Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Father summons me after vespers. The torches along the eastern hall burn low, throwing long amber tongues across the stone. The air smells of wax and cold iron, of incense that has burned too long. When the page knocks upon my door—one quick rap, one long—I already know it is not a summons I want.
Callen, Father’s page, does not meet my eyes when he signs: The King requests your presence, Princess.
My stomach turns. Now? I sign back, one flick of the wrist.
He nods. Now.
Father never calls me alone unless something is wrong.
The walk to his private audience chamber is short, but tonight it feels endless—like the castle has stretched itself into a tunnel leading somewhere I cannot return from. My slippers whisper on the flagstones. The portraits of my ancestors watch me pass, painted faces serene, judgmental. Each wears the same veil of composure Hyrule demands of its royals: lips thin, hands folded, no emotion.
My own face is the same mask when the guard opens the double doors.
Father is not upon the throne. He stands by the hearth, the firelight glazing his silver-shot beard, his crown set aside on the mantel. That alone tells me this is not a king’s decree, but a father’s wound.
He turns when he hears the door close. His eyes—so like mine, grey with a tint of winter blue—soften. “Rin,” he says, and the warmth of my name almost hides the tension underneath. “Come, sit.”
I bow and cross the rug to the chair opposite him. The fire paints everything gold, yet the room feels cold anyway.
He does not begin right away. That, too, is warning. Father speaks swiftly when the news is light. When it is heavy, he circles it, like a hawk over prey it cannot yet bring itself to strike.
At last, he folds his hands. “You know,” he says slowly, “how long the wars with the Gerudo have bled us.”
I nod. Everyone knows. The songs of Hyrule are half battle dirge, half prayer for truce. But why begin here?
“We have lost too much,” he continues. “Caravans seized, borders burned, good men and women taken. And the droughts after—the Goddess herself must be weary of our quarrels.”
His gaze meets mine, and I feel my pulse quicken. He has the look he wears when he means to explain something before I can object. I rest my hands in my lap, the way Mother taught me: left over right, thumbs together. A princess must look composed even when the world shatters.
“There is to be peace, Rin,” he says.
I blink. Peace? The word feels too bright, too sudden.
He sees the question in my face. “A treaty,” he says. “Long in the making, though few knew it. King Khan has agreed to parley. The Gerudo will send an envoy—his household, his sons.”
I nod again, cautiously. Peace is good. But Father’s tone holds something heavier than diplomacy.
He draws a breath, slow and weighted. “To seal it, we must bind our kingdoms by blood. As we have done with the Zora, with the Rito. As we must now do with the Gerudo.”
The fire pops. I stare at him, the meaning sliding into place like a blade sheathing itself.
No.
My fingers twitch, half a sign begun, half forgotten. Who? I shape silently, though my hands do not rise from my lap.
He answers the unspoken word anyway. “You, Rin.”
The room tilts. For a moment all I can hear is the hush of my own breath, the pounding of my heart. Me? My throat works, but no sound comes. I look at him, waiting for the jest, the mistake. None comes.
Father’s shoulders sag. “I would not ask it if there were another way.”
My hands finally move, stiff, jerky. When?
“In two months.”
The fire blurs. I blink, and tears burn hot against my lashes. Two months? Our custom is six—six months to prepare, to learn a new language, to say farewell. Two months is nothing. Two months is cruelty.
“I know,” Father murmurs. “It is too soon. But Khan insists upon haste; he fears delay will invite opposition from his council. And our own nobles grow restless—there are whispers already.” He rubs his temples. “If we linger, we may lose the chance entirely.”
My stomach knots. And who—
“His youngest son,” Father finishes quietly. “Prince Ganon.”
The name is a stormcloud. The Gerudo war prince. The one sung of in both glory and horror. The monster from mothers’ cautionary tales.
The fire crackles loud in the silence. I feel myself shrinking into the chair, small as a child again.
Father watches me, his eyes full of apology. “He is said to be clever, and not without honor.”
They say many things, I sign sharply—and then stop, ashamed of the bite in my fingers. I lower my hands to my knees.
He nods, accepting the rebuke without anger. “I have heard the same tales you have, child. But I have also spoken with their envoys. The Gerudo wish peace as keenly as we. Ganon will treat you with respect.”
The word respect feels hollow, like a coin too thinly minted.
My pulse is fluttering. I press my palms together, grounding myself in the small pressure. My thoughts tumble: leaving Hyrule, crossing the desert, strange food, strange tongues, men who bare their arms and laugh too loud. I think of their mixed bathhouses, their looseness, their warmth—and the chill of Hyrule’s eyes that will follow me out of this hall.
Two months.
I want to sign something fierce—to tell him it is madness, that I am not ready, that the Gerudo are dangerous—but he is my father, my king, and the words freeze behind my fingers.
Instead, I sign small, controlled: I understand.
He sees through it. His face softens in sorrow. “Do you?” he asks quietly.
My throat tightens. I shake my head, once.
He leans forward then, elbows on his knees. “Rin, my heart, I wish there were another way. Each of your brothers and sisters was given time to prepare—but those were alliances within friendship. This one must end a hatred older than you or I.” His voice roughens. “I must give what I cannot bear to lose, or peace will never hold.”
The firelight trembles across his face. For a moment he looks very old, the weight of crown and years pressing into him. I realize he is not only sending me away; he is carving a piece of himself to do it.
My chest aches with something that is not anger, not yet forgiveness. Both, tangled.
I raise my hands again, slow. Will Mother agree?
“She already has.” His mouth curves faintly. “You know her heart: gentler than mine, but steadfast. She believes the Goddess favors courage.”
Courage. The word strikes deep. Courage to leave. Courage to stay silent. Courage to be the offering that buys peace.
The fire pops again, startling me. I realize my nails have dug crescents into my palms.
Father reaches out, hesitant, and takes my hand. His calluses are rough, the skin warm. “You will have every comfort to prepare,” he says. “Tutors in Gerudo customs, guards of your choosing. A priestess will travel with you, to bless your union.”
His voice gentles further. “Two months is short, but it will not be empty. We will fill it together.”
I want to believe him. I want to trust that time—any time—can soften the dread coiling beneath my ribs.
Instead I nod, because nodding is easier than unraveling all the fear knotted inside me.
He squeezes my hand once, then releases it. “Rest now, my daughter. Tomorrow we will speak of dowry and ceremony.”
I rise on unsteady legs. My skirts whisper against the rug. At the door I pause, look back. He stands still by the fire, shoulders squared again, king once more. The crown gleams beside him, waiting.
I touch my fingers to my lips, then sign toward him: I love you.
His answering sign is slower, older: And I you, my brave one.
I leave before he can see the tears.

The corridor outside Father’s chamber feels colder than the mountain wind. I walk until I reach the first turning, then stop. My breath fogs in the torchlight.
Two months. Two months, and I will be gone across the desert to a kingdom that has never spoken our language except in war.
I press my palms together hard enough to sting. The sting keeps me here, in this hall, in this moment where I can still pretend none of it is decided.

My chambers smell of lavender and parchment. The fire has burned low; the maids have gone. I close the door and slide the bolt. The sound is small but final.
I tear off my gloves—soft white kid leather—and stare at my fingers. The tips are darker than the rest, almost as if dipped in ink. Father once told me it was a Rito trait that carried strangely through the blood, the same way feathers sometimes sprout at my hairline in winter. I used to think they were pretty. Now they look foreign. Wrong.
I flex my hands. Send someone else. The words form sharp in my mind, but there’s no one to sign them to.
When the knock comes, I think for a heartbeat it’s Mother. But it’s him again—Father—without crown or cloak, just a man in a heavy wool robe.
I drop into a curtsy before he can speak. He sighs. “Rin, rise. I would not have ended our talk in anger.”
I straighten slowly. He comes into the room and closes the door behind him. The fire paints the lines at his eyes deeper.
“I thought you would be asleep,” he says.
I shake my head.
He gestures toward the hearth. “May I?”
I nod. He sits in Mother’s chair and studies me for a moment. “You think it unfair,” he says. It isn’t a question.
My hands move before I can stop them. Yes. The word is quick, harsh. Send another.
He leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Whom would you have me send?”
Rhea. The answer leaps out before I can swallow it.
He almost smiles, weary. “Rhea is second heir. If aught befell your brother, she must remain. You know this.”
Then a cousin, I sign. Anyone else.
He shakes his head. “The Gerudo will accept no lesser bond. This peace must be between our thrones, not our houses.”
His calm makes me furious. My fingers flash: Why me, then? Why not Ghan’s daughter when she is grown? Or one of the younger princes—a son for a daughter?
“Because Khan asked for you,” he says simply.
The air leaves my lungs. Why?
He hesitates. “Symbolism,” he says at last. “You look the most Hylian of my children. To the Gerudo, you will stand as the pure face of Hyrule’s trust. To our people, you will be proof that the desert accepts peace. It matters.”
It isn’t fair. My hands shake. Rhea is cleverer. Lo is stronger—
“But none look as you do,” he interrupts softly. “And it must be you.”
The words fall like stones.
I pace the width of the rug, skirts whispering. Anger burns through fear—bright, brief. I want to scream, to use my voice, but my throat tightens. My voice would only crack.
He watches me, patient, sorrowing. “I have asked too much of all my children,” he murmurs. “Each one sent away, each one bound to another land. Only you and Rhea remained. If I could keep you, I would.”
Then keep me! My hands slash the air. Tell Khan no.
“Tell him no,” he repeats quietly, “and he sends his armies again. Or another generation grows in hate. I cannot risk it, Rin.”
The firelight glints on the tears I hadn’t felt fall. I wipe them away angrily.
“You think I do not feel it?” he says. “Do you imagine it easy to trade a daughter for peace?”
I shake my head but do not meet his eyes.
He rises, steps closer. “When I was your age, I swore never to bargain my children as my father did. And yet—here I am. The crown teaches cruelty in small lessons, Rin. Every decision costs something you love.”
He takes my hands again. His thumbs trace the darkened fingertips. “Do not hide these,” he says softly. “They mark you as my blood and your mother’s—the joining of sky and stone. The Gerudo will see them as strength.”
I want to believe that, but cannot.
He continues, almost to himself. “They say the Gerudo revere the hawk—swift, fierce, loyal. You have those eyes. Perhaps they will see in you a blessing.”
My chest aches. I don’t want to be a blessing, I sign. I want to stay.
He smiles sadly. “So do I.”
The fire snaps. Outside, wind rattles the shutters.
Finally he says, “I will not command you to rejoice. Only to prepare. Tomorrow I will announce the betrothal to the council. I would have you stand beside me.”
I shake my head, horror rising. No.
“It will show unity,” he says. “Strength.”
It will show surrender. The sign is sharp, bitter.
He flinches, but does not argue. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “But sometimes surrender ends wars better than swords.”
I sink into the nearest chair, suddenly spent. He watches me a long moment, then says quietly, “You have courage, my daughter. You always have.”
Courage. Again that word. It sounds like a sentence, not a compliment.
He moves toward the door. At the threshold he pauses. “Two months,” he repeats, more to himself than to me. “We will make them count.”
When he is gone, the room feels larger and emptier than before. I sit staring at the fire until it gutters low. My hands tremble in my lap.
Symbolic, he said. You look the most Hylian.
As if my face were not mine, but a flag.

