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“So,” Robb says, staring across the desk at his possibly-new-employer’s mismatched green and black eyes and trying to not sound like he’s more excited about the prospect job offer than anyone has any right to, “you’re saying that you need a play for charity reasons and… I was your first choice?”
Tyrion Lannister nods, moving his elbows upwards on the table. “Well,” he says, “you were number one of your class when you graduated and I do watch most of the plays around. We all have to have a hobby, right?”
Robb nods back and Lannister goes on. “And that one you had on last year at that theater in Leeds about the lighthouse owner? That was a small gem, if you ask me.”
Oh. That one. It was a one act monologue that had won him a contest back in the day and had had a decent run, with good peace of Robb’s then-teacher Mr. Frey who had said it was too depressing and no one would have accepted it as a submission. Good thing he sent it anyway. “Thank you,” Robb says, earnestly. “Well, I thought it was a good effort and it didn’t do badly, but there’s room for improvement, I guess.”
“There should always be,” Tyrion replies. “Anyway, I also checked the rest of your credentials and honestly, I think you’d be the right fit for this. See, when I said charity reasons, I meant that -- I don’t have to give you a background on my current family situation, don’t you?”
He hardly needs one -- it’s been everywhere recently. His older brother Jaime had a major fallout with everyone but him after he came back from an army mission without a hand and what seemed like obvious issues and now he’s left the family company, founded a charity for veterans and that’s about his job full time. “No,” Robb says. “I keep up with the news.”
“Good. So, my brother’s not really been at his best since he lost that hand, but he’s been doing better since he put some of his money into his nonprofit to give people in his former situation psychological help and so on. And he’s certainly been doing even better since he met his current girlfriend who was one of the volunteer psychs. Well, she is, just not with him, and… well, long story short, it was the kind of ridiculous set-up where two idiots think no one is ever going to fall for them and then they’re made for each other and so on, and since his birthday’s coming up, uh, some four months from now, I thought that maybe it could be a nice surprise if I set up a new play in his charity’s name with all the attendance money going to said nonprofit. Except that while the family overflows with money, if I asked my father to finance it he would straight-up murder me and so I have to pay out of my own pocket, which means that I can’t exactly give you top notch funding.”
“That’s all right,” Robb says, “I can make it work on a budget. What would was your idea?”
“Well, before that, I guess we should discuss money and see if you would be up for it. Of course, you would be paid for a one-act script plus directing it. I also have to rent the theater and pay for the rest of the crew that would hardly work for free -- such as, costume designer, set designer and so on. Which means that I can’t shell for, well, actors with a name, but -”
“Oh, the actors aren’t a problem. I mean, I used to work with nonprofessionals in school, more than… professionals and so on. And for such a thing it can’t be too hard to find adequate people, especially if it’s just one act. If that’s your problem, I’ve… worked in worse conditions.”
“Excellent,” Lannister says. “Of course the actors would get a forfait pay, just not at a, well, professional level.”
“I think I can find a way to get you some, don’t worry. I suppose that it means I just have to worry about that and the script? Because if that’s the problem, I’m good. Really, I would love to do this. It’s a good cause and it looks like nothing that would cause me too much stress. So, did you have anything in mind? Also… well, if it’s technically for your brother, maybe you could tell me if he’d particularly like his charity play to be in a certain setting? Or anything else of the kind?”
“Both the brother and the girlfriend are disgusting Middle Ages nerds who have read too many chivalry-related books back in the day,” Lannister sighs fondly, “so I suppose that might be an idea. About the topic… honestly, people need happy things, especially when that’s the background. I was thinking something of that corny love heals everything branch of plots, but if you have better ideas --”
“I think,” Robb grins, “that I have exactly what you need. Say, how about I take one week, send you a draft and you can tell me if it’s what you wanted?”
“Surely it won’t take you that little to come up with a plot?” Lannister replies, sounding impressed.
“Oh, let’s just say it’s a plot I’ve had in my head for a long time and for a one-act only piece, a week is more than enough for a rough draft. How about that?”
“I’ll be waiting for you then,” Lannister says, sounding satisfied with it.
Good.
Because Robb has, indeed, the perfect plot for this.
--
Now, Robb hadn’t realized he wanted to write stories for a living until he was a teenager, but he had always been the designated one to make them up for his siblings the moment they realized he had better imagination than his own parents, never mind that the moment the siblings in questions realized that he could also make things up according to their specific taste… well. There is a reason why he was designated for it.
Jon always wanted found family stories, obviously, Arya was all about girls going on adventures and maybe finding a guy who liked them for that at the very end, Rickon just wanted anything as long as people put stuff on fire and Bran wanted stories about scientists saving the world... but Sansa always wanted romance stories.
And her favorite was exactly what Lannister had asked for.
He turns on his computer the moment he gets back home and writes down everything he remembers of the basic plot -- shouldn’t be too hard, considering how many times he told her that with the subsequent embellishments. It was about this princess whose father goes to the capital of the kingdom to help out his friend the king with ruling it, but then both of them are murdered by the evil queen and the girl remains hostage and is meant to marry the horrid crown prince… except that she falls in love with the prince’s guard. Said guard was supposed to have had a horribly traumatic childhood and to have lost all hope to have anyone give a damn about him either way and after a while they decided that the story would have worked better if he had some disfigurement that made people afraid of him when in truth he just wanted someone to care, and after a while the two grow close and she shows him that true love still exists in the world and it ended with the two of them running away together from the city during the war subsequent to the king’s death, going back to her remaining family and getting married.
It’s absolutely perfect, Robb thinks, smiling, and starts wondering on how he can embellish it for a one-act play.
Shouldn’t be too hard. Not at all.
--
A week later, his phone rings a few hours after he sends Lannister the rough draft.
“Stark,” he says as Robb picks up, “it’s perfect. I mean, even as a first draft it would be, but if there’s room for improvement -”
“There always is,” Robb smiles into the receiver, “but I’m glad you liked it. So, can I just embellish on that while I start looking for actors?”
“About that,” Lannister says, “I found a theater where they had nothing booked until next fall and they were more than happy to rent it to me until August, so if you want to start doing auditions there I can send you the address -- concerning the rest of the crew, I figured I’d search for them when I knew what you were looking for, so I guess I can start asking around?”
“Sure,” Robb agrees. “I mean, I could change the dialogue, but as it is I need the castle and so on for the sets and medieval costumes, pretty much.”
“Perfect. Then I will keep you updated,” he says, sounding satisfied, and Robb grins to himself.
He doesn’t think he needs to do auditions at least for the main heroine.
--
That evening, he goes to dinner at his parents’, telling them that he needed to talk to Sansa.
His mom sighs as she opens the door. “She hasn’t really… been talking to anyone since she broke up with that jerk she was flirting with during the first month in university, but if you can manage to, no one is stopping you.”
Right. Joffrey Baratheon. Robb has the name noted if he ever runs into the asshole just so he can punch him in the face for breaking Sansa’s heart, but that’s neither here nor there for now. He says hi to the others, waits until dinner and sits next to her. She says hi half-heartedly, but shit, she really looks down.
“Hey,” Robb tells her, “what if I had a proposition for you?”
“What about it?” She asks, shrugging minutely.
“I’m writing a charity play,” he says. “Well, I kind of sent in the rough draft and I’ll work on it for a bit but it’s pretty much done. And since it’s, well, for that, my sponsor doesn’t have the funds for professional actors.”
“Do you want to know if Jeyne knows any?”
Right. Her friend Jeyne Poole goes to a design fashion school, so she could probably know some, but --
“No,” he says, “because since the guy wanted a story about how love is a healing force for anyone who finds it and so on, I took the liberty to rehash that story I always used to tell you about the princess who falls in love with her fiance’s guard.”
“Oh,” Sansa says, half-smiling, her eyes suddenly getting some life back in them, “that one?”
“Yes. And he said it was perfect, so if you want to be the lead --”
“Wait, you want me to act in it?”
“As stated, we can’t afford professionals, you loved it back in the day and half of the extra contributions were yours, I know for sure you need a distraction and since the performance has to be in August you have months to get ready for it. Sure I want you to. Or at least I wanted to ask you before I asked anyone else.”
He had figured he’d ask her before also because his parents had told him that she hadn’t looked happy or been herself since that prick of her boyfriend left her, so maybe this could cheer her up.
When she smiles at him wide enough that her teeth show and her eyes tear up and she just about hugs him saying she will and almost makes half of their dinner crash on the ground, he knows that he made the right choice.
--
By the time he’s revised the script another three times and has given it to Sansa so she can start learning her lines, Lannister confirms that he has the theater locked and that he has hired the set designer, a costume designer who’ll double as make-up artist and the stage manager, while for lightening and music he says he’ll send over a friend who knows how to work both - the publicist comes with the theater, so he can go meet all of them whenever he can set an appointment.
“Good,” Robb tells him. “At this point maybe they could be there for the other actors’ auditions? I was thinking of leaving some flyers around the area and put announcements in the papers or something and see how many people turn up. Someone in acting school could probably use it. Maybe a week from now we could all see each other there?”
“Sounds excellent,” Lannister says, “send me the announcements and I can worry about the announcements in the paper and the likes, my social media manager will have fun with that. You can worry about the flyers.”
