A couple weeks later, Sansa sat at the vanity in her shared dressing room with Mya and Myranda. Today was the first fitting for potential costumes, and they were to wear them onstage so Oakheart could critique them.

The three girls were playing the sisters to Cersei's Jonquil in Florian and Jonquil.

Sansa couldn't believe her luck. Her first opera in King's Landing was her absolute favorite. When Old Nan first gave her the sheet music five years ago she'd absolutely devoured the tale's history, even going so far as to read the first Medieval epic poem about the pair (which differed completely from the opera. There was no deal between Florian and the Stranger in the original poem, or gifts of eternal youth and themes of redemption. Just a Fool falling in love at first sight. Sansa wasn't sure which version she preferred; the simplicity of the original, or the complex grandeur of the opera).

In spite of their differing backgrounds, Sansa greatly enjoyed the company of Mya and Myranda. Mya would get along wonderfully with Arya, Sansa thought. Like Sansa's younger sister, Mya had a strong tomboy streak. She jokingly bemoaned her current role, which demanded a light diaphanous bathing gown; as the opera's principal soubrette, she'd become accustomed to playing the pants roles, which she insisted she much preferred.

Myranda Royce was a delightful plump young woman with a devilish sense of humor. She had a versatile voice, able to understudy Margaery the contralto while adapting her voice to alto for the sister role.

She was singing a battle song from The Rhoyne Cycle now, in a jocular attempt to raise Mya's spirits, who was complaining bitterly about the gown. "Ugh, I feel like I'm practically naked," Mya complained, looking herself over. Sansa thought Mya was a lovely girl and often wished to see her in more feminine clothing, yet she had to agree she did look uncomfortable here.

Sansa turned to the mirror and studied herself, brushing her hair. She looked pretty, she thought tentatively. The light gown suited her, as did the simple hair arrangement. She did not care for the heavy makeup, however. From the audience's perspective it might look suitable, but up close it looked almost frightening in its intensity.

Sansa wasn't used to seeing her features highlighted so prominently, and therefore she'd never been so insecure about her looks. Since becoming enamored at a young age with heroines in novels, Sansa was vaguely put off by her coloring; every heroine was either golden-haired or dark-haired with black flashing eyes. Sansa couldn't remember a single heroine with auburn hair and blue eyes.

Still, Sansa wasn't immune to the compliments she'd received over the years, so she didn't obsess over her perceived physical flaws as much as some of her contemporaries might.

Yet now….

Now Sansa felt like the heavy stage makeup made her look almost like a stranger to herself.

Mya tapped her on the shoulder. "Come on! They'll want us in places in a few."

Sansa quickly put her brush away and smoothed her skirt, casting one last glance at herself in the mirror. She flinched at how wide and scared her eyes looked and consciously tried to look cooler, more indifferent.

"Come on!" Myranda echoed Mya.

Sansa sped out, following them.

"Knock 'em dead, cap'n!" Ygritte called as Sansa rushed by. Sansa smiled at her little friend. She had no idea why Ygritte referred to her as 'cap'n', but in spite of herself Sansa found the nickname oddly endearing, just like the redheaded dancer.

Sansa wished dolefully that any sort of similar camaraderie was possible with Cersei, but she knew now it wasn't meant to be.

Sansa huddled in the wings behind Mya and Myranda. Cersei was making last minute adjustments with her maid. The beautifully made-up singer was dictating to Oakheart, who stood with arms folded staring down blankly at his feet, his usual non-threatening posture when dealing with Cersei.

Cersei had barely said two direct words to her since the day Sansa's casting as understudy was announced, but the leading lady still consistently made her cuts at the Northern girl. First she made sure to position herself onstage so that Sansa was always slightly obscured. Next, she interrupted her quartet with the sisters to say that the coloratura section (which consisted solely of Sansa) was far too loud, intrusive. Then there were the constant little allusions to the fact that a certain new cast member hadn't been trained at a conservatory like all the other singers in the company, and was that really fair to everyone else?

Sansa felt in her heart she could overlook this pettiness if Cersei's performance made up for it. However, Sansa was immensely disappointed with Cersei's Jonquil. Her voice was pitch perfect with just the right amount of vibrato and control, but…lifeless. Empty of emotion. Same with her acting! Jonquil should be playful, fun! But Cersei made her haughty, unapproachable. Cold.

If only Sansa could be given a chance to perform the role, she'd imbue Jonquil with just the right mix of flirtatiousness and softness that first appeals to Florian -

"That shift all they're giving you to wear, little bird?"

