Aurora bent over her books, ignoring the noise of ongoing construction (even at this hour of the night) as she tried to unravel the fine points of an ancient treaty in the moments before the assassins struck.

For Aurora, it was simply another, long evening, a time for brooding (again) on her shortcomings as a ruler. She knew she wasn't like her mother. Her namesake, Queen Aurora, had been hidden under the name Briar Rose as a child. The people still affectionately called her Queen Rose.

Princess Aurora was just called the Briar.

Her mother was beautiful with a quick mind and a lively wit. Aurora had seen her speaking in council meetings and dealing with ambassadors and messengers. She could draw out her worst enemies or tie them in knots with a few, well-turned sentences.

Some of her dealings had passed into legend. When sea-raiders had sailed up to one of the port towns while her mother was there, their leader had given a long speech about what he would do to the inhabitants if they resisted rather than surrender and hand over all their goods. It had been a grisly, lurid series of threats—her tutors wouldn't even tell her what all the threats had been. She had been considered too young to hear such things (when she went to the castle records room and found the full account there, she thought her tutors were right).

The raider captain had finished with, "All this we will do if we come in as conquerors."

Her mother, standing on the battlements, had laughed merrily and said, "If!"

They had, no surprise, won that battle easily. The people were inspired by the queen's brave leadership. In the face of them, the sea-raiders lost heart and ran.

Aurora was plain and plodding. Her hair was brown instead of her mother's sunlight gold. Studying in the archives, she read and reread past accounts before even beginning to grasp the basics of what happened. Her mother took in histories at a glance. When Aurora-Briar finally martialed her thoughts to venture an opinion, it was (she felt) invariably well-argued and well-reasoned—and so pedantically phrased, she wondered all her tutors didn't fall asleep listening to her (two had).

Honesty and integrity were important in a ruler, as was a commitment to doing the best she could for her people. But, it seemed to her, to win the hearts of her people required charm and vivacity, things she was incapable of.

Still, she would be a queen. She would have councilors and scribes. She knew she would have to make sure some of them had that gift for a well-turned phrase that she lacked. Already, Aurora was getting in the habit of wearing her tutors ragged, having them help her rewrite the few speeches she had to make to the public or the Queen's Council.

Which led to another worry, of course (because everything did). Her mother wanred her she must never let her councilors and scribes think they had the right to put words in her mouth. When they helped her with her speeches, she did her best to sift through each change, making sure her intent hadn't been compromised or altered.

It was time consuming and tedious. Of all the talents her mother had that Aurora didn't, her quick tongue was the one she most envied.

She thought that was why everyone had been so surprised when she insisted on who she should marry. Aurora was already known for her obsession with accounts and records. For her to be romantic—or anything resembling it—was as strange as if the castle towers had decided to get drunk and dance a jig.

It was also ridiculous of them. As she explained—at length—to her mother, she was not being romantic.

Queen Aurora's love story was legendary. She was the Briar Rose who had stolen away the handsome prince from the fallen fairy, Maleficent.

And, by doing so, had left herself and her daughter with an implacable enemy. She'd also thrown away a perfectly good match that would have resolved the tensions that had festered along the northern border for nearly a century, now.

Aurora sighed, looking over the treaty again. The Northern and Southern Kingdoms had been united through a royal marriage nearly two hundred years ago. There'd been difficulties—note the so-called War of the Bells in the second generation of united rule. It didn't really deserve to called a war—although Aurora supposed it came closer to being one than The Three Day Pig War (casualties: three men, one pig—and the men only died because the navy didn't teach sailors to swim in those days). But, they'd been muddling along till King Marius died with no sons.

The Northern Kingdom insisted only heirs in the male line could inherit and that the king's cousin was heir to the Northern throne. The Southern Kingdom said that was a load of hogwash and pointed out female descended kings in Northern history, both of them. Of course, they'd only inherited when there wasn't anyone else left in their particular dynasties.

There'd been a disagreement and a war. The war ended when Queen Lavinia's son, Aurelius, married the daughter of Henrie, the Northern Claimant (Southerners never called him "king"). Henrie, more or less at swordpoint, named Aurelius as his heir (even if the South never admitted Aurelius needed to inherit anything from him), let him marry his daughter, Katherine, and all was supposed to end happily and well.

Until Aurelius died young and the North decided his daughter, another Aurora, wasn't the next ruler, what with being a girl and all. Aurora's mother, Katherine, hadn't been trusted by the Southern Council—their private letters usually called her "the foreigner"—and had done their best to keep her from having any power or even seeing her daughter.

