid, but she must be honest with him. "Lord Baelish, your generosity to me has been beyond belief. I will never be able to repay your kindness to me, never. And I do apologize for the short notice. But…well…like I explained in the letter, my parents don't exactly approve…."

He stuck a hand up, halting her. "Say no more, sweetling. Let's just say I know your mother very well, and she's a fine, good, splendid woman, but that Tully honor in her!" He whistled. "It can make her a bit…intractable. Well, let's be frank: stubborn's the word. Same for your father."

Sansa did have to laugh at that. She was suddenly so pleased there was someone here who knew and loved her family.

But then he clutched her wrist, and the pleasure turned to faint queasiness. "Why don't we keep this our little secret, eh?" His ingratiating smile and half-shut eyes reminded her vaguely of some children's poem about a disappearing cat, leaving behind only its sly grin.

He was looking for something in her eyes, she knew not what.

He released her wrist and said, "Now. About your accommodations. I have two options for you, sweetling." He listed the first one in an indifferent voice, as if just to get it out of the way for formality's sake. "The first one is with Olenna Tyrell, the ballet mistress here. She's a fantastic teacher, but there's a reason they call her 'Dame of Thorns.' Get her in a prickly mood, and you're sure to bleed! I must admit her house is a bit crowded: there's her, her grandson Loras (our lead tenor: a handsome boy, but don't count on turning his eye; he is immune to the charms of the gentler sex), and her granddaughter Margaery."

"The contralto?" Sansa interjected eagerly. She'd seen her pictures plastered all over the society pages in the paper. She was always so chic and vivacious! Her dresses!

"Yes," Petyr said with slight distaste. "A pretty girl, but…I'm afraid…." He leaned forward with his arms on his legs, staring at her frankly. "I'm afraid your dear mother just might find our Margaery a bit on the common side, Sansa."

She shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like thinking of her mother as so judgmental. "Oh."

"But the second option!" He said more brightly. "My home!" His smile was wider than ever.

Sansa felt her heart drop to her stomach. "Your home, Lord Baelish?"

"Oh please, call me Petyr. We're practically family, after all. Yes, my home. For propriety's sake, of course, I will install a companion for you. Now how about that?"

She was here because of this man. With just a word he could send her back to Winterfell, in shame. He obviously preferred the second option.

"I will stay with the Tyrells, if you don't mind, sir."

His smile remained, but his eyes dimmed.
"Oh?"

"I appreciate your generous offer, but I've already imposed on you so much" –

"My dear, it's really not an impo"—

" – And I would love the chance to stay with fellow actors, get from them first-hand what it's like onstage."

"Sweetling, you would have ample opportunity for that"—

" – So it's settled, then?" Sansa was suddenly standing. She knew not how. "The Tyrells?"

Petyr was never so reminded of Cat as he was right now, looking into the dignified cold glint in Sansa Stark's eyes.

A moment to collect his inner resources, then he bowed defeat. "As you wish. I can tell when I've been beaten. Ha, ha!" He stood and squeezed her shoulders. "I do believe you will like it here, Sansa."

She saw venom in his glance.

"You are just about the sweetest thing we've ever had in this house. Don't you agree, Grandmama?" Madame Olenna Tyrell murmured in agreement with her granddaughter.

Sansa was enjoying after-dinner tea with the Tyrell ladies in their parlor. Loras had been in and out; charming and handsome, but not too engaging. For reasons Sansa did not fully grasp, Loras did not really live here but instead had rooms with Renly Baratheon, the Prime Minister's younger brother; however, as far as the press was concerned, Loras lived with his sister and grandmother. His name was on the lease along with Olenna and Margaery's.

It was clear, however, that Madame Olenna Tyrell alone owned and ran this house.

And what a house it was! Sansa hoped she didn't appear gawkish studying it. She'd never been in such…bohemian surroundings! The two-story red brick building was sandwiched between two houses in a long row of buildings just like it in a bustling, fashionable neighborhood just a couple blocks from the opera. From out the open window, Sansa could hear violin strains and piano scales in neighboring homes.

The only word for the furnishings was lush. The carpeting was a deep maroon, almost matching the pin-striped walls. Small chandeliers hanged from the ceiling. Ornate Braavosi fans lined the wall, and there were portraits of pretty young women wearing robes and holding parasols. All the furniture was of a blood red velvet with gilded frames not unlike the balconies at the opera house. A large painting of a saloon fight was positioned right above the dining room.

