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Chapter Text

It was gone.

He had lost everything: His home, his friends, his parents. 

Edmund Cousland snuck a glance at his nephew who thankfully found sleep in the comfort of Edmund's mabari, Sarim, who was curled up beside the young boy. Oren let out a whimper before restlessly stirring beneath the makeshift blanket of his uncle's cloak. After a moment or so he settled back down and slipped back into a peaceful slumber.

They had come in the night. They were welcomed guests. They were friends and allies.

It was all a lie.

They had struck when the castle slept. With surprise and strength of numbers they overwhelmed the few guards on duty. Unmolested, Howe's men poured into the castle corridors resembling a ravenous horde attacking anything that moved. 

Howe, he growled at the name. He was responsible. He was the master behind this treachery and bloodshed. Edmund tightened his grip on the Cousland family sword that had been resting on his lap. The sword was a precious family heirloom and one of the few items from his ancestral home that had escaped Howe's attack. His eyes returned to the glowing embers of the dying fire. Oren and Sarim nestled together close to the heat of the flames to combat the chill in the air. They had made camp less than three hours ago. It had been risky to stop so soon after escaping the castle, but it was necessary.

Oren was not built for these trials and tribulations that were now besieging him. Exhausted, frightened, and unable to stay on his feet, they had been forced to make camp. The boy wouldn't even turn nine till the spring, and already he had witnessed a dozen lifetimes worth of bloodshed, chaos, and devastation. When they did make camp, Oren had whimpered and sobbed in Edmund's arms until exhaustion finally consumed him. Poor Oren, he thought softly. Remembering his nephew's innocence before the attack, he lived on the fabled stories of Black Fox and the other heralded heroes of Ages past. How he wielded his imaginary blade fighting off a dire bunny with his sword of truthiness.

It was almost enough to bring a small smile to Edmund's cracked lips.

Before the attack he remembered Oren's earnestness to train with real steel, his mother's apprehension, and his father's encouraging support. Oren had begged Edmund to start training him while his papa and grandpa were down south. So that he could live out his dreams of becoming a knight worthy of bard's songs, who fought dragons and slayed all sorts of monsters.

Now Oren understood which monster had the darkest of hearts-men. His innocence snuffed out. It was replaced with enough fear and grief to drown an ordinary man. It would not be the images of his picture books Oren would remember, but the images from the sacking of Cousland Castle.

His mother's bloodied corpse.

Oren had seen the horrors of battle unfold before his eyes: men sliced and cleaved, limbs hacked off, heads removed. Men and women screams filled with anguish before being silenced by the flash of steel. He watched his grandmother die before his eyes. Her body peppered with arrows. He saw his grandfather crawling on all fours like a wounded beast. Bloodied, and dying, crying and grieving at all he had lost before he too died.

He worried for his nephew after having witnessed such horrendous acts at his tender and impressionable age.

Edmund faced a difficult dilemma. He knew they had to continue to travel with haste to stay ahead of Howe, but he also couldn't overexert his nephew. His nephew's body couldn't endure the same hardships and grueling conditions that men could. It couldn't go as long without food, or water, or rest. Oren was already in a weakened state, emotionally and physically.

Mulling over how to best move forward with his nephew, Edmund grabbed a sausage from his bag. He had packed his and Oren's bags to the brim with food, supplies, and water before they left the castle. His shuffling of the food hadn't gone unnoticed by Sarim. The large dark furred mabari raised his head up, his intelligent black eyes transfixed on the sausage.

Edmund held up his hand to keep his mabari from moving.

Sarim let out a low groan to signal his discontent but nonetheless obeyed the command. Returning his head to rest on Oren's back.

Satisfied, Edmund put the sausage over the embers after adding some more kindling. The flames were rejuvenated and he was able to cook it quickly. Even in his hunger, the food didn't go down smoothly. His stomach rumbled and protested but thankfully he was able to keep it down.

They'd be setting out soon. He was determined to leave at first light. And looking up at the sky, Edmund was sure that would be within the hour. He wanted to continue to put as much distance as he could between them and Howe's forces in Highever.

An escape that was only hours old, where they left behind their family's ancestral seat using a secret passage hidden in the larder that led out past the walls of the castle turning into a causeway that ran off nearly a mile away from the castle, and out beyond the walls of Highever. Once he existed the causeway, he looked back needing one last glimpse of Cousland Castle, but instead all he saw was a bright orange glow.

Their escape did not come without a price.

His mother, and Teyrna of Highever, Eleanor Cousland was killed before they reached the larder. It took four arrows to bring down the battle maiden whose bravery on the battlefield during the Rebellion was legendary. She had just enough strength to say a few parting words before death took her.

From there, determined to protect his nephew and rightful heir of Highever, Edmund led his small array of forces of servant and guards to Cousland Hall. He wanted to regroup with any other survivors as well as find his father. But before he could reach the Hall, remembering his mother's words he sought out the family treasury to recapture some of the family's most precious heirlooms..

Howe's men were waiting for them including a few knights. However, Edmund was no novice when it came to sword and shield. He had won countless melee tourneys in his youth all throughout Ferelden, and his time in Orlais had helped to transform him from a tourney champion into a battle hardened warrior. He was able to cut his way through Howe's forces to retrieve the items his mother had wanted to be saved from looting.

Those next who paid the price for defending Edmund and Oren were the remaining servants, soldiers, and handful of knights in Cousland hall led by the valiant and loyal Ser Roderick Gilmore. They perished in Cousland Hall to protect Oren and Edmund's retreat. They barricaded the gates, and were determined to fight to their dying breath for the Cousland family. They were heroes, fighting with courage and loyalty that could not be shaken. Edmund was sure that one day bards would sing of their legendary feat of bravery and sacrifice.

It was not until they reached the entrance to the secret passageway did Edmund finally find his father. Lying in a pool of his own blood, was Bryce Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever. His hand pressed to his side, slick with blood from an ugly wound. His father had died in his arms within minutes of their arrival.

And with that last sight, Edmund grabbed his nephew whose eyes were red and puffy, tears stained cheeks, the blood of his mother freshly stained on his clothes. He led Oren and Sarim through the passageway and out of the castle.

Edmund felt tears trickle down his cheeks, tasting the saltiness as some brushed down against his lips. His hands were trembling in his lap. He tried to steady them by holding the Cousland family sword, but still they shook. His body was shaking while he silently sobbed. He bit his lip to stop himself from being too loud not wanting to wake Oren. The torment had nestled itself deep within him, radiating an ache that he could not put to words. Strums of grief went through him, while a void seemed to expand within his chest.

I cannot break, he reminded himself, recovering only after seconds of allowing his grief to seep through his demeanor. Oren is depending on me. I need to be his rock. I must bear this burden without cracking. I cannot show my despair, my own pain in front of him. I cannot allow myself to be overcome with this grief. Oren will look to me, and I must give him all of my strength so that he can move forward. If he even whiffs my doubts, my fears then all is lost for both of us.

He looked over and was relieved to see his nephew was still fast asleep. He wiped away the tears with the back of his arm not wanting any evidence to remain of his breakdown. Edmund shifted his position and brought his still trembling hands to the glowing embers of the fire. The warmth was most welcome for his aching fingers and cold shaky hands.

Lost in his thoughts of the attack, he looked up. Though the sky was still dark, and the stars were still glowing over the horizon a faint reddish light was beginning to seep into the skies. The sun would be up soon.

It was time for them to go. He was sure Howe would soon notice the absence of their bodies and when he did he would send out riders and search parties in all directions to find them.

Howe's treachery left Edmund in a very vulnerable position. There were many Banns, freeholders, knights and even wealthy families who swore loyalty and service to the Cousland family and the Teyrnir of Highever. Yet with Howe's betrayal he wasn't sure who to go to, or who to trust. He wasn't sure how far this treachery went and how many others colluded with Howe. If he chose poorly he and Oren would be walking right into the arms of traitors.

He believed his best bet was south. He needed to leave the Coastlands at once now that Howe held Highever and Amaranthine. By journeying south he could make for the Bannorn or even head east towards Denerim or South Reach.

With a general direction decided on, Edmund began to pack up their makeshift camp. He wanted to leave quickly and leave behind little to no trace of their presence. Once he finished the brief packing of their small camp, he turned his attention to the embers, prodding them with a stick in trying to coax the flames to return. They did, so he rummaged through his bag to get two sausages to cook.

He moved over towards Oren and Sarim. The latter already alertly awake since the sausages had come out. Sarim's earlier obedience was rewarded when Edmund presented his war hound with a sliver of a sausage which Sarim gently took from his hand with his powerful jaws devouring it quickly before licking Edmund's hand of the greasy residue that had been left behind.

Oren looked peaceful in his sleep, his expression content, his lips slightly curved. No doubt, he was having pleasant dreams. It seemed almost cruel of Edmund to have to wake him up pulling him out his dreams and back into the horrible reality the two were currently in.

"Oren," Edmund whispered.

"Papa?" Oren stirred under Edmund's cloak. His voice thick with sleep. His eyes remained closed.

"No," Edmund answered after a brief pause. "It's only me."

The words coaxed Oren. His eyelashes fluttered before blinking to reveal his brown eyes. Edmund could see his eyes taking in the situation while his mind was sorting out what was real and what were illusions from his dream. In seconds the full weight of reality came crashing down onto the shoulders of his eight year old nephew.

"Oh," Oren said, eyes swimming with unshed tears, his bottom lip trembled.

Edmund was quick to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, running his other hand through his unruly brown hair. "Come let's eat, you'll feel better once you do."

Oren sniffed, clamoring out of the cloak. "A-alright," his voice cracked. Sarim attended the young boy with a few sloppy kisses on his cheek which caused Oren to muster a small smile before he hugged the hound's meaty neck, burying his face in Sarim's dark fur.

He offered his nephew a cooked sausage which Oren took. He delicately nibbled at the piece of meat while Sarim sat beside him on his haunches. The hound's eyes never leaving the sausage.

"We need to hurry," Edmund had eaten his sausage in two bites. He was smothering the flames from their fire.

"So that Howe's men can't kill us too?"

Edmund stiffened. He didn't know what was worse the words Oren used or the casual tone the eight year old had used to address their dire situation. He felt his throat tighten as he turned away from the fire, feeling his smile falter, but he forced it to remain on his lips.

"They're not going to kill us," He reassured his nephew. "I won't let that happen."

Thankfully, Oren took solace in that. After a few more bites of his sausage he gave the rest of it to a patient Sarim who devoured the offering in one bite.

"Where are we going, Uncle?"

Edmund slung his shield onto his back and sheathed his sword before turning toward his nephew.

"Somewhere safe."

Chapter Text

The hall smelled of ash and death.

Its walls smoldered from the fires that went unchecked throughout much of the castle during the attack. The floors were splattered with blood.

Bodies lay strewn across the floor of the guards, servants, and knights who foolishly resisted. They were traitors to their dying breaths.

His guards and servants were milling around the hall, stripping the bodies of clothes, armor, weapons, and any other sorts of valuables that could be found on their person. After being stripped, the naked bodies were piled in a corner awaiting transport out of the castle. Most would just be unceremoniously tossed into a ditch providing fodder for wolves and crows.

A few, however were to be strung up throughout Highever to serve as a reminder of who now ruled the Teyrnir and as a warning to those who would unwisely try to rebel against their new liege lord.

"Where are they?"

A soldier appeared beside him, "over here, Your Lordship"

Howe smiled. He liked the sound of that. He silently followed the soldier over to the far corner of the hall where four bodies laid separately from the others.

He looked down onto the face of Bryce Cousland. A face fixed in a permanent display of agony. The eyes were squeezed tight, lips pursed together, grimacing. A nasty gash crawled up from his hip to about half way up his abdomen.

You brought this on yourself, Howe mused, feeling no discomfort or guilt for the actions he carried out. They were for the greater good of Ferelden. His only regret was not seizing the opportunity sooner to carry out this much needed form of justice. The Couslands were traitors. They had been hording riches from foreign nations in return for favors.

They had supported the union of their eldest son to a daughter of an Antivan merchant. How Eleanor and Bryce could approve of this mingling of their bloodlines with an Antivan was beyond him. Didn't they understand that the offspring of that marriage would make the future Teyrn of Highever just as much Antivan as Fereldan.

It just wasn't right.

The Couslands were allowing foreigners to take through marriage what they never could in battle.

They had to be stopped. Ferelden should be ruled by Fereldans. Howe understood this. He remembered why they fought in the Rebellion. He wouldn't forsake his duty and honor for his country for a few gold coins and promises from foreigners.

The union of this Antivan whore didn't even come with freeholders or sworn swords. When Howe asked what they were getting out of this union, Eleanor had told him the happiness of their son. It had taken all of his discipline not to sneer and roll his eyes at such a pitiful answer.

They were fools.

Highever was better off without them.

And here she lay now. Eleanor Cousland peppered with so many arrows she more resembled a pincushion then a proper Teyrna. Where was your precious happiness now? He demanded of the corpse. Your son's love brought you nothing but your undoing.

He shook his head at their folly. It was just another grievance to add to the growing list of their sedition.

His eyes then drifted to the harlot herself, pleased to see the sword remained in her stomach. It was a kindness, he thought. Noticing no signs of rape as her gown surprisingly was still intact. No doubt, the men were eager to just finish her off without thinking about properly relishing their triumph. Pity…

Unlike the other corpses of the Cousland family, the fourth one was badly burnt. The only indicator that this charred husk was a child was by its small size.

"What happened to this one?" Howe toed the charred corpse with his boot.

"The fires," answered the soldier.

Obviously, Howe wanted to snap, but he restrained himself. "And we're sure this is the boy?"

The soldier gave him a blank look clearly caught off guard by the question. "Who else would it be, Your Lordship?"

The temptation to hit him for his stupidity was great but Howe stayed his hand.

"It's not him, Your Lordship," announced a new voice, as a man dressed in fine silverite armor approached them. A young man with short crop of blonde hair, and intelligent brown eyes which helped to give him a handsome look. This was Captain Chase, one of Howe's most trusted knights.

It was a pity that he was low born. He reached his peak as a captain, and that promotion had been a generous boon on Howe's part for past services.

"What do ya mean?" asked the soldier sounding affronted. "Of course its him! It's a child ain't he?"

Howe ignored the soldier. "What makes you sure?"

"I was going over the area where they found the traitor," Chase gestured to the deceased former Teyrn. "And some things aren't adding up."

"What things?" Howe demanded, feeling his anger beginning to rise within his chest. He didn't need complications. He needed this transition of rulers to be done smoothly.

"It would be quicker if I just showed you, Your Lordship."

Howe nodded. He was tired of this round-about talking. He didn't need words or hunches. Those were useless. He needed facts.

"Take me there."

Chase bowed and stepped aside to allow Howe to pass him. This low born understood his status and place in the world.

Where Howe couldn't always necessarily trust some of his other well born knights or soldiers, he trusted Chase. Lowborn or not, he was dutiful, respectful, and left no stone unturned. His low birth gave him an edge over some of the more pampered noble knights. Chase wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty. He could be gritty and ruthless if needed.

Captain Chase worked very hard for him, always striving to do his best. This was in part because Chase nursed a growing affection towards Howe's only daughter, Delilah. He should've squashed the boy's ill-conceived notions that he actually stood a chance of marrying a nobleman's daughter especially since that daughter was Howe's only one. He wasn't going to waste her on a low born knight. She would be used to secure an important alliance with a powerful Fereldan family.

Yet, instead of crushing the boy's misplaced dreams, Howe instead let slip that his loyalty and service would one day be properly rewarded. If that meant the Captain would believe that he could one day marry Delilah then the fault was with him, not Howe.

Such false promises lead to very real results.

"Where was he found?"

"In the larder, Your Lordship."

"Truly?" Howe was greatly amused at that image.

"Yes, Your Lordship."

"And he was alone?"

Chase stiffened, "That's what I wanted you to see."

Howe didn't like that one bit. As they entered the kitchens, which had already been stripped of food, and other provisions during the attack. The larder too was now bare; the only noticeable thing in the room was a large pool of blood that no doubt belonged to Bryce Cousland. He watched Chase make his way over towards the pool of blood, kneeling beside it.

"Look, Your Lordship."

At what? Howe wanted to snap, but he controlled himself. Stepping closer to the pool of blood, his eyes followed where Chase was pointing to. At first he saw nothing, but looking closer he saw sticky red prints. Inspecting them further he made out three distinct tracks-A man, a dog, and a child.

He knew who they belonged to at once. It seemed Bryce's youngest had taken his nephew and his mabari war hound, but how…

"There's a secret door somewhere here." Chase seemed to have guessed what Howe was thinking. He pointed to the part where the bloody prints stopped just in front of the wall.

"It must be some sort of secret passageway that leads out of the castle." The Captain was groping the wall with his hands trying to find the entrance.

"They must be found at once," Howe declared. The last thing he needed was for his new rule to be questioned. If he was going to provide a better and more stable reign then he needed them apprehended at once.

"I want riders sent in all directions. Every town, farm, and home searched. Every rider on the road is to be questioned, and harassed if their memories are a bit fuzzy."

"Understood," Chase gave him a crisp salute. "I'll give the instructions to the men myself."

Howe nodded. It was times like these he was very pleased he had the Captain on his side. Then again, the credit should go to Howe. It was he who saw the boy's talent, and ignored his low born station and gave him the opportunities to prove his worth.

"And for the soldier who presented me with the burnt corpse." That soldier would make Howe appear weak and foolish in front of not just his men, but all of Highever. That could not be tolerated.

"See to it that he is properly punished."

"It will be done, Your Lordship." Chase crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. He left without another word.

Edmund Cousland, Howe mused.

There was a time when Howe had hoped to unite his family with the Couslands. A foolish notion now, but at the time when he suggested the betrothal it seemed an ideal match for the families. The union would've successfully united Amaranthine and Highever. Turning them into the strongest and most formidable family in the Coastlands. The Couslands, however, had the audacity to spurn his generous offer.

He was better off, of course. They were now proven traitors to Ferelden. However, it still prickled his pride that they denied him. As if they were better than him, as if their family was better than his.

The arrogance! Their foolish choices had cost them everything. Howe took some satisfaction in that, but more in seizing their lands for himself. In the next Age no one will even remember the Cousland name.

His Delilah was better off without Edmund. The youngest Cousland was an arrogant little worm. He prided himself a knight because he won a few melee tourneys. Ha! He was nothing but a spoiled brat.

Besides Edmund Cousland had shown his true nature during the Tourney in Highever…

Howe could still remember that day as if it happened yesterday and not eight years ago. Everyone throughout the country had come to Highever for the tourney: banns, freeholders, hedge knights, all of the Arls with their best knights and men-at-arms. Even the King and Crown Prince and their retainers had come to the tourney. King Maric was to present the winners of each event with their rewards. It was considered the finest tournament Ferelden had seen since the Rebellion.

Edmund Cousland had won his event. Thoroughly trouncing hedge knights and the other would be knights who were pampered noblemen who fancied themselves soldiers when they dressed in armor and wielded swords.

In his victory celebration he besmirched Anora Mac Tir's name and reputation. Her betrothal to the Crown Prince had just been recently announced. His actions were tantamount to treason. He had the insolence to openly flaunt his close relationship with the Teyrn's daughter in front of the entire kingdom.

His insolence was unjustifiable despite his father's best efforts to soothe the situation over with King Maric and Teyrn Loghain. Edmund's actions deserved the noose not the lavish exile in Orlais he received. Six years he spent fostered by a wealthy and powerful Orlesian family.

That was his punishment for humiliating the kingdom. It was an outrage. It wasn't justice. Once more Bryce Cousland was able to flaunt his position and his power for the betterment of his family, not Ferelden.

Edmund even married an Orlesian noblewoman and was granted lands. His parents weren't ashamed of him. They were not embarrassed that their son had gotten himself exiled. No, they were happy for him and the life he had made for himself in Orlais. They had even gone to Orlais to visit him.

It was all rather pathetic.

They believed happiness was the primarily motivation in life. That honor and mercy should be rewarded. They were sentimental fools, and it cost them everything: their lands, their titles, their legacy, and their lives.

The Cousland family prided themselves on their family's history and their lasting imprint on Ferelden. For all of their love of Ferelden and all their talk of pride and duty to their country, they had allowed their two sons to marry foreigners an Antivan for their eldest and heir, and an Orlesian for their exiled son.

Hypocrites and traitors, that's what they were!

Howe found some small form of fairness when he had heard that Edmund's wife had died. The boy hadn't deserved a lavished exile for what he did. He didn't deserve wealth, lands, or a family. He deserved death. Even then he didn't suffer long since he was allowed back into Ferelden on an official royal pardon from King Cailan. The royal pardon had the fingerprints of Bryce Cousland all over it with his Orlesian ties and his influence over the impressionable king.

Thankfully, Ferelden was free of Bryce Cousland. Howe had seen to that.

The common folk were too stupid to see it right away, too stubborn and stuck in the old ways to see that by taking Highever Howe was securing their future. He was going to keep Ferelden for Fereldans. In the end, he was sure they would see reason, and they would love him for it.

Howe found his way back to Cousland Hall. No, Howe Hall, he silently corrected himself.

Standing in the hall, he was pleased to see most of the bodies had been stripped, their valuables sorted in a handful of piles. He walked over towards a pair of soldiers who were sifting through the clothes of the dead. No doubt trying to find some lost jewelry or loose coin. They immediately stopped upon his approach, stiffening their posture, and bowing low.

"String them up in the market square," Howe ordered, gesturing to the four corpses of the Cousland family. Let the public for the time believe he had killed the young brat. It would be true soon enough, and then he would add Edmund and the boy's corpse with the rest of his family. And no one would doubt who ruled Highever now.

Satisfied at their quick response, Howe left them just as they lifted up the corpse of Bryce Cousland to carry him out.

"Your Lordship?" His aide came up alongside him. "The army is awaiting your orders."

He now possessed the largest army in Ferelden outside of Teyrn Loghain who controlled the bulk of the country's forces. But, right now the Teyrn was far south at Ostagar, leaving Howe's army unchecked in the Coastlands and in the north. He had already decided that he would leave a sizable garrison behind with his newly pointed regent, his son Tomas to curb any resentment or misguided thoughts of rebellion that the people of Highever might have towards their new liege lords.

However, the rest of his army would not be staying in Highever. They would become restless and bored and that could cause trouble in the area that Howe couldn't afford or wanted.

"We are to march to Denerim," Howe answered, "To offer our assistance to the Queen and to secure the capital."

"I'll inform the officers," replied the aide, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing.

And if Loghain, King Cailan, and their forces perish at Ostagar then he would go to the capital to secure his bid to the throne, he silently added once the aide had left. A small smile bloomed on his lips at the thought of securing the crown for himself. He would rise higher than any Howe before him.

It was nothing less then what he deserved.

Chapter Text

"I'm tellin ya its true!" the voice sounded indignant.

"Bullshit," the second one scoffed. "It's just whore talk."

"She's reliable."

"If by getting giving you a few rashes," the second one observed, "then yeah, she's reliable."

Sgt. Robert Kylon grit his teeth. Listening to them was a true test of his discipline. It was just another patrol for him; another chance for him listening to his guards swap whore stories and gossip. It was an expected part of his experience when it came to these patrols, but just because it was expected, doesn't mean he enjoyed listening to it. He simply had to endure it.

These were the men entrusted to protect Denerim, her citizens. It wasn't a comfort. Especially since now with the King gone, the city guard was now more heavily relied on. If worse came to worse, it would be them forced to defend the city.

That was a troubling thought.

Men who joined the city guard were not typically fighters, but sons of influential freeholders and merchants, who enjoyed the praise and the ability to boast of their progeny's service to the capital. It was a small blip up the social ladder. Whoever deemed having family members in the city guard worthy of upwards social movement must have been a few silvers short of a sovereign.

These men weren't expected to get in fights or scuffles, perish the thought of one them actually being injured. Then he'd be forced to go to the guard's father and explain to them that there was an actual danger in serving the guard. And Kylon's Guard Captain wouldn't approve either. He too enjoyed the benefits of handing out jobs to those families who could pay the small entrance fee.

Robert Kylon was in a broken system.

That didn't bother him because he understood that he lived in a broken world. He learned long ago the best he could do in a broken world was try to fix it, little by little. That's what he tried to do as a sergeant within the city guard. Sometimes it meant he enforced the law, other times it meant ignoring it, but as long as a problem got fixed, and the world became a little bit of a better place; Robert Kylon wasn't going to complain.

It helped that as sergeant he had a hand in training the recruits. Those willing to listen and get their hands dirty were the ones he focused on. It was them he tried to instill his perspective and thankfully many took to it.

He could see a difference.

It was slow but steady progress. However, it still made him pleased, and proud in saying that the city was a better place now then it was six months ago.

He left the recruits that were sons of merchants and noblemen to his superiors as much as he could. However, it was still expected of him to take them out on patrol on occasion. On days like today when he had to endure their presence he tried to keep his mouth shut and his eyes focused.

Robert let them talk, brag, complain and often times they tired themselves out and became more docile and willing to listen to him. Unfortunately that meant that he first had to listen to hours of their bluster.

"She was told by a sailor who was just in Highever." The argument continued. The first voice belonged to the son of a wealthy Amaranthine merchant. He had only been with the guard for less than a year. He was a decent enough fellow. He spent too much time at brothels for Kylon's taste, but wasn't as nasty or petty as other merchants sons that Robert had the ill-fated pleasure of knowing.

The second voice belonged to the third son of a powerful freeholder. Cursed by being the third son, his options had been limited with his oldest brother inheriting his father's land and wealth. The second brother had used the remainder of his family's wealth to become a knight. Penniless, the third son was left with a choice by his father-Chantry or City Guard.

"Sailors," the second one didn't seem won over by that source. "And what else did this whore tell you?"

"That he was coming this way."

That got Robert's attention, turning back to face the men, who he had been listening prattle on for the better part of their shift. "What is it you two are talking about?"

The two men looked startled at suddenly being addressed, and somewhat surprised that he had been listening to their conversation all this time.

"Arl Howe," answered the first one. "They say he sacked Highever, killed the Couslands, and claimed the Teyrnir."

"And I say it's all made up," the second one was shaking his head.

The first one gave him a reproachful look. "Not if you've ever heard of Howe's reputation."

"So Howe is coming here?" asked Kylon.

"Yes, with his forces," he looked a bit smug that Kylon was taking interest in what he was saying.

"And I say it's not true," dismissed the second one. "He should be south with the King and the others at Ostagar."

"That's true," Kylon agreed, mulling over their stories, realizing both had points in their favor, but it never hurt to be cautious. Especially in regards to a large force moving towards Denerim.

"What do you think, ser?"

"That less arguing in our patrol may better serve the people."

Thankfully, the two heeded his words and fell silent.

The people, Kylon looked around the city's market where they stood vigilant for any sign of criminal wrongdoing. The Denerim Market was pivotal to the city's wealth and welfare. It was crucial that as guardsmen they did anything and everything to make sure that it continued to run smoothly and efficiently.

Here, the number one problem that Kylon and his guards faced was thievery. There were lots of vulnerable marks around the market, from genteel ladies mesmerized by the number of diverse wares, booths, and other goods that couldn't be found anywhere else in Ferelden. It was also in the market where many of the taverns and brothels emptied out into. There the patrons were too drunk to be aware of their surroundings or the fact their purses were lighter or missing. Their drunkenness also meant to be watchful for signs of brawls and other violent altercations.

Everyday more people came to the city, seeking shelter behind Denerim's high stone walls, people who had lost their lands and homes to the darkspawn. They mostly inhabited the southern reaches of Ferelden that had been first hit by the darkspawn. Some had been forced out of their land on orders of the King for their own safety. They were given some money and some supplies as well as a few soldiers who escorted them to the capital.

Once the refugees reached Denerim they were on their own. When it came to finding work or a home that was their responsibility, not the Crown's. If they wanted to secure transport and leave that was their choice. They were brought here but it was up to them to decide what to make of their opportunity. Watching the flocks passing through, Kylon noticed two distinct outlooks and expressions that were common among the refugees.

There were some that looked hopeful as they took in the sights of Denerim. They took this as a blessing. This was their chance to improve the lives they left behind back in the south. Their eyes were wide and smiles bright as they breathed in the marvels of this city.

Many probably had never seen more than a handful of buildings and now they were looking at Fereldan's most important and beautiful city. This was the birthplace of Andraste with its historic Denerim Chantry while Drakon Tower stood tall and proud over the city, a testament of the Imperium's once considerable power.

Yet others didn't look so happy to be arriving. Their faces sullen, eyes downcast these were people who looked lost and terrified. They were tossed into an unfamiliar city expected to survive on their own. Already understanding that their chances were slim, they realized that they didn't belong here, that there wasn't much need for farmers behind the walls of Denerim.

Their outlooks were different, but they had one thing in common. They would be targeted, tormented, and taken advantage of. They would be ignored, spat on, and that was if they were lucky, if they weren't they'd be fleeced and stabbed and left to die in one of the many dark foreboding alleys that spread through this city like thin tendrils of a spider's web.

Robert Kylon understood that they would need his protection. The city was a better place due to his efforts over the years, but it was far from perfect. It was far from safe.

Until it was a safer place Kylon would have to pick up the slack. It was no small order, but he felt obligated as a man of the city guard to do what he could to protect and serve all those who needed it within these walls. For now he had to make do with what he had. A city guard stretched too thin, untested men, and corrupt superiors just to name a few of the obstacles in the sergeant's way.

It wouldn't be worth doing if it wasn't a challenge, he quietly surmised. He already placed some of the more trustworthy guards he had on Alienage duty. After the nastiness that the Arl's son had done, the elves were ready to riot, and he couldn't blame them. Interrupting a wedding, abducting the brides, and then raping them…

It was too much for Kylon to stomach. He had sworn an oath of service to the Kendells family when he was sworn into the city guard, but he wouldn't allow any oath to constrict him from doing what was right. He found ways to circumvent the oath, putting his duty to the people over his sworn service to the Kendells family. In his duty to protect the people he did what many would not and included the elves, who most in this city thought of as nothing more than an indentured race.

One step at a time, he reminded himself.

Chapter Text

It was strange not having them around.

The Queen of Ferelden could not remember the last time she had been without both of them. In recent days before they went south to fight the darkspawn all her husband and father could talk about was strategy in how to defend Ferelden. They left the capital weeks ago to head to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn in what her husband believed in a battle that would once and for all end the darkspawn threat. Her husband's usual confidence soared after a series of earlier victories.He assured her of their pending success before setting out for Ostagar.

It was not just victory Cailan promised, but changes. She could still remember his face when he said it, his smile was gone and his expression turned serious. It was one of the few times she could remember him without his smile and looking so stoic.

Deep down, it had troubled her.

Anora was not immune to the gossip that spread through the capital. She was aware of the blame that was being leveled on her by many of the nobles. Five years of marriage, and there had been no children born. Not even a pregnancy.

Barren, that's what they were calling her.

Punishment that was the excuse they gave. The Maker was punishing them for putting a commoner on the throne. To them her father was a Teyrn by name only. He had no noble blood. In the eyes of many the Mac Tirs were unwelcomed within the ranks of the older aristocratic families.

Common birth or not, she's effectively ruled Ferelden these last five years. Cailan was king, but it was Anora who was overseeing the steady growth of Ferelden. Slowly, but surely she was proud of how Ferelden was developing. It was her policies that had made Ferelden richer, had made Ferelden stronger. She was the reason why Ferelden had enough food stored to allow the country to endure a few rough harvests.

Anora was far from done. She had plans for opening up a University in Denerim. She wanted to attract some of the great minds of Thedas. She wanted to change the perception that Ferelden was still a backwards country. It was not just an army that curbed threats of invasion, but respect. She was painfully aware that Ferelden had little clout with the other nations of Thedas.

Yet, for all the good Anora's done for Ferelden, it was not enough for some. It would never be enough for those who honored blood, not skill. They respected a family's name, not a person's character.

This hadn't always been the life she envisioned.

There was a time when she never thought she would become queen.

Growing up in Denerim with Cailan, she had been aware of the possibilities of her marrying him, but the chances had been pretty small. The same nobles who were blaming her for not giving Cailan an heir now, had been just as adamant in their protests when the offer had first been brought up when she and Cailan were children.

When she was fifteen she was brought to Highever. It was there she would be tutored by Teyrna Eleanor Cousland who would teach her politics, court etiquette, as well as the other responsibilities that came with being a noblewoman. Anora spent two years in Highever, in that time she grew close to the Teyrna and the rest of the Cousland family. She considered the Teyrna a friend and a second mother who helped to fill the gap that her own mother had left behind when she died.

In her time in Highever, it was Edmund Cousland that she found herself drawn to. He was smart, talented, charming, and he had a certain sincerity to him that Cailan had always lacked. They had become quick friends. He was never intimidated by her intelligence. He saw her as an equal. He truly was Eleanor's son.

It didn't take long for her feelings towards him to develop into something beyond friendship. She was young and foolish, and at the time she didn't possibly believe that she would one day be betrothed to Cailan. So instead of stamping out the affection she felt towards Edmund, she allowed it to grow.

Their first kiss had taken place between the towering bookshelves of the library within Cousland Castle. She had only been in Highever for five months when they shared that kiss. Their secret romance only blossomed during the remainder of her two year stay in Highever. In their moments together she even allowed herself to secretly imagine them getting married and returning to Gwaren to rule as Teyrn and Teyrna. They were the dreams of a foolish girl.

Then her father came to Highever with the news that would change everything. It had been decided that she would marry Cailan. Her father and King Maric had agreed to the betrothal arrangement. One day she was going to be Queen. The news was going to be announced throughout Ferelden, and that she was to accompany her father back to Denerim.

She felt tightness in her chest as she remembered what came next. Torn between affection and ambition, in the end, the decision had been relatively easy. She wanted to be the Queen of Ferelden. Whatever feelings she may have had for Edmund paled at the desire to one day rule Ferelden. She had told herself it wasn't personal, just practical.

Anora could still remember telling Edmund about her pending betrothal and that they had been living in a foolish dream. She knew her words cut him deep, but she had to speak them, her words needed to be sharp, her tone needed to be blunt. In order for them to be able to move forward she had to effectively stamp out what they once had and make sure that it never saw the light of day.

Then the Highever tournament happened. It was the first time she saw him since she called off their romance and told him of her plans to marry Cailan. She had hoped the months apart would have had him finally see the reason for her decisions. It hadn't.

Enough, she quietly chastised herself. She didn't want to dwell on what happened next. The pain of those events still stirred within her like sharp thorn pricks coiled around her heart. She had wanted to bury what happened in Highever for so many years- Those memories, her emotions and most importantly him.

"Your Majesty?" the thick Orlesian accented voice of her handmaiden, Erlina broke the Queen from her musings.

Anora turned to find her handmaiden standing in the doorway. She beckoned her in, watching as her handmaiden bowed before her before settling to stand in a position in front of the Queen's desk. "What is it, Erlina?"

"A letter came from one of your friends in the Coastlands," Erlina presented said letter.

The Queen took the letter, opening it to find the vellum mostly blank except for a few words hastily scribbled down.

The Laurels are dead. The Bear has seized their holdings.

Anora stared blankly up after finishing reading the encrypted message. Understanding quickly came to her at realizing the meaning behind the words. "Erlina," she turned towards her silent confidant. "Send for the Seneschal, please. I need to speak with him at once."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Erlina bowed, "Anything else?"

"Y-yes," Anora needed to maintain her composure, "A glass of wine." She ignored the worried look her handmaiden gave her, and was unable to understand the words Erlina spoke before she left, too focused on relaying the simple message over and over again in her head.

A few minutes later she found herself in her parlor sitting in her high back chair, a glass of wine in her hands. She needed something to soothe her nerves and settle her churning stomach. She took a long sip from the glass, thankful for the sweet taste and the calming effect the wine was having.

It had to be a mistake, she thought, blindly grasping at any chance that this couldn't be true. Surely Howe wouldn't be so foolish as to think he would get away with this horrendous act…

"You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?"

She looked up from her glass to see Seneschal Luwin standing before her. He immediately crossed his arms over his chest and bowed low. He was tall and thin, he had aged well in his service under her father. He was brought in as Seneschal for Anora and Cailan when the previous one died several years ago.

He kept his grey hair short, and his brown eyes still showed plenty of strength. His goatee was as grey as his hair and neatly trimmed. His large nose marred his otherwise plain features.

"Yes, I did." She turned her gaze to her trusted handmaiden, "Close the door, Erlina."

Erlina obliged. This was a conversation that Anora didn't want to leave this room.

Luwin's public position was overseeing the king's justice and administration of the palace's servants. However, secretly the Seneschal helped to oversee the various network of spies and agents Anora and him had orchestrated throughout Ferelden and parts of Thedas. Making him one of Anora's most trusted advisers.

"Take a seat," she gestured to an empty chair across from her.

He nodded his thanks, sitting down.

Erlina stepped forward offering him a glass of wine which he graciously took with a nod. "It is true, Your Majesty."

She felt her heart clench tightly. So they were all gone. She considered the Couslands a second family and Highever a second home. For a second the face of Edmund came to her, but she wouldn't allow it to stay, pushing it away. She now had this painful fresh wound to deal with and she couldn't allow herself to reopen old ones.

"I feared as much," she barely recognized her own voice. It was soft and weak. She needed to stay composed. Eleanor always taught her to remain composed. Oh Eleanor, her heart gave another painful lurch. My friend you will be avenged.

"I want Howe in chains!" Anora suddenly demanded, her calm demeanor crumbling to the cold fury that was storming within her. "This cannot be tolerated."

"Your Majesty, it is more difficult than that," The Seneschal reminded her gently. "Howe has an army at his back. We have nothing but the city guard."

"Where is his army heading?"

"He's marching here."

That took Anora by surprise, she would've thought that he would return to Amaranthine to gather his strength and rally his supporters for the judgment that was sure to be coming once her husband and father returned. To hear him coming to Denerim, he was acting as if he had nothing to fear, no reason to be punished. It didn't sit well with Anora.

"May I see the letter you received?" Luwin's question broke Anora from her musings on Howe and what games he was playing at.

She presented him the letter and then watched as he read it. She noticed his brows furrowed and his lips twitched. "Is there something they missed?"

"Yes," he looked up. "I received a message from a friend in the Bannorn."

"What does it say?"

"That not all the Couslands were killed," he returned the letter to her. "That Bryce's youngest escaped with the heir. Howe is quietly looking for them."

Edmund and Oren, Anora realized at once. A spark of hope ignited in her chest at realizing that they were not all slaughtered. His face returned to her, but she was just as persistent at pushing it way. That life is over, she reminded herself.

"Do you know where he would go?"

"East," she answered. "He would come here to Denerim." She knew he would demand a royal audience to speak his justifiable grievance towards Howe. Was that why Howe was coming to Denerim? Was he intending to stop Edmund from reaching the capital first?

Luwin nodded, "Perhaps that is why Howe is marching east, sending out scouts and riders to try to capture him before he reaches us."

"My thoughts exactly," Anora agreed. "What about his brother?"

"Fergus left Highever with their forces. He is headed towards Ostagar, oblivious to the carnage that has happened in his home."

"Do you think Howe has plans for him as well?"

"Surely he does," Luwin answered. "As far as we know, Fergus may have already been killed by an assassin's blade."

She took another sip of wine. The thought of Fergus being betrayed and killed on the road to Ostagar was not an image she wanted to keep.

He brought his hands together under his chin while his elbows rested on the arms of the chair. "However, I don't think Edmund plans on coming here."

"What do you mean?" Anora frowned. "Where else would he go?"

"South Reach."

Of course, Anora thought, realizing her miscalculation. The Arling of South Reach was the seat of the Bryland family. Eleanor was Leonas' older sister. He was never friendly with Howe, and surely, he wouldn't tolerate his own sister being killed in cold blood, Cousland or not.

"And of Howe's approach?"

"We welcome him, Your Majesty," Luwin answered simply.

"Welcome him?" Anora was unable to hide her fury at the notion.

He looked at her sympathetically. "We have to, Your Majesty." He brought his hands to rest on his lap. "We cannot repel him with the city guard. So we must act the dutiful host, let us listen to his story and the causes for his actions."

Anora understood the plan now. "We stall until my husband and father return with their forces."

Luwin smiled, "exactly, Your Majesty." He drank one more sip from the goblet before raising it as if toasting. "Howe will not be able to escape justice."

"Keep me informed of any movement or sightings of Edmund and Oren," Anora instructed. "I want our men to get them before Howe's."

"I couldn't agree more, Your Majesty," He stood up, bowing low, "I will keep you informed by the hour."

"Thank you," she watched him go.

Anora didn't like the idea of Howe entering the capital a free man and the self proclaimed Teyrn of Highever. She would have to swallow the bitter taste and push down the growing anger towards the man if she wanted justice to be served. Anora wouldn't allow herself to tip her hand to him.

She would get justice for the Couslands, she silently vowed. She owed Eleanor that much.

Chapter Text

"Right now?" Fergus tried to keep the exasperation out of his tone, but he was failing. It was difficult. Oh, so very difficult.

"Yes, milord," replied the elf meekly. The tips of the boy's ears had gone scarlet in embarrassment.

Fergus Cousland felt some of his anger deflate. It wasn't fair of him to take out his frustration on the poor boy. "Very well," he relented, "Tell His Majesty that I will see him shortly."

The boy bowed low before scurrying off.

Watching him scamper off, only made Fergus feel guiltier.

"Isn't it the darkspawn we're supposed to be fighting," Lt Finley was grinning. "Not poor messengers."

Fergus rolled his eyes at his lieutenant's crack. It wasn't Fergus' fault. He and his forces of Highever had only just arrived after more than a week of marching. And already he was being summoned to see the king. And this particular moment Fergus really didn't want to see his king, he just wanted to rest.

He was sore, and tired, and smelly, and sweaty, and grumpy, very grumpy.

"I suppose I should see what the king wants," Fergus said glumly.

"Aye, you should," Finley agreed, "I'll have the men break for camp."

Fergus made his way over to the king's camp. His body was stiff, but he made sure he looked presentable while making his way through the main camp in what he called his lordly strides. He didn't want his soldiers to snicker if they saw him wobbling and wincing. The burden of nobility, that's how father would dryly put it.

"The King and the Teyrn await your presence," greeted the armored guards outside the flaps of the king's tent. One of them held the flap open for him.

Kingly, that was the word Fergus would use to describe the interior of the tent. It was spacious, well furnished, with rich colored drapes that gave it a warm and inviting feel. He was under no illusions that when his own tent was set up that it would be a quarter this magnificent and less than half its size. Nor would he have the fine furniture that was idly placed throughout the interior.

He found the king towards the middle of the tent where some natural light shined down through a well-conceived opening coming from the tent's top. He was hunched over a table, when Fergus moved closer he noticed what had the king's attention, maps. Maps of Southern Ferelden, a map of Ostagar, and there was even a crude map of the northern parts of the Korcari Wilds, many of which looked ancient. Fergus had to wonder if the king had to pull these maps out of the Chantry archives.

It was Teyrn Loghain who was first to notice his arrival. The stoic faced general nodded stiffly, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over Fergus' haggard appearance before returning to the maps on the table.

"Fergus!" greeted the always boisterous and kind hearted king. Cailan was just as Fergus remembered: tall, handsome, warm eyes, kind smile, and charming.

"Your Majesty," Fergus said, bowing low, his lips twitched when his eyes met Cailan's, who looked thoroughly amused at the protocol.

The King moved around the table in quick large strides, grinning ear-to-ear as he clapped Fergus on the back. "It's about time you showed up." He laughed, "I was afraid I'd have to kill all the darkspawn myself!"

Fergus shared a laugh with his king. He could feel his terse demeanor shifting and his soreness lifted. It was always difficult to be in a bad mood around Cailan. His charm and genuine warmness were infectious. It was a gift, his ability to soften up his opponents with his warm tone and friendly demeanor.

"So many darkspawn to kill so little time."

"Exactly," Cailan was still smiling. "We've missed you in our earlier battles."

"All victories if I recall," Fergus went to the table, Cailan was right beside him. A friendly hand on his shoulder. There were many markings on the map around Southron Hills which Fergus deduced must be where the earlier battles had been fought.

"That's right, all victories," Cailan happily agreed, pointing to one particular mark made on the map on the edge of the Korcari Wilds. "That was a battle, Fergus!" A nostalgic expression flickered across the king's young handsome face. "I slew near two dozen darkspawn myself with nothing but this sword." Cailan fondly tapped the hilt of his greatsword which was resting on the table. "I fought with the Grey Wardens." He was still smiling. "It was a sight to behold!"

"I'm sorry I missed it," Fergus said. "This sounds like the stories bards yearn to tell."

That got Cailan's smile to only grow, which Fergus had thought impossible.

"That is enough of that, I think," Loghain drawled, speaking for the first time and curbing Cailan's enthusiasm. "You talks of battles as songs to be written."

Cailan shrugged off Loghain's disapproval as easily as if it was a winter cloak on a warm spring day. He dropped his hand on Fergus' shoulder and made his way back over to his side of the table beside the Teyrn. "You may have your chance at action, Fergus."

"What do you ask of me, Your Majesty?" He was secretly hoping said task would be to lead the vanguard of the king's forces into battle.

"Here," Loghain gestured to a wide swath of territory within the northern portion of the Korcari Wilds.

"Is that the spot of our next battle?"

"Not exactly," Cailan said.

"We need you to take a small scouting party to scout this area," Loghain instructed.

"Scout?" Fergus knitted his brows together, trying to shield the disappointment from covering his face.

Cailan gave him an apologetic look. "Loghain believes it's important to better understand what we're up against and to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for us."

"But surely," Fergus began, making sure to keep his tone respectful before he continued in his protest. "There are others whose station would befit this as an honor?"

"The Teyrn wants veteran men," Cailan explained, "and a seasoned leader."

Loghain was nodding, "Last thing we need is some foolhardy Bann or hedge knight itching for some glory and wealth traipsing through the Korcari Wilds with no sense of what they're doing."

"So you send the man who already has both," Fergus cracked dryly.

"I know this is not what you wanted," Cailan said sympathetically.

You got that right, Fergus mentally replied, but had the sense not to say that out loud. He may be his friend, but he was firstly his king. "And what of Highever's forces?"

"They will be put under my command," Loghain answered.

"Until your father arrives with Howe and his forces from Amaranthine," Cailan finished.

"Very well," Fergus relented. He never could say no to Cailan. It was rather infuriating.

That easy charming smile was back on Cailan's face. "Excellent," he rapped his knuckles across the table. He turned towards the Teyrn. "I told you he would do it."

"You never should have asked him," Loghain voiced his disapproval. "You are the king. You should have just ordered him." The Teyrn of Gwaren's eyes shifted towards Fergus, appraising him. "There should have been no debate or argument, just an affirmation."

Fergus squirmed on the spot. He felt a sliver of guilt worm into his heart at the Teyrn's words. He was right, he mentally agreed. He had tried to use his status and friendship with the king to weasel out of his task, because he didn't find it worthy.

Cailan on the other hand didn't seem to agree. He waved a dismissive hand as if trying to shoo the Teyrn's words out of the tent. "That's enough of that, Loghain." He moved over around the table where a silent servant was standing, who was holding a tray carrying three goblets. "Come Fergus have a drink with me before you're off."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." He hadn't seen or heard the servant come in, but Fergus couldn't deny that a drink seemed sorely needed right now. He nodded his thanks when he took the offered goblet from the servant. He savored the sweet taste of the drink after taking a small sip.

The King drank deep from his goblet. Not putting it down until he finished. "Who's at Highever?"

Fergus hesitated, "my brother, Your Majesty." He preferred to avoid the topic of his brother when he was in the presence of Cailan due to that unfortunate incident all those years ago involving his brother and Cailan's betrothed, as well as Loghain's daughter-Anora.

He glanced over at the taciturn Teyrn who had taken a goblet as well, but hadn't looked to have taken a sip. Like always, his face was impassive, his blue eyes always watching. It was intimidating. His silence just as much, remembering how stoic Loghain had been at the tourney when his daughter's purity had been questioned.

Fergus wasn't sure it was a good idea to keep the topic on his brother while in the company of the two men who Edmund had slighted most that day. However, he also knew that his family was indebted to King Maric and King Cailan for not killing his brother after what he did.

"My brother would be most annoyed with me if I did not convey his gratitude about your royal pardon."

"Think nothing of it," Cailan was helping himself to a second goblet.

"You are too kind, Your Majesty," Fergus took another sip of the delicious wine. "Your aptitude in being able to forgive others is a great gift. Others would not be so generous when their honor had been-"

"Had been what?" Calian looked amused. "Slighted?" He made a face. As if he didn't quite believe that to be the case. "The incident has been a bit romanticized don't you think?"

Fergus snuck a glance at Loghain, still as a statue unmoving, only watching. He turned back to the King, unsure what to say. He was saved from that burden as the Teyrn made his voice heard.

"I'm sure Highever is in capable hands with your brother." That was Loghain, speaking for the first time since the conversation had shifted away from strategy. "I think it best if I retire, Your Majesty. There is still much to do."

"Of course, Loghain," Cailan waved off his good father and general of his armies.

"It was good seeing you, Your Lordship," Fergus bowed his head more out of reverence of Loghain's past heroics then for the title of Teyrn that he now possessed.

Loghain gave the heir of Highever a stiff nod before departing.

He wasn't going to admit it out loud, but Fergus was silently relieved with the Teyrn's departure. He felt an unspoken tension was in the room especially when his brother became the focal point of the conversation. Not to mention Loghain's impassive expression and blunt personality didn't lighten many rooms he walked into.

Cailan seemed to be thinking along similar lines, "Now we can smile and laugh without fear of being chided."

And laugh Fergus did at the king's remark.

Cailan gestured to two polished and well cushioned chairs. "However, Loghain is right your brother is sure to be capable of handling the affairs of Highever until you and your father's return." Cailan took his seat and was offered a third goblet which Cailan graciously accepted.

"Yes, my brothers always had a way with that sort of thing." Fergus took his seat, sitting across from his king and friend.

Before his brother's exile there had been popular gossip throughout Highever that it was Edmund not Fergus who was more deserving to be named the Heir of the Teyrnir. It had worried Fergus even though it shouldn't have, and it had been unfair of him to think that way of Edmund.

He was ashamed to admit it, but there was a small often unheard part of Fergus Cousland who had been relieved when Edmund had been exiled, which all but secured Fergus' claim as the heir to the Teyrnir. It was something that still haunted him.

"There's always been a Cousland in Highever." Fergus felt silly repeating the words his father had told him and Edmund so many times growing up, but he also felt proud. It was his family. The Couslands who have controlled Highever since the Towers Age, centuries have passed, but his family remained. Endured through the strife, and flourished with the triumphs.

"I like that," Cailan smiled.

Fergus returned his friend's smile. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Cailan leaned forward in his chair. "Enough of this etiquette, let's forget I am king and you are the future Teyrn." He brought his fingers together. "We are just friends so let us drink and tell stories like we use to."

"I think I would like that."

Chapter Text

Papa will come.

Oren knew it.

Uncle knew it too. He told Oren that Papa would be back from Ostagar with King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain to bring Howe to justice.

Papa will come.

Just repeating the words brought comfort and strength to Oren.

Papa will come and fix everything. He stifled a yawn.

They had been walking days and most nights.

He didn't mind being tired. It helped Oren forget. He wondered if that was why Uncle was pushing him so hard so that Oren could forget. Uncle was always keeping him busy even when they stopped walking. He allowed Oren to take care of Sarim or gather wood, prepare the fire, or their food.

Since he was so tired Oren found sleep easier to come by. He had less nightmares too. He was too tired to be scared. So he mostly dreamed of her, she was always smiling at him. She tousled his hair. She read to him. And she would always tell him how much she loved him.

He felt a squirmy feeling in his tummy at the thought of his mama.

"Oren?"

He looked up to see Uncle was further up the road then him. Sarim had been at Oren's side, but there was a wide gap between them and Uncle.

They had been traveling along this road for the past two days, and nights. They were headed into a village which Oren couldn't remember the name of. His Uncle had told him it was a risk, but that if they remained cautious then they would be able to slip through without being noticed.

"You need to stay with me."

"I know," Oren ducked is head, "I'm sorry, Un-"

"Papa," he corrected him.

"Papa," Oren repeated. It felt strange saying it to Uncle though, so he had made him practice it day and night. Oren wasn't allowed to call him Uncle anymore even when they were alone. It was always Papa. Even though his real Papa would soon come back to them, but for now Oren had to call Uncle, Papa.

It was all part of Uncle's plan. He devised a new story for them, a new life with new identities.

Oren had been initially excited at the prospect of being someone else. He remembered in his stories of Black Fox, when he and his group would change their identities to help infiltrate a stuffy noble's party to rob him and give the wealth back to those who needed it.

A part of him didn't want to be Oren Cousland anymore. Oren had lost his mother, his family, and his home. Oren Cousland was always sad or tired or both. He didn't want to wake up sobbing or shaking after one of his bad dreams. He wanted to be brave again. He wanted to be happy again.

However, changing their identities, giving them new names, and a new reason for traveling was more difficult then Oren had thought. He thought it would be fun and exciting, but it wasn't. He was confused. It was so hard keeping it altogether. He forgot his new name so often Uncle would call him and Oren wouldn't know who Uncle was referring to.

He hadn't thought it would be so difficult to shed Oren Cousland. As much as he wanted to slip out of it, he couldn't. His name may have changed, but Oren Cousland's emotions, fears, and memories remained. They were constantly clashing with the new character and identity Uncle had given him. It was so confusing, Oren's head hurt.

Uncle was also expecting him to lie. His mama and papa always taught him never to lie, that no good could come from it. Now, Uncle was telling him that he had to lie and that if Oren couldn't then their lives would be in danger.

Oren felt as if he was being pulled in two different directions. He wanted to listen to both his parents and to his Uncle, but he couldn't. He felt like he had to choose.

He was nervous. He was scared. He bit his lower lip not wanting it to tremble, not wanting to show his Uncle that he was having any difficulty with what was being asked of him. He had been giving him new responsibilities and Oren was desperate in not wanting to disappoint him.

Uncle was watching him closely. His green eyes could be very intimidating. He was frowning too. It didn't bring any comfort to Oren.

"Your mum?"

He was testing him, Oren realized, testing him again, he silently added. It seemed the only time his Uncle would talk to him now was when he wanted to test Oren on their new identities or when he was giving Oren his responsibilities for the night. It made him sad that his Uncle didn't want to talk to him about anything else anymore.

Oren was always silently hopeful that when his Uncle asked for him that this time his Uncle would tell him something else, anything else. A story, a joke, a compliment, but Oren hadn't received any of those from his Uncle in the past few days.

"She's a merchant in Highever," Oren didn't want to keep him waiting. Uncle told him that they shouldn't shy away from where they were from. Since the people looking for them were expecting them to say anywhere but Highever, to try to hide and distance themselves.

His Uncle brought his fingers through his beard. His faced remained unchanging. "What does she sell?"

Why can't you tell me a story, Uncle? Oren wanted to ask. Uncle used to tell him the best stories. "She sells wares from her home country."

His green eyes remained on him, unflinching. "Which is?"

"Antiva?" Uncle had told him that the most convincing lies were always rooted in the truth.

Uncle didn't seem impressed, a sigh escaped his lips. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

Oren didn't like making him mad or disappointed and he seemed to have done both. "I'm telling you."

Uncle stopped frowning; instead a small but proud smile emerged that instantly relieved Oren's fluttering tummy. He playfully tousled his hair. "Good, you can do this."

He couldn't help but return the smile, relishing the affection his Uncle was showering him with. It was a small glimpse of who Uncle had used to be before the attack.

Oren couldn't really remember his Uncle that much when he use to live in Orlais. He had a few memories of him. He knew his Uncle use to smile and laugh more. His Orlesian Aunt he remembered even less of, just that she was pretty and kind to Oren, giving him sweets and hugs.

One particular memory Oren had was when Uncle took him to a nearby stream by his home in Orlais and the two ended up swimming and playing into the night until his mum had to drag Oren out of the water. She scolded Uncle for letting Oren out so late, but papa had just laughed, and even mama couldn't stay angry with Uncle for too long.

He remembered how happy he had been when mother and father had told him that Uncle would be returning to Highever last year. Oren remembered that his parents weren't as happy as he was, and when he asked them why, it was mother who answered telling him that Edmund's wife, Oren's aunt had died.

When his Uncle did return to Highever, Oren had been so happy to see him, but his Uncle wasn't smiling or happy. He didn't pick Oren up, swing him in his arms or toss him in the air before catching him like he use to do. He hadn't tousled Oren's hair. He just nodded in Oren's direction and walked right past him.

Oren had never seen his Uncle look so sad, until the attack…

"We're almost there."

Oren blinked, looking to see Uncle had stood up and was looking at Oren strangely.

Not wanting to go through the questions again, Oren gave him a tiny nod.

It worked. Uncle patted his shoulder before saying. "My son can do this."

But I'm not your son! The worried voice in Oren wanted to shout, wanted to cry, but he didn't. Oren couldn't let him down. So he remained silent and thought up the words that gave him strength- Papa will come.

------------------------

The inn was loud and crowded when they entered. Most of the tables were filled with men drinking. A bard was sitting on a stool by the fireplace, plucking at the strings of his lute and singing in a sweet voice. The bard's eyes watched them walk across the Inn while he continued to sing his song. When his eyes met Oren's, the bard only smiled and winked at him before turning away.

Oren tightened his grip on Uncle's hand.

"What do ya need?" asked an old lady. She had grey hair, an unkind face, and a big mole on her chin.

"Room for the night," Uncle answered.

She turned her eyes towards Oren and it took all of his courage not to squirm under her intimidating stare. "What's your business here?"

"We're travelers," Uncle responded, beckoning Oren to stand in front of him where he placed his hands on his shoulders. "We're returning to Highever."

Oren silently watched the innkeeper purse her lips surveying his uncle, but he didn't flinch or waver he simply met her stare. It was the innkeeper who broke eye contact first with a shrug, "Sure I have a room if you have the coin."

"We do," he withdrew a handful of silvers from his coin purse. "We'd also appreciate a hot meal." He pushed a few copper pieces towards her.

She snatched them up, "Sure we got plenty of both." She eyed one of the silver pieces before turning back to them. "I didn't get your names."

"We didn't give you any," Uncle smiled. "I am Aedan." He squeezed Oren's shoulders. "And this is my boy, Matty."

Oren didn't know where Uncle had gotten his name, but Oren's name he knew was short for Mather. The famous Cousland who helped fight the werewolves with his wife Haelia. It was one of Oren's favorite stories and Uncle used to tell it the best before bedtime.

She seemed satisfied by their answer. "I'll have someone bring you some food and ale."

"Thank you," Uncle led Oren through the maze of tables and people who were drinking, laughing, and talking. Most were more than happy to ignore them but a few did turn their gaze towards them.

Oren wanted to flinch or fidget, or look away from their stares out of fear, but he couldn't. Uncle had told him that Matty had nothing to fear. He had done nothing wrong. We must act the part, he told Oren, if we are to be successful.

Matty might have nothing to fear, but what about Oren? He had everything to fear. They had killed his mama, and his family, and took his home. They were hunting him. How could he be Matty and pretend to be alright when he was really Oren?

He looked over towards Uncle who didn't seem to be struggling the same way Oren was. His expression loose, a smile on his lips. He had slipped into the role of Aedan as if it was as simple as putting on a new cloak. He didn't look to be dealing with any confusion. Uncle looked like he belonged here. He really looked like Aedan, the merchant from Highever.

"This is perfect," Uncle approved when they reached their table.

Oren didn't understand what was so perfect about it. It looked like a regular old round table just like all the others. The only difference was that this one was tucked in a corner. "What do you mean?"

"It gives us some privacy, Matty," Uncle was always playing the part of Papa. He tousled Oren's hair, but it wasn't with the same affection he had done earlier on the road. This time it seemed force, as if he was only doing it to play up his role as Oren's father. The realization made Oren's tummy clench.

Uncle remained oblivious to Oren's discomfort. "It also allows us to watch the door and make sure no one gets the jump on us." He took the seat with the back to the wall.

He felt a painful twinge in his tummy that almost caused Oren to wince as he remembered those stares from the bard and some of the other patrons. Were those the kind of people who wanted to jump on us? He wondered.

Oren was thankful when he felt Sarim's hulking mass curl up beneath his dangling feet. He gave the mabari a few tender pats on the head before turning back to Uncle whose eyes were taking in everything that was going on behind Oren. He wanted to see what was happening too, he turned to do so, but Uncle stopped him.

"Don't," he whispered, his smile remained on his lips, but Oren could see the tension in his face. "Stay looking at me, or Sarim."

Put out by Uncle's order, Oren still obeyed it, but at the moment he didn't want to look at him. So he kept his eyes down on the table, seeing that past customers had carved various words and images into the surface.

"Here you all are."

Oren's eyes looked up at the sight of the young, pretty lady who brought them their food. She was all smiles when she presented them with their meal. His nose picked up on the delicious scents which caused his mouth to water. Looking down to see their meal consisted of cooked chicken, with fresh bread, and a few apples.

"Thank you," Oren looked up from his plate to see she was smiling at him.

"Of course," she was pouring Uncle some ale.

Oren noticed her eyes were on Uncle, and her smile only seemed to grow when Uncle thanked her for the drink. He suddenly remembered grandpapa's words- so this is a wench.

They ate silently. The occasional noise coming from Sarim, whose soft whines were rewarded with bits of meat, but not too much. The chicken was greasy, seasoned, and delicious. It wasn't until Oren took a few greedy bites of the chicken did he realize how much he had grown sick of stale bread and salted pork.

"Can we stay here longer, Uncle?" Oren asked, licking his fingers after finishing up his chicken. He could get use to eating like this. He didn't realize his mistake until he looked up to see Uncle's gaze had sharpened. He looked around to see if anyone had picked up on Oren's slip.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Oren squeaked. Not wanting Uncle to be mad at him.

Before Uncle could correct him, their wench returned to their table. Smiling, as she gave Uncle a second cup of ale.

"This your son?"

"Yes, he is," Uncle answered proudly.

It was enough to make Oren smile.

"He's a handsome lad," she cooed, she brushed her fingers through Oren's hair, smiling as she did. Oren didn't mind, he liked it, she had a soft touch and did it the same way mama use to.

When she finished she turned back to Uncle leaning over to whisper something in his ear and he smiled at whatever she said but he shook his head when she finished. Her smile faltered, and she looked sad, but when she turned to see Oren looking at her, she smiled at him before she left their table.

Oren didn't like to see her sad. "What did she want?"

Uncle took a bite into his bread. He looked confused at Oren's question, "She….She," he swallowed the food in his mouth before continuing. "She wanted to see me later."

That made Oren happy. "Did you say yes?"

"No, I declined," he said, with a shrug before taking a deep sip from of his tankard

"Oh," Oren said, picking up the last few crumbs from his plate and offering them to Sarim who gladly took them. After gobbling it up, Sarim licked Oren's hand and fingers clean. It made him giggle.

"You all finished?" Uncle was already out of his seat and moving towards him.

Oren nodded, but before he could push his chair away from the table to stand up, Uncle wrapped his large arms around him, lifting Oren out of the seat effortlessly. Oren squeaked in surprise, but he smiled all the same. It had been a while since Uncle carried him like this.

His arms wrapped around Uncle's neck, and he buried his face in his shirt. He could pick up the rhythmic and soothing beating of Uncle's heart. Oren's feet dangling in the air, as Uncle carried him with ease across the room. He could hear voices from patrons, as they passed them, but couldn't make out what it was they were saying. So he focused on listening to Sarim's paws padding across the floor beside them.

Oren knew when they reached the room because Uncle had to jostle him in his arms. Oren stubbornly clung to him and was thankful when Uncle didn't try to make any attempt to put him down. Right now Oren didn't want to stand, he just wanted to stay in Uncle's arms. They made him feel safe.

He heard the creak of their door, but Oren kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to see the room they were spending the night in. This way he could pretend that they were back at Cousland Castle and that Uncle was carrying him back to his room after finishing on of the games they use to play. The memory made him smile.

It was the first time he thought about home without wanting to cry.

He could feel Uncle bend over before gently releasing Oren from his grip, when Oren felt the soft mattress beneath him, he reluctantly let go. He opened his eyes to see Uncle's face hovering inches away from his. He was smiling down at Oren, and his green eyes were shimmering with warmth that Oren hadn't seen since before the attack.

"Get some sleep," he kissed Oren's forehead, before playfully tousling his hair. It brought a warm feeling to Oren's chest, settling his fluttering tummy.

Uncle dragged a chair from the corner and brought it to rest in front of the door. Oren caught the glint of steel on Uncle's lap and knew it to be the family sword.

"I know you don't sleep sitting up." Uncle caught him spying, but he didn't sound mad. He actually chuckled.

It made Oren giggle, "Sorry," he apologized sheepishly.

"It's alright," Uncle replied. His words were as soft as a whisper. "I…I"

"Uncle?" Oren wasn't smiling anymore. Uncle's tone and stuttering was enough to stop that. He couldn't remember Uncle ever looking or sounding like that. Uncle was always brave and confident.

"It's n-nothing," Uncle sighed. "Try to get some sleep, Matty. We have a big day tomorrow."

"Oh." Oren said softly. He put his head against his pillow, and closed his eyes. He felt Sarim's hulking mass jump onto the bed, settling beside Oren, and resting his large head on Oren' legs. "Good night, boy."

He didn't want to think about Uncle. So Oren went back to the same words he recited every night.

Papa will come.

Chapter Text

"Father!"

Bleeding and sobbing, Bryce Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever was leaning against a barrel, his hands pressed against a side wound. The blood smeared path along the floor of the larder showed that he had dragged himself to reach the spot.

"Pup?" There was hope in his voice.

"I'm here, father," Edmund scrambled over to him. He blinked away tears as his eyes took in the grisly wound that his father had suffered. The nasty gash had cut deep through flesh, his father's hands were slick with blood. He recognized a fatal wound when he saw it. The revelation was painful enough for Edmund to choke back a sob.

"The others?" Bryce pushed the question through gritted teeth, pain flickered across his face.

"They're dead," Edmund bowed his head. He had failed them. Cousland Castle had been his to oversee and now, Oriana, his mother, Lady Landra, her son, and all the other loyal servants and guards of the Cousland family have perished within these halls.

"Grandpa?" Oren's voice was weak and soft. The heir to Highever was standing away from the father and son, his small hands gripped tightly on the fur around Sarim's neck. His eyes were red rim. His cheeks were tear stained and dry snot was under his nose.

"Oren," Bryce tried to muster enough strength to look over Edmund' shoulder to see the boy, but the movement proved too stressful. He winced and cried out in pain.

"Don't move, father," Edmund was careful and gentle with him. He slowly positioned his father's head off of the barrel and onto Edmund's lap. He looked down into his father's blue eyes, swelling with tears. His teeth were blemished with blood, and a few red droplets had escaped his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

"Howe can't get away with this," even so close to death, Bryce Cousland's voice was authoritative and commanded strength.

"He won't," Edmund promised.

Those words brought a small, but brief smile onto his father's lips. "Until you find Fergus, you're all that Oren has, Edmund."

Edmund's eyes left his father's and searched for Oren. Finding his nephew still rooted to his spot just inside the larder, Sarim by his side. "I know, father."

"That is my son," Bryce said softly, pride laced his voice. He lifted his blood stained hand towards Edmund. "Take this." He opened his hands to show the Cousland signet ring. It had passed down to every Cousland Teyrn since the family first took the Teyrnir ages ago. It was the official and legitimate seal of the Cousland family.

He took the ring silently, pocketing it, before clasping his hands around his father's hand. The power and burden of the Cousland family was now in his possession. It was his responsibility to protect not just these priceless heirlooms of the Cousland family, but the rightful heir of Highever.

It was overwhelming.

"I-I can't do this."

"Of course you can," His father responded reassuringly. "I'm comforted knowing that when I depart this world that the best of myself and your mother reside in you."

There was a loud crash outside the larder. Howe's men must have had gotten loose and broken past the hasty fortifications that had been put up.
"I-I…I-I," Edmund blinked, unmoving.

"Go, Pup," Bryce encouraged, desperation seeped into his tone. "You must flee. Howe cannot get you and Oren."

"I can't leave you." Edmund argued.

His father's face softened. "My time in this world has come. I've lived a good life, but you and Oren have full lives ahead of you." Tears came down his cheeks. "For the love you have for me, Pup, Go." His hand slipped out of Edmund's grasp. His blue eyes closed one last time. His voice was soft as a whisper.

"And remember, Pup, your mother and I will never truly leave you."

Edmund Cousland opened his eyes.

He was no longer in the larder at Cousland Castle. He had found himself back in the room he and Oren had rented for the night, miles away from Highever. Yet, the ghosts of his father and his family remained with him.

He had fallen asleep in his chair. He looked over to see Oren was still fast asleep. Sarim was on the bed, but his eyes were open. It seemed Sarim had sensed Edmund had fallen asleep and had taken up the mantle of watching over them. He pushed himself up, his back stiffened in protest. His body was sore from the odd angle he had been resting in from when he had fallen asleep.

There should always be a Cousland in Highever, these were father's words. This was why he wanted Edmund to stay behind to manage Cousland Castle while he and Fergus went south to Ostagar to battle the darkspawn.

Now, there were no Couslands in Highever. Howe had sought to that when he betrayed them and slaughtered their family. The Teyrn and Teyrna were dead. His good sister, Oriana was dead. Fergus was marching south, oblivious to what happened in Highever, and the dire threat Rendon Howe had suddenly become. And Edmund and Oren were on the run. Forced to flee from their ancestral home and hide in the lands their family has overseen for Ages.

Until they reached Fergus, the Cousland family rested on a former exile and an eight year boy.

Not a very comforting thought.

Edmund pulled out the signet ring his father had given him. He looked down at its circular design, its flat bezel, with the Cousland laurels emblazoned on it. It looked so simple and plain, but that was deceiving.

This was the seal of the Teyrn of Highever and Patriarch of the Cousland family. There was great power and even greater responsibility to be had with the ring. The authority of the Highever Teyrn and the Cousland family was resting in his hand. With this he could call on the freeholders who had sworn to serve the Teyrn and his family.

Yet, in the eyes of the law Edmund Cousland was not the Teyrn of Highever, it passed to Fergus and from Fergus onto his son, Oren. This ring wasn't Edmund's to use. To use it now would be unlawful, and an abuse of its power. With that thought, he pocketed the ring.

Edmund looked over at his sleeping nephew. He sighed. Remembering the words he had wanted to say to Oren, but he couldn't muster the courage to speak them.

I'm failing you, Oren.

The bitter truth made Edmund's stomach clench, but he could not refute it. He could see the loneliness in his nephew's eyes. He could sense the fear gnawing away within Oren, and he knew the memories and pain from the attack were still lingering in his nephew's mind, still haunting his dreams.

Sarim's sudden soft growling shattered Edmund's thoughts on his failures as he turned to the door.

Quietly sneaking closer, Edmund withdrew his sword from its sheath. He stopped when he noticed the door creak open. Thankfully, from his position he could not be seen. The door was obstructing him from view. He raised a hand to silence Sarim, who reluctantly obeyed.

The door opened enough for someone or something to slip through. It was a shadow, but Edmund remained where he stood until he saw the shadow's hand which was brandishing a dagger.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and then swung. The Cousland family sword sliced through flesh and bone severing the shadow's hand.

The shadow shouted in pain, but Edmund clapped his hand over the shadow's mouth in an attempt to muffle the noise. The shadow elbowed Edmund in the stomach, causing him to wince and drop his sword, as well as loosen his grip on the intruder, but the momentum worked against the shadow who tripped over its own feet and stumbled backwards.

Edmund saw his advantage. The shadow was already disarmed, and weakened from losing the hand. He unleashed a flurry of punches onto him, his fists connecting with the shadow's jaw and face that had the shadow yelping and reeling.

The fight was over before it really began when Edmund finished it with a swift kick to the shadow's stomach that dropped it to its knees, wheezing. To make his point, Edmund delivered one final punch that sent the intruder sprawling across the floor.

Edmund stepped towards the wounded intruder who was lying beneath the room's window. The emerging sunlight that crept into the room revealed the shadow to be the bard who had been performing last night.

His pretty face was marred by a broken nose, a few bruises, and a black eye. Blood was dripping from his nose and a few other cuts where Edmund's punches had landed. His bloody stump of where his hand had once been was resting on his chest staining his embroidered outfit.

Sarim leapt off of the bed, not giving the bard a moment to recover, landing on him and knocking the wind out of him before pinning him to the floor. Sarim's paws rested on the bard's shoulders; Sarim lowered his head before snarling.

The bard blanched at the ferocious mabari. He tried to jerk beneath Sarim but the war hound was too heavy.

Movement from the corner of his eye had Edmund turning away from the trapped bard to see his nephew had been woken up by the intrusion. Oren was sitting up and trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"Whatsgoingon?" his nephew mumbled, still incoherent at the early hour and still being half asleep.

"Cover your eyes, Oren," Edmund ordered as he pulled out a dagger, "And your ears."

The bard chuckled. "I thought the boy already saw death?" A dark glint emerged in his eyes, who found some sick sort of strength or courage at frightening Oren. "I heard he saw his mommy die."

"U-Uncle," Oren whimpered, before pulling the blanket up over his face, but his eyes were still peaking over it.

"Everything is going to be alright, Oren," Edmund brought the dagger to the bard's throat, who was unable to move or resist due to Sarim's bulking mass on top of him. Already, at a disadvantage bloodied, bruised, and missing a hand the bard seemed to have accepted his fate.

Edmund looked over his shoulder to see Oren had finally listened to him. Satisfied, he turned back to the would-be assassin. He clapped his free hand over the bard's mouth before bringing the dagger across his throat.

He saw red. He felt the warm spray of blood splash across his face.

Sarim gave the bard one final sniff to make sure he was dead before the large mabari got off the body.

Edmund calmly walked over to the side of the bed, where a basin of water was kept on the side table. He could hear the hitch in his nephew's breathing. Oren was shaking underneath the blanket.

Not wanting to greet his nephew covered in blood, Edmund dipped his bloodied hands into the water, splashing some of the water to his face. The cool water did nothing to sate the growing hot fury in his belly. Seeing his nephew shaking in fear awoke something primal in him that he hadn't felt since the night Howe betrayed his family.

"Uncle?" Oren's terrified voice broke the silence that had fallen over the room.

The anger in him bubbled and churned at hearing the fear in his nephew's voice. Edmund touched Oren's shoulder, but his nephew flinched. "It's alright." He soothed his terrified nephew. "It's me."

That stopped Oren's shaking, and this time he didn't flinch or pull away when Edmund rested his hand on his shoulder.

"Can I look now?"

Edmund looked around the room to see the corpse beneath the window, and the trail of blood back to the door where the bard's severed hand was. "You don't want to."

"Oh."

"I need you to do something for me," Edmund knew he used the right choice of words and tone since Oren perked up.

"What is it?" He sounded eager and willing.

"I need you to lock the door behind me," Edmund noticed his nephew's disappointment, but he continued. "And I want you to promise me not to open the door to anyone except for me."

"B-But-"

"No, Oren," His voice was firm when he cut off his nephew's protest. There was no way he was going to allow Oren out of this room until he was fully confident that there were no other dangers waiting for them. He didn't want Oren to see any more violence and he definitely didn't want Oren to be harmed or captured.

"Alright," Oren relented. "I can do that."

"Good," Edmund felt a burst of pride in his nephew. He bent over and kissed Oren's forehead. "Don't get up until I tell you too."

Edmund walked back over to the bard's corpse grabbing him by the collar before he dragged him across the floor to the door. There he picked up the severed hand. He stuffed it in one of the bard's pockets. He then opened the door, peeking out to see that the hallway was empty.

That didn't comfort him.

He was sure that the bard wasn't working alone, and that the bard's assailants were most likely downstairs waiting.

They will not get us, Edmund silently vowed. He dragged the body out of the room. He didn't want Oren to see it. Sarim followed right behind him. Despite Sarim's love and loyalty to Oren, the mabari was imprinted to Edmund and would never allow him to be separated from Edmund if Sarim sensed he was in trouble or danger.

"Go ahead and lock the door now," Edmund tried to make his voice sound reassuring through the closed door. "Don't be afraid of the blood." He listened attentively to Oren's padding footsteps across the room before he heard the locking of the latch.

"Great job," he kept his voice upbeat as he praised his nephew. Again, he wanted to shield his nephew of the potential danger that was waiting Edmund and Sarim downstairs.

"I'll be back shortly, and remember what I told you."

He dragged the corpse through the hallway stopping when they reached the staircase. From there he could pick up the sound of other voices. He wasn't sure how many were there, but he knew that these were the other culprits in the bard's little group.

His suspicions were confirmed when he picked up on the conversation they were having downstairs.

"What's taking him so long?" One gruff voice demanded.

"He should be done already." A second one complained.

He had heard enough, Edmund silenced them when he kicked the bard's corpse down the stairs. He watched as the body thumped with a series of cracks and smacks down the stairs before it hit the ground floor.

"What the-?"

Sarim had followed the corpse down the stairs with Edmund a few steps behind his war hound. At the bottom of the stairs were three men who had gathered around the bard's corpse drawn in at the sound of their fallen comrade. Sarim leapt towards the closest, sinking his teeth into the legs of the man, the war hound dragged him to the ground screaming.

The other two men were Edmund's. Though armed, they were no match for him. These men were thugs, not soldiers. They were use to brawls, to unarmed opponents. They lacked courage, and conviction.

Edmund handled them with ease, he parried the first one's thrust leaving the man vulnerable to a slash which the Cousland sword delivered, slicing through the man's chest as steel cut through leather and bit deep into flesh. The man collapsed to the ground with a shout.

The other not wanting to make the same mistake his partner had made had become desperate in his strikes, wanting to stave Edmund off, who easily deflected and blocked the sloppy sword strikes.

Believing the fight had gone on long enough, Edmund feigned in and when the man took the bait and moved to block, Edmund's sword changed course slashing at the man's sword arm. He hissed in pain as he dropped the sword, and Edmund finished him off with a deep gash that cut the man from shoulder to abdomen.

Edmund caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see it was the innkeeper. She was staring at him from behind her desk. She didn't look the least bit frightened at seeing three men die in her inn. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She didn't bother to hide her disdain towards him.

"You bloodied my Inn."

"I have a feeling you wouldn't have minded if it was my blood they spilled."

"It wasn't personal," She said defiantly, confirming her own involvement in the bard's scheme. "It was only business." She showed him a toothy grin, "And Howe paid better."

"I see," Edmund tried to stave the growing fury that was brewing within him. "Fair enough," He forced himself to smile. "I think it's only fair that I get my silver back."

She glared at him as if he was crazy to ask for his money back after she tried to not only fleece him, but kill him. "Fine," grumbling as she retrieved the silver he had paid her hours ago for a meal and a room.

"Glad to see we can still be civilized." Edmund picked up the silver pieces and slipped them back into his coin purse. "However, I have just one more thing to ask for."

"What is it?"

"Your life," The dagger slid deep between her ribs.

She gasped, her hands fumbled towards the wound, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she looked up at him.

"You were wrong," He pulled the dagger out watching as she fell to the ground. Her hands feebly pressed up against the fatal wound. "It was personal to me."

He was skilled enough with the dagger to know the wound will give the old bitch a slow, and very painful death. She'll be forced to lie in a pool of her own blood, endure agonizing pain, before death finally took her. She deserved this. She took their money with promise of food and shelter. She lied to them. She betrayed them.

