Late July, 298 AC

Sansa would not wake.

I never wanted to come south, Eddard thought bitterly, as rain pounded on the walls of the keep and thunder crashed in the distance.

While Eddard made brief, terse conversation with their hosts and with his own men, Arya spent her time in silence. Arya refused to leave Sansa's bedside until she awoke. It made Ned feel ill, the echo of Catelyn guarding Bran. Had Bran awoken yet, or were two of his children lost to the world?

A dead butcher's boy, a dead direwolf, and a daughter who would not wake, all over a minor injury that the spoiled prince had richly deserved. When the rain broke the next morning, Robert and the Lannisters rode ahead at Eddard's urging. Ned wasn't sure he could keep himself from committing some form of treason if-if- no, he would not think it. Sansa had to be fine. It had not been a cold night, and Sansa should not have come to any harm from a few hours walk in the light chill.

Arya spoke to him, after they left. She spoke of weirwood roots and a pool of red sap that he had not noticed in his desperate effort to pull Sansa from the direwolf's grave. All Ned had seen was the weirwood, its bloody face like none he had ever seen before. Ned had questioned the four men who buried Lady, and all swore that the tree had no face when they buried the direwolf. Arya had not noticed the face, and would say no more as she held her sister's clenched fist.

On the third evening, Ned rode back to the weirwood tree alone, sick with fear. Had killing Lady angered the old gods? Did Sansa fail to wake because her direwolf was dead by his hand?

Eddard knelt before the tree, his knees sinking slightly into the soft earth. He bowed his head, and laid Ice across the ground before him. There Ned stayed, keeping vigil, praying silently the entire night. Please, please do not take her. She is a child, she is not to blame. The old gods made no reply.

Dawn crept over the horizon, sending flames of light over the weirwood tree's white bark. Ned had never seen a sunrise such as this, with clouds the color of blood. The wind was rising, making the tree branches groan and creak as the gusts whipped them about. Ned could smell lightning in the air. The clouds were turning from red to black, and the weak sunlight was failing. He needed to return to Darry, now, before he was caught in this storm.

As Ned got to his feet, thunder growling ever closer, the leaves finally whispered.

She wakes.