A/N: Disturbing violence ahoy, inspired mostly by a scene from the 1989 Phantom of the Opera film starring Robert Englund! Be warned!
Sansa was thankful the Tyrells had plans that evening and weren't home. It was no longer a matter of not wishing to speak to anyone; she simply couldn't now. She rushed upstairs and collapsed on her bed, shaking with sobs.
She'd been so afraid as she ran, as she tracked down a free carriage. So afraid he would be at her heels.
Thank the Gods he'd apparently tired of his little game with her.
She calmed down by degrees. Her heart ceased racing so violently, and she was able to breathe normally again. Very slowly she wiped away her tears and dressed for bed. She blew out her candle and turned over, bunching the blankets all around her. She'd once told Bran when he was very little that the demons of the dark Old Nan spoke of wouldn't get him if he stayed beneath his blankets.
Right now she felt the same way. Here, at least, under all her covers in her own room at the Tyrell home, no spiteful words or grasping hands or sadistic laughter could reach her –
Just before she drifted off to an uneasy sleep her eyes flew open.
Tomorrow. What awaited her tomorrow?
Would…would Joffrey tell? Tell his mother?
Of course he'd lie and say she attacked him unprovoked, or else say she was the one who made advances on him and then attacked when he so nobly turned her down.
Her throat constricted.
If he did…that would most certainly end her career.
More tears streamed down her face. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. Why…why didn't Margaery tell her just exactly what Joffrey was like? She'd said he was awful and a pest, but not like this. Conversely, how could Margaery even stomach talking about him at all if she experienced similar treatment?
But ah, Sansa thought. Maybe Joffrey never went quite that far with Margaery. The Tyrells were an incredibly influential family in their artistic sphere, every bit as much as Cersei. Maybe he knew there would be hell to pay if he treated one of their brood such.
When it came to Sansa, however, who was she, really? Her family had an old name but carried little influence this far South, and she had none of her people here. Baelish said he was her protector; however, Sansa was coming to the slow realization those were just words, words that slipped through her fingers like water.
Yes, Sansa had no one to speak her case for her if Joffrey decided to take revenge on her reputation. Baelish might be able to do a little if he felt so inclined, but Sansa heard he was under Tywin Lannister's thumb. Joffrey's grandfather.
She shrieked into her pillow as she concluded her career was doomed.
The next morning Sandor finished nailing the carpet down in the corridor. Honestly, the task could have waited, but he was tackling it now anyhow.
He ignored the pounding in his head. He hadn't gotten as drunk as he did last night in a good while.
So yes, this task could have waited. His raging hangover certainly would have preferred it. Something unconscious drove him here.
Sansa walked down this corridor every morning to get to her dressing room.
As he sat drinking in the bar after Sansa's latest humiliation, he determined not to dwell on her anymore. His fixation with her was ridiculous, irrational, and just made no fucking sense. He was a nasty old mutt and she a wide-eyed sweet simpleton, more than fifteen years his junior. Closer to twenty.
He wiped his forehead then cringed as his hand brushed the bruise by his temple.
That's right. He vaguely recalled a brawl of some sort in that same bar. He'd no idea now what the fight was about or who started it, and he probably hadn't known at the time, either. All he could remember was each punch that landed on whichever drunk earned his ire was instead directed at himself – this punch was for how drawn he was to her, this for how he stood in the wings memorizing every line of her face, this for his childish delight in her voice –
He was determined to pummel his feelings to dust. Kill them.
Yet here he was, in the corridor he knew she'd appear in. Against his will, his eyes kept wandering to the hallway's entrance. He scarcely realized that was what he was doing.
Then she entered.
She looked like she hadn't slept, which did not surprise Sandor. What made him leap to his feet and go to her without a second thought was the terrible hunted fear in her large staring eyes. Gone was the composed wolf from yesterday.
"What is it, girl?" He couldn't help the wave of warmth he felt at the glance of glad relief she gave him. "Did something happen?"
She opened her mouth wordlessly once or twice, then blurted out, "I've had the most terrible night. After Cersei yelled at me and I got ready to go…I ran into her son, Joffrey."
All at once a hot flash of anger seared into Sandor and he imagined all sorts of ways to torture the Baratheon boy: slicing his jugular, breaking his limbs, good old-fashioned punching like last night…the thought of him near her, and causing her such fear….
"What happened?" His voice was very quiet.
Instead of answering him she tilted her head, suddenly taking him in. Her delicate fingers hovered over his bruise. "Are you all right?"
