A/N: This is something of a side project I came up with a little while ago. I enjoy AU stories so I thought – what the hell? Here's hoping you enjoy and please tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed, nor am I affiliated with Ubisoft, though I might as well be. Just sayin'.

Talons of a King

I: The Wager

Another winter day. It was always a hassle to wake in thick furs and blankets, but Maria couldn't complain. Compared to the poorer residents of London, she was far better off. Being able to wake up to a plate of food and surrounded in warmth was a blessing she learned not to take for granted. She arose that morning, yawning and stretching her arms into the air.

She knew better than to look out the window, because all she would find was a gray sky and a chilled wind brushing up against her face. The sun hadn't come out for well over a month, and it didn't seem to be planning to anytime soon. But that was her homeland. A cold, frigid place.

And the weather reflected the people.

A knock came at her door and Sara, the maid, let herself in with a tray of breakfast. "Good morning, my lady! I trust you have slept well." She had been in the service of her father for as long as her memories could go back. She was a tall, lean woman with kind brown eyes and auburn hair that was beginning to gray with age.

"Well enough, thank you," she replied, sighing. "Oh for the love of God, Sara, do not even bother with the curtains, it will only be the same old sight." Her maid ignored the request, thrusting the dark brown curtains aside and letting the blinding light in. She let out a groan and shoved her head under the covers into the safety of the darkness.

"Darkness is for rats and thieves," she informed her in a matter-of-fact tone, strolling over and ripping the blankets off of her body. "You need to let a little light in, or I suspect you'll go mad."

"I'm already mad," she commented in a grumble as she began eating her breakfast, which elicited a light-hearted laugh from her maid.

Sara strolled over to the armoire. "That is quite true – but I'd rather you not get … madder, so to speak, hm?"

The young woman rolled her eyes. "I'd rather be mad than boring." Sara chose a dark green gown and a black, beaded belt. Maria examined herself in a mirror. Displeased with her unkempt hair, she tied it back in a braid. She often found that she did not look much like her father. William Thorpe, chief adviser to His Majesty, King John, was a burly man with something of a square head, dark green eyes and sandy blond hair.

Maria's hair was dark enough to fool one into thinking it was black at some angles, and her eyes were a bright shade of blue. William never spoke of her mother, but Sara often told her behind closed doors that she was, without a doubt, her mother's daughter.

"Your father is entertaining foreign guests today," Sara commented. It surprised Maria, as this was the first time her father was home during the day in a long time. Whoever these foreign guests were, they must have been important. When she was younger, Maria was forced to be part of King John's court, but she had found she could never fit in with those people, and begged her father again and again to let her stay at the Thorpe manor with Sara and the hounds.

"Who are they?" she asked.

"He did not say," she answered, which was not particularly astonishing. Her father never told her anything. Their relationship had been strained from the time she was a child. She had grown accustomed to it. Maria slipped on a dark blue coat to keep her warm in the cold English air, with rabbit fur lining the large sleeves.

She turned on her heel and exited her large room, descending the stone steps in order to go to the court yard, where her dogs waited for her. Wagging their tails in excitement upon her arrival, both of them trotted up to her and let out barks of happiness at her presence. They came from the same mother, were the only two surviving pups of that litter, and she had raised them since infancy and refused to give them up for anything. They were mutts, and resembled wolves in almost every way but demeanor, which was more of that of a hunting dog.

The older and rowdiest was Arden, who had assumed since birth that he was the alpha male. His coat was a mixture of black and and silver, topped with piercing, yet soft and beautiful brown eyes. He demanded the most attention out of Maria, which had always amused her. The younger and more reserved was Eira, who was the color of snow and the runt of her litter. She was born with red eyes, which always managed to frighten whoever came into contact with her, some deeming her demonic. Because of this, she disliked everyone other than Maria and shied away from them.

"Did you both sleep well?" she asked them, smiling. Arden let out a bark, nudging her hand with his snout. That was the universal sign of hunger. Maria rolled her eyes. An animal with a one-track mind. She made her way over to the kitchen, her dogs at her heels, where the cook, Bolton, was toiling over the day's supper. She assumed it was for the foreign guests, and attempted to slink by and grab some food.

"Not so fast, my lady!" he cried. "I need every single morsel in this kitchen, do you hear me? I will not be hindered because of those mutts – I am entertaining people from another land, I'll have you know!" Bolton was nothing without his excessive theatrics. He was a large, pale man with beady brown eyes and gray hair. He was also the best cook in all of England, in Maria's not-so-humble opinion.

"I understand, Bolton," she said, attempting to look disappointed as she snaked her hand over to the counter where there lied two small pieces of beef. "I'll just look for food elsewhere …"

"You better," he grumbled, getting back to his meal, the scent of which was driving her mad with hunger. Maria tucked the meat into her sleeves and rushed out of the kitchen, grinning to herself at her sneakiness.

"Do you see what I do for you two?" she demanded to them, showing them their breakfast with a proud smirk on her face. She tossed Eira her slab, but withheld Arden's on complete purpose. His pupils dilated and his tail wagged so fast it was almost a blur. "And what is the big bad alpha male going to do?"

She took off running with the food in hand, and Arden gave chase. He let out three barks and she threw her head back in a laugh, because it was wishful thinking that she could ever outrun him. Maria didn't care that she didn't fit in with people. She had her dogs, and they were the most genuine and the most loyal of all creatures in the world.

Arden positioned himself to pounce, and she anticipated it – but he froze midway and turned his head, a growl rumbling in his throat. She raised an eyebrow and turned her head to where he was staring. Eira dashed up to her side and hid out of reflex behind her.

