Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7816309.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), Phantom_of_the_Opera_-_Lloyd_Webber, Phantom_of_the
      Opera_(2004), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark, Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister, Tyrion
      Lannister/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Petyr_Baelish, Tyrion_Lannister, Olenna_Tyrell, Margaery
      Tyrell, Cersei_Lannister, Jaime_Lannister, Lysa_Tully_Arryn, Edmure
      Tully, Joffrey_Baratheon, Catelyn_Tully_Stark_(mentioned), Ned_Stark_
      (mentioned), Robb_Stark_(mentioned)_-_Character, Myranda_(Game_of
      Thrones), Ramsay_Bolton, Brandon_Stark_(mentioned), Jeyne_Poole, Loras
      Tyrell, The_High_Sparrow, Septa_Unella, Aerys_Targaryen
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Phantom_of_the_Opera_Fusion, Opera_Singer_Sansa,
      Dancer_Sansa, Sansa-centric, Phantom_Petyr, Scars, Past_Relationship(s),
      First_Time, Loss_of_Innocence, Loss_of_Virginity, Dancing_and_Singing,
      Operas, Composer_Petyr, Protection, Past_Character_Death, Vaginal_Sex,
      Hand_Jobs, Sexual_Fantasy, Olenna_Is_A_Good_Surrogate_Mom, Margaery_Is_A
      Good_Sis, Secrets, Family_Secrets, Past_Violence, Minor_Character_Death,
      Violence, Threats_of_Violence, Death_Threats, Spooky_Petyr, Canon-Typical
      Violence, Alternate_Universe_-_Fusion, Graphic_Description_of_Corpses,
      Mystery, Voice_Kink, Singing_Kink, Singing, Dancer_Margaery, Alternate
      Universe, Singer_Lysa, Angel_of_Music, Protective_Petyr, That_Black
      Dress, Character_Development, Scar_Shame, Eventual_Smut, Control,
      Possessive_Behavior, Possessive_Petyr, Sexual_Tension, Self-Discovery,
      Flashbacks, Childhood_Memories, Past_Tyrion_Lannister/Sansa_Stark_-
      Freeform, wildfire_-_Freeform, Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-19 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 19219
****** Our Strange Duet ******
by casstayinmyass
Summary
     Sansa Stark, a young, talented opera singer, is haunted by a voice in
     her dreams; he lives through her thoughts, her fantasies, and her
     voice. Little does she know, the voice she hears at night is all too
     real- her saving light, her angel of music... and he has plans for
     her.
Notes
     So in this Phantom of the Opera AU:
     Sansa is Christine
     Petyr is Erik
     Tyrion is Raoul
     Cersei and Jaime are Firmin and Andre
     Lysa is Carlotta
     Olenna and Catelyn-(deceased) are both sort of Madame Giry
     Margaery is Meg
     (This fic was also inspired by this marvelous video: https://
     youtu.be/ULbi7fzCThA )
     I have changed quite a few aspects of the original story, and have
     added a lot more characters, some twisted variations of POTO
     characters. Also, Olenna is Margaery's mother in this, to dial back
     any confusion re age concerns. I decided not to include any period-
     typical discrimination re Tyrion, because it wasn't really necessary
     to the plot and it's done enough already lol. I also may not have
     gotten the dialogue as period-typical as I could have, but then
     again, neither does Game of Thrones. Enjoy :)
***** Prologue *****
 
1919
"Pages... from the old opera, 'Don Juan Triumphant.'"
The shadows of the old opera house danced as the auctioneer's voice echoed
through its empty theater. Many people had gathered to witness or take part in
the auctioning of the old props from the once-great Baelor Opera House. The
place had become a legend after the famed mystery, that had made papers all
over the world.
Here, now, a tired old face gazed upon the memorabilia, a melancholy smile
appearing on his face. Oh, how the beautiful opera house had lost its charm...
the shining gold of the banisters had since faded to a dull copper, the proud
lion statues his own brother had installed eroding under rainfall. And the
black char that had stained the curtains, the entire building, all a horrible
reminder of the green flames that had once licked and devoured them. Nothing he
could do, at his age, would restore the place to its former glory- but perhaps,
if it hadn't decayed along with the walls around it, a certain object might
suffice to soothe his memory.
"Two-hundred francs! Do I hear two-twenty? Going once... going twice... sold,
to the man in the hat. Now here, we have a dress uncovered from the lovely
young dancer Margaery Tyrell's dressing room. A bit singed, a little grimy from
the fire... but a truly wonderful piece, nonetheless."
At this, he saw an old woman raise her head to gaze at the piece of clothing,
not before noticing him as well. She was standing across the way from him, but
even with his failing eyesight, he would recognize her any day.
"One thousand francs," she called, and the room fell silent. The auctioneer
waited, but it was obvious nobody would counter such an offer. The dress was
sold, and the last object was revealed.
"A silver pin, in the shape of a mockingbird," the auctioneer stated, turning
over the item in his hands, "Said to be the last thing uncovered below this
very opera house, untouched by the carnage. It was pinned to a letter, that has
since been lost, which had the wax seal of the Stark family crest. This pin was
rumored to belong to the Phantom himself."
Murmurs erupted throughout the crowd, and he looked around, smiling. None of
these people knew. Only the woman across from him knew, and she held her stare
with him, waiting for his bid.
"Five thousand francs," he said softly, and the auctioneer blinked.
"Excuse me, sir-?"
"Five thousand francs," he repeated, a little louder, and the man nodded.
"Sold! To the short gentleman."
With that, the auction was closed. People dispersed, heading back out the door
that once had opened to so many- but two stayed behind.
"Madame Tyrell," he said quietly, making his way over to the old woman, "Fancy
seeing you here."
"Tyrion Lannister," Olenna replied, raising an eyebrow, "Brought your
treacherous siblings along?"
"Both long passed away, madam. If the gods served proper justice, they would
have died many years prior, but... a wise man once said, justice exists only
where we make it. I suppose my sister did just that."
"I suppose she did. Fancy yourself a superstitious man?"
"That's not why I bought it," Tyrion replied with a smile, "Far from it."
"Good. I always knew you to be a no-nonsense fellow. Pity it would be to lose
such an admirable trait in old age, along with hearing, movement, sight, and
all those other things that would make life so much easier for us."
Tyrion chuckled. "I'm still a lot younger than you are, madam. I have most of
those things left in me."
"At least we lived long enough to complain about them," Olenna remarked,
looking around the place, and Tyrion didn't respond. He knew her daughter had
died in the tragedy. And he knew why, and how.
"You never saw him, did you?" Tyrion asked.
"Who... the ghost?" Olenna asked, turning back to him.
"The man," Tyrion mumbled, remembering his very face like it was the day before
he had seen him last.
"He was no man... and no spirit either," Olenna huffed, "The only evil that
ever existed in this opera house was your sister."
"Perhaps you're right," Tyrion said, "Cersei was an evil, jealous woman. But
Petyr Baelish wasn't evil. He was the angel that watched over her- I've come to
learn that over the years."
"She died with my daughter," Olenna retorted, waving a hand, "Pity the girl
couldn't make it out before it happened. But no 'angel' was there to save my
girl, and no one saved Sansa Stark either. She died all the same."
"Disappeared," Tyrion corrected.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sansa disappeared, madam, believed dead," Tyrion told her, "I believed her
dead too, for many years. Until I returned, and found this, buried under the
stones."
He curled his fingers around a piece of paper in his pocket, and withdrew the
missing letter that accompanied the pin. Olenna took it, and read the words,
written in blood red ink.
My friend,
No harm will come to her.
Until next we meet,
PB
Olenna looked up from the letter. "I see. In light of such a revelation... I
don't suppose you know where they are?"
Tyrion's eyes traveled up the curtains of the grand stage, the color returning
to them as he remembered what it all once looked like, back when Sansa Stark
graced the stage and the public poured in to see her that night.
"No, I'm afraid not. And no one ever will."
***** Chapter 2 *****
1870
"Ladies and gentlemen- I beg your attention!"
The bustling stagehands, singers, dancers, and actors slowed to look over at
the owner of the opera house, Monsieur Aerys. His silvery blonde hair was
unruly, as per usual, the mad look in his eye ever present. Despite his
disheveled appearance, he wore a well-tailored suit, paired with a tasteful red
tie. There must have been an important occasion.
"As you all know," he began, "I've made this opera house my own over the years.
I've loved every minute of working here, but I feel I must retire. So, as such,
I have sold- may I present the new owners of the Baelor Opera House." Following
the introduction, two people stepped forward, one a man in a white suit with
shoulder length blonde hair, the other a lady with the same blonde hair and a
black dress.
"You will answer to them from now on," Aerys concluded, then nodded to everyone
in departure.
"Good riddance," Margaery whispered to Sansa, a fellow ballet dancer in the
upcoming opera and one of the many residents of the opera house, "Monsieur
Targaryen was always muttering to himself, pacing- he wasn't all there."
"Perhaps the tale of the opera ghost got to him," Jeyne, another dancer,
giggled, and Sansa ducked her head, adjusting the skirts of her modest plum
uniform.
"Or perhaps he simply wished to retire," she insisted to both of them, "Not
everything has to be about... that stupid legend." Margaery watched her close
friend's face, the way her eyes jumped nervously. There was something she was
withholding from them... but now wasn't the time to inquire any further. Now,
they had new patrons to fret over.
"Good afternoon," the man said, "My name is Jaime Lannister. This is my sister,
Cersei, and her son, Joffrey." Joffrey surveyed the crowd, scowling. Suddenly,
Sansa's downcast eyes lifted- Lannister? But... where was-
"Our brother is a patron as well," Jaime explained, "Tyrion is currently
examining the place." Sansa's breath caught. She hadn't seen the youngest
Lannister brother in years... so, so many years. And now Tyrion was an uncle?
Of this Joffrey boy?
"But, for the best," Cersei said with a tight smile, "He's quite the unpleasant
fellow to look at- frightening, really. Quite more so than the famed opera
ghost himself!" This sent titters through the performers, despite Jaime's
expression of discomfort. Sansa turned away again, lest they recognize her.
Sansa and Tyrion had been childhood sweethearts; he had a very handsome face,
and was always so kind to her- his height didn't hinder her love for him at
all. Tyrion knew her when her parents and brother were still alive, and as they
were growing up, they fell deeper and deeper for each other... until the awful
accident, and Sansa left her old home forever.
"A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure. But if you please, Madam and Monsieur, may
we proceed with the rehearsal?" Lysa Arryn's, Sansa's dear aunt, shrill voice
rung out, her large nose stuck in the air. Everyone turned to her, to where she
was positioned on stage as she was when Aerys had made the interruption. Lysa
was hard on the eyes, anyone could tell you that, but the shrill voice she
harbored made for an excellent soprano- the house's best, at that, her name
everywhere in the city. For what her voice lacked in the soft, graceful sigh of
the notes she sang, it made up for with powerful vibrato and her commanding
stage presence. It had been her that had allowed Sansa to stay with her in the
opera house as per her mother's wishes, but while Sansa liked to sing on her
own, she remained a backdrop to the remaining family's talent.
"You should hold your tongue, witch," Joffrey growled, but Lysa was far from
intimidated by the young boy.
"How impossibly rude!"
Sansa brought her hand to her mouth, covering her smile. Her aunt Lysa had
taken her in when her parents had died, yes, but that didn't make her any less
cruel and insufferable. 
"Joffrey, please," Cersei whispered, pulling her son back, and Jaime cleared
his throat.
"By all means, continue," Jaime replied quickly, and Lysa gave a sharp nod to
the musical accompaniment, who struck up again from the beginning. Sansa
couldn't help but cringe when she heard Lysa begin to sing- sometimes, it was
hard to believe how famous she had become, with her ear-splitting trill and
horrendous attitude. Jaime and Cersei sauntered through the crowd, and Sansa
gasped a little, turning away.
"What is it?" Margaery asked softly, and Sansa chewed her bottom lip.
"Tyrion's here, Marg. He's back."
"You don't mean..." her friend whispered, her eyes widening. "Him! Him?!
Goodness, Sansa! What are you doing hiding away like this?! Go find him, have a
romantic reunion!"
"You don't understand..." Sansa muttered, "It's been years, and, and I can't,
there's another-" She stopped herself, closing her mouth abruptly, and Margaery
narrowed her eyes.
"What aren't you telling me?" Sansa looked around at all the boxes around the
theatre from backstage, as if looking out for someone, and rubbed her bare
arms.
"We should get into formation."
