A/N – Thanks so much to all my reviewers, people who have favourited, and who are following. Just a reminder of the warnings on this story, some of which pertain to this chapter and the next.

Ermensande held up the cloth-of-gold dress. "I like this one. I think it shows the wealth of House Hayford," she said.

"It does look expensive," Sansa agreed, struggling to keep her expression neutral. That dress looks like a rat birthed a litter in a courtesan's jewellery box, she thought."I think the style is too mature. The pink myrish lace dress is the one you should wear." Sansa held up the pink dress for Ermensande to admire. It had an underskirt of deep rose covered with green lace, and the boat neck was edged with a pattern of flowers that was mirrored in the design of the lace.

Ermensande made a face. "The Queen of Thornes wears clothes less frumpy than that."

"We could have your maids find some flowers to braid into your hair and you would look like Jenny of Oldstones. Put the lace dress on and let me see how it looks."

"Boring. It will look boring." Ermensande sighed and vanished behind a screen to change.

Sansa poured herself a cup of Dornish red wine. If she couldn't get the gold dress away from Ermensande, maybe she could tip her drink over it. She had dressed for the evening's feast already, her white Samite dress embroidered with vines and butterflies and a silver circlet that had been a gift from Rickon in one of his affectionate moods. The day was bright and beautiful - the late afternoon sun was shining on the deep blue waters of the lake. Sansa wished she had found time to walk by the shores of the lake and feel the sun on her skin. She was tired, and worried about the feast tonight, all the potential for conflict that brewed whenever the nobility of the realm gathered.

There was a knock on her door, and Sansa rose to open it. Brella was waiting, a Lannister guard behind her. The woman's face was creased with anxiety. "My lady, the King sent for Lord Tyrion saying it was urgent, but he was exhausted following the tournament. In truth," the woman said, lowering her voice, "I think he is in some pain but he won't admit it. He says he needs some time to dress and compose himself. I was wondering if you could …"

"Of course," Sansa said, "I can go and find out what the problem is. Send someone to find Garlan, too. He rode in the jousts today, so he should be changing in his quarters." She put a hand on Brella's shoulder. "Don't let word get back to the Martells. This could involve them." The older woman nodded, and Sansa was relieved that she could rely on her discretion. She wished she could tell Tyrion not to come, that she and Garlan could handle the problem, but she doubted Aegon would take kindly to her countermanding his summons. "Tell Tyrion to come when he is able, but not to strain himself." Brella looked grateful, and she hastened away, leaving the guard to escort Sansa.

Ermensande emerged wearing the pink dress. "I assume you heard," Sansa said. "Keep your mouth shut. I have to go, but I promise to see you at the feast. Go and send your maids to find the flowers."

"I don't want to be Jenny. I want to wear the gold dress." Ermensande rolled her eyes. "And I don't want to have to sit with Janei and Martyn at the feast."

Sansa kissed the girl's brow. "You look lovely, sweetling," she said. "I'll be there to protect you from the Lannisters, I promise. Trust me. Now go on, and I will see you soon."

Sansa found Aegon standing staring out the window, with a scrap of parchment in his hand. "Your grace?" she said softly when the door had shut behind her, not wanting to startle him. "Tyrion is delayed, but I thought I might be able to assist. I've sent for Garlan."

He turned and looked at her, and then smiled. "Thank you for coming, Lady Stark. Sending for Garlan was a good thought. There is a dispatch from Oldtown I would appreciate your thoughts on." He extended the document to her.

Sansa took it and scanned the contents, then read it again more slowly. "A conclave of the maesters at the request of Maester Alleras. This makes no mention of any outcome as yet. It does not even say what they are discussing." Although she could guess.

Aegon shook his head and pushed his hand through his hair in an impatient gesture. "Obviously the Martells are pushing for a declaration by the entire conclave that Arianne is still fertile. My questions are this – will they get it, and if so, what does it mean?"

"The politics of the Citadel are outside my area of expertise. For that we will have to wait for the others. Garlan would know best – his mother is a Hightower of Oldtown. But if they do make the declaration…" her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. "Your Grace, you were raised in Essos, you may not understand the power the maesters have. Every highborn child in your realm was taught by a maester. They watch our steps from our first days. If the conclave passes this decision against you, it will be very difficult to challenge them. You may not be able to set Arianne aside, at least not for some years."

This is wonderful, she thought, although she was careful to keep her expression neutral. If the Martells can get what they want from the maesters, then the crisis is done for a time. Arianne's position is safe. Hopefully all the fears about her fertility will prove groundless, and there will be an heir within the year. Tyrion will be able to retire knowing the realm is secure, and Garlan as Hand will balance the Martell power.

"Can we prevent it?" Aegon asked. "Aside from the issue of Arianne, I dislike the maesters taking such a direct role in the affairs of the realm. These decisions should be in my hands."

"No one has absolute power, your grace. Not even a king," she said.

"Not even a dragonrider?"

"Not unless you are prepared to burn the Citadel down."

Aegon hissed with annoyance, and turned away. "I can't control the Maesters, or the Faith, or the followers of the Red God. I have no coin to rebuild the roads, and my justice does not extend beyond the capital. My Queen plots behind my back and my half-brother thumbs his nose at me from the North."

"You are the king," Sansa said softly. "No one said it would be easy."

Aegon shook his head, but his expression cleared and he looked calm again. "Sit down, please" he told her, gesturing to a table and chairs at the window, overlooking the bright blue of the lake. In the distance, the Isle of the Faces was green on the horizon, with a glimmer of weirwood groves on its hills. "Do you want some wine while we wait?"

