Chapter Text
The swish of silk gossamer fabric echoes off the high granite walls as you stride through the palace, your mind laser focused on your destination at the other end of the grand building. You stumble a few times in your haste, the toes of your boots catching on the thin fabric of the outer layer of your dress. Kicking at the fabric in annoyance, you press on.
Why the kriff can that seamstress never seem to remember that I am not as tall as my mother?
You take the final couple of turns to the throne room a bit too sharply and nearly bowl over a few unsuspecting guards at their various posts. “Sorry… excuse me,” you mumble each time, so focused that you hardly notice your own rudeness with each bump or their own rapid apologies for being in the way.
Finally reaching the doors to the king’s audience room, you pull up short, taking a moment to compose yourself. One deep breath in and one slow exhale, as your hands brush down the unruly skirts of your impractical dress. With a nod to the guard standing beside the door, he pushes open one of the two heavy, ornately carved, wooden doors and you step inside.
The room is not overly large compared to many throne rooms throughout the galaxy, fitting perhaps 50 people at max capacity. It only takes you a few moments to reach the front of it, taking in the scene before you as you step up onto the large platform that dominates that side of the room, the empty throne centered against the wall.
Five men, the only others inside the room, are on the raised dais: the king of Sardecia, three kings guards, and an unfamiliar armored figure that was being kept on his knees by two guards’ hands on his shoulders and the third guard’s blaster held level on him. His hands are bound behind his back. The tension in the air is palpable and dread settles into your stomach with an all-too-familiar weight.
“Father?” you ask softly.
The king, Cailen, turns his head to you, and the scowl he’d been leveling on the stranger softens slightly as he says your name in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Malok asked me to come,” you answer, referring to one of your father’s elderly advisors, as you take a moment to study the man kneeling between the guards.
Despite the precarious position he is in, you can’t help but notice the imposing air about the man. He is donned in Beskar armor with thickly weaved cloth underneath. Even sitting back on his heels, the top of his helmeted head looks like it would reach at least to the center of your sternum if you stepped closer. Likely about 6 feet tall you estimate. Those details alone are not overly intimidating though. It is the way that inscrutable T-shaped visor levels at you, giving away nothing about the man behind it. You can feel the barely contained energy within him, even from this distance. The strength of skill and experience just waiting for an opportunity to make a move.
What is a Mandalorian doing on Sardecia? you wonder. You’d read about the secretive warrior clans years ago in your studies, but you’d never expected to actually encounter one.
Your father says your name again sternly and you realize you had not heard him speaking to you. Your eyes tear away from the armored figure and settle back onto the king. “I apologize, Father. What did you say?”
Cailen scowls down at you, his arms crossed over his chest. “Why would Malok ask you to come here now?”
A soft scowl of your own creases your brows as you raise your chin to look up at him defiantly. “Because he knew you should have. What is going on here?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. My men caught this would-be assassin in the mountains beyond the palace grounds.”
You blink up at him a few times, darting your gaze between the Mandalorian and the king.
“Assassin? Why do you say that?”
“It’s obvious, Darling! We are on the brink of war with Kartelli and they have sent this man here to end the war even before it begins!”
You bite back a groan of frustration, closing your eyes for a moment and pressing your lips together. You had just known that this had something to do with that damned conflict. Well, supposed conflict.
Kartelli is the nearest inhabited planet to your own Sardecia. The two mid rim planets have never been on friendly terms, but tensions have risen over the last few years as both planets have tried to lay claim to the resources available on the third planet within your solar system, Goullen. Goullen is small but rich in mineral resources. Due to toxic fumes within the atmosphere though, neither would-be conquering planet has been able to secure a hold on Goullen.
Since his election as king six years ago, your father has made it his life’s mission to secure Goullen for his people. But as each year passes by without success, you have watched him sink further into depression, paranoia and down-right war mongering. He sees ‘the brink of war’ around every bend in the road and your fear that he was going to do something terrible because of it now seems to be coming to fruition.
“Father,” you start slowly as you look up at him again, “What has this man done to suggest to you that he is an assassin?”
Cailen’s answer comes out as a surprising snarl. “He is a Mandalorian. A hired gun. The Kartellians have sent him to dispose of me and my family! What other reason could a Mandalorian have for being on Sardecia at a time like this?”
“Plenty!” you respond in exasperation, noting the curious tilt of a Beskar helmet at the edge of your vision. “Father, we are NOT at war! People are still visiting Sardecia all the time for trade, commerce and just to see our planet.” With a frustrated sigh you throw up your hands and gesture at the kneeling figure. “Maybe he just likes mountains!”
Your father’s scowl remains firmly in place as he looks at you, a muscle in his clenched jaw twitching.
