Archive of Our Own ^beta

“This,” Jaime says as he hands Tyrion a tissue just as the lights turn on for the last intermission, “is honestly the wildest form of masochism I ever witnessed in my entire life.”

Tyrion, who is currently unable to counter that one specific remark — if anything because it’s not like Jaime is wrong —, merely takes the tissue and blows his nose.

Then wipes his tears.

“I mean,” Jaime goes on, apparently unable to respect his moment of despair, “are you actually telling me that you subject yourself to this every other night?”

“She’s only here for this month’s run,” he sobs. “You don’t get it.” He’s entirely aware that it was a lame answer and it mostly likely sounded petty, and not worthy of his wit at all, but right now he’s kind of unable to function.

“Well, okay, sure, it’s not an exercise in masochism to come to every show Sansa Stark is in, singing the same role, in a thing that makes you cry halfway through act two? And shut up, I like opera, just not when it’s so fucking depressing.”

“It’s art,” Tyrion protests weakly, then blows his nose again. Fuck, he hates that he always starts crying the moment Violetta tells Alfredo’s father that she’ll leave him, and considering that he’s seen this damned opera… in the hundreds, by now, Jaime most likely does have a point, it’s masochism, but he always loved La Traviata since the moment he heard it, and the first time he saw Sansa Stark performing in it…

Fuck. It’s probably pathetic that he’s seen her in each single show she’s done in Leeds since then, but what can he do when she’s just… that good? She’s not the kind of name that sings in the Royal Opera House yet, but he’s sure she’ll get there soon because she’s not even in her thirties and she can sing Violetta flawlessly. Her voice has just the right range and it’s warm and sweet and just heavenly to hear, she produces those trills like they’re nothing, and she’s breathtakingly beautiful with that long, auburn hair, large blue eyes and lovely smile, and he’s been in first and second row a few times, and fuck but her acting is phenomenal. Every single time she sings Sempre libera he ends up with his eyes wet, and that’s not even the part that would make him cry regardless.

As in, he kind of always more or less cried since the middle of act two when watching this opera in the theater, but if she sings it — fuck, the way she sings Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti never fails to move him to the point where he stopped going in the parterre and moved to the stalls, at least there he can cry to his heart’s delight.

And it’s art not just because she’s beautiful and gifted and she has the voice of an angel and can sing his favorite role in existence in his favorite opera in existence effortlessly, but because in between that, how gorgeous the music is and everything else, how can someone not be moved?

Well, apparently his brother is immune to that specific sickness, but then again Tyrion was the person in the house who really was into opera — when he tried to drag Jaime into it he only ever liked the so-called fun stuff, so fair enough, but still.

“The opera or Sansa Stark?”

Tyrion about falls off the chair and at least that makes him stop crying, more or less.

“Jaime, fuck’s sake, have some respect for —”

“The sanctity of the place? Please,” Jaime snorts, “as if all opera is like this whirlpool of sadness.”

“The fact that your favorite has the protagonist dressing up as a nun doesn’t mean —”

“And that’s exactly why it’s my favorite, but that’s beside the point. Come on, she’s good and the piece is lovely and whatnot even if I’m not looking forward to seeing her taking some forty minutes to bite the dust, but if you always react like this and you come every night she’s singing, you’ve got a problem.”

“Am I hurting anyone?”

“Other than yourself?”

Sometimes Tyrion wishes his brother wasn’t so damned fucking perceptive about people when he spent most of his life not being perceptive about how much their sister is a piece of shit and ruined his life (even more than she ruined Tyrion’s, honestly), but fine. He does have a point.

“I mean, given how much money you gave this one theater, you could ask them to let her meet you or something, I’m sure she has fans.”

“Hell, no,” Tyrion immediately objects. “They already agreed to the flowers, I’m not — ah, shit.”

“Wait, you send her flowers?”

He groans. “Maybe. I mean. Once per week. I wouldn’t want it to seem creepy.”

“… I hope you at least left her a note.”

“… of course not, are you out of your mind?” Like hell he’s going to sign a note. Not when he looks the way he looks like and not when he’s been burned more than once when it came to his looks. He’s not going to come up to such a beautiful woman with the whole secret admirer shtick. He wants to preserve some dignity here.

Jaime stares at him for a moment, then he hands him another tissue.

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer that would be incredibly hypocritical coming from me,” Jaime says, “but considering that she’s here for like, half of the year and I’m fairly sure you’ve been coming here for all that time for two years, maybe you should think about signing those flowers.”

Tyrion could tell him to fuck off, but then the lights turn down and it’s time for act three to start.

Maybe later he will.

——

Later, he doesn’t tell Jaime to fuck off because as Sansa and Gendry Waters sing Parigi o cara he about cries his own weight in tears, and by the end he’s so tired he can’t even muster the force of will to do it.

“I sure as hell hope this is cathartic,” Jaime whispers his way as he hands over the entire packet of tissues he had with him just as Violetta dies on stage.

Tyrion doesn’t know if it is.

He still accepts the damned tissues.

——

“How long is this run still?”

“Another four nights,” Tyrion says as they walk out of the theater into the cold December night. “Then she’s taking a month off and coming back the next one.”

“And you won’t consider, like, signing those notes by next month?”

“Forget it,” Tyrion cuts him. “Listen, I’m glad you came and I’m glad you didn’t die of boredom, but — that’s not happening, okay? It’s not.”

Jaime’s lips press in a thin line, but then he says nothing and says something about needing to hurry back to the car, it’s cold.

Tyrion doesn’t thank him for not pressing the issue and follows him back to the car.

He’s going to be back in a couple days regardless — he’s seen the substitute company once and no one in there is as good as the people in the first, and none of the women in the cast can hold up a candle to Sansa anyway.

——

Two days later, he’s at his usual stall — without Jaime, but he doubts he’d have accepted to come back twice when he has reasons to avoid what he calls fucking depressing stuff, so he didn’t even ask. He has arranged for Sansa to receive the usual bouquet of a dozen pink roses in her dressing room, always signed from an admirer.

And, as always, he waits with bated breath for his favorite part of the entire piece.

It’s probably sad and incredibly pathetic that it’s the first duet between Violetta and Alfredo in act one, but — there is something about the concept of a guy pursuing the woman of his dreams for months and finding out that she can’t conceive someone liking her that much and changing her mind in the span of one minute that he hasn’t quite unpacked yet… but that never fails to make him feel damn emotional.

Fine, he’s never told anyone that he has had fantasies in which the person he likes actually has that reaction to him because there’s a limit to how much he’s willing to share when it comes to that kind of embarrassing flight of fancy. Still. He did have them. He still has them once in a while, even if indulging in them is not really a great idea.

Which is why he figured that watching this over and over might help him sublimating them. He’s not so sure it’s working properly, but still, it… does feel cathartic, so.

Anyway.

He holds his breath as Gendry Waters walks on stage and finally reaches Sansa as she stands in the corner looking at herself in the mirror, dressed in a gorgeous shade of lilac that entirely compliments her figure.

“Oh qual pallor!… Voi qui!…"

Oh, how pale do I look — wait, are you here? She sings, as if caught completely unawares and not expecting him to be there — considering that in theory Violetta knows she’s going to die soon, that’s pretty much how it should be going.

Has that anxiety that troubled you before gone? Waters sings it very well, Tyrion thinks. He sounds really, really invested in Violetta’s state of health. As he should be.

I’m better now.

He comes closer. If you go on like this, you’ll kill yourself. You should take care of yourself.

She laughs, taking a step closer to him. And I could?

He swallows — this was the point where when listening to it for the first time, he knew he would never hear a better piece of music in his life.

"Se mia foste, custode io veglierei pe' vostri soavi dì.”

If you were mine, I would be the watchful custodian of your heavenly days, the man sings, and fuck, hasn’t Tyrion, not so deep down, always wished he could be that to someone? Anyone?

“Che dite?... ha forse alcuno cura di me?”

What are you saying? … Does anyone even care for me? God, the way Sansa’s voice breaks on the last word never fails to make Tyrion feel like crying at this point, even if he’s learned to not do it. It would be entirely too embarrassing.

“Perché nessuno al mondo v’ama…"

Because no one in the world loves you, Gendry Waters goes on, and — right. At that point, he always kind of felt like it was directed to him, too. But then again, other than his brother, and not in that way, who else has ever loved him in the world? Sure as hell not his family.

No one?

No one, but me.

Tyrion really likes how Waters sounds convinced as he says it. As convinced as he never could have the chance to be with anyone in real life.

Oh, of course, Sansa laughs, I must have forgotten such a great love!

He winces when she makes it sound as if she doesn’t believe a word of it, never mind that he’s heard her sing that line for so many times. It never fails to hurt where it should.

You laugh, don’t you have a heart? Gendry Waters sings, sounding heartbroken, and — right. As if he can’t relate to that. He always could relate to that.

A heart? She sounds surprised now, genuinely. Yes, maybe… and why do you ask?

Then if it’s the case, might it be the case that you were joking?

He holds up his binoculars before he zooms on how Sansa’s face changes completely as her mouth goes from mocking smirk to surprised to moved.