I do not remember undressing or crawling into bed. The sheets smell of cedar and soap—clean and suffocating. The wind moans through the tower vents like a distant voice.
I think of my brothers and sisters—each one sent away. Lo to the noble houses, Hulo to the Zora’s crystal halls, Hie across the rivers, Pinoa to the Rito. Only Rhea remains, bound to duty. And now me, to the desert.
The castle will be quiet when I go. Too quiet.
I turn onto my side, staring at the faint light beneath the door, and imagine the desert’s heat, the open sky, the Gerudo prince whose name sounds like thunder.
My hands move under the blanket, signing to the dark. I don’t want this. I don’t. Please, Goddess—find another way.
The darkness gives no answer.

I’m still awake when he comes.
The fire has burned to embers, but I can’t bring myself to stir it. Shadows breathe in the corners, and the moonlight lies pale across the rug. I hear the door before I see him—the soft click of the latch, the heavier sigh that follows.
“Rin?”
His voice is low, uncertain.
I sit up in bed, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. I haven’t changed from my gown. My hair has come loose from its braid; it makes me feel small, messy—unfitting of a princess.
He closes the door behind him. No guards. No attendants. Just Father.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” he says.
I shake my head. My hands rise, slow. Couldn’t.
He nods once, as if that were expected. Then he crosses to the hearth and nudges the coals with the poker until the flames stir weakly back to life. Orange light shivers across the walls.
“I shouldn’t have left you alone so soon after telling you,” he murmurs. “It was cowardice. I feared I’d only hurt you further.”
I watch him from the bed. His shoulders look broad as ever, but the line of them is bent with something older than the crown.
When he turns back, the light catches his face—and I see his eyes are red.
“I’ve sent away too many,” he says softly. “Each time, I tell myself it is for the realm. That they will be safe, happy, prosperous. But the truth is that every goodbye steals something from me.”
My throat tightens. I try to sign I know, but my hands shake too much to finish.
He sees. “Come here,” he says gently.
The moment I stand, the tears begin again—slow at first, then all at once, the kind that choke the breath. I cross the rug in two steps, half-stumbling, and he catches me before I fall. His arms are strong, familiar, the same that lifted me as a child when I’d scraped my knee or spilled ink on my lessons.
I press my face against his chest, and the dam breaks.
All the fear, the anger, the disbelief—it pours out silent and shaking. My hands clutch at his robe. His heart beats steady beneath my ear.
“Shh,” he whispers, though I make no sound. “It’s all right, little hawk. Let it come.”
Little hawk. He hasn’t called me that in years.
I can’t sign, can’t think. All I can do is cling. My tears soak through the wool, and still he holds me, one broad hand cradling the back of my head.
When the sobs finally begin, they take ages to stop, the grief of a daughter who is not selfish enough to refuse the betrothal laid out before her.

Father stays until the last flicker of wakefulness slips from me.
When I wake again, I do not know whether it is dawn or deep night—the room is quiet except for the low sigh of the fire, and Father’s hand is still clasped around mine. He has fallen asleep sitting beside the bed, head bowed, crownless still. The sight almost undoes me anew.
The King of Hyrule, sleeping in his daughter’s chamber like a man too weary to remember ceremony.
For a while I lie still, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders. The air is chill where it touches my face, but under the blanket, I am warm. My eyes trace the faint silver in his beard, the deep lines at the corners of his eyes that never seemed so visible until tonight. Duty carved them there, and love made them soft.
He stirs after a moment, blinking as if uncertain where he is. When he sees me awake, he straightens, his expression briefly that of a man caught out in tenderness. Then, as always, he composes himself.
“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I meant to stay until you slept, not until the sun rose.”
“It’s all right,” I sign slowly. My fingers feel stiff with sleep, the motions sluggish.
He smiles faintly, watching the movement of my hands with new understanding.
“You sign even in half-dream,” he says. “Your mother tells me I talk in my sleep. Perhaps it is the same gift.”
I shake my head, the smallest smile tugging at my mouth. Not the same.
“No,” he agrees quietly, and the warmth in his voice undoes the awkwardness of the dawn.
For a while we sit in the hush that only morning brings—the in-between hour before servants wake and bells toll.
Then Father sighs. “The council will convene after first meal,” he says. “I will speak then.”
A small weight settles in my stomach. The announcement.
“Yes,” he says, reading my hands, my face, my breath. “But not before I have broken fast with you and your mother. One more quiet meal before the whispers begin.”
I nod. The idea of eating anything seems distant, but his tone makes refusal impossible.
He rises, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, and the movement catches the first faint light from the window. For the briefest instant, he looks taller, surer, as if duty itself had stepped back into him.
“I will send your maids shortly,” he says, pausing at the door. “Wear the blue, I think. Your mother will wear green. Together, you will look like the sky and the forest—Hyrule itself.”
He hesitates, then adds softly, “And do not hide your hands, Rin.”
I glance down at them—the dusk-stained fingertips, the marks of mixed blood that seem to darken further with every heartbeat. They do not look like Hylian hands. They look like wings dipped in ink.
When I look up again, Father is gone.

The day unfolds like something already written.
The castle wakes in murmurs and footsteps; bells toll; courtiers bustle through corridors smelling of soap and morning bread. I let the maids braid my hair into a crown of plaits, their chatter nervous and brittle. They speak of flowers, of gowns, of nothing that matters.
When they pull the blue gown over my head—a sweep of silk that shimmers like twilight—I feel myself disappearing into someone else’s story. A princess in a painted tale, waiting to be given away.
Mother is already in the morning solar when I arrive. Her gown is green, just as Father said. She stands by the window where the light pours in, reading something on parchment, her other hand cradling a cup of tea.
She turns when she hears me. Her smile is calm, but her eyes are red at the corners.
“My heart,” she says, crossing to me. She presses her hands to my cheeks. “You slept?”
I nod.
“And your father?”
With me, I sign, touching my heart in memory.
She exhales a soft, trembling laugh. “Of course he did. He never could bear leaving one of you unhappy.”
We sit together at the small table. The meal is delicate—fruit, honey, soft bread—but I can hardly taste it.
Mother talks gently of ordinary things: the weather, the nesting doves in the garden, the way the youngest page tripped during vespers last night. She keeps the world small and safe for me, for as long as she can.
When the bell strikes second, she reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“You know,” she says, “your father told me when I was first brought here that peace never comes without cost. I thought he meant armies and gold. I didn’t understand that sometimes the price is love itself.”
Her thumb strokes over my knuckles. “I am proud of you, Rin. Even if it breaks me.”
The tears rise again, but she doesn’t let me look away. “You will go with grace. And when you return—because you will return, my darling—you will bring the desert and the sky together.”
I don’t want to go, I sign, but the motion feels smaller than ever.
“I know,” she whispers. “Neither did I, once.”
And she kisses my forehead, the gesture both benediction and apology.

Chapter Text

The bells ring at dawn.
Three slow tones, solemn and heavy—formal summons to the Great Hall. I hear them from my window and feel the sound in my bones. The mountains beyond are white with frost, the sky pale as unpolished silver. It should be beautiful. It only feels cold.
I dress myself. No maids, no help. If I let anyone fuss over me, I’ll crumble. The gown I choose is the light blue of early morning—simple, almost plain compared to my sisters’ ceremonial dresses. Mother would say it flatters my eyes. Today I wish it didn’t.
The mirror gives back a stranger. Pale skin, hawkish eyes too sharp for comfort, hair half-tamed, the faint down at my temples catching light like frost. I smooth the feathers flat. They rise again the moment my hand falls away.
Two months.
When the knock comes, I already know it’s Father’s guard, not Father himself. “Your Highness,” the man says through the door, “His Majesty requests your presence.”
Of course he does. I press my palms together, breathe once, and nod—though he can’t see it.