Sansa jumped. How such a large man could approach so silently, she'd never know. Obviously Sandor was taking lessons from Varys.

He was looking at her now dubiously from where he stood with arms crossed by the curtains, eyes darkly interrogative as they raked over her.

Sansa felt a strange stirring in her stomach at his gaze. She glanced over her shoulder. Mya and Myranda were busy gossiping about Cersei at the curtain's edge to notice her and the Hound. Sansa was glad of this.

They'd never officially made up since he mistook her reticence for fear of his face on the day Cersei insulted her. However, Sandor had apparently moved past the perceived slight and continued alternating between the mocking yet gruffly attentive commenter and the aloof snarling hound.

There was a slight hint of discomfort and annoyance as he looked at her revealing outfit, so she wasn't yet sure which persona he'd choose today.

Clearing her throat, she answered him. "Well, the sisters are supposed to be bathing." She blushed.

His gaze darkened and he chuckled roughly. "Could be worse then," came the sarcastic reply.

She shivered, though she didn't feel cold or unpleasant. She…she wondered how he thought she looked. She'd never worn anything with such a low neckline before.

She peered up at him shyly.

She could tell by the way his eyes suddenly snapped fire that he misinterpreted her expression again.

"What? Scared the dog's going to do more than just look, my lady?" He stiffened, and his eyes were so bewilderingly cagey. "Aye, think I'm going to paw at you right here backstage, don't you?"

Sansa swallowed her frustration and looked up at him with clear, knowing eyes. "You won't hurt me," she said gravely.

Something flickered in his face and his expression softened just slightly, almost collapsing. "No, little bird, I won't hurt you."

She was surprised tears stung her eyes at the genuine softening in his words and expression. She felt an urge to trace that crease in his cheek that ran down to his large tight-lipped mouth….

"Blount, watch that slat!" He suddenly barked at one of the passing stagehands, breaking his connection with her. "Don't carry the buggering thing like that, it's not indestructible, you know!"

Sansa swallowed her grin. She loved watching him work. He always was leaning against something or brooding when she came upon him, taken up by bitter thoughts or else darkly amused and preoccupied in a stone-faced way. Yet in an instant he'd prove that he was always on top of the work at hand, always knowing exactly where what should be and when.

His moment of authority appeared to reawaken his rough side as he addressed Sansa again. He returned to their topic. "Aye, I might not hurt you, little bird, but there are others that would love to pluck your feathers if you're not careful. Our diva, for example. But you know that by now. There are others worse than her, however…."

He snickered gruffly.

Sansa was so angry. Why couldn't he just pick a mood and stick with it? "Why are you always so hateful?"

He smirked nastily at her. "I'm honest. It's this theater that's hateful." He turned back to the stage, facing away from her. "Now fly away to your place onstage, little bird. I'm sick of you peeping at me."

Tears threatened to fill her eyes for a different reason now. She hated him. She just hated him. He was an angry, hateful, awful brute, and –

Before she could flee onstage like he wanted, a solid figure collided with her clumsily and she felt a splash of liquid all over her.

Shocked, she looked up to the petrified face of Dontos Hollard, stinking of beer. His red, swimming eyes dumbly took in her ruined dress. He'd been unsteadily carrying a prop goblet full of a berry cider to stand in for wine. Struggling to keep himself upright, he'd walked right into Sansa and spilled the entire contents of the goblet onto her dress.

As Sansa took a shocked moment to look at the large purple stain that spread from her stomach to her knees, Sandor growled and grabbed the whimpering Hollard by the shirt collar once more. "You fucking fool!" He yelled in a fierce voice full of violence. He shook the sputtering stagehand.

"I – I'm sorry," Hollard stammered, mostly to the Hound. Sansa was momentarily forgotten as he winced in Sandor's grasp.

"Sandor…my…my dress…." Sandor looked sharply at the little bird. Her face was white and her blue eyes were filled with tears. She held out the skirt gently, devastated.

That tiny voice using his name again twisted like a knife in his chest.

Letting go of Hollard, he pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at the stain lightly. "There, little bird. Don't fret. Come on, girl." Her two fellow singers, the Stone girl and the Royce girl, were now there and also patting at the stain, murmuring comforting words to the crestfallen singer. A few others had gathered, whispering to themselves as they took in the spectacle.

Go fuck yourselves with a rusty pitchfork, Sandor thought, glaring at the onlookers. A familiar fury pounded in his blood, threatening to overtake him. He turned to block her from view as her friends fussed.

Meanwhile, Hollard stood there gulping like an idiot. He kept muttering weak apologies to the girl. He was still struggling to keep his balance, his brief sobering moment after the jolt now gone.

