Sandor was sure the two of them made quite the picture, the graceful septa and the imposing Hound trailing after her. He never knew the girl could move so quickly, with such purpose. She was a little general leading her troop of one.
She led him through the bustling, brightly costumed crowd, through the foyer, the backstage, and finally charging up the steps to the roof. Did she really mean to go all the way up?
"Is this necessary?" He couldn't help ask, rankled. He hated secrecy. He hated hiding.
"Yes," was all she said, still staring ahead single-mindedly. She kept his hand in hers.
He wondered she wasn't tired yet. The climb upstairs was quite the hike, and at her pace….
Obviously, something beyond physical exhaustion was driving her.
At last they reached the top. Sansa opened the door and a burst of black sky, stars, and moonlight shone on them, as if she'd opened a portal to a twilight world far separate from the artificial revelry they left behind.
Her septa's habit blew in the breeze as she led them to the statue of the Warrior at the center of the roof. Various Valyrian gargoyles stood guard perched over the corners, overseeing the darkened silhouettes that made up King's Landing.
From where Sansa bid them sit at the feet of the Warrior, they could just make out the glimmering Blackwater against the horizon.
Very faintly they could hear the music and laughter below from the ballroom.
She breathed shallowly for several seconds. She removed her habit and mask.
His breath stopped. Her face was an illustration of sorrow. All color was gone, and in its place shadows under her hollowed, dead eyes – dead save for a frank look of appeal.
Sandor cracked. Releasing a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, he pulled her to him and kissed her, kissed her with maddened frenzy. He was drinking water after a week perishing in a desert.
Still grunting, he applied the same pressure to kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips again, everywhere, his fingers digging into her skull through her hair, a dark brownish-red in the night. The moon caught the copper strands and they glowed like rubies through his fingers.
He couldn't stop, he couldn't. The months of worry erupted in this embrace. He was reclaiming her, almost like an animal does its mate. A bear, a lion, a hound losing and finding its cherished cub again couldn't have felt a more primal longing for the beloved in its paws as he did, to feel her skin pressed against his own.
At last he stopped for air, pressing her face into his neck. A great calming warmth engulfed him, a searing triumph in his heart. She was alive, she was in his arms, she breathed, his skin was against hers.
Sansa savored the warmth of his neck and the reassuring scratch of his beard against her lips. Relieved tears stung her eyes. He cherished her still, he wanted her. His large hands pressed her shoulders possessively. His arms were like iron around her. She breathed in that lingering scent of leather, the theater, and horses she always associated with Sandor.
She felt the same warm calm as he did descend on her. For the first time in ages, she felt home.
They stayed locked in this embrace silently for what seemed like an hour.
Suddenly she felt him stiffen slightly, then withdraw his chin from where it pinned her head down to his neck. She looked up into his eyes. He was watching her with a touch of wariness.
Now that he was able to think rationally again, he remembered that nowhere in her letter or in their brief interactions at the ball did she indicate she wanted to resume their relationship. As far as he knew, they were still…not what they once were.
As blind with desire and tenderness he was, he couldn't…he wouldn't let himself pressure her, especially when she was in such a state. Plus, he was in no mood to have her let him down all over again.
Yet the soft look in her eyes as she stared at him gave him some courage. He couldn't help stroking her hair, her hair, his wonderful mad girl's hair….
He sighed and raised an eyebrow. "Well? What's this all about, then?"
He saw oceans of resigned misery in her eyes. "Sometimes I think I've gone mad. Truly mad. But then I know…I know what I've seen. It's all true. All of it."
Sandor's look darkened. "What, the Angel?"
She frowned at the bitter sarcasm in his voice. "No, I told you, no! I mean, there is a man. Underground."
"Sansa…."
She suddenly went rigid like a cat, grabbing his arm. She stared around them in terror. "What was that?"
He wrinkled his brow. "What was what?"