He scowled. "Just a drunk tussle, girl."
"Sandor" –
She was both scolding and concerned.
He grabbed her wrist. "Don't forget propriety, little bird. You don't want the wrong people to hear you address the dog by his first name." His eyes grew darker. "Now tell me what that cunt Baratheon did."
She told him in halting words.
She shivered with a new fear as his pupils dilated as she talked. Lady once looked this way before she pounced at a passing rabbit.
"…Anyway, he at least didn't follow me out to the carriages. I was so afraid." Her free hand fiddled restlessly with the folds in her skirt.
Now that she'd finished her tale he looked calmer. He released her wrist. She did not notice his tightly clenched fists, however. "You should have taken my advice, little bird, and left."
She sighed. "I was thinking of that. It looks like everything is pointing that way, doesn't it? Cersei, Joffrey…" What Mother and the other Winterfell ladies think….
She rubbed her arms. "And of course, I may have no choice. That's what's really scaring me now." She entreated him desperately. "Oh, Sandor, what if Joffrey tells Cersei?"
That hadn't occurred to Sandor, but now that it did….
The likelihood Cersei wouldn't destroy the little bird's career was slight.
And Sandor couldn't, wouldn't lie to her.
But he didn't need to say anything. Sansa saw the repressed sympathy in his deep eyes and that little twitch in his cheek. She knew what that meant. She bowed her head. She sniffed, and he could just see the slight wetness on her cheeks.
Don't comfort her, dog. You don't know how, and that won't help her anyway. Be hard. Let her see the truth.
Yet he couldn't conjure any cruelty into his voice. "It's not too late to leave on your own terms, little bird. Get out now. Go back North, to your parents. Forget all this. Go now."
Her eyes flashed up to his, and he saw in their brightness that despite everything she did not want to leave, not truly.
The look in her eyes suddenly changed. They were searching. He felt like some ancient Northern spirit was sizing him up – but a gentle spirit, full of sad yearning.
"Is that what you want? For me to leave?" Her voice was very soft.
She was so close to him. She smelled faintly of lemon and vanilla. Her skin….
The door swung open and Sandor readied himself. They might just find out the little bird's fate right here and right now.
Sansa turned around. Her chest clenched painfully.
Cersei was walking toward them.
You're a Stark, a Tully, Sansa told herself. Two proud old families. Whatever happens, you can survive this. This horrid woman cannot, will not break you.
Cersei was a few inches from her. Sansa held her breath.
…The older singer cast her one disdainful glance and passed on, into the backstage area.
Sansa let out the breath she'd been holding.
That glance was no different from those Cersei usually gave her. It was hateful and cold, but not with the violence of a mother whose son told her he was mistreated.
Sansa looked at Sandor. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
All of a sudden she let out a hysterical laugh. She covered her mouth.
Blushing and still giggling slightly, she rushed off, leaving Sandor standing irked and confused staring after her.
Like Sandor, Cersei's head buzzed from yesterday. As she sat at the vanity in her dressing room, she looked at herself in the mirror.
Her eyes were bleary. The powder just hid the dark circles around them.
Cersei Lannister was forty-two years old, but the press believed her still in her thirties. Given her excellent bone structure and still fully golden hair, most of the time that was believable.
But staring at herself now, Cersei wasn't so sure.
She poured herself another drink. There was an odd tapping sound coming from somewhere in her dressing room, and she needed distraction from it.
All sounds were heightened after such a night she had.
As the liquid poured down her throat and warmed her cheeks, she let her head fall back, her eyes closed.
In moments like these, she could almost go back. Go back to the days when she first entered the opera house, before she realized what a threat…she was. The freedom away from Father's coldly calculating eyes. The courtesy and admiration of the audience. And Jaime…Jaime was close by. Yes, in that brief period before she was aware of the Stark girl and before Cersei became infatuated with Rhaegar, she almost had everything. She had the man she loved and an admirable career. The lioness was queen of this metropolitan jungle.
But then the wolf tore her heart out and the dragon scorched it.
Cersei quickly kicked back the rest of her drink.
And now the wolf was back, in the form of a little dove.
It was the dove's fault Cersei made a spectacle of herself the day before. Although Cersei never quite recovered from her humiliation at the hands of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, she'd at last regained a sense of control. Control always brought her some semblance of peace.
But now….
She swallowed bitter tears. Now the Stark girl had come to represent everything that had gone wrong in the diva's life. Everything wrong in her.
Cersei felt a deep wave of self-loathing. She should be stronger. Father always said the greatest weapon you could give your enemy is letting them know how much you hate them. Obvious hatred is a form of weakness, he'd say.
