*Sam's P.O.V.*

The ball comes quickly that night, a celebration of the end of the majority of the negotiations, though the ceremonial conclusion isn't until tomorrow. It's a fun time, Sam supposes, or at least it's as fun as these things get. Still, Paige has been sticking at his side for most of the evening, so that's been nice. Right now, the two of them are watching Prince Harvelle—he's seemed to be in a bit of a strange mood all evening, which is a touch concerning.

"He's talking to Lord Petrov," Sam notes. "Not good."

At his side, Paige frowns ever so slightly, just for an instant. "Petrov? Is that—oh, I see. I didn't recognize the back of his head."

"I wonder if we could get a bit closer," Sam muses, idly tapping a finger against his chin in thought. Perhaps if they just casually meandered that way, as if they were slowly making their way to the refreshment tables, they could overhear something. "I wonder what they're talking about."

Paige hesitates. "Well... it feels like Lord Petrov wants something from him. Prince Michael feels like he's unhappy, but he's felt like that all night, so I don't know..."

"Really?" Sam looks at her oddly, already turning over possibilities in his mind. "What's upsetting him?"

Paige huffs indignantly. "I don't know! I read emotions, not thoughts! I don't know of anything that could've happened to him today. For all I know, he stubbed his toe on the doorframe and he's still mad about it!"

"Okay, okay, no need to get defensive! Here, let's try to get closer," Sam says quickly, touching Paige's shoulder for a second. "Is that alright?"

"Yeah," Paige sighs. She rubs her temples and looks up at Sam contritely. "Sorry—I didn't mean to snap at you, it's just... there's a lot to keep track of in here. It's a little overwhelming."

It must be, given how many people are in here. Sam winces in sympathy. "No worries," he assures. "Tell me if you need a break from any of it! We can always step outside for a few minutes."

Paige nods, and the two of them begin making their way across the floor, around tables and between mingling nobles. Crown Prince Harvelle, up ahead, is still talking to Lord Petrov. Either the two of them can approach and eavesdrop a touch, or they can insert themselves into the conversation and say hello. The first option is preferable because Sam really wants to know what exactly Petrov wants from Harvelle, but he knows he and Paige are somewhat distinctive.

"Maybe we should split up?" Paige suggests suddenly, and Sam blinks.

"Split up?"

"They might be more suspicious if both of us come over," she explains. "Or at least, if we're both approaching, it might seem like we're trying to talk to them. If it's just you or me, whoever is walking near them might be more easily ignored, right?"

Sam considers that. "I suppose," he says, "although there's also the possibility that they might consider the two of us as being fully focused in talking to each other when we walk by together, whereas a single person might be looking to mingle."

Paige hesitates. "That's true," she agrees. "I, ah... no, it's nothing." She shakes her head. "Never mind, let's just carry on?"

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Sam examines his fiancée more carefully. "Are you alright? Do you need a minute?"

Paige hesitates again, which is probably the most telling answer of all, despite whatever she may say to deny it. "I... um, maybe. I'll be fine, it's just—a lot to concentrate on? While also talking to people and all? I can do it, it's just—tiring, that's all."

Of course. Everyone who uses magic has their limits, and overexertion can lead to serious consequences, no matter the discipline. For Sam with his ice, it's fairly simple; overuse of his magic can make him give himself frostbite. Deanie could burn himself up from the inside out if he decided to be a reckless idiot and ignored all the warning signs. Sam's mother and Dean's friend Prince Castiel Novak of Qazrazi both use blood magic, which among other things is infamous for the harsh, excruciating physical backlash it can unleash upon its users.

He actually doesn't know what empathic overexertion looks like, though. Empathy is one of the most subtle of the schools of magic, and one of the least extensively studied; from what he knows, manifestations of its effects tend to vary wildly between users.

"Take a few minutes to rest if you need to," he advises. "I don't want you hurting yourself, Paige."

Paige sighs. "I won't," she reassures. "I know my limits, and I haven't reached them yet. A few hours of this and I probably will, but for now, I'm okay. Anyway, we should go talk to—oh no..."

Her groan makes Sam quickly look back over to their target, only to find that Petrov is walking away, apparently finished with whatever he was talking to Prince Harvelle about. They took too long.

"Damn," he mutters. "Okay, so get this: I'll go see if I can get Prince Harvelle to tell me what that was about, and in the meantime, you can take a minute and catch your breath. I'll come back in just a minute. Sound good?"

Paige bites her lip, clearly unsatisfied with herself, but she nods after a moment. Good—she must have realized that if she pushes herself too hard and stops being able to monitor anything, she'll be even less help to anyone than if she has to hang back and take a break for a few minutes. Which is a somewhat cold way of putting it, but hopefully, at least it means she'll have to take care of herself.

