The Sanc Kingdom

Relena paced across the ornately patterned carpets of the King's drawing room, twisting her hands at her breast. She had tried sitting still to no avail; she simply had to do something. Waiting was nothing short of agony.

Trowa had gone in to see her father what seemed like hours ago, although in truth, Relena knew it couldn't have been that long. The King simply didn't tolerate idle chit-chat, keeping all of his meetings short and to the point. In fact, it was rather bold of Trowa to even ask the King for a meeting, but he had assured Relena that the King's long friendship with his father afforded him certain privileges.

Privileges that, until now, Trowa had never taken advantage of... something Relena hoped her father would take under consideration.

Trowa had waited two full days after the ball before requesting an audience with the King, giving the monarch ample time to recover from the raucous celebrations. And yet Relena expected her father would still be in a good mood following the festivities.

Relena told herself that she had no reason to be nervous. If anything, her father would be thrilled that a Barton - and the son of one his oldest friends, no less - wanted to marry her. Relena was surprised her parents and Trowa's hadn't simply arranged for the two young people to marry, when their union made perfect sense. But, then, Relena reasoned that she might not have found Trowa nearly as appealing if he had been chosen for her.

At long last, the heavy oak doors of her father's study creaked open, and Trowa appeared in the doorway. The expression on his face was unreadable, but much of his long hair was in the way. Relena stood clutching her hands together as he approached her. When he lifted his head, his face was crestfallen.

Fear, like a long, sharp icicle, pierced Relena's heart.

"What's happened?" she gasped, reaching for Trowa's hands. He turned his face to the side, his eyes avoiding hers.

"I'm sorry, Lena." His normally steady voice came out cracked and hoarse. "I'm afraid that our happiness has been... postponed. Indefinitely."

Relena drew in a shattered breath. She felt as if all her blood had gone cold.

"But why?" Her eyes immediately began to well, and Trowa looked up, his own eyes wet and red-rimmed.

"I can't say," he murmured. Then he said nothing else as he reached for her and pulled her into an embrace. Relena tried to speak, but her voice hitched on a sob.

"I'm sorry," Trowa whispered against her hair. "I've failed you…"

"No." Relena broke away from him, the injustice of it all making her heart hammer. She leveled Trowa with her most determined gaze. "This simply cannot be. I must speak with him. Now," she added, fisting her skirts and marching toward the study door.

"Relena, wait," Trowa called after her. "You can't just-"

Oh, but she could. Appointment or no appointment, the King was her father. He had to grant her an audience. She had every right as his heir apparent to approach the throne and speak her mind.

In this case, King Marticus was not perched on his throne, but seated behind the large oak desk in his study. The room was dark and cool, despite the heat of the day, the stone floors covered in bearskin rugs that gave the study the appearance of a war room. Indeed, some days it was. The windows were obscured by heavy dark curtains, parted just enough to allow a stream of light to wash over the King's desk, where he sat rifling through a stack of parchment.

Relena stormed in with a fight in her eyes. She stopped just short of her father's desk and proceeded to unleash her fury.

"Father, why won't you let Trowa marry me?!"

Marticus glanced up from his papers, calmly setting his quill pen back in its holder.

"He is not for you," he said evenly. His simple words rocked her, and Relena stood gaping at him.

"But… but I love him," she stammered, grasping for a convincing enough reason to turn her father's mind. Surely her own father would not stand in the way of true love? But the King shook his head to the side, dispelling any attempts to sway him. Relena's heart sank.

"I loved others, before I met your mother," he said. "Our marriage was arranged, as yours will be. It is the way of the crown." He glanced up at Relena only briefly before reaching again for his pen.

Relena bunched her skirts in her hands, her desperation growing. "I don't understand… why wouldn't you just arrange for Trowa and I to marry? He's a Barton! Surely his family's standing is enough to win your approval?"

"Ah, but that's just it..." Marticus finished scrawling over his parchment and once again replaced his pen. "He's a Barton. You, my dear, are going to marry a Winner."

Relena's face screwed up in confusion. "A winner? Father, the Bartons are one of the oldest, wealthiest families in all of Sanc! Who else could you mean? No!" she gasped suddenly. "I won't do it." She released her skirts and folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head back and forth rapidly. "I won't marry Treize. I refuse. You'll have to kill me."

To her horror, her father burst out laughing.

"Oh, Relena, my sweet child. You've always had such a flair for the dramatic, haven't you?" Marticus appeared to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. "Just like your mother, God rest her soul."

Relena began tapping a foot against part of the stone floor that was not covered by bearskin, glaring down at her father. He laughed again and rose from his seat, coming around the side of the desk to stand before his daughter. He moved to pull her in for a hug, but Relena kept her arms crossed. Marticus settled for planting a kiss to her forehead.

"Worry not, little one. You're not going to marry Treize. I won't allow that scheming lout near you."

Relena breathed a sigh of relief, although she was still puzzling over the situation. "But then… who is this 'winner' you speak of?"

"Quatre Rababera Winner," Marticus said with a grin. Relena's eyes widened, and though she was still horrified, she was also curious. "Crown Prince of Arabia," he added, spreading his hands. "The wealthiest heir in all of Christendom."

Arabian Palace

King Zayeed Winner sat on his throne, a piece of paper in his hand. The words scrawled across the page were the source of his current elation. Finally, after many years of negotiating, the arrangement had been made.

Zayeed looked up from the paper at his only son, Crown Prince Quatre Rababera Winner, who stood just before the throne, flanked by his two most trusted guards. The young man, blonder than blond, with his shining aquamarine eyes, gazed upon his father with innocence. It was a trait of his son that Zayeed appreciated, but knew would be squashed from him before he ascended to the throne. A great king could not lead his country with innocence.

"My son," Zayeed said, waving the paper back and forth. "Your future has been assured."

"What do you mean, father?" Quatre asked, shifting on his feet.

"You are now engaged!" The King boomed. "I wish you the most ardent congratulations."

"But father…"

"You shall wed the richest Princess in the European region, uniting the two regions under a single rule," Zayeed said.

"Father…"

"Princess Relena Peacecraft of the Sanc Kingdom."

Quatre's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in surprise. His hands wrung together while his guards glanced nervously at the Prince. Zayeed waited for his son to express his enjoyment or excitement for the prospect of marrying the Peacecraft Princess. But it didn't come. Instead, Quatre looked nervous and surprised about the whole idea.

Zayeed rose from the throne and dismounted the steps, walking towards his son. He reached out for his son's hands and grasped them tightly.

"This is the best opportunity for you, us, and the whole country. Under your leadership, our two countries will flourish," Zayeed said.

Quatre tentatively looked up to meet his father's eyes.

"As you say, father," he said. Zayeed clapped his hand on Quatre's shoulder, feeling a little deflated as his son's less-than-enthusiastic response.

"You are dismissed," Zayeed said. Quatre nodded, motioned to his guards, and together, the three of them left the throne room. Zayeed climbed the steps to his throne and sank down in the chair. He picked up the letter from King Peacecraft and read it through again. Zayeed smiled, knowing the future of his son and his country was secured.

A/N: We love your reviews, so keep leaving them! Get ready to hold onto your butts for this fic, ya'll.

-RGS