Early next morning a shadow fell over Petyr Baelish as he added up accounts in his office.
He glanced up.
Sandor Clegane stood there, indecipherable as granite.
The thin grin Baelish gave the Hound was smaller, less interested than those to his superiors. "Yes?"
"It's about the Stark girl." Like his expression, Sandor's voice gave nothing away.
"What about her?"
Baelish saw the slight twitch of Sandor's mouth, but thought nothing of it. He did not think of Sandor much at all.
"Something's going on with her. Something strange."
Baelish raised both his eyebrows, a vaguely impatient prompt for Clegane to continue.
"I'm wondering if you have something to do with it."
Sandor could see the mechanism ticking away in those pale grayish-green eyes as Baelish prepared a reaction.
He settled on his standard dismissive laugh. "My dear Clegane, I have never known you to be so vague. What is happening to the girl? And why should you think I have anything to do with it?"
Sandor spoke in a dry, unemotional voice, as if reciting a list of props to his fellow stagehands. "She acts dull and lifeless offstage. She fainted last night after her performance. I've heard her crying when I've walked by her dressing room. I think I heard a man speak to her in there. Someone I didn't know."
He noticed the slight stiffening in Baelish's face. "Oh, yes? What sort of voice?"
"Couldn't hear it too well. Muffled by the door and everything. A man's voice, that's all I can tell you."
"Hm." Petyr looked very far away for a moment. His eyes came sharply back to Sandor, smile wider. "And you think I'm involved in this?"
Sandor didn't answer, just stared back obliquely at his employer.
Baelish kept his voice calm, mild. "May I ask why you think so?"
Sandor waited several seconds. He spoke in a voice in its own way as calm and mild as Baelish's. "Lots of things go on 'round here that I don't know about. You don't involve me in everything."
"More like you don't let me involve you in everything I do."
Sandor's eyes went black as night. "No. I don't. I'm Lannister's man, not yours."
Sandor knew he was not one to claim moral high ground. He'd killed before, and he regularly dispensed beatings for Littlefinger. However, these were people who had it coming: gamblers, crooked investors – much like the shits he had to deal with at Casterly Rock. Making sure crates full of ill-gotten gains were shipped to the right places, collecting on collateral – those were the duties Sandor fulfilled for Littlefinger, but they all indirectly benefited Tywin Lannister.
Sandor would not help Baelish with his independent enterprises. Sandor was no pimp. He deliberately maintained ignorance over what went on behind his back. In the past, he'd visited Baelish's other establishments once or twice for a quick fuck, but – well, a man's got to have a code about what he involves himself in.
He simmered with self-loathing, reminding himself how far he violated his code by willfully remaining ignorant.
You never used to give so much of a shit, not until you saw two big blue doe eyes that might fall into his greasy little hands….
Hypocrite.
"All right, so you're Lannister's man," Petyr said agreeably, cracking his knuckles. There was just a hint of steel in his voice. "That's agreed upon. I still don't see how" –
"I also know you're the Phantom."
Petyr gazed at him serenely. Nothing could be more stolid than the towering Hound now, never moving.
"Oh?"
Sandor closed his eyes for a moment, aggravated Baelish was so subtly forcing him to explain. "Because I'm Lannister's man, I know you don't use me for everything. You have…other people around here. Outside of here. People to do your bidding."
"Well, yes, of course. I have so many independent ventures it would be awfully imprudent of me not to employ others. And these people, you theorize they carry out my wishes – as the Phantom? I'm the brains and they're the brawn behind the notorious Opera Ghost, is that the idea?"
Sandor again did not answer, but the slight flicker of his thick eyebrow was answer enough.
Petyr studied him dispassionately. "I wonder if you truly believe that," he said softly, as if to himself.
His eyes suddenly bore into Sandor, as if truly taking in the Hound for the first time.
Sandor did not shift under that glare, but Petyr's query brought up all his old doubt.
Hells, Sandor didn't know if he really believed it.
After years working for Baelish, Sandor came to the conclusion that while Littlefinger wasn't as overwhelmingly brilliant as he thought he was, he was still a cautious man. A better word was calculating. The letters to management about who should play what role, what operas should go on, who should be dismissed, and especially the "salary" for the Phantom, all that Sandor could easily see Petyr orchestrating.
