"What about that singer over there, talking to the dancer? The man with curly hair in breeches and the little dark-haired girl? Do you think they're in love, or is this the first time they've ever spoken?"
"I think that's his wife's sister."
"What? Why would you think that?"
"Because I know both of them, Sansa! I've sung here since I was thirteen!"
"Oh, that's not fair! You should have told me. This game only works if you don't know."
Myranda lazily rest her chin in her hand, her elbow on her crossed leg. She yawned. "Nothing makes a difference right now. We've been waiting for over an hour." She stared pointedly at the stage where Cersei should be standing for Jonquil's most popular aria. But the diva was late.
Sansa agreed with Myranda. Here they were in the last two weeks of rehearsals, and Cersei's lateness was becoming a habit. She had never been this tardy, however.
From where Jonquil's three sisters sat backstage, Mya groaned loudly. She was sprawled over her chair, head back. "Each year Cersei gets worse and worse! You should just sing the role, Sansa! Your voice blows hers out of the water, anyway."
Sansa blushed happily as Myranda agreed.
Most people in the theater agreed. Sansa had by now largely ingratiated herself to the company, singer and stagehand alike. In episodes like these, when Cersei or something else stalled rehearsal, Sansa often came up with little games or contests for those within her vicinity. These little distractions surprisingly succeeded in keeping most everyone's spirits up for a short time, just as they had with her younger siblings at church.
Combine this contagious optimism with her ethereal voice, and the majority concluded that the Northern girl possessed just the right amount of talent and social graces to properly lead the company.
No one dared voice this assumption too loudly, lest they stir the lioness's rage.
"That's it!" Oakheart at last barked. He'd been pacing the stage steadily for the past hour, brooding over his absent star. The more he brooded the more violent became his strides, his shoulders more hunched. Now whipping off his cap and running stressed fingers through his light brown hair, he announced the end of his vigil. "We need to get this scene underway. It's imperative the orchestra times their cues with the singing, dammit." Sighing and bucking up his courage – he knew the risk he took – he looked at Sansa. "Miss Stark, would you be so kind as to fill in for Ms. Lannister, please? We need to get the 'Jewelry Song' out of the way."
Sansa swayed in her seat as Mya and Myranda excitedly bit their tongues and squealed, squeezing Sansa's arms. The extras behind her pat her back, cheering her on. She was very pale.
Jonquil… 'The Jewelry Song'….
She was in a dream, surely. A beautiful dream that couldn't really be.
Could it?
Somehow or another she was on her feet, moving.
No, this couldn't be real. Sansa Stark from Winterfell could not possibly be standing in the middle of the stage at King's Landing Opera House. She could not be standing in Cersei Lannister's place. She could not be singing Jonquil's role in a rehearsal at King's Landing. She was not about to sing the "Jewelry Song".
She stared at the large jewel box up on the pedestal and the rhinestone treasures within.
This was real. This prop, this garden set. She repeated these facts to herself like a mantra, but the truth of the matter still did not fully penetrate her mind...
Balon Swann, the broad-chested conductor, raised his baton and the music began.
Now it was real.
Her knees shook. She couldn't do this.
Oh, shut up, you ninny! For Gods' sake, this is just one rehearsal! One song! If you can't handle this, how in the Seven do you ever hope to continue understudying Cersei? This can't be scarier than your audition!
These mental admonitions only made her feel worse.
They were approaching her first line now. She needed to get herself together.
Her eyes swam desperately across the seats and in the wings, looking unconsciously for –
There! There he was.
Sandor stood near one of the front exits, at the edge of the front row. He was in his typical posture: large frame leaned sideways against the wall, arms crossed.
She could just see the sparkle of his eyes from the shadows.
And suddenly glory itself flew out of her throat.
Those watching were delighted. Sansa Stark not only knew the blocking and the verses perfectly, but her voice, her acting! Those who had been with the theater for more than a season were so jaded that her performance was doubly compelling. So natural, so unaffected!
They had forgotten that Jonquil was just a girl, just becoming acquainted with her beauty and how it can attract men. They forgot she was thoughtless, giddy, and good-hearted beneath her flirtatious rambunctiousness.
They remembered now. They saw Jonquil as if for the first time.