"Alright, then! I'll be right back," Sam says. He pats Paige's shoulder and turns away, pasting on a neutral smile and sauntering through the crowd toward Prince Harvelle.

The most concerning possibility here is that Lord Petrov, a known ally of Lord Ivanovich, was trying to influence Prince Harvelle's position regarding certain trade regulations, including the differences in taxation before and after the alliance. Prince Harvelle is something of a wild card; Sam isn't completely sure how his views on Ruritania's inner politics fall. He keeps to himself far too much for Sam's liking, that's for sure—tonight, for example, he's hardly danced and has mostly been standing in his little spot and talking to one of his aides or staring balefully at the dance floor.

The bottom line is that Prince Harvelle's support has to remain with House Winchester. Sam is no fool; he knows that his mother's grasp on the throne is—well, it's more solid than the words "tenuous at best" would imply, but honestly, not by too much. Ruritania under King Samuel had been a very unstable place, and Sam is fairly certain that if his grandfather hadn't passed away when he did, the country could have easily dissolved into a revolution against the throne, or possibly even a civil war. Tensions are still running fairly high, which is why Petrov's scheming is... concerning.

So. If Lord Petrov is trying to persuade Prince Harvelle to throw his support in with the "old glory" faction, Sam needs to know, and the sooner the better.

"Good evening, Prince Harvelle," he greets smoothly, offering a flicker of his most charming smile. "Are you enjoying the party?"

"I suppose," Prince Harvelle says brusquely. Sam raises an eyebrow.

"Is everything quite alright?" he asks, letting curiosity seep into his voice. What's gotten him so touchy? "You seem disturbed."

"No offence, Prince Winchester," Harvelle huffs, folding his arms over his chest defensively, "but frankly, it's none of your business."

An alarm bell rings vaguely in Sam's head. None of his business could easily include deals that go behind his back. "Is that so? Very well, of course, if you don't want to talk about that, I will respect your wishes! I saw you've met Lord Petrov. Lovely fellow, isn't he?"

It's a loaded question, of course—painfully obviously loaded, at that. The implication is that whatever Prince Harvelle's "none of your business" is, it doesn't have to do with Lord Petrov, which isn't quite an accusation. It's closer to a dare to prove him wrong.

Prince Harvelle, however, doesn't rise to the bait. "If you're attempting to discuss politics right now," he says stiffly, "I'm not interested, Your Highness. We're at a party, and I'd rather think of more pleasant topics."

'Oh, right, because you certainly have been enjoying yourself,' Sam scoffs to himself. The man has been nothing but a wet blanket in the corner all evening!

Perhaps some slightly more immature bait would work. More pleasant topics, like your sister? Sam almost asks except he's pretty sure that so much as implying an interest in Princess Joanna—even though he's definitely not interested and she's definitely interested in someone else—carries a substantial risk of getting tackled by her brother. Props to Charlie, on that front.

"Of course," he repeats instead and decides to take the opposite route. "Would you like to talk about Princess Paige? She's certainly a pleasant topic, I can assure you!"

There are two things to be noted about this suggestion—first, hopefully, it'll reinforce to Prince Harvelle that Sam is not interested in his sister, which could possibly make him at least a little more trusting; and second, if Petrov was talking about the same things as Ivanovich thinks, including that Sam is too "infatuated" with Paige, it might get a reaction out of Prince Harvelle.

And bingo—Harvelle gives him a flat, unimpressed look. "Yes," he says. "I'm aware."

Ah. So either Prince Harvelle has made his own assumptions about the nature of their relationship, or he has been approached by someone with an agenda rooted in sabotaging Sam's credibility. It's possible that he's seen that Sam is fairly close to Paige, given that they do spend a lot of time together, but Sam doubts that he would have convinced himself based solely on a few days' worth of observation, especially given his odd paranoia. He'll double-check with Paige later, ask what Harvelle seemed to be feeling during their conversation, but right now, his suspicion is that Lord Petrov or some of the others were trying to undermine Prince Harvelle's faith in the ruling ability of House Winchester.

"I'm glad," he says easily. "She's around here somewhere—you know, she thinks rather highly of you!" Paige really does not, but that doesn't need to be mentioned.

"Really," Prince Harvelle says shortly. Honestly, he sounds like he's just trying to get out of the conversation at this point, a thought that is only further reinforced when he sighs and runs his hand through his hair. "I'll be blunt, Prince Winchester. I'm not really feeling too well and I'm not quite in the mood for small talk. My apologies for wasting your time."

