Sansa scrunches her eyes shut and tries to hold in her tears. She worries the carefully embroidered handkerchief in her hands and takes a deep breath. She can do this, she knows she can. All she needs to do is knock on the door and enter the room. Her hand rises up, fingers curled in a loose fist. Now all she must do is bring it down in a series of small knocks.

"Are you going to do this, or will we just stand here until the next long night comes?" Arya asks, somewhat caustically. She has not been herself at all. No matter, Sansa thinks, none of them has been at ease anyhow. It is this sickness that has enveloped the whole keep.

However, that does not mean she will accept Arya's disrespect. Sansa catches her sister by the braid and gives a tug, "Do not speak to me like that, horse face." Her need for vindication assuaged, Sansa gives a small snort before knocking gently on the door.

Undoubtedly both of them can hear Maester Luiwn moving around the room. The whole world seems to slow down as they wait for the door to open. But when it does, the sight is almost too much to bear. Sansa has half a mind to sent Arya back to her sticks and dancing masters. Alas, she cannot.

"What are you doing here, children?" the old maester asks, purring himself in their way. "You know you mustn't enter this room."

"I must see grandfather," Sansa insists, using her best imitation of her mother's voice. Catelyn Tully Stark is a force to be reckoned with and if she can manage at least a fraction of her conviction, she might get her way. "I insist, master," she continues as if the scepticism on his face doesn't make her stomach twist in knots.

"Very well then," he says. Sansa passes past him, but when Arya makes to do so too, he again refuses her entrance. "As for you, child, I believe you are to start lessons." He takes Arya by the shoulder and leads her away. Sansa merely gives her younger sister a small nod, as if to say she shall be fine. Arya makes a show of protesting but in the end complies, as there is little she can do.

A cough rings out in the darkness. Sansa steels herself against the horror of knowledge. "Grandfather," she calls out, nearing the sickbed with careful steps.

When they'd returned, Rickard Stark had been fine, perhaps fatigued and a little pale, but fine nonetheless. Or at least he had seemed so. That is until he told them he'd been labouring under a grave sickness which had no cure. It is only then that they started observing and piecing together all the signs they have missed. This is unfair, Sansa considers. It is unfair of the gods to place such a burden on his shoulder. He is a good man and good men shouldn't suffer. They should have hope at least; the songs talk of hope.

"Grandfather, it is Sansa," she tells him, leaning over his prone form. The man coughs again, blood and spittle dribbling down his cheek. Nauseated, Sansa takes a step back, a hand covering her mouth. She is so very close to bringing up her latest meal. But somehow, she regains enough sense to search for the cloth the maester uses to clean the lord with.

She wipes away whatever is in sight. "I must speak to you, grandfather, so I beg you to open your eyes." She must try, even if he does not respond, she must try.

Eyes open suddenly and Sansa gives a small shriek. Rickard's lips move, but she cannot hear what he says. She leans in closer. "Water. Give me. Water."

Picking up the small flask on the table, Sansa sniffs at it. It seems fine, she tells herself. With a gentle hand she guides the flask to her grandfather's lips and helps him drink. Once she makes sure he is comfortable, Sansa sits down in a chair by his bedside. She presses her handkerchief in one of his hands.

"I have made it for you." She cannot tell if he understands as his eyes stare distantly ahead. "What I wished to tell you is that I worry, grandfather. I worry for us all if you do not recover. I think my brother has done something."

In truth, she knows that Robb had done something. But she doesn't know what. "It is his heart that makes him sour, I think. He is not himself at all. Ever since we left King's Landing he has been growing more and more morose." And since wherever there is trouble there must be a Stark, Sansa is quite hard-pressed to find answers. "Grandfather, you are the only one who can keep him in line."

All of her courage flees after this confession. She has said enough. If duty were ever enough to cure a man, then she has done her part by reminding the man of his duty and she must hope and pray it is enough. Whatever Robb has done – and her heart tells her he has done something – it is an important matter that will bear consequences with them all.

Leaving is easier than coming in. Sansa finds her way back to her room where Jeyne is sitting by the window and knitting something. It is perhaps a present for her father. Jeyne can be rather sweet when she wants to be and she almost always does when her father is involved.

"Did you see him?" her companion asks. "Is he better?"

A nod followed by a shake of her heed in Sansa's reply. At the confusion on Jeyne's face she sighs. "I've seen him, aye. He is not at all better. He is worse, in fact. How can a man falls so fast into the arms of the Stranger?"

"Oh, Sansa, I am so very sorry. The maester says he's been ill for a very long time." Jeyne looks down at her work.

"How could we not notice?" They have been gone, that is true and mayhap that has helped grandfather mask his illness, but surely, they should have seen it long ago. Another sigh leaves her lips. "Jeyne, I do not want him to die."

"He shan't. Lord Stark is a strong man. Just look at Walder Frey, he is as old as the Trident and still gong strong. Lord Stark will recover, just you wait and see." Jeyne nods her had after, as if to strengthen her point.

Smiling at the conviction her friend shows, Sansa sits down by her. All this talk has made her spirits sink. She needs another subject. Thankfully, Jeyne seems well-prepared today. "Have you seen the new roses, Sansa? The blue ones. The Queen's favourite flowers, aren't they?"

"Winter has come it would seem," Sansa offers by way of reply.


A/N: And so ends the second part of this series. I hope you've enjoyed it, everyone. If you do have the time, drop a line. In return, I promise to start working on the third installment as soon as I can (which I hope will be soon).

In the meantime, if anyone has any questions, requests, something they would like to tell me, feel free to do so.

Thank you to all my readers and reviewers, you guys are great, and I hope to see your familiar names in my mail inbox for the continuation of the series too. :)