Robb agrees and drafts the announcements - he needs the love interest guard of course, the evil queen, the crown prince, the king, the girl’s father, a couple of maids and a couple of other knights plus a few extras, but nothing that undoable. When Lannister replies that he’s got them, he calls up Jon -- who is way better at graphic designing than he ever was -- and asks if he can make some flyers out of them. When he has a copy the next morning, he prints a bunch of them in the nearest shop he finds, then leaves some at his former uni, then at the nearby acting schools that he know of, leaves some with Sansa in case she wants to give them to her friends or whatever and hopes for the best. Next week he’s going to the theater to meet the staff and start the auditions, then two from now he thinks they could start, if everything goes well.
And he really, really likes how the play came out.
He can’t wait to get started.
Three days later
“Maybe you should try this out.”
The first instinct Sandor has the moment he’s shoved the flyer in his hands is answering to just fuck off already, except that when it’s the guy who leads your group therapy sessions maybe it’s really… not the best idea in existence.
He breathes in, re-reads the flyer’s contents.
Blah blah blah, theater is looking for nonprofessional actors for charity play, blah blah blah, nine people needed for main and secondary roles plus extras, forfeit pay, as in, nothing he’s interested in whatsoever.
“What, acting? All due respect, but who the hell would need the likes of me in some charity play?”
“Don’t be a complete fucking idiot and read what they’re looking for before telling me I was completely wrong.”
One reason why Sandor sort of always got along with Ray Elder, as in his currently group therapy shrink who is also his one-on-one except that these days he can afford to stick to the group therapy or so he says, is that he swears liberally the moment they’re not doing… group therapy, and he’s fine with letting him swear if they’re one on one. He usually doesn’t tell him that, but -- well. Fine enough. He reads beyond the headline, looking for the first role advertised.
What the --
Main love interest of the piece: we’re looking for a man, possibly very tall and well-built, long hair preferable. The character is supposed to be disfigured, so mind that before applying!
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Sandor groans.
“I’m not. Listen, I’m not going to deny that in the last few years you’ve been doing way better than anyone would have bet on, you first and foremost, but you can’t get in touch with your own feelings for shit and you know that, and this kind of thing is perfect to at least kickstart it. And you’re always saying that no one would want anything to do with you because of how you look, and they’re looking for someone who actually looks like you and they’re not requiring any experience. Try it out, what do you lose?”
He shakes his head. “Getting in touch with feelings,” he groans. “Yeah, sure, playing the love interest would get me in touch with my feelings.”
“It’d force you to socialize some, for one. Anyway, if you want to give it a go, it explains in the back how you go about auditioning. Honestly, at least try it out. If they don’t take you at least you tried.”
Sandor is about to say that he’s working so he can’t exactly do this kinda thing, but at that point he’s moved on to the next person who asked a moment one on one, so he sighs and re-reads the description. All right, well, it doesn’t specify how this guy should be disfigured, but -- well. In theory he has that going for him. It’s not like he ever even considered doing such a thing even in high school, and in elementary, before Gregor, well, he was apparently too tall for anything so if it ever happened he would play background, not that it’s anything new, but --
He turns the flyer over. Auditions are four days from now and if someone wants to give it a go they have to go to the theater, ask for the part they want, take the scene and come back that day having… at least read it twice. And in case rehearsals would all be in the afternoon or evening, which is… reasonable.
He still thinks no one could ever want him for a love interest, but -- whatever. He pockets the thing, leaves the counseling center and heads for the theater, which is a few blocks away, so he supposes they left the flyers there for that, too.
There’s no one around, thankfully, so he heads straight for the ticket office where a blonde girl in her twenties with a nametag reading Gilly is sitting as she turns over pages in a magazine.
He clears his throat. “Hi,” he says, not quite sure of what he should go for --
She looks at him, her eyes going wide, and then --
She smiles?
“You want to audition for the play, don’t you?”
“... Yes?” He replies, taken by surprise.
“Let me guess, for the guard.”
“... I suppose it was obvious?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t be here trying for the evil queen,” she winks at him, and then she opens a drawer, takes out a folder and hands him a few sheets stapled together. “That’s your scene,” she says. “I’ll need a name so I know you’re in the list for the auditions.”
“Oh. Sure. Sandor Clegane. Do you need an ID or --”
“Absolutely not,” Gilly says, “it’s not necessary for now.” She notes his name down on her computer, so obviously she has a spreadsheet open. “Okay, you’re number… thirty and we’re starting in the morning, your role will obviously be the first, so -- I think you can show up at ten or so.”
“So I should just come here by then?”
“Sure,” Gilly says. “Just that, we’ll take it from there. Good luck! If it consoles you, until now you’re the one with the best looks for that job, if you get me.”
Then she winks at him.
What the hell.
He thanks her and heads home, figuring he’ll read the thing on his sofa rather than on the bus.
It’s quite literally the first time someone tells him that his looks are the best for the job.
All right then.
--
Three hours later, he’s staring at the scene like -- he doesn’t know what. Honestly, what the fuck, he doesn’t know who this writer is and how he somehow manages to write a character that he could have come up with in one of those ridiculous creative writing exercises they get in therapy that he always managed to skip on somehow, but --
But.
The scene consists of this Florian guy who according to the summary is the crown prince’s guard monologuing in front of the female protagonist -- Jonquil, all right, whatever -- who until now has been scared shitless of him and telling her that he has a disfigured arm because his father was a piece of shit and pushed it inside a fireplace when he was ten or so, and then tells her that for all that trouble his father became an anointed knight even if everyone knew that he was a piece of shit and he lost any faith in the institution, and then the girl puts a hand on his arm and tells him that his father was no true knight and that’s when she supposedly starts falling for the guy, and --
Christ fucking almighty, it’s too close. He should just not go, but --
But as much as it’s a charity play, the writing’s good. The writing’s relatable, fuck’s sake. And with how much his therapist keeps on saying that he should -- do some kind of catharsis when it comes to his brother, well --
Fuck this, he decides, he’s giving it a go. At worst they’ll throw him out, as always happens.
He sits down at his table and starts learning the thing -- if anything he’ll go there knowing the part by heart.
Saturday Morning
“So,” Robb asks Sansa after guy #29 auditioning for Florian leaves the room, “what do you think?”
She shrugs. “Not bad,” she says, “but… I wasn’t feeling it.”
Robb nods -- he wasn’t bad… but it really didn’t work and they had zero chemistry. “What do you all say?”
“He also wasn’t feeling it, if you ask for my humble opinion,” Davos Seaworth, the set designer, says as he leans back on his chair. He has a good eye for sure, since he’s been confirming each single impression Robb got until now. “The one before was the best yet, but honestly, none of them looks ideal.”
“Yeah,” says the stage manager, Jorah Mormont, who sounds like another good find since from what Robb seen he’s very competent and no nonsense, “also none of them really plays it off well with your sister and she acts better than most of them.”
“Considering that half of them come from my damned school that’s not good.”
Right. That was Theon Greyjoy, costume design and make-up, who has just graduated from a fashion school that was a branch of a larger acting school, and coincidentally the one person in the room that Robb has tried to not stare at that much until now, except that he’s exactly his type with those dark hair and dark eyes and handsome face with a shit-eating grin --
Yeah. And his mind is in the fucking gutter.
“Well, the costumes in your CV look great. Maybe it’s just the acting department that’s lacking,” Robb says.
“Probably,” Theon winks back, and shit, why does he look so effortless as he does that, “but anyway, until now none of them just got… you know, if this guy is supposed to be tormented and suffering and shit, I haven’t heard any of them manage that.”
“You’re right,” Robb sighs. “Well, at least I think that we have more volunteers. Sam,” he asks the theater employee in charge of the social media and advertising, “how many are left outside?”
Sam clears his throat, checking his list. “For this part? Another fifteen. Then there are some ten for Jonquil’s father, fifteen for the king and that’s it for the morning, then the afternoon we have, uh, fifty for the evil queen, ten for both maids and thirty for the crown prince.”
“Woah,” Robb says, “I guess everyone wants to play evil these days? Anyway, okay, it’s not even eleven in the morning. Get the next one in?”
“Sure. By the way,” Sam says, “not to play favorites or anything, but the next one… well, he looks the part.”
“Huh. Good. Then let him in.”
Robb leans back on the theater seat, trying to not think about how Theon is sitting right next to him because ogling after your new colleague the day you meet isn’t really professional, and waits for number thirty.
The moment the guy walks into the room, shoulders slightly hunched and glancing around as if he’s nowhere near sure that he’s in the right place, Robb realizes immediately what Sam meant. Not only the guy is huge and tall, shit, he has to be near two meters or something, but the moment he turns their way he shows them the left side of his face, and --
It’s burned. Completely burned, to the point that it’s a mass of reddened scar tissue that Robb is sure must have hurt like hell, and he doesn’t want to know if there’s a piece of bone showing on his cheek, and it’s obvious that he keeps that black, thick hair of his long so he can comb it on the left side, too, and hide the fact that most likely he has no hair there anymore.
Also, the guy looks like he’s going to bolt if they don’t say something, so he immediately stands up.
“Hi,” he says, holding out a hand. “Robb Stark, the director. And writer, but -- yeah. Welcome.”
“Sandor Clegane,” the guy says, shaking Robb’s hand. He has a nice, strong grip. “Uh, thanks. I -- how does this work?”
