Sansa tossed and turned that night. What an unsettling end to what should have been a triumphant day! She should be dwelling on her audition, which she still counted as a success despite Cersei's reaction.
Instead she was thinking of a six-year-old boy, terrified, as a monster dragged him screaming into a fire.
Sansa shivered and turned over, clutching her blankets to her chest.
What disturbed Sansa the most was her total lack of fear at Sandor's threat. She resented the threat on her life, but something about him…she just knew somehow that even if she were to talk (which she wouldn't), her life would never be in danger with him. Why should she feel this way about him, when she knew he was violent and given Margaery's suspicions?
And if he didn't mean it, why say it? Why did he get drunk and pour out that whole story to her? Why ask her to sing for him in such a mocking tone? Why so much anger at her?
Or was he angry for her?
Sansa didn't believe she'd ever get to sleep, so she was taken aback at the knock on her door that woke her to sunlight pouring through her window.
A bit disoriented, Sansa sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Come in?"
Margaery opened the door, her movements slow and reluctant. She had on what Sansa's father called a "battle face." "Hello, dear. I've got something to tell you."
She sat on Sansa's bed, looking like a doctor with bad news. "They've cast the understudy."
Sansa felt her face go white. She remembered Sandor's prophetic words that she'd never be Cersei's understudy.
Sansa swallowed bravely. "Yes?"
Margaery raised her eyebrows regretfully. She held up a piece of paper and narrowed her eyes, reading it. "Yes, they've gone with some new Northern girl with light reddish-brown hair, named Sandra Stork, or something? Samsa Smock from Wonderful? Oh, yes," Her face swiftly changed from sadly resigned to that of a kitten who'd found the last saucer of milk. "Sansa Stark from Winterfell."
Sansa blinked, mouth agape.
Then she shrieked and lunged at Margaery, catching the laughing contralto in a fierce hug. "I'll never forgive you for that, never!" She said, laughing in Margaery's hair.
"Sorry, I'm an actress above everything, and I had to seize the opportunity!"
They laughed and shrieked together for a few minutes, until Sansa sat back, breaths sharp as tears of relief ran down her face. Wiping them away, she asked, "Wait, how did you find out? You can't have been to the opera house and back at this early hour."
Margaery held up that same piece of paper. "This telegram just came in. It's unsigned, but it's definitely from the opera. Probably from Tyrion Lannister. Here."
As Margaery prattled on about going shopping to celebrate, Sansa read the telegram:
"TELL THE LITTLE BIRD THAT CASTING ANNOUNCEMENT JUST POSTED OUTSIDE LITTLEFINGER'S DOOR: SANSA STARK IS CERSEI LANNISTER'S NEW UNDERSTUDY."
Her heart thudded like a drum.
Little bird.
Tyrion poured himself another drink. He needed it. Cersei had been prowling his office spitting out her vitriol for almost twenty minutes now.
"I know you're a bitter little man," Cersei was spitting now, still pacing. "But to ignore my explicit wishes and cast her over my head" –
Tyrion set his glass down, eyes rolling to the back of his head. "Oh, for the love of – Cersei, how many times do I have to tell you? Baelish is the one who makes the final decisions! He didn't consult with Varys or me, or even Oakheart."
"So?" Cersei marched right up to his desk, eyes boring into his. "Why didn't you take issue with him?"
Tyrion raised his eyebrows, astonished at his usually savvy sister's adamant ignorance. "Argue with Baelish? You must be joking. Surely it's clear to you what Littlefinger has in mind here. He's obviously panting after this girl the way he used to with her mother. You wouldn't take food out of a bird of prey's talons."
"Still, if you weren't a cowardly worm, you could have said something"—
"And what if I happen to agree with the casting? That Miss Stark is by far the best choice?" His voice was quiet, his gaze even.
Cersei froze.
She whipped his glass off the table, sending it breaking against the floor.
Tyrion merely glanced at the pool of liquid growing on the carpet. "Waste of good brandy," was all he commented.
Cersei was pacing again, as if spurred on by an unseen demon. "You have no idea, you have no idea," she muttered, speaking almost as if to herself. "You have no idea how it feels."
Tyrion looked at her with concern. There was still indignant anger in her voice, but a deeper edge now of heartbreak, fear.
The same emotions were reflected in her blazing eyes. "All those years ago, finally getting to leave Casterly and Father's coldness. Getting to sing. And then having her there, her singing, the critics all saying that she was the true leading lady, and I was only there because of Father's influence. You have no idea how I fought once she was gone and I could finally take the spotlight unopposed. How freeing it was when I finally won and no one mentioned her anymore."
After all these years, Cersei still couldn't say Lyanna's name out load – at least, not unless her niece stood before her singing with that same voice.
Tyrion felt a rare concern for his older and troubled sister. She'd always been difficult, strident and full of contempt. Yet slowly, over the years, Tyrion noticed she seemed to becoming undone, stitch by stitch.
Was it the years of unhappy marriage to the never faithful drunkard Robert Baratheon? Her disappointed infatuation with the married Rhaegar Targaryen? And then to add insult to injury, watching as Rhaegar cheated on his wife with Lyanna, Cersei's rival? Was it finally facing the realization she could no longer deny that there was simply something wrong with young Joffrey, some vital piece of humanity missing?
Or was it that over a year ago their brother Jaime, her handsome twin, resigned from his military post in town and started a fencing school in the Stormlands with his new wife, the blatantly unfeminine and unconventional Brienne Tarth?