If Edmund Cousland had felt an ounce of mercy towards her, he would've ended her pain quickly, and cut her throat, but Edmund Cousland wasn't feeling merciful.

Sarim was waiting for him by the stairwell, leaving behind the squealing of the innkeeper. The two made their way up the steps to retrieve Oren. They had overstayed their welcome and it was time for them to hit the road before others came. It wasn't until he reached the top of the stairs did he hear a new voice.

"You can come out." It was the barmaid.

"No, I can't," was Oren's reply through the locked door.

"Why not, sweetie?"

"Papa told me not to come out until he says so."

Even in this dire and stressful situation Oren had been able to stay with their made up identities. He hadn't slipped their cover. He was still Matty, Aedan's son. It was enough to bring a brief, but proud smile to Edmund's lips. He silently vowed to praise Oren for his bravery and performance when they were out of this mess.

"I'm sure Papa wouldn't mind."

"He does mind actually," Edmund made his presence known. "Stay in there, Matty."

"Oh," the barmaid was blushing, looking flustered, "I…I didn't mean-"

She was good, Edmund had to give her credit. She had played her role to perfection, and if Edmund wasn't a suspicious man he would've believed her.

"You can drop the act."

In a heartbeat she did. She was no longer blushing. She no longer looked flummoxed. In the blink of an eye, the innocent barmaid was no more, replaced by the deadly and very skilled bard.

The same eyes that had once looked at him with an adorable and disarming charm were now shimmering with a dark guile. Her lips that once innocently whispered for a quick and harmless tumble were now curved into a smirk.

She rested a hand on her hip, appraising him. "How long have you known?"

"I've always suspected," He shrugged. "When your family is butchered in their own home by their friend it's hard to trust anyone." He gestured to her, "but I must say it was well orchestrated." He offered her a mirthless smile. "I mean planting the bard to draw my suspicion." He crossed his arms over his chest, "Was he even a bard?"

"I was training him." She didn't look the least bit concerned that he had discovered her true purpose.

"Well, the training didn't work," He rested his hand on the pommel of the Cousland family sword. "Since he's dead," He knew he hit a mark when he noticed the dark flash in her eyes, but she was quick to recover.

"It was a calculated risk," she slipped back into the role of ruthless bard.

"All the while my real enemy was the blushing barmaid," Edmund couldn't help but crack a small smile at the well thought out plan that she had executed to try to ensnare him and Oren.

"Tell me truly was that your original plan when you asked me to join you in your room during dinner?" His smile remained, "promising me pleasure while in fact you planned on killing me."

"I assure you," She stood a bit straighter in a blatant attempt to advertise her ample chest. "There would've been pleasure."

Edmund couldn't help but laugh at her brazen display. She certainly didn't lack confidence. He gestured to the stairwell. "How about you just go, and we forget you ever tried to kill me."

She smiled triumphantly, running a hand through her dark hair. She believed her looks had successfully seduced him into letting her go. She took a few steps, winking as she passed him. It was her pride that would be her downfall. Her arrogance clouded her perception and because of it she never saw it coming.

He grabbed her hand, surprised, but skilled she tried to spin out of his grip, but that's what he was expecting. His other hand was holding a dagger which he used to cut a long gash across her midsection.

She yelped in pain as she crumpled to the ground. Shocked, she looked up at him, "but…but…"

"I was pretending." He crouched beside her, the dagger in hand. "To be an honorable knight, but I am not that anymore." He brought the dagger to her throat. Seeing her bleeding and helpless, Edmund Cousland felt nothing towards her.

There was no remorse. There was no pity. There was just a hunger for vengeance that could only be sated with her death.

"You didn't honestly think you'd get away for betraying me." He didn't allow her a chance to answer as cut her throat cleanly.

"Uncle?" Oren's voice was soft, and muffled through the closed door.

Knowing time was of the essence, Edmund no longer had the luxury of shielding Oren from blood and death.

"You can come on out."

The door creaked open, before a blur rushed towards him. Edmund scooped up his nephew into his arms and hugged him fiercely. "I'm so proud of you, Oren."

"Really?" There was disbelief in his nephew's voice.

It was enough to make Edmund's stomach twinge as he was reminded of his recent failures when it came to his nephew.

He replied with a bright smile that his nephew couldn't miss. "Of course I am!" He assured Oren as he ran a hand through his nephew's messy hair. "Don't you ever doubt it." He pulled Oren away so that he could see his nephew's face.

"I won't," Oren was smiling, but his eyes finally noticed the bard's corpse just outside their door. "Was she bad?"

"Yes, she was," Edmund realized there was no point lying to him. "We need to get going."

They were able to pack quickly and quietly. Edmund had experienced enough of the inn's hospitality for one visit. When they finished, Edmund grabbed his nephew's hand and led them down the stairs.

What he saw waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs caused him to immediately tense. "Shit."

Oren gasped either because of the curse or more likely due to the fact that there were now suddenly two dozen armed men standing in the inn's main room. Unlike the thugs who Edmund had just killed, these men were wearing proper chainmail armor, and each one had the same sigil emblazoned on the shields. The sigil was of two towering trees upon a green field.

"Leaving so soon, Edmund?" A plump man stepped into the room. He was flanked by two armored men who Edmund assumed to be knights. The plump man was carrying a mace and a shield, and his armor was of silverite instead of chainmail like the others. The sigil covered his entire chest plate.

"Bann Loren," Edmund stiffly bowed his head while tightening his grip on Oren's hand.

"So you know who I am." He approached them, not stopping until he was directly in front of Edmund. Even though Loren was a foot shorter than him, he had a way of making himself appear to have the more dominating presence. It didn't hurt that his men had them surrounded.

"I do."

"Then you know why I'm here," Loren studied him closely, his hand rested on the handle of his mace. "I want to know what happened to my wife and son."

Chapter Text

"The poor sods."

Fergus Cousland silently agreed with his lieutenant's assessment. He looked up at the three bodies that had been strung up, eerily swaying in the breeze.

The armor was caked in mud and blood, but there was no mistake that these men were once soldiers within the Ferelden army. Crows settled on their shoulders picking at their faces. All three corpses were without eyes; much of the flesh in their faces had been pecked and torn off by the crows.

He didn't know what was more disconcerting that these were the third set of bodies they came across today, or that he had grown so tolerant of the smell and sight of these gruesome corpses.

When he had seen the first bodies strung up like this on the first day of their expedition he had ordered them to be taken down and properly buried. However, he was overruled by the burly veteran Grey Warden who was accompanying them, a dwarf who told them to just call him Brosca.

Before Brosca agreed to go with them on this scouting party he made Fergus agree to two conditions. Firstly, no women were allowed to go with them. Secondly, it would be he who got final say, and not Fergus. The second one was a bit more difficult to agree to, but in the end Fergus relented, realizing the necessity of having a Grey Warden with them as they ventured deep into the infested Korcari Wilds

"If you stop to bury them," Brosca had said. "Then the next people who come by will have to bury our corpses with them."

"These men deserve a proper burial." Fergus had argued.

"Those corpses don't need nothing," Brosca had growled. "They're dead, and I hope you harden yourself, lad, because they won't be the last bodies we see."

He was right about that, Fergus silently admitted. They had been out for three days and had come across several bodies, but no darkspawn.

It was unsettling. They had been told the Wilds were infested with darkspawn, but so far they had seen none. He wasn't itching for a fight. They were a small scouting party, no more than ten men. They'd be no match for any band of darkspawn. They relied on small numbers to cover ground faster to try to get the darkspawn's position before reporting back to Ostagar.

The sooner the better if you ask me, Fergus thought. He hadn't liked this assignment one bit. If he had been given this assignment by any other man, he would've seen it as a slight. He wanted to return to Ostagar as soon as possible, and had already decided if they didn't find any darkspawn in the next day that they would return to Ostagar.

"I don't get it," that was Lt. Finley. "I thought these Wilds were supposed to be swarming with darkspawn." He made a show of looking around the dense woods before turning back to Fergus and shrugging. "So where are they?"

"Underground," The curt dwarf brushed past Fergus without so much of an apology or a backwards glance.

He had become use to the Grey Warden. Fergus no longer took offense to Brosca's uncouth behavior and his genuine disregard to authority. Brosca treated everyone with that same level of disrespect.

"Oh," Finley didn't seem too pleased by that. He tentatively looked to the ground as if half expecting darkspawn hands to claw up from the earth to grab him and pull him underground.

Fergus was thankful to have Lieutenant Finley along with him. He considered the knight his right hand man, and had also been recently appointed into the commanding ranks of the Horns of Highever.

His family took the best knights, soldiers, archers, and militiamen and molded them into an elite fighting force. Though they were called the Horns of Highever, the loyalties of the men were without question to the Cousland family.

An eager knight named Jenkins appeared beside Fergus. His head bowed and hands clasped in front of him, giving the corpses the only recognition Fergus' scouting party could afford-a brief prayer.

"We need to keep moving," Brosca growled. The dwarf was standing below the swaying corpses, not looking the least bit bothered at having their feet dangling above his head. "It's like you surfacers ain't ever seen a dead body before." He glared at Fergus and the rest of the men.

"Perish the thought when we actually spot a darkspawn," Brosca continued his tirade. "You all may just soil your trousers in fright." He spat. "Maybe that'll drive the darkspawn off." He shook his head in disgust before walking off.

"You think the Grey Wardens recruited him because of his charming personality?" asked Gary dryly. He was an archer from Highever, but a thief before that. When he had been caught Teyrn Cousland gave him a choice lose a hand or pick up a sword and fight for the Cousland family. Gary, a boy then, had chosen the sword, but had gravitated towards the bow and had risen to the rank of master bowmen.

"I bet ya it was the Grey Wardens secret rituals that turned him into a sourpuss," countered the knight, who was dubbed the bull. Strong and tall, his red steel helm had bull horns protruding from it. The name was a natural fit.

"That's why they keep 'em secret, don't want ya to know that you become grumpy louts once you join."

Finley and Gary snickered at that, and even Fergus cracked a smile.

"How long are we supposed to be out here, Lord Cousland?" the question came from Jenkins, the youngest of the men, earnest and eager to fight for king and country. Fresh off his knighting, the boy was chomping at the bit to prove his worth and new title, but so far all he proved capable of doing was asking Fergus questions.

"Until we're done scouting," was Fergus' answer. He excused himself from his men so that he could catch up with Brosca, believing that the dwarf may have been a bit too harsh on the men just now. The Warden may be in charge of this expedition, but these were his men, and Fergus wasn't about to allow them to get berated because the Grey Warden was in one of his moods.

You didn't earn the loyalty of the men by chastising and insulting them. It seemed clear that the Grey Wardens forgot to instill any sort of leadership training into these men

"That was uncalled for," Fergus spoke up when he came within earshot of the Grey Warden.

Brosca was crouched down beside a tree. "I've seen brontos move faster than those men."

"How you treat your bronto isn't my business," Fergus retorted, "But these are my men, and I take insult when they are berated for no good reason."

"No good reason?" Brosca scoffed, glancing over his shoulder at Fergus. "And here I thought it was only the dwarven nobles who were stuffy and foolish."

Fergus ignored the insult. He knew enough about dwarven history to know that he was dealing with a casteless dwarf. The tattoo that covered the left side of Brosca's cheek and enveloped his left eye signaled that this was a dwarf that was rejected by the Stone.

"You do the men no good by belittling them just because it suits you."

"And you do them no good by babying them, Lord Cousland," Brosca was scratching the bark before picking up thin pieces of the wood and bringing it to his nose. He wrinkled his nose before spitting.

Despite his annoyance at the Grey Warden, Fergus noticed something was wrong. "What is it?"

"The darkspawn are near." Brosca then abruptly lowered his breeches and relieved himself on the very same tree. Laughing as he pissed, he was quick to add. "Well, here's what I think of those nasty Spawn!"

Fergus wasn't sure what was more unsettling the fact that the darkspawn were near or that he was standing inches away from a pissing dwarf. Not to mention that this same dwarf was their darkspawn expert and leader of their scouting party.

The Maker must have a sense of humor, Fergus mused.

"What about the darkspawn?" Fergus pressed at the threat looming over them.

"They're close," Brosca answered, after he finished. "And a lot of 'em, I'm thinking at least fifteen or twenty."

That wasn't good news, Fergus reflected. That would mean the darkspawn outnumbered them two to one. The King had wanted them to scout not to engage the darkspawn in battle. The small numbers were supposed to help them cover more ground faster.

"You got all that from that?" He pointed to the bark of the tree.

"Of course not," Brosca sounded amused, "I have my Grey Warden ways of sensing them." He hooked a thumb towards the tree, "that just proves the spawn have been here recently."

Fergus ignored the recent wetness on the tree from Brosca to see what the dwarf was pointing at. Looking closer, he could see the unseemly dark growths sprouting along the trunk of the tree. "That's the taint."

"Sure is," Brosca didn't seem the least bit bothered, "figure this… ugh, what do you surfacers call this thing again?"

"A tree," Fergus put in, unsure if he should be amused or not at Brosca for not knowing what a tree was.

"Yeah, that's it, a tree," Brosca agreed, "It doesn't have more than a few days till the contamination spreads and turns it into a nasty ruin like everything else the darkspawn touch."

Fergus took in the growing tree before him, its branches long and thick, leaves of various colors at the ends of their reach like fingers, flapping and swaying in the breeze. Fergus could see a bird's nest further up in the higher branches as well as squirrels scrambling from one branch to another.

To know that this tree would be dead and marred by the darkspawn contamination made his stomach clench. Because he knew that this tree could just be the beginning, if the darkspawn could not be stopped here at Ostagar, then the darkspawn would spread. And the thought of the forests and swamps in the Coastlands to be blemished by the Taint was unwelcoming for the future Teyrn of Highever.

Not to mention the impact it would have on his beloved Ferelden, how many people would be affected by this taint? How many infected? Fergus had heard stories about ghouls, people who were inflicted by the darkspawn taint, the lucky ones got quick deaths, and the unlucky ones suffered grizzlier fates.

"You humans are spoiled," Brosca interrupted his musings. The dwarf's dark eyes were on Fergus. "You only care about the darkspawn when they're on the surface, but it's the dwarves who have to fight them every day."

Fair point, Fergus agreed, but he didn't want to admit it to the Grey Warden. "How long have you been a Grey Warden?"

"A few months," Brosca answered, "Duncan came to Orzammar looking for recruits. He probably wanted warriors from the finest dwarven houses instead he got me a thief and a murderer."

Fergus wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he chose to remain a different topic. "Why did you agree to come with us then?"

"It was this or go with Alistair and the fresh recruits," a flicker of what looked to be uncertainty across the dwarf's rough features. "And I didn't want to go with 'em. They had a female recruit."

"You don't like fighting with women?" Fergus asked, remembering Brosca's demand when he agreed to join them-no women were allowed to come.

"Not against darkspawn," Brosca shook his head. "The damn spawn take a special and perverted interest in women." He then held up his hands. "I shan't say any more, except what they do to the women they capture. It's a fate worse than death."

------------------------------------

They didn't stop again until it was time to make camp. Thankfully, Brosca had been able to lead them around the darkspawn band. Fergus had already decided this would be their last night in the Wilds. They had done their duty. They scouted the Wilds and could now report back to Ostagar.

Dinner hadn't been a feast just some salted pork and stale bread. No fires had been allowed. Brosca told them it would only attract trouble.

Waiting for his watch to start, Fergus went inside his tent and laid down on his bedroll, resting his head on the makeshift pillow of his cloak. Feeling the lumps dig into his back from the forest floor, he wished he was back in Highever, back in his room in Cousland castle, on his soft bed with a fire roaring and, Oriana lying beside him.

He was hoping when he saw father again at Ostagar, that he'd have a letter from Oriana for him. That was her way, and Fergus loved her for it. Always reminding him how much she cared for him, how proud she was, how much she loved him.

Recalling one time when he was in his study going through some tedious tax reports, he came across a letter she must have slipped it in the pile just to remind him how much she loved him. Fergus always kept the letter with him. It hadn't been the first she had written him or the last, but it had had a certain quality to it that made him want to carry it with him wherever he went.

With his return to Ostagar, Fergus was sure he'd be given a more important command for the pending battle with the darkspawn, a command that signaled and befitted the Heir of Highever. Secretly, he wanted something that would give him a chance to prove his merit. To prove that he was capable of becoming the next Teyrn of Highever.

Fergus knew the whispers within the army that some of the men favored his brother. He had a certain rapport with the men as well as respect that came with Edmund, who had been considered one of the better swordsmen in Ferelden before his exile.

He was use to these whispers. Fergus had heard the same ones back in Highever's court, but instead of them being men-at-arms or knights they were freeholders and banns who supported Edmund, not Fergus as the next Teyrn.

Sometimes Fergus wondered what mistakes had he made to have so many not wanting him to lead them? Oriana had told him not to take it personal, but how could he not? They wanted to pass Fergus over, the eldest and rightful heir to Highever for his younger brother. He had thought the whispers would quiet down when Edmund was exiled and Oren was born, both had happened around the same time. For a time they did, but his brother's return from Orlais last spring had only reignited them.

In a way they got what they wanted all be it briefly when their father left Edmund in charge of the Teyrnir with him and Fergus marching off to war. He felt no animosity towards his brother, Fergus knew that Edmund never encouraged them and often did his best to discourage them especially since his return from Orlais.

"Lord Cousland?"

"Hmm?" Fergus asked recognizing Finley's voice.

"It's your shift."

Already, Fergus wanted to moan, but he restrained himself. Instead, he pushed himself out of his lumpy bedroll and crawled out of his tent, grabbing his sword and shield as he did.

The dark sky was beginning to lighten; crimson light was slowly seeping in over the horizon.

He noticed that he wasn't the only one up. He spotted the Grey Warden Brosca sitting outside his tent and sharpening his daggers. "Couldn't sleep?"

Brosca looked up from his work. "We Grey Wardens don't have pleasant dreams."

"Oh," Fergus said, watching as Brosca continued sharpening his dagger. "We're heading back to Ostagar when the sun comes up."

"Ending the mission so soon?" Brosca teased. "Is it because there was no glory to be found?"

Fergus stiffened at the slight, but he was too tired to engage the Grey Warden in a long conversation. He opened his mouth to speak, but noticed the flicker of unease come across Brosca's face.

The dwarf leapt to his feet, dropping his whetstone and holding his daggers. He looked over his shoulder at Fergus. "The darkspawn are here!"

Pouring out of the thick bushes in front of them were the hideous monsters known as darkspawn. It was the first time Fergus had ever seen one and the sight and stench of them up close was enough to rile his stomach.

"Darkspawn!" Fergus shouted, sliding his arm through his shield strap. "Everyone up!" He tightened his grip on his sword. "We're under attack!"

Fergus raised his shield just as a hurlock slashed him with a rusty serrated sword. It growled showing its pointy teeth as it swung again at him; Fergus deftly swatted the strike away with his shield. Seeing his opening he stabbed the darkspawn, his sword cutting through the rusty patchwork of armor and into flesh. The darkspawn growled in pain and anger, but Fergus silenced it by cleaving the head from its body in his follow up swing.

He heard screams. Turning around, Fergus watched in horror as Jenkins was pulled out of his tent by a handful of darkspawn, pawing and punching at them, but more darkspawn came before silencing him as they gutted him, innards and blood slid out of Jenkins' belly, with the darkspawn fighting one another for the warmest bits of flesh to feast on.

It stirred Fergus' stomach. Enough to make him want to vomit, never seeing such savagery before.

"Rally to me!" Brosca was shouting. "Don't try to run!" the Grey Warden had a growing pile of darkspawn bodies at his feet, resembling a whirlwind of blades as he sliced and hacked his way through charging darkspawn.

Two of the men didn't heed Brosca's warning. Terrified at the charging darkspawn they chose to run, but they didn't even leave the encampment before they were shot down by arrows. The two men were still alive when the darkspawn started eating them.

Fergus was about to join Brosca when he felt a sharp pain in his side. He looked down to see an arrow jutting out between his ribs. He winced, as his fingers touched the shaft of the arrow as it dug deeper into his flesh.

No, not like this, Fergus was thinking. He didn't want to die like this.

An armored hurlock charged him thinking he was easy prey, but Fergus Cousland was not. He raised his sword to parry the blow, wincing at the pain that flared around the wound. His movements were jerky; pain was his only constant companion.

It was the reminder of Oren that fueled Fergus past his pain to swat the hurlock away with his shield. His son's laughter that had him slash the darkspawn from hip to shoulder.

The men, his men were not faring any better. The Bull was dealing a killing blow to one hurlock when two genlocks appeared, concealed by shadows, the smaller darkspawn peppered the Bull with stabs before he fell to his knees. One of the genlocks cut the Bull's head off in one fluid, scissor like cut.

This can't be happening, Fergus thought. They were supposed to be returning to Ostagar. The only story they were going to tell was of their boredom. Now they were being cut down left and right.

A sudden pang of pain shot through him with such force he cried out. A second arrow had struck him, protruding just under his right armpit. He felt the rush of blood seeping out of the wound, and streaming down his side. He didn't have the strength to stand, falling to his knees, he dropped his shield. Silently watching as Gary tried to grapple with a genlock with his bow before falling to a hurlock who came up behind him.

Fergus slid a hand to the wound, his fingers slick with his own blood. He had seen enough of battles to recognize a fatal wound when he saw one.

I'm sorry, Oriana, he felt the hot prickly tears in his eyes. Falling onto his side, careful not to have the arrows sticking out of him hit the ground knowing that would only cause more pain and discomfort. Lying on his side, helpless and dying, he watched Brosca silenced by an arrow.

"Lord Cousland," rasped Finley. He was injured and bleeding, crawling on all fours towards him. "I…I'm sorry." He reached a hand towards Fergus, but the last of his strength gave out and he collapsed on his stomach. He was dead.

Fergus felt the encroaching darkness.

So this was death, Fergus mused. The pain ebbed and numbness filled him.

Before blackness took him, Fergus' last thoughts were of the wife and son he had left behind.

Chapter Text

"You can't do this to me!" The prisoner stamped his feet. "I'm the Arl of Denerim!"

"No, you're not," Howe stepped into view. "I am."

It had been an easy enough task. When Howe arrived to Denerim, some of her citizens had rioted against the former Arl's son. Most of the soldiers had left with the Arl, who only left behind a small garrison of soldiers for his son to manage. Under duress against the mob, Howe had graciously offered to help secure the situation, which he did.

However, when the gates opened to allow him and his sizable force onto the grounds, he couldn't resist a chance to alter the leadership. It was clear the previous Arl didn't have the skills needed to properly do his duty. So Howe had taken the title, the holdings, and the power that went with it.

Standing in a small and cramped cell was Vaughn Kendall. It still hadn't sunk in the nobleman's mind that he had lost his power and authority. That he was now only a prisoner in his family's dungeon.

"I let you into my castle!"

"That was your mistake."

"Y-you promised to help me," The fear in his voice signaled that reality was slowly settling in.

"But I did help you," Howe argued, "And now I can help the people of Denerim far better than you ever could."

"The King will hear about this."

"Yes, he will," Howe assured him. "That you were orchestrating a coup against your Queen but your own mob turned against you."

"What?" He blanched. "That's not true!"

"What do you say, Chase?" Howe turned to his captain. "Is that how it happened?"

"It did, Your Lordship," he stepped forward.

"There you have it," Howe smiled at the defeated look on the prisoner's face.

"P-Please," he grabbed at the bars. "We can negotiate. I'll do anything you want!"

And there it is, Howe mused, the final act before acceptance-desperation. With his prisoner finally accepting his new role it was time for Howe to speed things along. He had a new Arling to secure.

"I have no doubt about that," Howe agreed.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"You were in my way." Howe motioned to the guards. "Denerim, Highever, I deserved these titles and these riches for my service during the Rebellion. Instead I got nothing. I was ignored, and left to rot in my Arling while lesser men then I got my rightful rewards."

The guards moved to the cell to unlock the door and restrain the prisoner.

"Do you know the best way to get a measure of a man, Vaughn?"

The prisoner shook his head.

"It's pain."

The prisoner's eyes widened, "N-No, no, p-please!" He was swinging his hands to try to stop the guards from grabbing him. But there was nowhere for him to run, the guards subdued him easily enough. One grabbed him roughly by the arms while the other punched him in the stomach to stop himself from resisting. They escorted Vaughn towards the rack to prepare him for interrogation. After a few interrogations, Howe knew he wouldn't even need to put Vaughn in a cell or in chains. By that point, Vaughn would be broken and beaten, his pain and his fears will serve as his shackles.

"Only through pain can you truly understand a person," Howe watched Vaughn getting strapped onto the rack.

The prisoner continued to sob and squirm while his hands and legs were being bound, "p-please, m-mercy!" he was whimpering. "I'll give you the Arling!" he sobbed, "P-Please don't do this!"

Howe ignored his worthless pleas. "You see its pain that shatters the masks people put up. It breaks through the lies. Only through pain can truth be discovered." The guards finished strapping Vaughn to the rack stepping away from the sobbing prisoner.

"And by the end of our talks, I'll know you better than your own parents," Howe finished, gesturing to his esteemed torturer to prepare the interrogation.

"You came into this world, screaming and bloody," Howe relished this moment. The beginning of the end for the prisoner, this was when the first walls that they put up were tested and then shattered under the influence of pain.

"And you will leave this world screaming and bloody."

He then noticed the wetness that stained the front of his prisoner's pants. The scent of urine soon followed.

Pathetic, Howe shook his head in disgust. Denerim was better off without this maggot of a man to oversee them. Howe would bring strength, discipline and a healthy dose of fear to the citizens of Denerim. Only then would they understand true order.

"Your Lordship?" a timid elf messenger appeared.

"What is it?" Howe snapped, he hated being interrupted during his interrogations. He halted the torturer from beginning.

"It's Her Majesty, Milord," The elf replied meekly. "She has requested your presence at the Royal Palace."

This was to be expected, Howe knew the Queen would want to speak with him ever since he had decided to go to Denerim. She may have questions for him, but Howe had the only answer that mattered: his army.

She may be the Queen, but it was Howe who held the true power at the moment. Power he couldn't abuse, not if his plans were going to work. For now he still needed to play the loyal royalist and servant of the Crown.

"Very well," Howe sighed, "Inform Her Majesty I will be there shortly."

"What about him, Your Lordship?" asked the torturer, referring to Vaughn Kendall who was still crying and trembling on the rack.

"Send for the Reaver," His instructions got the desired effect: Vaughn looked terrified, whimpering and even Howe's own guards couldn't hide their own fear at the mention of one of Howe's most trusted but feared servants.

-----------------------------

"Your Majesty." Howe bowed low when he appeared before the presence of the Queen of Ferelden.

"Arl Howe."

He ignored the insult. He was no longer an Arl, but the Teyrn of Highever. Instead he raised his head and offered her a smile. They were not the only ones in the room. The Queen's Seneschal was also there, standing behind the Queen's chair.

"Please sit down," she gestured to a chair across from her.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he graciously accepted. "What do I owe the pleasure of this summons?"

"We were curious of your arrival to Denerim, Lord Howe."

"I'm at the service of your Majesty," He answered smoothly.

"That is very kind of you."

"However," that was the Seneschal. "Were not your orders from the King to go to Ostagar with your forces?"

Who is he to speak to me? Howe inwardly fumed. This lowly steward thinking he can address Howe as an equal. They were not equals. He commanded the Coastlands, all of Northern Ferelden now had to swear him fealty.

He forced his smile to remain. He couldn't falter and succumb to his rightful fury. He needed to remain civil.

"I hate to admit it," he lofted a heavy sigh, "But I had to ignore my king's orders in order to save Ferelden."

"And how is that?" The seneschal pressed forward.

"It came to my attention that one of my dear friends was in league with the Orlesians," Howe answered forlornly. "It is a sad day I assure you when we must turn on friends, but it had to be done."

"Traitors?"

"Yes, your Majesty," he paused, as if trying to gather the strength to move forward. "This is a sensitive subject to us all I fear, due to who the traitors were."

"I appreciate your concern, Lord Howe," she said graciously, "So please take your time."

"You are too kind, your Majesty," Howe bowed his head. "I became aware of the Couslands secret talks with the Orlesians. They were inclined to take Orlesian gold in return they gave them vital and sensitive information."

"Bold accusations," The Seneschal was frowning. "The Couslands have always been friends to Ferelden, and strong supporters of the king."

The old man was just upset, because I had to do his job, Howe silently criticized. It was the Seneschal's job to dispense the king's justice, but Luwin was getting older, and it seemed he no longer had the stomach needed to hand out true justice.

"Now, now, Luwin," Anora chided her Seneschal. "Arl Howe would not have acted without proper deliberation and thought into what he was doing when he made his move on the Couslands."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Howe met the Queen's cool stare. He wasn't fooled by the Queen's polite demeanor or her kind words. He knew the seneschal was serving as her mouthpiece to vent her own anger at what Howe had done at Highever. She just wasn't brave enough or in a strong enough position to voice them herself.

"If the Couslands were traitors then why not arrest them in the name of the King and Queen?"

"They wouldn't heed your authority, Your Majesty," Howe addressed his answer to the Queen, not the Seneschal.

"I see," she brought her hands together.

"I appreciate your understanding. I know this cannot be easy for you to hear due to your closeness with the Couslands."

"My closeness?" A slight crack formed in her polite façade. It provided a glimpse of the boiling anger the Queen was trying to hide from Howe.

"You were taken in by the Teyrn and Teyrna at Highever for those two years, I'm sure you saw them as a second family." He drummed his fingers along the table. "I imagine that's how they fooled us. We were so close to them, that we couldn't see their true natures until it was too late."

"You saw their true nature," The Queen pointed out, a touch of chillness in her tone.

"I pride myself on vigilance, Your Majesty." He took some satisfaction at being able to so easily irritate her. Didn't she realize how easy she was to manipulate? Her closeness to the Couslands was her undoing.

Her cold eyes were on him, but he didn't flinch.

She had nothing. No proof or evidence to go against Howe's story. She had to believe him, knowing if she moved against him then the Coastlands would rise up in his defense and she was powerless against his army. She may be Queen, but at the moment, they both knew who held the true power in this room.

"Very well, Lord Howe," she acquiesced. "You are free to go, I will have my people gather information and the facts of what happened that night in Highever."

He lowered his head out of protocol not respect to the Queen in front of him. He pushed himself out of his chair and stood up. "I trust they will find my story to be quite compelling."

"We'll also have you hand over your evidence, Lord Howe," Seneschal Luwin spoke up. "We'd like to look at the proof that had you act so quickly and fervently."

"Then you shall have it," he obliged.

"One more thing," the Queen stopped him from leaving. "I've been told there were some problems at the Arl of Denerim's estate last night."

"Yes, a tragic story," Howe paused, "It seems some of Denerim's citizens reacted strongly to accusations leveled against Arl Vaughan."

"Yes, I can imagine," Anora frowned, "And the Arl?"

"The mob tore him to pieces." It was a convenient lie. There was no need to dredge him up from the dungeons. Besides, soon enough he would be dead after Howe made full use of him.

"It was a gruesome sight, Your Majesty."

"And you've taken up residence there?" she followed up.

"Do you have any objections?"

"None at all," she assured him.

"Very good," Howe smiled. "I look forward to seeing you again, Your Majesty." He turned to go, "May Andraste watch over your father and husband in the south."

And when they're gone, I will look after you...

--------------------------

The Teyrn of Highever and Arl of Denerim didn't have the luxury to vent his frustrations at how he was treated by the Queen until he was back at the estate. She invited him over to interrogate him like he was some sort of common prisoner, refusing to address him as the new Teyrn of Highever.

The audacity! She may be queen, but she had no army to command. She foolishly thought she had the authority and power, what she had was a misconception! Howe would remind her soon enough, who now held the true power in Ferelden.

Howe had moved his personal effects into the old guard captain's chambers. It was not as spacious or lavish as other chambers in the estate but it did suit Howe's purpose.

He stopped his pacing to look at the door that led him directly into the bowels of the dungeon. The proximity of the dungeons to his chamber was too convenient to ignore. He knew that as the new Arl of Denerim he would be quite busy in the coming days assessing loyalties and putting others to his special brand of questioning.

Pain was the great equalizer. It was felt by everyone: rich and poor, young and old, noble and commoners alike. None could ignore its harshness, and all desired not to feel its unbias touch.

Right now Vaughan Kendall was having his mettle measured and tested. And soon Howe would come down himself to ask his questions and understand the true character Vaughan was. He couldn't help but wonder when he might get the chance to better know the Queen. He was sure after his interrogation of her, he'd know her better than her precious husband and father ever could.

"These are such lovely quarters."

The sudden voice broke Howe from his musings. He turned to see a stranger standing in his doorway. The man was dressed in an odd garment that more resembled robes that mages wore. He was bald, with a dark and thick goatee, and dark eyes that were currently sweeping around Howe's room.

"How did you get in here?" Howe demanded. He silently vowed to punish the incompetence of his guards for allowing this stranger to walk so brazenly through the estate, my estate.

"Through the front gate," the stranger smiled, stepping into the room like he was invited in.

The nerve of this man, Howe reached for his axe, but the stranger made no move to protect himself or arm himself with any concealed weapon he may hold beneath his loose robes.

He held his arms up in a gesture of submission before bowing low, "I come as a friend, Your Lordship."

Howe stayed his hand, knowing that if he didn't like this conversation that he could disarm the man efficiently and quickly. "Oh?"

"Yes," the stranger didn't seem perturbed at Howe's hand resting on his axe handle. He looked perfectly calm as he graciously took a seat in a nearby chair. "We are very similar, you and I."

"I am the Teyrn of Highever, I hold all of Northern Ferelden," sneered Howe.

"And if you want to keep it, you will listen to me," the stranger warned him.

Howe understood a threat when he heard one. Already frustrated about his meeting with the queen, his curiosity couldn't contain his fury, he had axe in hand and was ready to bring it down on this stranger, but it stopped in mid-swing.

His arm was suddenly paralyzed. His fingers were stiff and unmoving as the axe's blade hovered inches away from the stranger's throat.

The stranger just smiled. "That is not wise."

"What are you?" Howe hissed, trying to regain control of his arm, but it was unmoving to his silent command.

"A powerful ally if you allow me to be."

Magic, Howe knew at once how this stranger had been able to walk into his estate, and how he was able to keep control of Howe's arm. This man was a mage, an apostate, no doubt. They had their uses, Howe silently begrudged, remembering using one on his assault against the Couslands. She had been a mercenary and sadly had been killed during the attack.

"I'm listening."

The stranger's smile widened, "excellent."

Suddenly, Howe felt movement in his arm again. The mage had cancelled whatever spell he had put on his arm. Howe lowered his arm, but his grip on the handle of his axe remained tight.

"I represent a group of talented individuals who wish to assist you in your efforts to purge the city of those." He paused to bring his hands together to rest on his lap. "Whose thinking may not align to yours."

Howe noticed the scabs and scars on the stranger's hand, some looked fresh, while others looked half healed. "And what do you want out of this?"

"Some of the guilty," flashing Howe a predator like smile, "For our own uses."

"Then, I think we can come to an agreement."

Chapter Text

"Thank you for seeing me."

Where else am I suppose to go? Edmund wanted to ask Bann Loren. He and his nephew Oren have been Loren's guest for more than a week, but this was only their second night at Caer Oswin. Most of their time in Loren's company had been spent on the road.

He told Edmund and Oren that they were his honored guests, and they've been treated with every courtesy since Loren and his men picked Edmund and Oren up at that inn so many days ago, but Edmund remained suspicious. He had to be, after what Howe did to his family. Howe too had been a guest of his family, and returned their hospitality with betrayal and death.

So here he was, standing in his host's study. Loren could be found behind his desk, sifting through piles of vellum. Across one wall on display was where Loren's family sigil hung proudly. Over the fireplace was a family portrait of Loren with his wife, Lady Landra and his son and heir, Dairren. They were just two of the many who perished that night.

A large table anchored the room with more than a dozen chairs tucked in. His estate wasn't as large as Cousland castle so his study also was his meeting room where he talked and met with the various freeholders and knights under him. Several maps were sprawled out on top of the table. Walking by the table to reach Loren, Edmund noticed some of the maps were local detailing of Loren's holdings and properties, while some of the other maps out were of the Bannorn, as well as the Coastlands, and a map of Ferelden.

Unsure how to respond, Edmund just nodded. The two hadn't spoken much outside of their meals. And even then their conversations were quick and casual. Edmund couldn't blame the Bann, he's sure every time Loren sees either Edmund or Oren he's reminded of the wife and son he lost.

The longest conversation the two men shared was their first one where Edmund retold his and Oren's escape from their home. Loren hadn't tried to hide his tears or his misery at the part where Edmund spoke of discovering the bodies of Lady Landra and Dairren in the guest chambers.

Edmund had silently respected Loren's unabashed display of grief for his lost loved ones. He was braver then Edmund, who hadn't dared show any sign of it in front of Oren in fear of upsetting or scaring his nephew.

At the time, Edmund had tried to persuade Loren to let him finish the story another time, but the Bann refused he wanted to hear all of it, and Edmund had reluctantly obliged.

"I must say I was surprised with you, Edmund." Loren was a short man, as well as plump around the middle, but the man's arms signaled that he still had strength in them and was more than capable of wielding the mace he carried. His red hair was kept short, and his brown eyes were watching Edmund closely for a reaction.

Confused, Edmund wasn't quite sure how to respond to the Bann's remarks, "Pardon, my lord?"

"When I showed up at the Inn, I was expecting a half crazed warrior," Loren explained. "Ready to fight and die, but instead you surrender without as much as a whimper."

"It was prudent to surrender," Edmund defended his actions.

"I was half expecting you to try to commandeer my men and lead us on a march to Highever to try to reclaim your family's home." The Bann's tone conveyed his approval of such an idea.

"That would have been unwise." He was tempted, so tempted, but there was more to his life than vengeance. He had Oren to think about.

"I suppose," Loren leaned back in his chair, "But I never thought you would surrender so willingly."

Edmund wasn't sure if the words were intended to be insulting or not. "If I thought our lives were in danger I wouldn't have."

"Ah," that seemed to amuse Loren. "So you do not see me as a threat?"

"I see all men as threats." It was the final curse Howe had put on Edmund that fateful night. His ability to trust had come easy but now he saw enemies everywhere, imaginary or real. His faith in people and his willingness to trust others had died alongside his parents that night.

"A wise perception," Loren agreed.

Was this what he wanted to talk about? Edmund mused, to speak his disappointment at their first encounter. To tell Edmund that he had been expecting a fierce warrior but instead all he got was a tired, broken man.

"I asked to see you because there is much we need to discuss," Loren must have sensed Edmund's waning patience.

"We?" He frowned. The only we for Edmund was him and Oren.

That got a smile out of Loren. "We are allies, Lord Cousland."

"Is that so?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

"It is," Loren confirmed, standing up. "That night Howe unknowingly forced an alliance sealed by blood." He walked over to the fireplace. "It cannot be undone by promises or coin." He pointed to his family portrait. "The night he butchered our families Howe made us allies."

Trust no one, a small voice warned in the back of his head, but even Edmund's suspicions of Loren were fading. In fairness, they had never been strong to begin with. It was hard to suspect that a man would ever work for someone who was responsible for killing his wife and son.

Loren took Edmund's warring silence as permission to continue. "That night a pact was written by the blood of our families. It is our duty to punish those responsible."

"Retribution is a fragile foundation for trust."

He turned away from the portrait and towards Edmund. "Is it?" He scratched the graying stubble along his jaw line. "I cannot think of a stronger foundation."

"What if we view retribution differently?" Edmund challenged, he wasn't sure why he was, but his suspicious side was provoking him. He wanted to test Loren. He needed to know the Bann's goals for this proposed alliance. "Our vengeful hearts will turn on each other to seek what we believe to be our just acts of revenge."

"There is only one fate for Howe and that is death." Loren walked back over to his desk, "However that will be no small feat if the latest gossip out of Denerim is to be believed."

"Gossip?" Edmund repeated. Until he visited that inn, he had been actively shunning the rest of the world in an effort to shield Oren and himself from the dangers that were lurking and waiting for them. Part of the reason why he had decided to go to that village was on the hopes of getting some useful information especially any rumors from the south.

"Howe has claimed the Arling of Denerim."

Impossible, Edmund wanted to shout, but he was too surprised to speak. He was struck silent at the thought of Howe being allowed into the capital city of Ferelden without so much as a punishment for his actions against Edmund's family. Not only was Howe not punished, but now he had another title, collecting more land and power.

Surely, Anora would have done something. Her love for him may have dissipated, but her love for his mother, and father had always been strong. Yet, she did nothing to the man who murdered them. Edmund could feel the hot anger churning and seething within him.

No, he tried to stem his anger. He tried to see reason. He tried to see hope. He needed to see hope. He couldn't believe that Anora would willingly allow Howe to stay a free man. There has to be a reason. The words and rationality helped to temper his anger.

"This means that Howe now controls Northern Ferelden." This couldn't be happening.

"Yes, he does," Loren sighed. "He has formed a near impenetrable hold on the north to attack any of them would require feeling the brunt of Howe's terrible power."

Edmund moved to the table where the maps were sprawled out. Looking at the map of Ferelden, his eyes drifted over to the land that Howe now controlled. All of the territory east of Lake Calenhad and north of the North Road to the Waking Sea now belonged to Rendon Howe. Through Highever and Amaranthine he held the Coastlands in an iron grip. With the addition of Denerim, Edmund wasn't sure there was another man in the country stronger than Howe.

"Wait," Edmund's eyes traveled south to Ostagar. "What about the King? Teyrn Loghain." What about my brother and Highever's forces? He silently added.

"That was the other news I had received from Denerim."

Loren's tone made Edmund's stomach painfully clench. This cannot be good.

"Ostagar was a disastrous defeat." Loren's voice was flat as he continued, "The king is dead. Teyrn Loghain has sent word across the country of the defeat and his return to Denerim." He cleared his throat. "In the message he also reported your brother's death."

He felt his knees buckle and Edmund had to grab the edge of the table to stop himself from falling, instead he slid into one of the chairs. His hands were shaking.

You weren't supposed to die, Fergus, Edmund blinked back tears. You were suppose to come back to save Oren and me. He slid a hand over his eyes feeling the warm tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. Not recognizing the anguish cry that escaped his lips. He felt his shoulders shake, as the sobs wracked his body.

The death of Fergus undid him. His strength waned and his walls completely shattered. He found himself being swept up in all the emotions he had tried to bury since the attack. Witnessing his parents' deaths, watching his family home go up in flames, having his life ripped from him…

"I'm sorry, Edmund," Loren's voiced was thick with empathy.

"What am I to do?" Edmund found himself asking. He instantly regretted voicing the question out loud, feeling embarrassed at how clueless he sounded. He was supposed to be Oren's pillar, his strength.

Oh Oren, the reminder of his nephew caused Edmund to slam his fist into the table. He now had to tell his nephew his father was dead. That he wouldn't be coming to save them the way they envisioned. It seemed a cruel joke for his nephew. Oren didn't need an uncle. He needed his father.

Loren had been silent, allowing Edmund to grieve uninterrupted. He didn't try to comfort him with empty words or gestures, he stayed silent.

After a few steady breaths, Edmund regained his composure. He wiped away the tears with the back of his sleeve, scrubbing his cheeks to remove any remnants of his emotional distress.

It was over, he told himself. It's behind me. He now needed to move forward and do everything he could for Oren.

"We must spread the word," Edmund said. "Others must know that Oren and I live."

He thought about his Uncle Leonas, the Arl of South Reach. Surely, his Uncle would come to them once he found out what happened at Highever.

"It's not words you need," Loren countered, standing across from him. "If you want Ferelden to know that you live than you must fight!"

"Fight?" Edmund wanted to scoff, but he didn't. "How? I have no men."

"But I do," Loren corrected. "I do not have the strength to directly challenge Howe." He tapped his finger on a particular portion of the Bannorn just east of Loren's lands. "But I may have an opportunity for you."

"What?"

"A scouting party of Howe supporters looking for you," Loren explained, "If you were to engage them, if you were to beat them. The news would spread through the Bannorn of your survival, of your victory. And soon all of Ferelden will know that you live and you mean to reclaim Highever."

"It would only be a small battle," Edmund pointed out, "what good could that do us?"

"All it takes is a spark to start a blaze." Loren rebutted. "If word spread of not just you living, but of your victory, much of the Bannorn and the freeholders within the Coastlands would flock to your banner."

The plan had merits, Edmund had to agree. The rewards were great and the risks seemed low. He had no doubt that if a battle took place in the Bannorn between his forces and Howe that the news would spread quickly. The Bannorn was notorious for its capability of carrying news especially gossip across its breadth very quickly.

"We still need an army," Edmund observed. The skirmish may gain them some support, but it would also draw Howe's attention to them. They didn't have the strength to repel his numbers if he chose to bring his full might down upon them.

"We may have one," Loren pointed to the eastern portion of Ferelden. "Your brother supposedly died in an ambush, but the Highever forces are relatively unscathed. In fact they are marching right now under Teyrn Loghain back to Denerim, and if your Uncle joins with the strength of South Reach behind him..."

"We'd have our army." Edmund finished, a rare smile came to his lips. The forces of Highever would march for Edmund not Howe if they knew he still lived. The Couslands had earned fierce loyalty from their subjects throughout their reign.

"Exactly," Loren matched his smile.

The smile didn't last, as Edmund thought of the snag in the plan. "I can't lead forces." He shook his head. How could he be so selfish? How could he be so forgetful?

"What about Oren?"

"Your nephew can stay with me," Loren assured him.

"I…I don't know," Edmund wasn't sure about leaving his nephew behind even in Loren's care.

"If you do not fight then Howe has already won," Loren argued. "If you want your life back then you must fight for it!"

"I need time," Edmund pushed himself out his seat. "I need to think about this."

This was happening all too fast. This morning he and Oren were talking about when they would leave Caer Oswin. Now he and Loren were talking about Edmund leading a rebellion in his nephew's name. The King was dead. His brother was dead and the darkspawn were still a threat in the south.

There was also Teyrn Loghain. He survived Ostagar, maybe, with the strength of his army he would be able to punish Howe where Anora could not. Then there would be no need for any battles to be fought.

How could Edmund have been so dumb in forgetting about the Hero of River Dane? Surely, Loghain would see justice is done and that Howe was rightfully punished for his crimes. Then Edmund and Oren could return to Highever.

"Very well," Loren acquiesced, "but time is against you, and soon this opportunity will be beyond our reach."

"I understand," Edmund made his way to the door, "But for now you must excuse me, I need to tell my nephew that his father now too is dead."

Chapter Text

She didn't belong here. Not after everything she did.

No, she corrected herself. It was all the things she didn't do. That was why she felt so uneasy. Despite all the good memories she had of this place, they were now somewhat blemished.

The Queen felt like a trespasser. She had visited this place many times, and they were always there to greet her. Now, the estate was practically deserted, save for a few servants and guards who the Queen had selected personally to make sure the estate didn't fall into disarray. However, the servants were tasked to not just clean, but to preserve the Cousland family legacy and their history. Highever may have been lost with many of the Cousland priceless heirlooms destroyed or stolen. A few remained here including a few tomes and portraits, and Anora would ensure they stayed preserved and protected.

Anora wouldn't allow the estate to fall into Howe's hands so she chose guards loyal to her to stand vigilant to make sure he wouldn't seize this property for himself. He may have declared himself the new Teyrn of Highever, but she would not allow him this estate. His mere presence would only soil the memory of the Cousland family.

They deserved better.

The ache was still there. She missed them. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland meant so much to her. Now, that they were gone, she was only beginning to realize how much they had meant. She missed their wise council. She missed their calming presence. They're unwavering support to her. They were two of the very small number of people who Anora trusted unconditionally.

This small act of preserving and protecting their estate in Denerim was all she could do.

Pathetic, she chastised herself. She was the Queen of Ferelden, and yet she was unable to properly punish Rendon Howe for his foul acts against the Cousland family. He had an army and with it, he remained beyond even her reach. At the moment all Anora could muster were the palace guard and a regiment of Gwaren soldiers her father had left behind. She couldn't even call on the city guard, by the law they served the Arl of Denerim, and not technically the Royal Family. It was an oversight that Anora believed needed to be fixed.

She stepped into the study half expecting to be greeted by Bryce and Eleanor, like the countless times before. The Teyrn would give her a friendly smile with a few kind and charming words while his wife, the Teyrna would embrace Anora like she was her daughter.

Instead she was greeted by silence, and ghosts. The servants had started a fire in the hearth, but other than that the room for the moment looked relatively untouched. The desks of the Teyrn and Teyrna faced the two high windows that were on either side of the fireplace to allow plenty of sunlight to brighten up the room. Above the fireplace, on the mantle was the bow that Eleanor had used during the Rebellion and above that was a family portrait.

It was an older portrait. Fergus and Edmund were younger, the former on the cusp of manhood, looking at Edmund she realized he looked just as he did when she first came to live in Highever all those years ago. He was handsome with his confident smile, which looked playful as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his older brother. Behind the Cousland boys stood the Teyrn and Teyrna, the former had his hand on Fergus' shoulder, while the latter had hers on Edmund's. The parents' eyes shimmered with pride and affection at their two children.

I have failed you, she thought numbly. Looking up into the faces of those who she considered her second family and now three of them were dead while the fourth was on the run. She bowed her head, not wanting to look at those she disappointed. She couldn't meet their eyes.

It was all too much for her to take.

She backed away.

I don't belong here, she realized. I shouldn't be allowed here.

"Your Majesty?"

Startled by the sudden voice that interrupted her musings, she regained her composure before turning around to greet the familiar voice. She knew at once something was wrong when she took in Luwin's uneasy stance and nervous expression.

"What are you doing here?"

"Your Majesty," he bowed his head. "We need to talk."

"What is it, Luwin?" She asked, taking in his nervousness, she thought that the news couldn't be good. Her heart instinctively going to the conclusion that something had happened to her father, or to Edmund and Oren. "Has something happened?"

The Seneschal looked around the room. "Can we talk?"

A part of Anora wanted to leave this room and estate. Yet, seeing Luwin's state she realized that whatever he wanted to talk about had to be important for him to personally come to see her. She also knew that by all accounts it was probably safer to discuss this sensitive information here, since she was surrounded by servants and guards whose loyalty to her could not be questioned.

"Very well," she acquiesced, taking a seat on the same sofa that she and Eleanor had always sat on during her visits to the estate. They always sat close so that the Teyrna could fondly hold Anora's hand like a proud mother, giving the her grip an encouraging squeeze or a soothing pat when the two would talk about life's often difficult situations.

It was on this sofa that Anora had confided to Eleanor upon discovering Cailan's infidelity. It was Eleanor who comforted her through the confusion and ache that had swelled at the news of her husband's liaisons. It was here where Anora confessed her fears of being barren and unable to provide Cailan a rightful Theirin heir.

Enough, she clamped down on the flood of memories that were swelling within. She couldn't afford to become distracted. Anora gestured for her faithful seneschal to take a seat across from her.

His expression remained troubled as he brought his fidgeting hands to rest in his lap. "We have found Edmund and Oren."

"Truly?" Anora asked pleasantly surprised at this bit of good news.

"They are with Bann Loren."

That surprised her, she knew he was one of the stronger Banns in the Bannorn specifically the western portion, but Loren's reputation did him no favors. It was known that he was loose with his allegiances. Surely, Edmund would have known about the Bann's unfavorable reputation: So why had he gone with him? She found herself wondering.

Luwin seemed to sense her confusion. "Your Majesty, when Howe attacked Cousland Castle and killed the Couslands there were other important casualties."

"Others?" Anora had been so shocked and grief-stricken at the death of Bryce and Eleanor that she hadn't thought about the others who had perished that night.

"Yes," Luwin revealed, "Lady Landra and her son, Dairren."

Anora recognized those names-Loren's wife and son. Now, the thought of him allying with Edmund didn't seem so risky. Loren commanded a good number of knights, militia, and men-at-arms. He was an older man whose fighting days seemed behind him, but if he allowed Edmund to use them…

No, it wouldn't be a problem. She wouldn't allow that scenario to play out. There was no need for it.

This couldn't be a problem.

Her father was returning and he was going to set things right. With the strength of Gwaren and Highever behind her father, Howe would finally be punished. Highever would be returned to Edmund and Oren.

This nightmare could finally end. There would be no civil war. They could then focus all of their energy and strength in thwarting this darkspawn threat once and for all.

It was the reminder of her father's return to the city that calmed her. Hearing about the disastrous defeat at Ostagar and the death of her husband and Fereldan's King had only added to the pain that Anora was already feeling due to the loss of Eleanor and Bryce.

The grief hadn't overwhelmed her like it says in the stories when a wife lost her husband. She mourned him, but her world hadn't shattered with him. It had dented, it had been shaken, but it could be repaired. She'd miss him, but she would move forward. She had to. Ferelden still needed her.

"Your Majesty?" Luwin broached through her musings.

"Hmm?" she asked, looking to see her seneschal was still uneasy. "Is there anything else?"

"Rendon Howe has left the city."

"That is not surprising," she replied. He had probably taken his army and headed back to his Arling in hopes of rallying his supporters and preparing himself for the fight to come. He must have known he wouldn't be safe in Denerim with her father's pending return.

To think that justice was coming closer towards Howe for the heinous acts he committed against the Couslands was enough to stem some of the guilt that had been eating her up inside.

"It is said he is not returning to Vigil's Keep," Luwin informed her.

"What?" she asked, furrowing her brows. "Where would he be going? Amaranthine?"

"No, your Majesty," Luwin sighed, further highlighting the concern that was etched in his features, "It is said he went to treat with your father."

"That's not possible," she shook her head. She hadn't expected the bold move. The risk didn't seem to play into how she perceived Howe's endgame. She was sure he would return to his Arling, return to where his support was strong, and try to hold out in an attempt to avoid the rightful justice that was coming for him.

This move to see her father was not made by someone who feared for his life or the consequences from his actions. It was made by someone who was confident that an agreement could be reached.

What could Howe possibly say that could convince her father to side with him?

"Your father needs Howe's men, your Majesty," Luwin tried to defend her father's actions. "There is unrest in the Bannorn. The darkspawn threat only grows in the south."

"No," She didn't want to hear it. This couldn't be happening.

All this time she had never seen Howe as a threat. He was a nuisance, nothing more. A pest at the present, but insignificant in the grand scheme, but now if he had successfully treated with her father; he was a greater danger then Anora could ever have imagined.

"Is that all?" she asked, but judging by the Seneschal's countenance she was sure there was something, and it wasn't good.

"No, there is one more thing," Luwin cleared his throat. "It seems that Teyrn Loghain got into a heated argument with Arl Bryland during their return march to Denerim."

"What?" Anora failed at hiding her surprise. This was the first she had heard about this. "When did this happen?"

"Days ago," Luwin scratched his graying goatee. "But I only received the letter today."

Anora understood the importance of this argument and the ramifications that could be felt throughout Ferelden. On the outside she tried to retain a calm demeanor, but on the inside the news of her father arguing with the Arl of South Reach troubled her deeply.

"What happened?" She couldn't jump to conclusions, but she couldn't stop herself from thinking on what Luwin had just told her about Howe going to treat with her father…

"Arl Bryland brought up his complaints on Arl Howe," Luwin explained. "The Arl was furious at what Howe had done at Highever and demanded justice."

The implications of what happened next hit Anora hard. No, please father. She wanted to be wrong, so very wrong.

"Your father dismissed Bryland's complaints." Luwin seemed to sense her despondence giving her a sympathetic look. "Claiming Leonas was acting out on old grudges."

"Arl Bryland left with the strength of South Reach," The Seneschal paused in his report. "The forces of Highever left with him too."

She now perfectly understood why Luwin wanted to meet with her before her father arrived. This news was devastating. Arl Bryland wouldn't have left her father if he believed Loghain would punish Howe. No, he left with the Highever forces because they had realized her father wasn't going to.

Anora felt numb. She needed to return to the Palace. She needed to try to salvage this situation. Surely, she could have a messenger reach Arl Bryland before he acted brashly. To have him know that she wanted Howe punished just as much as he did. This can be fixed.

"Your Majesty, I fear we are on the cusp of civil war."

----------------------------

"What have you done, Father?"

It was the question she had wanted to ask him ever since his return to Denerim. She found him in his private study in the Royal Palace. He was thankfully alone. Anora didn't want to have this conversation with an audience. She needed to voice her growing concerns with some of his most recent choices.

He looked up from the table. He lofted a sigh, looking tired and annoyed as if it was beneath him to inform the Queen of Ferelden about the decisions he was making.

"Only what is necessary."

"Necessary?" Anora was taken aback by not just her father's answer, but the sincere confidence in his tone, "Necessary for what?"

"To keep you on the throne."

She stepped closer to see her father had sprawled out his old maps of Ferelden. Unsure, how to respond to her father's answer she stayed quiet. She knew the hard truth in his words. The rumors she had already begun to hear when Cailan was alive, the unrest with the nobility.

"Did you think that your detractors were just going to stay silent and remain in the shadows now that the King is dead?" The scorn in his voice caught her off guard.

"I am the Queen," she didn't know what else to say. Anora knew it sounded weak and foolish, but it was the truth. She was still the Queen of Ferelden. She wouldn't say it out loud, but deep down she knew her father was right. Her power was slipping. Many of Fereldan's nobles would ignore her authority now that Cailan was dead. To them she was nothing but a commoner masquerading as one of them.

He gave her an incredulous look. "Come Anora, you're smarter than that," he chided. "Have you forgotten the whispers?"

Commoner, barren, these were the first that came to her before she stopped that line of thinking. "I haven't forgotten."

"Then you should have expected that these same people will move boldly to try to remove you from power," a hint of disappointment in his tone.

She didn't like it, but she could see truth in her father's reasoning. It did make sense. She didn't want to lose her title as Queen. She had sacrificed so much to achieve it. To only lose it now and to be left with nothing that was an outcome Anora could not accept.

"These men are stuck in the past," Loghain clicked his tongue in annoyance. "They care more about their ancestors then their progeny." He tightened his grip of the table's edge. "We're not all given that kind of luxury."

These were words that Anora had often heard from her father growing up. He would talk about how commoners had a better understanding on how to move forward and to make Ferelden stronger than any nobleman. Unlike nobles, commoners couldn't afford to look backwards.

The past had nothing to offer them. It was the future they sought. It was the hope for change, the chance to alter fate, the willingness to try to take risks. They weren't satisfied with the status quo, they always sought improvements. That was the outlook Ferelden needed, her father would always say.

Loghain tapped his finger on the Redcliffe Arling portion of the map. "Eamon had been marshalling his forces and supporters, but I put a stop to that."

"What did you do?" She shouldn't have been surprised by Eamon's response. He always had been a very vocal opponent to her marriage with Cailan. There had even been whispered rumors that he had been seeking an Orlesian bride for Cailan, and even fainter whispers that he was still seeking one before Ostagar.

"The problem has been resolved for now," he answered vaguely, but she didn't miss the glint in his eyes. "His forces have scattered and his position has been severely weakened."

She nodded, but despite her father's reassurances there was still some uneasiness in her stomach at how he resolved the situation. She would speak to Luwin and have him find out about Redcliffe and Eamon.

"Are you satisfied, Anora?" There was a waning restraint in his voice. It was clear that he wasn't pleased with his choices being so thoroughly questioned and scrutinized by her.

Anora had suspected this reaction from her father. She knew him well enough to know that this conversation was never going to be easy or comfortable for either of them.

"What of the Couslands?" No matter how much truth she saw in her father's logic, there was no excuse he could give that would allow her to accept what Howe did to them.

She could still remember seeing Howe riding side by side with her father when he returned to Denerim. It had taken all of her discipline and strength to remain composed and civil around him when she greeted her father. As well as to tolerate his increasing presence in the Royal Palace. He had taken to following her father around like a stray mabari pup.

"How can you side with Howe after what he did?"

"A hard decision," Loghain agreed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "but a necessary one if we are to control the unruly Bannorn."

"So Edmund and Oren must be killed for our alliance with Howe?" Anora was aware of how sharp she sounded and the disapproving tone in her voice, but she didn't care.

He stiffened. "What would you have me do?"

"Return Highever to them." It was the simplest and most ideal solution. How could he not see it?

"You would have me declare war on Amaranthine for the favor of a boy?" His civil tone cracked, warning her that it was not wise to continue.

"The rightful heir of Highever," she corrected him.

"We are at war, Anora," he explained. "We need the strongest allies if we're to secure your reign, your claim to the throne."

"Not like this," Anora didn't want her reign to be secured on the bodies of Bryce and Eleanor, built on the ashes of Cousland Castle. She couldn't stomach that legacy.

"And what about the forces of South Reach and Highever?" She threw back at him.

He sent her a withering look. "Those forces will return to us," he said, annoyance seeping into his tone. "Once they taste defeat under the leadership of that boy they will scurry over each other to come back to us to plead for forgiveness and swear fealty."

She was fairly certain that boy that her father was referring to was Edmund, "and what of their fates?" Seeing her father's stony look, she clarified, "Edmund and Oren?"

"That isn't important now," he dismissed, waving his hand. "The only thing that is important is that with Howe's forces we can secure your claim to the throne. The Bannorn will fall in line, Anora. You must trust me. I will deal with the darkspawn threat."

I want to trust you, father, but she was wise enough to know not to speak of her doubts out loud.

"Very well," the words tasted sour in her mouth, but the last thing she could afford was to alienate her most ardent and powerful supporter. She still needed him to keep her as Queen, to control her armies, and to keep her safe.

This wasn't over, Anora silently vowed.

She was determined to make Howe pay for what he did. For now she needed to play the supportive daughter and formidable Queen to the public.

In private she would do everything in her power to make sure Highever was restored to the Couslands. She didn't want to betray her father, but neither could she betray Bryce and Eleanor. She was certain given time that she could persuade her father to turn on Howe. She just needed to be patient and wait for the opportunity to present itself and when it did, she'd strike without hesitation.

Chapter Text

Robert Kylon never thought that he'd face an individual worse than Vaughan Kendall. A spoiled nobleman who daily threatened the people that Kylon swore to protect. He touted his power and used his privilege birth for his own selfish means. He was a predator constantly attacking the weakest within the city-the elves.

For so long Kylon had dreaded the day when the Arling officially passed from Urien to Vaughan, worried for the well being of his city and her people. Never one to directly oppose the future Arl of Denerim, Kylon had found ways to try to protect the elves who were all but left defenseless and vulnerable under the current system. He took his vows to the people more seriously than the ones he made to the Arl of Denerim.

However, Robert's fears and concerns about his beloved city under Vaughan's leadership had all but disappeared at the surprising, but welcoming news that Vaughan Kendall had been killed. He did not mourn the death of Vaughan Kendall. He had felt no remorse, or pity when he had been told that the heir to the Arling had been ripped to shreds by a mob. Robert actually found it fitting, but he made sure to keep that particular thought to himself.

Now, Kylon was asked to take those same vows again, but it was not to swear fealty and allegiance to Arl Urien's son and heir-Vaughan, but to someone else-Rendon Howe. His first impressions of the new Arl weren't exactly glowing. Especially given the new instructions that Howe had given the city guard, their new top priorities were to be vigilant for sympathizers to the Grey Wardens and the Cousland family.

At first he thought this was some jest. The city of Denerim was being flooded with scared refugees who needed the protection and support of the city guard, but according to their new Arl these people should be forgotten and ignored in pursuit of Grey Wardens and Cousland sympathizers.

Robert Kylon didn't like these new orders one bit. Rendon Howe wanted to use the city guard like his own militia. This went against what they stood for. Their duties first and foremost were to the people of Denerim: To police, to protect, and to serve them. Not to be used as pawns for the nobles, to settle old grudges nor to curb opposition to a particular group or noble family.

He wasn't going to ignore his sworn vows to the citizens of Denerim so that he could hunt down sympathizers to the Grey Wardens or supporters of the Cousland family. How would that benefit the people of Denerim? Sadly, for Kylon it seemed that the priorities of the new ruling Arl were not for the city or her people, but for his own personal objectives.

This Rendon Howe seemed willing to tear Denerim apart to secure his own power base.

According to the new Arl, the Grey Wardens were responsible for killing King Cailan and for the disastrous defeat at Ostagar, while the Couslands, Howe had labeled them as traitors to Ferelden.

Grey Wardens killing the king, Kylon snorted. It was one of the more absurd pieces of gossip that he had ever heard. In regards to the Couslands being traitors, Kylon wasn't sure what to believe. He was a man of Denerim, and had remained rather oblivious to the politics of the Bannorn and the nobles of Ferelden and their little games.

For Robert Kylon his concern had never been with the dealings and politics of those outside of Denerim. He had enough to worry about within the city to be preoccupied by the rest of Ferelden. However, that may be a luxury he could no longer afford. Ferelden was in a state of strife the likes of which it had not seen since the Occupation: darkspawn invading from the south, and a resistance fermenting in the Bannorn. The problems of Ferelden were beginning to seep into Denerim, which meant problems for Robert Kylon.

The city guard sergeant stopped outside the Gnawed Noble Tavern. This place was one of the staples of Denerim. It was a favorite spot for the nobility, wealthy merchants, and influential knights. The tavern had become increasingly busy in the past few days since Regent Loghain had called on the Banns and freeholders to come to Denerim for a Landsmeet in the aftermath of the Battle of Ostagar.

It was here that he was meeting a friend and contact within the city. Robert Kylon entered the tavern, it was unsurprisingly crowded. Every table was filled with some of the most important people in Ferelden, telling different stories and trading gossip about what was happening throughout the country.

At one table he heard a silent toast being made to the Couslands. They followed their secret toast by adding a prayer to the Maker asking to give Oren and Edmund strength for the times to come. Those must be the two Couslands that the new Arl had wanted apprehended.

However, Robert Kylon made no attempt to do that. Regardless of the orders given by the new Arl, Kylon could not see the good for Denerim by involving her city guard in what seemed to be a Bannorn matter.

At another table a Bann was retelling the Battle of Ostagar to a group of Teyrn Loghain supporters. They were more boisterous then some of the other tables. They were claiming that the Teyrn's judgment should not be questioned and if that the Hero of River Dane said that the battle could not be won then it should be taken at his word.

Passing the rest of the tables, the bartender gave Robert a friendly wave before nodding to the hallway that led to the private rooms. Kylon waved him his thanks and slipped out of the tavern's main hall and into the hallway that snaked further back before branching off into various different private rooms. He knew he reached the right room by the familiar guards who stood outside the doorway. One gave him a friendly nod as the other opened the door for him.

The private room was well furnished with a mixture of a bedroom and sitting room furniture. It was in the sitting area that he found his contact. Sitting at the table with plates covered with food scattered across it, was one of the most well informed men in not just Denerim, but Ferelden. He wasn't a nobleman or a merchant. He was a commoner born in this very city who long ago realized that information can be just as valuable as gems and coin.

"Robert Kylon," he boomed, looking up from his half eaten chicken.

"Slim," Robert greeted taking the seat across from Slim Couldry.

Despite the name, Slim was anything but, a portly man with an appetite that never seemed sated whether it was food, women, drink, or information. Slim was never content. He had a short crop of red hair, equally fiery eyebrows and goatee with intelligent green eyes that always looked to be searching for something new to uncover.

A thief by trade, no one had an ear to Denerim like Slim Couldry. He traded secrets and coins, and had agents throughout the capital. He even claimed to have eyes and ears within every major noble estate in the city including the Royal Palace.

He hadn't allowed the city walls to stop his influence from spreading. He had agents throughout Ferelden. He had two kinds of agents, his little mice who were agents within the city of Denerim, and his birds which were his agents who were located throughout Ferelden. In a few short years, Slim Couldry had carved himself quite the operation and was considered by those that mattered to be the most well informed man in Denerim.

He was a criminal, but Robert Kylon had realized long ago that more good could come from working with Slim then whatever could have been gained by simply arresting him and allowing him to rot in some dungeon. So Robert Kylon overlooked some of Slim's faults and business practices and in return he gave Robert valuable information and kept him well informed about the city's criminal underworld. Slim's information had led to apprehending several prominent and violent criminals in the past few years.

"Drink?" He offered Kylon a tankard.

"Thanks." Robert didn't usually drink while on duty but after his meeting with Rendon Howe, he thought he was entitled to one.

Slim didn't seem to miss it either. "The new Arl must have made some impression on you."

"He did," Kylon took a sip from his tankard.

"Can't say I'll miss the old one," Slim made his distaste clear.

"Not sure if we'll hear anyone say that," Kylon agreed.

"He killed his own father ya know."

"I thought his father died at Ostagar."

"He did, but it was by an assassin's blade."

Sometimes it was scary how much Slim knew. It also made Robert thankful that Slim was an ally and he even considered the thief a friend.

"You soured by the new Arl already?" Slim had moved onto a bowl filled with a rich hearty looking stew. However, his green eyes transfixed remained on Robert, alert for any tell.

"I will admit, I'm uncomfortable with some of his new instructions."

"About the Grey Wardens and the Couslands," Slim was nodding. "Yeah, it seems they've found themselves as the top targets for the new Arl."

"What do you know of Howe?"

"The Arl of Amaranthine, a veteran from the Rebellion," Slim recited the information in a bored tone, "Believed himself slighted in his rewards for his service in restoring the Theirin line."

"Slighted?"

"Yeah," Slim leaned forward, "I suppose in large part that's what's been fueling him during some of his most recent and questionable actions."

"What has he done?" Kylon was not liking this report of his new Arl one bit.

"He put Cousland Castle to the torch," Slim bowed his head, "I lost a few good men in his attack."

"Cousland Castle?" Kylon wasn't familiar with many of the noble families or their homes throughout Ferelden.

"In Highever," Slim looked amused, "He claimed the Teyrnir for himself."

"What about the surviving Couslands?" Kylon took a large sip from his tankard.

"Howe needs them dead," Slim stated matter-of-factly. "They stand in his way of legitimizing his claim to the Teyrnir."

"And he plans to use the city guard to carry out his dirty work?" Kylon felt his stomach lurch at the implications. This was not their duty. This was not their fight. He wasn't going to be used as a pawn in this battle between nobles.

"If they venture here, I imagine he would," Slim confirmed, "but I don't think you have to worry about that."

That got Kylon's attention. "What do you mean?"

"They went west with Bann Loren," Slim revealed.

"What did these Couslands do?" It was difficult for Kylon to make any sense of these nobles and their motivations.

"They live," Slim slurped up a spoonful of his stew.

Kylon couldn't resist the frown that came to his lips at his friend's blunt answer.

Slim noticed it as well, smiling. "My friend, your heart isn't made for politics, I think."

"No, it isn't," Kylon happily agreed.

In times like this, Robert couldn't help but believe that they would be better off without the nobles. They use their wealth and family history to fight petty grudges to preserve their ancestral honor. In the end it was always the people that suffered. They were the ones who died for these nobles. Poor and misguided men and women who would die over disagreements they never understood or areas of land they would never see.

It just never sat right with Robert Kylon. It was why he was happy to be serving in Denerim. Less nobles, and it was the people he was helping, not the selfish ambitions of the aristocracy. Highever, Amaranthine, these were just names on a map for Robert Kylon. They meant nothing to him, and now it seemed this fight between these families was going to be carried over into his city.

Kylon ran a hand over his face, "And the Grey Wardens?"

"My birds tell me the last two Grey Wardens have just left Lothering." He stirred his stew with his spoon. "I suspect they're headed towards Redcliffe."

"Suspect or know?" Kylon questioned.

Slim chuckled. "I know." His expression suddenly sobered, "I know you love this city as much as me, and that you claim yourself neutral with the nobles."

"I am neutral," Kylon interrupted.

"And I'm afraid the time of neutrality may be over."

"I serve the people," Kylon pointed out. His loyalty was to them and Denerim alone.

"I'm aware of that," Slim said gently, "but I fear that Howe is no good for our city."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know why your city guardsmen Otis and Donald haven't reported back since their last shift?"

"Why?" They were two of his more trusted guardsmen who he had put on patrol duty of the Alienage. They hadn't been seen in two days. He wasn't surprised that Slim would know what had happened to them before he did.

"Your new Arl of Denerim had them seized and questioned for their suspected loyalties."

"Suspected loyalties?" Kylon was having a hard time keeping his anger under control. They were good men, who had families. They served the city guard with honor and cared for the people of Denerim. That was where their loyalties were.

"Yes, they both hailed from Highever, did they not?"

Kylon knew where this was going, but he remained quiet so that his friend could finish.

"Families historically loyal to the Couslands," Slim continued.

"What did he do to them?" He had an inkling of what happened to them, but he needed to hear it. They deserved that much. He needed to be the one to tell their families. He would get some of the men including himself to donate a bit of their coin to the families. They had to look out for one another.

"He tortured them under the guise of an interrogation," Slim paused, concern in his eyes. "When he was done with them he gave them over to his new allies."

"New allies?" This was the first time Robert Kylon had heard about Howe having new allies.

"Blood mages," Slim answered, not hiding his disgust. "Don't ask me where, even I don't know where those blood mages have made their nest," He went back to his stew. "It's very problematic to have agents around blood mages since they can read your mind."

Blood mages, Robert Kylon couldn't believe it. How could Howe sink to such depths? To align with those monsters, the Chantry considers them the foulest of enemies outside the darkspawn.

"These are dark times we live in, my friend," Slim echoed Kylon's thoughts and fears. He reached over the table to gingerly pat Robert on the arm. "I fear a storm is coming and that Denerim will be facing the brunt of its wrath."

"Can we prevent this?"

"No, we can only prepare for it."

"What would you have me do?" He would do anything in his power to help get Denerim and her people through these dark times.

"I'll let you know."

Chapter Text

"Mama?"

He had been pulled out of his slumber by a noise. Oren wiped the sleep out of his eyes while looking around his room. There was nothing there. He was just about to close his eyes when he heard the noise again. It was a loud crash. It sounded as if it was coming from the outside corridor.

"Mama?"

Shouts followed, but they were now coming from just behind his bedroom door.

"No, please!" That was mama's voice.

"Gut the bitch!" A harsh voice shouted. A scream followed, and then a soft thud. The room beyond his door went quiet.

"Mama?" He cried weakly. Oren couldn't move. He gripped the blankets tightly. He felt the tears stream down his cheeks.

The door creaked opened, flooding the room with candlelight and torches. Peering over the blankets, Oren could see two men stepping into his room. Their swords were out and from the light he could see blood dripping off of the blades-Mama's blood.

"That's the boy, Fletcher" the one on the left said.

"Then kill him, Gordon, and let's be done with it," Fletcher growled. There was a dark glint in his eyes and his scarred face made him look terrifying. He was covered in blood.

Gordon hesitated. He looked younger. The sword in his hand was shaking. He licked his lips, glancing from Oren to his partner, Fletcher. He raised his sword. "Do we have to kill him?"

"You heard the Arl!" snapped Fletcher impatiently. "Now be done with it."

"He's just a boy," Gordon lowered his sword. "I-I can't."

"Fine," Fletcher sounded annoyed. "Don't want to get your hands dirty." He moved closer towards Oren, his sword raised.

Oren felt a warm trickle down his legs that spread to his sheets. The smell soon filled his nose. He closed his eyes; his cheeks slick with tears. His whole body was shaking.

"Get away from him!" A voice snarled.

Oren opened his eyes to see Uncle and Sarim launch themselves into the room. Sarim tackled Gordon while Uncle charged Fletcher. He closed his eyes, but he couldn't cover his ears. He heard the wet, rasping screams from Gordon as Sarim mauled him.

He could hear Fletcher's shouts and curses as his blade clashed with Uncle's. The steel of the blades clashed again and again, before there was a muffled sigh, and Oren felt a splash of something warm hit him across the face.

He opened his eyes slowly. He brought his hands to his face, his fingers touching the warm liquid along his cheek, and when he pulled his hand away, he saw the blood. His tummy rumbled. He felt the burning taste of vomit creep up his throat. He was able to push it down, but the burning sensation remained.

"Oren, are you alright?"

He turned in the direction of Uncle's voice. He looked tired. His nightshirt was drenched in blood, as was part of his face and hands. His throat was scratchy and still burned from the vomit, "Uncle?"

"I'm here," he said softly. He looked over his shoulder, "But we need to go."

The urgency in his voice seemed to help shake Oren out of his daze. He tossed aside the blankets, and slipped out from the bed. Sarim was waiting for him. The mabari licked Oren's outstretched fingers before letting him pass.

"Mama!" he cried suddenly, running to his parents' room.

"Oren, no!" Uncle reached out to grab Oren, but he sidestepped his hand. He had to get to mama. He had to save her. He ran out of his room. He didn't get far before he saw her.

She was lying on the floor, blood pooling around her, her blood. A sword was protruding from her belly. He saw a fresh, red scar along her forehead where the blood was encrusted into her hair. Her nightdress was torn. Her head lulled to the side, and her eyes usually so bright and warm were dull and empty.

"Mama?" he croaked. His vision was blurry from the fresh tears.

"Oren," Uncle grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and in one swift tug spun him around so that Oren's face hit Uncle's stomach. His other hand went to the back of Oren's head, forcing his face into his shirt.

"Mama," Oren felt his whole body trembling against his Uncle. He kept his eyes firmly closed, but he couldn't get the image of Mama out of his mind. It stubbornly remained as the tears continued. Uncle was softly running a hand through his hair and saying something, but Oren couldn't hear what it was…

Oren woke with a jolt. He raised his head, quickly finding himself back in his room in Caer Oswin. He was shivering, soaked in sweat.

He was having it every night for more than a week. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a nightmare. It was his memory of that night.

No matter how hard he tried he couldn't forget it. It came to haunt him every night.

Oren Cousland quietly sobbed into his pillow.

This was his life now.

-----------------------------

I'm alone.

Oren Cousland may be surrounded by soldiers and servants. They gave him smiles and nods, bows and curtsies, but he never felt more alone in his life.

Uncle had left and had taken Loren's knights and militia with him to fight Howe's men. It was suppose to show Ferelden that they we're still here; that the rightful ruler of Highever is alive and well.

That was me.

Oren Cousland was now the Teyrn of Highever. It wasn't something he wanted. Nothing good had come from it. The day he became Teyrn was the day he found out his father was dead.

Papa, Oren sniffled.

He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes at the memory of Uncle telling him that Papa wouldn't be coming for them. That it was now up to Oren to carry on the family name and duty of ruling Highever. A home they were exiled from, where another claimed himself Teyrn.

That hadn't mattered to Uncle. He was determined now to fight Howe and rally forces against their new enemies. Before Uncle had told him that King Cailan, Teyrn Loghain, and Papa would save them, but that was not to be. King Cailan had died at Ostagar like Papa, and Teyrn Loghain had allied himself with Rendon Howe.

So now it had fallen on Uncle to win back Highever. That was when he had agreed to Loren's plan of attacking Howe's forces. He had told Oren that in order to get Highever back they needed men, and victories and Uncle felt it was up to him to get them.

Uncle was now Oren's guardian. Since Oren was too young to actually rule Highever, it fell on Uncle to handle the burden until Oren came of age. That didn't mean Oren was excluded from any responsibilities. He was still expected to look, talk, and act the part.

Some of the tasks and lessons Oren was learning were familiar. They were the same ones his parents and Aldous had been teaching him back in Highever. Oren had understood that one day he was going to inherit Highever, but it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Now, Oren didn't even want Highever. He just wanted his Uncle.