As for the inmates of the house, their dress and manners reflected their environment. The Dame of Thorns did indeed have a prickly tongue, but so far Sansa avoided getting stung. The ballet mistress's deeply wrinkled skin was covered in thick powder with a black beauty mark painted at the corner of her chin. She wore a roomy dressing robe more elegant than the ones in the photographs. Her gray hair was tied up in a head scarf, and two sardonic brown eyes peered out at her granddaughter and Sansa as if they were a music hall comedy act she was begrudgingly enjoying.

To be sure, Margaery Tyrell was entertaining enough to carry a solo act. Sansa had never met such an effortlessly charming, warm girl! Though only a few years older than Sansa, she was so self-possessed and sophisticated she seemed several years older than that. She had a clever feline face that was always smiling. Her topaz dress with its plunging neckline was just as fabulous up close as her dresses always were in their black and white photographs in the paper.

She's taken quickly to Sansa, and kept up the conversation at a lively pace. "…Anyway, after the audition, Grandmama announced that I had all the dancing talent of a deranged duck! And so I turned to singing instead, like Loras. I don't believe Grandmama has ever recovered."

Playing along with her granddaughter, Madame Olenna turned exaggerated eyes to the heavens, an outsized tremor in her voice. "Yes, it was very hard on me not having my granddaughter in the ballet. The only bigger tragedy would have been if she actually was."

Sansa joined Margaery in her self-deprecating laughter. What a life these two famous ladies led! Answering to no one but themselves, commanding their small staff themselves, so close to everything, at the center of everything….

And if I'm lucky, maybe I will be, too! The thought made her cheeks flush with excitement.

"Tell me, Sansa," Olenna said speculatively. "How extensive is your experience singing in front of audiences?"

Sansa made sure to swallow her crumpet slowly, giving her time to phrase her answer. "Um…well, not too extensive, I must admit."

The ladies waited.

Sansa cleared her throat. "I sang at social gatherings at my parents' home, of course." (Not too often, and only when Ned wasn't around). "And…at church functions, charity concerts in town. I acted in some party games. That…that sort of thing."

My god, the girl's a country mouse. She'll be eaten alive. The thought did not show in Olenna Tyrell's face at all as she said, "Well, that's very interesting. And what sort of music did you sing there, Sansa?"

Her face was as red as the chair she sat in. "Well…usually standard recital pieces. I…I tried singing some arias from operas, like from Elenei of the Wind and The Rhoyne Cycle, but they didn't go over too well. The church committee ladies said they were too heavy for a night's light entertainment." Sansa was still bitter about that. How could they be so backward about everything? When even the loggers in the back who just came for the free food looked impressed afterward!

"There was just no chance for me to really sing there! That's why I had to come here to King's Landing."

Margaery and Madame Olenna were both charmed by her vehemence. She had absolutely no guile, this one. They just hoped she had talent to make up for the lack.

Margaery pat her hand kindly. "Well, we're both very glad you're here. Although I do warn you: beware the Lioness of Lannister!" Margaery pretended to shiver. "Cersei's a fright. She hates the very sight of me. Why, I can't tell; I'm a contralto, she's a soprano. It's not like I'm a threat to any of her roles."

"Ah, but you're younger and the papers pay attention to you, Margaery. Every article they devote to you is one less for Cersei."

"Yes, Grandmama, and that is just the sort of thing she'd obsess over. Not that she likes it when she is mentioned, since that means they're gossiping about her personal life. She's just never happy! Of course, I wouldn't be happy either with a brat like Joffrey as my son. That's another thing, Sansa," she said, staring at Sansa to make sure she was paying attention. Sansa thrilled at Margaery Tyrell taking such a sisterly interest in her. "Stay away from that son Joffrey of hers! Boy is a menace, as I learned the hard way," she said with bitterness.

Sansa recalled now that the two of them were mentioned quite a few times in the papers a year or so ago.

"I'll remember that," Sansa said. What a lot to take in! Sansa was disappointed about all the negative reports of Cersei. The diva had always looked so refined and classical in photographs. All Sansa's former daydreams of the older singer maybe taking Sansa under her wing looked pretty ridiculous now.

"Is there anything else I should watch out for?"