With that, he turns away, clearly signalling that he's done here, and Sam raises an eyebrow at his retreating back—something is clearly bugging him, if he's being so overtly, well, grumpy, at a state function.

With a sigh, Sam turns to make his way back to Paige. At least they can talk about it.

He finds Paige standing alone, leaning against the wall, eyes closed. She opens them as soon as Sam approaches—fascinating. Can her empathic range tell her when someone changes proximity to her that clearly?—and takes him in with a glance.

"Hello again. Are you feeling better?"

"Much," Paige says, smiling slightly. "Grounding exercises help. So, what about Prince Harvelle? He didn't tell you anything?"

Sam shakes his head.

"It's no good," he sighs glumly, folding his arms across his chest. "He seems to have made up his mind that I am not to be trusted with these things. Really, he's so suspicious. I think he still thinks I'm interested in his sister, for crying out loud! And on top of that, he's acting weird and definitely grumpier than usual. I even tried playing up the rumour that I'm far too taken with you to be interested in her, but he just brushed me off and left."

Paige lets out a quiet choking sound at his side, and Sam glances at her. "The rumour that—" She cuts herself off and shakes her head, clearing her throat, and leaves Sam wondering. Surely Paige has heard that rumour herself by now? Surely she knows? Surely she knows it's not just a rumour, given that Sam hasn't really tried to hide it from her. What kind of reaction was that?

He keeps watching Paige, even as she coughs self-consciously and looks around.

"Sorry," she says. "Anyway. Um. About Prince Harvelle..." She's watching Prince Michael with a curious glimmer in her eyes, one that practically screams she's thinking of something. "Correct me if I'm wrong," she muses, "but societally speaking, in the South it's much less taboo to have an extramarital relationship when one is in a politically arranged marriage, right?"

Sam gapes at her for just an instant. What?

Then he reminds himself that he and Paige are not in any sort of relationship past friendship, and that who knows, maybe the reason Paige hasn't seemed to entirely reciprocate his advances is that Paige just isn't interested in anything else with him, and...

He can't deny that it's a little bit tempting to lie and to say no, it's frowned upon, it's either your spouse or nothing just like it is in the North, but the thought of actually doing that makes him feel guilty and disgusted with himself for being so manipulative. He has to just take what he can get.

"You're right," he says instead because it's true, such things are very common. The general understanding is that politically arranged marriages are not always loving, and people in them only need to cooperate with each other, not so much fall for each other, and it's understandable if they already have other lovers or choose to take them. Until he realized he's been slowly falling for Paige this entire time, Sam had thought that that was a very nice way to approach things.

"Wonderful," Paige says. "I think Prince Harvelle will be more likely to talk if he's doubly assured that the person talking to him has no interest in Princess Joanna, don't you?"

"Probably, but good luck reassuring him that," Sam snorts, still wondering where this entire thing is headed. A waiter, passing by, offers him champagne, but he waves him by for the moment, not that interested. Paige takes a glass, with a murmured thanks. "He's easily the most paranoid person I've ever met—what are you doing?"

Paige knocks back the champagne like a shot, sets the glass down on the tray, and downs another in much the same way. "I," she says blandly, "need to be a little drunker right now."

The waiter glances at Sam as if to ask 'should I be allowing this to happen?' as Paige takes a third glass. She sips this one a little more carefully, coughing as the alcohol burns in her throat, but ultimately pours it down her throat too. After that, she finally takes a fourth glass and waves the poor waiter onward.

"Not that I didn't enjoy dancing with you when you were drunk the first time," Sam starts, but Paige just shakes her head.

"Not to worry, the alcohol content of champagne is a lot less than the mixed vodka thing I had that time. Here, hold this for me," she says, pressing the as-of-yet untouched champagne into Sam's hand, as well as her bag. "I'll be back in ten or so minutes, I guess."

"Wait, what—"

Sam stares at the back of Paige's head as she weaves through the crowd toward the prickly Michael Harvelle, who is watching Charlie twirl a giggling Princess Jo around the dance floor with a slight frown. What in the world is she trying to do by getting herself at least mildly inebriated and then talking about extramarital affairs? The only thing Sam has been able to think of was attempting to convince Prince Mikey over there that he and Paige were fully committed to each other, which apparently only worked to some degree, given Harvelle and his paranoia, so...

He watches in disbelief as Paige places a hand on Prince Michael's shoulder and leans in a little closer than necessary to talk to him, and since Paige's back is turned, Sam has a good view of Prince Michael's face as whatever Paige just said makes his eyes widen. He nods and says something in reply, and Sam feels curiosity starting to consume him. What is going on over there?

