"The Prince and the Sword! You must choose between the Prince and the Sword! Are you to carry Azor Ahai reborn, or forge Lightbringer? You must decide! Will I play a wedding march, or a requiem mass? The choice is yours!"
Sansa turned away.
How many times since she'd woken from unconsciousness had he snarled those words at her?
Her head ached so.
The second she'd fallen into his arms beneath the trapdoor, he'd struck her out with the hilt of the sword he'd originally meant to kill her with.
She sat huddled on the floor across from his pipe organ, clutching her knees to her chest as he raved in front of her.
He lovingly caressed the sword now. She grew faintly queasy when she saw the speck of her own blood on the golden hilt.
"My friend procured this for me. I don't know who he had to bribe. The earliest known relic of my ancestors. True, true Valyrian steel, from before the Doom. But it must know its fate, my dear."
What in the hells is he on about, Sansa thought bitterly. She felt gutted through and through. She couldn't summon anymore sympathy for his madness.
He gracefully swooped down and laid the sword in front of her. Next to it was a crown forged of iron, with thorns twisting into dragons' mouths.
"The Prince and the Sword. Which shall it be? Pick up the crown, and you choose the prince; I will spare your life and together we will bring the prince that was promised into the world. Choose the sword and embrace the fate of Nissa Nissa. The choice is yours, madame."
More than at his words, she shivered at the sick light in his purple eyes.
How ironic that she was in her dungeon shift.
Her shock and fear collided until she felt almost nothing. She was weary and tired. No matter what she chose tonight, she'd never see her family again. She'd never again know fresh air, sunlight, or feel Lady's fur beneath her fingers.
She'd never see a hulking man with eyes so sad and deep they took her breath away. Never hear that low warm voice say words he'd never say anyway.
What did it matter what she chose?
Life. Choose life. While you live, there's always hope. Hope of rescue or escape. Enduring him will be painful and terrible, but better than never even trying for freedom.
"Fine, Rhaegar," she said at last in what she hoped was a cold, steady voice. "I choose" –
"Ah!" He interrupted, his finger high in the air. He snickered. "Not yet."
"Why?" She snapped.
"Because, my dear, I do not trust you. Your judgment is weak and foolish. Your betrayal of me is evidence of that." His tone darkened. "We must wait, wait until sunrise. You will know your heart better by then."
She wouldn't look at him. She wouldn't speak.
He'd never seen her so much like a child. He could just make out the large bluish bruise at the crown of her head, buried mostly beneath her hair. She was pale and her cheeks were stained with tears that dried the more her emotions hardened.
Something in him softened in response. "Child," he began. She shuddered at the Angel coming back into his voice, but she felt no yearning for that false specter now. She wanted him away from her.
"Child, you've forced my hand, you realize?" He sighed. "I should have known you'd possess some of your aunt's wayward spirit in you. She, too, tried to leave me at the end. She loved me, but she didn't want…didn't want…." His head hanged low. "She didn't want what happened to happen."
He collapsed on his bench. "That is why I want us to wait. You are a sweet young thing, my darling, and I know your natural gentleness will make you more amenable than your aunt. You shall see. Just wait, and think it over. Here, I'll throw my voice again! I'll imitate Florian, Jonquil, Stranger, every member of the show!" He slapped his knees, affecting jocularity. "I'll remind you what fun you'll have with me!" A strained note of desperation entered his voice.
Her head shot up as a high sharp key suddenly came down on the pipe organ, seemingly by itself. Another little magic trick of his?
But no, for his hand clapping happily before was now curling into a tight fist.
Another black snicker.
"It would appear a mockingbird's come calling. I believe it is time I silence his beak once and for all."
Rhaegar stood and bowed, with what Sansa couldn't tell was sarcastic gallantry or not. "I will return shortly, my dear."
Littlefinger impatiently yanked the small lever hidden behind the stone panel again. He stood at the lake's edge.
He was through being made a fool of.
How many months had he stood idly by as Rhaegar openly drooled all over his, Petyr's, mark?
They'd had a deal, the two of them.
The instant he received Sansa's letter, a beautiful plan formulated in Petyr's mind.
He could tell by the careful words she chose in her note that she was not only a genteel young lady, but a naïve one at that.
Once he finished reading, he hurried down here as he did tonight, addressing the Phantom who stood sullen and speechless as always upon his boat by the bank.
"Let her come, Rhaegar. I will see to it you will finally get your proper revenge on Ned Stark through his daughter. I know you hate the man for allowing Baratheon to hunt you down, so let's humiliate him together. We will both get what we want: the proud Stark name raked through the mud. I promise, by the time I'm done with her the girl will be little more than a common whore in one of my establishments."
