Arya barely heard the pandemonium around her. The police whistles, the stunned exclamations of the audience and the cast – all passed her by in her red wave of fear and fury.

All she truly comprehended was Sandor Clegane, going berserk onstage.

"I won't let you burn her, damn you! I won't! I won't!" He yelped at some unseen enemy. He was tearing around the stage, pounding on it, hunting for any trace of where Sansa'd gone. The sounds he was making were like the hellish snarling of a hound mixed with the heavy snorting of a bull.

His face matched.

That's when she knew he was innocent. He knew something, but he was innocent.

But what good did that knowledge do her now? How could it help Sansa? The Hound was unreachable in his frenzy.

She finally snapped out of her shocked fog. She leapt down from the ladder rung she'd been watching from. She ran straight into Gendry, who staggered from the collision.

Arya didn't give him the chance to recover. She grabbed his hand, dragging him after her through the throng of dumbstruck cast members. "Come on!"

He almost tripped over a couple sets of passing feet. "Where? Arya!"

Tyrion cornered Selmy by the right wing. The head sergeant was corralling his men, whistling and shouting instructions over the sea of heads before him.

Varys loomed behind Tyrion, silent, silent.

"Selmy!" Tyrion panted. "What's going on?"

Selmy's face was grim. "Damned if I know, Mr. Lannister. The girl is simply gone."

"That is not acceptable," Tyrion snapped. "You must have some idea" –

"Mr. Lannister, I wish I did. Where is Lord Baelish?"

Tyrion threw his arms up, exasperated. "The minute the lights came up and Sansa was gone, his face went all bilious and he left without a word. I have no clue where the man is."

Selmy's frown deepened. "He knows more than he's letting on, that's what I say."

"I agree. Should we track him down, see if he knows where" –

A new voice, harsh with emotion, interrupted. "You know where she is. She told you. The little bird told you, told all of us. She's below the opera house with him."

They each took in Sandor Clegane's appearance with surprise.

Where his eyes were a violent dog's during Sansa's interrogation, they now seemed to belong to a searing, wild direwolf of old - gone rabid.

The only control left in him were his determinedly tight lips, yet they were pulled in so taut they ironically contributed to the picture he made of inhuman rage.

"He's going to burn her. Kill her. We have to hurry!"

Gods, if it wasn't for that deep growling voice, he'd sound like a scared little boy, Tyrion thought.

Selmy found his voice first. "Mr. Clegane, I am open to all possibilities, but even as strange as these circumstances are, the girl's story" –

"Miss Stark's story is all we have to go on!" Sandor ground out her name through his teeth. He shot a disdainful glare at the various police officers holding back the growing crowd around the stage. "Take this lot down below. Come on. We'll see" –

"Enough of this!" Varys commanded. Tyrion jumped, looking behind him. He'd never heard Varys so angry before. His fellow manager's expression was harried.

Varys strode up to the Hound. "Mr. Clegane, I have been down below, several times! There is nothing, absolutely nothing there! There is nothing to this story!"

Sandor was frantic and confused, and thus just as furious. "I" –

"Enough!" Varys yelled now, red in the face. He actually grabbed the Hound's arm, pulling him away. "You have been insubordinate far too long. Come with me right now."

Sandor like Selmy and Tyrion was so disconcerted by Varys's uncharacteristic outburst and his deceptively strong grip that the Hound actually let him lead him away for a couple steps before growling and trying to wrench his arm away.

However, Varys said to him in a low tone the others couldn't hear, "If you want any chance of seeing your Sansa Stark alive again, come with me now and do as I say."

Arya and Gendry reached the stables. The officers that were stationed there before were gone, ordered to help staunch the spreading mob by Selmy.

Arya let go of Gendry's hand and buried herself in some crates in the corner, where surplus storage was kept.

Gendry caught his breath, watching her curiously. "What are you doing?"

She pulled out a couple lanterns, along with some matches, cutlery, and she double-checked her pocket for the slingshot she'd brought with her tonight on a hunch. "I'm going down to the cellars. I'm finding my sister. If Margaery and Madame Olenna ask, tell them I'm staying in the dormitories with Ygritte and the other girls until I hear word about Sansa."

"No," he replied. Arya fumed, sure he was about to object to the whole operation. "I'm going with you."

She looked at him.

His blue eyes were very bright, and he looked so determined and protective all of a sudden. All confusion and awkwardness was gone.

Even in the midst of her fear for her sister, Arya managed a conspiratorial smile.

They turned at a high whistle and a great rumbling sound approaching.