Caer Oswin was nice enough. Oren was given leave to go where he wanted, but now that he was Teyrn he couldn't leave his room unescorted, and even in his room two guards were always positioned outside. His Uncle's doing.

Uncle had changed and Oren didn't like it. He didn't talk to Oren like his nephew, but as his Teyrn. He didn't give Oren any more hugs only bows. He had established strict protocol and proper etiquette around Oren to be used at all times.

The title had only made Oren lonelier. He felt as if a wall had been put up between him and everyone else. It had pushed Uncle away from him. He would no longer show him affection now that he was the Teyrn. He drilled Oren of the responsibilities and expectations that were now being put on him as the new Teyrn of Highever.

There had been a glimpse of his former Uncle when he said his goodbyes to Oren…

"I don't want you to go!" Oren didn't care that he sounded whiny. That he wasn't acting like a proper Teyrn. He didn't want to be a proper Teyrn. He just wanted Uncle to stay with him.

"I have to go, Oren," Uncle tried to assure him.

"W-what if I-I ordered you not to?" Hope filled his heart. "Would you still go?"

"You are my Teyrn," he admitted, "if that was your order I would obey it."

"Good," Oren was smiling. "That's my order."

"Oren," Uncle said softly, "As noblemen we're not allowed to be selfish." He crouched down to become eye level with Oren. "We must be selfless. We must put aside our own wants and desires and do what is best for our people."

"And that means letting you fight?"

"It does."

"But I don't want men fighting for me." Oren felt tears stinging his eyes. "I don't want men dying for me."

Uncle cupped Oren's cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. "You have a tender heart, Oren," he kissed Oren's brow. "You will be a great Teyrn."

"I-I don't want to be Teyrn," Oren objected. "You should be the Teyrn not me."

"No, I shouldn't be," he tousled his hair. "The Teyrnir is yours by law and I will do everything in my power to reclaim your birthright."

He wrapped up Oren in his strong arms, holding him close to his chest. "I may not always be able to tell you how much I care for you, but make no mistake, Oren, you are dear to me, so very dear to me."

"Alright, Uncle," Oren hiccupped, burying his face in his uncle's shirt. He couldn't disappoint him.

"You're making the right decision, Oren," Edmund pulled away, his green eyes shimmering with pride and approval…

"Your Lordship?"

Oren turned to the muffled voice coming from outside his room. "Yes?"

"It's time for dinner."

"Very well," Oren replied, "I'll be right out."

He inspected his tunic to make sure he looked presentable. Uncle wanted Oren to dress more proper now that he was Teyrn, and less like a pauper. Loren's seamstress had put together a few new outfits for Oren. They were the same dressy and stuffy clothes he had to wear back in Highever when he accompanied his parents to court or left the castle.

He was dressed in a dark tunic, the Cousland family sigil emblazoned over his heart. Realizing that he was presentable, he opened the door to see his two personal guards waiting for him. Today's shift he had Harris and Sinclair.

They fell in line behind him and kept quiet. They were two of Loren's handful of knights who were tasked with guarding Oren. None of them were pleased with the duty, but they were content in carrying it out, knowing that after this stint it was likely they would see action in the next battle.

They were polite to Oren, but none of them really left that much of an impression on him. Their faces and voices all blended together and to Oren, they might as well all be one person. He only knew their names because Uncle made him memorize them before he left.

------------

Like always the meal had been simple and quiet. The food was good, but the hall was mostly empty. The servants who attended to Oren were polite and nice. It just never felt right being here. Before, he had Uncle to sit and eat with him, but now Oren had nobody except the Bann.

Bann Loren was nice enough to be around. He didn't seem to mind the silence. Besides barking the occasional order, he kept to himself during meals. He looked sad, and Oren often wondered if he pretended he was eating his meals with his lost son and wife. It's what Oren tried to do, imagining he was eating with his family and not the empty, unfamiliar hall of Bann Loren.

Afterwards, Oren made his way back to his room accompanied by Harris and Sinclair. Besides his room, the dining hall, and the chapel he didn't wander the estate much. The two knights were talking quietly to themselves. He wasn't really paying attention, but it sounded as if they were talking about one of Loren's serving wenches.

They were halfway down the corridor that led them to Oren's room when suddenly an orange blur streaked past him, he jumped back in surprise. The knights sputtered indignantly at the menace.

"Andraste's knickers!" That was Sinclair. "What was that?"

Oren turned to see that the orange blur was in fact a cat. Its fur matted with dirt and other filth, the tip of its left ear was missing, and its whiskers disheveled. The cat's green eyes were glaring at Oren.

"Oh, it's just him," dismissed Harris. "He's a nasty blighter."

"Who does it belong to?" Oren's eyes remained on the animal.

"It doesn't belong to anyone," Harris answered, "The mangy beast has caused all sorts of havoc for the cook in the kitchens."

Oren took a step closer towards the wild cat.

"Your Lordship," Sinclair held out his arm. "That may not be a wise idea."

"I just want to get a closer look," Oren argued, sidestepping Sinclair's arm and moving closer.

The cat's green eyes transfixed on Oren's approach, its striped tail lazily swaying from one side to another. Oren noticed that part of its tail looked to have been cut off. It hissed at Oren when it felt he got close enough.

"Master Oren," Harris called for him. "He's not afraid of you. He'll scratch you bloody if you get too close."

Oren heeded the warning, "H-Hello."

The cat's green eyes remained hardened, its orange, mangy fur on end.

"It's alright," Oren kept talking, "I'm not going to hurt you."

The approaching footsteps of Sinclair and Harris had the cat ready to bolt.

"Wait!" Oren held up his hand. "Don't come any closer."

The two knights immediately stopped more out of their instinct to follow orders than anything else.

"You hungry?" Oren fished in his pocket for a piece of cheese that he had pocketed during dinner to have for later. He reached out his hand slowly not wanting to scare off or aggravate the cat. He dropped the cheese within reach of it. "Here you go."

The cat sniffed at the offered cheese, before showing its sharp teeth it then proceeded to nibble on the cheese. Its green eyes occasionally glanced up at Oren as it ate, still considering him a threat.

Oren smiled, standing back up. He didn't resist when the two knights led him back to his room, but he did look back to see the cat finishing the piece of cheese before darting off, but Oren was sure he saw the cat look his way before it departed.

After that encounter, Oren kept pieces of cheese in his pocket at all times in case he met up with the cat again. Apparently Sinclair and Harris had told the other knights on their detail about the cat since none of them commented on Oren's insistence to explore the corridors in hopes of finding it. Not liking to refer to the cat as the cat, Oren now called him Ser Whiskers.

---------------------

It had been two days since Oren's first and only encounter with Ser Whiskers. He was in the chapel. Oren liked to say his prayers. It was one of the few places where he could have comforting memories of his Mama. She had often taken him to the chapel in Castle Cousland. She had always told him the importance of having faith. Even though he had been in Loren's estate for some time, Oren still felt like a stranger in these halls, but never in the chapel.

The chapel served as a shelter for Oren. It helped to calm him. Here, the memory of the attack couldn't hurt Oren. He was safe from the pain and ache. He never saw the images of the dead. When he was in the chapel he remembered them when they were alive, the smiles and the laughs.

Oren also liked to pray for Uncle's safe return. He had been gone for almost a week, and they hadn't heard anything from him or his men. He noticed that the memory of the attack that haunted him every night had started right after Uncle had left. It was just another reason why Oren wanted his Uncle to come back. He would know a way to stop them from coming.

Bann Loren told Oren yesterday morning that they should be hearing from him any day now. It had only taken so long because they had to track and find Howe's forces and after getting a report from them then it was only a matter of days before they returned.

It was good news for Oren. He wasn't sure he could take the memories of the attack haunting him anymore. At times, he didn't even want to close his eyes when it was time to sleep because he was afraid where he would go once he slipped into sleep. The sooner Uncle returned the better.

"Your Lordship," Harris was guarding him again as was Sinclair. Harris had taken a position at the entrance of the chapel while Sinclair was standing behind the pew Oren was sitting on.

"Hmm?" Oren asked.

"Your friend has returned."

It took Oren a second to figure out who Harris was referring to, before realizing it was Ser Whiskers. Hastily finishing his prayers, he sprinted out of the chapel to see that the knight had spoken true. Squatting under a bench not ten feet away from the chapel entrance was Ser Whiskers.

The sight alone was enough to bring a small smile to Oren's lips. It was in seeing Ser Whiskers again did Oren realize just how much he had missed the cat. He looked back to see Sinclair had joined Harris at the entrance of the chapel, but neither of them had made an effort to get any closer. They trusted Oren. They were also close enough to jump in if something happened.

"H-Hi," Oren squeaked out a greeting.

Ser Whiskers tilted his head, his green eyes suspicious, before answering Oren's greeting with a scratchy meow.

Oren took that as a good sign. He moved closer to Ser Whiskers who remained under the bench, but had shifted into a pouncing position as a warning.

"I've been looking for you," Oren said, respecting the cat's warning. He felt some strange sort of happiness swell within as he talked to Ser Whiskers. He couldn't explain why, but it just felt nice to talk to the cat.

"I have some more cheese for you," Oren presented the piece of cheese, cautiously placing it in front of Ser Whiskers.

The cat sniffed the air before inching closer to the offered food. When it was close enough it greedily began nibbling on the cheese.

Oren smiled, slowly getting closer to Ser Whiskers who was too preoccupied with the cheese to notice his encroachment. When he got close enough, he tried to reach out a hand towards him. Ser Whiskers immediately reacted with a warning and a hiss, swatting at Oren's hand, he was able to move his hand away before the sharp claws could graze his skin.

"I-I'm sorry," Oren's voice trembled. He felt his heart hammering in his chest.

Ser Whiskers finished the cheese in a few bites. Its green eyes staring at Oren in a way he couldn't understand, before the cat scurried out from under the bench darting off down the corridor and out of sight.

"Your Lordship, what are you doing on the floor?"

Scrambling out from under the bench, Oren looked up to see Bann Loren striding towards him. Oren immediately pushed himself up from the floor. "I was just leaving the chapel."

"I see," a hint of approval in Loren's voice. It wasn't a secret that the Bann was a devout man. He then eyed the bench that Oren had been under. "You know you spend too much time cooped up in this castle." He gestured to the nearby window over the bench. "Don't you want to go outside and play with the other children?"

"N-No," Oren shook his head. He dusted off his pants. Not wanting to look at the Bann. "They like to play knights and darkspawn."

"And you don't like that game?" asked a bemused Bann.

"I-I can't pretend anymore," Oren confessed. He felt the tears swell in his eyes.

He couldn't pretend to be a knight fighting off monsters and riding a dragon, not after everything he saw. Every time he tried to pretend, the images of that attack came to him, and other bad memories that made him sick.

"I can understand that," Loren said sympathetically. "I was on my way to say my prayers."

"I just finished mine." Oren was thankful for the change of topic.

Loren offered him a small smile. "Your parents are proud of you, I'm sure." He gently patted Oren's shoulder. "They walk beside the Maker." He sniffed, "With my Landra and Dairren."

"They reside in His Kingdom now," Loren's gaze went to the windows. "This is not His Kingdom." He sighed. "This is the world and it is plagued by the sins of man."

Suddenly a bellowing of horns broke through, echoing off the walls. It reminded Oren of the hunting horns his papa and grandpapa would use when they returned from a successful hunt.

Loren had gotten this strange look before moving closer towards the window while Harris and Sinclair moved to join him. They broke into smiles and soft whooping, as the two knights clapped each other on the backs.

"I don't understand," Oren said, the windows were too high up. He couldn't see what the others were looking at. Why were they so happy?

"The Maker has answered our prayers!" Loren exclaimed, clapping his hands together. He turned to Oren, offering up his hand for Oren to allow him to climb up onto the bench so that he could see what the others were seeing.

Looking out into the courtyard Oren noticed a handful of riders entering the estate. They were the ones blowing the horns, while the others were holding banners and Oren recognized the three prominent banners immediately.

The first was the laurels of the Cousland family. The second was the raindrop crossed by spears representing Highever, and the third was of a green gate. That was the sigil of the Arling of South Reach.

Oren didn't get it. "What's going on?"

Loren turned to him. He was smiling. "The Maker has given us an army."

Chapter Text

"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and do not falter."

Cauthrien opened her eyes.

The words stirred within her. These were the trials she found herself facing. Sedition was spreading across the Bannorn, the corrupt nobles who were using the tragedy of the king's death to rebel against their queen.

I must remain steadfast in my faith, she silently added. My loyalties cannot be forgotten, nor those I swore to serve be ignored.

She stood from her kneeling position.

The Chantry sister who was reciting the verses paid Cauthrien no notice. The Denerim Chantry was crowded with refugees from the south who were fleeing the darkspawn. The pews were all filled with faithful Andrastians. Their heads were bowed, hands clasped in front of them. They were praying with a zealous fervor that bordered on desperation for protection and guidance from the Maker and His bride.

Cauthrien passed children who were playing in the corner; most seemed ignorant of the trials and troubles that were threatening them. Other children were all too familiar with it. Their eyes were hollow and red rimmed, many of whom murmuring the names of the friends, siblings, or parents they had lost to the darkspawn.

Seeing children affected by war was never an easy sight to see. It was not something anyone should ever be use to. It wasn't a pain that could be numbed. To see such innocence snatched away and replaced by terror was heart wrenching for Cauthrien. Young faces with haunted looks and empty eyes unable to smile or play. They were stuck in a moment of fear that continued to loop haunting them continuously.

With all of her training and skill it was the children who she couldn't help with her blade that hurt her the most. Those she was too late to save. Their bodies were healthy, but their souls had been tarnished by the horrors they were forced to witness.

She stepped out of the historic, but underwhelming Denerim Chantry. The two templars guarding the door gave her a tight nod. She walked past the Chanter's Board, taking in the frenzied sight of Denerim's Market District.

Denerim…

She could never get use to this city.

It was a city of contrasts where the rich lived in unrivaled opulence while the poor lived in beastly squalor. She hated it here. Everything was wrong. There was no higher purpose to be found. There was no order.

Here, people were only loyal to themselves. The only thing they served was their greed and ambition. There was no accountability. The people were left to do as they will and the result was never pleasant. Murders and robberies were common, bodies found in alleys without a second thought.

"Loghain betrayed our king!"

The loud voice broke through Cauthrien's musings. She found the source coming from a haggard beggar outside the Denerim Chantry walls. He was dressed in rags, a nasty looking scar covered one side of his face, and his hands were heavily bandaged.

How dare he, Cauthrien silently fumed at this man's audacity. To question the loyalty of one of Fereldan's finest. It was unacceptable. She looked around to see no one else seemed offended by this man's bold words. To her disbelief, she actually saw nods and heard ripples of agreement from the crowd. She spotted a pair of city guards off to the side neither of them looked to be preparing to step in to silence this man's slander. They seemed to be enjoying it.

Cauthrien moved towards the man. Someone needed to defend the Teyrn's honor.

His lunacy was gaining a growing audience. The crowd had only emboldened him.

"I was there!" He declared to the crowd. "When Loghain turned cloak and betrayed his king!"

"That's not true," Cauthrien shouted, far louder then she intended to. The crowd parted and all heads turned towards her. The buzzing of the audience grew louder. She ignored them as she made her way towards the instigator.

"Oh?" The man sounded amused, raising his bushy eyebrows, he was playing towards the crowd. He sent her a sarcastic smile that earned a few chuckles from his onlookers. His eyes then flickered over to her chest plate before resting on the Gwaren insignia.

"Aha!" He pointed at it. "Here's an example of one of Loghain's loyal hounds that he has spread across our great city to stop the truth from coming out!"

This earned a chorus of boos. The mood of the people was beginning to turn, as they began to jostle one another.

Cauthrien realized she had made a mistake. She never should have allowed herself to be baited in the first place. She should've risen above this nonsense. It was too late for her to back down now that she was in the thick of it.

"Did the Teyrn not retreat?" The man pressed on.

Sound the retreat, Loghain's order whispered in the back corners of her mind. When she closed her eyes she could still remember seeing the burning beacon, the blazing fire on top of the Tower of Ishal. In that moment it was as bright as a star.

Stunned and confused by the decision. She was rooted to her spot, her eyes on the blazing inferno atop the Tower while she babbled to Loghain about the king, about the battle. It wasn't until he grabbed her by the wrist and was confronted by the look in his eyes did she snap out of her disbelieving daze.

She had her orders. It was her duty to follow them, not question them.

Cauthrien clamped down on the memory before it could go any further. It did her no good to have it trudge back up.

"There's more to it than that." She had to raise her voice just be to be heard as the crowd was becoming increasingly restless. Loghain had a reason. He couldn't risk Fereldan's forces. If he gambled them at Ostagar and lost then Ferelden would've lost.

These were the words that comforted her in her time of doubt. It soothed her discomfort whenever she was reminded of all those who perished at Ostagar. They would've understood. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten. Because of it, Ferelden could be saved.

Looking around at the crowd, Cauthrien doubted that these people could understand tactics or the hard decisions needed in times of war.

"No more lies!" He raised his arms above his head while continuing to shout. The words caught on, like a blaze spreading through the crowd as their voices joined his in a deafening chorus.

What had started out as a curious group was quickly becoming a mob. They started pushing and shoving one another. It was spiraling out of control. Individual fights from opposing sides turned from words into violence. The two city guardsmen who had been chuckling and grinning with the others were now finally doing their duties and trying to disperse the group, but at this point it was too late for the two of them to suppress alone.

Cauthrien was quick to slip in between the pockets of fistfights and brawls. When one man grabbed her by the shoulder, she spun around and delivered a punch to his gut that brought him to his knees. She continued forward without a backwards glance at the injured man.

When she cleared the bickering and battling mob did she notice the arrival of more city guardsmen who with the proper numbers were finally able to quell the mob. The people soon scattered while the wounded were attended to and a few of the guilty were being rounded up. Scanning the area, she quickly noticed there was no sign of the instigator. He had slipped away.

"Excuse me," called a voice.

Cauthrien kept walking. Quietly berating herself for letting her frustration and anger get the best of her. She allowed her judgment to be clouded. Her poor behavior was a poor reflection on her Teyrn.

"Excuse me, my lady," The voice persisted. "We need to speak with you."

She looked over her shoulder to see that it was the one the guards.

"Thank you, lady…"

"It's ser," Cauthrien corrected him, "Ser Cauthrien."

She hadn't spent all those years training so that she would be mistaken for some genteel lady. No, she was a knight. A damn good one and she wasn't going to allow her skill to be unacknowledged by these men. No to mention the armor she was wearing and the sword strapped to her back should have been good indicators that she wasn't some dainty noblewoman.

"My apologies, ser," the man corrected.

"What's your name and rank?" The last thing she needed right now was for her time to be wasted by being interviewed by some novice guardsmen.

"Sgt. Robert Kylon," he answered casually, as if he was use to citizens regularly asking him his name and rank. "Are you hurt?"

She shrugged off his concern. "I can take care of myself."

He smiled, "Yes, I can see that."

"It took your men long enough to respond to the threat," She crossed her arms over her chest.

His smile dipped into a frown. "We responded with the necessary force at the appropriate time."

"The instigator should've been dealt with long before it spiraled into a fistfight."

"He had a right to say his peace," Robert defended. "Every man and woman has a right to say it in this city."

Figures, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She could point to this as one of the basic examples of the faults of this city. No loyalty to anyone but themselves. It was madness to allow these people to unjustly slander their rulers and to sow discord amongst the people. It was a wonder that there weren't more riots in this city.

"You don't approve?"

"No," she was all too happy to reply. "How can you sustain order when you allow such reckless freedoms to disregard it?"

The sergeant looked like he had something to say, but another guardsmen approached them before he could further voice his opinion.

"Ser, we're getting complaints from the Pearl."

Kylon sighed, "Damn, mercenaries." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Round up a few others. We'll head over there together to try to deter them." He turned back to her. "Excuse me, Ser Cauthrien, but duty calls." He bowed his head before leaving.

Cauthrien turned back at the men being arrested from the mob. This was the example of the so called freedom this guardsman preached for his city.

She shook her head.

No, she would never understand Denerim.

-----------------------------------

"There are a lot of names on this list."

The Teyrn of Gwaren was standing behind his desk, looking over a piece of vellum. The newly minted Teyrn of Highever, Rendon Howe was standing by the fireplace. A goblet in his hands while his eyes flickered from the flames towards Seneschal Luwin, who was the only one seated, having taken a seat across the Teyrn's desk.

Cauthrien had always liked the Seneschal. She remembered him from his time in Gwaren serving under Teyrn Loghain. He was a man of character. He spoke his mind, but was always mindful of his station. He treated all those he came across with respect whether they were above his rank or below it.

The new Teyrn of Highever was more an enigma to Cauthrien. She knew very little of the man. She was aware that he was the Arl of Amaranthine and that the Howes were one of the oldest families in Ferelden. She also knew that he had fought the Orlesians during the Rebellion and had survived one of the worst defeats during the Orlesian occupation -the Battle of White River.

It had been said that Howe was using the gold he seized in Highever to pay several different mercenary companies to defend his newly acquired territory. It was even whispered that Howe had hired the Kadan-Fe, a qunari mercenary group to hunt down the rebel nobleman, Edmund Cousland. When it came to rumors, Cauthrien tried her best to ignore them. Not an easy feat to accomplish in Denerim. This was a city that churned out gossip and rumors at an impressive rate. It spread through this city like a fever.

What she did know was at the center of this mess was Edmund Cousland. He was responsible for spurring countless other nobles across the Bannorn to revolt. He was gathering an army with the intent of retaking Highever from Howe's forces. This was just another example of the constant squabbling amongst the nobility. In the Bannorn the nobles were regularly getting in disputes with one another over petty things.

It was a headache to sort out. Cauthrien could care less about the Couslands or the Howes, and who was right or who was in the wrong. Her duty was to Ferelden.

And right now the list that the Teyrn had just received was the name of every noble not expected to attend the Queen's Landsmeet. They were colluding with Edmund Cousland in his rebellion.

That list was the reason for this unplanned and hastily put together meeting between the two Teyrns of Ferelden, and the Queen's Seneschal, who was sitting in for Her Majesty, who was unable to attend as she was preparing for the Landsmeet.

It was at this Landsmeet that the Queen would declare her father, the hero of River Dane, the Commander of Ferelden's armies. It was then expected of the nobility to supply the forces and swear fealty to the Teyrn so that they could defeat this darkspawn threat.

"Every day is an act of defiance from them, your Lordship," Howe pointed out.

Cauthrien remained silent. She stood away from the others. In this type of setting she understood her role. She was to be as still and as silent as a statue. It was a glorified guard position, but Loghain didn't trust the usual guards to handle the valuable information and possible secrets that might be discussed in these meeting. So for him to personally choose her for this kind of assignment was an unexpected form of praise.

"Your Lordship, we could prevent this civil war if we sent an envoy to Edmund's faction," The Seneschal observed. "We could even broker a truce with them without blood being shed."

"Absolutely not," growled Howe. "I'm the Teyrn of Highever now."

The Seneschal frowned. He turned to Loghain for support or clarity on the matter, but the Teyrn ignored him.

This talking was meaningless, she thought. As much as she respected Seneschal Luwin she couldn't support his idea of sending an envoy. It would accomplish nothing. All that mattered to the rebels was their belief that Highever belonged to the Cousland family due to the family's ancestral history. No amount of negotiations or concessions was going to alter them from that path.

Loghain waved the list at the Seneschal. "Every person on this list is a traitor to Ferelden!"

"Well said, your Lordship," Howe smiled.

He was right, Cauthrien echoed a similar sentiment. Once more her Teyrn spoke truly. All that mattered now was ending this conflict in the Bannorn quickly and sufficiently.

"In front of the Landsmeet I will declare that any man who refuses to bow to my authority will have their lands burned." He crumpled the list in his hand.

"Tough measures, your Lordship, but they have forced your hand," Howe observed.

"Your Lordship," Luwin said politely, "I'm not sure Her Majesty will approve of such harsh methods."

"As the Commander of the Queen's armies, the matter of war is for me to address, not her," Loghain dismissed his concerns. "I know my duty. I will bring order to the Bannorn and then I will stop this darkspawn threat."

"Very well," Luwin stood from his seat. He bowed his head to the Teyrn of Gwaren before making a swift exit to no doubt report this message to the Queen.

"Have you considered my offer?" Howe waited until the Seneschal was gone before asking his question.

"It's too soon," Loghain sounded tired.

"That's why they won't be married, just a betrothal agreement," Howe insisted, "with the promise of marriage once the civil war and the darkspawn threats are dealt with."

"It's worth looking into," Loghain admitted.

"Excellent, your Lordship," Howe's oily voice cracked in delight. "Thomas has been very much looking forward to meeting Her Majesty and defending her claim to the throne."

Cauthrien had to muster her discipline to keep her expression stoic at this stunning revelation. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. The two were planning on marrying Howe's youngest to Queen Anora!

"Do not lose sight of our priority, Howe," Loghain reminded him. "This Civil War must be stopped before it can begin."

"Of course, your Lordship," Howe quickly agreed. "Then afterwards this betrothal announcement will bring a great deal of stability to the realm." He gestured to the Gwaren sigil above the fireplace. "A marriage between our houses will only strengthen our alliance. This union will serve as a new beginning for Ferelden."

"Very well," Loghain acquiesced. "I will bring the matter to Anora, but only after the rebels are dealt with."

"Then they will be dealt with." Howe raised his goblet, "To the future of Ferelden."

---------------------

Cauthrien was not adept at politics, but even she recognized that the Landsmeet had gone poorly for Loghain. In no small part because of Bann Teagan, who spoke out openly against Loghain's ascension as Commander of Ferelden's armies. He balked at the notion of submitting to the Teyrn's leadership, and insinuating that it was the Teyrn's fault that Ostagar was a defeat while holding Loghain personally responsible for King Cailan being killed.

The accusations were unjust. Cauthrien was indignant that Teagan would say such seditious things to the Teyrn. He claimed it was the Teyrn's fault for the pending Civil War that was fermenting in the Bannorn while Teagan deflected the blame on those it did belong to, and those were his fellow Banns who refused to bend the knee and accept Loghain's leadership.

These nobles were too selfish and spoiled to see the truth. They were stuck in their ways and didn't want to follow a commoner. They never truly recognized Loghain as one of them. He was Teyrn of Gwaren in name, not blood. That was what they valued, blood, not skill. If they didn't repent from their misconceptions then they would doom Ferelden.

Cauthrien arrived at the council chambers with a very frustrated Teyrn Loghain. The Teyrn made his way over to the table where Seneschal Luwin was already sitting. Loghain took the offered ale from the elven servant with a grunt.

At the arrival of the queen, Cauthrien straightened up. She noticed the concern etched in the queen's features when she took a seat across from her father. A forced, but polite smile on her lips when she graciously accepted a glass of wine from the servant.

Cauthrien highly respected Queen Anora. She wasn't sure there was anyone stronger then Anora. She had to endure countless attacks from the nobility who were not pleased with the fact that their Queen was a commoner. The ultimate compliment she could give Anora, was that she truly was her father's daughter.

"It seems the Bannorn is gathering their forces," Luwin opened up the meeting with the blunt truth.

"It's nothing," Loghain dismissed. "The Bannorn will come to heel through blunt force if it is required."

The Bannorn will not bow simply because you demand it, Cauthrien remembered the cutting words that Teagan had hurled at Loghain before the Landsmeet had ended. It seemed he was right. She knew of battles, not politics, but she understood the importance of unified leadership, and they wouldn't have that as long as this resistance continued in the Bannorn.

Cauthrien couldn't understand why the Bannorn refused to see that Teyrn Loghain was their best hope. He had fought alongside King Maric in the Rebellion, kicking the Orlesians out of Ferelden and ending the occupation. No one else had the leadership or the experience to defeat the darkspawn. They would see reason, Cauthrien was sure of it. They talked like warriors and tacticians, but it was Loghain who was an experienced fighter, not these upstart Banns. After a taste of battle against him, they would submit and bend the knee.

"Are you so eager for conflict, father?"

"You cannot coddle the Bannorn, Anora," Loghain shot back. "They don't respect our position, but they will respect our might."

"I'm not seeking to coddle them," Anora said the word distastefully, "but I am seeking a peaceful agreement between our sides."

"You put me in charge of your armies."

"To fight the darkspawn," Anora argued, "not to turn them on our own people." She brought her hands to rest on the edge of the table. "You threatened to burn the lands of any Bann who stood against you." She recited, "To arrest any who opposed your command." She shook her head. "I cannot sanction this madness."

"This is war," Loghain said bluntly. "In these times we must be ruthless towards our enemies."

"They don't have to be our enemies," Anora's face softened. "It saddens me to see that you have forgotten what Ferelden is, father."

"You dare?" Loghain slammed his fists against the table. Scowling at his daughter, his countenance darkened.

Cauthrien too was stunned by the Queen's bold accusation. Unsure what would possess Anora to make such a claim. She understood that Anora and Loghain were still at odds at how the Cousland situation was resolved with the Teyrn siding with Howe. Yet, even in her grief at the Couslands' death and her disapproval at her father for handling the situation. These were still difficult words for her to justify.

"Never question my loyalty to this country," his voice had gone dangerously soft. "Everything I have done and will do is to ensure Ferelden's future!"

"Then remember why you love this country, father." Anora wasn't backing down. "Our strength as a country is in the power that the individual holds. It's that freedom that sets us apart."

"Enough, Anora," Loghain raised his hand in warning. "Do not think you can lecture me." He was still glaring at her. "This is my duty. I will lead the armies whether you permit me or not."

"The regent answers to the queen," Anora pointed out coolly, "Not the other way around."

"I'm not one of your servants or advisers who you can order and dismiss at your leisure, Anora," Loghain reminded her. "I am your father."

"I am your daughter," Anora conceded, "But I'm also the queen."

"Do I need to remind you how you were put on that throne?"

The room had gone quiet and tense. Anora was stoic, but Cauthrien could detect the silent storm raging within the Queen. Loghain looked weary, but his blue eyes remained sharp and transfixed on his daughter. The stubborn pair of father and daughter seemed to be waiting for the other to blink. While the Seneschal licked his lips nervously, looking back and forth between the Queen and the Regent.

It was uncomfortable to just be in the room.

"It seems I cannot dissuade you," Anora blinked first. "You have heard my words, father."

"You must trust me, Anora." There was an underlying plea in his voice.

"You will always have my love," she stood from her seat, "but I cannot support this course of action." She never allowed him a chance to reply, leaving the room with Seneschal Luwin in tow.

"She doesn't understand," Loghain said softly.

"Ser?" Cauthrien frowned.

"Only I can save Ferelden," he sighed. "That is my burden."

Chapter Text

Maker give me strength.

Teagan Guerrin understood there was a storm coming to Ferelden. The king was dead. His brother was dying. The darkspawn were invading from the south while the nobility remain divided.

His country would bleed, and it pained Teagan to accept this simple fact. The wounds from the occupation were still fresh, while darkspawn and noble infighting were carving fresh ones across the land every day.

It had been almost a week since the Queen had called for a Landsmeet. There she anointed her father, Commander of the Armies. Teyrn Loghain then proceeded to defend his choice of withdrawing his forces at Ostagar. He then expected the nobility to rally under his banner to supply him with a new army.

Teagan had thought the Teyrn had gone mad. This was the Hero of the River Dane: the commoner who became a hero, who rose to nobility and had become a beloved figure throughout Ferelden. His love and devotion to his country was legendary. Now, here he was commanding the Bannorn to bow to his authority.

Had he forgotten what made Ferelden great? What set us apart from the other nations of Thedas?

For Teagan, the Loghain he had known and idolized had died at Ostagar. He held the Hero of the River Dane personally responsible for the death of their king and his nephew…

May you walk at the side of the Maker with your mother and father, Cailan.

Teagan blinked away tears at the thought of his nephew being killed by those monsters. Alone, and abandoned under the shadows at the ruins of Ostagar. He was aware of the stories of the darkspawn dragging men into the bowels of the earth where a fate worse than death awaited those poor souls.

He shuddered at the nightmarish images that cropped up in his mind of Cailan being dragged below, fighting and squirming…

Maker give me strength, Teagan repeated, wiping away the lone tear that had slipped by when contemplating his nephew's fate. He prayed that the Maker had given Cailan courage in those final moments and that his death had been swift and that he felt no pain.

His nephew was too young to be taken from this world. Idealistic, full of life, he brightened every room he walked into. Sincere and engaging, charming, and full of warmth he truly was Maric and Rowan's son.

Now the Theirin line was all but extinguished. It seemed a cruel fate. Only one generation after the rebellion and already the king was dead and Ferelden had once more been plunged into chaos.

Ferelden meant so much to Teagan even if it was a home he hardly knew growing up. He had been forced to leave Redcliffe as a child along with his brother, moving to the Free Marches to live with relatives while their father and sister stayed behind to fight for a free Ferelden.

He could still remember his first few nights in the Free Marches. Teagan had cried every night. He hadn't wanted to leave his father and sister. He hadn't wanted to leave home. It was Eamon who came to him those nights, comforting him and telling him that they would return to Ferelden one day, and that he couldn't cry, he needed to be brave. He needed to make Rowan and father proud.

Unfortunately, he would never see his father again. Rendorn Guerrin perished at the disastrous battle at West Hill. Teagan had been eight.

He would never adjust to the Free Marches during his stay. It never felt like home. It never felt like he belonged there. Eamon would tell him that was because they were Fereldans, and that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Ferelden was there home not the Free Marches. That had always comforted Teagan.

Look at Ferelden now, he thought glumly.

He was currently riding back to Redcliffe. He and his small party had departed Denerim as quickly as they could after the Landsmeet. His brother had succumbed to a mysterious illness and his presence was needed more in Redcliffe then in Denerim.

It was on the road that Teagan had heard the popular gossip that the Civil War had already started in the form of a lopsided battle that claimed more than fifty of Howe's men. This skirmish was being called the Battle of Pigs, since the majority of the fighting had occurred on a pig farm. It was said that Edmund Cousland had led the rebels against Howe's forces.

"Riders up ahead, Lord Teagan," called one of his scouts.

Shaking himself from his inner reflection, he spotted two armored riders in the middle of the road. It was as if they were waiting for them. The men-at-arms and knights who accompanied Teagan were itching to draw their weapons, but Teagan stayed their hand.

"Hail, Lord Teagan."

"Hail," Teagan replied civilly, eyeing Bann Loren's sigil.

"The rightful Teyrn of Highever has requested your presence."

"Oh?" Teagan asked, hiding his surprise. He very much doubted that the eight year old Oren Cousland had sent out riders to get him. No, this was a summons from Oren's uncle.

"We are to escort you to Caer Oswin."

"My lord?" asked one of Teagan's knights behind him. His tone was asking the underlying question-what are our orders?

"I would be honored," Teagan smiled. Knowing he couldn't refuse the invitation, and he knew he should be safe with Bann Loren and Edmund Cousland.

-----------------------

Teagan stepped into the humble hall of Bann Loren. Despite the room's cramp and crowded conditions, his eyes fell to the young boy standing in front of the main table. Draped in the colors of the Cousland family, he was dressed in the elegant finery of nobility. The Cousland laurels stitched over his heart.

For a second Teagan couldn't help but think of his other nephew, Connor. He wasn't much older than Oren. And if his father didn't recover from his illness then the burden of being the Arl of Redcliffe would pass to his young nephew, Connor.

It saddened Teagan seeing the young boy in front of him. He didn't deserve this. He was a child being asked to be an adult. An orphan forced to forget about what had happened to his family and expected to move forward without dwelling on everything he had lost.

He was small and thin. His short brown hair was unruly, but there were obvious attempts at trying to subdue it. His brown eyes were wide; silently taking in the crowded hall while conveying the growing dread of the responsibilities that was asked of him for this event.

Looking over the boy's shoulder, Teagan spotted the true ruler of this rebellion. Until recently he had been known simply as Edmund the Exile. He remembered the infamous tourney in Highever all those years ago, seeing him in front of him he realized how much he had grown.

Edmund Cousland cut an intimidating presence: tall, broad shouldered, and muscled. He had a true warrior's physique. His expression was stoic. His brown hair was short and curly. His green eyes alert as they rested on Teagan, who understood that he was being appraised by the young man.

There were other familiar faces besides Edmund: Bann Loren, Arl Bryland, Bann Sighard, and Bann Alfstanna within the highest ranks of this resistance, their banners draped on the back wall. This was the main faction and strength of the Bannorn's resistance. Teagan had to admit Edmund had chosen his allies very well. They were not the only sigils on the wall. Loren's hall was draped with many different banners signaling the numerous nobles who had pledged their services in this rebellion.

"Welcome, Lord Teagan," Oren greeted, his voice soft and small within the hall.

Teagan bowed his head and remained silent. Pitying the poor boy at what was being asked of him. At this age, Oren shouldn't be hosting nobles at fancy feasts; he should be outside playing with kids his own age.

"You have the hospitality of Bann Loren," Oren paused, realization dawning on him to add, "And myself for as long as you need it."

It was a simple mistake, Teagan understood. Even though they were in Loren's estate, Oren was the rightful host since he was the Teyrn of Highever and it was serving as headquarters for the rebellion.

"You are very gracious, your Lordship," Teagan winked at Oren hoping to settle the boy's nerves. It looked to have worked since Oren showed him a small, but quick smile.

"My Uncle has arranged an escort for you and your knights to Lake Calenhad when you are ready," Oren announced. He snuck a glance at his stoic Uncle who stood silently behind him, "For an easier and swifter trip back to Redcliffe."

That surprised Teagan. "You are most kind." He then made a point to meet Edmund's cool silent stare. "I am humbled at your thoughtfulness."

As expected, Edmund did not respond, remaining quiet and impassive.

"We have heard of your brother's misfortune," Oren's voice cracked. "We want you to know that he is in our prayers." The young Teyrn bowed his head, "and we hope that the Maker returns him to us."

"Thank you, your Lordship," Teagan finally straightened up. Seeing the young boy's anxious expression, he sent him a reassuring smile.

Oren took a deep breath, any traces of his previous nervousness disappeared. "Lord Teagan, you would honor us if you joined us for our feast."

"The honor would be mine, Lord Cousland," Teagan replied graciously.

------------------------

The feasting and drinking had ended, and Teagan had been escorted to his guest chambers for the night. It was a modest sized room, but it fitted him just fine. He preferred the comforts and hospitality of Bann Loren to camping out in the woods or staying in some seedy inn.

The eight year old Teyrn had since retired to his room. During the feast, Teagan had tried his best to coerce the boy into speaking, and was pleased that by the end of the night he had been able to get a few more smiles and laughs out of him. Oren had showed a tremendous amount of strength for what he was doing so soon after the massacre at Cousland castle, and he didn't hide his complete admiration and genuine love for his uncle.

That said uncle had not sat near them. Edmund was at the end of the Teyrn's table. The few glances Teagan had sent that way throughout the meal showed that he was always deep in talks with his uncle, Arl Bryland, and Bann Sighard.

It pained Teagan to see how aloof Edmund had become. Unable or unwilling to treat and care for Oren the way the boy deserved. It was not Teagan's place to judge, but it was impossible for him to ignore. Especially not after the similar circumstances that Teagan had gone through as a child.

He saw a version of himself in Oren. Teagan had been Oren's age when he left Ferelden with his brother to live with relatives. It was also at that age when he lost his father. It was his brother, Eamon who helped him through those trying ordeals. If not for his brother, Teagan was unsure if he would've been able to have coped with so much despair and pain. He had needed his brother in the same way Oren now needed his Uncle.

Putting aside his thoughts on the Couslands led Teagan to still have to ponder what to do moving forward. He found himself between a rock and a hard place. Ferelden was faced with two dire threats-darkspawn and civil war. And something needed to be done to resolve the latter so that the former could be faced by a united Ferelden force.

The army camped outside Caer Oswin was a startling surprise to Teagan when he first spotted them upon his arrival. This was a formidable force. Edmund had mustered the strength of the Bannorn to his cause and was poised to use them in his attempt to reclaim Highever. The main faction of this rebellion was led by Edmund, Bryland, and Loren. All of whom had their perspective clouded by vengeance. They were unable to see the true threat: that of the darkspawn coming from the south.

There needed to be a compromise between the two warring sides or Ferelden would be lost. Yet, how was he supposed to convince them to lay down their arms and forget their rightful grievances against Howe and Loghain? Could he even ask them to make such a sacrifice?

For Ferelden, he had to make the effort. He couldn't allow it to be enveloped and mutilated by the darkspawn. Turning his beautiful and beloved home into a Blighted wasteland, where only desolation and death remained. He had to do something. It wouldn't be simple, or popular, but he had to make his appeal to them. And if he couldn't convince them, then Maker be with them all.

There was a knock on the door. "Milord Teagan?"

"Yes?" Teagan answered, shaken from his musings. He went to the door, opening it to see a young elf servant flanked by two guards.

"Lord Edmund Cousland requests your presence," the elf informed him.

Teagan eyed the two guards before nodding towards the elf, "Very well."

Knowing what he needed to do, he prayed to the Maker for guidance and wisdom. He had an unenviable task ahead of him, but that would not stop him from trying. The stakes were too high. He couldn't help Ferelden during the occupation, but now he could.

--------------------------------------

Arriving in Loren's study, Teagan discovered that not only was Edmund Cousland there but so were Arl Bryland and Bann Loren. Between them was a large table, a map of the Bannorn spread across it. Small wooden carvings were dispensed across the map. The resistance had chosen to use the Cousland laurels. There were nearly a dozen of them, painted with the colors of the Cousland sigil. There were a handful of carved and painted brown bears to represent Howe, while the yellow wyvern of Gwaren represented Teyrn Loghain. Their forces were all positioned around the eastern part of Bannorn.

"I hope we did not inconvenience you, Lord Teagan." It was the first time Teagan heard Edmund's voice that night. No, it was the first time he heard his voice in eight years, he silently corrected himself.

"Not at all," Teagan replied smoothly. His eyes remained on the map.

"You do not approve."

Teagan's eyes snapped up to see Edmund's green eyes were watching him closely.

This was his moment. He knew what needed to be said. They might not see it at first, but this was what was best for Ferelden.

"You will lead this country to ruin because of a simple vendetta."

The three men took his words differently. Bann Loren was openly scowling at Teagan, his frustration hardening his features. Arl Bryland did a better job hiding his displeasure, but his frown and the disappointment in his eyes were easy enough for Teagan to read. It was Edmund's reaction that startled Teagan, or lack thereof. Edmund's face remained stoic, as his eyes drifted over the map.

"You think I risk civil war out of selfish desires?" Edmund finally asked. His voice was soft, but the dangerous edge in his tone was clear enough.

"That was not my implication," Teagan defended, believing he was twisting his words around.

"We fight for justice!" Loren argued, "Howe butchered our families!" His face reddening as he went. "Where is the justice for my wife? My son?" He pointed to his family portrait. "Howe is rewarded for his actions, granted the Teyrnir of Highever and the Arling of Denerim!"

Teagan wisely stayed quiet. Knowing it was best to allow the Bann to vent his frustrations. He had been expecting this reaction. He needed them to have calmer hearts and cooler heads if not then his appeal would fall on deaf ears.

"And you want us to do nothing?" Loren's voice reached a crescendo. "To bend meekly to this and accept the fate that our families are now outlaws without trial or proof of any wrong doings!"

"Your families have faced injustices that I can scarcely imagine," Teagan admitted. "I understand your motivation to seek justice but what of the darkspawn amassing in the south? Are they not the true threat?" He looked to them; trying to gauge their reactions to his plea. He needed them to hear his words. Teagan could see their reasoning, now he needed them to see his.

Couldn't they understand that these words were difficult for him to say? He said them because he had an obligation to Ferelden. His father had died for a free Ferelden. His sister had fought for a free Ferelden. Ferelden had to survive. It was the legacy of his family, and it was now his turn to play his part.

"Can you not send envoys to Denerim? Can you not use words and not swords to have your family's honor restored?"

"You think the sword was our first choice?"Arl Bryland crossed his arms. "I heard of the horrors committed at Highever upon our return from Ostagar." His eyes softened at the thought of his sister, the Teyrna Eleanor Cousland who had been killed in the attack. "I had an audience with Teyrn Loghain and I spoke of my grievances and demanded justice."

Bryland's lips formed a thin line as his eyes sharpened, "And he told me that I was overreaching myself and that I was allowing my dislike of Howe to cloud my judgment."

Teagan hid his wince by raising his hand to cover his mouth.

"As you see, Lord Teagan," Edmund spoke in a calm voice that did not waver in tone or emotion. "We have exhausted our diplopic attempts." He picked up one of the wooden Laurel pieces and placed it across from a Howe bear and a Gwaren wyvern. "They won't hear our words, but they will fear our swords."

They weren't listening. He realized. They refused to acknowledge the real threat.

"You plan on parading Oren at this battle?" Teagan lashed out. He silently cursed himself for allowing his frustrations to leak through. He knew at once how colossal his mistake had been when he saw the fire in Edmund's green eyes.

"I would like a few moments to speak with Lord Teagan privately."

Neither of them looked surprised by the request. It was clear to Teagan at their reactions that it was Edmund who they were truly following. They may have had the experience, but it was Edmund who was holding this rebellion together. He took their council, but when a decision needed to be made, he made it, and they obeyed it.

"You oppose what I'm doing?" Edmund asked once the two had left.

"I do," Teagan's answered honestly. "This isn't a time for us to be fighting one another."

"This is the time for us to fight the darkspawn."

"It is."

A mocking smile came to Edmund's lips. "United under one banner, but which one?" He asked sarcastically. "Loghain's? Howe's?" He shook his head. "I will not join them."

"So what would you have me do?"

"I would have you look past your own suffering," Teagan noticed the tension in Edmund's shoulders, and the darkened expression that came to his face but he continued, "If you can't then your vengeance could doom Ferelden."

"I will not forget what Howe did to my family."

"Howe is a menace," Teagan admitted, "but he is the kind of man who would allow this country to turn into a blighted wasteland if it meant he could rule it."

"And I'm not?" Edmund's mouth tightened. "You don't think I'd go to similar lengths if it meant bringing Howe to justice?"

"Your parents raised you better than that," Teagan knew his words struck home at the thoughtful expression that came to the young man's face.

"If you want me to choose between Oren and Ferelden then you may not like my answer."

"Fighting the darkspawn is fighting for Oren. You'll be fighting for him to have a better future then he could have otherwise if you let the darkspawn take Ferelden and for this Blight to spread. "

A look of annoyance flickered across the young lord's face. "Just say your peace and be done with it."

"Pardon?"

"I know disappointment when I see it." A wry smile came to his lips. "I understand when I'm being judged." He leaned across the table. "So please, enlighten me."

"That was never my intention," Teagan observed delicately.

That only seemed to further amuse him. "Then what are your intentions?"

"I have a nephew, Connor. He is roughly Oren's age. Allow me to take Oren back to Redcliffe." He noticed Edmund clench his jaw, but he continued. "He can hide and be safe from all this. He can survive."

"I don't want him to survive. I want him to live!" Edmund exploded, his fists slammed down onto the table with such force that the miniature pieces on the map toppled over. His calm and civil persona crumbled to a maelstrom of fury.

"You want him to sneak off in the night like some sort of criminal? Hide in the dark, slinking from shadow to shadow that's the life you're proposing for my nephew."

"No, that's not the life Oren will have."

"I want him to live!" His green eyes flashed like emerald flames. "I want him to live without having to look over his shoulder wherever he goes. I want him to experience freedom, not fear. Peace, not persecution."

"I understand," Teagan replied after a moment's pause. He didn't agree with Edmund, but he understood what he was trying to do. He wanted to protect Oren, and was doing it the only way he knew how. "Just don't forget why you're fighting."

"I won't," Edmund bristled.

"I think you already have," Teagan gently pointed out.

"Oren-"

"Is a boy who just lost his parents," Teagan interrupted, "And you're expecting him not to feel any pain or grief at what he experienced. You want to treat him like he is this emotionless Teyrn."

"I'm only trying to do what is best for him."

"Oren doesn't need a Teyrnir," Teagan argued, "He needs his uncle."

"Enough," Edmund snapped, raising his hand in warning. "I will not allow you to lecture me on how to raise my nephew." He pointed to himself with a hooked thumb. "Oren is mine! He is my responsibility, and I will fight to my last breath to keep him safe!"

"Your death won't help your nephew," Teagan observed attentively.

To his disappointment, the first major battle of the civil war seemed unavoidable. He had failed here, but he wouldn't fail Ferelden.

Chapter Text

"Mercy, m'lord!"

He looked over his shoulder to see the guilty man on his knees begging. His hands clasped together in front as if praying for the Maker Himself to divinely intervene on his behalf.

That image alone caused Howe to scoff. "Proceed," he instructed his soldiers.

They obeyed without hesitation, binding his hands and placing the noose around the man's neck. In the distance the man's farm was burning, black smoke billowing up from the charred ruins.

This was the price of treason.

"Mercy!" The man was sobbing.

Howe despised that word. It was the last bleating of a guilty man. As if just uttering that useless word gave credence to spare him. It was a word that belonged to the desperate and the devout. It was his fault for his current predicament and now he tried to squirm out of his punishment. He asked for this when he decided to voice his support for the rebellion within the Bannorn.

The guilty were always quick to forget their own blame when judgment sought them out. They feigned innocence, and pleaded for redemption. They deserved nothing, but their rightful punishment.

Carrying out justice and making sure punishments were handed down to the guilty was not dignified work. It wasn't for the squeamish. It was butcher's work. Yet, it needed to be done. Too many nobles didn't have the stomach to administer justice or allowed others to carry it out for them. While other nobles had foolish, soft hearts and were quick to believe any tune the guilty would sing if it meant avoiding the noose.

These soft-hearted nobles would have pardoned the Couslands. Believed their honeyed lies and accepted their gold. Thankfully, for Ferelden, Howe didn't shy away from the gritty work. He had the stomach to oversee the punishments that were deemed appropriate for the Cousland family.

His work never seemed to cease. In the past few days he had been quite busy. There had been many who had tried to rebel against Teyrn Loghain, and each one had to be properly punished. Their lands were put to the torch while some were arrested and hauled back to Denerim for questioning. Most were killed with their bodies put on display as a reminder to what happens to those who unwisely decide to go against them

This case was no different. Howe gave the signal to hang the man. He had grown tired of the man's pleas and sobs. It was silence he now craved.

When it came to the hanging, the man's neck did not instantly break. He squirmed, gasping for breath while his life was slowly strangled away from him. His face contorting into a fixture of pain, and after a few seconds of struggle with one final shudder, he went limp. His body swayed. He was dead.

"Leave his body for the crows," Howe ordered. "And let it serve as a warning."

The army was slowly moving south along the West Road and the Drakon River. A portion of their forces remained behind at the capital. And a few smaller forces were spread out in the Coastlands. The rest were here in a little spot known as Eastern Crossing, a small, forgettable area on the border of the eastern portion of the Bannorn. However, this spot was specifically picked by Teyrn Loghain.

He believed Edmund would be tempted to meet their forces here. With their forces marching south along the Drakon River, Edmund would feel compelled and honor bound to ride out and protect the banns and freeholders who had flocked to his rebellion.

He would think this would be favorable position for himself. It was safely away from Denerim and the Coastlands. With the Bannorn at his back it would provide him with a false sense of safety for his forces. He would be wrong. Fooled, Edmund would unwillingly march his forces into their waiting jaws. This farce of a rebellion would end in one swift defeat.

This threat would soon be over, Howe relished these words. No, not a threat, but a thorn. He corrected himself. He didn't want to give Edmund the satisfaction that this rebel brat ever stood a chance against him.

For too long, the Theirins, Couslands, Guerrins looked down on his family. They thought themselves better then the Howes. Believed their blood was purer, their lands richer, their titles grander. That was at an end.

When his son ascended to the throne it would start a new age for Ferelden. It would be the Howes who would move Ferelden forward. Who better then the Howes to make Ferelden a rich and strong country? What other family could boast such a history of service? What other family could claim to hold Ferelden's interests more than the Howes?

None, he silently answered. In order for Ferelden to prosper they needed a Howe to guide them.

"Father," Thomas Howe stepped forward to greet him.

"Thomas," He took in his son's appearance. He looked every bit the king that Ferelden needed. Tall, and strong, with an air of authority that could only come from a noble lineage. His hair was brown and kept short, matching his neatly trimmed goatee. He had inherited his eyes, brown and attentive.

He had spared no expense for his son's new commissioned armor. The red steel armor shimmered like dark rubies in the sunlight. It was pristine and oozed royalty. Strapped to his back was his favored waraxe. Unlike his son's armor, his waraxe showed signs of use.

There wasn't much Howe would say about the nasty, vile woman he married. He loathed her and her family, but she had served her purpose. She provided him with an heir and a spare, as well as a daughter that would be used to secure an alliance with another powerful family.

However, his heir was not his eldest, Nathaniel, but his youngest Thomas. Nathaniel had been sent to the Free Marches in the aftermath of the Highever tournament debacle. His eldest had been close friends with Edmund and Anora, and Howe didn't like that reminder. So he sent Nathaniel off, and began grooming Thomas to be his heir.

He never regretted that choice. In the years that followed, under his tutelage his youngest son thrived and began to show the promise of being the next Arl of Amaranthine. Thomas had the stomach to lead. He was stubborn and determined. He wouldn't let anything get in the way of what he wanted.

A trait they shared, Howe smiled.

Thomas had proven himself time and time again. It only seemed fitting that Thomas would be the one to marry the Queen and rule at her side as King. With Thomas, the Howe family would branch off into a separate royal branch. As the patriarch of this new royal family dynasty, Thomas would be the first of many Howes to rule Ferelden.

"Is it true?" Thomas asked.

Shaken from his musings, he could smell the wine on his son's breath.

"It is," Howe answered, a smile coming to his lips at what his son reminded him of. A scout had returned from Edmund's camp and his information had been most welcoming.

The scout had reported that Arl Bryland had only brought a fraction of South Reach's strength. It seemed the main bulk of Edmund's forces were made up of Bann Loren, Bann Telmen, and Bann Sighard. The boy had foolishly left the strength of Highever and South Reach back at Caer Oswin to protect his nephew.

Howe expected no less from this pampered brat. This was just the sort of behavior and arrogance that Howe had been expecting. Yet, this time he welcomed it. It would lead to the boy's undoing. In one swift and deciding battle Howe would wash away the remaining stench and stain of the Cousland name. Their time was done.

"You wanted to see me, Father?"

"I did," Howe confirmed, as the father and son began walking through their army's camp. Lining the pathway was the sigil of Amaranthine. The camp was bustling but every soldier, knight, and servant stopped to bow if they neared the two Howes before continuing their duties.

"Teyrn Loghain and I have need of your talents," Howe began, seeing his son's curious look he continued, "We believe it is fitting for you to lead the vanguard of our forces."

"Good," Thomas stopped, turning to face him. "There is nowhere else I'd rather be."

Howe stopped as well, taking in his son's determined look; a proud smile came to his lips. "I know."

"He won't be leaving the battlefield alive," Thomas reached over his shoulder to put his hand on the hilt of his waraxe. "I'll take his head back to Highever."

"Highever is no longer a concern of yours," he pointed out. "After our victory you'll ride straight to Denerim."

A look of annoyance flickered over Thomas' youthful face, "to marry the ice bitch?"

"The Queen," Howe corrected, glancing around to make sure his son's slip did not go noticed by anyone else. He held no love or respect for their current Queen, but only a fool would voice such things so openly. And Howe didn't raise any fools.

"You know what Cailan use to say about her?" Thomas didn't seem to understand the need for subtlety.

"That is enough," he chided. "You'll wed her, bed her, and get her with a Howe son." He ignored his son's petulant look. "I haven't carried our family this far only to see you mess it up at the end."

"I won't," Thomas bristled. He called for his squire who came forward, carrying a wineskin. Thomas took it, and dismissed the squire. He raised the wineskin in a mock toast. "To the Queen," before tilting his head back and drinking.

Howe snatched the wineskin out of his son's hand. He had heard the gossip about his son: the drunk and the brute. He had always made sure that those who were caught whispering such malicious lies were punished. Nonetheless, Howe didn't want anything that could give that awful gossip any validity.

"I wasn't done!" Thomas protested.

"Yes, you were," Howe glared at him, daring him to challenge his decision. As expected, Thomas didn't. The two resumed their walking. "Do you know who you want to accompany you in the vanguard?"

"I do," he answered, "Ser Temmerly and Ser Timothy have both asked to fight beside me."

That came as no surprise to Howe, he knew the two knights. They were more brutes then soldiers, but they were nevertheless very effective in carrying out their orders. Especially Temmerly, he had a way of inspiring fear and he did always get results. They were good choices.

"I'll also have the White Falcons and the Crimson Oars."

"Mercenaries?" Howe didn't like the idea of sellswords protecting his son.

"Yes, Cristoff told me, he and the White Falcons last job was in Tevinter, fighting those damn Qunari," Thomas said, waving off his concern. "I'm sure they can handle armed peasants."

"Well, I'll still want some of my own men to fight with you," Howe told him. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

Thomas was smart enough to understand. "That's fine," he shrugged, "as long as they don't stop me from killing Edmund Cousland."

"They won't," Howe promised his son.

That honor belonged solely to Thomas. As future king it was expected of him to inspire the forces. Usually, Howe might have been more cautious about his son's position in the battle, but upon learning how Edmund was using his forces it presented an opportunity that Howe couldn't pass up.

Thomas would lead the vanguard. He would smash the smaller rebel forces. In one battle, the soon to be King of Ferelden would win the war. This battle was going to be their crowning triumph, completely solidifying the Howes as the most powerful family in Ferelden.

--------------------

That night, Loghain had called his last war council before the pending battle for him to assign his nobles and freeholders their expected responsibilities for the coming battle. It was a small group of mostly nobles from the Teyrnir of Gwaren.

In his limited time around them, Howe quickly learned what cowards they were. It appeared as if the Teyrn had dragged them here from Gwaren. They always voiced their concerns and objections. It seemed they preferred to whine and complain. Why Loghain put up with them was beyond Howe. If he was their liege lord, he never would allow such disrespect to be seen or heard. He would have permanently silenced their complaints and used their fates as an example to others who might have shared similar views.

There was Lord Olsen out of Gwaren. He was considered one of the more powerful nobles in the region. His family owned much of the forested land used for Gwaren's booming timber trade. He was a fat man with thinning blond hair. He had watery eyes and a thick moustache. It was rumored that he was sleeping with his sister's husband.

Along with Lord Olsen there was Benedict Sloan. He hailed from the richest family in Gwaren. They were however merchants and not nobility, having benefited greatly in the aftermath of the Orlesian occupation. They were new money looking into marrying old nobility. His large ears overshadowed his handsome face. He was dressed in the best silverite armor his family could buy.

Bann Ceorlic stood away from the others. He was a crusty old man, whose loyalty to Loghain was unflinching. Yet, he was a twitchy old man who was easily spooked. The way some told it, his own shadow frightened him.

Teyrn Loghain was the last to enter; Ser Cauthrien followed him in before melting into the back part of the tent. Loghain made his way to the sturdy table where the map of Eastern Crossing and the surrounding area was sprawled out. The war pieces of their army's position and the predicted position of Edmund's forces were in place. He gripped the edge of the table with his gauntleted hands before surveying the room, his eyes sharper then the blade he carried.

The others took their positions around the table with Howe in one of the rightfully better spots just across the Teyrn, Thomas stood to his left. Lord Olsen and Benedict Sloan stood at the left end of the table while Bann Ceorlic stood on the right end.

"By now all of you have heard our scout's report," The Teyrn skipped any introductory preamble and went straight for the reason why they were all here.

"Can it be true?" asked Benedict skeptically. He scratched the dark stubble along his jaw line. "It just seems so…"

"Foolish?" Thomas quipped, the corners of his lips tugged upwards.

"Aye, foolish," Benedict agreed.

"It's all true," Howe declared. He had been expecting this reaction from them. "Edmund's a foolish boy. He knows nothing of warfare. He thinks himself in some sort of story."

"It is never wise to underestimate your enemy," Lord Olsen pointed out. He was tentatively running his thumb over his signet ring.

Howe bristled at the criticism. Who was this man to question his knowledge of battle and strategy? Olsen's fat arse had never been involved in any fighting. He wasn't here to give advice. He was here because of the money he had and the numerous free holders pledged to his family.

"Y-yes," Ceorlic chirped in agreement, "This information seems too good to be true."

"Right you are," Lord Olsen was nodding his head up and down so vigorously, the fat on his neck jiggled.

"The scout counted their numbers," Cauthrien observed.

"Well still," Lord Olsen didn't look convinced, stroking his thick mustache. "This scout could be wrong."

"He's a good scout," Loghain came to the boy's defense. "He has served me faithfully."

"I meant no disrespect, your Lordship," Lord Olsen back pedaled, "I just wanted to voice my concerns."

"And you've voiced them," Loghain turned to him waiting for him to continue in his protest, but he wisely didn't. "Good," the Teyrn of Gwaren nodded. "I'm inclined to agree with Teyrn Howe."

"Thank you, your Lordship," Howe relished in seeing the defeated looks from Lord Olsen and Bann Ceorlic.

"He is a child playing at war."

Just like our previous king, Howe thought. Spoiled and enthralled by the romanticized stories of the rebellion, and thirsty for their own glory these young noblemen actively sought conflicts believing themselves invincible. These young children growing up in the aftermath of the occupation never understood the truth about war. It wasn't glorious. It was messy, bloody, and chaotic. It reeked with death. They were oblivious to these hard truths. It had doomed the foolish King Cailan, and it would doom the arrogant rebel Edmund.

Thankfully, Howe had made sure his children were never told that nonsense.

"I'm sure Edmund loves the sight of his Cousland banners swaying in the breeze. He enjoys watching his soldiers marching and likes to listen to the sound of war drums," Loghain scoffed, "but when the battle starts and its all chaos and death, blood and mud, he will fold." He pushed over the miniature piece representing Edmund's forces.

The others voiced their agreement, but not Howe. He stayed quiet. His eyes transfixed on the piece that Loghain had pushed over, the one resembling Edmund's main forces.

And with Edmund's defeat, the Howes will reign.

Chapter Text

His legs ached, but he dared not adjust his position.

Loren remained kneeling, hands clasped in front of him. His body protested, but his heart and mind persisted. His soul needed the soothing balm that only prayer could provide him.

His prayers were no longer short and sweet. Not after that night. They were long and carried the names of those he lost. They were heavy with the emotions he grappled with. They were consistent as he always asked for the same thing in each and every one: retribution.

Finishing his prayers, he ended them like he always did with a reciting of one of the passages from the Chant of Light.

"Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others, know this: There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker and He shall judge their lies."

Bann Loren opened his eyes.

Putting his hand on the pew in front of him he pushed himself up. It took a little bit of effort, his body was stiff, but he ignored the pain. He sat on the pew waiting until his legs and his back were no longer sore.

He was in the hastily erected Chantry tent that had been put up in the army's encampment.

At the moment, he was the only in attendance, that didn't surprise him. It was on the eve of battle where the 'faithful,' would come in droves seeking the Maker's love and protecting, and affirming their faith in Him, and His bride, the blessed Andraste.

Loren had never been a warrior. He had been trained in combat and in his younger days had fought off his share of cutthroats and bandits who haunted his roads and tormented those who were under his protection. But he was no longer that young man. Age had crept upon him. He could still ride a horse and wield his family's mace, but his stamina had declined, he grew tired faster and became sluggish sooner.

No one knew of course, the ailments that were afflicting his body. His muscles were strong, but his fingers had become clumsy, and numb. Discomfort would come at mundane tasks and leave behind a fiery twinge of pain that could last for hours on end.

The pain in his fingers wouldn't deter him. There was nowhere else he'd rather be.

The battle was finally here. The opportunity Loren had been waiting for. He sought retribution to avenge the deaths of his wife and son. He did not fear death. He welcomed it.

In death, he would be reunited with his Landra and Dairren.

This was where he would choose to die. He wanted to die fighting. It was a good death. It was a quick death.

To go on living while the bones of his wife and son rotted in the ground was not a life worth living. If he went on living his only companions would be the ghosts of those he lost and his regrets.

There was a particular and painful regret that weighed heavy on his heart.

It is because of me that my son is dead. The confession wrung his insides tightly. He had pushed Dairren to go to Highever. Loren had wanted a stronger connection between his holdings and the Couslands. It had not been an easy thing to secure-Teyrn's squire. He had to cash in a few favors, and passed along many sovereigns before he had successfully positioned his son to be the squire for Teyrn Bryce Cousland. Every freeholder in the Coastlands had wanted that spot for their own children and Loren had gotten it.

Dairren had not been appreciative of his effort. He was never one to fight. Dairren had been soundly beaten in a number of tourneys. He had been convinced that his future was not with a blade, but books. So he threw his effort into his studies and not swordplay.

He had asked to stay at the estate. He had no interest in being the Teyrn's glorified servant. Loren had refused his son's request. He desired advancement for his family and believed close ties with the Couslands offered him the best chance of achieving it.

In an ironic twist of fate, Loren had secured an unbreakable alliance with the Couslands. Instead of his son becoming close to Teyrn Cousland, it was he who had become close to the Teyrn's son, Edmund.

Oh, Dairren, Tears filled his eyes. My son is gone.

Icy fingers strangled his heart.

No parent should ever outlive their children…

Loren wept.

---------------------------------------------------

"Lord Loren," Nia greeted him with a curtsy.

"It is finished?" Loren was looking around her small tent in hopes of seeing it. He didn't.

"Of course, m'lord," she sounded amused, standing up from her curtsy. "It's over here."

"Good," Loren followed her to the back of the tent.

A dark blanket was draped over the a section of the wall. She gingerly pulled at it to reveal the beautiful banner behind it.

His heart soared into his throat when his eyes took in the banner. There stitched into the cloth was a stunning and vivid depiction of the faces of his wife and son.

Landra, he mouthed his wife's name.

Her face rested on the top half of the banner. She was beautiful. Her eyes were warm and filled with life. She looked fierce and vigilant.

Dairren, Loren sniffed.

The face of his son was stitched on the bottom half of the banner. Handsome and stoic, while his eyes showed a maturity and wisdom that went beyond his young age.

He swallowed the sob that threatened to spill from his throat when his eyes met the stitched eyes of his son. His legs buckled, and he reached out for a nearby seat to keep his balance. He tightened his grip when he noticed his hands were trembling. He felt the grief gnawing away at him upon seeing their faces in front of him…

Maker be with me.

They would be his guardians. This banner was going to be his sigil now. He would carry this in the coming battle. He forfeited the sigil of his ancestors. Let the faces of his wife and son watch over him now.

"What do you think?" Nia asked tentatively.

"It's perfect," he praised, "I couldn't have asked for anything finer."

"I'm glad," she sounded relieved. "It was an honor."

He could understand her apprehension. The commission he had requested wasn't an easy one. It was personal and fragile, and one slight miscue would have easily botched it. That was why he had entrusted it to Nia. She never failed him.

"Lord Loren?"A timid messenger poked his head through the tent flap.

"Yes," he called over his shoulder.

"Your presence is requested for the war council, m'lord."

"I understand," Loren's eyes remained on his newly commissioned sigil. "I'm on my way."

--------------------------------------

Entering the tent Lord Loren was surprised at seeing more than twenty nobles in attendance. What didn't surprise him was that the majority of them were shouting at one another. The Bannorn was notorious for old grudges, stubborn nobles, and independent freeholders. Yet, if this infighting could not be stopped they would lose this war before it ever began.

The ones that were fighting were made up of the smaller Banns, freeholders, knights, and wealthy families. They weren't powerful or influential as the main faction, but had pledged their services and had given enough to be given an invitation to this war council. Loren was beginning to think it was a mistake to have invited them in the first place.

Deeper in the tent was where the main faction of the resistance was. The main faction was made up of a handful of nobles including himself who had supplied the most men, money, and supplies for the resistance. None of them were fighting or shouting and were gathered around the table where the maps of Eastern Crossing were spread out.

It was there that Loren got a good sight of the young lord who was tasked with uniting these diverse, but squabbling nobles under one banner. Edmund Cousland stood surveying the bickering that took place in front of him. A look of disapproval in his green eyes, but he did nothing to stop the quarreling. His faithful and intelligent mabari, Sarim stood at his side, vigilant and protective of his master.

The young lord was a very grim man. It saddened Loren to see someone so young be so dour, but he couldn't fault the young lord for his gloomy demeanor. In his young life Edmund has experienced a number of trials that would've broken weaker men. He was exiled for a time, forced to leave his home; having only returned to Ferelden on a royal pardon that came on the heels of losing his wife in Orlais. He then lost his parents to Howe's betrayal and his brother at Ostagar.

With all of this turmoil there was still no sign of any wear or tear. Edmund trudged forward because he still had Oren.

Loren had nothing.

The Cousland name would carry on, but Loren's line had ended. He had accepted that. He was on a different path then Edmund; the young lord sought to protect his nephew and restore his family's name. While Loren only sought justice for the death of his family. After that, he would find the peace he needed.

The Cousland and Highever sigil was firmly and proudly on display behind Edmund. These were the only sigils in the tent. He stood by himself on one side of the table while on the other side stood the other members of the main faction of this resistance.

There was Bann Alfstanna. She had been one of the suitors that Loren had been considering approaching for his Dairren. A look of annoyance flickered over her pretty face, but a smile came to her lips when she met Loren's eyes. It was a sad smile. He recognized it so easily now. He was on the receiving end of these smiles wherever he went since the death of his wife and son. His peers no longer knew how to approach or speak to him so they settled with giving him those sad smiles.

There was also Bann Sighard, with him was his son, Oswyn. Bitterness churned in Loren's stomach, he tried to squash the jealousy that rose in his throat like bile, but it was difficult. Seeing the father and son together cut Loren deep. It was a gut wrenching reminder of his Dairren.

The father and son looked on with bemusement at the infighting. When Sighard's eyes fell on Loren, his hand instinctively went to his son's shoulder. The gesture didn't surprise Loren, he was after all a walking reminder of how precious your family is and how quickly they could be taken away.

Lord Bryland was the only dressed in armor. The Arl of South Reach, and Edmund's uncle, his presence was a surprise to Loren. He hadn't been expecting the Arl this soon. He was supposed to be leading the march of his and Highever's forces, who had been delayed behind their own. His appearance seemed to signal that the South Reach and Highever forces were already here or near by. The veteran of the rebellion against Orlais had no qualms in displaying his disgust and disapproval of their squabbling allies.

The last one was Bann Telmen. He was wearing a smug look, and unlike the others was the only one who was watching the infighting with any interest. He was even talking to several of the fighting nobles. It left Loren with an uneasy feeling watching Telmen interact with some of these banns.

"You need to rein them in, Edmund," Leonas advised his nephew.

"Let them tire themselves out," Edmund was indifferent to the infighting amongst his ranks. "They're stubborn they won't look kindly to being reprimanded by me."

"Still," he paused, as if weighing his nephew's counterargument. "In order to win battles your men must be united and disciplined."

"They don't want me to lead them," Edmund observed.

"Who cares what they want," Leonas dismissed this obstacle. "If it was up to them they'd all be leading or trying to."

"That would be a sight to see," Edmund's lips twitched, he then turned in Loren's direction for the first time. "Lord Loren."

"Lord Cousland," Loren joined them at the table. "I apologize for my tardiness."

"You didn't miss anything," Edmund informed him, before his eyes went back to the squabbling lords.

How could he be so calm and indifferent about all of this madness? Loren wondered. Taking in the sight of the infighting was a bit disheartening for him. These were their allies, and they seemed more intended on fighting each other then Howe and Loghain. It didn't settle his nerves upon seeing Edmund's detachment of it all. He knew the young lord had a tough way ahead of him. Most of these nobles were older than him and were going to test Edmund to see what they could and couldn't get away with.

"But he did miss something," Lord Telmen pointed out, breaking through Loren's musings. As if on cue, the fighting amongst the other nobles immediately stopped and they all went quiet.

Neat trick, Loren thought.

"Lord Loren, you missed another fine example of misplaced Cousland honor and mercy," Telmen said boldly.

"What did I miss?"

"Our esteemed leader," Telmen drawled, "Allowed Loghain's scout to return to their camp with information about our numbers!" A wave of voices roared their disapproval at this statement.

"It is true, I let that scout go, but it wasn't done out of some sort of Cousland mercy." Edmund's eyes sharpened at the last words, glaring at Bann Telmen, who had been unwise in his slandering of the Cousland family's reputation.

"Then please Lord Cousland, enlighten us," Telmen's last words got a few guffaws from the crowd which only bolstered his confidence.

"You say they know our numbers?" Edmund posed his question to Telmen.

"They do," Telmen confirmed.

"Then please tell me this: how could he count the forces of Highever and South Reach when they were not even here?"

A ploy, Loren realized. It was enough to make him laugh.

Edmund had been toying with Telmen the whole time. He had wanted Telmen to bring up the freed scout. In one swift move Edmund had now identified his dissenters, discredited Telmen, and firmly secure his grip of control over the forces.

That was why Bryland was here now. Edmund had kept them away to fool the scout and in turn mislead Loghain and Howe. They would think that Edmund was without Highever and South Reach forces and react accordingly...

Silence greeted his revelations. His words and the meaning behind them were slowly sinking and settling within the rest of the audience.

Telmen's confident expression was wiped cleanly from his face. In that moment, he realized he had been beaten and had the good sense to look it.

"The scout counted only the vanguard." Edmund broke the silence.

"What good does that do us?" Telmen asked cautiously.

"Howe and Loghain will believe themselves to have the superior forces and will carelessly march to meet us," Edmund revealed.

"And I take it you have a plan?"

The slow smile that came to Edmund's lips answered that question. He then outlined his strategy. It was risky, especially for the forces that needed to serve as the bait to execute the ambush. However, with Howe and Loghain unaware of the Highever and South Reach forces it could work.

Brilliant, Loren mentally praised. Looking up from the map to see a growing smile on Arl Bryland's face with a look of pride flickering in his dark eyes which were on his nephew.

"They will expect me being reckless and will not think twice about our few numbers," Edmund was finishing up. "They're expecting a green boy."

"A green boy, indeed!" barked someone in the crowd, earning laughs and cheers from others.

Edmund raised his hand and the crowd quieted down. "In order for this ruse to work, I will lead the forces that will serve as the bait." There was a roar of voices at this stunning revelation. None louder in their protests then Edmund's uncle, but he ignored them as he pressed on. "I cannot ask to put my men in danger, if I am unwilling."

It was the riskiest role in the battle. They would face the brunt of the attack before the ambush of the Highever and South Reach forces could move in position to strike.

"Edmund, you can't," Bryland tried to reason with his nephew. "You're too important!"

"I'm not the important Cousland, Uncle." There was sadness in his eyes. "My nephew Oren is irreplaceable not me."

"If we are to win this war then we cannot lose you in the first battle!"

"It has to be me," Edmund was determined. "Anyone else leads those forces they may smell a trap." He moved the laurel pieces forward on the map. "If it's me who leads the forces they'll expect it's my inexperience and vanity showing."

"You won't be fighting alone, Lord Cousland," Loren spoke up. "Howe took my wife and my son," he felt tears in his eyes, but he carried on, remembering their faces on his newly created sigil. "I believe this is where I will make my stand."

Disbelief flickered in his green eyes before Edmund nodded. He then moved around the table towards him. "We will make many stands together."

The conviction in his tone was so ensnaring, Loren wanted to believe him. If only he knew the truth of the matter, Loren thought sadly.

"I'm coming with you," Oswyn spoke up, "I'll lead my father's forces."

There was concern in Sighard's eyes, but there was also acceptance. The father nodded after some hesitation, a final blessing for his son's decision.

It wasn't lost on Edmund. He glanced over towards Sighard before returning his attention to Oswyn. "Then we shall fight together."

Oswyn smiled and nodded, shaking Edmund's hand before he moved to rejoin his father. Sighard's hand went to his son's shoulder and did not let go.

"I'd like to go as well, my lord," Telmen stepped forward. "I would be honored to fight alongside you."

"The honor is mine, Lord Telmen," Edmund shook Telmen's hand.

Looking out into the faces of the crowd, Loren realized that Edmund's courage and cunning was helping to win them over. How could they complain about slights in terms of their roles when Edmund had volunteered himself for the most dangerous part? Their grievances all of a sudden seemed petty and unimportant.

The Bannorn is fickle, he reminded himself. Yet, seeing their responsive faces and their willingness to listen to Edmund's instructions was a welcome sight. It gave him hope for their cause.

And for that Loren was thankful.

Chapter Text

Edmund's throat burned. His eyes were bleary. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve to remove any lingering trace of bile.

He looked down at the contents from his stomach.

Thankfully, he missed his boots.

This was the second time he had thrown up this morning. His nerves still weren't satisfied as his protesting stomach continued to rumble. He went back into his tent, Sarim who was lounging under the table, raised his head at his entrance, a look of concern shimmering in his dark eyes.

"I'm fine, Sarim," Edmund appreciated his mabari's concern.

"M'lord?" Nara, one of Loren's estate servants who was traveling with the army appeared. She was holding a goblet of water.

"Thanks," he drank greedily. The cool water soothed his burning throat. He thought it was natural to be a little apprehensive before battle; after all, nothing was certain in battle besides death. He felt her eyes on him. "I'm fine."

She didn't seem convinced.

"If the bards ever write song about this battle let's hope they leave this part out," he remarked dryly.

Nara's lips tugged upwards. "Your secrets are safe with me, m'lord." She took the empty goblet from him, "More water, m'lord?"

"No, thank you." The last thing he needed was to have to take a piss in the middle of the battle.

"Will that be all, m'lord?"

"Yes, thank you," he looked at his armor which was still on its stand. It was finely crafted silverite armor. It had been a gift from his Uncle.

"I'll be praying for your victory and safe return, m'lord," she curtseyed and moved to leave.

"Wait," he turned to see confusion flicker across her face.

"M'lord?"

"What are your duties during the battle?"

"Packing up your tent and belongings, m'lord."

"If the battle goes poorly," he paused, "I want you to run."

"M'lord?" She was baffled. Whether it was because of his sudden orders or him bringing up the notion they would lose the battle.

"I'm ordering you to flee if the battle goes poorly for our side," he repeated, "Forget my belongings, forget all of this." He gestured to his tent. "I want you to just… run."

"But-"

"No," he cut her off. She didn't understand why it was important for her to leave.

Edmund remembered the atrocities that were committed during the attack of Cousland Castle. Loyal servants to his family who were brutally raped and then put to the sword. He had failed them, and if he could prevent it from happening again, he would.

"You have to run," he moved towards her. "Get all of the servants and go." He thought about putting a hand on her shoulder, but he stopped himself. "It won't be safe for any of you…"

Realization flickered across her face, "I will, m'lord." She looked at her feet. "I'll get the others, and run."

"Good," He was relieved.

"Thank you, m'lord," she looked back up at him. Her eyes shimmered with appreciation for his warning.

He stiffly nodded. He didn't feel like he needed to be thanked. To him, it was the expected thing to do. They may not be fighting, but the servants were still under his protection. It was his responsibility to lookout for their well being, win or lose.

-----------------

Edmund examined the young men and women standing in front of him: fresh faces, bright eyes, and confident smiles. They were eager and ready. He remembered a time when he was like that; before he was hardened by the experiences that could only come on the field of battle.