The current song ends, and Charlie and Princess Jo leave the floor, along with a few others. The first notes of a slow song come on next—a rumba, Sam realizes, considering the beat—and to his surprise, Prince Michael offers Paige his hand, and Paige takes it, and 'what is happening?', and then they're both walking to the dance floor together, and when they take their positions (Harvelle is leading, Paige is following) Paige's face is finally visible, and she's smiling? It's not quite the usual smile she has for Sam, but it's not her little polite court smile either. It's like...

He loses that train of thought very quickly because then Prince Harvelle starts the dance and forget the smile- holy fuck do Paige's hips always move like that when she dances?

Rumba is a slow, sensual dance. Sam knows this. The soft strains of piano in the background of the music coupled with the singer's low, crooning voice only accentuate this. Paige is too good of a dancer to be stuck with Prince Michael of all people for a rumba.

Sam is not jealous.

Prince Michael spins Paige out from frame so that their only connection is their joined hands, and Sam inconspicuously sidles a little closer to the dance floor for a better view. Paige swishes her hips back and forth to the beat, her free hand slowly sliding up her body as she keeps her gaze focused directly on Prince Michael. Sam bites his lip as Paige sashays back toward frame causing the back of her dress to trail behind her. The speed and accuracy of her dance movies causes the skirt to fly upwards, revealing her toned upper thigh. Sam's gaze is stuck on her legs, his mouth instantly becoming dry. Instead of closing the stance by placing her hand back on Prince Michael's shoulder, she drags a finger down Prince Michael's chest (tantalizingly slow, keeping all her other movements in time with the music) and twirls away again.

Not jealous, not jealous, not jealous...

He clears his throat and finds that it's almost impossible to look away. He's not the only one mesmerized, though—people all around are staring, unable to tear their gazes away from the incredible, beautiful spectacle that is Princess Paige Mains, dancing with the most fluid movements any of them have ever seen.

"Ooh, jealous of Prince Michael, are we, loverboy?" Charlie greets, melting out of the crowd to nudge Sam's side.

"Charlie," Sam says, and he is not a little bit breathless as Prince Michael slowly dips Paige backwards over his arm, and Paige's leg first caresses the back of Michael's calf before rising to point at the ceiling, because Paige does ballet and Paige is just that flexible, and—

"Yes?" Charlie hums. She's laughing at him, he can tell, but at this moment, he doesn't care, because.. Because! As Paige is suspended, her thighs are pressed together as the hem of her dress falls back to reveal more of her tanned legs.

"Charlie, She's so hot," he breathes. Paige is laughing when Michael returns her to her feet, one hand sliding up to cradle her partner's cheek for a moment before her arm flares out from her side again as Michael, his face bright red, leads Paige into a simple underarm turn. Sam bites his lip again. He wouldn't be this flustered if it was him. No, he'd be dancing with Paige the same way, enjoying this to its fullest.

"I don't think anyone has ever tried to charm Mikey like this before," Princess Jo comments from Charlie's other side. She looks like she's holding back laughter. "He looks so embarrassed! Is anyone getting this on video? I'm going to need it for sibling blackmail if he decides to be stupid again."

"Only every single one of those news cameras that are in here," Charlie grins, her arm wrapped around Princess Jo's waist. "Oh, boy. He looks like a tomato, poor man!"

Princess Joanna lets out a merry, tinkling laugh. "I hope he's prepared for me to never let him live this down, ever."

"Like very, very hot," Sam moans, hiding his face in his hands. That only lasts for a second, though, because he has to keep watching, as they step into a hesitation and Paige continues doing those things with her hips and Michael keeps blushing. Paige says something, and Michael replies, and oh, Sam realizes—they've been talking to each other this entire time. What are they saying?

"Whoa there," Charlie teases unrepentantly. "I think we already knew that, Sam. Do you need to hit up the refreshment table? I think you look a little thirsty."

"Charlie," Princess Jo groans. Charlie just winks, and Joanna laughs. "Okay, but she's good," she adds, still watching, though she hooks her other arm around Charlie's waist too as she talks. "Um. Really good?"

"I have a drink," Sam says, holding up Paige's champagne. He takes a careful sip or two, mostly to keep himself from once again informing his companions that Paige is, in fact, smoking hot, and keeps watching. The dance floor is unexpectedly clear for halfway through a song, and he only now notices that it's because several couples have actually stopped just to watch Paige and Prince Michael.