He waited breathlessly for his answer. Rhaegar could be quite temperamental, particularly where the past was concerned. He'd taken his title of 'Opera Ghost' too much to heart. He knew this theater too well, and was able to oversee and command things that Petyr would rather he didn't.
Still, better for now to keep him happy.
A silent nod from Rhaegar was his answer.
Petyr had eagerly awaited her arrival in his office. He'd been staring at a miniature he kept of Cat when the Hound announced her.
Then Petyr saw her.
The blue eyes, the auburn hair, the dignified but youthful beauty of his Cat.
But she was naïve, unlike Cat. That he could tell right away.
Naïve, innocent. Pliable. Yes, what Cat never was.
She was Cat and she wasn't Cat, all in just the right ways.
Of course, she would never be Cat. No one could. No one had just that right regal light in their eyes, that flash of superiority in the high cheekbones and arch smile.
How he'd coveted her, his darling Catelyn. She was the prize he worked toward all these years. Her perfect love alone would make up for the toil, for the sneering nickname her brother gave him, the humiliation at the hands of Brandon Stark, of everyone.
But as the years crawled by, it became clear to Petyr she'd convinced herself that she truly loved honor-bound, monotonous Ned Stark.
She – she might never be his.
The thought left a gaping wound that cried for justice.
If he couldn't have her love, he'd have her downfall. Why not at the hands of her pretty daughter?
Staring at Sansa Stark in his office that first day, however, he knew he could not turn her into a mere whore. No, she would be his protege - and any protege of his deserved far more respect than a worker in one of his brothels.
A pliable, meek version of Cat, that's what she was. He could mold this one, make her truly his, and parade her in front of the proud Eddard and Catelyn Stark. He would see the righteous pain in Cat's cool blue eyes as he revealed her daughter his mistress.
Let her feel what I've felt. Let her see her beloved taken away by another, just as I did, so many years ago.
Yet before he could even begin to enact his plan, he saw the Tully steel enter Sansa's spine as he proposed his house for her to live in.
She didn't like him. She – she looked at him as her mother had when he tried – tried so hard -
His heart froze again, but his determination only deepened.
Before he could surmount the obstacle of her distaste for him, he began his own tutelage of her.
Petyr'd been almost saint-like in his patience.
At first he thought the similarity in her voice to Lyanna's would only help his cause. Surely Targaryen wasn't so mad as to really think she was Lyanna reincarnated, certainly! Surely he could convince Rhaegar to instead join him in his efforts. He could convince Rhaegar that Sansa was far more useful as a tool to humiliate her family than to groom as a replacement Lyanna Stark. Hells, aside from their voices, Lyanna and Sansa had nothing in common!
Tonight, of course, was the last straw. He'd stolen her right from under Petyr's nose. And that Petyr could not have.
The swift way the Phantom destroyed the opera house's reputation that Petyr proudly cultivated all these years also urged the impresario to take action. People were laughing at him. Petyr knew it.
Thus, he determined to confront Rhaegar with the rage he'd stored away all these years.
He took the passage-way hidden behind the sliding walls in his office. He arrived here before what sounded like a mob several stories above him neared.
As he waited impatiently by the shore of the lake, he noticed that Rhaegar's boat was moored at the bank. This was odd. But then Petyr realized…yes, of course! Rhaegar steered the boat here to watch the performance, but took Sansa down using the trapdoor beneath the stage…through the tunnels that bypassed the lake. He hadn't needed to row back.
Petyr tired of waiting. If Rhaegar would not meet with him, he would meet with Rhaegar.
He hopped into the boat.
Never an athletic man, he wobbled uncertainly a bit. He grabbed hold of the oar and, holding his breath, he cast off.
As he steered uneasily, he told himself he'd appear like Sansa's knight in shining armor. The poor empty-headed frightened thing would be so glad to see him, to see anyone. He'd bring Rhaegar up short, demand he release her or else he'd tell the police. Rhaegar would capitulate, in the end. Where would he be without Petyr? He couldn't carry on as he was without him. Varys, Varys was tiring of the charade. How long until the manager cracked?
Petyr would make Rhaegar see reason. He always did. He –
The boat jostled to a halt. Petyr almost fell. He frowned. He plunged the oar into the water. He felt nothing directly underneath.
How could he be stuck, dammit? It was almost like he was caught on a reef or something, but impossible in this man-made lake underground.