“Oh -- right. Just a question first, did you ever act before? That’s just to get a feeling of the performance, nothing else.”
“Unless playing background trees in elementary school plays counts, no.” He says dryly. Robb snorts.
“No, that doesn’t count. Anyway, no problem, we’re not looking for professionals, as stated. So, do you need to read the scene or -”
“No,” Clegane says. “Uh, I learned it.”
“Excellent,” Robb says. “Only two other people did until now.”
“... Seriously?”
“Yeah, well, we wanted to check also who would do that before,” Robb replies, and he likes that this guy is asking the right questions. “Anyway, just go up on stage on the side. That’s my sister Sansa, she’s playing Jonquil.”
Sansa waves at the both of them and when Clegane looks at her like he’s not even sure he should get on the stage she smiles encouragingly.
“Just go there and act it the way you want to, this is to see how you deliver it and how you two have chemistry.”
“How… we’d have chemistry?”
“I should hope that lead actors do have some,” Robb says. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Clegane nods, makes his way towards the stage and still looks like he’s not sure he belongs anywhere near here.
Except --
“Let me guess,” Theon whispers as he walks up to Sansa and introduces himself as if he doesn’t know where he should look, “you’re hoping he can act, aren’t you?”
“Figured me out this soon?” Robb replies, figuring it’s not worth it to deny it. “I mean, he’s -- pretty much it, for the looks. If he stops assuming Sansa will eat him alive.”
“Well, let’s see,” Theon says, and they both lean back. Robb tells them they can go whenever they like, Sansa will give the cue, and --
“You rode gallantly today, Sir Florian,” she says, perfectly on cue, and then Clegane laughs. But bitterly. Very bitterly. Like he doesn’t buy any of that.
“Spare me your empty little compliments, girl…and your sirs. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My father is a knight. Did you see him ride today?” Well, shit. The way he delivers it, dry and as if he doesn’t believe a word of what she says, is impressive. Very impressive. If he’s as good for the rest of it -
“Yes,” Sansa whispers back, obviously not having expected him to be this good at once. “He was…”
“Gallant?” Clegane says, and Robb can feel Theon flinching next to him. He’s pretty sure that a tenth of the venom the guy packed in that word could have killed thirty people at once.
“No one could withstand him,” Sansa says, sounding half-afraid, which is how she should have, and she hadn’t with any of them before.
“Some bloody nun trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the south, aren’t you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” At that, he sounds… resigned? Like he knows he’ll never get the truth out of her either way. Which is good - yes, definitely good -
“That’s unkind.” Sansa goes on, good thing she already knows all of her part. “You’re frightening me. I want to go now.”
“No one could withstand him,” Clegane quite literally rasps. Right. He has a low voice anyway, so they’ll have to make sure he knows how to make himself heard if they take him, but it works perfectly for this scene. Fuck, if he’s good at the rest of hit -
“That’s truth enough. No one could ever withstand my fucking father. That boy today, his second joust, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn’t fastened proper. You think he didn’t notice that? You think his lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, if you believe that, you’re empty-headed as a bird for true. His lance goes where he wants it to go. Look at me. Look at me.”
At that point the stage directions said that Florian takes Jonquil’s face and raises it up to force her to look at him, and for a moment Clegane looks halfway lost and as if he’s about to break character even if he had kept the right tone until now, but Sansa motions for him to go on and tilts her head up a bit herself.
At that, he leans down, tilts her head up higher even if he’s still being too delicate, but that’s all right because that can be changed later in case, and then he leans even closer, making sure she has a very good look at the left side of his face. It was his arm, in theory, but of course he’s doing that, not that Robb minds. Because if he does the rest well -
“There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away all the way down the road. Piss on that. Take your look.” The way he says it sounds so dejected Robb flinches, and after a beat or two when Sansa says nothing --
“No pretty words for that, girl? No little compliment your nun taught you?” He waits again, and sure as hell he has good timing. “Most of them, they think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was because of a dragon.” He laughs again, still bitter even if not as loud as before. “I’ll tell you what it was, girl,” he goes on, leaning a bit closer, and it’s maybe awkward but that works.
“I was younger than you, six, maybe seven,” he starts. “A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father’s keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don’t remember what I got, but it was my brother’s gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. My brother is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you.” He stops, takes a breath, then -- “I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. My brother never said a word --” Wait, it was my father in theory, except that Robb’s not going to stop him when he can hear each single bit of anger in his tone and he’s going higher, higher -- “just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The priests preach about going to Hell. What do they know? Only a man who’s been burned knows what hell is truly like.” He stops, breathes in, out, like saying this is tearing his heart out. Fuck --
“My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! My father got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and the king tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise.’” And at that, he sounds so dejected like he’s about to fucking cry, and then he looks at Sansa whose eyes are fucking wet as she reaches out and grasps his shoulder gently --
“He was no true knight,” she says, her voice fucking trembling, it hadn’t until now --
“No,” he replies, sounding like he’s so tired he could barely move, “no, little bird, he was no true knight.”
Oh.
Right.
That was it, Robb realizes, he had gotten so caught up in it that he hadn’t realized the scene was over and then Clegane immediately moves away from Sansa as if the touch would burn her, and before she can say anything or anyone can --
“Sam?” He asks.
“Yeah?”
“You can send away the others.”
“Wait, what --” Clegane starts.
“You’re hired,” Robb says, “I’m not even questioning it.”
“I’m what?” The guy sounds like he can’t believe it.
“You’re hired. You look the part, your delivery was stellar, she definitely had chemistry with you and not with the previous twenty-nine and for having never acted before you’re pretty damned good, I don’t need to hear anyone else and no point making them do it if I’d say no anyway.”
“You can’t know you would,” he protests weakly.
“I know when I found an actor when I see him,” Robb says. “Really, you nailed it. Do we all agree?”
“Absolutely,” Jorah says.
“Are we kidding?” Davos chimes in. “You were heaps better than the other ones. He’s right, it’s not worth it to look for anyone else.”
“Please,” Theon says, “you blew them out of the water, just take the job. Actually I’ll need to talk to you later because with how tall you are I need to get ready in advance making your costume.”
“... All -- all right,” Clegane says, sounding like he can’t buy it. “If you’re so sure.”
“You were the best out of thirty,” Sansa says, patting his arm. “I think he’s sure. And I also would like to do this with someone who’d take it seriously.”
“Oh. All -- okay then. Uhm, what do we do then?” He asks, still sounding like he’ll bolt at any moment.
“For now nothing because you’re all signing contracts together when I have the entire cast, hopefully within today,” Robb says, “but can we have a word? Guys, you can take five. Sansa, we’re doing the king next, so just come back in an hour and a half when we’re going for the father.”
“All right,” she says. “And congratulations!” She chirps Clegane’s way as she grabs her jacket and gets out of the room. The other three leave as well, leaving Robb and Clegane -- he motions for the other man to join him on one of the seats.
“So,” Robb says, “this is because I like to make sure my actors aren’t uncomfortable, and feel free to not answer, but… was this piece somehow relatable to you?”
He can see the man’s body language clam up at once. “What would fucking give you the idea?”
“You slipped a bit during the last part.”
“... Shit. What did I say?”
“My brother never said a word, it was my father originally.”
Clegane curses under his breath, then looks back down at him with dark grey eyes. “Well, shit. So what if I did?”
“Well, I’m not asking further details if you don’t want to give them, but I mean, if you’re doing this because that’s relatable to you or whatever and you’d rather have me changing the script, it’s not really a problem.”
“Wait -- wait a moment,” Clegane says, “you barely know me and you’re asking me if I’d like you to change the script?”
Robb shrugs. “Considering that it would hardly be a change and at this point I will have to regardless because it would be idiotic to make your arm look burned, I don’t see why I wouldn’t. Just if you want, of course. Or if you’d rather have the circumstances changed -- I don’t know. I like to accommodate people, if I can.”
Clegane just stares at him as if he doesn’t know what to make of him for what feels like a damned long while, then lowers his eyes. “I guess that if it wasn’t a problem changing it to the brother could be -- a good idea. But -- before anything else, you should know that I got that flyer at that counseling center three blocks from here.”
Robb has a feeling he knows why he’s telling him now.
“Yeah, I brought that stack personally,” he shrugs. “My cousin went there a couple of times when he had… issues with his parents. I don’t really care.”
“I have to play your sister’s love interest and you don’t?”
Robb shrugs again. “You’re presumably seeing a therapist, you aren’t in jail for attempted murder now, so what?”
“It was the therapist giving me the flyer,” he admits.
“Then he thinks you can do it, so as far as I’m concerned we’re good. Wait.”
He grabs his backpack from the bottom of the stage, finds one of the extra scripts and hands it over to Clegane. “Here, if you want to start reading it. I’ll give you an updated copy when you come back to sign the contract.”
“All -- all right. Fine. Should I leave my number at the desk or --”
“Yes, please, just ask Gilly. And welcome on board,” Robb says.
“You’re fucking incredible,” Clegane mutters, “but thanks, I guess.” He nods at him, then leaves the room, a bit straighter than he was when he came in.
Good.
Extremely good.