The Great Hall smells of stone, beeswax, and tension.
Father stands at the center dais in full regalia, the gold-embroidered mantle heavy across his shoulders. Mother—Queen Zelda—at his right, serene and still, her feathers braided neatly through pale hair. She looks like the very image of grace, carved from calm. My eldest brother, Ghan, is beside her: tall, hawkish, weary. He catches my eye as I enter, and for a heartbeat, his expression softens. Behind him, Rhea stands rigid as a drawn bow.
The councilors fill the lower dais—lords and nobles, priests of the Goddess, the court recorder with his endless parchment. Murmurs rise and fall like waves.
When I step into the light, they quiet.
Every gaze turns. Every whisper stills. I want to shrink, but royal daughters do not shrink. I move to my place beside Father, every step measured.
He doesn’t look at me, not yet, but his hand brushes mine for half a heartbeat—silent thanks, silent apology.
“Citizens of Hyrule,” he begins, his voice carrying through the vaulted chamber, “and loyal councilors of the realm. I have called you here for a matter of grave importance and of great hope.”
The recorder’s quill scratches.
“For centuries,” Father continues, “the lands of Hyrule and Gerudo have known only blood and bitterness. Borders marked not by treaties but by graves. I would see that cycle broken.”
A ripple moves through the nobles. They know what’s coming.
“The Gerudo King, His Majesty Khan of the Sands, has reached across that divide with open hand and honest word. In return, I extend ours.”
He pauses. The silence hums.
“It is therefore with solemn purpose that I announce the betrothal of my youngest daughter, Princess Rin of Hyrule, to Prince Ganon of the Gerudo.”
The words strike the air like a bell.
For a breath, the hall is utterly still. Then—murmurs, gasps, a few sharp exclamations that echo off marble. Someone drops a quill.
I keep my head high, though my stomach twists.
Father raises a hand. The noise stills.
“This union,” he says firmly, “shall serve as the foundation of peace between our peoples. The Gerudo envoy will arrive within two months’ time to formalize the bond and escort the Princess to her new home. May the Three watch over both nations as we walk this new path.”
He lowers his hand. The hall breathes again, a thousand quiet reactions swirling like dust in sunlight.
Mother steps forward, her voice clear and calm. “Let this be the dawn of reconciliation,” she says. “Our daughter carries the blessing of the Goddess with her, as all daughters of Hyrule do. May she find strength and wisdom beneath the desert sun.”
I bow when she looks at me. My throat feels tight.
From the corner of my eye, I see Ghan shift his weight, his jaw set. Rhea’s knuckles are white around her folded hands. Their faces hold the same expression—something between pride and grief.
The priests begin the formal blessing, chanting in Old Hylian. Words about duty, light, and divine order. I mouth the prayers but cannot bring myself to feel them.
My mind wanders instead to the imagined desert: endless sand, heat shimmering over dunes, the foreign prince whose name I must learn to love.
When the chanting ends, Father turns to me at last. His voice softens enough that only those nearest can hear. “You have my word, Rin. You will be treated with honor.”
I sign quietly at my side, I trust you.
It’s not wholly true, but it’s what he needs.
He inclines his head.
The recorder steps forward to note the royal decree. Ink gleams wetly on the parchment, sealing what words alone already have.

The moment the assembly is dismissed, the nobles swarm.
Polite phrases: An auspicious union, Your Highness.
The Gerudo will see our grace through you.
The Goddess bless your courage.
Courage again. Always courage.
I smile when required, bow when required, answer with small signs that my interpreter—an aging court servant—translates into gentle, rehearsed words. All the while, my heartbeat drums like thunder in my ears.
Through it all, Mother remains the perfect queen. When a noblewoman murmurs doubts about the Gerudo’s temperament, she silences her with a single glance. “The desert’s fire forges steel,” Mother says. “Perhaps Hyrule could learn warmth.”
The court laughs politely.
When the last of them withdraw, I nearly sag with relief. Ghan and Rhea approach together.
Ghan embraces me first, his arms strong around my shoulders. “Little sister,” he says softly, “if I could take your place—”
I shake my head. He doesn’t need to finish.
Rhea’s eyes glisten, though she doesn’t let the tears fall. “You’ll write?” she asks, and then grimaces, remembering how letters can be slow, and sometimes never reach across borders. “At least send hawks.”
I nod, trying to smile. I’ll send hawks.
She brushes a stray feather from my hair, tender and trembling. “Of all of us, I think you’ll like the sky there best,” she says. “Endless. Free.”
Free. I almost laugh.
When they leave, only Mother and Father remain.
Mother straightens my collar, smoothing it as she once did when I was small. “You bore yourself well,” she says. “The people will take comfort in your composure.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
Father studies me a moment longer. “You needn’t attend the afternoon council,” he says quietly. “Rest. The preparations will begin soon enough.”
I nod, and for the first time that morning, allow myself to exhale fully.
He touches my shoulder. “You did well, Rin. I know it cost you.”
It did. But I will not cry here. Not in the Great Hall, not before the court that already sees me as a symbol.
When they turn to leave, I remain where I am, staring at the dais where I stood moments ago—where my life, as it was, ended politely and publicly under the sunlit windows.
The hall is empty now. Only the echo of the bells remains.
I lift my hand, sign to no one: Two months.
The words hang in the air, unseen, unheard, fading like breath in cold light.

Chapter Text

The horns sound before I see them.
A long, low note that rolls through the valley like thunder off the cliffs. Then the gates of Hyrule Castle creak open, and the procession appears.
The Gerudo.
Even from a distance they are color—sunset cloth against the white stone of our courtyard. Reds, golds, copper, and cream. They move like a tide. At their front ride six on horseback: four princes, a queen, and their king.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
I’ve seen Gerudo only in old murals and war records, where they are painted fierce and otherworldly, half legend. In life, they are taller, stronger, stranger. Sun-browned skin gleaming against fabrics that would scandalize half our court. Their clothes leave their arms bare from shoulder to wrist, and their trousers cling close before flaring below the knee—utterly improper by Hylian measure.
And yet… they are beautiful.
The horses’ tack gleams with hammered gold. A banner flaps behind them: the sun disc of the Gerudo, bold and red, against the white air of our late winter.
I stand beside Father on the castle steps, the wind biting through my gloves. Ghan is to my left, jaw tight, arms crossed behind his back like a drawn bow. Mother stands calm as always, her feathers braided down in long cords that brush her shoulders.
When the riders reach the courtyard’s center, they dismount in perfect unison. The motion is fluid, rehearsed, a dance. So, they are not as stupid as rumor would have you believe. In truth, I’m relieved. I didn’t want those rumors to be true, especially given they made no sense at all, really. Something about the dryness of the water drying out their brains or something silly like that—entirely unbelievable, until you’ve heard it repeated over your lifetime.
King Khan steps forward first. His red hair is streaked with rust, his skin deep as sunlit bronze. His eyes, gold and sharp, sweep over us with a smile that could warm stone.
“Your Majesty King Rhoam,” he says, voice rich as low thunder. “Queen Zelda of Hyrule. We thank you for your welcome.”
His Hylian is heavily accented, but clear.
Father inclines his head. “King Khan of the Gerudo. You honor us with your presence. May this meeting mark the first of many in peace.”
“May it be so,” Khan replies.
Behind him stands Queen Rima—slender, smiling, a golden circlet set in copper-red hair. Her eyes gleam with intelligence and a touch of amusement. I notice that though many of them have their hair bound—not one wears braids. Meanwhile, every Hylian, from the lowest stableboys to Father, Mother, and myself, wear braids. A tingle of unease rolls through my shoulders at the fact.
Then the princes step forward.
Ghan tenses beside me when they do. I feel it like a string pulled taut.
The eldest, Gabirr, bows with smooth precision. “Your Majesties,” he says. His tone is courteous, measured. He wears a scar across one arm like a badge, his bearing almost militarily neat.
Hara follows—quick smile, easy confidence. He’s the sort of man the court ladies would whisper about for a week.
Leove, third in line, has the same copper-red hair as his mother and looks perpetually on the verge of laughter. He nods to us, not a bow exactly, but something friendly.
And then—him.
Ganon.
He steps forward last, and it feels as though the air changes. He’s my age, or near it—nineteen, perhaps twenty at most. Taller than I expected, broad-shouldered, his red hair caught back in a knot at his neck. His clothes are the same as the others—light, sleeveless, the fabric stopping at his knees—but on him it feels more… deliberate. Goddess, he’s tall.
In fact… they’re all taller than I’d expected. The shortest women are a head above the height of our guards, the tallest of their sparse men are over two feet.
The sunlight flashes off the small gold ring in his ear.
He bows, but it’s a loose thing, more an acknowledgment than a true gesture of deference. “Your Majesties,” he says, and though his tone is polite, there’s mischief in his eyes—bright, restless.
And I realize, too late, that I’ve been staring.
He catches it, of course. His mouth quirks just slightly.
Heat rushes up my neck. I look away, too fast.
Beside me, Ghan’s hand flexes against his sword hilt, the smallest movement but full of meaning.
The Gerudo have noticed the cold. Their breaths fog in the air. Queen Rima wraps her shawl tighter, though she doesn’t complain.
King Khan laughs softly. “Your mountains have teeth,” he says.
Father smiles faintly. “You arrive later than expected. The passes were treacherous?”
“Snow,” Khan admits. “Beautiful, but difficult. Our desert nights can freeze a man, yet your winter bites deeper.”
“It does,” Father agrees.
Mother steps forward with courtly grace. “We are honored you braved such travel to reach us. If you wish, cloaks can be provided until you are within the warmth of the castle.”
Rima shakes her head kindly. “We thank you, Your Majesty, but we are well. The air here is sharp, yes—but it smells of clean stone and pine. I had forgotten such scents existed.”
Her words draw a small smile even from Father.
Still, he gestures to a waiting servant, who brings a tray of mulled wine—warm, spiced, meant as welcome. The Gerudo accept it readily.
I keep my eyes fixed forward, though I feel Ganon’s gaze flicker to me now and then. Not in mockery, exactly. More… curiosity.
When Father finishes the formal greetings, Khan inclines his head toward him. “Your Highness, I thank you for the honor of this peace. My sons and I have looked forward to meeting the Princess whose name now links our two nations.”
My heart stutters.
Father glances toward me. The cue is clear.
I step forward, every motion deliberate, slow. My breath feels too loud. I drop into a bow, signing the words as my attendant interprets: It is my honor to meet you, King Khan, Queen Rima, and your sons.
Khan bows in return, smiling. “The honor is ours, Princess Rin. You are as your father said—grace and light.”
My cheeks burn. I sign You are kind, but my hands tremble slightly.
Then Ganon speaks, and his voice—lower, younger, unexpectedly warm—cuts through the air. “So you’re to be my betrothed,” he says. “I was told you were shy.”
I look up, startled. His smile is playful, not cruel, but it still stings.
Before I can reply, Ghan steps forward, his tone cold. “It is improper, Prince Ganon, to address the Princess of Hyrule without her father’s leave.”
Ganon blinks, then inclines his head slightly. “My apologies, Prince—?”
“Prince Ghan,” Father supplies evenly, though his tone warns both men to be cautious. “Heir to Hyrule.”
“Ah.” Ganon’s grin softens, but the spark remains. “Then my apology, Prince Ghan. We Gerudo speak freely among equals. I forget your customs differ.”
Ghan’s jaw tightens. “They do.” For a moment, I’m caught between the relief of a man’s protection, and the irritation that both Ghan and I are bothered by so much skin on my betrothed…
King Khan chuckles, not unkindly. “Our sons mean no offense, King Rhoam. In the desert, frankness is respect.”
“And in Hyrule, reserve is,” Father replies with gentle firmness.
For a moment, the air is thin between them—two kings, two worlds. Then both men smile, and the tension eases enough to breathe again.
Queen Rima steps forward gracefully, drawing attention away from the men. “Princess Rin,” she says, “your hair catches the light beautifully. It reminds me of dawn over the dunes.”
I manage a small bow in thanks, unable to think of a proper reply.
She studies me kindly. “And those rumored markings on your hands—may I?”
I nod hesitantly, extending my gloved hands. She takes one, turning it gently palm up. Her skin is warm, calloused in a way no Hylian queen’s would be. When she peels back the glove slightly and sees the darker skin at my fingertips, her smile broadens.
“How curious,” she murmurs. “We call such coloring a blessing of strength in our tribe.”
“I have always thought them beautiful,” Mother says, stepping closer. But she would, considering she’s more Rito than Hylian. I wish the courtiers felt so too, but at least where I am going—perhaps I won’t wear gloves there.
Father’s expression softens briefly as he watches the three of us.
Then, inevitably, the cold bites harder with the snap of early-spring wind on flying banners, and Khan laughs again, shaking his head. “Your Majesty, forgive our shivering. Our desert garb was not made for mountain air.”
Father’s mouth quirks. “You were warned.”
“True,” Khan says cheerfully. “But we did not wish to offend by arriving in heavier furs. I understand modesty is prized here.”
His glance flicks—briefly, knowingly—to the rows of watching nobles who stand wrapped to the throat in embroidered cloaks. A ripple of discomfort moves through them.
Mother answers before anyone else can. “Our modesty is as much custom as climate,” she says. “We will not mistake adaptation for insult.”
Khan bows slightly, clearly pleased by her grace.
Still, Ghan bristles beside me, his voice low but hard. “Even so, a man should be properly clothed before his betrothed.”
Ganon’s head turns, eyes narrowing just a little. “In Gerudo, Prince, it would be insult to hide before one’s bride. We do not trade illusions.”
The words are not sharp, but the meaning lands like a stone dropped in still water.
Ghan draws breath to reply, but Father’s quiet cough stops him. “Differences in custom are the challenge and beauty of peace,” Father says smoothly. “And the reason we share our tables before we share our laws.”
King Khan grins broadly. “Wise words. Then let us share that table soon.”
“You shall,” Father says. “Our household will host a formal meal at sunset, to honor your arrival and our new accord.”
“Then we are doubly honored,” Khan says, bowing. “Until then, we would rest our horses and our bones. The road was long.”
“Of course,” Father replies. He gestures to a steward. “You and your family will be given chambers in the east wing, close to the great hearth. Servants will attend to your needs.”
Khan nods appreciatively. “Generous. I thank you, King Rhoam.”
The formality of farewell begins—bows, polite words, the kind that mean nothing but fill the air.
Ganon is the last to turn away. As he follows his family toward the entry doors, he glances over his shoulder once, meeting my gaze again. His smile this time is smaller, thoughtful. My gaze slides from green eyes to silky crimson hair pulled into a knot, adorned with gold, draping over his well-built shoulder… Don’t stare, it’s lecherous!
I look away first.
Only when the doors close behind them do I release the breath I’ve been holding.
Father exhales quietly beside me. “That went better than I dared hope,” he murmurs.
Ghan snorts softly. “If that is better, I’d hate to see worse.”
Mother gives him a look, half reproach, half sympathy. “They are not our enemies any longer, Ghan.”
“Forgive me if I don’t forget centuries overnight,” he mutters. “And that prince you’ve betrothed her to—I’m absolutely horrified by the amount of skin he subjected my sister to,” he sniffs. Frankly, I agree.
I don’t speak, though I agree more than I want to. My pulse still hasn’t settled.
Father rests a hand on my shoulder. “You did well,” he says gently. “Steady as stone.”
I nod, though inside I feel anything but steady.
The nobles begin to disperse, their whispers already spinning. I hear fragments—“so little clothing”—“brazen people”—“beautiful beasts”—and swallow hard.
As the courtyard empties, the first flakes of snow begin to fall again, slow and pale against the red banners the Gerudo left behind.
It’s strange, I think, how something can be so beautiful and so terrifying all at once.