“Dite davvero?”

Do you mean it?

“Io non v’inganno.”

I’m not lying to you.

“Da molto è che mi amate?”

Have you been loving me for long?

“Ah, sì, da un anno.”

Oh, yes, for a year.

As if. He’s been coming here for two years. He thinks he has a clue of how that works. And now that they’re going into the actual duet, his heart is beating faster and faster even if he’s seen this one opera so many times he could sing it in his sleep.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor. Di quell'amor ch'è l'anima dell'universo intero, misterioso, altero, croce e delizia al cor.”

One day, happy, ethereal, you suddenly appeared in front of me, and from that one day, I lived in unknown love as I trembled. Of that love which is the universe’s soul, mysterious, unattainable… torment and delight of everyone’s heart, he sings passionately, as if he knows it’s the one chance he has to impress her and he’ll do that if it kills him.

“Ah, se ciò è ver, fuggitemi, solo amistade io v'offro: amar non so, né soffro di così eroico ardor. Io sono franca, ingenua; altra cercar dovete; non arduo troverete dimenticarmi allor.”

Ah, if that’s true, then you must run from me, I can only offer you friendship. I don’t know how to love, and I don’t suffer of such heroic ardor. I’m honest: you have to look for someone else, and then you won’t find it hard to forget me, she sings, her voice breaking slightly on the last few words but still sounding clear and crystalline in the theater. Their voices mesh together seamlessly, and she looks up at him with sad, longing eyes, as her hands obviously twitch. They have such good chemistry they might as well be together, but after all, he figures it would make sense if it was the case — he’s tall, with large shoulders, long legs, dark hair and eyes and an admittedly lovely smile. Surely he doesn’t look anything like him.

He takes a couple breaths as they’re interrupted and he’s not lost in their duet anymore, then focuses his attention back on the stage.

“Amor dunque non più... vi garba il patto?”

So, let’s not discuss love again. Is this a good deal for you?

He shakes his head, taking the hit.

“Io v'obbedisco... Parto.”

I’ll obey you. I’m leaving.

Gendry Waters turns, then she shakes her head and holds out a hand, taking one of the violets out of her breast.

“A tal giungeste? Prendete questo fiore.”

Is that what you’re coming to? Take this flower.

He stops, turns back towards her.

Why?

She smiles, sweetly enough that Tyrion thinks anyone smiling like that at him would make him feel like someone stabbed him in the heart.

To bring it back…

When?

“Quando sarà appassito.”

When it will be withered.

“Allor domani…”

Then, tomorrow? He sounds like he can’t believe that she actually gave him that appointment. And yet she did.

“Ebbene; domani.”

Very well. Tomorrow.

“Io son felice!”

I am so happy, he blurts.

“D'amarmi dite ancora?”

Are you still saying you love me?

“Oh, quanto v’amo!”

Oh, how much do I love you?

They exchange I love yous and Are you still saying you love me all over, and Tyrion’s hand is right over his heart, trying to forget that they won’t get to be happy for long.

Are you leaving?

I am.

Goodbye.

I don’t ask for anything more.

Goodbye, they sing at the same time, before he kisses her hand and leaves her on stage for her grand scene.

Tyrion claps his hands, enough that they hurt by the time the applause winds down, and if he’s never going to be in the position of receiving flowers like that nor to have anyone actually wanting him that much, well, he’ll deal with it.

That’s why catharsis exists, right?

He braces himself for Sansa’s grand scene, and as, minutes later, she is just exquisite singing Sempre libera, and he holds his breath all along, and honestly, he hopes for her that she finally makes the jump to serious stages soon because she deserves the biggest crowds and as much fame as might come her way, but he will miss her singing when she finally does.

Still, she’s good. She deserves the best.

When it’s time, he might take a trip to London or two if it means seeing her receive the recognition she deserves, and maybe his notes will say, an admirer who is beyond glad you’re walking important stages and not just, an admirer.

Maybe.

If he finds the guts to do it.

But that might be less guts than outing himself, right?

That, he could do.

——

“What is that,” Jaime asks a week later as he Tyrion drops the plate on his kitchen table.

(Jaime somehow always insists to eat in the kitchen when he’s staying over for dinner. Tyrion never pressed on asking why he won’t just make use of the dining room.)

“You’re the guinea pig for the new recipe I might put in the restaurant’s menu,” Tyrion replies. “And I need to know if it’s any good.”

It certainly looks good, as far as Tyrion is concerned. He’s spent a good couple of weeks coming up with the recipe and perfecting it, and yeah, okay, it’s lemon also because he does go on Sansa Stark’s official website where she has a few interviews posted and he knows lemon is her favorite, and as pathetic as he feels doing that, and regardless of how much Jaime is right when it comes to whether he has a crush on her or not… he did want to create something in honor of a person who has given him more happiness than anyone else he actually knows in real life not counting his brother, and since cooking is the only thing he’s that good at other than reading, well, the lemon cake it is. He made it a sponge cake cut in two layers with lemon cream in between them, then covered it in lemon icing with a few drops of violet essence and completely covered it in carefully washed candied violets. He did taste the batter in both his previously botched attempts but now he thinks it should work, but he also needs someone else’s opinion and Jaime’s never said no to being his guinea pig in this kind of situation.

Tyrion has a feeling it has something to do with how their father would watch his and Cersei’s calories intake like a hawk when they were kids and teenagers — he never gave a fuck about Tyrion’s, of course, but he won’t be the one throwing that in Jaime’s face at any point.

“Sure,” Jaime says, cutting a piece, “but I don’t remember lemon being your favorite ingredient.”

“It’s not, I just wanted to branch out.”

“Aha. With violets. Let me guess.” Jaime moves the cake on his dessert plate. “Sansa Stark likes lemons?”

Tyrion doesn’t even want to know how he got that far, but he still feels compelled to ask. “And how do you know that now?”

“I guessed,” Jaime shrugs. “I mean, the only other time you ever came up with something whose main ingredient you hated was when you showed up at my door with that figs and almond cake the day I told Cersei to fuck off because I like figs and almond. You’re kind of transparent when you want to.”

… Fair. He can be that, after all. He sighs. “Well, maybe she does. But what I want to know is whether that cake is good or not.”

“I doubt it’s not, but fair, let me give it a go.” He cuts a smaller piece off, violets and all, and stuffs it into his mouth. Then he makes a face that might have been good for a movie preview on Pornhub, which… well. He hopes he’s never going to think of his brother and Pornhub in the same sentence ever again, but at least it means it’s not the third botched attempt.

“Christ,” he says, “this is beyond good. Are you sure you don’t want it delivered to her dressing room next time? Because —”

“No, thank you,” Tyrion immediately interrupts him. “So, that’s fine? It doesn’t need, like, more lemon or less lemon or —”

“Nah,” Jaime shakes his head. “If you want the icing to taste more like violets that wouldn’t hurt but it’s good as it is. You should try it, it’s good.”

Tyrion sighs, climbs on his chair and does — fine. It is a damn good cake, but he’s not running a three Michelin stars restaurant for nothing. Fine, he doesn’t cook himself all of the time especially on the evenings when he goes to the opera, but he personally supervised the hiring of anyone who works in the kitchen and there’s a reason his reviews are always stellar.

“I guess it’s gonna go on the lunch menu, at least,” he declares, very satisfied. “I’d better start ordering some violets.”

“Fine, but you could also, like, tell —”

“No.”

Jaime rolls his eyes and reaches over for another slice with a shrug. “I have no moral higher ground to lecture you on your incapability to act on your crush, but I can assure you that if it was me, I’d be flattered if someone who didn’t know me came up with a cake in my honor or something.”

“Hey, I made you one cake specifically.”

“Yes, and you know me, so that’s not the same thing at all. Damn, it’s really fucking good.”

“You can bring it home if you want,” Tyrion shrugs, and he’s honestly glad Jaime doesn’t say no —given their father and his antics never mind the fact that when he stopped Cersei started having a say about it until he broke things off with her for good, it’s only good news if he doesn’t come up with any bullshit about unnecessary calories intake.

As Jaime puts the remaining cake in a box and closes it, Tyrion decides that it was indeed a damn good looking cake, and too bad for Jaime that Sansa Stark will never know about the inspiration, if Tyrion has any power on whether she might learn or not.

But hey, he checked over with the theater and in two months there’s another Traviata run for another eight weeks, so he’s going to hear her again very, very soon. He’ll be glad with that and with seeing if the cake is successful enough to have it in the menu permanently.

Two months later

“What the fuck — I mean, uhm, I apologize. I didn’t mean to be like that. I just, wasn’t expecting it.”

“It’s quite all right,” the receptionist answers, sounding relieved. “Really, I have had to deal with… entirely more annoying customers, in between us.” And considering that he’s a regular at the theater, he didn’t really feel like ruining his reputation with them. Still —

“So, uhm, sorry about that, but — what do you mean with Sansa Stark isn’t singing this run?”

