[Not a child, Sansa could have told her. A woman, blooded and wedded if not bedded, and I remember too much to bear. But she does feel like a child, unsure what to do with her baby sister looking her in the eye and more a woman grown than Sansa is, with that tone of anger in Arya's voice that Sansa doesn't know what to make of. Arya's hands, she realises, are strong as a boy's, her grip tighter than it's ever been before. Sansa finds she's glad of that, and when Arya does let go, for a moment she's afraid she'll fall without the support. Her knees seem to have gone out from under her.]

I remember some things. [It sounds rather defensive, a hint of the old Sansa who could never bear to be corrected by her tearaway sister, even as the tears continue to fall.] What happened to you, Arya? You look...

[Older. Harder. Tougher.]

[Alive.]

Last time I saw you was... was in the sept. You can't blame me for thinking the worst.