The castle feels smaller with the Gerudo inside it.
Their voices fill the corridors — low, warm, laughing. Their steps sound different, heavier, more confident than any Hylian courtier’s. When they walk, they do not seem to glide like nobles of Hyrule, but stride, as if the marble floors were their own dunes.
By the time we gather in the great dining hall, the entire castle seems to hold its breath. The hearth roars, snow tapping faintly at the high windows, and the scent of roasting beef and onions mixes with the spices the Gerudo have brought with them — cinnamon, pepper, something sharp and floral.
I take my seat to Father’s left. To my right sits Ghan, rigid as carved stone. Across from me is Ganon.
Of course.
He meets my gaze with that same smirk he’d worn in the courtyard, though his eyes gleam softer now in the candlelight. His hair catches gold from the fire. When he notices me looking, his grin widens just a little, like we share some joke I do not understand.
I lower my eyes quickly, pretending to adjust my napkin.
Father clears his throat, beginning the formal welcome. “To peace,” he says, lifting his cup. “May the friendship between Hyrule and the Gerudo be lasting and true.”
Khan raises his own cup, smiling broadly. “To peace—and to courage in keeping it.”
They drink. The rest of us follow.
The first course arrives: a thick soup of root vegetables and cream. The Gerudo stare at it as if uncertain whether it’s food or plaster.
Hara, the second prince, dips his spoon first. “It’s… very mild,” he says after a pause, in what sounds like an attempt at diplomacy.
Leove grins. “Mild? It tastes like a polite conversation.”
Ghan’s expression tightens; Ganon, on the other hand, bursts out laughing.
Father’s brows rise, but before he can respond, Khan gives his son a sharp look and smacks the back of his head with practiced precision. “Mind your tongue,” he says mildly.
Ganon rubs the spot with a mutter that sounds like apology. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I forget—our food would burn your tongues off.”
“That may be true,” Father replies evenly, “but our kitchens could learn from your people’s use of spice. The last time I tasted Gerudo cooking, it was… memorable.”
Rima chuckles. “That means it hurt him,” she says to me in a conspiratorial whisper. I almost laugh, startled.
She smiles as if pleased she’s earned it.
When the servants bring the second course—roasted boar with bread and potatoes—the conversation begins to loosen. Khan asks after the harvests; Mother inquires about the desert’s irrigation; and Rima, who seems to notice my silence, draws me into gentle talk with her daughters-in-law.
They speak easily, without the constant restraint Hylians are trained into. They touch one another’s arms as they talk, lean close to share words. When I hesitate to sign in response, one of the Gerudo women signs back fluidly, to my surprise.
You sign? I manage to sign in return.
She nods. Many of us do. The desert wind steals sound sometimes; we learn to speak with our hands.
The answer warms me, though I can feel Ganon’s eyes on me again.
When I glance up, he’s grinning faintly. “You do that quickly,” he says. “With your hands.” I arch a brow. He adds, too smoothly, “Pretty hands, though. Sharp. Like talons, almost.”
“Ganon,” Khan warns in that same even tone.
Ganon raises both palms, the picture of innocence. “I only meant—strong. A warrior’s hands.”
“Still your mouth,” his mother says this time, though there’s amusement under her voice.
He obeys, but the smirk lingers.
I focus very carefully on my plate, cheeks hot. What does he mean by that? He smirks too often to read.
The hall is warmer now; the firelight plays against gold and silver goblets, and the murmur of conversation is steady if cautious. The Hylians mostly keep to polite topics—trade, politics, climate—while the Gerudo speak with color, with life. They talk of their horses, the scent of rain on sand, the stars.
When Hara describes the night sky in the desert—“so clear you can see the gods’ footprints”—I catch Mother smiling faintly, lost in memory.
“Your queen knows the desert?” Khan asks gently.
“Partly,” Mother says. “My people—the Rito—fly above it sometimes, during the winter migration.”
Khan nods with respect. “Then perhaps you understand why we love it so.”
Father joins in then, a lightness in his tone. “And why you are eager to leave our cold.”
Laughter follows, easing the tension.
And yet, under the table, my hands fidget. Every word, every gesture, feels like walking a knife’s edge.
The Gerudo princes are trying, I can tell—they mind their manners, bow their heads when spoken to—but there is still an unspoken difference in the air.
When Rima laughs loudly at one of Leove’s jokes, some of the Hylian nobles at the far table glance over sharply. When Ganon leans an elbow on the table, Ghan frowns. When the Gerudo men tear their bread with their hands rather than knives, one courtier visibly flinches.
To them, this is savagery. To the Gerudo, it is comfort.
It is exhausting to sit between both worlds.
Dessert is fruit preserves and sweet wine, which the Gerudo like much better than the soup. Leove raises his glass in cheer. “At last, something that bites back!”
Even Ghan smiles slightly at that.
Khan catches the small spark of camaraderie and seizes it. “Good. We will bring our own spices next time, to teach your cooks a few new sins.”
“Please do,” Mother says lightly, and it earns genuine laughter from both sides.
For a brief, strange moment, the hall feels almost easy.
And then Ganon ruins it.
“So, Princess,” he says to me across the table, voice low but not low enough. “When we’re married, will I have to wear sleeves all the time?”
I nearly choke on my wine.
Rhea, seated farther down, blinks wide-eyed. Ghan sets down his goblet with a loud clack.
“Ganon.” Khan’s tone carries warning.
“What?” Ganon says innocently, turning his cup between his fingers. “I only meant—if the climate here requires it. I’m trying to learn your customs.”
But there’s laughter in his eyes, and the edges of his mouth tilt just so.
“Your concern for tradition is noted,” Father says coolly. “Perhaps such matters are best left for a more… private discussion.”
“Of course,” Ganon replies, too smoothly again.
The conversation sputters for a beat, then limps back to safer topics.
Queen Rima leans toward Father and offers an apology for her son’s behavior; Khan simply smacks Ganon lightly across the back of his head again, this time with a muttered scolding in Gerudo.
Whatever he says, it makes the younger prince wince. “Yes, Father,” Ganon mutters, genuinely subdued now.
He doesn’t speak again for several minutes.
When he does, it’s softer. “I am sorry, Princess,” he says, almost sincerely. “My tongue runs ahead of my head.”
I glance up, unsure whether to forgive or glare. His expression is oddly sheepish. I nod once. That’s all he gets.
Khan smiles approvingly at the quiet exchange, as if it pleases him to see humility in his son.
The rest of dinner passes in relative calm. The Gerudo share stories of the desert storms—walls of sand that swallow caravans whole, oases where fruit grows sweeter than honey. The Hylians respond with tales of blizzards, of wolves and harvest festivals.
It is strange, listening. Our lands are different, but both brutal in their own ways. Both demand endurance.
When the plates are finally cleared, Father rises. “You have traveled far,” he says to Khan and his family. “May you find comfort tonight in our halls. Tomorrow we will speak of treaties and trade.”
Khan stands, bowing. “And tonight, of friendship.”
He glances to Rima, who nods, then back to Father. “Your daughter is brave, King Rhoam. I see it in her eyes. She will not be easily broken by the desert.”
Father’s hand, resting on my shoulder, tightens slightly. “Nor by anything else.”
The two kings exchange a long look—mutual, cautious respect.
Then Khan turns to his family. “Come, my sons. Leave these good people to rest.”
As they file out, Ganon lingers at the door for half a heartbeat, looking back over his shoulder. The grin is gone now—only curiosity remains.
For reasons I can’t name, that unnerves me more than his arrogance had.
When the doors close, the hall exhales.
Mother’s voice breaks the silence first. “Well,” she says softly. “That could have gone far worse.”
Father chuckles, weary but not unhappy. “It could have gone far better, too.”
Ghan snorts, muttering something about insolence, but I barely hear him.
Because even now, through the warmth and laughter returning to the room, I can still feel Ganon’s gaze on me—like the echo of desert heat that refuses to fade.

