Chapter Text
The Viscount Gendry Baratheon was sitting in the finest box at the finest opera in all of King’s Landing, and he was already wishing he could be somewhere, anywhere else. The starch in his fancy clothes made them chafe and the collar of his shirt was far too high, rubbing uncomfortably against his neck. He always felt like a pretender when he dressed up like a high born, like he was seconds away from bursting out of this false skin.
His Uncle wasn’t helping matters either, with all his chattering.
“We have a new singer debuting tonight,” Renly whispered, eyes already on the stage, though the production hadn’t yet begun. “She’s quite something. I think you’ll like her.”
“I’m sure it will be wonderful, Uncle.” Gendry said tonelessly. Honestly, the only reason he had decided to become a patron to the opera house was because his uncles had bought it, and Renly had always been so kind to him as a child. Even when he was a no name bastard, Renly had been one of the few people who didn’t seem to care.
The other was a girl, fiery and willful. Gendry often wondered what had become of his childhood friend. He hadn’t seen her in years now, but he could still picture her perfectly, her messy, bird’s nest hair, her grey eyes, flashing with anger or mischief.
Wherever she was, he hoped she was safe. Happy. She would probably fall over dead with laughter to see him now, all trussed up in silly highborn finery. If she remembered him at all, that was.
Gendry was so lost in thought, he barely noticed when the lights in the theater dimmed. “It’s starting,” Renly whispered, helpfully, and Gendry rolled his eyes.
The production was a loud and colorful affair, Gendry decided. He wasn’t entirely sure why Renly was so enthusiastic about the opera. Perhaps it, in part, had more to do with Margaery Tyrell’s brother, who doted on her, and was at every performance himself.
Gendry squinted down at the stage, trying to figure out what was happening. Dancers pranced across the stage, twirling in perfect synchronization as the ensemble sang in High Valyrian, which, Renly had informed him, was the preferred language for operas these days. Gendry himself wasn’t sure why he ought to attend an opera if he couldn’t understand the language it was in. Stannis had snorted a laugh when Gendry had voiced his thoughts, but Renly had only sighed, sounding far more put upon than was earned.
“I’m lost,” the Viscount grumbled, crossing his arms.
Renly did that insufferable sigh again. “It only started three minutes ago.”
“Still lost,” Gendry said, slouching in his chair.
“They’re singing about the Dragon Queen, and how she was taken as a slave by barbarians. The opera begins with her trying to escape, and return to her people, and her love.” Renly explained, as quietly as possible. “They’re explaining that the Dragon Queen’s consort is distraught, and sends out a new retinue to search for his lost love every day.”
Gendry snorted. “I thought the Dragon Queen burned the barbarians alive and fled by herself on dragonback.”
Renly shrugged. “It’s an opera. It isn’t terribly concerned with historical accuracy.”
“Hmm.” He said, noncommittally. And then, after another long moment, squinting at the stage, “This was three hours long, you said?”
“With an intermission.” Stannis grumbled from his other side, startling Gendry a bit. He had forgotten he was there.
The young viscount sighed, settling in for a very long night.
And then a hush fell over the theater as the leading lady appeared at center stage, almost like magic. A spotlight blazed bright around her, giving her an ethereal glow. Her dark hair was pulled back with elaborate curls, and her dress was glittering in golds and deep reds and greens. She looked every inch the queen she was portraying and Gendry couldn’t help but stare.
Not because she was beautiful, though she certainly was that. There was something incredibly familiar about her, though it wasn’t until she started singing that his mouth dropped open.
For, there, before him, stood Arya Stark, his dear childhood friend. The one he had only just been thinking of. The coincidence of it all and his genuine happiness at seeing his old friend nearly made him laugh.
She had become even more beautiful in their time apart, he noticed, and had also become an incredibly accomplished singer. Her voice was beautiful, clear and high, but strong. He could hardly believe the little girl who used to chase him around with mud on her breeches, and sticks in her hair was the same woman before him now. But there was no mistaking her. Gendry would know Arya anywhere
“Bravo!” He called, clapping enthusiastically, as he was fairly sure that was what you were meant to do when you enjoyed a performance at the opera.
“There’s still more of the song left,” Renly hissed, gripping his arm to stop his applause.
Gendry paid him no mind as he grinned down at the stage. Arya Stark was here, a woman grown, making her debut as an opera singer of all things, and Gendry was, for the first time, very glad he had come to the King’s Landing Opera House.
_____________________________________
Arya left the stage in a daze, the sound of her name echoing softly with every step.
Arya… Arya…
“Arya!”