--
“So,” he asks Sansa later, after they’re done with the auditions and going back home -- she has a spring in her step that he hadn’t seen in a while and he’s glad for it, he really is --, “how are you feeling when it comes to --”
“Sandor Clegane?” She interrupts, and Robb thinks she’s maybe flushing, but maybe he’s imagining it. “Oh, he’s just -- the moment he showed up I thought he really looked the part. But when he started acting -- he was so intense, you know, I just -- it was good, don’t worry. I mean, he was intense but he also was tensing every time we came close. I mean, it was obvious he thought he was scaring me or something, I’m pretty sure he’s good. In that sense.”
Considering that he was completely surprised that Robb would even want to hire him, he has no doubts about that.
“So, you’re good with it? I mean, I didn’t even think because he just looked like the part so much --”
“Oh, absolutely,” Sansa replies, pretty damn fast. Huh. “Meanwhile, are you making eyes at the costume designer?”
“... The fuck, Sansa?”
“Come on, it was obvious, and you and Jeyne have been broken up for months by now, I’m pretty sure you’re over it.”
Robb doesn’t even deny it -- they’re still friends and he loves her, just not like that. “I was over Jeyne a long time ago, but what does it even have to do --”
“No one is blaming you if you look. By the way, Mr. Costume Designer definitely checked you out at some point.”
“He didn’t.”
“Absolutely staring at your ass, Robb,” she winks, and he tells her to just drop it because Theon Greyjoy checking his ass is absolutely not a thing he should think about if he wants to revise the script tonight before they sign the contracts two days after tomorrow.
And then --
Well.
He has three and some months to make this work and trying to stay professional while not checking Theon Greyjoy’s ass himself.
He can do it.
He can absolutely do it.
One month later
If there was something Sansa had not thought she should worry about, it was her on stage partner not being handsy enough.
And yet, here she is, a week before costume fitting -- because Theon is indeed extremely efficient and had everyone but their costumes ready a week ago but is taking longer for hers and Sandor’s because they’re more elaborate and so on -- wondering how she can convince the guy that she won’t break down in pieces if he touches her a bit more than he is right now.
That is not going into the fact that she’s been spending three hours each day acting with him most of the time and she actually kind of wants him to be handsier, and that’s probably something she should unpack before it’s too late, but the more this play goes on the more she wishes he actually hung out with them before or after or talked some more rather than just show up, deliver his lines perfectly without touching her too much or too inappropriately and flee, and… she told Robb to tell him that it’s fine if he goes for it since he won’t believe her if she does, and she knows Robb told him, but the guy apparently said that he didn’t need her to be polite and left it at that.
The fact that he seems to be terrified that he might tear a hair on her head is actually almost adorable, if it didn’t make half of their acting awkward because whenever she has to touch him she can feel him go tense under her fingers, and it’s not enough to ruin it, but --
But when on top of that she’s halfway sure that she’s into him and that she’s been from the moment he showed up in front of her -- she hadn’t known she liked tall men but apparently she does and it took a week of rehearsals to realize what felt so off about dating Joffrey. He was teen-movie level hot and seemed kind and he was everything she had thought an ideal boyfriend should be, but something hadn’t added up. She had thought that it was just first relationship nerves, except that now that she finds herself staring at Sandor more than she should and realizes that in comparison she wasn’t really attracted to Joffrey but that she just thought she was because he was perfect boyfriend material, so -- well. She can just be professional, and she’s really not going to put moves on him or anything even if she thinks he’s interesting and that he has lovely eyes and that he’s, well, hot, and if he didn’t look so closed off she’d have asked him out for a drink already, but on top of that… well, she wouldn’t really mind if he was handsier or if he went for it and lifted her in the bridal carry that he’s supposed to do at the end and that he’s kind of chickened out of doing until now with the excuse that he only wants to try it when their costumes are ready so he doesn’t fuck it up.
So -- yeah. She needs to address it sooner rather than later, which is why she’s waiting for him outside the men’s bathroom where he went to after they finished for the day. Robb has gone to discuss costumes with Theon, yeah, sure thing he is, everyone else has left except for Jorah Mormont who’s going around fixing props, and Sandor definitely doesn’t expect her to be standing outside the door when he opens it.
“Hey,” she says, staring straight up at him. “I was wondering, are you busy or can we get a coffee?”
“... You want to get coffee with me now?”
“Uh, well,” she says, “I kind of wanted to talk to you about something but it’s not… very quick, I guess, so. But if you’d rather do it another day or get anything else --”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Wherever you want.”
He’s obviously trying to not look at her. She wonders why. He could look at her, if he wanted. She wouldn’t have issues with it, but somehow he doesn’t seem to believe it.
She hopes she can change his mind about that at least.
She ends up going for the coffee shop in front of the theater that’s also open for dinner and serves alcohol after seven PM, but he just gets a black coffee while she gets tea, and after the waitress leaves --
“So?” He asks.
“Uhm,” she clears her throat, “I don’t know how to put this without sounding inappropriate, but -- you don’t need to do… that.”
“... That?”
“This is coming out wrong. Okay, so, while it’s admirable that you don’t want to be inappropriate and shit, because that has to be why you’re obviously uncomfortable with being in my, uh, personal space on stage, first thing, it’s an act. I don’t really mind. Second, if it’s not because you’d think I would mind, because I don’t, then maybe we should discuss it, because I can feel that it’s awkward when nothing else is, so. Really. It’s fine.”
He hadn’t been looking at her, but now he does, and he’s staring like he doesn’t know what to make of her.
“It’s fine.”
“It is,” she presses. “Really, it’s all right. I don’t really mind. And I’ve seen that you’re trying to make me comfortable, even too much, I don’t think you’d cop a feel or anything that wasn’t scripted.”
Before he can say anything, the waitress comes back with their drinks -- he grabs his, takes a sip, then lowers it down with both hands around the cup. They almost dwarf it.
“That’s -- that’s not --” He starts, then mutters something under his breath. “Ah, fuck it. Can I be extremely blunt about this?”
“Please do,” she says. “I don’t mind.”
“Don’t be polite at all costs,” he sighs. “Shit, I just -- listen, let’s be real, whenever anyone says that kinda shit and I fall for it they end up screeching the moment I put a hand on their bloody shoulder, so how about you just -- don’t try to make yourself uncomfortable at all costs?”
What the hell, Sansa thinks.
“I, uh, wasn’t trying to. Really. If I was, would I have started this entire conversation?”
“Forgive me if then you’d be the first person in, uh, twenty-something years.”
“... What?”
He shrugs. “Your brother didn’t tell you about… the script changes?”
“No,” Sansa shakes her head, “he just gave me the updated version saying it worked better like that and left it at that. Why?”
“... Shit,” Sandor says, “he actually didn’t.”
“What is this about exactly?” She presses, wishing she was getting to the bottom of this.
He shakes his head, takes another sip of coffee. “Right. So, when I was auditioning, at some point I slipped. I said my brother rather than my father, and your brother noticed.”
“Uh, I.. didn’t? I was too enraptured, I guess.”
“Good for me,” he snorts. “Anyway, he asked me if I wanted that to change since it was obvious that something was underneath it and I told him -- well. It was after he made the changes, but when I realized what this part was about, er, I went for it because that was what fucking happened to me.”
“You mean --” She asks, the tea feeling too hot in her hands.
“I mean, that my brother put my face over the fucking fireplace when I was eight because I pissed him off and my ass of a father covered it up until the fucking brother got thrown in jail for raping one of his girlfriends when he was twenty-four and no one ever wondered if maybe that wasn’t on him, too.” He shrugs again. Oh. Oh. “Which meant that everyone started avoiding me on principle and at some point I had to move classes because when I went back to school after the burn, the girls in class would cry for how scared they were and their mothers protested and no one ever told them to maybe not look.”
“I’m --”
“Don’t say you’re sorry, I can do without hearing that for the rest of my life. So, that was pretty much it for the entire time I was in school not counting the people who wanted to pay me to punch their sworn enemies and shit, not counting a few girls who’d try to chat me up because they bet they’d have the guts to do that and the likes, not counting that my brother was five years older than me and was always around at home and no one did shit to -- well. No one did shit, which was why in between him and my father I ended up with a goddamned drinking problem when I was sixteen or so which meant things were even worse because people assumed I’d just go and try to murder them or something when the point wasn’t really that.” He shrugs again. “Meanwhile my fucking brother somehow managed to get scot free away with any shit he pulled because at school he was exemplary and he was football team captain and shit. That is, until he got locked up and I’m just sad that the poor girl who fell for his shit had to be the reason he did. Not that anyone ever listened to me when it came to that, so.”
He raises a hand and she says nothing, even if she has things to say just hearing that --
“Then I straightened my shit out the moment Gregor was out of the fucking picture and I could leave, but it’s not like with my looks and my admittedly could-have-been-better-grades in anything except two subjects I was going to go fucking anywhere, so I’m currently stuck repairing cars until I somehow find anything better to do and each single time they leave me to mind the shop everyone coming in looks at me like he’s sure I’m going to steal their wallets or whatever the fuck it is. So excuse me if I’m fucking playing it safe these days.”
He sounds like he’s one hundred percent sure that she will change her mind even if now she’s telling him it’s fine, and it’s not like she can blame him for having trust issues.
“And you were expecting my brother to… have told all of this to us?”
He snorts. “I told him a quarter of what I told you,” he goes on, “but forgive me if the one time I did tell anyone in high school they went and spilled it so everyfuckingone knew and then decided I was lying because no way my brother had done that, I was just jealous, so I honestly don’t really trust anyone as far as I can throw them.”
