A/N: Hope you enjoy this ghoulish Easter surprise!

Warning for a death scene that was actually quite heartbreaking for me to write, though I'm sure some reading will disagree with me about just how heartbreaking it actually is, heh. Once again I'm inspired by the 1989 Robert Englund film.

There is also a passing mention of rape, though it's only the possibility of rape that's mentioned, as if that makes it any better. Thought I'd give a head's up.

The morning following the chandelier crash the members of the opera house knew one thing only: keep out of the Hound's path.

Sandor Clegane had the hollow-eyed look of one who hadn't slept the night before, yet was too full of some dark adrenaline to look otherwise sluggish.

Never had he barked so violently at those around him. He dispensed orders nonstop to clear debris and to stay outside police lines. He supervised the removal of the shattered chandelier with brutal curtness to anyone he decided was slacking.

There was a sense of relief and puzzlement when at some point in the afternoon he stared hard into the distance then appeared to snap, muttering to a fellow stagehand that there was something he had to take care of and he would be gone for the next couple hours.

Ygritte watched him go, then leaned in to one of her fellow dancers, Bethany. "First the chandelier, then Cap'n Stark goes missing, and now the Hound acts like the Stranger's got into him. I wonder if it's all connected..."

Sandor stood in front of the door to the Tyrell home, clenching and unclenching his fists.

There had been too much he was forced to do last night – he'd wanted to rip apart the opera house and the city looking for her, even thought of taking the wolf girl's suggestion of charging the cellars, but the police, the damn police! Cornering him, asking questions. He'd tried telling them about the girl, but Selmy and his men had their fucking hands full with the chandelier and those injured beneath it.

He spent the entire night stalking the halls, feeling like some caged beast. He could barely go anywhere: Selmy's men had every exit blocked – including the doors into the cellars. There was nothing to do but wonder, worry. Had it been a lover all along, and she'd run off with him? No, Sandor nixed that right away. Would make no sense, really. She wouldn't just leave without a word, and not after what happened.

Still, he'd have preferred that to the other notion: kidnapping.

Today…perhaps there'd been word. Perhaps the little bird flew home undetected, and was safe in her nest upstairs….

Gathering his courage, he knocked roughly on the door.

A skinny Braavosi butler answered. He gave Sandor a sneering once-over. "Yes?"

Sandor swallowed, suddenly aware of his awkward position. "Miss Stark in?"

The butler looked at him as if he were an idiot. "No. Miss Stark hasn't been seen since last night."

Terror and heartbreak burned inside the Hound's chest. He hadn't realized how much he'd been hoping, banking on her return.

The butler felt a little afraid at the intense glare of this immense scarred man in rumpled workman's clothes. Was he a madman?

Sandor at last tore his gaze away and turned to trudge down the steps.

He was stopped by that imperious voice he heard so often around the opera house. "Who is it?"

Olenna Tyrell emerged from the drawing room, looking out the door. She raised one wintry eyebrow. "Ah! Clegane. Good. I want to talk to you. Come here." So saying, she returned to the drawing room, unhesitating in her belief he would obey.

Look darkening even more, he did.

He felt like a bloody fool sitting on the Tyrell's couch. The place was dolled up like one of Littlefinger's whorehouses. The saying "Bull in a Lyseni shop" came to him as he took in her delicate crockery on the coffee table before him.

The old woman's eternal smirk was the only indication she didn't buy into the pretense of hosting as she poured afternoon tea. "Would you like a cup, Clegane? I'll bet you're one of those men who act like they only consume wine and meat but secretly like heaping spoonfuls of sugar in their tea."

"I don't want any," he said more brusquely than he intended.

Olenna could tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the harshness of his gravelly voice that the man had had no sleep, no mental rest from his worry. She took pity and cut to the chase.

"Well, now. I know exactly why you're here. It's for Sansa, isn't it?"

His eyes focused on her so intently even the unflappable Olenna Tyrell felt almost uncomfortable.

"No word on her? None?"

Olenna shook her head gravely. "None."

