Spoiler below!

If Sansa never left King's Landing for the Vale after Joffrey dies and instead hid in Baelish's brothel. Shamelessly AU. Posted this before under a different category but changed some things. Warning: Sansa is slightly out of character.

Just before King's Landing falls, women flock about the brothel like a coup of chickens invaded by wolves. Stuffing items into their bags, trinkets, the few dragons they have to their names, they seek to flee the city before the forgotten prince comes.

"No," Sansa answered sternly, standing at the doors, blocking their exit."No one leaves. We'll wait this out as we have others before."

This is the second invasion in close to six years. First Stannis and now Aegon Targaryen the IV, rumored to be a day's march from the gates of the city.

"If we leave now, we can still survive!" One cried out, ten women deep.

"If you leave now you'll likely be robbed and raped on the road," She answered sharply.

"Alayne is right," Petyr called out, buried behind the mob of skittish whores. Parting they allowed him to make his way to the front until he stood next to Alayne. "You are all free to leave, of course. But I would advise against it. If the city is soon to be sacked, who knows what manner of people you'll meet on the road."

"It can't be any worse than some of our customers!"

"These men won't pay for your services," Baelish calmly replied.

It takes minutes more to convince the women to stay. That leaving would be foolish. Baring the doors, shutting the windows, the women wait in tensed silence as the events of the next few days play out. But when it's all said and done, Alayne was right. They were right to stay.

"You handled them well," Littlefinger commented, as he stood behind her, taking the brush from her stand and running it thoughtfully through his long auburn hair.

Five years Sansa has lived in the brothel as Alayne and in that time, she'd become nothing like the scared little girl that arrived late at night, shrouded in secrecy. Cersei was right; a woman's greatest weapon was between legs. However, where the good queen errored was the allowing of easy access to something valued.

"Foolish women," Alayne answered, removing her bracelets, earrings and other heavy bobbles.

Years ago, when she was still a child, Alayne was quickly cued in to Littlefinger's more sinister intentions for her. Late one night after too many cups of summer wine, he'd tried to kiss her in her solar. But stopped when she reminded him, "If you say I am to be your daughter, then your daughter I shall be. And fathers and daughters do not do those types of things with one another." She'd shamed him so soundly, he'd never tried again.

It wasn't until she was six and ten that their relationship began to develop into a business friendship.

"If you are my daughter, as we claim you to be. Then mayhaps you should start earning your bread."

Shuffling papers in front of her face, he passed her a quill and ink well. "It will be your job to keep the books. You do know how to add and subtract figures?"

Looking at the neat column of tiny numbers she responded, "Of course."

"Good. That is your first assignment."

It started with handling the coin that filtered through the brothel and paying their debts. Eventually it developed into her managing the girls.

"They've requested our services. The new king and his men. It should be a profitable few days." Soldiers and kings drunk on victory and rich with stolen spoils.

"I have business to attend to; therefore I will need you to handle this account." Meaning he feared showing face for chance of trail if the good king knew he was a member of the former queen's council.

"Naturally," she answered, patting his hand, "I'm tired Petyr, you may leave now."

She'd never spoken with clients before, or brokered deals face to face. In five years, she'd hardly ever left the brothel for fear of discovery.

"Too tall, too skinny..." moving down the line, the plump greasy haired man looked critically at each of the woman, approving any and all that would be selected to go to the Keep and entertain the men at the celebration.

Following him to the end of the line, he turned to Alayne and inquired, "Where is their provider?"

"Me, you can discuss arrangements with me."

"You?" He questioned, rubbing his face, eyeing her a little too close to be considered polite.

"Yes, me. I handle all requests for Lord Baelish."

Thinking over the absurdity for a moment longer, he finally answered, "A hundred dragons."

"That's less than five dragons a piece for each girl. No. Two hundred dragons, the girls pick their clients and I'll be accompanying them, along with our friend Brandon," nodding her head in the direction of the large foreign man standing in the corner, watching the exchange grim faced.

"One hundred dragons and your dog will be unnecessary."

"Two hundred and Brandon will go where the girls go."

The man snorted, obviously irritated, "Mouthy for a whore peddler, aren't you?"

"Two hundred and nothing less," she answered coldly.

"Too high. They aren't worth it."

Smiling, Sansa politely excused the women. Waiting for the girls to leave she walked to the door, "You are free to find another brothel. There are four others in the city."

Most empty, she knew. Their girls had fled before the invasion.

The man's face went purple, "This is for the king's service. If he commanded it, they would come for free."

"Then let him come here and attempt to command it."

Eventually he folds. Whether it was Brandon's presence or lack of other options, the king's broker agrees to her price and terms.