Behind them were the main sigils of their fighting forces, the standards were swaying in the breeze. The Cousland and Highever standards were in the center. To the left of them was the newly minted standard of Bann Loren, the faces of his wife and son were adorned on the banner.

When he closed his eyes he could still see the blood soaked floors, their bodies peppered with cuts and slashes, fear and pain permanently etched on their faces. Edmund took a breath to steady himself, pushing down the memory of that night. He turned to the next standard needing a further distraction to prevent his mind from returning to those painful memories.

On the other side of Lord Loren's was the sigil of Dragon Peak, a crescent moon on its back with a handful of stars below it. On the other side of his family banners was the sigil of Lord Telmen: A flying raven on a blue field.

"Lord Cousland, we fight for you!" This sent a cheer through the ranks as others whistled and hit their shields in support.

"You honor me," Edmund took in their excited faces. He moved over to the soldier who had shouted. "May I have your name?"

The soldier's eyes widened, "I-its Geoffrey, m'lord."

"Geoffrey," Edmund greeted him with a smile, laying his hand on the man's shoulder. "I appreciate your courage and your service."

"The Couslands have always been good to my family."

"Have you been to Highever, Geoffrey?"

Geoffrey's brows furrowed, "no, m'lord."

"Can I ask something more of you, Geoffrey?" Edmund asked, while his eyes surveyed the others.

"Anything, m'lord," Geoffrey perked up.

"When we're fighting I don't want you fighting for the Couslands or Highever," Edmund saw the flicker of confusion on Geoffrey's face and other soldiers who were sending him puzzled looks. "When you're fighting, I want you to fight for the men and women beside you." To make his point he put his hand on the soldier standing on Geoffrey's right. It was a young woman, with a freckled face, and brown eyes.

"M'lord?" Geoffrey didn't seem to understand. He wasn't the only one.

"Fight for them," Edmund emphasized, "The men and women beside you are depending on you. Their life is in your hands. Fight for their survival." He gently squeezed her shoulder before letting go, but was pleased to see understanding in her eyes at what he was asking of them.

"I will, m'lord."

"Good," Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. "I could not ask for better men and women then those I see in front of me." He walked in between the rows of soldiers. He wanted to see as many faces as he could. They were fighting for his family because they were commoners and he was nobility. He owed it to them to remember their sacrifices.

"You honor my family with your service. We will be in your debt." He was trying to commit more of their faces to memory. "Your efforts will not be forgotten. Your families will not be ignored."

"This is only the beginning." While he moved between the soldiers: He clapped some on the shoulder, others he shook their hands. He wanted to look them in the eyes. "The worst is only ahead of us, but if we stay together, fight for one another then we will be triumphant!"

A clamor of cheers and shouts from the soldiers was deafening. They clapped their shields, or their breastplates, chanting: "Couslands!" "Highever!"

It was time.

--------------------------

The screams and shouts came from all directions.

He ignored them. In order to survive he had to.

Edmund Cousland surveyed the battlefield around him. Bodies were strewn about; the soil was soaked by the blood of allies and enemies alike. Banners and sigils from both sides were scattered throughout, waving weakly on broken poles. While commoners, knights, and nobles continued to fight, kill, and die for their pledged liege lords.

The battle was going according to plan. Edmund had led the forces into battle. Howe and Loghain's had taken the bait and marched to meet him. When the sides clashed, chaos erupted. He was soon separated from Loren, Oswyn, and Telmen. Unbothered, Edmund continued to fight his way through the enemies' ranks with his faithful mabari at his side.

"There he is!" cried a soldier.

Edmund turned to see three men approach him, one in leathers, one in chainmail, and one in red steel. It was the one in red steel who he believed to be their leader. A white falcon with its wings outstretched was the heraldry emblazoned on their armor. It took him a second to realize that their heraldry wasn't of a noble Fereldan family, but a mercenary guild-the White Falcons.

Sarim growled at Edmund's side, bearing his sharp teeth. Already covered in the blood of the countless men his mabari had killed.

"Easy, Sarim," Edmund gripped his sword tightly.

"That's him, Cristof," the one in leathers sounded giddy.

The one called Cristof was the one dressed in the best armor, red steel, and was carrying a silverite waraxe. The tip of which was dripping with blood and bits of flesh.

"It looks like it," Cristof was eyeing Edmund and then Sarim.

"What about Howe's orders?" The one in chainmail asked.

"Forget those orders," the one in leathers rebutted, "I want that bounty!"

"That's right," Cristof agreed, "Thomas will just have to settle for his head."

"Go," Edmund ordered Sarim, watching the trio of mercenaries move forward. His mabari whined, but he relented, snapping his teeth at the mercenaries, before he ran away.

"What about the hound?"

"Forget that mangy dog," Cristof growled.

Edmund raised his shield and charged wanting to take them off guard.

The one in leathers yelped, jumping backwards, Cristof carefully stepped out of the way, leaving Edmund's shield connecting with the one in the chainmail who stumbled backwards, and Edmund quickly took advantage of the man's awkward footing. He unleashed a flurry of strikes with his sword. Already off balanced, the man never stood a chance, barely deflecting the first, while the second cut deep into his arm, wincing and dropping his sword. Edmund followed through with a devastating swing that broke through the chainmail and cut into flesh.

The man was dead on his feet with Edmund's sword lodged in his chest. He pulled it out in a swift tug just in time to deflect an attack from Cristof. Who was wielding his silverite axe paired with an unassuming dagger. He was quick with his strikes but Edmund was quicker in his blocks, deflecting the axe and dagger away from his body. The axe had an unnatural hue to its tip and seeing the scorch marks it left behind on Edmund's shield made him realize that the axe had been enchanted.

Frustrated, Cristof stepped backwards, no doubt trying to reassess his strategy. It was clear he hadn't been expecting Edmund to be much of a challenge. He kept his axe and dagger raised in a defensive position while he plotted his next move

It was then from the corner of his eye that Edmund saw Sarim. The two mercenaries had forgotten about the war hound, and that would be their undoing. Sarim lunged at the man in leathers, who cried out in surprise before he was dragged to the ground by the ferocious mabari.

Using Sarim's sudden appearance to his advantage Edmund reengaged in his fight with Cristof. The mercenary deflected Edmund's strikes, spinning out of reach from his sword, before suddenly appearing at Edmund's side. Cristof swung his axe in a high arc aiming to cut Edmund's head clean off, Edmund ducked the strike and then slammed his shield into Cristof's face. Reeling, Edmund never let him recover; he followed his shield bash with his sword, cutting deep into the flesh of Cristof's neck, instantly killing the mercenary. His head lolled to the side, to reveal just a sliver of flesh that was keeping it attached to his shoulders.

Turning to see that Sarim had handled the last mercenary without issue. Edmund went over to Cristof's corpse, inspecting the axe the mercenary carried. It looked like a unassuming axe, but having seen its magical enhancements in battle, Edmund was not deceived by its simple appearance. He pulled the axe out of the dead mercenary's hand. It was warm to the touch, like it had been resting too close to the fire. Upon further inspecting, he noticed on its handle a single name was engraved into it: Aodh.

Impressed, Edmund slid the newly acquired axe into his belt.

"Cousland," growled a familiar voice. Thomas Howe stood a few feet from him, holding his waraxe.

Sarim growled from his position over the dead mercenary.

"No, Sarim," Edmund stopped his mabari from attacking. "This is my fight."

That got a chuckle out of Thomas.

Edmund launched himself at the youngest Howe. Thomas deflected the strike easily enough. He took a few steps to put some distance between him and Edmund, and to regain his footing. Edmund refused to give him space. He knew the waraxe needed some room to properly maneuver in order to be effective. So he was determined to stick to Thomas like a shadow.

Clearly frustrated, Thomas was still able to parry Edmund's strikes with his waraxe. While moving backwards to try to create some separation.

Edmund didn't relent. He raised his sword high aiming for Thomas' head, but the youngest Howe was able to just block it with a part of his waraxe. Edmund then brought up his shield, swatting away the waraxe. He then moved again with his sword, in a high cutting arc, and Thomas' waraxe again arrived just in time to deflect the strike.

Thomas pushed all of his weight forward, letting out a primal cry.

Edmund deftly moved backwards, angling his sword to release it from the waraxe, and raised his shield in a defensive posture in time to block Howe's strike. Edmund gritted his teeth, as his shield absorbed the forced behind the swing. A strum of pain shot up his arm.

He pushed off with his shield to get Thomas off balance. It worked. He followed it with a low swing with his shield, which Thomas went to deflect with his waraxe, not seeing the coming sword strike that punctured his armor beneath his shoulder. He cried out in pain, when the sword bit into the flesh of his unprotected armpit, but Thomas miraculously kept a tight hold on his waraxe.

His countenance immediately darkened, while his eyes clouded over with fury. Thomas bellowed an animalistic like shout before charging Edmund.

Surprised, Edmund raised his sword just in time to parry the waraxe, trying to move forward to apply the pressure on Thomas and to keep a tight space between them. Undeterred, Thomas swung his waraxe again, this time in a low arc trying to cut Edmund in two. He jumped back to avoid the swing, watching as Thomas effortlessly raise the waraxe over his head before bringing it down where Edmund was standing.

Edmund now found himself on the defensive. He moved back to avoid the sundering strike that would have crushed him inside his armor. Thomas continued his assault, wielding the heavy waraxe with ease. It was now Edmund who was reeling.

The blade of the waraxe hooked onto the edge Edmund's shield and with a quick tug pulled it out of Edmund's grip. He watched helplessly the shield clatter onto the ground out of reach.

Sensing victory, Thomas pressed forward with his advantage. Edmund deflected the strike that was aimed for his chest, his sword and Howe's axe clashed, spitting sparks from the two steel blades. With his other hand he retrieved his newly acquired axe, Aodh. He was surprised, by how comforting the axe's warm touch felt in his fingers. In an undercut swing, Aodh connected with Thomas' chest plate. The armored singed under Aodh's tip.

Panicked, and surprised, Thomas lowered his eyes on his now smoldering armor.

Using the distraction Edmund's sword met Thomas' right hand, blade cut through bone and flesh, severing the hand at the wrist. The hand and waraxe dropped to the ground as Thomas cried out in pain falling to his knees, gripping his bloody stump. His eyes were defiant while his lips curled in a sneer. "My father-"

"Is next," Edmund finished, decapitating him in one fluid strike. He ignored the geyser of blood that sprayed out from his neck. Edmund's eyes followed Thomas' head which bounced into the dirt with a soft, squishy thud. The youngest Howe's face permanently etched to show his haughty defiance.

Edmund let loose a tired breath.

Sarim was by his side in an instant.

"You wouldn't have let him kill me, right, boy?" He returned Aodh to his belt, pleased at how handy the axe had been.

Sarim barked.

"I thought so," Edmund picked up his discarded shield. He looked to see the Cousland laurels emblazed on the front were covered in blood and mud. He then slid his arm through the shield straps. His body was sore, but he could not rest. The battle still waged around him.

He looked up for any sight of his Uncle's banners. They weren't there.

Andraste give me strength, he prayed.

Fear had soured his stomach. He tried to fight it, but he couldn't ignore it. Unsure, how much longer his spirited, but smaller forces could endure the full brunt of Howe and Loghain's army. If the forces of his Uncle did not come soon, then he and everyone else would perish under the full might of their enemies.

Edmund had known the decision he had made to split up his forces had been a gamble, and it seemed he had lost.

Chapter Text

Bring him back alive.

Those were her orders.

She would not fail her Teyrn.

So she moved through the battlefield with summer sword in her hand. Cutting down any rebel she came across. The greatsword had been gifted to her by Loghain to help her in this mission. Already, its claimed a handful of lives.

Cauthrien surveyed the surrounding area looking for any sign of the rebel that was responsible for this battle. She saw blood, death, and chaos but there was no sign of Edmund Cousland. She kept moving. Aware of her surroundings and poised to strike at a moment's notice.

The bards liked to write battles filled with beauty and honor. What they never wrote about was walking through the slush of blood, piss, entrails, limbs and bodies of both enemies and allies.

A young man in leathers suddenly jumped out in front of her flashing two daggers. He rained a flurry of strikes in her direction. Cauthrien deflected the blades with summer sword, and those she could not, she dodged and avoided with her feet. She quickly adjusted her grip on her greatsword, carefully holding the blade between her hands before leading with a thunderous blow with the pommel of her greatsword. It connected with the man's face with a loud crack.

He yelped in pain, his nose crushed, blood was gushing out while the skin below his eyes began to swell and bruise. She put him out of his misery by delivering a heavy strike that punctured leather, flesh, and lungs. His body crumpled to the ground.

"To me!" a voice carried over the sounds of screams. It commanded strength and demanded to be heard.

She followed the voice to find its source. It was him. Edmund Cousland was in the thick of the fighting. He was with more than a dozen soldiers. They had formed a tight diamond formation, helping to repel the encroaching fighters who were beginning to outnumber their position.

"Rally to me!" Edmund cut down a man in chainmail while his war-hound tackled another to the ground. It was a sight to behold. The warrior and hound complimented one another perfectly. They worked as one. They were a force to be reckoned with if the growing pile of bodies gathered around them was any indication.

Maker be with me, she sent up her prayer before making her way towards Edmund and his stubborn group of fighting rebels. She knew this would be a challenge. She remembered Edmund Cousland had been one of the more skilled swordsmen in Ferelden before his exile. He had won countless melee tourneys but this was no tournament. This was battle. There would be no blunted swords. It was real steel. Noble blood and wealth would not save you. It would be skill, and guile.

One of Edmund's fighters spotted her and charged. She sidestepped his clumsy strike. His inexperience was on full display. He recovered by trying to throw another blow with his sword, but his form gave away his movement, and summer sword was there to deflect the strike.

Having enough, she swatted his sword away, and plunged her greatsword into his chest. He was dead on impact. She pulled the blade out of her victim with a tug, stepping over the body and continued her approach towards her target.

In that moment she despised Edmund Cousland. He was to live due to his noble blood while the commoners were nothing but fodder, condemned to die.

Another fighter came to her. This one was wearing shimmering armor and was equipped with a waraxe. She knew his type without ever needing to know his name. He was of wealth. Who yearned for glory, and was excited to finally be able to prance around in the armor his father had bought him in an actual battle.

He led with a wide swing to try to keep her back, but it only worked for a second as soon as the waraxe swung past. She moved forward, his one move confirming her belief he was a novice with the weapon he wielded. She understood the details needed to master the great two handed weapons. Patience, movement, and space, in his first move he sacrificed all three.

Summer sword connected with its target, hitting the flesh just above his collarbone; that was unprotected by his polished armor. He responded with a wet gurgling sound, coughing up blood. In that moment of realization, fear seized him, eyes wide and frantic. His lips quivered, but no words came out, just gurgling.

Cauthrien tugged her greatsword out of him, watching him collapse onto the ground, his life blood leaking out of his wound.

Damn you, Edmund Cousland.

It was as if he heard her thoughts. He looked up from where he was fighting. His green eyes met her grey ones. He moved towards her, but not before cutting down a soldier who thought Edmund was distracted. He hadn't been. He handled the soldier with ease; his sword opening the soldier up from hip to shoulder.

This is it. She readied herself, never taking her eyes off her target. He walked with a deadly grace, every step carefully thought out, each movement was precise. His mabari moved beside him. His sword and shield raised and ready to be used as he moved closer. When he was within speaking range she gave him Teyrn Loghain's message.

"By order of Loghain Mac Tir, I order you to surrender your arms and no harm will come to you." She had to shout in order for her voice to carry over the battle mayhem that surrounded them.

The corner of his mouth slowly rose upwards. He raised his shield and angled his sword, the tip of the blade pointing at her.

Very well, Cauthrien positioned herself, raising summer sword. If he would not submit to her words then he would submit to her sword. She waited for him to strike, but he did not move. She looked over towards his mabari, believing that perhaps Edmund would send his hound in first, but the mabari stayed where it stood.

Edmund took a step towards her, but still made no attempt to attack.

This wasn't what she was expecting. She had learned long ago the art of fighting pampered noblemen. They were prickly about their pride. None of them wanted to be humiliated by losing to a woman. So they usually launched themselves at her, using their aggression and strength in an attempt to overwhelm her and earn a quick victory.

She taught herself to endure that opening fury of her opponent. Once she weathered the initial barrage then she would strike, when they were tired and reeling. It was a strategy that had worked for her since the day she first picked up a sword.

All around men and women were fighting and dying, allies and enemies littered the ground, blood and guts soaking into the soil, except here on this sliver of land where it was just her and Edmund.

Growing impatient at his stillness and wanting to end this battle to stem the casualties, she made the first move. She came at him high with summer sword; he swatted the greatsword away with his shield like it was a pest. She took a step back, looking towards his mabari, wary of the hound's ferocious nature and its deadly skill, but the mabari remained where it was.

Satisfied that the hound wasn't going to attack her, she turned back towards Edmund. His lips were curved to form an annoying smirk that was being directed at her. She moved again instead of going high she thrust the greatsword low and inside, he parried the blow away from him, directing it outwards. He then followed it with a lazy swing of his shield which she deftly sidestepped, before bringing summer sword back up in case he moved again, but he didn't.

Then he attacked. Aiming for her side with his sword, she brought summer sword to deflect, before repositioning her grip on the greatsword to allow her to push forward in an attempt to catch him off balance or loosen the grip of his sword: Neither happened.

Instead, he followed through with his shield trying to bash her face in, she ducked and moved her greatsword to lead with her pommel going for his stomach, but he was expecting that, his sword was there to deflect the pommel strike. It left her side open and he took advantage, swatting her with his shield to catch her off balance. She dug her boots into the muddy ground to keep her footing, knowing that if she stumbled she'd fall right onto his sword.

Cauthrien shrugged off the stinging sensation that climbed up her side from where his shield had smashed into her. Tightening her grip on her greatsword she attacked again, this time feigning high in an effort to catch him off guard, he raised his sword to deflect, and at the last minute she changed direction of her greatsword aiming for his chest, he moved his shield in time as the tip of the blade scraped against it harmlessly.

Edmund then pushed forward, leading with his shield, shoving aside her sword before sending his blade in for a low thrust. Cauthrien had to spin out of the way to avoid the blade. She tried to use her momentum in delivering a sundering blow, but Edmund seemed to be expecting it, jumping out of reach from the powerful attack. She pulled summer sword back into a defensive position.

His sword suddenly connected with her greatsword, sparks spat between the two blades, a song of steel. He pulled back his sword and struck again, she met his blade with summer sword. Their blades were locked together. Their faces only inches apart, he was still wearing that incredibly annoying smirk. As if this duel between them was nothing but downright amusing to him. She wanted to wipe that look off of his face.

Looking over his shoulder, she realized her mistake. His mabari was gone. Before she could react she felt something smash into her from behind, losing her balance, she tumbled forward. And then she tasted blood from where his shield connected with the side of her face. She hit the ground-hard.

Her hands fumbled in search of summer sword, but she could not find it, knowing she needed to adapt, she tried to push herself up, but he wouldn't let her. He smashed the pommel of his sword against the other side of her face. Her head rocked backwards connecting with the soft ground.

She saw stars. She felt her face begin to swell from the bruising, the tingling feeling of pain only intensified. She looked up to see him standing over her. His sword pointed at her. At Edmund's side his fierce mabari who had tackled her from behind.

This was it, she realized.

There was no fear. She wasn't gripped by panic. She knew where she was going once Edmund ended her life. She closed her eyes and waited for the painful end that would lead her to a painless eternity.

It didn't come.

A war horn blew: deep and loud.

Cauthrien opened her eyes.

More horns joined, bellowing like a clap of thunder: Announcing their arrival.

Appearing on the left side of the battlefield were dozens of banners that were flapping in the breeze, displaying the standards of the Couslands, Highever, South Reach, Waking Sea, and the numerous other major and minor nobles and freeholders. Behind the banners hundreds of men began emerging in formation. Joining their voices to the horns, the sound was deafening and terrifying.

In that moment of awe and fear Cauthrien realized they had all been fooled. Edmund's army was never at Caer Oswin it was with him all along. The rebel who Howe and even her own Teyrn deemed a child playing at war had just successfully outmaneuvered them.

Before she could fully breathe in the incredible sight in front of her, before she could truly comprehend the ramifications of the mistakes they had made. The army led by the banners of the Couslands and Highever came thundering towards the panicking and unprepared ranks of the Two Teyrns. Like a crashing wave they smashed against Loghain's left flank, unable to hold it back, the side completely shattered, collapsing onto itself in a matter of minutes. Those who were not enveloped and destroyed by the rebel's reinforcements turned and fled.

The tides of the battle had turned swiftly and cruelly against Loghain and Howe. Instead of celebrating a hard fought victory; they were now trying to escape with their lives. They had to sacrifice the remnants of their left flank and a portion of their vanguard to cover their retreat.

Finally, it was over. The battle was done.

The men around her began to shout and cheer. Jubilation swept through the ranks of the rebels.

"Victory!" They were shouting to one another. "We have victory!"

Cauthrien turned back towards Edmund, his expression was surprisingly impassive. She would've expected a look of triumph or relief from the one who orchestrated the masterful strategy, but there was nothing.

He finally brought his sword to her throat she could feel the cold kiss of the blade's tip.

"On behalf of the rightful Teyrn of Highever, Oren Cousland, I accept your surrender."

Chapter Text

"You don't have to see this." His uncle stood in front of him, blocking his entrance into the tent.

"Yes, I do," he said. "I must see what my decisions lead to."

"Victory," his uncle tried to remind him. "That's what it got us."

"There is always a cost to victory," Edmund had learned that during his exile.

"You cannot lose heart in our cause."

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Edmund realizing the crux of his uncle's insistence that he doesn't see those injured soldiers from the battle. "I have seen dead men before, Uncle." Images of him cradling his father's dead body were the first to assault his senses. He quickly pushed it down. Not now, not here.

"I will stay the course, you have my word." He gestured to the entrance that his uncle was currently blocking, "but it is my duty as their liege lord to pay my respects and give my thanks to those who have bled for my cause."

Realizing, that he would be unable to convince him otherwise, he finally relented. Leonas Bryland sighed and stepped aside.

"Thank you," Edmund patted him on the shoulder. "Could you round up the council. I would like to speak with them when I'm done."

"I will," Leonas turned to go, but stopped only after a few steps. He looked over his shoulder, "You're just like her." His eyes glistened at the mention of his sister. "I know Eleanor would be bursting with pride at the man you've become." He took a deep breath, "I just thought you should know that."

"We will avenge them, Uncle."

That got a small smile from him before he nodded and left.

"Lord Cousland?"

"Hmm?" Edmund who had been watching his uncle depart turned to see a wiry, older man standing just inside the flaps of the tent. He was bald with a wispy mustache, and bushy eyebrows, both of which were as white as the fresh fall of snow. It took him a second to put a name to the man: Percival, the leading herbalist who was tasked with overseeing the sick, injured, and the fallen.

"Thank you for letting me see them."

Percival smiled, "We were surprised, but honored by your request."

"I owe it to them," Edmund said softly.

It was a large rectangular tent, lining the middle of the tent were the tall, thick poles that held it up. There were more than thirty bedrolls. The demands of the recent battle had made these tents necessary. There were a handful of them throughout this army camp to deal with the injured, the sick, and the recently deceased. It wasn't a lot, but it was the best that Edmund and his limited forces and resources could do.

Each bedroll was full. Other herbalists or perhaps servants bustled between the rows of the bedrolls doing their best to serve, and accommodate the ailing soldiers. It was a burdensome sight to see. The men and women who occupied these bedrolls were in various stages of pain. Some were lulled into sleep. Those with the less serious injuries were moaning and groaning before taking their potions and poultices. The more serious were the ones who were shouting, or screaming, or crying, or doing them all at once. They were the ones with the worst wounds: loss limbs, abdomen, chest, or head injuries.

The worst ones Edmund noticed were the ones who were the quietest. Their eyes were empty, faces devoid of emotion or thought. They looked like their soul had been sapped from their very being.

"How many?" Edmund looked down at one of the injured soldiers: an older man whose face was heavily bandaged. He was fast asleep.

"A lot," Percival answered.

Edmund sighed. "How are the supplies?"

"They're holding," Percival was walking beside him.

"Good," Edmund took small comfort in that. "You'll let me know when any supply is low."

"I will," Percival assured him.

The two stopped when they reached one bedroll. It was occupied by a young woman. Her hair was freshly cut due to the red scar at her hairline that crawled halfway up her skull. A herbalist was helping her drink an earthy looking tonic.

They gave their bodies for your family, the voice whispered in the back of his mind. His stomach clenched. He turned away from the young woman when he felt Percival's eyes on him. The old herbalist was looking at him closely.

"I have known war and battle before," he said, "But I haven't known many nobles to actually visit the men and women who they sent to fight and die for them."

"Then they sully the true purpose of what nobles are supposed to be."

"Oh?" Percival's bushy brows furrowed together, "and what's that?"

"We are stewards," Edmund answered, remembering how his father had explained it to him so many years ago. "It is our duty to protect our people: keep them safe, dispense justice. Only when our people are content has a noble done their duty."

"You really believe that?"

"I do," Edmund answered without hesitation.

A small smile crept up under his wispy mustache, "then I pray to the Maker that you win this war."

Edmund stopped in front of another bedroll. A young man was hugging his knees, eyes were red rimmed, he was muttering to himself, while he rocked himself back and forth. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Many years, my lord."

"Do you ever get use to it?"

"No, my lord," he answered.

Edmund nodded, as they continued to walk between the rows of patients.

"Potions and poultices can only do so much, my lord," Percival ran a hand over his bald head. "We need healers."

"The Chantry oversees the distribution of court healers," Edmund pointed out, "I have written to them, but the Grand Cleric has yet to respond to my requests for Healers from the Circle."

"Damn fools," Percival muttered under his breath. "They speak about helping humanity but they don't really live it!" He shook his clenched fists. "All they care about is maintaining their power and control over the mages." He suddenly stopped as if realizing he wasn't alone for his little outburst. He looked up, his anger disappearing from his face before he dipped his head altogether.

"My apologies, my lord, I meant no disrespect," he paused, "It's just very frustrating."

"I can understand that." All Edmund had to do was look around the tent to see all these ailing soldiers to know why Percival would be so upset at the Chantry and their tight restrictions on the Circle of Magi.

Any lingering thoughts he had on the Chantry or the Circle of Magi were lifted when he spotted a soldier he recognized. Lying on a nearby bedroll was Geoffrey, the young man he talked to before the battle. He came up alongside his bedroll, Geoffrey was awake and his eyes red from tears but they widened in recognition at Edmund's approach. He noticed why Geoffrey had been sobbing: his right hand had been cut off at the wrist.

"Geoffrey," Edmund crouched down beside him.

"M'lord," he sniffed, ashamed. He clumsily tried to wipe the tears with his left hand, but he wasn't having a great go at it. He instinctively raised his right arm, but when his stump touched his face, he sobbed loudly and dropped his head.

"I-I'm sorry, m-m lord."

"It's alright," Edmund put a hand on his shoulder to try to calm him. "You have no need to apologize."

The young broken man lying in front of him was a stark comparison to the eager, and happy soldier who he met on the eve of the battle. That was war. It had this terrifying way of reaching deep inside of you and pulling out your innocence, your happiness, and even your humanity. It left this lingering impact on your soul that could never be removed.

"What do you want, Geoffrey?" He wanted to find some way to comfort this young man. There had to be a way to reward him for his service to Edmund's family. The Cousland cause was indebted to all of these brave men and women who gave their bodies and their lives to helping restore the Laurels to Highever. He owed it to them to recognize their sacrifice and honor it.

His eyes filled with tears. "I just want to go home."

Edmund put his hand to rest on Geoffrey's bandaged stump, thinking of returning to Highever with his nephew, he sighed. "Me too, Geoffrey."

----------------------------

"We have won nothing!" Edmund silenced his very vocal council who were still celebrating and congratulating one another on a victory that happened days ago.

"My family has a saying: don't rest on your laurels." Edmund rapped his knuckles against the table. "One victory does not make this war over." He tapped the Denerim portion of the Ferelden map.

"If anything it will be even more difficult from here on out. I can assure you that Teyrn Loghain will not underestimate us again. He will be cautious and very deliberate in his next move."

"So what is the plan, Lord Cousland?" Lord Telmen spoke up. He was the voice if not the leader of the coalition of the northern banns. And an ally Edmund knew he needed on his side if his cause had any chance of success in this civil war.

"We do nothing," Edmund knew that wasn't what Telmen or any of the other lords were expecting or wanted.

"Nothing?" Telmen repeated, emboldened by the murmuring of the other nobles.

"I will not strike blindly," Edmund elaborated, "I have sent scouts to report back on our opponent's forces and the surrounding area. Until I know for sure what we're up against I will not risk our men."

"We have the momentum," shouted one noble. "We should march on Denerim!"

A chorus of cheers went up with that suggestion.

"That would be folly," Edmund argued. He wasn't about to march on Fereldan's capital to lay siege to the city in hopes of forcing a surrender out of Howe and Loghain.

"What about Highever?" another lord suggested. "The people would surely oust Howe's men if they saw the Cousland laurels approaching."

It was tempting, Edmund had to admit. However, It would require marching through the Coastlands which were tightly controlled by Howe. Their army could be defeated or destroyed before they ever reached Highever.

"No," Edmund finally voiced his decision. "Highever is still out of our reach."

It wasn't a popular decision. It wasn't what the nobles wanted. The battle happened days ago, they were getting restless. They wanted another battle. Victory had made them arrogant. It was unsettling.

"We will regroup," Edmund spoke over some of the whispering nobles who weren't quiet in their disapproval of his plan. "Reevaluate and then I assure you we will continue to bring the fight to Howe and Loghain."

He had a few promising leads he wanted to follow. One scout had reported that a surviving bulk of the retreating forces had retreated south not north. And from the banners that the scout described they were nobles and the other important families of Gwaren and the surrounding area. It seemed they were tired of politics and more concerned about the encroaching darkspawn.

Darkspawn, Edmund hadn't needed the lecture from the self righteous Bann Teagan to know that the darkspawn were still very much a threat. For the moment, it was Edmund's cause that had the most to lose from those monsters. Since it was his forces that stood between the darkspawn and the north that was controlled by Howe and Loghain.

According to his last report, the darkspawn were content at Ostagar. It was a few weeks old, and Edmund would need a new one before he committed moving his forces to the north.

"Enough," Leonas Bryland's voice boomed over the grumbling nobles who were still voicing their displeasure.

"Thank you all for your council," Edmund added. "I assure you, our next move will further our efforts in ending Howe and Loghain's reign. For now all I ask for is a little time and patience."

He noted those still disapproving of their inaction was coming from the contingent of the northern nobles under Lord Telmen. They were the ones calling on a more aggressive strategy, especially since it was their lands that were being unrightfully controlled by their enemies or having already faced the burden of bloodshed and desolation.

"It could've been worse," his uncle said bluntly when the last noble left.

"Yes, it could've." They could've completely rebelled, he thought dryly.

"Tell me, Edmund," Leonas walked around the table. "How do you see this war ending?"

"The war won't be over until the Cousland laurels are once more waving above Castle Cousland in Highever."

Leonas nodded, satisfied by that answer. He clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Well, then I'll leave you to devising the strategy that allows us to do just that." He chuckled, before adding, "no pressure, lad."

The smile that came to his lips was forced and for show for his Uncle. When he left, it dipped into a frown and his eyes returned to the maps on the table, and making sure the pieces on there were properly placed from the most recent scouting reports he received. It wasn't a promising sight to see. The nobles were too busy celebrating the victory at Eastern Crossing to understand how much it cost them.

Even in defeat, Howe and Loghain were not to be trifled with. They still had more men in the form of two other armies. The army they fought at Eastern Crossing was made up mostly of Loghain's Banns in Gwaren and Eastern Ferelden. Howe still had a loyal army in the Coastlands while Loghain still commanded the main bulk of the royal army that remained unscathed from Ostagar.

Eastern Crossing was a deceiving victory for Edmund, and he needed decisive ones. Yet, everywhere he looked on the map, he saw defeat and death.

And if the darkspawn march north, that dark thought led Edmund's attention to the spot on the map marked Ostagar. He would march to meet them.

He was fighting a two front war, and he was losing.

Andraste preserve us.

--------------------------

"Cauthrien," he stepped into the tent that was serving as her cell. Outside her tent two guards were always on duty. It was a modest sized tent that more resembled servant quarters then an actual prison cell. He decided on a tent believing Cauthrien should have some semblance of privacy because of her status as a knight and as a woman.

A bed roll was tucked to the side, but other than that the tent was bare except for the few places where the ground had been torn up to allow the stakes to be driven into the earth: The stakes that would hold her chains.

His prisoner was sitting on the ground wearing a dress that was plain, worn, and considerably muddy. She sat cross-legged, while her arms were crossed over her chest, her wrists shackled to a chain on a stake that allowed her some movement. Her grey eyes resembling storm clouds, her lips formed a thin line, and her countenance darkened when she gave him her attention. Her face was still bruised from where he hit her in their fight.

The dress was a ploy by him. Edmund wanted Cauthrien outside her comfort zone. So he removed her armor, her weapons and put her in that dress. She was to wear only dresses. He knew they would make the hardened warrior uncomfortable. She wasn't use to frills or laces, but chainmail and leather. He believed that it would help to chip away at her stubbornness and make her more agreeable to an idea he had been mulling over.

"How is my guest?"

She raised her hands, the chains rattled noisily, her face clearly saying: There's your answer.

"A precaution," Edmund insisted smoothly, sitting down in the chair that had been brought in for him.

"Was it the Orlesians who taught you to be such a proper host?"

It always went back to that, he thought dryly. Even with him leading this rebellion, he would always be known first and foremost as Edmund the Exile for what he did in that tournament all those years ago.

There was a common misconception about his exile. That he spent the entire six years in Orlais. The truth was that three days into his exile he left Jader and fled north across the Waking Sea to Cumberland. He spent the next three years traveling across Thedas. It was a big place and he wanted to see what the rest of the world had to offer him.

.Edmund put on a relaxed smile. "We don't have to be enemies."

"You're the one who rebelled against the Regent and Teyrn," she pointed out.

"My quarrel is with Howe," Edmund clenched his jaw. "As long as Teyrn Loghain and Queen Anora treat him as an ally then I will consider them my enemy."

"Is that why you spared me?" a suspicious glint came to her grey eyes. "Are you trying to convert me to your cause?" She sounded insulted at the mere thought, "Because if that's your intention then you may as well slit my throat now." She straightened up, "I will not betray my Teyrn."

"I don't want you to fight for me."

"Then what do you want with me?"

He brushed aside the venom in her voice. She was still defiant. He was expecting that. "You swear many oaths," he observed, seeing confusion cloud her expression. "What if they contradicted one another?"

"They wouldn't!"

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"What if Loghain ordered you to kill a child?" Edmund did his best not to picture the child being his very nephew. "But as a sworn knight of Ferelden you're sworn to protect the innocent that includes children."

"He would never give that order," Cauthrien snapped vehemently.

"Oh?" Edmund could see her tone was a faltering façade for the doubt she was trying to hide. "So Oren would be spared if I lost this war?"

Cauthrien's eyes fell to her shackled wrists. "It wouldn't be on Teyrn Loghain's orders, but Howe's." She tried to find some sort of logic to hide behind.

"Failure to stop Howe would make Loghain just as guilty," Edmund argued. "You know that!"

"Is that why I'm here?" she refused to meet his eyes. "Do you want me to swear some oath to make sure that Teyrn Loghain spares your nephew if it comes to that?"

"No, not at all," Edmund dismissed that notion, "I have no intention of letting you leave."

That got her to look up. Her face darkened, "Then what's the point of this conversation?"

"To tell you something," he took her anger in stride. "I need you."

Her eyebrows furrowed together, while she opened and closed her mouth, fumbling for some sort of response.

"I need you to protect my nephew," he continued, "I expect Howe has hired assassins to kill me and Oren." It was a terrible thing to think about, and speaking it aloud only acknowledged the lurking threat that loomed over his nephew.

"I can take care of myself." He didn't fear an assassin's blade, but he couldn't protect Oren if he was out on campaign. "But Oren is just a boy."

Who's seen too much of war already, he thought glumly. He swallowed the lump in his throat before adding, "He is all I have left in this world."

"You have knights," she finally found her voice. "Why can't you use them?"

"You expect me to trust my nephew to some hedge knight?" Edmund scoffed. "Their only loyalty is to themselves." He shook his head. "Those knights would gladly take Howe's gold in exchange for my nephew's life."

That was why he needed someone who answered to morals, not gold. It seemed a crazy notion to trust Oren to an enemy, but Cauthrien was a different sort of knight. She was rare, devout and principled to her beliefs and her oaths. Not to mention, she was one of the best knights in Ferelden. He wanted the best guarding his nephew. In his gut, he knew this was the right choice.

"Why me?"

"You are a true knight," he observed. "You would never break your oath to harm a child."

Edmund didn't add that she was the best choice because she would be more vigilant than any other who he might choose. Others could become complacent, but she didn't have that luxury, she had to perform outstandingly from the beginning to prove her worth and to shake the suspicion that would hover over her due to her allegiance to Loghain. Since if there was an attempt on Oren she would naturally be the first suspect. That would make her work harder, be more attentive in her service.

"I can't be much of a guard in this," she gestured to the dress she was wearing.

Edmund smiled, she was considering it. "If you accepted, your armor and your weapons would be returned to you." He noticed the look of interest flicker across her face. "I will give you until we return to my headquarters to mull over my offer." He stood to leave.

"You can see out the end of this war as a hostage of some importance seeing out an important duty or a prisoner who will wallow and wither away in your own filth." He told her, "An important hostage I will protect with all my power," he stopped to see he had her undivided attention. "But a common prisoner, well those are so easy to lose track of..."

Chapter Text

There is no shame in falling down, but there is shame in not getting back up.

These were the words that Eleanor Cousland had often told Anora during her stay in Highever when the future Queen of Ferelden learned about politics under the most astute teacher Ferelden could offer, the Teyrna of Highever. During times of turbulence, she was Anora's rock. In times of doubt, she was Anora's confidante. In times of need, she was her mentor.

Sadly, now Eleanor Cousland was gone.

This isn't over.

Anora reminded herself. She had taken her lumps these past few weeks, but she wasn't going to quit. She was the Queen of Ferelden. She wasn't going to allow anyone to take away what she had built and sacrificed these past few years. The people, her people were looking to her to lead them through these trying times. She wasn't going to shirk her duty or pass her responsibilities onto someone else.

No, it was up to her to end this fighting.

Anora understood what needed to be done. This civil war needed to end promptly so that Ferelden could face the darkspawn under a unified banner, her banner. She wasn't looking to victory on the battlefield to offer a quick conclusion to this civil war. It was something else.

No, she corrected herself. It was someone else: Howe.

The self proclaimed Teyrn of Highever and Arl of Denerim was the catalyst of this civil war and the focal grievance of Edmund Cousland and his rebel supporters. With Howe deposed, order could be restored.

It would be no simple feat. Howe had entrenched himself in the Coastlands and ingratiated himself with her father who as Regent commanded the Royal Armies. Anora was queen, but her power she hated to say had been weakened with the death of her husband coupled with her father taking up the mantle as Regent and Lord Protector of Ferelden.

It was an insult to think she could only rule as Queen because she had Cailan as King, and even now she could only rule because her father was the Regent. It was a frustrating struggle. It was a poorly conceived notion and one that she hoped to remove.

Women make up half of the population and deserve the same respect and responsibility that goes with ruling over them that the men are seemingly given.

This was just another one of the teachings that Eleanor had often recited during their time again. In Highever it was properly practiced. The Teyrna held the same power and influence as the Teyrn.

What could help with the mending process though was seeing that justice be given to the one responsible for carrying out such the atrocity at Highever. Howe was nearly untouchable with the power of his armies, and the prestige of his titles, but he was hardly invincible. It just required the right approach.

Anora believed she had found the right approach.

"Your Majesty?"

"Yes?" She turned to see her loyal seneschal standing in front of her. Luwin was quick to cross his arms and bow. "What news, Luwin?"

"We have some leads," he made his way over to the seat across from hers.

"Let's hear them," she watched the seneschal shuffle through the various pieces of vellums he had been carrying.

"One of our agents reports that Howe's lover is still in Denerim."

"His lover?"

"Yes, Lady Sophie," Luwin informed her. "It is believed he is using Lady Sophie's connections of her native country Rivain to exploit trading goods, and pocketing a portion of these goods and a good deal of coin."

Anora leaned back in her seat. This sort of thing was sadly rampant, and seen only as a minor crime by some of the nobility. It was worth keeping an eye on, but it wasn't enough to bring Howe's reign to an end.

"Is there anything else?"

"There is another promising lead," Luwin pulled out one of the pages of vellum, before hesitating. "But, we still do not have the proper proof."

"What is it?" She found her interest piqued at seeing her seneschal's concerned expression.

"The Court's Treasurer found an oddity in his recent report," Luwin began, "He was going over the Court's finances and discovered that there is a discrepancy."

"What sort of discrepancy?" Anora didn't like the sound of this one bit.

"The city's treasury is many silver bars short from last month's account. There is no explanation. It's as if they disappeared from the vaults."

"They didn't disappear," Anora dismissed that notion. "They were stolen. Someone is stealing from the Crown." The revelation caused a cold fury to form within her. This was an offense punishable by death. "Who is responsible?"

"We don't have any strong leads," Luwin bowed his head, sensing his failure for not having any reliable evidence. "But the disappearing of the silver bars lines up with Howe's arrival to the city."

It could be a coincidence, the pragmatic part of her mind pointed out. She couldn't allow her feelings for the man cloud her judgment, if she moved against Howe and it turned out he wasn't responsible she would be made the fool. No, she had to play this carefully. She needed proof.

"I want more loyal men guarding these vaults at all hours," Anora ordered, "We cannot afford to lose anymore with the darkspawn threat looming." She understood that those precious silver bars would be important in buying grain from the Free Marches to help feed the growing mass of refugees and lessen Fereldan's growing burden from the darkspawn.

"I will see to it personally, Your Majesty," Luwin crisply replied.

"Finding out who is responsible is our top priority," Anora had a strong suspicion it was Howe, but she needed irrefutable evidence.

The sooner they could get it, the sooner they could remove Howe and bring an end to this civil war.

--------------------------------------

Thud

Anora lowered her bow, admiring the accuracy from her last shot. The arrow hit its mark slightly left of dead center. She plucked another arrow out of her quiver.

The bow she was using had been a gift from Empress Celene two years back. It was beautifully designed out of dragonthorn, the limbs of the bow bore finely crafted carvings of brambles and amidst those brambles there rested a solitary rose.

She was also equipped with a simple, but elegantly crafted silverite breastplate that bore the Royal Sigil of Ferelden. Her hair was properly braided so as not to interfere with her aim. She wore a simple vambrace with the Gwaren sigil imprinted on her bow arm. She also wore a glove to protect her fingers stinging. The glove had been a gift from Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea last year.

This was her sanctuary. Archery allowed her to properly vent her emotions in a controlled environment. Anora understood that appearances mattered. Here, she could still look regal and dignified in a manner that was expected from the Queen of Ferelden.

When she was young she was instructed in the basics of swordplay and archery. But it wasn't until her time in Highever, however that she learned to truly appreciate archery. Under the tutelage of the Teyrna, Anora quickly learned to love it. She had many fond memories of Eleanor teaching her it in the gardens outside Cousland Castle.

Archery was a great escape for her. This was where she thrived. It was a skill that was earned never given. It took practice and dedication to master. Wealth and blood status couldn't get you ahead, only those willing to work hard advanced.

It didn't dull her senses or lull her skills it honed them. She needed to stay focused if she wanted to hit her target. A mindset she carried beyond archery.

In one fluid motion she raised and drew the bow. Anora could still hear Eleanor's soft voice whispering encouragement and coaching her on the proper form. It had been the Cousland Matriarch that had showed Anora that many of the skills you need to properly govern are those that can be found in archery such as concentration and patience.

She aimed, focusing all of her effort and attention on the center of the target. Blocking out all distractions, until all she could see was the target in front of her. She released the arrow and watched it soar through the air before hitting its target-dead center.

Anora allowed herself a small smile. It was always a satisfying sight to see one of her arrows hit the center. She relished that feeling: The sense of accomplishment. It was infectious whether she got it in archery or in Court. It helped drive her.

"Your Majesty?"

The voice of her Seneschal turned her attention away from her target. "Yes, Luwin?" She waved him over noticing his hesitance to get closer in fear of distracting her.

"Has there been any news of the battle?" The last report they had gotten had been of her father's plans to meet the rebels at a little spot known as Eastern Crossings.

"None, your Majesty."

Anora wasn't sure what she should feel when the outcome of the battle was finally revealed. She expected a victory for her father's forces. He was considered a fine tactician who had proved his grasp of tactics during the Rebellion against Orlais. Despite the setbacks at Ostagar, her faith in her father's ability was still strong. Yet, the thought of hearing news of such a victory didn't brighten her mood.

"What about in our other matter?" She asked discreetly. It had been almost a week since she tasked Luwin with the investigation of trying to find out who was stealing from the crown's vaults.

"No clear sign of his involvement," Luwin frowned, "But I have a feeling in my gut he's the one responsible."

"I do too," she agreed softly, watching a servant remove her arrow from the target before giving the all clear signal for her to proceed to shoot another. "However, we need evidence." She plucked an arrow from the quiver.

"I know, your Majesty," Luwin ducked his head. "I am sorry."

"You've done nothing wrong," She wanted to soothe any concerns that her loyal seneschal might be having. "I could not ask for a better adviser."

The words had the desired effect. Luwin straightened up immediately, his chest puffing slightly at the praise. "Thank you, Your Majesty,"

She turned away to hide her smile. "Those silver bars must still be in the city." She placed the shaft of the arrow on the arrow rest. "We need to find them before they're smuggled out."

"We will, your Majesty," Luwin vowed. "I have a contact within the city."

"A contact?" Anora could tell by Luwin's tone that this wasn't one of their agents.

"Yes," he shifted his feet, "He's a thief and a criminal, but has an ear to this city better than any one of our agents."

"Is he reliable?" At this point, she was more inclined to get the evidence against Howe then worry about where it came from. Her first priority was removing Howe from power. That was more important to her, and if she had to get her hands dirty to do it, then so be it.

"For the right price," Luwin answered delicately.

"Do you trust him?"

"In this matter?" Luwin replied, "Yes, I think he can help us."

"Do it," Anora trusted Luwin's judgment.

"I'll reach out to him tonight."

"Good," She raised and drew the bow. The movement was fluid and automatic. It was ingrained into her mind from the countless times before. Focusing on her target, and pushing out all distractions, she let the arrow loose.

"Nice shot, your Majesty," praised Luwin when the arrow hit the target with a thud.

It was dead center. "Thank you." She was pleased with herself at how her last two shots had hit the mark.

"Your Majesty?" Erlina, Anora's handmaiden approached coming from the Royal Palace's direction. "Lord Wulff is here."

"Excellent," Anora stood still as two servants carefully removed her breastplate. "See him to my parlor."

Erlina curtseyed before departing.

"Are you sure about this, your Majesty?" There was a hint of trepidation in the Seneschal's voice.

"This is a means to end the civil war," She handed her bow to one of the servants.

"I know," Luwin looked uncertain, "but if your father or Howe finds out…"

"I am the Queen," she reminded him. She pulled off her vambrace and removed her glove and handed them to the waiting servants.

"Of course, your Majesty," Luwin hastily bowed. "I meant no offense."

"None was given," she assured him. "I want you at the meeting with Lord Wulff."

"I'll go get the document then." Luwin bowed before leaving.

-----------------------

"Your Majesty," Lord Wulff immediately stood up from his seat at Anora's presence. Bowing low, "For what do I owe this honor?"

"Lord Wulff," she replied cordially. Taking in the Arl's appearance, he was a towering man of massive size. He was dressed in simple finery, the sigil of West Hills emblazoned on his chest: a bull's head. His long gray hair had been put in a simple ponytail, his graying beard was disheveled. She noticed dark rings under his piercing dark eyes. The loss of his two eldest sons had greatly impacted the Arl of West Hills.

"Please sit," she gestured back to the seat the Arl had been sitting in.

He nodded his thanks before sitting back down.

"Firstly let me say how deeply sorry I am to hear of the passing of your two sons," Anora said softly, "I know my words are hardly any balm to soothe the excruciating pain you must be feeling."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Lord Wulff replied his voice betraying his anguish.

She had respectfully given him her most sincere condolences with the loss of his two sons, but Anora understood that it wasn't wise to remain on this sensitive topic. She didn't want it to fog his judgment. She needed him focused. She couldn't afford him to be distracted if he was going to help her end this civil war. The Arl of West Hills was an important and influential figure throughout western Ferelden. He was a reasonable and respected voice throughout the Bannorn, a reputation she planned on leaning on to try to cease the fighting.

"This city is hurting," Lord Wulff said gravely, "Denerim is filled with the sobs of wives who've lost husbands, orphans' cries go unanswered, while refugees continue to pour into the city every day."

"These are dire times," Anora agreed, encouraged by the Arl's words.

"Aye, your Majesty," he bowed his head.

"Your Majesty," Luwin arrived, carrying the enclosed envelope that Anora had requested. The Seneschal bowed to her before saying a few comforting words to Gallagher who took them with a nod of thanks. He then took his seat in a chair next to Lord Wulff's.

Erlina then appeared from a side door carrying a tray with glasses of wine. Her handmaiden silently dispersed the glasses to Anora and then to her guests before disappearing once more through the side door.

"Ferelden needs you, Gallagher." Anora informed him bluntly.

"I'm at your service," he said, after taking a small sip of wine from his glass.

"And I appreciate it," Anora replied sincerely, "As you know this civil war must end if Ferelden has any hope of stopping the darkspawn."

"Indeed," he nodded, his expression softened, "But what happened to the Couslands is a travesty."

I will not fail them, Anora vowed silently. "It is," she agreed, "and that is why I'm appointing you my personal envoy. I want you to go to Edmund Cousland and treat with him in hopes of coming to peaceful terms that will end this civil war."

Lord Wulff didn't seem surprised by this. The Arl of West Hills leaned back in his seat, looking pensive. "I'm not sure Edmund will be open to talking peace terms with you, Your Majesty, as long as your father is allied with Lord Howe," he pointed out respectfully.

Anora turned to Luwin, giving the seneschal a small nod. He handed over the enclosed envelope to a confused Lord Wulff. "I believe this will prove my sincerity."

The confused expression remained on Gallagher's face as he examined the envelope.

"You may open it, Lord Wulff."

He did, tentatively, pulling out a crisp piece of vellum before silently reading the document. His eyes betrayed his surprise, his mouth opened slightly as he continued to read. It was clear he wasn't expecting this bold move on Anora's part. When he finished reading, his dark eyes moved up from the vellum to Anora. "Your Majesty, is your father aware of this ruling?"

"He is not," Anora brushed aside the Arl's concern. "My father is the commander of Ferelden's armies, but I am the Queen and responsible for dispensing justice amongst my people."

"Of course," Gallagher replied, slipping the document back into the envelope. "I will leave for Caer Oswin first thing in the morning." He paused, "if that is agreeable with you?"

"It is," Anora decided, "I cannot stress enough the importance of the document you are carrying."

"I understand," The Arl of West Hills was looking at the envelope as if it was a precious jewel. "This could most certainly end the civil war."

"It will," She was sure of it.

Chapter Text

Fergus couldn't help but smile while watching Oren from the second floor balcony of Cousland Castle. His son was down below in the gardens playing with the servants' children. He cherished these moments of peace and happiness, knowing he'd need them during the long march to Ostagar.

He didn't want to leave his son, but he had to. In order to ensure Oren's future he knew the darkspawn threat in the south needed to be dealt with. It would be the longest time he'd be away from Oren and Oriana. He'd miss them both terribly.

"He's a good boy."

Pulled out of his musings at the sound of his wife's approach, Fergus turned to her. She smiled; she looked so beautiful in her gown, her honey brown hair framing her face, a few strands carefully braided. She kissed his cheek, moving to stand beside him where he put his arm around her. She leaned into his embrace.

"He is," Fergus agreed softly. Pleased and proud of their son and the young man he was becoming.

"He doesn't understand," she said sadly. Her eyes watching Oren's movement down below as he continued to pretend to be wielding a sword against a pair of servant's sons.

"I've talked to him."

"I know," she turned to him, "I'm worried about Ostagar."

"I'll be fine," They talked many nights about this ever since King Cailan called on his banners to report to Ostagar to face the darkspawn.

"You're going into battle, Fergus," Oriana chided, eyes shimmering with concern, "Against darkspawn, and you dismiss the dangers."

"I understand your concern," Fergus tried a different approach. "I'll be careful."

"You better," her voice cracked.

He pulled her closer, so her head rested against his chest. He kissed her hair. "Nothing will keep me away from you and Oren." He soothed her, "I don't want to be the hero," he continued. "I'm happy being the husband and the father."

Oriana turned to him, looking relieved."I love you."

"I love you too," he kissed her. "I'll be back before you can even miss me."

That got a small smile out of her. "I'm going to hold you to that."

"I'm sorry to interrupt."

Fergus and Oriana turned to see Edmund awkwardly standing in the doorway. "I can come back at another time."

"No," Oriana stopped him, "I was just leaving." She kissed Fergus' cheek. "I want to go to the Chantry for my prayers before dinner."

"I'm sorry," Edmund remained in the doorway even with Oriana's departure.

"Its fine," Fergus waved him to approach. It was difficult to see his younger brother so solemn. The tragedy of what his brother endured still lingered even after these past two years in Highever. A ghost, that's what Oriana thought he resembled since he returned from Orlais.

As his older brother, Fergus had always tried his best to protect Edmund growing up, but this was something he couldn't shield him from. This was a pain that Fergus couldn't fully comprehend, and he prayed he never had to. He wasn't sure what he would do if he lost Oriana.

Edmund rested his hands on the stone railing while his eyes drifted towards the playing children down below, "Knights and darkspawn?"

"Seems like it."

"He's a better kid then you," Edmund joked suddenly.

"Is that so?" asked an amused Fergus, silently pleased to see his brother in good spirits. It was a rare sight. "Says the little brother who use to follow me everywhere." He paused feigning to be in deep thought, "now what was it that I use to call you?"

"Your little shadow," Edmund admitted sheepishly, but the corners of his lips tugged upwards.

"That's right," Fergus happily agreed.

"You were always there for me," Edmund observed wistfully.

"Not always," Fergus corrected, his thoughts drifting towards the aftermath of the incident at the tournament. He had been so angry, so ashamed at what Edmund.

The incident had shattered their relationship. It remained broken despite Edmund's attempts to reach out to Fergus, each one he had rebuffed. It wasn't until the long absence from his brother during his exile that softened his stance. It was slow going, but he was pleased to mend the brotherly bond that had been so precious to them growing up.

"Still," Edmund said softly turning to face him, "I've always appreciated it."

"Why so glum, brother?" Fergus asked, "You don't actually think these darkspawn have a chance against me, do you?"

"I don't know I've seen you fight."

"Hah-hah," Fergus nudged him with his shoulder, pleased when he saw a full smile from his brother.

"He's growing up so fast."

"Too fast," Fergus agreed. It felt like just yesterday when he was holding Oren for the first time in his arms. That had been one of the happiest and proudest moments of his life. "He's eager to begin sword training."

"Is he now?" Edmund's eyes remained on his young nephew.

"He is," confirmed Fergus, "He's at the right age."

"Do you have anyone in mind?"

"I do," Fergus said casually. "I want it to be you."

"Me?" Edmund was incredulous.

"Who better?" Fergus challenged. After all, Edmund was considered to be one of the better swordsmen in Ferelden. He couldn't think of a better teacher in all of Thedas then his younger brother.

"And face the wrath of Oriana?" Edmund countered, his playful tone belayed his words. "No, thank you."

It was true that Oriana was still hesitant about the idea of Oren learning swordplay. Believing he was too young, but Fergus thought Oren was ready. He and Edmund were around Oren's age when they were given their first lessons.

"Do you know how happy Oren would be if it was you?" Fergus wanted Edmund to think less of Oriana's reaction and more of Oren's. The ploy worked since a small smile came to his lips. "And when better then when I'm away."

"You're right," Edmund seemed to be mulling it over. "By the time you return from Ostagar, I'd have trained Oren to be a better swordsman then his father ever was."

"Hey," Fergus playfully pushed him.

That just made Edmund laugh louder. It was infectious and Fergus too couldn't help but join in. He savored this carefree, happy moment between him and his brother. Sadly there had been too few moments such as this in the past few years.

"I will miss you brother," Edmund admitted, once the laughter subsided.

"Because I shield you from our nagging mother?"

"In part," Edmund smiled.

"Don't worry, brother," Fergus put a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "With Lady Landra's arrival, Mother will be so busy with her; she'll have no time for you."

"I hope you're right."

"You know Mother means no harm in her requests," Fergus said delicately, knowing that they were a sore spot for his brother and a source of some tension between the family. Mother was trying to help Edmund move on the best way she knew how while Edmund remained stubbornly rooted in the past.

"I know," Edmund said softly, "I'm just not ready."

"And that's perfectly fine," Fergus was trying his best to reassure his brother. "Remember, Edmund, no one can tell you how or how long to grieve." Fergus squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Only you know."

He nodded, "I think I'm going to go in." Edmund let loose a tired breath. "You know how important this dinner is to Mother, seeing as it is our last time together as a family for sometime before Lord Howe and Lady Landra arrive in the morning."

Pain suddenly pierced his side. Fergus cried out, grabbing onto the railing to keep his balance. He looked over his shoulder in hopes of calling for his brother, but Edmund was gone. Castle Cousland was gone. He looked back to see Oren and the boys were gone too. Down below all he saw was a dark abyss.

The railing he had been holding onto disappeared. With nothing to keep his balance, he found himself falling into the waiting abyss...

Fergus Cousland opened his eyes.

He sighed in relief. Taking a few seconds to try to calm his still thundering heart. Satisfied, he then rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Not wanting to dwell on his particular discomfort of his dream, he turned his attention to the dying fire in the room. Orange embers glowed softly providing just enough light to show that the other person he shared his room with was awake.

"You're awake," the Grey Warden said bluntly.

Fergus tried to reposition himself in his makeshift bed, but the sharp pain in his abdomen stopped him. He put a hand to his wound, noticing his bandages had been changed.

"They came in while you were sleeping," Brosca sensed Fergus' unasked question.

The they, were the Chasind. He had expected to die with the rest of his scouting party against the darkspawn ambush when he drifted into unconsciousness due to his wounds. He never expected to wake up in a Chasind settlement. He could still remember their painted faces, hovering over him as they spoke in their guttural language.

After that he slipped in and out of reality fighting a fever. It wasn't until the fever subsided a few days later did he discover that he hadn't been the only survivor from the battle with the darkspawn. Brosca, the Grey Warden had surprisingly survived as well. When Fergus expressed his dismay at seeing him again; the dwarf just laughed and said that a few darkspawn couldn't kill him that easily.

"I suppose they think it's easier to change 'em when you're sleeping," Brosca continued, "You're less whiny."

Fergus ignored the dwarf's brusque comment. He knew that was just the warden's way. He also pitied him as Brosca was ill adjusting to their living arrangements of the chasind. The hut where they dwell was built into the trees, and more than fifteen feet off the ground. Fergus was sure that one night he saw Brosca tie one end of a rope to a branch that had slithered into their room and the other end of the rope around his ankle to keep himself from falling up into the sky.

Brosca always stayed by his wall, his back was always to it. He never once tried to look out the window to see the rest of the Chasind village. Fergus had. The small village was cobbled together connected by rope bridges and stilted paths. Fergus hadn't seen much of the village. Both he and Brosca were confined to their small one room hut. From the window, he could see enough to guess that there was probably around fifty or more inhabitants that lived in this particular village.

"Did they say anything?"

"Yeah," Brosca answered, "But nothing I could understand."

Fergus wasn't sure what to make of their saviors. They went through the effort of rescuing and healing both himself and Brosca, but showed little interest in them. Guards were always posted outside of their small hut to deter them from wandering the village. As Fergus and Brosca were mending, the visits became less frequent. Their food was given to them by the guards. His attempts to speak to them were met with stony silence.

He knew that he owed them his life, but there was something about them that made him a little anxious. He couldn't help but have his mind dwell on the old stories that Nan used to tell him and Edmund when they were children, about the Stalkers.

The Chasind wilders who under the cover of darkness would lead raiding parties into the southern portion of Ferelden attacking caravans and farms to feeding their insatiable blood lust. Some of the wilder Chasind Stalkers are said to prefer inflicting slow and painful deaths on their victims. It is even said that some consume the flesh of their victims…

"We need to get out of here," Fergus said abruptly.

Brosca snorted. "How do you propose we do that?" He looked over his shoulder, "I haven't sprouted wings so I guess we can't fly out of here."

Fergus ignored the sarcasm. "We'll climb down."

"In your condition?" Brosca looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

"I'll manage," Fergus replied tersely.

"And how do you reckon you'll manage against the darkspawn?" A pained look clouded over Brosca's countenance, "Because I can assure you they're down there."

"We need to get back."

"I hate to break it you," Brosca said in a tone that conveyed he had no problem breaking it to him, "but there's a horde of darkspawn between us and Ostagar."

"So what's your plan?" Fergus asked in exasperation. "Just sit here and wait while the darkspawn march north." He thought about Oriana and Oren in Highever. "I can't let that happen."

Brosca straightened up in his seat, "So what are you going to do?" The Grey Warden challenged, "limp out of here?" He shook his head in annoyance, "Can you even raise a sword?"

Fergus turned away, feeling his cheeks flush at the dwarf's honest berating. "At least I'll be doing something."

"You'll be dead," the dwarf corrected, "and that's if you're lucky." His dark eyes found Fergus, and refused to move away or blink, "and if you're not lucky, the darkspawn will keep you alive, to eat you while you're breathing."

Fergus' stomach rumbled. Bile burned his throat as his imagination gripped him with the horrendous images of that particular fate.

Brosca's curt voice broke through those nightmarish thoughts, "Or they'll drag you down into the Deep Roads turning you into one of their ghouls."

"Fine," Fergus realized he wasn't going to convince the Grey Warden of doing anything.

"Good," Brosca looked pleased. "I've had enough of your belly aching for one night."

"And you're such great company," Fergus mumbled, apparently he didn't say it soft enough since Brosca replied with a deep laugh.

"Get some sleep," Brosca told him, a drop of envy crept into the dwarf's tone at the mention of sleep. "And don't worry we'll get out of here soon enough," he moved his hands behind his head, "And return you to your big castle."

"Thanks," Fergus muttered.

"Where is it?" He asked unexpectedly, "The castle?"

Fergus was taken aback at the question. It was the first time the dwarf had shown any interest in getting to know him. It was usually one brusque or sarcastic comment after another. "It's in Highever," seeing Brosca's confused face, Fergus smiled a little, "in the Coastlands in northern Ferelden."

His mind drifting to Oriana and Oren as his thoughts lingered on Highever.

"Is it nice?"

"It's beautiful," Fergus kept his eyes closed. It was easier for him to retain the images of his wife, his son, the rest of his family, and his home. He wished he could tell them how much he missed them. How he yearned to be reunited with Oriana, at how the thoughts of his beloved wife were the last ones he had before he went to sleep and the first thoughts he had when he woke up.

"The Castle is perched on top of Highever Hill allowing it to oversee the entire city," Fergus continued, "Highever is nestled beside the Waking Sea. The waves crashing onto the shores, the sound of gulls flying overhead, but the view," Fergus paused, "of seeing the stars shimmering reflections creeping over the horizon and over the Sea." He opened his eyes surprised to see Brosca was interested. "You'll never get use to it."

"Huh," Brosca scratched the stubble along his cheeks. "It sounds like home."

Fergus smiled, liking his choice of words. "Yeah, it is." He turned to the suddenly introspective dwarf, "I'll be honored to show it to you when this is all over."

Brosca covered up his surprise quickly enough with a poorly put on mask of indifference. "And see how you stuffy human nobles live?" There was no bite in his jest.

"And how we drink," Fergus pointed out.

Brosca laughed. "In that case how can I refuse?"

"Then it's settled," Fergus felt his spirits and mood lifting improving already. "My son would love to meet you."

"You have a son?"

"I do," Fergus couldn't help but smile, "He loves the old stories of Grey Wardens and their griffons."

"How old is he?"

"Eight," answered Fergus, a strong hint of pride in his voice. "He'll be nine next spring."

"Well, I can't promise your boy any griffons in any of my stories," a smile slipped past the dwarf's stoic expression.

It was enough to make Fergus laugh. Oh Maker, he thought. It felt so good to laugh again: An honest and carefree laugh that seemed to heal him in ways that none of the poultices that the Chasind had been giving him could.

"What about you?" Fergus thought it only fair to know little more about the Grey Warden. "Do you have any family?"

"My mother's a drunk," Brosca mentioned casually, "And I suppose I have a father somewhere, but he seemed to have the good sense to beat feet leaving soon after knocking my mother up."

Unsure how to properly reply to the rough childhood the Grey Warden had, Fergus remained quiet.

"What?" Brosca asked defensively. "Were you expecting me to come from a loving family?" The hardness in his tone overtook the sarcastic intent. "A hardworking father who does his best for us and a mother who loves us unconditionally and encourages us to rise above the waste they live in?" Brosca snorted.

"Life isn't a story. It's hard and unfair," the dwarf continued, "It's a struggle. Every day was a new challenge. A victory to me was when I was able to go to sleep with some food in my belly."

Brosca's words painted a grim and troubling life. It was easy for Fergus to sometimes forget that not everyone was blessed like him. Growing up in a loving family with wealth and privilege. Never knowing what it felt like to truly suffer due to starvation or poverty or any of the other ailments that preyed on the less fortunate. It also help to explain the hostility Brosca carried and his general indifference.

"I do have a sister," Brosca brightened at the mention of her. "She's a real diamond in the rough." It was amazing how quick his demeanor changed. It was clear Brosca cared strongly for her. "She can read, write, sing, recite poetry, and play the lute."

"She sounds quite accomplished," Fergus observed politely.

"Had to be," Brosca's smile waned. "That's the only way to catch a noble."

"Catch a noble?" Fergus wasn't sure he heard that right.

"Yeah," Brosca shrugged, "If my sister caught a noble's eye and got pregnant with his son then she'd be elevated into the noble household because her son would be of noble caste."

"Oh," The intricacy of dwarven politics and the caste system were lost on Fergus. "She sounds dear to you."

"She is," Brosca confirmed, "did all I could to protect her from some of the nastier elements of Dust Town."

"I'm sure she was grateful."

"Yeah," Brosca tentatively ran a hand over the caste mark that covered part of his face. He looked thoughtful, his eyes distant. "You should try to get some sleep," he moved to lie down. "G'night," He then rolled over to show Fergus his back.

"Night," Fergus nestled underneath his fur blanket, pillowing his head with his hands. Images of Oriana and Oren appeared before him, as well as his happy memories of Highever, awakened from his talk with Brosca. For the first time since arriving at the Chasind camp, sleep came to him quickly.

Chapter Text

"A doe on a white field?"

"The Evans family," Oren recited.

"Good," but Brother Derrick's stony face swallowed up his praise.

"A turtle on a blue field?"

Oren needed a few seconds before answering, "The Martin family."

Brother Derrick was serving as Oren's tutor. He was a grumpy looking man. He had bushy dark brows that resembled fat caterpillars. He had short equally dark hair, and an intimidating presence. Beside him was a large map of Ferelden.

"Who are the five major houses of Ferelden?"

"Couslands, Howes, Theirins," Oren paused, trying to remember the last two, "the Wulffs and Brylands."

"Incorrect," He frowned. "Though influential, the Wulffs and Brylands' power have been eclipsed this past Age with the rise of the Guerrins." He tapped the Redcliffe portion of the map, "and the Mac Tirs," he pointed to the Gwaren Teyrnir. "The Mac Tirs are also the youngest of the five major houses."

"Oh," Oren said softly.

"It is important for you to know this," he reminded him. "It's not just the laws that a Teyrn is expected to know but the history."

"I know," Oren replied sheepishly.

"Don't you want to show how much you've learned to your Uncle when he returns?"

The thought of Uncle immediately brightened up Oren. It had been a few weeks since Uncle left with the armies to the eastern portion of the Bannorn. Before he left, he told Oren how important it was for him to continue his lessons and to do his very best. Oren didn't want to disappoint him.

The recent news of the Battle of Eastern Crossings was met with celebration. The news had gotten even better when it was reported that the army would be returning.

Since then, Oren would glance out the window at every opportunity hoping to catch sight of the Cousland banners arriving. He had been caught by his tutor on more than one occasion. However, instead of seeing Uncle's army, all Oren saw were flocks of refugees. More and more people fleeing the south from the darkspawn. Caer Oswin was trying to host as many as the land could provide for the growing number of people. Luckily, most only stayed for a day or two before continuing north talking about trying their luck in the Coastlands, Denerim, or even the Free Marches.

A few of the refugees ate in Loren's estate, the ones who had been appointed by the growing number of them to provide a voice and clear leadership. From them, Oren heard terrible stories of the darkspawn attacks. Families were being ripped apart, homes were abandoned.

"What year was the Battle of the River Dane?" Brother Derrick's question broke through Oren's thoughts.

"In the 99th year of the Blessed Age."

"What other significant event happened that year?" He didn't acknowledge Oren was correct. Instead of offering Oren congratulations for getting an answer right, he would only ask more questions. It was almost as if he wanted Oren to get one wrong so that he could lecture him.

"The dragons," Oren remembering the stories his old tutor Aldous use to tell about the dragons reappearing. That use to be the part Oren enjoyed most about the story, but not anymore. He just couldn't like those kinds of stories not after what happened. He didn't want to hear about Dragon Hunters, or Grey Wardens riding griffons into battle, or the adventures of Black Fox.

Feeling a disapproving stare from Brother Derrick, Oren continued, "Dragons appeared and attacked Orlais and Nevarra. The Chantry considered it a bad… a bad;" trying to remember the word that his old tutor, Aldous used: "Omen. It was considered a bad omen."

He remembered the word, but not its meaning, "What's an omen?"

"An omen is a premonition," his tutor answered, but he must have seen that Oren was still confused. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's a sign. It can be seen also as a warning of things to come."

"Oh," Oren was thinking over the Brother's explanation. He guessed it made enough sense that it wasn't a good idea to ask for further details. He didn't want to further upset him.

"Good," Derrick turned back to the map of Ferelden. "Now, let's continue."

"I have another question."

"What is it?" He sounded annoyed.

"Loghain fought in that battle."

"Teyrn Loghain," He corrected Oren. "And yes, he did. What of it?"

"Well," Oren paused, "He was a hero, right?"

"Of course he was," the brother answered, a bit hotly. "Teyrn Loghain was one of the heroes of the Rebellion," Derrick's face became stern. Oren called it his lecture face. "His efforts in the Rebellion were rewarded by King Maric giving the Teyrn the Teyrnir of Gwaren as well as the new surname: Mac Tir." He pointed to the southern Teyrnir on the map. "It means son of the land."

"So why did he side with Howe?" Oren couldn't understand why the fabled hero he heard so many stories about would turn his back on him and Uncle and side with Howe. Loghain was the Hero of River Dane. Oren remembered grandpapa saying that Loghain loved Ferelden more than anything, so why was he fighting Uncle?

Derrick's bushy eyebrows climbed several inches. "That's a difficult question." He moved to sit down behind his desk. "I'm afraid there isn't a simple answer."

"Oh," Oren tried to hide his disappointment.

"I can't speak for the Teyrn," Derrick continued, "but I believe he is acting in a way that he believes will save Ferelden. The Teyrn is doing what he thinks is right."

"But how?" Oren wasn't satisfied with the answer. He needed to know more. He wanted an explanation. "Why?"

It was then for the first time that Oren saw a small smile slip out of his tutor's grumpy expression. "I can't answer that," his lips formed a thin line, "It's impossible to navigate the mind of another." He brought his hands to rest on the desk's surface, "I'm afraid only the Teyrn could tell you."

He'll never talk to me, Oren thought sadly.

"Excuse me," one of Oren's guards appeared in the doorway. "It's time for Lord Cousland's meal."

"Very well," Derrick sighed. He did that at the end of every lesson. It was like he was disappointed that he couldn't lecture Oren anymore. "You did very well today, Lord Cousland." He dipped his head.

"Thanks for your help, Brother." His parents had taught him the importance of being polite and always thankful to those who helped him.

The young Teyrn then left the tutor's study flanked by two of his guards. Today's guards were Callahan and Mitchell. They were his least favorites. They were loud and smelled bad. Not to mention that Callahan tried to kick Ser Whiskers. It wasn't Ser Whiskers fault that he startled Callahan during one of his patrols.

"Did you see that washerwoman in the courtyard?"

"Yeah, I saw her," Mitchell answered, "The one with the nice," he paused. Oren could feel Mitchell's eyes on him, realizing the guard was trying to clean up his words. That was what Mama would call it whenever Papa or Uncle talked about something inappropriate in front of Oren.

"The one with the nice buns," Mitchell finished his description sounding very pleased with himself.

"Yeah, buns," Callahan replied with a laugh. "I should've become a baker!" This caused the two to laugh loudly at their little secret joke.

This was all they talked about: the various women in the castle, how many pints they were going to drink once they're off duty, or complaining about not being involved in the fighting.

The only good thing about them is that they didn't smother Oren like the others. They usually got distracted in their discussions and rarely noticed when Oren walked ahead of them. He looked back to see he put a safe distance between him and them. He was within eyesight, but thankfully, he no longer could hear what they were talking about.

Pleased with himself, Oren turned the corner and nearly collided with a girl. He ended up just missing her. "Sorry," he apologized at once.

The girl, who looked to be his age, had dark hair that fell just above her shoulders. She had a friendly face. "It's alright," she told him; she held up the basket of clothes she was carrying, "I was distracted."

"I don't recognize you." Oren had been at Caer Oswin long enough to know all of the servants and their children who worked for Bann Loren. Judging by her clothes, and the dirty clothes she was carrying, she was probably one of the new arrival of refugees that were helping with the cleaning of the castle and grounds in payment to Bann Loren for allowing them to stay.

"No, you wouldn't," she answered, "I just got here yesterday."

"Did you come up here with your family?" He realized too late that he had asked the wrong question.

Her face scrunched up. She looked ready to cry.

"I'm sorry." He hastily added. He didn't want to see her cry.

"It was just Pa and me until the Darkspawn came." She sounded sad. "We had to leave our home when they came, but we weren't fast enough." Her lip trembled. "Pa got sick and I tried to help him, but I couldn't. So he told me to leave and save myself."

"I know how you feel," Oren reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "The Darkspawn killed my father too."

"I'm sorry," she sniffed, wiping at her eyes, before giving him a watery smile. "Are you one the servants too?" she asked, her eyes then moved to the Cousland laurels brooch pinned to his chest. They widened. "You're the Teyrn of Highever."

"I am," Oren said stiffly.

She looked him over. "You're kind of young to be the Teyrn of Highever."

He didn't like how she was looking at him. "Well, I am."

To his surprise, she took his dismissal in stride. "Don't you have an uncle?"

"I do."

"Why isn't he the Teyrn?" She asked, "He's older then you."

"He's my heir."

She giggled, "Your heir?" There was more giggling. "He can't be your heir. He's older then you."

"He is," Oren insisted, not liking being laughed at. "It's the law." He realized that she wouldn't understand, since she wasn't schooled in the same ways he was.

"I'm Cora," she jostled the basket of clothes in her hands in order to give him a proper curtsey.

"Oren."

"I know," she teased.

He frowned. "I was just being polite."

"I have to get going," she gestured to the basket of clothes she was carrying. "But maybe I'll see you around."

"Maybe," Oren didn't know what else to say. He found her annoying but at the same time he liked the idea of maybe seeing her again.

She smiled at that. A bright smile that made Oren smile in return, she patted him on the arm. When she did the sleeve of her shirt went up, he thought he noticed a dark splotch on her arm, but before he could look at it further, she brushed by him and left.

"Lord Oren?" Callahan said, ignoring Cora who walked past him.

"Yes?" Oren was expecting to be lectured for wandering off. However, when he turned to face him, Oren noticed the smile on the guard's face. That could mean only one thing.

"Lord Cousland has arrived," Callahan confirmed what Oren was thinking and hoping. "You're expected to meet him in the hall."

-------------------------

Oren fidgeted. He couldn't help it. He was so excited to see Uncle. He was standing in the hall, waiting the announced arrival of Uncle and the other major lords from the battle. As the Teyrn of Highever, Oren had a very important role to play in front of the other nobles. His tummy rumbled. He really hoped he didn't mess anything up.

"Lord Cousland," the herald announced. Then the doors opened.

The first thing Oren saw was Uncle. He stood big and tall, center of the other nobles who walked with him. Oren wanted to smile or wave, but he knew he couldn't. He had to act the proper Teyrn of Highever. So he stayed still and quiet, and did his best to put on a lord's face: serious and stern.

To Uncle's immediate left was Lord Loren, this being his castle, he had the honors of walking beside Uncle. The plump lord had his arm in a sling. On Loren's other side was Lady Alfstanna. She looked pretty in a gown. Her brown hair was braided and her eyes were warm with an encouraging smile on her face when their eyes met.

On Uncle's immediate right was Oren's Grand Uncle, Lord Leonas Bryland. He was dressed in his combat armor. Oren noticed a few fresh scratches on it. On Bryland's other side was Lord Telmen. The powerful northern noble was dressed in his finest finery, his sigil stitched over his heart. His eyes were constantly moving around the hall, and when they fell on Oren, the corner of his lips tugged upwards.

Not liking how Telmen was looking at him, Oren shifted his attention to the last two nobles who stood on Telmen's other side. It was lord Sighard and Oswyn his son. Sighard dressed in finery, while Oswyn chose his combat leathers.

When they reached the appropriate distance, the nobles all stopped in unison, crossing their arms and bowing low. Alfstanna settled for a curtsey.

This was Oren's part. "What news do my vassals bring?"

His Uncle stepped forward, one arm with an enclosed fist remained close to his chest. He bowed his head. "Victory in the name of our liege lord, Oren Cousland, the rightful Teyrn of Highever," He raised his head. His face was hard and lean. His green eyes showed no affection or acknowledgement.

"Then stand," Oren raised his voice knowing it needed to carry in the hall. "You honor and humble me with your steadfast service," he paused, hoping he remembered right. "Join me in my hall so that I can reward you for your bravery. Let me honor your sacrifices in the form of a feast."

"Thank you, my lordship," the other nobles chorused, straightening up.

A look of approval flickered on Uncle's face. It was enough to make Oren's heart soar, and for a smile to quickly slip through.

"I want a few words with the Teyrn," Edmund proclaimed to the hall in a tone that left no room to argue.

Oren's smile dipped. Did I do something wrong?

When the last servant left, closing the door behind them, Uncle turned to face Oren. His eyes were bright and warm; all sternness had left his face, replaced with a wide smile. "How is my favorite little Teyrn?" He crouched down, holding out his arms.

Oren didn't need to be told twice. Smiling wide, he raced into his uncle's arms. He felt safe and happy when they closed in around him forming a warm hug. Oren's stomach fluttered, when Uncle scooped him off the ground, a laugh bubbled out of Oren's lips when he spun him. The room blurred, he buried his face into Uncle's chest.

"Oh, how I missed you!" He squeezed Oren, kissing his hair.