“Oh, right, I’m dreadfully sorry to tell you, but there have been… issues behind the scenes that I cannot disclose and on top of that she’s sick right now, so for this run, Margaery Tyrell will sing the role. Do you still wish to buy tickets?”

“No, thank you,” he sighs. Margaery Tyrell is Sansa’s substitute in the secondary company — Tyrion heard her once and he immediately could hear that she’s straining herself too much to sing that part. Also, he doesn’t like her voice half as much as he likes Sansa’s and on top of that she’s not that good at acting either, so he’ll pass. Still — “I am sorry to hear that. Uhm, pass Miss Stark the best wishes for a speedy recovery then.”

“Very well. I hope we’ll see you for the next run, then.”

“Of course,” he says, and closes the call.

Shit.

It’s — well. It’s stuff that happens. Of course she couldn’t tell him private theater information, and people do get sick. It’s just that he was looking forward to it, not that he has much to look forward to.

He supposes that she’ll be back for the next run. For now he’ll just… worry about the new menu and wish he had tried to record one performance, or at least part of one.

He’s also not telling Jaime that he’s taking it this badly. He has some dignity after all.

— —

“I can’t believe this,” he tells Jaime, barging into his flat without even saying hi. Fine, they had their weekly dinner together, and it probably was rude, but — but he’s walked all the way here from the theater and he can’t bloody believe that —

“Wait a fucking moment,” Jaime says, “what is it that you can’t believe now?”

“That Sansa Stark is not coming back at all to that role!”

“Wait, what, she’s not?”

“No! Margaery Tyrell is apparently the official singer for that opera now, indefinitely, and — never mind that she’s nowhere as good as her, when I asked the receptionist she said that actually she might retire? What the fuck? She has an entire career in front of her, why would she?”

At that, Jaime’s face turns fairly perplexed — good, because it’s two of them then.

“What? How old is she, twenty-seven? No one retires at twenty-seven unless there’s something horrid going down.”

“My point exactly,” he sighs, throwing himself on Jaime’s sofa — it was bought secondhand but at least it’s damn comfortable. “And no one sings it like her.”

“Sure, that is the only reason why you care,” Jaime says, handing him a beer bottle. “Honestly, though, I’m — sorry to hear it. I mean, she did make you happy, even if you could have signed those roses.”

“Yeah, no.” He shrugs. “Hopefully she goes to sing somewhere else. I wonder why the receptionist sounded so… sure about it, but her website hasn’t been updated in four months, so what do I know?”

“Well, let’s drink on that,” Jaime says, not really managing to sound as cheery as he was hoping for most likely, but Tyrion does appreciate the effort.

Patience if it means that he’s never going to hear his favorite singer again, most likely.

— —

The next month, he — just throws himself into work. The violets and lemon cake is a success, at least, so he tentatively adds it to the evening menu, and it keeps on being a success — at least that. His reviews are still stellar, his father still pretends he doesn’t exist, Jaime pretends he’s not getting regularly calls from both him and Cersei that he doesn’t take, life goes on.

Too bad that his evenings when he doesn’t cook are empty, no other show in the area holds his interest, and there is no way Margaery Tyrell can hold up to Sansa Stark when it comes to singing Violetta, so he’s not going back to see her in that role, not even out of complete desperation.

That is, until Jaime shows up in the first week of May at their weekly dinner looking dead serious.

Very much dead serious.

“So,” he says as he comes in, “before you murder me, I might have gone on your precious Miss Stark’s website.”

“… What for?”

“Well, to see if she was alive so you’d stop sulking, but obviously it wasn’t updated. However, there were contacts. Redirecting to her management, of course… but there were.”

He takes off his coat while Tyrion thinks he has a vague inkling of what he might have done. “Jaime, don’t say you actually contacted —”

“Her management? ‘Course I did.”

“Shit, why would you? No one needs to think —”

“What? I could have been from a record company or something, those numbers are there for a damned reason. Anyway, I contacted the management, who sounded fairly scary on the phone, but after a lot of begging and assurance that I wasn’t calling to rub salt on wounds or something like that, management agreed to meet me for coffee because I mentioned knowing someone who really was a fan of Miss Stark’s and wanted to know if she’d ever sing again.”

Tyrion groans. Shit. He never asked him to do that, for —

“So,” Jaime goes on, and why is he half-smirking, “turns out that her manager sounded murderous on the phone because — well, fine, she told me I could share, so I just will —, apparently your infamous Margaery about made sure that the poor girl would end up fired.”

“The fuck?” Tyrion blurts, suddenly forgetting that he never asked Jaime to find out on his account.

“She didn’t go into details but apparently I was convincing enough to convince her to share some, so — basically, this year, runs of that one opera will be attended by a few talent scouts, specifically the one in February, but of course they wouldn’t go watch the secondary cast, right? So apparently she maneuvered things behind the scenes so that Sansa would arrive late at rehearsals because she’d know to come in at one time but it actually was another and a few other small things like that, and of course she’d be there first, and then she refused to go into details but they had dinner together a week before the first showing and after that Sansa spent the next three days feeling sick, and she was in no shape to sing after… and in the middle of the February run they dropped her.”

“They did what,” Tyrion blurts. “But — on what basis?”

“Miss Brienne — as in, the manager — didn’t say, but then she asked what was the point of this entire spiel and I told her that I happened to be the brother of the admirer who always sent Miss Stark flowers —”

“Jaime, why —”

“And at that point she went from granite wall to all niceties because apparently Miss Stark was enchanted to receive your flowers and she appreciated them greatly, and she most likely would find it good to hear that you still care about her career.”

What the hell, Tyrion thinks. He wouldn’t fuck with me like that. He wouldn’t. I know. But — seriously? He had been here worrying that the roses might have been just outright creepy… and instead she was enchanted? What the —

“So,” Jaime goes on, ignoring Tyrion’s most likely obvious turmoil, “I asked her if Miss Stark might be amenable to, you know, meet you at least once so you could tell her in person.”

At that, Tyrion’s blood runs cold. “You didn’t —”

“Oh, I absolutely did. She stared at me for some two minutes without blinking, then called Sansa, asked her and she said she would be delighted to meet you for coffee once, and when closing the conversation she said that it was actually a good thing that Sansa agreed because these last few months she’s been really down and she doesn’t know if she can keep on working especially since apparently her reputation isn’t looking too great right now.”

“You — you arranged —”

“I didn’t arrange shit because I didn’t know when you were free or where did you want to do it, so Brienne is waiting for me to call her with a proposal that will most likely be accepted because Sansa isn’t exactly busy right now, so now you will give me a time and a place because on top of that, er, another development happened.”

“… Such as?” Tyrion asks, trying to keep any reaction in check until he has all the information.

At that, Jaime’s cheeks flush. Slightly. What the —

“Case is, I, uhm, happen to think that Brienne is pretty damned hot.”

“Brienne,” Tyrion repeats. “As in, the manager?”

“Yeah. She probably would tell me to go fuck myself if I told that to her face right now, admittedly, which is… a factor that adds to how hot she is, but never mind — the moment you have your meeting booked, I am absolutely going to ask her if she wants coffee, and I certainly can’t if you chicken out on me now, so —”

“I can’t — so now I should go along with this because you want to hit on the manager?” He groans.

“Nah. You should because you’ve wanted to talk to Sansa Stark for years and I know you and you’re unnecessarily wallowing in self-loathing, and I know I’m no stranger to it, but that’s exactly why I’m trying to stop doing that and you should stop doing that. The fact that I’d get to hit on the manager is a nice bonus, but honestly, that wasn’t planned and she said she’s fine with seeing you, so… what do you have to lose? At worst you just talk opera for half an hour, she signs you a picture or something and that’s it.”

Tyrion isn’t so sure about that, but — Jaime is sounding so confident at this point, like he’s honestly sure this would be good for him, the same way he used to when they were kids and he would never fail to lift his mood regardless of how much shit his father and sister had thrown his way, and — on one side he doesn’t know if he wants to do it, on the other he can see that Jaime had good intentions and he honestly wants to do something nice for him, and if he gets to hit on the manager, too, when he hasn’t sounded excited about relating to other human beings since he stopped talking to Cersei… well.

Maybe he’s not wholly wrong.

Maybe he should take the damned leap of faith for once. After all, Jaime is right. At most they talk opera for half an hour and she signs him a picture. Can’t be that bad.

He thinks about it for a moment, then he decides that if he has to embarrass himself to death, he might as well do it going all the way.

“My restaurant,” he sighs, “ten thirty in the morning, day after tomorrow. No one will be there because we officially open at midday and — well. I guess it’d be calmer. And familiar ground. Shit, I hate you.”

“Love you too,” Jaime grins, relieved, before giving him a pat on the back that was maybe a bit too strong before taking out his phone. “Let me just tell her.”

“Wait, now?”

“She said she’d expect a call as soon as possible and believe me, when you see her you’ll see why I don’t want to contradict her.” He calls her before Tyrion can convince him to postpone, and — wait. She picks up at the second ring, at most. “Brienne?” He asks, sounding almost giddy, and wait, first name basis already? “Yes, I just talked to my brother. Would ten thirty the day after tomorrow work? Splendid, then that’s good. He was thinking his own restaurant, that one I told you about — what? It works perfectly? Great. Then we’ll all see each other then, won’t we? Good.”

