"Oh, Sansa, cheer up! It was only a stain. I'm sure everyone's forgotten it by now," Margaery comforted the glum young singer as they and Madame Tyrell headed to the theater the next day.
But Sansa could not hide her dread at the prospect of facing Cersei and the rest of the cast today. She envied her friend. There was no major role for contralto in Florian and Jonquil until the end, when as the Mother she joins the chorus of five other gods offstage to welcome Jonquil into the Heavens. As such Margaery was not needed at every rehearsal, so she busied herself singing at private concerts and charity events, while posing for artists and photographers, and the like.
Sansa was a little jealous that while she herself was suffering under Cersei's scrutiny, Margaery was able to continue soaking in the King's Landing high life that Sansa had barely been exposed to yet.
Still, she couldn't be too bitter when Margaery was so sympathetic. "I assure you, Sansa, with rehearsals just starting to get serious, everyone has far more on their minds than one ruined dress."
As if on cue, she pushed open the door to the front entrance and the three women were greeted by hubbub at the foot of the stairs. A whole fleet of dancers rushed to and fro, with actors and stagehands milling about, speaking alternately in frantic shouts and whispers.
A few policemen pushed through the mob and up the stairs.
"What on" –
Before Sansa could finish her question, Madame Olenna brought her cane down with a couple loud bangs onto the floor.
Like Pylos's Dogs in the experiment with bells, the ballet girls were so conditioned by the sound of the cane that they immediately turned around and stood straight and still, politely waiting for instructions from their dance mistress.
"Now you girls stop this fluttering about," Olenna said sternly regardless. "One of you tell me what's going on this instant."
It was Ygritte who eagerly stepped forward. "It's Dontos Hollard, ma'am! He's dead!"
Sansa whitened and gripped onto Margaery's arm for strength. "Dead?"
Oh gods, that poor man!
Madame Olenna was far less affected. "Drink finally do him in?"
Ygritte broke into an excited grin, which would have been ghoulish given the circumstances were it not for her naturally jaunty disposition. "No, ma'am! He was hanged! By the Phantom, we think! Old Hollard's body was found swinging up in the rafters. He'd been gossiping about the Phantom beforehand."
The ballet girls burst anew into frightened and frankly thrilled chatter.
Another couple thumps from Olenna's cane. "Quiet, girls, quiet! You all get to the dance studio. I'm going to get to the bottom of this. Margaery, come." Without another word, Olenna gestured with her head toward the managers' office and Margaery trailed after her, always obedient to her grandmother, at least.
The ballet girls all dispersed, except for Ygritte, who turned back. She craned her neck around the corner to make sure Madame Olenna was out of sight, then she approached the dazed Sansa.
"Hey, cap'n!" She breathed, grabbing Sansa's arm. "Guess who we all think might be involved? The Hound!"
Sansa's head snapped to hers. "The Hound?" A startling fear made her heart pound.
Ygritte didn't seem to notice, her bright smile wide. "Aye! See, we was all gathered around Hollard last night as he told us about the Phantom – how he's an ugly bloke and tall as a mountain! Well, who should come waltzing in telling us all to scat but the Hound: tall and ugly as can be. He was left all alone with Hollard, then first thing this morning the poor cleaning ladies find Hollard's fat old corpse, swinging away. What do you make of that, eh?"
She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
"The police don't know, do they?" Sansa Stark, how can that be your first concern? Might be the police should know!
Ygritte shrugged indifferently. "Don't know. I sure as hells ain't telling them, and I can guarantee you none of the other girls will. Never tell a copper nothing if you can help it. Stay out of it, that's what I say. Ooh! I should check out the crime scene quick before Dame of Thorns catches wise and the cops clear everything out! Ta-ta!" One squeeze of Sansa's arm and off she sped, leaving her companion pale and confused.
Dontos Hollard…so silly and drunk, but so sweet in his way, too….
And Sandor….
"The bloke was asking for it."