"O Jaehossi!" When Sansa sang out her first line in High Valyrian with candid joy and wonder, right away the onlookers were transported to the garden with Jonquil. Like her, they were spellbound by these gorgeous trinkets (which up close looked gaudy and cheap as most costume jewelry did). As she tried them on and looked herself over in the glass, they shared her vain but innocent pleasure at the pretty, auburn-haired, blue-eyed picture she made. Like Jonquil, they forgot all her curiosity about who could have delivered the jewel box, too taken up with such pretty glamour.
But eventually the company also saw more clearly the tragic foreshadowing of the piece: how this sweet vision would soon be seduced by the handsome knight who was really the plain fool Florian disguised by the Stranger, and how Florian's love for her would spell her doom.
They felt for Jonquil as they never had when played methodically, precisely, and heartlessly by Cersei.
Sansa twirled and beamed and sang, sang, sang.
Her voice evoked images of a lark soaring happily and heedlessly through this springtime garden.
Sansa lost herself in Jonquil's happiness, clutching the jewels to her heart.
But it was not the eyes of Loras as Florian she saw.
It was a pair of eyes full of warmth, sadness, conflict, and a rare protective familiarity that dwelled now in her heart.
For the owner of these eyes, watching her truly claim the stage for the first time since her audition was a revelation. The experience was indescribable to Sandor.
The rolled up rug he'd been carrying offstage to the corridor lay forgotten at his feet.
He felt something hot buzz deep in his chest and squeeze his heart. The back of his throat tickled. His breath came in heavy huffs. She was so fucking radiant and happy and alive –
This sensation: happiness?
Was Sandor Clegane happy?
Was this bird-like trilling making the big fucking Hound, brutal and careless, happy?
He shook his head. He'd never been happy. He had no experience with the emotion. But his body vibrated and hummed with every one of her golden notes and stupid bloody tears were stinging his eyes now, and he felt his lips tug upward a little, and –
"What is going on here?"
The music stopped.
Stillness. Icy stillness.
Sansa looked like a shocked statue of herself.
Cersei stood at the center of the aisle, cold expressionless eyes locked onstage. On Sansa.
Joffrey stood behind his mother, his devilish grin nasty and hidden by her shoulder.
In stark contrast to the porcelain-white Sansa, Oakheart's face flushed deep red. "Ms. Lannister!" He stammered. "Um, we really needed to get the sound test underway with the orchestra, you see, and" –
Ignoring her director, Cersei marched up the stage steps.
Those experienced with drink spotted the slight waver to her walk that she valiantly tried to hide with her long strides.
Sansa did not catch on until the prima donna was right in front of her. The redness in Cersei's glistening eyes and the faint whiff beneath her mouthwash gave her away. Gods, does everyone in this theater have a drinking problem, Sansa thought detached through her terror as Cersei stared and stared at her.
Sansa opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
Cersei tilted her head, slitting her eyes at Sansa. "What, suddenly lost your voice, little girl? You certainly had it a moment ago. We all heard it."
In her intoxicated state, Cersei had apparently lost the discreet low volume she'd usually use to spit out insults. Her voice was still smooth and deceptively sweet, but every person present could hear her clearly. "I see a woman cannot feel under the weather and come in a little late without Baelish's latest whore stepping in to displace her." She swayed toward her until they were practically nose to nose. "You're a cheap, flashy little thing. Everyone knows you're only here because you bedded Littlefinger and probably my disgusting imp brother. You belong in the brothels with the rest of them." Cersei ignored the collective gasp at her words. Oakheart was now pulling at her arm, urgently imploring her to take a rest in her dressing room.
Cersei only shook him off and pointed an elegant gloved finger into Sansa's face. "Enjoy your pathetic victory while you can, little dove. For as long as I'm here, you will never, ever sing so in front of an audience." She spat at Sansa's feet, just missing them. "Never."
She stumbled slightly but then righted herself, terrified of jeopardizing her dignity. She at last allowed Oakheart to steer her offstage. She never cast a look behind her.
The quiet that enveloped the theater once Cersei spoke evaporated. Sansa heard the rise of whispers all around her like a flood rushing in.
Her ears rang.
It was like the first blow received in a fight – you're too stunned to feel anything, only the shock.