Shit. He’s grinning as he speaks. He never smiles for real to anyone that’s not Tyrion these days, and he used to just with Cersei and Aunt Genna back in the day. Maybe a few of the cousins. Right, definitely Joy. Not many of the others.

“Holy shit,” Tyrion says as he closes the call, “you’ve got it bad or what?”

“What suggests you that?”

“You’re smiling.” Tyrion rolls his eyes before grabbing them both a beer. “Which never happened in such a healthy circumstance.”

“That’s why you should absolutely follow in my footsteps,” Jaime says, and Tyrion decides it’s a lost cause.

Other than that, he has… one and a half day to be mentally prepared to meet Sansa Stark at his restaurant.

All right.

All right, he thinks, desperately trying to remember what he has planned for dinner instead. How hard it can be? He just has to show up, compliment her sincerely, hope that she’s not there to pay him a favor or something and go home. It can’t be too hard now, can it?

—

“I hate you,” he tells Jaime for the umpteenth time at ten twenty-five two days later.

Jaime looks absolutely not touched by his attempts to drive the point home.

“You think you do,” he says, still looking entirely too satisfied with himself. Tyrion doesn’t call him out on having worn a green silk shirt that he knows looks good on him but that he rarely takes out of the closet these days just because he’d be a hypocrite, considering that he broke out the three-piece suit. Not that he’s sure it’s going to change anything either way, but he wants to be presentable, all right?

Anyway, for a moment he almost hopes they have been stood up —

But then Jaime grins as he sees someone crossing the road.

Someone who looks like a giantess — she’s tall, Tyrion notices, probably a bit taller than Jaime himself, with large shoulders hidden under an immaculate blue pantsuit, with pale blonde hair and what looks like a not particularly beautiful face, but from what Tyrion sees she’s the entire opposite of their damned sister, so maybe that’s why Jaime is apparently so bent on asking her out. He doesn’t know. What he knows is that she’s crossing the road alone and entering the restaurant alone as Jaime opens the door for her.

They exchange a few greetings, and wait, is she blushing slightly, and then she nods at Jaime and she turns to look at him.

He doesn’t know what to expect, but certainly it wasn’t for her to lean down the appropriate height to shake his hand and introduce herself without batting an eyelid — Brienne Tarth, she says —, but maybe thinking about it a moment… well. She definitely looks like a decent person. He has a feeling she might know how it is on the other side of the people made fun of me because of my height club.”

“Tyrion Lannister,” he says, shaking her hand. “Would you like some coffee for the time being or —”

“That — might not be necessary. However, Sansa just texted me that her bus is stuck in traffic so she might be late, so I figured I would come in before and tell you.”

“Oh, of course. It’s already kind enough of her to come at all.”

Brienne looks down at him before taking a seat next to the bar’s counter, where Jaime had already been occupying a stool. “In between us,” she says, glancing at Jaime, then shrugging before looking back at him again, “she’s had a fairly… bad year, so far. As I’m sure he told you already.”

“You said I could,” Jaime protests half-heartedly.

“I wasn’t saying you shouldn’t have,” she says, rolling her eyes, and wait, are they bickering like an old married couple already? “Anyway, when I told her that her admirer would have liked to discuss opera over coffee she was really glad of it, so you can stop fretting.”

“… I wasn’t —” Tyrion starts, already too aware he’s not sounding very convincing.

“You are fretting. Not to be, how to put it, invasive, but I have been in that position,” she says, sounding like she gets it, “and it takes one to know one. Really. No need to.”

“I think I’ll make myself scarce and see if she’s coming,” Jaime says. “By the way —”

“Yes, yes, I already agreed to that coffee, didn’t I?” She says, rolling her eyes until he’s out of the door. “Right. Your brother is… something,” she says, then shakes his head. “But he’s perceptive. I mean, he went out on purpose, didn’t he?”

“He is,” Tyrion says. “I mean, I suppose he grasped you wanted to tell me something one on one?”

“Well, yes. I, uhm, not to pry, but can I ask why you would be fretting? Because I have a feeling I know.”

“What if I told you to guess?”

She sighs. “You’re worried she’ll be disappointed the moment she meets you.”

“… I guess I wasn’t wrong when I thought you might… know how it feels to not be what people expect?”

“I’ve been called a freak growing up enough to have a clue,” she answers. “Well then. You don’t need to be fretting. She won’t be disappointed.”

“I suppose you’d know that for sure?”

She shakes her head. “Listen, I — talked to your brother a long time when he convinced me to organize this meeting. And after the first ten times I thought he was pretending to flirt with me I realized he actually meant it, so — I suppose he’s one of those people who while being ridiculously attractive don’t actually give a fuck about how others look, isn’t he?”

“Always has been,” Tyrion agrees, and maybe he sounds fond as he says it, but — it’s true.

“Well, Sansa is the exact same. She couldn’t believe I didn’t have a storm of clients when I took her on because I was this good at my job, and when I told her a lot of people discarded me because I wasn’t good advertising she couldn’t believe that, either. And I’ve known her years. Really, I get it, but if you don’t expect it to go colossally wrong from the get-go, it might help.”

“Thanks,” Tyrion says, feeling a bit better for it. Not that he’s sure he’ll be any less nervous, but still — “So I suppose that if she meets him first she won’t be disappointed?” He had hoped to brighten the mood. He’s not sure it came out right.

Brienne looks at him. “Not my business to say,” she shakes her head, “but I think you really don’t have to worry about that.”

And on cue, the door opens and Jaime shows up just outside, but without coming in. “Right,” he says, “I told her we’d leave them alone, so — that coffee?”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Coming,” she says, then she turns at Tyrion. “Really, relax,” she winks, and then she’s out of the door, with Jaime running after her —

And Sansa Stark has walked inside the restaurant instead.

Oh.

She’s — a damned sight. She’s wearing a white set of trousers and shirt with short sleeves and equally white flats, while her hair isn’t braided like it used to be on stage — it’s loose now, of that lovely bright auburn shade, and it’s falling over her shoulders, reaching the middle of her back. For a moment he hopes he’s not just staring.

Then she zones on him and for a moment he’s sure it will go wrong regardless of what Brienne said —

Then she leans down and offers her hand without looking like she’s disappointed. “Sansa Stark,” she says, holding out her hand. “But I suppose you knew already?”

“Well, yeah,” he agrees, trying to not sound like some dumbstruck twelve-year old. “Tyrion Lannister. Uh, would you like to sit? We have the entire place.”

She shakes his hand before leaning back up and nodding towards a small table near the window. “So,” she says as they head there, “I get to finally meet the infamous admirer?”

For some miracle, she doesn’t sound like she’s finding the situation hilarious. Hell, she sounds like she means it.

“So it seems,” he says, waiting for her to sit before joining her. “I hope it wasn’t, uhm, how to say it. Invasive? I mean, I know it might look —”

“Tyrion — uh, is it all right if —”

“Oh, of course. Absolutely,” he answers, trying to not sound like he’s hyperventilating because she just asked if it’s fine if they’re on a first name basis, for —

“Great,” she says, sounding relieved, and wait, why would she? “First of all, I thought it was… actually charming? I mean, uh, this is going to sound ridiculous. Probably. But I’m not, like, famous or anything. And getting flowers regularly like that… kind of makes one feel like they could be Callas, you know? Like, I did dream of being the kind of singers who gets flowers. So, that wasn’t creepy or anything.”

He tries to not breathe in relief out loud. “Well,” he says, trying to not stammer too much, “that’s — I mean, you’re good. Way better than singing in that theater anyway. You should be the kind of singer who gets flowers.”

She smiles sadly, obviously flattered but — it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says, “but I don’t know if it’s going to happen at this point.”

She sounds wistful, looking out of the window and then back at him.

“Uhm,” he says, “maybe you’d like to talk about it over coffee? Or a bit of cake? Whatever you’d like. I own the place, after all, so — on the house.”

“You’re too kind,” she says, but then grabs the morning menu from the table and turns it over. “I think I will have some coffee.” Then she scans the desserts. “Oh,” she says, “you have lemoncake?”

“I do.”

“It’s my favorite.”

He doesn’t say, I knew that. “Should I get some for the both of us and then — if you want to talk about it, of course —”

“Hey,” she says, “no one else except Brienne has wanted to hear my side of the story. Maybe I do want to.”

Tyrion nods, goes to grab two slices of cake, brings them over and then hurries to make coffee — thankfully he had thought to turn it on half an hour before they arrived so now it doesn’t have to warm up — and it’s not long before he’s sitting in front of her again.

She takes a sip. “It’s good,” she says. “The cake looks better, though.”

“Well, let me know how it is.”

She reaches for the small fork on the plate and cuts a piece. The moment she eats it, she makes a face that about tells him everything he needs to know on how much she actually likes it.

