Gendry Waters had no clue where he was. He knew he was backstage at the opera house, but that was about it. The hallway he was in was very narrow, and with all the people bustling through, the air was hot and made it difficult to find his bearings.
"Um, excuse me" – He tried asking two passing stagehands.
"Move it, kid," one of the men said brusquely, brushing past him. They carried a backdrop painted like a hillside.
"All…all right, then." He turned around and jumped back as a giggling horde of girls ran past in tutus.
"I'm sorry, ladies, but do you know where to find Sandor Clega" –
They were unhearing, bursting into shrill laughter as they rounded the corner.
Gendry stood flummoxed in the middle of the busy corridor. He scratched his head, looking back down at the paper in his hand:
"Bring references to Sandor Clegane's office, the head stagehand".
Thanks a lot for all the details, Tobho.
Nearly seventeen years old without any family to speak of and here Gendry was without a job. He'd been Tobho Mott's most talented apprentice, but King's Landing's famous blacksmith was wooed away by gold over honest work. Tywin Lannister had heard of Mott's skill and offered him a gargantuan sum to open up a forge in Casterly Rock, out in the Westerlands.
However, Mott would have to hire people approved by Lannister himself. This meant Gendry was out: Lannister would not like a bastard working in a forge he'd frequent.
With some regard left in him for the boy, Tobho Mott told Gendry, "They're always looking for strong hands and clear heads over at the opera house. If you can't find work as a blacksmith there, I'm sure they'll put you to work doing…well, something. Seek out the Hound, chief stagehand. He's a fearsome man, but fair."
So here Gendry stood, looking over the terse note and the short reference Tobho supplied him with.
Gendry took in his surroundings again. It was as if a crowded street in the center of the city had been crammed into one cramped hall. Who the hells could he ask…?
Fingers poked his arm.
A young boy stared petulantly at him. He was wearing baggy, ill-fitting slacks and a ridiculously large cap that almost dwarfed the upper half of his face. He looked like he was drowning in his dusty trench coat. His gray eyes were alert and focused.
"You know where Sansa Stark's dressing room is?" The boy asked, fists stuffed awkwardly in his coat pockets.
Gendry blinked. Sansa Stark? He'd heard of her…wasn't she that girl in all the papers this past month, the one blowing everybody away in Cersei Lannister's role?
Why should he know where her dressing room was?
Oh. The boy probably thought he worked here. Gendry cleared his throat, blushing. "No, sorry. Um…" His blush deepened. "You don't happen to know where Sandor Clegane's office is, do you?"
The boy rolled his eyes, groaning in frustration. "Some help you are!" Without sparing Gendry another glance, the boy huffed off.
Gendry stared after him.
Something about the high note in that voice…the way the eyes rolled….
Gendry laughed softly as he started suspecting something rather amusing about this boy.
He shrugged then decided to head off in the boy's general direction. Who knows, maybe Clegane's office was down that way.
Sansa entered her dressing room and sat wearily at her vanity. She stared into her dead eyes in the mirror there.
This mirror was safe. No one spoke to her from this mirror; no one commanded her. Here she felt almost herself.
She was exhausted.
She must keep singing, however. Singing and singing and singing.
He commanded her. She must do what he says, or else he'd leave, and that would mean Sansa turned away the Angel of Music, and…and...
She couldn't think about it anymore.
She leaned her head into her open hand, massaging her forehead.
They didn't have their lessons till the evening. It was early morning. She was safe for now.
She scolded herself. Safe from what? The Angel protected her. How could she doubt that when he'd brought her such triumph? How could she doubt those sweet ethereal tones, the reassuring words?
When she mentioned evasively that someone else in the opera house had apparently heard him speak, he right away knew whom she spoke of. He only laughed gently and told her that he meant Sandor Clegane to hear him. "Your admirer had to learn his place, Sansa. That was the only way I knew how."
A soft light entered her lifeless eyes now. Sandor.
In his arms she felt strength throughout this whole ordeal. With him she felt her soul was still her own. Now that avenue was closed to her. She had pushed him away.
They barely spoke now. Whenever she saw him, a bitter expression hardened his features and he'd turn away, back to his work.
Still, she felt his eyes on her as she sang. Often she encountered him nearby on her way to her dressing room, or just outside the theater.