Observing the once unusually close dynamic of the golden twins and the equally golden hair of Cersei's supposed offspring with Baratheon, Tyrion had long held a dark, hideous suspicion he never dared name, even to himself…a suspicion that back in the day when the incestuous Targaryen royalty ruled the lands might not have been too outlandish, but now…unthinkable.
Still, the suspicion roiled.
Perhaps it was a combination of all these stressors, but the once indomitable Cersei Lannister could now scarcely contain her bitterness, her rage. Her voice was losing its luster, and her acting was more like an elaborate form of sleepwalking now.
"After all this time, suddenly a Stark girl thinks she can come back into my opera house. My opera house!" This practically a scream. "Pycelle was right about her, the impudent little" -
"Calm down!" Tyrion snapped. Softening his voice, he said, "I know you've not had an easy time of it, other than all the fame and fortune." He tried to temper his sarcasm at her sharp glare. "None of us have had an easy time as the children of Tywin Lannister. I know you've worked hard in your own way for your place. I understand."
"You understand nothing! I'll tell you one thing, brother of mine," She spat out the last part as if cursing at him. She practically slithered up to his desk. "She will never sing in my place. Never."
Tyrion fought the involuntary shiver her tone caused. "Well, don't get sick and she won't have to," he tried to be flippant.
He got a bitter laugh in return. "Oh, you don't think she'd wait for that, do you?"
"Not everyone is as scheming as you are, Cersei. This girl's just excited to be part of the company."
"You don't know what it's like onstage. How it can take someone with relatively innocent ambition and turn them into a monster. You'll see. She'll feel the power up there and then the little dove won't stop until she's in my place. You'll see." Her smirk was full of grim foreboding.
"She's not her aunt, Cersei! She's just a girl!"
"A girl who will never, ever sing in my place." Cersei repeated, bringing her fist down on 'never' and 'ever'. "I don't care what I have to do," she finished in a low voice.
Before Tyrion could object, she turned sharply and barged out of his office.
Tyrion reached for another glass, sighing.
Mind still in a storm, Cersei hurried to her dressing room. She lusted for a drink as well.
En route, she crossed paths with the very figure circling her mind now, carrying shopping bags.
"Ah, little dove!" She cried out, voice and smile dripping sugar. "Congratulations are in order, I hear."
How prettily the little dear blushes. "Thank you, Ms. Lannister. I can't tell you what an honor it is to understudy you"—
"And what have we here?" Cersei asked, taking in her bags. "Celebrating, are we?"
Does she blush so much out of modesty, or is the poor girl come down with fever? "Yes, Margaery insisted. Margaery Tyrell." Sansa blushed now out of embarrassment. Cersei knows what Margaery it is, you ninny! And she's not too fond of her, either.
But Cersei only laughed melodiously again. "Let me guess. Now you're going to try on your dresses for her and your little friends, aren't you?"
Sansa nodded happily, every inch the guileless damsel. "Mya Stone and Myranda Royce are waiting in her dressing room."
Cersei clasped her gloved hands, face tender and sweet. "How wonderful. What better crowd for an aspiring slut to rehearse her wares with? Believe me, you'll get the best pointers from those three. A bigger passel of whores you'll seldom find, and I'm sure you'll join their ranks in no time. If you haven't already."
Pinching her cheek brutally, Cersei then pushed past her violently, knocking her shoulder with hers.
Both from the jolt and the shock, Sansa dropped her bags as Cersei disappeared down the corridor.
Shaking, Sansa bent down to pick up her purchases, many of which had tumbled out of their bags. Tears clouded her vision.
A large hand appeared, picking up a scarf. "Need a hand?"
Sansa warmed at the sound of that gruff voice.
She glanced up to his distant but understanding eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.
They quietly collected her things.
At last Sandor helped her up. "So the lioness finally bit you, eh?" There was nothing mocking in his tone.
Sandor concurred with Cersei and the Tyrells: the little bird was far too guileless. Her face now was a naked picture of her conflicted emotions. Her eyes were open pools of confusion and sadness. "I just don't understand!" Her voice shook. "Why do I make everybody so mad? I'm not doing anything wrong, I just want to sing. But Cersei obviously hates me, Lord Baelish is probably angry I chose to live with the Tyrells instead of him, and by the way, you threatened to kill me last night!"
Her face was indignant now. "What about that, anyhow?"
Sandor hated how this girl had a way of constantly catching him off guard. His chest tightened at the mention of Baelish wanting her to live with him, but now her accusing glare was on him.
With good reason, he had sense enough to admit.
"I was drunk," he muttered lamely.
"That's no excuse."
The wolf was in her eyes.
"No, it's not," his voice was rough and rueful. "Maybe I'm just a bad man, little bird, who doesn't think when he speaks."
The wolf receded just a bit. "I can believe that last part," she said. "But I'm not sure about the first. Was it a bad man who sent me the telegram this morning?" Her voice was shy and warm, a little smile forming.
Sandor scowled. I'm not turning into some soft bloody whelp for this girl. Why the fucking hells did I send the bloody thing?
He hated what the answer was:
Because you couldn't stand her worrying about it, and so you wanted to let her know as soon as possible.
He hated that answer so much he ignored it. So he stood ominously over her again, similar to his drunken stance last night. "Aye, maybe it was. How do you even know it was me? Maybe it was the Phantom?"
He meant these words to be darkly teasing, yet a true look of fright entered her wide eyes and she unconsciously backed away from him, looking away. All that talk about Sandor and the Phantom…then he says that and stands over me just so….
Sandor's face fell and he laughed harshly. "So the little bird does fear the big bad hound after all. Can't bear to look, can you? Fine. You don't have to, little bird." With a sneer of contempt, he stalked off before she could find the words to stop him.