“Did he, though?”
“Yeah, fine, he didn’t. Guess he’s a decent person. I mean, I grasped that. Not that they’re many, but -”
“Did he tell you what that play really is?” She asks.
“Uh, not really. Didn’t ask. Why?”
She considers her options.
Then she decides to fuck it to hell and back and lowers her hand downwards, covering his wrist. She can feel him go tense, but he doesn’t move that hand away, not yet --
“It was a story he always told me when we were kids. I mean, he -- he always was good at making stories up, that’s why it’s his job, but he’d just make up any of them specifically with us and for us.”
“Does this have a point?”
“Yes, it does, because again, he’s embellished it, but he’s told me that particular story before going to sleep for years and it always was my favorite. I suggested some details, obviously, but he always seemed to know what I wanted to hear. I mean, I loved the whole forbidden romance angle and the fact that in the end they found love and left because -- well. That was what I dreamed of, back in the day. Having the fairytale love story and all.” She squeezes his wrist. “Let me finish. Then, uh, I fell for this guy in one of my uni classes. Rich, good-looking, a charmer, seemed like the whole deal. And -- well. We slept together for a while and then it turned out that he only was with me because I was pretty much doing all his assignments, that he was cheating on me with a close friend from the same course and he dumped me in public in front of all of them, which means that now I can’t even look at them without feeling like shit. I know that when Robb asked me to act in this thing he wanted me to -- well. He thought it’d be good for me if I starred in my own love story, you know?”
Sandor nods, half-reluctantly. “I guess some people get lucky with siblings,” he sighs. “So what’s the entire point of this?”
“The entire point,” she says, “is that first of all, I grew up with Robb, so if he was straight with you then you can assume that I would be as well. Second of all, we’re starring together as the main characters in a piece my brother wrote about my own fairytale if you want to describe it like that, and the moment you showed up at the audition I knew you were right for it, so -- honestly, I’m not going to bolt or go to the police making up that you were inappropriate on stage or whatever it is you think I might.”
For a moment he says nothing, and he’s obviously noticing that she hasn’t moved her hand yet.
Then --
“Let’s say that I buy that,” he says, half-smiling. But he doesn’t mean it. “What if tomorrow I stop being awkward and then you obviously can’t look at me in the face?”
“What if there is absolutely no chance that might happen?”
“We’ll see tomorrow I guess,” he agrees, and then she moves her hand away to finish her tea and swears to herself that she is going to change his damned mind about it.
--
The next day, to Sansa’s luck, they have to go through the scene where they confess each other their love and run away from the castle and where he’s supposed to show up in the middle of an episode, and where the script says that in theory, she has to touch his face before she tells him she does love him.
Until now, he’s been guarded, but when this time he puts an arm around her waist fully, Robb doesn’t stop them and Sansa throws an arm around his neck, and when he tells her that he could bring her away and that he’d keep her safe she knows she sounds like she means it when she says I want you to, and when he asks if she’s for real or not, she reaches up, puts that hand on the side of his face, finally, and she feels him slightly leaning into it, and oh but it’s warm and rough but not unpleasant, and the way he stares back at her as if he can’t believe she did it is makes her want to ask everyone else who knew him before how they could just convince him that no one might ever want to touch him like that, and a moment later Robb says that it’s perfect and they can take ten. He lowers her to the ground so carefully, as if he wanted to make sure she didn’t fall or anything, and for a moment she thinks he was looking at her with longing, but then he says he’ll go to the bathroom and the moment’s gone.
Too bad.
Still, she --
She liked it.
She liked touching his face, she liked how he touched her, and if it’s how he thinks he’s supposed to touch someone he’s in love with --
Shit.
If Robb wanted her to get her mind off Joffrey, it’s working.
It’s really working, except that she’s apparently ogling her co-star instead.
Who is obviously having a bad case of identification going on with a guy who technically was the man of her dreams growing up.
This might be a problem.
--
“You know,” Theon tells Robb as Robb closes the door of the theater’s meeting room, “that your sister wants to climb over Sandor Clegane’s shoulders like there’s no tomorrow and not just in an innocent way?”
Robb, who has himself spent the last month willing himself to Stay Professional whenever it came to be around Theon rather than asking him out for lunch at every other turn, and it had been especially hard to keep himself from doing that when the guy is always around to crack politically incorrect jokes that usually have him in stitches and with whom he’s shared more than one coffee at the machine in the backstage, and who is absolutely aware that his sister totally is into Sandor, merely shrugs and moves back towards the table where Theon is already laying out the folders with his costume designs for the protagonists.
“I’m aware,” Robb says, “I’ve seen each single one of her crushes and this one is a whole other level.” He’s not blind. And he certainly noticed that she literally swooned the moment he did the bridal carry thing the first time they convinced him to try it. She also dropped hints that she’s interested, for that matter.
“And you have nothing against that?” Theon asks, cocking an eyebrow, dark eyes staring into his. Shit. Robb needs to get a grip here. Now.
“No,” he says. “I mean, I talked to the guy when he explained me why this thing is cathartic to him. He’s honestly harmless and he wouldn’t even suspect she’s looking at him that way, and if she can vote, drive, drink and join the army she can choose whoever she wants to put a move on. It’s not my business and this is… her thing too. Who am I to ruin it for her?”
“... Her thing?” Theon asks, sounding intrigued.
Oh. He didn’t exactly tell that around, sure --
Well, why not embarrass himself thoroughly?
“It was -- well, this entire thing, the basic plot is this fairytale I made up for her when we were kids. She collaborated when it came to embellish it and stuff and I’m pretty sure she always wanted to be the princess, so if she somehow is acting it out on another level and she likes him and he obviously likes her even if he doesn’t even consider it… who am I to tell her no? They’re adults, he’s all right, she needs a decent guy, they can have it. When they figure it out.”
“Huh,” Theon says, “I did peg you as the hopelessly romantic kind.”
“Hilarious,” Robb quips back, “so how about those costumes?”
“Right. So, I have the definitive prospects here, if they’re good for you I can get started and have them ready next week. This is what I thought for her.” He opens the first folder, and --
Oh.
The plan is a gorgeous light blue dress that would compliment Sansa’s hair and eyes perfectly. It looks out of those Disney movies she used to love, with the large, airy skirt, short sleeves with embroidered hems, a tiny bow at the waist and a dark red mockingbird embroidered all over the end of the skirt. “Since the guy calls her little bird and the likes,” Theon says. “If you’d rather have different colors --”
“No,” Robb says, “no, I think it’s perfect. What about his?”
Theon opens the second folder.
Well, shit. Other than the obligatory armor which he should wear for half of the time, the other costume is all dark leather that would suit the man perfectly along with a heavy gray tunic and another large, imposing gray cloak that would definitely compliment the man’s eyes and pair really well with Sansa’s dress. It’s all a lot simpler, obviously, since the guy isn’t supposed to come from money nor to wear expensive clothes rather than practical ones, and with a prop sword at his side, it would be… yes. It would work perfectly.
“My friend,” Robb says, “you’re fucking gifted at this.”
“Why, thanks,” Theon replies dryly, “don’t ever let my father hear you.”
“What,” Robb asks, looking down at the drawings, “not a fashionista?”
“Please, he about kicked me out of the house. Good thing I had a scholarship.”
“Shit,” Robb says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked --”
“Please,” Theon says, “I volunteered that piece of information. Really, it’s fine. We don’t talk anymore and it’s a good thing we fucking don’t. For full disclosure, might be why I was asking you before. About your sister.”
Robb wonders for a moment what’s the connection, but then --
“Wait, because you talked to Sandor Clegane?”
Theon shrugs. “I recognized the tells from the audition, too,” he says. “I mean, shitty family tells. We got beers a couple of times. I didn’t get it half as shitty as he did, at least my pretty face is still whole, but anyway, he doesn’t have a clue that she wants to climb him and he thinks he shouldn’t even think of that as, like, something in the realm of likely happening. Still, maybe that part is getting to him.”
“What,” Robb grins, “is it really?”
“The second time we got drinks he didn’t outright insult me when I suggested that maybe Sansa Stark could be his princess as he had the first time, so -- could be that it is. Anyway, they’re not lasting until opening night.”
“Good for them,” Robb shrugs. “I mean, why not? If they like each other then fine. Won’t be me to take my sister’s hard-won romance away from her.”
“And aren’t you looking for a romance?” Theon asks, sounding… genuinely interested. Huh. Well.
“Never said I wouldn’t be up for it,” Robb says, “it just wasn’t, you know, my main fantasy material when I was a kid. But it’s fine, it was hers. With my previous girlfriend it didn’t work out because we were better friends than partners but who knows. Things happen.”
“Right,” Theon nods. “Things happen. ‘Course they do. So, do I start sewing the whole shebang here?”
“Sure,” Robb says, wishing that the need to ask the guy out wasn’t making his brain almost short circuit - after the show, maybe. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“It’s a nice job,” Theon smiles back. “Well-paid, nice cause, low stress. You wish they were all like this.” He winks at Robb, then takes back his things and leaves.
Robb drops down on the next chair and decides that he has his damned head in the gutter, but -- yes. That’s right. After they put this up, he can do it. And maybe he can keep on testing the waters meanwhile.
