AN: I have decided to retroactively age up Arthas, Sansa, Joffrey etc. by 3 years. This means Arthas' age at the start of the story is 15 and is currently 16. Likewise, Sansa's is 14 and 15. I don't think this should change much of anything storywise, as even in canon 15 / 16 year old Robb was constantly being underestimated and undermined. Furthermore, some of the actions characters take are frankly rather ridiculous for their young ages.

Chapter 17: Dissension

He was flying, flying and falling as a body not his own spiralled down towards Castle Black. Side by side, the wildlings and northmen looked the same, sharing the gaunt faces and overly dry skin that came with braving the harsh winter wind. All Arthas could do to tell them apart were the clothes they wore and the weapons they held, but even in that regard the men of the Night's Watch were the odd ones out.

"Prince Arthas was right," Jon Snow said to the assembly of spearwives, Glover men-at-arms, and black brothers. "The Others are here."

It's true then, Arthas thought with dread. But why haven't they sent word?

"They're already over the Wall," said a beautiful young woman with braided hair the color of dark honey reaching to her waist. Arthas knew her to be a wildling by the white bearskin cloak she drew around her, and she stood alone even among her people.

"Aye, Princess Val—" began Lord Glover, or so Arthas guessed from his sigil of a silver fist on scarlet.

"I am no southron lady," Val said, glaring at him with her pale grey eyes. "The free folk have no princesses."

Lord Glover nodded. "Lady Val speaks truly."

Val scowled at being called a lady, though she was beautiful no matter what face she made. The wildlings are a strange people.

"I saw them marching through the Night Fort unimpeded with my own eyes. Blasted a hole right through it somehow," Glover said. "They have us cut off from the rest of the north."

"We can hold them off here for some time," Jon said. "With the Wall to our back, at least they can only come at us from one side."

A black brother scowled. "Not for very long! We'll all starve to death, and sooner rather than later after you ordered us to let these fuckin' wildlings in!"

"Is your bloodlust not sated yet? More than half of those with Mance are dead already." Jon crossed his arms in front of his chest. "The dead are formidable enough without adding the surviving wildlings to their ranks. Every warm body we deny their cold army is one that can help us hold the line."

"Mance will return from scouting soon," Val said. When she spoke, every man and woman stopped to listen. Arthas could see why she was considered a princess. "If we stick to the Wall while travelling east, we can reach Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Mayhaps there'll be ships to bring us more food or bring us to safety."

"That's as good a plan as any," Jon said.

"You want us to abandon Castle Black?" asked another black brother scathingly.

"You're welcome to stay here and die," Jon said. "The Wall was meant to keep the Others out, but it's already failed. Staying here achieves nothing. Lord Umber, any word from Winterfell or King's Landing or Last Hearth even?"

The broad-chested Umber shook his head. "No, nothing. I can't tell if our messages are even getting through."

Jon grimaced. "We'll just have to keep trying. My father must hear word of this and prepare the north for the war."

"The strength of the north should already be on their way to Winterfell," Lord Glover said. "The Ironborn have been kicked out weeks ago, though the ones at Moat Cailin held out far longer than the raiders of Stoney Shore."

There was a horrible screeching as a dark cloud descended rapidly.

"It's the carrion swarm!" Jon screamed. "Archers! Archers make—"

He felt something chillingly cold come up from behind, trying to grasp his form, but he broke from sleep at the touch.

The door swung from its hinges as Ser Bonifer burst in, a bloodied copper star swaying from his neck as he moved. It was the symbol of the red sparrows, of those who saw him as some kind of hero. If only they knew what he had done…

"Are you alright, King Arthas?" Bonifer asked, eyes scanning the room and sword half-drawn. When he finished his sweep and was content that no danger was present, he let the steel slide back into its sheath.

"Just a nightmare," Arthas said, looking out the window. It was still dark outside. "What time is it?"

"It is an hour before dawn," Bonifer said. "Will you be visiting the Sept of Baelor today?"

He really ought to. Arthas had not gone in a few days now with the burdens of kingship blurring time in his mind. He had only slept today after the Queen of Thorns graced him with a splitting migraine.