But outright murder? Baelish certainly wasn't morally above it, but murder was far riskier than taking money on the sly, and such "accidents" brought attention to the opera house – attention Baelish could not easily afford.
Yet if he was motivated by twisted passion for the beautiful daughter of the woman he coveted….
Sandor still wasn't sure if it all rang true to him.
His voice was rougher than he would have liked as he answered Baelish. "Whether or not I believe it is beyond the point. The point is…something's happening to the girl. If you're behind it, you should stop."
He very carefully kept his fists unclenched. He could not let Petyr see his passion.
Petyr leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to the side. "Might I ask why you are so concerned? Quite frankly, this is not the first mysterious going-on here at the opera house. She is not the first girl…well, decency forbids me to go into detail, but she is not the first girl to encounter a spot of trouble here. You never bothered before."
Again self-loathing at his hypocrisy made Sandor's stomach churn a bit. Petyr was right at that.
Sandor carefully rid his voice of any emotion. "This girl's different. She comes from a proper family. One who knows you. If anything should happen to her, they might cause a fuss. What with all the shit that's gone down since Joff's death, I thought you might want to make sure it won't come to that."
Petyr laughed again. "Well, that's very thoughtful of you."
"Don't get me wrong," Sandor couldn't help the growl that came out in his rumbling voice. "I ain't too troubled for you. But I rather like this job. Wouldn't like the place to go under."
He watched Petyr carefully now.
Baelish's gleaming white smile was as shallow and inscrutable as ever. "Clegane. You are an astute fellow. I thank you for your council. However, I do not hire you for council. You are…well, muscle. Very impressive muscle, don't get me wrong, ha ha!" He held up his hand in mock terror. He then smiled very sweetly again. "I'm afraid I don't much care for those in my employ to…well, how should I put this…to 'step outside their wheelhouse' if I may borrow a rather common phrase." He shrugged. "If you find yourself constrained in any way by your role here, and would like to branch out, you could always return to Casterly Rock?"
His eyebrows were up again, the question lingering.
Sandor's blood burned. He'd told himself before confronting Baelish that he would not back down, that he'd beat the man to death before allowing him to continue harassing Sansa – or if he turned out not to be at blame, if he wouldn't tell Sandor who really was. For Sandor knew that if Baelish was not the Phantom, he certainly knew who was, and therefore who might be behind all this.
But now….
Now Baelish made it clear: if Sandor pressed anymore, even just a bit, he'd be dismissed.
Not very long ago, that would not have bothered Sandor overmuch. Tywin would take him back in a heartbeat; a man of Sandor's unquestioning loyalty and brawn was a much needed asset. Sandor would never lack for work.
But now….
If Sandor left, who would watch over her?
He took one more look into Petyr's friendly, disinterested face. Sandor thought of Sansa alone here with Petyr in charge and he inwardly shuddered.
His voice no more than a low grumble, Sandor said, "I've got no complaints."
Tension made the air hum.
Turning slowly, Sandor left the office.
After he'd gone, Baelish let the steel come fully into his eyes as he tapped his fingers absently on the desk.
He did not dwell on Sandor, or meditate on whether or not the Hound was telling the truth about his motivations for coming to see him.
As always, Baelish ruminated on himself, and who he perceived now as wronging him.
Sandor's strides were so long and fast in his pent-up anger that he practically ran straight into young Podrick Payne, the tremulously obedient pageboy.
"Um" –
"What is it, boy?"
Podrick turned white at the Hound's snarling tone. The page thrust out a small envelope. "From Miss Stark, sir."
Sandor snatched it immediately, tearing it open. He turned scorching eyes to the boy who valiantly remained. "Well?"
Pod cleared his throat. "Miss Stark wanted me to wait for your answer, sir."
"I'm no sir," he mumbled as he read her note.
"Sandor,
I apologize for the late notice, but could you please meet me in Baelor's Park at 12:30? I must speak with you about something very important.
Please let me know.
Yours,
Sansa."
He read it again quickly.
Yours, Sansa.
Yours.
What sort of infatuated juvenile was he, eyes glued to that stupid standard signature in her delicate handwriting? He warmed in amusement over her usual abundance of courtesy even in a hastily written note to her…to her…to whatever he was to her.
Yours, Sansa.
Tucking the note away in his vest pocket, he nodded curtly at the page. "Tell her yes." He stalked off, hoping he was leaving behind the impression that she'd asked nothing more than to have the jewelry box moved a little more to the left in the garden scene.