Oakheart pushed through the small crowd. Cersei hovered behind him, aloof and contemptuous. "What's going on here?" Oakheart demanded. He'd just stood through a solid fifteen minutes of more demands from Cersei than even usual, and so the normally even-tempered director had about reached his limit.

He took in the stained gown and Hollard standing nearby with the platter in his hands and the overturned goblet at his feet.

"Hollard!" He said sharply, practically a shout. He'd correctly sized up the situation. "Dammit, enough is enough. You've been warned time and time again. I told you just last week when you failed to open the shipping crates that was your last warning, and now I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I have no choice"—

"Wait, sir." The little bird's voice frantically interrupted. Sandor noticed the moment Oakheart started giving Hollard his dressing down, those downcast eyes of hers suddenly looked up alarmed, darting back and forth between the irate director and shamed stagehand (making her look even more like a bird).

All eyes were back on her.

She was rueful, bashful. "I can't let you blame Mr. Hollard. It was my fault. I…I turned around too quickly, and then ran straight into him. He was even trying to hold the platter back so it wouldn't hit me, but I barreled ahead into him anyway."

"Girl" – Sandor's voice was a low warning.

"It's all right, Mr. Clegane. I can't let Mr. Hollard take the fall." Her cheeks were bright red. She looked down. "I'm so sorry."

A moment of stunned silence. Hollard looked at her like he'd been hit by a train.

Oakheart was confused now in his irritation. He disliked having dispensed a lecture to the wrong party. So still prickly, he said in a clipped voice, "Miss Stark, do you have any idea how expensive this material is? I told you girls yesterday to be extra careful, as I tell everyone when they put on potential costumes. Now we'll probably have to order another spool to patch you up a new dress"—

"Excuse me, sir," a mousy little dresser named Gilly said who had helped dab at the stain. "But I think we have enough material left to pin over this. If I can just take Miss Stark to the dressing room quickly, we can" –

"I believe Miss Stark's clumsiness has taken up enough of this morning's rehearsal," Cersei's silky voice interjected. Speaking with ingrained ease and confidence, her next words were simply accepted as law. "We should just start the rehearsal now. Singing in her stained dress today should serve as a good lesson to Miss Stark and as a reminder to be more careful in the future." Gifting Sansa with a pityingly maternal smile, Cersei serenely turned around to head to her place, satisfied.

Oakheart coughed awkwardly, then nodded. "Right. Everyone! Let's go!" He clapped once then turned back to the stage quickly.

Everyone else shifted away, Myranda squeezing Sansa's hand reassuringly and Mya patting her shoulder.

Dontos Hollard was falling over himself contrite. He stared at Sansa as if she were a fresh mug of beer. "Miss Stark, you're an angel! Oh, I'm so sorry to get you into this mess! I" –

Her face numb, Sansa absently touched his arm. "It's all right, Mr. Hollard," she said in a glum faraway voice. "You didn't mean to." She shuffled onto the stage.

Dontos watched his pretty savior with reverence. "She is Jonquil," he sighed.

He gasped as a large hand seized the back of his neck in a vice-like grip. Oh gods, it pinched horribly!

The Hound's terrible snarling voice was in his ear. "You'll pay for that, Hollard. Believe me, you'll fucking pay."

He threw Hollard away from him. Hollard took one look into those awful eyes, full of an unspeakable fiery rage. Clegane's fists were clenched and shaking.

Hollard moved off quickly, rubbing his neck.

Fuck Oakheart, fuck Cersei, and fuck fucking Hollard fuck FUCK.

Sandor breathed heavily.

He hadn't moved from his position by the curtain. His eyes were glued on the little bird.

That stupid, foolhardy, infuriating, buggering little bird.

Ever since he started working at the opera house, Sandor's least favorite part was overhearing the damn operas. Loud, droning, grotesque spectacles. Sandor would distract himself with his various duties – barking commands to the other stagehands, lugging props back and forth, and otherwise carrying out Baelish's less…official wishes.

But ever since the rehearsals for this opera started, Sandor found himself drawn inexorably to the spot he stood in now.

His eyes were always on the same figure, sitting now in the makeshift brook, a large purple stain on her dress.

Fuck him.

She did not have many solo lines. A few verses, that's all, then she'd sing in harmony with Stone and Royce. The rest of the time Cersei and Loras as Florian took over the scene.

Yet those few minutes when he could hear her sing….

Sandor found his desire for those verses was becoming a thirst not unlike that for Dornish Red.