As Lysa was belting out a particularly long- and loud- note, Sansa and the
other dancers got into the ensemble formation, striking their pose and
beginning to stream out onto the stage. Right before the big finish, Lysa threw
up her arms.
"No, NO, NO, NO!" she snapped at the singer she was doing the duet with, which
happened to be her clueless brother and Sansa's uncle, Edmure, "That is NOT
your position, THIS- is your position!" she screamed, shoving him out of the
way and taking his spot on stage in front of the knight statue behind her,
holding a heavy axe. "Now, I want you to remember not to get in my way, and
stand right where you should be."
"But-" Edmure began, wincing.
"What, you oaf?! Are you afraid the ghost is going to chop your head off with
this axe?!" Suddenly, the set behind her swayed, knocking the knight forward a
little, which sent the axe slicing down right where Lysa would have been- if
not for Jaime's close save.
Everyone fell silent for a moment, and as the shock wore off, Lysa's face
contorted, shoving the Lannister off of her. "Did you see that?!"
"Madam, I-"
"Someone is trying to kill me!" she continued to rant. "I... I refuse to do so
anymore. Finished. FINI! ABSOLUTEMENT FINI!"
"M-madam Arryn," Jaime tried, taking her arm, "Please, think about this-"
"Leave then," Joffrey interjected, "Nobody admires you, anyway. They only
idolize the fame you wield- without it, you're nothing." Jaime's eyes closed,
and Cersei looked down, tapping her foot.
"I REFUSE to work with... that little monster!" Lysa snapped, "Find a new first
soprano, Monsieur Lannister. I am finished!"
Stomping away and brushing off her dress in a tizzy, Lysa disappeared into the
wings, leaving Jaime to run both hands through his hair and Cersei to cross her
arms. Sansa watched her go- it didn't matter much if her aunt left the opera
house, really. Upon arrival, a much kinder lady, Olenna Tyrell, had treated her
like a second daughter, second to Margaery, her own. She had found a family
with them.
"First day on the job and they've already lost their star," Madam Tyrell
tutted, walking by the two girls in the disorderly ensemble.
"What do you think could possibly have caused that axe to fall?" Margaery
hissed conspiratorially, but Sansa didn't answer; her eyes were focused on the
subtle swinging of the ropes from above, a troubled feeling rising inside of
her.
"We can't have this," Jaime murmured to Cersei, avoiding Joffrey's ears, as he
had already lost them enough, "Do you know how this looks on us? We have to do
something."
"I don't want her back, terribly," Cersei shot back, "Joffrey might have been
more gentle with his words than he was, but he was right. She was a hideous,
piercing wretch, that made me want to stick blades into my eardrums."
"I can't argue with you there," Jaime whispered back, "But she's our first
soprano- she's who the public come for. How can we have a show without Lysa
Arryn? We'll have to cancel it."
"Excuse me, monsieur, if I may," someone said behind them, and both turned to
find a woman dressed in a blue and gold dress, pillbox hat secured with a scarf
the colour of her eyes.
"Yes, what is it?" Jaime asked, squinting. Everyone gathered around as the
three spoke. 
"It seems as though Madam Arryn is out of the question..." Olenna shrugged, "I
know someone who may be perfect for the part."
"How?" Jaime asked, "It would have to be someone who knew the entire piece...
the lines, the melody, the staging... you can't possibly know of someone that
capable." Olenna simply smiled, and took Sansa's hand, leading her forward.
Margaery clapped her hands silently, backing up into the crowd a little more.
Sansa had dreamed of this for years...
"Her?" Jaime asked, "She's only a girl."
"You haven't heard her sing," Olenna smirked, winking at Sansa. The redheaded
young woman opened her mouth in protest.
"I-I'm not suited to the part, Monsieur... I'm not experienced, I've only ever
sung twice, I'm not-"
"Come here, little dove," Cersei said curiously, eyeing Sansa, "Let me see
you." Nervously, Sansa stepped forward, and Cersei's eyes narrowed. "You must
have done some singing... I feel I've seen you before."
"Sansa has only ever performed the man's part in one opera a year ago," Olenna
told Cersei, "But we've all heard her sing in her chambers. She's magnificent."
"Sansa...?" Cersei repeated, the name rolling off of her tongue distastefully,
"Sansa... Stark?"
"Yes," Sansa replied quietly, stroking her braid. Jaime looked at her now too,
in shock.
"My god... it's been years," he said.
"It has," Cersei mused, then exhaled through her nose. "Our demon of a brother
wouldn't stop talking about you... I suppose you're our only hope. Go ahead,
now- sing for us, then." Sansa's mouth opened a little. She wasn't ready... she
hadn't prepared... but, even so-
She was. She knew the lines. She knew the piece, better than anyone... and she
knew exactly where to stand. Taking a deep breath, she began.
"Who are you, the proud Lord said, that I must bow so low... only a cat of a
different coat, that's all the truth I know...." Her gentle, beautiful voice
soared out and enchanted everyone listening; immediately, after the first note,
the Lannisters knew who could replace their first soprano.
"A coat of gold, a coat of red, a lion still has claws," Sansa sang to the
theatre full of people the very next night, dressed all in white fur, her hair
done up and cascading down her back, "And mine are long, and sharp my lord, as
long as sharp as yours."Taking a pause for the flutes to join the violins,
Sansa gazed out at her audience. She had only ever dreamed of so many people
coming out to see her, only her, on stage. Hours she had spent in her chambers,
practicing until her throat was sore- but he would tell her to continue. Sing,
she could still here his rasping, hypnotic voice in her ears, his shadow in her
mirror, Sing for me...
"And so he spoke, and so he spoke, the Rains of Castamere,"Sansa belted
brilliantly for the big finish, memories of her coaching fresh in her mind,
"And now the Rains weep o'er his halls, with no one there to here."Just as she
was about to sing her last line, she noticed someone watching from the
audience, in one of the boxes.
Tyrion. He was there, watching her.
"And now the Rains... weep o'er his halls... with not.... a soul.... to hear,"
she finished the opera, eyes fluttering closed as her vibrato softened into
nothing, consumed by the crowd's deafening applause. As the curtains closed,
she hurried offstage, determined to get to her chambers and ease her fluttering
stomach. On her way, people congratulated her, gave her flowers, too many to
hold. She was overwhelmed with adoration people were showing for her, but over
everyone's fawning, she could hear him.
"Bravo... bravo, my love."
"Sansa!" she heard as she was rounding a corner, and her pale cheeks flushed in
recognition of the voice.
"Tyrion," she breathed, "You're... your family owns the Baelon now, I...!"
"I know," the Lannister grinned, "Rather shocking, isn't it? My family taking
part in anything cultured."
"You were the only one who knew anything about opera," Sansa recalled, "Was
this your idea?" 
"Surprisingly, no," Tyrion told her, frowning, "Jaime and Cersei needed
desperately to own something, and with both their brain power combined, they
were able to come up with the great Baelon opera house. As it so happened,
Monsieur Targaryen, like so many other men, was easily swayed by one million
francs." Sansa's eyebrows raised.
"You bought it for that much?"
"Yes, without even knowing you worked here!" Tyrion chuckled, and Sansa managed
a laugh as well.
"Lived here, as well. Oh monsieur, I never thought I'd see you again," Sansa
muttered, and Tyrion smiled a little.
"And I you. What a stroke of luck." He leaned forward, and took her hand,
kissing it. "My dear, you were magnificent tonight." Sansa felt the blush
creeping back.
"Thank you very much, you're too kind." Suddenly, she felt a chill run through
her. She looked around, and knew instantly they were being watched.
"Tyrion, I... I have to go."
"May I accompany you back to your room, to see that you don't fall asleep on
the way?"
"I'm afraid I... I must bathe and retire for the night," Sansa babbled, "I'm
awfully tired, you know."
"Of course, of course. Pleasant dreams- I'm sure I'll be seeing you."
"Yes," Sansa whispered, turning and walking briskly to her chambers. The opera
ghost was angry. She knew he was. Fear coursed through her veins as she opened
her door- but all she found was Margaery, lighting some candles.
"I figured you would scamper back here right after the performance," she
teased. She still had her stage makeup and costume on, her pretty, mischievous
features illuminated by the white of her simple ballet dress.
"I was feeling ill," Sansa lied, holding her stomach. Margaery quirked an
eyebrow, patting the bed.
"And so you should, after performing for the first time in front of thousands
of people, alone."
"It was terrifying," Sansa agreed, and the girls burst into giggles. Margaery
took her hands excitedly.
"Please, I beg you, you have to tell me."
"Tell you... what?"
"Who taught you to sing like that?"
Sansa hesitated. Surely she wouldn't believe her. Nobody would. She wasn't even
sure she believed it herself sometimes, as she had never even seen him... it.
"Your secret is safe with me," Margaery laughed at her jumpy mannerisms, "Oh,
Sansa, Sansa." Sansa's eyes flitted uneasily around her chambers at the echo of
her name in a deeper, darker voice.
"Margaery," Sansa began, looking down, "When my mother and father died... they
sent the angel of music to guide me." A frown appeared to crease Margaery's
face, but Sansa continued, already having introduced the secret. "My mother
once spoke of an angel... I used to dream of him when I was younger; coming to
me, taking my hand, kissing my forehead. Even now, as I speak, Margaery- I can
sense him, in this room. I know he's here." Her friend's head turned
apprehensively, scanning the walls through the flickering candlelight, and
Sansa went on. "Here, in my room... when I'm alone, he calls my name. I don't
know where he is, but he's hiding somewhere- somehow, I just know he's always
with me."
Worry evident in her brown eyes, Margaery sighed. "Sansa... you must have been
dreaming. Stories like that just can't be true! You're talking in riddles," she
said, feeling her friend's forehead, "This isn't like you."
Leaning out of Margaery's touch, Sansa shook her head in frustration. "This...
this angel of music... I never see him. I want to see him-!"
"You must have a fever-"
"He's with me even now," the singer whispered, her blood running cold.
"Sansa, your hands are cold."
"He's here, I know it's him-"
"Your face is white-" 
"It frightens me!" she choked, collapsing back, and Margaery held the shaking
girl, resting her head against Sansa's as she brushed her hair from her face.
"Shhh... don't be frightened."
Eventually pulling back, Sansa wiped her tears on her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I'm
just a stupid little girl, with stupid dreams." Margaery managed her a small
smile.
"There's nothing stupid about missing your parents- and that's all it is. Now
get some rest, my darling. The twins will no doubt want more of you tomorrow." 
Sniffling, Sansa watched Margaery squeeze her hand and go, leaving her to a
quiet room and eerie shadows crawling up her walls; if she could bare the
stifling darkness, she would blow out the wretched candles. Sansa got up after
another moment, walking out the door as well. She had to go to her dressing
room, to wash for bed. Perhaps it would be more brightly lit in there.
Upon entering the room, she realized it was not; and she was not alone.
"Sansa," Tyrion said, stepping forward. "Forgive me, I- I don't mean to
intrude. I know I shouldn't be visiting you at such a late hour, but..." he
looked up at her, "I couldn't wait." Sansa felt a relieved sense of
familiarity, and couldn't bare to scold Tyrion for visiting her in such a
private place.
"Alright," she whispered.
Tyrion smiled. "Would you care to accompany me to dinner tomorrow evening?"
At first, Sansa didn't know what to think, or how to respond. Despite
everything, it brought her at least some joy remembering the days she spent
with this man- a boy, at the time- in her childhood, he had brought her nothing
but happiness, and she recalled just how deeply in love they were. Maybe, if
she was to go with him...
"Monsieur," she said, looking around, "I have to tell you something." Maybe he
would believe her. Maybe he could help.
"Anything, Sansa," he said slowly.
"You... you've heard the tale."
"The tale...?"
"Of the spirit that lives here," she tried, biting her lip.
"Oh! The great phantom of the opera?" Tyrion smirked, "Of course I have.
Wonderful story."
Sansa was apprehensive after hearing his tone of voice regarding the subject.
"Tyrion, he's..." Gazing down into the youngest Lannister brother's expectant
eyes, she decided to tell the truth. "I've heard him. I've heard him speak to
me." For a moment, Sansa thought her former lover was going to laugh. But he
didn't- no, Tyrion wasn't a cruel man.
"I'm sorry, Sansa, but... are you feeling alright?"
"I'm feeling fine, can't anyone see that?!" Sansa cried in a sudden outburst,
turning away. Of course he wouldn't believe her. She hadn't seen him in years,
how could she expect him to be the same carefree, frivolous boy he was then?!
Tyrion grabbed her arm, pulling her back.
"Sansa, Sansa, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm simply... concerned, that's
all."