He wouldn't meet her eyes, but his flared nostrils and reddened face told what she already knew.

"By gods, I knew you two had something going on, but I didn't know it had gone this far."

His eyes were fire on her. "What do you mean? I didn't have anything to do with this."

"Down, boy, down!" Olenna laughed, holding a hand up. "I didn't mean it that way. I meant I didn't know your feelings for her went so far."

He snorted. He was never one to lie. Neither was the Tyrell crone. Why bother pretending now?

"What of it," he muttered.

"What of it indeed?" Olenna asked. "What of all of this? I thought for years that the whole Phantom phenomenon was some ruse Baelish was running behind our backs with his little gang of outlaws – your noble self included." She inclined her head to him grandly. She sighed. "Now I'm not so sure. Oh, of course it's no ghost, but someone…and then there's the way Sansa sounds so very much like her aunt when she sings…."

Sandor fidgeted. Save for Sansa, no one spoke to him so frankly, like he was an equal. She spoke as if she was working something through in her mind, and the fact that it included Sansa kept him on his seat's edge.

At last she seemed to give up whatever train of thought she was on, shrugging. "Ah, well! Who knows. Why did you two put an end to things, anyhow?"

He snorted again. "You can tell that, too, can you?"

"Well, obviously her tears and shaking recently haven't been just because of whomever this Phantom or lover is." Her clever eyes laughed at him as he fumed. "Ah! I've made you jealous with that last one, haven't I?"

He was on his feet, his face death. "What did you call me in here for? What do you want from me?"

Nonplussed, Olenna said, "The same thing as you: to see if you've heard of anything that might help find the poor girl."

Olenna truly was surprised now. The Hound looked positively vulnerable, shaking almost.

Asking not her but the cosmos itself, he said, "Where in the Seven Hells could she be?"

Olenna hid her shock. Were those…tears in his eyes? "Is she dead? Is she raped? Is she both? Where…where the fuck is she?" His voice was hoarse.

"I wish I knew," Olenna said quietly, deep sadness in her own voice.

Casting her one last hell bound look, he turned and left.

Olenna also had to deal with the younger Stark girl, who later that evening reminded her far more of an angry alley cat than a wolf: spitting and hissing, back practically raised as she paced in front of Olenna and Margaery.

Arya hadn't slept either. The damned Hound had to at last physically carry her to the Tyrell's carriage close to one o'clock in the morning last night, amidst all the hubbub. She'd been screaming and kicking, the only sound from him heavy breathing. Once he threw her in, Margaery and Olenna had to hold her back from leaping at him accusingly.

What truly stopped her was the look on his face.

Confusion. Terror.

Like hers.

She'd tried unsuccessfully throughout the day to get below to the cellars. Stupid Gendry and the police kept blocking her path. There was nothing to do but swear at both of them and then finally return home with Margaery.

"Those stupid coppers!" In spite of the trying times, both Margaery and Olenna swallowed smiles at how quickly Arya picked up opera slang. Arya kicked a footstool. "They don't care, they just don't care about San – about Miss Stark!" It was getting harder and harder to keep up the pretense of patroness and charity case with her only sister gone missing. "The Hound and I kept trying to bring her up to them today, and we just got brushed off!"

"Oh, I don't know," Margaery said over her cup of tea. "Officer Selmy seems a little interested. Cersei apparently said something to him about her and so he visited my dressing room to ask me about our favorite Northern girl."

"So? Did he say he was going to do something about it?"

Margaery realized she probably shouldn't have spoken. "Well, er, no. You see, Arry, I got the impression he thinks…." She bit her lip.

"Well?"

"He thinks she might not be missing, but instead ran away?"

Arya's mouth dropped open in indignation. "Ran away? Idiots! She would never do that!" She paused for a moment. All right, it was true Sansa was only at the opera house because she'd run away from home in the first place, but…this was different! Arya could just tell.

She was back to fuming. "The cops aren't doing anything, the managers aren't doing anything…."