"It might do my soul some good," Arthas said with a bitter smile. "Leave me to dress."

Bonifer bowed low, and stepped back outside. Arthas could pick up the sound of armored footfalls marching away, no doubt Bonifer has sent some of the guards stationed outside to rally an honor guard. Not that it would've been needed.

He stood before his mirror like he had so many times before, stripping off his royal trappings and donning only a scratchy, plain, and white tunic. It was no longer luxurious silk, which Mother had forced on him when his father still reigned. Being king, it turns out, afforded one some freedoms.

Yet, despite wearing his uniform from his time as a paladin initiate, he felt far from one these days. It had been easier to lie to himself in the past, to hope that the slate was wiped clean with his rebirth.

He'd been a fool.

Shaking his head, Arthas tucked his warhammer under the belt on his back, then turned it horizontally so it would not interfere with his legs. A new silver cloak had been gifted to him by one lord or another, but he did spare it a look before walking out of the room.

Bonifer and Wendel shadowed him the entire way to the stables, where not only his escorts had assembled, but a host of stormlords and knights. If one didn't know better, it would look like a small army leaving for war.

What he hadn't expected was for Sansa and her direwolf to be here.

"A fine morning to you, Ser Wendel," Sansa greeted with a smile and a nod, before her vivid blue eyes pinned Arthas in place. She was the match of any southron lady in her fine wool cloak, dyed gold and white for the houses of their fathers. "Your Grace, are you headed to the Sept of Baelor today? Perhaps we might ride together?"

Lady bounded up to him in greeting, tongue sticking out as she sat before Arthas.

"Of course," Arthas said, throat dry and tight, even as his hand moved to pet Lady in greeting.

"Have you been sleeping well?" she asked as she looked searchingly into his eyes.

He wanted to avert his eyes, but found he could not. "I've been sleeping enough."

"Grandmaester Pycelle might disagree," Sansa said. "After all, Your Grace has altogether strange notions of what is appropriate."

"I owe you an apology," Arthas said as a knight came over, dragging Tansy and another horse by the reins. "It was not right of me to leave you by yourself at dinner the other night. I should have sent word if nothing else, that duty kept me away."

Sansa kept silent.

His only experience with women had been Jaina, but if nothing else the archmage had taught him silence was never a good thing.

"I've let my work consume me, but it was not my intention to hurt you, or ignore you," Arthas continued. "Will you forgive me?"

Sansa said nothing for a few moments, but held out her hand to Arthas as she stepped towards Tansy. The dark horse seemed happier to see her than him, not that Arthas could cast stones. He had hardly spent any time with Sansa these past few days, Tansy must have felt his absence from the stables even more keenly.

Arthas held her hand, skin tingling from the warmth, as he helped her mount Tansy. It was not that she needed help—she'd proven that long ago—but the gesture gave him hope he was not dead to her, not yet.

Arthas got on Tansy as well, positioning himself behind her.

"The Mother teaches us that forgiveness is a virtue," she said. "I suppose I can find it in myself to forgive you this once." He could hear the smile in her words.

Tansy moved beneath them, leading the knights out of the Red Keep with a skip in his step.

"How did you know I'd be visiting the sept today?" Arthas asked. It's not as if he'd kept to the practice with rigor since becoming king. Would the High Sparrow scold him for his lack of devotion?

"I didn't," Sansa said. "But you were going to go eventually. I merely asked Ser Wendel to kindly let me know if it happened while he was on watch, and as luck would have it, he did. The maidservants didn't appreciate my waking them so early to help get dressed though."

"They did admirably, considering," Arthas said. She wore a simple dress, but simple was good when it came to the sparrows. "How have you been these days past? Has anything happened?"

"Your mother invited me to tea," Sansa said brightly. "She apologized for her words the other day, understandable given the tragedy. I'm not certain I would have remained composed if I were her."

"Mother did?" Arthas asked. He'd worried about her state of mind since Joffrey's… but perhaps she was doing better these days? It was a strange era they live in now. "That's good."

Sansa's thick auburn hair bobbed in front of him. "It is. She even asked me to consider staying in King's Landing for a while. What do you think? It would give me a chance to get to know your mother."