"That sound! Didn't you hear it? Didn't you?" Her voice raised on the last words, her fingers clinging to his arms. "I heard something, I swear! A man's voice!"
"Just the wind, little bird," he said. He looked her over again. She was so worn out, exhausted, yet that inner fire in her kept her eyes wide and distrustful as they darted around the roof. She touched her temple. "Then again, I always hear him. Well, not as much as before. I'm not really under his spell anymore, everything that's happened has sort of woken me up, I guess. But…I still hear him sometimes…."
With her frozen posture and pure white robes, she was like a statue of the Maiden to join the Warrior as she stared into the night.
His pressure on her shoulder gave her life again. "Tell me now or tell me to fuck off. One or the other, little bird. No more of this shit."
His words were as final as the grave.
She turned her gaze back to him. The blue in her eyes seemed to wash straight through to his soul.
She sighed and closed her eyes. Opening them, she told him everything.
She told him about the lessons again, the fear, the ecstasy. The chandelier, the mirror, the man in the mask. The strange journey down the spiraled staircase, the ride on Stranger's back, the voyage across the lake. The lair, by turns homey and fantastical. The golden bedroom with Lyanna's portrait.
Rhaegar.
Once she said the name, another voice echoed her, she was sure. She looked behind her and up.
All she saw was the Warrior's dark stone face.
"Rhaegar?" Sandor's voice was gruff with outrage. "Rhaegar fucking Targaryen?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. She had gone mad, surely. Whatever was done to her in whatever twisted cage the bird had frantically beat her wings against had broken her mind.
His broken, strong little bird.
He squeezed her arms almost to the point of pain. "Girl, stop this nonsense. Rhaegar Targaryen is dead, and every bloody mouth-breather in Westeros and all the fucking world knows that."
She didn't look surprised at his disbelief, only disappointed and crestfallen. She shook her head wearily. "I know how it sounds. I know. I couldn't believe at first. But I soon did. I soon did."
She certainly sounded and looked sane as she spoke, although bitter and rueful.
She described Rhaegar's courtliness and the various trinkets and gifts he left for her in that gilded room. Sandor shifted. This has to be a mad fantasy, so there was no reason for him to feel jealous. None.
She described his music. She described the overwhelming urge to unmask him.
Her fingers dug painfully into Sandor's forearm. She was almost hyperventilating.
Tears streaming down her face, she described the unmasking and what she found beneath.
Neither heard the hurt cry lost in the wind above them.
In dull tones, she repeated everything Rhaegar had told her about the night of the Scandal. About the way Sandor's brother had ruined not only Sandor's face, but Rhaegar's, as well.
Sandor almost felt angry at her. If she was making this all up or even if she'd imagined it, assigning his own disfigurement at Gregor's hands to Rhaegar bloody Targaryen was unusually cruel.
She painted a portrait of Rhaegar's insane wrath. She spoke of the mad prophecies.
And what he viewed as her part in them.
"He told me that if I were to betray him, that would mean I am to fulfill the prophecy through death. He said he'd put a flaming sword through my chest" –
"STOP." She jolted at the violent grief in Sandor's tone. She couldn't see his face, for she was suddenly crushed to his chest again. He buried his chin into her hair as if to pin her to him permanently. "I won't hear that talk. I won't."
His eyes were looking back at that fireplace of his youth. He was pleading with Gregor to let him go but then the flames were all he could see, all he could feel.
He held Sansa tighter. "No. No more of that, now."
All the detail she'd provided….gods, could it all be real? He was one of the few people who knew about that lake underneath the opera house. Baelish had told him about it as a precaution, directing Sandor to help keep it secret. Baelish didn't want to risk attracting sight-seeing riffraff down in the cellars.
How could Sansa know about the lake when hardly anyone else did?
If she was telling the truth, that meant Targaryen's threat with the fire and sword was…he shivered and drew her yet nearer.
"All right, so what happened next?" He asked after he'd recovered from the image of some madman wielding fire at the little bird.