"I missed you, too," Oren murmured into Uncle's tunic, tightly holding onto him. He didn't want to let go. He didn't want this moment to end.

---------------------------------------------

It had been two days since Uncle returned. They had been great days. Uncle was always with him. They sometimes had to put on their lord faces in front of the servants, the soldiers, and the other nobles during their duties. When those were done it was no longer Teyrn Oren Cousland and his Lord Regent Edmund Cousland. It was simply Oren and his Uncle, who encouraged Oren to smile and laugh. Those parts were his favorite.

Sarim was currently lounging on Oren's bed. The mabari's large head resting on his lap. Oren was petting him diligently.

"How are your lessons?" Uncle plopped himself on the bed beside Oren and Sarim.

"They're going good."

"Is that so?" A challenging smile reached Uncle's lips. "When was Calenhad crowned King of Ferelden?"

"Umm," He remembered King Calenhad from Aldous' tutoring sessions. Brother Derrick hadn't gone that far back yet. They had been focusing more on the past century, "In the 42nd year of the Exalted Age."

"I'm impressed," he tousled his hair.

Oren smiled. He couldn't help it. He was enjoying the attention Uncle was giving him. When it was just Oren, he was separated, treated as a Teyrn and a high noble who few could talk to and all had to bow to. It made Oren so incredibly lonely, but now with Uncle back he wasn't alone.

"Oh, sorry," a familiar voice interrupted Oren's thoughts.

He looked up to see Cora standing in the doorway. The young girl was quick to curtsey. He hadn't seen her since their hasty first encounter two days ago. Looking at her now, she looked sick. Her skin was pale. Her hair was messy. She looked like she hadn't been sleeping. She was wearing a dirty long sleeve tunic and equally dark and dirty pants that had a few patches stitched into it.

Sarim raised his large head off of Oren's lap. His dark eyes looking over their new guest.

"You have a mabari?" She gushed. Her voice sounded tired.

"It's Uncle's," Oren corrected, turning to see Uncle had an amused smile on his face as his eyes went from Oren to Cora.

"Is this a friend of yours, Oren?"

"I don't know," Oren shrugged. He didn't know what to call her.

"We met a few days ago, m'lord," she said smiling. It looked like it hurt her to smile. "I'm Cora."

Oren frowned. She never called him m'lord.

"It's pleasure to meet you Cora," His Uncle seemed even more amused. "You may pet Sarim if you want."

Cora didn't need to be told twice. Going over to the side of the bed where Sarim was lying down. The mabari was watching her carefully. Sarim sniffed the air, before growling low and deep. She immediately stopped in her movement. Unsure what to do or say to calm the aggravated hound.

"Sarim?" Uncle turned to his war hound, looking confused and concerned. "It's alright, boy."

Sarim wasn't listening. He slowly stood up, standing on the bed. The fur on his back went up. He growled again, showing sharp teeth.

Oren didn't get it. Sarim was never like this. He was always kind and playful. Oren couldn't remember anybody getting this kind of reaction out of him.

Cora backed away from Sarim and back towards the door, looking terrified, "I-I'm sorry, m'lord."

Uncle had to grab Sarim around the collar to keep him on the bed. He looked to be struggling. Sarim was trying to jump off the bed towards Cora, growling and barking at her.

"I-I think I should get going," she curtseyed again.

It took a few more minutes before Sarim calmed down.

"What's wrong, boy?" Oren pet the top of Sarim's head.

Sarim responded with a few licks to Oren's face causing him to smile.

"Uncle, what was that about?" Oren turned to Uncle to see he was looking towards the direction of the door.

"I don't know," he then turned back to him. "But what I do know is that it's time for you to go to bed."

Oren groaned.

"We have a busy day tomorrow," Uncle reminded him. "You're going to be visiting the soldiers."

Oh yeah, Oren had forgotten that. Uncle thought it was important for the soldiers to see Oren and for him to interact with the men and women who were fighting for their cause. You need to thank them for their sacrifices, his Uncle had told Oren. It's important for a liege lord to show his gratitude to those who have pledged their services to them whether it is a servant or a soldier or even lower nobles. We mustn't forget or ignore them.

"So it's time for bed," Uncle gently reminded him.

Oren knew it wasn't wise to argue so he relented sadly watching Sarim jump off the bed. He crawled to the head of the bed, before sliding underneath the blankets and resting his head on the pillows. He yawned.

"Good night," Uncle kissed his forehead.

"Good night," Oren closed his eyes.

-----------------

It was a noise.

That was what woke him from his sleep. Oren was sure of it. He blinked in the darkness, while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He scanned around the room. They stopped at the door- it was open.

His heart sunk. It wasn't open when he went to sleep. It was closed. It was always suppose to be closed.

"H-hello?"

His words were answered with a soft hiss.

Holding the blankets over his face, he peered over them to see a small shadow approaching him. Oren was trembling. His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak.

The small shadow advanced towards him. It was wheezing loudly. When it reached the foot of his bed, one of its hands grabbed onto the bed board.

Oren screamed as loud as he could.

It stepped into the moonbeam that came shining through the window. The sight that greeted Oren silenced him. Sickly pale, covered with dark blotches and spots, milky white eyes, he was staring at Cora. She had somehow transformed into a monster. She opened her mouth and gave a low guttural growl. She jumped onto the bed.

The movement spurred Oren out of his daze. He began kicking as hard as he could, trying to keep her away. She swatted at his feet, hissing and growling while trying to move further up the bed.

Suddenly, there was loud barking followed by shouts coming from the corridors. The noises brought both Oren and the mutated Cora to turn to the door.

Sarim burst into the room. The mabari's eyes quickly stopped on Cora, letting out a deep growl before leaping onto the bed towards her. The momentum caused Cora, Oren, and the mabari to tumble off of the bed.

Landing hard on his side, Oren ignored the pain and quickly scurried to the corner. There watching Cora and Sarim attacking one another. Cora was acting more beast then girl. Slashing and clawing at Sarim to keep the war hound at a distance.

"What in the Maker's name." Uncle appeared in the doorway, sword in hand. His eyes took in the sight in front of him, confusion soon turned into anger. He sprinted towards the fighting. He grabbed one of the blankets from Oren's bed and tossed it over the unexpected Cora.

Blinding the creature formerly known as Cora. She hissed and slashed at the blanket trying to get free. Uncle raised his sword to strike, but his eyes found Oren. He then shifted the sword in his hand before slamming the pommel of the blade onto Cora. She screeched in pain. Uncle ignored it. He hit her again and again, until she fell to the ground with a thud and the movement under the blanket stopped.

"Uncle?" Oren blinked away tears.

"I'm here," He reached over to wrap Oren up in his big arms.

Oren cried into uncle's chest. He couldn't stop himself. His body was shaking.

Uncle tried to soothe him, but Oren couldn't hear his words. Uncle rubbed his back, not trying to stop him from crying.

"What's going on in here?"

Oren peeked over Uncle's shoulder to see Lord Loren standing in the doorway looking stunned. The Bann was flanked by two guards who were looking around equally confused with their swords drawn.

Uncle gently put Oren down. He caught a glimpse of Uncle's face to see he was furious. Oren had never seen Uncle look so mad before. "I'll tell you what's going on," Uncle all but shouted. "There was an attack on my nephew!" His voice only got louder. "Where are the guards who are supposed to be watching him!"

Loren paled. He looked to the lump on the floor that was Cora, Sarim who was standing by her, and watching in case she was still alive, before his eyes found Oren. He looked speechless, but after a few seconds, he turned to his guards. "Find out who was watching the Teyrn tonight and bring them here immediately."

The guards bowed and scurried off.

"Lord Cousland, are you alright?" Loren asked, looking and sounding genuinely concerned for Oren.

He gave a shaky nod.

"Maker be praised," Loren looked relieved. "Who was the assassin?"

"It wasn't an assassin. It was a girl," Uncle answered, seeing Loren's confused face, he clarified, "A ghoul."

"A ghoul?" Loren shuddered. "How is that possible?"

"I don't know," Uncle was still fuming.

Oren remembered learning about ghouls in one of his Grey Warden books. They were people who were infected by the darkspawn taint. They lost control of their minds and bodies and became servants of the corruption that ran through their body.

With the excitement waning, Oren finally felt the warmth down his legs. He had soiled himself in fear when Cora had tried to attack him. He was ashamed. He was the Teyrn of Highever, he shouldn't wet himself. Oren only hoped the others wouldn't notice. He didn't want to be in this room anymore.

"Uncle?" He was startled by the stern, red face Uncle that turned to him, but was relieved when Uncle's face immediately softened, "Can I sleep in your room?" Oren pleaded, "Please." He didn't want to be alone not after tonight.

"Of course, Oren," Uncle assured him. "Take Sarim with you."

"Thank you, thank you," Oren made his way towards the waiting war hound, gently grabbing the fur around Sarim's meaty neck. The mabari greeted him with a few kisses on his cheek that was enough to make Oren smile.

There was a low groan. The ghoul stirred under the blanket.

"Go," Uncle lowered his blade towards the stirring Cora. He turned back towards Oren and Sarim, "Go now."

Oren didn't need to be told twice. He and Sarim left the room. When he heard the sound of screeching and shouting, he ran.

He didn't look back.

Chapter Text

What have I done?

His clothes were soaked in her blood.

I've killed a child.

There was so much blood. It was pooling on the floor. Her body looked sickly and broken. The blankets of the bed still partly draped over her. Her mouth was slightly open. Her head lulled to the side. Her eyes-milky white were staring upwards.

He dropped the sword. The blade was dripping with the lifeblood of the girl's. Cora's blood: A young, sweet girl who he had just talked to hours ago. Now here she lay dead. He killed her.

Edmund wasn't listening to Lord Loren's reassurances. His eyes were on the two servants who had just come in. Loren must have summoned them. They looked at the body of the young girl in a mixture of horror and sadness. He noticed the looks they sent his way. They knew he was responsible. The servants tentatively wrapped the body in the blanket like a baby in its swaddling clothes.

He was thankful when her face was covered. He knew it was a small reprieve since he was sure that face would haunt his dreams for some time.

"Where is she?" He needed to see her. He needed an answer.

"Who?" Loren was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

"Cauthrien," Edmund clarified. "I want to see her now."

"She's in the room you requested," Loren answered, "In one of the servant quarters by the larder."

Edmund only nodded. He turned away as the servants picked up Cora's body and left the room.

When he arrived at her door he didn't bother knocking, turning the knob and letting himself in. He immediately spotted his prisoner, Cauthrien was kneeling at the side of her bed. Her hands clasped on the straw stuffed mattress with her head bowed.

She turned to him, anger clouded her expression whether it was because he was interrupting her prayers or his presence alone. It was obvious that he wasn't welcomed. She opened her mouth to probably deliver some barb, but she stopped herself when he noticed her eyes taking in his appearance.

No doubt, he made for quite a sight.

"Maker's breath," her eyes transfixed on his blood stained clothes. "What happened to you?"

"I killed a girl tonight," he ignored her confused look as he moved to sit in a chair in the corner of the room.

"A girl?" She repeated, "What are you talking about?"

"Tonight," Edmund sunk his head into his hands. "A girl tried to kill Oren." He could hardly make sense of it all. It all seemed like some poorly conceived fiction. "She was a ghoul."

Not a girl, but a ghoul, he tried to remind himself. She wasn't a person, but a monster. With a face of a child. She had ribbons in her hair…

"A ghoul?" Cauthrien asked in disbelief, "This far north?"

"Yes," Edmund confirmed grimly. For days his scouts had been telling him that the darkspawn were at Ostagar. That could no longer be true if a ghoul had reached this far north. The darkspawn were advancing and his forces were completely blind. They were unaware of the direction the horde was marching in.

He needed to do something.

"It wasn't a girl."

Edmund looked up to see Cauthrien was watching him. She slowly stood up from her kneeling position, settling to sitting at the edge of her bed. Her storm cloud eyes were looking at him closely. "It was a ghoul, not a girl." She repeated, "You did what needed to be done."

He was struck by the sincerity in not just her tone, but in her expression. Her honesty proved to be an unexpected balm; gently soothing away the festering guilt and growing concerns that had been wracking his insides.

"I would've done the same thing," she admitted, bowing her head. "Whatever good my words or intentions mean to you."

"It helps," he replied honestly, "They actually mean a lot."

The corner of her lips tugged upwards, forming a small, but thankful smile. And for that moment when they were looking at one another where they were both thankful for the company and the kind words that were exchanged; Edmund could almost forget they were enemies.

"I need to know your answer." That deceiving moment had passed, and these precious seconds could no longer be wasted. After tonight, Edmund realized he couldn't stay here and wait for Howe or Loghain. He needed to make a move.

The failure of his nephew's guards tonight highlighted a dangerous truth. Oren was still vulnerable. He needed someone he could rely on to protect his nephew. It was Cauthrien. He was convinced she was the only one.

Her lips formed a thin line. "I haven't decided."

"Fine," He was tired. He was too damn tired for her stubbornness. "Then I'll have to make the decision for you." He pushed himself out of his seat. He ignored her suspicious stare. He called for the servants.

The door opened to show two servants stepping inside. One was carrying her armor, and the other was carrying her greatsword.

"You start in the morning."

------------------------------------

Edmund stifled a yawn.

He was tired, oh so very tired.

It had only been a few hours since the attack on Oren. The rest of Edmund's night had been spent comforting a very frightened and distraught Oren. Thankfully, his nephew was able to find some sleep in the late hours. He however, had no such luck.

"There are so many pieces."

Oren's words stirred Edmund out of his thoughts. He looked down to see his young nephew admiring the huge map that was sprawled out on the war table: The laurels for the Couslands, the bear for Howe, the wyvern for Loghain. It was all there. Edmund had even commissioned a few darkspawn pieces to help him better understand the darkspawn position and advancement.

"Each one represents a certain amount of soldiers," Edmund told him.

Oren only nodded, taking it all in. He tentatively put a hand on one of the laurel pieces admiring the color and detail put into them.

It looked simple. Move the pieces to where you want to attack. In reality, war was so much more complicated than that. Edmund had to take into account where to keep so many soldiers, how to feed them, how to pay them. It wasn't just soldiers, but the servants and smiths. There was livestock, and horses and where to put them in the camps and how to feed them. There were also the supplies. How to pay for it all? Every battle was expensive. War had a way of draining money at an incredible rate.

These were all lessons that Edmund had to learn as he went. He took in the wisdom of some of his older and more experienced nobles such as his Uncle Leonas, Lord Loren, and Lord Sighard. These were men who had experienced the hardships of war before. He also wanted to hear new ideas and was always willing to listen to some of the younger nobles including Lady Alfstanna.

Thankfully, for the moment funding wasn't an issue. They still had a good amount of revenue pouring in from their coffers. They didn't have the same resources that their enemies had. They were at a disadvantage since Loghain and Howe had direct access to the Royal Treasury.

He wanted to instill these important lessons of war to Oren, but after the attack last night, Edmund understood that his nephew needed a bit of a reprieve. So he stayed quiet and watched Oren enjoy himself with the war pieces. It was such a simple thing, and for his nephew to find any comfort or enjoyment out of it, well, that was enough for Edmund.

"How do you like your new guard?"

That got Oren's attention. He looked up from one of the bear carvings that he had picked up. "She doesn't talk much."

That didn't come as a surprise to Edmund. He was sure she was nursing some annoyance at having the choice taken away from her. He only hoped there would be no resentment or any ill feelings she may have towards him being transferred to his nephew. Edmund knew it may have been a mistake to thrust the position on Cauthrien without her making a choice. Something he may need to amend in the future. He had allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment.

"Uncle?"

"Yes, Oren?"

"What happened to my other guards, Callahan and Mitchell?"

"They were relieved of duty," Edmund answered delicately. Those had been the guards responsible for watching Oren last night. Instead of doing their duties, they were found in the refugee camps, drinking, and gambling. Edmund had been furious when Loren's guards brought them back to him. Their failure in their jobs had nearly cost him his nephew. The vengeance that burned within had wanted to make an example out of them to make sure no other guard repeated their mistakes. He wanted them dead.

Loren had countered with them being relieved of their positions and public flogging for a dereliction of duties. Edmund agreed reluctantly. It was a difficult balance to maintain. He couldn't look to be too severe in punishment, but at the same time, he couldn't appear too weak either.

"Oh," Oren looked down at the bear piece in his hand, before putting it down where it was on the map-Highever. "Are we ever going to go home?"

"Soon," Edmund promised his nephew. "We'll be able to go back to Highever soon."

It hurt to see his nephew look so dejected. Edmund was trying so hard with him, but it didn't make up for his shortcomings. These were circumstances that Edmund was never prepared for.

There had been a part of him that had thought about leaving Ferelden with Oren after Howe betrayed and murdered their family. To simply take Oren across the Waking Sea to the Free Marches or Orlais where they could change their names and start over. It had been tempting. And it could've been done. Edmund had friends throughout Thedas. He was sure many would have taken him and Oren in if they had arrived.

Sometimes, he wondered if that would have been the better approach to their situation. They could've been safe. They would've been together. Instead, here he was fighting a civil war in his nephew's name. Rallying nobles, freeholders, knights, and commoners under his banner and asking them to fight and to die so that his family could be restored to Highever. How many men and women have perished on the battlefield because of him?

He sighed.

"Uncle?"

Edmund looked up to see Oren's brown eyes shimmering with concern. "What's wrong, Uncle?" The boy's thoughtfulness and sincerity were beyond compare. He called his nephew over. When Oren moved to stand in front of him, Edmund put his hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"It's nothing." It was a needed lie. He shouldn't concern his nephew with his troubles and burdens. He needed to be strong. He needed to project confidence for Oren. Edmund couldn't falter despite the stress that this civil war was imposing on him.

"Lord Cousland?" A servant appeared inside the tent flap.

"What is it?" Edmund noticed the paper in the servant's hands.

"A message," The servant answered, his head bowed.

Edmund beckoned him over. The servant obeyed, stopping a few paces in front of them to cross his arms and bow once more before handing the letter over to Edmund.

The message was brief, but devastating. His worse fears had been confirmed.

"Assemble the Lords," he instructed the servant. "There is to be an emergency War Council meeting immediately."

The servant bowed and scurried out of the tent.

"Uncle?" Oren was confused. "What is it?"

"Cauthrien," Edmund called for his nephew's new captain of the guard.

The stoic and talented knight stepped inside the tent. She didn't bother to hide her displeasure at Edmund when their eyes met.

"I need you to escort Oren back to his room immediately."

"What's happening, Uncle?" Oren didn't move towards Cauthrien. He appeared afraid and confused at Edmund's sudden shift of behavior.

Still holding onto the note, he turned from Cauthrien to Oren. "Lothering has been destroyed by the darkspawn."

-------------------------

"We must march south immediately!"

This proclamation was met with a decisively split reaction amongst the attendants of the war council meeting. It was as Edmund feared. The northern nobles disapproved while the southern nobles demanded a march at once.

Uncertain of what to do or say, he remained quiet, listening to the arguing of his allies as they sniped back and forth at one another. This was the coalition he tried to rally together to bring justice to his family and restore the Couslands to Highever. Now, it was threatening to all come apart. Together, they stood a chance against Loghain and Howe. If they were to separate, then it would only be a matter of time until their cause was completely doomed.

"If we march south what's stopping Loghain and Howe from attacking us?" argued one northern noble from the Coastlands.

"I won't allow the darkspawn to destroy my home!" snapped a southern freeholder.

"It's not the darkspawn that are attacking our families," Lord Telmen rebutted, the leader of the northern nobles. "They're not burning our homes. " His words were met with murmurs of agreement from his allies. "The darkspawn aren't pillaging our lands."

"Here, here," cried out one of his supporters.

"If you insist on marching south, then so be it," Telmen's eyes met Edmund's. "But you will be doing it without our forces." Lord Telmen ignored the reaction from the southern delegates. He led his northern allies out of the tent without another word.

"We're wasting time arguing," Leonas said in frustration. "My daughter's in South Reach!" His eyes betrayed the growing concern he felt for his daughter's well being. "I'm marching south to fight the darkspawn. I would be honored to have any of you fight beside me."

Supporting his uncle's words, the remaining nobles followed him out of the tent. Off to pack their things and prepare their forces for their pending departure. And just like that the coalition that had united to stop Howe and Loghain had ended.

The fickleness of the Bannorn had reared its head. In the end, it wasn't about what was the best for Ferelden but for the individual.

Edmund moved over to the war table. The darkspawn pieces had been placed on the Lothering portion of the map. He could understand his uncle's fear, looking at the map to see only a short distance separated Lothering from his Arling of South Reach.

In Edmund's opinion he believed both sides made sense. The northern nobles were right to be hesitant to commit their forces south when their lands bordered Loghain and Howe's. Those lands have already been raided and have had to rebuff other attempts in deadly skirmishes. The southern nobles were right to feel their concerns. Their attention has completely shifted away from the politics of Denerim and the civil war with their families and homes being under siege by the darkspawn.

He was failing them. He was stubbornly sticking to his original purpose. He was becoming selfish. These nobles, and freeholders, families and knights pledged their service to him and as their liege lord it meant taking up the responsibility of protecting them. If this coalition was going to continue then Edmund needed to change its approach. It couldn't be just about restoring Highever to Oren. With the darkspawn advancing from the south and Loghain and Howe threatening the north, he needed to alter his objectives. Oren's safety would always be his priority, but he needed to think about all of the others who were being affected by this civil war or the darkspawn. They needed his protection too.

His eyes turned back to the map, trying to find an advantage his forces could use to keep the pressure on Howe and Loghain even when his uncle and the southern forces were fighting the darkspawn. His attention drifted to the Coastlands, focusing on Amaranthine. Seeing the city, Edmund remembered reading in his recent scout's report that the city was being held by only a garrison of guards, not even soldiers. Howe had sent many of the Amaranthine soldiers to Highever to try to maintain order. Howe trusted Amaranthine's position deep in the Coastlands to offset the few guards, and the protection from his patrolling army that resided in the Coastlands…

It was then that a plan formulated in Edmund's mind. It was risky, and would require patience and some luck. Not to mention, the need to trust certain individuals, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that this was the best plan he was going to get. He needed to move quickly if this had any chance of success.

-----------------------------

"You wanted to see me, Lord Cousland?" Cauthrien asked tersely.

"I did." Edmund looked up from the clothes he was packing. He had decided that he and Oren would be traveling with his Uncle, Arl Bryland and the southern forces. Edmund believed Oren would be safer behind the thick walls of the sturdy South Reach fortress in comparison to Caer Oswin.

He had just sent his plan in motion for the north. Edmund had chosen not to include Lord Telmen and his allies. They had made their stance abundantly clear when they elected to withdraw their support from the coalition so that they could continue to fight Howe and Loghain. If Edmund's plan was successful, then not only would it be a major victory but he was sure that the northern Lords would return to the fold. However, it would take time for the plan to come to fruition so while he waited he would turn his attention to the south to do his best to try to stem the darkspawn horde.

"We are on the march."

"Where are we going?" She was dressed in her silverite armor. The Gwaren sigil emblazoned on her breastplate.

"That is up to you," Edmund noticed the confusion flicker across her countenance.

"I don't understand." In her confusion she wasn't able to maintain her brusque tone with him.

"I made a mistake," he admitted, "I never should have forced you to be my nephew's guard." He bowed his head in regret. "I allowed my emotions to get the better of me and for that I'm sorry." He looked up to see she was taken aback by his apology, realizing she was too stunned to speak, he continued. "Oren is marching to South Reach with me, Arl Bryland and the rest of our southern forces to combat the growing darkspawn threat."

"The darkspawn?" Cauthrien was surprised at this sudden change in strategy.

"Yes," Edmund confirmed, "With Lothering destroyed and the incident with the ghoul," he paused, pushing down the image of Cora's broken, bloody body. "My priorities have shifted."

"I understand," she admitted softly.

"My top priority remains, to protect Oren at any cost," Not wanting to think how dangerously close he had come from failing, Edmund continued, "You would be the Captain of Oren's guard." He couldn't gage her reaction, her face remained stoic. "Or you may stay here with Lord Loren. You will be taken care of."

"It's not much of a choice."

"It's still your choice," Edmund pointed out. "And not many are given such a luxury."

She looked down at the armor she was wearing, her eyes on the wyvern sigil. A battle of conflicting emotions flickered across her face, weighing the choices presented to her.

He remained quiet. Not wanting to rush or interfere with her decision making.

"I would like to remain with your nephew," she straightened up, taking her eyes off of the Gwaren sigil. "Your nephew is innocent. And children should be sheltered from the terrible dangers that this world holds."

Oren's already seen the terrible dangers that this world has to offer, Edmund thought bitterly. "Oren spoke highly of you." He assured her. "He will be happy to have you with him." He paused, "I too will be relieved knowing that my nephew is being protected by the best knight in Ferelden."

"No need to flatter me," Cauthrien replied tersely. "I've already agreed."

"My apologies," he bowed his head. "Pack your things, we leave at first light."

Chapter Text

You were supposed to protect me!

He opened his eyes, but the haunting image of his son stayed with him. Dressed in his battle armor, stained with blood and mud, Thomas Howe held his head in his hands. His face ghostly pale while his eyes were as dark as the void.

The shade of his son has haunted Howe since the fateful day Thomas was killed. Appearing in his dreams and lingering long after he woke up. It was enough to churn his stomach. He lost his son, his heir.

It was a pain that would not leave him.

He dressed in silence. He could hear the servants bustling around the room. Some were lighting the candles and opening the curtains to allow the early sunlight to shine in. They brought out a bottle of wine and a single glass leaving it on his desk. That's where he went without a look or word of acknowledgment to the servants that were working around him. He poured himself a generous serving of the wine. He drank deep from it having grown use to the bittersweet taste of this particular vintage.

Howe sighed. Putting down the glass, relieved of the soothing effect the wine was having. It helped to numb the anguish that had burrowed itself deep in his gut the day he lost Thomas.

He would've been a great king.

He stared morosely into his half-empty glass. He raised it slightly in a silent toast to his fallen son, who would've been the future king of Ferelden. He then took another long sip empting the glass before putting it back down on his desk.

Thomas had been taken from this world too early. There was greatness in him.

Howe poured himself another glass. This was how he buried the pain and numbed the ache of his son's passing. After a few glasses of wine in solitude, he'd continue his routine and carry out his duties as the Teyrn of Highever and Arl of Denerim and Amaranthine.

"Your Lordship?"

Howe looked up to see Captain Chase standing in the doorway. He greeted the Captain with a curt nod before gesturing him to enter.

Captain Chase obliged. He bowed when he reached Howe's desk and remained standing despite the empty chair beside him.

"Are the rumors true?" He didn't want to waste time.

"They are," Chase confirmed. "The Dark Wolf exits, your lordship and I know she's responsible for these acts against the nobility."

The Dark Wolf, Howe remembered the first time hearing the name come up in one of his guardsmen's reports.

Howe had considered this Dark Wolf more a pest than an actual threat. That all changed when the Dark Wolf broke into Howe's warehouse, killed his guards, and stole all of Howe's silver bars. He had been furious. It was then that he appointed, Captain Chase as his lead investigator and tasked him with finding out everything he could about this Dark Wolf.

"She?" Howe picked up on Chase's choice of word. "The Dark Wolf is a woman?"

"I believe she is," Chase answered, "Ser Nancine remembers talking to a woman at the Wonders of Thedas shop and Darby's silversmith guards remember spotting an elven woman passing them in the alley shortly before the key was taken."

"An elven woman?" Howe couldn't believe this. "An elf is responsible for stealing from us?" This could not be tolerated.

"Yes, and I believe I have a suspect."

"Who?" They needed to put a stop to this at once. This Dark Wolf needed to be put down.

"I don't have a name," Chase replied hesitantly. "However, I have evidence to suggest that she was one of the elves abducted by the previous Arl of Denerim, a few months back."

That really didn't shorten their list. Over the years, it seemed Vaughn Kendalls had abducted a number of elven women to use for his own perverted purposes.

"Very well," Howe began to write the official order as the Arl of Denerim. "I want you to assemble a unit of city guards and visit the Alienage. I'm sure a few silvers will direct us to where we can find the lair of the Wolf." He had no doubt that the elves within the Alienage would turn on this Dark Wolf at such a generous offer.

"I won't fail you, your Lordship."

"See to it that you don't."

---------------------------------------------------

His son's death hung over him like a looming dark cloud. Making sure he never forgot. It haunted him with every step.

You were supposed to protect me!

The words followed him, besieging him constantly.

Failure that was something that never sat well with Rendon Howe. All his life he strived to succeed. When he could not achieve it, he waited for the next opportunity to come and seized it. Failure was a bitter taste that Howe refused to swallow.

When it came to his son's death, Howe knew who it was to blame. It was him. He was unable to shield his son from his one mistake since claiming Highever. That mistake was the survival of Edmund Cousland when Castle Cousland was sacked.

In order to rule the Teyrnir of Highever effectively, he needed to start off on a clean slate. That didn't happen. As long as there were Couslands, the people would rally behind them. They were stupid like that. They were afraid of change and wanted to stay with what was familiar. Edmund Cousland had manipulated this mindset to form his little rebellion in his nephew's name.

Now, Edmund was fueled by vengeance and seeking retribution. He would not stop until he destroyed Howe or was destroyed. Howe understood this and now knew what he needed to do to ensure a smooth transition with the Teyrnir of Highever. He would not allow this Cousland brat to jeopardize everything Howe has accomplished.

"Your lordship?"

He looked up to see Captain Kuril, the captain of the castle guards standing in the doorway. "Yes?"

"The Lord Protector is on his way."

"Very well," Howe had been waiting for the Teyrn to arrive. He had something that needed the Teyrn's permission. "Escort the Teyrn to my office when he arrives. And send word to the kitchen to have a servant come here with fresh wine."

Captain Kuril crossed his arms over his chest and bowed before departing.

Howe looked down at the vellum on his desk. It was a contract. It was a very important contract that could bring much needed gold into their vaults. They needed all the funds they could secure. The civil war with the rebels was draining their revenue.

The source of the gold wasn't ideal. It was from newly arrived Tevinter slavers. Howe's associates, the Blood Mages had made the arrangements between him and this Caladrius. The slavers were promising too much gold for Howe to ignore. They needed this.

Morals were nice in times of peace. In war they were a luxury. It was foolish to stick with them. In war your objective was to win. It didn't matter how you accomplished it as long as you did. Victory was the only thing that mattered. In acquiring this gold and coming to an agreement with these slavers they were bettering their chances at winning this civil war.

Teyrn Loghain walked into the room without introduction. The Lord Protector of Ferelden looked annoyed at the retinue of guards that had escorted him to Howe's office.

Howe immediately stood from his seat. "Your Lordship." He bowed low. "I was honored at your notice of visiting my meager estate."

Loghain held up his hand. "Enough pleasantries," He took his seat. "They are unnecessary."

"Of course, your Lordship," Howe recovered, sitting back down. He was pleased at the timing of the servant, who poured them their glasses of wine quickly and quietly before leaving the two Teyrns to discuss their important business.

"I have the papers," he picked up the contract and handed it to Loghain who took them with a grunt and began reading it. His lips moving as he read.

"I don't like this." Loghain was looking at the papers with distaste. He put the contract on Howe's desk.

He was expecting the Teyrn's resistance. Howe needed him to look at the bigger picture and not transfix on this small nusiance. What they were doing wasn't evil. It was simply pragmatic.

"It must be done."

Loghain's blue eyes looked distant, his face impassive. "There must be another way."

"No other way will match these revenues," Howe pointed out. It wasn't a completely true statement, but he didn't need it to be.

"Are the times truly this desperate?" Loghain sighed.

"They are," Howe confirmed. "War is expensive, but this will refill our vaults faster than any other option we have."

"I served with many," Loghain said softly. "They were loyal and fierce. I've never fought with better men and women then the Night Elves."

"I remember," Howe needed Loghain to ignore his emotions to make the right choice. This needed to be done. "If you do not act now then all of Ferelden could be torn apart."

That got a reaction out of the stoic Teyrn. "Sacrifice a few to save the many." He picked up the contract. "It isn't for naught."

That's it, Howe thought, sensing he had finally swayed him.

"This is the only way," The Lord Protector of Ferelden signed his name. "Ferelden must endure."

"By signing this, you have made sure it has," Howe took the contract from the table. Rolling it up, he would deliver it personally to his contact.

"This doesn't solve our immediate problems," Loghain observed. "Eastern Crossing was a revelation."

It wasn't a revelation. It was a tragedy.

You were supposed to protect me! His son's cold accusation cut him deeply. Howe moved to pour himself more wine.

"We underestimated him," Loghain continued, oblivious to Howe's discomfort. "He may possess a certain skill of tactics that we didn't believe he had."

"One battle doesn't make him a tactician," Howe sipped his wine. Thankful, for the immediate reprieve it had on the pain. It numbed the ache. He wasn't about to anoint Edmund Cousland the next Calenhad because the brat got lucky in a battle. "One victory doesn't make him a conqueror."

"No, it doesn't," Loghain agreed.

"We have endured the hardships of war, Your Lordship," Howe pointed out. "We understand the measures that need to be taken to secure victory." He was pleased that he got a nod from Loghain.

"The rebels have the darkspawn to contend with." It would be the rebels not their armies that would feel the brunt of the horde, while their forces were safely tucked away in Denerim and the Coastlands.

"Cailan made the mistake of trusting the Grey Wardens," Loghain said softly. "He thought legends and stories would save Ferelden." A pensive look flickered over his face. "He didn't understand the true cost of war until it was too late." He clasped his hands under his chin.

"If I would have committed my forces at Ostagar, I would have doomed Ferelden." He sighed. "I sacrificed the lives of many brave Fereldans including our king so that Ferelden would not fall. We lost a battle to the darkspawn, but we will not lose this war. I will not lose Ferelden."

"We won't," Howe agreed. "We will let the rebels fight the darkspawn which will lessen the numbers of both forces. Our armies will then move in and crush both factions delivering an end to this conflict. We will bring stability and peace back to Ferelden."

"If we stay the course we will break this rebellion."

"Very well," Loghain stood up. "I will speak with Anora and inform her of our strategy."

"Excellent, Your Lordship," Howe stood as well. "We are doing what is best for Ferelden."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Ferelden was going through changes.

The evidence of this change could be found throughout the country. The Coastlands were unified under one banner, Howe's. After this rebellion was crushed, he would be given a new prestigious title to convey the power and influence he now wielded. He would remain in Denerim as both the Arl and Advisor to the Crown.

"Your Lordship?" Captain Lowan crossed his arms and bowed before entering the room. "You sent for me?"

"I did," Howe confirmed. "As Captain of my scouts I was wondering if we've received any news on the rebels' position."

"No yet, your Lordship," Lowan replied quickly. "But I'm still waiting for one of my scouts to report in."

"You will inform me of this scout's report the second it is received."

"Of course, your Lordship."

Howe nodded, pleased at the understanding between him and Lowan. He could still recall the letter that Lowan had sent him before Howe had sacked Cousland Castle. Lowan had warned Howe that not all of Howe's men were pleased with his bold, but needed plan of removing the Couslands. Howe had then given Lowan permission to detain these troublemakers to make sure they didn't ruin everything.

He knew that Lowan had been hesitant at first in Howe's decision to strike the Couslands. Many of Howe's trusted men had been. They were under this illusion that the Howes and Couslands were allies. However, allies stood on equal footing, and there had been nothing equal about Rendon Howe's position and power and that of Bryce Cousland.

There had been times when the two families weren't even allies, but enemies. Parts of Ferelden history that were forgotten by the people and often not taught by the tutors, but Howe remembered…

"Did you know the Howes and Couslands have fought before, Captain Lowan?"

"Your Lordship?" The Captain appeared disarmed by the sudden question.

"When Sarim Cousland seized the outpost of Highever he had the insolence to declare his independence from Amaranthine, my ancestors." Howe remembered the story well. "He was a mere captain of the guard, and he had the audacity to rebel against his betters!"

"His sedition launched a war that lasted thirty years!" Howe growled. "When the war ended Highever had seized more than half the land that once made up southwestern Amaranthine."

Howe leaned back in his seat. He studied Captain Lowan, who looked uncomfortable. He didn't seem certain how to respond to this little history lesson. In Howe's mind it was important to remember one's history. It tells us where we come from. Howe remembered the countless lessons his old tutor use to give him when he was a boy.

When the tutor would tell the story of the Coastlands Civil War, he would always get upset. He hadn't thought it was fair that the Couslands stole Highever and rebelled against his family. He never thought it was right that the Couslands were raised to Teyrns and that Amaranthine had to swear fealty to Highever. The Howe family has an old and proud history that stretches back farther than either the Couslands or the Theirins. Yet, they're forced to bend the knee to younger, lesser families.

"Tell me Captain Lowan are you aware how the Couslands got the laurels as their sigil?"

"No, your Lordship," He replied honestly. "I never really thought about it."

That didn't surprise Howe. Lowan was a commoner. He didn't wear a sigil that represented his family and his ancestors that came before him. He didn't understand the burden and responsibility that came with it. One poor decision could completely snuff out your family, making them extinct and your sigil outlawed and forgotten.

The Howe name and legacy had been put in jeopardy during the Rebellion against Orlais. Howe could still remember the day he and the rebels hung his grandfather for his support of Orlais. Howe had never liked the man. Killing him had been pragmatic and political.

"The Cousland family ensured their survival through victory over my family," Howe told him. "Sarim Cousland's rebellion against my ancestors had been successful. So he chose the laurels to symbolize his victory so that everyone would remember the Cousland origins."

"Forged in victory," Howe said bitterly, "That was the old Cousland saying."

He hated to admit it, but there was a time when he envied them. He could still remember during the Rebellion how the soldiers responded to Bryce Cousland, how the nobles treated him. The Cousland legacy brought with it respect and admiration from commoners and nobles alike. The Cousland name had carried so much weight that when Maric disappeared there had been many who had wanted Bryce, not Cailan to become the next King of Ferelden.

Not anymore, Howe thought triumphantly. Soon the Cousland name will be a memory. The Cousland name will serve as a reminder that no single family is greater than Ferelden. To serve as a lesson to every noble family that none of them are beyond reproach.

"Your Lordship?" Captain Lowan spoke tentatively.

Howe had been so deep in his musings; he hadn't noticed the arrival of the servant who had brought a message to Captain Lowan.

"What did it say?"

"It's from my scout." He looked down at the message in his hands as if he couldn't quite believe it. "The rebels have split."

"What?" Howe straightened up in his seat.

"There was a falling out," Lowan opened up the message to make sure he reported it correctly. "Edmund Cousland, his Uncle Leonas Bryland and the southern nobles and freeholders that made up the army have gone south. They aim to fight the darkspawn."

"Truly?" Howe couldn't believe it. He couldn't be this fortunate.

"Aye, your Lordship," Lowan confirmed, "The northern nobles remain. Apparently they were unwilling to march south."

This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. With the northern nobles disorganized this was the time to strike. His army could deliver a crippling blow to this rebellion by destroying the northern host. It could very well break the rebels' will. Let Edmund and his forces march south into the waiting arms of the darkspawn. They went to certain doom and death.

"Send a messenger to my army," Howe informed Lowan. "I want them ready to march upon my arrival."

"Yes, your Lordship," Lowan crossed his arms and bowed. "Where is the army headed?"

"To Caer Oswin," Howe revealed. That was where the northern nobles would be. He knew it.

It was time to end this.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

She tentatively placed her hand beside the bag she had slung over her shoulders. Her fingers running over the smooth surface of the bag's bottom to make sure for the umpteenth time there wasn't any hole or possibility for what she was carrying to escape. Not satisfied, she then peered into the bag to see the rolled up piece of vellum was still there. The Cousland sigil pressed into the wax.

It was a habit of hers when she was anxious. It was something her brother, Irminic would often tease her about when they were growing up. The reminder of her older brother brought a sad smile to her face.

"Lady Alfstanna?" The voice of Ser Walter Smith broke her out of her thoughts.

She blinked to see the seasoned commander looking at her closely. His hair was short and lightly colored. Usually clean shaven, but their days on the road had allowed light stubble to cover his cheeks. His blue eyes were looking at her with concern, a stark contrast to his weathered face and usual grim demeanor.

"Is something troubling you?"

"I was just thinking of Irminric," she found herself admitting.

"Ah," a look of understanding came over his features. "I'm sure he's been busy."

Alfstanna appreciated Walter's effort, but the platitudes did nothing to calm her worries. There was a small part of her that wanted to go to Denerim to demand answers, but she knew she couldn't. When she declared the Waking Sea Bannorn in support of the Couslands she had turned herself into a rebel. She would be arrested as soon as she neared the capital.

She was use to her brother being busy. He was a knight lieutenant in the Templar Order and his duties usually had him making various trips across Ferelden. Yet, that had never stopped him from writing to her. He knew how much she fretted, and often kept her apprised of his duties as best as he could and to inform of her of his travels in case there was a lull in their correspondence.

Not this time. She hadn't heard from him in months. It was concerning. The last letter she received from him had come before the Battle at Ostagar. He was leaving Denerim in search of an apostate and suspected blood mage. And now there was nothing. No word, no report, no message from either him or the Templar Order or the Chantry to explain his sudden disappearance.

If there had been Maker forbid an attack on his party that left casualties or injuries then Alfstanna knew Irminic's friends within the Chantry would pass along some sort of message to her. That she heard nothing was disconcerting. Something was wrong; she knew it in her gut.

Maker watch over my brother and keep him safe, she silently prayed. It was all she could do for Irminric at the moment, but she knew he would appreciate the prayers.

"It shouldn't be much further," Walter's gruff voice called from ahead.

"It's about time," called a voice behind Alfstanna. The other companions in their small party had been tasked with protecting the rear in case of attack. They were siblings. Alfstanna had gotten to know them during their carefully mapped trek across the Bannorn.

The one who spoke was Cordero. Right beside him was his older sister, Calida. Their dusky skin pointed to their Rivaini heritage, but their family hailed from Kirkwall. Their parents were nobles who had supported Viscount Perrin Threnhold, but when he was overthrown by the Templars, their family was forced to flee. They managed to reach Ferelden but they were being hounded by bounty hunters who were eager to earn favor with the new regime in Kirkwall.

It was on the Storm Coast where they were saved from Teyrna Cousland and her retinue of soldiers and knights. In an act of gratitude their parents pledged Cordero and Calida who were nearing the cusp of adulthood to serve the Cousland family. The talented siblings were recruited into the Horns of Highever where they received training and education. They rose through the ranks as the years passed and were now two of Walter's top lieutenants.

"Quit your belly aching," Calida playfully scolded her brother. She then rubbed the top of his head.

"Hey!" he protested, slipping out her grip.

"It's for luck, baby brother," she laughed.

"Make your own luck," he muttered, running his hand over the dark patch of hair that covered his head. Cordero was tall and lean. He carried an impressively crafted greatsword on his back. His ears were adorned with simple piercings, nothing too fancy or expensive. He was dressed in dark armor, the sigil of the Horns of Highever stamped into his chest plate: The Highever spears crossed over Cousland laurels.

Calida was just as tall as her brother. Her hair was dark and wavy and fell past her shoulders. She carried a sword at her hip and a shield strapped to her back. She too had her ears adorned with piercings, but unlike her brother's hers all looked to be made out of gold and other fine gems. When she flashed a smile you could see a couple of her teeth were gold plated that caused her smile to actually sparkle.

"Are we even sure this Lord Eddlebrek can be trusted?" Cordero voiced his concerns. He ran his hand over the patches of hair that only covered parts of his cheeks and chin.

"Rubbing your face won't make your beard come in even," Calida teased.

Cordero immediately dropped his hand from his face. He looked a bit embarrassed, mumbling something that was directed at his sister.

"Lord Cousland trusts him," Walter intervened before the siblings could go any further in their squabble.

Ser Walter Smith was the General of the Horns of Highever. A special fighting unit that took the best men and women across the Teyrnir and molded them into an elite fighting force that rivaled anything else Ferelden nobility had to offer. It is rumored that its origins lie when Mather and Haelia Cousland drove the werewolves out of their lands. They loyally served the Couslands before Calenhad united Ferelden when the Couslands ruled all of northern Ferelden, and even when the Couslands bent knee to Calenhad. The Horns of Highever kept their pledge and loyalty to the Cousland family.

Walter came from a long line of respected smiths who served Ferelden nobility and even royalty for more than two Ages. He shocked his family when Walter decided instead of forging swords he wanted to learn to use them. He turned away from family tradition to become a squire. He would be knighted during the Rebellion against Orlais. When it was time to choose a sigil he remembered how his family had dubbed him the black sheep of the family, so he picked it for his sigil-a black sheep on a green field.

The four of them were tasked to forge an agreement with Lord Eddlebrek, the Master of the Feravel Plains. They were also the vanguard of what was to come. Realizing that Amaranthine was barely manned, Lord Cousland had devised a plan to snatch the prized city right from under Howe's nose.

It was both brilliant and risky. The Horns of Highever were slowly trickling across the Bannorn and into Amaranthine. Relying on subterfuge and patience, they dressed in rags and traveled in refugee caravans. Lord Cousland had stressed no more than a handful of soldiers with any given caravan. It allowed the soldiers to easily blend in with the countless refugees who flocked to the coastal city.

It would take weeks before they all made it into the city, but their patience would be rewarded because they would easily outnumber the guards that had been left behind to hold the city. Not only would the guards be outnumbered, but they'd be no match for the fighting skills that the Horns of Highever possessed.

That was when Lady Alfstanna's role came into play. She had been chosen to hold the city once it was taken. No small task, as she understood the impact of keeping Amaranthine would have on the civil war. It would be a tremendous boost to their war effort while also serving as a demoralizing and humiliating loss for Howe.

Alfstanna was humbled and intimidated that she was chosen to see this out. She had her doubts, but did not voice them when Lord Cousland chose her. It was not the first time she felt the affliction of self doubt gnawing within her. However, when she felt its suffocating grip enclose around her, she remembered the trust and confidence her brother had shown her so many years ago.

He had seen greatness in her. He believed her to be the ruler that the Waking Sea Bannorn needed that he humbly declared himself a servant of the Chantry and enlisted into the Templar Order. This humble action allowed Alfstanna to inherit the title of Lady of the Waking Sea. Her older brother had such faith in her that he turned down his birthright because he knew she would make a good ruler.

Lord Cousland expected that once news of Amaranthine being taken reached Howe, that the Arl of Amaranthine would quickly muster a response and gather his forces to try to take back the city. Lord Cousland understood that with how the city was built that their forces could withstand a siege, but he knew that they would still need allies in the surrounding area. That was where Lord Eddlebrek came into play. He was an honorable man and well respected in the Arling. If they wanted to hold Amaranthine they needed to keep the people on their side, and even if the local lords couldn't openly declare their support for Lord Cousland, they could help to undermine Howe's own forces from within.

She could see Lord Eddlebrek's estate in the distance. They had finally reached their destination. She sent up a prayer of thanks to the Maker for arriving safely. As they made their way towards his home, she prayed this venture wouldn't be in vain.

"I know why you're here."

They were gathered in his sitting room. Lord Eddlebrek sitting behind his desk while Alfstanna and Walter took to seats in front of his desk. Calida and Cordero stood outside of the room to make sure their conversation wasn't interrupted.

Lord Eddlebrek had greeted them at his front door and had personally escorted them to his study without speaking beyond a neutral but cordial greeting. Alfstanna wasn't sure what to make of their reception. She wasn't expecting any fanfare, but to be treated with such indifference had been unexpected.

Now sitting in her seat, she was able to see the aging lord in front of her more closely. She hadn't seen him in more than a year. He still bore a tan complexion from his years of toiling in the fields. His hair had all but receded, and what remained was a vivid snow white. She noticed rings under his eyes and the onset of stress creeping into his expression and posture. It seemed the last few months had been unkind to the Master of the Feravel Plains.

"You do?" Alfstanna would give nothing away. If he believed he knew then she'd let him speak.

"You seek an alliance," he observed. "Why else would representatives of Edmund Cousland wander so far from his reach."

"Amaranthine is within his reach," Walter corrected with a growl. "The Coastlands are protected by the Couslands."

"Not anymore," Eddlebrek wasn't fazed by Walter's words or tone. "The Coastlands are under Howe's banners now." He looked down at his calloused hands that were resting on his desk. "And he has entrusted his loyal allies to oversee in the day to day ruling."

"Lady Esmerelle," Alfstanna already knew this.

"Aye," Eddlebrek bristled. It was no secret of the bitter rivalry between the Bann of Amaranthine City and the Master of the Feravel Plains.

"Lord Cousland seeks to change all that," Alfstanna began, "he believes there is an opportunity to strike back at Howe, but he cannot do it alone."

"Of course not," Eddlebrek sighed. "When has nobility ever been able to secure power without the help of others?"

Alfstanna expected wariness. Lord Eddlebrek wasn't like most nobles. He wasn't blinded by ambition or chained by tradition. He was a rare breed who cared about the people and his land. He had few soldiers and knights under him, but more than a hundred farmers and families. He had never been after power but stability for the people under him.

He wasn't a man of politics. Eddlebrek cared more about the harvest then the schemes and the feuds that his fellow lords indulged themselves in. He was a man of honor and hard work. If the people knew that Eddlebrek supported Lord Cousland's cause in Amaranthine it would only bolster their presence in the region.

That was why he was needed. To hold Amaranthine, Lord Cousland understood he would need more then soldiers and tactics he would need the support of the local people. If they turned on him then their cause was lost. In order to rally them they would need minor but local lords like Eddlebrek supporting their cause. It would not be done with open declarations but by rumors and gossip that would trickle to the taverns and streets for the people to learn that they could trust Lord Cousland.

"And you think your people are safer under Howe's rule?" Alfstanna challenged.

"I have lived under the banners of the Howe family since the end of the Occupation," he pointed out. "It has never been easy, but Lord Howe has never deliberately gone out of his way to bring harm to me or my people."

He bowed his head. "What happened to the Couslands is a tragedy."

"That's not a strong enough word to describe what Howe did to his liege lord," Walter snarled.

"And what would you have me do?" Eddlebrek turned to Walter. "Openly declare for Lord Cousland? I might as well burn my fields and slaughter my people and that would be a mercy for them if Lord Howe discovered this treachery."

"Lord Cousland doesn't want any open declaration of support," Alfstanna saw her opening.

"Then what does he want?"

"A more unconventional form of support," Alfstanna chose her words carefully. Knowing that if she chose poorly then this alliance would crumble before it could take shape. She also knew that she needed to negotiate from a position of strength and confidence even if it meant divulging certain bits of sensitive information.

"Amaranthine will soon be under Lord Cousland's control." She purposely kept the details vague. They weren't needed for her argument. "And we will have the manpower to withstand any prolong siege that Howe might muster." She could see Eddlebrek was considering what she had to say.

"What we don't have is local support in this area," she continued, "We need that support to keep Amaranthine. If word were to spread through backchannels that local lords such as you supported Cousland's cause then that could sway the people in rallying to our side."

"The dangers and risks are still very real for me and my people," Eddlebrek pointed out. "If word of this gossip turned to Howe I would be executed." He frowned. "But then perhaps that's what Lord Cousland would prefer, a martyr for his cause."

The accusation was low. "Lord Cousland is a man of honor." Alfstanna felt the need to defend her friend and acting regent, Lord Edmund Cousland. "You sully his reputation with this unfound indictment."

"I meant no offense." Eddlebrek steepled his blistered fingers beneath his chin. "Lady Esmerelle resides in Amaranthine City." He observed, "What would happen to her if you were successful in taking the city."

She had been given specific instructions when it came to Lady Esmerelle. Lord Cousland had been clear. "She is to be arrested and kept alive at all costs," Alfstanna revealed. "She is then to be taken to South Reach where Lord Cousland will judge her for the role she played in the massacre of his family."

He was unable to hide his interest at the possibility of having his rival arrested and disgraced. "I respected Bryce Cousland and considered him one of the few nobles worthy of admiration." He got to his feet. "Had I known what Howe had been planning I would have immediately informed the Teyrn." He seemed to be talking more to himself than to them.

"I will help you," he declared turning to them. "I in good conscience cannot allow Lord Howe to usurp Highever. The Teyrnir belongs to the Couslands."

Alfstanna was delighted. "Thank you."

He took her thanks with a nod. "I know of allies who can help your men in not just taking the city, but keeping it."

"Truly?" Alfstanna couldn't believe it.

"Yes," He faltered, "They are unsavory characters, and care little of politics and nobles. They care only for coin and the free flow of goods whether through legal or illegal means."

"Smugglers," Walter figured it out.

"Aye," Eddlebrek confirmed. "They can help you."

"How do you know about them?" She never would have pegged the honorable Lord Eddlebrek as someone who would know smugglers.

"Through a mutual acquaintance," he answered vaguely. "I used them to sell my goods a few years back when Lady Esmerelle and I were feuding. She was determined to slap taxes on my goods in one of her many schemes to try to bring me into debt and ruin."

"It didn't work." He let out a mirthless chuckle. "And since then I've sent a portion of my goods through them to sell. The profit from that small fraction of goods has provided considerable support to the families who are under my protection."

"You think they will help our cause?" Alfstanna was skeptical about trusting smugglers, but if they had a good working relationship with Eddlebrek then perhaps they could be a beneficial ally.

"For the right price and promises," Eddlebrek answered honestly, "But better to have them work for you then for Lord Howe."

Fair enough, she had to concede.

"They have a well stocked cove beneath the city of Amaranthine that allows them to bring ships in and out," Eddlebrek revealed.

They could use those ships to bring in the rest of their forces without having to wait for them to come in through the caravans in the following weeks. The quicker they could get those forces into the city, the sooner they could take Amaranthine and be one step closer to ending this civil war. The decision was ultimately hers. Lord Cousland trusted her judgment.

It was risky, but it was too tempting to pass up. They would be careful.

"We can use them," Alfstanna decided.

"I'll set up a meeting."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Mangled bodies and charred ruins greeted Edmund's forces as they reached another village destroyed by the darkspawn. These gruesome sights were becoming all too familiar for Edmund and his men. They were following in the wake of the darkspawn when they should be meeting them head on. However, they had yet to meet any sizable or threatening force of the creatures. Only stragglers from larger hordes, and they were put down with some difficulty.

"We'll make camp here," Edmund announced to the southern nobles who trailed behind him. "Gather the bodies and prepare them for proper rites." He didn't wait to hear his orders be acknowledged before he moved deeper into the ruined village.

He spotted where the villagers had made a desperate last stand against the darkspawn in hopes of stemming the inevitable. It was on the main road of the village where bodies of men were strewn about, mangled limbs, innards, and blood stained the ground. The scene before him portrayed the brief but violent struggle that led to the inevitable outcome: defeat and death.

Looking closer at those who sacrificed their lives in the defense of their homes pained Edmund. These were not fighting men. They were boys and old men. The young and the old were all that remained in this village, the fighting men and women had probably left months ago in service to their liege lord, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir.

Edmund noticed there were no fighting women amongst the dead. It was odd to see no women amongst the brave defenders. They had just as much reason to fight and protect their home then the men. Yet, they were absent.

There were few darkspawn corpses amongst the dead. The creatures were savage brutes but had basic primal skills that made them dangerous on the battlefield. These boys and old men who gave their lives would have been fortunate to kill any, and Edmund was sure they understood that.

Edmund crouched down in front of one of the boys who gave his life for his home. He looked to be no older than Oren. He felt cold tendrils of dread grip his heart at the thought of his nephew having to fight these monsters against such odds. A rusted sword and a broken shield lay beside the boy, the only testament of the fight that had taken place here. Two arrows peppered the boy, one in the abdomen, the second in the chest. The second one was what killed him.

He wrapped his hand around the shaft of the arrow. A pungent, decaying odor wafted from the wounds, signaling the darkspawn had the tips poisoned to bring further pain to their victims. It riled his stomach, but he ignored his own discomfort, determined to remove these arrows from the boy. He didn't deserve this fate: Lying in the dirt, soaked in a puddle of his blood, flesh decaying, his body left to linger to serve as fodder for the birds and wolves.

"I'm sorry," Edmund whispered. "I-I couldn't save you." He felt hot tears prickle his eyes. He took a calming breath to try to compose himself, but it did little to comfort him or ease the anguish that he felt bubbling in his stomach.

With an effective tug he pulled the arrow out of the boy's body. He tossed the arrow onto the ground and moved to the second one, pulling it out, ignoring the squishy sound that escaped the decaying flesh. He gently moved the boy's head off of the ground and onto his lap. The head lulled to the side, dark lifeless eyes slid out from beneath eyelids, a silent accusatory stare met Edmund's eyes.

He tasted bile in the back of his throat while the cold tendrils squeezed tightly around his heart. Guilt held him firmly in place refusing to yield. His shoulders shook, and he dipped his head as a soft cry escaped his lips, a sob followed wracking his body harshly.

It was only a few seconds of silent mourning, before he was able to compose himself. He wiped his cheeks to scrub away any loose tears that may have slipped. A shaky sigh followed, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. Still trembling, he brought one of his hands to close the boy's eyes and with the other he gently brushed aside the boy's stringy brown hair before allowing his hand to rest on the boy's head.

"Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just," he recited quietly: the words stumbling out of his mouth were laced with a tormenting guilt he could not shake.

"Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide." He carefully scooped up the boy into his arms. He was so light and frail, another painful reminder of just how young this boy was. Edmund shuttered at the ferocity of the coldness that chilled his insides.

"For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing He has wrought shall be lost."

Carrying the boy's body, Edmund Cousland made a vow: No more.

He would not stand idly by while the innocent were being slaughtered. He did not care what banner they carried or what lord they were pledged to, if he could save them, he would.

It took the better part of the afternoon for their forces to round up the rest of the villagers and to see them given proper rites. They were gathered and handled with dignity before being placed in a large dug up hole that would serve as their pyre. The bottom of the hole was covered by kindling and treated mildly with some flammable herbs that Percival had been able to provide. A ring of stones encased the large communal pyre.

When it came time to light the pyre, the sun had all but faded from the sky leaving a reddish tint behind in its wake. It was as if the Maker, Himself recognized that innocent blood had been spilt. A Chantry sister who had accompanied their forces said a prayer and before reciting: A Chant for the Departed.

Edmund and a handful of others were tasked with tossing the torches into the pyre pit. Seeing the bodies beneath him was unnerving. There were far too many children: small, broken bodies that were too numerous to count. Unable to look any further, he tossed his torch into the pit, the others followed his example. The fire started in pockets before spreading rapidly to cover the entirety of the area in an orange glow.

The heat of the flames kissed Edmund's face, his cheeks grew warm but he stayed in his vigil. It was not until the fire dimmed to a near glow, and all that lingered was soot and charred remains of twain wood and bone, did Edmund finally turn away from the pit. He only hoped that they found peace and a warm welcome at the Maker's side.

"Lord Cousland."

He turned to see Percival, the old herbalist approach, giving Edmund a small bow. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No," Edmund assured him, "I'd be happy for the company."

"It does not go unnoticed that you spent your time here."

"I thought those who perished deserved proper vigil."

"A noble who sees to his wounded men and who stands for the dead of his enemies," Percival observed in a light tone that Edmund did not care for.

"They were not my enemies," he pointed out harshly.

Percival seemed to sense he stepped over the line. "I meant no ill will," he sounded genuine. "I'm just repeating what has been whispered in the camp."

"Truly?" Edmund couldn't believe it. That those fighting under him would act so callously at the innocent life that was lost here. Or dismiss their deaths with such cruel negligence. No, they were better than that. He had to believe that. He needed to believe that.

"I fear your decision to linger here has its dissenters," Percival confirmed. "Sadly, it seems to some a person is to be judged by the pictures they stitch on their clothes and paint on their shields." He pointed towards the pyre. "And to those men they see this as nothing but a waste of time and effort on the enemy-Loghain's people."

Edmund ran his fingers through his hair. "Has this war made us so coldhearted?" He feared he already knew his answer. "Has it made us so cruel towards one another?"

"Lord Cousland?" an elf runner approached them. He bowed hastily when Edmund turned to him. "We've received word from the south." The runner presented Edmund with a message.

"The south?" Percival didn't understand.

Edmund didn't answer the herbalist instead he opened up the message to read its short but impactful message. He quickly folded up the note. "I want the nobles assembled immediately." He instructed the runner. "We have much that needs to be discussed."

The elf nodded and bowed before sprinting off towards the camp to pass Edmund's orders along.

"What has happened?"

"Gwaren is besieged by darkspawn." Edmund looked down at the note in his hand. "They're asking for aid."

"Absolutely not!" thundered Ser Lawrence, a boorish man whose body betrayed the fact that he hadn't done any real fighting in years. He earned his prestige through fighting and earned his very round stomach on the benefits that prestige had come with.

His declaration was met with a clamor of support amongst the nobles.

"Gwaren is the seat of our enemy!" Lawrence continued in his poisonous rant. "Let Teyrn Loghain help his people!"

"Teyrn Loghain has already made his decision," a soft silky voice cut through the chatter as smoothly as a knife through butter. The voice belonged to Lady Kent. A tall woman of a thin frame that looked like she could be blown away by a soft breeze, but that would have been a misconception. She was as strong as silverite.

"He has abandoned Gwaren to its fate." Tresses of dark, graying hair were short and braided. Her thin dark eyebrows slightly slanted to display the seriousness in which she spoke.

It was a sad truth, Edmund had to admit. Their scouts reported the same thing the news from the north was that Teyrn Loghain would not send any of his forces to the south to defend the seat of his Teyrnir. The Hero of the River Dane even had the gall to blame his decision on Edmund and the rebels, declaring that the strife they've sown in the Bannorn is why he and his army must remain in the capital.

"As should we," Ser Lawrence turned to the other nobles around him. "War comes with sacrifices," he bowed his head, "But if we are to win this war then we must make the hard choices."

"Here, here," cried out one voice.

The images of the children wrapped in cloths and placed in the pit assaulted Edmund's senses. He couldn't push the boy out of his mind: The boy who would've been Oren's age, and was forced to fight to survive. The vow he made to that boy's corpse to honor his sacrifice replayed in his mind. It would not be forgotten.

He was not going to ignore the issue of Gwaren because it was an inconvenience to their war.

"No," Edmund placed his hands on the table that had the map of southern Ferelden on it. He looked up to see the puzzled faces of the nobility looking back at him. He was unfamiliar with most of them, these were men and women his Uncle would have known how to talk to, but he was in South Reach so it fell on Edmund to work with them.

"My Lord?" asked Bann Hargrove, an honorable man whose holdings were between Lothering and South Reach, he spoke often of his two girls who were in South Reach.

"If this is the price of winning this war," Edmund said softly, "Then Loghain can have his victory." His words stirred a buzzing of murmurs and dissent that resembled an angry hive of hornets.

"Perhaps the trauma of today's events has exhausted Lord Cousland," Ser Lawrence dismissed gently.

"Today's trauma should be on all of our minds," Edmund countered. He looked around at them, surely they hadn't forgotten or dismissed the carnage they discovered here only hours ago. Were they not haunted by the number of bodies they put to torch this day? Or was what Percival said true: Had they allowed the cold aloof form of pragmatism seize their hearts to better properly direct them in this time of war.

"It was unfortunate," Lawrence began delicately.

"IT WAS MORE THEN FUCKING UNFORTUNATE!"Edmund exploded, seething with rage at how they could so effortlessly distance themselves from the terrible reality that waited the hundreds of families in Gwaren if it fell to the darkspawn.

"How many bodies must you see to realize, that this!" Edmund stabbed the blot of Gwaren on the map with his finger, "Should be our only purpose!"

"They swore fealty to Loghain," Lawrence's cheeks were flushed, embarrassed at being the focal point of Edmund's outburst.

"THEY ARE FERELDANS!" Edmund shouted. "And I will not turn my back on them."

He took a few breaths to calm his thundering heartbeat. He wanted to reel in his temper before it seized control. He mentally chided himself for allowing his temperament to crumble to his rage. He was better than that. He looked around see the nobles' reaction to his outburst was mixed. Some looked horrified, some scandalized, while a few remained impassive.

"Lord Cousland is right," came the voice of the dark skinned Bann, Jevrin Barris. "There is only one course of action to take." He turned to Edmund, "My men and I fight with you, Lord Cousland." He closed his hand into a fist and placed it on his chest. "If we are to march to Gwaren to fight then my men and I will be at the front of the column."

"Aye!" Lady Barton pounded the table with her calloused hands. She was a woman of short stature but large personality. She then pointed to her family's sigil emblazoned on her leather armor. It was of an elk standing proudly on a green field. "Let those Blighters see this sigil before I send them back into whatever dark hole they climbed out of!"

Her words received a few laughs, but even more of the nobles began to exchange looks and nod their head in approval. One by one they followed Bann Barris and Lady Barton's example, pledging their support to the march south.

"Have you all lost your minds?" Ser Lawrence looked around the room in dismay. "This is madness!" A third of the nobles within the council remained in agreement with him. "You will all be slaughtered!"

"It is better to die selflessly then live selfishly," Edmund replied. Realizing, further debate was a waste of time. He turned to those who had agreed to follow him. "Inform your men that we march when the sun rises. We must move quickly if we are to reach Gwaren in time to offer assistance."

Lady Barton and Bann Barris led the nobles who had joined their cause out of the room. Edmund wasn't familiar with them or the numbers they would bring to their march to Gwaren, but he was comforted by the fact that he was not alone in not wanting to stand idly by when innocents were threatened.

"This folly will be the death of you," Ser Lawrence's words interrupted Edmund's thoughts.

He turned to the pudgy, graying knight. "Then I will go the Maker's side with clear conscious that I did all in my power to help those who could not defend themselves."

"And what of your nephew?" Ser Lawrence called out after him. "He already lost a father, mother, grandfather, grandmother, and now you. What good would your needless sacrifice do him?"

Oren will understand, Edmund could not falter in his choice. He had to widen his view and look to others who were suffering. He started this to protect Oren and to reclaim his nephew's birthright, but seeing those destroyed villages, carrying that dead boy it had changed Edmund. He couldn't let that sort of suffering continue if he had the power to do something.

Oren was safe in South Reach with Uncle Bryland. Edmund had left his Uncle instructions on what to do if Edmund fell in battle. He trusted his Uncle would see them through. This was what needed to be done now.

"I do what I must," Edmund turned to go, "as must we all."

After three days of grueling marching, Gwaren was within reach. Edmund and a small dispatch of nobles and scouts had separated from their forces to scout ahead. They found a spot along the Brecilian Passage that gave them an advantageous viewpoint of the area below them.

Edmund looked down to survey the vicinity and what he saw caused his breath to hitch in his throat. A large force of darkness swarmed the area below them.

"Maker's breath," one of the scouts cursed, "Look at 'em all!"

It was a terrifying sight to behold. To see so many of the vile creatures clustered together fueled by malice and bloodlust as they besieged the port of Gwaren. Thankfully, the town remained intact. The trees of the Brecilian forest were tall and thick and that wood had been used to erect high, formidable walls to incase the city. There were a few columns of smoke and a handful of orange glows within the city, but it seemed the darkspawn damage had been minimal for the time being.

"Look out at the sea!" Lady Barton pointed out towards the sea that ran parallel with Gwaren.

Edmund squinted, spotting numerous specks out on the waters. It took him only a second to realize that those specks were boats. It seemed many of the townspeople had taken to ships to save them from the darkspawn. He watched as a blur of orange hit one of the specks enveloping it within seconds. No doubt, it had been a fireball cast by one of the darkspawn emissaries. It proved that the reach of the darkspawn was great.

"We must move swiftly," Edmund told them. He pointed towards the Brecilian Passage that spiraled down from their position straight into the darkspawn ranks. Both sides of the Passage were surrounded by the Brecilian Forest. "We will take the Passage and push the darkspawn into the Ocean."

Lady Barton laughed, her hand resting on one of her two axes. "Sounds like my kind of plan."

Bann Barris looked to be reflecting on the strategy. "The Brecilian Forest should provide us cover from the darkspawn until we are within striking distance." He nodded, "Yes, it can work."

"Then let us move. Gwaren is depending on us."

His hands were shaking.

He tasted bile. He had already thrown up once during the slow march through the Brecilian Passage that would empty right into the heart of the oblivious darkspawn forces. And he was sure he may throw up again.

Edmund had been in battle before, but this, this was different. They weren't fighting men, but monsters. The darkspawn were savage, brutal creatures that left nothing but death and desolation in their wake. They were a threat that terrified Edmund Cousland. They represented a fear that shook him to his core.

Yet, he still marched closer towards them. He felt the icy slither of fear crawl up his back.

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow." He murmured, hoping the Chant could serve as a soothing balm to settle his worries. To stem the cold numbness that threatened to engulf him.

"In their blood the Maker's will is written."

They were getting closer. He could hear the growing noise of the darkspawn, hissing, wheezing, and the dreadful humming that gnawed at his senses, irritating his nerves with sharp pinpricks and filled his stomach with icy dread. The malevolence these creatures carried was palpable.

Needing a distraction since he was afraid he was about to throw up again, Edmund looked over his shoulder to see the forces he assembled were marching behind him. A feeling of pride washed over him, helping to lift his spirits. It was a sight to see.

Out in front were the banners of all the nobility and knights who had pledged their service to their cause. The banners swayed in the breeze, he spotted the Cousland laurels which were positioned front and center. There were dozens of banners stretching across the ranks of their forces. The sigils stitched into the banners representing the many families, free holders, and knights that had joined Edmund's cause. Not to mention, the hundreds of soldiers under them who had no crest but whose courage was just as strong as the nobility they followed.

At his side, he was joined by Lady Barton and Bann Barris, both nobles wanting the honor to lead the charge against the darkspawn with him. Edmund was glad for the company. He felt his doubt ease at the calming effect that Lord Barris had and encouraged by the confidence that Lady Barton projected of their chances.

They were reaching the final bend before it would be a straight charge into the darkspawn ranks.

It was time.

He turned so that he was facing his men.

"FERELDANS!" He shouted as loud as his voice allowed him.

"Now is the hour our courage will be tested! Our hearts will not waver!

We shall meet the darkspawn with unmatched fury because

We march and we fight for a cause these creatures will never understand.

Follow me, and we shall forge a legend that will endure long past this Age!"

He pointed his sword forward, "For Ferelden!"

"FERELDEN!" The booming choir of voices rose as one powerful single entity.

"FERELDEN!" They beat their swords against their shields; a clamor of steel hitting against steel joined the chants, adding to the rhythmic and awe inspiring sound of the forces coming together as one.

"FERELDEN!"

"Let the war drums sound!" Edmund ordered, "May our enemy know that the coming of their demise has arrived!"

A thunderous bellow of drums followed his words. Joining with the chants of country and the sound of steel so that the noise became so loud and deafening the Brecilian Passage vibrated beneath their feet.

"CHARGE!"

Blood and screams.

That was what surrounded Edmund Cousland.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he led his forces into the depths of the darkspawn. He had been separated from Lady Barton and Lord Barris and prayed to the Maker to protect them with His hand throughout the battle. The darkspawn's numbers seemed endless. Every time he cut one down, two or three would descend upon him.

Sword in one hand, shield in the other, Edmund endured all darkspawn who came at him. Most came at him like a mindless projectile without thought or tactic. Trying to use brute force or speed to overwhelm his guard, but he was better trained then that. He dispatched the mindless grunts with ease, slicing and cutting a bloody swath through them. A pile of the vile creatures began to mount around him signaling just how many he had faced and killed.

He kept his helm down. Wary of the poison the darkspawn carried in their blood. Aware that even if a drop were to enter an open wound it could very well lead to his demise. On the battlefield against this terrifying foe, Edmund missed the presence of his loyal and stalwart ally, Sarim. His faithful mabari who had joined him in many battles and had never left his side.

A deep growl shook Edmund from his musings, looking forward to see an imposing darkspawn Alpha Hurlock. He heard rumors that these creatures were just as deadly as any knight, twice as strong, with a wicked intelligence that made them a terrible foe on the battlefield. It was said, it was these Alpha Hurlocks who were the Voices of the darkspawn horde during campaigns. It was them along with the Emissaries that led their vile brethren into battle.

The Alpha carried a brutal two handed waraxe. The blade was dripping with blood and bits of flesh. It wore a dark horned helm. Slits were hacked from the helm to allow the Alpha to see, two red eyes were staring out at Edmund from within the helm. It brought its waraxe to bear, the taunt in its actions. It wanted a fight.

Edmund released a breath, carefully gripped his sword before repositioning his arm beneath his shield strap. That was all the time he had before the Alpha charged him, closing the distance between them with unexpected speed. He raised his shield in time to deflect the Alpha's first blow, the waraxe hammered against his shield. A vibrating strum went up Edmund's arm from the brute strength behind the attack.

The Alpha hissed from behind its helm, rearing back and letting loose a flurry of quick blows with its waraxe. Edmund used shield and sword to deflect the bouts, silently amazed at the creature's skill and speed with the massive weapon. Not wanting to stay on the defensive, he lunged forward with sword, expecting the Alpha to easily deflect the strike. It did.

That was when Edmund moved his shield, caught in an awkward angle the Alpha could not bring its waraxe up in time as the shield connected with its side. It stumbled a few steps before digging its boots into the mud to reassert its position. Its red eyes glistened with a malevolent intelligence as it remained in a defensive stance.

Edmund understood the gaze of his opponent. The Alpha was studying him and reassessing its strategy. It possessed a wicked cunning that paired well with its savage nature. Not wanting the creature too much time, Edmund rushed it. Shield held to protect abdomen, allowing Edmund to look over the top of it as he slashed high with his sword.

The Alpha deflected the sword with ease. Before pushing off with his blade and taking a step forward, waraxe poised above his head delivering a sundering blow. Edmund spun out of the creature's reach with shield up in case the attack had been a feint. It wasn't. The waraxe hit the ground with a tremendous amount of force that caused bits of earth to shoot up.

Seeing his chance, Edmund attacked creature with his sword in a high cutting arc. The Alpha had to abandon its stuck waraxe to dodge his strike. It hissed its annoyance as it was left without a weapon. Edmund not wanting to relent with his attack applied pressure to the Alpha, slashing and striking with his sword in hopes of finishing off the Alpha, but even without its waraxe. It proved a crafty opponent, nimbly deflecting Edmund's strikes with quick footwork that seemed impossible for a creature of its size.

It was in Edmund's last strike that his sword found its mark. The blade scraped against the side of the Alpha armor, black ichor trickled out of the cracked armor. Yet, the Alpha seemed ignorant of the cut. It brought its arm down to its side to pin Edmund's sword. With its other arm, it used a swift, downward cutting motion that jarred Edmund's sword out of his hand.

Edmund quickly raised his shield to act as a defensive barrier between himself and the Alpha. Unbothered, by the wound to its side, or the shield in front of it, the darkspawn grabbed the shield with both hands, growling as its gauntleted fingers clenched around the shield. It easily repositioned the shield towards a more cumbersome angle for Edmund.

It let loose a deep cackle before it pulled at the shield with incredible strength. Edmund cried out in pain as the angle of the pull and how the shield was strapped to his arm sent a burst of pain up his arm, as he was forced to watch the Alpha wrest the shield from him. His shield arm fell limply to his side. A throbbing sensation seized his arm and only intensified when he tried to command his fingers or move his hand. Edmund gritted his teeth to try to block out the pain.

The Alpha examined the Cousland Laurels emblazed on the shield before its red eyes met Edmund's. It tossed the shield aside before moving to pick up a broken and discarded lance. It lifted the lance from the ground to reveal that the tip of the lance was still sharp and jagged.

Edmund looked to his feet and was thankful to find his discarded sword. He picked it up just as the Alpha spun at him, lashing out with the lance. He sidestepped the attack. He instinctively tried to raise his shield arm, but that only sent a surge of pain up his arm.

With the lance in its hand, the Alpha seemed even more dangerous. No longer bothered by the bulky weight of the waraxe it moved with greater speed with the lance. It let loose a series of furious flurries that Edmund just barely managed to avoid or deflect. He was losing his strength. He could feel it being slowly sapped out of him.

Sensing weakness, the Alpha did not relent, slashing in a low cutting arc, Edmund tried to deflect it but he didn't possess the strength to properly deflect the strike. The lance scraped against his armor before the blade found flesh, biting his side. The pain was immediate and excruciating as he felt the warmth of blood begin to trickle out of the abdominal wound.

Edmund cried out.

His legs buckled, overwhelmed from his injured arm and the deep cut to his side, he fell to his knees. His grip on his sword loosened, he heard it clatter to the ground beside him. He looked up to see the Alpha standing over him. He went to retrieve his sword, just as the Alpha was poised to strike. He was too late.

The pain was explosive. The lance's thin, jagged blade punctured his armor, piercing his chest. He gasped from the force behind the attack and the blinding flare of pain that burst from the wound. He swayed on his knees, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged breaths. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

"Forgive me, Oren," Edmund whimpered. His eyes were taking in the chaos of the battlefield around him. The next few seconds that passed stretched on in front of him for what felt like hours.

He silently watched the forces he led slowly being swarmed by the darkspawn. His attention transfixed to a handful of soldiers, one of them was carrying the Cousland Laurels banner. They bravely fought off the darkspawn, killing several, but one by one they fell to the overwhelming force of the darkspawn. The soldier carrying the Cousland banner valiantly tried to position himself when the darkspawn delivered the killing blow to keep the Cousland laurels upright, but the pole slid from his dying grasp as the Cousland banner fell to the earth, greeted by blood and mud.

He died protecting a piece of cloth, the guilt threatened to strangle Edmund, at the realization of that poor soldier's sacrifice. His hand was slick with the blood from his side wound; he gingerly lowered it, surprised when his fingers brushed up against the hilt of Aodh. He looked up to see the Alpha was positioning the lance so that it was hovering right beside Edmund's neck. It no doubt wanted to cut his head clean off.

When it moved to strike the blow so did Edmund, mustering his remaining strength, the adrenaline pumping through his veins blocked out the suffocating pain, he dropped his head and rolled with Aodh in hand, the angle and the momentum allowed the enchanted blade to cut cleanly through the unexpected Alpha. Its patchwork of armor was no match for Aodh's charmed enchantments.

It let out a gurgle of surprise, black ichor foaming out of its helm from where its mouth was. It crumpled to the ground.

Unable to remain on his knees, Edmund's legs coiled out from under him, letting him awkwardly slide onto his back where the mud quickly coated the back of his neck and head. He looked up to see the sky blotted out by the darkspawn pollution.

What terrible creatures they were, he thought, if they had the reach to touch the skies with their corruption.

The adrenaline that had propelled him to finish off the Alpha was fading. He felt the agonizing pain that oozed from his chest while the wound from his side continue to sting. The blood trickling down his chest and side from his wounds left behind an unpleasant sensation that caused him to shiver

Lying on the battlefield, pain and death were his only companions.

He couldn't even muster the strength to raise his head to see how the battle was faring. He could hear the screams of dying men and the shouts of valiant ones fighting on.

Death comes on swift, unknowing wings.

These were words told to him long ago. They had been meant to bring comfort, to try to rationalize the randomness that death can appear to be. These were words that haunted him each time death had returned, taking with it: a wife, a father, a mother, a brother, and now it was his turn.

Death had finally come for him.

He felt the life ebbing out of him.

The darkness was enveloping him.

He couldn't fight it.

He closed his eyes.

The pain that had been wracking his body but seconds ago was now fleeting. A soothing heat filled him, he could feel the wonderful sensation slowly spread from his chest throughout his body, removing his pain and easing his discomfort.

It was then that Edmund Cousland finally found peace.