"Now, child," Olenna tried calming her. "You must see reason. Catching the man behind the chandelier crash and seeing to the victims are the first order of business for the police. As for the managers, there's not much they can do, really. There's dodging lawsuits on one hand, and putting on the masked ball tomorrow on the other."

Arya groaned. "I can't believe the idiots are putting on a masked ball of all things now!"

"It's to benefit the victims," Margaery explained. "A way to make the opera house more welcoming and dodge said lawsuit again. Although I do wish we'd had more warning! Usually the masked ball is at the end of this month, so I thought I'd have more time to select an outfit. Now I'll probably have to pick an old costume from storage rather than put together something new. If Sansa was here, she could probably help whip something up in no time" –

She cut herself off, uncharacteristically embarrassed. She watched Arya carefully, but luckily Sansa's little sister was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to pay Margaery much mind.

She paced a couple minutes more, then announced, "That's it! I'm going down to the cellars if it's the last thing I do! I don't care who I have to sneak by." She stormed toward the door.

The Tyrell women were right behind her, chasing after her like farmers do rogue chickens. "Now, you come back here right now" –

Arya opened the door then froze, speechless.

Sansa stood there.

She swayed in the doorway. She was very pale and her eyes were wide and empty. She wore a beautiful light blue gown no one present had seen before. She looked like she'd been drained of all blood, all life.

A black brougham retreated into the darkness behind her.

"Sansa?" Arya whispered.

At the sound of her sister's voice, some life appeared to come back into her face. She looked at her slowly. "Oh, Arya!" She exclaimed. "I've been so stupid, so wrong!" She collapsed to her knees, wrapping her arms around Arya's waist and burying her face in her stomach. Arya was gob-smacked. Sansa sobbed like she was going to die of it.

Arya stroked her hair soothingly, in contrast to her eyes glaring at the Tyrell ladies, daring them to call the Stark sisters out after Sansa's slip of the tongue.

Yet Margaery and Olenna only stared at the two with pensive, inscrutable faces.

By the next morning, Sandor felt more dead than alive. His frenzy had dimmed, and he'd sunk into a deep depression. The exits to the cellars were still barred, and no one, absolutely fucking no one but her sister seemed to care where Sansa was.

Sansa.

Little bird.

Flown away, or captured.

He completed his duties like a sleepwalker. Is this how she felt in her trance-like state? As if nothing going on around her made any difference one way or the other?

Instead of barking commands, he now quietly and evenly said, "Pull the streamer down there. Place the punch bowl in the center of the table. Make sure you stamp out the wrinkle in that carpet."

A masked ball. What a charade.

He was so tired.

He stood on top of the grand staircase now, looking over the workmen as they prepared for the evening's festivities. He didn't truly take anything in.

A shy cough at his shoulder. He turned.

Podrick Payne stood there again, more on edge than ever. He'd heard the Hound's moods were changing faster than a winter storm these days, and so the pageboy prepared himself for anything.

All he got was a bored glance and then, "What is it?"

He held up a letter. "Sender asked me not to reveal her – er, or his identity."

Sandor felt like there was an earthquake inside him as he recognized her handwriting on the envelope: "To Mr. Sandor Clegane."

Life leapt back into his features.

He tore open the letter without acknowledging Podrick's relieved parting bow.

He scarcely breathed as he read:

"Sandor,

I've returned. Don't come to see me. He will be watching. I'll come find you at the masked ball tonight. Don't look for me. I'll approach you. I told him I'd dress as the woman clothed in the sun, but hopefully I can trick him by dressing as a septa instead.

I should have listened to you, Sandor. I'm so sorry.

Don't worry about me for the moment. He said he would let me be until the end of the performance tomorrow. But still, we need to be very careful. We can't let him see us together.

I hope you don't hate me for everything. I would die if you did.

Sansa."

Sandor read the letter twice more, three times more. He wanted to bury his face in the letter and breathe it in like some love-struck green boy.

She was alive, alive, scared and threatened, but alive.

Was she hurt, though? She implied he'd been right about someone deceiving her. Did she know now who he was? Why not go to the police? Did whoever he was…put his hands on her?