"He kept me there for the rest of the day, playing me more of his opera. The music was beyond anything I'd ever heard before." Her eyes sparkled. "Like a dream! I know I'll never hear music like that again."
Her voice took on a dreamier, gentler tone. "He was very kind and attentive. Oh, Sandor, he was trying so, so hard to placate me. He knew that his rage had scared me just as much as his face – more so, really, far more so, though I'm sure he'd doubt that. He…he even performed magic tricks for me. He knows so many bizarre, sensational things! He can throw his voice, and just by moving his hand a certain way, he can make doors within the lair open and close. He showed me a little of his library, which was as immense as he said. All sorts of books were there, not just the ancient tomes he spoke of. Gods, I could have spent ages looking through his medieval books of poetry alone! And Bran, if Bran could get ahold of those history books we'd never see him again! He wouldn't let me into the lowest level. When I asked about it, he said there were secrets down there not even I was allowed to know yet. He said I needed to prove my faithfulness first, once I returned above. He took me back to the Tyrell's home. I was so tired by the time we reached the house. He kissed the hem of my skirt again and opened the door for me. Sandor, I can't tell you how much he was, well, a gentleman. A true gentleman."
She gazed out into the night, expression as gentle as her voice. "I can't find it in my heart to hate him. He's so lost. I fear him, but in a way he's still my Angel."
A small smile appeared on her face as she heard that music again in her mind. His voice.
Sandor released her abruptly. He stood.
Sansa blinked, surprised. "What's wrong?"
She couldn't see his face clearly in the darkness, but she could tell his eyes were burning.
His fists - those eternally clenched fists.
Sandor felt the tell-tale lump in his throat. Some ghost's hand was squeezing his heart in a searing hot grip.
Her face as she spoke of the wonders of his lair, as she spoke of his tricks, his manners – her childlike amazement at her 'true gentleman'.
He forgot any lingering doubt of her story. His staggering jealousy made him breathe with the chugging fury of a freight train.
"Tell me something, girl." His voice was flat but rasping. "If you'd unmasked Rhaegar Targaryen and saw the face from your aunt's sheet music, would you even be here talking to me?"
Sansa was confused. "What do you mean?"
He chuckled darkly. "Aye, I knew you were lying about not minding my scars. That's all that's in the way of you falling head over heels in love with this bastard, isn't it?"
Even in the dim light, he could tell her face turned crimson.
She was on her feet now. "I" – She swallowed, stopping short. She remembered in a rush her intoxication with that image at the pipe organ, the strong back, the smooth tenor.
Sandor only chuckled again. "Why shouldn't you fall for him? A brilliant elegant toff takes you on a boat ride underground to his palace. Just like out of one of your songs, eh, little bird?"
"That's not fair!" Sansa insisted. "You – listen. Listen, please. I…I did think about it. At first. I was taken away by everything, I admit it. But his madness, Sandor! All the things he's done!"
She hated that sour, disgusted chuckle of his. "Oh, save it. You knew about the things he'd done, and anyone could have figured the man was daft. All that turned you away was his ugly mug. You'll forget that, once you get used to the mask again. You'll get 'taken away' once more. Well, bugger that. I won't wear a mask, little bird, no matter how much I might repulse you." He spat. "I ain't no coward, like your dragon knight in shining fucking armor."
"I could strike you, I really could!" She cried. Her eyes were hard sapphires and her chest heaved. Damn his lust for noticing. "Just listen to me! Was I disturbed by his face? Yes, yes, I was. I won't lie. But…but Sandor, once I heard his talk about prophecies, once I heard his threats, I realized something."
Her eyes warmed as she looked at him. "I realized that you two had the same story: your faces were burned by Gregor Clegane. He hurt you both, so terribly. It was as if you both were steered down the same horrible path, but at the fork in the road, he turned left and you turned right. He went mad, and you…." She gave him that dear lopsided grin again as she cupped his burnt cheek. "You soldiered on. You won't hurt me."