Watching over her, still.
Once she tried approaching him. She didn't know why, only his silence was torturing her, so she had to try something. "Sandor…."
He didn't turn away from the chair he was fixing. "Don't bother, little bird." Fathomless eyes glanced at her over his shoulder. "Not unless you admit you're being duped." He was serious.
They locked eyes for a long moment, then Sansa merely drifted away, unable to reply.
Nights were the worst. She'd lie awake and hear his deep rasping voice. Her whole body would shiver. She'd think of his broad shoulders, his hot tanned skin, his scratchy beard, his large muscular hands. She'd close her eyes tight and throw her arms around herself, imagining so desperately that they were his hard, warm, sturdy limbs. She pictured him clasping her to his chest until she almost cried in frustration.
He was not a conventionally handsome man, her Sandor. She knew this. She never expected herself to fall for someone like him; what she knew of romance she got from novels, and none of the heroes were quite like him.
Oh, there were brooding, frightening men in the gothic romances she read. Men strong and dark, and full of violence. As much as she tried convincing herself she was more attracted to the gentlemanly leading men in country house novels, she always found herself lingering on the cruel yet broken-hearted pathos of the mysterious Mr. Roderick in The Governess and the Lady Upstairs, or the melancholic sneering of the rich but wronged Lord Draecyr in Misunderstandings at Parrenwhick Manor.
Even then, those men possessed an elegance that Sandor lacked. They were bitter and often brutal men, but their speech was florid and erudite. They articulated their sorrow and contempt with colorful verbosity.
Sandor, meanwhile, never minced words. He got straight to the point of any matter, employing coarse language that even those hot-headed fictional lords would gasp at in shock.
No, Sandor was too unrefined to be truly of their ilk. The Angel, though, with his wise, faraway voice - sometimes stern, other times unspeakably gentle - there, there were vast similarities to Sansa's problematic anti-heroes.
Yet each night, it was no longer Roderick moaning 'Jeyne, Jeyne' across the moors as the governess left him that haunted her imagination. Instead she was tortured by a deep gravelly voice like steel scraping against stone muttering in her ear, "little bird…little bird…."
Just when she felt herself at the brink of madness tossing and turning, the Angel's voice would suddenly enter her mind. He sang to her. He lulled her into a dreamless sleep.
He must be a spirit. There was simply no way he was some mortal man deceiving her. How could she hear his voice ringing and ringing in her mind in the dead of night if he were an ordinary man?
Every time he spoke to her, sang to her, she felt a little piece of herself leaving her body.
She was his puppet.
But no, that was the wrong way to consider it. She was his vessel. She was blessed with his genius. So who was she to question him? During their lessons, everything seemed just right, so natural that she should let him take over.
When she was away from him it was different. In the real world outside her dressing room, and especially in Sandor's eyes, how awful and scary his power over her was.
She hesitantly opened her reticule and removed an envelope. She swallowed.
Here, too, was something that promised to be awful and scary, but in a far more irksome way.
The seal of Winterfell Manor was stamped on the envelope.
Another letter from Father and Mother.
With Sansa's success came notices in the paper, reaching all the way up North to Winterfell. Her ruse was now over. This was the latest of four letters she'd received: one for each week since her debut.
When she first planned her grand King's Landing adventure, her ideal scenario was to become successful just like this. When word inevitably reached Winterfell, her triumph would surely outweigh any outrage her parents might initially feel at her deceit – just like what happened between Lyanna and her father.
Deep down she knew, however, what awaited her the first time the Tyrell's butler brought her a letter as the three women breakfasted together.
Instead of smug satisfaction, all she felt was dread when she saw that seal.
As she read the letter through, she knew right away her gut feeling was justified.
The letter was stern and frank: we're very disappointed in you young lady stop this instant come home at once you've broken our trust for gods' sake Sansa anything could have happened to you WHAT WERE YOU THINKING –
Flushed, she hid the letter in her lap and told Margaery and Olenna that her parents sent her congratulations.
Two more letters followed of the same nature, each more impatient in tone than the last. Now there was this one.
Once upon a time Sansa would have been crushed by their anger, their disapproval. Sansa strived her whole life for people to love and approve of her; what bigger slap in the face than to receive censure and fury from her parents, whose esteem she valued over all others?