Two weeks later
“What the hell is this,” Sandor blurts, looking at the costume Theon just handed him.
“Your costume, what should it be,” Theon replies, rolling his eyes. “What’s the matter?”
“The matter is that -- it has details on the fucking boots? You shouldn’t have bothered.”
“If you missed it, I’ve been handsomely paid to do my job right, and the director approved, so how about you put it on and go downstairs? Robb says that you’re rehearsing the last scene to see how it looks and so that they can shoot pictures to start promoting the thing, so stop whining and dress decently for once.”
“I dress fine, thank you very fucking much.”
“No, you dress without putting a thought into it and it’s all black and large. Anyway, just go for it. I can assure you it’s going to fit you.”
Then he closes the door and Sandor -- well. It’s not like he has any choices. He takes a breath, gets out of his clothes and starts putting on the costume, black leather trousers first that indeed fit him like a glove, then a soft white shirt, the gray tunic and the black leather belt with the fake sword hanging on to it, and finally the gray cloak. Admittedly, he thinks grudgingly as he stares at himself in the mirror, he doesn’t look… bad. This stuff does fit him. Too bad he doesn’t do medieval fairs as a steady job.
He shakes his head and goes downstairs, figuring that it’s better to have this out of the way.
Except that the moment he goes straight on stage Sansa is already there, and --
Holy fuck.
She’s dressed in this pale blue dress with fucking embroidered red mockingbirds at the end of the skirt, with her hair carefully braided, and she’s twirling on stage like a damned Disney princess or something --
And then the moment she looks at him she stops dead in her tracks, her eyes going wide and her lips slightly parting.
“What,” he says, “that bad?”
“Oh, no,” she says at once, blushing. The hell? “It becomes you.”
“It does,” Robb confirms, “it really does. Theon, you really need to make more money out of this job.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Theon says, mock-bowing from his place next to Robb under the stage, “one day I’ll get my own damn fashion brand. So, nothing to change? You’re both comfortable and whatnot?”
“Yes,” Sansa says, “absolutely. Not a problem.”
“Me neither,” Sandor says. “Fits great.”
“Excellent,” Theon says, moving back and sitting down.
“Right,” Robb clears his throat, “you think that you might do just your final scene? Just to see how it works with the costumes, then Sam and Gilly can take some pictures and you can go, you don’t need to be there for the other costume tryouts. Tomorrow we can start rehearsing the entire thing beginning to end.”
“Sure,” Sansa says. “That all right for you?”
“Sure,” he says, his throat going dry. He’s not going to think about how his shrink keeps on telling him that if he likes her he should give her an opening. Like hell he’s going to do that. Also, no way she’s interested. Please. It’s already a miracle she doesn’t blink when she has to stare at him, he’s not -- he’s not.
He moves back behind the door and waits for Sansa to go to the vanity in the side of the room and kneels down, bringing her hands together, looking at the mirror.
“I’ll go to sleep,” she says, her voice trembling, “and when I wake it will be a new day, and the sky will be blue again. The fighting will be done and someone will tell me whether I’m to live or die. Yes,” she nods, “yes, I will, I have to, oh, how I wish --”
He makes his way towards her, moving behind her, a hand on her waist and one lightly touching her throat, hoping that she doesn’t feel that he’s about to faint here, and every damned time he has to touch her he wants to die inside because of course this is the only way she might ever want him to --
“Little bird. I knew you’d come here,” he rasps, making sure that his voice is not that low the way Mormont explained him time and time again.
“If you scream I’ll kill you. Believe that,” he says, moving his hand away from her throat, and he can feel her breathing in and out, in and out, and then he looks at the mirror -- the instructions were to do it so people could see it from their seats. He tries to not stare at himself too much nor at how her cheeks are flushed. “Don’t you care about who’s winning the battle, little bird?”
“Who?” She asks.
“I only know who’s lost. Me.”
“What have you lost?” She asks, her voice turning a tad softer. Shit, she’s good at acting. Good thing he’s not really acting, and that was what they needed.
“All.” He snorts, shaking his head. “That prick they want you to marry. Should have killed him. Years ago.”
“He’s dead, they say,” Sansa goes on.
“Dead? No. Bugger that. I don’t want him dead. I want him burned. If the gods are good, they’ll burn him, but I won’t be here to see. I’m going.” Every single time he says I want him burned, he thinks about his brother. No one is stopping him, for now.
“Going?” She asks, almost hopefully.
“The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes.”
“Where will you go? And I wasn’t repeating it.”
“Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.”
“You won’t get out,” Sansa goes on, her hand touching his wrist as she turns in his arms. “All the city gates are shut as well.”
He takes his cue to stand up and move in front of her, dropping to one knee. “Not to me. I have the king’s sigil, don’t I. And I have this.” He touches his sword, then looks back at her. “The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire.” He laughs again.
“Why did you come here?” She asks.
“You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?”
“Oh,” she says, as if she understands, and well, she’s supposed to -- “And you want it now? What if I was scared to do it here?”
“Everything scares you, doesn’t it? Look at me. Look at me.”
“Gladly,” she says, doing it just so, and she’s smiling as she does --
“What?”
“All things considered,” she says, her hands going to his shoulders, grasping at the cloak, “I would rather look at you than anyone else in this entire castle.”
He shakes his head, his hands falling from her waist.
“You don’t mean it,” he says again, and what did Robb say, do it like you desperately want to believe that but you can’t? Well, he hardly needs to act for this.
“And what if I did? What if I wanted to come with you?”
“I could keep you safe,” he replies, trying to sound more hopeful now. “They’re all afraid of me, that’s all I am to them. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”
“That might be everything you are to them,” she says, staring right up at him, “but not to me,” and then that’s when she should fake-kiss him and then he should go for the declaration and sweep her up, except that then she shakes her head and throws an arm around his neck and puts her other hand on his cheek and okay that was scripted --
And then she kisses him.
But until now she’s only ever done it to the corner of his mouth, as agreed upon.
Now she’s flat-out kissed him for real and her mouth is pressing up against his and he parts his lips before he can even think about it and her tongue is touching his tentatively and his hand is buried in her hair and he probably ruined her braid, didn’t he --
“Not that we weren’t expecting that,” Robb Stark says a moment later, and then Sansa moves away, her cheeks flushed almost as red as her hair, “but if you want to take it backstage after you’re done that’d be ideal.”
“... I got carried away?” She says, but she doesn’t look sorry. “With that, I mean -- I meant it,” she tells him, still looking at him, and wait, what the fuck --
“You meant it?”
“Well, yes, obviously --”
“Sansa,” Robb says, “can you two finish -- never mind. We’re doing it tomorrow, it’d be useless to get you to focus now. Get changed and sort it out. By the way, Sandor?”
“... Yes?” He asks, wondering why Stark looks happy about it.
“She’s an adult and she can kiss whoever she likes. As long as you two do your job, I don’t care about any of it as long as you’re both consenting to it. Now go before you both faint on the damned stage.”
She grabs his hand after telling Robb that he’s the best and drags him backstage.
Sandor thinks he’s going to straight up get a stroke the moment they’re upstairs and she stops outside the changing rooms.
“You meant it,” he says, staring down at her. She’s still flushing, and she’s looking sheepish, but… she’s also looking back at him and she doesn’t look at all like she’s regretting it.
“Let’s be real,” she says, “I’ve wanted to for a while. Probably since we got drinks. Sort of.”
“... Since then?” He’s going to faint. “But how --”
“Is that so hard to believe?” She asks, her fingers grasping his wrist. “I like you. You’re interesting. You’re definitely a better date than my idiot ex-boyfriend, and we’ve taken enough drinks with the others to be sure of it. You’re trying to get better when it’s obvious you’ve been treated unfairly by just about everyone you run into. And you freaked out for weeks because you thought you could hurt me by what, touching my shoulder? Please. I like you, I’ve wanted to do it for a while, I got caught up, I did it. If you’re not interested friends like before, but if you are --”
“If I’m not interested,” he wheezes. “Sansa, for -- that’s not -- you do realize that I haven’t even considered the option because it just doesn’t happen that if I’m interested in anyone they actually aren’t horrified at the thought?”
“Too bad,” she says, sounding almost sweet, “guess those people had no taste. Now are you going to kiss me again or do I have to come and take it myself?”
She’s looking at him like she’s fucking challenging him to do it, and --
Oh, fuck it to hell and back, he decides, and he leans down and kisses her, more tentatively than he ever thought he’d ever kiss anyone because she deserves a nice kiss even if he’s not sure he’s the kind of person you’d ask for if you want the perfect romantic comedy kiss kind of experience, but she smiles into it and she grasps at his neck as she latches to his shoulders --
And then her hand moves to his cheek again and he sighs into into just as she does, and he doesn’t know what happens now nor what he should do nor how he gets to fucking keep it but she’s sighing as if this is the best thing that’s ever happened to her, and --
Well.
Sure as hell it’s the best that’s happened to him, he decides, and kisses her harder.
He’ll think about when the shoe will inevitably drop later.
Five days later
“Uhm,” Sam says, opening the door when they’re smack in the middle of the scene where the court learns that they’re being attacked, “sorry to interrupt, but… there might be issues.”
“Issues?” Robb asks, motioning for everyone to stop. “About what?”
“Er,” Sam says, sounding mortified, “you know that I started posting pictures online to publicize the play, right?”