"With what, my sanity?" she asked, snapping her hand away. Tyrion sighed,
closing his eyes.
"My dear, I would never imply such a thing. But phantoms... ghosts? All flights
of fancy, I'm afraid. Candles playing tricks, tired eyes seeing what they want-
sensitive ears, as the case may be. A rather racy fantasy, wouldn't you agree?
Should I tell Madam Olenna what the innocent Sansa Stark is up to?" he
attempted to tease, as teasing is what he was always best at. This time, Sansa
wasn't charmed by his jokes.
"I know what I heard," Sansa murmured indignantly, lower lip trembling. Tyrion
carefully rubbed her hand with his own once more, easing her into an embrace.
"It's alright... please, forgive me." After a moment, Sansa wiped her eyes,
seeing it was futile to hold a grudge against him with a little nod of
acceptance. Tyrion nodded back. "If you don't despise me too much now... would
you do me the honor of accompanying me tomorrow night? It will take your mind
off of such distressful things. Will you?" Sansa stared at the high ceiling of
her dressing room, willing any more tears away.
"Yes," she nodded, surprising Tyrion, "Yes, I will." She swept a strand of hair
aside. "Tomorrow evening, then." Tyrion smiled, kissing her hand again, and
nodded, taking his leave.
"Good night."
Shutting the door, Sansa sunk down to the floor, burying her face in her hands.
That's when she heard it- the rumbling, the build of a storm she knew was
coming, building up and up behind the wall, until-
"Insolent boy, your rich little suitor," his voice growled angrily, "Does he
really think you're his to take?"
"Oh," Sansa whispered, looking everywhere and standing, "S-stay by my side,
I'm... I'm sorry... please, I don't know what I was thinking, I-"
"Sansa... don't be sorry," he murmured, his voice softening immediately as it
echoed all around her, "Don't be frightened. Open your eyes for me." Sansa
slowly opened them, to stare ahead at the huge mirror at the other side of the
room.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice trembling and barely audible as she trailed her
fingertips across the wallpaper, "I've never seen you. I want to see you."
There was a long pause, and Sansa was beginning to think he was gone, before
she heard him again.
"Look at your face in the mirror, and you'll find me there." Heart pounding,
she stared into the mirror. This was what she had been waiting for... Eyes
squinting, she could see someone begin to appear through the other side,
walking closer and closer. She slowly walked over to the mirror, dress trailing
behind her.
"I want you to see why I hide," he continued, "Come to me, Sansa. Beyond these
walls." Reaching out, the young woman discovered that the mirror was, in fact,
a door- opening it, she saw a long hallway, with stairs leading down at the
end... and in front of her, he stood.
 His gaze was dark, his eyes even darker- the man before her was mysterious,
handsome, ethereal- she was riveted by his appearance, the silver mockingbird
pinned to his neck, feeling her heart beat even faster as his eyes travelled
down her body in turn. Her entire life, she had thought of him as the father
she had lost... now, her confusion was evident. She was attracted to him. As
Petyr drew her close to him in an embrace, she clung to his robe, face pressed
into his heaving chest to at last breathe life into the vision, the ghost she'd
known her entire life. 
"Call me Petyr," he breathed into her hair, "And take my hand." 
With a curious glance, Sansa hesitated... then took it. 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Accepting his hand, Sansa followed in curiosity as Petyr took a candelabra off
the wall, and used it to guide their way. The mirror closed, their footsteps
fading away. Outside the dressing room door, Olenna frowned, knocking once.
"Sansa, dear? You've been in there for quite a while. Have you fallen asleep?
Sansa?"
"When I was a child," Sansa began, straying deeper and deeper beneath the
grounds with him, "I never thought you were real... yet, you were the father I
always wished for."
"I'm no phantom," Petyr smiled, "And you're no child."
"Let me look at you again." 
"Of course... now you'll understand why I can't show my face."
Petyr then turned to her, and Sansa illuminated his face with the candle she
was holding. He lifted his chin, displaying a long scar running up his neck to
his left eye and past it. She hadn't noticed it earlier- perhaps because of the
dim lighting. "What happened?"
"A painful story for another time," Petyr told her, and guided her onward,
through the dark hall and down the winding steps to a small boat.
"Are people frightened of you?" Sansa asked timidly. Petyr gave a small smile.
"Oh, yes."
"Why?"
"So many questions, sweetling... let me show you something that will answer
them all." Watching him lead on, Sansa couldn't stop her heartbeat. She was
attracted to him, there was no denying that... but everything about him felt
precarious, as if she was stepping out onto a bridge that could give at any
moment. Perhaps it was the danger of it all that pulled her in.
"You have no idea how much I care for you, Sansa," he spoke up, "You have
nothing to fear."
"I trust you," she assured him, even though this was betraying every bit of
common sense she possessed. Every minute of this was absurd; she was surely
dreaming. At least it was a pleasant dream, and not one of the frequent ones
she experienced involving her parents.
Petyr pushed the boat off, taking her through the catacombs of the opera house
she had no idea existed before this night. What she could see from him after
her admission of trust was an almost sly grin on his face- Sansa couldn't tell
in the dark. "You were beautiful tonight," he told her, "Just as you always
are."
"Thank you," she blushed, "I don't think I was quite as talented as other
singers in the company could have been, provided the chance..."
"I disagree. Your voice, Sansa, is like an angel," Petyr said, "My angel of
music."
He stopped the boat. They had come to what appeared to be where the phantom
lived.  
"Why have you taken me here?" Sansa asked, looking back the way they came in a
sudden panic. How far had they gone? Where were they?  "Are you going to return
me?" She had just followed a complete stranger down below the opera house, to a
strange, candlelit dwelling. But then... he wasn't a stranger really, was he?
"Say the word, and I'll take you home," Petyr assured her, "But I thought you
may want to learn the secret behind who has been haunting you, all these
years." The red-haired girl took Petyr's offered gloved hand as she stepped out
of the boat, and took a few steps. There were mirrors with black drapes over
them, candles everywhere, piles of books, a bottle of ink, a quill, a desk, and
many sheets of blank paper. The paper that was used was filled with notes...
"You write music?"
"Operas," Petyr told her, watching her reaction closely.
"How magnificent!" Sansa grinned excitedly, going over, "Oh, how I would love
to sing one of them one day!" She began to leaf through a pile of a seemingly
beautiful opera written for a soprano that resembled her own vocal range
suspiciously closely, before Petyr stopped her with a gentle but firm hand to
hers.
"In time." Quickly, Sansa averted her eyes across to something beside the desk.
"Is this... me?" she asked, coming up to a painting of her in a particularly
form-fitting black dress. The girl in the picture had black hair, but the
resemblance in the eyes and cheekbones was striking. Petyr came up behind her,
staring at the picture as well.
"It is."
"But... my hair isn't black."
"Only a fantasy," Petyr smiled, "As I was to you." Sansa hesitated, suddenly
feeling extremely exposed. She rubbed her bare arms, feeling underdressed in
her half-tied bodice and sleeping skirts.
"W-what do you mean?" 
"I wasn't like a father to you, was I, Sansa?" he rasped, sending chills down
her spine as the atmosphere between them changed. "No... much more than that.
You knew I was there." Suddenly, he was close- too close. "You knew I was
watching you. Every breath... every sigh... every..." he leaned in closer,
wrapping a red curl around his finger, "Moan. For all the times I called your
name, you called mine twice more, desperate for me to fuck you." Sansa looked
down, feeling her cheeks burn.
He knew... of course he did. Every time she had touched herself, opened her
legs for the imaginary man she could only listen to, and trailed her own hand
down her body, she had imagined him, innocence forgotten, slipping inside of
her, making her cry out for him in the middle of the night. She was only a
child back then, but now...
"I want you," Sansa whispered.
"I know," Petyr smiled, hands gripping her shoulders from behind.
"Funny thing, I didn't even know what you looked like..."
"Now you do."
"...Now I do."
"Are you disappointed?" 
Sansa turned to look at Petyr, over his features and over his body. "No," she
replied calmly.
"I'm glad to hear it," Petyr murmured, turning her around and pulling her
closer. Gasping, Sansa closed her eyes and parted her lips- only for a second
of anticipation to go by, feeling nothing. No rough hands cupping her cheeks,
as they would in all of her fantasies before pulling her in gently. No lips
enveloping hers, no fingers wandering to untie her bodice. Opening her eyes
again, she realized Petyr had released her, going over to sit and pick up a
quill with some paper. Immediately, she felt disgusted by her sexual reaction.
But, despite Petyr's unnerving mannerisms, one look at him and she was at
peace.
"The bed is over there, my love. Sleep. You're safe here."
Now that he mentioned it, Sansa did feel sleep beginning to set in- her eyelids
felt heavier with each passing second, and the damned dress she had on was
heavy and loathsome. The air smelt so nice... there must be some sort of
incense burning, something making her... drowsier... But, she couldn't just
fall asleep... not like this...
"Petyr, why do you have a picture of me?" she asked quietly, crawling back onto
the bed in sluggish movements. Averting his eyes as her bodice began slipping
down to reveal the outline of her breast, Petyr took in a breath.
"It's a picture I keep in my mind- one I cherish greatly. You, the star of the
opera house, and me, by your side... no scar to be found and writing the music
you sing." 
"It's... a pretty... picture," Sansa slurred, dozing off to the image of her,
singing in front of everyone, and Petyr watching with a sly smile from the
shadowy wings of the stage.
He walked over, watching her fondly, and pulled the blankets over the sleeping
singer... his sleeping Sansa. The last thing she felt was something being
placed in her hand.
Sansa awoke the next morning in her dressing room. Blinking her blue eyes
blearily, she yawned; it was only a dream, the realization crept up on her. Her
face fell a little, disappointment welling inside of her. Just as she was about
to stand, she opened her fist and heard something clatter... there, on the
ground next to her, was the mockingbird pin.
"Petyr," she whispered to the empty room, rubbing her shoulders.
                                    -0-0-0-
"What the devil are we to do about this?!" Jaime sputtered, reading and re-
reading the letter in his hands he had been delivered early that morning.
Cersei was pacing.
"I don't know. Why didn't you ask Lysa Arryn, when she came storming in this
morning, waving that letter around like a madwoman?"
"Lysa Arryn is in a state, there's no speaking with her. But this is bloody
impossible, Sansa is nowhere to be found, she's been missing for a week."
"Impossible, you're so right."
"But obviously, we have to find her now!"
"Why, so Madam Arryn can resign once more?"
"Oh you know she'll come back, Cersei, she's done this before."
"I won't have Sansa sing it," Cersei said, shaking her head, "Even if we do
find the little whore, I won't."
"But the threat-" Jaime started, and his sister whipped around, venom in her
expression.
"Have you fallen so far that you bend to a challenge without a second thought?
Did they take that much from you?!" She grabbed his wooden hand that had been a
result of the Crimean war to reiterate, and Jaime looked down. "You're nothing
but a spineless, shell of a man."
"Watch your tongue," Jaime bit back, standing up and jerking his hand away from
her, "You think you're smarter than I am? You're reckless, Cersei. The letter
says, 'You will stage your opera with Sansa Stark as your star. Disobey this,
and the consequences will be disaster beyond your imagination.' Signed: the
Phantom of the Opera. Are we willing to risk that?"
"Sansa Stark was an accident. We needed someone, she was there. We cannot
listen to something a... a madmanplaying jokes has commanded us to do. That
little girl cannot sing this opera, she will ruin the entire thing."
"She did considerably well last time-"
"That was last time!" Cersei hissed, "She is unfit. Lysa Arryn agreed to
return, I won't lose our best singer again. We just bought the place, Jaime...
all of father's money is riding on this." Jaime spent a long time staring at
his sister. He had always known her to be a jealous woman- Cersei didn't long
for the girl's talent, only her newfound recognition... but to disregard a
letter from someone who was clearly prepared to bring about unimaginable
disaster, was foolish. He didn't know what to do.
"Cersei," he whispered, then turned. It frustrated him sometimes how much he
was willing to do for his sister. "Very well. The opera goes on as planned...
Lysa Arryn as our star." Cersei nodded, getting up.
"Burn the letter. Let this phantom of the opera know we take orders from no one
in our opera house." Jaime watched her leave, staring down at the blood red ink
one last time.
                                    -0-0-0-
Sansa hurried out, down the hallway from the dressing room. She was already
late to the first early rehearsal for the opera they were to be staging, "II
Muto." Running now, she picked up her skirts, and stopped short when she saw
Tyrion walking with his nephew.
"Sansa!" she heard, and Tyrion ran toward her, expression deeply concerned.
"Where have you been?! Good god, Lady Olenna was beside herself with worry, we
all were!"
