Sansa was in darkness. She was cold. There was one large rectangle of light, a sort of window that let her see into her dressing room.
As she watched in an odd detached way as Sandor touched the glass, as he left to confer with Arya, reality slowly returned to her.
She remembered as if coming to from anesthesia a large crash of some sort as she sat with Mya and Myranda backstage. There were cries…screams….but all that penetrated the cloud in her mind was the need to return to the dressing room. He would be waiting for her.
Somehow she made her way through running bodies and frantic faces that didn't truly register.
She somehow turned the key in the lock. She somehow walked to the spot he had commanded.
His voice came to her, never so sweet before.
She smiled as she recognized the words. It was an ancient song, from a hymn of the Old Gods that Nan had once presented to Sansa.
"Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!"
Warm thankfulness filled her body. She beamed through the ecstatic tears pouring down her face. He was an Angel. No trickery, no deceit. He was an Angel, a true Angel….
"Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!"
The glass shifted and turned into a dozen silver ocean waves.
"Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!"
Head held high and sureness in her heart, Sansa knew what to do.
She walked toward the glass.
"Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!"
A burst of white-silver light and she was through.
Darkness. Everywhere darkness.
Except for that window into her dressing room...
But it was not a window.
The cloud was clearing slowly from her mind….
No. A mirror.
Her dressing room mirror.
She was…behind the mirror.
The euphoria vanished and Sansa was alone somewhere dark and cold. Sandor had left.
She heard water dripping.
She was behind the mirror. The mirror was one-way glass.
Trickery, deceit….
"Angel…?" Her voice was so weak. Louder now: "Angel?"
A hand on her shoulder.
Unable to scream, she turned around.
In the light from the dressing room and the lantern he held, she saw a tall man dressed all in black: long black fedora, black cape, black gloves –
Black mask that covered his face.
She could not see his eyes – only a vague sparkle within the eye holes of his mask.
She backed into something hard. Turning, she saw through the lantern light that it was a gray brick wall. She was in some sort of narrow hallway, coated in cobwebs.
Sansa felt like she'd been hovering on a cliff's edge in a dream, and only now had she plummeted off, awakening.
"Who are you?" She asked in a voice so harsh it sounded alien to her.
The figure lifted his gloved hand as if to caress her cheek, but stopped just a bare inch from her skin, as if she were made of porcelain. A great sigh like wind escaped him. His breath was so cold.
Voice little more than a wavering whisper now, she asked, "Where is the Angel?"
The masked head tilted. The spark from those unseen irises spun around and around.
At last he spoke. "I am your Angel, Sansa. Your teacher, your devotee."
She had indeed fallen off the cliff and landed fatally on the rocks below.
There was no mistaking that voice. The Angel and the masked man shroud in darkness were one and the same.
A lupine flash of courage heated her cheeks as she rounded on him. "You? You…where are we? Take me back at once! You tricked me! You lied! I" –
All at once he sang.
His posture was so gentle, so non-threatening. His voice…it wrapped around her like a warm blanket. He sang words in a rare form of Valyrian she did not understand, but were somehow familiar and dear to her.
She felt her eyes close half-way, sleepy.
So gently she barely felt it, he took her hand in his. His posture was the very definition of submissive respect. He held her hand but extended his arm so that she was left a great deal of personal space. Eyes never leaving her, he backed away, leading her.
The lamplight revealed spiraled steps, leading down into the darkness, twisting into the unknown.
She hesitated at the top. His voice grew sweeter, and tears stung her eyes as she saw her father in the words he sang, her mother, her brothers. Winterfell. Lady.
She let him lead her down.
Time stopped as they marched slowly down into the growing darkness, the lantern's red light their only illumination. They could have walked down five levels or fifty for all that Sansa was aware.
Once they reached the bottom, she gasped. "Stranger!"
The fearsome black stallion whinnied happily at the sight of her. He nuzzled excitedly the hand she reached out to him.
The relief of seeing something she knew and loved was replaced by fresh worry, another jolt of reality. "What are you doing here?" She asked the horse softly, petting his neck.
She gasped again as her companion lifted her wordlessly into his arms then onto Stranger's saddle.
She was too paralyzed to speak. He very delicately smoothed her gown and otherwise secured her on the usually temperamental horse's back, who was surprisingly tame now.
Only with her and Sandor was he so meek.
Sandor.
The masked man led her through a black hallway. The sound of dripping water increased. Sansa felt that if she were not in Heaven or Hell, she was in some land in-between, where children of the forest, Others, and dragons convened in the darkness.
She breathed very shallowly.
Not a word was spoken between them, but still she saw the sparkle of his eyes focused solely on her, his hand on Stranger's bridle.
All she heard was dripping and the staccato rhythm of Stranger's hooves plodding through this cave-like labyrinth.
More life returned to her as the monotonous dripping faded and became a louder, steadier gurgle instead. The air was crisper, damper.