She'd figured her cool, indifferent contempt during rehearsals was a perfect example of how to show your disdain for your enemy with dignity and class.
But now…after yesterday….
She shuddered at the memory. How could she have let the insipid little wretch bring that out of her? The girl was weak, stupid. Yet the sight of her singing Jonquil's role with Lyanna's voice…
She was a threat in a way her aunt never was.
During Lyanna's tenure at the opera house, Cersei could comfort herself that she herself was by far the more classically beautiful girl, the more presentable lady. Lyanna Stark, with her wild gaiety and dark Northern looks, was no match for the golden Lannister goddess.
Sansa Stark, however, was a lady.
And she was beautiful: very beautiful. Cersei wondered with dread if one day Sansa might even eclipse her own beauty.
A beautiful lady singing with Lyanna's voice. Cersei's nightmare.
Cersei absently touched the necklace she always wore. It was her mother's necklace.
But Mother was gone. And Jaime…her whole body shook, as it always did when she recalled her twin brother.
Jaime was gone with that mannish suffragette. He could not have chosen a better way to insult her than with that gigantic cow.
That he preferred Brienne Tarth to her….
His desertion of her was like a fresh wound, one that would never heal.
There was no mother, no Jaime. Cersei had no one to confide in, no one to trust.
Her late husband certainly was never a confidant. Gods, she was so grateful he was gone. Her first pure moment of happiness in years was when she found him stooped over in his chair at the breakfast table, cold.
And of course, Cersei could not confide in Tyrion. Her mother's murderer, that sick little pervert. She smirked as she thought that back in the day, they would have used Tyrion in the opera for comic relief, the only fitting place for a disgusting little dwarf. He was not worthy to play the role of manager here.
No, Cersei would not deign trust him.
Cersei did not have anyone except for….
Softening, she tenderly picked up a picture frame, running her hand gently over the image.
A blond little boy and girl stared back happily at her.
Tommen and Myrcella. Her sweet cubs. The lights of her life.
There was no stiff sourness to her face as she gazed at them, as she laughed softly at the sight of Tommen struggling to hold onto Mr. Pounce.
No one would have disliked Cersei seeing her now. For once her outer beauty was matched by a glow from within.
Her babies were the only reason she did not fling herself from the opera's rooftop.
Bitterly, she could not even think of them without a shadow falling over her happiness.
She glanced at this shadow now: the picture of Joffrey, situated next to Tommen and Myrcella's.
The softness did not flee her face entirely, but an unpleasant anxiety pinched her features, thinned her lips.
Joffrey.
How could her love with Jaime create two of the dearest, sweetest children alive, and yet Joffrey, too…?
Her eldest child was her only comfort in the early years of her marriage. She'd been so flattered when the handsome Robert Baratheon called on her shortly after his physical and mental recovery from the Scandal. Her delight in his dark handsome looks very slowly displaced her frustrated feelings for Rhaegar, almost even her ever conflicted feelings for Jaime. Robert proposed not long after their courtship commenced.
At least someone who fell under Lyanna's spell was able to eventually see that Cersei was the superior woman. This touched Cersei.
Yet on their wedding night, when he called out Lyanna's name while inside of her, Cersei realized that wasn't the case at all.
He was just trying to forget, to get as far away from Lyanna as possible. He had failed. The memory of that dark-haired witch haunted Robert for the rest of his life, as his waistline grew and he neglected Cersei in favor of whores. He was drunk from the start of their courtship, something she hadn't noticed then, blinded by his beauty. As he grew fatter and cruder, the last of her fantasies shattered around her.
Perhaps she had only been a form of revenge for Robert, revenge on the dead Lyanna and her lover with Lyanna's enemy.
Cersei was never a person to her husband, and so he ceased representing anything to her but a disgusting fat blockage.
At least Cersei had Joffrey to comfort her in those days. What a sweet, jolly little baby he was.
Perhaps the biggest heartbreak of all was witnessing what that merry little fellow became. The twisted cruelty within him was almost like a dark reflection of all the mistakes she'd made in her life.
And yet….
She loved him.
Like she loved Tommen and Myrcella, she loved Joffrey.
She stared at his picture with the determined adoration only a mother could possess.
He hadn't come home last night. He'd probably stayed over at one of his clubs, or maybe a brothel.
I won't give up on you, Joffrey. Maybe I'm a bit to blame; I always taught you to win, not to be kind. Kindness is a weakness. But…maybe I can bring you back from the brink. Maybe.