Sandor stood rock still. She waited, hardly breathing.
He'd begun to slowly soften as she spoke, swayed by her words. But as she spoke about him not hurting her, he stiffened again.
"So I'm the lesser of two evils, then? Is that it?"
He might as well have driven his fist into her stomach. "What?"
He swept her hand away from his face. "You fell for the fancy git, and when he wasn't what you imagined, you figured you'd throw the dog a bone again. You can always count on me to get you out of your fix." She could just make out the typical wry twist in his stubbled cheek. "Forget it, little bird. A man's got to have his pride, even if he is more hound than man."
Despite his harsh speech, he felt a twinge as her distraught eyes filled with tears again.
"No, no," she said, almost stamping her foot. She sounded to him like a child who didn't know how to act when her favored playmate wouldn't do as she wished. "You don't understand. I realized something down there, realized what I've known all along! I love you, Sandor."
He shut his eyes as if in pain. He shook his head. "You're a child, just a child." His voice was gentler. "You don't know what you want or what you feel."
"Sandor" –
"You've been through shit, girl. You just feel bad for turning me down and now you need my help. That's all." He suddenly felt ninety years old. He was tired and hurting.
And she was so young as she shook her head with such vehemence he feared it might fall off her neck. "I know I'm young, I know I've been childish! But" –
"We won't talk about it anymore, bird."
"Yes, we will!" She shouted shrilly. She was shaking. "You love me too, I can tell! The way you held me just now! You kissed me, Sandor!"
He laughed again. He felt a strong desire to wake her up once and for all from her fantasies, show her what life above ground without a romantic demented genius was like. She'd learned nothing, no matter what she claimed. "A kiss don't equal love, little bird. You should fucking know that. You think you can traipse in with your privilege and your class and just steamroll over whatever lusty fuck you meet? Think you're that irresistible?"
She collapsed back at the feet of the Warrior. She looked like a doll whose stuffing had been gutted out of her. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her round eyes never left his, and something in his stomach churned seeing the innocent depth of her hurt there.
The words were spoken, though, and the Hound never apologized.
At last she looked down and said nothing more. All he could hear were her ragged little breaths.
He forced himself to look away. "I don't even know if everything you've told me is true, little bird, but I know you need to get out of here. For your physical safety or your mental safety, I don't know."
Only her breathing.
"Let's go down and collect your sister. I'll make sure you get started back to Winterfell tonight."
"No," her voice was so far away. "I promised him. I promised him I'd sing one more time. Then I'll go."
Claims she doesn't love the man, but wants to keep this bloody promise. I see the way of it.
"This isn't a child's game," he yelled at her fiercely. She flinched. Good. She should flinch. She should wake the fuck up. "A promise don't mean shit if it's given under duress. It might be too late by then."
With childlike stubbornness, she turned away from him.
Enraged, he grabbed her shoulder and made her face him. "Do you hear me? Don't you want to go home?"
That was the right question to ask. Lady's tongue on her face, licking away her tears. Father and Mother stroking her hair, her back, comforting her. Arya, Bran, and Rickon playing down the hall. Robb and Jon joking loudly on their horses outside. Winterfell. "Yes, I want to go home."
He yanked her up. "Then come on."
She shook again. "What about – what about you and me?"
He refused to capitulate. "I'll see you and the she-wolf home safe, I promise you that. You'll go home, grow up some more, and forget all about me. It would never work, little bird, you know that. Hells, the minute Ned Stark sees the burnt face of Gregor Clegane's brother on his doorstep, he'll probably blow a gasket. I just" – He struggled for the right words. "All along I just wanted to make sure you were all right, little bird. I shouldn't reach higher than that."
Her voice was oddly empty. "So you don't believe I love you?"
He shook his head silently as he pulled her toward the door.
"And you don't love me?"
Her voice was steadier now, penetrating. Challenging.
He said nothing. He opened the door and gently nudged her through. "Down you get."