Too late he saw the reed-like pipe sticking out of the water, serving as a means to breathe –
The boat overturned.
At first all Petyr saw underwater through his panic were undulating shades of black. He instinctively opened his mouth to scream.
As the water filled his lungs and he waved his arms around frantically, the last image accompanying him to his watery grave were two wide purple eyes full of amused malice, the blackened lips tight around the pipe that shot above the surface. Rhaegar's hands squeezed around Petyr's windpipe, pushing him down into blackness, into nothingness.
The lake was still and placid above.
Once he was sure Petyr was dead, Rhaegar emerged, righting his boat and climbing aboard.
As he stood wringing water from his coattails, he said to himself, "That was a long time coming."
He would not miss the opera owner's sniveling air of condescension. Yes, Baelish's death was inevitable. He was a symbol of the worst of Rhaegar's life here: the corruption and the lies. To make himself pure enough for whatever awaited him – the fate of Azor Ahai or as the carrier of his seed – he must rid himself once and for all of that visual reminder of his dark fate here.
He looked upward with surprising nonchalance as the mob's voices and steps grew nearer.
Singing in Valryian, he rowed to the bank. He tripped out and pulled open the slat next to the panel Petyr had used. He pulled down the larger lever within.
"That should slow them all down for a while," he said as he stepped into his boat. He stopped short and massaged his chest again. The burning pain was so intense...
Arya wondered vaguely if she should at all be concerned about any kind of order. She looked at the crowd around her, flinching as someone stumbled and almost side-swiped her with a torch.
Everyone was yelling over everyone else. Everyone was pushing everyone else. She tried getting Ygritte's attention at least, but the dancer was busy rousing another chorus of some Northern fight song even Arya had never heard.
She cried out as someone's elbow thrust into her temple. She almost stumbled onto the ground but was caught by Gendry.
"You all right?" He asked.
She stared grateful into his concerned eyes. In a sea of chaos, he was an oasis of sanity.
He smiled reassuringly as she squeezed his hand.
She didn't have time to identify the warm, fluttering feeling squeezing her chest as she looked at him, but she knew she liked it. Made her happy.
She had no clue how far down below they were. They were marching down an endless flight of steps, the air growing closer and closer. Darkness and cobwebs were all she could see between the drunk bodies full of blood lust.
She sniffed the air. It was cooler all of a sudden, moister. That must mean something….
"Look out!"
Gendry pulled her back just in time, shrieks behind him.
A long portcullis came crashing down from the ceiling, blocking the rest of the way completely.
Mouth hanging open in shock, Arya knocked on the bars.
Iron.
Gendry thought he'd never seen someone resemble a wild animal so much as Arya Stark now, roaring in anger and kicking the bars.
Her feelings were shared by those behind her. "What the hells is this?" "That fucking blighter!" "What is it?" "We're in a fucking dungeon!"
"Arya!" Gendry reached out for her as she was swept up by a wave of hysterical bodies throwing themselves against the gate.
"Oof!" Arya cried, feeling the cold sting of the iron against her. The crowd pressing her there rattled the bars. She realized through the pain that the bars were old and rusted. It was maybe possible to break through. However, the haphazard way the mob was going about it was all wrong.
She took a deep breath. Come on, your sister sings loud enough so that the audience hears all the way in the back row. Same with your aunt. You must have some of their lung power, give it a try!
"STOP!"
While she didn't reach every cursing voice in the back of the mob, those in her immediate vicinity were surprised enough by the tiny figure with the loud voice to give her their attention.
She seized the opportunity. "Look, we can't get it down this way. We need to send people back. There are those big pillars for the dungeon scene. If we can get those down here, we can use them to knock this down."
She'd seen pictures of ancient battles in books Old Nan read to them, of castle sieges and the like. The thought of taking part in similar activities would have ordinarily set her blood aflame, but her mounting fear for Sansa only made her desperately impatient. "We need to hurry!"
"She's right!" Gendry called out, raising his own voice.
"Leave it to me," a new voice suddenly called, pushing his way through.
The mob turned to see the gray head of Barristan Selmy among them. "I've just sent my deputy back. We shouldn't have too long to wait."
Sandor hoped for many reasons they would reach the lair quickly, not least of which was that if he wasn't allowed to kill someone soon, the fat bald head of Varys in front of him would make the top of his list.
The minute Snow entered the scene, Varys hurriedly shoved the lantern in Sandor's hands and told him without sparing him a glance, "Walk behind us, Clegane, and keep an eye out. What I have for Mr. Snow's ears I can't reveal to you until we reach the lair. Come, Jon Snow."