"But your father—"

"I adore him," Sansa said. "But he doesn't always know best."

Lady, keeping pace besides them, barked.

"He would have to agree," Arthas said. "After what I've done, it would not be my place to gainsay him."

"After what you did for our sakes," she said. After a while, she continued, "I know you don't like her, but I'm glad I listened to Lady Olenna this time."

"Hmm?"

She turned to the side, gracefully waving back at a young girl walking the streets with an armful of loaves. "It was her idea that I come to you, and if that I could not find time during the day, then I ought to try… darker hours when you were awake, but the rest of the castle was not."

That explains why the Queen of Thorns came to me late last night, Arthas realized. That it had worked so well was a little galling, but he could not begrudge her overly much if she'd helped him reconcile with his betrothed.

At last, they ascended Visenya's Hill where a small crowd of the smallfolk listened intently to the High Sparrow outside the Sept of Baelor. The old man wore a simple white tunic like Arthas, and all those present wore bloody coppers like Bonifer's.

"Drowned gods in the west! Red devils to our east burning septs and septons! White Walkers marching south!" the High Sparrow exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. "We who are faithful are beset on all sides by gods dark and foreign! His Grace, King Arthas, stands resolute against all these threats, and for defense of us, our enemies use treachery and deceit and poison! They killed the good King Robert, and young King Joffrey! Shall we let them take blessed King Arthas too?"

"No!" answered the crowd.

"It is the duty of all to support him in his righteous and most holy wars!" the High Sparrow said. "The hour draws near when all must choose whether they are with our king, or whether they are the enemy!"

"He thinks highly of you," Sansa whispered, a little awed.

Arthas swallowed and simply said, "Yes." And that was a problem.

—TheKingIsDead—

Arthas found his mother along the walls of the Red Keep, watching to fog roll in from Blackwater Bay as she hummed the Rains of Castamere beautifully.

"I spoke with Sansa earlier," Arthas said.

Mother paused her humming, but didn't look at him. "I didn't know she was such an early riser, or that she was so devout to the Seven. Her septa has done well."

"Sansa prays to the old gods and the new," Arthas said. "Lord Eddard had the sept in Winterfell built for Lady Catelyn when they wed, and Sansa showed me their heart tree when we visited."

Mother frowned. "Praying to two sets of gods? How ridiculous. No one can serve two masters."

"The old gods are gods of Westeros too," Arthas said. It was not fair of his mother to look down on Sansa for that when so many lords swore by both in their vows. "It would do you well to keep that in mind, Mother."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Arthas clutched the paper in his hands and decided to change the subject. "Myrcella wrote to us." He showed her the letter. "Grandfather will not let her return to King's Landing for Joffrey's funeral. He refuses to turn back their party for anything."

"He is heartless," Mother said, sounding torn between admiration and admonishment. "He is strong."

"It is cruel," Arthas said. "Joffrey was his grandson too."

"My father made it no secret that he liked you best," Mother said. "It was to you he would have left Casterly Rock, if not for all this ugliness."

"I heard whispers of it, but he never spoke of it to me," Arthas said. "Joffrey thought it would go to him."

"Joffrey thought many things," Mother said. "What's in the other letter?"

"It is from Cousin Tyrek," Arthas said.

Mother rolled her eyes. "How is he and his infant bride? Has he found a nursemaid's work to his liking?"

Arthas ignored her mockery. "He rides with Grandfather to the Iron Islands. Like my sister, he regrets he cannot attend the funeral." Not that Arthas thought Tyrek would be too broken up over it. Joffrey made their father's squire the subject of much mockery… perhaps his brother had always been so cruel? Had he blinded himself to Joffrey's flaws, too busy to see past his own? Uther would have chided him for his self-centeredness.

"He cannot turn back after the lies you shared at court," Mother said. "Blaming the Greyjoys for all our troubles? Cleverly done, but not without consequence." She looked through him. "I always thought you too devoted to the gods, too beholden to septons to rule with strength. Joffrey understood that. Mayhaps you understand now?"

"There is a season for all things," Arthas said.

"Did you do it to save the Starks?" she asked pointedly.

"They played no part in my brother's death," Arthas said.