Just…getting to stand there, watching her…watching her fresh, lively face as she disappeared into character, as she sang like a lark.

He'd about lost his breath when he first saw her in that costume just a few minutes ago. All white gauzy material and that fucking neckline. Her hair tumbling over her shoulders, some tendrils curled.

The makeup was stark and he wasn't fond of it, but it did make her eyes jump out like unnaturally bright sapphires. He'd hovered over her like a moth a flame – the only flame Sandor would ever hover over.

Beneath it all ran a protective rage. The dress was so light, the neckline so revealing – and she'd be standing there, singing in it in front of everyone!

He didn't know how to reconcile his lust with this strange possessive concern, and so he'd alternated between teasing her and snapping at her. Those eyes, those damned artless eyes, staring at him and not understanding his moods.

Fuck, neither do I, little bird. I don't understand fuck all anymore.

All he knew was that watching her sing was becoming the only precious bit of relief he had each day.

And Hollard….

Hollard had spoiled this today.

He split his rage equally between the stupid bird for sticking up for Hollard and at Hollard for letting her.

And he was most disgusted with himself for standing by as it happened.

But what the fuck could he do? Call her out as a liar? That would have enraged Oakheart and Cersei even more. So he just stood by useless as Oakheart scolded her, made her tremble with tears. As Cersei twisted the knife even further.

Sansa hadn't even looked at him as she walked onstage.

Sandor's face twisted in wrath as he focused his anger on her. That was just like the stupid bird. He'd watched her these past weeks, watched her character. She just didn't have a clue how things worked around here. You don't take the blame for someone like that, you watch out for yourself. However, that was just the sort of fool thing she'd do, was constantly doing like she was some kind of damned heroine from one of these operas.

She was the one who always tried cheering up children in the chorus when they'd start crying, for example.

Or when one of the chorus sopranos left the dressing room with her skirt tucked into her tights, the little bird flew there before anybody but Sandor noticed and feigned complimenting her skirts to dislodge it before the singer could notice.

Just wait, little bird, he'd think. That sweet little disposition will fade, just as anything good here turns to glittering rot.

The thought never made him smug, however; it made him slightly sick instead.

And so Sandor clung to her singing. That crystalline voice, innocence and longing and something mystical and wintry. He soaked in it.

Through Cersei's cruel jabs at her, through the manual labor, through carrying out Baelish's whims…there was her singing.

Something in the audience caught Sandor's eye now.

Joffrey Baratheon had entered the theater, and was hanging back at the side. His hands were in his pockets inside his elegant jacket.

Sandor hated this little prick. Boy was fucking wrong all over. Sandor had heard about prostitutes he'd visited, and something loathsome about a pregnant cat when Joffrey was little. Even the indomitable Tyrell girl shrank away from him after six months of courtship.

And the cunt's green eyes were on the little bird.

They mockingly ran over the stain on her dress, but they lingered on her bare shoulders, her cleavage.

The look there on his face, his nasty smile, was enough to make the blood pump so loudly in Sandor's temples he could barely make out her voice anymore.

He looked away, determined to ignore the git.

But then his eyes fell on Hollard on the other side of the stage, barely in the wings.

The fool was watching the little bird as well.

Like Joffrey, there was longing in his eyes, but without the malice. Instead a cloyingly slavish look was there, as if he were a piteous damsel gazing at his knight in shining fucking armor.

The look would have been comical to Sandor were it not for the renewed rush of rage he felt.

How dare he look at her like that?

How dare he embarrass her – her – then look at her like she was a buggering piece of art in the King's Landing Museum?

She sang now, her face showing nothing but the lighthearted delight the opera's libretto called for. She bravely embraced her role even as those in the wings whispered about the glaring blemish on her costume. Sandor heard faint laughter.

His eyes narrowed in on the obliviously worshiping Hollard.

He embarrassed her.

Sandor had not felt this particular rage in a long time. He remembered that stinking gambler Tywin Lannister sent him to deal with – and the man's sneaking fist, making contact with Sandor's jaw. His beady eyes and indifferent manner had reminded Sandor so suddenly of his brother that a blind rage swept him up and without a second thought he'd let his fist fly right back into that face.

He had not meant to kill him with that punch. Sandor had still been relatively young then, just out of the military. He'd learned a little of what his strength could do in the army, but not the full extent.

As he stared at the limp body and its snapped neck, he finally knew.

And as he stared now at Dontos Hollard and Joffrey Baratheon and Dontos Hollard again, the bird's voice still in his ears, he felt that blind rage once more.

His hand was balled into a fist, shaking, shaking.

