Margaery squeezed Sansa's hand before leaving Sansa at the theater's door. "Good luck," she whispered.
Sansa looked into her friend's supportive face and smiled weakly in return. Margaery gave her hand one more squeeze and then left.
Sansa stared at the doors for a moment.
She should be feeling only excitement, anticipation.
Instead, there was only dread in her heart on this the day of her audition.
She'd spent the days before practicing and practicing, first for a reassuringly impressed Margaery and Madame Olenna, then for the opera's principal singing coach, the old and doddering Dr. Pycelle. The stooped old fellow had not looked up once when Sansa sang for him. Once Sansa even suspected him of falling asleep.
Most disappointing of all, however, was that he never said a word about her singing, good or otherwise. He'd merely mumble, "Yes, thank you very much, that will do," after she'd finished and then dismissed her.
Margaery and Madame Olenna praised her, but Sansa still did not know if she had a voice worthy of understudying for the opera's star.
Otherwise, Sansa was acclimating herself slowly to her new environment. She'd received a quick note from Jeyne Poole that Madame Mordane didn't seem inclined to check up on their cover story that Sansa's parents changed their mind about sending Sansa away. And so Sansa relaxed and socialized a little, with girls like Mya Stone and Myranda Royce (a soubrette and Margaery's understudy, respectively). She hadn't seen Lord Baelish or the managers since. She wondered if in the hustle of the theatrical world, she'd simply been forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.
She had seen Sandor Clegane again. Quite a few times. He always seemed lurking just in the shadows, an immense guardian of the backstage area.
His attitude changed from encounter to encounter. Sometimes he'd revel in teasing her, inspiring her to meet his banter, his lively, stormy eyes taking her in. Other times he'd stride past her without a word, without a glance from his stony face.
She shivered each time she neared him and her temples would pound, but not with the fear she'd expect to feel when confronted with someone her friend thought was a Phantom and a killer.
Speaking of the Hound, as Sansa stared at the doors in front of her, she heard his unmistakable deep voice right above her. "Waiting for the doors to swing open by themselves, little bird?"
Sansa turned around to face him. His cheek twisted in that way that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't quite a smirk, either.
Sansa couldn't find her voice today. A problem, seeing what she was about to do.
Sandor leaned near her, laughing. "You ain't afraid of trilling for this lot, are you? They're only a bunch of stuffed shirts, girl."
Sansa nodded, smiling a little. "I guess I'd better go in now," she said uneasily.
Cheek still twisting, Sandor opened the door. "Yep. In you get."
What was it about that off-hand tone of his that was so immensely comforting to her?
Sansa stared at the rows of seats in front of her leading to the stage. Taking a deep breath and throwing her head back, she charged forth.
She looks like a soldier riding off to battle, Sandor thought. And aye, I guess that's what she is.
Sandor watched her approach the stage and speak to Arys Oakheart, the director.
Sandor shifted on his feet.
There were places he could be. Work to see to.
Yet seeing her nod to the director's words and hold back her fright so obviously, something made Sandor move inside the theater, off to a corner in the back, unseen.
_
Sansa headed backstage to wait until she was called onstage. Baelish had apparently made it so the other girls auditioned before her, so it was just Sansa now.
They were waiting for Cersei. The diva insisted on being present for her understudys' auditions.
Sansa paced a little nervously, singing her scales softly to herself.
She stood back as a team of ballet girls bounded past to get to their dressing rooms.
One short figure turned back and approached Sansa jauntily. "Hey! I know you! You're my fellow Northern girl, ain't you?"
Sansa stared at the round, freckled face before her. The girl's accent was unmistakably Northern, up past Winterfell, probably!
The girl obviously came from modest means, given her dialect. Sansa was reminded of Rickon's nanny Osha who spoke in a similar way. Her people were probably loggers or trappers.
Remembering her manners, Sansa curtseyed. "Yes I am, Sansa Stark. And you are, miss?"
The girl laughed loudly and gracelessly, slapping the astounded Sansa on the back. "Oh, but you're a lady, ain't you? Didn't know we had any of them back home! I'm Ygritte. I'm lead dancer in my line. Still, you're definitely from up there. Got that lilt in your voice." Arms akimbo, Ygritte looked her over. "Y'know, not only are we both from the North, but we could be sisters, too. Look at us!"
Arm around Sansa's waist, the high-spirited girl spun them to face the stand-up mirror near the curtain.
Sansa wasn't as sure as she looked in the glass first at herself then the beaming girl beside her. They both had similar coloring and maybe similar face shapes, but Sansa couldn't quite see it. Their hair color differed in hue, for example. Ygritte's was a bright, flaming orange red, while Sansa's auburn hair had light brown locks intertwined with the copper. Ygritte's pug-nosed face was covered in freckles, whereas Sansa's…all right, Sansa had a few freckles, but nothing compared to this girl's!