"Sansa still has you wrapped around her finger I see. I had hoped after the past few days…" Her shoulders sagged, as if the strength had gone out of her. "You'll see the truth one of these days."

"If you truly believe them to be guilty, why did you make peace with Sansa?"

"She's to be my good-daughter. One day, she will even be queen," Mother spat out, the words bitter upon her tongue. "I ought to take her measure."

"You never cared to do such a thing with Margaery," Arthas said. His mother had nothing but scorn and venom for the Tyrells.

"I grew up with women like Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother. They're all the same in the end," Cersei said. "But it was not them the prince loved. It was not them that Robert loved."

The prince? Arthas frowned. Father had not grown up a prince—she spoke of Rhaegar? He recalled the Grandmaester mentioning offhand how it was a match his grandfather petitioned long and hard for. And there was only one woman his father had loved. "You speak of Lyanna Stark."

"So you know," she said, turning her eyes to him.

"Father told me," he said. Many times, in fact. It was all his father would speak of at times when he was deep in his cups.

"That's right. You visited the crypts with him," Mother said. "Guard your heart well, my son. Love is the ruin of us all."

Arthas drew back.

"Don't give me that look," she snapped. "I am still your mother. Has that northern girl addled your brain to this extent? Were some sweet words and her maidenhood—"

"Do not," Arthas said hotly, "speak of her that way. I have not impugned her honor."

She sighed. "I had hoped after how you acted towards her these past few days that you finally saw clearly." She looked out to sea once more. "You are the king and no one else. A king does not bow to the whims of any man or woman. To forget is folly."

The city bells began to ring below them. Arthas looked out to sea, and close to the harbor was a ship sleek and terrible. The fog rolled off its single mast and dark red hull, and on the prow was a mouthless maiden of black iron and hauntingly white mother-of-pearl eyes.

"Black sails," Arthas murmured to himself. Its banner showed a black eye with a flaming iris, but that was no sigil of Stannis' god that Arthas knew. A pirate? A smuggler? How had one gotten past the blockade around Dragonstone and Driftmark? He turned his back on his mother and towards the guards that were his constant shadows. "Find out who captains that vessel, and bring him to me."

"Tread carefully," Mother said as they parted ways.

The captain, as it turned out, was a Greyjoy, or so he claimed. He was the strangest Greyjoy Arthas had ever seen, looking less than half the age of his brothers in the Iron Islands, and Balon's youngest brother ought to have been in his forties. His skin was a pale white, his beard black as night, and his eyepatch blacker still.

Ser Barristan and half a dozen guards surrounded him on all sides.

"Your Grace," the man said through pale blue lips like some Essosi mystic, "Euron Greyjoy, at your service."

"I seem to recall having attainted your brother's line, save for his last son, Theon," Arthas said, staring down at him from the Iron Throne. "You are a brave man for daring to stand before me."

"One does not sail from Ib to Asshai without a dash of that," Euron said. "I had no part in my brother's rebellion, Your Grace. How could I, when I have not seen the Iron Islands since my exile, shortly after that foolish rebellion against your father. Would you truly condemn me for a crime not of my own making?"

Arthas looked at Tyrion expectantly. "It is true, King Arthas," Tyrion said. "I recall hearing word of his exile from young Lord Theon."

"Lord Theon?" Euron asked. "Does my nephew rule the Ironborn now?"

"He will rule Pyke soon enough," Arthas said. "But the Ironborn will not rule themselves for much longer. I have entrusted Lords Tarly and Lannister with stamping out that notion among your people."

"A wise choice, Your Grace. Lord Tarly is a hard man, but a brilliant commander. He will do what needs to be done."

Arthas frowned. That had not been the reaction he was expecting. Was this not an Ironborn of the Old Ways? A reaver and raper? "Let us presume I find you guilty of no crime yet. Why have you come here?"

Euron's uncovered bright blue eye twinkled, and his smile grew sharper. "To serve you, Your Grace."

"Do you have a fleet? An army?" Tyrion asked.

"Just my ship, the Silence," Euron said. "And it is crewed by my men, all of them discreet."

Tyrion laughed. "Forgive me, but it seems awfully presumptuous of you to assume we want or need your service if that is all you have to offer."