The first time he sees her, he's busy refusing services from the plethora of whores crowding the large room. She's sitting in the back of the hall, unaccompanied, watching the show unaware that he's watching her.

Beautiful, adorned in bright purple fabrics, her hair tied in knots. She garners the attention of many men in the room. But each that approaches is quickly dismissed.

Leaning into his adviser Rolly, he asks quietly, "Is she a whore?" Motioning in Alayne's direction.

"No, My Lord. She's their keeper."

"A woman?" He's intrigued. Aegon has seen a few brothels across the Narrow Sea while with the Golden Company, but never once has he seen a female brothel owner.

"She's Lord Baelish's daughter, My Lord."

"Yes, where is Lord Baelish?" The little man had been avoiding court and had yet to be seen since their arrival. Guards daily posted at the brothel report no sign of his presence.

"Bring her to me," he requested politely. "I'd like to question her about her father's whereabouts."

Some days Alayne wonders what her mother would think of her if she could see her now. No doubt, this is far from the future Lady Catelyn Stark would have envisioned for her daughter. But sitting again in the throne room, where years before she was stripped, beat in and humiliated, Alayne smiles to herself. She's survived. Mayhaps not the way her mother or father would have approved, but she's done it just the same. Cersei may have been a monster that haunted her childhood dreams, but she'd taught her well. Gave her wisdom Septa had never bothered to impart and her mother would have thought vulgar. Unknowingly, the deceased Queen Regent taught Sansa how to survive, her.

Sipping her Dornish wine she patiently watched the girls lure men in. Years in the brothel, she was no longer the maiden she was at three and ten. Although she's never taken a client before.

She was six and ten and he was a soldier, come to the brothel with the other men. He was quiet, shy, much like she. Young, he sought shelter because of insecurity, while the men picked their girls and were escorted to rooms.

Petyr would have been furious if he knew, but they'd met that night and carried on a friendship for months before he left for the Riverlands. Marching with the King's forces to stop Stannis's new wave of rebellion, she'd let him take her maidenhead the night before. In secret, on the roof of the brothel, he promised her afterward that he'd come back. That he'd save her from this place. That he'd love Alayne forever and they'd marry someday.

He never returned, was killed before he reached seven and ten. He became another, in a long line, of hard learned facts.

"Lady Baelish." She hated when they called her that. As if she was Petyr's wife, she's not. She Alayne Stone.

"The king would like a word with you."

As she approached his table, she observed that the rumors are true. He was remarkably attractive. The kind of man that poets wrote songs about.

Bowing, she politely asked, "How may I be of service, My King?"

Their conversation lasts hours as men slowly, one by one leave the throne room with girl in arm. He asked her all manner of questions, mostly about Petyr and if she knew of his whereabouts. When she had no answer, he seems to know she was lying but didn't bother to name her indiscretions.

When the conversation turned to her history, her life, Alayne became uncomfortable. Quickly changing the subject, she enquires about his origins although she already knows the story.

"You flatter me. You know of me the same as everyone in the Seven."

Alayne smiles politely, raising her eyebrow and dipping her mouth to her cup for another drink.

"However," he continued, "for all the talk. I've seen every Martell ever born and have yet to see one Stark."

Alayne almost choked on her wine.

"Your father originates from the Riverlands, does he not?"

"Yes, your Grace," she answered carefully.

"Unless I'm mistaken, did the late Lady Stark not come from the House Tully?"

Alayne's heart almost stopped. Did he know? Why she feels the need to still live in secret she doesn't know. However with all the Stark children dead, she's the only heir left to the northern lands.

"Yes, I believe so, My Lord."

"The Stark children lived for a time in King's Landing before their father's beheading. Did you ever meet them, Lady Baelish?"

"I'm not a Lady, my King. And no. Lord's children don't visit the brothels of King's Landing."

"But your father was Master of Coin, part of the king's council. Surely you visited the Red Keep?"

Plastering a fake smile on her face, she answered, "You seem to have a fascination with the Stark children, your Grace, if you don't mind me saying."

His lavender eyes, needle into her and for a moment she was sure he knew before he replied, "I guess you're right. Morbid curiosity….I hear they have lost their lands in the north and now the rival House Bolton has taken Winterfell as its seat."

Years past she'd heard murmurings from men that passed through the brothel, gossip that Ramsay had claimed her brother's crown. She preferred to consider it a lie, just another rumor from a land torn apart in the chaos of multiple wars.

"My adviser told me that he claims himself to be the King of North."

She neither knows if he is testing her or is genuinely making an attempt at conversation, neither she is impressed with.