“And how would that cause issues?” Davos Seaworth asks as the actors get down from the stage.
“Uhm, I took pictures from the first rehearsal in costume. And of course I had only one tweet with only pictures of Sandor and Sansa during the scene where he tells her about his scars, but they’re the mains, I thought it would be good, right?”
“Okay, and?” Jorah Mormont says. “I don’t see what’s the problem.”
“Uhm.” Sam hands Robb a bunch of printed replies to that tweet. “That is part of the problem.”
Robb takes the sheet. Then reads it.
“What the fuck,” he blurts as soon as he’s read ten of them.
“Wait,” Theon says, “what is the problem - what? We’re inciting pedophilia now?”
At that, Robb sees Sandor’s face go so pale for a moment he thinks he’ll faint.
Davos moves closer and grabs it from him. “She’s a child and he’s forty? What the fuck, she’s not and he’s not!”
“The hell,” Jorah says, “does this is the proof people will sexualize little girls at every twist and turn, no one’s a damned little girl in this production.”
Daenerys takes a peek too and then bursts out laughing. “This is obviously another of those beauty and the beast retellings where the author doesn’t know that it’s a metaphor for Stockholm Syndrome and it’s an abusive relationship, what are these people smoking?”
“Guys, I’m glad you all think it’s as ridiculous as I do,” Sansa interrupts, “but can you not?”
Robb turns towards the stage where Sandor has about dropped sitting on the fake throne and is looking like he will throw up while Sansa grasps at his hand, and -- fuck. Of course he wouldn’t take it so well, if --
“Shit,” he says, getting up on stage, “I’m sorry, we’ll just -- discuss it somewhere else, but -- Sandor, you don’t think anyone here is going to take this bullshit seriously, do you?”
At that Sandor looks at him, completely disbelieving, of course, not that Robb expected differently. “You won’t?”
“Come on,” Robb says, “my parents are already asking me if they can meet you before the performance because she hasn’t been happier in months and they were despairing she’d get over that asshole she was with and whatnot, I’ve worked with you for months, she is a damned adult, we’re all fucking adults and this is just -- soccer mom who thinks GTA makes their kids criminals level thinking. We’ve come this far, we’re a month and something from the opening and you think we’re giving these idiots any credit?”
“Well, that’s -- comforting,” he says, but Robb doesn’t miss how he and Sansa are spasmodically holding hands. Shit, shit --
“About that,” Sam sighs, “not to make it worse, but -- er. The local association of, uhm, concerned parents for the local elementary school is saying we should close shop.”
“The fucking what,” Theon says, stealing the words from Robb.
“The, uhm, MOIPA.”
“The fucking what, again?” Theon presses.
“Uhm, Movement for Islington’s Parents,” Sam spells. “They’re, like, a local association. They started from the elementary school and they’re, uh, well. Protesting us. Officially. Like, they sent an e-mail. Saying they would contact, uh, higher places if we don’t close.”
Sandor looks like he will throw up.
Sansa looks completely outraged.
Everyone else in the room has the face of -- well. Of someone who can’t believe this is happening.
“Oh, fuck it all,” Robb says, “we’re funded with Lannister money, there is no single way anyone would take this bullshit seriously, it’s a goddamned charity event, I wouldn’t let my goddamned sister be exploited, I’m not even going to waste a second with this. Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have to answer that email?”
“Well, yeah, I wanted to know what I should --”
“Answer them fuck off.”
“... Just that?”
“Sign it with my name, I wouldn’t want you to get attached to it. Honestly, it’s more time than they’re deserved. Now, we’re halfway through so I’m not wasting a day after these arses but you two need a moment and you can play the part anyway, so -- Sansa, Sandor, you’re excused. Theon, if you get on stage you can read his lines and I can read Sansa’s and we can get through the rest. Everyone all right with it?”
Dany, Gendry, Tormund and Mance immediately do, no one else has objections and so he nods at his sister as both she and Sandor get backstage.
Shit.
He can’t fucking believe the puritans found them.
Hopefully this dumb story will end within tomorrow, and if the next hour and a half is a torture because he has to exchange lines with Theon that are written for two lovers to be… well.
He’s a professional.
He can do this.
And he’s ending the fucking MOIPA the moment he has a chance to. What a bunch of wankers.
A week later
Theon had somehow grasped within the first two weeks that Robb Stark was an optimist.
Also, he had grasped that for all that growing up adjusted turned Robb Stark into exactly the kind of person that he’d like to date and fuck him for not having made it obvious yet, but since he usually doesn’t make friends this fast nor clicks this well with people he had figured that maybe he’d take it slow instead of fucking it up like most other relationships he burned through until now, that had also sheltered him from a lot of things. Mainly, for example, that he has no idea how bigots will cling to their idiotic takes before letting that bone go.
Maybe he should have warned him that telling those parents to fuck off wouldn’t be nowhere near enough.
Maybe.
As it is, they’re stuck in the theater with a goddamned mob outside it because apparently the MOIPA took things very badly and decided that Robb was some kind of deviant selling out his sister and they contacted the bloody mayor, a few local televisions, the police and they have fucking pressed charges for outrage against public decency, and now none of them can leave the theater because the street is choke full of protesters -- apparently these parents are more than they had assumed and they brought children, for fuck’s sake --, Robb is looking at the notification of the aforementioned charges as if he can’t believe it, Sandor still looks like he will throw up, Sansa is holding to his hand looking furious, Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont and Gendry are staring out of the window as if they want to try and test the waters, Mance and Tormund are trying to not laugh as they re-read the tweets on Sam’s list, Davos is shaking his head and has been doing that since the moment they realized the entity of the situation and he can’t fucking believe these people are pearl-clutching over a stupid charity play.
There go his plans of asking Robb out before opening night -- he’s going to be glad if the guy doesn’t just have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the room, considering how devastated he looks.
“Hey,” he says, “you did nothing wrong, honestly --”
“I know,” Robb says, looking like he’s about to cry. “I mean, I don’t -- I know this is all bullshit, but -- how do they think that I would -- that I could -- ah, fuck this.”
“Robb, what are you --” Sansa starts.
“I’m going out and telling them to scram,” Robb says, and before anyone else can stop him he opens the door and goes out -- Theon walks out but stays behind him just in case, because he has a feeling he’s going to need support here --
“What the hell,” Robb shouts, shutting them up for a moment, “do you even want? This play is for charity, go complain about something that’s not a waste of your time.”
“This is outrageous!” Some woman that looks like one of the purity crusade leaders says, walking up to him, “how dare you let your sister be in this trash?”
“... How do I dare what?” Robb asks, sounding like he would punch her in the face if he could. “I would never force my sister into anything she doesn’t want --”
“It’s wholly inappropriate! She’s a child, and you made her kiss an adult man who looks like that? Who even would want to watch this -- this badly hidden apology of pedophilia?”
On one side, Theon wants to laugh -- she’s talking like some idiotic online troll, for -- but the moment she says it he can see that Robb looks stricken, as if he’s honestly hurt that anyone could even think that he’d hurt his sister like that, except that he has a feeling that he has exhausted his force to argue with these assholes.
Well.
It’s not like his father can disown him any further, right?
“Do you even know what that word means or what?” He asks, moving Robb out of the way.
The woman immediately zeroes on him.
“Excuse me? Of course --”
“No, you don’t, because it means being attracted to actual children, and his sister is eighteen and Sandor’s twenty-nine, which means no children are involved, so how about you stop using words whose meaning you obviously don’t know?”
“That doesn’t matter, it still looks --” Another guy starts.
“It looks,” Theon groans. “Yeah, except it’s not, and the moment you see the play it’s obvious that everyone is an adult, and the plot is actually based on -- on a story his sister liked when she was younger and she’s beyond excited to be in it, and she also agreed that he was perfect for that role, and if your point is giving a fuck about children, can you please worry about yours instead of, like, adults you don’t know? Never mind that if you talked to him for ten seconds you’d know that he’d cut his arm off before harming his sister. How much of a fucking moron do you have to be?”
“Young man, I don’t know who you are --”
“Theon Greyjoy, costumes and make-up, and if you’re here wasting time shutting our charity production to raise awareness for PTSD in combat veterans because you think his sister looks too young for that role when she’s in university and she knows who she wants to fuck better than you could, well, you’re a fucking moron. Also, he, as in Sandor, isn’t even thirty and he didn’t choose to be taller than she is, and if that is what you’re going about, you’re a fucking moron. Now can you all please go and wait until the police laughs in your face?”
“You will hear from the police --”
“Please,” Theon goes on, figuring that by now there is no point in not insulting them all the way, “your charges are for outrage against public decency. That means we should have like, naked people on stage without advertising it and letting children in the audience, too bad that there isn’t one single part of this play that requires people being naked and it only takes looking at the script. At best the police laughs at you and archives it, at worst they show up here, take a look around, apologize for wasting our time and open you in three for wasting theirs. You really care about pedophilia, worry about the actual children, not about a damned play for which the actors are barely even paid. Come on, go find the police. I can’t wait to see their reactions when you explain it.”
At that, both of them open their mouth, then close it, then --
“This is no way to talk to --”
“You fucking pressed charges against this entire production, will you leave or what?”
“We’ll see if the police laughs,” the guy mutters, but they do start to leave.