Baelor's Park was just across the street from the opera house. It was little more than a medium-sized courtyard, lovingly mowed and tended. Its greatest ornament was a large statue of Baelor the Blessed in the middle of the park, the Targaryen king holding a book of prayers with two upraised fingers as if dispensing a blessing.
Various oak trees lined the edges of the park among the hedges. Sandor seated himself on a bench shaded by the tree closest to the park's entrance, closest to the opera house. He warily watched a group of boys in the opposite corner, kicking about a ball to each other.
He fidgeted on the bench, twisting his cap impatiently in his hands. Sandor Clegane, sitting on a bench on a sunny day in the park! Just…sitting there. Sandor couldn't remember the last time he had an idle moment – off duty time was spent either sleeping or drinking himself into a stupor.
Two birds chirped to each other on a branch then flew off. Sandor frowned. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall ever sitting in a park before. Maybe when he was very little, before Gregor…?
After five minutes, he heard what he knew were her delicate, precise footsteps rapidly approaching.
He hid his smile after glancing at his pocket watch. It was around 12:35. He knew she was only released for lunch at 12:30, so she must have made a mad dash to arrive in this time. His courteous little bird, not wanting to keep anyone waiting, not even her faithful hound.
She wore her hair up today in a net, not as she usually did. She was dressed very smartly for one in a rush, with one of those hats with the sloping brim and black veil attached.
Was the little bird trying to hide herself?
He didn't know whether to feel hurt or relieved at her discretion.
In contrast to her sophisticated get-up, her face held frenzied anxiety. She sat beside him. "Hello," she said out of breath.
She sat holding herself in too stiffly, awkwardly. Her eyes ran over his face but never met his own.
I can't look at him, I just can't, she thought. If I do, I'll melt at the sight of his face. His dear, warm face. I won't be able to do what I must. If I look into those eyes of his, I…I'll see that he's mine, my man. And then I won't be able to….
His stern voice brought her back to reality. "Hello yourself. Why we meeting here?"
The color left her cheeks. "I asked you here because you more than anyone deserve an explanation for what's happened to me recently."
Sandor's eyes brightened, but he hid any other signs of eagerness. "Aye?"
She stared at her gloved hands. "I'm afraid you'll think I've gone mad."
Nothing more was said for several moments. At last, Sandor said, "I can't judge either way if you don't tell me."
He saw her tremble slightly, then he felt a pang of pride as she stilled herself, forced herself to raise her head and face him.
She was far braver than she knew.
She began in a very quiet, odd voice. She sounded like one of those children of the forest: ancient, but forever young in their mystical, frost-bitten way. "When I was very little, my singing teacher Old Nan spoke to me of a Northern spirit called the Angel of Music…."
Very rapidly she told him all about the Angel, Old Nan's lessons, and her hopes and dreams that someday…then she came to the day in her dressing room. "I heard his voice all round me, and Sandor, a voice like that doesn't belong to a mere man! It has to be the Angel!"
He saw that even though she seemed mostly herself, her eyes still held that glassy look.
He shuddered again.
Was she mad?
He remembered the voice he himself heard.
No, she wasn't mad.
She gasped as he grabbed her arm. After speaking of something so unreal and unnatural, his large hand around her arm was a violent jolt back to reality.
His words were brutal, swift. "Don't be daft, girl. It's not an Angel you're hearing. It's Petyr Baelish."
Sansa gawked at him in shocked disbelief. "Petyr Baelish? What are you talking about?"
"Don't pretend you don't suspect his true nature! You think he brought you here out of the kindness of his heart? He's lusted all these years for your mother, and here you come looking like her but younger, prettier. He knows this opera house well, little bird, he could do this if he wanted."
Sansa shook her head, angry. "No. No. How would he know the story of the Angel of Music?"
"He knows your family" –
"He knows my mother. My mother isn't from the North. They haven't spoken since she left Riverrun." Fire in her now, she huffed, "Besides, I know Lord Baelish's voice. The Angel's voice, like I said, is like no mortal man's I've ever heard."
Sandor just stared at her darkly. He had no answer to those points. But in less than two years the girl would be twenty, so how could she still blithely believe in fairytales?
She isn't herself, dog. Something's happening to her.