"What are you talking about?" Sansa frowned.
"We feared the worst, with you being gone a week!" Tyrion explained, and
Sansa's heart sunk.A week? She had been sleeping for a week?
"I... I didn't know I was..." she began, and Tyrion reached forward, drawing
her down to wrap her in his arms.
"Sansa, it's alright... you look like you're about to cry." 
"It's been a tiring night... week," she murmured, shrugging him off. She hated
how often she cried as it was; then she noticed Joffrey standing to the side,
foot tapping and jaw set.
"Monsieur, I don't think I've had the pleasure," she attempted to smile, "I
used to know your uncle, we were very close-"
"I know," Joffrey snapped, "You think I care? Mother tells me you're just a
snivelling little slut, who fucked my brother for his money." 
Sansa's shock was punctuated with a slap from Tyrion to his nephew, eyes wide
and angry. "How dare you?" he hissed to Joffrey, "That is no way to speak to a
lady, spouting horrible lies like that!"
"I... I-I'm telling mother," Joffrey spat, holding a hand to his cheek.
"Go on, tell her- but first, you will apologize to Sansa, for being so
incredibly rude!"
"It's alright-" Sansa began, biting her lip, but Tyrion held up a hand of
assurance.
"You can't make me-!" Joffrey started, clenching his fists, but Tyrion smacked
him again, causing the boy to recoil.
"Do we have an understanding?" Tyrion growled. Joffrey hesitated, then turned
to Sansa.
"I... apologize, Mademoiselle," he mumbled quietly, and Sansa nodded slowly.
"Go," Tyrion muttered, and Joffrey walked off bitterly. "I apologize for him,
he doesn't handle-"
"Is that what your family thinks of me?" Sansa asked, and Tyrion's eyes closed.
"We never even... we didn't-" She let out a frustrated huff. "I loved you. I
did!"
"As did I," Tyrion replied, taking her hands, "As do I." Remembering Petyr's
reaction to the last time Tyrion said something similar and he overheard, Sansa
suddenly went pale.
"I... I have to go to my rehearsal."
"The opera is tomorrow night. You've missed a week of rehearsals, remember?"
Sansa sighed.
"I must attend the dress rehearsal, then, and see what I can manage."
Upon arrival, Margaery and Olenna immediately crowded around her with the other
dancers, asking where she had been and if she was alright.
"I visited your chambers, and found no one there," Olenna told her, "Then I
searched your dressing room and found nothing of you!"
"The night of your disappearance, you were talking about all that phantom
business... I didn't know what to think," Margaery added, fussing over her.
"Where have you been, dear girl?!"
"Do tell!"
"I... I don't know," Sansa answered, and it was partially true. Wherever Petyr
had taken her was a secret place beyond anywhere anyone but her had ever gone,
and she felt that nobody would really understand.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" Margaery asked.
"I wasn't awake... I wasn't... conscious."
"You were taken against your will, then?" Olenna asked, eyebrows raising.
"No! No, I... I don't know," Sansa repeated, looking down. Olenna sighed, and
put a hand on her shoulder.
"It's alright... it's in the past, I suppose. You're back now, where nobody can
hurt you. Now get in your place, my girl, before Lysa, the intolerable tart,
puts you in it!"
"Lysa?" Sansa whispered, and Margaery nodded, guiding her to their place in the
ensemble of dancers.
"When Jaime and Cersei couldn't find you, they began to panic. They had no one
to sing the lead- until Lysa returned. A gift from God, they called it; and
now, she's our star again."
"Oh," Sansa breathed, unable to hide her disappointment. But then, how could
she have expected that wonderful night to mean anything? Of course it wouldn't
last. Idly, though, as the curtains parted and Lysa began to sing on the high
stage left balcony, she thought back to what Petyr had said-
"You, the star of the opera house, and me, by your side."
But, from the dark reflection of the mirror in Jaime's chambers, Petyr watched
his letter burn in the fire, a smile twitching at his lips.
So be it.
***** Chapter 4 *****
The audience was full- the house seats had been occupied to the very last, each
box as well- except for Box no. 5., which Petyr always made sure to anonymously
buy out for himself. 
"Places," Jaime said, walking around, "We have a lot of money riding on
tonight!"
"You'll all be amazing," Cersei smiled, too sweetly, and Lysa smiled back,
taking her position to stage left. Sansa watched everyone from her place beside
Margaery, who looked stunning tonight in the standard blue ballet uniform.
Sansa, if nothing else, had been given the part of the pageboy, so her hair had
been pulled back into a tight bun, her chest bound.
"You look positively handsome," Margaery smirked, nudging Sansa, "Care to walk
me back to my chambers tonight?"
"Margaery!" Sansa admonished, suppressing a giggle, and the two straightened
their faces again as Lysa whipped around and gave them both a withering glare. 
With a flurry, the music began, the grand curtains opened, and Lysa started to
sing. The company of dancers followed to the front of the stage, and Sansa
surveyed the crowd. Gazing around, she noticed wealthy men and women, wearing
diamond earrings and expensive fur... suddenly, she felt nervous, as if she was
back on the stage again the first night she sang.
Lysa's voice rang out in its sharp trill, carrying out to the many seats of the
audience. As the song went on, Sansa's cue arrived; deliver a letter to her
aunt, sing one line to explain the contents, then run off to join the dancers
again. She did so, and when she had returned to pirouette with Margaery, she
watched Lysa climb the steps to the balcony that had been an essential part of
this opera. Looking down, she continued to sing, and Edmure sang the male part
from the balcony opposite Lysa stage right, thankfully carrying the tune well
enough. 
They sang and continued to sing, and just as Lysa was supposed to catch the
rose her duet partner tossed from across the stage, Sansa looked up to watch
once more- she always loved this part. But as she stared, she saw something of
a shadow move behind Lysa, then disappear in the blink of an eye, and her heart
dropped. She leaned forward, and a sickening crack was heard- the audience
gasped collectively, and the instruments ceased as Lysa's piercing scream
resonated throughout the theatre, her arms flailing as she fell down, down...
Sansa's eyes squeezed shut as she heard the impact of her aunt's fall, and
suddenly, everyone in the audience was looking around, wondering if this was
part of the opera. Looking to the wings, Sansa saw Cersei and Jaime exchange a
horrified look, before running out on stage and calling for the curtains to be
closed. Edmure dutifully began clapping, hoping it would catch on, and the
theatre burst into applause as the curtains finally shut. Ceasing his applause,
Edmure rushed down from the stage right balcony to his sister's side, where
everyone had crowded.
Sansa didn't dare look- she knew what she would find, and she had already
witnessed the gruesome aftermath of an accident once before in her life. 
Of course, the former had been an accident. She wasn't so sure about this one.
                                    -0-0-0-
"Petyr!" Sansa called in her room. She heard nothing, so she opened the mirror
and took a candle off the wall to light her passage. In light of the terrible
accident that evening, Tyrion's invitation to dinner had been overlooked, which
put Sansa at ease, somewhat. "PETYR!"
She assumed a boat would be easy to maneuver... she attempted to row herself
the way they had gone that night, and she actually managed to find her way to
the soft glow in the distance that was Petyr's abode.  
"Sansa?" she heard, and saw Petyr's slim form stand in the distance in
anticipation of her arrival.
"Petyr, did you hear?!" she cried, stepping off the boat gingerly so as not to
ruin her dress in the water.
"Hear what, my love?"
"Oh Petyr, it was awful!" Sansa explained emphatically, "My aunt, the one who
brought me here, she... she fell, and..." Slowly, as Sansa studied Petyr's
expression, something dawned on her. "You know."
"I do," Petyr nodded, "It was a... deeply disturbing event. I'm so sorry you
witnessed such a thing happening to one so close to you. She must have been a
loving woman with many friends, if you were under her care. She'll be missed, I
assume." Sansa wiped her eyes, breathing out.
"She was none of those things, really. My aunt Lysa and I weren't very close.
She was my family, but... the dreadful thing is, I don't feel bad." She shook
her head, "I'm a terrible, terrible person!"
"No. I understand."
She stared at him, eyes narrowing.
"How did you know about it? Were you there, were you watching the performance?"
"Yes, I was there."
"Where were you?! Why didn't I see you?"
"I always occupy box number five," Petyr told her, trailing a hand down her
arm, "That way, I can watch everything with nobody knowing I'm there."
"But now I know you're there," Sansa retorted. Petyr smiled.
"Yes. You do. You'll also know when I'm not there... and what happens at such
times."
Sansa took a moment before her hooded gaze met Petyr's brown eyes. "You did
it."
"I don't-"
"You killed her... you killed my aunt Lysa!"
"My dear Sansa, how could I have accomplished such a thing?" Petyr asked
calmly, too calmly for someone who was just accused of murder. He smoothed his
hands down her arms to calm her hysterics. "I was nowhere near Madam Arryn
while she was singing. A terrible, heinoustragedy... that's all it was." Sansa
blinked a few times, and relaxed gradually.
"I'm sorry, I... I don't know what I was thinking, accusing you of-"
"It's quite alright, my dear," Petyr smirked, guiding her to sit, "You've been
through a great deal today." She sniffed, and looked at him.
"You knew my mother?"
Petyr seemed surprised by the question, but gradually nodded. "I did. She was a
kind woman... a simple woman, who wanted simple things. She didn't know me for
long, but I understood her from afar."
Sansa didn't know the story of how she had met Petyr, and she was curious. But
something in Petyr's eyes told her he had reservations about telling her... she
decided he had already revealed enough for now.
"She sent me you," Sansa said, "To look over me." Petyr's gaze dropped down to
his lap, then rose up to meet Sansa's eyes once more.
"And that, my love, is what I intend to do." Sansa looked down to where Petyr
had his hand on her knee. Her legs parted slightly, causing her skirts to fall
and allow skin to graze skin. Sansa's eyes travelled up the length of Petyr's
chest to his mouth, suddenly feeling the urge to taste him. She lifted her hand
to his face, tilting his head so that the candlelight shone on his scar- Sansa
could tell, as his gaze lowered to the ground, that he was still deeply ashamed
of his appearance. She could also tell he possessed deep insecurities, ones
that she may never discover the meaning behind. She reassured the reluctant man
before her by placing a gentle kiss to the base of his scar and the dead,
deformed skin around it, kissing up the line of it softly until she got to his
hairline, where she twisted her fingers to pull him in closer.
Lost in the feeling of her touch, Petyr finally caught up with her movements,
and he dipped his hands under her skirts, lifting her up and parting his legs
to let her straddle him where he sat. Sansa's breath caught as she felt the
swell of his hardening manhood against where she needed him most- she had only
dreamed of this before. Wordlessly, Petyr reached behind Sansa, masterfully
untying one lace after the other of her dress, then of her bodice. As that
slipped off, Sansa blushed, the flush spreading down to her neck. She had never
allowed anyone to see her like this, not even Petyr. Petyr's eyes were hungry
as they took in the sight of her breasts, small enough to fit in Petyr's hands
but just large enough for him to enjoy. Sansa's head tipped back as Petyr took
one nipple into his mouth, sucking lightly until he had brought it to a peak.
He repeated the action on the other nipple, receiving the same reaction, and
moved back up to capture her lips. Rolling her hips down, Sansa moaned quietly,
feeling Petyr's cock twitch in response. He wanted to be in her, there was no
doubt about that... he just didn't want to hurt her.
"Petyr," she whispered, untying his clothes as well and shrugging them off.
"Take your time," Petyr whispered back, stalling her hands to a slower measure.
Sansa bit her lip.
"I'm not..." she looked down bashfully, "I don't know how to..."
"How to touch a man? You're doing quite well so far." Sansa blushed deeply.  
"I've... I've touched a man before, and allowed him to touch me intimately...
but..." She averted her eyes. "I'm still virginal." Petyr smiled, kissing her
ear.
"Are you certain of that? You're sure... Tyrion Lannister didn't spoil you?"
"Petyr-"
Petyr silenced her by kissing her again, this time deeper, with even more
fervor. He finished unlacing his own breeches, and Sansa rubbed herself against
him for a moment before climbing further atop his lap. With hushed reassurances
in her ear, Petyr fully buried himself inside of her, Sansa letting out a cry
into his shoulder at the pain. He waited for her to adjust, and when she caught
her breath and began to gyrate, he slowly pushed his hips upward. Petyr's own
breathing quickened, but he remained in control- Sansa's breaths came out as
short gasps as he began to thrust up in careful, practiced ministrations.
"That's good... that feels... oh," Sansa breathed, and Petyr gripped her chin,
waking Sansa from the slow, sensual dream she had fallen into.