Too many years in the brothel has given her two handicaps, the need to always secretive and a sharp tongue.

Smartly, she snaps, "He is no King," and quickly catches herself, "There is no King of the North, your Grace. For there is only one king of the seven and that is you."

Bowing her head in an attempt to reappear submissive, she concluded, "And I'm sorry to inform you, My Lord, but you will not meet a Stark in the Seven. The children were said to all have been slaughtered during the war."

A long moment passes between them, where she worries she's acted too carelessly, that he is suspicious from his careful inspection of her every movement. Finally he smiles, genuinely and replied, "There is only one King of the seven. Mayhaps it is for the best that boy king of the North did not survive."

Although there is no malice in his voice, something about the mention of Robb cuts through a weakness in Sansa's armor, forcing her to expend every ounce of energy at her disposal to stop herself from flinching.

"You must excuse me, your Grace. It is late. I have business to which I must attend."

"Secure his coin, before he leaves, no exceptions," she explains to Brandon.

"Yes Alayne."

Ducking into her private room, she quickly shuts the door, setting down the items in her arms, rubbing at the tension knotted in her neck.

"Customer?"

Standing in the shadows, his voice was enough to make her almost lurch out of her skin. She's seen him less than a hand full of times since their first meeting and each time is a surprise.

"Your Grace..." she forces herself to smile.

"Do you take customers?" There's a certain edge to his voice as he toys absentmindedly with the window treatment in the room. Years in the company of men have made his tongue blunt. Later he'll curse himself, blame his forwardness on drink or argue it was simply part of the inquisition to find Lord Baelish.

But Alayne Stone's bed partners have nothing to do with the politics of the realm.

"This is a brothel."

"That wasn't my question. Do you also take customers?"

Something about his presence was unnerving, even for a woman whom was use to overtly aggressive men.

"Strange question to ask a woman that lives in a brothel."

"You haven't always lived in this brothel."

"Oh really? And what would bring you to that conclusion?"

"You're educated, well spoken for, have a mind for figures. Whores aren't educated. They aren't Ladies."

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she needed a drink as he began their subtle game of cat and mouse. Taking a long, deep sip, she finally answered, "Mayhaps you do not know many whores and if you don't mind, your Grace... we prefer courtesans."

Before he could interrupt, she continued to make her point, "The merchant prince, Tregar Ormollen, keeps concubines that are some of the most educated women in manner and figures."

"Ladies, Alayne, he keeps fallen ladies."

"Lynesse Hightower is not a Lady," she scoffed.

"Lady Hightower, don't you mean Lady Mormont?" He stopped to see if she'd faultier with surprise, "Yes, I know a great deal more about politics of the Seven, matters small or large, then some would think. You seem to know an awful lot about matters of the realm for a brothel keeper."

Politely, she explains, "Only of those in a similar trade your Grace. You have your politics and news... we seem to have ours." It was a lame explanation that whores far and aboard seemed to have the same common knowledge of one another.

"Ladies..." he continued, like a dog on a bone.

"Which I am hardly. Mayhaps if you spent more time enjoying the services of our establishment and stopped allowing me to take up your precious time, then you would know of the quality of my girls."

Setting down her glass she moved for the door, "In fact, I can arrange a private showing of our selection if you please."

"No, that won't be necessary. You're stalling, My Lady."

"I am?"

Her hand stilled on the knob, as she projected a look that was so obviously reaching for innocence. Aegon found himself wondering how many men had fallen trap to that same look and why, if he knew it was all part of her show, it was making his thoughts scatter.

"Yes, you have not answered my question."

"And what would that be?"

"Do you take customers?'

"Who wishes to know?"

She can see she's ruffling his sensibilities with her continued evasiveness, for with each question where he attempts to ferret out her secrets, she's able to effortlessly outpace him.

"Your king."

"I thought you weren't seeking services."

"I'm not."

"Then you'll have to excuse me Sir, for I am confused."

"In what way?'

As she approaches, the ruffling of her silk dress became distracting. He finds himself following the curve of her hip, the length of her thinly covered legs.

"Well as my King its imperative I act in a manner becoming to your stature. However, you call me a Lady but then do not allow me to keep my modesty, as a lady should."

Although he's listened to every word, Aegon finds himself focusing more on her lips then their content.

"Your Grace?" Alayne coaxes, snapping him out of his trance. She's playing him and he's falling for it, shamefully so, as if he was still four and ten, a green boy and never been with a woman.

"You are a brothel owner; I hardly believe the question to be lewd in nature."