Her children. The only reason she still fought for life. Even Joffrey….
Where was that infernal tapping coming from?
The alcohol failed at dulling the sound. Some hanger must be knocking against the closet door. She called out for her maid.
Oh, that was right, it was laundry day. Her maid wasn't here just yet.
Rolling her eyes, Cersei stood and walked over to the closet and opened it herself.
She heard screaming. It was unworldly, almost ethereal: like some fabled creature howling to the wind.
She did not realize it was her own voice screaming.
She did not realize because she was unable to take in anything but her son's purple face, strangled in the noose. He was propped up in the closet. His limp swinging arm was the culprit, knocking lifelessly against the closet door.
The rose in his button-hole had started to wilt.
Joffrey's corpse fell onto his screaming mother.
Tyrion stood with Varys and Baelish onstage. They folded their hands respectfully behind Chief Inspector Barristan Selmy as he addressed the entire company in sober tones.
Through his detached fog Tyrion realized that even a man not involved in the arts like Selmy had vague connections to the Scandal. His wife Ashara was considered society's greatest beauty back in her day, and she was also the best friend of Elia Martell and the sister of Arthur Dayne - Rhaegar Targaryen's best friend.
Arthur had also disappeared the night of the fire. The popular belief was that upon hearing what happened that night, he took on as his holy mission to track down Gregor Clegane and avenge his fallen friend. Just like some errant knight of old, Tyrion thought dully. Many people assumed he probably had succeeded in tracking down Gregor, but that the Mountain easily disposed of the smaller man and hid the body.
Sometimes it seemed all of King's Landing, all of the world still reeled from that fateful night.
Now the opera house was embroiled in yet another Scandal.
Littlefinger could not cow the older policeman, and so Selmy spoke to the company frankly despite Baelish's wish to soften the truth. For unlike with Dontos and the other so-called accidents, there was no way Baelish could twist this particular tragedy thusly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I advise precaution," Selmy said. "Although we've pressured Lord Baelish to close the opera during our investigation" – he turned disapproving eyes to the bland Baelish – "It appears your opera will go on anyway. But I assure you, my men and I will give this case our most vigilant attention. Still, we strongly suggest that you move in groups and keep your dressing rooms locked at all times, even when inside."
He droned on and Tyrion's attention wandered. For once he had no choice but to agree with Littlefinger: the show really must go on. They couldn't afford it not to.
Although Baelish had purportedly earned his post by impressing Tyrion's father with his accounting skills, in truth the opera house's funds were rapidly dwindling. This was not helped by the constant payments to the Phantom – whom Tyrion had no doubt was really Baelish, collecting more money for himself on the side.
No, the show would go on, but without a certain key member of the cast.
Selmy had finished his speech and left with his men to investigate the crime scene once more. Baelish stepped forward and spoke.
Respectful solemnity filled his words. "My dear cast, I know we are all in shock now. It will take a while for Joffrey Baratheon's death to truly sink in. The idea that someone exists capable of tormenting our dear Ms. Lannister this way, to snuff out such a young life, is indeed horrible. Only time will heal these wounds. But let me lend my voice to the Chief Inspector's: you are all safe here."
Tyrion felt like vomiting at Petyr's paternal front. Yes, people were in shock, but no one so much as Cersei.
Cersei. For the first time Tyrion could really remember, his heart almost broke for his sister. The way she screamed incoherently, clutching her dead child to her, would have moved the coldest heart in Westeros. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and her keening moan was like that of some dying animal's.
And Joffrey, that disturbed young man. Tyrion had detested his nephew, but still he couldn't help the slight regret at his gruesome murder. Any chance of the boy redeeming himself someday was gone.
Would Cersei ever recover from such trauma? She was practically in a catatonic state when the police took her home. But she was strong, his sister. She had already survived so much. He had no doubt she would eventually emerge again, more bitter and spiteful than ever, but all the more determined to fight back. She always did.
But for now….
Baelish continued. "…And so while our diva recovers from her heartbreak, we must soldier on for her sake." His pale green eyes landed on the Stark girl, sitting white and still. "That is why our own Miss Sansa Stark will be taking the role of Jonquil when the opera debuts, and continue until our dear Ms. Lannister returns to her post."
The girl looked as if Baelish had punched her in the stomach. She hunched forward slightly in her seat.
A few people clapped weakly before confusedly dropping their hands, looking away and coughing.