A part of Sandor still wondered if the girl herself wasn't a bit touched in the head; what was this shite about a woman clothed in the sun or whatever? Sounded vaguely familiar. Some fairytale of hers, no doubt.

Poor bird.

He wanted to storm over to the Tyrells to see her. Hang any threat of the bastard watching. However, he knew she would think he wasn't respecting her wishes; if he wanted to get to the bottom of whatever the hells was going on, he'd have to play by her rules for now.

He gritted his teeth. It would be a long wait for this evening.

A septa, a septa, he repeated to himself once the ball started and the staircase and foyer filled with guests, all remarkably cheery in the face of the recent disaster.

Usually he'd busy himself backstage while the ball carried on, the Hound hating that sort of frivolity. Ridiculous costumes, shrieking girls, lecherous fools, an out of tune orchestra, all of it was anathema to him. But today he forced himself through, ignoring the disdainful glances directed at his usual stagehand slacks and vest. He wasn't going to hide himself; costumes were for cowards. Whoever this arsehole was, Sandor refused to hide from him.

The only other people present who joined him out of costume were Selmy's men. The head sergeant was back in full force. Baelish wasn't even trying now to convince him to go easy on surveillance. Selmy's wife, on the other hand, the still handsome and sociable Ashara Dayne, more than made up for her husband's stiff black uniform by dressing as some manner of ostentatious peacock queen.

Also present was Cersei Lannister, who acted remarkably unfazed by the chandelier destroying her performance. She was apparently too single-minded in her grief for her son to let any other trauma in. She had cornered Selmy, whispering something in his ear by the punchbowl. She was dressed elegantly in red and glimmering gold, bright diamond studs all along the hem of her skirt, which only reminded Sandor of a spider web. Her hair was piled high atop her head with a tiara on top.

There were too many queens here for Sandor's liking, not enough septas.

His attention was caught by a great hushed gasp all along the stairs. Even the music came to a temporary halt. Sandor was by the top railing, easily seeing over a flock of heads what the commotion was.

Even his jaded eyes widened.

The resplendent figure of a great red dragon stood there, the crowd parted on both sides around him. He was wrapped in a scarlet velvet cloak, serving as the dragon's wings. A scarlet doublet reached up to his neck, where the wide collar was hemmed by golden silk.

The dragon's head was apparently modeled after the supposed skeletons found beneath the Red Keep: a scarlet fleshless skull with crimson teeth. Orange feathers burst from the back of the mask, looking like a crown made of flames.

He was a terrifying, magnetic figure, all eyes turned to him.

He made his way down slowly, inclining his head with what seemed like courtly irony to each group he passed.

Out of the line of gawkers, a drunk Meryn Trant stumbled up to him. "And who are you, mate? All trussed up like this, you got to be some fancy noble, eh?" He reached out to snatch the mask away.

A bright red gloved hand squeezed Trant's wrist, causing him to cry out in pain. Sandor slitted his eyes.

There were actual claws embedded into the fingers of the glove, cutting now into Meryn's skin.

As the onlookers were too stunned at the sight of the bullying Trant cowering on his knees whimpering to make any sound themselves, Sandor could easily hear the dragon announce quite calmly, "One does not touch the Great Red Dragon. One bows instead."

He at last released Trant, who collapsed against the railing, massaging his wrist.

Sandor, meanwhile, was inflamed.

He couldn't be absolutely sure, but that voice….

The voice in Sansa's dressing room.

Growling, he was about to advance when a soft hand clutched his arm.

He turned to see a septa with familiar blue eyes staring at him through her eye mask.

His heart beat very loudly. All he could say was, "Girl."

He could see the expression in those blue eyes melt at the sound of his voice. "I should have known you wouldn't wear a costume," she said, gently chiding him. "It will make it more difficult to hide from him, but hopefully he won't see us in the crowd…."

It was her, it was her, her voice, her voice.

He fought with the emotion tightening his throat. He wanted to crush her to his chest, but this wasn't the time or place. "Where have you been? Was that dragon fucker him? I can take care of this right here, right now."