"Well you see, your Grace that may be where I would need you to clarify matters. You accuse me of mayhaps withholding by insisting that I am indeed a Lady. However you also acknowledge that I am a brothel owner. It would seem that I cannot be both."

Smiling broadly now, he sauntered across the room to the bottle she's left uncorked. Pouring himself a glass, he admonishes, "You're good. I must admit you are good," taking a drink, he finishes, "which makes me conclude that you are indeed, a Lady," just not like any he's ever met. So few women he's been around in his life. Mayhaps if he'd spent more than a night with any; he would find them all to be this way?

He guessed not.

From Septa Mordane, years ago, she'd learned the art of submission, "Then I must be if you will it be so, your Grace," she responds, taking the glass from his hands, her lips ghosting the rim before sipping its contents.

She's not sure why she's playing this game. His presence, his questions are dangerous. She should be shuffling him out of the brothel or sending him off to a pleasure room with as many women as he pleases. But each chance she gets to redeem herself, she fails, drawing him further into conversation.

"I do."

"Then you must excuse me, your Grace, for I cannot answer your question."

"And why is that?"

"An unwed Lady should be allowed some modesty, secrecy even in her private affairs, should she not?"

It's unexpected and comes so quickly it almost startles her when he breaks out in a hardy low laugh, "You win, very clever."

"If there is nothing else, your Grace..."

"You're father, Lord Baelish, where is he?" Same question, his favorite question to ask her.

"I don't know, your Grace."

"You've not spoken, written to him?"

"No."

"He's left you here alone?"

"I'll be fine."

"Seems unusual to leave you."

"Yes, well he didn't ask my permission."

"It's a man's world."

She's close enough that the hairs on his neck are standing on end. "Yes, well, your Grace," she reached up unexpectedly, almost inappropriately brushing hair from his eyes, "It may be a man's world," she breathed against skin, "but it wouldn't be anything without a woman."

As quickly as she's snuck up on him, drawing Aegon into her little world of soft words, blue eyes and warm hands, she's gone. Turning briefly back before she passed through the door, over her shoulder she concludes, "So nice of you to stop by, your Grace. Let me know if you change your mind about a girl."

In the weeks after that first conversation he comes to the brothel. Accompanied by men, they are free to seek services while he seeks Alayne's company. Under the guise of questioning her about her father's whereabouts, he spends most every evening with her prompting Daenerys to eventually question his intentions, warning him that his bride Arianne Martell will be in King's Landing before the leaves change, to unite their houses.

Aegon insists he's seeking out information about Lord Baelish, in an attempt to foil any plans Lannister sympathizes may be concocting.

"Can you not have a guard visit the brothel and question the madam?"

He continues to make excuses. But Daenery's is no one's fool. He doesn't go for information. He doesn't go to preserve any peace. He leaves every evening and doesn't return until close to day light to see a woman, to start wars instead of broker peace.

But Aegon's stubborn. Her nephew has always been, even more so with the passing of Jon Connington and not a word she says about fostering good relations with the house Martell seems to matter.

Never once when he goes to the brothel however, does he make a purchase or inquire after a girl. Into the late hours of morning he sits with the Lady Alayne talking. Of what? Mostly nothing, anything that suits their fancy. The fire haired merchant of women is a riddle. He knows not if she ever speaks a truthful word of herself, but of other matters always. She's mayhaps the only person, other than Daenerys who's ever painfully honest with him when he asks for it.

"Do you ever consider returning to the Riverlands and your father's people?"

"No."

"For the best, mayhaps," he answers sympathetically, "Lord Bolton seeks their support in holding the north." Words always slipping off his tongue that he shouldn't be saying. As she desires to hide details of her life, he should be carefully guarding secrets of state, his true feelings of houses and lords. But after a few glasses of sweet summer wine and hours of her soothing tone and understanding smile, he finds himself saying things that should potentially not even be spoken to his advisers.

"But he will not?" Maybe it's her interest in the affairs of the realm, things north of King's Landing that prompts him to do it. Part of him wishes to please her. And mayhaps she knows this information already. With men of the council, lords of visiting houses and others of elevated station darken the brothel's doorways, he's sure that more than a few secrets of state are spilled in sweaty exhaustion in the arms of fair faced women whom are paid to listen and care.

Alayne was right. The whores of her brothel were most likely more educated on the affairs of the realm than any Lady of court, more appraised of troop movements and unrest, than any spy slithering through the halls of the Red Keep.

"No. The North will never be their own kingdom."

"And why is that Aegon?"

Neither remembers the point when they stopped using titles for one another. She only addresses him formally now, when she's hiding something.