Chapter Text

"Your Majesty?"

Anora looked up from the letter she was reading from Fereldan's ambassador to Kirkwall. Hostility towards Fereldans were growing in the Free Marches, the city states were finding themselves inconvenienced by the flood of Fereldan refugees that had fled their homes to escape the fighting.

According to her ambassador, it seemed Kirkwall has already moved to close their ports and gates. They were refusing to take on any ship or caravan passing into their city that was harboring refugees. To them, her people were nothing more than an infestation. The Free Marchers didn't care what happened to Ferelden or her people. Sadly, it didn't come as a surprise to the Queen of Ferelden. She understood how the nations of Thedas viewed her country and her people. Backwards barbarians, barely civilized.

It still pained Anora to hear how her people were being treated. She felt the cold tendrils of guilt wrap around her heart. She wasn't able to help them. She couldn't protect them from this darkness, and now because of her inability to do her duties as Queen, they were forced to flee their home in an effort to survive. She was failing them. And she was tired of making poor excuses to defend her poor effort in the past few months.

What made it so frustrating for the Queen of Ferelden was she knew she was better than this. She had effectively ruled this country for the past five years, guiding Ferelden to a strong and bright future. Earning a begrudging respect from the other nations of Thedas, but more importantly she was helping to provide a better life for her people. That was what mattered to Anora. That was what she should be doing now.

Knowing the Seneschal was waiting for instructions, she folded the letter, tucking it into one of her drawers. Already, she had partly outlined the reply she would have for her ambassador.

"What news do you bring from the Bannorn?"

Luwin stepped in front of her desk, "Many rumors, Your Majesty."

She didn't like that. Rumors could hurt as much as they could potentially help. Acting on rumor, left you exposed if it turned out to be untrue. It was facts that built the most solid foundation in solving problems and getting results.

Putting aside the rumors, she would hear those later. "Have we heard anything from Arl Wulff?"

"None, your Majesty," Luwin replied apologetically. "His meeting with Lord Cousland will be delayed from when we were hoping."

"That is not good," Anora kept her frustration to herself. "That delay prolongs the fighting." She pushed herself out of her seat in one swift motion; Luwin instinctively lowered his head as she rose. "I would like to see the map."

"Of course, Your Majesty," he led her out of the room. The two guards who stood outside her office shadowed her and the seneschal when they departed. Keeping a respective distance, she grew use to the steel ringing of their armor as they marched.

The distance was brief and the walk was quiet as Luwin moved to open the door for her. She stepped into the room her father used to oversee the civil war. A beautiful mahogany table was the main feature of the well lit room. The legs of the table were carved to resemble sitting mabari hounds. The table had been a gift from the Antivan Royal Family to celebrate the marriage between Anora and Cailan.

It was a massive piece of furniture that stretched far across the room with an equally impressive width. It was a testament of Antivan mastery of woodworking. Elegantly engraved into the left half of the table was the list of every Fereldan king and queen of Theirin descent dating back to the royal family's ascent under King Calenhad. And beside each of the ruler's name was the length of their rule.

The other half of the table was a stunningly accurate carving of Ferelden. Masterfully designed and beautifully painted, it was a breathtaking map of Ferelden. Light streaks of bright blue to represent Fereldan's rivers, specks of dark green to show her forests, the Frostbacks were represented with blots of white. The cities names were etched into the wood as were the Arlings. Beside Highever, the Cousland Laurels were brightly emblazoned as was the Wyvern of Gwaren and the Bear of Amaranthine.

She ran her hands along the smooth edges of the table as her eyes roamed over the map. Her father had put pieces on it to better visualize and assess his numbers and those of Edmund's forces. Her hand stopped when it reached the Wyvern that represented Gwaren and to an extent her own family's heraldry, the Mac Tirs.

An icy sensation filled her stomach at the painful reminder of the terrible situation that had befallen her home. She spent time in both Denerim and Highever, but Gwaren held a special place in her heart. It was the home of her mother, the beautiful and caring Celia. Anora's best and strongest memories of her mother were at their estate in Gwaren, tending to the rose gardens with Anora beside her either helping or reading.

Now, the darkspawn were there.

Anora had been furious when her father had declared his intentions to leave the south to their fate. It was in this room when he made his decision. She argued with him, but he could not be moved. She was the Queen, but she did not have the authority or the loyalty of the army to overrule her father's order. It was a major setback, but one she needed to overcome if she was going to steer Ferelden out of these troubled times.

Her father's decision had proved costly. Many deserted when it was revealed of the army's intent to stay in the capital. Her father had not disclosed the numbers but Luwin had confided to her that it had been many.

Thinking of the ruin and death that had come to her mother's home at the hands of the darkspawn was too painful for the Queen. She looked away from the engraved Gwaren wyvern to see the Seneschal was looking at her with concern.

"He would not see reason, Your Majesty," Luwin said gently, correctly guessing where her thoughts had been lingering. "I tried to persuade him to send anything, but he refused."

"I know, Luwin," she replied with a soft smile, grateful for the man's loyalty and devotion to her and country. "Have you heard from your sister's family?"

"I have," he visibly brightened, "They left Gwaren and took ship for the Free Marches." He was unable to hide his relief that his only remaining family had escaped the Teyrnir before the darkspawn's arrival.

"Praise the Maker," Anora said sincerely, pleased at the good news. There had been far too little good news in these past few weeks. The tragedy that had befallen the south had presented an opportunity that Anora was hopeful to capitalize on.

It had not just been the common soldiers who were displeased with her father's decision, but some within her father's war council had not agreed with the plan. They were tired of this war and wary of Howe and his growing influence. If she could nudge just enough of them to her side, she would have the numbers needed to overrule her father with the backing of a strong enough army to force an immediate truce and hopefully to broker a peace with the rebels to end this civil war.

"Have we had any progress?"

"Some," Luwin answered, "The lords will hear you, but they don't command a large enough force to give either your father or more importantly Howe pause."

"It's a start," Anora was determined. "Set a meeting."

"At once, Your Majesty," He scribbled a few lines on a piece of vellum before presenting it to one of his agents, who had quietly entered the room. He took the rolled up message with a bow, before leaving the room as quietly and as quickly as he entered. "It is a shame that a portion of your father's forces have left already, such as Lord Olsen. He has considerable backing in Gwaren and could've been instrumental in bringing more to your cause."

"Do you know where he has gone?" She couldn't help but agree with the Seneschal's assessment. Olsen's voice was influential in the south, especially in the Gwaren Teyrnir, but he and his forces never made the trip to Denerim. They left after the disastrous loss at Eastern Crossings. It seemed Lord Olsen had seen the writing on the wall and sensed the danger his holdings were in.

"South, Your Majesty," Luwin lowered his head. "It is said he returned to Gwaren."

She understood the underlying implication in Luwin's answer. Maker welcome him to your side, she prayed softly. Not wanting to dwell on the presumed loss of Lord Olsen, she turned her attention back to the engraved map in front of them. It was imperative of her to stop this infighting so that they could face the darkspawn as a united force.

Even though she was trying to recruit some of the lords and ladies within her father's council did not mean that was her only plan. Just as she had sent Lord Wulff to treat with Edmund, she had other plans in the works. She wasn't going to have the fate of Ferelden rely on one plan. She had many, and each one had contingencies on how to best react and move forward if they were successful or salvage them if they were not, and use it to her advantage.

It all started with having information.

"What do we know?"

"Not enough, Your Majesty," Luwin moved around the table. "The fighting has delayed or severed contact with several of our agents." He pointed to a small parcel of land within the Bannorn. "We do know that Edmund Cousland has taken what was left of his forces to South Reach." He moved his hand as he spoke, tracing a path across the map of where he guessed Edmund's forces made their way. His hand stopped when it reached the engraving of the South Reach Arling: a green gate. "It is believed that his Uncle, Leonas Bryland remains there."

"But not Edmund?" Anora frowned.

"No," Luwin shook his head. "He moved south with a sizeable force." Luwin looked up. "It is believed he is using them to fight darkspawn."

She was pleasantly surprised by this revelation. It worked for her benefit. He was willing to fight the darkspawn and put aside his rightful grievances with her father and Arl Howe for the sake of Ferelden. Anora could use that. If she could get him to the table for negotiations she was sure she could tell him of her intentions to remove Howe and to restore his nephew's claim as the rightful Teyrn of Highever.

"What of Arl Wulff?" Where was he? He was carrying something very vital for one of her plans in getting Edmund to treat with them.

"He was on his way to Caer Oswin," Luwin explained, "the seat of Lord Loren and at one point the base of Edmund's rebellion." He frowned, "But now that Edmund has moved his base to South Reach, we can only hope that that is where Lord Wulff is going."

"We have lost contact with him?" Anora asked in disbelief.

"As I said, Your Majesty news out of the Bannorn is difficult," Luwin answered tentatively.

"I know," she sighed, pushing back a few tresses of blond hair that had slipped out from her bun. "I appreciate all of the strenuous work you are doing, Luwin." She needed him to know how much she valued his assistance and dedication. "I worry for our country if this fighting cannot end."

"Me as well, Your Majesty," Luwin bowed his head.

"Where is Howe?" Anora asked. The Arl of Amaranthine and main instigator to this civil war that was destroying her beloved Ferelden had left Denerim more than a week ago.

"He sent word to his main force in the Coastlands," Luwin revealed, tapping to a carved bear that was positioned in a spot between Highever and Amaranthine. "He rendezvoused with them," he picked up the bear and slid it across the Bannorn. "And they are marching on Caer Oswin hoping to engage and eliminate the northern rebels who did not follow Edmund south."

Anora didn't like that. The last thing she needed now was a victory for him. If Howe appeared to be strong and in a position of power; it would be difficult for her to sway those within her father's council to her side, which meant the longer this civil war would be drawn out.

"And are the forces still there?"

"They split shortly after Edmund left," Luwin answered, "some stayed under Lord Loren while the remainder left with Lord Telmen," Loren moved one of the Cousland laurels that had been at Caer Oswin across the map to a spot on the northern portion of the Coastlands. It wasn't marked on the map, but Anora knew at once where they were: The Perch: It was the seat of Lord Telmen and a strategic location to launch raids into the Arling of Amaranthine and Denerim.

"If Howe takes Caer Oswin," Anora began, not liking that scenario one bit, "He can enclose on the Perch from both sides with his forces."

Luwin nodded gravely, "Yes, I fear that is Howe's thinking as well, Your Majesty."

"The Coastlands would be impenetrable for any rebel army to attack," Anora finished. Her eyes drifting back down to the Arling of South Reach. She had put together her father and Howe's plans and it was terrifying. "And if Edmund is fighting darkspawn…"

"Howe will be counting on those vile monsters to either destroy or weaken Edmund's forces as they face the brunt of the darkspawn." Luwin shook his head in disgust, "allowing him and your father time to solidify their holdings in the north."

"While the south becomes a barren wasteland filled with death and destruction," Anora couldn't believe her father would so callously allow the south of Ferelden fall to ruin in his stubborn refusal to remove Howe from power. In her angry blur of confusion, she found an idea emerging: dark and dangerous.

"Unless…"

"Unless?" Luwin frowned. "Your Majesty?"

"Howe remains the reason why my father and Edmund will not call off this civil war," Anora was working through the idea in her mind, weighing the risks and the rewards. "If we could remove Howe, I'm certain a truce could potentially come swiftly on both sides."

"Remove Howe?" Luwin sent her a suspicious look.

"I will do what I must to ensure the survival of Ferelden and the safety of my people," Anora defended, "This war has drawn out for too long, I must seize this chance." She knew Howe would be vulnerable on the road. Even with an army around him, he wouldn't be behind thick walls of a castle, but flimsy bits of cloth a tent. It was easy for individuals to move around unnoticed in the large army camps.

"Your Majesty, you're talking about hiring an assassination." Luwin said in disbelief.

"No," she shook her head, "Not talking, ordering." She met Luwin's surprised look with a determined stare. "The life of one man can end this. How can we not take it?"

Anora dropped her eyes, remembering her ambassador's letter that was on her table. Her people were suffering. They were dying. She loved them as much as they loved her. How could she ignore this? They may not get such a golden opportunity to end this civil war so swiftly. She owed it to her people.

"See to the arrangements, Luwin."

"He's here." Luwin announced.

Anora turned to her Seneschal, feeling a smile come to her face. It was such a strange feeling after weeks of gloom and grief, such a simple motion, a curve of the lips lifted her weary heart. The reason for the smile was soon revealed, walking into the room was one of her oldest friends: Nathaniel Howe.

It had been more than eight years since last she saw him. He was sent to Kirkwall to squire after the events at the tournament in Highever. He had grown in his time away from Ferelden, the lanky boy had transformed into a taller, sturdy young man. His once short messy brown hair had grown long and was carefully braided. A patch of brown stubble covered his chin, while the rest of his cheeks remained freshly shaved. His brown eyes often alit with mischief shimmered when they met her eyes, a slight smirk lifted the right corner of his mouth.

With a somewhat overly dramatic flourish of his hand, he bowed before her.

It was enough to make Anora giggle.

"Leave us," Anora instructed her Seneschal, clamping down on that unqueen like giggle to allow her royal demeanor to resurface. She barely noticed the Seneschal's bow as he left, but she was certain she saw him with a relieved smile when he closed the door behind him.

"It's good to see you again, Anora," Nathaniel made no attempt at formal etiquette. He walked across the room and before she could return his greeting, she felt his wiry arms around her in a friendly embrace, one which she returned with equal fervor. In those few seconds, she felt all those burdens and fatigue that had bothered her in these past few weeks lift from her shoulders. For the first time in months, she was with someone who she cared about, someone who was more brother then friend. With him, she didn't have to be the Queen. She could just be Anora, the girl from Gwaren, the granddaughter of a cabinet maker. Sometimes it was needed to remove the crown to remain grounded.

When the embrace finally ended, he pulled away, that knowing smirk gracing his lips. He kept his hands on her shoulders, looking her over. "It seems you've done well for yourself."

She swatted at him playfully, shaking her head, but unable to shake the smile from her lips. Maker, had she forgotten how great it was to smile or to laugh. "I've missed you." She admitted, noticing the staged puff in his chest. "But not that much," she quipped.

It was his turn to chuckle.

"Please, sit," she gestured to a pair of high back chairs by the fireplace. As they made their way to their seats, she noticed he had a satchel slung over his back. She had felt it when she had hugged him. Watching him, remove it from his back and place it by his legs when he sat down, careful to keep it within reach of him, she couldn't help but discern the importance it had on him and wondered why.

Servants came in with wine, pouring for them.

"Leave the bottle," Nathaniel requested when they had turned to go.

The young servant turned to her, and Anora nodded. The servant was quick to bow, and quicker to obey, placing the bottle on the table between the two chairs before hastily leaving the room to give the two friends some privacy. No doubt, Luwin or Erlina had instructed the servants to keep their distance tonight, to carry out their duties silently, and to not interrupt this long overdue reunion.

"It's been too long," Anora took a sip from her glass. She found the sweet taste refreshing.

"Eight years," Nathaniel took a much larger sip from his glass.

"I'm sorry, I didn't write more," she apologized. It was one of the things she regretted, looking back at the past few years. She used to send him a letter or two a month, but over the years, as the responsibilities and expectations grew as did her role as Queen she sadly found that she was no longer writing to family and friends, but to dignitaries and nobles.

"As far as excuses go," Nathaniel stretched out his arms to make himself comfortable in his seat, "being too busy to write because you were running a country," he paused, as if measuring the unspoken excuse, "I must say, I've heard better."

She smiled, and even within joking, she regretted the truth in his tease.

He sensed her discomfort. "It's fine, Anora." He assured her. "I understand."

"You always did," she observed.

"No need to flatter," he replied lightly, "I've already forgiven you."

She rolled her eyes. Oh, how she missed this! She remembered her time with Nathaniel and Edmund fondly when they were all on the cusp of adulthood. They were so sure of themselves, confident in their place in the world and the fate that lay before them. Nathaniel had been the only one who knew about Anora and Edmunds's secret relationship, a secret they had never successfully been able to hide from him. They had been so close; nothing would keep them apart or be kept apart.

And then everything changed.

Anora was betrothed to Cailan. The tournament happened. Edmund got himself exiled, and Nathaniel's loyalty and unwavering support in his friendship with Edmund and Anora caused him to lose his rights of inheriting the Arling of Amaranthine and sent to Kirkwall in an exile in all but name.

"How was Kirkwall?"

"There were few dull moments," Nathaniel frowned. "But before I left, I noticed the overwhelming wave of our people, Anora."

"I know," She bowed her head. Remembering the letter she had gotten from her ambassador. She was going to save Ferelden. She was going to make sure her people came home.

"The stories," he shook his head in bemusement, "they told, the darkspawn invading the south, and," he paused, a painful expression flickered across his face, "the civil war."

"I'm going to stop it, Nathaniel," she promised him. "I will end it."

"I heard about the Couslands," it was his turn to bow his head. His eyes were looking down into his almost empty glass. "They didn't deserve that." He quickly raised his glass to his lips and finished the contents within in one long gulp, grimacing when he was done.

"My father," he all but whispered.

"Nathaniel," Anora moved to comfort her friend.

"No, Anora," he held up his hand. "I don't want platitudes or half truths." He moved to pour himself a second glass. "No, I'm not the one who needs to be comforted." He tilted his head back and took a long sip.

"How did you know?" Anora couldn't help but ask. Curious if the gossip of Ferelden's Civil War had reached the Free Marches so quickly or had Howe himself informed his son of his actions and the false justifications that went with them.

Nathaniel put down the glass, picking up his satchel. He opened the flap and tilted it so Anora could see the contents within, dozens of letters filled the satchel. "He told me."

Anora was surprised to see so many letters as well as Nathaniel's uncharacteristic like approach to save them. She was aware of the very frosty relationship between the Howe patriarch and the eldest son. The strains were evident when they were children as was the pressure and expectations the father had placed on the son. It was to Anora and Edmund that Nathaniel confessed his grievances and vented his frustrations about his father.

"We never stopped writing," Nathaniel admitted softly, pulling out a letter at random from the satchel.

It was then at seeing the familiar handwriting in the light that Anora realized Nathaniel hadn't been referring to his father, he had been referring to Edmund! Those letters were all from Edmund, not Howe!

"Edmund," she breathed in disbelief, "he's been writing to you."

"He has," Nathaniel confirmed. "He's told me everything." He held up the letter, "Including how he had to kill Thomas."

"I don't know what to say," Anora found herself saying.

That got a smirk out of him. "That may be the first time I've heard you say that."

She ignored the joke. This wasn't the time for that. This revelation changed everything. "When was the last time you heard from him?"

"Before I took ship to Ferelden," Nathaniel answered, "the letter was brief, he said he recognized his true purpose and it was time for him to take responsibility." He shrugged, "It was vague and very unlike him."

"He didn't say where he was going or doing?" Anora asked, disappointment slipped into her tone.

"No," Nathaniel slid the letter back into the satchel. "Do you know?"

"He went south," Anora took a small sip from her glass. She was thankful, for the taste, as it soothed her throat when she swallowed, "to fight the darkspawn."

"That bastard," Nathaniel cursed.

She knew he was angry not at Edmund's decision, but with him not telling Nathaniel. They had been close. They all had been. Secrets between them had always been snuffed out to the point that they stopped trying.

"And Oren?"

"Remains in South Reach under his Great Uncle, Arl Bryland," Anora finished her glass, but made no effort to refill her cup.

"Where is my father?"

"In the Bannorn," Anora noticed the growing frown on his lips, "With his army, marching on Caer Oswin."

"I don't understand any of this," Nathaniel slid deeper into his seat. "This is all madness." He shook his head. "I can't let this be the legacy of my family. I can't allow my father to drag my family's name into this muck."

Anora was silently pleased at hearing her friend. Still, she wouldn't tell him of the plan she had in motion to kill Howe. That was too sensitive. She wasn't sure how he would react. And she couldn't let anything risk the plan to be foiled. She would tell him once the deed was done. She hoped he would understand. However, there were still other plans in motions. Plans that she could use Nathaniel in that could help bring an end to this civil war.

"I need your help, Nat."

"What do you need me to do?" He raised his head, a determined look on his face. Before Anora could unfold her plan and Nathaniel's role in it, they were interrupted with Seneschal Luwin bursting into the room.

"Your Majesty," He looked troubled. "We have news."

"What news?"

"We know where Edmund's army is heading." A pained look flickered across his face, "He marched on Gwaren."

Chapter Text

"Do you have any idea what you have done?"

He had never seen his father so angry. Teyrn Bryce Cousland was furiously pacing. His hands clasped behind his back, his expression usually stoic, but now he was too emotional to hide behind his civility. The anger and disappointment in his features were clear.

They were not alone. His mother was also there; her emotions were more subdued. A worry look creased her brow. Her eyes on him, but what she was thinking or feeling behind her eyes, he couldn't tell. She masked her feelings well. Fergus' absence was more telling. He knew his brother was close to Cailan, and Edmund expected his brother to be angry with him.

"Darling?" his mother placed a hand on his shoulder. "What possessed you to say such things?" Her eyes were searching his for the truth, for answers, "to claim such things?" Her brows furrowed in confusion. "Anora is a friend to this family and you repay her friendship with this….this slander."

It wasn't slander, Edmund wanted to say, but he kept his silence.

"You mistook her friendship for something more," his mother reasoned. She needed to find a reason for his 'madness.'

The thought was insulting, it prickled his pride but Edmund still would not speak.

"You thought it was something more intimate," she continued. "But it wasn't, Edmund. You imagined it."

Edmund bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from lashing out at his mother's misguided accusations. It would've been so easy to prove her wrong. To cite the many times he and Anora had shared intimate moments in the library, or out in the gardens under the starlight.

"You have embarrassed our family." His father's stern voice interrupted his musings. "You have shamed us in front of all of Ferelden."

The words stung, but Edmund had expected them. He knew there would be consequences for what he did. It didn't make it any easier to see how it affected his parents; their disappointment, their anger, but he did what he thought he had to do. And he knew they wouldn't understand.

"If you had been anyone else you'd be condemned to death."

He understood this truth. The family name he had slighted still served as his shield.

"I have talked to His Majesty, and Teyrn Loghain."

This was it, Edmund knew. His punishment for what he did.

"They have agreed that they will spare you, Edmund." His father revealed in a cracked, relieved voice. His eyes wet with tears.

It struck Edmund then looking into his father's eyes. They thought he was going be executed. They had expected the King to demand justice and for Edmund to face the noose. He had never wanted his parents to feel such pain, to experience such fear.

His mother breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Praise the Maker!" Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

"However, a punishment must be handed down." Bryce's expression remained tight. "The people must know this sort of behavior can never be tolerated."

"Bryce?" His mother's voice was suddenly soft, tinged with worry.

"You are to be exiled, son." Bryce exclaimed, "You can never set foot on Ferelden soil again under penalty of death..."

Edmund Cousland woke with a jolt. His breathing came in heavy gasps; pain seized his side at his sudden movement. He cried out in pain.

"Be still," instructed an unfamiliar voice.

"Where am I?" His eyes adjusted to the light as they searched for the source of this stranger. "Who are you?"

"I am a healer," she answered. "And you are currently residing in the estate of the disgraced Teyrn of Gwaren." She stepped into the light. She was an old woman, gray hair tied back in a bun, a stern look covered her face. However, her eyes softened when they met his. "You've been asleep for some time."

"The battle?" Edmund gasped. The events of the battle came flooding back, the bloodshed and the death. As did the pain that were coming from the wounds he had suffered from the Alpha Hurlock. Wounds, he believed had been fatal.

"Your army won," she assured him. "But it came at a heavy cost."

The news of victory had barely alleviated his fears until the second part of her answer sunk in. "I need to assemble my War Council at once," he moved to get up, but immediately regretted the hasty decision. The pain in his chest intensified feeling as if his wound was being ripped open by fiery claws.

"You need to rest," she chastised him, coming alongside the bed. Her hands were glowing a soft shade of blue before touching his chest, removing the pain and discomfort that had just been wracking him.

"Thank you," he breathed, looking up at this stranger. He noticed she was wearing robes worn by mages from the Circle. "You're from the Circle?"

"You're welcome," she smiled. "And I am."

"So the Grand Cleric accepted my request?" He asked hopefully. He had been writing to her for some time in hopes of having a few mages requisitioned from the Circle to help his army. His soldiers were suffering and needed the healing hands of magic.

Her smile dipped. "I am sorry. It is not the Grand Cleric who brought me here."

He frowned, "Then who?"

"I travel with the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden," her tone conveyed her pride at her situation. "I am Senior Enchanter Wynne, your Lordship," she bowed her head.

"Well met," he replied, still trying to process her stunning revelation. "The Grey Wardens are here?" He couldn't believe it, "In Gwaren?"

"They are," she answered. "Lord Olson sent riders in all directions once the battle was over." She explained, "They found us on the King's road traveling towards Redcliffe."

"When they told us of your predicament, our Commander felt obliged to take a detour and to see if we could help. When we arrived, you were near death, but your herbalist had been keeping you alive, but you required more to save you."

Edmund smiled at the mention of Percival. He wasn't surprised upon hearing of Percival's skill or stubbornness in his attempts at keeping him alive. "Then you have my gratitude," he said when she finished.

"You are welcome, your Lordship." She turned to leave, "if you excuse me, I'll have the servants bring you some broth." A twinkle in her eyes when she added, "I'm sure you're hungry after being unconscious for so long."

"Thank you," he said, the pain that he had felt when he woke had eclipsed his grumbling stomach. She acknowledged his appreciation with a nod before stepping out of the room and out of sight. Leaving him alone to muse about everything he had missed since he fell on the battlefield. There was so much he needed to figure out. There was so much he needed to do.

It was just a matter of where to start.

It had only been a day since he awoke and found himself alive and the battle over. He had called a meeting with his lords as well as the nobility of Gwaren. He needed to know what had happened when he lay unconscious as well as plan their next move.

Lord Barris and Lady Barton had given him a recount of the battle. They had told him that after he fell, his body was protected by a handful of soldiers, and an elven servant. The elf servant turned out to be the apprentice of the Herbalist, Percival, and had given Edmund a poultice to dull the pain and to keep him alive. In hearing about their valor and loyalty, Edmund had made a silent vow to reward them for their service. He also made a note to speak with Percival about his apprentice and how the elf had found himself on the battlefield in the first place.

After being told about what had happened in his general vicinity, Lady Barton and Lord Barris had told him that the battle had seemed hopeless. The darkspawn too many for their army, but help came when the gates of Gwaren opened and the Teyrnir's remaining forces came out to fight alongside their unexpected allies. At this point in the story, nobles of the region gave enthusiastic responses at their heroic roles in this story.

However, it had not been enough. The momentum was shifting, but it was the unexpected arrival of Ser Lawrence and his remaining lords and freeholders that changed the battle. He had had a change of heart and had rallied his allies, leading them through the Brecilian Forest flanking the darkspawn and saving the day.

It was called Ser Lawrence's Charge, and proved to be the action that changed the battle. The darkspawn had no answer to Ser Lawrence's mounted cavalry. Seeing him and his mounted soldiers coming out of the forest had been inspiring to the army whose morale was sagging as defeat and death seemed inevitable. It was an action that would surely be canonized in song and played by bards throughout Ferelden for Ages to come. Sadly, Ser Lawrence did not see the victory come to fruition; he fell in battle protecting one of his soldiers.

Edmund had bowed his head at that part of the story. He delivered a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker and to Ser Lawrence for his sacrifice, hoping that the knight was welcomed with open arms by the Maker to His side. He had needed a minute to compose himself before Lady Barton and Lord Barris finished their recount. They didn't seem to mind and they too seemed keen on the idea of a moment's silence to reflect on Ser Lawrence's actions that saved them and changed the battle.

The combination of Ser Lawrence's charge and the Gwaren soldiers joining the fray, the tide of the battle turned, from hopeless defeat to a miraculous victory. The darkspawn were pushed into the sea, a few avoided their watery graves by breaking off from their doomed horde and fled. Lady Barton and her forces gave chase following them back to a large gaping cave where they believed the darkspawn had used as passage to reach the surface from the Deep Roads. Lady Barton and her remaining forces then sealed the cave with rubble. In a move that proved wise since the darkspawn have yet to reemerge since the cave had been sealed.

When it ended, he felt a torrent of emotions: pride, grief, elation. It radically swung with each passing second as he lingered on the battle and the information he had gleamed from the recount. Trying to collect his thoughts and contain the numerous feelings struggling to be expressed, he asked the question that had been on his mind since Wynne had revealed to him the outcome of the battle: "How many?"

He noticed the forlorn looks between Lady Barton and Lord Barris. It `wasn't just them who reacted strongly to his inevitable question. Others in the room responses were just as telling; some had bowed their heads while others exchanged gloomy expressions.

"Nearly three fourths of our army, Your Lordship," Lord Barris was the one to deliver the news.

"Three fourths?" Edmund repeated in crippling dismay. This was devastating.

They had won the battle, but they may have just lost the war.

"Maker," he breathed, still trying to come to terms with this terrible turn in their war effort.

"Your Lordship." It was Lord Olson. He was the leader of the southern contingency of nobles, merchants, knights, and freeholders who had deserted Loghain's cause. "Gwaren will never forget the sacrifice you and your men made." He bowed his head. "We were enemies to your cause, but you came when our own liege lord turned his back on us. We will never forget that it was a Cousland, who saved us."

He clenched his hand into a fist and moved it to his chest. "The Cousland Laurels will forever more fly over Gwaren. So that we will never forget the debt we owe you." The other southern nobles in the room followed their leader's example. "We pledge ourselves to the Cousland family and swear fealty to you-"

"Thank you," Edmund cut them off, not comfortable accepting any oaths of fealty. "But I am not the Cousland who you should be giving your allegiances too." He appreciated their gesture, but he didn't want anyone swearing him any oaths of fealty. It sent the wrong message that he, and not Oren was going to rule Highever. "It is to my nephew, and rightful heir to the Teyrnir of Highever that you need to pledge to. It is in his name that I fight."

"We understand," Lord Olson recovered, unbothered at having been interrupted, "then we will accompany you to South Reach and give our oaths to the Teyrn of Highever, Oren Cousland." The other nobles nodded in affirmation.

"You will be most welcomed," Edmund responded, pleased at their willingness to travel with him and their decision to join their cause and swear themselves to Oren and the Cousland family.

"When do we leave for South Reach, my lord?" Lord Barris asked.

"At first light."

It was odd walking the halls of the Teyrn's estate. This was not the first time Edmund had come to Gwaren. He had visited the Teyrnir in his youth. He had won one of his first melee tourneys here. He could still remember the kiss Anora had given him under the starlight out on her balcony after the celebrations. They had snuck off, tired of the revelry with drunken strangers, they had wanted a few intimate minutes together. He smiled at the memory. It had been simpler back then for him, for her, for everything.

Not wanting to be distracted from the past, he instead brought his attention back to the present. Where he found himself in the Teyrn's parlor, awaiting a meeting between the last two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. He had yet to meet them, when he awoke he learned from Wynne, that they had left the city with the rest of their companions to ensure the darkspawn presence had indeed waned and wouldn't prove to be a future threat to the area.

"You must be Lord Cousland."

He turned to see a woman dressed in robes step into the room, behind her was a man clad in armor. Both of them dressed in the colors of the Grey Wardens.

Looking first towards the woman, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was. She had long red hair that cascaded down into curls, stunning blue eyes, the blue in the robes helped to make them shimmer. The sigil of the Grey Wardens was stitched over her chest while a silver miniature griffon in midflight was perched on her right shoulder.

The warrior looked familiar to Edmund, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was a frustrating feeling that he couldn't shake as he took in the other Warden. He had short, trimmed blonde hair, and friendly brown eyes. He had a warrior's build, and Edmund could tell this was someone who was well trained in swordplay and was a veteran of many battles. His armor was nicely crafted, heavy and durable. Like with hers, it had the Grey Warden insignia pressed into the chest plate.

"I am," he acknowledged.

"I am Solona Amell," she greeted him with a bright smile. "And this is Alistair."

"A pleasure," he tilted his head. "We have much to discuss."

"Agreed," Solona replied.

"Drinks?" Edmund suggested, leading the two Wardens to a pair of chairs by the fireplace. He had a strong suspicion that she was the leader. That she would be the one he needed to negotiate with.

"Yes, please," She answered for them both, before taking the seat closest to the fire. Before she sat he noticed her putting her staff against the side of the chair. He knew she was a mage; he had been able to get that from Wynne. Unfortunately, that was about all he knew about her, and he knew even less about the other Warden.

He took a seat across from them. None of them talked as the servants came in pouring three glasses of wine and putting down a tray of food on the table between them. Edmund noticed, Alistair perking up at the sight of food.

"Oh, this looks good," he said grabbing a handful off of the tray before popping them into his mouth. With each one, a look of satisfaction flickered across his face. After the handful he devoured, he helped himself to more. "You should try these, Solona." He said while chewing.

Solona didn't seem surprised or to mind Alistair's behavior. She looked amused by it. Taking her fellow Warden's advice and picking up one of the snacks. She examined it before taking a small bite of it, her face betrayed how much she liked it, as she soon finished it in one bite and grabbed some more.

"They're a local delicacy," Edmund informed them, watching them with curiosity at their bizarre dining habits. "I'll have the servant bring in some more." He reached for his wine on the table to notice that the tray was already empty. He looked up to see the two Wardens exchanging guilty looks, mouths still full of food. It was enough to make Edmund chuckle.

"You must forgive our manners," Solona pressed a napkin to her lips to wipe away any food residue.

Alistair was nodding, unabashed or oblivious to the crumbs that covered his chin. "We Wardens have strong appetites," he explained.

"Good to know," Edmund made a mental note. After seeing them tuck into the snacks, he wondered if they could put away more food then one of his garrison of soldiers.

A servant came in to take away the empty tray. "Can we have some more food brought out, Elia?"

She turned to him, smiling widely before curtseying while still carrying the empty tray, "Of course, milord." It was a common reaction he was receiving in the estate. The servants were grateful to Edmund and his soldiers for their timely arrival against the darkspawn.

He took a sip of his wine to allow him a moment to gather his thoughts and to help plan his opening words. "Allow me to first offer my condolences on the loss of your fellow Grey Wardens at Ostagar," he bowed his head. "They deserved a better end," sneaking a glance he could see only the slightest reaction from Solona, but it was Alistair, the other warden who reacted more strongly to his words. His face softened, and his expression remorseful.

"Commander Duncan," he noticed how Alistair perked at the mention of the Grey Warden Commander, caused Edmund to change what he was about to say, "was a friend to my family, and I consider myself a better man for have knowing him."

"You knew Duncan?" Alistair asked in disbelief.

His alteration worked perfectly, "I did," Edmund answered, "He hailed from Highever."

"He mentioned that before," Alistair nodded.

"We had a tournament in Highever a month before Ostagar for him," Edmund remembered it well. "If I recall a knight from Redcliffe won the melee." He paused trying to remember the bland knight's name.

"Ser Jory," Alistair provided it.

"Yes," Edmund snapped his fingers, "That's it." He saw the pained look that flickered over Solona's face while Alistair seemed more interested in his boots. There was something there, Edmund could tell. "I take it he died at Ostagar with the other Wardens?"

"He died at Ostagar," Alistair agreed.

"We would like to offer our condolences as well," Solona said abruptly. She seemed keen to want to change the subject. "To those you lost at Highever." She sounded sincere in her intentions.

Edmund raised his glass: "A toast to the fallen."

Alistair and Solona picked up their glasses and repeated, "A toast to the fallen."

All three then drank. The wine had a unique and pleasant taste that Edmund found to like. Having just taken a sip a few seconds before, he only allowed himself a small one.

Solona was the first to put her glass down. "We came out of our way in hopes to speaking with you."

"For that I'm extremely grateful," he understood that he survived the battle in large part to Wynne's skills in healing magic.

"There are too few good men left in Ferelden," Solona complimented.

That got a smile out of Edmund. "And you think I'm one of those?"

"Who else is fighting the darkspawn?" she countered. "That's why we wanted to speak with you. We have a common enemy."

"The darkspawn?" Edmund knew who she really meant, but wanted to gage her reaction and pending response. He needed to know who he was dealing with.

She replied to his guess with an amused smile, "Two common enemies," she corrected herself, "the other being Teyrn Loghain."

For a mage and a Grey Warden, he had to admit she was well composed. She was calculating, he could tell. Every word, every smile she used to help her. When he responded to her smile, she knew to use it again. He was well rehearsed in the Game having been a minor player in it during his time in Orlais to be able to recognize a formidable opponent when he saw one.

"You seek an alliance?" He knew this was the reason for their visit since he was told of their timely arrival.

"We do," she confirmed. "Long have the Grey Wardens aligned themselves with the Nations of Thedas to stop a Blight."

"And how do we know this is a Blight?" He was testing the waters.

Solona did not fall for his ruse, but her fellow Warden wasn't able to compose himself.

"This is a Blight!" Alistair blurted out.

"Very well," Edmund acquiesced; he had gotten what he wanted. He wasn't going to fight the point especially when he too believed this was indeed a Blight. "What does an alliance with the Grey Wardens get my people?"

"The armies we are gathering will not fight for your cause, Lord Cousland," she was quick to say. "They will gather to fight darkspawn and nothing more."

"Which is who I've been fighting these past few weeks," Edmund observed, admiring both her confidence in her position and her bluntness. She was not one to be trifled with.

"Be that as it may," she wasn't so easily fooled, "They won't help you retake Highever or oust Teyrn Loghain from the capital."

I'm not the only one disappointed by that truth, he noticed the reaction the name Teyrn Loghain had gotten out of Alistair. The Warden's expression darkened and he clenched the hand he had been resting on the arm of his seat into a fist.

He was the one invested in the Wardens, not her. It had been Alistair who had reacted strongly to the mention of Duncan, the loss at Ostagar, the Teyrn's name and it had been him who was so vehement in defending that this was a true Blight.

Edmund filed away this important revelation to use for a later day and focused more on the task at hand. "So far I see no benefits of making such an alliance."

Alistair frowned, but Solona's face remained impassive. She didn't seem the least bit phased in his growing disinterest in a potential alliance. "There is one major benefit we can offer you."

"Oh?"

"Mages," she revealed.

Now it was Edmund's turn to frown. "You told me I couldn't get your armies to fight for my cause."

"I did," she admitted, "but we can lend you healers to your armies who are fighting."

"Healers?" Edmund couldn't hide his interest at this unexpected boon, "for my soldiers?" It had been something he had been desperate to get for months. His letters to Kinloch Hold and to the Grand Cleric in Denerim went unanswered, and he had given up on the idea of any aid coming from the Circle.

"Yes," She had him and she knew it.

"They would come to South Reach and treat my injured men?"

"I can write to Kinloch Hold before we leave."

This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. His forces needed those mages. He was already inclined to come to an alliance with the Grey Wardens. This just made it an easier decision to make.

"Very well, Warden Amell," he stood up.

"On behalf of the rightful Teyrn of Highever, Oren Cousland. I, Edmund Cousland acting as his Regent and Commander of his armies, hereby agree to an alliance between our forces and the Grey Wardens of Ferelden."

Chapter Text

They had left Gwaren as heroes.

That had been two days ago.

The last thing she remembered before leaving were the people. The survivors of the darkspawn attack had flooded the streets to get a glimpse of the man responsible for saving them when their own Teyrn had turned his back. Edmund Cousland had taken the praise and attention with nods and polite words.

It was not just Lord Cousland who they wished to thank but the men and women who fought and died to defend Gwaren. They waved and cheered as the columns of soldiers filed out. They tossed flowers onto the road; others sung hymns, and many prayed. Before they had left, a small ceremony put on by the newly appointed Seneschal of Gwaren was thrown where the Cousland flag was raised over the Teyrn estate. Matching flags had scattered throughout the city, draped over walls, fluttering atop the turrets.

It was a testament to Gwaren's future. They followed the Couslands now.

The day of marching had ended. Solona had found a nice spot by one of the many fires that had been made throughout the camp to enjoy her dinner. She was thankful that their meals were now being attended to by someone with some skill in the art of cooking.

It had been decided that she and her companions would accompany Edmund and his allies back to South Reach. From there she only intended to stay long enough to make sure the healers from Kinloch Hold arrived and got situated before they continued on their own adventure. They were headed to Haven, chasing a miracle fueled by hope and faith that what they sought would be enough to cure the ailing Arl.

"This could be bad," Alistair said dryly.

Solona Amell blinked. Noticing her Warden companion had joined her where she was sitting. It only took her a few seconds to realize what he was referring to. To her dismay she spotted an unlikely pair at a nearby fire. Zevran, an Antivan Elf and former Crow was chatting amicably with Edmund Cousland, Regent to the Teyrn of Highever and Commander of the Rebel armies.

Before they departed Gwaren, Solona had talked to certain companions to make sure they stayed out of trouble with Lord Cousland and his allies. She had specifically gone to Zevran to make sure he was discreet about his very recent past as an Antivan Crow and to make sure he did not let slip that his last employer had been Teyrn Loghain

The sound of laughter shook her from her worried musings. It was coming from them. She wasn't sure who had made the comment or joke that led to such laughter. Nor was she expecting Edmund clapping the Antivan elf on the back while still chuckling.

"I didn't expect that," Alistair admitted.

Her meal forgotten, Solona continued to watch the odd sort of friendship that seemed to be forming between Lord Cousland and Zevran right in front of her. Despite the mirthful atmosphere that was hovering over the pair, Solona felt a swell of worry balloon inside of her.

Then it got stranger.

They started speaking and Solona could no longer understand what they were saying. They were speaking Antivan!

"Or that."

Another day of marching had come to an end. Everywhere she looked people were moving.

They were setting up camps, digging latrines, building makeshift watchtowers, starting fires, corralling the horses and the livestock. There was a distinct rhythm to it all. Everything and everyone did their duties smoothly. They talked and laughed while performing their tasks. The talk of the day's march or of a previous battle or of the home and family they left behind to join the Cousland cause.

It reminded Solona of her brief time at Ostagar. Then fresh out of the Circle she breathed in the freedom, observing everything around her with bright eyes.

Then it all went wrong.

The Tower of Ishal, she shivered.

The battle still gave her nightmares. She'd wake up in a cold sweat; an icy sensation filled her stomach at the feeling of despair that gripped her during those terrifying moments when their cries of help were met with silence…

A raven cawed overhead.

Thankful for the interruption, Solona wondered if it was Morrigan. She noticed that the apostate had become even more withdrawn since they had joined Edmund's army in the march to South Reach.

Solona spotted Lord Cousland. He looked a bit disheveled and she noticed he kept looking over his shoulder every few steps as if he was actively avoiding someone. He looked her way, saw a smile come to his tired face before he made his way towards her.

"Lady Amell." He greeted her with a slight dip of his head.

"Lord Cousland," she returned the greeting. She was not use to the title that he had given her.

"Your mage companion is quite persistent," Edmund noted.

"Wynne?" Solona tried hard to keep the amusement out of her voice.

"Yes," Edmund confirmed, "she's following me around like my shadow." He shook his head, "I appreciate her concern, but I don't need her hovering over me," he voiced his criticism delicately, "or the lectures."

"You were injured in battle," she reminded him. She didn't try to defend the nagging or lectures, Solona had grown use to them years ago at the Circle. She was pretty good at tuning them out now.

"Every man and woman who marches with us is injured or tired or both." A grim expression covered his face. "That's the burden of war. That's the reality me and my soldiers live with every day." He turned to her, "I do not mean to offend-"

She stopped him. "No, you haven't." Solona assured him, "You only speak the truth," she said lightly and was pleased at the smile it got from Edmund, but had not been expecting the flutter she had felt when she received it.

"You do have interesting allies."

"I couldn't ask for better companions," she declared proudly. "I never knew you spoke Antivan." She pointed out remembering the encounter she witnessed between him and her companion, Zevran.

"My good sister was from Antiva," he explained, "and she was patient enough to teach me." His eyes softened at the mention of her, and he bowed his head.

Solona knew enough about his story to know she had perished when Howe betrayed his family. "I'm sorry."

"She is with the Maker now."

"You didn't?" Edmund was laughing.

"I did," Solona couldn't help but feel pleased with herself. She had grown to love the sound of his laughter. He seemed almost a different person now: The smile tugging at his lips, the light in his bright green eyes, the warmth of his voice, his cheeks red with mirth.

He looked more like Edmund, the man who Solona had enjoyed getting to know these past few days on the road. Not Lord Cousland, Commander of the Rebel Armies, and Regent to the Teyrn of Highever, Commander Dour, was the term she coined for that particular persona he often wore.

They had fallen into a routine they'd meet up after or sometimes during their meals when their respected leadership duties didn't pull them away. During the short time since it had started, Solona had begun to look forward to them.

"In front of all the mages and templars?" He asked in a tone mixed with doubt and awe.

"I did," Solona tilted her head.

"Maker," he breathed before another rich peal of laughter slipped out. He shook his head, but couldn't shake the smile still on his face. "I can't believe you casted a vanishing spell on the man's robes!"

"He deserved it," She had grown tired of this particular Senior Enchanter's advances and had decided a different tactic was needed. Solona couldn't think of a better one then public humiliation. She only felt sorry for the younger students who had to see his naked, wrinkle body.

"They never suspected you?"

"I was good," Solona told him unable to keep the pride out of her voice.

Senior Enchanter Pycelle wouldn't be seen out of his chambers for more than a month after the prank.

"Lady Amell."

"Edmund," She had secretly grown to like the title he insisted on calling her. Even though she now called him Edmund instead of Lord Cousland.

They were still marching on the King's Road. She hadn't expected his appearance. They didn't meet up until camp had been made in the evening. This was the earliest she had met up with him since they departed Gwaren.

"What's wrong?" She noticed an odd look on his face.

"It seems," he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well you see," he stopped again before taking a breath. "Our mabaris were caught being ergh," he coughed, "Intimate with one another."

Solona let out a very unlady like snort at that news. "You mean they were rutting?" She couldn't contain the laughter that followed.

His eyes widened, surprise covered his face. Whether it was by her response or her directness in the subject, she wasn't sure. It was clear he was uncomfortable with it all. As well as uncertain how to handle or even discuss the discovery.

"Yes, they were rutting," he looked to have swallowed something sour when he said the last word.

She laughed louder and harder this time.

And she was sure she saw a smile on his lips, but not before he rolled his eyes.

"Where did you travel?"

"All over."

They were walking together. He had joined her and her companions on the march and she welcomed his company.

"Like where?" she poked his side.

He chuckled, "Tevinter." He ignored the sound of dislike from Sten who was walking behind them. "Antiva," he continued, despite Zevran's own inclination to stop there believing nothing could compare to his home country, "And also Nevarra and the Free Marches."

"How about Kirkwall?" she asked nervously. She knew that was the seat of her family. That was where her home was supposed to be. Before the Templars came, they took her away from the Free Marches even though there was a Circle in Kirkwall. That wasn't how they operated. So she grew up in Ferelden. In the Tower of Kinloch Hold with books and half forgotten memories of the home she was taken from.

"Yeah," he answered, "I spent some time in Kirkwall. I have a friend who lives there."

"Did you know anyone from my family?"

"Your family?" He frowned.

"The Amells," she clarified, wondering why she was so nervous for him to answer the question.

"Ah," a look of understanding came to his expression. "The Amells have fallen on hard times, Solona." Sympathy mixed with pity filled his eyes, "I am sorry." His words were sincere. The hand on her shoulder was gentle and welcomed.

"Hard times?" She repeated. She couldn't believe it. From the books she had read from the Circle it sounded as if her family was one of the strongest and most influential in all of Kirkwall.

"Yes," he shrugged, "I don't think anyone is even living in their Estate in Hightown."

"So you never met an Amell?" The cold numbness of defeat had quickly deflated her enthusiasm and dashed her hopes.

"I remember there was this pathetic drunk in this tavern, my friend and I would go to when we tired of the stuffy nobles in Hightown," he began, "The Hanged Man," He smiled either at the name or the memories of his time there. "This drunk claimed himself to be the last Amell in Kirkwall. He thought the family name was as good as coin."

"Oh," she wasn't sure what was worse. That this man could be a relative of hers or how far her family had fallen.

"I'm sorry," he began, "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No," she cut him off. She appreciated his concern, but it wasn't necessary. She wasn't someone who shied away from the truth even when it hurt. "I wanted to know."

"Soon they'll be great again," he declared.

"What do you mean?"

"When Thedas learns it was an Amell who helped to stop the Blight. The world will know and revere your family name. It will belong to the Ages."

She smiled at that. Regardless of how romantic it sounded. She couldn't help the feeling of satisfaction that came to her at the notion. It was naïve, she knew, but still comforting in its own way.

The map of Ferelden spread out between them.

"They've made a move here." He put down a bear piece in the Coastlands. "And the darkspawn slowly are advancing." He dropped a darkspawn piece this time on a spot between Lothering and the Hinterlands.

"Here," She handed him a goblet of wine.

He took it with a tight nod.

"Ferelden is depending on me," Edmund took a long sip from his goblet. "All those people will perish if I can't make the right decisions, the tough choices."

"Not just you," she reminded him. They carried this weight together. Solona wondered if that was why it had been so easy for them in the quick friendship they've forged since departing Gwaren.

They could relate to the burdens and responsibilities they shared.

He was the Commander of the Rebel armies, the only one fighting the darkspawn in a country torn by civil war. She was one of the last two Grey Wardens armed with ancient treaties she was tasked with trying to recruit and then unite a diverse cast of allies under her banner in time to try to stop the darkspawn and end the Blight.

Seeing the map in front of her and the darkspawn's movement, all she could think of was that she was the one failing, not Edmund. He was fighting. He was trying.

What armies had she gathered? All she had were the Templars and the Mages. She still needed the armies of the Hinterlands who would only march when called upon by the Arl of Redcliffe. Solona had treaties with the dwarves and elves too, but she wasn't even close in securing alliances with them.

She was on a quest to some remote town near the Frostbacks on the smallest of chances that Haven would lead her to the fabled Urn of Sacred Ashes. Her mission then wasn't even complete. Then she'd have to recover it and then bring it back to Redcliffe. Even then it wasn't d one. It was still needed to administer a cure to the ailing Arl. And even that wasn't conclusive or guaranteed.

"I'm not sure I can do this," she found herself confessing. "What do I know about any of this?!" She pointed to the map. "I'm a mage from the Circle for Maker's sake!" She shook her head at the unfairness of it all, "I've only been out of the Tower for a few months and here I am thrust with this fucking burden!"

"I don't want it!"

In that moment she hated it all, Jowan for betraying her, Duncan for recruiting her, Loghain for Ostagar, Alistair for putting everything on her shoulders. It was all too much.

It felt as if her chest was being painfully squeezed.

She didn't want to be here anymore.

Solona backed away from the map. She felt two arms gently grab her. She spun around to swat him into releasing her, but as her eyes met his she saw it. The same look she was sure she had on her own face.

The burden of the leadership thrust on them, the grief of all they've already lost, the uncertainty at the task in front of them, the fear of failure...

"I know," he squeezed her. He gave no false platitudes. He spoke no lies.

All he offered was the truth. They were in this together. They would see it through together.

That reminder was all she needed.

It was enough to move forward.

Solona Amell didn't know when it had happened.

She was unable to pinpoint the time or location during their march from Gwaren to South Reach when her feelings towards her friend, Edmund began to shift into something more.

Solona had been caught off guard by how comfortable she had begun to feel around him so quickly. Their friendship had been so effortless. They shared a heavy fate in trying to save Ferelden, a terrible burden that brought them together, and allowed them to confide with one another.

She remembered her outburst in the tent when they had been talking about strategy. She wasn't embarrassed by it. She had needed it: An outlet to vent her pent up frustrations.

It hadn't been the only time when they were together. He had done it too. Away from the always watchful eyes of his fellow lords and the eyes of his soldiers, he too needed that release. She couldn't do that with her companions. And he couldn't do that with his own council.

She was there for him as he had been for her.

Now those feelings were evolving. She wanted more. She felt more.

Solona couldn't deny her attraction to him. He was handsome when he wasn't frowning all the time. When he dropped his grim demeanor and told jokes and stories she found him near irresistible. The urge to convey her feelings on the matter had come up but she had been able to restrain herself. She wanted to be certain of his feelings towards her. She wasn't going to bungle this important friendship that meant so much to her just because she hadn't had any good sex in a while.

She wasn't embarrassed about these urges or the desire to be with him.

It was a choice. It was her choice.

One of the few she had growing up in the Circle. She wouldn't let them take it away from her.

Whether it was with a fellow mage or even a templar, man or woman, it was with who she got to decide. That was what was important. By no means did that mean she was easy. Solona just didn't shy away from mutual attraction and an opportunity when it presented itself.

Those feelings, those desires were a part of her. To deny them would be as stupid as to deny her appetite and allow herself to starve. There wasn't anything shameful about it. She wasn't going to let anyone make her loathe herself for embracing something so natural.

She just had to find out how he felt.

"Are you a mage?"

The question had come from the young Teyrn of Highever, Oren Cousland. A boy she had just recently met. She had been nervous about meeting him knowing how important he was to Edmund, and she didn't want to do anything to upset his nephew which in turn could damage her friendship with Edmund which meant so much to her.

They had only just arrived at South Reach within the last hour. Edmund had ordered an intimate early meal to be had between himself, his nephew, his own uncle and Arl of South Reach, a handful of other notable lords of his rebellion and Solona.

She had been given the honor of sitting to Oren's left while his Uncle, Edmund sat to his right. From what she picked up on the bits of conversation she could hear, he was busy getting updates from Lord Bryland about what had been going on while he was away in the south.

Solona instinctively tensed at the question. She was aware of the suspicion that most outside the Circle viewed magic and the mages who wielded it. Even as a member of the Grey Wardens, she was not shielded by that mistrust and fear that many looked upon her with when they learned she was a mage.

She feared a similar reaction from this boy.

When she turned to him, she was surprised to see curiosity shimmering beneath his brown eyes. He wasn't afraid. He was interested. "I am."

She was not expecting the look of wonder that flashed across his face, wide eyes, and open mouth at the news. "Really?" He sounded excited.

It was infectious. She found a small smile on her lips at the boy's awed curiosity. He reminded her of some of the younger students she would sometimes teach in the Circle. "Really," she confirmed.

"Do you think you could cast something?" The enthusiasm in his voice was palpable.

Solona probably should've declined, but she didn't want to dampen the boy's eagerness or disappoint him. Without answering his question, she reached out to his cup of milk. Solona felt the surge of magic rushing through her, feeling the power at her fingertips she gently guided it, muttering the incantation under her breath. A small gathering of frost was conjured leaving an icy trail from her fingers towards his cup.

"Wow!" He poked the now frozen milk in his cup with one of his fingers. "That's incredible!" He turned the cup over and laughed when the block of frozen milk landed on his empty plate with a thud.

Solona took a soft breath to regain her composure and sustain the magic she felt calling to her. She couldn't help but smile proudly at the reaction she had gotten from the young Teyrn.

"It's amazing!" He praised, smiling brightly while his eyes remained focused on the frozen block of milk.

Someone cleared their throat.

She looked up to see Edmund and the other nobles had fallen silent. Apparently, they too had witnessed her little display of magic. Solona found herself not having the energy to be ashamed at what she had been able to do. She met Edmund's inquisitive stare without flinching.

"Look, Uncle!" Oren grabbed his arm, "Look what she did!"

Edmund blinked first. Turning away from her towards his nephew where his impassive expression quickly shifted into a warmer, friendlier look. His green eyes showed affection when he patted his nephew's shoulder. "It's something alright."

He then turned back to her. "But perhaps next time, Lady Amell would be so kind as to wait until after our meal to give us our dessert."

Solona Amell took a breath to try to calm her nerves.

She found herself in her room within the South Reach castle. It provided all the comforts she could've wanted after the long march from Gwaren. Not to mention it was a welcome reprieve from all of the camping she and her companions had been doing throughout Ferelden before they had joined up with Edmund and his allies.

Tall windows allowed for plenty of light as well as the glass paneled doors that led out to a small balcony that provided a beautiful view of the surrounding area. There was a cozy four poster bed, comfortable couch and chairs well positioned by the fireplace carved from the wall. Above it on the mantle was the sigil of South Reach: A green portcullis on a black field. Below the sigil were the family words: To the end.

She focused her attention back to the mirror that was resting on the dresser. A feast was being held to celebrate Edmund's victories in the south and the new Grey Warden alliance. She and Alistair had been given the honor of being invited to sit at the high table where the most influential nobles sat.

Instead of silks, she chose steel. She would attend the feast as a respected Grey Warden Mage and not some genteel noblewoman. Solona had settled for her Grey Warden armor. It had been a gift from Duncan to commemorate her joining the prestigious Grey Wardens. He had commissioned it before leaving the Fereldan Circle so that it would be ready for her when she completed her Joining.

He had believed in her. He had seen something in her that made him want to recruit her in Kinloch Hold. When others died taking the Joining, he was certain she would not be one of them. His trust was something she tried to live up to. She wanted to succeed to honor his memory.

She was nervous about this feast. She didn't want to be. She tried to stop it, but the dread stubbornly clung. It was a heavy sinking feeling in her stomach that she could not lift.

"Are you nervous?"

She didn't turn to greet the visitor. "Oh no," she said smoothly, "You'd be surprised how many fancy balls we hold in the Circle for the nobility." She was pleased when she heard him laugh. She loved the sound and always tried to hear it. Anytime he wasn't being grim was a good thing as far as she was concerned.

For some reason, she didn't like the idea of seeing him for the first time dressed and ready for feast through the mirror. She didn't want the reflection, but the real thing. Slowly, she turned around to see him standing in the doorway.

As handsome as ever, she mused. He was dressed in a doublet of deep green that brought out his green eyes. She was pleased to see there were no hints of grimness etched in his face. His eyes were bright and looked at her with warmth.

The tug she felt in her chest did not go unnoticed, but the cold, sour feeling in her stomach demanded her attention.

"You're a bad liar, Solona."

"Well, I'm not as nervous as Alistair," she countered, noticing the mention of her fellow Grey Warden drew a strange look across Edmund's face. "I think he's afraid to leave his room."

"And here I thought Grey Wardens were supposed to be fearless." He teased, "I suppose we should be thankful that the darkspawn won't be hosting any fancy feasts."

The absurd image that conjured was enough for her to laugh which thankfully alleviated the nausea bubbling up in her stomach. "Don't tell me this means the Alliance is now off?"

"I'll go down and make the announcement now." He sighed dramatically. "I know how much you were looking forward to this feast too."

"Such a shame," Solona tried her best to stop herself from giggling as she delivered her line in what she believed was a rather convincing distraught sounding tone.

"Quite the shame," He agreed, "Especially since you look very lovely."

She turned to see if this was still part of their jest, but when she met his eyes there was no mirth in them. There was a slight smile tugging at his lips, but she could see he looked at her approvingly.

His words stirred within her.

"Is that so?"

Uncertainty flickered across his expression, shrouding his smile as his lips pursed together.

Solona made the decision for him. She cut the distance between them in smooth strides. Her presence brought him out of his self imposed reverie. She put a hand on his arm, and was pleased at his response. He followed her lead, his arms snaked around her.

Surprised, but pleased by his unexpected response. She had no intention of losing the upper hand. She brought her hands to the front of his doublet, clasping at the cloth to pull him towards her where she met his lips with hers in a searing kiss.

Chapter Text

What am I doing?

He sighed. He was in his chambers. The feast had gone off better than he expected. It was a needed distraction to boost the spirits of the commoners and nobles alike. A celebration of the victories they did achieve without having to focus on the defeats and despair that have been inflicting their cause.

It wasn't the celebration that had Edmund filled with doubts and second thoughts. It was what happened afterwards. He had given into his desires and for the first time in a long time he put aside his duty and responsibility and did what he wanted.

The result had been a wonderful night with Solona. He had fallen for the lovely mage-hard. He had felt this way before but never this quickly. He and Solona had built something special so effortlessly. It scared him.

This had no future. He was a noble. She was a mage.

The smart thing would be to end this-now.

Why? The soft voice seemed to spring up somewhere in the back of his mind. Why should I give this up-Her up?

She, the source of the only happiness he had felt in years. During that time it was Orlais not Ferelden where he called home. He stopped those thoughts and memories from rising back up. That was a pain that would never leave him. Edmund understood that. A piece of him was taken when she died.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He rubbed his thumb over his eyes feeling a touch of wetness.

Maker, he thought. It was easier now. The pain had lessened and he could reflect more fondly on the life he had made with her. The memories were better now.

Not all of them, a cold voice countered. The truth in those words nearly had him shuddering even as he stood in front of the glowing embers of the hearth. It was true, he knew. Some memories he couldn't allow to resurface. Those, he couldn't quite face. Those, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to.

Edmund loudly cleared his throat as if hoping the gesture would help to clear his thoughts and push away the cold reminder of a past he didn't want to reflect on. A soft groan caused him to turn his head towards his bed to see Solona stirring under the covers. For a moment, he feared he may have waked her up. An action he would've regretted immediately, knowing how difficult it was for her to find any semblance of a peaceful slumber. Thankfully, she seemed to still be sleeping.

He let out the breath he had been holding. She had been a much needed light to the darkness that he had allowed himself to slip in. It was a darkness that he accepted to live in since before he moved back to Ferelden. That only darkened after the events of Howe's betrayal. She was his beacon.

Maker, he inwardly groaned, that sounds cheesy. Yet, even if the line belonged in some over-the-top romance serial, he couldn't deny the truth in them.

She helped to banish the misery and guilt that had been gnawing at him since his family's home was torched and his parents killed. The burdens of command melted away in her presence. He was happy with her; a rare feeling that he hadn't been familiar with in some time.

"Edmund?"

"Hmm?" He hoped he hadn't inadvertently waked her up.

"Come back to bed."

He smiled at that enticing suggestion. Edmund looked over his shoulder to see she was sitting up from the bed. Her sparkling blue eyes shimmering with concern, her fiery curls tousled from sleep framing her face. She didn't bother using a blanket to shield herself from the cool night allowing him to drink in her beautiful form.

"I'm coming," he assured her.

In that moment, he knew his course. He wasn't going to fight this. He wasn't going to try to question or examine it. He was going to embrace it. And be thankful.

"Good," she smiled, laying a hand on his arm when he slid back under the covers. "But since we're both awake now…" She flashed him an impish smile. Her hand curled tightly in his hair.

He wrapped his arms around her. She adjusted herself in his embrace, moving closer to him. He let his hands gently trail along her back. "I suppose I could indulge you," he feigned a resigned tone.

She playfully slapped his shoulder. "If that's how you feel," she dramatically tried to wiggle out from his grip.

He laughed. "Forgive me, Lady Amell for any slights." He leaned in to capture her lips with his.

"Maker, let us hope Howe and Loghain don't discover just how vulnerable we are." His uncle, the Arl of South Reach shook his head.

"We don't have the numbers to even repel an attack if their eyes drifted here." A sadness flickered over Leonas Bryland's face at the thought of his home being besieged, and the danger that it would plunge his people and family into.

"Soon their eyes will be set on Amaranthine," Edmund tried to assure him, though quietly he couldn't deny the legitimacy of his uncle's concerns. They were very real. The losses at Gwaren seemed nearly insurmountable to overcome. They didn't have the strength to meet either Howe or Loghain on the field.

Thankfully, it seemed they hadn't learned how devastating Gwaren had been towards Edmund and his forces. Edmund had learned that the only news that had come from the south was of his victory over the darkspawn and saving Gwaren. The details were vague. That had been a blessing, and one he further prayed that Howe and Loghain would remain ignorant too.

"Have you heard anything from Lady Alfstanna?"

"No," Leonas sighed, "Besides her visit with Lord Eddlebrek."

"We expected this," Edmund reminded his Uncle. "We knew contacting them would be difficult and we had to trust the plan and wait to hear word of their victory," he swallowed, "or their defeat."

"I know," Leonas pinched the bridge of his nose. "The not knowing is taking its toll on me."

"Yeah, it is." Edmund had tried to keep himself busy and distracted and to not allow himself to dwell on the plan he and Lady Alfstanna had concocted and the mission she undertook to try to wrest Amaranthine from under Howe's nose.

It was trying, but it had been made easier more recently with Solona's presence. She was very good with distractions, he had to smother the smile that was threatening to spread across his face lest his uncle think he's become distracted or crazy from the dreamy look and smile that was trying to emerge.

"There has been talk."

That got his attention. His uncle's tone coupled with his reserved expression had Edmund on alert. "On?"

"Our Warden allies," His uncle answered delicately.

"What of them?" Edmund fixed his expression to remain neutral.

"You know my suspicions on Alistair," His uncle observed.

"I do," Edmund was hopeful this was the extent of the Warden rumors. He didn't want to have to address anything involving him and Solona. "And I agree with them."

Leonas seemed pleased with that. "Have you shared them with her?"

The way he said her had Edmund summoning his discipline to stop himself from frowning. Causing him to wonder if that had been deliberate on his uncle's part. "I haven't." Edmund revealed, "I will," he assured him, "We'll have the truth soon."

"Good." Leonas nodded, "There's no doubt though." His eyes looked distant as if he was drawing on memories from his youth. "He has the look."

"He does," Edmund had kicked himself for not recognizing it sooner when it finally did come to him. "It doesn't have to change anything."

His uncle raised his eyebrows at that, "It changes everything, Edmund."

It was a tired Edmund that slipped into his room after a particularly long War Council. It seemed every noble that attended had their own idea on what was the best next move their faction could make. It became very draining and very boring rather quickly.

Thankfully, it finally ended and Edmund found himself looking forward to spending the rest of his evening with Solona. He spotted her sitting on the sofa in front of the hearth, a glowing fire warmed the room.

"You're late."

"Yes, I am." There was no point in denying it. "Excusing yourself early because you have a beautiful Grey Warden mage waiting for you is frowned upon."

"Is that so?" she questioned, looking over her shoulder at his approach.

He shrugged. "I couldn't believe it either." He stood behind her.

She laughed lightly before shaking her head.

He put his hands on her shoulders and slowly went about massaging them. Trying to rub away the tension he could feel having been built up from her stress and the strenuous journey she was going through.

"If you think this will have me forgive you for being late-" she stopped as a content sigh passed her lips. "It wouldn't hurt your cause to keep it up."

"As you command," he brushed some of her copper curls off of her shoulder to reveal the creamy skin of her neck. He pressed a kiss on a spot just below her ear that had her moan louder. She smelled of strawberries, he breathed in her scent as his lips lingered on a second kiss against her soft flesh.

In that moment, he forgot all about the War Council meeting and the pestering nobles and allowed himself to embrace the now with her.

"Why is she here?!"

Edmund had been surprised by both the sharpness of his voice and the tone that spoke the words. It was dripping with hatred. He couldn't ever recall the jovial Grey Warden Alistair speaking in such a tone. He looked to see the target of his disgust was centered on Ser Cauthrien.

They were in the courtyard. Edmund had taken an excuse to leave the stuffy castle to get some fresh air while trying to find Solona. He had found her, and Alistair as well as her qunari companion, Sten and the Orlesian bard, Leliana. Alistair and Sten had been sparring. Leliana had been lazily plucking some strings from her lute while Solona was sitting under some shade.

He hadn't helped but notice the smile that came to her face when she spotted him. A smile he was sure he mirrored as he made his way to her. Unfortunately, before he could even reach her their time had already been interrupted by Alistair's outburst.

That was when Edmund had noticed the arrival of Ser Cauthrien who had come out to the courtyard with his nephew, Oren and two other of his guards to help continue his weapon training.

"What's going on?" Edmund had diverted from his path towards Solona and made straight to intervene before Alistair and Ser Cauthrien could reach one another.

"How can you have this traitor with you?" Alistair demanded.

"I'm no traitor," Ser Cauthrien growled back.

Of course, Edmund realized, understanding the animosity that was radiating off of Alistair. Knowing the Warden's distrust and anger at what Teyrn Loghain had done at Ostagar. However, Edmund was surprised that Alistair didn't already know about her presence. He had told Solona about it on the road, and they agreed to try to make sure certain paths didn't cross.

He looked over to see the worried expression on Solona's face and realized she must have forgotten to tell her fellow Warden about Cauthrien's presence.

"You served Loghain." Alistair meant the words to be an insult, but had he known how loyal and prideful Cauthrien was he would've known she would take those words as a badge of pride.

"I do," She raised her head imperiously.

"You were there," Alistair's voice had gone cold and soft, "When he abandoned the King," He closed his eyes, "and my fellow Wardens." When he opened them, his eyes were hard. "Cailan and Duncan and the other Wardens are dead because of him."

"It was the King's plan that doomed him," Cauthrien spat back, "His Grace did what he did for Ferelden. He wouldn't allow Cailan's thirst for glory be Ferelden's undoing."

Alistair was shaking his head. His expression mixed between outrage and disbelief. "He betrayed Ferelden!"

"The king did that himself." Cauthrien bowed her head, looking visibly shaken at her own declaration.

"Enough," Edmund wasn't having anymore. Knowing both were armed, and was sure swords were about to be drawn. Something he was not going to tolerate in his nephew's presence. He turned to Alistair to see the Warden was still seething.

"Alistair, Ser Cauthrien is here as my prisoner," he assured him. "She is serving admirably in her position in protecting my nephew." He ignored Alistair's disbelieving look at that revelation before turning back to Cauthrien, "And Alistair is here under my invitation and is a welcomed guest and valued ally to my family's cause, Ser Cauthrien and will be treated with respect."

Edmund looked to see neither looked ready to accept his words.

"Alistair," Solona appeared at his side, putting her hand on his arm. "Come on, let's go," she encouraged him.

He was still glaring daggers at Ser Cauthrien, but slowly Alistair turned away from her and towards his fellow Warden, before finally nodding and allowing Solona to guide him away while a concerned Leliana went to his other side.

Sten remained where he stood. His impassive expression and cold purple eyes looking at Edmund for a long moment that had Edmund think the qunari was judging him. Then it passed, Sten muttered something before he too left to join the others.

"I know about Alistair."

They were sitting alone enjoying breakfast in the small room connected to his bedroom. The windows were providing plenty of light for them. He always enjoyed breakfast the most. It was just him and her. There were rarely interruptions from either party and it allowed them to spend time together. It was blissful where they didn't have to worry about treaties and armies. They could just enjoy each other's company.

He just had to ruin it. Edmund knew this would be the best time to make plain his realization of who Alistair really was.

She looked up from her meal. The only hint of surprise from his words had been the slight scraping of her utensils on her plate. Her face betrayed nothing. Her blue eyes looking him over, but again she said or did nothing. It was clear she wasn't going to come forth with any information.

"I know that King Maric is Alistair's father." Edmund wanted to open up the conversation. This important revelation needed to be discussed. He wanted to bypass any subtle words and fruitless sentences.

"Who was his mother?"

"She was a maid from Redcliffe castle." Solona seemed to have come to a similar understanding as him. Deciding to drop the act and simply put forward what she knew.

"An elf?" Edmund had a suspicion.

"No," Solona's brows furrowed, "A human."

He wasn't expecting that. "Are you sure?"

"That's what Alistair says," Solona was studying him closely. "Why do you think she's an elf?"

Edmund knew it would do no good to lie to Solona. "It's from something I overheard my parents discussing years ago," he explained. It had been after the King had visited Highever. He had heard his parents talking about the visit and he could tell his father had a bit of wine because he was more talkative than usual. "My father said the King had an affinity for elven women and my father suspected that the Queen may have been the only human King Maric had ever slept with."

"That doesn't mean Alistair's mother is an elf," Solona observed.

"No," Edmund agreed, but he knew his father to be observant and well informed. If his father believed this to be true, Edmund was hard pressed to doubt it. "Regardless, I think it's possible that she was an elf servant."

"Alistair says-"

"He doesn't know," he cut her off. "It's one thing to say you're a king's bastard, a realization that I will admit to being surprised to," Edmund acknowledged.

"But to add his mother was an elf. It could do detrimental harm to Maric's reputation."

Solona had not looked happy when he interrupted her, but her look transformed from anger to pensive as she thought about his words. "The Arl would know."

"Indeed."

"He doesn't want to rule," Solona told him. "He doesn't want the crown."

Edmund was caught off guard by her sudden remarks. "He thinks he'll be king?"

"Yes."

"He's a bastard," Edmund said bluntly and dismissively.

"A king's bastard," Solona's tone had cooled from Edmund's last words. It seemed in his bluntness he may have offended her.

"The only way a bastard can be legitimized," Edmund lectured, "Is by either a royal decree from the sitting monarch or with an army waving the bastard's banner and victory inevitable."

Through law or by force were the only ways bastards could legitimize themselves. History had tales of both.

"He's also a Grey Warden," Edmund reminded her. "They are an Order that prides itself on being politically neutral." No, the more he thought of it, the more absurd it sounded: Alistair, a Grey Warden bastard a potential king? It seemed like some bad jest.

"You don't think the nobility would want him?" It was evident Solona was surprised to learn that Alistair's chances of being King of Ferelden were less then she obviously believed. "He's the last Theirin."

"The most important noble Ferelden families have the Theirin bloodline flowing in their veins," Edmund observed, "Including my family."

"What about Ferelden?" Solona looked despondent. "Who's going to rule and unify it against the darkspawn and bring Loghain to justice?"

Edmund shrugged. "That is up to a Landsmeet." They would decide Ferelden's fate. Their voice was law. Who they chose the people and nobility would follow just as their ancestors did.

A spark danced in her eyes as they looked him over before a smile came to her lips. "What about you."

Edmund was thrown by that suggestion. "What?"

"You could be King of Ferelden," she was nodding her head like it made the most sense. "You'd be the perfect choice."

"You wanted to see me, m'lord?"

"I did." Edmund turned to address the young elf who had just entered his study.

He had short crop of jet black hair, bright blue eyes, the lithe frame that his people were known for. He was dressed in simple clothes, dirty slacks, and a brown tunic. He gave Edmund a crisp bow when their eyes met. This was Revas Surana. And Edmund owed him a debt he needed to pay.

"I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to seek you out," Edmund apology's startled the elf.

"There is nothing to forgive, m'lord." The elf assured him.

"I disagree," Edmund said delicately, "You are Percival's apprentice are you not?"

"I am." He looked confused. "Revas Surana."

"You were there at the Battle of Gwaren," Edmund reminded him. "You applied the medicine that saved me from my wounds."

"I did, m'lord," he confirmed. "It was an honor to help you."

"You didn't just help me, Revas." Edmund told him. "You saved my life." He moved across his desk towards the stand where he kept his wine. "Care for some?"

"No thank you, m'lord," Revas declined politely, unable to hide his surprise at being offered it in the first place.

"The other men and women present at the battle who help defend me from darkspawn have been rewarded for their valor." He moved to pour himself a measure of wine, reflecting on how he handled the other requests that the soldiers made when given the offer.

They had asked for titles and land. Edmund had given it to them. It had been simple, and they were thankful. That was what was important. It was foolish to underestimate soldier's morale in the middle of a war.

"So I had you brought to me to ask you the same question." Edmund took a small sip from his glass. "How can I repay you? What would you have of me?"

Shock was clearly written on the elf's sharp facial features at his question. His large eyes bulging at what Edmund was implying. "M-M-lord," he stammered, trying to form some sort of cognizant response.

"Peace," Edmund held up his hand. He went over and poured the surprised elf some wine and handed it to him, who this time took it without protest.

Revas took a long sip. His grip on the goblet was shaky. "This is unexpected, m'lord."

"Take your time," Edmund told him.

He nodded his thanks before taking a breath to compose himself. "I know what I want, m'lord."

"Yes?"

"I want to fight."

That had surprised Edmund. He hid it well. This was not an answer he had expected. It was against the law for elves to carry weapons. He looked to see the elf apprentice had straightened his posture, his blue eyes shimmered with determination.

Then an idea formed in Edmund's mind. It was risky, but what choice did he have? It was not without precedence. It would be divisive, he knew, but if it was properly monitored and got results, it would be worth it.

"Done," Edmund agreed, "On one condition."

"What's that, m'lord?"

"You gather any other elves, men or women who too want to take up a sword and fight," Edmund explained. "My army will outfit you and your people. I'll see to it that you all receive training."

There was suspicion in his eyes, but he slowly nodded. "Very well, m'lord, I'll see to the recruitment, myself."

"He looks to be enjoying himself."

Edmund could only agree with Solona's observation. He was watching Oren playing some sort of game with Lady and Sarim. They were trampling through a small pond. Oren would splash the mabaris when they got too close. The two mabaris were having just as much fun as the little Teyrn. They ran around him, kicking up water, inadvertently splashing him back, and barking happily.

He and Solona were watching them play beneath the shade of a tree. She was pressed against him. He had his arm around her while her head was nestled beneath his. Looking at Oren, Edmund could only smile at seeing his nephew laughing, he looked so carefree. He seemed so happy.

A pang of guilt thrummed inside of Edmund. He stirred uncomfortably getting Solona's attention in the process.

"What's wrong?" She pulled her head away so that she could see his eyes.

"Seeing Oren like this," Edmund confessed, "I know I made the wrong choice." He sighed, "We should've left Ferelden, gone to the Free Marches. We would've been safe and he would've been happy." He shook his head at the pile of mistakes he's made since the massacre of his family.

"But I didn't. Instead I make him the Teyrn and I fight his battles," he let out a humorless laugh. "I know more about fighting then parenting. I'm more comfortable on a battlefield killing men then I am trying to help raise my own nephew!"

"That's not true," she chided him. "You know that's not true."

Edmund didn't know much of anything anymore.

"He's safe," Solona seized his contemplative silence to continue in her attempts to reassure him, "You saved him that night. You've protected him ever since. He loves you."

"Because he doesn't know better."

She cupped his cheeks with her hands so that he'd look into her bright, beautiful blue eyes. "Don't say that." Her tone was serious as was her expression. "Not ever."

He numbly nodded. The guilt that threatened to strangle him lessened at her comforting words.

Solona looked satisfied. She pressed her lips against his in a chaste kiss. "You are a good man," she told him. "Never forget that."

Not for the first time was Edmund Cousland thankful for her presence. In this short amount of time together

She brought her head back to his chest. He absentmindedly started running a hand through her thick, copper curls. While her other hand found his resting on her lap and she placed hers above his.

It was in this peaceful moment with her watching Oren laughing and playing with the mabaris did Edmund find himself smiling again.

"I have something for you."

"Oh?" They were alone in his chambers, "Wine?"

"Yes, please."

Edmund made his way over to where the wine was sitting. He poured equal measures into their glasses. He turned to bring Solona hers when he noticed she had placed something on the table where she sat. It was covered by silk. Yet, it couldn't hide the unique shape that lay beneath the cloth. It was the outline of a sword.

"What is it?"

"I was given a great gift when I helped the Drydens at Soldier's Peak," she began, "A gift that would do you more good than me."

He frowned. "What do you mean?" He handed her a glass of wine which she took with a smile.

She gestured to the gift on the table. "Perhaps, instead of asking questions you can just see what it is."

"Very well," he put down his glass on the table beside her gift. He pulled the cloth off of it to confirm his hunch that it was a sword, but it remained sheathed. He noticed the hilt of the blade had the Cousland laurels emblazoned on it. He picked it up to see that the other side of the hilt had the Grey Warden sigil: an argent griffon segreant.

"I had a new hilt for it made," She explained when his eyes lingered on the Cousland laurels.

He was surprised by the lightness of the weapon. The scabbard was unremarkable, so he slowly pulled the blade from it. What he saw was the most extraordinary weapon his eyes had ever seen.