There was also the difference in height. Sansa was a little tall for her sex, whereas the dancer was the opposite.
Mostly, though, the difference lied in their dress. Ygritte's straight hair was tumbling out of its bun, and she wore the plain white tutu all dancers wore. Sansa, meanwhile, had finally been able to wear some of the dresses she'd packed that she'd ordered from the Reach. Today she wore her silk blue gown with lace trimming on the sleeves.
Although she sometimes put her hair up as was the current style, Sansa found herself often preferring the soft but still elegant look of her long thick curls hanging down. Today she made sure to add a few lovely amber combs to make her look a bit dressier.
She resembled a dress mannequin from a high-end department store next to Ygritte.
Still, a friendly face was a friendly face.
Swallowing the class consciousness that had been pounded into her since youth, Sansa squeezed Ygritte's hand around her waist. "Yes, just like sisters," she agreed with a grin.
Ygritte suddenly caught sight of something on the stage over Sansa's shoulder. "Uh-oh! Here comes Her Royal Pain-in-the-Arse! I'm getting out of here. Good luck, cap'n!" With impulsive energy, Ygritte hugged her tightly and then ran off with a raucous laugh.
Shaking her head, a little befuddled, Sansa turned to the stage where Ygritte had been looking.
And then she held onto the curtain to steady herself.
Cersei Lannister stood there, decked out in all her finery, a young man with blond hair and smart suit in tow.
Sansa stared unabashedly at her. There were the famous high cheekbones, the green sloe eyes, the golden hair piled high atop her head.
Her face was strangely immobile as she listened to Mr. Oakheart. At one point she blatantly looked to stop listening altogether, her eyes tiredly tracing the stage until they fell on Sansa.
They stayed there.
Sansa stopped breathing.
With a small nod at Arys almost like an afterthought, Cersei with great grandeur walked toward Sansa with hand outstretched. "Is this our little dove here?"
Oh, what a melodious voice. Sansa stepped forward and curtseyed more deeply than she had yet. "Ms. Lannister, it's such an honor to meet you," she said in a rapid whisper.
Like a queen from a song, Cersei placed a gloved hand underneath Sansa's chin and raised her to stand before her. She smelled of rich spices from across the Narrow Sea.
Cersei spread out the girl's arms and looked her over. "My, but you are a beauty, little dove. How old are you?"
"Eighteen, ma'am."
"Ah, to be eighteen again," she said with an airy laugh. "You are a lucky girl. I remember my first audition here. Don't let us frighten you, now. I'm sure you'll be marvelous."
Her sweet smile did not reach her eyes.
Before Sansa could respond, Cersei turned away from her back to Arys. "Shall we begin?" Cersei asked, voice flatter.
Arys bowed his head.
Gathering her mink around her, Cersei walked off stage without a backward glance to Sansa.
"I'm Joffrey, by the way," a voice spoke to Sansa, making her jump. She turned to see the young man that had accompanied Cersei onstage. He had a crop of golden hair and was dressed immaculately. "Cersei's eldest son. How do you do?"
With a friendly bright smile, he shook her hand. Sansa murmured in greeting.
He was a very pretty boy. But Sansa remembered what Margaery had told her, and she thought she saw something rather crafty in his politely interested green eyes, like his mother's but more intense. Therefore, she was on her guard. "I'm sure you'll do a lovely job," he said, winking.
He joined his mother in the audience.
Also in the audience now were the people she thought had forgotten her: Varys, Tyrion, even Baelish. They all sat a row behind Cersei, Joffrey, and Arys.
Arys opened a libretto and signaled to the pianist onstage. Arys called to Sansa. "When you're ready, Miss Stark."
Oh, God. How could I ever be ready?
A brief moment of inner collapse, despair.
Then Sansa's feet moved forward, and she found herself center stage.
With marionette-like precision, she nodded to the pianist.
Sansa had carefully chosen her aria, "Alyssa's Lament." While the words were sad, they were in High Valyrian (as most of the great operas were), and so the meaning was dimmed a little to not depress the audience unduly. The melody was one of Sansa's favorites: slow and swelling, with beautiful high notes complemented by complex scales. An impressive piece.
Sansa closed her eyes as the pianist played the opening bars. I'm in Old Nan's cottage. She's playing as I sing. Lady is lying by the piano, listening. It's snowing outside.
Then she opened her eyes and Alyssa peered out and Sansa sang.
A waterfall, that's what Sandor was reminded of as the little bird sang. A waterfall.