Now, however, she only took in the notes vaguely, as if the letters were the slightest of headaches in the midst of a far more serious illness. Sandor and the Angel, prepping for the performances, interviewing with journalists, greeting and dodging admirers outside the opera house – all that took precedence. These obstacles were in the present right in front of her; in comparison, her parents were so far away.
Sansa was only able to glance at this latest letter – young lady this is the last straw you haven't even replied to any of our letters yet – before she stiffened, hearing a loud clunk in her closet. She heard a stifled exclamation.
Her heart stopped.
The closet. The closet. The closet where Joffrey was found.
The blood pounded in her temples, causing her to sway slightly in her seat.
She opened her mouth to call out – whether to the Angel or to Sandor to help her she didn't know - but nothing came out. She heard more shifting inside the closet.
She looked down at the letter's handwriting and a rush of strength renewed her.
I am Sansa Stark, daughter to Lord and Lady Stark of Winterfell. No one can scare me.
Recklessly she leapt to her feet and threw the closet doors open.
A small figure in street clothes fell onto the floor with a loud "Oof!"
"Who are you?" Sansa cried.
She pulled off the dazed boy's cap and he raised his head, revealing –
"Arya?!"
Her little sister sat sullenly on the floor in front of her.
Sansa shook her head, unable to take the situation in right away. Then: "What…are…you…doing here?"
"Nice to see you, too, sis." Arya said, lifting herself up and brushing off the dust on her jacket. "That damned closet's so cramped. I'll be black and blue all over tomorrow." At Sansa's flabbergasted look, she added, "I'm not spying on you, I've only been in there a couple minutes! I found your dressing room and jimmied the lock. The second I got in, I heard the doorknob turn, so I jumped in here. I didn't know it was you, I thought maybe it was your maid."
Sansa still couldn't believe it. She ran her eyes all over the disguised girl. "Arya…your hair…."
Arya replicated the moan she inflicted earlier on Gendry in an even more aggravated key. "Oh, my gods! Of course that would be the one thing you're worried about." She ran her fingers through the short brown strands. "I like it better this way. Less bothersome."
Sansa was still shocked but anger was quickly taking over. "Arya, I can't believe this. Chopping off all your hair, hiding in my closet…you're nearly fourteen years old, practically a lady! You're far too old to behave like this!"
Another groan from Arya, along with a stomped foot. "I keep telling you, I don't want to be a lady. They never have any fun. Besides," she added, eyes glinting mischievously, "You're a runaway too, lady."
Sansa fidgeted, annoyed. "That's different."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is! I had good reason to run away. Plus I'm older."
Arya snorted in a markedly unladylike manner.
Sansa grimaced. "Well, what's your great reason for running away, hm? With your voice you certainly couldn't join the stage."
Arya's nose wrinkled in disgust. "I don't want to join the stage. I hear you have to wear makeup. Blugh! No, I'll be a stagehand or something," she said confidently, looking curiously around the dressing room. She adapted quickly and was obviously feeling more at home.
Sansa slapped her hand away from a bowl of lemon-flavored candies on Sansa's vanity. "You still haven't answered just why you decided to up and follow me here."
"It's all your fault," Arya shot back. "You should have seen Mother and Father when they read what you'd done! Seven Hells! Mother all wrathful, Father worried to death…so who do you think they took it all out on? Me!" Her face was red. "Do you know what they were going to do? Do you?"
Sansa widened her eyes in mock suspense. "What?"
"They were going to send me to that damned finishing school, Madame Mordane's!" She was a mortified picture of indignant distress.
Sansa burst into laughter.
Arya swatted at her with her cap. "It's not funny, stupid!"
"You make Madame Mordane's sound like some sort of torture chamber! It's true, though, I can't quite picture you there." She laughed again.
Arya scowled. "I can't picture me there, either. It is a torture chamber. I remember everything you and Jeyne said about the place: dance lessons, singing lessons, etiquette, eloctition" –
"Elocution."
"Whatever. And needlepoint!" Arya cried, collapsing in Sansa's armchair. She ran her hands through her short hair in agony. "As if it's not bad enough at home with Mother always on me to work on my needlepoint, I can't imagine hours of it with stuffy young ladies who only talk about boys and parties." She glowered at Sansa. "Like you."