The longsword gave off a bluish hue. He had never seen such a metal before. Edmund stepped away from Solona and the table his eyes on the remarkable blade in his hand. He gave it a few practice swings to test its weight and balance. It was an extension of his arm. The swiftness as it cut through the air, it practically hummed when he swung it. The bluish glow that resonated from it only made it hauntingly beautiful.

"The metal?" Edmund murmured unable to remove his eyes from the longsword. "What is it?"

"Star metal," she answered.

"Star metal?" His eyes finally moved from the blade to Solona to see her amused reaction at his response.

"Yes," she confirmed. "I found it from a crashed meteor."

"Maker," Edmund breathed in disbelief.

"It might have been sent by Him," Solona teased.

"I-I can't take this," he found himself reluctantly declaring.

"Yes, you can and you will," Solona stubbornly replied. "I'm a mage." She reminded him, "I have no use for it." A thoughtful expression covered her face, as her blue eyes looked to him, "A remarkable sword, for a remarkable man."

He put the sword down carefully and moved across the table where he moved to embrace her. He found himself overwhelmed by her belief in him, by her support. It all seemed to culminate when given such a remarkable gift in this sword. How lost and unsure he seemed to be before she came into his life. In a time of war, she brought him some measure of peace and happiness that he would always cherish.

This sword would always serve as that reminder, he knew. It would represent the faith she had in him. A testament for everything they've been through and shared with one another. How they found solace in each other's company. Their friendship and then relationship had become a refuge for them both. A way to take shelter from the burdens and responsibilities that threatened to smother them.

From the beginning, they both understood that the relationship they treasured could not last. Soon, Solona would leave to resume her duties as a Grey Warden and to continue to recruit new allies to stop the darkspawn. Edmund needed to remain for his nephew and to oversee the alliances he had gathered.

Their roles took them in different directions and for one brief moment, their paths crossed and in that fleeting time together they cherished what they had.

Edmund couldn't help but wonder if that was the reason why what they had was so great, because it was fleeting. It never had its chance to dull or lose its luster. It would always remain bright and burning in both mind and heart.

"Thank you," he kissed her hair. "Thank you for everything."

When they pulled away, he could see her blue eyes shimmering with the same emotions he was sure were swimming in his. Her eyes slowly moved away from his and towards the sword.

"She's called Starfang."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"You're in one of your moods again."

Fergus bristled. "I am not."

It was just the two of them, holed up in this small one roomed hut. The hut they had been sharing for days, possibly weeks, and to Fergus' growing dread maybe even months. He wasn't certain. It had been so difficult for him to keep track of time. His injury and fever had made him unable to figure out the gap between when he left Ostagar to when he woke up with the Chasind.

Ostagar, the mention of the pending battle he departed left a cold coil of dread constricting his heart. What had happened? Had his father and the King prevailed against the darkspawn? He prayed for answers, but had received only silence.

The frustration of it all frothed and churned in his gut. His companion, Brosca did little to alleviate that said irritation. In fact, Fergus had come to realize that the dwarf went to some lengths to try to wind him up. He seemed to get some sort of amusement out of it.

Then there were times fleeting, but there when camaraderie blossomed between them, formed out of this unknowing fate which they shared. When they laughed together and told stories in those moments, Fergus was close to wanting to call him, a friend. He never did. He dismissed the term believing he wanted to use it more out of the loneliness and desperation that clung to him then any true feelings he felt for the rude dwarf.

The only solace he found was the wounds he suffered from the darkspawn attack were close to fully healed. Then when he had his strength the Chasind wouldn't be able to stop him. He'd leave this place and head back towards Ostagar and hopefully get the answers he thought.

You don't have your weapons or armor, He silently pointed out, poking through the flaws of his already flimsy plan.

I'll find a way, he vowed. He was determined to leave. To find out what happened at Ostagar and return to his family. Whatever, it takes, he thought. I will return to them.

"Yes, you are."

The dwarf's words broke Fergus out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Brosca was smirking.

"You're brooding."

"I am not brooding," Fergus protested. His thoughts constantly went towards his family who he missed terribly. His dreams plagued him at the worry that Oriana and Oren and the others would fear him dead. That was a pain that he would not want either to feel yet he was helpless to protect them from it.

It was that helplessness that gnawed at him like a mabari with a bone.

Brosca snorted, "Maybe you nobles have some fancy new name for it, but to me it's brooding and it's a waste of time."

So are your insults, Fergus wanted to snap back, but he restrained himself. He was better than that. He shouldn't allow himself to rise to such bait. He was a Cousland of Highever, he reminded himself, one of the proudest and strongest families in Ferelden. He would not let this dwarf goad him into some pointless, childish bickering.

Before Brosca could open his mouth to continue on what Fergus knew to be another long winded rant on nobility, the flap of their hut parted to show a grim looking Chasind female step inside.

She had eyes as hard and dark as obsidian. Her face was long. Ink splayed out across her face like the web of a spider in an intricate pattern. Her hair was dark and cut short, shorter then Fergus' except for the four long braids that fell just past her shoulders. Her eyes swept across the room before resting on them.

This was new, Fergus thought dryly. He hadn't seen her before, and she wasn't carrying their meals. That had been the only time that either he or Brosca had been in the company of the Chasind except when they tended to their wounds.

"Your presence is requested." Her words were rough and thick, "Both of you."

Fergus glanced to see Brosca looked as equally surprised as him. He recovered first at her unexpected presence, getting to his feet gingerly. He was determined to make no show of weakness or discomfort from the lingering pain that remained in his side.

Remembering the etiquette his mother had drilled into him and Edmund when they were children. He offered the Chasind warrior a respectful tilt of his head. The thought that he was using lessons that were meant for nobility on a Chasind was enough for him to crack a smile. He was certain Edmund would get a good laugh out of it and even mother would find it amusing. The reminder of them brought a small, but sharp pang in his heart.

The Chasind woman didn't seem impressed by his gesture. "Get moving." She insisted in her thick accent that made it sound as if the words sloshed through mud.

Fergus followed with Brosca behind him as they pushed back the flaps of their hut and stepped out for the first time. He heard Brosca's hitched breath and he couldn't fault the dwarf his reaction as they took in the sight of the bustling village.

Homes were etched into the tall trees, or supported by elaborately carved stilts, wooden pathways strewn through the village held up by rope and support pillars. Sunlight flickered in from between towering branches that loomed over them to form a canopy.

It was beautiful, Fergus thought. He couldn't help but marvel at the ingenuity needed to build such a place. A functioning village built within the trees. He knew from the beginning they were high up, remembering his window, but he had always been left to imagine how the rest of the village had been constructed.

Now, as he took it all in, he couldn't help but be impressed at what the Chasind had accomplished. And to think we consider them beneath us, Fergus thought reflecting on the lessons he learned when he was growing up.

Ever since he could remember, he had always been fascinated by architecture. When he was younger he'd spend hours looking at the pictures of the beautiful castles, palaces, chantries, and fortresses that were peppered throughout Thedas. How he longed to see the Sun Dome in Cumberland, the Grand Proving Arena in Minrathous, the Ambassadoria, and Weisshaupt Fortress just to name a few of the places that had enthralled him from the stories he read and the pictures he'd seen.

There was this feeling of awe that filled him whenever he had a chance to see or study such spectacles built by the hands of man. They fascinated him. The limits that had been tested and broken when they built such marvels were inspiring. The feats of man in those moments seemed endless. And perhaps that's what encouraged him, what spoke to him whenever he looked at such accomplishments.

Focus, Fergus chastised himself, clamping down his memories and thoughts on his appreciation from what the Chasind had accomplished here. He needed to be alert. For all he knew this warrior was leading him and Brosca to be executed.

The Chasind villagers looked at them with curiosity as he and Brosca passed. Their eyes remained on the pair as they spoke to one another in their guttural language.

Fergus met their stares without hesitation. Taking in the grim looks, noticing how the men and women dressed themselves in furs fastened by animal teeth or bones. Their faces like the woman who was escorting Fergus and Brosca covered in dark ink, each face bearing its own unique tattoo.

As they passed the last group of curious Chasind, Fergus looked to see that their pathway had inclined leading them up a spiral stairwell that slithered up the tree and through the thick branches out of sight.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Brosca grumbled.

He couldn't fault the dwarf his reaction. Fergus knew Brosca's discomfort with heights, remembering how he tied a branch to his leg to ensure he never fell out of their hut. Or how he never looked out their window and always seemed to put as much distance between him and the window or the door as he possibly could.

Climbing the steps, Fergus could only wonder where they were leading. Had their time come to meet their fates? Were they walking to their own execution? Were they to be thrown from the top of this tree? Were they to be tortured because they were outsiders?

Enough, Fergus stamped out the morbid thoughts that wormed their way into his mind. He looked to see they reached the top of the pathway to see a large circular pavilion had been built. A stone hearth breathed fire and smoke anchored the middle of the pavilion. Behind it, hooded by branches and animal hide was what looked to be some sort of closed off room.

Flanking the flimsy flaps of the door were two grim faced warriors. One man, one woman, dressed in furs and both carrying large battleaxes. The pommel of the weapons was adorned with animal faces: one an eagle and the other a wolf. Bones hung loosely around the flap of the door, clanging and chiming when a gust of wind blew through.

On both sides of the hearth were two thin poles, the tip of each crowned with animal skulls. The left one was adorned by what Fergus guessed was a bear skull and the right looked to be a wolf skull. In front of the hearth were several rows of wooden benches that led Fergus to believe that this pavilion where he and Brosca now stood served some sort of communal purpose for the rest of the village. Judging by the number of benches and from the villagers he had seen, he was certain the entire Chasind village could fit up here.

The woman who had escorted them didn't spare them a look as she moved forward to converse with the two stoic Chasind warriors. They spoke in their rough, guttural language leaving Fergus and Brosca to stand silently and awkwardly unsure what to do or say while they waited. Finally, the conversation they had ended and the woman who escorted them stepped away while the female warrior slipped inside the small room.

It was while he waited did Fergus catch a gleam from the corner of his eye. Turning to see what caught his sight to his surprise and relief he spotted his armor carelessly strewn on the ground. He couldn't explain the feeling of comfort he got when his eyes rested on the Cousland laurels that were emblazoned on the breastplate. Beside his armor, he spotted his sword and shield.

"Well if I'll be a nug's uncle," Brosca breathed out beside him. The Grey Warden dwarf too had spotted what had gotten Fergus' attention and his eyes found his own shimmering armor that bore the Grey Warden insignia as well as his twin daggers, winking back at him from the glow of the hearth's flames.

Fergus made to step forward to get his armor but a sudden grunt stopped him. He turned to see the tall, broad shouldered Chasind Warrior staring at him. His hand was hovering near the handle of his battleaxe. His eyes went from Fergus' armor that was lying on the floor to Fergus before he shook his head. The silent message was clear.

Before Fergus could make any other attempt at retrieving his armor and weapons, the flaps of the room opened and the Chasind woman warrior stepped out, followed by an older woman. At the presence of the older woman, the other Chasind warriors bowed their heads in reverence.

She was leaning on a long, unassuming wooden staff. Though Fergus noted strange symbols carved into the wood and the top of the staff was crowned by a circle of animal teeth and what looked to be some sort of jewel as it shimmered when it caught the light's reflection.

The woman had short, graying hair. Resting on her head was an animal skull with three raven feathers protruding from it. Her face was tanned and wrinkled. Dark swirls of ink were painted onto her skin around her eyes. Those eyes which when they turned to Fergus he felt a slight chill upon seeing such pale blue eyes.

"I have been waiting to speak with you," she said, her voice was accented but not as bad as the other Chasind Warrior. Her eyes rested on Fergus. "It's good you're up and that your body is recovering."

"I have you to thank for that?"

"You do."

"Why?" He knew he should have thanked her first but he couldn't help himself. His curiosity and his treatment as their guests overruled his ingrained manners and instinctive politeness.

The woman didn't answer. Instead she shuffled towards the fires of the hearth. She placed her staff down and brought her hands to the hearth. The flames reacted immediately rising up, burning brightly as the fire followed her movement.

Magic, Fergus thought, feeling a cold claw of fear clenched around his heart.

Reacting as if she could hear his thought, she pinned him with a firm gaze. "It was not your destiny to die that day." Her pale blue eyes moved over towards the still quiet Brosca. "Not then."

"I am what your people would call a Shaman for this village," she announced.

Fergus perked up at the mention of Shaman. He remembered his lessons with Aldous to know that Shamans were the elders of the Chasind village and its leaders. Being saved by a Shaman and being brought to her, Fergus wasn't certain whether to consider it a good sign or bad.

"Brosca," the dwarf grumbled in his introduction.

Her thin lips curved upwards before she inclined her head towards him. "You're marked."

Brosca bristled at the mention of his tattoo. His hands instinctively brushed along the brand over his eye. His countenance darkened and he stiffened, his other hand clenching into a fist.

"It's a sign of honor and maturity to bear such a mark," she revealed.

Brosca snorted. "Well, where I come from it's a sign that I'm no real dwarf."

The Shaman tilted her head, surprise flickered across her face. Her lips pursed together as if she wanted to address it, but she seemed to decide against it. "I brought you here to collect on your debt."

"Our what?" Fergus asked incredulously.

"When we saved you, a blood debt was formed between you and our village," She explained. "There is nothing more sacred or powerful as an oath sealed in blood." Her pale blue eyes remained transfixed on him. "When my hands treated your wounds, coated in your blood a debt was made." She pointed a long finger at him. "You are now in a position to repay this debt." She turned to Brosca, "Both of you."

"And if we refuse?" Fergus found himself asking.

Her eyes hardened resembling two chips of ice. Her fingers snapped and the flames hissed. "You won't be allowed to leave."

Fergus flinched at the power that seemed to be radiating off of her. Visible ripples crinkling in the air around her. He had seen the same display of power from the mages of the Circle during his brief time at Ostagar.

Her eyes were on the flames. "However, if you were to fulfill your debt then I would have my people guide you out of the Wilds and back to your civilization."

He couldn't help but react to that revelation. His fear at the power she displayed dissipated and was replaced with hope that burned brighter then the flames in front of him at the thought of leaving this place and being reunited with his family.

"What would you have us do?" If this is what it took to return to his family then he would complete this supposed blood debt.

"You are a warrior?" She snapped her fingers and the same tall, hulking Chasind male that had sent him a silent warning when Fergus tried to retrieve his gear, went towards his armor.

I'm a father, husband, brother, and son, he wanted to say. Those were the roles that defined him. He was no warrior. His brother had always had more interest with a sword then Fergus. He didn't have time to doubt or to dwell. This was his chance to reunite with his family. He would not squander it.

"I am."

"Those skills will be needed," she replied, "And tested."

The Chasind woman who had escorted them, stepped forward carrying a rolled up animal hide. She presented it towards them before unfurling it; revealing a crude but accurate drawing.

Fergus felt a chill go up his spine when his eyes took in the depiction drawn onto the dried up skin.

He looked to see two menacing, towering ogres had been drawn. Their dark eyes gleamed with malevolence even on the picture, heads crowned in horns, muscled, hulking bodies, large hands that could crush a man's body with only the slightest squeeze.

Brosca cursed beside him.

Fergus tore his eyes away from the darkspawn and towards the Shaman whose eyes were watching him closely.

"They've been skulking about. Scaring off our prey and killing some of our people," She revealed, "You two must find them and kill them." She said as simply as if she was asking them to share a meal with her.

Ogres, their image alone was terrifying. Now, they wanted him to kill these monstrous beasts. He remembered the tales of past Blights of how these darkspawn could take out dozens of men before falling in battle. And these Chasind were asking him and Brosca to kill two of them.

Maker, Fergus wasn't sure whether he should curse or pray or both.

A grunt cleared him from his thoughts to see the burly Chasind warrior presenting Fergus with his armor. He took the breastplate hesitantly. His eyes went to the Cousland laurels. Images of a smiling Oriana flickered across his mind, Oren's laughter rang in his ears. The memories of the wife and son he left behind quelled the fear that had been bubbling in his stomach.

Fergus took a deep, calming breath. He found his fingers tracing the laurels on his armor. He knew what he had to do. He knew what he was willing to do if it meant he could go home again. He raised his head and met her pale blue eyes.

"Then it will be done."

Chapter Text

"They're not telling us anything!"

It's like they don't want us to arrest her, Kylon kept his sarcastic thoughts to himself. He had elected to stand back and allow his fellow guardsmen to do most of the footwork required. They were traveling through the Alienage trying to get information on the elusive Dark Wolf.

Guardsman Kevan who had been surprised by the elves unwillingness to help them was a good man. He was a bit dim given that he couldn't understand why the elves weren't helping the human city guard capture the Dark Wolf who had done more for the Alienage then the city ever had. He was still a capable member in the guard, a rare sight these days.

"Howe won't want your excuses," pointed out the other guardsman who was with them.

Guardsman Harkin was a Howe crony through and through. He had come into the guard after Howe had taken over as the Arl of Denerim. Kylon had heard on more than one occasion the city guard being called in to end a dispute at a brothel only to discover that Harkin was the cause of it.

Kylon knew that Harkin had spied on him in the past. Just as he had done to countless others who were no longer employed. It took all of his discipline to remain civil in front of the thug who now paraded himself as an enforcer of the law. Harkin was a living embodiment of everything wrong with the city guard since Howe had taken over.

Filled with lackeys and wrought with corruption, the city guard was mired in politics in the likes that Robert Kylon had never seen in all his years on the job. Thugs were promoted while good, honorable men were pushed aside or dismissed altogether. It made him sick to be a part of something so crooked. He had sworn an oath to serve and protect the people of Denerim and was now associated with an order that followed the whims of a power hungry lord.

He wanted to leave but his stubbornness kept him from resigning. Robert Kylon couldn't forget the oath he made just because those around him had. If there was still a chance to do good for the people of this city then he had to stay. They needed his service and he wouldn't abandon them because his job had become more difficult.

What sort of man would he be then?

"I-It's not my f-fault, they w-won't tell me anything."

"You're coddling them," Harkin pointed out, "You shouldn't be taking no for an answer." He shook his head in annoyance.

He knew why Harkin's patience was wearing thin. News from the war had come to Denerim that had surprised and angered many within the capital especially those who had close ties to the current Arl of Denerim. Amaranthine had been taken by Cousland forces. A loss that weakened and humiliated Howe's standing in the process.

Now many whose fortunes were tied to him were frantically scrambling in their efforts in trying to find the Dark Wolf. Foolishly believing that by the Wolf's capture they'd help the Arl forget about losing the jewel of his Arling.

They didn't even realize how off they were, he observed. Being a man of the guard, he was honest and loyal to his sworn duty, yet he couldn't take this role seriously. He was partaking in a farce and he didn't have the energy to find himself to care. He knew who the Dark Wolf was. He was actively working with her in helping the elves of the Alienage.

Guardsmen Harkin and Kevan were still bickering with one another about how best to get the elves to talk and reveal what they know about the Dark Wolf. Kylon found himself further drifting both physically and mentally away from them. He was far enough away that he no longer had to hear Harkin's cruel words, but was close enough to intervene incase his fellow guardsman temper was unleashed on one of the innocent passing elves.

It was all nonsense as far as Kylon was concerned. He had only agreed to come along so that he could keep his eyes out. It did, however provide him an opportunity to visit the Alienage without suspicion to allow him to subtly look into these disappearances. Before, he had been told by Slim to allow the Dark Wolf to handle the footwork within the Alienage. He had relented to his friend's advice and was expecting to meet with them later after his patrol to see what information they had gathered.

Kylon found himself standing in the shadow of the Vhenedhal. It was an impressive sight. He had always been fascinated by the staple of the Denerim Alienage. He remembered when he was a child seeing glimpses of the top branches that stretched out over the stone walls that surrounded the Alienage. The thick branches resembled hands reaching out towards the sky.

That alone had impressed him as a boy. He had been captivated by it, and driven by curiosity to see how it looked in all its glory. He wasn't even ten when he was bold enough to slip away from his parents when they were in the Denerim Market to sneak into the Alienage so that he could finally see all of it.

The feat hadn't proved difficult. Even back then the guards who patrolled the Alienage were halfhearted in their duties. He slipped in without effort and quickly and excitedly had made his way through the Alienage to see the towering Vhenedhal. Kylon could recall being awestruck by it as he stood in its impressive shadow. The gaping reaction he gave at seeing something so majestic and so natural stuck within the confines of the Alienage.

It was then that he had been approached by one of the elves within the Alienage. He was a kind, elderly man who had initially been caught off guard by Kylon's enthusiasm for the Vhenedhal. He patiently answered all of his questions before explaining the significance it had to elvish community. As well as telling him of its name-vhenedhal. He had then escorted him out of the Alienage not wanting Kylon's parents to worry.

Kylon had always been touched by the old elf who had kindly spoken to him without resentment. He told him the story of his people's urban history without bitterness, but pride. It wouldn't be until years later that Kylon realized that the man he had spoken to had been the Hahren of the Alienage.

"Ser?"

Stirred from his thoughts, he blinked to see an elvish woman approach him. He instinctively lowered his head, "My lady, how may I help you?"

The elf's dark eyes widened by his address, before narrowing as if trying to figure out if he was being sarcastic or sincere. She seemed to believe it was the latter since she gave him a hesitant smile that made her look far younger. "Are you here to help us?"

"What seems to be the matter?"

"About the disappearances," tears glistened in her eyes. "Please, ser you must help us." Her tone cracked in her pleading, "My son he hasn't returned since he was diagnosed with that illness."

"Illness?" This was the first he was hearing of any kind of illness sweeping through the Alienage.

"Yes," she bobbed her head up and down, "He couldn't stop coughing. They said they'd help him, but he hasn't returned since he went to them."

"They?"

This didn't sound good. He couldn't help but think if the they were the slavers. He never got an answer. In that moment, guardsmen Harkin and Kevan made their presence known joining Kylon and the frantic mother.

"What's going on, Kylon?" Harkin asked suspiciously, eyeing the woman. "Are you getting details about the Dark Wolf?"

Surprise flickered across her face at the mention of the Dark Wolf, but she was quick to shake her head. "No, ser, my son disappeared! Countless elves have disappeared."

Harkin let out a raspy laugh. "How is this bad news?"

Her dark eyes hardened. "Forgive me, ser." She bowed her head tightly. "I didn't mean to waste your time."

Kylon was certain he heard her mutter, May the Dark Wolf take you, to Harkin when she walked off.

They said they'd help him, but he hasn't returned.

Kylon couldn't get the woman's words out of his head.

His patrol had since ended. He was on his way to meet with Slim. Hopefully, they could shed some light on this illness. Kylon was certain that if anyone would know what that elf woman was talking about, it would be Slim.

There wasn't much his friend didn't know. It was a fact that Kylon found both comforting and intimidating.

"You look lost."

Kylon nearly tripped over his feet at the voice that ripped him out of his thoughts. He instinctively went for his sword only to stop halfway when he spotted the person who came out from the shadows.

"You shem are easy to startle," a smirk graced her lips, "It's quite telling."

He didn't respond to her insult. He instead tried to calm his thundering heartbeat while he sheathed his sword. He acknowledged her presence with a quick nod.

"I saw you and your friends in the Alienage today," she remarked casually.

"Yes, they're trying to find leads on the Dark Wolf," Kylon couldn't help but smile as his eyes found the Dark Wolf sigil emblazoned on her leather armor.

"And?" She crossed her arms over her chest to block his view of the sigil.

He shook his head. "Well, they still think the Dark Wolf is a man."

"Typical," she snorted while she rolled her eyes, "It can't possibly be a woman who has the strength to fight them." She shook her head in disgust. "No, only a man can challenge a man."

Kylon held up his arms. "I have no problem believing a woman can fight and do better than any man." He felt as if he needed to voice his opinion on the matter. He didn't like the idea of her grouping him with Harkin.

She looked him over with one raised eyebrow. It was clear she didn't believe him. "Come on, we need to get going."

"Get going?" He repeated, noticing that she wasn't going towards the Gnawed Noble Tavern.

"Yeah," she looked over her shoulder at him. "Slim got us a lead. He wants us to investigate."

"What kind of lead?" Kylon found himself moving to catch up with her. "Does it have any connection to the illness?"

Her shoulders immediately tensed at the mention. "You've heard about that?"

"Yes," He noticed her face had hardened. "Are the slavers responsible?"

"Slim thinks so," she led him through an alleyway. "What better way to hide the fact that you're taking elves."

"This is monstrous!" Kylon couldn't believe it. First, they had been enslaving elves, and now they were purposely infecting them with some sort of sickness. It was abhorrent.

"Few think so," she observed darkly. "Your precious city guard cares more about capturing and punishing me then they do about helping the elves."

The blunt truth in her words hit him hard. She was right, he knew. It made it all the more bitter to swallow. This was happening in his city, to his people, and only three people seemed to be actively working to stop it. He felt sick.

We have failed them, he thought morosely. I have failed them.

"At least you're trying, shem," her caustic tone snapped him from his self pitying thoughts.

"I will do more then try," he promised more to himself then to her.

"I feel better already," she smirked when he turned to her. "Come on," she urged, "the building is just up ahead."

"What are we to find there?" He was curious what sort of lead Slim had been able to get.

"If we're lucky some slavers." One of her hands moved to one of her sheathed daggers that were at her waist. "Then I'll have a nice, long talk with them to get me my next lead."

His eyes had followed her hand movement down to where she kept her daggers sheathed at her waist only to notice the belt she was carrying. It contained more pouches then he could count.

He should've been more concerned for her blood lust, but he couldn't muster any sort of defense for the slavers that resided inside that warehouse. As a member of the city guard, he was supposed to bring them back to Fort Drakon to be processed. Yet, he wasn't certain he could shield them from the wrath of his partner, or if he even wanted to.

I swore an oath to help the people, he reminded himself, if that means a few slavers will be killed instead of tried then he could live with that.

A hint of affection seeped into her touches of the dagger. "Then if I'm feeling merciful I'll give them a clean death."

Her words stirred him to move his attention back towards her face. His eyes drifted towards her right ear where the tip had been cut off.

She seemed to sense his gaze as she shifted some of her stringy hair to fall over her disfigured ear. "Don't stare."

The coldness in her tone coupled by the venom in her warning was enough to snap his attention away. Guiltily, he moved to meet her stare to offer her his apologies for his rudeness, but her eyes turned the second they met and she moved forward towards the warehouse that stood in front of them.

"Button up your cloak," she advised as they stalked the shadows of the warehouse. "You shine like the damn moon! You'd do us no good if they can see you coming."

He hastily went to button it up, silently admitting she had a point.

"Besides," she continued as he was fastening the last buttons, "Don't want any connection with the city guard."

"Agreed," he looked down to see his armor was completely hidden from his cloak. "What's the plan?" He was crouched down beside her, shielded by the darkness of the night. They had taken a spot where they could see the two guards standing by the back entrance of the warehouse.

"I'm going to introduce myself."

His question about how died on his tongue as he watched her shape literally melt into the shadows and disappear from view. Dumbfounded, and amazed at the stealth technique he moved his eyes towards the unsuspecting guards by the door.

They seemed engrossed in some sort of conversation. Their heads weren't even aimed straight ahead so that they could watch for any one approaching them, they were turned to one another. Continuing in their idle talk, unaware of the threat coming towards them or the certain death that they were about to get.

Then he saw it, a shimmer of steel emerged from the shadows for a split second to open up one of the guard's throats. A spray of blood colored the night as the guard crumpled to the ground. The other tried to shout while going for his sword, but his voice was silenced as a second, smaller dagger had been thrown. The blade entered his jugular with such force, his neck and head snapped upwards before his body fell to the ground.

The Dark Wolf had earned her reputation, he thought silently, quietly moving towards the dead guards to see she had already emerged from the shadows to retrieve her daggers. "Should we hide the bodies?"

"Be quick about it," she plucked the smaller, throwing dagger and sheathed it in a holster he hadn't seen before that was strapped to her leg. "I'll get the lock." She retrieved a lock picking tools from one of her many pouches on her belt.

Kylon carefully dragged the first body as quickly and quietly as he could over to a stack of crates where he deposited the body unceremoniously. He moved to grab the second one, stopping just enough to notice that she was still working on the lock before he repeated the process. When it was done, he went through their pockets for any sort of clue that he could pass on to Slim, but besides a few coins, there was nothing.

Disappointed, he didn't spare them another look as he moved to rejoin her at the door to see she had been successful in opening it.

"They were Imperium slavers," he had recognized the heraldry on their armor and shields as the same one that Slim had shown him when he had first been told of them having infested Denerim.

"They're about to have company," she opened the door with one hand, while keeping her other around the handle of one of her daggers.

Kylon had his hand on the pommel of his sword ready to unsheathe the weapon at a moment's notice. It proved unnecessary as the entryway of the warehouse was empty. Torches lined the wall to illuminate the hallway before them. There was no guard or patrol in sight.

"Let's go," she urged him.

He was impressed by how quietly she moved through the hallway. Reminding him of a cat, it wasn't just her movement, but her green eyes, large and luminous. She seemed to have no problem moving through the dimly lit hallway. He tried his best to mirror her movements, as well as to move as quietly as he could. A difficult task as he was dressed in armor, the cloak he wore may be able to hide it, but it couldn't muffle the sound it made when his boots hit the floor or the creak in the joints of his armor whenever he moved his arms.

She held up a hand to stop.

He did.

Looking to see they had reached their first room. The door was open, lights from the room bathed the surrounding hallway in light, but they were careful to avoid it. Loud voices could be heard, but they weren't speaking the common tongue. He guessed that they must be speaking tevene, the language of the Imperium. Slim had told him to be aware that those they crossed would probably lean on the language as to not incriminate themselves while in Ferelden.

So neither he nor she could understand a word they were saying. Unable to figure out if anything they uttered was of any significance. Annoyed, by this language barrier and driven by curiosity to see what they were doing as if that would give him a better understanding of what they were saying.

He carefully leaned forward, his eyes blinking in the bright glow of the light to see a handful of men were sitting at a table by the fireplace. They were laughing and playing cards as far as he could tell. He spared a glance around the room long enough to inspect that it seemed to be the barracks of the off duty slavers before he pulled away to make sure he couldn't be seen.

A combination of the light and the open door would make it difficult for them to sneak past the barracks and to keep going down the hallway. Not to mention if they slipped past the slavers they left their backs vulnerable.

There seemed only one course to take.

This is justice, he reminded himself. The only justice I can give, he thought sadly.

Suddenly, a small glow broke through from his thoughts, turning to see she was cradling a small glass ball in her hand. It was the ball that was responsible for the glow. Within were orange flames that licked and danced inside its glass prison.

It was a fire bomb. He would recognize the banned weapon anywhere. It was a favorite for the city's criminal underworld. It was a messy, dangerous, deadly substance.

Without hesitation, she tosses the explosive flask into the room of the unsuspecting slavers. There was a clatter of broken glass, followed by curious muttering, which was silenced by the whoosh of flames. He shielded his eyes as the light from the room became blinding, turning his head, didn't stop him from hearing the muted screams as the men were burned alive in seconds.

Only when the screams stopped, did he look inside the room. He saw that she had thrown it perfectly.

It had broken right beside the table, the soot and burn marks the only sign of what had went off. The bodies of the men were charred beyond recognition, lingering flames from the fire bomb, stubbornly clung to the scorched bodies.

She didn't spare the corpses a second glance before she continued down the hallway. He moved to follow her not wanting to linger when the smell of burnt flesh would be soon to reach them.

There was no going back, he realized as he reflected on the fiery death of those slavers.

Robert Kylon was a man of the law, but his utmost duty was to the people.

He would save the elves even if it meant bending a few of the laws he swore to uphold. After all, the slavers were making a mockery of their laws. He'd make sure they'd regret it.

"I count more than a dozen," he was crouched behind a pile of crates looking down to see the slavers milling about.

They had snuck themselves into the main room of the warehouse. Large cages were placed throughout the room. He knew at once what those cages were for. It made him sick to hear about slavery infecting his city but seeing how it was being implemented only made it worse. It was anger that pumped his blood at being confronted with the harsh reality of slavery.

These cages weren't even fit for beasts.

They were all empty.

That sight proved to be more disheartening then if it was full of elves. If it was empty it meant that they had just shipped off their latest batch of slaves and were now preparing for more. If they had timed it better, if they had come earlier they could've saved those elves from the cruel fate that awaited them in the Imperium.

His thoughts went back to the pleading mother in the Alienage. She was looking for her son. The realization that her son most likely had just been here and had already been sent north brought a cold feeling of guilt in his gut.

He couldn't save him, but he would make sure to stop anymore from joining them.

"Sixteen to be exact," she responded, "there's a few out of sight from here."

"What's the plan?" he trusted his skill with a sword, but he couldn't stop sixteen swords from stabbing him if they attacked. He did only have the one sword.

"I'll thin their numbers," she volunteered, "And when you see your opportunity you strike."

"Alright," he knew there was no point arguing against her. He had witnessed her skill with her daggers and her stealth to know she could take out several men before she'd be spotted. She didn't linger, allowing herself to be camouflaged by the darkness disappearing before his eyes.

He moved back to spy on the men below them. He noticed that all of them were wearing either leathers or robes; no armor. They weren't expecting a battle here or now. They had become negligent in their sin and would pay for it in blood.

Looking around at the group, he wanted to know who the leader of this slavery operation was. He didn't need to look long to spot who he assumed was the leader.

A young man dressed in garishly decadent robes that probably distinguished his station in the Imperium, but this wasn't Tevinter. This was Ferelden and his choice of clothes just made for an easy target. The young man carried a staff, so Kylon suspected he was a mage. He was after all from the Imperium, he knew enough about that country to know the elite were all mages.

It was then that a glint caught his sight. He turned away from the young mage towards the far side of the room to see a dagger winking in the starlight from the high windows before it plunged itself in a distracted guard. A hand clapped around the guard's mouth before he was dragged into the shadows and out of sight, leaving behind a few drops of blood from where he once was standing.

Knowing, he needed to get in position. Kylon carefully began weaving through the crates to find a staircase or ladder he could use to allow him to go down to the first floor without being seen. He preferred stairs over a ladder. It would make for an unfair end to have him peppered with arrows as he was descending down a ladder.

As he moved, he spotted two guards standing directly below him. He noticed a box of crates leaning dangerously close to the edge. To make the situation better, there was a nearby staircase that would lead right to where he wanted to go.

Realizing the benefit of this spot, and the distraction the boxes could have. As well as possibly taking out a few more guards for them. He moved to position himself with his back against one of the crates so he could easily push off and send them tumbling down, while looking over his shoulder so that his eyes could remain down below to wait for the best opportune time to strike.

"Master Claudius," one of the slavers came to the mage, bowing crisply before speaking again, "Some of our guards haven't reported back."

"What?" The tip of the mage's staff spat sparks, "What do you mean?"

"The barracks," the slaver blanched at the glowing staff, "They've been set on fire!"

"Intruders," he growled. "Find them! And bring them to me!"

Before the slaver could acknowledge his orders, a loud gurgling brought everyone's attention to her as she emerged from the shadows, pushing aside a guard who clawed at the open wound in his throat before collapsing to the ground. Her daggers were dripping in blood.

"I'm already here," There was a dark glint in her emerald eyes, "And I'm here to bring you to justice."

The shock on Claudius' face quickly transformed to a triumphant smirk when his slavers encircled her. "It appears that I'll be bringing you to the Imperium where I'm sure you'll fetch a decent price." His eyes lingered on her scars, "despite your deformities."

That was when he made his presence known. Taking a breath, he pushed off with his legs, pleased to feel the crates moving. He didn't have to push long before he felt the crates slip off of the level. He had to catch himself from joining the crates in their tumbling down to the first floor.

The guards had just enough time to look up before the crates fell on them with a nasty splat.

She took advantage of the distraction to blend back into the darkness and out of sight, leaving the slavers scrambling to find her.

"Get them!" shouted Claudius. "They'll ruin everything!"

Kylon was running down the stairs, sword in hand where he met his first opponent. The slaver charged at him, shouting some Imperium battle cry, but his sword was there to deflect the slaver's. Kylon then moved on the attack, the slaver deflected the first two, but he found a breach in his defense, slashing the slaver and opening him up from hip to shoulder.

He reached the bottom of the stairs to see the mage Claudius was waving his staff above his head in intricate patterns as glowing glyphs began to appear on the floor. The other slavers were careful to avoid them as they moved to prod her out of the shadows. Two discarded their search for her when they spotted him and moved to stop him.

"For Denerim," Kylon shouted, throwing himself at them, catching them off guard by his attack. He caught one easily with his sword, with a small but deadly slash across the man's chest. He fell backwards but his fellow slaver moved to step up, undeterred by the death. He swung his sword in a quick cutting arc that Kylon was able to dodge before meeting his sword with his own.

The slaver pushed off to free his blade, thrusting towards Kylon's midsection but his sword was there to deflect the stab. Then suddenly Kylon thrust his head forward, smashing into the man's nose, causing him to stumble backwards.

A burst of pain exploded just behind his forehead. Blocking out the pain, Kylon moved forward with his sword to silence the slaver's shout of pain, too distracted by his broken nose, the slaver never saw the sword before it went through his unprotected chest. He was dead where he stood.

Thankfully, the adrenaline coursing through him was able to numb the pain, but Kylon knew as soon as it faded, he'd have one nasty headache and bruise to show for his impromptu head butt. He looked to see several more of the mage's slavers were dead as the mage Claudius was shouting curses both vulgar and magical aimed at trying to hit her.

With a swift tug, Robert Kylon pulled his sword out of the slaver and moved towards the mage wanting to end this. He was nearly towards the distracted mage when a yelp of pain caused him to stop. Spinning his head, to see she had stepped onto one of the glyphs and had now been frozen in place. A handful of slaver bodies surrounded her. In her haste to kill them she hadn't seen the hastily summoned glyph.

"Enough!" Claudius snapped his attention towards Kylon once she was detained. He was holding his staff so tightly, his knuckles were white.

"Don't you get it?" He spat, "We're doing this for Thedas!" He gestured to one of the cages with his staff. "These slaves keep the Qunari from landing on your shores. If not for our sacrifices you'd all be converted to the Qun. You owe us all your gratitude!"

"Come over here," she growled, "And I'll show you it." Despite being paralyzed she hadn't lost any of her courage or defiance.

Claudius sneered. "No one will bat an eye at one dead knife ear."

"I would," Kylon charged him.

Surprised, Claudius quickly aimed his staff and fired, Kylon felt the surge of magic pass him as it missed. Then he was on him, tackling the mage to the ground. They landed in a heap, but before Kylon could land a punch, he heard the mage muttering something and before he knew it, Kylon was hit by an invisible projectile with enough force to send him flying backwards.

He crashed onto the ground-hard. The pain in his chest was immediate, instinctively curling up to shield himself. It felt as if he had been hit by a charging druffalo.

"You think me so easily bested?" Claudius was standing over him with the staff aimed at his head.

This was it, the realization of his imminent death came shining through the haze of pain like the rising sun cutting through morning fog.

"Yes."

The mage and city guard both turned at her voice. She was free from her prison and before the mage could react, in a quick, scissoring motion her daggers removed his head from his body. The head landed with a soft, squishy thud thankfully out of Kylon's sight as the Claudius' body crumpled to the ground.

"Here," she was kneeling beside him, holding out a poultice. "Do you think you can apply it yourself?"

"Yeah," his hands were shaking and his voice came out rough, "thanks."

She regarded him for a second, "Not bad for a shem."

In that moment, he laughed. It had been the nicest thing she had said to him. The pain that followed had been worth it.

"How are you feeling, friend?" Slim asked.

"Sore," he answered honestly.

It had been nearly three days since they took down that cell.

The spell that mage had hit him with had gotten him some bruised ribs, and a great deal of pain that threatened to linger for awhile even with the poultices and potions Slim had given him. Despite the pain, he made sure to see Slim when his friend told him about a breakthrough from the information they had gotten at the warehouse.

"Yes, Kallian told me you took some sort of spell from that mage," Slim's tone darkened at the last word.

Kallian? He blinked, not recognizing that name. It took him a second to realize he was referring to her. He spotted her standing a few feet away from them. Her arms were crossed, her expression stoic, but when their eyes met, she gave him a tight, but respectable nod. She had sent a frown at Slim when he had spoken her real name.

"Aye," he agreed, "Thanks for sending the potions."

"I was happy to," Slim replied, "I hope they're helping."

"They are," he assured him.

"I'm glad."

"So what news do you have?" He eased himself into a chair.

"What news?" Slim chuckled at the question. "I have news from Orzammar to Denerim and everything in between." His expression brightened, "In fact I've received news regarding an ally of ours."

"What ally?" Kylon couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Our friends the Grey Wardens arrived safely to Orzammar where they were received warmly by the newly crowned Queen." Slim moved to take a seat across from Kylon at the small table.

She made no effort in joining them. She remained where she stood. Silently watching their conversation unfold, and looked to have no interest in partaking in it.

"Well, that's good and all," Kylon really didn't care about the dwarves and this new queen of theirs. He was happy to know that the Wardens had arrived there safely, but that was about it. "But that wasn't the news that dragged me out of bed."

"No, of course not," Slim looked amused. "Maker knows that our friend Robert Kylon cares only for the city of Denerim and her denizens."

"Aye," Kylon agreed with his friend's observation.

"Someday you will learn the truth, my friend," Slim leaned back in his seat. "That the right secret will protect you better then the finest silverite armor." His lips crooked, "Or that the proper piece of information can do more damage than the sharpest sword."

Before Kylon could press his friend on the news he had come for, a server arrived, bringing with him, a bowl of stew for Slim and two goblets. The server placed one of the goblets in front of Kylon.

"Drink," Slim encouraged, "Its potion and its good for you."

"Thank you," Kylon meant it. He raised the goblet to his lips and drank only a small sip when the bitter taste filled his mouth. He swallowed with little difficulty. Sadly, he was use to poor tasting potions. It was all he drank these past few days.

"The information you two recovered from the warehouse provided us with some much needed clues." Slim had dipped his spoon into his meaty stew, stirring it casually before filling it to the brim and taking a bite.

He hadn't really gathered any of it. He had been lying on the floor, fighting unconsciousness. She, Kallian, he mentally corrected himself now that he had a name for her besides the Dark Wolf had retrieved all the useful intel that Slim had been combing through the past three days. She even had the strength to help him limp out of the warehouse where they had been met by Slim's agents. They had assisted him home and provided him with the medicines he was currently taking to help him recover.

"Much of it is in Tevene and encrypted on top of that," A tinge of annoyance seeped into his tone, "But what we did learn was that mage you killed was an apprentice to another mage, a Caladrius who is in this city. He is the leader of the slavers within Denerim."

"Where can we find him?" Kylon took a longer sip from his goblet this time. He could already feel the cooling sensation from the potion being applied to his sore ribs.

"That's the problem," Slim pursed his lips together. "My agents haven't been able to find him."

"Do you have any leads?" He was anxious to get back out there. They had hindered the slavery operation, but they needed to destroy it.

"Not yet," Slim frowned. "But I assure you once I get something you two will be the first know."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"Long live the Queen!"

"Maker bless you Queen Anora!"

Seneschal Luwin smiled down on the pleased and proud onlookers who mingled in front of the royal gates. Their cheers and voices greeted the Queen and her retinue as they left the Royal Palace. Knights dressed in shimmering armor rode on proud, Fereldan Forders that were equally well garbed. The Queen rode in a stylish, but not excessively garnished wheelhouse as it rumbled behind the Queen's riders and in front of her garrison of royal soldiers who marched in sync.

Banners of Gwaren and the royal Theirin seal flapped in the breeze, wyvern and mabari looking proud and fierce as they slowly moved through the street and out of sight from where Luwin stood on the small balcony of his chambers.

When the last banner of mabari and wyvern dipped out of sight, Luwin allowed himself to look away. With the sun shining through, clear, blue sky, it was almost easy to forget about the troubles that were plaguing Ferelden not just outside this city, but within.

Seneschal Luwin did not have that luxury.

He looked out to see the bustling denizens of Denerim who moved through the streets, shopping and talking and going about their lives. He moved to go inside when he noticed a small crowd still remained outside the royal gates chatting excitably and amicably at getting a glimpse of their beloved Queen.

The people loved their Queen, he thought proudly, closing the doors behind him as he made way his inside. Even now with so much unrest churning and building within the capital as refugees from darkspawn and the civil war continue to pack into the city; their Queen was still highly regarded, still loved in their hearts.

A relief to him, but he was not fooled into thinking it would last forever. The people who had their homes destroyed, who lost loved ones were filled with grief and rage. They needed someone or something to lash out at, or that rage or grief would consume them.

Thankfully, for Luwin that target had been Howe, and not the Queen. It was the new Arl of Denerim who was being eviscerated by the street performers, the bards, and the gossip as it swirled within the capital painting Howe as the reason for so much discontent amongst the populace and the troubles within the kingdom.

For now the people were still devoted to her. They loved her. While the commoners were always quick to serenade her with their affection since she had become their Queen. The nobility of Ferelden had always been quicker to dismiss and turn their noses up at her.

The reason why the people loved her was the very reason why the nobility couldn't stand her: her humble beginnings. . Her father had been raised from nothing and given lands and titles due to his services to the Fereldan crown in ending Orlesian occupation. So while Anora Mac Tir was born a daughter of a Teyrn, to the nobility she was the daughter of a commoner. For them to see her rise above their own daughters and sisters to become Queen of Ferelden had infuriated quite a number of the nobility of Ferelden.

"My lord?"

Seneschal Luwin turned to his assistant, Devan a young pocked marked man with short, curly bright red hair and curious brown eyes, his earnest expression was quite the contrast to his youthful appearance. He was always ready to work and serve Luwin.

"What messages today, Devan?" He looked to the piles of vellum his assistant was holding, notes and mail that came from not just throughout Ferelden, but all of Thedas. He corresponded with foreign dignitaries, to the Fereldan ambassadors stationed from Orzammar to the Imperium.

It felt odd to him to exchange such vital letters to so many important people spread out throughout Thedas. He had been plucked from obscurity in Gwaren when he was first lifted to serve the newly named Teyrn Loghain only to see his station rise further when he was chosen to replace the previous royal Seneschal. A position often given to second or third sons of wealthy, prominent Fereldan families not to a man whose grandfather had been a humble fisherman.

"A letter from the Fereldan Ambassador to Orzammar," Devan picked up said letter from the pile he was carrying.

"What does he say?" Luwin made his way over towards his desk across his office.

A room that was far larger than Luwin ever needed or was accustomed to. In Gwaren his office had been small, a nook attached to his chambers that had just enough room for a chair and desk. Here, in the royal palace he had his own apartment, lavish rooms and offices some of which he hadn't even been in and he had been here for years.

"A report of the newly crowned Queen of Orzammar, Valda Aeducan," Devan looked up from the letter. "She was the second born of the previous King Endrin who recently passed."

"We should send our condolences," Luwin slipped into his chair behind his desk while Devan remained standing. "She was the second child?"

"Yes," Devan answered, "It says her oldest brother, Trian was killed and her youngest brother, Bhelen was accused of kinslaying and banished to the Deep Roads."

Luwin leaned back in his seat trying to digest the deadly game that was dwarven politics. Hearing about her rising from the spare to the Queen was not something he could ignore and couldn't help but ponder what role she had in her brothers' demise.

"What else does it say?"

"Our Ambassador believes that Bhelen did kill his brother," Devan reported, "And that the youngest son tried to frame his sister for it but underestimated her power and influence and was thusly tried and banished."

It made Luwin's stomach sour at hearing such details. Kinslaying and family betrayals made the Seneschal uncomfortable. To think what people would do for power. He poured himself a small glass of wine that had been resting on an adjacent table to his desk.

He didn't offer any to Devan knowing the young man did not drink while he worked. A naïve thought that made Luwin snort in amusement, one day he'll learn, Luwin thought, the necessity of a cup of wine to drown out the sour taste of politics.

"Anything else?" Luwin savored the sweet taste on his lips from the wine.

"Yes," Devan's voice strained.

He looked up to see Devan's eyes had widened as it skimmed the letter. "What is it?"

"The ambassador says that the Grey Wardens arrived to the city shortly after Valda Aeducan was crowned in her coronation," Devan informed him.

Luwin frowned. Not understanding why that would elicit such a reaction from his young assistant. It was true of the Grey Warden's alliance with their supposed enemy and rebel to the crown, Edmund Cousland, but still it seemed a dramatic response.

His assistant seemed to sense Luwin's confusion and his need for clarification because he went on to say, "The Queen took a small, but highly skilled amount of soldiers into the Deep Roads with the Grey Wardens in search of a missing Paragon and a weapon of legend."

That was unexpected, he scratched the graying stubble along his jaw. He had heard that during a Blight the Deep Roads were more absent of darkspawn. Mayhaps, the Queen saw a chance and struck. A bold move, he reckoned, as well as dangerous.

Whatever she was after she must've deemed it worth the risk, making Luwin curious what this weapon of legend could be. It must be powerful if it got the Grey Wardens to come with her.

"Do you think they'll get it?" Devan's soft question broke Luwin's thoughts, turning to see his young assistant's face marred in apprehension.

"It's possible," Luwin conceded, the Deep Roads were always perilous if the stories were to be believed and other foul things lingered in the deep, dark besides darkspawn.

"Do you think they'll use it against us?"

"Against us?" Luwin repeated, now understanding why his assistant seemed so afraid about this weapon and the Grey Wardens going to get it. "The kingdom of Orzammar does not meddle in the politics of human nations."

That seemed to relax Devan's features. "Of course," he said hastily as if trying to recover from letting his fear slip out. "I'm sorry, I should've known better," he apologized as he chided himself.

"Peace, Devan," Luwin held up his hand to stop his assistant from rambling further. "Shall we proceed?" He asked, knowing he needed to inform the Queen about the new power in Orzammar as well as the Wardens movement, as well pen a response to the ambassador.

Devan looked more than willing to change the subject, "You have some new appointments to make," he pulled out another piece of vellum and placed it down in front of him, "Two new blackhallers."

"Very well," Luwin looked over the paper since the rise of refugees flooding the capital, crime had risen in several areas of Denerim to the point that the Blackhallers schedules were filling up and couldn't meet the growing demand thus tying them up and the city guard. The Queen had been gracious in allowing him to temporarily add more to serve the growing need.

"What else?"

"A few more proposed betrothals to the Queen," Devan answered reluctantly.

"Trash," Luwin shook his head in disgust at these ambitious minor nobles who were trying to court the Queen while she still mourned.

"Already done," Devan looked up to offer him a sly smile. "I figured you would not mind."

Luwin chuckled, "nicely done, Devan." He noticed his assistant take the pride with flushed cheeks and a puffed out chest.

These foreign nobles from Orlais and the Free Marches were fools. Luwin shook his head at their blatant ambition and their inability to comprehend Fereldan politics. They had no concept of how the Crown worked in Ferelden.

Power does no descend from our throne. Rather, it rises from the support of the Freeholders.

The words Luwin would always remember. It is a lesson that every child in Ferelden is taught.

Truthfully speaking, his Queen had no power. She knew that. She understood the precarious situation she found herself in. Anora knew that she was no Queen Regnant, but a Queen Dowager. Any power she had been through her marriage with Cailan and that went away at Ostagar.

A Landsmeet was sure to be called, and it'd be up to the nobles of Ferelden to decide how best to move the country forward and on whose head a crown should be placed. Despite her uneasy relationship with the bulk of the nobility they begrudgingly knew Anora had drastically improved Ferelden these past five years under the administrative reign that Cailan had given her. They had complimented each other perfectly: He the warrior king and she the political queen.

His unexpected death had taken them all by surprise. It left a void in Ferelden's leadership that the Queen was trying to fill admirably, but it was not just her who sought it. Her father, Teyrn Loghain had declared himself Lord Protector of Ferelden while Lord Howe seemed to gobble up every title he could get his hands on.

It was the Queen who was serving the people. She was what Ferelden needed.

She would be a good, strong Queen, Luwin thought. He believed she had earned the right to rule Ferelden in her name with the power invested in her. Then again, he couldn't deny his prejudice towards her. He had seen Queen Anora work tirelessly these past five years in trying to improve Ferelden. He knew the people would be thankful and blessed to have her continue in her reign. He also knew that it wasn't up to him.

It would be up to men like Arl Eamon and his ilk, Luwin thought distastefully.

"Here," he put aside his thoughts on the Landsmeet. He and his Queen were already making plans on that front and brought his attention back to the present, and to some letters he had already written and had sealed using his own personal seal.

When he had been appointed to be the royal seneschal he was stunned upon realizing that he needed to create a family banner now that he officially found himself in nobility. He had chosen a quartered banner of a ship to remember his roots with his family's history of fishing off of Gwaren's coast, and the other quarter a wyvern's head to pay tribute to Teyrn Loghain who had given him such a position.

"I need these sent out."

"Of course, my lord," Devan took them with a nod, and tucked them under his arm. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"

"No, thank you," he dismissed Devan kindly watching his assistant bow before leaving.

He took a sip of wine, enjoying the taste, and the moment of peace and quiet, but only for the moment. He then put down his glass and turned his attention to the piles of letters he still needed to read and write.

There was work to be done.

"Your Majesty," he bowed low as Queen Anora came into view.

The Queen looked regal dressed in black, often wearing the color to reflect her state of mourning. She grieved the loss of her husband at Ostagar. She mourned the deaths of the Couslands.

So much grief and sorrow, Luwin reflected sadly. Darkness had settled over Ferelden these past few months with the darkspawn and this civil war. If it was not righted soon, he feared for the fate of his Ferelden.

"Seneschal," she greeted him kindly.

She was not alone. Her friend, Nathaniel Howe walked beside her, dressed in a green doublet with yellow trimming and the Howe bear emblazoned on the front. He offered the Seneschal a respectful nod as they moved their way around the table.

"The new knight you assigned to my guard is enthusiastic in her duties," the Queen observed.

He looked up to see a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Ser Mhairi is a good knight, loyal to you."

He wanted more skilled knights in the Queen's retinue. Howe was filling the city guard with more of his cronies every day. The new Arl of Denerim believed the city guard should serve as his second army. They didn't have the manpower to properly check Howe's growing power, so Luwin believed the Queen should be surrounded by more faithful and skilled men and women. Ser Mhairi, a knight of Denerim was just the latest to join their cause.

"That's putting it mildly, Your Majesty," Nathaniel sounded amused at the topic of the new knight. "She seems a bit green to be serving a Queen."

"She comes highly recommended," Luwin pointed out, "Well respected by her peers and has seen battle." He left out what battle she had fought in-Ostagar.

"How was it?" Luwin decided a change of topic was in order.

"The people are suffering," Anora bowed her head.

"We gave them food and coin," Nathaniel Howe put in, his face solemn, but his eyes reflected the concern he and the Queen were feeling.

They had gathered in the room of the Carved Table. Luwin wasn't sure there was another room he frequented more in the Royal Palace besides his own then this room. The beautifully carved table of Ferelden stood between him and the Queen and Lord Nathaniel; finely crafted by Antivan hands, a testament of their skill displaying a breathtaking accuracy of Fereldan. As well as a list of every Ferelden king and queen who has ruled. Of Theirin blood, he mentally added.

"Short term solutions," Anora said to them. Her blue eyes were going over the map before her. "Amaranthine is held by Lady Alfstanna."

"Aye, it is," Luwin remembered hearing about it, a fortnight past. It had caused a commotion in both the Palace and throughout Denerim with such a pivotal Cousland victory. He had been taken aback when his agents had told him of the Cousland laurels flying over the city of Amaranthine. Left to wonder how Edmund Cousland had taken a city without any word of his army marching this far north from South Reach.

"Nathaniel will treat with her," Anora turned to her friend.

They've talked about this, he realized. This was their plan.

"Alfstanna and I were close when we were younger," Nathaniel admitted, a certain glint could be seen in his eyes and a fondness could be heard in his tone.

Luwin wondered how close they had been since he spoke of her fondly and without titles. "What terms will you bring to her?"

"Different terms then we gave Arl Wulff," The Queen was unable to keep the disappointment out of her tone that they had yet to hear from the Arl of West Hills. She had sent him away months ago. He had gone to Caer Oswin where Edmund had been camped. They thought it was simple enough, but war proved that notion's folly.

Edmund left Caer Oswin before Lord Wulff ever arrived for the south and had yet to return to the seat of Lord Loren. They had no idea where the Arl of West Hills was now. He could be traveling to South Reach, he could be dead in a ditch somewhere between here and Caer Oswin. Or he could've been at Loren's seat waiting for Edmund Cousland to show up.

That brought a sour taste to linger. Having known what happened there. Caer Oswin had been put to the torch and Lord Loren killed. Howe called it a victory for their side. Luwin considered it murder. He wasn't alone in that judgment. Knowing the Queen too grew tired of Howe's presence. She had thought and hoped her father would come to his senses and remove him from his position, but that looked less likely every day.

Anora understood it had fallen on her to rid themselves of Howe. If she had the power and the authority, Luwin knew that she would've called for his head the second he stepped inside the city, but what power did she have? She was the Dowager Queen. She had no armies. Rendon Howe was the Arl of Amaranthine and commanded a loyal army to his cause.

Slowly, she had forged alliances and brought men under her banner. Some of who were always loyal to her, others who were ambitious men who wanted to use this schism that threatened Ferelden to further themselves, while others were allies of her father only to leave him in the course of this past year as the war and Loghain's senses seemed to be slipping.

It was the latter allies that proved the most effective. Since they were commanders within the royal army and had a good number of soldiers under their command. Not enough to openly war against Howe, but it was substantial to tip the possible scales in their favor when a pivotal battle would take place.

A battle between Howe and Cousland…

"What terms, Your Majesty?" He noticed the silent conversation that took place between the two friends in a span of a few heartbeats before he got his answer.

"A betrothal," The Queen said simply.

He had been expecting it. An alliance between her and Edmund though potentially awkward in the short term due to their history could be just what Ferelden needed in the long term. He commanded a sizable host that camped outside his Uncle's seat at South Reach. He held two vital cities of Gwaren and Amaranthine. He also had support of much of the people for his fighting against the darkspawn.

She had the experience. She had the administrative skills that had helped to oversee a growing and improving Ferelden in these past five years. She knew how to rule. She had helped Cailan with the power he vested in her and she was more than worthy and capable of having that power given to her by a crown and the title of Queen Regnant.

Together, they could save Ferelden from annihilation.

A fool's hope, a romantic's dream, Luwin knew what the others would call it. Or the songs the bards would play if the exiled, spurned lover returned to be crowned king and her Queen.

Even with its merits there was no certainty this plan would work or unfold the way they envisioned it. However, Luwin had been willing to take that risk. This wasn't the first time this planned betrothal had been brought forward by either himself or the Queen, but now was their best chance of having it succeed.

Edmund Cousland was their best chance. Not her father, not Howe, but him. He could be used to end Howe's reign, and his threat. With Howe out of the way, it was possible that Teyrn Loghain and Edmund could work together. The potential flaw in this plan was how to handle the Queen's father if the plan was carried forward. That hindrance had been the main reason it had been held back from play for so long.

They didn't have the luxury to keep waiting and fretting. He could see determination in the Queen's features. Her time with her people had only strengthened her resolve in ending this civil war with Edmund. She was tired of the people paying for the nobility's personal spats.

Regardless, of the possible pitfalls the logic of the betrothal could be more than enough to secure them a victory in a Landsmeet. The Ferelden freeholders would certainly gather around them in their bid for the throne. They had considered naming Edmund's father not Cailan king when King Maric had been lost at sea.

"What other conditions will be given?" Luwin knew that more had to be offered besides the betrothal to bring Edmund to the table.

"Highever," The Queen said. "I will give him back his family's seat."

"Highever?" Luwin parroted. Edmund had just as much chance at getting Highever then they did. He already had Gwaren and Amaranthine. He told her as much.

"We've gotten word from Crestwood," Nathaniel tapped the small spot on the map where the town of Crestwood was. It was located north of Lake Calenhad and west of Highever. "The town's mayor has sent a message asking for help to fight an incursion of darkspawn."

Luwin frowned. At both the information that had slipped by his net, but looking closely at the Queen and Nathaniel it seemed a letter that had only recently reached the city. He also couldn't help but wonder how this related to getting Highever. A question he voiced to them.

"It gives us cause," The Queen explained. "For the army to march west without suspicion from my father and Lord Howe, we tell them we're marching to relieve Crestwood."

"My father has taken his army from Caer Oswin and what force he can spare at Highever and is bringing it all to bear on Amaranthine," Nathaniel made the gesture of his father's travel arrangement across the map.

Now, the pieces were being placed. He could admire the ingenious deception of the plan. Anora's recently acquired army from the commanders whose loyalty had shifted from her father to her would set out with or without her father's permission under the pretenses it was helping the town of Crestwood.

"But what about the town?" Luwin liked the plan, but not the idea of ignoring Fereldans who were calling for support.

"The army will go to Crestwood," The Queen assured him as if sensing his concern. "But it won't be going alone."

"What do you mean?"

"The messenger who delivered the letter said that another messenger was tasked to ride to South Reach to bring the mayor's plea to Edmund," Nathaniel informed him. "The mayor believed he might answer since he saved Gwaren."

"You'll meet Edmund's army at Crestwood?"

"Yes," Anora was smiling. "Under a peace banner and then we will march on Highever once Crestwood is evacuated and the people have been safeguarded."

"The darkspawn have made it difficult for any reliable information to come out of the south," Nathaniel made a broad wave of his hand to the southern portion of the Ferelden map. "So by the time Edmund's army arrives it'll be too late for my father and Teyrn Loghain to react or rally a sizable force."

"Crestwood is closer to Highever than Amaranthine." The Queen observed. "Howe's forces are at its lowest and the people of Highever are ready and willing to throw off Howe's yoke especially when they see the Cousland laurels banners."

Taking Highever could very well be the final blow to Howe's power. With Highever taken, and Anora's army combined with Edmund's forces to march on Amaranthine, it would put Howe's army between an anvil and a hammer. All that would need to be done is make sure the Teyrn didn't interfere and Howe could finally be brought to justice. Facing such odds, many of Howe's men were more likely to bend the knee then to stand and fight. With the former they could hope for a pardon with the latter they faced an unenviable end.

However, it was not just Howe or Loghain that could eventually stand in their way in the formation of this new power bloc. "What of Arl Eamon?"

"Eamon is stirring in Redcliffe," Nathaniel answered, "The strength of the Hinterlands is gathering and his forces have been mostly untouched in this war."

"I don't like it," Anora voiced her misgivings openly.

Luwin couldn't fault the Queen's suspicion. Eamon had never been a supporter of hers, and had been one of the loudest critics of her betrothal to Cailan. He too didn't much care for the Arl of Redcliffe. He was a nobleman who believed more in the virtue of blood than merit. Sadly, he carried quite the influence and power. His voice would carry weight when the Landsmeet was called.

"There are rumors," Luwin broached the topic carefully. His agents had gone suspiciously quiet in Redcliffe. He had gotten very little information out of there these past few months. He had to send more to try to repair his network in the area. They had only just started making it to Redcliffe and the few reports he had gotten hadn't been promising.

"He doesn't plan on declaring for Edmund or for us."

The Queen didn't seem surprised by this revelation. "He has no love for me or for the Couslands." She said matter-of-factly. "I think he's jealous of the power and influence the Couslands wield and he never forgot the perceived slight of Cailan, his nephew nearly being passed over for the crown for Bryce."

He couldn't deny that the Queen's observations made a good deal of sense. The Couslands were always considered second to the Royal family. Not to mention that the Couslands had married into the Theirin line before and that the blood of the Couslands flowed in the royal blood just as the Theirin blood flowed in the Couslands from marriages forged in Ages past to secure peace and a promising future.

"So who would he support?" Nathaniel scratched his chin, confusion covered his face.

Luwin met the Queen's eyes, and they both knew who it was that the Arl of Redcliffe would try to put on Fereldan's throne-Maric's bastard.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"I should've killed him."

Valda Aeducan recently crowned Queen of Orzammar, stood in her study within the royal estate. On the desk was an edict which officially exiled her younger brother, Bhelen Aeducan. The seal of House Aeducan was freshly pressed into the vellum. She couldn't deny the satisfaction she felt course through her when she had stamped it.

You lost, Bhelen, she thought triumphantly, you overextended yourself and it all crumbled around you. She looked down at the ordinary piece of vellum that carried her brother's sentencing. There was no rush of pity, or remorse that swelled within her at her brother's fate.

He meant to bury us both in the Deep Roads, she clenched her fist. He killed Trian and tried to frame her for the murder. The whispers of her being her father's favorite and his preferred heir were not unfounded which Bhelen learned to his detriment when he sought to remove her.

The look on his face when his little coup failed spectacularly would make Valda smile for a long time. You lost, brother. Did you really think I'd go quietly? Did you really think me without friends? Without power? That I wasn't aware of your plots?

His folly was in thinking he ever had a chance to usurp her. She had her spies and her soldiers who moved swiftly against Bhelen's. Many of his informants rolled over on him when they realized she had already outplayed them and Valda seized that moment and she never looked back.

She avenged Trian, and damned Bhelen.

"He's as good as dead, Your Majesty," the voice of her trusted friend and adviser, Gorim Saelac stood on the other side of her desk. He stood still, but proud in his family's armor, his hair long and braided to match the fierce beard that covered his cheeks and chin which he had put in an intricate braid that dangled a few inches beneath his chin.

"Bhelen is a snake letting him slither into the darkness of the Deep Roads," she paused, not needing to voice her concerns about what scheme her brother would try to hatch, stewing in defeat and nursing his pride. Even broken he was not without powerful allies.

"Kinslaying is a deplorable act in sight of the Paragons, Your Majesty."

And our legacy, she thought, remembering her father's last breath, his last words, his last fears. Blood against blood, he moaned, eyes closed, breath labored, and then he stilled, King Endrin Aeducan then had returned to the Stone.

Is that what the Shaperate will tell future generations, she wondered, The cautionary tale of power and ambition in the form of Endrin's children who had devoured one another for a crown.

She frowned. It wasn't me, father. She had tried to tell him as she sat beside his bed, holding his clammy hands. Bhelen started it, she told him as he fought the fever, silently willing him to have heard her, to have believed her.

I only finished it, she had confessed in a voice softer than a whisper.

Another victim of Bhelen's failed coup, she thought bitterly. The blood of Trian and Father was on her younger brother's hands. After the disaster in the Deep Roads leading to Trian's death and then the bloody battling and scheming that threatened to tear Orzammar apart between her and Bhelen. It had been too much for their father. He had fallen ill and couldn't recover, dying as his children fought for his crown.

"The Deep Roads are treacherous," Gorim's voice broke her out of her reverie. "I'm not certain your brother could survive the first night on his own."

She turned to argue with him only to notice the glint in his eyes and she understood his meaning at once. It had already been arranged. She nodded, pleased and thankful that she could trust her friend to deal with such a delicate matter discreetly.

"Is this her?"

Valda looked down from her throne at the girl who stood before her. She held her head high but her eyes were red rimmed, her bright hair which had been nicely braided, had tresses beginning to slip through. Even looking disheveled, it was difficult to deny she was beautiful despite the brand below her eye that marked her for casteless.

The evidence Bhelen's affection was plain to see by the small, but noticeable swelling of the girl's belly.

"It is, Your Majesty," Gorim answered solemnly, he stood to her left.

Gorim was dressed in his armor with his arms crossed over his chest. He had been the one who had been tasked with finding her. She had been guarded by the last few toadies who remained loyal to Bhelen. They preferred to die then surrender the girl. They did, and the girl was then brought swiftly here under a guise.

They were in the audience chambers of the Royal Estate. Aeducan guards stood resolutely at their posts, faces hooded by their ornate helms, clad in armor, weapons sheathed, but ready to withdraw at a second's notice.

Lord Pyral Harrowmont stood to Valda's other side. He didn't bother to mask his disdain at the casteless girl before them. He had been the one to alert her of Gorim's success. Valda had wanted to settle this quickly and quietly, but her plans went awry when she saw the girl cowering in the audience chambers with a swollen belly.

"My brother hid you well," Valda admitted, "And now I know why."

"You mean to kill me," the girl stated, placing a protective hand over her belly, "And my child."

"You're not afraid." Valda was silently impressed by how the girl conducted herself.

"You are not my Queen."

"How dare you," Lord Harrowmont growled.

"Enough, Pyral," Valda held up her hand to stop her father's stalwart ally from punishing the girl for this insolence.

"Your Majesty, she insults your authority with her disrespect."

"She does," Valda admitted harshly, pleased to see her tone caused the girl to flinch."What is your name?"

"Rica Brosca."

"And whose child do you carry?"

"Bhelen Aeducan's," Rica raised her head proudly.

"That was the wrong answer," Valda shook her head, "You only condemn your life and your child's with that lie."

"It isn't a lie," Rica protested. "It's the truth!"

"I try to save her, Lord Harrowmont, but she refuses."

"I see that, your Majesty."

Her eyes flashed. "Bhelen loved me! He was going to have me moved into the Royal Estates."

"My room, mayhaps?" Valda cut in sharply.

Rica recoiled. "H-He was good to me."

"Because he liked what was between your legs," Valda said bluntly. "My brother killed our brother and our father, and tried to kill me." She felt anger burning in her gut like hot lava. "He was once a Prince, but now is nothing but a disgrace!"

Valda looked down at this girl and felt nothing. She was not fooled by this concubine. She understood how these casteless girls were raised to be noble hunters trying to seduce lords in the hopes of birthing them a son. Since the child would inherit the caste of its same gender parent.

If this child was a daughter then Valda had nothing to worry about, but if it was a boy...

She didn't need the complication. It would be of the noble caste like his father, her brother, her blood. Despite what had happened to Bhelen, he wasn't without allies. She knew all it would take was for one supporter of her brother to take in the mother and son and to groom him to be a rival claimant to the throne. The Assembly picked who wore the crown, and they could be swayed or bought to pass over Valda's children.

That thought soured her stomach.

No, she thought, I cannot ignore this risk. Valda hadn't won this throne from Bhelen only to have her children lose it to this unborn child.

"Lord Harrowmont?"

"Yes, Your Majesty?" He turned to face her.

"Have Rica escorted to one of our guest chambers where she will be under heavy guard for the duration of her pregnancy."

"At once, Your Majesty," Lord Harrowmont bowed his head, before ordering a few of the Aeducan guards to come forward. Two of the guards took the girl by the arms gingerly. Rica tried to shake them off.

"And my child?" Rica demanded, flinching when the guards' grip on her arms tightened. "What of my child?!"

"Silence, you wench," Lord Harrowmont growled, gesturing the guards to take her away at a quicker pace.

Valda watched them leave silently not deigning to reply to the girl's pleas as this Rica, Lord Harrowmont, and his retinue of guards left the chambers.

"Ale," Valda beckoned over one of the estate stewards. "Bring me some ale."

The steward bowed and left to fulfill her orders.

She needed something to dull the throbbing pain. It was as if a smith had put her skull between his hammer and his forge, and began pounding.

"Your Majesty?" a look of concern from her second, Gorim stepped forward cautiously.

"A headache," she answered, "even in exile my brother still gives me them." She let out a mirthless chuckle.

"Your brother had that skill," Gorim put in dryly.

"Aye," Valda felt the beginning of a smile come to her lips before her mind returned to this pregnant Rica Brosca and that smile died. "Gorim, what do they call a Queen who kills children?"

"The Queen," he answered simply.

She frowned at that answer, but before she could seek clarity, Gorim continued.

"How many wars have been fought between claimants to the crown that could've been avoided if those rival heirs had been dealt with when they were children?"

"So you're saying I should have them killed?"

"No, your Majesty," Gorim replied. "Just that you must consider all options," he paused, "Despite how unseemly some of them will be," he pulled at one of the strands of his braided beard, "You must understand how today's mercy could lead to tomorrow's war."

"Thank you, Gorim, for your counsel." She meant every word of it

"Your Majesty," he straightened, "I live to serve the crown."

"Is this wise, Your Majesty?"

She looked up from the maps to see concerned etched on the wrinkled face of her father's trusted adviser, and now hers. Lord Harrowmont had been crucial in helping to bring peace swiftly after her father's death and her brother's exile. His service and his swords helped in equal parts. And it was his men who had brought forth these maps that she was currently looking through.

Caradin's Cross, she smoothed out the crumpled portions of the map. In its glory it was one of the largest crossroads in the Deep Roads. Now, with this map she believed she had the solid foundation needed to take this journey in search of Paragon Caradin's greatest triumph-The Anvil of the Void.

"This expedition is necessary, Lord Harrowmont."

"You are necessary too, Your Majesty," he rebutted, "Your reign is hardly stable. It is new and not without cracks."

"We need this, Pyral," she pointed at the small dot on the map that stood for Orzammar. "Our people have been pushed to the brink." She put her finger on her family's ancient thaig-Aeducan Thaig. "We may not get a better chance this Age. We must seize this opportunity. Not just for today, but for our children's future!"

"You need heirs, Your Majesty," Harrowmont observed delicately. His eyes misted in the candlelight. "The last line of Endrin," He shook his head, "I swore to your father that I would not let that happen."

"Not this again," She had grown weary of this conversation.

Harrowmont deftly ignored her protests. "You have no heir to bring before the Assembly in case you do not return."

"All the more reason for this expedition, Pyral," she offered a half hearted smile, "I'm tired of the betrothal offers that come to this estate hourly."

"A good match will secure your crown and bring forth allies."

"Yes," she conceded, "I will gain one ally in return my spurned suitors could very well turn into my enemies."

"Your Majesty," Harrowmont took offense at that notion. "The men of the noble caste are honorable and have pledged their swords to you. They have named you their Queen."

A man's pride is fickle, she wanted to say with a wan smile. Those swords that made me their queen can just as easily remove me from my throne.

"I have other duties to Orzammar then simply breeding, Pyral."

Lord Harrowmont shrunk a bit at her blunt tone. "And you will exceed in them, Your Majesty." He recovered smoothly, "The Assembly confirmed you as their Queen for more than just…." He seemed uncomfortable with saying the words procreation and her name in the same sentence. It brought a slight smile to her tired expression knowing that Pyral looked at her as a daughter or a favorite niece having watched her grow up.

"It is for your cunning, your strength, and your fairness to friends and foes alike."

"I need to be in armor again, Pyral." Where matters were much simpler: fight and kill darkspawn. As much as she relished the game the dwarves played in the political arena, Valda was ready for a different challenge.

"But so soon after your coronation?" he asked, "Surely there will be a better time."

"No, the time is now. The best and safest time to explore the Deep Roads is during a Blight," Valda argued. "While the surface is flooded with darkspawn, the Deep Roads will be passable. We can secure a foothold, here." She tapped the Aeducan Thaig, long since abandoned.

She had plans. Valda was not going to sit idly and watch her people and their once great empire waste away like her predecessors had. No, she believed she could begin to rebuild and reclaim old and close thaigs to Orzammar. Slowly, but surely she'd settle her ancestral one first, the Aeducan Thaig; sure up its defenses and the road between it and Orzammar. Encourage her people to explore and relocate with generous incentives that could make the thaig bustling within a decade or two.

"And when the Blight is over?" Harrowmont pointed out, "What then will happen to this thaig once the darkspawn are once more contained in the Deep Roads."

"We will prevail," Valda stubbornly insisted.

"You mean to search for this folly," Pyral gaped.

"To do nothing is folly!" She rebutted, "We will not squander this opportunity that the Ancestors have given us." She shook her head, "No more shall we watch our empire decay before our eyes while we wait for the darkspawn to march on the gates of Orzammar!" She moved her hand over passed the maps of Caradin's Cross since it didn't contain what she was looking for, but she knew it was there-the Anvil of the Void.

"The golems will be our shield to keep the darkspawn from advancing and then we shall use them as our sword to slowly advance and cut through the darkspawn ranks."

"You have no certainty that you will find the Void or even be able to recreate the golems," Pyral protested. "Paragon Branka lost everything including her house and life searching for this!" His rubbed his face, looking old and tired. "Please, Valda," he said softly, using her name in a rare slip of decorum. "You mustn't do this."

I cannot bend, Valda reminded herself. He will understand in time. "I must, Pyral." She could see the disappointment in his eyes that he could not persuade her. "Can I still count on your service?"

"Now and always, Your Majesty," he stood straighter.

"Thank you," she smiled at him. "That is why I can think of no one else I'd rather have overseeing Orzammar and working with the Assembly then you when I'm gone." She put her hand on his shoulder and he instantly bowed his head. "My father trusted you, I trust you."

"Your words honor me, Your Majesty," He said after taking a few seconds to compose himself. When he raised his head, his dark eyes glistened. "I will not fail you."

"It is done, Your Majesty."

Valda Aeducan looked up from her plate to see Gorim standing before her, his head bowed, with his enclosed fist over his chest. "You've seen it?"

"Yes," he answered, "It was your brother."

"Good," She found her nervous stomach having settled upon having it confirmed that Bhelen had been dealt with once and for all. Valda felt a sense of satisfaction upon knowing he will be rejected by the Stone. She tucked in to her dinner with more gusto a meal that featured bronto steak, deep mushrooms, and baked lichen bread. "Join us."

"I'd be honored," Gorim moved to take the empty seat on her left at the small table in her private dining chambers where past Kings and Queens of Orzammar could treat their friends and leal supporters to a more intimate gathering.

Lord Harrowmont sat opposite him, and he raised his tankard, "To queen Valda Aeducan's reign!"

"To the Queen!" Gorim replied enthusiastically as the two men clanged their tankards together and drank greedily of the black ale that had been provided for their dinner.

"Long may she reign!" They chorused once they finished their tankards.

She allowed a few seconds to pass after their toast before Valda returned them to the matters at hand.

"How go the preparations, Gorim?" Valda had entrusted her second into coordinating her royal forces of the expedition with the other dwarf noble and warrior houses that would be joining them. She had been careful in who she recruited, having sent out invites to both loyal and rival houses of hers. Not wanting all of her family's enemies to remain untouched when she departed Orzammar.

Valda sent out generous offers to those family's scions to have them personally included and given them the chance of glory and plunder and to fight beside her. The young men and women were eager to prove themselves and joined willingly leaving it to their matriarch and patriarchs of their houses to understand that they were all but Valda's hostages while she was away to discourage any plotting.

"Lord Anwer Dace is eager to return to the Aeducan Thaig," Gorim answered, "He's hired sellswords to fight alongside his warriors."

Valda was pleased. She knew she could count on House Dace for their support in this expedition. The Dace patriarch was an explorer and a warrior who had led countless expeditions into the Deep Roads over the years, and she'd rely on that experience for this endeavor. They were a powerful and strong noble house and their ties to the Smith Caste would be beneficial in Valda's plans to rejuvenate the Aeducan Thaig and return the thaig to its former glory.

Anwer is a good man," Harrowmont nodded his approval, "and a fine warrior."

"Yes, he is, Pyral," Valda agreed. "He will have the honor in being one of the leaders of the expedition."

"Have you chosen the others, Your Majesty?" Pyral asked.

"I have," she informed him. "Lady Adal Helmi will be one of them as well." Like House Dace, House Helmi was an influential noble house that Valda needed as an ally to help rule Orzammar. It was Lady Helmi, the house's matriarch who had tried to negotiate a betrothal between their houses years ago with Valda marrying her son, Lord Denek Helmi.

Now that she was Queen, Lady Helmi had assured Valda that she was still interested in a betrothal between their houses. An offer Valda would consider especially now that Lord Denek had earned some prestige on his own merit having become the youngest deshyr in the Assembly.