Euron looked unperturbed, his good eye never leaving Arthas throughout the conversation. "You've a need for ships and sailors. Will you turn one away now with your northern war about to commence?"

"You're well informed," Arthas said.

"Traders talk," Euron said. He gestured to the chest he'd brought with him. "I have a gift, Your Grace, if it pleases you." A guardsman opened it, and pulled out a horn, bound with bands of red gold and Vayrian steel graven with enchantments. "A dragon horn, from the smoking ruins that were Valyria, where no man has dared to walk but me."

Tyrion snorted. "My lord ought to consider tales a tad less tall. About my height would be perfect."

"Ah, you scoff and you mock. Such is always the response of men who have eyes but cannot see," Euron said, his smile never fading. "The dragonlords of old sounded such horns, before the Doom devoured them. With this, even those beasts will bow to you."

"A pretty trinket, but what use is it?" Tyrion said. "The dragons are dead."

"Are they?" Euron asked. "From the north, the dead march. Why is it so hard to believe that in the east the dragons live? Word has travelled fast and far on Essos. Daenerys Targaryen yet lives where her brother Viserys has died. Between a flaming sky and earth, the dragons live once more, and with this they will serve you, if they dare come at all."

Yet another threat, if what he said was true, but not an immediate one. It took years before a dragon grew to become a threat. "And for this 'gift', you expect what?" Arthas asked. "The Iron Islands perhaps?"

Euron shrugged. "You've promised Pyke to my nephew, and made your wishes over its stewardship known. Far be it from me to ask for what has been promised to another. It would be feckless."

That was twice now this Euron had not acted the way Arthas expected. "Then what is it you wish?"

"I ask for nothing," Euron said. "No honors, nor riches, nor glory. No, to witness the ruin of all my brother had wrought, to see the death of his ideals… I could think of no greater prize, nor a better seat to view it from than by your side."

Arthas did not trust those words. Revenge was a powerful motive, but he did not know this Greyjoy well enough to know if he spoke truly. He would have to write Theon and know his thoughts on his uncle. "You must be an excellent sailor to have gotten past Stannis Baratheon's blockade."

"I have sailed through many storms in my life," he said. "What was one more?"

Arthas leaned into the Iron Throne. "We have a need for a man of your skill in the coming days and so you are welcome in King's Landing, but not the Red Keep. After your brother's crimes were brought to light, I do not think you would enjoy it here."

"As you say," Euron said. "Worry not, I know how to keep my silence, Your Grace. Yours too."

"See that you do."

—TheKingIsDead—

"I seem to recall the small council being, well, smaller," Tyrion said.

Arthas sat at one end of the long table, with Ser Kevan at his right hand. Besides the seven nominal councillors that made up the body, he'd invited four more people to join them—the High Sparrow, Lords Eddard, Mace, and Oberyn Martell. The Faith and each of the kingdoms were represented, save for the Iron Islands which, as Joffrey had decreed, were one no longer.

"We are at war," Arthas said. "I thought it prudent that each of the great lords know of what is to come. The north has not sent its men back to their wives since this all began, nor has the westerlands and more than half the Reach. What of the rest, my lords?"

"Those of my bannermen still in the Reach are gathering," Mace offered eagerly. "They'll be taking the roseroad. Lord Redwyne's fleet has stopped at the Arbor to resupply."

Paxter Redwyne, the master of ships, nodded.

"The stormlords and crownlanders will gather at Sow's Horn, near the God's Eye," Barristan said. "It's a rich land, so food should be easy for them to come by."

Edmure Tully's bannermen would be gathering at Seagard or the Twins, and he'd be leaving the city soon to take command of them. Ensuring it was secured would be the first part of any successful northern campaign for if their enemy ever managed to cut them off there, their line of supply would quickly choke to death.

Baelish and the lords of the Vale would merge their host with Edmure's in time, though not before the Eyrie finished its talks with the Iron Bank. Arthas had impressed upon Lord Baelish the usefulness of a borrowed fleet which the Arsenal of Braavos would happily provide to their old trading partners… for a price. And while they were on the way, they might as well pick up some extra grain to help with the logistical burden.