"Hm," Sansa responded, grinning. "Those little meetings were always my favorite part about staying at Madame Mordane's."
She pulled up a chair next to Arya's and sat down. "You are a bit young to go, though."
"That's why it's your fault. Mother and Father were going to wait or maybe just keep me at home indefinitely. But when they'd learned what you'd done, they figured that if you turned out this bad, that I would probably be much worse, so I needed to learn how to be a proper lady even earlier than you." She shuddered.
"Did they really say I was bad?"
Arya was taken aback by her sister's small voice. Sansa looked terribly woebegone.
Arya softened just a bit. "They didn't actually use the word 'bad'. Just…it's just the impression I got, that's all."
"But they haven't come to get me." Sansa concentrated on smoothing a wrinkle on her gown, avoiding Arya's gaze. "Certainly they must hate me if they're doing nothing more than sending angry letters. Or maybe they just don't care."
"They do care, Sansa!" Arya cried, enmity toward her sister momentarily forgotten. "They do, it's just…" She squirmed.
Sansa frowned. "What?"
Arya at last relented. "Father can't get away just now. The sheep. We lost half of them to bloat."
Sansa's face lost all color. "Half?"
Much of the manor's little financial stability depended on wool and the sheep's meat.
Half.
Arya hurried to assuage her sister's fears. "It's not a total disaster! Uncle Benjen's coming to our aid. His sheep overbred, so he'll hopefully be able to bring the excess numbers down to Winterfell. It will take a couple weeks, though, and then Father will be busy branding them and counting them, and Mother will need to help run the rest of the farm while he does. Robb's still away at University" –
"Yes, yes, I see it now," Sansa said, distracted. She felt awful. All her ambitions, fantasies, and haughty hurt feelings vanished and in their place came shame.
They did care about her, and she went and scared them like this while the sheep were dying! How could she be so selfish?
She didn't deserve her success. She didn't deserve the Angel.
What a dreadful girl she was.
Arya studied her sister. In the few months since Arya last saw her, Sansa looked even prettier than usual. She was more sophisticated. Her hair was pinned away from her face in some fancy fashion by shiny amber combs, and her gown was all shimmery and elegant and…well…a little lower in the neckline than Arya usually saw in Winterfell.
There was something sort of strange about her, though. Arya couldn't quite put her finger on it. She was paler, more distracted, and not just from learning about the sheep, either.
She looked both sadder and – sort of otherworldly?
Arya shifted uncomfortable. As always, she felt like such a low grimy thing next to her older sister. As always, this made her bitter.
"Anyway, I wouldn't even be in this mess if you hadn't run off like an idiot," she said out the corner of her mouth.
Arya's words struck too close to home. Sansa stood, her eyes burning through her sister. "I wouldn't even have left home if you hadn't goaded me."
Arya was honestly perplexed. "What do you mean?"
"'You're such a prissy ninny, Sansa! You're so boring! Why can't you ever do anything fun or exciting?'" Sansa mimicked her sister. "How do you think that felt?"
Arya was on her feet as well, fists in little balls. "How do you think I've felt all these years? Ever since we were little, it's been 'Arya Horseface', 'Arya Underfoot', 'Arya, you look like a stable boy', blah, blah blah!" She sniffed contemptuously. "Glad you finally got a taste of your own medicine. Feels lousy, doesn't it?"
A thick moment of silence as the sisters stared at each other.
Arya coughed, red. She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. She was obviously embarrassed by her outburst. Still, her sister could see the real hurt in her face.
Sansa was stunned. "You never said anything before."
Another cavalier sniff from Arya as the younger girl avoided Sansa's eyes.
"Honest, I didn't think you cared that much."
"I don't. It's stupid. Forget about it." Her voice was too quick, however.
The silence stretched on.
Then: "I'm sorry."
Arya turned to Sansa, gob-smacked. "You're sorry?"
Sansa was looking down again. "Yes," she said, very quietly.
It was the older Stark girl who sniffed this time. Arya was alarmed when she saw it was because she was crying.
Arya ran to her sister, patting her arm. "Hey, hey! Don't cry! It…it doesn't matter, really."
"Yes, it does," Sansa said through her tears. "I've been a wicked, awful sister. Just like I've been a wicked, awful daughter." She covered her face in her hands and cried in earnest.