“Oh,” she moans a little, swallowing before looking at him. “This is delicious. Is it —”

“It’s my recipe, yes,” he confirms. “I run things around the place so I don’t exactly bake all of them now, that’s why one hires interns for, but it was. So, I have to assume you like it?”

“It’s — the best cake I ever had, I think.” She eats another piece. “The violets really compliment it.”

“That might have been for your character,” he shrugs.

“Oh. So I assume it’s your favorite opera?”

“It is,” he nods. “And you’re — very good at singing it.”

“Thanks,” she says again, “but I — I mean, I don’t know if I have much of a career in front of me anymore.” She shakes her head. “It’s a long story, I guess.”

—

It takes her half an hour to tell it, in bits and pieces because then she asks if she could get a second slice and he’s only too happy to cut it for her, and by the time she’s done, he knows he couldn’t eat another piece himself. His stomach feels clenched so hard he doesn’t know if he can eat before the a long time.

“Wait,” he says, “you’re telling me that they didn’t even hear you out before they fired you?”

She shakes her head. “No. I mean, I missed every single rehearsal by one hour or so, and Marg was always there, and as much as I told them that I came at the time I was told to, they didn’t want to look at my emails or anything. And — after I went to get drinks at Marg’s place before opening night, I threw up for days and I had to cancel, of course, but it’s not like I can prove that I might have eaten something rotten or whatever it was, because I’m sure it can’t have been a coincidence. Still, by then word came out that I was apparently unreliable even if I had sung with the same theater for years without a problem and now no one will hire me for the next season.” She sighs, shaking her head. “I mean, I guess I could wait for it to die out, but — I also missed the one run in years where talent scouts would be attending. I’m sorry, I wish I didn’t dump this all on you, I know it might sound —”

“Please,” he says, “I was… uttermost disappointed when I knew you weren’t coming back. They definitely know they lost my money.”

She laughs, and she obviously means it this time. “Well, that’s reassuring. At least someone cared.”

“Hey,” he says, “I’ve seen the both of you. You’re way better than she is. And honestly, I think it’s going to bit her in the arse very soon.”

“You think so?” Sansa doesn’t sound too convinced. “I don’t know. She’s — more well-connected, now, and she’s also — well. More confident. And attractive, for that matter. And she’s having great reviews. And the talent scouts did go to her performances.”

“That might be true,” Tyrion says, “but — well. I, uhm, might not be a singer myself or anything, but — I, uh, have taken classes back in the day. Out of personal interest. I mean, listening classes.”

“Oh. You mean, to become a critic?”

“Well, the kind of class you take if you do, but I really didn’t want that. I mean, I could have gone for it in another life, but in this one I quite liked running the restaurant and it was going over pretty well. Anyway, I took enough to recognize if someone has a good technique or not, when they sing opera.”

“And you’re saying mine is better?”

“I’m saying hers isn’t bad whatsoever, all the contrary, and that’s why she’s getting more reviews, but she’s biting more than she can chew. I mean, it’s all good now, but she’s straining to sing that role.”

“You say so?”

He nods. He thought that the first time he heard Margaery Tyrell, after all, it’s not like he’s lying to make her feel better or anything of the kind. “Absolutely. I mean, she stretches too much to reach those notes that you don’t have to put effort in, and I know you know that or you wouldn’t have gotten this far. For now it’s going over well, but give it a year or so, if she keeps on singing just that part, well. She might be cutting her career short.”

At that, Sansa blushes a bit. “Well,” she says, “I did think that she was stretching a bit too much at rehearsals, but I thought maybe I was wrong. I mean, I could have been jealous or something, you know?”

“Maybe,” he says, “but really. Not very smart on her side, I think. If I were you I’d do like in that old saying and wait for the corpse of the enemy to wash down the river.”

For a moment he hopes he hasn’t gone too far, but then she laughs, again, and fine, he knows he’s good at making people laugh if he wants to but he doesn’t have much of a chance lately.

“I suppose we’ll see,” she answers. “Damn, this cake really is good. So, in less depressing talk… did you say La Traviata is your favorite?” She’s staring at him, blue eyes staring into his as if she’s really interested in hearing why.

“Might be,” he says. “I start crying in the middle of act two every time.”

“… And you came to see that many performances?” She asks, but at least she doesn’t sound judgy.

“My brother says it’s masochism,” he shrugs. “But what can I do. If I love it I love it, right?”

“Your brother doesn’t look like the kind who enjoys tragedies, I suppose,” she agrees.

“He doesn’t. But — well. You can’t always have the happy ending, right?”

“You’re saying it like it’s some kind of life sentence,” she observes, but again… she doesn’t sound like she’s judging him for it.

He shrugs. “Never had much of an experience with that either. But I can tell you that the way you sing the third act is heavenly.”

She smiles again, bright enough that he’s blinded for a moment.

“Personally,” she says, “my favorite is the first. You know, it’s way more hopeful. I do quite like the happy endings, too bad that my voice is more suited for… masochist operas, as I gather your brother would call them.”

“Huh,” he says, “so it wouldn’t sound… weird if I asked you if that’s why you always sound so sincere when you sing it? The first act, I mean.”

“Not at all. Because it’s true. I mean, while I sing it I kind of… take them as separate things, you know. Like, I sing the first as if it’s where the story ends, even if honestly, that she thinks that in order to make her spirit soar she has to forsake love is just sad. Then I do the other two… well. Properly, I guess. But I want to think there is one universe where they get to leave Paris and stay together, you know?”

“That’s… quite romantic,” he says.

“I always liked my romance,” she smiles back. “And admittedly, she’s a great character. Alfredo is… well, one could do better, I suppose, but the first round is fine. After that… well, you don’t choose who you love, I guess.”

“She kind of did choose him, though.”

She laughs again. “Touché, if you read it like that. But I still like to pretend the first act can be its own thing.”

“Well, you’re great at it. Really. I’m — I hope they see how stupid they’ve been to let you go soon.”

“Thanks,” she says, and then her phone rings. She takes it out and checks the text she obviously just got. “Oh, right. It’s Brienne. I, uh, need to go talk to the owners at… that other small theater downtown. You know, the one where the talent scouts don’t go, but they’re planning a run of Rigoletto and their lead pulled out, so she got me an audition.”

“Oh, of course,” he says, getting out of the chair. “I don’t mean to keep you more than necessary. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

“I can say the same,” she says, and then —

She zones on the plant of violets in the middle of the table.

Yes, fine, he changes the flowers he uses as decoration each month and he picked violets for this one, blame him, and then she stands up and plucks one of the flowers delicately.

“You know,” she says, “I think I have a proposition for you.”

“A… proposition?”

She hands him the violet. He takes it. “I don’t know if this is going to work out, but if it is, I’m singing there two days after tomorrow. That certainly will have withered. If it works out, you’re welcome to bring it back to me in my changing room after the show. If it doesn’t… your brother can call Brienne and ask her where you can bring it back to me regardless.”

Tyrion, who is not an idiot, immediately grasps what she’s aiming at.

“Wait,” he says, “do you mean that — that —”

“I mean exactly what you think it means,” she says, winking at him, before she grabs her purse. “And don’t worry, I don’t hand out violets to just anyone. I’m also not pure such as an angel, just so we’re clear about that. So. See you the day after tomorrow?”

“… The — sure. The day after tomorrow,” he blurts.

“Goodbye, then,” she says, and he nods at her just because she walks out of the door where Brienne is waiting for her.

They leave a moment later, but he’s too busy leaning against the counter so he doesn’t hyperventilate.

Shit.

She gave him the damned violet, she —

He can’t believe that she would —

“Cheers,” Jaime says as he walks in, “my coffee was a success and from what I see your coffee was a success. Maybe this depressing opera can bring people together, can’t it?”

“Fuck off,” Tyrion says half-heartedly.

Jaime laughs, but he can barely hear him.

The day after tomorrow.

He can’t believe it, but —

Well.

He doesn’t know what the hell is going to happen, but if she just served him a re-enactment of that duet on a silver platter, he’s not going to disappoint her.

—

The next day, the first thing he does is going on the website for the theater she mentioned to see if it worked out.

It did — it’s not really advertised, but if he goes to check who’s singing in Rigoletto this next week, Sansa is there. Good. He doesn’t know any of the other singers, but that doesn’t count now, does it?

He calls Jaime to inform him out of courtesy.

“Oh,” he says, “would you consider getting me a ticket, too?”

“You know that if you don’t like La Traviata you will hate this one?”

“Absolutely, but Brienne mentioned that she’d be there to supervise things.”

“Ah, and you want to help her out with that?”

“Of course not,” he says, “I can’t presume to help her out when she’s good at that job already. That doesn’t mean I can’t be there and make sure that she realizes I’m absolutely serious when it comes to my intentions.”

“Wasn’t she charmed at once?”

“I wish, but I think I might have to work for it. So, that ticket?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting two.” Tyrion rolls his eyes and doesn’t tell him that it’s a good thing that he has to work for it. Then he gets two tickets.

Good thing that as much as the main character for that one opera is sometimes relatable, he doesn’t particularly like it because otherwise he’d be dreading the running commentary already.