Arya blinked, surprised to see Sansa standing in front of her, grinning broadly. She scooped her little sister into a hug so fierce, Arya nearly lost her breath. “Oh Arya, you were incredible! How did you ever learn to sing like that? I had no idea you were even practicing and you turn out to be even more marvelous than Margeary Tyrell! What in the name of the seven is your secret?”
Arya looked around carefully, trying to see if anyone was listening to them. In the past few months, she had felt eyes on her, all the time. No matter where she went, she couldn’t escape the uneasy feeling that she was being watched. It made her paranoid.
“I have something to tell you,” Arya began, and Sansa’s face crumpled in concern. “Not here,” Arya looked around. “Come with me.”
“Arya Stark,” a stern voice called over all the excited chatter around them. Arya turned to see Madame Brienne, her lips turned up in a soft smile. “You did very well. He was pleased.”
Arya could only nod in thanks. She wasn’t sure how she felt about a ghost being happy with her performance, but a chill ran up her spine at the words. When Brienne was distracted with the dancers, she gripped Sansa’s hand and lead her down the hall. To Sansa’s credit, she said nothing, only allowed herself to be dragged.
“Do you remember those stories father would tell us?” She asked her sister quietly, after she had latched the door to her dressing room, though she could still feel a gaze, skittering, cold at her back. She took a breath and tried to ignore it “About the Angel of Music?”
Sansa furrowed her brow. “Of course, but I don’t see what-”
“Well,” Arya cut across her. “Father promised he would send us an Angel of Music to look after us when he died. And he has.”
Sansa’s brow furrowed. “The Angel of Music? That was a story-”
“It wasn’t. I’ve seen him. Father,” Arya said, fervently. “He’s come back to me, Sansa. He’s teaching me music, like he did before.”
Sansa blinked, words failing her as Arya met her eyes steadily. She didn't look like she was lying or japing. Sansa hardly knew what to make of it. “Father is dead, Arya,” Sansa said, gripping her hands tightly, as if she could physically press the knowledge into her sister’s skin.
“I know that,” Arya snapped, pulling her hands away, roughly. She glared at Sansa for a moment, then her shoulders crumpled on a sigh. “I know that.” She repeated, voice softer. “But he is here, Sansa, I feel it.”
Sansa frowned, looking over the younger girl carefully. Arya had always been an energetic child, always running this way and that, getting in everyone’s way, badgering people with questions, but she had such a gregarious, happy nature, that no one tended to mind her being underfoot. But that had been before their father’s death. Before their lives had fallen apart.
Arya had taken their father’s death incredibly hard, especially after finding out their mother had neither the coin, nor the space to be able to send for them, and return them to the North. Instead, they were required to take up residence within the opera house, earning halfpennies a day as ballerinas in the ensemble.
She had hoped, given time, and a purpose, Arya would be able to move on from their father’s death, as much as a child can move on after the death of a beloved parent. And for a while, it had helped. These past few months, however, Sansa had noticed a troubling change in her sister.
She would disappear at odd times, she was late to rehearsals, and she rarely showed up for meals. Her skin had taken on a waxen kind of paleness, and dark, purplish bruises etched themselves under her eyes, which were often bloodshot. And, more concerning to Sansa than everything else, was the way her sociable sister had become withdrawn and jumpy, flinching at loud noises, and shying away from all but Sansa’s touch. She wasn’t even sure Arya realized she was doing it.
“It’s his voice, Sansa,” she said, voice a reverent whisper. “I know it sounds mad, but it’s true. It’s father’s voice that comes through these walls. It’s father who has been teaching me all these months.”
Sansa could only stare at her sister, disbelief and horror writhing in her gut. “Arya, listen to yourself-”
Arya’s face crumpled, and it rankled Sansa, to see her so vulnerable. “You don’t believe me.” Her little sister whispered, she turned feverish grey eyes to her. “You would if he visited you too, then you would see. I’ve asked him to see you, Sansa, I swear I have. I don’t understand why he hasn’t.”
Her sister looked so impossibly young in that moment, and Sansa’s heart clenched as she saw a glimpse of the girl Arya tried to pretend she wasn’t anymore. The stubborn little girl, desperate to cling onto any piece of her father she could find.
“Arya,” she said carefully. “I don’t know who you think has been teaching you, but perhaps it would be best if you stayed in my room tonight.” She reached out and, very gently, touched the dark circles under Arya’s eyes. “You need rest, and I would feel better if I had you near.”