And so she stood, rooted to the spot and immobile as stone.
Sandor felt more than enough for both of them. There was no surprise, no shock. Only a deep, dull, heart-wrenching resignation.
It was your fault, dog. You dared to feel happy. That right there was the little bird's doom. You play with a toy soldier and your face gets pressed into the fire; the sweet bird sings and a lioness devours her.
The only surprise here is that you didn't see it coming.
What might have been a smile just moments before turned into that wry jerk of his lips again.
He studied the girl from where she still stood.
One thing did surprise him:
Her straight proud posture. There were tears in her eyes but they would not fall.
The wolf was in her stance, not the devoured bird.
He watched as her fellow singers rushed to her side, comforting her. He saw her distant gratitude, her face oddly serene as she walked slowly offstage.
Her head was up, not downcast.
A rush of pride overtook Sandor.
Then indignation and rage on his little bird's behalf.
But what can a Hound do? Challenge Cersei to a duel for Sansa Stark's honor?
His mood darkening to utter blackness, Sandor turned and left.
Sansa spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze. Oakheart visited her in the dressing room and apologized, letting her take the rest of the day off. She'd agreed numbly. She dressed mechanically, refusing to let herself feel anything.
Yet she couldn't help the one bitter thought swirling around her brain.
Will I forever be humiliated here? Is it my fate to play the role of punching bag for anyone who sees fit to abuse me?
Cersei's accusations about Baelish and Tyrion made Sansa physically sick. To think of herself in that light…Sansa was a lady, born and bred. A young lady, the sort who is never even supposed to know of such words as Cersei hurled at her today.
She remembered now little remarks from her mother's friends and various Winterfell matrons whenever the subject of the opera came up. The arts were entertaining enough, they'd say, but low, common, cheap. Not to be taken seriously. Only bad people took part in such a life.
Never before had the memory of their disapproval pressed so hard on Sansa.
Still there was the memory of singing just now – that, that wasn't dirty or low. That was…beauty. Lightness, purity.
No one could take that away from her, she thought with determination as she buttoned her jacket and smoothed her skirt. Not society's disdain or Cersei's jealousy. No one could take away the beautiful freedom Sansa felt as she sang.
She left her dressing room and quickly headed toward the exit, trying to hide her face from view. It was doubtful she'd run into anyone. Evening was approaching, and everyone was either gone or staying late to make up for the brief hiatus after Cersei's outburst.
Even so, Sansa didn't want to take any chances of running into someone. She was too full of her angered jumble of sad, confused feelings to properly take in anymore sympathy, anymore –
However, Sansa did meet someone.
Joffrey Baratheon.
He was dressed immaculately as always, fresh rose in his button-hole. His face showed honest gladness and contrition at meeting her. "Ah! Miss Stark! I was just heading to your dressing room to see you." His forehead creased in sympathy. "I wish to apologize quite sincerely for my mother's behavior. It wasn't like her at all. The poor woman's been feeling under the weather lately. All this is quite a strain on her, you know. She's felt so much pressure since my father's death, and it's started showing here and there in such displays as you've just unfortunately experienced."
He took her hand: lightly, respectfully. "I implore you, please do not take what she said personally. I beg you to forget her words and forgive her. She was not herself. If she were, she would be here in my place asking you the same. So for her sake, I beg your forgiveness."
He bowed.
Sansa answered him with a wide grateful smile.
"Yes…of course," was all she could say, voice soft.
Contented, he now offered her his arm. "You are too good, miss. Would you now do me the great honor of allowing me to escort you to the carriages outside?" He leaned in and said with confidential tact, "My mother's gone home for the night. We will not encounter her."
Such noble yet straightforward manners! Such humble kindness!
Her smile widening ever more, Sansa accepted his arm.
Joffrey spoke to her quite congenially, apologizing again and praising her voice, her acting. She felt his eyes on her, but whenever she glanced at him, his look was merry but continually respectful.
She remembered Margaery's warning words, but she justified this to herself quite succinctly. As fair-minded as Margaery was, she was still human, and how many people after a messy end to a relationship think back fondly on their former lovers? Every story has more than one side. It could just be they were not suited and brought out the worst in the other. Sansa was sure that must happen all the time. Two perfectly nice people on their own simply did not mix well together sometimes. Surely that must be the case here.