"You belong to me, now." His eyes glinted dangerously, and Sansa moaned,
adrenaline coursing through her at the claim. She could tell he was getting off
on controlling her... she was certainly falling for his possessive nature. He
thrust in particularly roughly, hitting something deep inside of her that
awakened all of her senses.
"Oh, I'm yours, only yours," she cried, burying her face in his shoulder as his
chest heaved. His thrusts continued to grow in pace and force, as she became
used to the feeling. Soon, Sansa was groaning out his name as Petyr held her,
fucking her hard and deep and fast. Within minutes, her climax struck her, and
Petyr came not long after, unable to control his raging desire for her- he had
known, of course, that she was virginal, but he had never imagined how well he
would fit inside of her. Petyr held Sansa, who had wrapped her arms around his
neck as the two caught their breath. When she finally lifted off of him, she
winced, walking gingerly, and Petyr took out a kerchief for the blood. After
all had been taken care of, they fell back onto the large bed.
"I love you, Sansa," Petyr murmured in her ear before falling asleep, and Sansa
stirred, opening her eyes and watching her guardian angel fall sleep. It was
strange, staring at him now, when all he had been to her all her life was a
shadow; he couldn't be more real to her now.
Could he really have been capable of orchestrating such a thing that day...?
Sansa believed that yes, he could. But now wasn't the time for answers. Now,
she had to get back to her chambers, before anyone else realized she was gone
again, and fall asleep in the hopes of forgetting the day's macabre events.
Removing herself from his embrace carefully, Sansa looked down at him once
more... how vulnerable he looked, sleeping like this, scar hidden in the
darkness. How could such a dangerous man be so sweet and gentle to her? His
last confession before he fell asleep disturbed Sansa... he was in love with
her. Was she in love with him? The red-haired girl covered herself with her
dress, and, hurrying off, silently pushed off in the boat. Petyr's eyes opened
as she left, letting her believe she left him asleep. The question he had asked
her stayed with him as he rose, tidying himself up and sitting back down at his
desk- the question of Catelyn Stark, the woman who had saved him. He recalled
the very day it had happened... back when he was a boy, Sansa's age at most,
and Catelyn was just a girl.
He had seen her walking, with the boy who seemed to be close to her. They would
laugh, and Petyr would watch the two from far away, so nobody could see him.
Not that anyone wanted to see him, of course... people were scared of him. He
was reclusive with his writing ambition, and had a strange scar that he had
been born with starting at his chin that worked its way up his face- enough to
steer even his own parents away. The loneliness didn't bother Petyr... but
Brandon Stark did. The boy Catelyn was with seemed nice on the surface, but
when you watch as long and as closely as Petyr would, you could start to tell
the difference. He seemed to have a short temper, and Petyr saw Catelyn smiling
less and less. One day, Petyr noticed a bruise around Catelyn's eye, and he
knew he had to do something about this before it was too late.
"Are you alright?" he whispered to her. Brandon had been walking ahead, and
Catelyn seemed surprised to be approached.  
"Ehm... who are you, exactly?"
"Petyr Baelish, we've met once or twice- I want to know if you're alright."
"W-why wouldn't I be?" the young Catelyn had asked shakily, and Petyr had
simply nodded to the bruise. Catelyn had then looked down.
"I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help, I can deal with him on my
own."
"I don't want to see you hurt, Catel-"
"Why do you care? I hardly even know you."
"But I know you." Just then, Brandon had turned, and, towering over Petyr,
tightened a fist.
"What are you doing talking to her?"
"Nothing at all," Petyr said slowly, "I was simply conversing with Catelyn."
"Why do you feel the need to talk to my love?"
"I was... concerned."
"This doesn't 'concern' you, you freakish creature. Return to the dank hole you
crawled out of, and leave us alone."
"You leave her alone first, and I'll consider it." This made Brandon pause, and
Catelyn turned to look at Petyr in warning.
"I'll do what I want with the whore," Brandon hissed, and Petyr tackled him
right then and there. Attempting to punch, Petyr hurt his hand, and, once he
realized what was happening, Brandon had rolled Petyr over, beginning to hit
him, knuckles coming up bloody. Catelyn screamed at him to stop, but there was
nobody around on the quiet city street they had been walking down. Then he took
out the knife.
Stopping his squirming, Petyr stayed absolutely still as Brandon dragged the
knife up Petyr's stomach through his shirt, digging it in painfully. Petyr
tried not to scream as the boy dug the blade even deeper, carving a deep gash
from his navel up to his collarbone, where he continued at his chin, where his
already tender birth scar began. By now, Petyr couldn't help but scream out in
anguish, beating on the boy's back to stop. But it was no use; Brandon was a
madman, seemingly enjoying causing the pain, and continued to slice up his face
into the sensitive tissue. The screams of Catelyn and his own screams began to
fade, and his eyes opened to Brandon's glaring down at him. Suddenly, the blood
didn't matter to him... only revenge did.
In one quick rush, Petyr used all his strength to kick Brandon off of him, and
to his surprise, he managed to before the boy got to his eye. Snatching the
knife from Brandon's hand before the brute even knew what was happening, Petyr
stood over top of him, one foot on his chest holding him down. Seeing that
Petyr had taken the knife, Brandon lifted his hands up, and began to beg.
Catelyn watched, looking around to see if anybody was coming- they remained
unseen.
"W-what are you going to do?" he asked, scrambling back against the wall of the
alley. In the end, they're all cowards, Petyr thought bitterly.
Petyr wiped blood from where it was gushing over his lip from the open
deformity his face had become. "Given the opportunity... what do we do to those
who've hurt the ones we love?" he whispered, glancing over to Catelyn, then he
cut Brandon's throat wide open. Catelyn stood stock still, watching him bleed
out in shock, and suddenly, they heard voices. Looking around, people had
started to gather and scream, and Petyr felt her grip on his wrist.
"We have to go."
Pulling him along, she ran with him away from the field, away from the police
that had taken notice of his crime. She ran with him on and on, until they were
an hour away from the site- and into the heart of the city.
"Do you have a home here in Paris?" she asked.
"No."
"Good, your family would never see you again anyway. I'll take you to a doctor-
"
"No! No, Catelyn, they don't... they wouldn't understand. Nobody can fix this,
there's nothing left for me-I'mnothing- just let me cut my wrists and be done
with it." Catelyn stared at him for a long time, before she heard shouting
again, no doubt people following them. 
"Where are we going?" Petyr asked, attempting to ignore the gawking of people
over his face.
"Somewhere safe- I won't let you die." She led him into a large building with
grand golden doors, and nobody noticed the two as she took him down a
staircase, deeper and deeper until they reached a dark hallway. "My family took
me here once, when my sister auditioned to join. I stumbled upon the catacombs
below, you can stay here. Please," she inhaled, placing a hand on Petyr's
shoulder, "Don't follow me. Leave me alone, do you hear me? I can't see you
again." Petyr looked down.
"You never really did, anyway." After a moment's contemplation, Catelyn gave
him a hug.
"Petyr... that's your name? Stay down here, Petyr- don't ever come out, do you
hear me? People are mean, and cruel, but you'll be safe down here." Petyr
watched Catelyn look around, and run back up the stairs. He looked down the
dark hallway of the opera house, lifting a hand to the newly-deformed left side
of his face. This was his home now.
Petyr glanced at his reflection in the mirror, tracing the scars on his face.
They had faded over the many years, but he could still feel the pain of the
knife digging in...
But Sansa didn't see the scar. She saw the man beneath the scar, not the
phantom he had become... he was addicted to the feeling of her affection. 
***** Chapter 5 *****
That night, as Sansa slept back in her chambers, she stroked the mockingbird
pin, and recalled her mother and father, as she did so frequently while
dreaming. She recalled all the things her mother used to tell her, all the time
she spent with her father, her brother. Of course, these memories turned sour,
as they did every night, and memories of her mother's bloody face overtook her
mind, her father dead beside her and Robb there too in the aftermath of the
terrible chemical blaze. 
"Sansa... Sansa," her mother had whispered, taking her daughter's face into her
hands, "Your aunt Lysa... go... there's someone... an angel of music, he'll
watch over you."  
"What?" Sansa had been sobbing, "What do you mean, I don't want to g...
mother?!"
"I'll always be with you, Sansa."
"Don't leave! Mother! Father! Please!!"
Sansa awoke with a start, a cold sheen of sweat covering her pale face. Eyes
adjusting to the severe darkness of her chambers, she let her racing heartbeat
return to normal before turning over onto her side. She turned over again,
unable to get comfortable, and thought again of how she felt about the tragedy
that happened that day... or lack of feelings on the matter. It disgusted her
that the death of her last remaining relative hadn't affected her more, and it
was keeping her up.
As she began to doze off again, she was haunted by the image she had in her
mind of Petyr's dark grin, coming to light as he stepped from the shadows
behind Lysa, hands that had been on her, in her, pushing her aunt off the
balcony, watching her fall down, down. She imagined his smirk as he made sure
she was gone, splattered all over the stage-
"Sansa!"
Sansa woke up, breathing heavily.Two nightmares in one night.She looked up at
Margaery, who was already dressed. "What time is it?"
"Early," Margaery told her, "But you know how living in this place is. I
thought Monsieur Targaryen was bad... Cersei has us up at sunrise to practice
our footwork, even though we've all insisted we grew up doing so."
Sansa laughed a little with her friend, taking her arm to go dress for the
day's rehearsal.
"I'm so sorry about Lysa," Margaery said, "Such a tragedy. You must have cried
yourself to sleep, my darling."
"I did," Sansa lied, for what felt like the hundredth time, "I'm quite broken
from it all."
"Seems a little strange that the Lannisters wouldn't postpone the next show
after... what happened," she said cautiously. Sansa shook her head.
"Not when their money is at stake... they won't lose the precious gain from
their new opera house, that much I know." 
As they walked, Sansa thought about her years with Tyrion. He had been visiting
Paris from London with his family to conduct business with the Starks, and they
had met while their fathers had been discussing their new partnership. Sansa
and Tyrion had spent those few months, as summer became autumn, talking about
everything there was to talk about and getting to know each other- Sansa loved
his intelligence, Tyrion loved her innocent outlook on the world. Of course,
over the years, that innocence that he had loved so much had dulled after all
that she'd seen.
She remembered that the partnership had been broken off abruptly when Tyrion's
mother had fallen ill, and they had returned to London within a few days. Sansa
had been broken-hearted saying goodbye, as Tyrion had been... they never
thought they would see each other again. Upon their parting, he had uttered the
words that he loved her- Sansa had simply kissed him on the cheek in response.
Once they made it to the stage, Sansa frowned. Joffrey was up on the stage,
ranting about something... as she got closer, she could hear his angry words.
"Have you all heard of the phantom?!" he mocked, grinning as he paced the
stage. The dancers watching giggled. "Making demands of my family from the
shadows!" 
"Joffrey," Sansa said softly, approaching him, "Please don't."
"You!" he cried, "You're his whore, I've heard!" A murmur rippled through the
crowd of dancers below them. "He always wants you to play the pretty
little star, doesn't he?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, ducking her head. 
"Perhaps you're the phantom!" Sansa lifted her head at this. "Perhaps you're
the one writing the letters, all because you desperately crave the adoration of
an audience. My mother never should have let you sing that night... you get a
taste of fame, and now you create this fantasy?"
"No, stop, you don't understand-"
"Your family hated my family. Now you're going kill anyone in your way-
including your own aunt!"
"Excuse me, monsieur!"
Both Sansa and Joffrey turned to where they heard someone shouting a name.
Sansa was surprised to find it was Margaery, walking up the steps to the stage.
She took Joffrey's arm, and at first, he resisted, but Margaery smiled at him
flirtatiously. "I'm sorry for interrupting, but... I just couldn't help but
notice your ring. Is it a golden lion?" Joffrey hesitated for a second, then
nodded slowly.
"Yes, just like the ones my uncle had put in at the entrance to this ugly old
place."
"It's simply marvellous," Margaery fawned, stroking his arm, "You must be very
rich, wearing such a ring and owning a place like this."
"Yes, well," Joffrey smirked, adjusting his coat, "I am rather well off." 
"Oh, you must have done so many wonderful things in your life," Margaery said,
linking her arm with his, "You must tell me about them in my chambers, I
insist!" Leading him away with a meaningful wink at Sansa, the charming dancer
left the redhead on stage to exhale in relief. This day was off to a horrible
start.
                                    -0-0-0-
"Another letter, as well as this... macabre dress he expects her to wear in his
attached work."
"Same sender?"
