"Don't pick at your food," Sansa whisper-hissed to the sullen young figure as they breakfasted with the Tyrells.
Her sister glowered through her chopped hair falling into her eyes.
Sansa smiled pleasantly at Olenna and Margaery. Normality. That's what she was going for. Normality.
Overall, the past couple weeks had gone by relatively smoothly. That first night, Olenna had merely raised a quizzical eyebrow when Sansa dragged in the undomesticated-looking scamp dressed in oversized street clothes.
Sansa conjured her best acting skills and dove into her story. "Madame Olenna, I hate to impose on you this way, but this is Arry, a stable boy from Winterfell. I've acted as sort of his sponsor for a few years now. He always showed such promise. Well, his father is sick and can't work, so Arry just showed up today asking for work and a place to stay. I feel so responsible for him! Is there any way" –
Eyes gleaming more humorously than ever, Olenna interrupted her. "Of course, Arry shall stay here. He can have Loras's room. My grandson's never around to use it."
Neither grandmother nor granddaughter seemed inclined to interrogate them further, and so it was a simple measure of not revealing their true relationship by bickering too much.
On mornings such as this, that was difficult.
"Arry," Sansa said in a sweet tone through clenched teeth. "You mustn't eat your peas with a knife."
"But Gendry does!"
"Yes, well, Mr. Waters isn't here, is he? We are in the home of the Tyrells now." Keep smiling. Everything's fine and pleasant.
Arya shrugged. "Takes less time than trying to stab them with a fork like an idiot, Miss Stark." She flinched. "Ouch!" She glared at Sansa.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Arry. I guess my foot slipped." Were they really raised by the same people?
She cast a sidelong glance at the Tyrells. Olenna and Margaery looked as indifferently cheerful as ever, eating their omelettes.
Sansa sighed in relief.
She felt herself on the verge of a nervous breakdown constantly these days.
Still, Arya was adjusting well – she certainly enjoyed working with the Waters boy, constantly speaking of him (although making sure to end any story about him by rolling her eyes and saying, "he's so stupid"). She stayed mostly in her place, so was barely noticed around the opera house.
However, Sansa could not let herself fully relax about…anything.
She shifted her food around her plate, scarcely touching it. Now who's picking at their food, she chided herself.
She could hear the Angel's voice ringing in her ears.
He'd not said much to her about Arya. Whenever she spoke of her worries that she and her sister might get caught, he'd sigh heavily, voice full of some sort of melancholic darkness. All he would say in reply was, "Sing, Sansa. Sing."
And sing she would. As usual, what should have been an ecstatic experience for her instead turned into a disorienting out-of-body sensation. She'd find herself floating high above the dressing room, hearing herself sing notes unheard of by human ears before, but feeling as connected to that voice as a castaway does to a ship disappearing on the horizon.
Yet still, still, that was the only time she felt true peace now.
Meanwhile, she still passed Sandor each time she walked onstage. She continued daydreaming about his warm arms, his husky voice. She yearned to unload all her worries in his lap in that little office. Back before the Angel forbid it, she could tell him everything there – about her annoying little sister Arya back home, about studious, carefree Bran, baby Rickon, teasing Robb. Sweet Lady. He'd not say much, stroking her hair, but he listened to her. Truly listened.
Yet even then, there was the distance: she could not tell him about the Angel. And when she finally did, it was to part ways with Sandor.
"San – Miss Stark," Arya said, intruding on her thoughts.
Sansa blinked. She noticed Arya and the Tyrells looking at her expectantly. The butler was handing her a note.
Sansa flushed with embarrassment. She'd drifted off again.
She accepted the note, thanking the butler quietly. She half-expected another missive from her parents. They had not written to her since Arya's arrival, but maybe now –
No. It was from the opera.
She read it, then stood. "Excuse me, Madame Olenna. Margaery. This is from the managers. They need to see me. Come, Arry."
Arya stuffed a few bread rolls in her coat pocket (the Tyrells secured Arry better fitting clothes, but the pockets on this new jacket were still roomy enough for snacks). She ran after her sister.
The Tyrell ladies maintained their neutral expressions until the door closed behind the two, then they chuckled together.
"It's getting harder and harder to keep a straight face around them, Grandmama," Margaery said, sipping her tea.
"Yes, our dear Sansa really thinks she has us fooled. 'Arry'." The older woman shook her head.