—

The next evening, he arranges for flowers to be delivered to the theater as he used to in the other one, then breaks out another nice three-piece suit that is technically the nicest he owns, but that he doesn’t wear that often because just an idiot would go for an attire that includes a silk double vest while spending his half of his time inside a kitchen whether it’s for cooking or checking things over. Then he puts the now dry violet inside the book he had been reading and leaves it there for the entire day until Jaime comes to pick him up.

Tyrion does notice that he’s also wearing the only nice red suit that he had brought over when he left the manor for good. He says nothing. He’s too nervous to even make fun of him.

Jaime also does look nervous enough to not make fun of him on the way to the theater.

Except that it’s apparently not enough to save Tyrion from the running commentary, and good thing that he picked the stalls.

—

“What a fucking dick,” Jaime hisses mid-act one.

“Who, the Duke?” Tyrion whispers back.

“Who else? Come on, there’s no way he means all this hope and love of my soul bullshit.”

“… He doesn’t,” Tyrion confirms.

“Also, not that I don’t get it in theory, but like, does that other idiot realize that keeping his daughter locked in the house without telling her shit won’t exactly do anything to make sure she doesn’t want to leave?”

Tyrion wishes he had a smart remark to shut him up.

The problem is that he can’t because the plot is… that stupid.

“Yeah, well. You’re not here for the plot.”

“No, I’m here for the mercenary getting some money and fleeing because he seems like the only character with two braincells here.”

… That’s probably not untrue, Tyrion thinks, but doesn’t indulge him. Not that Jaime keeps his mouth shut until the ending, because halfway through Gilda’s aria he’s rolling his eyes openly and obviously not talking just because Tyrion is obviously more interested in listening to the music than anything he has to say, and oh, Sansa sings that role so beautifully, too, airy and meaningfully and absolutely blending into it even if she sounded more soulful when she sang Violetta, but the moment she’s done Jaime leans closer.

“You aren’t telling me that she bought that sob story just because the duke has a pretty face.”

“Sorry,” Tyrion shrugs, “she did.”

“Good grief,” Jaime sighs, “Two braincells in this whole thing and they’re the mercenary’s. This is why I like fucking comedies.”

Tyrion does go down with him at the intermission — he was obviously hoping to find Brienne at the bar, but she’s not there. Probably she’s with Sansa, Tyrion reasons. Shit, shit, he has to go backstage later, should he, maybe she didn’t think he’d take her up on it, and the flowers should have been delivered and maybe he should call the florist to ask —

“Calm down,” Jaime says, throwing back a glass of beer while Tyrion wishes he could enjoy his red wine, but the quality is shit and he can barely taste it anyway. “She invited you. And quoted your thing while doing it. No one plays that kinda practical joke on strangers unless they’re Cersei, and I’ve seen her for thirty seconds but I’m pretty damn sure that she’s not Cersei.”

“Couldn’t be farther from her,” Tyrion admits. Which… is a point.

“Then let’s go back up to see the end of this torment so you can go backstage and I can work for it.”

“Hey, it’s not a torment. It has good music.”

“Yes, and two braincells in the entire cast.”

“Just you wait until the part everyone wants to hear twice, then,” Tyrion says, and maybe it is a little bit funny to see Jaime’s eyes narrow. It’s kind of hilarious that his favorite piece is a relatively obscure French Rossini piece but he doesn’t know —

“Wait, what is the part everyone wants to hear twice?”

“Oh,” Tyrion grins to himself, “you’ll find out in less than an hour and a half, I think.”

“I’m so not looking forward to it.”

Tyrion kind of is. Just because it will break the tension, if anything else.

—

La donna è mobile, qual piuma al vento —

“No,” Jaime says, “no, you’re not telling me that this is the one that everyone wants to hear twice.”

Tyrion tries to not laugh lest they get thrown out. “Sadly, yes.”

“What the fuck,” Jaime says, staring at the subtitles over the stage, “why the hell would anyone want to listen twice a thing about women being fickle and dumb?”

Tyrion shrugs. “It’s catchy?”

“Silent of accent and thought? What the fuck,” Jaime whispers again, shaking his head. “Please tell me this guy isn’t particularly good.”

“Nah,” Tyrion confirms. Whoever the guy is, he didn’t even check the other singers because he’s here for Sansa… he’s adequate, most likely, but no Carreras.

“Maybe they will spare me from this torture a second time,” Jaime mutters, but Tyrion is pretty sure there’s no way it will happen.

As predicted, it doesn’t happen — the guy gives them an encore after a full three minutes of clapping that Jaime does not join.

“Shit,” Jaime groans, “the things I do for love.”

Tyrion still thinks it’s catchy, but he supposes he can see the point.

Still.

He has to go to the dressing room in less than half an hour.

Fuck, he really hopes it goes over all right.

—

“You aren’t telling me,” Jaime whispers later, “that she’s actually going to get herself murdered to save a guy who just about raped her and also thinks women don’t have functioning brains.”

As Sansa-as-Gilda knocks on the fake door on stage after just singing that she wants to throw away her life for the Duke’s, Tyrion gives him a shrug. “Uhm. Er… yes?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Jaime says, “idiots. All of them. All of them except the mercenary. They fucking deserve what they’re getting. Wait, does that mean that sexist asshole survives?”

“… Yes?”

“What the fuck,” Jaime hisses again as the trio’s music picks up again. “What the fuck.”

“You know it’s a tragedy, right?”

“You know that in order to be a tragedy there’s no need for each single character to behave like they can’t use one braincell if they paid them to?”

That’s… a fair point, he supposes. He still doesn’t think it’s that bad, but he can see the reasoning. At least the running commentary made sure he wouldn’t get emotionally involved whatsoever, and when Jaime whispers under his breath what curse and curse, you should have just fucked off that city and be done with it at the end he has to laugh — fine, that was… kind of deserved.

“So,” Jaime says, “ready to go backstage?”

“At least let them come out,” Tyrion objects.

“Right, right,” Jaime rolls his eyes, and only claps when Sansa and whoever played Sparafucile show up on stage. Fair, Tyrion supposes.

He clutches the book with the violet inside to his chest as they leave the stall and Jaime heads straight for the stairs.

“Maybe we should wait a moment —”

“She invited you,” Jaime says, “she wouldn’t have if she didn’t want to. I mean, even assuming that she accepted to come to the restaurant to pay you a favor, she could have just thanked you for the coffee and left, right?”

“… Right, but —”

“Instead she told you to show up. No one does that out of obligation or anything especially if they don’t like the other person and if I can get there, I’m pretty sure you can go bring her those violets already — oh, there she is,” he says as he spots Brienne glancing around the foyer and then zoning in on the both of them.

Then she stalks in their direction — she’s dressed in another dark blue pantsuit and she looks like she could sleep for a week, but she also… blushes when her eyes meet Jaime’s. All right then.

“Oh, there you are,” she says. Then she barely even looks at Jaime and hands Tyrion a piece of paper. “Backstage is over there. Give that to any of the ushers and they’ll bring you inside. Oh, she loved the flowers.”

“Did — did she?”

“Roses happen to be her favorite.”

“Why,” Jaime interrupts, “not yours?”

“I hate roses,” she says, “but that’s not the point. She’ll be showering now,” she keeps on, “but she said you could show up whenever, so give her some five minutes and she’ll be good.”

“And I can’t treat you to some wine at the bar?”

“I need alcohol,” she proclaims, “so you can, if you want to. Really,” she tells Tyrion, “she’s waiting. If there are any issues tell them to call me.”

“All — all right. Enjoy your wine.”

“I’ll need that,” she sighs, and then heads off with Jaime to the bar.

All right. At least he is getting his just rewards for resisting through La donna è mobile twice. Now —

He breathes in, out, then heads straight for the first usher he sees — the guy takes the message Brienne gave him before. “Oh, that’s you,” he says. “Follow me.”

Tyrion thanks him and immediately does — it takes them a short while to go upstairs one floor and then behind the stage. The man ushers him into an elevator and they ride up to the second floor. “Right,” he says, “Miss Stark’s room is the third on the right. Just knock — if she doesn’t answer she’s still showering, so just give her another ten.” Tyrion thanks him again and gets out of the elevator, making his way towards the door. He tries to listen for running water just in case, but he doesn’t hear it, so he knocks tentatively, twice.

“A minute!” Sansa says from the other side of the door, and as he waits he takes the violet from the book, letting it fall on the ground so that he doesn’t have to fumble with it inside.

A short while later, the door opens. Sansa is indeed on the other side, but this time she’s wearing a regular pair of jeans and a plain blue t-shirt, her hair still half-wet from the shower —

And the moment she sees the violet in his hand, she leans down to take it. “Oh, you did bring it back then.”

“You did ask,” he says, trying to not sound like he’s going to faint. But she’s smiling down at him very, very sweetly and then she winks at him, what —

“I did. So, fancy coming in?”

He does.

The dressing room is barely large enough for three people, and half of the space is taken by her costume hanging on the window — because there isn’t a wardrobe, seriously? — and she has her coat and shoes and bag on one of the two chairs inside it.