Jaunty Ygritte, dressed in breeches, stormed into the stables with a mob of dancers, singers, and stagehands behind her. They'd bypassed the police.

The redhead smiled wickedly. "Saw you two headin' this way. Charging down to root out the Phantom and save the Cap'n, are ya? Right. We'll be joining you then."

She put her hands on her hips, motioning to the rest behind her.

Arya stared open-mouthed. Simply everyone was there. Margaery, Loras, Bethany, Mya, Myranda….

Arya smiled again.

Tyrion was in his office now, pacing in front of Selmy and a few of his officers. Samwell Tarly was there as well, thumbing through a thick medical book.

Tyrion tossed back a glass of brandy.

What a hell of a week. Father would be down in a day or two for Cersei's funeral, and Tyrion had to adjust to that and two grief-stricken children in his home. He loved his niece and nephew, but Tyrion of all people as their guardian? He didn't know what would happen. Their Uncle Stannis the prime minister certainly had the means to look after them but was a cold fish, and Renly and Loras…they were young and frivolous. Not to mention the attention that would bring to their little set-up.

And Jaime. Tyrion hadn't gotten a reply to the telegram he sent. How would Jaime react to Cersei's death?

Now on top of everything else, this. He shook his head. "Varys is lying," he said finally. "I can just tell. He's involved somehow. Otherwise, he'd be back by now."

He glanced sharply at Selmy. "I think there might be something to the Stark girl's story after all."

"But it all sounds so fantastic," Selmy insisted. "Rhaegar Targaryen, alive and living in the opera sewers…."

Sam Tarly cleared his throat, finger on a passage in his book. "After she fainted the night of her debut, I looked Miss Stark over, as you know. I remember that something about her seemed rather strange. She was in this sort of trance-like state, and her brow kept furrowing. I put it down to exhaustion at the time, but after everything that's happened, I've looked up the symptoms and it sounds almost like…well, like an ancient form of hypnosis most commonly used by Braavosi magicians back in the day. Usually as a form of street entertainment, flashing a mirror at passersby a certain way. While these acts would seem innocent enough at the time - the people targeted were simply persuaded to cluck like chickens or kiss someone for the crowd's amusement - there were some reports magicians were able to control these people from their homes, the magicians' voices ringing in the victims' heads."

The room fell silent.

Tyrion and Selmy remembered the part the mirror in Sansa's dressing room played in her tale.

Tyrion spoke quietly. "Well, even if it isn't Rhaegar Targaryen, someone must be swaying the young girl. Someone was using that mirror on her." His look darkened as he approached Selmy. "I want you to take your men down to the cellars. As the only manager available at the moment, you have my full cooperation and approval."

Selmy buried his chin into his chest, studying Tyrion. "I have no objection," he relented. He turned to his officers. "Men? Get in formation. Gather the rest of the troop and tell them to report to the first cellar. We're heading down."

Sandor vibrated with rage as Varys whisked him down the hall. "So you know where she is? You knew all along she was telling the truth?"

"Yes," was Varys's simple answer.

Sandor glared at him, but Varys was unfazed, staring ahead.

The stagehand wanted to throttle that fat neck. His head pounded. His fear for her was so intense he could scarcely breathe or think clearly.

"Why didn't you say anything until now?"

Varys sighed. "A misplaced sense of loyalty, I suppose." He smirked and shook his head. "No. Not that. I won't lie anymore. Self-preservation."

"The fuck do you mean? I ought to gut you like a pig," Sandor said in a low voice thick with menace.

Varys merely quirked an eyebrow. "Do that, and you'll never find Miss Stark." He shot a knowing look at him. "You're in love with the girl, are you not?"

By instinct, he inwardly recoiled, defensive. "What the hells does that matter?"

"We're about to take a very strange journey, Clegane. One that could potentially end in death. I'm just wondering how far you're willing to go. Are you ready to possibly die for this girl?"

Sandor swallowed.

He wouldn't say it, but he could imagine no worthier fate.

"Aye," he said at last, reluctantly.

Varys nodded briefly. "Good."

"And what of you, Spider? Why are you taking the risk? What, do you love the girl, too?"

He smiled gently. "No, my friend. I do not love the girl."

"I ain't your friend. If you don't love her, then why" –

"Let's just say I've had a dark night of the soul. I've come to realize I've been a fool. Quite the fool. What I thought was promised me turned out to be nothing but dust. Call it justice, call it revenge. Whatever you like." He tilted his head. "And although I am not in love with Miss Stark, I do appreciate the fact she's one of the few genuinely good people I've met in a long time. Goodness has gotten a bad reputation lately. It's considered naïve and insipid. Far more fashionable to be cynical and clever, such as myself. But if I can help her where I've otherwise failed innocents like her, well…this whole charade won't have been a total fiasco."