"You've written to the Starks, haven't you?"
"Mm," Olenna said. "I wrote Lady Stark that Arya was safe and with us, and she just wrote back that the bastard, Jon Snow, will come collect both girls once his tour of duty is done."
Margaery raised an eyebrow. "Catelyn Stark actually mentioned the bastard?"
"These are unusual times for the Starks, you must remember. Two runaways! Two!"
Margaery's eyes widened. "Two of them? You mean, Sansa?" At Olenna's nod, she whistled. "Well, our sweet girl did have me fooled on that end. Nice to know there's that much spirit in her. Still, it's almost a little insulting she thought us dumb enough to buy her story. I mean, Arry? Really?" Sansa had told Margaery more than enough stories about her contentious relationship with Arya that Margaery immediately recognized the dynamic between Sansa and the boy with the name quite similar to her younger sister.
"I think the two are more alike than they realize," Olenna commented.
The two ladies shared one more laugh then continued their breakfast in perfect equanimity.
"Don't kick the seat, Arya," Sansa scolded her sister absently on their way to the opera house, the coach jostling them slightly.
Arya stuck her tongue out. Sansa did not notice, staring ahead into nothing.
Arya shifted in her seat, attacked once more by a feeling she did not like but was experiencing more and more these days: fear for her sister.
She scratched her head then tried initiating a conversation. "So…um…how's it going onstage, anyway?"
"Fine," was all Sansa said, expression unchanging.
Arya tried again. "What's it like, singing in front of a crowd like that?" Arya often sneaked upstairs with Gendry to watch her sister perform. Arya would never admit it, but she found herself in awe of the radiant figure her older sister made, singing in that unreal voice.
That sister only shrugged now. "It's all right, I guess."
Arya couldn't take it anymore. "What's wrong with you, anyhow?"
Sansa furrowed her brow, annoyed. "What do you mean?"
"You're so…I don't know! Distracted these days."
"Well, what do you expect? I have a lot on my plate." She suddenly looked her sister over, softening. "How about you? Is everything really all right in the stables?"
"Yes, yes. Gendry and I get by just fine."
"Well, you make sure he never assumes that just because you're disguised as a boy you're not a lady. Don't let him talk to you in language unsuitable for feminine ears. You're far too young" –
"Good gods, Sansa! All right, all right!" Arya slumped down in her seat, pulling her cap down over her ears to shut out Sansa's prissy talk. They were getting along better lately, but that didn't mean sometimes Arya still didn't want to throttle her comically genteel sister. "I might as well be at Madame Mordane's the way you go on."
She cast a quick glance at her sister. She expected a haughty retort.
Instead Sansa acquiesced and stared ahead, blindly, steadily.
It gave Arya such a case of the creeps she grew bold.
"You're one to talk, Sansa, when you moon over the Hound of all people."
Sansa's shoulders seized like a frightened cat's. The eyes she turned to Arya were hard and bright. "What do you mean?" Her voice shook.
Arya crossed her arms, refusing to feel intimidated by that look. "Just what I said. I see you trying to talk to him sometimes, and him shutting you down all angry. Hurt, almost. I see you looking at him when he's not looking, and him looking at you when you're not looking. It's sickening."
She was secretly satisfied at the sign of life in Sansa's face, even if it was anger. "You're not supposed to be seeing anything backstage. You're supposed to stay down in the stables."
"I can't spend all day down there, I'd get rickets in the dark! Gendry and I do have to get some air, and so do the horses. Besides, you and the Hound both want to see Stranger."
Sansa looked down with a bashful, strange sense of shame. Stranger was a mighty black stallion that Sandor himself had helped break in. Now that she and he were barely speaking, Sansa often found herself drawn to the stables to see Stranger, feeding him carrots under the guise of visiting her sister. It…it was some small way to feel close to the chief stagehand.
Arya watched her face carefully now, and disgust mixed with wonder filled her own. "Gods, Sansa! You really do care for the Hound, don't you? I was mostly kidding!" She had thought it odd how Sansa lingered near him, but Arya assumed Sansa mostly just pitied him.
Sansa said nothing.
Arya couldn't believe it. Sansa…and the Hound. He wasn't a complete jerk; he was kind to Stranger and he stepped in when some prop guys started picking on her for her size. But…Sansa fancying someone like him?