He shut the door behind them.
For a moment, the constant breeze was the only movement on the roof.
Until a flash of scarlet emerged from behind the Warrior.
Clawed gloves gouged into the Warrior's shield.
Beneath the Dragon's mask, Rhaegar's own teeth gnashed together. Tears clouded his purple eyes.
To prevent her leaving tonight, there was only one thing he could do, inconvenient as it may be. And he must be very quick about it.
He stamped down for now the overwhelming, mortifying wave of betrayal crashing down on him. To hear Lyanna's voice tell the monster's brother all Rhaegar's secrets….ah, there had never been such heartbreak before. Not since the fire.
As they spoke, he eventually lost track of the words themselves. A loud humming filled his skull, blocking out everything but red rage.
He scaled down the opera walls now like a lizard, passing them as they rushed downstairs. They would be blocked by the revelers. He had time. He hopped onto another gargoyle, then slid into the window down the hall that he knew was empty. One story down was Cersei's corpse. He must be very fast now.
Once he reached the ballroom again, he took in how drunk the party-goers now were, which would work to his advantage – no one would pay him or his actions heed.
There was a chair behind Selmy, the police chief taken up tending to his wife, dear Arthur's sister.
Rhaegar would make sure that when Selmy turned, he'd see Cersei's purple face staring back at him.
Throughout the descent, the re-entrance, and the preparations, one lone coherent thought circled his howling heartbreak.
She is Nissa Nissa. She is Nissa Nissa. She will sing for me once more and then the sword will pierce her onstage, in front of him.
Sandor tried to ignore Sansa's emotionless tone as they pushed through the intoxicated couples blocking their path. "Arya didn't come tonight. She hates dances. She's at the Tyrells, probably bothering the servants in the kitchen."
"Move," Sandor growled at a trio of caroling prop men, wine bottles in hand. "Good," he said to her once they made it through the men's interlocked arms. "We'll need to stop there to gather your things, anyway." He waited impatiently for a sea of tipsy ballet girls to rush past them at the top of the stairs. "You be quick about packing, now. Anything you don't need right away, leave behind. We can send for it later."
He gripped her hand firmly. She realized dumbly through the shock his cruel words caused that their positions had changed: instead of her leading him up, he was leading her down.
She'd lost him. She'd lost him. He was helping her, but she'd lost him.
Not even when confronted with the truth about the Angel or the devastation of Rhaegar's insanity had she ever felt so hopeless.
He kept snapping at the swaying King's Landing citizens in their way. Sandor never softened his grip on her wrist.
They were on the ground level now, near the door –
A greater mass of bodies than above blocked them. Panicked shouts and whispers gathered over a certain spot near the exit.
"What's going on?" Sansa asked almost to herself.
Sandor glowered at the mob, fearing what it could mean. "I don't know, but we'll find out later. We need to go now."
He headed toward the door, but Selmy stepped forward, stopping them. "I'm afraid you will not be leaving just now, Miss Stark."
The older man was very grave and pale.
In their hurry, Sansa forgot to replace her habit and mask. Both she and Sandor regretted this now.
Sandor glared at Selmy as Sansa just gawked. "What do you mean?" He snarled.
Selmy eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then his serious gaze fell directly on Sansa. "Cersei Lannister is dead, Miss Stark. She died sitting up. It looks like poison. Seeing as last time I spoke to her tonight, she mentioned having in her possession evidence against you, I am afraid I must hold you for questioning."
Sansa was too numb to feel anything but a weak resignation. She could sense Sandor's rage, however, radiating off his body in waves.
His heart broke at her matter-of-fact little voice. "I suppose I shall be staying tonight, Sandor."
A/N: So I decided to take what happens in the rooftop scene in the novel, which begins with Raoul doubting and jealous but ends with him accepting Christine's love, and flipping it here. Don't hate me, fellow SanSan fans! *dodges thrown lemoncakes* Just increasing the tension, as always!