Her eyes now had terror in them as she squeezed his wrist, much as the dragon had Meryn. "Don't be a fool!" She said swiftly. "He…I'm not sure what he's capable of, but I can't risk you doing that. Please."

The way she said it…Sandor had to acquiesce, but he grimaced nonetheless. "Then what do you want to see me for?" He sounded bitterer than he meant. But the Hound felt useless again, and it was a gnawing, irritating feeling, especially when it came to her.

Luckily, she was too preoccupied to pay his tone much mind. She glanced over the railing. "He's dancing with Cersei Lannister now." She appeared to think for a moment. She looked upward. "The roof," she whispered to herself. "Yes, that's it. That's outside the opera's walls."

Sandor was frustrated. "Stop talking in riddles, damn you! What are you talking about?"

He was always so blinded by her eyes, fucking fool. They were very bright now. "Come with me!" She led him through the crowd toward the foyer.

Cersei felt satisfied. Aside from the momentary mortification she felt when the chandelier came down, destroying her comeback performance, a sly triumph soaked into her bones.

Selmy was listening to her now.

She had written him constantly since Joffrey's death, ordering him to interrogate the Stark bitch. She was the one responsible. The old fool had had the gall to write back that the clever little dove had already approached him with what she knew, and he concluded that Sansa Stark did not have the brute force to end her son's life the way it happened.

His words only stoked the fire in her heart. Ah, so Sansa was the last one to see Joffrey alive! Cersei's suspicions were confirmed. Selmy did have a point about the girl's weak strength, however….

So an accomplice, then. An accomplice.

This theory was vindicated by the chandelier disaster. Some tenor – an oddly familiar tenor, too – had released the light fixture in Sansa Stark's name – and then the girl had gone missing.

Obviously, the girl's lover had acted on her behalf, in exchange for carrying her off for the time being.

Cersei had cornered Selmy with this theory earlier today by her dressing room, and could tell that this time, this time, the man was listening. Truly listening.

Now Cersei heard Sansa had returned.

Wasting no time, Cersei approached Selmy again, practically backing him right into the wall by the entrance. She told him that Sansa's return coincided with tomorrow's re-opening of the opera. That could be no coincidence. She expected to take Cersei's place.

Selmy looked at her squarely. "I'll admit you make a compelling argument, madame," he conceded.

Cersei's heart swelled. "Then you'll arrest her?"

Selmy shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't without any evidence. I can only question her."

He found the fire in her eyes rather unsettling. "Oh, don't worry about that. I have evidence. I can show you that tomorrow before the opera."

He frowned. "What sort of evidence, madame? Why haven't you presented this before?"

Cersei shrugged delicately. "One of my spies around here only just found it tonight. He brought it to me at home. I'm afraid I left it there. Like I said, I'll bring it to you straightaway tomorrow." I can find a sample of the girl's handwriting. I'm a good forger. All those years at Casterly forging Father's signature on various bank accounts…I can do anything. I can write a letter, write down what her plans were in her own words, directed to her lover.

Cersei had no doubt of the girl's guilt. Cunning little she-beast. It would serve her right to get arrested on faulty evidence, since apparently she was clever enough not to generate any of her own. She'd eventually confess who her accomplice was after a stern interrogation from Selmy. Cersei felt sure of that.

Selmy bowed formally, then turned away toward his beckoning wife.

Cersei turned around and the breath stilled in her throat.

She was face to face with that splendid dragon man from the staircase.

The dragon bowed deeply to her with far more easy grace than Selmy, spreading his cloaked wings. In one hand he held a glass of punch. "I have taken the liberty, madame. I hope you do not mind."

Such a smooth silky voice. Almost like…almost like….

Usually she kept aloof from suitors like this, but tonight…tonight was a jubilant one, and she wanted to celebrate.

Plus, what a conquest! His mask was horrifying, but Cersei Lannister didn't fear anything. She would enjoy adding this man to her mounting triumphs.

She accepted the cup and took a couple sips as he professed his devotion. "I never fail to see your performances, Ms. Lannister. Truly you are a gift to the stage…" The dark, obscured eyes in the mask stared out at her. "…And to the eyes."