Once again, Sandor was relegated to nothing more than the Hound at heel. He followed dutifully behind, steaming.
Varys spoke to Snow in a hushed voice, reminding Sandor more than ever of a fly buzzing in the distance.
According to Varys, this route was the same taken by Sansa and Rhaegar the night the chandelier fell.
This spiraling staircase…he remembered her describing its narrow steps, the endless descent. Had she struggled more than she'd let on? Had he been rougher with her than she led Sandor to believe?
Sansa, his Sansa down here with a madman forcing her every step.
Sansa down there now, possibly facing death.
He swallowed his groan.
He tried not to, but he imagined her heartbreak when she realized her faithful hound didn't believe her story. He remembered her sad resignation on the roof. He remembered her panic in the office learning of Cersei's death and realizing that no one believed her tale even then.
He remembered the way she kissed him in her dressing room. Please always remember that I love you.
Her voice was steady but her hands had shaken.
His frightened fighting bird.
Damn me. Damn me to all Seven Hells.
He'd never expected at this point in his life to fall so irrevocably for a mere slip of a girl. But that girl…that girl.
He could somehow sense her fear, her despair. This gave him hope, oddly enough. If he could sense her, that meant she lived.
He did not question this notion. He'd always been drawn to her, connected to her. From the very first.
He would be to the very last. He'd save her, and then –
And then –
Well, fuck, he didn't know. But he did know that if they were to end things again, it would be up to her, not him. He'd not let her go by his own choice this time.
He almost ran straight into Snow.
The younger man leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. He held onto the sides seemingly for support.
"You all right?" Sandor asked gruffly, concerned. Was the air down here making him faint? He couldn't let down Sansa and her brother. Fuck, that would be too much even for him.
"Snow!" He shook his shoulder and peered into his face.
There was no suffocation or physical exhaustion in his expression. Heartbreak, disbelief, melancholy, and shock all swirled in the darkness of his black-gray eyes.
The pale young man was a far cry from the upright formal soldier from the dressing room.
Sandor shot an accusing glare at Varys. "What did you tell him?"
The manager only studied Jon with distant sympathy. "I told him what I must." He took hold of the bastard's arm, squeezing it, willing his determination to bleed into Jon. "Come. You must be strong for your" – he sighed, cutting himself off. "For Miss Stark."
Jon seemed to come slowly round. He squinted at the man before him, as if making him out through a heavy fog.
At last he nodded slowly.
He coughed, then straightened himself, tugging at his jacket. "Yes," he repeated expressionless, almost like a clockwork man. Yet Sandor could see the steady bravery of the wolf center him. "For Sansa."
Sandor shook his head, confused and anxious – two feelings he was now closely acquainted with and hated almost worse than his ever-present fear of Gregor and the past. "Well, let's get on with it then."
Uncaring of Varys's instructions, Sandor charged ahead of them, trudging onward.
They were right behind him.
Until an iron gate came down just behind Sandor, separating him from the two men.
He whipped around. "The fuck?"
Varys's shoulders slumped the moment he realized what happened. "Of course he would take this precaution. Of course."
Sandor growled, punching the iron. "What do you mean?"
"This used to be a citadel in the middle ages, remember. Various paranoid Targaryen kings feared the probability of an enraged populous storming the dungeons to free heroic political prisoners. Thus one of those mad kings installed sundry gates in case of such an attack. Pull a lever by the lake – which was just a vast hallway then - and these gates all come down, trapping the mob until the proper authorities can gather and take care of them." Absently testing the old joints of the iron bars, he mused, "To think centuries later, a Targaryen descendant should discover the lever and use it for his own gain."
Sandor saw Jon Snow shiver and look away, face miserable.
"What now?" The young man asked softly.
Varys addressed Sandor. "There is another way for us to go that the gate doesn't block, but we'll have to retrace our steps a bit. Should still get us there shortly before the mob above us, but either way it's an unwanted delay. You, Clegane. You can still make it to the lake before us. Just keep going straight. You can swim?"
"Aye."
"Good. My guess is he took the boat with him this time. It's not a long journey and the water's not terribly deep, but the darkness is pervaisive, so be careful. Keep to the walls, and you'll make it there. Your pistol, though…the water I think will ruin it…."
The Hound's eyes gleamed hellishly in the lantern light. "I won't need no pistol when I see him."
"Don't do anything stupid in a wrong-headed attempt to play the hero. That won't help our Miss Stark in the long run. Remember when you get there: your hand at the level of your eyes. Always."