A misty light reached out to them, looking like blue flames against the brick walls. They passed through an arched opening. That is when Sansa saw the lake.
She could not even find air to gasp. Here, underground, at the edge of a cobwebbed dungeon-like cellar, was a gray-black lake, stretching on as far as Sansa could see.
She'd always felt drawn to the water, crediting her Riverlands blood with her connection to it. One of the few athletic activities she enjoyed with her siblings was a dip in the warm springs near Winterfell. She remembered once visiting Riverrun and her grandfather, and taking a boat to the middle of the river nearby and then diving in and floating there, gazing into the sky and rocking in the waves – happy and carefree, a child.
What an odd juxtaposition to this still, leaden pool, clothed in this unnatural night.
He helped her off the horse. Her attention was next taken by a long elegant boat as black as everything else tied to a makeshift wharf along the bank. She spied a soft velvet cushion inside, and knew it was meant for her.
He was whispering in Stranger's ear, then he lightly slapped the horse's flank and Stranger trotted off, back down the hall.
Swept up by panic, Sansa reached out for her departing friend and was about to cry out for him when the man took her outstretched hand and hushed her, patting her hand like one would a child.
"Come."
Sansa swallowed her tears hearing her Angel's voice again from this strange figure.
He settled her into the boat.
The voyage was a long, quiet one. Sansa at first couldn't take her eyes off him, her human Angel.
But was he human?
The Opera Ghost.
She shuddered and turned away. That faint gurgling was the only sound; otherwise, the water was remarkably silent and still, save for the strong, steady strokes of this man – this Phantom's? – oar.
She could feel the sparkle of his eyes upon her. They never left her.
Her eyes adjusting to the blue light surrounding them, Sansa took in the long pillars reaching from below the waters to the high domed ceiling above them. To the sides Sansa thought she saw small windows with…crossbars? She couldn't be sure.
Out of the dark mist Sansa suddenly saw light, real candlelight ahead of them. Shore was in sight. As they neared, Sansa could see that the long candles were held by statues carved out of what looked to her like dragon glass. They were of human form, but with dragon faces, wolf faces, faces of old Weirwood trees.
The statues stood guard in front of an immense portcullis, which looked as old and impenetrable as the Iron Throne.
What sort of macabre fairytale was she trapped in?
Sansa turned at the movement behind her. The caped figure was raising his arm. All at once the gate lifted, and the boat floated through to the bank just feet beyond.
Sansa swayed in disbelief at what was before her as he secured the boat at the small dock.
It was like watching a play, or an opera: there sprawled a drawing room set with no exterior, no outside wall.
The space was as large if not larger than Winterfell's drawing room, but the wooden furniture was shinier, the rugs more plush.
Like the portcullis, this odd home seemingly carved into the stone wall was Medieval in décor. Large lanterns were suspended from the arched ceiling. Hanging from the stone walls were old paintings of dragon battles, including a gigantic replica of Blaeke's The Great Red Dragon series. The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun was placed in center.
Swords that looked forged from ancient Valyrian steel and various artifacts from a time now gone also graced the wall. At the lair's entrance stood two empty armored guards.
A large pipe organ took up most of the wall facing away from the portcullis.
In contrast to this Gothic nostalgia was the quaintly commonplace furniture and vases filled with plastic flowers, as if the designer felt the need to add a tacky air of hominess.
The man took her hand again and led her further into the room. "It is much warmer inside, near the sofa. This spot is built above a hot underground spring."
These were the first words he had spoken to her since before crossing the lake. To hear that familiar ethereal voice say something so rudimentary would have made Sansa laugh were she not so frightened.
For as eccentric as the surroundings she found herself in was, Sansa felt at least more grounded here, more in touch with reality.
With reality came the return of fear. She moved to confront the man once more, but was distracted studying his appearance. She could see him more clearly now. He was tall with a slender but muscular build. She could not make out much more. Although he'd shed his cape, he was dressed still from head to toe in black, save for the flash of red in the vest beneath his waistcoat. His skin was covered.
He kept his hat on, hiding his hair from view. She could see in the light a bit more of his eyes and thought them dark, but beyond that she could not judge the color.
He stood in the center of the room behind the sofa, hands folded respectfully in front of him. He watched her quietly and said nothing.
Irrational hysteria suddenly filled her entire being. Sansa turned from him and ran down the hallway she was near.
It was a short hallway that ended in a small room. This she entered, blindly, unaware almost of her own actions. She wasn't even sure if she was trying to escape.
She peered into the darkness and halted. Her blood froze.
A coffin was all that was visible.
She shrieked.
She heard footsteps behind her. "That is my bed," came the Angel's voice.
An Angel who sleeps in a coffin underground.
She felt queasy at her stupidity, her blind trusting faith all this time. Fighting her tears, she asked in a spiteful voice, "Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me you were an angel, when you are clearly a man…or…or a devil, or…the Phantom…whatever you are?"