Sandor scowled. He looked around. They were in one of the more remote corridors normally used only by deliverymen from the docks. It was currently empty save for the two of them. "Where are you taking us?"

"Her dressing room."

"But this is the long way! We're wasting valuable time!"

"Ah, it's longer, but there are no people here. Would you rather try to wade through the throng of panicked citizens? Bring attention to our actions?"

Sandor merely grumbled low in his throat. Although Varys moved quickly and with purpose, Sandor was nonetheless put off by his blank expression, his even tone of voice. "What the fuck all do you know about this anyhow? I know you were his valet. What else have you done for him?"

Varys inhaled deeply, then spoke. "His father Aerys Targaryen hired me to work for him after Rhaegar left for the opera house. Spy on him for the old man, in other words. In exchange, he promised to help me locate someone who took something from me a long time ago." His eyes were vaguely hooded. "I had extensive experience with spy work abroad, and a little bit here when Aerys hired me. However, he knew I needed someone with influence to finally track down whom I sought. So I accepted his terms. I soon established a network of spies here in the opera house. I spent a couple years with his family, then came Lyanna. After a time, I discovered his dalliance with her." He tilted his head again, contemplative. "I don't know that he ever very deeply loved Lyanna the girl. It was her voice, always her voice that obsessed him."

They rounded the corner into a narrow passage-way. "I grew close to the family. I was as faithful to Rhaegar as his father allowed; not that I liked Rhaegar himself overmuch. I admired him, certainly. He treated me decently and was rarely unkind to anyone. He was a genius, that's undeniable. But there was an unworldly coldness and distance there, beneath the chivalric charm. Even then. I was much fonder of his wife, his children. Elia Martell was the best of women. Gentle, witty, intelligent. Sickly, but strong. Spiritually strong. I was especially fond of little Rhaenys. When she died, I made sure her cat was taken care of…but I'm getting ahead of myself. Ever dutiful to my post, I sent word to Aerys about his son's affair with Lyanna Stark. The old gentleman by this time was quite mad, madder than I realized. He caused a ruckus about the affair, which made word get out. Soon the papers got wind of it, and Elia had it out with Rhaegar. She moved the children to a hotel nearby.

"And of course, Baratheon heard. Elia came to me at the theater with the children, asking if it was true Baratheon arrived to challenge Rhaegar. I couldn't lie to the sweet lady. I desperately wish now that I had. She was determined her children not be left fatherless. She left to confront him and try bringing him to his senses. I was preparing afternoon tea in Rhaegar's office when I first smelled smoke…."

He coughed softly. Sandor suddenly got the impression he was leaving something out.

"I hurried to the amphitheater. I saw your brother advancing on Rhaegar. I knew that in the direction they were going they could only be heading down."

Another pause, and Sandor wondered just how much Varys was omitting from this retelling.

"I waited until everyone was out of the opera house. Then following a hunch, I headed down to the sewers. I'd taken that route often to meet with my spies, my 'little birds'." He laughed again. "Isn't it odd that's what you call Miss Stark?"

"Go on," Sandor hissed.

"Yes. Well, I found Rhaegar, passed out after dousing his face in the lake. He was halfway in the water, at risk of drowning. I knew of the cells nearby and took him to his present lair. I wasn't sure if he'd live. His scars, his injuries, were terrible indeed. But I nursed him back to health. I blamed myself, you see. If I hadn't told his father about Lyanna, if I hadn't told Elia the truth about Baratheon, well…" he spread his hand out as if grasping at an invisible possibility, then let it fall flat at his side, defeated. He sighed again. "I made him his mask. I brought him Balerion the cat. I brought him all his books, and ordered him more, from all my different sources. I brought him food and drink, too, of course.

"But the books! That was my next mistake. I thought he'd merely distract himself with the ancient lines, but slowly it became clear all that happened to him warped his mind. He became obsessed with the prophecies he read in the antique lore I ordered overseas. In his madness, he believed himself part of something bigger. Something more than human.

"This wasn't helped by Baelish. Petyr seized the opportunity presented by the Scandal. He loaned Lannister and the other board members the money to rebuild the opera house. As part of his payment, he took over as owner. Like me, he hired his own spies. They followed me, followed me to Rhaegar. One day he presented himself to Rhaegar. He took advantage of the man's lunacy. 'You want to be a savior,' Baelish told him. 'Try being a phantom first.' The message was clear: help Baelish run the opera house, commit certain acts for him, and Baelish would keep his secret and finance him. The first favor Rhaegar did for Baelish? Kill the two children that had led Baelish there, so that only he, Rhaegar, and I knew of the situation. I was promoted to manager."

