"You cannot run away like that, ever, ever again," Ned Stark said sharply as Arya listened, trying not to fidget.

"It is bad enough that we searched for you for four days, to disappear again within hours is-"

"-unbefitting of a Stark," Arya finished his sentence, rolling her eyes. Eddard Stark frowned in disapproval.

Her fury at Mycah's death was buried deep inside, like coals banked in a fire. Later she would sulk and brood in silence, and be angry with Sansa, but for now, she had to keep her father distracted until Sansa's absence was noticed.

"Which Stark was it, who rode down to King's Landing and executed all the traitors?" Arya asked. Her father blinked.

"Cregan Stark, why?" Ned Stark asked, suspicious.

"He was a Hand, wasn't he?" Arya said, digging in her dusty memories. Sansa sat quietly for their lessons, she could probably name every Stark going back a thousand years, but Arya's mind tended to wander.

"Not exactly. Well, he was Hand for a day. The Hour of the Wolf," her father replied. Arya looked up at her father, trying to control her face like Sansa did, to make herself look sweet and fascinated by the tale. Eddard sighed.

"It was at the end of the Dance of Dragons. Winter was coming, and Lord Cregan Stark went south with a host of men, childless, homeless, unwed, or younger sons, to spare their families from feeding them. They marched to war, but King Aegon II had already been poisoned..."

Ned was still talking about Cregan Stark, Arya barely covering her yawns, when Jory came running into the room, his eyes wide.

"Sansa is missing," Jory gasped. Eddard stood up immediately, nearly knocking Arya over.

"What?" Eddard demanded. Arya almost laughed. Her father looked like a cat who found she'd birthed chicks instead of kittens.

"She wasn't in her room when Septa Mordane went to fetch her for lessons, no one has seen her since yesterday, we've already searched the whole keep," Jory said.

"Does anyone know besides our people?" Eddard asked, his voice tight. Was Father afraid?

"No," Jory said. "After Arya disappearing again, we were careful to let no one catch wind of Sansa's absence. The queen believes Sansa is refusing to leave her room due to illness."

"I know where she is," Arya interrupted. It wasn't fair to make Father worry.

Ned and Jory turned to stare at her.

"You know where Sansa is," Jory repeated, disbelieving.

"And you did not see fit to inform me?" Eddard asked, his voice dangerous. Arya shook her head.

"You killed Lady," Arya replied. Her father sighed heavily.

"Arya, Sansa could be lost or hurt. We need to find her before someone else does. What if the queen's men found her?"

Arya frowned. The queen's men had no reason to go back up the road, did they? But Arya didn't trust them. The Hound was scary enough, and Ser Ilyn Payne was worse. Grudgingly, Arya broke her silence.

"She went to say goodbye to Lady."

"Sansa could have asked, we could have taken her to the grave," Eddard said, pressing his face in his hands.

"You killed Lady, why would Sansa believe you'd take her to say goodbye?" Arya snapped, her patience gone. Her father looked at her sadly.

"Jory, stay here and cover for Sansa's absence. It seems Arya and I need to fetch her sister."

They rode north silently in the early morning light, Arya astride her own horse and Eddard on his. The sky was grey and cloudy, as though it might rain soon. Arya was exhausted, and she pinched herself occasionally to wake herself up. Within a half hour angry red pinch marks marched up each of her arms. Arya glanced from side to side, watching for the sign of white branches and red leaves. At last she was rewarded.

"Father- there!" Arya said, pointing to the right side of the road as she pulled her horse to a stop and slid off.

"Arya, wait-" but Arya was already sprinting for the pale weirwood tree. Its face was almost feminine, with deep eyes and a solemn smile.

Crumpled beneath it, inside the shallow grave, Sansa curled up, asleep. Her lip was split open and bleeding slowly onto a tree root that lay beneath her chin. Sansa's flaming hair fanned out across the ground with weirwood leaves tangled in the strands. Her hands, which she usually kept so neat and clean, were clenched tightly into fists, covered in black dirt and dried blood. Her gown was ripped worse than any of Arya's, a thousand small rips and tears across the cloth.

Weirwood roots as white as bone surrounded Sansa, reaching from the walls of the grave. Red sap oozed from the roots onto the ground and pooled around Sansa's body. Arya stared, then clambered down into the grave. Sansa's pale skin was cold, but her breath was steady as Arya tried to shake her awake.

"By the gods," Ned swore as he looked down into the grave at Arya and Sansa.

"She won't wake," Arya said frantically, shaking Sansa harder. Their father climbed down and picked up Sansa in his arms, then stepped out of the grave with a grunt of effort.

Before clambering out herself, Arya looked down, expecting to see Lady's body. Instead, she saw only tufts of red fur. She stared for a moment, her sleep-deprived mind unable to process what she saw.

"Arya!" Her father yelled.

It was only when they were almost back to the keep, Sansa hidden under their father's cloak, that Arya finally remembered, her blood running cold, that Lady's fur was grey.