"North of the Neck is almost more property than the entire southernlands. To give the northern freedom would only encourage other houses to do the same."

"Did the Northern king not fight for their freedom and win it?"

"Ramsay Bolton fought for nothing."

"No, I mean to boy King, Robb Stark? Was that not his name?"

"The Starks are dead, Alayne." He wonders sometimes if she's lied to him about knowing the Stark children. It's subtle, but each time the House Stark is mentioned, her lips trembled slightly, her hands fidgeting as if she's remembering someone in particular.

Mayhaps she was there the day they executed Lord Stark in public.

When there is a knock on the chamber doors, she leaves for a moment, discussing some matter of business with a strange man in the hall. Men seem to always be banging on Alayne's door, all hours of the night. Prompting Aegon to think to suggest that she keeps a guard, mayhaps he should offer his own.

When she returns, her face is flushed as if she's been arguing.

"Something wrong?"

"Business, your Grace."

"Mayhaps you should consider having a guard… it cannot be safe for you to stay here alone. With all manner of strange men wandering in and out of your establishment."

"We are safe enough, your Grace."

"Who was the man?" It's irrational, this is a house of business, but every time a man leans her way, seeks to speak with her, eyes Alayne in a way that's a little too long to be considered polite, he feels a rash of irritation.

Maybe it's because she's now become a friend, mayhaps the only friend Aegon's truly had since Old Griff's passing.

"A customer."

"Of yours?" He questions, attempting to sound indifferent but failing miserably.

"Yes, your Grace, they're all my customers."

He's questioned her before and never has she answered. Why he has such an irrational need to know if she too sells herself, he has no idea. But the thought of it makes him sick.

"That's not what I meant."

If he is, he's seen his face. Aegon could track him down; send him to the Wall, to let those who've taken the black warm him at night.

"I know."

Alayne considers lying to him, ending these thoughts of his. She sees the way he looks at her and regretfully finds herself doing the same. If she says yes, she'd surely drive him away.

"As your friend, I ask you Alayne, do you sell yourself?"

"Why does it matter?"

He doesn't answer because they both know he doesn't have to. It matters, more than either is willing to admit.

She should lie.

But she can't.

Polite as the proper lady her Septa raised her to become, Alayne answered, "No."

When relief floods over his face, she explains, as cunning as Cersei taught her to be, "No man could afford the price."

Intrigued, Aegon leaned in, far too close for comfort, asking, "What price would be high enough?"

Opening her mouth, six years of learned feminine tricks poured off her tongue, "Too high for even you to pay."

Laughing at her sharp wit, releasing the undeniable fever pitch of sexual tension between them, he responds in subtle challenge, "Am I not king?"

She should be insulted at his righteousness, her childhood breeding as a Lady commanding her to call offense, "Do you try to always command women into your bed?"

"Mayhaps," the silver king answered, enjoying their game.

"Then I must not be missing anything special," she retorted, eliciting another immediate laugh. She could feel his leg against hers, so simple and erotic, as heat spreads through her limbs, pooling between her legs.

"Say I was interested," he started innocently, "not for my own sake."

"Then you'd be lying and the only thing worse than a desperate man, is one who would lie," she sweetly snapped.

"You're impossible."

"Family quality…."

"And what family would that be?" He's struck again too close to home.

Leaning in, she's well aware that her Braavosi inspired dress leaves little to the imagination with its deep neck line. And beyond his straining control, she caught him following the curve of her neck, his gaze lingering poignantly south.

"That information, costs even more."

"Why have you not married?"

"Why have you not?" Alayne throws back. He's mayhaps only four to six years older than her, almost middle aged and he is without wife or child.

"I will..." He answered, so quietly she almost doesn't hear him.

"Arianne Martell. She's rumored to be a great beauty."

"Mayhaps for other men's tastes." Any man's taste. It was whispered that Arianne Martell could seduce any man from the Wall to Essos. With olive skin, dark hair, eyes and able features, she'd led more than one man to complete destruction.

"And what would your tastes be, my King?"

"Something else," he replied seriously, looking into his glass. A long period of silence passed between them before Alayne offered, for no apparent reason other than she sometimes felt the need to share with him things she hadn't ever with others, "I was supposed to marry once."

"And where is this man now?"

"Dead," she commented, flatly.

"War?"

"Poison." The word, usually foreboding, sounds like music in its sinister sweetness.

"Did you love him?" He responded, attempting to sound disinterested, but failing.

"No."

"Have you ever loved?"

"Once."

"And he? What became of this man?"

"Dead." Aegon smiled, from the secret relief that he was no longer out there. That the mysterious woman with red hair, blue eyes, that always wore flowing fabric and smelled of summer and love, held no affection for another man.