Oberyn smiled. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I have not heard from my brother. I do not know his intentions."

Ser Barristan bristled. "He is sworn to the Iron Throne. Answering the call to war is duty, not choice."

If only it were so simple, Arthas thought. He gave Kevan a pointed look.

"Does your brother have concerns?" Kevan asked.

"Many," Oberyn said. "But chief among them is this: with so many of our men marching north, who will be left to protect the south in case... say, the Tyroshi invade?"

"Holding the line is what castles are for, Lord Oberyn," Mace said, bristling.

"Surely you have those in your desert," Tyrion added with a smile. "After all, you've... visited so many of them."

The discussion between them went on for a few more minutes, but resolved nothing. Dorne was disloyal to the end, and nothing could be done about it without yet another war. A token force of five thousand spears drawn mostly from the Yronwoods and their vassals would march to the Neck in good order, but they could secure no more than that. The rest of Dorne would muster for show, no doubt with half their army failing to materialize due to a bad harvest and the remaining half taking the better part of a year before reaching the frontlines.

Light preserve him… if he had a year to work with, half a year even, he need not bow to the whims of recalcitrant lords. There would be no need to bargain like a fishmonger and compromise with fools when force and the threat of force could be leveraged properly. Then, he could rule like a King of Lordaeron ought to and conduct this war how it ought to be conducted—without half-measures.

"I have some good news at least," Tyrion said. "Stannis has sent word through Thoros of Myr. He wishes to parley."

Thoros was a red priest, Arthas knew, and a drinking friend of his father's. He remained a fixture at court for those reasons, though Arthas didn't mind the man so long as he did not try to proselytize.

"How is this good news?" Mace asked.

"Dragonstone is home to the largest deposits of dragonglass," Arthas said. "And my uncle also commands the Royal Fleet and he is a competent commander. I cannot have enough of those for what's to come. He would be of great help to the northern campaign."

"You truly mean to make peace with him?" Kevan asked. "After all his disgusting slander against you? After his rebellion?"

Arthas leaned forward. "I mean to make peace with him, yes, but do not mistake that for forgetfulness. There will be terms and impositions."

"He burned down several septs and took Storm's End," Tyrion said. "He's also trying, and failing, to starve out this city as we speak."

"Stannis is a man of iron will," Eddard said. "If he believes his spurious claims, he will never bend the knee to you."

And surrendering the Iron Throne to Stannis was unthinkable. The lords would never accept that. "I should just have to hope his red priestess actually sees things in those flames of hers," Arthas said. "Perhaps she will make him see the need to set aside our differences and turn back the northern threat."

"I have kept my peace, but I must add my voice to these protests," the High Sparrow said. "You've accepted one heathen at court already in Euron Greyjoy, and now we shall have to bear the burden of another? Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider. Stannis has blasphemed against the Seven! He has burned septons alive, and even one of your father's sons! Edric Storm might have been baseborn, but no man is accursed as the kinslayer."

We have that in common then. "And he shall pay for his crimes, but he need not pay with his life," Arthas said. He turned to Tyrion. "Begin a correspondence. It is high time my uncle and I speak face to face."

"Yes, Your Grace," Tyrion said. Just then the bells began to toll.

"This meeting has come to an end," Arthas said. "I shall see all of you at my brother's funeral later."

He returned to his room flanked by Barristan, yet he had not a moment to himself. He'd barely just settled down when there was a knock on the door.

"Might I have a moment of your time?" Sansa asked.

"Certainly," Arthas said. He stepped aside to let her into his room, but found himself dragged in behind her. Ser Barristan waited outside and shut the door behind them. Before Arthas could get a word out, she kissed him.

She kissed him.

Arthas leveraged his back to the shut door by pushing her away gently. "Sansa, what's going on?"

"We leave tomorrow," Sansa said breathlessly, cheeks flushed. "For Riverrun, Father says, until they're certain the road to Winterfell is safe."

"I know," Arthas said.

"I want to stay here," she said. "A queen's place is by her king."

"We are not married yet," Arthas said.

"But we could be," Sansa insisted. "You're of age, and I nearly am. The High Septon looks up to you. If we asked him to do it tonight, he wouldn't even blink."