"What do you think? The very same phantom that seals all his other letters with
a mockingbird in wax."
"What does this one say?"
"Another ridiculous demand. Don't you think he would have learned by now?"
"Don't you think we would have?" Jaime scoffed, "I fought in the war, Cersei,
which, despite your petulant claims in attempt to hurt my pride, taught me to
choose my battles wisely. This, I'm telling you, is not a wise battle to
fight."
"Why should we allow this... entity to tell us what to do? If father was here,
he would put an end-"
"But father's not here," Jaime interrupted, voice unnervingly stern- a
challenge for Cersei to bring up Tywin. It was no secret none of them  got
along with Tywin- his children hadn't lived up to his expectations when they
let the company fail, and Tywin had made that clear by leaving nothing to his
children when he died. He had invested it all in reviving said company, which
had gone bankrupt when the Starks took over.
"No," she smiled wryly, "He's not. So here we are, fighting over a letter
written by, for all we know, Sansa Stark-!"
"It's not the girl, are you mad?"
"Don't presume to know what I am," Cersei snapped, "And don't underestimate a
Stark. We learned that lesson- our father learned that lesson- when Eddard, the
great bumbling fool we believed him to be, took our company out from under us
when we were most vulnerable after mother's death. Everything we had worked
for, taken by those vipers."
"Business is business," Jaime murmured, "That was ten years ago, and now
they're gone."
"Business is business," Cersei mocked, "I'm ashamed to call you a Lannister."
Jaime jerked his head up to glare at her, but Cersei raised her hands. "You're
right. It was ten years ago... and yes, we took care of the Starks. What a
terrible accident it was."
"Just terrible," Jaime echoed, rubbing his temples, "But Tyrion loves-"
"Tyrion's got nothing to do with this! He has no idea we what we did."
 "It's in the past, we shouldn't talk about it..."
"In case you haven't noticed, we've got one more little Stark bitch to deal
with now. I see what she's doing... trying to dig her claws into our family,
finish what they started," she said manically, "And by the looks of our idiot,
love struck little worm of a brother, we'll be calling her sister soon enough."
"I assume you won't be letting that happen," Jaime sighed. Cersei lifted her
glass of wine to him with a smile.
"You assume correctly. And I will begin by leaving her out of this silly opera
he has sent us to stage."
"Cersei, think about this... last time when we failed to cast Sansa, it was a
travesty! We're bloody lucky people still attend our opera!"
"Then what would have us do, exactly?"
"Don't cast Sansa Stark," Jaime muttered, shaking her head, "I hate the Starks
just as much as you do, but stage his opera. At least appease him in some way."
"A lion never backs down-"
"No, but a smart one does!" Jaime shouted, and Cersei brought her mouth to his
to quiet him. Jaime's brow creased, and he grabbed her back, drawing her closer
and kissing deeper. Breaking away and tossing the letter aside, Cersei
growled. 
"Fine. At least the originality of it will gain us the publicity. But I have
just the girl for the part." 
                                    -0-0-0-
"That is the dress you'll be wearing," Petyr smiled, approaching the picture
frame Sansa had looked at so many times. She sprawled back on his bed in her
liberating state of undress, admiring the fine black silk and silver detailing
of the dress closely in the picture.
"Your dream is finally coming true," she smiled back. 
"So it would seem," Petyr chuckled, "And yours, I hope. You're going to look
beautiful... more beautiful than I could ever imagine. I had the dress made and
given to the Lannisters along with a letter containing the music. I do hope,
for their sake, that they comply." Sansa felt her heart skip a beat, and she
rolled over to stare at Petyr curiously.
"And if they don't...?" she asked softly. Petyr looked at her, and by the dark
glint in his eyes, she was almost frightened. But his face cleared after a
moment into the smile once more.
"That's nothing you need to worry about now. Rehearsals will begin soon, I'd
imagine."
"Yes."
 "I'll be seeing you, my angel. You know where to find me." Sansa smiled over
at the man who had presently returned to writing away at, no doubt, another
brilliant opera. She had come to love watching him work at his desk, quill
moving swiftly across the paper. Covering herself with his black cloak and
padding up to him, she wrapped her arms around his neck from behind and placed
a kiss to the line of his jaw.
                                    -0-0-0-
"The Wind of Winter," Olenna commented, staring down at the music, "What an
intriguing title. And, I assume, Sansa is going to be playing the role of
Alayne?"
"Oh no," Cersei smiled, "No, we've found a much better singer for the role."
Olenna raised a challenging eyebrow.
"Who could possibly be better than our dear Sansa?" Just then, a timid girl
with chestnut hair and big, wide eyes came out onto the stage. She began to
sing alongside her partner, who had a resting expression of mania on his face.
"Myranda Royce, is her name," Cersei smiled, "And Ramsay Bolton, her travelling
partner from London."
Olenna visibly grimaced at the girl's voice.
"You call that a singer? I call that a cat being butchered, I suggest you have
your ears checked... or better, punctured!" the older woman snapped, "Although
I believe listening to that girl attempt to sing would do a fine job of just
that. Now where did you find those two horrors? I've never seen them in our
company before, thank the heavens." Cersei smiled.
"You see, Lady Olenna, your words, your clever insults- they don't bother me.
They may have bothered Monsieur Targaryen enough to influence his decisions,
but not mine. As for your veiled threats-"
"What veil?" Olenna shot back, and Cersei's jaw visibly clenched.
"-As for those, they do not faze me either. I make the decisions, not you, and
Sansa Stark does not deserve to play Alayne Stone in this opera... no matter
who it was written for."
"You know nothing of what that girl deserves," Olenna told Cersei, "I watched
her grow up in this opera house under the care of her wretched aunt, god rest
her soul and all that. I took her in as my own, even, and I know for a fact
that that girl deserves every song she gets to bloody sing on that stage!"
Cersei smiled, that infuriating smile still present.
"Are you quite finished?"
"I daresay I'm not-"
"Good. Until next time I have the pleasure of talking with the tart-tongued
mother of the opera house."
"Until next time I have the pleasure of speaking with the tart, Madam
Lannister," Olenna fired off, always with the last word, and turned around with
Margaery, walking off. What good was having a voice as beautiful as Sansa's if
they were only going to show it off once?
"Sansa should have been cast, wherever she is, but the poor girl she's got
instead was fine, mother," Margaery muttered, and Olenna huffed.
"Why give Cersei the satisfaction of knowing that?"
                                    -0-0-0-
With a sharp clang, candles crashed to the floor. Papers were strewn, glasses
smashed, a mirror was even broken.
"Petyr, don't be angry," Sansa said, alarmed at the fact that she had never
seen him so upset.
"I'm not angry, Sansa. No, I'm much more than that. I'm disappointed the new
owners of this establishment have the audacity to ignore my orders, after what
happened last time."  
"Your letters make them angry! They think you're challenging them."
"There's no challenge, this is my opera house."
"Petyr, please... what are you going to do?" she asked, and Petyr stopped. He
turned, and sat back down calmly, taking in a deep breath and composing
himself.
"I suppose I shall attend. You'll still be performing the dance, yes?" 
"I think so."
"Good... at least I can admire you, if even in such a small role." 
"That's it?" Sansa asked skeptically, "You won't write back, or even decide not
to attend?"
"Ignoring a failure is petty, childish. Always learn to adapt to a challenge
someone has issued... if you don't, you have nothing left to retaliate with."
"Retaliate?" Sansa asked nervously. Petyr just smiled.
"Simply an expression in this situation, sweet girl." Sansa shared a look with
him, and nodded slowly. She couldn't deny she was disappointed yet again at not
being able to perform the starring role, as Petyr had written it for her
specially, but it confused her as to why he had suddenly taken such an
indifferent stance regarding the turn of events. She knew he wanted to see her
in that dress as much as she wanted it herself, so why... why was he acting
like it didn't matter?
"Don't worry yourself over the performance, Sansa," Petyr assured, brushing her
cheek, "It will remain a spectacle to behold. With dedication and the proper...
persuasion, we will get what we want."
Sansa didn't know why that chilled her so much to hear.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Weeks of preparation went into the performance, and on the eve of the premiere
of Winds of Winter, the seats had been sold out, as usual; Jamie and Cersei
thanked the maker that the incident with Lysa Arryn had been overlooked as a
publicly dramatized retirement of the singer from the company. Tonight, such
notable guests in attendance included Father Sparrow, a prominent man of the
church, and his religious companion, Sister Unella. Others included Loras
Tyrell, who was in town travelling and decided to stop in to visit his sister,
and Lancel, a cousin of the Lannisters who came to offer his congratulations on
the success of the new sold out opera.
Sansa tiptoed into position on stage, Margaery giving her an encouraging smile.
"Incredible sets, aren't they?" she whispered, "I'm quite excited." Sansa
nodded, not really listening to her best friend.  Looking up to the boxes, her
heart skipped a beat as she stopped in the middle of the stage.
There, in the last box on the left, she saw him. He was dressed in a form
fitting black suit, nothing like how he looked when Sansa had seen him for the
first time; he also had a sleek white mask covering one side of his face. Of
course, he would have to blend in... she was suddenly glad her uniform tonight
was a tad more risqué than usual... Suddenly, she felt hands on her back, and
rushed to keep up with her fellow dancers, Petyr forgotten.
The girl in the story of the opera, whom Sansa knew Petyr had written for her,
was a princess of a far away land, a land where winter was always coming. The
story took her to the capitol of the kingdom where she was mistreated, beaten,
and taken advantage of. But along came someone who helped her out of this
terrible life, and took her back home to her northern castle, where she went on
to join with her family. The family was complete with the comic relief,
Edmure's character of the lovably foolish uncle and terrible marksman, along
with her "bannermen", rallying an army against her enemies.
Right after Alayne had defeated them, she spent a fiery night with her secret
love interest (obviously written to represent Petyr, Sansa noted). This scene
was shown through a gorgeous, intense piece that involved an elaborate set and
even more elaborate singing. Mademoiselle Royce was able to do it justice,
somewhat, but Ramsay didn't have the subtle charm to pull off his role- he was
too overstated, too bold, too rough with the gentle movements Petyr had
written. Sansa grew bitter over what she could have done with the role of
Alayne; she certainly would have looked better getting her corset ripped open
from the back like that... 
The last command of Princess Stone in the opera was having her enemies hanged,
signifying her return to power. Sansa watched as she, and the other dancers
played the parts of the snows of winter that fell as the nooses were prepared,
the audience murmured in wonder and anticipation at the shocking lead up to the
climax. The singing grew louder and louder as the enemy actors gulped and shook
in dramatic fear, waiting for Alayne's command. Sansa sighed, looking up at
Petyr's box, where he was watching still, stroking his beard. She would have
been much more commanding than Myranda in this scene... Alayne should enjoy
watching her enemies hang, not cower as she was being played right now. Sansa
gazed up again quickly at Petyr to gauge his approval, or lack thereof, but
frowned to realize he was now gone. Her heart beginning to beat rapidly,
wondering where he was. 
On the upper floors of the opera house, Petyr slipped through the shadows to
where he had seen the boy walking to. He walked carefully and quietly, making
sure Joffrey didn't hear him or see him. Finally, they made it to the hallway
beside the upper wings of the stage, and Petyr hid by the doorway. As Joffrey
was walking by, he felt someone grab him by the back of his neck.
"Hey-!"
Down on stage, Sansa continued the graceful dance as the music built. Alayne
pointed the finger. Myranda forgot a line, Ramsay filled in for her. They were
about to cut the ropes-
"What are you-?! Mmph!" Joffrey's eyes widened as Petyr tightened a rope around
his neck, kicking his feet and clawing at it as he was strangled. Petyr kept
his gloved hand at Joffrey's mouth as the boy shook violently, losing air.
Sansa looked around. Where was Petyr? He was about to miss the big finish...
The rope dug into Joffrey's neck, his face turning purple and blood running
from his nose. Petyr tied the rope to the beams above, and with a push-
Sansa whipped around as the body fell from the rafters, the snap of the neck
evident to everyone on stage. Myranda screamed, and Sansa looked up just in
time to see the flutter of Petyr's robes before she fainted. Everyone else on
stage tried to maintain their performance for the audience, who were now caught
wondering just how realistic they could make a swinging dummy look. Margaery
covered her mouth as she stared at Joffrey's wide eyes, blood trickling from
them, and Ramsay covered the horrific turn of events by crying, "And what an
execution it was!"
The curtains closed, the audience gave a standing ovation, and Sansa roused as
Cersei screamed, ordering her son to be cut down. Screaming orders at the
stagehands, she didn't stop until her son was on the ground. Grabbing the boy's
head, she held it in her lap, continuing to yell in anguish.