She accepted a cup, more to settle him than anything, but did no more than wet her lips. A white sailed ship was making its way toward the castle, and she wondered if it was carrying goods for the harvest festival. With the court in residence, the town must be seeing more excitement than it had in the previous seven years combined. She said as much to Aegon.

"The castle needs a lord," he agreed. "Since the last of the Whents passed, the titular lord has been your Uncle Edmure. I may suggest that he pass the castle to his second son if he has another. Of course, he might choose to make it his eldest daughter's dowry." He paused. "Speaking of which, he tells me that he has promised you his eldest daughter to a northern marriage."

"He has," Sansa answered, her mind still on the implications of the Maester's conclave. "My preference is the heir to either the Umbers or the Karstarks if I can arrange it."

"Why?"

She blinked, and refocused to answer his question. "Both families are important bannermen to my brother, and the marriage would tie the Riverlands closer to the North," she said cautiously. "We depend greatly on the trade that we bring in from the southern lands. The Lords Paramount north of the Trident are all family these days, which did much to save our people during the last Winter."

"Ah, yes, the great Northern Alliance. Catelyn Tully wed to Eddard Stark, and Lysa Tully to Jon Arryn. Three domains sharing borders, close family ties, and trade agreements to mutual advantage."

"Some agreements, yes, of course."

"Oh, don't be modest. What is the North's production of iron ore this year, exactly?"

Sansa felt a sudden chill. "I … would have to look the number up." It was a lie. She knew the number. She knew the text of the agreements she had negotiated to sell that ore, and the impact of those agreements on mining in the southern part of Westeros. She had thought, had assumed, that nobody would notice. "I suppose production has gone up since the war," she admitted.

"You suppose," he mimicked her, his voice sharp. "Those three kingdoms in the north are strong together: strong enough that they don't need the rest of Westeros. They even have their own dragon now. Tell me, Lady Stark, how did that come to pass? Edmure Tully is an affable fool, Robert Arryn is weak, and Rickon Stark is a child. Who maintains that alliance?" He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You do. Kind, pretty Sansa Stark, writing letters and engineering marriages, diverting money from my coffers and stealing labour from my projects."

She stared at him, stunned and suddenly frightened. It was true enough, she knew. She had worked for years to strengthen the alliance north of the trident. Robb had died for that alliance, she thought, how could she have let it crumble? And like an arrogant fool, she had assumed that nobody was clever enough to see what she was doing.

She had been wrong.

"Every family works to their own benefit," she said quietly.

"Yes," he said. He looked away from her, gazing out over the lake, his face contemplative. The white sailed boat was tacking against the wind, she noted with some detached part of her mind, its sails flapping as it came about. The sun was shining. "But not every family controls the land and resources of more than half my kingdom."

Tyrion, she thought, where in the Seven Hells are you? She cursed herself for having told Brella that he need not hurry. "The Starks have done fealty to your throne …"

His eyes snapped back to her, and she knew she had said the wrong thing. "Oh yes, bent the knee, just as Torrhen Stark did three hundred years ago. And just like they always have, the Starks mouth fealty and do as they please. Nothing is done in the North unless a Stark condescends to carry out the order. At least in the day of my ancestors, the Starks had the sense to stay in their frozen wasteland. Remind me why your precious alliance with the Tullys and the Arryns came to pass?"

"I concern myself with the future, not the past. Trade agreements ..."

"The Northern Alliance was formed to crush House Targaryen. My father, mother, sister, and grandfather were killed and our dynasty fell. I grew up in exile, always hiding from people who wanted me dead. When I retook my throne, my brother stole the woman I should have married, who should have been the mother of my heirs. Despite all that, I would offer you the chance to be Queen, and you throw it back in my face." He took the paper from her suddenly numb fingers, spread it on the table between them. "The maesters defy me, and you can barely conceal your smiles. Tell me, are all the Starks as arrogant as you and my brother, the Ice Maiden of Winterfell and the Prince who was Promised? Tell me that, Lady Sansa, and make sure you smile as sweetly as you always do when you lie."

She stood up and pushed her chair back, made to go for the door. As quick as a striking snake, he grabbed her wrist. "Sit down," he said. "We aren't finished. We haven't even started."

Frozen in terror, she sank down into the chair, staring at his hand where it grasped her wrist. His fingers were long and they overlapped around her wrist, his grip strong. It felt like his hand was the only thing she could see. She could feel her breath shuddering in her chest. "Tyrion and Garlan are coming," she breathed.

"No," Aegon said. "I had Brella lie to you. I never sent for Tyrion."

There was a moment of disbelief and then she stopped breathing and it was as if ice water had been poured into her guts. Aegon was watching her with a half-smile on his face, that same familiar, beloved half-smile that she had seen so many times on Jon's face. That smile had lulled her into a false trust, had blinded her to so much. She saw it all now, and she understood what he intended.

"Please," she breathed. "I didn't … I won't … I …. Please." She didn't have to make her voice tremble or sound weak. The only wonder was that she was able to speak at all. As his smile deepened, with her free hand she grabbed her cup of wine and threw it in his face. She yanked her arm free and sprinted for the door, and there was a moment she thought she might reach it.

Then she was on the floor, the stone cold underneath her. His weight was on her and she struggled, knowing it was useless. He flipped her over, and there was nothing she could do as he pinned her wrists over her head, holding them both with one of his hands, so easily as if it was nothing at all even as she fought to get free. She was weak and pathetic as the fabric of her dress ripped, and there was only one thought in her mind – escape. Get away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement outside the window, and she wrenched herself out of her body, and suddenly –

Wings. She had wings, and her heart was racing in her chest, her breath coming rapid and shallow, but the pain was gone and she was flying, no falling, but then her wings were beating and she was flying higher and higher, and all she knew was that she was flying away. Free.