Despite Arya's impatience to begin, Sansa prepared herself carefully. Sansa changed into one of her oldest gowns, and switched from her fragile, pretty slippers into sturdy, ugly boots. Sansa followed silently as Arya showed her the way to sneak past the guards. To her surprise, Arya gripped Sansa in a tight hug before they parted ways, patting Sansa's pockets before she let go.
"I really am sorry," Arya whispered, sniffling a little herself. "Good luck finding Lady. I'll tell them where you went when they notice you missing in the morning."
After a last squeeze, Arya turned back the way they came, her little shoulders set as she prepared to cause what would surely be a tremendous amount of chaos. It was odd, to see Arya planning to cause trouble on Sansa's behalf. Part of Sansa was appalled, but it was small and quiet compared to the part of her that was grateful.
A small lump in her skirts brushed against her leg, and Sansa checked her pockets. Arya had slipped her a little knife, the kind they used at meals. It was sharp enough for the toughest cuts of meat, but it wouldn't help much against outlaws or snarks or grumkins.
Sansa found the road quickly in the light of the full moon, and began walking north. At first, she jumped at every creaking twig, every croaking frog. Once, she heard approaching hoofbeats, and she darted off the road into the trees, tripping and falling on a tree root in the dark, scraping her knees and splitting her lip open. Thankfully she remembered to keep silent, and the hoofbeats moved past.
Stumbling back toward the road, she walked through a bramble of thorns, which tore at her gown and pricked her hands until she had dozens of tiny stinging wounds that bled sluggishly. Sansa did not cry. She could be brave, like the ladies and princesses in the songs.
After what she guessed to be an hour or so, Sansa began looking for a weirwood tree. Father had not said which side of the road it was on, and as the evening wore on and the moon slipped down Sansa realized she had no idea how far she had walked. Had she walked as far as the men? An hour of her small strides might be very different than an hour in the strides of tall, strong men. Or had they been riding? Sansa wasn't sure.
The moon had nearly disappeared, leaving the woods dark and dreary, when Sansa felt something calling to her. She crossed the road, following the strange feeling, and caught a glow of white branches in a sliver of moonlight. The weirwood's red leaves shone like blood, and there was a pile of earth beneath the tree, freshly dug.
"Lady," Sansa gasped as she ran, ran to the mound of earth and began digging frantically. The cuts on her hands began bleeding again, but Sansa paid them no heed.
"Lady, Lady, I'm here, I'm so sorry," Sansa sniffled as she dug. As the moon sank out of sight, Sansa kept digging in the darkness until her hands brushed something soft in the earth.
"Lady," Sansa wept, finding tears that she thought had run dry.
She could not see the familiar grey fur, but she could feel it under her bloody fingers as she stroked Lady's soft coat. Suddenly, Sansa's hands brushed against something firm, neither rock nor earth. Sansa's hands explored, finding that weirwood roots already wound around Lady's body. Her blood left dark streaks on the thick white roots, which faintly glowed despite the lack of moonlight.
Sansa looked up at the weirwood tree. She could barely see it in the darkness, and it had no face. A weirwood tree needed a face. And maybe, if she gave it a face, it would help her.
Sansa climbed up out of Lady's grave, tearing her gown on the roots, which almost seemed to be reaching for her. Awkwardly Sansa began carving at the bark with the knife Arya had given her. Sansa had excelled in drawing lessons, but she had never had carving lessons. It seemed to take forever to carve a simple, yet graceful pair of eyes, and the knife slipped on the bark a few times, slashing more cuts into Sansa's hands. It was harder to grip the knife with her hands bloody, so for the mouth, Sansa carved a single slash that looked like a grim smile.
"Thank you for taking care of her," Sansa said, placing her hands on the trunk and bowing her head. When she looked up, she saw the eyes were weeping, dark rivulets running down the trunk.
Sansa joined the weirwood, for she began to weep again as she jumped back into Lady's grave and hugged her direwolf. Tears dripped down her nose onto Lady's body, and Sansa pressed a kiss to Lady's fur, her split lip cracking and beginning to bleed again. Sansa heard a rustling noise above her, and she looked back up. The red leaves rustled and shivered as though caught in a strong breeze.
There were no other noises. No birds, no rustling of squirrels or deer. Nothing but the weirwood leaves. The other trees surrounding the weirwood were silent, their leaves still.
There is no wind, Sansa suddenly realized. Her blood ran cold for a moment in fear, then turned hot with excitement. It worked, Sansa thought dimly as she stared at the tree. The old gods were dangerous, Old Nan said. They were unpredictable and unyielding. But surely it could not hurt to ask.
"Old gods," Sansa said slowly, choosing her words with care. "You are ancient and strong. I have grown up in your lands, and kept faith with you. Please, I know you sent the direwolves to us, do not let me be the only Stark without protection. Someday I will be Queen, and I will have weirwoods planted across the realm to honor you and restore your power."
The leaves sighed, whispering to each other. Sansa listened hard, but she could make out only a few of the words.
Blood.
Tears.
Direwolf.
Queen.
Yes.
YES.
The tree groaned, and Sansa saw the white roots begin to move, shimmering faintly with a pale light. They slowly began twining around Lady, around Sansa's arms and legs. A last thought lingered before Sansa lost consciousness. Is that sap, or blood on the roots?