Thank fuck, Theon decides. “Idiots,” he says under his breath. “That was easier than I’d have thought.”
“Easier?” Robb blurts from his side.
He shrugs. “Had to handle the entire family at times,” he says. “These assholes? Are nothing in comparison. Anyway, honestly, they have zero ground to --” He starts, and then he never finishes because Robb muttered something that sounded suspiciously like this was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, fuck that, and he surges up and his lips are against Theon’s, wait, what, they’re kissing, shit they’re kissing, and he’s not going to waste the chance or make Robb assume that he doesn’t want that, so he immediately kisses back, moaning into Robb’s mouth at once, his hands grasping at the curls at the back of Robb’s head while Robb’s hands tug at his own hair and damn it feels good, and Theon can barely hear people screaming that this is more proof they’re perverts, but when Robb leans back his eyes are clear and he’s smiling and --
“Well,” he says, “since I suppose you didn’t hate it and I’ve been wanting to do this since months, maybe you’d be amenable to join me and my sister on a double date just to piss them off?”
At that Theon has to laugh, completely tuning out the idiots still screaming at them.
“Months, huh? Guess Davos was right when he said I should have fessed up.”
“Yeah, well, Sansa was doing the same, so -- yeah. Guess we were idiots. So, double date?”
“I’d say yes,” Theon grins back, and leans down and kisses Robb again while he’s mostly sure that Sansa is giving him thumbs up from the window.
Well then.
If they show up again, he’s definitely telling them off.
A month and a half later
“Are you sure --” Sandor asks for the tenth time since this morning.
Sansa doesn’t even let him finish. “The place is packed, I’m pretty sure those idiots from the parents’ association have two seats, Robb says we sold out and we actually have some press covering this, so yes, we’re kissing for real and I don’t want to hear any different.”
“Does your brother know?”
“My brother is in complete support of it and he’s currently doing the same with Theon in some empty dressing room, and he said we need to go on a celebrative double date after it’s over, so don’t use that card.”
“All -- all right then,” he says, his voice barely audible, and she wonders, would those idiots still complain if they saw how he looks at me?
Probably yes because people unable to mind their business is a thing she has learned exist and she’d have rather stayed ignorant, but then again, their loss. She reaches out, grasps his hand.
“Please just stop worrying about them. I know what I want. Or better, who I want,” she says, and then he’s leaned down and it takes Davos Seaworth clearing his throat five minutes later to tell them to save it for the last scene because they don’t want their costumes to be ruined.
Right.
Maybe, since it’s five minutes from the start.
“Break a leg,” she says, heading for the opposite side of the stage.
“You do,” he says, and Sansa smiles to herself as she goes to find Robb who hopefully has stopped making out with Theon. She has a very good feeling about opening night.
--
“Everything scares you, doesn’t it? Look at me. Look at me.”
“Gladly,” Sansa replies, staring right at him, absolutely not caring a whim about what the audience, letting her mouth curl up in a smile --
“What?”
“All things considered,” she goes on, her hands going to his shoulders, grasping at the cloak, dragging him a bit more towards her, “I would rather look at you than anyone else in this entire castle.”
He shakes his head, his hands falling from her waist, his eyes staring right into hers --
“You don’t mean it,” he says, his voice trembling all over again, and then she reaches up, touching his face lightly --
“And what if I did? What if I wanted to come with you?”
“I could keep you safe,” he replies, a more hopeful tone to his voice. “They’re all afraid of me, that’s all I am to them. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”
“That might be everything you are to them,” she says, staring right up at him, “but not to me,” and then she smiles and kisses him again, for real, and he lifts her up at once, so easily she almost feels like she’s flying for a moment, her hands cupping both sides of his face, and she knows that the audience is clapping and whistling very loudly, but she’ll take care to thank them later.
“So,” she says as she moves back, “are we leaving?”
“Yes,” he says, and scoops her up in that bridal carry so effortlessly, her arms around his neck, and proceeds to go backstage at once as people keep on clapping, and surely no one has thrown rotten tomatoes at them now, have they --
Sandor lets her back on the ground gently and before she can say anything Robb is clapping the both of them on their shoulders, what --
“So, that was perfect,” he says, “and for full disclosure, the theater owner said that he can totally give us more than the five showings we had booked and that he wants this next year too for Christmas.”
“For what,” Sandor blurts.
“He said it was such a lovely tale that would lift up anyone’s spirit, it’s perfect for the season, so I’d suggest you both keep yourself free. Also, we’re going for drinks with Theon later. Oh, and there’s someone from the local newspaper wanting to ask Sansa questions about the whole mess with the puritans, so -- get ready after the show. Congratulations!”
“What the fuck,” Sandor blurts, “was he serious?”
“Apparently so,” she grins. “So, are we going to get our well-earned applause or what?”
“I suppose we are,” he says, his hand finding hers.
Oh, she can’t wait for the interview.
She really can’t.
--
When she comes out of the dressing room, she’s careful to keep a light jacket over her shirt -- she wouldn’t want to give that out before it’s due time. Before meeting the journalists, she’s stopped by both Lannisters -- the one who paid and the one whose charity is getting the money, and the latter obviously had cried, what the hell, and she gracefully accepts compliments from both, says that it was a pleasure to do it and she’s absolutely up to act in it again for any other charity event they might want that play for.
Then the older Lannister actually takes a glance at her shirt when the jacket falls open.
“Huh,” he says, “that for --”
“Oh, well, he doesn’t know it yet,” she says, “but I figured it would prove a point. Why?”
He grins. Very sharply. “Nothing, you just gave me a fantastic idea and I have to surprise my girlfriend, too. By the way, she also was crying even if I think she has more of a case of identification with the guy in your story, and she rarely does, so congratulations on that, too.”
“My pleasure,” Sansa replies before he nods at her and leaves, and --
Right.
The interview, then they can go get drinks.
Can’t be too hard.
--
She steps out into the foyer where Sandor is grunting yes or no answers already while Robb is amiably discussing with one of the other journalists.
The moment they see her, there are four people in front of her but at least just one asks the questions.
“Miss Stark,” the guy says, he’s definitely from some local radio, “we were wondering, after all the, how shall we say, discourse that your play generated, what was your opinion?”
“About the discourse?” Sansa asks. “Because that was just downright foolish. I’m nineteen in a few months, I can drive, I can vote, I can drink, I could join the army if I wanted, and it was a travesty that I’d act opposite someone older than me? So what? I’m an adult, last I checked. Also, we all know how that attempt to press charges went.”
As in: the police did show up at the theater, assessed the situation for five minutes, apologized for the hassle and apparently handed the puritans’ spokespeople their arses for wasting their time.
“Admittedly,” another journalist agrees, “it couldn’t have gone otherwise. But have you thought that maybe the play could, uhm, communicate wrong messages?”
At that, Sansa lets her jacket fall open. She can see everyone’s eyes (but Robb’s) go very wide as they read Sandor Clegane is actually my boyfriend printed on it.
“See,” she says, “we started seeing each other during the play. Long story. I came from a relationship with someone exactly my age who had treated me… can we say like shit without censoring? I usually don’t swear, but that was it. Anyway, I was despairing of running into someone I actually liked and who wouldn’t turn out to be a complete arse and then I ran into him and honestly, I had to make it clear because he wasn’t even going to make the first move. And turns out I picked extremely well, so -- well. The only message I want to communicate is that no one else can tell you with whom you should be except yourself, so if anyone has issues with it too bad for them. I don’t.”
Sandor looks like he’s about to faint.
“Other than that, we have to get drinks with my brother and his boyfriend, so how about you tell anyone who has anything to say about my sentimental life to worry about theirs and leave us alone? Unless they want to come see the play. We’re doing more showings!” She winks at the guy, grabs Sandor’s wrist and tactically heads for the back exit while Robb tries to handle the rest of the questions.
“Are you insane or what,” he mutters as they are finally out of the way.
“Not at all,” she grins back. “I like you. I’m pretty sure I picked right. Why wouldn’t I want people to know?”
He seems to think about it for a while. “That’s -- not exactly my experience,” he finally admits.
“Too bad if until now you just met tasteless people. So, are you going to kiss me again while we wait for those other two or not?”
He shakes his head, leans down again and does, way less carefully than he used to do, good, because she liked it but she doesn’t want him to get doubts about it --
And no, she’s nowhere near sorry about any of her choices.
--
“How long have they been at it?” Theon asks as they stand just behind the door of the room leading to the back entrance.
“Er,” Robb checks his phone, “some five minutes since we arrived here. Guess that I really delivered her the romance of her life.”
“You might have,” Theon smiles back, his fingers reaching down and tangling with his. “So what, we’re letting them do that another five minutes?”
“Maybe,” Robb says, moving closer. “After all, I also delivered myself my own damned romance, I might as well take advantage.”
“Feel free to,” Theon replies, his lips parting.
Robb leans in at once, finally, he had been wanting to for hours since they haven’t really seen each other today beyond the morning, and if it means they’ll have to be kicked out of the theater before they leave of their own accord, well.
He has a contract for more plays that Lannister personally hired him for, apparently he has contacts who need them, more calls from a few agents and the puritans are enraged, and he has an extremely good feeling about where this is going.
He thinks life is looking great right now.
He’s pretty sure Theon, his sister and the most likely love of her life are thinking the same.
End.