But if not Baelish, who? Varys, maybe? He was a mysterious sort, and knew the opera house better than anyone.
Yet why would he care to deceive Sansa? Varys was every bit as clever and subtle as Baelish pretended, so why would he do something so outlandish? Could Varys be infatuated with Sansa?
She was staring at her hands again and he couldn't see her face. She twisted her fingers together anxiously. "I don't blame you for not believing me at first, I certainly wouldn't, but…you do see now, don't you?" Her voice quavered. "Or do you think I'm mad?"
He ground his teeth before answering. "No, little bird, I don't think you're mad."
Relief filled her but then Sandor crushed her burst of hope beneath his heels. "I think you're deceived."
"Deceived?"
"Someone's playing a nasty trick on you. Maybe not Baelish, but someone."
Her voice had a hard edge now of frustration, impatience. "We've been through that! I keep telling you" –
"Aye, that the blighter in question has a voice oh-so above us mere mortals, I get that. But if he only speaks to you, my lady, how come some low common dog like me could hear him? Eh?"
Sansa froze. "…What?"
"I was listening outside your dressing room door after you fainted last night. I heard everything he said to you."
For a moment, the confused jumble of emotion inside Sansa robbed her of speech. She reddened and shot out, "Liar!"
Anger flashed in Sandor's eyes. "Oh, aye? A liar, am I?"
"Yes, you're just trying to convince me" –
"Sansa, you must love me."
For a split second Sansa's heart soared unwillingly. Then she remembered who originally spoke those words, and her heart dropped to her stomach. "…No."
His words were laced with mocking honey. "The angels wept tonight."
"NO." Sandor was taken aback by her ferocious cry as she leapt to her feet. The boys across the way momentarily stopped their game to look over before kicking their ball again.
Sandor had never seen her so furious, so broken.
"I…I don't know what sort of trick this is," she said through the hot tears suddenly pouring down her cheeks. "But it doesn't matter. He insists I don't see you anymore. He says I'm not meant for a normal life with a…with a man. He let me at first because he didn't know how strongly I felt, and thought it was just a childish fancy. But when he observed us in our dressing room last night, he decided it's gone far enough. So…I can't see you anymore."
She trembled still, but she nonetheless affected a perfect picture of dignity.
He was on his feet too, grabbing her and giving her a shake. "Don't be a fucking fool."
"Don't tell me what to do!" She cried out. "I am mistress of my own actions, Sandor Clegane. I don't want a man. I just want to sing. The Angel is helping me. So let me go!"
The sun turned her auburn hair a blaze and caught the madness in her glittering eyes. She was beautiful and terrible, and she was killing him.
Sandor let her go with something between a grunt and a bitter laugh. "I see it now. I see everything. You didn't have to go through all this trouble making up some cock-and-bull story about an angel. You sick of my ugly mug, you could have just said so. You find somebody else? That's fine. Go on, then. But don't go acting like it's some otherworldly shit, I don't buy it."
His words were heavy with contempt, but the strain in his voice, combined with his stiff stance like a hunted animal, gave away his lie.
"Sandor" –
His smirk was unbearably nasty. "Unless of course, this is how you get your fun. Maybe you and your new man schemed up the tale together. A nice laugh at the Hound's expense, is it?"
Sansa shook her head wordlessly and turned away.
He had her by the arm again, contempt from his voice gone and only rough urgency remaining. "Girl, don't be a fool. You're falling for something terrible" –
"Let me go." She wrenched herself free. She stared at him with both violence and regret. She ran for the opera house, not looking back once.
Sandor kicked the bench with a roar. He no longer cared if the boys or anyone else saw him.
She didn't care for him, she wanted him gone, she told him some bullshit story, Baelish was deceiving her, Varys was, no one was, she – she – she –
Sandor collapsed on the bench, covering his face with his hands.
She was in danger, and she'd just pushed him away.
She had no one now, and she was in danger.
The sun that pleasantly warmed him before was too bright and hot, the singing birds too intrusive.
He hated this park. He hated those boys. He hated birds, trees, and everything under the gods-damned sun, including the sun.
He took her letter out of his pocket and re-read it.
Yours, Sansa.
His face distorted into something unholy in his hideous grief. He tore the letter into fragments.
He could not throw them away, however. He instead placed them back in his vest pocket.
He walked back slowly to the opera house, head buzzing with heartbreak and fury, stunned.