Arya wrenched away, glaring furiously at her. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No,” Sansa protested, reaching again for her sister, fearful she would bolt. “Of course not. I just think something isn’t right here. I think you know that too,” she shot her sister a pointed look. “And until we figure it out, I want you with me. Alright?”
Arya worried at her lip, conflicted. “He won’t like that.”
Sansa narrowed her eyes. “If it really is Father, I doubt he’ll mind his daughters spending time together.”
Arya fisted her hand in her dress. How could she tell Sansa about her lessons when she clearly thought her mad? How could she tell her about the Angel of Music, and his rules? His insistence that she come to her room at certain times, how she wasn’t allowed to bring anyone with her. How, if she was late, if she missed even one meeting with her strange teacher, had one misstep, he would take it as her forsaking him and never return to her. Arya had only just gotten her father back, she couldn’t endure losing him again. And she couldn’t tell Sansa any of it. She saw now her sister would never understand.
“I should change,” Arya said, glancing away.
Sansa sighed. “Don’t go to your room tonight, Arya.” There was a desperate plea in her voice. “Come straight to mine.”
Arya nodded stiffly. “Alright.” She knew Sansa could taste the lie, but she only squeezed her shoulder, the way their mother sometimes would, and walked out to let her change. The door closed quietly behind her.
There was something sad, and final about the sound.
-----------------------------------------------
Arya had long changed into dressing gown, though she hadn’t quite gotten around to removing the stage makeup that had been painted on her hours before. It was silly and gaudy up close and in the softer candle light. On the stage
She found herself staring into the vanity mirror, her gaze fixing dispondantly on her kohl lined eyes, her red, painted lips, slightly smeared from biting. She looked nothing like herself, but while she would have found that revelation off-putting a year ago, now it was a strange kind of comfort. If she wasn’t herself, wasn’t Arya Stark, she didn’t have to dwell on Arya Stark’s burdens. It was almost like having a new face, a new identity. One where she didn’t have strange voices calling to her in the night, or eyes following her every move.
For a moment, she felt like she could breath.
Arya… Arya…
Her eyes slammed shut, and when she opened them again, the effect was gone. Hands shaking, she scrubbed at her face, more roughly than she needed to. She nearly knocked over the bowl in her haste, and swore as water sloshed onto the wood of her vanity.
“Stupid,” she barated herself, under her breath. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Arya was getting a bit too good at lying to herself.
With her face scrubbed clean, she looked much younger, and a little smaller. Meeting her own gaze in the mirror, she drew herself up, and took a deep breath. It was time to leave, she knew. It was getting very late, no doubt her Angel was becoming impatient.
She wondered how angry Sansa would be when she didn’t come to her room that night. But Sansa didn’t understand, she reminded herself. Arya rose quickly, hoping that Sansa hadn’t thought to wait outside for her, when her door opened.
She whirled around, eyes wide.
“Sorry,” a male voice said, sheepishly. “I should have knocked.”
Arya sighed her shoulders relaxing. She must have stayed in here longer than she thought. It was only one of the stage hands come to clean out her room, no doubt. “It’s alright. I was just leaving.”
“Don’t go yet,” the man protested, coming into the light. “I was hoping to talk to you.”
Arya blinked, unsure of what she was seeing. “Gendry?”
“I was hoping you would remember me,” Gendry’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. "It’s good to see you, Arya."
A delighted laugh escaped her lips, and, in that moment, it was like all her anxiety had fled at the arrival her old friend. "It’s good to see you too, Gendry. Or should I call you viscount?" She asked, a mocking smile curving her mouth. "How does one address a viscount anyway?"
He narrowed his eyes at her, though it was a playful expression. " You should call me Gendry."
"Are you sure? Maybe I could go around calling you milord."
"That won't be necessary." His neck was flushed and Arya grinned at seeing him so bashful. Then he looked down at the rose in his hand, looking as though he had forgotten he had it, and thrust it toward her. “Ah..” he floundered. “This is for you.”
Arya took the rose with a smile, and set it on the vanity. “Thank you, milord ,” Gendry huffed out a laugh, but Arya looked away then, feeling suddenly, uncharacteristically shy. "You've certainly come up in the world."
Gendry hummed good naturedly, though he still looked uncomfortable with talk of his newfound status. “So have you.” Arya flushed. “I’ve been informed I had the honor of watching your debut. My Uncle Renly seems to think you have quite the future here.”
Arya shook her head. “I was only stepping in for Margaery Tyrell. She’s the one all those people came to see. I’m sure they were incredibly disappointed to see me up there instead.” The words were humble, but her tone was wry, sarcastic, and Gendry chuckled.