Chapter Text

The plates are gone, the servants dismissed, the laughter dimmed to murmurs.
Wine glows like garnet in crystal cups; the air is warm with spice and candlewax. I wish I could slip away—to my room, to silence—but Father asked me to stay, and I can’t leave him to face them alone.
The courtiers have retreated with the Gerudo lords to another chamber. There, I know, they will talk trade, salt, and routes—safe topics that don’t bleed. Here, only the royal families remain: my parents, Ghan and Rhea beside me; across from us, Khan and Queen Rima, their sons behind them.
The fire pops. Someone refills the cups. For a while, there is only soft conversation—Rima speaking with Mother about the cold, Khan thanking Father for hospitality.
And then Father shifts in his seat. I see the change before he even speaks: the measured inhale, the subtle squaring of shoulders.
He is preparing for formality. I tense. I remember, from the sisters before me, when their betrothed and future family sat across from them, the question that is coming. I remember the absolute pity I felt for each of them, and the guilty relief that it was not me.
Hylia, truly, you can be cruel.
“King Khan,” he says at last, voice calm but careful, “forgive the bluntness of what I must ask. It is customary in Hyrule, before a betrothal is sealed, to confirm…” He hesitates, eyes flicking toward me. I feel my stomach turn. “…the purity of the bride.”
The room stills. The fire crackles.
Rima tilts her head, not understanding at first. “Purity?”
“Her virginity,” Father clarifies, steepling his fingers into something relaxed only by repetition.
The word lands like a stone in a sacred pool.
For a moment, there is only stunned quiet. Then, almost imperceptibly, the Gerudo brothers exchange glances—Leove snorts softly; Hara mutters something under his breath.
Ganon raises a brow. His expression is… amused, maybe incredulous.
Khan leans back slowly in his chair. “Ah,” he says. “I see. That is… tradition, then?”
“It is,” Father replies. “Merely a confirmation. A matter of custom, not insult.”
“Not insult,” Khan repeats softly, as if tasting the words. His tone is polite, but the muscles in his jaw tighten.
Mother’s fingers tighten on her goblet. Rhea’s eyes dart toward me; Ghan’s do not move at all. He sits very still, staring straight ahead, face carved of marble.
“No confirmation is necessary,” Khan says finally, his voice even. “We do not require such proof. We trust your word.”
“That is gracious,” Father says, relief edging his tone. “Still, it is tradition that—”
Khan lifts a hand. “We are not concerned with her body’s untouched state.”
He pauses, eyes softening as he glances toward me. “We are concerned only that she has not been robbed of her pleasure.”
The room seems to stop breathing.
I blink. Pleasure?
I do not understand at first. Then his next words land.
“Many rumors reach the desert,” he says mildly, as if discussing weather. “Some say your people—particularly the royals—train their daughters only in duty, not delight. That they… do something, perhaps, to ensure the body does not—ah—respond.”
The silence is absolute.
I feel heat flood my face; I don’t know whether it’s shame or disbelief.
“Respond?” Ghan’s voice breaks it, sharp and cold. “To what exactly?”
Khan blinks, faintly surprised at the question. “To pleasure. To the act. To her husband.” I can feel the humiliation start to creep up my neck, but I bite my tongue until it bleeds and repeat the begging prayer until the blood flow returns to normal.
“King Khan,” Father interrupts, his voice tight now, “such notions are absurd.”
Khan lifts his brows, unruffled. “Then I am glad to hear it.”
Beside him, Ganon coughs into his fist, clearly fighting a grin. Leove doesn’t bother hiding his. Rima elbows both of them sharply, hissing something in Gerudo that sounds like enough.
“I assure you,” Father continues, his tone a degree colder, “our customs do not mutilate or—how did you put it—diminish—our daughters.”
“I did not mean offense,” Khan replies evenly. “But you must understand: to us, denying the self is a form of cruelty.”
“Our restraint,” Mother says quietly, “is not denial.”
“Perhaps not,” Rima says, smiling gently. “But your priests speak of shame, do they not? Of purity as virtue, pleasure as sin?”
“They speak of discipline,” Father corrects.
Rima’s smile does not waver. “Discipline of what?”
The tension between them hums like a string drawn too tight. I want to disappear into the floor. But I manage to keep an even face, and don’t pause in taking a slow sip of water.
Ghan finally speaks again, his voice low, dangerous. “This is hardly appropriate for discussion in my sister’s presence.”
Khan’s eyes flick to him. “Your sister is to be married,” he says simply. “Should she not understand the life she’s being given?”
Ghan’s hand closes around his goblet until his knuckles go white. “You speak of her as though she is not here.”
Khan’s tone softens. “Then I will speak to her.”
He turns to me, and his gaze is not unkind. “Princess, forgive our candor. I mean only this: in Gerudo, a woman’s pleasure is her right. Her joy sustains her strength. It is not something to be hidden.”
My face burns hotter than the fire, but I manage to hold onto composure. I can barely look at him.
Rhea’s hand finds mine under the table, squeezing. A sister older than me finally in the place I’ve only ever been before. She must be so guilty-glad it’s not her virginity, her—whatever it is he means by ‘pleasure’—they’re discussing.
Father clears his throat, his composure fraying. “This discussion is over.”
But Khan does not seem insulted—only thoughtful. “Then we will speak of other things.”
He raises his glass and takes a long drink, the moment slipping away as easily as sand through fingers.
Yet the damage is done.
The room feels smaller, tighter. The fire seems to burn too bright.
Rima sighs softly, almost amused. “Forgive my husband, Your Majesty. He forgets sometimes that not all people are as blunt as desert winds.”
“Bluntness is a trait I can respect,” Father says, though the edge in his tone betrays him.
A long pause follows. Then Khan smiles, almost weary. “Peace between peoples is not built in a night, nor with one meal. But I hope, at least, we have made a start.”
Ghan mutters something under his breath that sounds nothing like agreement.
Khan either does not hear or chooses not to. “Perhaps tomorrow, Your Majesty, our scholars might meet. There is much we can share—arts, knowledge, maps of the border. Less contentious matters.”
“That would be wise,” Father says. “For tonight, though, I think our guests must be tired.”
Khan inclines his head, reading the dismissal gracefully. “Indeed. The journey was long.”
He rises, followed by his sons. Ganon lingers again, bowing with a hint too much charm.
“Princess,” he says, voice low, “I look forward to knowing you better.”
Before Ghan can bark a retort, Rima neatly takes Ganon’s arm. “You will have time for that when your mouth learns patience.”
He laughs softly, unrepentant, but allows himself to be led away.
When the doors close behind them, the silence they leave behind feels almost holy.
No one speaks for a long time. The fire hisses.
Then Ghan exhales through his nose, sharp and furious. “These are the people you would send her to, Father?”
“Ghan,” Mother warns, but he shakes his head. “No. This—this talk of pleasure and shame, at a royal table—”
“Enough,” Father says, voice low but commanding. “They are different, not depraved.”
“Different?” Ghan’s eyes flash. “They asked whether she—” He stops himself, glancing toward me, jaw tight. “No. I will hold my tongue. But I cannot pretend to welcome this.”
“I never asked you to,” Father says tiredly. “I ask you to welcome peace.”
Mother sets down her cup with a faint clink. “They mean no harm,” she says softly. “They think this way because they have always lived freely.”
“Freedom,” Ghan mutters, “is not the same as decency.”
Father closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “This is precisely why we must bridge this divide. If we cannot learn to see them as equals, we will forever be enemies.”
No one argues, but the air still hums with quiet disapproval.
Rhea squeezes my hand again. Her fingers tremble.
When Father finally dismisses us, I rise on unsteady legs. The corridor outside feels cool and vast after the heat of the fire.
As I walk back toward my chambers, the words echo in my head.
Pleasure. Right. Shame.
Words that never belonged in a princess’s world.
I know I should feel insulted, as my brother does. Instead, all I feel is… confused.
Because part of me, hidden and small, wonders what it means—that someone might care not only that I am untouched, but that I am alive.