A waterfall with bells in the distance. Clear skies, wind through the grass, a chirping bird flying by, flying up to the mountains.
That was the little bird's voice.
He saw wings.
The theater was filled with an unnatural quiet as she sang, full of an unnatural stillness. There was nothing there but the pretty girl in blue with the copper highlights in her hair creating a bright halo all around her.
Her eyes poured out a dark radiance.
And her voice, her voice, her voice….
Sandor very quietly slipped further down the aisle, until he was behind a pillar close to the front row, unnoticed by all.
Everyone's eyes were on her.
So were Sandor's.
The majority of the people present were not there during the Scandal. Oakheart was relatively new, and Tyrion had been just a lad then, at Casterly. Joffrey, of course, had not yet been born. The couple of stage managers present had only ever heard of what happened that day.
The only three who knew all the figures involved were Varys, Baelish, and Cersei.
As Sansa sang, Tyrion and the others were delighted and enthralled by what they heard.
But Varys stole a glance at Cersei.
He was not surprised to see her face seized in fury, eyes wide with blazing hatred.
He was not surprised when he heard her hiss the same name that had come to him and Petyr, as well: "Lyanna!"
Aside from Varys, the only other person who heard her announcement was Sandor behind his pillar.
He heard Tyrion whisper, "I say, Varys! This girl is remarkable! She needs a little bit more training, maybe; I'm no expert, but it sounds like she lacks control. But she blows everyone else out of the water!"
"Yes, but you're not hearing what I'm hearing, Tyrion."
"What's that?"
"Your sister hears it. This is Lyanna Stark's voice, calling from beyond the grave. A bit sweeter in tone, less sweeping, but there it is."
Sandor glanced sharply first at the managers, then the lioness's enraged face, and then at Sansa.
The contrast between Cersei's face full of hate and the young girl enchanted with her own song made him ache, deeply.
A dull fury darkened his mood when the girl burst into a wide, ignorant smile as her song finished and Baelish and the others stood and cheered.
No one saw the curtain in Box Five flicker just so.
Sansa didn't know what to think afterward. They had all cheered so, Baelish and Joffrey yelling "encore" and "bravo!" They all seemed so genuine as they congratulated her, and Sansa knew in her heart of hearts that she sang well.
Then why did Cersei leave without a word right when she finished? Why did she need to leave so violently that the doors shut with a bang behind her?
Sansa speculated aloud with Margaery afterward in her dressing room, the two locked in discussion well into evening. Margaery assured her it was probably jealousy, and not to worry about it. The contralto then shooed her out of her room, telling her to take a carriage home. Margaery had a date with a handsome baritone.
As Sansa walked down the darkened hallway, nodding good night to passing dancers and stagehands (including her new little friend from the ballet, the rambunctious Ygritte), the corridors became emptier and darker. At last she started feeling a little uneasy. Stories she'd heard about the Phantom started filling her head.
She picked up her pace….
…And ran straight into a large, looming mass of human flesh.
With a shriek, she looked up. She shut her eyes at the strong wave of Dornish Red she smelled.
"Why, if it isn't the little bird, flying this way and that," she heard that familiar deep voice rasp.
Only the words were slightly slurred.
She couldn't see him clearly in the dim lantern-lit corridor near the exit, but she could smell him and hear him take another swig. "Heard you sing today, little bird. You live up to my little nickname for you." He sneered nastily. "Songbird." Another swig.
Sansa had seen drunk people before. There were the villagers in Winterfell, of course. And once she had even snuck out of bed and listened giggling with Arya upstairs as her mother once read Robb the riot act after the eldest Stark arrived late inebriated from the hunt. Still, she'd never had to deal with one alone. Certainly no one as large and unpredictable.
Whom Margaery thought was the Phantom.
She saw the doorway leading to the outside just over his shoulder.
"Yes, well, I'm…I'm glad you were there. Thank you for your support, sir. Good…Good night." She made to speed off.
His hand was on her arm, swinging her around to face him. "I'm no bloody sir."
She cried out in alarm.
He was leaning over her now, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. He looked like a bull about to charge. His hand was still around her arm, surer than a steel clasp.
His eyes studied her frightened face. His lip curled upward like a snarl. "Do you really think you'll ever be Cersei's understudy, girl? Think she'd let you with a voice like yours, better than hers ever was? Even without that voice, you're a Stark. Think she'd let a Stark take the stage again?"
He leered at her now, and his voice was full of tragic mockery. "So how about you just sing a little song for me, bird? Hm? One about knights and fair maidens? All that shit you probably thought this place would be full of. Come on, sing!"