"Poison?"

"War."

"Seems that you're ill for a man's well being."

Rising from her seat, Sansa leaned across the table, reaching for the wineskin. She's close enough that he can smell magnolia oil on her skin, making his mouth water, "Now you know my secret."

Inches from his face, he stopped himself from lunging forward, kissing her, pushing her back over the table, committing every salacious act he's been thinking, as odd papers, trinkets and glasses would scatter to the ground. Swallowing, he tries to refocus his thoughts, "I do? And what is that?"

His hands dig into the wood of his chair, in a feeble effort to control himself as she moved in seductively closer, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, "The price... It's your soul."

It's close to a month later that Baelish returns. And to his surprise, the King is waiting at the brothel only not for him.

His trial takes place only days later. Although he's spared death, he's banished from the Seven, along with the rest of the council. Petyr eyes Alayne from across the great room, knowing that it's maybe the king's favor of her that's saved him.

Afterwards, he packs a few items at the brothel, giving a few short instructions about where he is going and how long he'll be there. Then finally, says the thing he's been thinking, everyone's been thinking, but no one yet has the courage to say.

"He'll not marry you. You're nothing but a distraction for him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sansa," for the first time in close to five years he uses her real name, "Stay away from Aegon Targaryen, you'll do nothing but make enemies. And I won't be here to protect you."

"He's nothing to me."

Littlefinger was unconvinced, "You two not cannot be together. He is a king you are a whore peddler, my dear."

Indignantly she returns, "I am Sansa Stark, the last in my House. And the only heir to the crown in the North."

"If you would like to stay alive, you will never be Sansa Stark again. The Bolton's catch wind of you, you'll be dead and not even your king will save you. He hates the Starks, is just as obsessed with them as his crazy grandfather."

There's a sense of urgency, as someone knocks on the chamber doors.

"If you are ever in need of anything, send word to me and I'll cross the Narrow Sea."

"And likely die."

"For you sweetling, I'll take the chance. If anything happens. Anything at all... run. You'll know where to find me."

Alayne wasn't sure if this was the gesture of a man of scorned affections or that of a father. She chose to believe the later, which only made her remember her own.

When Aegon arrives at the brothel later that night, same as usual, she asks him for the first time, the thing she should have addressed long ago.

"Why do you really come? My father is gone."

The beautiful silver king smiled unapologetically, "For you."

"I'm not for sale."

"And neither are my affections."

Alayne didn't know whether it was the idea of Petyr leaving, the last piece of her family (even if the whole thing was a sham) or whether it was the way he slowly worked his way under her skin. But before she can think on it further, they're kissing and her dress is slipping off her shoulders, while she fists his tunic.

When he has her pressed against the wall, he hesitates, causing her to comment, "You're not my first."

Aegon kissed the corner of her mouth, answering, "I'll be your last."

Hands slide down the fabric of her dress, mimicking the movement of his tongue and Alayne is sure that she's entered into the worst situation possible. But doesn't care. Like the foolish girl she once was, she murmurs incoherent things as his hands glide over her neck, unfastening the knots at her that hold her dress.

She hasn't been naked in front of a man in years, but all that seems inconsequential as Aegon spins her so her hands and forehead press against the wall. His knuckle traces her spine, from nape to base.

"What do you want?" She whispers almost confused, afraid she'll do something wrong.

He laughs, low and soft, as his hand slides over her waist, till he's pulled her so close that it's difficult to tell where he begins and she ends.

Slowly he turns her shoulders till she's facing him. Lavender eyes thwart off her questions, as he presses her back against the wall, hands sliding off her small clothes.

"To fade into you," he whispered against the shell of her ear, the bridge of his nose tracing her pulse point. Kissing the hallow of her collar bone, his hand cupped her breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb.

Breaths become erratic as his mouth replaces his fingers, which slide south past her navel. When they tease her entrance, Alayne moans, ripping at his tunic and trousers.

There's a sense of urgency, in her movements. If they aren't quick she might remember the things that Petyr warned her about. She might realize its Alayne that he's whispering against her skin as his fingers sink into her, not Sansa. He'll never call her Sansa because Sansa Stark is a potential enemy to the King, not a lover.

"Eager…" he teased against her breast.

"Shh…." She responds, untangling the laces, pushing the stiff cotton down, hitching her leg over his hip. Cupping her bottom, his hands trailed along the length of her calf, past her knee up her thigh before he gripped the soft flesh, pushing it up to meet the other.

A mix of tongues, lips and teeth, she glided against the wall, his hands biting into her hips. There'll be teeth marks, welts and bruises tomorrow.