"Well, there's the Phantom, of course!" Margaery said, wiggling her eyebrows.

Sansa sat up excited, but Madame Olenna just groaned. "Not that nonsense again!"

"It's not nonsense, Grandmama. The ghost is real."

"Real, my left foot. It's just something Baelish drummed up for publicity."

Margaery shrugged. "I don't know, Grandmama. There was that odd accident of the prop master who kept missing his cues and then showed up drowned in the Blackwater. Or that dancer who got drunk and ruined the ballet a few years ago found hanged in her dressing room. Or" –

"Suicide, both cases," Olenna said in a clipped voice. "No one missed them."

"Grandmama! What will Sansa think of us?"

"She'll hopefully have more sense than you and realize what I'm saying is the truth. There is no ghost."

Margaery refused to back down. "There is a ghost. Well, not really a ghost, of course, but someone's going around the opera house causing trouble. My personal guess is the Hound."
Sansa's head shot up at that. "Sandor Clegane?"

Both women looked mildly surprised she knew his name. "You've met him?"

"Yes, Lord Baelish had him show me around."

"How gallant of him," Madame Olenna snorted sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"But, what's all this about him being the ghost?" Sansa inched nearer Margaery. Her heart was pounding oddly.

Margaery inched closer, too, happy to share her pet conspiracy. "Well, the truth about Clegane is that he's only 'head stagehand' as a cover for the fact that since his brother disappeared all those years ago, he's been one of Tywin Lannister's chief lackeys after serving a few years in the military. Well, now he's been lent to Baelish for the past ten or so years. Whatever Baelish or the Lannisters ask, their faithful hound hops to it. So maybe Baelish needs a cast member put in line, or needs to get rid of a drunk dancer or tardy prop master. We theatrical people are a superstitious lot. So why not get the Hound to dispose of whoever's getting in the way, and keep everybody else in line by convincing them it's some all-seeing phantom? After all, every story about the Phantom centers around the fact he's disfigured and very strong. Hm, who does that describe?" She asked facetiously.

Sansa swallowed drily.

Margaery sat back and laughed. "Well, anyway, that's my theory. What do you think, Grandmama?"

"I think it's balderdash. Baelish simply took advantage of some unfortunate accidents to get in the papers."

The ladies talked a while more, but Sansa did not pay them much heed. The day faded into evening, and evening into night.

Soon Sansa found herself staring out her new bedroom window. She had the most fantastic view of the city. It was often said King's Landing only came alive at night, and she could see why now. The street lamps turned the city ablaze, and she could still hear the strain of violins, only now other instruments like guitars and cellos were added to the mix, floating in from restaurant patios.

Out against the skyline, Sansa could just make out the Tower of Peace, that famous monument to the dissolution of the Iron Throne so many centuries ago. The tower had come to represent many a lover's rendezvous in the public imagination.

Sansa wondered if she'd have any such adventure there.

Beyond the tower stood the opera house.

Sansa shivered and thought of Sandor Clegane and Margaery's words.

He was strong and he was frightening and he was disfigured. That was all true. So why did Margaery's words make her so indignant? Why should she feel so put out at the idea of him pretending to be the Phantom?

Because he seemed so honest. So lacking in any kind of pretenses.

Sansa crawled into bed. She blew out her candle and turned over. Alone in the dark, Sansa at last felt the weight of the day crush her.

She liked the Tyrells, but the truth was for the first time in her life she was all alone.

Jeyne Poole had been at Madame Mordane's with her and they roomed together, so they had each other to cling to during bouts of homesickness. She and Jeyne would hold hands across each other's beds, Jeyne whispering about her sisters, Sansa about Lady. Oh, how Sansa missed Lady! Lady was a product of a hasty tryst between Ned's prize hunting bitch and a wolf in the woods. The dog ended up having a litter of six whelps, one for each Stark child and for Jon, too.

At least, that was what was decided when each Stark child begged and pleaded with their father. At last, Lord Stark had consented, reasoning that back in the Middle Ages, the Stark sigil was a direwolf, after all.

Her mother was not pleased, but Lady was Sansa's dearest, sweetest friend.

Her lovely Lady.

Winterfell.

So many miles away.

Sansa had nothing here, nothing but her talent to see her through.

But would it see her through?

It was the memory of a deep voice repeating a certain phrase to her that comforted her enough to sleep:

"You'll be all right, girl."