Varys's voice was laced with repugnance. "As you see, Baelish is the Phantom after all, in a way. He gave birth to him, anyhow."

He was quiet for a painful moment.

"This only broke Rhaegar further. His ego grew, his madness grew." Varys laughed bitterly. "He even convinced me to play along with everything by promising to follow through on his father's word to me. I had by now confessed everything to Rhaegar. Aerys was dead, and I had thought it best to confess my part in Rhaegar's tragedy and then leave. Instead, Rhaeger lifted his hand like Baelor the Blessed and said, 'I pardon you. I will help you find the one you seek so long as you stay and help protect me here.'"

Varys closed his eyes, deeply ashamed. "That I believed him all these years stuns me now. He played me as Baelish played him. He never had any intention of following through. How could he? What could he do, wretch that he was, that I could not? But I was blinded by a hope I thought I was too wise to succumb to. I let myself believe."

He trailed off.

Sandor's eyes were burning. No one outside of Sansa and recently Olenna Tyrell had spoken so long and frankly to the opera hound. "Do you think she's dead?" He asked at last. His throat was dry.

"No, I don't think so," Varys said after a moment. "Rhaegar has become nothing if not theatrical, so if he were to kill her, it would be in front of an audience. In front of you."

Sandor felt relief and fury in equal turns.

"Plus," Varys added, voice soft, "She sang so much like her aunt tonight, but with even more light and beauty than she. I'm sure she touched him, in a way. I'd wager he's giving her one more chance. But I don't know for how long."

Sandor nodded wordlessly, gnawing the inside of his cheek.

He has to be right. He has to. I'd feel it if she were…if she were dead. I would.

They reached Sansa's door. Varys unlocked it and they entered.

"Oh, here," Varys said as if in an afterthought. He took out of the deep pockets of his evening coat two pistols. "Carry this on you. And raise your hand" –

"To the level of my eyes, I know." Sandor had seen more than once what the Phantom's lasso could do. He accepted the pistol and followed Varys to the mirror.

"We'll go the way he first took her. He stole her through the trapdoor onstage this time, so we won't run into him until we're ready."

"Is there a button or something?" Sandor asked, pressing onto the glass. "I had a feeling something was going on back there the first night she disappeared, but for the life of me I couldn't" –

He watched perturbed as Varys raised and moved his hand back and forth, until –

The mirror slowly turned, revealing the blackness behind.

"Magic," Varys said venomously. "He always uses the old magic now. I hate magic."

Sandor stood and stared.

It all suddenly came home to him, breaking his heart. Everything. Everything the girl had said was true. He'd doubted her sanity. She had indeed been behind that mirror, lost and confused, hypnotized by a madman, and no one, not even he would believe her.

Oh, Sansa….

He'd make it up to her, he'd find her, he'd see her safe, take her away, tuck her into his arms and carry her all the way back to Winterfell on Stranger's back if need be.

He cocked the gun, examining it. "We ready?" He asked roughly.

"I certainly am."

Both Sandor and Varys whipped around to the speaker behind them. They'd been so engrossed they hadn't heard the young man enter.

He was dressed in a military uniform, and looked at them with steady gray eyes full of suppressed anxiety.

Before they could speak, he added, "If it is Sansa Stark you are pursuing, I believe I more than anyone have the right to ensure her safety."

Sandor took in his handsome looks, his youth. The dark hair, the wintry eyes. He had the look of the North.

Alongside Sandor's fear for Sansa was a raging insecure jealousy. Some sweetheart from back home she left behind…

"Who are you?" He barked at the stranger.

The soldier gave Sandor a strict one-over. "Jon Snow," he answered. "Her brother."

Sandor instantly relaxed. The bastard.

"I just arrived, having received my leave a few days ago. I've come to collect her and Arya, my youngest sister. Some hysterical young ballerinas outside babbled something about Sansa gone missing?"

He was a composed young man, but his concern was evident in his clipped tone.

Varys, meanwhile, had gone white the moment Jon said his name. The manager stared at him with eyes wide and sparkling. "Yes…the boy," he whispered. His gaze was fathomless. "The happenstance…it almost makes me believe in prophecy myself. This might be the last chance to truly reach him." He took hold of Jon's arm. His eyes burned into him. "Come, Jon Snow. It is time you learn where you truly come from."