AN: I'm still getting used to updating on here, so if you want to read this story with less delays (or other weird issues) then you can check AO3. The story and user names are the same.
Dead Man's Drink, King's Landing, the Crownlands
The longer that Stark is gone, the more agitated Arthur becomes. He thinks of Lyanna and Ashara, both willful, beautiful, and dead before their time, and paces. He thinks of Elia and her babes, and he drinks. He thinks of Oberyn's coming rage, sure to be a storm not even the gods could weather, and he winces at a phantom pain.
He eyes the door leading to the makeshift nursery, contemplates entering. But Whylla, half his size and thrice as fierce, would rage at him, in that quiet way that reminds him of his own mother, to leave the babe alone. She grieves for Lyanna as well, he knows. Knows she wishes to lavish all of Lyanna's love on the boy for her. The boy is her last connection to the She-wolf, too, and every man and woman from Dorne knows that Sands stick together. He reaches for the wine again, more for its comforting smell than to actually drink it; his sister favored it, once. For a time, it was the only northern wine she could stomach. It is likely to be his last true connection to Ashara for many years and he wishes to savor it for as long as he can. Arthur sits quietly at the table now, back against the wall with both doors in his sight. Unbidden, Rhaegar comes to his mind.
Before he even realizes what's happening, Arthur hurls the cup of wine. It smashes against the wall next to the door just as it opens and Stark's face appears. The man in question ducks in a panic, sword swinging wildly as he tries to rush through the half opened door.
What a sight he makes, Arthur thinks as he laughs, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Stark eyes the room, hears Arthur's uncontrolled laughing, and sheathes his sword with a huff. He eyes Arthur for a moment before shutting the door and sitting at the table.
"You're in a better mood, then," Stark says carefully, mindful of the stories of Dornish tempers.
"Aye, and you're here, alive and well," Arthur replies, forcing himself to be calm, "Which mean that the Usurper accepted your words. And what the king believes, the realm believes with him." He looks at Stark as he wipes the tears from his eyes.
"Well, I haven't been ordered to kill you or turn you over, so there's that." Stark jokes as he grabs the wine bottle, sniffs it and recoils slightly. "Not northern, is this?"
Arthur grins lightly. His sense of humor is almost as bad as the She-wolf's. "It's certainly not a fine Dornish wine. But it is northern."
Stark pours a glass of wine for himself, eyeing Arthur, not quite sure if the Sword of the Morning was making a joke or not. Deciding to ignore it altogether, he changes the subject. "Is everything ready for us to depart tomorrow?"
"Of course. As a wise man once said to me, you must always be prepared to make a quick escape." Arthur stands, stretching lightly. "Jon Sand is ready to head north."
After taking a large gulp of wine, Stark looks down at the cup in his hands as he says, "About that. I don't know who this Jon Sand is, but tomorrow Jon Snow begins his journey home."
As Arthur walks towards the nursery and steps through the door, he briefly looks at Stark over his shoulder. "That name," he drawls as he's closing the door, "is fucking dumb."