"No, you haven't!" Arya tried to reassure her, continuing to pat her arm with erratic zeal. "You're a good daughter! And sister! It's just…we tease each other sometimes, that's all!"
Sansa crumpled into her chair with uncharacteristic lack of grace. "No, no, I've bullied you. And here I am older than you, too! I should know better! I'm so stupid! Here I thought I was a little lady, all proper and nice, when it turns out I'm nothing more than a bad girl who bullies her sister and scares her parents half to death. I don't deserve – oh, I don't deserve anything!"
Arya knelt by her sister, using her comically large jacket sleeve to wipe away her sister's tears. "You are a lady. A kind lady! Hells, you've stuck up for me more times than I can count! You covered for me that time I burned my skirt standing next to the fire. Remember? You patched it up before Mother could see. And when I get sick you always sing me to sleep and tickle me to get my mind off it."
Sansa laughed a little through her tears. "You are awfully ticklish."
"Not as ticklish as you." Arya proved her point by scratching Sansa's ribs.
Sansa shrieked in mirth and pushed Arya gently. Arya giggled, thrilled her sister was cheering up.
Sansa took hold of Arya's jacket sleeve, looking it over. "Where in the Seven Kingdoms did you even get this costume?"
"Mycah, the butcher's boy. He's a lot bigger than I am now."
"I should say," Sansa said, looking her sister over.
Arya might not ever be as beautiful as Lyanna, but from everything Sansa heard and portraits she'd seen, Arya did have her look. Even if she was never as beautiful, she promised to be just as striking, with her windy gray eyes, dark hair, and wild smile. It would take a couple more years, that's all.
Sansa gave Arya her own smile, but it was a regretful one. "Oh, Arya, I don't think you can stay. It's madness."
"You have to let me stay!" Arya said eagerly. "It's not fair that you get to run away and I don't!"
Sansa rolled her eyes. Although they were back to arguing, it was at least more light-hearted. "It doesn't work like that, Arya."
Arya's eyes were so pitiful and pleading. "Sansa, please."
"Arya…."
"Come on, Sansa. If you send me back, I'll…I'll…." In a heartrending voice, she finished, "I just want an adventure!"
It was the threat of tears in Arya's own brave gray eyes that did Sansa in.
She was just about to answer when the dressing room door flew open, both girls turning in surprise.
Gendry stared contrite at both of them, face red. "Oh! Um, sorry…I guess this isn't the stagehand's office, either…." He started backing away.
Arya laughed like a donkey. "You still haven't found it?"
"You know this boy?" Sansa asked in wonder. It always mystified her how Arya made friends with simply everyone. Why, Sansa hadn't ever even seen this boy before!
Arya raced up to him jauntily. "Not really. We were both lost and asked each other for directions." She giggled again. "What's your name?"
"Gendry Waters." He smiled slowly. "What's your name, miss?"
"It's" – Arya suddenly blanched. "Wait a minute! What do you mean, 'miss'?"
There was laughter in his blue eyes. "Just what I said."
Arya was furious. "How did you know?"
Sansa sighed. Arya could be a fine little trickster when she wanted, but when found out like this, she had no aplomb.
Gendry only smiled wider. He shrugged. "Could just tell, that's all."
As Arya silently fumed, an idea came to Sansa. "You're new here, aren't you, young man?"
Gendry was nonplussed in a lightly amused way. Young man. This girl could hardly be more than a year or so older, and here she was calling him young man!
"Yes, miss. I'm a blacksmith by trade, but I lost my job. I'm looking for Sandor Clegane's office."
Arya saw the slight flush in her sister's cheeks at that name.
"Come with me," Sansa said suddenly. She took them both by the hand, leading them out her door.
Gendry was certainly puzzled by this pair. The high-class young lady and vagabond girl looked completely different, but both were apparently headstrong in their own unique ways. Almost like sisters.
Arya, too, was impressed by the sudden way Sansa was taking charge.
Whatever was going on with her, Arya found she was liking this change in her sister more and more. Maybe she was growing up here.
Sandor sat at his stool in his office. In truth, office was an inadequate name for the little windowed wall he sat behind. Still, it was in a good location right near the rafters, where he could easily see people go by, but still isolated enough in the corner that distractions were minimal.