In actual fact, she'd done a great deal to protect Aurora's interests and had written some strongly phrased letters to people in the North, calling them to task for not keeping their oaths. It might have done some good, Aurora thought, if the Council hadn't decided to punish Katherine for interfering (Aurora was only seven at the time) and sent her into exile in a particularly swampy corner of the Marchlands.

At least, Katherine had a happy ending, Aurora thought. She had fallen in love with a commoner—a troubadour, in fact—and married him against the Council's direct orders. They never recognized the marriage and declared Katherine's son, Roland, illegitimate.

Well, they had to, Aurora thought. North-South politics being what they were, a legitimate son of Katherine of the North would have created even more squabbles about who was supposed to inherit what. Katherine herself was careful to always call the marriage morganatic—a legal marriage but one that meant her son had no claim on either throne.

As a young man, Roland foreswore all claims to any lands or titles in either kingdom and went to serve the ruler of some obscure, little land. Avonlea, Aurora thought.

And there were more years of fighting along the border, till the Southern King, Magnus, had a daughter, his only child, heir to all he possessed: Aurora, the Rose Queen, mother of Aurora, the Briar. Aurora-Rose was to have married King Charles of the North, once again uniting the kingdoms. The negotiations for the marriage were nearly complete when Aurora decided to run off with Maleficent's betrothed.

The result was many ballads and more trouble along the border. Even when they weren't fighting, they still found ways to cause each other plenty of misery. Those raiders her mother faced had already sailed past the Northern coast before reaching the South. If the two kingdoms had been speaking to each other at the time, someone might have sent them word that trouble was coming their way. It would have made The Battle of "If," as it came to be called, much easier for all concerned. Except for the raiders. But that was the point, wasn't it?

So, when Aurora came of age, she knew there was only one thing to do. She had to marry Philip of the North and unite their lands.

Her mother had a way of looking at her whenever she made one of these completely reasonable observations, as though her daughter had lost her mind. "But, dear, you've never even met him. How can you think of marrying him?"

Aurora-Briar had sighed. "I've read over all the reports we've had of him, Mother. He isn't violent or vile. He has a reputation as a very reasonable man. He should understand I'm not giving up my power as queen or taking his. This will be a dual monarchy. Till our children inherit. But, I believe Philip and I will be able to work well together."

"This isn't about working together, love. This is about who you'll marry."

"And Philip is the logical choice. Mother, we need peace with the North, and this is the only way we'll ever get it." She bit her lip for a moment, then added, "Also, Philip is said to be quite likable." Not brilliant, the way her mother was, Aurora thought. And not a deep thinker the way Aurora-Briar tried to be and failed. But, he was likable. The people would warm to him and love him—as they would never warm to Aurora.

Her mother, however, was frowning. "A likable prince may steal away your power, no matter what you have in the marriage contract."

Aurora sighed, because she knew it was true. She didn't like it, but it was better than some of the other alternatives she'd thought through. "Mother, I'm not likable. The people will never love me the way they do you. We both know it. If I give them a king they love, a king they'll follow, that will still be better than the lords trying to nibble away at my position for themselves. He'll be a legitimate ruler. Any problems will be between us instead of causing a civil war.

"But, I don't think Philip is like that. He's been a fair man. He's not afraid to listen to his advisors but he doesn't let them make his decisions. It's what we need to do—for the good of both our kingdoms."

Mother, of course, didn't agree. She had the most ridiculous idea her daughter should marry for love.

Privately, Aurora wondered if she could fall in love. Everything she'd heard about it—fireworks, explosions, magic, a feeling that seemed to transform the whole world—seemed alien to her. She was slow and methodical and practical. She lacked imagination and wit. When problems came her way, she studied them out till her brain hurt. Then, she made the best, most practical decision she could.

Surely, being able to fall in love meant being able to make a blind leap, to trust something pounding in your heart instead of in your head. Aurora-Briar didn't think she could do that. She didn't think she even wanted to.

So, Aurora argued with her mother and, in the end, messengers were sent to the North. Prince Philip came to visit the South—the first official visit by a Northern royal (that didn't involve an army) in over a hundred years.

Aurora had practiced conversations with her maids and tutors, trying to think of what the prince might say and how she could respond to it (most of her original ideas, they informed her, were bad). She practiced smiling in a warm, spontaneous way until her face ached. She worked on anything and everything she could think of so as not to seem a slow, plodding fool when the time came.