He's hard against her thighs, waiting for her permission. Taking the initiative, she took him in her hand, guiding him into her. Somewhere, wherever her Lady mother may rest, she's rolling over in her grave (like she hasn't a million times already) as Alayne moans openly, when he pushes into her.

Their pace ungulates from hard and rapid, Alyane's tailbone slamming into the wall, to slow and affectionate. Labored breaths, blue and lavender eyes searching each other, brief and lingering kisses, both wishing more than anything they could crawl under the other's skin and stay there forever.

When she comes, her toes curl; sweat drips down her neck, sliding between her breasts. She's scratching hard enough that she knows she must be drawing blood, but he seems undeterred as buries his face into the hollow of her shoulder, letting out a long and low groan- spilling himself inside her.

In exhaustion, he slides to the ground, taking her with him. Folding on his knees, she rested in his lap, both clinging to the other.

"You should go," the sounds of footsteps through the hall, customers coming and going bring Alayne back. She's playing with fire and bound to get burned.

"Do you wish me to go?"

Alayne should answer yes and disentangle herself from this pleasant dream.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered.

They continue in their own private world for months. Long, sweaty nights and soft morning smiles until the announcement of Arianne Martell, Aegon's contracted, soon to be wife.

They go days trying not to discuss it, pretending like it's not happening but it's useless. They both know he'll marry her because he must. He'd entered an agreement with her house to win the war. To deny the contract now for a woman who runs a brothel, will likely start another war that Westeros would not survive.

The day the rest of court arrives for the wedding, Alayne is sitting in Petyr's small room- her room now, counting the month's figures.

"Sansa," her old name comes out so soft; she thought she had imaged it. But when she looks up to see a lithe, dark haired woman standing in front of her, longsword strapped to her back, a metal plate adorning her chest, fear springs into her chest. She's been found.

"That is not my name," she answered quickly, staring at this strange young woman who was threatening but still strikingly familiar.

"And I am no longer Arya." She replied, causing Alayne to drop her quill, splashing ink over her work.

"Arya?"

"Sansa?" The woman challenged, eyebrow quirked, a small smile spread over her lips. Looking into her sister's grey eyes, Sansa springs from her seat, leaping over the table embracing the little girl she thought was dead.

"You've come…" She cried. "How did you find me?"

"I have my ways."

They talk for an hour of nothing really because neither is willing to speak of their separate dark pasts. Finally, when night nears, Arya tells her sister the thing, Sansa fears. "I can't stay. I have commitments, as do you."

Before Sansa can question what she means, Arya finished, "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," answering whatever questions, Sansa had as to where they should go from here.

She begins to tell her that she can't leave. That the brothel is hers and the women are her responsibility but Arya won't listen.

"There's no one else left."

"The Boltons…"

"Will soon be dead. I've not come back to let Ramsay Bolton sit in Robb's seat."

Sansa thought about leaving Aegon and her heart began to race. The inevitable end that they both refuse to mention. His bride was here, in King's Landing now. And soon he'll be wed. Later he'll be a father. And sooner rather than later, Alayne will have to forever be forgotten in his mind.

But Alayne's practicality is starting to fade in Arya's presence and for the briefest of moments, Sansa is still peaking through, "Can you not?"

The look her sister gives her, almost shames Sansa to her core. That she would deny her right to take back the north, bring honor back to their house.

"No. I can never stay again," Arya half answers in such a solemn way that wistfulness is shut out and a Stark steps forward. Her sister had some commitment she will not mention, something powerful to bind her so strongly that she would not stay and take Winterfell for herself. A promise that left Sansa as the only Stark left.

"Then when?"

"You and I will leave in two days time. The day of the wedding."

Her fate is sealed.

Pieces of silver hair fall to the floor as the black blade passes carefully through each strand.

"You don't have to do this." He murmured quietly, his expression so blank in the reflection that he almost doesn't look like himself.

"Someone should... I always preferred it short." She smiled.

Reaching up, he grabbed her hand, stopping her ministrations. "Say what you wish. Say anything, just as long as you stop pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That you don't feel anything."

Watching each other in the mirror, both know the situation is hopeless. He'll marry Arianne Martell because he must. The price of the kingdom he's won.

"And if I did? Would it change a thing?"

"Yes." He answered eagerly. Turning to face her, he offered, "Let's run together. Marry across the Narrow Sea. I'll work as a sellsword or trader and you can stay home with the children."