She took another sip, smiling. "And to whom do I speak?"

He put a playful finger to the mask's gaping maw and sharp teeth. "Ah! That I cannot reveal."

"Why not?"

He tilted his head. "I'll tell you what. How about a trade?"

"A trade?"

"Yes. You dance with me and answer some of my own questions, then I'll tell you my name."

The suspicious diva was immediately on the alert. "What sort of questions?" She asked warily.

His voice was a seductive purr. "Questions about you, madame."

A deep burning tingle shot through Cersei's body that she hadn't felt since Jaime left her.

Without a word, she accepted his gloved hand, placing her glass on the table. She looked down at the glove's claws.

"Don't worry, my dear. These won't scratch unless otherwise provoked."

He spun her around the dance floor.

What an exquisite dancer, and what a strong, slender figure! Cersei felt almost young again, giddy. The punch had gone straight to her head.

She coughed through a sudden slight thickness in her throat. "Ask away, sir."

He was quiet for several moments. Then, "You have been very brave throughout your ordeal, madame."

At this point, Cersei would usually have thrown his hands off of her and then stalked off. She did not discuss her personal woes with anyone, much less a stranger.

Yet there was such a strange depth of feeling to his voice…an assurance she responded to.

She said nothing, but she did not stop dancing with him, either.

"I know I may be intruding on matters not my own, but I can't help but ask for your sake: have they apprehended the madman responsible yet?"

Cersei saw Sansa's beautiful face in her mind's eye. "How do you know it's a man?" She asked, surprising herself with her candid words.

"Why, I only assumed…."

"Well, you're wrong," Cersei said, coughing again. She was getting excited, carried away, but she couldn't stop herself. "It's two people: one a man, one a woman."

"A woman?" He murmured.

"Yes. One who stands to gain everything by my departure from the theater."

"Ah!" The figure said, catching on. He twirled her, then brought her close, making her breathe in sharply, though not displeased by the pressure of his hands on her. "Sansa Stark," he purred.

She merely smiled ambiguously. "I can't say," she said, slightly teasing.

He twirled her again. "You are indeed a most astute, fascinating woman."

She thrilled at his tone. There was none of the empty flattery she was used to. In his tone there was lust, power. She was responding to it, responding to it….

She was terribly dizzy, yet he'd stopped twirling her.

She coughed again. She touched her throat, growing alarmed. It was as if she hadn't swallowed something all the way…but she hadn't eaten for hours.

With strong strides he danced with her toward the window, by the back of the staircase, where no one could see them.

By now, every breath was a struggle for Cersei. The room spun around and around, though she was conscious of the fact they were no longer moving.

"I can't…I can't…." She rasped, clutching her throat.

"You can't breathe?" There was ice now in his voice.

Cersei shook through her nausea, through the dizziness, through her throat closing down.

He spoke plainly as if they were merely discussing the weather. "Ah! That is probably the extra little something I put into your drink. It worked remarkably well on your late husband, as I recall. It took me seventeen years to perfect the potion, but I wager I felt just as much satisfaction as you did once I learned he'd succumbed."

The world was growing dark for Cersei.

He leaned into her ear and his breath was so cold on her neck. "You should have left Sansa alone, Cersei. I believe now it is time I answer your question. My name is…"

He lifted his mask to her. "….Rhaegar."

The last thing Cersei Lannister ever saw was his purple eyes within his ruined face.

Everyone around them laughed, thinking the diva was merely passed out drunk in the dragon's arms.

He made sure no one was looking before he laid her corpse out behind the back of the staircase, where he knew no one would look before morning.

He glanced up in just enough time to see a septa lead the Hound away upstairs, down the hall.

He saw the septa look up, and he knew instinctively where she was headed.

In a mob of sleek, lusty outfits, she thought she could fool him by standing out dressed virtuously.

Fire consuming his soul, he stepped quickly outside. It would be a long climb, but luckily he knew a few hallways he could sneak into that would still get him there sooner than his blind, foolish girl.