Arthas said nothing.

"Do… do you not want to?" she asked, gripping his hand even tighter as if afraid to let go.

"I did, but… not like this." He'd hoped to redeem himself first, to wipe the slate clean, but that was beyond him now. He did not deserve happiness, and so reached for excuses he might've used before. "In a few years, with your father's blessing—"

"Do you even know if our betrothal will continue? My father's not said a word about it, and after you shared words at the Sept of Baelor…"

"I'm not sure," Arthas said honestly. Lord Eddard had said no more about the matter to him either, and he had not asked with preparations for the war taking up all his attention. "But if we were to wed now, we would be going against your father after all he's done for me. I cannot do that."

Her hands felt warm around his. "We would be happy though. Does that mean nothing?"

"I am king now," Arthas said. "Duty comes before happiness."

"You've a duty to the realm too," Sansa said. "To produce an heir, to ensure the Iron Throne is secure."

"First, there must be a realm when the dust settles."

She squeezed. "Secure the realm or its future? Tell me why we cannot do both at once?"

"The future is already secure. I have Tommen," Arthas said. "And Myrcella after him, if Uncle Stannis is removed from the line of succession."

"The lords did not fight to crown Tommen, or Myrcella, or Stannis," Sansa said. "They fought for you. They continue to fight for you and the future you promise."

But I have no place in the realm's future. He swallowed those words and found he had no other answer.

"...Do you not want to be with me?" Sansa asked in a small voice.

The answer came without thought or hesitation. "I do."

"Do you not want us to be happy?" she asked.

"Of course I want you to be happy." He breathed out. The truth, at last? Yes, Sansa deserved that much. "But such is not for the likes of me."

She jerked her head back, and gave him a confused smile. "Is this… is this about Bran… and Joffrey? Arthas, I don't blame you—"

"It's not just that," Arthas said.

"What is it then?" she asked.

"The war to come is nothing like we've seen before." He closed his eyes. "If I died, where would that leave you then? A widow at sixteen. That would be cruel to you." A diversion, perhaps, but no less true. Sansa did not deserve that and she did not deserve to be stuck with him, were he to somehow make it back.

"You came back before," she said.

He shook his head. "That was then. What happens now, we cannot know."

"What if I didn't care?"

He opened his eyes and found her blue ones boring into his soul. "You would come to regret it."

"Why are you so certain then?" Sansa asked. "Why are you so sure death awaits?"

"This is a foe unlike any other, and I—" His stomach churned, and his throat choked his words. "After what I did… after what I've done, it would only be fitting."

Her eyes widened, and her hands gripped his own. "Arthas, please, do not speak that way!"

"It is true." He smiled bitterly. "And that was but the lightest of my many sins. If you knew of all the evil in my soul, would you still love me then? You only know me as I am."

He could tell she was confused, not knowing what he spoke of, but still she persisted. "Everyone's made mistakes, but that doesn't make death the answer. If you truly feel the need to atone, there are other ways—better ways."

"Are there?" Arthas asked. "For the things I've done? You do not understand."

"Tell me then," she begged him. "How can I if you don't tell me?"

He could not. It would be an anchor on her soul evermore if she knew… and he could not bear the thought, the possibility, that she might come to despise him. He cupped her face with his free hand. "It is better for you that you do not know. Please, do not hate me for this. It is… a kindness."

She began to tear up, shaking her head at his words, putting on as brave a face as she could muster. "You're marching off to die."

To deny would be to lie, and he could not do that to Sansa. Not now. "I would ask you to think kindly of me in the time we have left," Arthas said, but she shook her head.

"You were right. Father was right. I should go."

Arthas hesitated. This was what he'd wanted, was it not? And yet… "Sansa?"

She extricated her arm from his hand gently and stepped back, away from him. "I'm… I'm sorry, Arthas." Her voice trembled. "I can't watch you do this."

Her footsteps echoed loudly against the stone floor.

AN: For those of you with a hankering for Targaryen Restoration and Essosi Warfare, check out Oath Engraved in Bone by Paladin / Paladiinus on Spacebattles. Man's got some of the best war scenes in the ASOIAF fandom.