"He did this!" she shouted, tears streaming down her face, "The phantom! He did
this! Oh Joffrey, my son, my Joffrey..." Jaime tried to wrap his arms around
her, but Cersei threw him off, screaming into Joffrey's shirt. Sansa swallowed,
sick to her stomach, and turned to see that Tyrion had gathered in the left
wing with other members of the company, mouth hanging open in shock. Stumbling
back, she caught her breath, and ran into the opposite wing, out to the stairs
and up and up until she reached the roof. The cold night air hit her flushed
face, and she ripped the shawl that she had on off, in desperate need to cool
down.
Bottom lip trembling, she ran her hands through her now-disheveled hair, every
noise around her startling. She never wanted to see Petyr again... he was a
monster, a murderer, everything she should have known from the start.
The door to the roof opened, and Sansa backed away, wishing she had something
to defend herself with- if things came down to it, she could always push him
off the side- but there would be no need. It was Tyrion.
"Sansa," he admonished, rushing over, "Sansa, you don't look well. Here." He
gave her his formal jacket, which Sansa accepted, now shivering.
"I'm not well, Tyrion! Your nephew was murdered, and I know... I," she cried,
and Tyrion tugged her down into a hug, Sansa falling to her knees and crying
into his shoulder. Tyrion stroked her hair, whispering that it would be alright
in her ear. "I'm so sorry for your loss," she sobbed, and Tyrion sighed.
"As am I. Cersei won't stop at this- she'll demand justice for her son. Whoever
she thinks did it, she'll stop at nothing to see them hang just the same as
Joffrey did."
"She'll never catch him."
"Who? You know who did this?"
"It was the phantom, don't you see?! Just as she said!"
"Sansa..." Tyrion took her hand, looking down, "My sister was manic, she
doesn't know what she's saying. There's no phantom-"
"There is, because we spent countless nights together! I've been to his lair
and I know what he wants, and he wants me... he wants revenge, Tyrion, justice
only exists where we make it, he told me, I can't get away, he won't-" she
gasped in a breath, "He won't leave me alone, but I don't want to... I don't
want to leave, oh, Tyrion, I don't know what I want, save me!"
Tyrion, looking quite speechless at this slew of confessions, simply brought
her close again. "You're safe with me, my love." Sansa pulled back, drying her
eyes, and Tyrion dug around in his pocket.
"I... forgive me for taking advantage of the situation, Sansa, but... I feel I
must now more than ever." Sansa stared at him apprehensively. "Returning and
meeting you again, after all these years, has shown me how much I miss you... I
don't ever want to lose you. Will you...?" he asked, taking out a ring and
kissing her hand. Sansa gasped, backing away.
"Tyrion..."
"Please say yes, Mademoiselle. I can make you happy, you know I-"
"I have to go," Sansa muttered, rushing past him.
"Sansa!!"
Running to her room, she grabbed a long black cloak and ran out the back of the
opera house through all the commotion. She continued to cry as she jumped into
a coach, telling the single rider to take her to the cemetery.
Riding all through the night until the break of day, they finally made it to
the graveyard she had visited so many times, and, waking up, she realized it
had begun to lightly snow. Discarding the jacket Tyrion had given her, she
pulled the hood up on her cloak and got out into the snow. It was cold, but she
never minded such weather. Leaving footsteps in her wake, she told the hooded
rider to wait, and walked through the gates of the cemetery. It was if one
thousand memories hit her at once- feeling her father's warm arms around her,
seeing her mother's kind eyes with the laugh lines surrounding them staring
back at her, hearing Robb's deep chuckle as he scooped her up...
But Sansa refused to cry anymore. Walking silently to the end of the row, she
came to the Stark crypts, and pulled her cloak tighter to her frame. The wind
was howling, sweeping snowflakes over her that caught in her hair and
eyelashes. Then she sat.
"I miss you," she whispered, staring straight ahead at the large stone
structure where her father, her mother, and her brother stayed. The gargoyles
perched on the graves surrounding were the only ones who could hear her now.
"Once, you were my only companions. You loved me, you protected me... I
wish..." Feeling a reluctant tear slide down her cheek, she wondered how many
tears she even had left. "I wish you were somehow here again. I wish you were
near me," she whispered, dragging her fingers through the snow, "But... but
most of all, I wish the past would just die."
Getting up, she stared up at her family crest- a wolf carved into the stone.
Tossing snow at it angrily, she felt more tears fall. What had her life become?
Some underappreciated dancer at an expensive opera house? The surrogate
daughter to someone with a better option besides her? The little orphan of a
lecherous, dead aunt?
She couldn't answer, because she was already thinking of what she could become.
The wealthy wife of her childhood love, or... Sansa swallowed. What would she
have become with Petyr? A hidden bride? A puppet of his? Or perhaps, a
puppeteer, by his side.
"Mademoiselle," she heard, and her head lifted, "I think it best to return to
the opera house... the snows are growing colder." She would know that voice
anywhere. Turning around, she watched the hooded rider take a step closer with
an offered hand; she, herself, made no move to take it.
"Stay away from me," Sansa said in a low, trembling voice. Petyr took his hood
down, sighing out through his nose. He was wearing the mask that covered half
of his face, masquerading as a nothing but a man.
"You don't understand why I had to do that, Sansa."
"Why you had to murder a boy?! Why you had to hang him, why I was forced to
listen to his neck snap?!"
"He was a vicious boy, nobody we could have used to our advantage."
"We could- what do you mean, use?!"
"Everything is a step further in the game. They play... I play. Now, you play."
"And just what the hell are you playing for?!" Sansa spat.
"You."
Of course, she should have expected that. Petyr had been after her since the
day her dying mother sent her to him, she thought bitterly. It wasn't like she
had actively opposed the attraction, but-
"Sansa, listen to me- listen- you know what I want, yes?" Sansa nodded slowly.
"And I know how to get what I want. I always get what I want."
"If you want the opera house, why not just kill the Lannisters, why concern
yourself with Joffrey?" Sansa spat. Petyr gave her a dismissive glance, one she
didn't like receiving at all.
"I don't want to kill the owners, Sansa. I have no interest in running the
opera house... I simply wish to oversee the affairs. I want you on the stage,
singing to all those people who aren't worthy of your beautiful voice."
"I don't see what this has to do with Joffrey. He wasn't involved in his
mother's affairs."
"Joffrey was a Lannister. And the Lannisters killed your family." Heavy
silence.
"What?"
Petyr drew in a breath. "Cersei was talking to her brother. I heard what she
said."
"No, no, that's-"
"Sansa."
"No! That can't be true, it was an accident!"
"An accident caused by them."
"STOP, JUST STOP!" Sansa's head was spinning, and she felt even more sick than
she did the night before. Tearing off his mask, she sent it falling to the
snow, and Petyr turned away from her. "Why are you hiding?!" she shouted, "I've
seen you! I know you! I know what you want, you can't hide anymore!" Petyr
looked up again, scars painfully naked to her in the daylight, and with his
revelation, something hit Sansa hard. She was satisfied. She was happy Joffrey
had died the way he had, happy that Cersei had to hold her dead son's head in
her lap when Sansa had had to watch her parents and brother die before her
eyes. She turned to Petyr.
"And Tyrion?"
"He knows nothing of it," Petyr assured, "He never did." Looking down and
picking up his mask gingerly, he turned it over in his hands. "I must admit, I
am so fiercely protective over you that your little meeting on the roof had me
second guessing his fate..."
"Petyr, you wouldn't!"
"-But, I'm not stupid. I'm not about to kill someone who rivals my level of
compassion for you. He is a good man... I respect his resolve." Sansa sniffled,
thinking of Tyrion again. How empty his eyes were when Sansa had backed away...
how broken he looked as she turned away and ran. But she knew, beneath all the
confusion and chaos going on inside of her, that she couldn't accept his
proposal. That's not who she wanted to be. But then, who did she want to be?
"Maybe I don't deserve to sing in front of all those people," Sansa tried,
growling in frustration, "Maybe it's a good thing, how it is now. Olenna and
Margaery, they love me, they'll keep me safe as long as I need them, and you-"
"You would settle for how it is now?" Petyr asked, moving in to touch a curl of
her hair, "Never showing your face again, not really, watching ignorant little
girls take your title from you?" Sansa shook her head, and Petyr pulled her
close with a gasp from her. "Then take back what is yours. Don't be a bystander
to all the pain you've endured, Sansa... avenge your family, and become what
you were meant to be."
Sansa blinked up at him, and with only a moment's hesitation, took his
outstretched hand.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Cersei smashed a candelabra, watching the old wax shatter upon impact.
"For god's sake," Jaime muttered. Cersei turned to him, tearing the letter for
the fourth time and letting it fall, the contents of which used to bear:
"Chaos is a ladder- I trust you will comply in the future.
-Petyr Baelish"
"He finally gave us his name," Jaime mused, "I wonder why..."
"He's mocking us; he knows we can't find him. Don't you see? He thinks he's
broken us!"
"Perhaps he has."
"He doesn't know what he's started. My son is dead. OUR son is dead!" she
nearly screamed, and Jaime looked around, wincing.
"Shush, people will hear..."
"Fuck them!" Cersei snapped, "Fuck them all! I could kill every single one of
these lecherous rats that live in this horrid fucking opera house! All of them
just stood there, staring, as Joffrey's fresh corpse swung back and forth."
Jaime rubbed his temples as Cersei ranted on. "They don't care. They're
probably laughing at us, all of them, when we're not looking. I'll see them all
burn, I'LL SEE HIM BURN BEFORE HE-!"
"Quiet!" Jaime growled, covering her mouth and pulling her down to sit on the
bed. "You're speaking like a madwoman!"
"Maybe I am a madwoman! I'll become one if I don't see him die for this!"
"But we don't even know who he is!"
"We'll find him. We'll draw him out somehow."
"Cersei, please..." Jaime mumbled, taking her hand.
Smacking him across the face, Cersei stood- leaving Jaime to get up, opening
the door. "No! No, wait, Jaime, don't go, I'm sorry... I'm... I'm  sorry..."
She began to sob, and Jaime sighed, closing the door again. The two collapsed
to the floor, and Cersei cried for a few minutes. "He's gone, he's gone, he's
gone," she chanted, rocking back and forth. Jaime watched her. Joffrey had
meant the world to Cersei... now that he was gone, there was no telling what
his sister would do; there was just no telling with Cersei. Getting up again,
Jaime helped her to the bed.
"Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning." As Jaime left, Cersei let out a
bloodcurdling scream, tossing her fifth cup of wine at the mirror...
And to her surprise, it shattered to reveal something beyond what she had
imagined she would find. Taking a curious step forward, the blonde dried her
tears and peered down the long hallway that had just been revealed. She could
see faint candlelight glowing, which meant someone had been down there or was
down there presently. Stepping over the broken glass gingerly, Cersei made her
way slowly down the hallway, noticing upon the turn that there were candles
lining the walkway... somebody had surely been down here recently.
She followed the path further and further, until she reached a boat. Curious
thing, a boat under an opera house, she thought to herself, where could it
possibly take her? Never one to shy away from lurking danger, she pushed off in
the boat, and found herself floating to a little island of papers and books
and- was that a bed?
Cersei got off, looking around. And then she saw it on the table, beside a
burning candle- the red seal, with the mockingbird stamp by its side, and on
the wall above it, a painting of Sansa Stark. Instead of destroying the layer,
as she wanted so desperately to do, she laughed gleefully. She didn't care that
the phantom lurked here... she didn't care that the little whore was spreading
her legs for him, either... she didn't even care that they probably conspired
together against her son. She knew what she would do. Turning slowly to face
the endless water surrounding her, she praised the maker for her discovery.
Soon, she would watch everyone pay for their sins against her family, using the
same weapon of devastation she did for the Starks.
They wouldn't have to wait for hell to burn.
                                    -0-0-0-
The next night of the opera was just as, if not more, successful than the
first. All the original guests returned, simply anxious to see the breathtaking
performance again.
"That Alayne girl, a bit plain," Loras was mentioning to someone he had brought
along- a friend, Renly, "They should have found someone a little more zestful,
and, if we're being completely honest here, striking for that role... perhaps
that lovely Sansa Stark that sang all those nights ago! But, a marvellous
production, nonetheless."
"Interesting imagery," Father Sparrow discussed with Sister Unella and a few
other gentlemen, "Remarkably realistic costuming, especially in that finale
last night... A tad risqué at times for my tastes, but such is the price you
pay for a fresh, captivating opera in these modern times." 