And then he sees his roses places against the mirror on the vanity.

“Glad to see you liked them,” he says.

“Oh, I was the only one who got any,” she says, sounding pleased about it but also like she can’t quite believe that.

“And how is… the place? I mean, behind closed doors.”

She shrugs. “Adequate. Obviously it’s not, well, a top tier stage or anything, but they’ve been quite nice and I’m working, so — for now it’s the best I could shoot for. Maybe they’ll call me for the next season.”

“You don’t sound that excited.”

She smiles. “Maybe,” she admits, “I guess I’m just… disappointed, you know. That said, I’m here for a month and from what I gather Brienne isn’t waiting to get drinks with me after, is she?”

“I — don’t think so,” Tyrion replies, carefully. “But if you had plans —”

“Please,” she says, “I love her but she gets drinks with clients all the time and not with anyone she wants to go out with. There’s a nice place around the corner,” she grins again as she grabs her roses. “Fancy a cocktail?”

“Even two,” he says, hoping he sounds smooth. She smiles a bit wider.

“Good,” she says, and a moment later they’re out of the room and she’s closed the door and Tyrion is resolutely not looking at his phone.

—

An hour later, he knows way more about the production mess that made the other lead pull out at the last moment — apparently she got an offer from a way better theater and fucked off without a warning, which Sansa can’t technically disagree with because this production sucks but still, not very professional of her —, and he’s had a couple of pretty good cocktails, and Sansa has talked most of the time but that’s fine because he thinks he likes to listen to her talk other than sing, and then she looks at the time.

“Ew,” she says, “I have to be here at eleven tomorrow to discuss the contract and so on because today was, like, a trial run to see if I would fit at short notice.”

“Oh, of course, I wouldn’t mean to keep you —”

He stops when Sansa plucks a rose out of her bouquet.

“You know what,” she says, “if you come back to see this, you should totally bring that back to me, too. Or of you don’t want to watch that again — which is understandable, it’s hardly the best performance ever staged — I can just tell the ushers to let you in again.”

“Well,” he says, cautiously, not believing his luck, “this week it’s… pretty busy at the restaurant, I need to check over the new hires and so on, but the next one? I could come. It wasn’t so bad.”

“Come on, it was terrible,” she laughs, “but good. Next week it is then. Roses do wither slower than violets, don’t they?”

He nods, wishes her a good night and she does the same as she leaves the bar.

He orders another whiskey on the rocks just to stop his hands from shaking and stays there until Jaime shows up some time later looking like he won the lottery.

“The hell happened?”

“She invited me to go back again next week,” he says.

“And why are you looking like you’re about to faint? That’s good,” Jaime shrugs. “I mean, I also was invited to bring as much alcohol as possible to the theater next time I see her and I’m not brooding.”

Fair enough — Tyrion hasn’t seen him this giddy in years.

“I’m not brooding. I just can’t — it feels like it’s unreal,” he admits.

“How charming,” Jaime rolls his eyes, “it’s what she said when I bought her the second drink. Brienne, I mean. And since I am absolutely interested in her, it makes no sense that Sansa Stark might not be into you or she wouldn’t be asking you over twice. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

“When have you started being the one of us who makes fucking sense?” Tyrion protests as he gets down from the stool.

“When have I ever not been,” Jaime rolls his eyes as he waves to the bartender and puts a hand on his back, ushering him out.

Shit, he is a bit tipsy.

And he’s also holding the rose so tight he’s most likely cut his palm.

—

A week later, he takes the dried rose out of the book he put it in after he puts on another of his good suits. He has already arranged for the usual roses to be delivered, and he already has the ticket ready — at least now he’s not having the running commentary.

(Jaime left him some frankly over the top message informing him that Brienne had called him first telling him that she could avoid being at each performance every night now that she’s assured this theater isn’t going to dump her client, so if he wanted to get drinks they could, and you’d have thought he won the lottery instead of having been called for a date, but — well. Good for him.)

He’s still nowhere near sure of what he’s doing here, but — she did invite him, right?

He goes to the opera, and watching it without running commentary… well. All right. Fair enough — regardless of Jaime’s opinion, admittedly this production isn’t that good. Sansa is good, but the rest of the singers are at most adequate and the staging was definitely made with IKEA-bought furniture, but then again he paid fifteen quid for the priciest ticket, so he supposes there is no way he could expect anything better.

At the end of the show, he goes to the same usher who recognizes him at once, and he’s left at the same floor.

He knocks on the door, the dried rose in between his fingers.

Sansa opens it a moment later, and —

“So you did come,” she says, sounding… pleased? What the —

“You — asked,” he stammers, handing over the rose. She takes it, looking delighted that he brought it, and this doesn’t make any sense, he thinks as he walks inside the changing room — it’s still small and it barely fits the two of them, and she’s out of her costume and wearing a dark red sundress with white embroidering on sleeves and hems that matches her hair, and she puts the rose on the mirror in front of her. Next to the violet. And next to a few pressed pink roses, which are most likely from his bouquets.

Oh.

“You really did like those roses,” he says, aware that it sounds pretty fucking dumb at this point.

“This is probably where I tell you that when you sent the first one I had just been dumped by — well. Actually, now it does make sense.”

“What does make sense?”

“My last boyfriend. He was — well. A dick. A very well-looking dick, I guess. He also worked at that theater — he was one of the background singers, my former manager brought him with. And — well. I had seen him and Margaery talking sometimes, and when I was cast in the lead role he just about left after two weeks because he felt stifled. Or something. At that point the former manager started behaving, well, inappropriately, and — Brienne is a friend of my mother’s, she told me she was good at her job so I dropped him for her and it was definitely a good idea. He didn’t take it that well. Anyway, back when you started sending those roses he had just dumped me and he was definitely going out with Margaery and I felt like shit because while I finally had steady money it seemed like he couldn’t be happy for me or with me, and when I left the former manager he told me a lot of… not really nice things, I guess. So, seeing that someone actually… well. Liked my singing that much was nice. I expected it to be a one-off, but then they weren’t and — well. I told you. It does make a girl feel a bit like Callas. Most of us in my singing classes thought that the moment you got flowers delivered to your door you were halfway on the road to success.” She smiles, shrugs. “So yes. I really did like those roses. I also do like men who actually enjoy opera and don’t treat it as a job.”

“You mean, your former boyfriend?”

“And my former manager. Never cared for the art.” She shrugs again. “Fancy another drink?”

“I — would be delighted,” he says immediately. And then he decides that maybe — “Or,” he says, “the restaurant is closing in an hour. My restaurant, I mean. Maybe you would like an actual dinner?”

For a moment he wonders if he’s fucked things up and went overboard, but then she smiles a bit wider.

“Actually, yes. I’m kind of starving. Oh, Brienne’s not here and I don’t have a car —”

“Me neither, but we can take a cab. Wouldn’t want to disturb your manager from her night out with my brother, if she survives his enthusiasm for a healthy relationship.”

She laughs at that, and damn it, why does his heart beat slightly faster at that —

“Considering that I love my manager but she can absolutely do with a healthy relationship, it won’t be me calling her now. All right. Let’s call the cab.”

It’s definitely a good thing that they arrive half an hour from closing, because it means not many people are still on the premises and when closing time comes, he certainly won’t be kicked out. When she tells him what she likes other than lemon-flavored sweets, he makes sure to give her good advice on what to get and by the time they’re done with the second course, they also shared a good bottle of wine and Sansa’s cheeks flush when she laughs at something he says that he’s forgotten the moment after because it just — never happens that he flirts with someone that easily. The last time it happened it turned out she was trying to get to his father, and it was years ago, after the only real girlfriend he had ended up having to move countries because apparently Tywin Lannister not liking you means having a smear campaign thrown your way, so he’s kind of waiting for it to go wrong every other moment —

“I think I can do with dessert,” Sansa says, breaking his reverie and reaching for a menu on the nearby table.

“Feel free to check if you might want something other than —”

“That lemon and violets cake,” she finishes, winking. “Yeah, this is kind of… well, I’m checking out of wanting to make sure there’s nothing else I’d like to try. But that was really good.”

She finds the last page on the menu and then Tyrion realizes that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea because all the dishes have a small description underneath and when he approved the one for the lemon cake —

“Oh,” Sansa says, reading it, obviously, then looking at him, then back at the menu.

Shit.

He probably read that it was inspired by the opera character, and if she’s not an idiot, which she isn’t, she’ll put two and two together —

Except that then she closes the menu and smiles slightly as she puts it away. “I think I’ll take the lemon cake,” she says, sounding very sure of it.

“Oh. Sure,” he stammers, asking the waitress who stayed on duty and that he’ll see to pay extra when the month is done to bring them two slices.

Then he looks back at Sansa.

“So,” she says, “do I have to presume that the lemon and the violets aren’t… a casual choice?”

He clears his throat. “It’s… well. I mean, it’s not an unheard of combination. But… no, it wasn’t casual.”

He waits for the other shoe to drop, but the only thing that happens is Sansa’s blue eyes locking with his as she nods to herself. “Should I be flattered?” She asks, sounding slightly amused. But not angry.