Chapter Text

The knock comes far too early.
I have only just finished braiding my hair—tight, proper, every strand tucked, telling anyone who looks at my head that I am a betrothed daughter of my father’s house—and I haven’t yet summoned the courage to leave my room after last night’s… disaster. The court will still be whispering, I’m sure. It may have been ‘private’, but—well. Even the stone halls have ears.
The knock sounds again, heavier this time.
I glance toward the door, frown, and finally gesture for my attendant to open it. She does—and freezes.
Prince Ganondorfdorf of the Gerudo stands framed in the doorway, sunlight spilling behind him.
He looks nothing like the courtly men of Hyrule. His tunic is sleeveless again—scarlet, embroidered with gold—and his arms are bare to the shoulder, all muscle and bronze skin and far too much confidence. His hair, a deep red-brown, is tied back loosely, a few rebellious strands falling across his brow.
He grins when he sees me. “Good morning, Princess.”
My attendant’s mouth opens and closes, fishlike. Why did it have to be her morning?
“Breakfast,” he continues, stepping forward just enough to cast a shadow over my floor. “I thought it polite to escort you.”
His voice is warm and rich, roughened at the edges like sand over stone.
Polite. Goddess save me.
He doesn’t close the door—thank the light—but he does enter, and the room suddenly feels too small. He fills the space with his presence, with his height, his smell—sun, spice, and faint smoke.
My attendant stammers, “Your—Your Highness, perhaps—”
It’s all right. I sign, cutting her off.
Ganondorfdorf’s eyes flick to my hands, curious. “You speak with your fingers.”
I nod, wary. He had to have noticed that last night; I didn’t try to hide it, so why mention it now as if it’s something new?
He steps closer, tilting his head. “And yet not everyone seems to understand you.” Hmph. So, he noticed that.
Only those who bothers to learn, I sign.
He laughs—a short, amused sound that fills the room. “Sharp tongue for someone without a voice.”
I bristle and glare. What kind of statement is that, to your future wife?
He holds up his hands, mock surrender. “Peace, Princess. I meant no insult.”
He doesn’t sound sorry at all.
My attendant looks between us, utterly lost. I gesture for her to leave. After a moment’s hesitation, she bows and backs out, shutting the door halfway—open enough to be proper, closed enough to muffle sound.
When I turn back, Ganondorfdorf is wandering toward the window, examining my shelves of books and feathers. “So this is how a Hylian princess lives,” he says. “Quietly. Everything neat, everything still.”
He touches a feather, careful not to bend it. “You really are a child of the sky. No wonder you look uncomfortable in stone walls.”
I fold my arms behind my spine primly, unsure whether to be flattered or offended.
He turns, grinning. “Do you always stare at people that way, or is it just me?”
I sign, You are loud.
“That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called.”
I rebel the urge to roll my eyes and move toward my cloak. Maybe if I simply walk to breakfast, he’ll follow and talk to the air instead. But before I can take two steps, he moves—quick, almost playful—and plants one hand against the wall beside my head.
Not trapping me, not quite—but close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to look at him.
The air seems to hum.
He smells faintly of cinnamon and dust. His skin glows warm in the morning light. His grin is pure mischief.
“Forgive me,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “I wanted a closer look.”
I freeze. Every lesson of propriety I’ve ever learned slams into me at once. I should step back. I should call for someone. I should—
He leans in a fraction closer. “You really are beautiful, you know.” My heart jumps so hard I almost drop my cloak. His eyes search my face—not mocking, not cruel. Curious. Intense. Then he smirks. “You blush easily.”
I snap my hands up to sign, You are inappropriate!
“Probably,” he says cheerfully. “But you’re my betrothed.” His voice is suddenly so warm and close in my ear: “I’m allowed to admire you.”
Not before marriage! I sign furiously.
He laughs again, the sound rich and warm and entirely indecent. “Ah, there’s that Hylian modesty again. You lot act as if attraction is a crime.”
He steps back, finally giving me space, and I nearly stumble with relief.
“Relax, Princess,” he says. “If I truly wanted to offend you, I’d have closed the door.”
I glare so hard he only grins wider.
He strolls toward the doorway, hands behind his back, as if we’ve merely discussed the weather. “Come now. If you hide up here, your people will think I scared you.”
You did! I sign sharply.
“Good,” he says, turning with that infuriating smirk. “Then at least I made an impression.”
I grab my cloak, half in fury, half to keep from shaking. He watches, amused, as I pull it tight around me up to my chin.
“Still hiding?”
Still modest.
“Pity.”
He offers his arm as if nothing happened. “Breakfast, then?” I wonder if he had forgotten he’d had an actual purpose coming to my room.
I ignore the arm and stride past him, chin high. It’s rude, but by Hylia I am not touching him after the stunt he just pulled. I keep my face mostly schooled, but irritation rolls under my skin. How does he get away with acting like this?
He follows, laughing under his breath.
Behind us, the open door swings a little in the draft—just enough to whisper shut as we leave. The hallways are quiet at this hour, pale light pouring through the tall windows and onto velvet runners. Our footsteps echo off the marble floors. I keep mine small and measured. Ganondorf’s stride is long, lazy, a slow stalk that seems to take up more space than it should.
He doesn’t stop talking.
“You Hylians walk as if the floor might complain,” he says, his tone playful. “In the desert, we walk like we own the sand.”
I sign, Maybe that’s why it keeps blowing away.
He barks a laugh—loud enough that two servants down the hall flinch. “Sharp tongue again. I like that.”
I quicken my pace. Maybe if I outdistance him—
Of course not. His legs are twice the length of mine.
He falls into step beside me again. “Tell me, Princess,” he says, his voice low enough now that only I can hear, “is it true that Hylians never touch their betrothed before marriage?”
I glance at him sharply. Oh, you hog.
His grin widens. “Ah. So it is true.”
We do not discuss such things in public, I sign, a little too quickly.
“We’re not in public,” he counters. “We’re in a hallway. And I’m curious.”
I tighten my cloak. My ears feel hot.
He leans down a little, almost conspiratorial. “In Gerudo, we believe you learn someone by touch. A hand on the shoulder. A kiss.”
My eyes snap to him, scandalized.
He’s grinning again, wolfish. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I said a kiss, not what you’re thinking.”
I am not thinking anything!
“Liar,” he says easily.
My steps falter, and he laughs, rich and delighted, as if he’s found a secret toy.
“Tell me, then,” he continues, “if two Hylians are betrothed—no touch, no kisses—how do they know they’ll even like each other?”
I sign sharply, Liking is not necessary for marriage.
He stops walking for half a heartbeat, then catches up, studying me. “Not necessary,” he repeats slowly, as if tasting the words. “That’s a cold way to live.”
It is proper, I reply.
He shakes his head. “Proper is just another word for frightened.”
That stings more than I expect.
I sign, You know nothing of Hyrule.
“And you know nothing of me,” he says, smiling still—but softer now, just a little. “Maybe that’s why we’re here. To change that.”
I don’t answer.
We pass a pair of guards, who bow stiffly. Ganondorf inclines his head to them—perfectly polite, his smile the same—but I catch the faintest glint in his eyes. He knows how much he unsettles everyone. He likes it.
When they’re gone, he tilts his head toward me. “Tell me something honest, Princess. When you saw me last night—”
I sign immediately, You were indecent!
He grins wider. “That wasn’t the question. When you saw me—what did you think?”
My throat burns. I turn forward again, refusing to meet his gaze.
He chuckles. “You thought I was handsome.” He leans closer, eyes glinting gold from the early morning sun. “I bet you wondered what my skin felt like, hm?”
I whirl on him, signing so fast my hands nearly blur. You are insufferable! Good Hylia, man, how could you throw words like that around?!
He laughs louder this time, his voice echoing up into the vaulted ceiling. “Goddess, you’re fun. No wonder my mother liked you.”
Your mother barely spoke to me, I sign, confused and flustered.
“She doesn’t need to. She has eyes.”
My heart feels like it’s beating in my ears now. Stop, I try to sign, but my hands fumble halfway through.
He catches it, somehow understanding anyway. He smirks but slows his pace, his voice dropping again. “Forgive me. I forget that your people are… delicate.” I inhale sharply in offense. Delicate?! Have you any idea how harsh the winters, how short the summers, how intense the rains? Delicate! What an arrogant child.
We are civilized, I counter.
“Civilized,” he muses. “We call that ‘lonely’ where I come from.”
That makes me glance at him.
He’s not looking at me now, but straight ahead, his grin faded, tone almost thoughtful. “All those rules about touch, and voice, and what can be said. Doesn’t it ever feel like you’re living half a life?”
My throat tightens. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s wrong or because he might not be.
It keeps the world in order, I sign finally.
“And if the world needs a little disorder?”
I shake my head. It does not. Disorder comes only in large waves, never ‘a little’. Then chaos follows.
He chuckles again, not mocking this time. “Maybe. But sometimes chaos makes good stories.”
We reach the end of the corridor, where sunlight spills in through a tall window, turning the stone warm gold. I move to pass him—but he stops, turning just enough that his arm brushes mine.
It’s nothing—barely a touch—but I flinch anyway, instinct.
He watches me, and for a heartbeat, his teasing fades entirely. “You really don’t like being touched, do you?”
It is not proper, I sign, slower this time.
He nods once, serious now. “Then I’ll remember that.”
The silence stretches between us.
Then his grin returns, sudden and bright. “Still,” he says, “you’ll have to get used to me eventually. We are to be married.”
Sometime after we reach Geurdo, yes.
“Three months to get there.” His tone is lighter again. “You might even start liking me by then. Besides how are we going to share a bed if you dislike touch so badly?” I purse my lips. Frankly, I don’t know how, either. I don’t know how I can marry this insufferable bastard, but, well… I have no choice, really.
I sign, Doubtful.
He laughs and gestures toward the great hall. “Come, Princess. Let’s test that theory over breakfast.”
As we walk, my pulse refuses to slow. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, every step deliberate, every breath counted.
We’re only a few turns from the grand hall when I realize he’s walking closer again—too close. The air between us feels charged, like the breath before lightning.
I fix my eyes on the corridor ahead. Steady, I tell myself silently, though my pulse is still galloping.
Ganondorf says nothing for several steps. It’s worse than when he’s talking. He walks quietly now, deliberately. His boots whisper against the marble; the warmth of him presses at the edge of my space.
Then, without warning, he leans closer. His voice is barely above a whisper, low enough that even the guards ahead can’t hear.
“You know,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinking about our wedding night.” He looks at me with eyes sharp and bright enough to pin a man. “You’re so small. You must be delicate. And pale—you look soft as a pearl, you know. Wonder if that’s true,” he says teasingly, starting to walk again.