"Children?" Thoughts of the pretty picture he paints. She had fantasies of this once, years ago, marrying a beautiful man, having a half dozen children. Sansa, not Alayne, use to dream of being a Lady, living in a castle with beautiful things and perfect memories. But that was when she was a child. Long before she understood the realities of life.

"Yes. As many as you want." He responded, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"And what would become of King's Landing?"

"Daenerys can have it. Marry any of the Martells she pleases and spend the rest of her days fighting rebellions and tedious politics."

"It's a beautiful dream..." she confessed, "but it's just a dream, Aegon."And Sansa can dream no more than Alayne. Sansa Stark has a life to rebuild and her own seat to claim.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," she thought to herself and for the first time in six years didn't wish to go home but knew she must.

When he opened his mouth to protest, explain to her how it isn't a dream, she stopped him, "I told you, I was trouble…."

"This isn't the end for us."

But it was, she'd cheat herself of this because there was more. Sansa Stark was always meant for more than to be someone's mistress… even a King's.

"But it isn't a beginning."

Leaning down Sansa kissed Aegon before he could tell her what she already knew but was afraid to hear. Because if she did, she might be foolish enough to change her mind. Sansa might start to believe once more in fairytales and happy endings.

Their coupling lasts all night, into the early morning. Despite her best efforts to stop him, he tells her regardless. Each time they kiss, he whispers, "I love you," promising things could be different. She remains unconvinced, knowing a truth he has yet to discover: they'll soon be enemies.

It's not until they lay quietly afterwards that he knows Alayne will never change her mind. That he's lost and there's nothing he can do.

It's cruel. The man that has everything will never be able to keep the thing he wants most.

Curled around each other in the early hours of morning, he tucked her into the space between his chin and shoulder and knew that Arianne Martell will never smell, taste or feel the same. He'll never love her this way, or any woman.

"Alayne?"

'"Hm?" She mumbled softly, half asleep already.

He could feel a sharp twinge of loss come over him, the words catching in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He can't give her up. Maybe he was no better than his father, willing to give up a kingdom for something that wasn't meant to be his.

Finally, he managed, "I've paid the price... in full."

The morning of his wedding, Varys visits him in his chambers, coming to offer felicitations. When he finds him grim faced, he knows the reason before he can even attempt to explain.

"They'll likely not win."

Fumbling with his jerkin, he stops, looking up, waiting for him to continue.

"Even with the aid of House Tully. The Boltons seem to have swayed the northern bannermen."

"Who?"

"The Starks."

Continuing the tedious process of readying himself for the ceremony, he simply answered, "The Starks are all dead."

"Who told you that?"

"Everyone."

The Spider smiles, the same simpering grin he always gives when he knows something.

"What do you know?"

"Whispers from little birds. I thought you knew, your Grace. Is that not why you spent your evenings at the brothel?"

Aegon's face goes flush, as the Spider continues, "Your life, your Grace, may not be as secret as you may have thought it to be. You will not find Lady Alayne at the brothel this evening after your ceremony. She's left King's Landing."

Aegon's hands began to sweat, the blood rushing to his ears, "And gone where?" He practically shouted.

"North with her sister."

"Alayne has no siblings."

"No, but Sansa Stark does."

In the years that would come, Aegon would never quite recover. Jon Connington was right. He was always right. The Stark's were dangerous. They always had been.

He'd never trust his judgment again. He'd never stop questioning if it was real. If what they felt was true or if it was all a lie. Part of an act Alayne had learned long ago from women schooled in crafting love from nothing.

Weeks later, the northern rebellion ends with the Stark's taking the throne. Alayne, now Sansa Stark, sits in her father's seat with her half brother at her side and everything feels as it should.

Except for one thing.

Maybe she should have truly forgotten her past. Sansa should have not listened to Arya. She should have forgotten her father's words. Her mother's pride.

Victory comes at a price. And although she becomes queen, something years ago she dreamed of, she errored in her prayers as a child. Her requests, answered by the Seven, should have been more specific because if they were she would still be queen but the right queen.

Instead of blue roses adorning her head, she'd have southern laurels.

Instead of silence in haunted halls, with her sister long gone back across the Narrow Sea and her half brother traveling to the Wall, she'd have children's laughter to fill her ears.

Instead of an empty cold bed, she'd have someone to share her nights.

Instead of duty and pride, she'd have love.

Instead of Sansa, she'd be Alayne and have Aegon.

But instead, now she waits. Not for a lover. Not for a friend. Sansa looks to the horizon for King, coming to reclaim a land. The crown that is hers, has always been hers.

Mayhaps she should have been more specific in her dreams or less cunning in her lies.

Mayhaps… But their fates were sealed long before and would remain long after.

So she waits….

Thank you for reading.