Sansa darted her eyes this way and that. Sing for him? Here? "I'll…I'll sing for you gladly, Mr. Clegane. Which song would you like?"
He laughed at her bitterly, letting her go. "No, little bird, better not sing right now. But I will have a song from you someday, whether you will it or no." He swayed a little on his feet. Suddenly he seemed to change his mind and he lunged at her again. "Look at me, little bird. Don't look away. I'm about to tell you a story, sadder than an opera. It's about an idiot little boy and what happens when you believe in stories. How…how do you think I got these scars, bird?" He turned his face to the side, shoving them both into the lamplight.
She swallowed, taking in every crevice, every shining patch of red, twisted skin. "I…I don't know. Were you…were you here the night of the fire?"
"Puh," he said dismissively. "No. I was only a lad of scarcely fifteen years when that happened, still at Casterly Rock. But that wasn't the first time Gregor used fire. See, do you know why I'm here, girl? I'm here because my brother's not. I was already running little errands for Tywin Lannister along with helping out in the kennels by the time Gregor left to act as Robert's second. I didn't do anything big in those days, just cornering an investor late in his payments here, beating up a banker there, that sort of thing. Gregor…heh, Gregor he used for killing.
"But then Gregor went away. Haven't heard from him once since he burned this place to the ground. He high-tailed it out of here. And so what was Tywin Lannister to do? Why, use his pup brother as replacement, once I returned from the military. The beatings got rougher. One bloke got nasty back, and what could I do but punch him hard as I could? His neck broke. I'd have been hanged for sure if the old lion hadn't bailed me out and made up some bullshit story. I saw then what I would become. Want to know what saved me? Was it my conscience, telling me to get out while I still could? Bullshit. It was that fucking Littlefinger. Said he needed a strong arm to run things round here. So what did I get after spending ten years tending to every one of Lannister's fucking whims? I get carted off here, to this carnival of whores and dandies."
His expression darkened like night.
"But I was telling you about my brother. And about that dumb little git who got what he deserved. I'll tell you. That git was me and I was six years old. My father come back from a trip to town with a couple toys some toymaker gave him for training his dogs. The old man threw 'em at us without a single thought who got what. I don't remember what I got, I just wanted Gregor's. It was a toy soldier, every joint beautifully made. All painted, with strings to make it move. Well, my brother was six foot tall at that time, he had no need of it, so I took it."
There was something in his face all of a sudden just like a little boy, but a feral little boy in pain, in anger.
"He found me by the fire at night. He didn't say a word. He picked me under his arm and shoved me into the coals as I screamed."
He seemed to stop breathing as he stared dead-eyed into that scene from the past. "My father said my bedding caught fire. And nine years later, Gregor took a boat to Braavos or Essos and is probably living the high life right this minute, like a gentleman."
The dead eyes kept staring into a distance beyond them both. He did not appear to see her anymore.
But he felt her small hand on his shoulder, as if to lean in for a kiss. "That is no gentleman, Sandor." There was something almost wise and womanly in her tone.
A harsh, sardonic laugh as he pulled away from her. "No, pretty bird. That was no gentleman at all." The burning embers were in his eyes and his gleaming smile.
He appeared to sober somewhat as he looked her over. "What are you doing here, anyhow?"
Sansa was jarred by the sudden return to reality. "Um, I'm going to catch a carriage home."
Sandor looked at her hard once and then twisting that cheek again, he grabbed her arm as was his wont and dragged her out the door and to the curb.
He sent off the pageboy to the line of carriages and waited with her in the nighttime air.
Neither said a word. They were lost in their own private hellish thoughts.
He held open the door for her.
She leaned out the window and placed a hand on his shoulder again. "Thank you, Mr. Clegane. I hope to see you tomorrow."
Before she disappeared inside, Sandor grabbed her hand, stilling her. "Not a lot of people know the story I just told you, little bird." His voice was low, expressionless.
"I won't tell a soul."
"Good," he said almost wearily, releasing her hand. "Do and I'll kill you."
Sansa could read nothing in his opaque eyes as the carriage took off.
Later, Sandor crawled into bed in the boarding house near the opera. It was only as sleep was about to claim him that a thought occurred to him, spinning around his alcohol-fueled brain.
She'd called him Sandor.
Petyr Baelish stayed late that night, working on some expense accounts in his office.
He noticed the flame in his candle flicker slightly, as if by a breeze from a door or window closing. Or someone entering the room.
He smiled and looked ahead of him into nothing. "So you heard her, eh?"
The dark figure in the corner did not answer.
Baelish sat back in his chair. "Given her rather rude reception of me the other day, I thought of sending her back home to Winterfell, but if you're sure…."