However, there was something else gnawing away at her as they walked together down the darkened corridor.
She watched him as he talked on happily. She looked at his gentle profile, his golden hair. He was just an inch or so taller than her.
She felt the soft material of his jacket from where her hand was tucked into his elbow.
She felt his slender arm.
She felt…no real heat and no real cold coming off his skin. He felt…normal.
Sansa shifted, oddly dissatisfied.
She remembered the ghost of another forearm, far bulkier in its rolled up sleeve, with tanned skin and a slight sheen of sweat from its labor. This forearm was covered in dark hair and emitted a heat like a brazier. The pleasant lilt of Joffrey's voice gave way in her imagination to a rough, deep, bear's growl of a voice coming at a much taller height. This voice in her mind was mocking and rude and…warm. Familiar.
Sansa realized this pretty young man with his ingratiating manners bored her.
She was quietly mortified at the realization. Once upon a time, how she would have swooned at such a gentleman taking a kindly interest in her! Back in Winterfell, everyone would have considered Joffrey Baratheon a perfect match. Despite his mother's position at the opera house, his father's family was quite respectful, his father Ned's best friend. Not to mention, Joffrey's uncle Stannis was Westeros's prime minister!
Yes, this match would be more than ideal, more than the Starks could ever dream for their eldest daughter.
So why did the idea now only bring a slight queasiness to Sansa's stomach? She found herself about as attracted to him as to a raw carrot.
She scolded herself sharply. Nonsense. It's only the prospect of Cersei as a mother-in-law that is making me shudder so.
Besides, wasn't she getting a little ahead of herself? This was only her second conversation with the young man, and he was simply doing the gentlemanly thing by apologizing and escorting her outside. Why build an imaginary courtship and marriage out of that?
With all this in mind, she determined to make herself as agreeable as possible, to enjoy his kind attentions. She smiled and laughed at some pleasantry he made. They were now a couple feet from the exit.
Her hand was no longer in his elbow. His hand was on the small of her back.
That was all right, she supposed. Maybe a bit familiar, but it's a gesture of support. Caring.
He was starting to press a little hard, however.
She tossed her head defiantly, chiding herself. Nonsense, her mind repeated. Nonsense.
He shared a quite amusing anecdote. Her laughter was genuine.
Then his hand lowered to her bustle.
She froze.
They were a foot from the doorway now.
His hand pressed into the material, pressed into her rear.
She whirled around, staring at him wide-eyed.
That crafty gleam she'd noticed the day of her audition was blazing out of his eyes now. His face stretched into a lion cub's ravenous grin. "Don't be so shy, Sansa!" He wheedled. "It's all right, no one comes back here this time of night. Let's have a go, right?"
He grabbed her bosom with both hands, cupping the sides of her breasts painfully.
Enraged and frightened, she pushed him away from her. "How dare you?"
This couldn't be happening.
Maniacal pique animated his features, turning them into something vaguely inhuman in his put-upon rage. "How dare you, you little tart? You do as I say!" He backed her into the wall hard, his hands digging into her arms.
"Let go of me!" She yelled.
He only laughed in the same pleasant and lilting tones. He dug his fingers into the flesh of her arms harder, harder.
Through her indignant and scared tears, she saw his gleaming eyes and wide smile. He…he was enjoying himself. He was taking some sort of sadistic joy from her discomfort.
This awoke something fierce within her. Her blood boiled.
She saw Lady's yellow eyes.
With all her might, she kicked her boot into Joffrey's shin.
He cried out in pain, backing up and holding the shin in both hands, hopping on his other foot.
Eyes glowing, Sansa's foot struck again, at the other shin.
He repeated his wincing actions, with the other shin now.
Sansa pushed him one more time and ran away, out the exit.
Rubbing his smarting shins, Joffrey's rage rose. He snarled. "Bitch!" He straightened himself. She probably hadn't made it to the row of carriages yet. His hands itched to leave marks on her pretty white neck. "Bitch!"
He limped toward the door.
He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder.
Miffed at the interruption to his intentions, Joffrey turned to confront whomever it was.
His eyes went round as a child's and a small whimper escaped him.
The figure descended on him, rope in hand.