They had sat next to each other during the welcoming feast. Aurora had listened carefully to everything he had to say, made appropriate responses, and been greatly relieved when he didn't look bored or confused at the small stories she dared to add to the conversation ("Don't go on tediously," they'd warned her. "And don't babble"). Her smile seemed to go over well. Once, he even made her laugh—unplanned and spontaneously.

Over the next few days, he was kind and considerate—not just to Aurora, but to everyone. He calmed a fight between Lord Octavian and Lord Severn, who never could get along. He helped a peasant who had almost been trodden on during a hunt. When one of the hounds was hurt during the same hunt, he treated the beast's wounds and bandaged them up before the hunt master, who had been caught back at a thorn bush, managed to catch up with them.

He would make a good king, she thought. He would care about his people and try to do well by them. The marriage contract was drawn up.

He did seem to spend far too much time looking at Aurora-Briar during the negotiations rather than at the contract, which was troubling. His advisors would point out important passages under discussion to him, trying to draw his attention back to it. Aurora herself took to pointing out the advantages and disadvantages of certain clauses.

Philip had looked surprised the first time she did it. Then, he smiled warmly at her, hanging on every word.

"You must pay attention," Aurora said, using the kind-if-slightly-worried voice she'd practiced for council meetings. She lacked the skill to argue—or to argue persuasively. Even when she could see all the facts lined up on her side, she knew that her debating, rather than getting people to agree with her, left them with bored, glazed-over eyes. Putting her concerns as questions and making the councilors explain again and again till they began to realize maybe they hadn't thought of everything was one of the few techniques she had that worked.

"But, you're looking out for my interests so carefully," Philip said.

"But, I don't understand them as well as you do. Look at this clause. It requires your people to send word of trouble along the coast and to send help if we require it."

"It requires the same thing of you."

"But, the South has been raided far more often than the North. You have those rocky coasts to defend yourselves. Does this work more to our advantage than yours? Are there modifications to it you want?"

"You have a clause for wergild. If our men die fighting for you, you owe their family and dependents support. That should keep you from exploiting it."

One of the prince's advisors cleared his throat. "But, there's also a clause for wergilds we would owe the South if we didn't deliver aid. Who is going to decide that we should have sent aid? Perhaps we couldn't. Perhaps we didn't know. And, perhaps these men would have died anyway. This could wind up costing us far more than them."

Aurora-Briar nodded. "Exactly. I've done everything I can to make sure the agreements are fair and will encourage peace, but that doesn't mean there won't be mistakes or things that aren't more to one side's advantage than the other's. It's not enough to have good intentions. We must make sure those intentions are properly set out."

The prince had smiled brilliantly at her and paid closer attention to the discussion afterwards. Despite that, it wasn't until after the wedding and the hours of feasting and dancing that followed, when they were alone in their room and he poured out his heart to her as he held her in his arms that she understood.

At first, she just thought he was drunk. That made sense, didn't it? There had been a great deal of wine and, although it had been watered down, she supposed he must have drunk a lot of it. Then, she realized wine wasn't the problem. Or not completely. It had loosened his tongue, but—

"I knew when I saw you," he said. "You're a child of true love, the daughter of the princess the fairies blessed—" He babbled on, describing a Princess Aurora who was beautiful with quick smiles and—of all things—a ready wit ("You dole it out so carefully," he said. "But, I can see you holding back on all the things you want to say") and on and on, describing a woman who had nothing in common with her.

Worse, a princess he had fallen in love with.

She had stood there with her carefully practiced smile frozen on her face, glad the room was dark and hoping Philip had had too much wine to recognize what she was thinking even if he had seen her face. Then, he finished, and she realized she was supposed to say something.

Something romantic, she thought. Because, Philip was kind and thoughtful. Worse, she thought, he deserved to be loved.

And she needed to save their treaty.

She had thought he understood the same way she did; they were marrying for the good of their people. Aurora had not hoped for anything more in their marriage than that they would care for each other.

And she did. She cared for Philip. She thought she even liked Philip—though like was another tangled, complicated word, nearly as bad as love—but she thought she it was what she felt and not just something she told herself to feel because her husband deserved it.

But, while all this was running through her head, she realized Philip was looking at her like a hopeful puppy and waiting for her to say . . . something.

"Oh," she said, stopped, wetted her lips, and tried again. "Philip, I—" But, this wasn't one of the conversations she'd practiced. This wasn't one she'd even thought of. Her mind was completely, terrifyingly blank.