He read over the attendance roster. If Preston Greenfield stayed home sick from drink one more time….
A sharp tap on the open door.
"What," he said brusquely without looking up from his papers.
"Mr. Clegane?"
Again that damn catch in his throat.
It hurt him somewhere vital to hear her call him that again instead of his given name.
He glanced up.
She stood there as queenly and proper as ever, which made a hilarious juxtaposition to the fact that in one hand she held that of a wild-looking young girl dressed in boy's clothes about two sizes too big for her.
His amusement vanished and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end when he saw that in her other hand, she held the wrist of a handsome young man about her age.
He fought his first instinct to bat the boy away from her. "What?" He repeated, voice sharper now.
Sansa couldn't help the tiny thrill she felt at his guarded but obvious jealousy. I knew deep down he still cared, but it's still nice to see it.
She shook away the thought and approached him.
Arya watched intrigued and unsettled as Sansa whispered to the big burned man before them. The light hand she placed on his arm and her physical closeness to him was so…familiar.
And the man, with his mass of scars and big bullish face…as she spoke his eyes sparked with something….
Arya didn't understand and it made her slightly uneasy.
After Sansa finished whispering her tale to him, his eyes landed on Arya. He laughed rudely in that deep bellowing voice of his. "You? You're the little sister?"
His laughter rankled with Arya. "What of it? What's so crazy about that?"
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You don't look much alike, do you?"
Arya felt her temper rising. Everyone's always the same. I'll always come second to oh-so-perfect Sansa. She already disliked this man intensely. "You're one to talk about looks!"
"Arya!" Sansa scolded her. There was a more vehement edge to her rebuke than usual. Arya was bewildered. Why should Sansa care that much about this big ugly idiot?
Sandor only laughed again. "Don't chirp so angry, little bird. I like the she-wolf's honesty."
He turned indifferently to Gendry. Now that he knew the boy was nothing more than a recent acquaintance of Sansa's, his interest in him was noticeably diminished. "And you, boy. You need a job?"
Gendry nodded courteously. "Yes, sir."
Sandor was about to speak, but Sansa cut in: "He's no 'sir'."
Arya was really confused now. She said that like she was teasing this Sandor Clegane.
Sansa didn't tease people she barely knew! It wasn't courteous.
She looked expectantly at him, like she was desperately trying to rouse him to…to do something. Crack a smile?
Instead Clegane just glared at her stonily. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at Gendry and Arya again. "Either of you know how to deal with horses?"
Arya brightened immediately. "Yes, yes, I do! I love horses!"
Sandor wrote something down. "All right. I'll put you in the stables, then."
"Yes!" Arya exclaimed, jumping and throwing her fist in the air.
"San – Mr. Clegane, are you sure that's safe?" Arya wanted to tell Sansa to keep her mouth shut. Gods, she could be just like Mother sometimes!
"Safe enough," Sandor said. "But we're definitely understaffed down there. All we have is Preston Greenfield, and he's blind drunk most of the time."
Sansa's face showed her distaste. "Yes, but it's so dark down there, and dirty."
"That's perfect for me," Arya said, grinning wickedly.
A soft cough from Gendry caught their attention. "Um, hate to be a bother, but, see, I'm a blacksmith by trade…."
"So?" Sandor asked carelessly.
Gendry reddened. "Well, I can't say that I myself have much experience with horses."
Sansa shrugged lightly. "Horses need horseshoes, don't they?"
"…I suppose…."
She graced everyone present with a bright smile. "Well, that's all settled then." Her gaze softened as she addressed Sandor. "Thank you."
Arya's eyes darted back and forth between her and that man. His eyes glowed with strange, burning reverence as he regarded Arya's sister. What the hells is going on here?
Before Arya and Gendry parted ways with Sansa to investigate the opera's stables located beneath the forecourt, Sansa pulled her sister aside. "Wait for me outside my dressing room at half past eight. No earlier." She emphasized the last part, jabbing a finger at Arya.
"All right, all right!" Arya said, mildly surprised Sansa was so adamant about that. "What then?"
Sansa raised her eyebrows. "I guess I'll have to come up with quite the song and dance for the Tyrells. They'll be curious why a little opera urchin boy is coming home with me."