At last Sansa spoke. "You were right, Arya. Falling in love is a stupid, silly waste of time. It doesn't bring you anything but loneliness in the end."
Arya had never heard her sister sound so bitter.
"You're in love with him?"
Silence.
There was a harder edge to Arya's voice now. "Did he hurt you? Is that it?"
"Sandor would never hurt me," Sansa said softly, leaning her forehead against the coach's window. "I'm the one who hurt him."
This information was so mind-boggling that not a word more was spoken for the rest of the ride.
Sansa entered the managers' office to find Varys and Tyrion uncharacteristically awkward and tense. The two men stood stiffly around their desk. They split their gaze equally between Sansa and a figure she hadn't seen right away.
A lady sat to the side, dressed in elegant black mourning. A black veil hid her features.
Sansa was so struck by the sight she simply stood staring for a moment.
Tyrion spoke without his usual sardonic tone. "Miss Stark, we can't let you know how grateful we are for you playing Jonquil for so long. You've been remarkable, particularly since this is your first professional role. However…." He trailed off, eyeing the figure in black, who sat unmoving, unspeaking.
Varys finished for him. "…However, my dear, there has been a change of plans." He, too, now gazed directly at the lady.
Sansa followed their eyes, and then she saw it: the hint of golden hair beneath the veil.
At that moment of recognition, Cersei lifted the veil to reveal herself.
Sansa shivered.
She was as beautiful as always, but all color was gone from her pale face. Her green eyes, always hostile and arrogant before, now shone with a righteous fury Sansa could only categorize as grief-induced insanity.
As if watching a nightmare unfold, Sansa stood dumb as Cersei slowly advanced toward her.
"Cersei…." Tyrion said in a low voice, warning her.
Cersei faced Sansa much as she had when she showed up drunk to rehearsal, which seemed eons ago to the girl before her.
She looked and looked at Sansa.
Sansa was sure she'd never forget the look of wildfire in those green eyes.
The older woman's voice was relatively mild, clashing with her words. "I'm back, little dove. I'm reclaiming my place here. You will return to your measly role as Jonquil's sister. I could have you fired, but I won't. I want you there, behind me, as I reclaim what you've taken from me."
She placed a gentle hand on Sansa's shoulder, leaning in to whisper: "And I know, I just know you had something to do with this. With my son's death. I know it in my heart, which never fails a mother. I will not stop until I find you out and see you behind bars."
Cersei smiled at her, so sweetly.
Sansa could only swallow drily as Cersei gracefully made her exit. The returned diva left the three behind her in stunned silence.
Catelyn paused looking over the accounts at her desk. She surveyed the fields outside her study's window. A thin layer of frost coated the grass, and a slight breeze made the distant trees wave back and forth.
Oh gods, Benjen, please come through, she thought. The biting temperature was hard enough on their crops, and without the sheep….
She was interrupted from her musings by Ned's sharp voice from the doorway. "Cat, what is this?"
She turned. Ned's boots were caked in mud, having made his rounds in the fields. He just came from the dining room, where Cat had left her correspondence.
He held up a letter from Jon.
Cat sucked in a preparatory breath. "You've read it, Ned. You know what it is. I simply took the initiative and wrote to him about the girls. He's agreed. That's all."
Ned's eyes, usually as steady and icy as the frosty hills, were alive now with a storm of worry. "Since when do you write to Jon about anything?"
Cat tried to keep her temper down. "Well, you're always on about how I should be kinder to him" –
"I have very seldom asked you to" –
"And since we both cannot be spared right now, and Robb is in the middle of exams, I thought it prudent to ask him to go to King's Landing." She buried herself in scribbling on her ledger. "After all, since you insisted on raising Jon with our children, he might as well answer the call of duty for us as well as to the military." Her cheeks reddened. "Don't worry, I was very civil," she said in a clipped voice.
"Cat, do you have any idea what you've done?"
Cat was alarmed by the hoarse heaviness in his voice. Real worry replaced her bitterness. "My love, what is it? What does it matter? You hate King's Landing, I thought I'd spare you the bad memories involved!"
Ned could tell his darling Cat was telling the truth, so his face softened. His eyes maintained their dark heartbreak, however. "Oh, Cat. I'd rather go back down and face those awful memories a million times over than have Jon visit that city – that opera house – even once."
Without a word more, he turned and walked leadenly upstairs, leaving his wife staring mystified after him.