Everyone seemed to love it so much the first night, that they came back to see
it a second time. The prospect of dancing the same role again as the previous
night pained Sansa, but Petyr had smiled at that. He brought her down to his
layer, where he presented her with the dress.
"You had another one made?" Sansa asked cautiously.
"No," Petyr replied, and Sansa realized what he had done. She was disturbed to
find she didn't even care what had happened to Myranda... Ramsay probably
didn't care either, with his torturous advances- the one and only thing he had
ever said to Sansa behind the curtains was, "Shame it couldn't be you up there
with me... I'd love to ravage you on stage." Thank goodness Petyr hadn't caught
wind of that remark- maybe Sansa would take care of him herself, if she ever
did gather the courage to try.
Forgetting Ramsay and his unsettling comments, Sansa took the dress from
Petyr's hands, and took a deep breath as she looked at herself in the mirror
for the last time as she was. Casting aside her last shred of innocence, she
turned away from her reflection- it was time to kill the bystander.
Upstairs, Tyrion approached Lady Olenna. 
"Excuse me, madam, but... I don't suppose you know where Miss Stark is? I
haven't seen her since last night." Suddenly, his face changed. "That's not
what I meant, I-"
"It's quite alright," Olenna smirked, "I don't doubt the girl's virtue. Last
night, you say? And she hasn't been seen all day?" Tyrion shook his head.
"Well, good heavens! Margaery's already on stage, as Sansa should be alongside
her... we must find her!" Keeping up as best he could- Olenna really moved for
a woman her age- Tyrion spoke up.
"I think I know where she might have gone. Fetch the horses and coach- I'll be
down in a moment."
Out in the crowd, Jaime was beginning to feel unnerved at the soft stroking of
Cersei's thumb across the back of his hand. They were sitting near the back for
some reason, and Cersei looked calm... too calm.
"What is going on?" he hissed in her ear.
"Nothing."
"What is going to go on, then?" he whispered through gritted teeth. Cersei just
turned her head, a smile replacing her usually unpleasantly expression.
"Just enjoy the show."
Down in the catacombs, Sansa turned for Petyr to see. Hair jet black and skin a
deathly pale contrast, the phantom admired her beauty. The dress fit her
perfectly- much better than it had on Myranda's gaunt frame- hugging every
curve and dip of her body. Sansa's lips twitched up at Petyr's ravenous look.
"Adequate?"
Petyr nodded. "The show will begin soon," he murmured.
"Shall we go?" she asked, the first real smile at her lips Petyr had seen in
days. Standing up to her height, Petyr adjusted her silver necklace, and ran
his hand down Sansa's darkened strands.
"You're more beautiful than she ever was." Knowing immediately who he was
talking about, Sansa stiffened... before Petyr brought her in for a kiss,
tilting her head down to meet his mouth. His tongue slipped gently between her
lips, but this time, her tongue fought back, demanding entry to his mouth- she
had taken to his teachings well. Both held each other tighter, Petyr's hands
roaming Sansa's tightly bound back. This time, as she pulled back, Petyr no
longer saw the small, shuddering girl he once knew. That Sansa was gone. Now,
the girl that stood before him was powerful, a deadly glint in her smiling
eyes.
"Sing for me," he whispered. Sansa trailed her fingers down Petyr's chest,
unfolding his shirt. With dancing eyes, Sansa began the soft introduction to
the number she knew he wanted to hear from her... the torrid number she had
watched Myranda perform before her eyes, dreaming of performing it with Petyr.
She remembered a conversation with Margaery and Olenna, her surrogate mother
going on about how deliciously provocative it would be, and how delightful it
would be to watch "that stuffy Father Sparrow wiggle about in his seat like the
moral worm he is." It was the first of its kind, certainly- tearing open one's
corset on stage inspired gasps, and as Sansa sang, Petyr mimicked the actions
he had written, holding her and trailing his lips down her neck. As Sansa hit a
high note, Petyr joined in, his voice surprisingly deep and husky. Drawing
back, she regarded his mysterious smirk, and the two sang together the duet he
had written to skyrocket his protégé to fame. Singing the words impressively to
each other, their voices filled the catacombs, Sansa's piercing and clear,
Petyr's low and sexy in contrast. Stroking her hand beneath his robes and
across his scarred chest, gazing into his dark eyes, Sansa realized that this
was what she wanted. This is what she was meant to do.
Petyr looked at Sansa. God, how he wished he could undo all those strenuous
laces of that tight dress and see her in her glory once again, but there would
be time for that after tonight's performance... they were waiting on their
star.  
"Where exactly do you presume she went?" Olenna asked, the coach hitting a bump
on their way.
"Her family's crypt, where else would she go to think, to get away from it
all?" Tyrion replied, pulling back the curtain to anxiously check how far they
were. It was a long ride, but he had paid the rider triple to ensure they got
their as fast as possible, and his keen sense of direction told him they were
nearing.
Olenna shook her head. "Poor child. She's seen too much for someone that
naive."
"Something tells me she's not as innocent as one would think," Tyrion murmured,
letting the curtain go.
Back in the theatre, Cersei's smile grew as the curtains parted. It was almost
time.
"Jaime, I think we should go for a walk."
"What? A walk? The god damn opera's about to start!"
"Come, please walk with me."
"Shh!" an elderly gentleman beside the two said, but Cersei's mannerism went
unaffected by his meddling- a fact that worried Jaime deeply.
"Where are we going?"
"Out."
"Cersei, I won't leave until you tell me what is going on."
"Jaime, dear brother, just trust me," Cersei tried again, though not without an
edge to her request this time as she pulled his arm to stand.
Tyrion leapt from the coach, running through the gates of the cemetery with
Olenna hot on his heels. He could see her tiny footprints- he knew she was
there.
"Terrible, what happened to her family," Olenna mentioned, catching up to him.
"It changed Sansa," Tyrion said, following her footprints, "She was the same
girl I once knew, only she bore a haunted look in her sad, blue eyes when I met
her again."
The two made it to the Stark crypts, only to realize they were alone in the
eerie graveyard, wind whistling through the lonely tombstones. "She's not
here."
Sansa reached further below Petyr's robes to cup him through his smallclothes,
and her partner sucked in a breath, eyes darting to examine Sansa's expression
for her intentions. Smirking back, she began to stroke him, watching as he
melted into her arms, breath coming out quickly. Never had she felt so
powerful, and she loved it, listening to Petyr's burdened sighs as he let her
touch him. It didn't take long for him to finish, and the satisfaction in her
eyes only conflicted the insatiable lust that filled him to watch her fall
apart again. With a nod, Sansa let Petyr descend, lifting her leg over his
shoulder and pressing kisses to her inner thigh. Just as he reached where she
wanted him, his eyes adjusted past her, narrowing at the water and noticing the
absence of some of his candles. He quickly stood, and Sansa's eyes opened.
"What is it?" When he didn't answer right away, Sansa broke out of the heat of
the moment, worry evident in her brow. "Petyr, what is it?"
Petyr's eyes widened as he saw his misplaced candles, burnt almost to the base
over the green-tinted water. "Take my hand, Sansa... we need to leave."
"Cersei, where are we going?!" Jaime shouted, following his sister's lead in
leaving the opera house.
"Don't ask questions, just follow me, Jaime."
"I refuse to leave this damn building before you tell me what the hell is going
on!" Cersei turned back, eyes growing wild at Jaime's resistance.
"Follow me, Jaime, trust me!"
"I don't trust you," he snapped, stopping in his tracks. "You're up to
something- when it comes to your children, you scare me." Cersei grabbed his
arm, pulling him with her.
"Please, whatever you fear, it exists in this opera house!"
Back in the coach, Tyrion was cursing himself. Where could she be otherwise? It
was evident she had returned to the opera house, if she had even left at all,
but he was worried for her well being. Save me, she had begged, and she had
been so terrified. He had to find her, and wouldn't rest until she was back in
his arms.
"You love her," Olenna said, watching him closely across from where he was
sitting, and Tyrion turned to her, nodding. Olenna nodded as well. "She belongs
with someone like you."
"Petyr, what's going on?!" Sansa cried, frightened as he draped his cloak over
her, concealing her.
"Shh, don't speak, my love. Don't speak until we're safe, they'll find you."
"Safe from what?" Then she saw it... the green liquid that they had found in
the river after the accident... she swallowed thickly. "Who will find me?"
"Quiet now, I know a way out."
"Are we in danger?!"
"Yes- but don't fear, sweetling. There's nowhere we can't go now, do you hear
me?" Staring into her eyes, he kissed her forehead. "Nowhere." Sansa pressed
her head into his chest before they started to run.
In the theatre, people were beginning to wonder when the star would appear on
stage. The dancers had begun, Margaery even going so far as to improvise a
ballet number- thankfully, her bright smile and sultry eyes won the crowd over
for the time being. Then, the rumbling began.
 A roar went up through the audience, and everyone on stage stopped. The walls
were beginning to shake, and people were starting to panic. The words
earthquake! and fire! were tossed out in desperation, as the seats began to
quake. Ramsay and Edmure looked at each other. Sister Unella began to pray.
Margaery looked out at the chaos the crowd had fallen into, taking a shaky
breath in her own little world. Her brother was out there, grasping the hand of
his male lover, because what did it matter now if people saw? Her mother was in
here too, she assumed, as well as Sansa. She saw the green flames licking at
the doors, resigning herself to the fact that there was no escape for any of
them... and let her eyes fall shut during the last second of utter silence
before the flames spread throughout the theater, consuming everyone in their
fury.
Jaime whipped around with wide eyes as the place went up, Cersei turning as
well to watch the Baelor burn from the inside. Windows shattered and flames
reached the sky, burning bodies flailing as they crashed out the window,
reduced to skeletons before they even hit the ground. Jaime covered his mouth
and held onto a gate for support, but Cersei lifted her chin, staring straight
into the flames and listening to the screaming, almost defiantly.
"What... have you done?" Jaime asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the
disaster. Despite everything, Cersei felt a sense of bliss watching them burn.
And he was in there... the ghost that killed her son.
"Chaos is indeed a ladder, Mr. Baelish," she breathed, and walked away
untouched from the carnage.
Tyrion ran toward the burning opera house, falling to his knees. Olenna stopped
when she saw, shaking her head. Tyrion's fists clenched, the large green blaze
illuminating his eyes.
"SANSA!"
                                   -0-0-0- 
Months after the tragic night of the chemical blaze, Tyrion had returned in
search of proof she really was in the opera house when it had happened. He held
out little hope, but all he wanted was a memory, a necklace, something to
remember her by. He would never love again, and he hated Cersei for ripping
that away from him.
Taking a torch through the empty shell of the charred building, he had passed
the once-great golden lions, down to the stage, and into her old room. Nothing
but black.
Then he had discovered the catacombs. Following the same path both Sansa and
Cersei had taken, he found the wreckage that was Petyr's layer, all singed
papers, bones, destruction. He even found a painting, burnt to the wall, a
melted mix of long dried blacks and silvers, weeping down over the stone. Then
he looked down, a letter with scorched corners underneath a rock. Picking it
up, Tyrion had read the words, before looking around the ghostly cave in the
hopes of catching a glimpse of its baffling writer. She was telling the truth.
She had always been telling the truth.But nobody remained in that opera
house... nobody but the ghosts from his mind.
***** Epilogue *****
1919
"We never could have proved it was my sister... but if we could, I would have
seen her hang, just like my cruel nephew, if it meant retribution for all the
nights I lay awake, dreaming of how she might have died."
"Mmm. Wherever that sweet child is now, if she did indeed escape, I do hope
she's happy," Olenna said, and turned. Tyrion watched the old woman make her
way out of the opera house carrying her daughter's memory in her hands; he
couldn't quite make himself leave yet. Gazing around at the high ceilings, he
wondered what it would have been like to die in here, wondering if the place
had trapped any of the souls of those who died here... but he had spent too
many years imagining what would have happened if he hadn't gone to search for
Sansa. Now, he was at peace with the fact that she was in good hands.
Before he left, Tyrion returned the mockingbird pin to the stage, giving a
little nod of satisfaction, and as he left, he thought he heard the echo of a
few haunting notes from a piece of music. With a sad smile, he turned his back
indefinitely.
The last surviving Lannister followed the papers for years to come, until he
grew too old to read them. He thought he saw her name sometimes, thought he saw
her face on some front page, the shadow of a man always lurking behind her with
one half of his face covered by some mask. But whatever had come of her, one
thing was certain- Sansa Stark had become the famous angel of music she was
always meant to be... with Petyr Baelish, the Phantom of the Opera, forever by
her side.  
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