His eyeholes darkened and he drew in a light hissing breath. "If I am the Phantom, it is because man's hatred has made me so."
The frank sorrow of his words pricked her native compassion. When he reached out a hand to her, she did not take it, but followed him out without arguing. She still kept her distance.
Across from his room was another. He stopped in front of it, turning the knob. He did not enter, but merely held the door open with his head inclined in a solemn courtly bow.
Sansa realized this was her room.
Her room, in this cellar underground.
Sansa stepped inside as tentative as a fawn.
Her eyes widened, childlike awe seizing her. "Beautiful," she couldn't help whisper.
The room was golden: gilded walls, vanity, and boat-shaped bed. Soft gold silken sheets and feather pillows ornamented this gigantic bed. A large golden canopy shaded it. Upon the chair next to her vanity was draped an elegant silken dressing gown, silver in contrast to the gold. Matching slippers were beside the chair.
She approached the bed and saw a painting hanging on the wall against it of a striking young woman. Sansa squinted her eyes, scanning the woman's features.
She was dressed in blue and silver. Her dark hair was in a rather old-fashioned style, some twenty years out of date, from what Sansa could judge. Her long narrow face was proud yet youthful.
The minute Sansa looked into her gray eyes, mischievous and fiery, she recognized her from a few hidden portraits in the attic of Winterfell….
"Lyanna?"
She whirled around, staring at the figure standing in the doorway. "Who are you?" She asked again.
"I was an ignorant fool when you first came to this opera house, Sansa," he said after a long moment. "You see, I paid you no heed that first week. You looked so like a Tully, not a bit like her. Your manner, your ways, were of such ladylike grace that I did not see Lyanna in you." How theatrical his words are, Sansa thought through her haze of confusion. However, there was nothing ridiculous, either. "Now, your little sister, yes. When I see her I feel pain, knowing what a daughter of Lyanna's would have been like. No, it was not until I heard you sing at your audition that I realized. That was when I knew that despite the appearances, you had her soul. A voice like Lyanna's, like yours, can only come from the soul. I knew then Lyanna Stark and Sansa Stark were one and the same, and that you have returned to me. I have found her true spirit again."
Sansa backed away once more. "What are you talking about?"
With slow strides he at last entered the room. He knelt gallantly. He lifted the hem of the show's bathing gown she still wore and pressed it to his lips through his mask. He bowed his head. "I am no Angel, it is true, and while the world's hatred has made me the Phantom, your love, Sansa…." He lifted his face to hers and there was reverence in his voice. "…Your love will make me Rhaegar again."
So saying he stood and removed his hat.
A long mane of silver-white hair fell in waves down his shoulders.
Targaryen hair.
She thought she saw hints of dark indigo surrounding his pupils.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her, pressing her to him for a moment. He smelled of loam.
"What – what" –
Before she could say more he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently.
He bent near her as she shrank away from him, crying. He shook his head and spoke in a pleading voice. "Do not fear me, my love! It is all so very simple. I escaped death. My good friend and second Arthur Dayne was taken for me. No one knew he was there and they assumed…oh, my poor dear Arthur. Meanwhile, someone helped me make it here, all the way below…but never mind, my sweet. I will protect you, do not worry."
He looked up and gestured to the roof above them, to the ground below. "Here no one can harm you, no lioness diva, no drunk stag, no murdering mountain or his lustful dog brother" –
"But" –
"Shhhhhhh. No, not even your ignorant father can take you from me here."
He hushed her again as she sat up and opened her mouth to rebuke him. He sang an old Northern lullaby, so ancient she did not recognize it.
He was moving his hand oddly in front of her face, as if grabbing something just inches from her skin, again and again.
At last the image blurred and her eyelids grew heavy. A snug warmth made her lie back down.
His voice in her ears, she drifted off to sleep.
Rhaegar watched her for several minutes. He watched her skin glow in the low candlelight. He watched her chest rise up and down. Great tenderness crushed him.
So different from Lyanna, but her soul rests there, within that pretty form.
He stood and gazed at Lyanna's wild winter face in its portrait. "I have you back, my love. I have your voice."
A/N: Ta-daaaaah!
So how many of you guessed it? How many of you thought someone else?
Anyway, if you think the relationship between him and Lyanna is a bit too romanticized here, and the comparison between her and Sansa too stretched...just you wait. Just you wait.
Although throughout I've been influenced mostly by Gaston Leroux's original novel (along with bits and pieces of the 1989 Robert Englund film and even the 1983 Maximilian Schell-Jane Seymour film*, neither of which are works of art but I love them), I have to say I borrowed a lot of detail from the 1925 film here. The scene where Lon Chaney's Phantom takes Mary Philbin's Christine below is one of the most memorable scenes ever, in my opinion.
I also took a lot of inspiration from the musical, too, in the description of the portcullis.
*Edited to add that I just remembered that the Phantom's name is Sandor in that version! Spooky.