“If — if you’d like. I mean, I liked the character and I still think yours is the best I’ve heard.”

“Callas exists, you know.”

“She’s overrated,” he winks, and Sansa blushes slightly, still holding eye contact —

“This is probably where I should reiterate that while I love that role and I love singing it me and her really wouldn’t see eye to eye.”

“Because you would have liked for the whole thing to stop at act one?”

She laughs again. “Yeah, that, but mostly because other than not being half as jaded as she was in the beginning, I mean, I’d like to think that if I picked wrong with damned Harry I can do better than him, but other than that… who the hell goes off to die alone because their boyfriend’s father is an asshole? And who’s the idiot who doesn’t marry a girl he likes because her brother is in a relationship with whoever? Okay, fine, nineteenth century and all, but you know. Screw that. People’s parents shouldn’t fuck up relationships. And there’s a limit to self-sacrifice, you know. You don’t get the romance if you go for that. Also, your spirit should soar because you’re in love, not because you’re not.”

“Well,” he says, cautiously, “let’s say that having the asshole father who would have done something like that in the nineteenth century… I always thought that her guy was kind of an idiot because he should have just pressed and talked to her. But I kind of did why — he’d buy that. I guess. Then again, I suppose that’s what gives you tragedies. And I haven’t had much experience with spirits soaring and all, until now.”

The cakes arrive a moment later — she takes a bite, then looks back up at him. “So,” she says, “just for science. Let’s say that I always liked my romances. Do I have to assume that you liked your romances maybe picturing a Violetta who tells Alfredo’s father to go fuck himself, pardon my French?”

He has to laugh at that — he has a bit of cake, too, and then figures he can’t stall anymore.

“… Yes,” he admits. “In those romances he also didn’t let her go after, well. Act two. And maybe he’d understand that she’s sick instead of showing up completely surprised.”

At that, she does laugh harder. “That’s a fair point. Wow, that’s some melodrama we like, isn’t it.”

“If you ever want to make fun of it, ask my brother to give you a running commentary. He has no respect for the arts.”

“Really. What do you mean?”

“When we came for Rigoletto the first time he spent it informing me of how much every single character except Sparafucile is a complete idiot.”

“… He’s not wrong, to be honest,” Sansa says. “They are idiots. And I’ll take Violetta over Gilda any day. That said, sounds fun. Maybe after Brienne realizes she’s actually scored. Can you believe that when she came back from the meeting with him she was sure he only called her to get to me until he mentioned the roses?”

“… Well, I can believe that,” Tyrion says, “because in her place… well. I kind of would have done the same.”

Sansa takes another bite of cake. “Too bad that even if it was the case, he’s really not my type.”

“… He isn’t?”

She shakes her head, swallowing her next forkful, then places it back on the table. “Nah. I’ve had it with pretty faces in the business,” she says. “Also, I do like my melodrama or it wouldn’t be my job. But never mind that.” She takes a deep breath. “He didn’t send me roses nor actually made me feel like some kind of diva when I thought it would be years before anyone actually noticed me and I could stop singing in third-rate theaters.”

Wait, what is she saying here —

“And I wouldn’t have given him flowers to bring back the next day.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“No,” she confirms, and now she sounds maybe a bit nervous, “and while I do like my classical romances, I also figured a while ago that maybe in this economy it’s fine if I actually make a move.”

Shit.

Shit, so she was making a move. His fork falls from his hands, clashing on the plate, but he barely hears that.

“So,” she says, “I think I did make my move. I suppose that since you did came back, you understood what I was aiming at. Admittedly, the first one was to see if we actually could, you know, talk outside of that one coffee.”

“And the second was —”

“Violetta did give Alfredo that one chance, right? Fine, she also played a bit hard to get and she really was bent on convincing herself that it was delusional, but as stated, that’s not what I’d like to rehash out of that melodrama. So — yes. The last thing I want to do is turn into someone who thinks love is a delusion. And you?”

So.

She just —

She just said that —

He can either faint, freak out or give her the only worthy answer to that line.

“Uhm,” he says, “that if someone who told me to bring her flowers then told me that… she would like to give it a go with me, I’d… forget the universe and live in my own personal heaven? Shit, that really sounds corny, doesn’t it?”

At that, she smiles very, very wide. “It does,” she says, “but it’s not a bad thing. Romance can be corny, after all.” She pushes away the plate, enough that she can lean on the table.

Right.

She’s also looking at him like she’s kind of daring him to actually go ahead and do it, and like she’s waiting for it —

Ah, fuck it.

He pushes away the plate, too, puts a hand on the table, pushes himself forward so that his hand touches the back of her neck and when their mouths meet her lips are soft and she sighs into it, her hand reaching up for his hair, and then they’re kissing for real and when he slips a bit of tongue inside her mouth she kisses back very, very enthusiastically, and it’s probably not romantic-comedy-worthy that the both of them still have lemon cream in the back of their teeth but it really doesn’t matter, not when he can’t move back and she doesn’t try to do it either and he doesn’t think kissing anyone ever felt so right in his entire life, and when she moves back and breathes in he does the same, meeting her blue eyes again, and she looks — happy?

“This seems like a good time for informing you that none of my stage partners kisses so well.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m fine with kissing people for real during performances. Helps with making it more realistic. I’ve kissed a lot of tenors.” She winks. “None of them were as good as that.”

“Too bad that I can’t sing worth a damn,” he blurts.

“Too bad,” she agrees, but if you do that again? I might forgive you for this one slight.”

Well, fuck that.

She doesn’t have to ask him twice.

One year later

As the elevator goes up, Tyrion grasps the small bouquet of lilies and tries to not mind too much that this one usher seems to want to glare out of existence about anyone he talks to.

Then again, it’s London, not their crap theater back home, and while it’s not exactly the Royal Opera House, according to Sansa it still pays thrice what she got in her old one.

Turns out, Tyrion had been right — a few months after they kissed the first time, Sansa had called and said that apparently Margaery had to cancel performances because of vocal issues and the people from her old theater had ended up asking her again because they couldn’t find anyone at short notice. Sansa had accepted out of needing to work because that Rigoletto run had finished, but casually some talent scout had been at one of the following performances and he worked for a company in London who could have used at least a few back ups, and well, back up singing in London still beat her current career prospects —

Except that then they heard her and they all agreed she was really damned good at that role, and so now she’s singing Violetta again for a few months, and they’ve made it work long distance also because it’s only a two-hour train ride and if he comes for the Friday performance he can stay the weekend or on the restaurant’s closing day, so it’s not really that tragic.

(The fact that he can just crash at Jaime’s flat because apparently he and Brienne are Serious with the capital s and so he’s renting flats wherever she’s residing for longer than two months is definitely a perk. Jaime nagging him because he wants most of the merit for their current turn of luck is less of a perk, but then again Tyrion figures he’s right, so he lets him take the merit.)

The usher probably has noticed that Tyrion has cried for the last two hours, too, so he’s most likely being judged very harshly right now, but there’s no point in hiding it and the usher can handle it. He gets out at the third floor, wishes the man a good evening and goes to knock on the fifth door on the right.

Sansa opens it a moment later, definitely still in costume, but then again he had immediately slipped upstairs.

“You know,” she says with a smile as she lets him in — it’s a larger dressing room, at least —, “it can’t be too healthy if you cry two hours every time you see this piece of work.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “apparently it’s foulproof. And you’re good, so it’s even more of a sure thing.”

“I really need to start branching into comedies,” she says, but then immediately takes the violets. “Are the ones from the last time not withered yet?”

He shakes his head. “Sort of,” he says, “but I decided that bringing dead flowers all the time maybe wasn’t that romantic. If they’re fresh it’s a better omen, isn’t it?”

“Can’t disagree,” she says, placing them next to the roses he sent during the intermission. No one else is sending more yet, and he’s sure it will happen soon… but for now he’s glad to be the only one. “So,” she goes on, “I should probably take a shower and change, but I’ll be done in ten. Do we have plans for later?”

“I have a damned list of restaurants Jaime is swearing by, which I suppose means your manager is also swearing by, so if you prefer any —”

“Sounds great,” she says, and then she leans down for a kiss that he supposes was meant to be quick, except that it’s five minutes before she dashes off to the shower swearing she won’t take long.

That’s fine, he says as she closes the door, they do have time.

And as she dashes into the room he can’t help grinning to himself, wide enough that it hurts, and maybe he should tell her that the lemon cake with violets now will have a cupcake variant and a muffin variant for the afternoon crowd starting next week —

But he will tell her at dinner. Meanwhile he stares at his flowers on the vanity and wipes at his eyes again — for once it’s not just leftover tears from the performance, it’s that he’s happy, damn it — and waits for Sansa to get ready. And maybe she was right — the melodrama was a bit too much.

After all, if before he could understand why love would be torment and delight of someone’s heart… now he thinks that for now, it hasn’t been torment at all.

Actually, he should ask her if that might have made her spirit soar as much as it did his.

But he’s pretty sure he knows the answer already.

End.