By the time the song ends, Sam has drained the glass, handing it off to a passing server. There's a heartbeat of silence, and then the room erupts in applause. Prince Michael and Paige both blush, laughing on the dance floor, and then Prince Michael says something and heads for the door to the balcony, leaving Paige alone. Paige leaves the floor, ducking her head, and looks around until she spots Sam, standing there with Charlie and Princess Jo, and hurries to him.

"Oh!" Jo gasps as the next song starts, a fast one this time. "Charlie! It's a Samba, I love Sambas! Come on, come on!" She starts tugging Charlie toward the floor, giggling, and Charlie laughs as she hurries to follow.

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Okay! Bye, Sam!"

"Have fun," Sam tells them, but his eyes are fixed on his fiancée, who approaches him with a flushed countenance and hurried steps.

"Paige," Sam says by way of greeting. Paige bypasses all greetings entirely and plants her face in Sam's shoulder.

"I am never showing my face in public again," she groans. Sam has to fight down the silly surge of glee that rears its head that Paige is back with him, and isn't putting up any fronts with him either like she did with Prince Harvelle. He wraps his arms around his fiancée and pats her back comfortingly, hiding the grin that he can't help by pressing his lips to Paige's hair. "Where's my champagne? I want to forget that ever happened."

"Oh, I drank it," Sam says sheepishly. "My bad. I'll get you some more. But Paige. Paige."

"He wasn't impressed by Petrov's talk. Thought it was rather shady and underhanded of him to try and influence him like that, said something about it being dishonourable," Paige says, her voice still muffled by Sam's shoulder, which she has not lifted her face from. "Please tell me you weren't watching... that."

"Oh, I was," Sam assures her. "You have to dance with me now, I hope you know."

"I have to?" Paige asks dismally. She seems quite comfortable with her head right where it is, considering that she loosely wraps her arms around Sam's waist and stays like that. Sam laughs, swaying slightly in time to the music, and Paige sways with him.

"Yes, you have to," he says. "That way people will just assume you dance like that in general if the mood hits you, and nobody will think you were just trying to get into Michael's pants."

Paige freezes and then groans again. "Oh my god, I should never have done that..."

"It worked, though!" Sam points out gleefully. "And I thought you looked quite nice while you were at it. What did he think?"

"He talks more when he's flustered," Paige mumbles. She still sounds so terribly embarrassed about the entire thing, and Sam pats her back some more, suppressing laughter.

"That was some pretty heavy flirting," he says, hoping his voice stays just as light as he means it to. Hopefully, Paige is still too flustered herself to pay attention to the fact that Sam is not and was not at all jealous during any of that. "Does he think you're interested now?"

Paige seems to get even more mortified if the way she presses closer against Sam's shoulder is anything to judge by. "He—oh, god—he said he was flattered by my attention but that he couldn't possibly entertain a relationship with an engaged woman... why did I do that? Sam, why did I do that?"

"Well," Sam says, stubbornly ignoring his little personal flash of glee and relief, "I'm not entirely sure, but it worked. What a relief! I'm glad Petrov didn't get to him. What's been eating at him all night, then?"

Paige huffs out a little laugh and finally, finally raises her head. She doesn't step away, though, which is nice, because they keep swaying to the beat in each other's arms, half-time because samba is fast and they're just taking it slow. "He's been prickly because you know, Charlie and Princess Jo are officially courting as of this morning, and apparently Princess Joanna and he had a bit of an argument over that."

Of all the...

"I never expected Charlie's love life to be the culprit, of all things," Sam says, and then laughs. He tugs Paige closer again. "Sweet Peaa, let's go dance after this song. You haven't danced with me much tonight, and that's just criminal!"

Paige lets her head fall onto Sam's shoulder again, blushing, though it might just be the alcohol still in her system. "Alright," she says, "but I'm not doing the empathy thing again, it'll just be dancing. I'm tired."

Sam blinks. "The empathy thing?"

Paige stills in his arms. "You... didn't notice?"

Sam frowns now, looking down at her with confusion. "You used your empathy on me? When?"

Paige shakes her head. "I used a general spell," she says. "On the entire ballroom. While I was dancing. You know, to make it look like such a big deal and especially to get Prince Harvelle off balance because of all the attention. I—I thought you would realize that's what it was, because you know I... have magic?"

Oh.

"No wonder nobody could look away," Sam muses, leaving out the part where he himself couldn't look away either and just assumed it was because Paige was too damn attractive, a fact that he didn't need to bother questioning. "Well! I guess we have to go dance anyway just to see how much of that was you and how much of that was the spell! For science, Paige."

"Technically, it was all me," Paige mumbles, but she smiles and lets Sam lead her to the dance floor as the Samba draws to a close.