Three figures were advancing in the yard. In the middle, she recognized her father, but the other two were a complete mystery. The foreign guests, perhaps? She tossed Arden his breakfast and watched them walk forward with tense eyes. The strangers were dressed in odd clothing, from what she could make out from her vantage point.

"And this," she heard her father say to the both of them, "is my daughter, Maria."

One of them stepped forward. He wore white robes covered by a black overcoat. His skin was a dark olive tan, darker than she had ever seen on anyone. His facial features were intense, and his eyes, a deep chocolate, examined her with meticulous precision. And his lack of left arm was difficult to ignore.

"I am Malik Al-Sayf," he introduced himself with a heavy accent. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Maria. Your father speaks highly of you."

"The pleasure is mine," she murmured, cautious. The other hadn't said a word yet, and a good portion of his face was covered with a strange gray hood. Nonetheless, she could feel his eyes on her, boring straight through her. It made the situation a considerable bit more uncomfortable.

Malik gestured to the hooded man standing beside her father. "And this is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, king of Masyaf and many lands around it, and one of the most powerful men in all of Syria." Altaïr stepped forward, nodding his head once.

"He does not look very regal," she commented. When she thought of a king or a leader, she pictured King John and his crown adorned with jewels and gold, and his robes of many colors and accented with the finest accessories in the land. This man was covered in white and black robes and looked like he would be more suited to be trapped in a monastery somewhere.

"We do not believe in luxury and frivolity," he stated. "A leader is defined by his skill and respect for his people, not by how much gold and silk fills his closet."

"Well said," she replied, shifting her gaze to Altaïr. "Does he not speak?"

"Not in your tongue, I am afraid," Malik informed her. "His grasp of this language is sub-par, and he is the type to wish for perfection before attempting it in front of a native speaker like yourself."

How strange. "I see, then you are his interpreter?"

He nodded. "Indeed. I studied your language when I was young, and I am confident enough to say that whatever you desire me to relay to him, is almost always in my range."

It was then that she heard Altaïr speak for the first time. He asked something of Malik in a calm, direct voice, inclining his head to her dogs, who were gnawing away at their breakfast without a care in the world. The sound of such a foreign tongue intrigued her, and she tilted her head, attempting to guess what he was asking.

Malik nodded his head and turned to her. "Altaïr is wondering why you keep such large beasts so close by your side."

"They are not beasts," she huffed, offended a bit by his harsh words. She let out a soft whistle and their heads perked up. Both trotted forward to stand beside her. Maria let her hand hover over Eira, and then Arden, to identify them. "The white one is Eira, and this is her older brother, Arden. I've had them since they were pups and they are more loyal to me than any human ever would be."

Her father gave her a narrow-eyed look. A warning. But for what? She was only defending her dogs. Was that so wrong? Malik turned and explained it to Altaïr. He smirked, letting out a laugh. She didn't have to speak the language to tell he was making a sarcastic remark.

"He …" Malik hesitated, looking back and demanding something of Altaïr. It was almost like he was scolding him for a moment. He seemed to insist upon his point. The translator groaned and faced the girl again. "He asks what one so sheltered like yourself knows of loyalty."

Maria scowled. "Tell him that he should not be so arrogant as to assume he knows who I am."

Malik raised an eyebrow in surprise, but opened his mouth to relay the message until William Thorpe stopped him. "That is enough, Maria! I will not have you disrespecting my honored guests. Apologize at once."

"Father!" she cried. "He disrespected me! Did you not see what he–?"

"I will hear no more of your nonsense," he hissed, cutting her off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Apologize." Malik had translated the short exchange to Altaïr, and she was certain he had added her last comment in. There was an expectant look to him that infuriated her.

She feigned apology, stepping forward. "My apologies for my rudeness, Sir Altaïr." She bowed her head a moment before looking up and allowing the darkest look to cross her face. "But of course, you do not need Sir Malik's assistance to know I'm lying through my teeth, and that I would rather die than actually apologize to you."

As she flashed him a sweet, fake smile, she heard a snort of laughter from behind her, coming from the direction of Malik. She turned on her heel, beckoned her dogs, and went straight to her room, content that she had won the argument and uncaring of the retributions.

Although she would have loved to witness his expression when Malik translated.


When she explained what had happened to Sara, her maid sighed, running a hand through her hair in frustration. Maria, however, could still detect the faint smile on the woman's face.

"You really must learn how to control that mouth, My Lady," she warned her, shaking her head as she straightened up the room. Maria was sitting at the edge of her bed, kicking her legs back and forth, content with herself.

"You know I cannot stand by and allow some foreigner to insult me," she exclaimed, laying herself out on her bed with her hands tucked behind her head.

Sara chuckled. "I am positive you would have been married if you did not terrify every suitor that came knocking at your door with that sharp tongue."

She snorted. "A man who cannot handle me is not worth the effort." She was twenty-one, and realized that most girls at that age were either betrothed or married. The thought sometimes worried her late at night, but her pride was far too large of a factor to disregard in order to please a mere man.

Her maid frowned a bit, placing a hand against the stubborn girl's pale face. "I only want to see you happy, my dear." The thought was cut short when the door slammed open and her father filed into the room without a word, closing it behind him.

"You'd do well to remember your manners," he advised her, but something looked off. Maria knew her father, and knew how he got when he was angry, but looking at his expression, he seemed … satisfied, for some odd reason.

"That Arab bastard insulted me," she commented, enjoying the feeling of her smugness. "I only defended myself."

"Allow me to make myself clearer," he said. "You'd do well to remember your manners in the presence of your fiancé."


A/N: It isn't Maria without a little fiest, I always say. To clarify a few things: Altaïr is 25 here, around the same age when he, in game, cocked up big time forced to start all over, and had to learn a few life lessons. So, yeah, his arrogance is pre-game status. WOO.