Sansa turned, blanching.
Once again, the man she'd just been thinking of was able to sneak behind her without a sound to alert her.
As usual, he was leaning against the wall just behind her. Those steady eyes, that frank and honest manner…he can't have done it! He simply can't have! "I warned the man. Told him not to talk."
He moved in on her, eyes boring into hers. "Let it be a lesson to you, too, little bird, else the beast that did that to him gets his claws on you."
Sansa knew she should feel more threatened than ever. Here was a tall, strong, disfigured man who had last been seen cornering Hollard, now dead. He'd confessed to killing once before. Now this ominous warning. Margaery's words, Ygritte's words, his own words should paint a portrait of guilt.
Yet somehow, Sansa was never so sure of his innocence as she gazed at him now.
She trusted those deep eyes of his, that rough way he had of getting to the truth of any matter.
"What should I do?" She asked in a feeble voice.
He was like stone: serious, direct. "Get out. Leave this place. Don't come back. Fly home to Winterfell, little bird."
He stared at her hard one more time.
Then he turned and left her standing there, shaking.
Should she trust him? Her instincts told her yes, but logic…logic dictated that the last word she should be taking is that of a confessed murderer.
Fly home to Winterfell, little bird.
She felt split in two. Half of her rebelled strongly against the sentiment; she'd come too far to turn back, and she'd only just achieved her dream to play as Cersei's understudy. She couldn't abandon everything when she was on the cusp of success!
But the other half of her was plunged in doubt. Cersei's coldness and Dontos's death…who in their right mind would stay in this environment?
She wanted to trust Sandor so badly, but she knew there was someone else she must ask. Someone that she knew intellectually would tell her in the end what was best for her, little as she emotionally believed so.
"I am so glad you decided to come by, Sansa. Do forgive my neglecting you these past weeks. I assume you're getting by splendidly? You did get my bouquet, did you not?" Petyr Baelish's smiling glance seared into her.
Sansa sat stiffly and uncomfortably in front of his desk. Does he have to stare at me so? "Oh, yes, Lord Baelish, it was very kind of you. The flowers were beautiful." A dozen dark, blood red roses were delivered to her at the Tyrells after her casting was announced. The sight and cloying smell of them made her almost as uneasy as the man himself.
"Now, dear. What can I help you with?" He schooled his features into that of the kindly concerned uncle.
Sansa was direct. "Sir, my mother considers you almost a brother. She's always spoken of you with sincere fondness. I have no one else to turn to. Please, please be frank with me."
His eyes brightened at her plea. He swallowed his excitement, but it showed in his coiled stance behind his desk. "Yes, dear?"
Sansa searched for the right words for a moment. Then, "Am I safe here?"
He blinked, taken aback. "What's that?"
Sansa scooted forward in her seat. She stared into his eyes with her blue ones, like her mother's, but more beautiful, more beautiful. "I've been hearing the most terrible things. About…about the Phantom. And now here's Dontos Hollard's horrible death! Please," her voice was strained into a whisper now. There was nothing in her face but genuine appeal. "Please tell me the truth. Am I safe here? Are any of us safe here?"
There was a long moment of silence. Sansa could not read him.
At last he spoke. His voice was low. "Sansa. Do you really want to know the truth about Dontos Hollard?" Very quietly: "Truly?"
She shivered. Nonetheless, she nodded.
He leaned forward. "An accident."
Sansa sat back, shocked. "What?"
He shrugged. "That's the truth. I've just spoken to the police. There is absolutely no evidence of foul play. Could it be suicide? Possibly. But I doubt it." Affecting a tactful look, he said regretfully, "I hate to say it, but the man could not hold his drink. I'm afraid it must have led to his tragic end."