“Now that just isn’t true. I don’t know anything about opera or singing, but you,” his gaze swept warmly over her. “Were incredible.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re being too kind.”
"Not at all. Though, the girl I knew could hardly carry a tune in a bucket." He teased. "Where’d you learn to sing like that?"
Arya bit her lip, a cloud coming over her expression. "It's a long story." She hedged, remembering Sansa’s face when she tried to explain her Angel.
"I’ve got time to listen." His expression was gentle, honest, and for a wild moment, it was like no time had passed between them at all. For a moment, Arya wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to pour out every lonely night, filled only with the ghost of a father that now demanded so much of her, of her constant fear of disappointing him, and forcing him away, of her sister’s too-gentle hands and too-prying eyes. She looked away.
“Gendry,” she said, quietly, looking down in her lap. She had been away too long already. If she didn’t go soon, her father might never return to her.
“Are you hungry?” Gendry asked, a strange expression on his face, and Arya got the unsettling feeling that he had seen too much in her own face. “Let’s discuss this over supper.”
He turned back to the door and Arya made to follow him, her heart stuttering with panic. “Gendry, no, I-”
“I’ll just be a moment,” he said, already at the door. “You change, and I’ll ask for the carriage to be brought around.” And with a smile, he was gone, the door shut behind him.
Uneasiness settled in Arya’s stomach as she stared for a moment at the space Gendry had only just occupied.
Someone had lit incense in her dressing room, though she couldn’t remember if it had been there before Gendry had arrived with his roses and his invitations to dinner. None of which she could accept. The whole thing made her head ache, and the heavy smell of incense in the air only served to make her dizzy.
She sat down heavily in her chair, muscles suddenly rubbery with exhaustion. It had been a very long, confusing day, and now Arya was sure that the only thing she wanted to do was fall onto her bed in the opera dormitories, and sleep for a week.
Arya took a deep breath to steady herself, and closed her eyes when everything spun and the world tilted. Blinking with heavy eyes, she tried to look around the room, which had become hazy, and almost dreamlike around her.
“ Arya ,” a voice called. “ Arya. ”
A sigh of relief escaped her lips when she heard it. Her father’s voice. He had come to her after all. He hadn’t abandoned her yet. She was weak with relief. “Father,” she cried. “You found me.”
“ My child, you are distressed ,” her father’s voice echoed in the room, seeming to come from every corner at once. “ What has happened? ”
Her shoulders slumped, heavy with a shame made more potent by her strange exhaustion. “I-I told someone about our lessons.”
“ The boy? ” Her father’s voice was sharp, and Arya flinched.
“No,” she protested around a heavy tongue. “Sansa, father.”
“ My poor child ,” the voice soothed and Arya was glad to see he wasn’t angry with her. “ When has Sansa ever understood you? She does not accept you. She never has. Poor child, ” he mused, “ So lonely. So misunderstood. This is why I told you to stay away from the others. Now you see. No one will ever understand you. No one but me. ”
Arya wanted to protest, to defend her sister, though she had entertained similar thoughts not an hour before. But her mouth would not move and her head swam.
“ My Arya ,” her father whispered. “ I’ve come to take you home. ”
There was a strange lightness to her body, and time seemed to move around her in a stuttering rhythm, for one moment she was alone, and the next, there was a black, gloved hand in front of her. Blinking slowly, Arya brought her head up, feeling a bit like she was under water. A man dressed entirely in black stood before her, his face obscured in shadow.
“Arya,” the man said in her father’s voice, clearer than it had ever been. Arya felt her entire body relax. It was her father. He had come for her, just like he promised. “Take my hand.”
Arya took it without thought, and let herself be led through a peculiar door she didn’t remember seeing before. None of it seemed terribly important at the moment, as she, with her father’s sure hand guiding her, walked into the secret door without a backward glance.
It slid shut behind them with a sharp snick , and all that remained was the mirror.
Gendry entered the room not five minutes after, and found it empty, frowning, he leaned out of the door, and called to the man sweeping up at the end of the hall. “Did Arya Stark leave already?”
The man shook his head. “No one’s been out of that room in the twenty minutes I’ve been here, except you, sir.”
A furrow appeared between his eyes, and he scanned the room. Empty, and the candles were all blown out. Gendry tried to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. “You must be mistaken,” he said to the man. “There’s no one here.”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir,” his face split into a crooked smile, showing his yellowing teeth. “Maybe the ghost got her.”
Gendry couldn’t explain why, but the jape made his hair stand on end. With a final look at Arya’s empty dressing room, he spun on his heel. She had to be somewhere, and if he couldn’t find her, he would find someone else who could.