Early August, 298 AC
Arya paced back and forth in the muddy Darry courtyard. Sansa was being weird.
Since Sansa woke up yesterday, she had barely said anything. No whining about her ruined gown, no chattering about missing Joffrey, no gossiping with Jeyne.
Arya eyed a particularly squishy pile of mud as she stepped around it. What would happen if she snuck into Sansa's chambers and smeared mud on her favorite gown? Would she yell and cry and run to Father? Arya bent down to scoop some mud in her hand, then sighed and stood back up, her hand still clean. Messing with Sansa just didn't seem fun right now. Arya kept walking, her mind wandering.
Arya had sat by Sansa for three days, terrified that she had somehow killed her by encouraging her to sneak out. Sansa was motionless in sleep, her body rigid, her fists clenched so tightly that Arya could not open them to hold her hand.
When Sansa finally woke up on the morning of the fourth day, Arya had run to get Father. By the time she found him and returned, Sansa was sitting up, her hands lying open on her lap. The palms of her hands and her fingers were smeared with dried dirt and blood.
Father had immediately summoned the maester. The maester had looked at the cuts on Sansa's hands, dabbed them with a foul smelling ointment, bandaged them, and declared she would be fine.
Septa Mordane had been allowed in next, and she had been appalled by the state of Sansa's hands. Sansa wasn't allowed to do any needlework for at least a week, and was ordered to soak her hands in rosewater once the bandages came off.
This morning, Jeyne had finally been allowed to visit. Though Jeyne had come to see Sansa often while she slept, she didn't stay long, as she kept bursting into tears. Arya had bit her tongue for once, though she wanted to remind Jeyne that Sansa wasn't her sister. Jeyne had brushed Sansa's hair until it shone, and helped her get dressed while Arya waited awkwardly. Since they weren't leaving until tomorrow, Septa Mordane had announced they would have lessons today.
"I suppose I'll have more time to focus on the poor state of your needlework," Septa Mordane had said, eyeing Arya sharply.
"Oh, Septa, I would be sad to see Arya stitch when I can't," Sansa had replied quietly. It was the most she'd spoken since waking up.
Septa Mordane's eyes had softened, and she had decided that they would focus on court manners instead. After an hour of that, Arya had snuck out when some lady came to ask after Sansa's health.
Arya sighed. Everything was always about Sansa. No one remembered poor Mycah, or Lady, or Nymeria. The Hound had murdered Mycah, just for being in the wrong place. Arya hated Joffrey, she hated him and his stupid Hound and his stupid mother the queen and his drunk old father the king.
She should hate Sansa too, for refusing to tell the truth. Perhaps she would hate Sansa, if she hadn't seen her lying like a corpse in Lady's grave. At least Arya knew Nymeria was alive. Someday she'd find Nymeria, someday no one would keep them apart. Sansa would never see Lady again.
A wolf howled in the distance, and Arya stopped short. Was that real, or just her imagination? Arya blinked. She hadn't watched where she was going, and somehow she had found her way to the Godswood. The trees were dark and grim, their bark soaked by the rain over the last few days. To her surprise, Arya saw Sansa kneeling on the wet grass, her head bent.
"Sansa?" Arya asked.
Sansa did not reply, so Arya walked closer, her steps careful. A little patch of dirt in front of Sansa was disturbed, as though someone had been digging.
"Sansa?" Arya repeated. Sansa stood up silently, wincing in pain as she brushed off her knees with her bandaged hands. The bandages on her index finger were unwrapped, and the finger was smeared with mud and blood.
"Sansa?" Arya tried one last time. Sansa turned, and her eyes met Arya's. Arya took a step back. Sansa's eyes were white.
"I found Nymeria."