I nearly stumble. What—why—who does he think he is?! Why did Father let him come walk me to breakfast? How could he have ever thought a Hylian can truly get along with a Gerudo?
He grins, seeing it. “Don’t look so startled. It’s only natural, isn’t it? Two people betrothed—one bed waiting.”
My hands tremble so badly I can’t even sign. I glare at him instead.
He seems delighted. “Ah, that look. You Hylians pretend not to think about it, but your eyes always give you away.”
You are being indecent, I sign once I find my control again.
He watches my hands move, eyes bright with mischief. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
He leans in, voice softer still. “Where I come from, it’s indecent not to learn what pleases your betrothed. A marriage is meant to be...” he smirks, “generous.”
The word rolls off his tongue like a promise.
I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. He notices, of course—he always notices.
“I’d be generous with you,” he says, and though his tone is teasing, there’s something beneath it that makes my knees weak. “You’d never go hungry for affection again.”
My heart is thundering.
He’s not even touching me—just words—but they’re heavier than any hand.
I manage to sign, Stop.
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Stop teasing you? Or stop talking about pleasure?”
Both!
He laughs softly, the sound curling around me like warm smoke. “That’s a shame. I had so many ideas to share. Ways to make a shy princess forget she’s supposed to be proper—”
I sign furiously, Enough!
That makes him grin wider. He leans close again, until I can feel his breath stir the small hairs at my temple. “If you blush any darker, little dove, the whole castle will think I’ve kissed you.”
I shove him—not hard, but enough to make my point. It’s childish, I know it, yet I can’t help it. We’re alone anyway, it’s not like it will stain my reputation. He steps back easily, laughing.
“I’m teasing, Princess. Mostly.”
I want to hit him. I want to vanish. I want to stop shaking.
You are cruel, I sign, but it comes out small, trembling.
His laughter softens. “Cruel? No. Never that.”
He studies me for a moment—eyes searching, unexpectedly gentle. “You really don’t know, do you?”
I frown. Know what?
“How to be wanted.”
The words stop me cold. Wanted. He says it like he likes me already—but by his nature, he probably just means sexually. Beast. Even so, for a moment, I can’t breathe.
He says it without mockery, without arrogance. Just quiet certainty. Then, before I can gather a reply, he smiles again—bright, unbothered, almost boyish. “But don’t worry. I’m patient. I’ll teach you. Gently. So as not to break your delicate freshwater bones.”
The spell breaks.
My hands shake as I sign, You are impossible!
“Frequently,” he says, as if it’s a compliment.
I spin on my heel and march ahead, trying to walk faster than my heartbeat. Behind me, his laughter follows—low and pleased and utterly unbearable.
“Wait, Princess,” he calls, lengthening his stride to catch up. “You’ll get lost. These halls all look the same.”
I have lived here my entire life! I sign without slowing. Idiot!
He grins. “Then you should have no trouble showing me the way. I’d be lost without you.” How does he turn a sentence around so quickly?
I whirl, signing sharply, You will be lost if you don’t stop talking!
That just makes him laugh harder.
We reach the last turn before the great hall. The scent of bread and spice drifts through the air—familiar, grounding, blessedly normal.
I stop to collect myself. My palms are still tingling, my face still too warm. I smooth my skirts, straighten my cloak, breathe.
When I look up, he’s watching me—not grinning this time, but studying.
“You really are lovely when you’re angry,” he says quietly.
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
That finally earns a softer laugh, almost respectful. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave—for now.”
I start walking again, refusing to answer.
He falls in beside me, just close enough that his arm brushes mine when we turn.
“I mean it,” he says, voice dropping again—less teasing, more thoughtful. “I know I talk too much. But I want you to know what you’re walking into. The desert isn’t quiet, Princess. It sings, it sweats, it wants. We don’t hide what we are.”
I glance at him sidelong. And what are you?
He smiles faintly. “Alive.” I answer in my head: a beast.
Still. That word lingers long after the silence returns.
We turn one last corner. The grand doors to the dining hall rise ahead, carved with the crest of Hyrule. Two guards pull them open at our approach.
He steps back half a pace, letting me enter first, his voice light again as he murmurs, “After you, my dove. Let them see how radiant you look when you’re flustered.”
I shoot him one final withering look before sweeping inside, head held high. The dining hall is full of light and murmurs. Long tables run the length of the chamber, but only the central one is set today—silver plates, gilded cups, steaming dishes.
The air smells of roasted barley and spiced honey. Normally, it would comfort me. Today it makes my stomach twist.
I take my seat beside my father, trying not to glance toward the chair across from me.
Ganondorf slides into it anyway, every movement confident and unhurried. He sits as if the seat belongs to him already.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was carved from sunlight and arrogance both—his bronze skin glowing against the pale marble, his grin as sharp as ever.
But I do know better.
I know exactly what that grin hides.
I fold my hands tightly in my lap and fix my eyes on my plate.
King Rhoam speaks first. “You honor us with your presence again this morning, King Khan. And your son is gracious to escort his betrothed to breakfast.” Prince Ganondorfdorf smiles like he’s been complimented. I suppose he has but it’s only because he’s good at playing nice around my father and his. It takes genuine self-control not to snort at Father’s words.
The Gerudo king inclines his head. “And we are honored to be here, Rhoam of Hyrule. Peace tastes best when shared at the table.”
My father smiles, but it’s the practiced kind he uses in diplomacy. “Let us hope we find it filling.”
Servants begin to move—setting platters of bread and fruit, pouring tea and wine. The sound of pouring and quiet clinking fills the hall.
Across from me, Ganondorf rests his chin in his hand, watching me far too closely. His expression is unreadable to anyone who doesn’t know him.
Unfortunately, I do.
When I dare a glance up, he winks.
I nearly drop my spoon.
Rhea, seated two places down, notices. Her brow furrows in concern. I give her a small shake of my head—Later, I sign under the table.
She nods, though her gaze flickers warily to Ganondorf.
Beside him, Queen Rima is watching, too. She leans slightly toward her son, whispering something. He shrugs, unbothered, but his grin dims a shade.
King Khan clears his throat. “Our journey was long, but the mountain air is bracing. You must forgive our sons if they eat too heartily.”
“They’ll need their strength for the journey home,” my father replies.
Polite words. Measured tones. But beneath it, every sentence is a test of the other’s restraint.
I take a slow sip of tea, trying to focus on the warmth in my hands instead of the heat still lingering in my face.
When I glance up again, Ganondorf isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s speaking quietly with his eldest brother, Hara, gesturing toward the windows. The moment almost feels normal.
Until I notice the smirk.
That tiny, infuriating curl of his mouth.
He knows I’m still flustered. And worse—he’s enjoying it.
Across the table, my brother Ghan has been watching all of this. He catches my eye now, his expression careful, protective. When Ganondorf laughs at something his brother says, Ghan’s jaw tightens.
I sign to him under the table: Don’t. He’s just being himself.
Ghan’s frown deepens. Himself is going to get himself thrown out of Hyrule.
I almost smile despite myself. At this rate, I’d like to see that.
Queen Zelda breaks the silence with graceful ease. “Your journey must have been difficult, Queen Rima. The roads have been poor with the thaw.”
Rima smiles—a slow, serene expression. “The cold does not trouble us much. We are used to the chill of our own nights.”
Zelda inclines her head. “Still, I am grateful for your endurance.”
They speak like diplomats, but there’s warmth under it. Two queens who understand what it is to hold kingdoms together through their husbands.
I relax slightly—until I feel Ganondorf’s foot brush against mine beneath the table.
I jerk back instinctively, nearly spilling my tea.
His smirk deepens, but he doesn’t look at me. He simply lifts his cup and drinks.
Queen Rima sighs softly and swats his arm, murmuring something that sounds like behave yourself.
He mumbles an apology in Gerudo, low enough only she and his brothers can hear.
Ghan looks ready to leap over the table. My father places a hand subtly on his arm—a silent command: Not here.
No one else speaks for a moment. Only the sounds of plates and cutlery fill the room.
I focus on cutting a slice of bread with exquisite care. I can feel every muscle in my shoulders locked tight.
Ganondorf, of course, chooses that moment to speak again. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, his tone bright, perfectly innocent to the untrained ear, “that when we return to Gerudo City, Princess Rin might enjoy the desert gardens. They bloom even in the heat.”
I glance up, wary.
“The sands carry the scent of saffron at dusk,” he continues, eyes glinting. “There’s a place where the dunes sing. I think she’d like the sound.”
His parents smile approvingly at the idea—peaceful, poetic, diplomatic.
But I hear the undertone. I feel it. That soft rumble of teasing hidden beneath the poetry.
He’s baiting me again.
I sign with calm precision, It sounds… lovely.
“Lovely,” he echoes, grinning. “Yes. That’s the word.”
His mother gives him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “My son,” she says mildly, “perhaps you should let the princess eat in peace.”
He bows his head just enough to show obedience. “Of course, Mother.”
But that smirk stays.
By the end of the meal, my hands ache from how tightly I’ve kept them clasped. The courtiers begin to rise, the sounds of benches scraping and murmurs swelling.
My father thanks the Gerudo royals for their company, promises a tour of the upper gardens once the sun warms the stone.
Everyone stands.
Ganondorf steps around the table to offer me his hand—a gesture both cultures understand as polite.
I hesitate. His hand is large, steady, open.
I take it because it would be an insult not to.
His palm is hot, almost burning against mine.
He leans close enough for only me to hear. “You hide your temper well, little dove,” he murmurs. “But you should see your ears when you’re angry. They go pink.”
I drop his hand immediately.
He laughs quietly, the sound vibrating with satisfaction. I release his hand—Hylia, it’s so large, and warmer than it has any right to be, with soft-rough callouses from the hilt of a blade. It occurs to me to wonder why he’s named after the Terror of the Gerudo, the Dark Prince who’s incarnation has brought death and terror to the entire world periodically. He doesn’t look anything like a Dark Prince himself, yet is named after him. It must be a cultural custom?
Ganon returns to his seat prim and proper. I want to dunk him with cold water.
The hall feels softer once the plates are cleared. The servants withdraw quietly, and the heavy doors close behind them with a low, final sound.
Just the eight of us now: my parents, my siblings, the Gerudo king and queen, and their three sons.
For a while, no one speaks. Sunlight slants through the tall windows, gilding the table’s edge and making the polished silver gleam. Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, slow as snow.
Then my mother breaks the quiet. “I must thank you again, Queen Rima,” Zelda says, her tone warm but lighter than the formal address she’d used all morning. “Your journey could not have been easy this time of year.”