Preoccupied with thoughts of choking that bloated neck of Hollard's, he absently ran his finger down the length of rope attached to the curtain.

"Come on, then!" Ygritte called out to the other ballet girls behind her. She corralled the squealing, giggling lot into the empty space between the dance studio and the storage room.

Rehearsals were over, and the day was now closing in on night. A perfect time for ghost stories.

Dontos sat swaying on a stool as the girls gathered in a circle around him.

Dontos Hollard had not a malicious or scheming bone in his body, but he was profoundly thoughtless. His most marked trait was his inability to think ahead. He'd felt remorse at ruining Miss Stark's dress and getting her in trouble, and of course now he worshiped her blindly, but any lasting lesson he might have taken away from the incident passed him by completely.

Instead of his close call with unemployment awakening him to the fact he should improve his behavior, he felt only a rush of relief. With this relief came the need to celebrate. Quite naturally, this need led to indulging in more beer, more spirits.

And so his bulbous nose glowed red like a cherry as he sat laughing merrily with the ballet girls now.

They were all clapping and chanting, "Tell us now! Tell us now!"

He flushed, happy. He felt no guilt about the little white lie he told several years ago: that he'd seen the opera ghost.

After all, what else did Dontos Hollard have to impress anybody with? The Hound had his strength, the performers their talent, and everybody else had at least something they could be proud of.

And so, once when he heard some dancers speculate aloud about the ghost, Hollard had quite simply and frankly claimed he'd seen him. Because why not? And because of his singular simplicity, now that it was said and the dancers spread the tale, in Dontos's mind it became true. He had seen the ghost. The Phantom was real. He was the devil himself.

"Well, all right!" Ygritte called now, smile wide. "Enough waiting! You keep telling us he's the devil and all that, and full of murderous intrigue and whatnot. But what's the bloke look like, anyhow?"

A chorus of voices supported Ygritte's query. They all wanted to know.

Dontos vaguely remembered snarling reminders from the Hound about keeping his mouth shut about the Phantom, but these sweet girls wanted to know so badly! They were all counting on a good story!

And Dontos was so very, very drunk.

Dontos recalled rumors he had heard and let them make their way into his rambling description. "Oh, he's a fright to see. His face is all twisted in horrible scars. Don't even look like a face. He's a giant of a man, and stalks the place to make sure no one goes below."

"But why?" One of the girls asked.

Dontos blinked. "To guard his dragon eggs, of course."

He'd overestimated his believability. The girls groaned in dissent.

"There are no dragons anymore!"

"They were never real!"

"Yes, they were! They've found fossils under the Red Keep."

"Please, that's just a myth! Dragons are as fake as the Others."

"The Others were real!"
"No, they weren't!"

"What's going on here?" The girls shrieked at the low barking voice suddenly in their midst.

The Hound stood there, eyes gleaming angrily.

"It's dark out. You girls get to your dormitories, go on!"

The gigantic figure of Sandor Clegane, looming over them from the shadows at this time of night, was more than enough for them. The ballet girls did not need to be told twice. They fled the scene, laughing and shrieking.

Sandor glared after them with a contemptuous shudder. He turned to Dontos.

The drunkard swallowed once, backing up to the wall.

Sandor towered over him. His form was silhouetted by the lamp behind him.

"You drunk idiot," he gnarled. "You were talking about the ghost again, weren't you?"

The way the dumb man shivered, eyes wide, stoked the flames of Sandor's fury, which had not died down much in the intervening hours. All he saw was the stain on Sansa's dress and her downcast eyes.

He slapped Dontos. The man whimpered. "How many times do I have to tell you to keep your miserable mouth shut?" His tight growling voice was like some rabid guarddog's.

Another slap.

Before Dontos could recover, Sandor's hands were lifting him up by his shirt collar as always. The Hound's flaming eyes were so intense Dontos felt himself burned. "You embarrassed her."

Dontos saw the eyes, the scars. In his befuddled, intoxicated state, his own words came back to him: "His face is all twisted in horrible scars…A giant of a man…."

A horrible wave of fear gave him a rare burst of strength. With a squealing cry he pushed away from Clegane and ran, stumbling away from the Hound.

Sandor was calling after him, but Dontos paid him no heed.

He ran around the corner, down a corridor behind the backdrops.

He tripped on his own feet just as he was about to turn the corner out to the theater.

He fell flat on his face. Dazed, he put his hand to his broken nose and saw blood.

The area around him grew darker.

He looked behind him.

He did not have time even to cry out before the figure lunged, looping the lasso quickly around his neck.