Princess Zelda was nine years old the first time she met Gerudo leader. She disliked him immediately but as she could find no immediate reason why, she brushed that aside and was as courteous to him as a princess should be to a high-ranked visiting diplomat. She did not quite afford him the respect she would have given to a foreign king, though he called himself one. In that she was following her father's example. Rather, he was treated as an ambassador of great importance. He in turn was polite but dismissive. She accepted that as an unfortunate but unavoidable side-effect of her age. At least he did not try to bribe her with dolls and sweets as many who did not know her had. He was very large, not just in muscle but in presence. Something about him drew the eye.

She sat by her father's side during the formal greeting and farewell, and those were the only occasions on which he addressed her directly. He did not meet privately with her father. 'Privately' had always included her own presence. The king did not see her as a child, but rather as an apprentice, a ruler in training to be shown every stage of every move he made so that she would learn how to make moves of her own. She rarely spoke or was spoken to at such times, but her steady blue eyes saw everything.

As soon as the Gerudo horses were out of view of the castle gates the king, with a slight gesture of his hand, indicated for her to follow him to his own study. "What do you think of him?" He asked when they were alone together.

"I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "He makes me feel uneasy, but… for no reason I can think of."

"He wants to conquer Hyrule," the king told her with a smile. "That's why he came. To size us up." Zelda said nothing. The king continued, "He says he wants the Gerudo to become a more independent province. Perhaps completely autonomous, eventually. He says that's all he wants, and he thinks I believe him."

He paused. Zelda asked, "What else does he think?"

"That our army could not withstand an invasion from a large, organised force. That the Sheikah are no more than a thinning group of over-glorified bodyguards whose true strength has long since faded. And that the people of this kingdom would never bow to a man who had taken the throne by overthrowing us."

"It seems like he thinks right," she said quietly. He nodded. "Do we act?"

"Act how? What are our options?"

She recognised the test in his voice. "We could do nothing. It might make him underestimate us. We could try to prepare secretly to defend against an invasion, but the men and money and space it would take to restore the army would never stay secret for long. We could send spies to his land, see what he has, gain a clearer view of his plans, but the Gerudo are very good at spotting spies, and there are few Sheikah left to send. We could try to appease him, give him the desert to rule, and perhaps some of the fertile lands nearby. It could make us look weak. We could try to bind him to us somehow, incur a great debt or a high-ranking marriage…" she paused, watching his face. Something there had changed. Even at that age she could read faces extraordinarily well, but never her father. "That's what you're thinking," she guessed. "Arrange a marriage. And since he thinks himself a king, only a princess would do." Her voice was totally flat.

"It seems to be the easiest solution," the king admitted. "He'd have the kingdom. So would you. It would still be you that the people followed. And, unlike if he conquered us by force, he would have the people's good wishes."

"You really think he could conquer us?"

The king did not immediately reply. Instead he poked at the low fire, then went to lean out of the high window and look down on the town spread out below, laid out against the smooth green backdrop of the kingdom. Eventually he nodded. "He's right, you see," he said with a just a trace of regret. "We've been so safe all these years, we have so little of an army, and those we do have never faced a battle wilder than a tavern brawl or a wandering stalchild. The Sheikah lines are failing, and many of their secrets have been lost. No, my child. If he attacked us with an army of Gerudo the kingdom would not bow to him, but you and I would fall. But he is not a fool. By marrying the heir to the throne he avoids the struggle, the killing, the war and the resentment to follow."

"And sacrifices much of his power to me."

"Ah, but he doesn't know that. He looks at you and sees only a young girl. One with a crown waiting for her, yes, but still a child. He probably expects you to find a husband and hand him the reins. I'd like him to keep thinking that until after he's sworn you vows. For all his ambitions, he's a man of honour. Desert honour, at least. Let him see the reins before you take them."

"So it's arranged?" She could not quite keep the apprehension from her voice. He jerked away from the window as if stung.

"Of course not! You think I'd make such a decision on my own? No. It's only an idea. I just wanted you to understand, it seems to be the best idea. I won't marry you off to someone you wouldn't have by choice. You do understand."

"I do."

"Good."

He sat, leaning forwards to look closely into her eyes and she managed him a small smile that completely disguised how shaken she felt. He said nothing. He'd already made it her suggestion. Now he was going to make it her initiative. The King of Hyrule had no scruples about manipulating his child. "How long do I have?" She asked eventually.

"Until?"

"Until I decide if I'll have him."

The look he gave her was an odd mix of kingly satisfaction and fatherly approval. "Until shortly before it's too late for anything else," he said, then laughed at the look she gave him. "You look like your mother when you glare like that."

"Were you so vague when she had to make a decision?"

"I was never deliberately unhelpful."

"That's not exactly what I asked."

"You speak like a woman with five times your years."

"And you dance around the point like a teacher who has run out of answers."

He yielded gracefully, leaning over to brush aside a stray lock of her hair. It had been a very long day, and it was only noon. "I leave it in your hands," he said eventually. "Trusting you will have the wisdom not to leave it too late."

She accepted that, and hoped that 'too late' would not come too early. Never once had it struck her as strange that such weighty decisions were being placed on the shoulders of a nine-year-old girl. She had simply never thought of herself that way. She had never been a child, not really; she had never been anything less substantial and significant than the early stages of a queen.