Sansa shook her head, as though that would clear the matter up. "But, no. No. How could it be an accident? The way he was found…and, and I've heard other stories about other deaths! A prop master drowned! A dancer, she was hanged, too! How" –
Petyr was standing now, taking her hands in his. "My dear, my dear, my dear. You mustn't get hysterical. You know what all those were? Accidents." When she looked to protest, he hushed her again. "No, no. Listen, dear." He sat again at the edge of his desk, never letting go of her hands. "This house has stood for over a century. It's gone through much in the meantime, burning down once and then getting rebuilt. Are a handful of unfortunate accidents really that unusual in a span of one hundred years? If it weren't for the ridiculous Phantom rumors some silly ballerinas made up, would we really be sitting here even discussing this? The prop master was walking home drunk at night by the Blackwater, slipped into the river, and sadly, there you are. The dancer was an unfortunate soul who got maudlin when at the drink and impulsively took her own life. As you can see, my dear, the true culprit here is drink, not some masked killer out of a lurid novel. Doesn't that make more sense?" He asked softly.
Sansa sat thinking. "I…I don't know."
He peered at her with penetrating, sparkling eyes. There was the beginnings of a tender grin on his face. "I think you do, Sansa."
His manner was so solicitous she couldn't help but return the smile. "I suppose you're right," she admitted at last.
"Good!" He finally released her hands. In good spirits now, he wagged a mock scolding finger at her. "So no more talk of you leaving. I won't hear of it, young lady." A new edge came into his voice. "You know, my dear, we really shouldn't let too much time pass without seeing each other again. I'm responsible for you, you know. I should get to know you better. Let's go to dinner sometime and talk over your career."
A flutter of panic in her chest. "I" –
"Of course, of course, you're too busy with rehearsals right now. But soon, dear. Soon."
Sansa deliberately ignored the feeling this was a threat more than a promise.
He steered her to the door, his hand on her arm. He opened the door for her. "Oh, Sansa, would you be so kind as to let the young lady outside know she can come in now?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you, dear. And seriously, Sansa: you don't have to worry about a thing."
His manner was earnest, his face blandly affirming.
Sansa's answering smile was true.
She curtseyed and then left. She felt better already.
He is a kind man after all, a true kind man. It's not his fault he made me uneasy before. It must just be my nerves, remembering his history with Mother. I must be more gracious to him in the future. With that resolve, she headed to rehearsal.
Inside his office, Baelish straightened his jacket and sat back behind his desk. He brushed up on his correspondence as he waited for the young lady to enter.
Finally she did.
The young ballet dancer stood nervously just inside the office. Her expression was heartbreaking in its weak attempt to look neutral. She was a small girl with bones like twigs. Still, there was something very comely about her small doe-eyed face.
"Ah, come in, miss! Come in!" He pulled the chair out for her.
Obviously unused to such genteel manners, the girl hesitated before complying. Her fright practically vibrated off her in waves.
Petyr was back behind his desk. He folded his hands before him over his papers.
He studied her for a moment with the detached, measuring gaze of a farmer looking over his livestock.
Then a thin, sympathetic smile beneath his mustache. "Well. You know why I asked you here?"
She paused for a moment. She nodded.
In quiet, diplomatic tones, he asked, "Is it true? What I've heard? That you're pregnant?"
A look of pain seized her features. She looked down, gulping.
That was all the answer Baelish needed.
He tilted his head, never taking his eyes away from her.
Then sighing, he leaned back in his chair and assumed a more official but still kindly air. "Well, my dear, I am afraid of course that we can no longer have you in our ballet. I wish I could find a way, but it's simply impossible."
Her eyes were wild and hunted as she desperately pleaded with him. "Sir" –
He held up a hand, stopping her. "Please. Let me finish. I am not a man who would let a girl in your condition go homeless."
He smiled warmly.
"I have already found you a place in another of my establishments."
His teeth gleamed pearly white.
A great shiver of despair and repugnance racked her small frame.
She covered her face in her hands.
Baelish wound his pocket watch, whistling softly as she sobbed. He would wait until she spent all her tears before making the necessary arrangements.