Tyrion wondered if Cersei would still be suspicious of Sansa Stark's cunning nature if she could see her now. Instead of boasting a smirk of triumph like the portrait Cersei had painted of her, she instead sat staring bleakly and glassy-eyed as if diagnosed with something terminal.
This girl might have ambition, that is true, but clearly not so voracious that this is how she wanted to get ahead.
As Baelish moved on to other pertinent matters, Tyrion spied Sansa's blue eyes wander from him to another figure, standing by the curtain.
The Hound. His face was grave as always, unreadable. But there was a spark in the stagehand's eyes as they bored into the girl's that was filled with something…angry? Territorial?
Worried?
Tyrion frowned and would have continued studying this odd silent interaction if Varys's smooth voice wasn't suddenly whispering to him. "A tragedy, of course, but at least he will be pleased."
Tyrion turned sharply to him.
His fellow manager simply stared serenely ahead, as if he hadn't said anything at all. Tyrion almost wondered if he'd imagined it.
Sandor spent the rest of the day showing the police around – avoiding the places Baelish had tactfully advised the Hound to avoid. He felt sick at his own unquestioning obedience.
It was evening now, and while Sandor usually stayed later than this, tonight he wanted to be as far away from this horror show as possible. Maybe that bar again, if they'd let him back in….
He left out the stagehands' back entrance, shrugging his jacket on, adjusting his cap. Evening dyed the area by the back entrance a dark misty blue.
Gods, but he needed a drink.
He'd only just finished descending the steps when he heard her. "Sandor?"
He turned, bewildered.
The little bird stood there in her cloak, her hood up. Her hand was slightly raised, like one who approaches a wounded animal.
She'd –
She'd waited for him.
While her expression was more composed than this morning, an even greater horror spilled out of her eyes. "Sandor…." She repeated.
"Seven Hells, girl," he said in a rapid voice as he sped up to her. "What the fuck are you doing out here alone at this time of night? It's not safe, particularly after what happened. It's cold as fuck, too."
Not conscious of what he was doing, he pulled her cloak tighter over her shoulders.
"I needed to see you."
He was immediately on guard, suspicious. "Why?" He barked out. He refused to trust her sweet tone.
She was too full inside to be intimidated. Her lips trembled, though not with tears. Her eyes were quite dry, though they sparkled in the darkening night. "I'm afraid."
The frustration from the day's events seeped into him. Foolish damn girl. "If you're so afraid, will you finally do what you know is best: leave?"
Again her gaze searched him. "You never answered me before. Is that what you want?"
He was confused and scared and anxious. Why…why should she care if it's what he wanted or not? Why should she ask it in that gentle tone, with that melting fucking expression?
His shoulders raised like a cornered animal's. "It doesn't fucking matter what I want. It's you that matters here. Your safety. It's safest if you leave."
Sansa shook her head, looking down. "No. No, I can't leave now, not even if I wanted to. The company…the company needs me. Everyone's depending on me. I can't let them down."
"Fuck everyone." Desperation made him harsh. "Fuck it, it ain't worth your life, little bird."
"Officer Selmy" –
"Oh, aye, Selmy. Sure. Stake your faith in him. Go on. Stake your faith in anything but common sense, I guess." Bitterness racked him.
She was looking down again. She was the very definition of vulnerability – as if the evening breeze would damage her, blow her away.
Yet she raised her head and there was nothing but resolution in her proud features. "I must stay."
She smiled weakly. "But I'm still afraid." She shrugged and laughed sadly at herself.
So much painful warmth filled his chest that once again against his will he found himself acting like some bloody sap. He reached a hand out and just barely traced her cheek – her soft, cool cheek – with his calloused fingers. "Then don't worry, little bird. I'll keep you safe."
He was going to drop his hand but she suddenly caught it in hers. She kept it there at her cheek. Her eyes never left his. She leaned her cheek into his hand as if her very sanity depended on the reassuring rough warmth there.
He swallowed with difficulty.
"Why…why did you wait for me?" He asked again.
Her eyes caressed his face with wonder.
Then moving with slow grace she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him.
Despite the impulse that apparently inspired the act, it was not a hasty, clumsy peck; nor was it the sensual kiss of an experienced lover. It was urgent, passionate, but also sweet, yearning.
After a few moments of pressing her lips to his, she then turned away and hurried off into the night.
Just like that morning, Sandor stood staring after her, not understanding. However, there was new terror within him, intense panic, like the fear a beast shot but not killed in a hunt feels as he scrambles to his feet.
Hand in hand with these emotions was one more hopeless and horrible than the rest:
A wild joy.