Rima’s answering smile is radiant. “Oh, we are used to long roads, my queen. The sands are harsher than these forests. Your mountains are merely… a change of scenery.”
That earns a quiet chuckle from my father. “A polite way of saying our kingdom is cold and wet.”
Rima laughs—a bright, rolling sound, honest and full. “You said it, not I.”
It draws a small smile from Ghan, even from Rhea. For the first time since the Gerudo arrived, the air feels almost… friendly.
I find myself studying Rima. She is tall, of course—all Gerudo women are—but there’s something soothing about her. Her hair is braided with gold and wrapped in soft linen, and when she speaks, it’s with the patience of someone who has raised more children than she can count.
Zelda leans forward slightly, her elbows resting delicately on the table, fingers laced. “You remind me of the stories of the early Gerudo queens,” she says. “Strong, but with grace.”
Rima’s eyes crinkle. “And you, my dear Zelda, remind me of the goddesses the old bards sing of—bright and untouchable, until they choose to step among mortals.”
My mother laughs softly. “Oh, I assure you, I am quite mortal. Especially before dawn, when the palace cats decide to serenade us.”
Khan, the Gerudo king, snorts. “Rima keeps cats, too. She says they protect the spirits of our home. I say they shed on my ceremonial robes.”
Rhoam grins. “I sympathize entirely.”
Even I can’t help a quiet smile at that, watching as the two kings—so different in appearance—share a look of genuine amusement.
The tension that had strangled the air for days loosens, thread by thread.
Ghan sits straighter beside me, though he still glances warily at Ganondorf now and again. But Ganondorf, for once, seems subdued. He’s listening to his father with a kind of disciplined interest, his earlier arrogance folded neatly away.
It surprises me. Maybe he isn’t always impossible.
My mother gestures gracefully toward the Gerudo queen. “Tell me, how do you teach your daughters their letters? I’ve heard that all Gerudo women are educated, even those not born to noble blood.”
Rima nods proudly. “It is true. Knowledge is the sword that never dulls. Every girl learns to read and write before she learns to wield a blade.”
“That is remarkable,” Zelda says sincerely. “I wish I could say the same for every corner of Hyrule. Even now, there are villages where books are rarer than rain.”
“Perhaps that will change,” Rima replies. “Your people have such a love for stories. All they need are the tools to write their own.”
My mother’s expression softens. “You remind me so much of my own teachers,” she murmurs. “Always believing words can change hearts.”
“They can,” Rima says simply. “They changed mine.”
Their eyes meet across the table—two queens, two mothers, understanding each other without needing translation.
I glance toward my father. He’s watching them both, and though his face remains composed, I can see the faint relief there. This—this is what he’s wanted all along. A bridge, not a battlefield.
Khan leans back in his chair. “Perhaps we should leave the kingdoms to the women, Rhoam,” he says with a grin. “They seem better suited to peace.”
“Perhaps,” my father replies dryly. “Though I’m not sure either of us would survive it.”
That earns another round of laughter.
Even Ghan cracks a faint smile.
For a long while, the conversation drifts easily—from talk of trade and education to stories of their children.
Rima tells a tale about Ganondorf as a boy—how he once tried to wrestle a sand drake because he “thought he could beat it.”
“He was twelve,” she says, shaking her head fondly. “He came home with half a scale and a new scar.”
My father laughs. “At least he survived. My sons’ bravery tended to end in fewer limbs broken, though not for lack of trying.”
Ghan chuckles at that, and even Rhea hides a grin behind her cup.
I look at Ganondorf then, and for a heartbeat, he looks—almost human. Embarrassed, even. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, It wasn’t that big of a drake.
His father claps him on the shoulder. “It was the size of a horse.”
Ganondorf groans softly. “You’ll never let that go, will you?”
Rima smiles. “No, my son. Some stories are too good to forget.”
The whole table laughs again.
And for the first time since the betrothal was announced, I feel something small and fragile take root in my chest—hope.
Maybe this doesn’t have to be war.
My gaze drifts to my father. His expression is tender now, watching my mother as she speaks easily with Rima about Hyrulean herbs and desert teas. The two women trade recipes, laughter bubbling between them like a secret.
It’s strange, seeing him like this—unguarded, almost peaceful. I realize how much weight he’s carried these last months, and how deeply he must have hoped for this moment.
When he catches my eye, he gives me a small, tired smile. The kind that says see, my little one, it might be all right.
I lower my eyes quickly, swallowing against the ache in my throat.
Because I want to believe him. I really do.
But I also know the moment of peace at this table won’t last forever. Soon, the journey will begin. The sand will replace snow. The horizon will change.
Silence settles again after the laughter fades, but it’s a softer kind of quiet this time — less stiff, less cold. The tension has bled out of the room, leaving behind a thread of something else: the first fragile stirrings of understanding.
Khan clears his throat and gives Ganondorf a warning look that promises dire consequences should he speak without thought again. Ganondorf, for once, sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his head where his father’s hand had found him thrice.
“Now,” Khan says, tone turning official once more, “before we finalize this agreement, it is tradition that both betrothed parties be given the opportunity to add or amend any terms. It is, after all, their lives that will be bound together.”
He looks between Ganondorf and me, and I can feel the weight of every pair of royal eyes follow.
“Prince Ganondorf?” Khan prompts first, because of course he does.
Ganondorf exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. “No jokes this time,” he mutters under his breath — mostly to himself. Then, louder, he says, “Actually… yes. I have a thought.”
Mother raises a delicate brow, as though surprised he’s capable of one.
Father remains impassive, though I see his fingers tap once against the tabletop — a small tell of curiosity, or perhaps cautious hope.
Ganondorf glances my way, then back to the assembled parents. “I’ve been thinking about what you said — about Rin needing time to learn our customs, to become Gerudo in her own right.”
He says my name easily, unselfconsciously, and I feel my chest tighten at the sound. No title. Just Rin. Like he’s already forgotten there’s supposed to be formality between us.
He continues, “In Gerudo tradition, a betrothed couple trains together before marriage. Not just in etiquette or diplomacy, but in survival, in combat, in command.”
My head lifts a little.
“That way,” he goes on, “each knows the other’s strengths and weaknesses. We fight side by side before we ever share a home. So when we do, we already trust each other.”
That… is not what I expected.
Father seems equally taken aback. “You mean to suggest my daughter learn your combat techniques?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ganondorf says, and there’s no trace of sarcasm or insolence in it. “Not to make her a warrior, but to let her understand us — the way we live, the way we survive the desert. I could teach her myself.”
Khan strokes his chin thoughtfully. “A fair proposal. It honors our tradition without breaking Hylian decorum. She need not fight, merely learn.”
Mother nods slowly. “It could serve her well. Knowledge of one’s allies’ ways is never wasted.”
Father’s expression softens by a degree. “A reasonable suggestion, Prince Ganondorf.”
Rima, eyes warm, looks between us. “Perhaps it will also make the transition easier. Familiarity breeds comfort — and confidence.”
I can feel everyone watching me now. Waiting.
I want to shrink beneath the table.
The idea of training with him — of being near him, daily, perhaps for hours at a time — is dizzying. A mix of dread and something else I can’t name.
He must sense it, because when his eyes flick to mine, they’re surprisingly steady. There’s no teasing there. No smirk. Just… sincerity.
I take a breath, then sign carefully, If it helps peace, I will learn.
Callen, from his post at the door, translates softly, “The princess agrees, if it serves the alliance.”
Father nods, proud but quiet. “Very good.”
Rima smiles. “Then it is settled.”
Ganondorf leans back slightly, a faint grin returning to his mouth — but this one’s small, restrained. “I promise I’ll be gentle,” he says. Khan’s glare shoots across the table so swiftly it’s almost comical. “I meant as a teacher,” Ganondorf adds hastily.
“Perhaps we’ll assign her a proper instructor,” his mother says dryly. “To ensure her safety.”
“Oh, please,” Ganondorf mutters.
I bite my lip, fighting a smile.
Khan raps his knuckles against the table once. “Very well. We will include that clause. Any other additions?”
The question drifts across the polished wood toward me, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
Any other additions.
A hundred words crowd my throat — none of them fit for this room.
I want to say I don’t want to go.
I want to say I don’t know them.
I want to say I don’t want to sleep beneath a foreign sky.
But my tongue is useless, and even if it weren’t — what good would those words do?
So instead, I shake my head and sign simply, No additions, Your Majesties.
Callen repeats the words softly for the record.
Mother reaches for my hand beneath the table and squeezes once. Warm, gentle, steady. The kind of touch that says I know.
I squeeze back, once, and let it go.
Father clears his throat. “Then we are agreed. The betrothal stands under the terms recorded.”
Callen scribbles quickly, the sound of quill on parchment steady and familiar.
Rhoam continues, voice measured. “Within one week, we will announce it formally to the court and the people. Following that, preparations for the princess’s journey to the Gerudo capital will begin.”
My stomach twists. I knew this moment was coming, yet hearing it out loud makes it real. Final.
Khan inclines his head. “We will ensure the journey is safe and well-escorted. She will be treated as one of our own.”
Rima nods in firm agreement. “As our daughter.”
The word lands softly but with weight.
Daughter.
My heart aches with it.
Mother smiles faintly, though I can see the sadness beneath. “Then she will be in good hands.”
Khan’s voice gentles. “You have my word.”
For a long moment, no one speaks.
Then Ghan breaks the silence, his tone polite but edged. “And my sister’s… comfort, while she learns your ways?”
Rima meets his gaze evenly. “We will not ask her to change overnight. She will have teachers, yes — but she will be free to keep her Hylian customs as she wishes.”
Father adds quietly, “She will remain Hylian in heart. But she must also become Gerudo, if this peace is to endure.”
Mother nods, her eyes meeting mine. “You will be both, Rin.”
I look down, tracing the grain of the table with my fingertips. My skin feels too tight, my heart too large.
I think of the desert — the heat I’ve never felt, the endless gold dunes I’ve only seen on maps. Of the man sitting across from me, brash and infuriating and unexpectedly thoughtful. Of the parents who will stay behind, and the home I will leave.
When I look up again, everyone’s watching me.
I raise my hands and sign, Then may the goddesses bless this peace, and make me strong enough for it.
Callen’s voice carries the words into the air, solemn and clear.
There’s a quiet murmur of approval.
Even Ganondorf, for once, doesn’t joke. He simply nods once, a glimmer of something almost respectful in his eyes.
Maybe he understands.
Or maybe he’s just learning when not to speak.
Either way, I hope we might both survive this.