Early August, 298 AC

It was raining again. Sansa sighed as she pulled her hood tight against her face. There was no royal wheelhouse with soft feather pillows and lemon cakes and tea, just her horse and the dull stamp of hooves on the muddy road. She rode with Jory Cassel and Jeyne Poole, rather than a queen or a handsome prince. But Jory and Jeyne would never have demanded Lady's head.

Sansa wrinkled her nose. The smell of horse was very strong, but it was layered with other smells. She could smell the leather of her saddle, the grass that the horse had eaten that morning; she could even smell Jory and Jeyne, who rode beside her.

Sansa dimly heard hoofbeats approaching, and she turned her head to see who was coming. She frowned. She couldn't see much in the rain, but she should have been able to see whoever it was.

Ever since Sansa awoke at Darry, her sense of smell and hearing seemed stronger. She'd been able to smell her meals before they were even in the room, and she could tell when someone was nearby. Everyone smelled different. Father smelled different from Jory, who smelled different from Harwin. Jeyne and Arya smelled very different, even when they had both just finished washing with the same soap.

"Sansa!" Arya called, her long face worried as she rode up alongside Sansa. How far away had she been when Sansa heard her horse's hoofbeats?

"Yes, Arya?"

"Is Nymeria still following us?" Arya asked, dropping her voice so only Sansa could hear.

Sansa took a deep breath. There, a few miles off the road, the familiar scent of damp fur.

"She is."

Arya nodded, and rode ahead.

Lady, where was Lady? Surely she should be here. Sansa looked around the room, barely hearing Arya bolt out the door.

Sansa's hands throbbed with pain, and she looked down at her clenched fists. She opened her hands to see each palm was filled with small white seeds. Weirwood seeds? But if the Old Gods had heard her, where was Lady?

Sansa was quiet as the maester bandaged her hands. She was quiet as Septa Mordane fed her a rich broth. She needed to be quiet, so she could hear Lady's claws make soft clicks on the stone floors as soon as she returned.

There was still no sign of Lady when Sansa was permitted to leave her room. Still no sign of Lady after hours of manners lessons. As Septa Mordane explained the proper etiquette for attending a great feast, Sansa realized what she had to do.

There were at least two dozen weirwood seeds hidden in a little bag under her gowns. She only needed one. If she planted it, surely that would prove her loyalty to the old gods, and Lady would return before they left Darry.

"Septa, may I please be excused? I'd like some fresh air before lunch," Sansa said, her voice as demure and sweet as a lady's should be.

Permission granted, Sansa slipped back to her room and tucked a seed in her pocket. A guard pointed her to the godswood, and she found her way there with only two wrong turns.

Old gods, I keep my oath, Sansa thought as she pressed the seed into the soil. The white seed shone red as her finger bled on it.

Lady, where are you? Sansa pleaded, reaching out with her mind as though she would be able to feel Lady drawing near.

Sansa listened hard- she could hear birds in the trees outside the keep, she could hear the flow of water- was that the river that ran a few miles away? She still heard nothing that sounded like Lady.

Sansa breathed deeply. She could smell the damp earth beneath her knees, the meat being cooked in the kitchens, a group of horses and men on the Kingsroad.

Lady!Sansa shouted in her mind with all her might. Dimly Sansa smelled damp fur and weirwood leaves. She smelled pack. But it wasn't Lady.

Nymeria?

Suddenly the world lost some of its color, but her vision grew sharper. She wasn't looking at the godswood anymore, she was looking at a patch of earth beneath a pale tree. It smelled like her sister. She whined and pawed at the dirt, then began digging. She flung the soil behind her, panting as she dug, her tongue lolling outside of her mouth. She smelled her sister, her sister was here- Nymeria snuffled at the earth, seeking scents dimmed by the rain. Her sister and her sister's girl, they were here. So was her girl. She would find her girl. She howled her joy to the skies. No! Sansa screamed. They'll kill you, they'll kill you like Lady! You can't be seen! The direwolf snuffled, as though she was laughing at Sansa. She knew how to avoid being seen.

"What did horseface want?" Jeyne japed. Sansa whirled on her, her face as grim and adult as Septa Mordane.

"You will never, ever call my sister that name again."

Jeyne looked gobsmacked. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it when she saw how Sansa's eyes blazed.

Arya might not be as pretty as Jeyne, or as ladylike, but Jeyne wasn't the one who helped Sansa say goodbye to Lady. Jeyne wasn't the one who had stolen bandages so Sansa could rewrap her finger without being caught. Jeyne wasn't the one who snuck to the godswood before they left, and came back, eyes wide, to tell Sansa that there was a weirwood sapling as tall as Arya's knee.

Jeyne didn't say another word until they made camp for the night. After brief conversation with Septa Mordane, she asked Arya if she had enjoyed their riding. Baffled, Arya talked about some new tree she had seen. Jeyne's eyes darted back to Sansa as she listened. Sansa was too sore to talk, and she desperately wanted a bath to wash away all the smells of the road. She curled up to sleep unhappily, missing the comfort of a proper bed, but she was tired and soon drifted off.

A boy with golden curls ducked into a wagon. He was unnoticed by the guards, most in crimson and gold and a few in sable and gold, who were eating their dinners. The boy rummaged through a chest, and pulled out a knife in its sheathe. He slid the knife free and examined it. The hilt was black and smooth. He sheathed the knife and slipped it in his pocket.

Mother was at the window in Bran's room, looking out at flames. Bran was asleep in his bed, his face gaunt like an old man's. Suddenly a man was there, beside Bran's bed, a little man in filthy clothes.

"You weren't s'posed to be here. No one was s'posed to be here."

The world looked different, it was less colorful and more sharp. His claws clicked softly on the floor of the stone passage as he ran, ran to his boy. He heard a scream and he ran faster, slipping past the door, lunging for the man struggling with his boy's mother. The direwolf's jaws closed over the man's throat, and he wrenched back, ripping at the flesh. The man was dead, still clutching the dagger in his hand.

Sansa knew that dagger.