You put your hands up quickly, patting the empty air to fend off the coming tirade.
“Father,” you say softly, switching tactics, “You know that I can help allay any misgivings here. You should have called for me.”
The scowl softens a touch and he diverts his eyes from yours. “A king should be able to trust his own instincts without his daughter questioning him.”
You reach out to gently touch his arm, arching a slender brow at him and smiling softly. “A good king also recognizes when he should use the resources available to him, so costly mistakes are avoided.” You don’t enjoy questioning your father’s abilities, and you do your best to soften the harshness of your words. “Let me help.”
It takes a few moments, your heartbeat feeling like it is up in your ears as you wait, but Cailen finally nods at you. Exhaling in relief you begin to turn towards the Mandalorian and the guards as your father gestures to the guard on the man’s right.
“Starick, remove his helmet.”
Your eyes widen in shock as you dart a look between your father and the others.
“No!” you yell, as chaos erupts.
Starick’s large hands are reaching for the Mandalorian’s head when the kneeling man leaps up, slamming an armored shoulder into the startled guard’s stomach and shoving with all his might. Starick stumbles to the side, hands flailing to try and find purchase to steady himself. His hand closes on the edge of a piece of Beskar armor and both men roll off the dias to the throne room floor.
The other two guards leap down the steps and are on the Mandalorian in an instant. One hauls him off of Starick and the other shoves his blaster’s barrel under the helmet and against the underside of the Mandalorian’s chin, forcing his head back.
Starick rights himself and, with a snarl, reaches for the helmet once again as you practically leap off the stage too and give the guard a hard shove away from the prisoner to stop him.
Everyone in the room freezes in surprise, staring at you. You can even feel the Mandalorian staring at you through the edge of that T-shaped visor and you can’t help but notice that you were right about how tall he is, now that he’s on his feet and you’re right next to him.
Your fingers clench into fists at your sides as you whirl on your feet to face your father again, who is now looming from atop the dias.
“What the hell, Father?!” you yell at him. He winces at your tone. You never yell at him and it is startling enough to postpone any angry retort from him. You point a finger at him, jabbing it angrily in the air. “You know that Mandalorians… well, some Mandalorian clans anyway… require that they do not remove their helmets. What the hell are you thinking telling Starick to do that?!”
Cailen looks uncomfortably flustered in the face of your uncharacteristic anger for a moment, but then he plasters another scowl on his features as he crosses his arms again.
“Your ability requires you to touch the subject's forehead, Daughter. Does it not? How the hell else are you going to do that?”
Sighing again, you rub your hand over your face and then try to push your fingers through your hair, a nervous habit. You forgot though that your hair had been piled high into an up-do for a council meeting earlier in the day and your fingers knock several pins loose to the floor, sending unruly locks of hair cascading down the back of your neck and around your face. You glare at one of the locks in frustration for a fraction of a second before turning that glare on your father.
“No, it doesn’t require I touch his forehead.” You pause to force the anger out of your voice. It won’t help anything. “It is just a touch of skin to skin, Father. Preferably as near to the head or heart as possible, but that isn't absolutely necessary.”
After several heartbeats, Cailen gestures for Starick to step back and you sigh in relief.
Kriffing hell, this is nerve wracking.
Turning to the two guards holding the Mandalorian, you gesture to one of the chairs facing the throne platform. “Can you please let him take a seat? And please stop shoving that thing into his chin.”
The guard with the blaster frowns but pulls the blaster back, keeping it level now on the Mandalorian’s chest. The chin slowly lowers and that visor levels on you again for a moment before the third guard and Starick push him back into a chair. He cannot sit back though, with his hands still bound securely behind him in manacles.
With a wave of your hand you have the guards step away from him. They do so hesitantly, glancing between you, the Mandalorian, and your father. But they do step back, all three now brandishing their blasters on the dangerous man.
Your tongue darts out across your lips nervously as, after a moment’s consideration, you step closer to him, the skirt of your gown just barely brushing his right knee. Your eyes dart across the planes of that cold metal helmet and finally settle on the visor, about where you guess his eyes would be. After taking a steadying breath, you introduce yourself, telling him your name.
“As you have probably figured out, I am the king’s daughter.” You pause for a moment. “I am also one of his advisors, due to a… unique… ability I have.” The helmet tilts a bit to the right in, you are guessing, mild curiosity. “Do you have a name?”
There’s a long interval before he finally speaks. “Just call me Mando.”
You’re a little surprised by the sound of his voice. It’s richer than you had expected, even in just that brief sentence. There’s a slight electronic tone to it from the helmet’s modulator, but there’s still no denying the smoothness of it.
Taking a deep breath, and swallowing away a strange dryness that came to your mouth suddenly, you nod.
“Mando, have you ever heard of the Force?”