Only, it seemed Philip was drunk enough to fill in the blanks (or, she thought later, drunk enough to hear her stuttered "Oh. Philip" as "Oooh, Philip," though the mere thought of having spoken like that to anyone, husband or not, turned her face red). He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately and—thankfully—didn't expect any more conversation from her that night.

Aurora had been so terrified over the next few weeks. Her husband loved her. He thought she loved him. She couldn't tell him the truth and she knew it was only a matter of time before her very limited acting was pushed to the limit and he realized the truth. She tried to throw herself energetically into other projects. They had agreed to rebuild the castle that stood at their kingdoms' border, at what had been the capital before the kingdoms ruptured. It had been burnt (several times) and the city around it razed. But, it would make a good symbol of their new union, besides giving Aurora some distance from her mother.

All the same, Philip had begun chiding her for being so quiet and demure when the letter from Maleficent came. Though she had hated herself for it, Aurora felt a wave of relief for the distraction.

It was the sort of letter you expected from someone like Maleficent, line after line of false-sweet praises and greetings for the King and Queen, most of them double-edged, implying she'd like to see them dead. These were followed up by equally false-sweet greetings and double-edged, good wishes for the newlyweds, implying she'd only like to see them dead after a very long, drawn-out period of suffering—very gruesome suffering.

There had been a time when Aurora would have understood something like this only after one of her tutors told her. But, it seemed, her hard work had paid off—that, and the councilor reading it to them kept grimacing and commenting (Aurora still remembered the tutor who had explained things like grimaces to her, when he realized she was often so busy listening to the words that she never noticed the faces. Those lessons had nearly driven her mad. But, thanks to them, she had some idea what Maleficent was talking about).

Finally, after about two pages of this, the fallen fairy got to the point (and people said Aurora-the-Briar was tiresome).

"Though I am, sadly, unable to attend on you in person," (translation: Maleficent, when her curse on Aurora-Rose and her prince had been broken, had been magically bound never to set foot in their realm again. It looked like that still held) "I am glad to learn of the happy union of your two lands. The Northern Kingdom has always been a favorite realm of mine and I hope, now I know it has been united with your own, that it will hold an even dearer place in my heart. I shall endeavor to spend many happy days there. If I do not see Prince Philip himself, I am sure I will be able to console myself with time spent among his happy subjects."

Translation: I can't come into the South. I can do whatever I want in the North—and I will, if Philip doesn't show up and face me.

So, Aurora-Briar felt relief—and guilt for feeling relief—as her husband rode away. "I will face her and destroy her," Philip had promised Aurora. "We will still rule and watch over our people from this castle you are building. Nothing can stand in the way of true love."

Did this call for a smile or something else? Why hadn't she practiced something besides smiles? Aurora pulled out the gravely concerned look she used in council meetings and tried to think what a woman in an old ballad would say at a time like this. Something long and flowery, possibly involving her heart breaking if he didn't return. She didn't think she could say that. What did she want to say? What could she say that wasn't a lie?

"Come back," she said. "I know you won't listen if I tell you not to go. But, come back."

He had smiled that warm, likable smile of his, the one Mother said might yet let him steal the kingdom. "Always," he said and kissed her.

Then, he rode away.

His knights later told her said he had gone straight to Maleficent's castle to challenge her instead of going home to summon his forces and wait for her attack.

No one had seen him since.

This was why Aurora found herself pouring over old treaties, wondering what this meant for the union of North and South while stonemasons and carpenters still labored around the clock to build the symbol of that union.

She tried not to think how it was her fault if Philip was dead. Maleficent. After all the time she'd spent pouring over history and thinking over the ramifications of a marriage, she hadn't thought about the deadliest enemy her kingdom still had—an enemy who was still alive and perfectly capable of killing all of them. Aurora hadn't even thought about what it meant to the magic protecting them from Maleficent if the borders keeping her out changed.

Deep in thought , as well as guilt, Aurora never heard the assassin coming up behind her, not till he had the knife at her throat. "Come with me, princess," the man whispered. "The Lady Dragon has a message for you."

Note: Whew, this was kind of the info dump chapter. Also, I am deliberately trying to write Aurora as high functioning Asperger's. Partly because I have some relatives on this spectrum and they deserve princesses, too. It overdoes some of her traits as done in the show-and will be changing her relationship with Philip-but I'm hoping it's a good idea. Or not a horribly bad one.