Even though Lord Harrowmont had called some of his plans too radical that he believed could undo their society. Lord Denek's ideas included reworking the caste system. Those plans alone have earned him some enemies within the noble and warrior houses. Regardless, he was a suitor that she would be watching closely.

"Adal Helmi," Gorim nodded his approval, "She's fought well in the Provings and has the support of her house and the warriors who fight with her family."

"Houses Helmi and Dace are excellent choices, Your Majesty," Harrowmont praised, "they give your reign protection and this expedition legitimacy." He looked at her with pride. "Any rival will think twice before crossing those houses not to mention having to deal with Houses Aeducan and Harrowmont."

"Indeed," Valda knew with this power bloc of Houses Helmi, Dace, Harrowmont, and Aeducan that few if any of the noble houses would be able to directly compete against them. She wanted all of Orzammar to see this new alliance and for her enemies to feel doubt and dread from the shadows.

"My cousin, Piotin will have the honor of leading the majority of House Aeducan's forces," Valda revealed, she trusted her cousin's martial skill from past expeditions in the Deep Roads as well as his multiple victories in the Provings. She knew tapping him as the commander of the Aeducan forces, an honorable role for any warrior had insured his loyalty and negated any doubts he would have on her regime.

"Your brother, Prince Trian often boasted of Piotin's skills," Harrowmont bowed his head at the mention of the departed prince, another victim of Bhelen's schemes. "The Horns of his army, that's what Trian called him."

It's now my army, Valda thought, but her brother's observations about their cousin remained true.

"Aye, a berserker and a force of nature," Gorim was cutting up a large piece of his bronto steak.

"Exactly," Valda spread some rare and expensive plum jam on to her lichen bread, the surface treat was a delicacy and one of the few foods from the surface that she indulged herself with. "Darvianak Vollney has earned his house the last spot."

"House Vollney is a minor noble house, Your Majesty," Lord Harrowmont had looked up from his cut up deep mushrooms when she had revealed the last name.

"What better way to ensure loyalty then to help raise a noble house to a position it has long coveted," Valda pointed out.

"Other houses will take this as a slight."

Valda took a sip from her tankard. She had requested Brakien Brew, liking the heavy, rich taste it offered."If I sneeze some houses will take it as a slight."

Gorim chuckled at that, "Aye, an insult to their Ancestors!, They'd claim."

Valda smiled, "I cannot please everyone, Pyral. And it's not just rich nobles I need but fighters," she took a small bite from her bronto steak, "And Darvianak Vollney is an exceptional fighter."

"It is said he killed his brother."

"He was proven innocent in the Provings, Lord Harrowmont" Gorim put in, "By the decree of the Ancestors and the will of the Stone it was shown."

"Yes, but still," Lord Harrowmont did not seem inclined on speaking out about the validity of the Provings despite his misgivings with Darvianak Vollney.

"I will be careful, Pyral," she assured him. "Besides once we're in the Deep Roads there may come a time where certain warriors and nobles may have to volunteer for the honor of defending their queen or protecting the expedition from certain attacks against poor odds." She let the true meaning of her message go unsaid-some houses are expendable.

Thankfully, she didn't have to spell it out for him, as Lord Harrowmont's eyes lit up in understanding and a sly smirk came to his face beneath his bushy beard. "Very good, Your Majesty," He raised his tankard to her and took a measured sip. "My nephew Renvil is thankful and eager for the opportunity to represent our house in this expedition."

"I am honored to have Renvil join us."

"Your Majesty, if I may?" Harrowmont asked softly,

"Yes, Pyral?"

"I ask that you keep an eye on him," Concern was etched across his face, "Tercy and I have not been blessed with children, and I've been grooming Renvil to be our house's heir."

Valda held up her hand for him to stop. "I understand, Pyral, and do not worry, Renvil will be well looked after during the expedition. I'll have him fight close to my side so he will be protected by some of the finest warriors in Orzammar." He won't see it as a slight, but an honor to be so close to his Queen.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Pyral's tone cracking in sincerity at her offer of help.

Gorim cleared his throat politely. "What should we do about some of the noble houses you leave behind."

"Houses Ivo and Gavorn will need to be watched carefully," Valda instructed.

They had both chose to back the wrong Aeducan and it had cost them the lives of many members of their house as well as blocking their ascension further up the noble hierarchy.

"Do you think they know about the casteless girl?" Lord Harrowmont asked.

"Yes," Valda answered without hesitation. Bhelen had been close with Vartag Gavorn and Frandlin Ivo the latter had been killed trying to rally against Valda before her coronation while the former had disappeared. She knew he was hiding and waiting.

"All the more reason to kill her," Harrowmont urged. "Few will mourn the death of a casteless girl," he waved his hand dismissively. "That whelp she carries is a threat."

"A daughter cannot threaten us," Valda pointed out.

"But a son?" Harrowmont raised his dark bushy brows.

Valda frowned.

"Has the Shaperate made any motion to remove Bhelen's name from the Records and the Stone?" Gorim asked.

"No, not yet," she answered.

They had yet to reply to her message that condemned Bhelen for his atrocious crimes including fratricide, and her insistence that he be removed from the Records. As long as Bhelen's name remained written in lyrium within the halls of the Shaperate it was not over. Bhelen's status as a nobleman and a Prince of House Aeducan would carry over onto his son, giving him legitimacy and a threat to any of Valda's future children for not just the crown but for the future control of House Aeducan.

The Shaperate was suppose to be apolitical, to be above the squabbles of the nobility, but they were also suppose to do their duty when called upon. The King or Queen of Orzammar was called, the Shield of the Shaperate. Making her wonder if she needed to pay them a visit to remind them of their civic duty to uphold the Assembly's law.

"I want the girl under heavy guard," Valda ordered, "only servants of your house to tend to her, Pyral." She may have cleansed the Royal Estates with Bhelen supporters, but she was certain sympathizers may linger.

By the Ancestors, she wanted to grumble at this headache that only seemed to grow. Her brother was dead, but he was still causing her problems. She took a steady sip of her Brakien Brew savoring the rich, heavy flavor and was grateful that it seemed to alleviate her headache.

"It will be done, Your Majesty," He promised, "Have no fear, my house hosts no friends of your treacherous brother."

"And I am thankful for that loyalty." She sprinkled some of the deep mushroom bits onto her steak for seasoning.

"If I may, Your Majesty?" When she nodded, Harrowmont continued, "Pregnancies are such dire endeavors. It isn't uncommon for the baby and the mother to succumb to a fever or another form of sickness. After all, they're both so weak after such a trying ordeal."

Valda's stomach clenched at what he was suggesting. Is this the foundation of my crown, the blood of my brother and that of his lover and child? She took a bite of her seasoned steak hoping it would relieve her grumbling stomach.

"There may be another way, Your Majesty," Gorim spoke up.

"What is it?"

"If the casteless girl births him a son, you could raise him and train him."

"What madness if this Gorim?" Pyral gawked.

"I did some research, Your Majesty," Gorim ignored Harrowmont's outburst and turned to her. "The casteless girl's brother is a Grey Warden. We could have her son enlist as a Grey Warden when he reaches maturity." He took a sip from his tankard, "It would put him out of the line of succession and give him a noble purpose."

"How many princes give up the opulence and influence of the Diamond Quarter to become a Grey Warden?" Harrowmont scoffed. "You risk exposing yourself, Your Majesty. If you recognize this potential nephew then you are all but showing your rivals a supporter they could back instead of you."

He shook his head. "It's too dangerous." He dismissed, "So many things could go wrong," he paused, looking conflicted, "What if something were to happen to you, Your Majesty before he reached maturity to join the Wardens. This child would be used to rally your enemies over your own heirs."

"We all know Bhelen still has supporters in the Assembly and possibly even in the Shaperate itself. Your brother was influential, Your Majesty." Lord Harrowmont finished.

He was, she thought. He thought he had enough to set her aside. He realized the error in his thinking too late.

"He'd be raised knowing his role from the time he was on his mum's teat," Gorim suggested. "He'd know his place and his future was with the Wardens not the Crown."

"Or he'd resent the Queen for stealing away the crown he'd imagine was his due to his father," Harrowmont rebutted.

"Enough," Valda couldn't hear any more of it. "I thank you both for your counsel and will consider your suggestions."

"Your Majesty?"

Surprised at the new voice she turned to the door to see the High Steward of the Royal Estates, "Yes?"

"There was word from the surface," the steward revealed, "Grey Wardens have arrived to the gates of Orzammar."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"My friend!"

Kylon smiled at his friend's enthusiastic greeting. Slim held his arms wide to greet him when Kylon walked into his private chambers in the Gnawed Noble. Kylon endured the strong but hearty pat on the back, realizing that based on his friend's good mood that good news was to come.

He was about to tell his friend that he got his message when he noticed that they weren't alone. It wasn't the Dark Wolf, or one of Slim's other guards or informants. No, what surprised him was that it was a girl. An elvish girl, who was sitting at the table, eating stew and judging by the bowl across from her, Slim had been with her before getting up to greet him.

"Am I interrupting?" Kylon's voice seemed to pull the girl's attention his way. She looked at him with large, inquisitive eyes, but when he met her curious gaze, her attention darted back towards her stew, keeping her head down.

"Do not fret girl, Robert Kylon is my friend."

He couldn't deny the sense of pride he felt at hearing those words come from Slim. "Hello," he said gently to the girl, hoping to convey that he wasn't a threat but a friend.

"Hello," Her voice was soft and timid.

"This is Amethyne." Slim introduced her upon realizing she was too shy to offer her name.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Amethyne," Kylon bowed his head, as was expected when meeting a noblewoman. He was pleased when it got a small smile to come to the girl's lips.

"You're in the city guard," she said.

"I am," He couldn't help but wonder if this girl was actually one of his friend's informants.

Slim seemed to be reading his thoughts since he spoke up, "She is a friend, not a mouse."

Mouse, that's what his friend called his informants who lived and worked for him inside Denerim.

Her face scrunched up at that description. "A mouse?" She giggled at how silly that sounded. "I'm not a mouse, Master Slim, but a girl!" She was still giggling.

Slim smiled down at the girl. "Of course, you are." He patted her shoulder, "Are you enjoying your druffalo stew?"

She bobbed her head up and down, "It's wonderful, thank you."

"I'm glad," he took his seat opposite her. "I'm afraid, we'll have to cut our meal short today." He sounded contrite.

"I understand," she put her spoon down, and pushed herself out from her seat.

"I can come back."

"No," Slim sent him a serious look. "This cannot wait."

Kylon understood so he kept quiet and out of the way as he watched Amethyne get ready to leave.

"It was nice meeting you, Robert Kylon," she curtseyed to him.

He couldn't help but smile, he returned her curtsey with a bow, "You as well, Lady Amethyne."

"I'll see you later, child," Slim assured her. "Frederick will take you back."

She nodded, before stepping out of the room and leaving the two friends alone.

"A polite girl," Kylon remarked.

"She is. I was friends with her father before he passed," Slim's face softened, "She lost her mother in the sacking of Cousland Castle."

"Does she know?"

Slim sighed. "No, not yet. She still expects her mother to return any day with a gift from Highever."

"You need to tell her."

"I know," Slim ran a hand through his red hair. "I trade secrets and information for a living, but the thought of delivering that bit of news to her." He let out a mirthless laugh. "And suddenly I'd rather wish I wasn't so well informed."

Kylon took the seat that the girl had vacated, "You're doing a good thing looking out for her," he told his friend, "But she needs to know the truth."

"I will," Slim replied in a tone that signaled he wanted the subject dropped.

He held up his arms. "I've said my peace."

That got Slim's hard look to melt and for his usual, confident smile to reemerge, "I've always admired your bluntness, my old friend."

"Old friend?" Kylon repeated dryly. "Now who's being blunt."

He chuckled, "Come, have a drink with me." Slim waved a servant over who seemed to have appeared in the room when the friends were talking, the servant came forward with two glassed each already filled with wine.

"I shouldn't."

"But you will," Slim insisted.

Kylon took the glass with a nod, silently watching as the servant began removing the plates and bowls from the supper that Slim and Amethyne had been having.

"Are you hungry?" Slim asked, "I can have them bring you some stew?"

"No, thank you." Kylon took a sip from his glass instead, pleased at the soothing, sweet taste that went down his throat.

"You know me well enough to know I didn't invite you here just for the wine."

"I don't think that day is ever going to come."

"Someday, my friend," Slim assured him, eyes twinkling with mirth, "But not today." He pulled out a piece of paper from one of his pockets. "This is the last key you need to save this city."

That got Kylon's attention. "The slavers, you found them?"

"Yes," Slim confirmed.

Ever since he and Kallian had returned from that slaver warehouse weeks ago, Slim had been diligently trying to crack the code that they had implemented to hide their activity and their main base of operation. It had become an obsession for Slim to try to not just expose but eradicate everyone responsible for bringing slavery into his Alienage. His friend had vowed vengeance on every single one of them, and judging by his expression, that was exactly what was on his mind.

"When do we take it out?"

"Whenever you're ready."

"Good," Kylon already had a time in mind. "Because, I'm off duty tonight."

"I've waited a long time for this."

"Me too," he agreed.

Robert Kylon found himself standing on a rooftop in the Alienage with the most wanted criminal in the city, the Dark Wolf. The sun was setting on Denerim, causing a reddish glow to settle over the Alienage. He found it fitting, knowing that blood would be spilt on this night.

She looked at him from over her shoulder. Her eyes narrow and hooded with suspicion. "These aren't your people. This isn't your problem."

"They're citizens of Denerim," he reminded her, "that makes it my problem," he met her gaze, "And that makes them my people."

She scoffed, "A shem who cares about the elves?" She snorted at how ridiculous it sounded to her.

"We're all just Denerim denizens as far as I can tell."

"Then you're a fool," she hissed.

"I've been called that before," he shrugged off her venom, "And often times they were correct when calling me it."

He was familiar with her skepticism about him. Her wariness towards humans was nothing to new to him. He wasn't here to convert her to trust them. He was here to eradicate this slave ring in Denerim, nothing more. Besides, looking at the scars that riddled her face, and parts of her body that he had glimpsed, he didn't think anyone would be able to convince her of any virtue that mankind had.

"We should have left already," The Dark Wolf prowled like her name sake.

"We're not to go in until the signal is given," he gently reminded her.

That was why they were waiting here, on this rooftop that overlooked the warehouse that the slavers were using as their base of operations. Slim had warned them to expect heavy resistance, claiming it was armed to the teeth, with not just soldiers, but a few mages too including the leader, the very dangerous, and despicable, Caladrius. Slim wanted to draw some of these soldiers and mages away with a distraction, that was why they waited.

Kallian stood on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down at the unsuspecting guards who patrolled below. Her fingers tapping one of the pouches on her belt. Her lips pressed in a thin line. "Every second we wait, my people are being carted away."

"That's not true," Kylon's words caused him to be the center of her angry gaze, but he didn't flinch, "Slim has made sure there would be no new shipments," he winced at the word.

"Slaves," She snarled, "my people."

"Yes," he recovered, knowing he was wrong in what word he chose, "Has guaranteed no more people will be leaving the city tonight."

"He hasn't been able to stop them before," Kallian argued, "How many of our people have been taken? Dozens, Hundreds?" She shook her head, "No more," she vowed.

"After tonight, they'll be finished," He didn't need her not to lose track of their mission.

"That we can agree on," in an instant, she pulled out one of her daggers, the steel shimmering in the fading sunlight. "Every shem and slaver responsible will be killed." She punctured the air with her dagger in a stabbing thrust, "Noble or not, they'll be dead."

Robert Kylon did not doubt her vow. Nor would he offer any protest to try to protect them from her vengeance. They broke the law, and as far as he was concerned they deserved to be punished. He couldn't help but admire how fitting it would be if those responsible were judged by those they hurt the must.

To him that felt like justice, to him what they were doing now felt like the type of duty he should be carrying out as a member of the city guard.

This is how I serve my city, he reminded himself. This night he had left behind his armor of the city guard, choosing to go into battle in light, but formidable red-steel armor, that had been gifted to him by Slim, years ago.

So no one sees the blood, Slim had joked when he presented to him after Kylon had helped him with a problem. He had taken the gift with some hesitance, knowing bribes were illegal for the city guard to accept, even if many of his brethren pursued and took them.

He had wanted to be different from those unprincipled men not to join them in their ranks of corruption. However, he realized that this set of armor was no bribe, but a gesture of friendship and respect between him and Slim, and with that thought, he had gladly accepted it.

"You disagree?"

He blinked, looking to see she was staring at him. The sun was setting behind her, bathing her in a reddish glow which made for a stirring, but haunting sight. Kylon realized she had taken his silence as disapproval or disagreement.

"I do not," he informed her, "I was just thinking that it was justice."

"Justice?" she repeated, face turning in the direction of the warehouse below them, casting part of her in the red light, "Yeah, it's justice." She sheathed her dagger, "And the sooner I can dispense it, the happier I'll be."

"We wait," he found himself saying sensing her growing impatience.

Any rebuttal that was on her lips died when something ensnared her attention, her eyes widened, as she was looking at something over his shoulder. Confused, he turned to see one of the buildings near the vhenedhal had caught on fire.

"That was the hospice."

"Hospice?" He didn't like the sound of that, silently watching in a mixture of horror and awe as the fire consumed the building.

"Yes, where the slavers kept their front," She spat, "To shield us from knowing what they were really doing to us."

"Ah," Kylon understood. "Slim would've gotten any elves out of there."

"I know," Kallian's eyes remained transfixed on the fire, a smile touched her lips while a look of satisfaction flickered across her face upon seeing the building go up in flames. Pleased at seeing the reminder of the Imperium's cruelty and callousness towards her people being burned away from her Alienage.

Shouts and curses could be heard from below, he looked down to see guards were staring at the burning building, and though he couldn't see their faces, he was certain they were sharing the same feeling of disbelief at seeing the fire. The door to the warehouse opened to show more than a dozen armed slavers come running out behind them was a man and a woman both dressed in robes which signaled they were mages from the Imperium. It was them who started calling out orders to the guards before leading them towards the burning building.

"I think that's our cue."

The Dark Wolf stepped out of the red, fading sunlight, "Then let's get started."

"What is the meaning of this?"

Damn, Kylon cursed, he and Kallian had barely stepped into the warehouse before they found themselves confronted by a handful of armed Tevinter slavers. It seemed Slim's distraction didn't lure them all out of the warehouse.

The woman who confronted them to Kylon's disbelief was an elf, her ears poking out of her black hair which had been braided, her eyes equally dark were looking him and Kallian over.

"We were told there would be no interference from the authorities," she was eying him.

"You're an elf." Kallian was staring at the elf slaver in front of her as if she had grown a second head.

"How observant," the elf slaver replied dryly, earning some snickering from the guards that stood around her.

"Devera," one of the guards stepped forward to address the elf, "Should we kill them now?"

"Hold," she raised her hand, "Let me sate my curiosity first."

"You're an elf," Kallian repeated in dismay. "H-How could you do this?" It was clear that Kallian couldn't fathom such a thing-her own people helping to enslave them.

"These are sheep," Devera sneered, "You insult me by claiming I should hold some sort of kinship to this rabble," she tapped her leather armor which bore the Imperium Chantry insignia. "I am Tevinter first," she boasted, "And a servant to the Circle of Minrathous second," she was looking at Kallian like one would look at an insect. "Those are the things that matter to me."

"No interference from the authorities?" Kylon didn't want to believe it. "They know about this?"

That brought a cold, shrill laugh from Devera while the guards around her guffawed. "Of course, they do," she looked at Kylon like he was a simpleton. "You Fereldans talk a great deal about how very wrong slavery is," a mocking smile on her lips, "But at the promises of gold, oh how quickly your greed overcomes such ideals."

"Who authorized this?" He demanded, ignoring her mocking tone and insults. "Was it Howe?" It had to be. He was a greedy, immoral man who'd do anything to line his pockets with more gold.

"Enough," she ignored his question. "It is obvious you are not without talent or connections, how else could you've found us? How else could you've figured out what we're up to."

"You traitor!" Kallian hissed, her hand going for the hilts of her daggers, "I'll kill you where you stand." She resembled a blur as she launched herself across the room towards Devera, two guards had stepped in front of her to block her path. Kallian dealt with them quickly enough, slashing one of them from shoulder to midsection, and with her other dagger she plunged it into the guard's chest.

The time they bought Devera was precious and it was all she needed as the Tevinter elf withdrew her own blades and met Kallian's daggers with a snarl.

That was all the time Kylon had to watch as the two remaining guards moved towards him. Sword out, he parried the first one's opening thrust, deflecting it away and towards the second guard who had to sidestep to avoid his comrade's sword. With the opening in the first guard's stance, Kylon seized the moment, bringing his sword back down onto the guard, hacking through his shoulder, and cutting deep into the man's chest. Blood sprayed from the wound, his gurgling cries and pain were short-lived as he succumbed to the wound in a matter seconds slumping against Kylon's sword, dead on his feet.

Robert had just enough time to yank his sword out of the dead guard when the attack from the remaining guard began. They both ignored the dead guard's body when it hit the floor between them. The guard stepping over his dead comrade, face red out of anger or the lust for battle. He moved with confidence before launching an opening cutting arc that had Kylon raise his sword to deflect, but just as their blades met, the guard pulled his sword away and thrust low. Kylon unable to bring his sword down in time instead, dodge the blow, twisting his body out of the way of the sword's path.

He then moved his elbow forward, ignoring the pain when it connected with the guard's face, who stumbled backwards from the blow reeling. Kylon without hesitation struck, piercing armor and flesh, killing him instantly. He tugged his sword out, preparing himself to join the battle with Kallian only to watch as she finished Devera in one swift, cutting arc, puncturing the elf's armor, just below the chest.

"Traitor," Kallian growled, pushing her dagger deeper into Devera's gut.

Devera offered no resistance or defense, mouth gaping, gurgling ensued and blood began seeping from her mouth. Her eyes wide in disbelief. Her hands fumbled at the dagger which remain embedded into her stomach, as blood began pouring out of the wound.

Wordlessly, Kallian pulled the sword out of Devera, purposely carving more flesh as she went. It tug of her blade made a squishing noise followed by a flow of blood and innards that fell to the floor like slippering, writhing eels.

Kallian stepped over the corpse of Devera without acknowledging the dead elf.

Kylon could see the anger brimming just beneath the Dark Wolf's expression, but it was the eyes that caught his interest. There was no satisfaction or anger in those large, bright green orbs. There was something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, confusion, dismay, he wasn't certain. What was clear to him was that the fight with Devera had rattled the Dark Wolf.

It was over, Kylon let out a sigh of relief.

The Tevinter slavers were dead.

He looked around the room to see their bodies strewn about, lay where they had fallen to either his blade or Kallian's. The battle had been bloody, but thankfully brief.

His eyes drifted towards one of the bodies, garbed in robes of the Imperium circle, that was Caladrius. 

The Tevinter mage when faced with the threat of death, tried to bargain, bribe, and intimidate himself out of danger, but neither he nor Kallian were interested in the mage's bleating. There would be no deal, only justice.

Caladrius showed just how terrible a person he was when trying to escape. His sniveling pleas as he tried to escape not just with his life, but with the lives of the caged elves who he wanted to take with him back to the Imperium.

Just the reminder of the man's nefarious offer roiled Kylon's stomach.

Those elves were now free. They had been let go as soon as the battle had ended. Kallian had taken the keys from the mage's robes and freed her people, who were giddy with relief at being given their lives back when they had been resigned to a fate of slavery in the Imperium. None of the elves had lingered in the warehouse. Kylon couldn't blame them, knowing they probably had nothing but terrifying memories of this place and wanted to return to their friends and families who had given up on hope on them

Kallian had escorted them out of the warehouse, wanting to make sure there were no surprises waiting for them. That left Kylon with the task of sorting through what was left in an effort to provide Slim and the Dark Wolf with more information and possible Fereldan culprits who were complicit with the slavers.

That was where Kylon currently found himself, standing before Caladrius' desk and going through the mage's documents. Slavers were meticulously organized, cataloging their slaves, workers, in great detail, as well as pages of notes on locations, laws, and people many of which seemed to be referring to back in the Imperium. 

"Find anything?"

He looked over his shoulder to see Kallian had returned. "Yes," he held up one piece of parchment. "They were arrogant," he heard her approaching footsteps, "It seemed they didn't think this place could be breached, much of these writings aren't even in Tevene."

"So you can read it?"

"Yes." Kylon confirmed, "Some of it hints at slavers and friends back in the Imperium, but it mentions guards and some minor nobles and merchants who profited from Caladrius' slave trade."

"Good," Kallian sounded pleased. "I'll want their names."

He had no doubt that every name on that list would be dead inside a fortnight. "You can get it from Slim," he told her, "All this is going back to him."

"That's fine," Kallian didn't sound bothered by that, "He'll give them to me."

Kylon didn't doubt it. "I also found some gold," he pointed to a chest by the door, "It should go back to your people."

Kallian walked over to and then opened the chest to peer inside to see it brimming with sovereigns shimmering up at her, "Blood money," she muttered, closing the chest, "But it will be put to good purposes." She looked up at him, "You didn't have to tell me about it."

"Yes, I did," Kylon insisted, "that money doesn't belong to me." He chafed at the idea of hiding it or using it for his own purposes. That's not who I am.

"Slim will be sending some more of his men here," Kallian informed him, after taking his previous answer in silence. "To sweep through the warehouse and take what's left of value."

That was then that he saw it. Buried under a pile pf parchment that pertained receipts and payroll, he had noticed the seal peeking out from beneath all the vellum. He pulled it out, and his suspicions was confirmed.

"What is it?" Kallian moved beside him.

"The order," he mumbled, "That sanctioned all this." He gestured to the room around him while his eyes read it over, realizing it was agreement between the two parties. The more he read, the more he felt sick. His stomach clenching as it mentions how much gold each elf will bring, whether it be man, woman, child, young, old, and when to expect payment.

It was revolting.

"Who signed it?" Kallian was eying the parchment but she was illiterate.

Kylon had the same question so he skimmed towards the end of the contract and his eyes widened at the signature that appeared above the Fereldan seal. "It can't be."

"What?" Kallian demanded impatiently. "Who signed it?"

"It was the Teyrn," Kylon muttered in disbelief, "Loghain Mac Tir."

Chapter Text

"Are you sure about this, Your Majesty?"

"I am," Valda looked to her father's friend and her reliant adviser, Lord Pyral Harrowmont, who took her confirmation as she suspected. His forehead creased in worry, his fingers fidgeting in the braids of his beard.

The Wardens had come two days ago, and were granted an immediate audience with Valda and her advisers, Harrowmont and Gorim. Where they promptly called for her to adhere to the treaties and to assemble their armies to fight the darkspawn on the surface. Valda had expected nothing less.

However, she needed time to decide, to consider her options as she was on the precipice of leading the greatest expedition her people had seen since Paragon Branka's two years prior, but unlike the Paragon's, Valda had no intention of just exploring, she planned to make a foothold and reclaim previously lost Thaigs. This future of her people hinged on this.

While she deliberated, she permitted them free reign in Orzammar, giving them full access and accommodations for them to stay in the Warden Outpost in the Diamond Quarter. It had become recently abandoned when the few Wardens that were stationed there were went to Ostagar to fight with King Cailan's army, none of them returned.

So, for those two days she stalled with her answer, while she tried to make a choice that would benefit both her people and the Wardens. With that decision since made, she revealed it to her main adviser, Lord Harrowmont while she tasked Gorim with fetching the Wardens to give them her answer.

"But the treaties, Your Majesty," Lord Harrowmont implored her.

"Were signed by our ancestors, Pyral," She reminded him, "Back when we still had an empire to be proud of. We are a shell of ourselves now." The admission left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"The Wardens are one of our few allies," Harrowmont reminded her, "If we insult them we jeopardize an alliance that has endured for Ages."

"I am well-aware of the risk," She assured him. "However, if we don't take this chance then we risk our only hope of beginning to reclaim what we once were."

He frowned. "You risk a great deal on this quest regardless."

"I am aware of that," She tried her best to restrain her weariness from inflecting in her tone. This was a sore subject between them, and even with Harrowmont acquiescing to her choice that did not stop him from sharing his opinion on it whenever he saw an opportunity. To Valda's growing annoyance, he found many.

"The Wardens can assist us," Valda reminded him.

"But, Your Majesty-"

"Enough," She injected before he could go further, her tone was sharp, cutting through his predicable protesting. She saw Harrowmont wince and the weariness she felt at his complaints withered just a bit. "I assure you. I've thought this through."

"Forgive me," he bowed his head, "It is just in an old man's nature to worry."

"Old man?" Valda gave him a tired smile. "I recall you fighting well your last time in the Deep Roads." Her smile dipped at the reminder. That had been when Bhelen had made his move for the throne. Trian was killed, and father followed his eldest to the grave, days later.

"Your Majesty?"

Thankful for a distraction that pulled her attention away from that dreadful day, she turned to the door to see her trusted friend, Gorim.

"I've brought the wardens as requested, Your Majesty."

"Thank you," she made the small climb of steps and settled herself on her father's throne. My throne, she reminded herself, built on the bones of your brothers, the chilling thought made her shiver, but she recovered when the doors opened to reveal her two Warden guests.

"Your Majesty," That was Solona, the leader, the auburn-haired mage, she gave a polished curtsey when they reached a respectable distance, her fellow Warden, Alistair, a tall and strong man, offered a stiff, and clumsy bow.

"Wardens," She replied, giving them a smile before beckoning them closer, "Please come, can I get you refreshments?"

"I wouldn't decline some of your ale," Solona said with a wicked smile. "It's not often one can boast of drinking with a Queen."

"Hopefully, we will share many drinks together," Valda replied, "The Wardens and Orzammar have long been allies." She then gestured to the servants to bring out ale for her guests.

"An alliance that has never been more pressing then now," Solona pointed out politely.

Valda didn't respond right away, instead waiting for the servants to bring the ale. Gorim and Pyral had taken up their spots to the left and right of her throne, while Alistair and Solona had stopped their approach within a few feet of her. Due to their height, and the architecture built to addressing dwarves not humans, while on her throne she was only just above their eyeline.

One advantage taken from me, she thought, but I have others that I can rely on.

"You speak of pressing?"

"I do, Your Majesty," Solona confirmed, "the darkspawn are ravaging Ferelden. They move further north with each passing day."

"Aye, I've heard the reports." Valda had expected nothing less from an enemy as relentless as the darkspawn after they had destroyed the Fereldan host at Ostagar.

"We are dire need of aid," Solona spoke after taking a sip of her tankard. She handled the strong ale with barely a reaction.

"As are we," Valda noticed the off-guard looks her admission had gotten from the Wardens, Solona had been quicker in recovering while Alistair didn't try to conceal his confusion.

"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" Solona asked carefully, her blue eyes cautious as if sensing some sort of trick.

"You speak about darkspawn advancing and destroying," Valda remarked casually, "This is our daily experience with these foul creatures," She said bluntly, noticing sheepish expressions coming to the two Wardens at the reminder.

"We were once a strong and proud empire whose reach and breadth was throughout Thedas." Valda's hand clenched into a fist. "Now, we are but a withered husk of our former glory." She stood from her throne. "And I say no more," her eyes on Solona who met her stare with some hesitance.

"In your time in Orzammar, I'm sure you have heard the buzzing in the streets, the excitement of the people."

"Of the expedition," guessed Solona, looking to be putting the pieces together.

"Yes," Valda answered, "a first step in not just bring back an empire but by giving this city a shield to defend itself from a darkspawn onslaught that doesn't ebb and flow like it does on the surface," saying the last part in a caustic tone. Unwilling shield her annoyance at the surfacers bleating about the darkspawn and their dangers.

They lived it. Every day, her people wondered and worried would this be the day, they reached the gates of Orzammar. Aware of the inevitable approach the darkspawn would make to the capital, as her people were left alone to fight this threat. A dreadful living that she was tired of her people having to experience. This expedition would change that. She'd make the Empire great once more, her people safe, and flourishing in a new age that Orzammar hadn't seen in Ages.

Solona stepped forward, "The Wardens and Orzammar have long been allies against the darkspawn," she looked back at Alistair, gesturing with her head to follow her example which he did, stepping up to rejoin her at her side. "We would be proud to continue to honor this alliance by offering our support in this expedition into the Deep Roads."

That was unexpected, Valda noticed she wasn't the only one surprised by the gesture seeing the look of Alistair, the fellow Warden, and then to her advisers, Gorim and Pyral, neither of which had predicted a voluntarily offer, as had Valda. She thought she'd have to wrestle an agreement out of the Wardens, promising her armies in return for their services, but Solona had made the offer first, and without even asking after Valda's armies.

Clever, Valda had to admit when an opponent had maneuvered itself in a position she had not foreseen. A rare feat, but she could reflect on that later, she had to make the next move. And thanks to the Wardens' offer there was only one move that she could make.

"We humbly accept," Valda settled herself back down onto her throne, not taking her eyes off the Wardens. "Our people will be proud and happy to know they will be fighting with the Grey Wardens."

"What about the Blight?" Alistair spoke up suddenly, "What about Ferelden? Our treaties?"

"Will be honored," Valda answered, "Once your help is finished with this exhibition. The dwarven armies of Orzammar will honor their treaty with the Grey Wardens and march and fight on the surface to end this Blight."

"We accept," Solona put her hands behind her back, before bowing her head. "But if I may be so bold as to ask," she paused, "Where exactly is this expedition going?"

"To reclaim the Anvil of the Void."

"Wow," Alistair was scrutinizing the maps of the Deep Roads laid out before them. "That's a lot of Deep Roads we're going to have to travel." He held up his thumb and forefinger to try to mimic the appropriate distance between Orzammar and Caradin's Cross.

Solona rolled her eyes at his antics, before shaking her head, and continuing her conversation with Gorim.

Valda permitted herself a small smile, knowing some levity was needed after so much time deliberating the dangers and monsters waiting for them on their expedition.

"It is a long distance," Solona agreed with Alistair's observation, but in a more dignified way.

"It is," Valda admitted, "The Deep Roads are vast, and stretch across all of Thedas." She leaned her hands against the table, eyes flickering over to the map. "There will be perils. There will be deaths." She offered an elegant shrug, "That is unavoidable, I'm afraid," her eyes transfixed on the dot on the map labeled-Aeducan's Thaig. The beginning of her conquest. She thought it was fitting.

"However, we are taking sizable amount of forces and supplies," she reminded them. "This isn't a handful of men, but a small army of soldiers, settlers, engineers, scouts. I'm bringing the finest of Orzammar with me. The future of my people will help reclaim this new world."

"So why do you think you can do better than a Paragon?"

Valda looked away from the map to see the sharp blue eyes of the Grey Warden Solona were on her. She would've made a fine dwarven noble, Valda mused, she knows how to play the game.

"The Queen will be bringing more men, more resources then Paragon Branka," Gorim spoke up, after lifting his head in a mournful bow to reflect the believed loss of the Paragon.

"Indeed," Harrowmont was looking at the Warden warily, "Branka was a Paragon," Pyral bowed his head in respect, "Who only brought the might of her house and her husband's. Our Queen is bringing the best and brightest of all of Orzammar with her, allowing her to overcome any obstacle that may have stopped Branka." He said the last part with some hesitance as if afraid he'd be punished for speaking ill of a Paragon.

"Thank you," Valda looked to both of her advisers to show her gratitude for their words especially with Harrowmont since he had been so reluctant and argumentative about this expedition, to see them putting up a united front of her plan with these outsiders meant a lot to her.

"That is good to hear," Solona replied, "Since my companions and myself will be traveling with you."

"You have nothing to fear, Warden Amell," Gorim told her, "Well, actually you have quite a lot to fear in terms of what lurks within the Deep Roads," he amended, frowning beneath his beard, "but we're ready for them."

"Lovely," Alistair said dryly. "Is it true the Paragon's husband is joining this expedition?"

Valda exchanged a subtle glance with Gorim at that question. "He is," She answered delicately.

"Good," Solona sounded pleased, "I'm sure he will provide valuable insight."

The Queen had to rely on her discipline to not chuckle aloud at that.

Oghren, was indeed joining them, he was a talented warrior when he wasn't drinking and he did seem to have some useful information about his wife and her plans before she left, but he smelled like a brewery. He belched constantly with roaming hands and wandering eyes.

"He was once one of our better warriors," Gorim put in suddenly, "Tragically, he doesn't have much of a future here in Orzammar."

What are you doing, Gorim? Valda wanted to ask her friend until she caught the looks between Alistair and Solona.

"Is that so?" Solona asked.

"Indeed," Harrowmont confirmed, "He got himself into an altercation," He sniffed disdainfully at the reminder, "the drunken fool was stripped of his sword and house."

"He'll fit right in," Alistair responded with a smile.

One that Harrowmont didn't return regarding the Warden with a critical eye before turning away.

"He spends most of his time and what little coin he has left at Tapster's Tavern," Gorim told them.

"Thank you," Solona said sincerely, "We may have to speak with him."

Valda could see the glint in the Warden's eyes and knew that she was already considering recruiting him, and the Queen wouldn't be surprised if the Wardens headed to the tavern after leaving the royal palace.

"Your Majesty, I was looking over some of these notes," Harrowmont held up the vellum as proof, "And I do not like this," he was frowning. "Your Majesty, to let the casteless settle in the Aeducan Thaig," he shook his head, frowning at the idea, "It's an insult, a disgrace."

"I understand your concern, Lord Harrowmont," Valda had prepared herself for this confrontation. The moment after she had come up with the idea and had put it in motion, she knew it would only be a matter of time before it got back to Pyral who would be displeased and insulted at the mention of such an idea let alone it being followed through by royal decree.

To bolster her numbers within the expedition, Valda invited or recruited countless casteless to join them. With the hope of having them settle the Aeducan Thaig with some of the other dwarves of various castes who were accompanying her.

She knew the risks she was putting on these dwarves when asking them to settle the Aeducan Thaig, and the idea of sheltering some of her people and exposing it to the casteless was an opportunity she couldn't ignore. Why allow the casteless to wallow and grow in the filth and shadow of Orzammar when she could use them in the Deep Roads?

As pragmatic and callous as it sounded, Valda knew it had to be done not just for this expedition but for the future of her people. They didn't have the luxury of ignoring the casteless anymore. They didn't have the numbers they once did, and Valda would not waste a potential resource especially one so readily available and willing.

Therefore, Valda wasn't surprised by the numbers of casteless who flocked to join this expedition with the promise of a better life then one they'd get in Orzammar. Her program would loosen some restrictions while also promising to consider enrolling casteless into castes after a few years successfully settled in the Aeducan Thaig or somewhere else along the Deep Roads.

Beneath the pragmatism, she also hoped that time in the Deep Roads amongst the casteless and the caste could soften the animosity. After all, these settlers would be relying on each other to make a life for themselves within the newly established Aeducan Thaig. And in that struggle, tensions and prejudices could gradually disappear as they faced more serious threats such as their very survival.

An idealist's hope within a pragmatic decision, Valda thought, reflecting on the matter.

"This is something we can discuss at another time, Lord Harrowmont," Valda decided this wasn't an argument she wanted to have in front of their guests. In front of outsiders who knew nothing of their ways, she would not give them the satisfaction at seeing them bicker like children.

Thankfully, Pyral understood, bowing his head meekly, "Of course, Your Majesty,"

"Your Majesty," Gorim cleared his throat, "I have the latest dispatch from the Legion." He held up the letter, "Their commander will send out men to meet us at Aeducan Thaig."

"Thank you, Gorim," Valda was pleased with the news. She would relying on the expertise and skill of the Legion of the Dead on their journey especially as they pushed further into the Deep Roads.

"When do we leave?" Solona asked.

"Tomorrow," Valda had waited long enough. It was time.

"Protect the Queen!"

Finally, Valda thought exultingly, adrenaline pumping through her veins. How she missed this feeling! Her sword already coated with the blood of the tezpadam, the pesky, but dangerous creatures that lurked throughout the Deep Roads. They were more commonly referred to as deepstalkers. She was garbed in battle armor, her sword in hand, the recently discovered shield of her ancestors strapped to her arm, she was ready for more.

Their expedition after days of traveling through the Deep Roads had arrived to their first planned destination-the Aeducan Thaig. Only to find the darkspawn and tezpadam, fiercely fighting one another within its ruins, like two scavengers fighting over the corpse of a once proud, but now rotting beast.

Seizing their distraction, Valda ordered her men into the fray of the fighting, wanting to eradicate them from this Thaig. This is no longer your home, she thought as she gave the order to march, We have come to reclaim it, and we will not fail.

The tezpadam hissed and screeched, some attacking them head on while others burrowed to either retreat or regroup, but Valda didn't care they would all share the same fate.

Her retinue of guards formed a tight diamond formation as they took the brunt of the attack from the desperate and angry tezpadam.

Valda rocked back and forth on her feet, eyes darting around the ruins of Aeducan Thaig, taking in the fighting of her men and women who fought deepstalkers and darkspawn. She spotted the wardens and their group further on fighting a large group of darkspawn.

Good, Valda allowed herself to smirk at watching their success, spirits bolstered at seeing their allies working so successfully against their common foe.

A squeal pulled Valda's attention back to where she stood to see the maw of a deepstalker emerge from the ground having dug behind her guard and into Valda's protective circle. Its tiny, but sharp teeth gnawing madly as it ate up the ground to dig its hole. Its long, bobbing worm like head slithering up, small, dark eyes taking in its surroundings, before it let out another squeal.

That was when Valda silenced it. With a cut of her sword, she removed the creature's head from its body, a burst of blood came from the open neck wound while the body swayed momentarily, side to side before it keeled over.

Before she could relish her kill, Valda saw several spots in the ground began to churn all around her, soft pops followed, as more than a dozen heads emerged, a chorus of shrieks came with it, as the creatures frantically dug themselves out of their holes to join the fray of battle.

"Gorim!" Valda shouted to her friend and captain of her guard.

He turned to her, eyes widening when he spotted the tezpadam had outflanked them, "Behind us!" He warned, "Renvil deal with the enemy in front of us," Gorim gave out instructions calmly, before listing more than a handful of fellow guards to attack the newly dug out tezpadam that had appeared behind them.

Valda didn't wait for the guards to reach them, as she met the foe with eagerness. A tezpadam had just scurried out from its hole where Valda greeted it with her blade, a slash across its small chest had it stumbling backwards, she followed her move with a quick jab that punctured its hide, killing it instantly.

She pulled her sword out of the dead tezpadam, enjoying the squishing noise as it signaled she had removed one more enemy that stood between her and her Thaig. That feeling curdled when she watched as more and more of the creatures began crawling up from their holes, hissing and gnashing their teeth as they met Gorim and his guards.

One tezpadam launched itself from the ground using its powerfully strong hind legs onto one of her guards, who stumbled backwards and shouted as he tried to knock the creature off, but the deepstalker wouldn't budge. It perched itself on the guard's shoulder, its tail wrapping around the guard's neck like a treacherous serpent. The tezpadam then slashed and shrieked while it carved up the guard's face into a bloody ruin within seconds.

The guard's harrowing screams lasted only seconds before death greeted him. His body fell to the ground with a thud while the tezpadam began feasting on its kill. Its head bobbing as it nipped and nibbled on the exposed flesh, tearing off a piece of the guard's upper lip and the tip of his nose.

"For Orzammar!" Valda shouted, charging at the tezpadam she just witnessed kill her guard. The creature had just enough time to look up and hiss before Valda's sword cut through its neck, cutting off the creature's head, as it bounced away with a handful of soft and squishy thuds.

"For Aeducan!" Some of her guards cried as they met the enemy. "For the Queen!" Others cried out as swords and axes met with hisses and growls from the tezpadam.

Valda moved between two tezpadam who were fighting separate guards, coming up from behind with her sword, slashing and hacking, as she put more and more of them down. One deepstalker rocked backwards on its hind legs before launching itself towards her, shrieking as it sailed through the air, Valda raised her Aeducan shield, digging her boots into the ground to embrace from impact, only having to wait a heartbeat or two before she felt the twang up her arm, a ringing thud followed, desperate scratching of claw on metal when the tezpadam hit the shield.

It fell to the dirt, dazed, it blinked up towards her before Valda's boot came down on its head, eliciting a high, wailing squeal while its body writhed in pain. A loud crunching sound followed, as she crushed the creature beneath her heel. A sense of gratification filled her with the sound, her body thrumming with adrenaline while the din of battle flooded her ears.

She lifted her boot to see the messy remains of the tezpadam, ignoring the blood, bits of brain and flesh that clung to her boot as she prepared herself for her next opponent. A screech went up the ranks of the tezpadam, as they broke off their fighting and began to retreat towards their holes.

"Don't let them escape!" Valda cut off one of the deepstalkers' attempts at fleeing, putting it down by a swift cut of her sword. "Kill them all!" She shouted.

Valda wanted to secure Aeducan Thaig and to make it safe for resettlement. She couldn't do that if a nest of these tezpadam remained nearby. She had to purge them. Watching and fighting as her men relentlessly began blocking off the escaping deepstalkers' holes, as they screeched defiantly, before being silenced as they were put to the sword, until the only sound was heavy breathing from her guards and piles of dead tezpadam.

"My Queen?" Gorim approached her, beads of sweat upon his face, his armor covered in blood and grime.

"Alive," She smiled triumphantly, before letting out a labored breath.

Gorim returned her smile, but before he could speak, another one of her men came to her.

"Your Majesty," he spoke out of breath, face flushed, "The darkspawn have been routed, the tezpadam are in full retreat!"

It's begun, Valda thought proudly. "Secure the Thaig," she instructed, "Send out scouts to make sure the darkspawn don't try a new offensive," watching the dwarf messenger nod with her instructions, "send out teams to find and burn any nests of the tezpadam."

"It will be done, Your Majesty," The messenger bowed his head, before running off to carry out her orders.

"We did it, Gorim," Valda took in the sight of Aeducan Thaig. Even after being abandoned and the place of a recent battle, she couldn't help but admire how the buildings had endured, how this place had survived. As if it had been waiting for them to return.

"Aeducan Thaig," Gorim let out an appreciative whistle, his eyes taking it all in.

"It's ours now," Valda assured him. "And we're not going to lose it again."

Chapter Text

"Well?"

Oren sat quietly on Uncle's bed, Sarim's large head resting on his lap. A look of contentment settled on the war hound's face enjoying the attentive scratches Oren was giving him. Currently, Oren was focusing on the spot behind Sarim's ear knowing it was the mabari's favorite.

"That's strange."

"What?" Uncle asked. He was standing near the hearth, his tunic off and draped on a nearby chair. A look of annoyance on his face while the mage, Wynne circled him.

"I wasn't aware a broken arm could lead to such irritability," Wynne chided.

Uncle sighed, but a smile looked ready to slip through, before he pinched his nose and turned his back on Oren, "My apologies, Enchanter Wynne."

The mage who had been a companion of the Warden had been tasked with staying behind at South Reach while Warden Amell and the rest of her party moved west towards the Frostback Mountains. Wynne's leadership within the circle and the respect she had between both the mages and templars made her an ideal candidate to stay and organize the gathering groups and to coordinate with Uncle and their forces in their fight against the darkspawn.

"That's quite alright," she waved off his apology, "I was once young and impatient." A smile on her wrinkled face. Wynne had also taken on the role of being Uncle's healer, overseeing his recovery from the wounds he suffered during the Battle of Gwaren.

"I'm sure you were quite the rebel," Uncle chuckled.

"Don't mock," Wynne playfully reproached. "Your wounds need more time." Her tone went serious in an instant. "The bones are mending as is the muscles, but, I cannot clear you to resume your duties in the training yard let alone to fight in battle."

Oren bit down the smile that wanted to show itself on her decision. Knowing that if Uncle couldn't fight then he wasn't able to leave South Reach. We'll be together, warmth and relief filled Oren knowing now he didn't have to worry about Uncle leaving anytime soon to march off to battle or to meet with allies in the Bannorn.

These past few weeks since Uncle returned from Gwaren have been some of Oren's favorites since he spent so much of it with Uncle. There were boring parts like the meetings Oren had to attend with the nobles, and he still had to go his lessons with Brother Derrick, but neither seemed so bad when he knew Uncle would be waiting at the end of them.

He always was, Oren smiled, Uncle would usually take him out on the grounds to let him play with Sarim. Then Oren could forget about everything that was going on around them, everything that happened. He could pretend they were playing like they use to before all the bad things happened...

An unexpected sniff came from Oren, as images of Mama and Papa leaked through to the forefront of his thoughts. He was quick to wipe his nose with the back of his hand pretending it was a runny nose. He didn't want Uncle to get sad too. Oren didn't want Uncle to worry about him. He was already worried and bothered by everything else going on.

He felt a cold press to his hand, Oren looked down to see Sarim hadn't been fooled. The mabari's shrewd eyes were on him and without waiting for a response, Sarim licked his hand. Oren smiled, hugging Sarim's thick neck, once more thankful for the mabari's presence and friendship. When he pulled away, Sarim leaned forward and licked Oren's face which caused him to giggle and to halfheartedly try to stop him.

"Then what's the point of magic?"

Oren's happiness with Sarim deflated instantly at hearing Uncle's tone. He watched as Uncle swiped his tunic from the back of the chair, and placed it over his scarred and wounded shoulder before walking towards the washing basin.

He doesn't want to be here, a small voice whispered in Oren's mind. He doesn't want to be with you.

That's not true, Oren rebuked at once, but the words lingered, worming their way-cold and unpleasant.

Wynne ignored his protest and attitude. "Your body needs time, Lord Edmund." She was sorting through a small medical box of potions that she had brought. "It's a miracle you survived the battle." She picked up a flask, examining in the light. "Broken arm, multiple stab wounds, exhaustion." She stopped as if realizing Oren was there, a worried glance in his direction which Oren tried his best to meet with a look of disinterest as if he was distracted with Sarim and hadn't heard what she had just said.

"I know," Uncle said firmly, splashing water across his face. "I was there."

"And you want to go back," she let out a tsk to convey her thought on the matter.

"I have to," he dried himself with a cloth, "I owe it to them."

"And what about your nephew," Wynne countered.

He stiffened, and though his body was turned to show them his back, Oren was certain Uncle was scowling. "That is enough, Enchanter." His tone as chilly as any frost spell that Wynne could have cast.

"I've said my peace," She held up her hand as if to shield herself from Uncle's annoyance and cold tone.

Uncle put his tunic on in silence, except for the faint hiss of pain and wince of discomfort.

He's in pain, a prickle of guilt curled inside Oren, realizing that despite his constant presence with him in South Reach, Uncle was still in a great deal of pain. I don't want him to be in pain, he thought quickly, I just want him here with me. That's all.

Wynne had the sense not to make a vocal note of Uncle's injuries. "Here's a freshly brewed batch of the regenerative potion." She held up the glass vial. "I had to pick the elfroots myself," she said wryly, "I don't think I have to tell you how time consuming and unpleasant that ordeal can be."

"You have my thanks, Enchanter," Uncle smiled, taking the offered glass vial. "However, couldn't you have gotten some of your apprentices to help."

"They still have much to learn about properly plucking and cutting up elfroots," She said with an exasperated sigh, "They make a mess of it. They just pull them out without care. Ruining the root with one ignorant tug." She shook her head at their untrained antics. "Maker, I think He's punishing me for my own spirited youth." A wistful smile on her lips, eyes reflective as if caught in memory.

Oren recognized the look seeing Uncle wearing it on more than one occasion. Oren wondered if that's what he looked like when he thought about Papa or Mama. They're smiling, he pointed out, I never smile. I only cry.

"Lord Cousland?" A voice from outside the closed door broke through followed by a brief knock, "Your Uncle, Lord Bryland is here to speak with you as is Lord Olsen."

"Thank you," Uncle responded politely to the guard. "I will see to them shortly."

"My cue to leave," Wynne put the strap of her medical box across her shoulder to carry it.

"We still have matters to discuss, Enchanter," Uncle reminded her, "Regarding the templars and the mages and their next deployment."

"Of course," Wynne replied, "Mayhaps, after supper this evening?"

Uncle nodded, "I'll have a messenger come for you."

"Afraid, I'll lose track of time?" Wynne asked archly, "Or in my old age forget how to get here?"

Uncle knew better than to take her words seriously. "It'd do morale poorly if gossip spread of our Enchanter and envoy to the Wardens got lost in the larder."

Wynne harrumphed. "Be careful, boy," she warned him, pointing her staff at him, "I may be your healer but that doesn't mean I won't hurt you." The tip of her staff where the crystal was nestled at its top glowed. "It just means I know how to put you back together again."

Uncle held up his arms in mock surrender. "I know better than to make enemies of mages."

Satisfied, Wynne lowered her staff, a knowing smile on her face at his words. "Shall I take young Lord Cousland with me?" She turned to Oren with her smile intact and a friendly expression.

"No, thank you," Uncle declined, "Oren will be staying for the meeting."

Oren made sure to take Uncle's decision with little reaction. Not wanting to have his shoulders slump or bow his head, or looked disappointed. He sensed Uncle's gaze in his direction, Oren knew what was expected of him. It was worth being stuck in a boring meeting because Uncle gave him an encouraging smile and nod before he turned to escort Wynne out of his chambers and to greet his new guests.

"A child in a war council meeting?" Wynne shook her head. "Such nonsense if you ask me."

"I don't recall asking you," Uncle replied dryly, earning a glare from the healer.

"Cheeky lord," She shot back. When they reached the door. She turned to face him. "Remember nothing strenuous and to take a spoonful of the potion at every meal."

"I know," Uncle followed his dutiful reply with a dramatic sigh that made Oren giggle. He then opened the door for her. "You have my thanks, Lady Wynne. Your services are appreciated. As is your counsel."

Wynne bowed her head in his direction, "Lord Cousland," She then turned to Oren, curtseying, "Lord Cousland." She stepped out into the corridor, "May my next visit be as pleasant as this one." She left without waiting for a reply.

"Give me a minute with my nephew, before bringing the lords in," Uncle instructed the guard, getting an affirmative response before he closed the door.

"This is Solona's doing," Uncle leaned against the door, the mention of the Grey Warden bringing out a smile from Uncle and a hue to his eyes. "Even from such great distance she knows how to annoy me." He chuckled, "I do not think it accident that she chose Wynne to stay behind."

Oren didn't understand, and said as much.

Uncle looked up at him as if forgetting Oren was there, that smile remained on his lips, "Forgive me, Oren." He shook his head. "Come now," he insisted gently, "You cannot greet such important nobles sitting on my bed."

Knowing he had a point, Oren reluctantly moved to stand up. Sarim protested with a groan and a whine, head raised, eyes look accusingly at his master.

"Sarim," Uncle responded, followed with a whistle that brought the mabari war hound to heal. Rising from his spot on the bed, Sarim jumped off and padded over towards Uncle, who rewarded him with a good boy, and a pat on the head. "You'll be sitting between us, boy."

Sarim looked pleased at that, stubby tail wagging. He let out an appreciative bark before making his way over to a spot by the hearth between two plush chairs.

"Now, let's look at you." Uncle turned his attention back towards Oren, eyes looking him over, lips pressed in a line. He reached out and plucked a few thick strands of dog hair from Oren's shirt. "In Orlais they'd be scandalized," Uncle teased, releasing the strands of hair where they lazily fell to the floor, "But in Ferelden, some dog fur is expected. It's a badge of honor to wear it."

Oren looked down at his clothes to see Uncle spoke truly. Bits of dark fur remained clinging to Oren's pants and shirt.

Sarim from where he lay, let out an agreeable chuff.

Uncle then tousled Oren's hair.

Oren took to the touch with an instinctive smile. Which dipped when it ended, seemingly far too quickly. He looked to see Uncle was no longer smiling or looking jovial. He slid on his lord's face. Oren knew from that look it was time to be serious.

He tried to adapt something similar knowing it was important to look that way when he greeted them as well as during the few occasions when he was required to speak with the nobles. Oren hoped that this wasn't one of those times when Uncle was expecting him to speak. He hated those times, feeling awkward and small. All these men and women staring at him, with silent stony faces. As if they were statues not people, and all of them were there to listen to him-a child. Uncertain how anything he could say or do could be taken seriously in a crowd of strong adults who were used to leading and fighting, but now had to listen and defer to him.

How could I ever properly show them? He wondered before each time he had to speak to them. He liked to think he hadn't failed at any of them since he was never laughed at or lectured by Uncle after them.

Uncle seemed to read his mind, "Do not worry, Oren, you just need to sit quietly and listen." He put a comforting hand on Oren's shoulder. "It's important that the lords see you. We must not have them forget why we're fighting."

Home, the word came to him instantly.

The thought and images of his home were snatched away by the intruding voices of his uncle, Lord Bryland, Arl of South Reach, and Lord Olsen out of Gwaren.

Oren was quiet in the greetings and only nodded when they were addressed, knowing it was important to let Uncle lead and for him to follow. Oren was the first to sit due to his status as a Teyrn, the others followed and no sooner had Lord Olsen's round bottom hit the cushion did he open his mouth.

"Why is Lord Teagan still here?" Lord Olsen didn't hide his distaste for the Bann of Rainesfere, nose wrinkling above his mustache as if smelling something foul.

Oren didn't know why he didn't like him. He found Teagan kind and funny in the few interactions he had with the Bann.

"He is to give his message to the assembled banns," Uncle said politely. "They will hear Lords Wulf and Teagan's proposals and they will debate their merits and then shall vote on deciding what is best for this alliance that we have gathered here."

A Landsmeet, Oren recalled, that's what everyone in South Reach was calling it with so many freeholders, knights, and other influential lords and merchants gathering here. Many of whom having fought and served as allies with them from the beginning, but Uncle decided that it was time for them to figure out how best to move forward to fight the darkspawn behind a united front which meant figuring out who to support.

This isn't a true Landsmeet, Oren knew that, remembering his lessons with his tutors Aldous and now Brother Derrick about the important and influential role the Landsmeet played in the politics of Ferelden. This was not a gathering of all the nobility since many remained in the capital who were backing Howe and Loghain and those in the Hinterlands under Lord Eamon's control. However, the name stuck and now it was being called the Landsmeet of South Reach.

When Oren had told Uncle what it was being called and voiced his confusion on why when it wasn't, he had told Oren-It's an apt name, since this gathering will decide the future of our cause.

"Between Loghain," Lord Olsen sneered, still bitter and angry over the Teyrn abandoning them, "and the ambitious Arl Eamon neither seem appealing."

"Eamon's family has sacrificed much for the Theirin cause," Uncle Leonas observed solemnly, "I do not begrudge him in wanting to preserve that line. The bloodline that unified Ferelden and has led us ever since." His eyes looked distant, mouth set in a frown, "I recall the Rebellion, I fought in it, Eamon lost a father to put Maric on the throne, and his sister sacrificed much and fought hard to earn the Queenship and the love of Ferelden by ousting the Orlesians."

"You do not need to remind me of the Rebellion," Lord Olsen grumbled, "I lost an Aunt and two cousins fighting the Orlesians beside Loghain before he was nobility in the liberation of Gwaren." He pointed a fat finger at Lord Bryland. "My family's blood helped to write the victory of the Rebellion."

"Enough," Uncle warned his two advisors, looking stern and unhappy. Sarim followed his master's warning with a low growl that further chastised Lord Olsen.

"Apologies, nephew," Lord Bryland spoke first, "I was just reminding ourselves of Lord Eamon's viewpoint. The Arl fears change and a future without a Theirin sitting upon the Fereldan throne is a change that frightens him to his very core."

"I agree, Uncle," Edmund looked pensive, one hand absentmindedly scratching Sarim, "But there is mystery that surrounds his claimant to the throne."

"The bastard?" Olsen scoffed.

"I think there is more to him than meets the eye, and some of it is," Uncle paused as if trying to find the right word, "troubling."

Oren didn't understand what Uncle was talking about, but he did his best to keep quiet and still. Watching the others react to Uncle's words. He noticed Lord Olsen sat straighter in his seat, unmasked interest covering his face while Uncle Leonas was looking at Uncle with an expression that Oren couldn't figure out.

"Forgive me," Uncle told them, "I have nothing more to say on the matter at this time."

Olsen couldn't hide his disappointment that Uncle wasn't being more forthcoming, but knew better than to press his curiosity. "So we are left with two options?" Olsen shook his head, conveying his distaste at their choices.

Lord Bryland didn't speak in agreement or disagreement in Lord Olsen's observation, looking reflective as he sat quietly, hand scratching his chin.

Uncle, the thought sprung quickly to Oren's mind, surprised and scared by what it meant. Could Uncle be king?

Oren wasn't sure. If he could be wouldn't someone smarter or older have thought of it first and proposed it? That brought him pause. Regardless, the idea remained and only looked more tempting the more Oren considered it.

He'd be perfect.

"Uncle?"

"Yes?" He looked up from his desk where he was reading over some messages.

"What's a," Oren paused, feeling his face scrunch up as he tried to pronounce the word he heard Uncle use earlier, "p-precedent?"

Oren had been sitting quietly in Uncle's study, having finished his lesson with Brother Derrick for the day. With an hour to go before supper, he and Uncle were supposed to go out and inspect the soldiers, but Oren had to wait until Uncle finished his correspondence. Oren didn't mind, he enjoyed just being with his Uncle even during the times when he had to be quiet. He liked being able to look up and see Uncle there. It always made him feel safe, and happy to know he was close.

"You're talking about earlier," Uncle pushed himself away from his desk, "with Lords Bryland and Olsen," Oren nodded, so Uncle continued, "In terms of Alistair."

"Yes, you said it could set a bad precedent." Oren reminded him, "What does it mean?"

"It means something like," Uncle looked reflective as if trying to find the right way to explain it. "If Alistair was crowned king it can be used by future generations since Alistair's coronation would set an example that could be followed," Uncle sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Does that make sense?"

"I-I think so," Oren admitted, going over Uncle's answer in his head, "so you mean if Alistair is king then other bastards might try to take the throne in the future?"

"Yes," Uncle stood from his seat, "But that wasn't the precedent I was concerned with," He frowned, "Well, not the only one I was concerned with."

Oren already knew what a bastard was. Grandpapa had told him after Oren had asked him after he had overheard a pair of guards talking about some noble's bastard who lived in the Coastlands with his mother's family. He hadn't understood what it was or why it was looked down with such distaste. Grandpapa had been surprised by him knowing it, and had explained it to him not just what it was, but the stigma that could be attached to it.

"Alistair is a good man," Edmund explained, "A good fighter, and a good warden." Uncle sat down beside Oren, "And that cannot be forgotten or ignored."

"What?"

"He's a Grey Warden, Oren."

"Oh," Oren said softly.

"Can one be both a Warden and a king?" Uncle shook his head, "It has never been done and I believe for good reason." He put his arm around Oren's shoulder, "They come with different duties, responsibilities and allegiances and what if those said duties conflict with one another then what do you chose? It is a war upon yourself, a conflict within your very conscious that could pull you apart." Uncle frowned, "Let them be separate, I say."

"But then who should we join, Uncle?"

Uncle chuckled, "I don't know." His smile dipped, "Anora's proposal has merit, but can she truly declaw Howe with his army intact and the other power he has taken? I don't think so. Her ties to Howe and her father have damned her in the eys of many gathered here, who have good reason to dislike the two men."

What about you, Uncle? Oren wanted to ask the question so badly, to get Uncle's reaction, but he didn't, he couldn't. Was it the fear of rejection that made him keep quiet, Oren wasn't sure.

It could work, Oren had looked into it during his lessons with Brother Derrick realizing it was possible for Uncle to take the throne even when he wasn't the head of his family, he'd have to split and make a different Cousland branch, a royal branch, but Oren thought it was legal. Or from what he read and understood he thought it was possible. He didn't dare ask Brother Derrick for input, just as now he wouldn't ask Uncle.

"Come Oren," Uncle patted his shoulder as he stood up, "It is time to see the men and women."

Oren stood as well, silently wondering what sort of precedence he could make if he went through with his plan to suggest Uncle for the crown. The idea of people in the future judging him for the choices he makes now made his tummy hurt. He was thankful the feeling didn't linger as Uncle's task distracted him from having to reflect on it.

"Do you remember who we will be seeing today?"

"I do," Oren was quick and happy to reply. Savoring the proud smile that came to Uncle's lips at his confident answer.

"Oh?" There was teasing glint in Uncle's eyes as his lips curved upwards, "What is Lady Lawson's sigil?"

"A three-headed black mabari on an orange field." Oren remembered seeing it the day before last. A fearsome sight that caused him to wonder if such a creature existed as well as to imagine how Sarim would be with three heads? But when he thought of it like that it made it seem silly and Oren giggled when he pictured Sarim with his added heads.

"Very good," Uncle's words were quiet, but to Oren the praise was deafening.

They made their way out of his study with Sarim following behind, guards greeted them with bows. They were going to the encampment outside of South Reach's walls. These nobles and knights were all from Gwaren or the surrounding area who had joined their cause after Uncle's victory in the liberation of the port city against the darkspawn.

"What of Lord Irving?"

"A headless rider on a white field," Oren tried not to shudder at the fearsome image that donned the sigil. A reason he was certain was why the family chose it.

"Good," Uncle sounded pleased, "Ser Reynolds?"

"Ser Browncloak," Oren smiled, knowing the knight's friendly nickname amongst his peers.

Uncle chuckled, "That's one name he goes by, but what of his sigil?"

"A circle of small orange dots on a brown field," Oren never understood the dots or the purpose of the sigil, but was never brave enough to ask the knight.

"You're excelling, Oren," Uncle told him, tousling his hair as they walked.

Oren smiled in equal parts to the touch and the admiration he received from his Uncle. "It's difficult, because there's so many." He admitted, hoping he didn't sound whiny. "It's hard to remember them all."

Uncle laughed, "That is true," His face softened when he added, "I remember it causing your father a good deal of frustration when he had his lessons with Tutor Aldous.

Oren felt his smile dip at the mention of his dead father. A hazy image of him came to Oren mind's eye, blurring before him. Papa's laughter was distant and his warm voice was like an echo stretched a great distance but yet couldn't reach Oren. He sniffled, feeling wet drops down his cheeks.

"Oren?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle," His voice hitched. He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Shush, Oren," Uncle crouched beside Oren, uncaring that they were standing in the middle of the corridor with passing servants and guards. "Don't be sorry," he put his hands-on Oren's shoulders, "I miss them too." He squeezed, "Every day, I miss them." Uncle's green eyes were misty. He then pulled Oren into a sudden but warm embrace that had Oren clinging tightly to him. Oren felt more tears come down his cheeks.

"They still love you," Uncle's voice whispered in his ear, "The best parts of your mum and dad live in you," his hand was soothing as it went up and down his back. "I see Fergus in you every day, the way you smile and laugh."

"Really?" Oren's heart soared at the thought that he reminded Uncle of Papa.

"Of course," Uncle agreed quickly, "so much of him is in you."

"What about Mama?"

"Her too," Uncle assured him, "Your kindness, most of all." He pulled back from their hug so that he could see Oren's face, "Your gentleness, and your eyes," He wiped away some of Oren's tears, "but also when you get angry," Uncle chuckled, "You make your mother's face when your mad."

Oren laughed through the tears. "I do?"

"Yes, you do," Uncle told him, "Very frightening," he added with a teasing smile, "it makes me think I'm looking at Oriana." His voice turned to a mere whisper at the mention of Oren's mother.

He felt his chest unexpectedly swell. "D-do you t-think they'd be p-proud of me?"

"Absolutely," Uncle answered in a tone that brooked no argument. "They were proud of you. And they always will be proud of you." He hugged him again. "You never forget that."

"I won't."

Lord Teagan sat to a smattering of applause, some boos, and a chorus of murmuring after finishing his speech of his brother's proposal. The Bann took their reaction with a polite smile and an acknowledged nod before taking his seat where he joined the small retinue of riders who had set out with him from Redcliffe.

What if they boo me? Oren squirmed in his seat, fear gnawing at his insides like hungry critters. He looked down at his mostly untouched meal. He had taken a few bites of his bread, but had left his lamb alone. A fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by Sarim, whose warm breath tickled Oren's shins and soft whines coming from below the table.

He cut up a portion of the lamb with his knife and fork, when the sliver was free from the rest of the lamb, Oren carefully picked it up with his fingers. Before moving his hand beneath the table where he felt Sarim's tongue lapping up his closed fist. Stifling a giggle as to not evoke suspicion from Uncle, Oren opened his hand, where Sarim was quick to devour it, licking Oren's palm after the lamb was gone.

Oren wiped his hand onto the napkin that rested on his lap. He then glanced over at his Uncle to see he was looking at Oren, but before he could open his mouth to say something, a lord from the crowd spoke up.

"Eamon blackmails us!" shouted someone. "We fight, we bleed, we die!" He stood up as others shouted their support. He wasn't someone that Oren recognized, "While your brother sits on his arse in Redcliffe, holding his support over us for some bastard!" He spat out the last word, glaring at Teagan who took his outburst with barely a reaction.

"Settle down, Ser," Lord Jervin Barris cautioned the knight. He was a kind nobleman from the Bannorn. "We will have peace."

The knight muttered something but sat back down, getting pats on the back from his friends and neighbors before drinking deeply from his ale.

Hearing the man's outburst did nothing for Oren's shaky confidence. How will they react to me? He didn't think he could take the shouting and booing that was hurled towards Lord Teagan. He moved towards his glass of water, drinking greedily from it as his throat felt suddenly dry, smacking his lips when he finished.

"What of the Queen?" A voice called out from the crowd, "What of her proposal?"

"She has no power," argued someone else. "She was Queen by marriage, not by right, not by birth!" This earned some hearty cheers, "She's done nothing to punish Howe!"

Lord Wulff, Arl of the Western Hills looked down at the Queen's naysayers with a frown. He had come to South Reach with the Queen's message of a proposed peace between them.

She wanted an alliance between them, and Oren thought it a good deal, but despite the merits of the Queen's proposal, those in attendance didn't believe she had any real power or influence. Claiming she was overshadowed by her father and Howe, two allies of hers that were despised by all in attendance.

Oren didn't think any would vote for her if it meant joining with Teyrn Loghain or Lord Howe. The people here wanted to see them punished for their acts not form an alliance with them.

Surely someone else will speak, Oren thought, head swiveling left to right, looking and hoping for another voice to offer this opportunity. He couldn't be the only one with his thought but instead of offering new solutions, the crowd was set in arguing with one another over the candidates they had already.

"Order," Lord Barris called to the arguing crowd, "We shall have order." His voice carried over the din of negativity, and they were quieted. Satisfied, Lord Barris continued, "Mayhaps, a vote?" He looked towards them, but Oren knew it was uncle not him he was silently asking, Uncle gave a nod. "Very well, all in favor-" His eyes widened, "Your Lordship?"

Oren blinked, realizing he stood up.

"Oren?" Uncle whispered from his side, "What are you doing?"

This is it, Oren realized, his last chance to sit down and be quiet and forget about his idea, but he didn't. He couldn't, because in the end, Oren realized no one else was doing more for Ferelden than his Uncle and he knew no one could do better for Fereldan's future than him.

"I-I like to speak," Oren ignored his uncle, hoping he wouldn't be upset, but Oren had to do this, for Uncle, for them, for Ferelden. "If that's alright, Lord Barris?" He quickly amended, not wanting to sound rude.

Lord Barris deferred to Oren with an encouraging smile, "You have the floor, Lord Oren Cousland, rightful Heir to Highever."

"T-thanks," Oren felt some confidence stir inside at Lord Barris' kind eyes. He soon made the mistake when he looked away and out onto the crowd of nobility and knights who stood before him, all of whom were staring at him in various degrees of surprise.

He gulped, and prayed they couldn't hear it. "I-I want to commend the men and women in front of me," Oren drew from the experience of his previous speeches he had to give, but this was by far his largest crowd.

"Your bravery and sacrifice is inspiring." Oren felt his legs trembling beneath him. He wanted to put his hand on the table to steady himself, but he didn't want to look weak or sick especially as he made his plea.

"You have shown your quality," Oren looked around to see less and less doubt and surprise in the faces of his audiences, but smiles and nods of encouragement. It was a needed boost to his spirit, and one he savored, as he found his voice no longer sounded like a squeak to his ears. "And it's of the very highest."

Hearty cheers of support came to his praise, as some applause broke out and others lifted their tankards in salute before drinking. Oren favored them with a smile, inwardly relieved that he hadn't tripped over his words or botched his sentences. I'm not through yet, he pushed down that fear and readied himself before he continued.

"In the case of this gathering, as we've heard the cases of Arl Eamon and Queen Anora," Oren paused as the annoyed grumbling from the crowd brought a stutter to his heart, not wanting to be on the receiving end of such contempt. The worms in his tummy were wiggling madly, and for a brief heartbeat or more, Oren feared he may get sick, but the dissent died down, and they quieted to hear what he had to say. Allowing him a chance to rally and press forward.

"These claimants are respectable." Oren was always taught to be polite and kind to both friend and rival. He couldn't be mean or insulting to either Alistair or Anora that didn't seem right or fair. "Both of whom have proven themselves and have qualities that we look to for a leader, but it has been someone else who we've been looking to."

"Someone who's been leading us from the beginning," he turned his head towards Uncle who was sitting, face impassive, but that changed when Oren's words and the meaning behind them became clear, the reaction was brief, but Oren couldn't miss how Uncle's eyes widened, or how his mouth twisted or the setting of his jaw.

"My Uncle," Oren finished, gesturing to him with his free hand, careful to avoid knocking over any tankards that were resting on the table. "He fights for Ferelden, protecting her from the enemies within our borders and that of the darkspawn who threaten our lives and our families. I cannot think of anyone more suited to serve as the next King of Ferelden than him-Edmund Cousland."

Silence.

Oren was certain he could hear a pin drop within the hall once he finished speaking. He felt his heart thundering in his ribs, his hands clammy, his legs shaking.

Oh no, cold claws of fear climbed up his spine, bringing with it a chill that made him want to shiver. He looked out into the hall and realized the error in his speech, in his move. I'm a fool, he wanted to cry, tears threatening to prickle his eyes. He bit his lip as the heartbeats of seconds stretched out before him, and right when the silence seemed so unbearable that Oren wanted to run back into his chambers, crawl under his bed and stay there for the rest of time, it was broken.

"Lord Cousland speaks true!" Lord Olsen got to his feet. "It was Edmund Cousland who answered the call of Gwaren's plea." His clenched fist resting on the table top, "He was fighting a war against our very Teyrn, but when he heard our cry for help, he didn't hesitate." Olsen turned to his followers, they were nodding their heads and muttering their support.

"Our Teyrn abandoned us!" Olsen's fist slammed into the table, "And Edmund Cousland saved us!"

The lord knelt when he finished, the noblemen and women of Gwaren following suit, one by one they knelt to Uncle, the knights, the merchants all of whom he had saved against the darkspawn siege, all of whom now went to said knee.

"Edmund Cousland stands for justice!" Bann Hargrove spoke up to a chorus of approval, "and I cannot think of a finer man to name as my king then the man who stands before me." He too knelt, other banns quick to follow his lead as he was an influential lord in the Bannorn.

It's happening, Oren thought exultingly. Looking around the hall to see more and more were bending the knee in support for Uncle's claim to the throne. A rippling across the hall until all that had gathered for the South Reach Landsmeet were bowing to him.

Oren smiled widely at it all, relief rushed through him banishing any lingering feelings of fear. He glanced over his shoulder to see Uncle taking it all in with silent stoicism, green eyes sweeping across the room, across the number of lords and knights who've taken it upon themselves to name him their king.

Uncle slowly stood from his seat. "The strength of this great country is that the Crown gets its power, its support from the people." He raised his arms, gesturing to the men and women who surrounded him. "It is the many that grant the Crown its right to rule." He bowed his head in deference to the kneeling nobles.

"I did not ask to be your king, but each day I will strive to meet the high standard of kingship that you deserve. It is with this pledge that I humbly accept your ruling and put forth my bid for the Fereldan throne."

The noise that met Uncle's acceptance was so deafening Oren had to cover his hears, laughing as he did, Sarim howled, joining the crescendo of celebration that shook the stones of the hall's foundation.

"King Cousland!" They chanted. "King Cousland!"

This is the voice of the people, Oren was giddy, taking it all in around him.

"Oren."

Uncle was looking at him, his lord's face in place. No, not his lord's face, Oren silently corrected, his king's face, and that distinction made Oren smile. "Yes, Uncle?" He tried his best to sound innocent.

Uncle snorted, a smile threatening to slip through his stoicism, "Thank you," he said quietly.

Oren did the one thing he probably wasn't suppose to do. He hugged his Uncle, his newly proclaimed king.

In that moment, amidst celebration, Oren wondered how Redcliffe and Denerim would react to the Bannorn choosing Uncle to lead them, to be their king. Would they respect this proclamation or would they ignore it? Oren didn't know, but he did know he made the right decision.

He hoped the rest of Ferelden would see it too.

Chapter Text

"How far?"

"Two days, my lady," Cordero answered, him and his sister, Calida had been tasked to scout the enemy's movement. Their return brought with them sobering news.

"Thank you," she dismissed the Rivaini siblings who bowed before stepping off to the side.

"We expected this," Walter said in his usual gruff tone. The general of the Horns of Highever didn't sound or look bothered at the news of Howe's army fast approaching.

When news had been brought to Alfstanna of her scouts returning she invited her advisers to gather to help plan their next move. She chose Lady Esmerelle's old study. All relics and belongings of the old bann and her family had been removed from the room, leaving it looking bare. Imprints of where old family portraits and banners use to hang now hung bare along the walls, and the mantle above the fireplace where once a handful of old remnants from Esmerelle's family history were once displayed proudly were now empty with only dust lingering along the stone.

"Ill news is still ill news," Alfstanna observed, "even if we predicted it." She tapped her fingers along the table's surface, looking around at her advisers who sat before her. To her immediate right was Ser Walter, dressed in armor with his Black sheep sigil proudly emblazoned on the chest plate. Her immediate left sat Lord Eddlebrek, one of the more influential Banns in the area and a key ally who helped to secure Amaranthine for their cause.

"This puts the people right between the hammer and the anvil," It was Eddlebrek who spoke, as expected his loyalty was to the well being of his subjects and this news was a clear threat to them.

"By now Howe will know my part in this," Eddlebrek said calmly.

"You are under our protection, Lord Eddlebrek," she reminded him.

"And of my people?" He pressed.

"You may send riders to bring them here," she promised him.

"Thank you," his words were sincere, but his expression remained troubled.

"The Chantry of our Lady Redeemer will welcome all who need shelter in these troubling times," spoke the soft voice of Sister Dorothy, from her seat further down the table.

"Thank you, Sister Dorothy," Alfstanna considered the old sister a generous boon. She had come on behalf of the Chantry after Alfstanna had taken the city, offering to serve as an envoy.

She was an elderly woman, hunched over in her chair, garbed in the plain cloth of her order including the ceremonial hood that veiled her gray hair. Her eyes were milky white with visible scarring lurking just beneath. Despite her feeble appearance, she was a sharp and formable woman who proved invaluable to Alfstanna and her people since they took the city from Lady Esmerelle.

"Of course, child," Sister Dorothy's lips formed a gentle smile. Her milky eyes finding Alfstanna's location despite her blindness, "It is the Chantry's duty to offer succor to those in need."

"I have a feeling you may run out of succor," quipped the last member of Alfstanna's assembled advisers, the brazen elf, Captain Dirk of the Crimson Sword. An unsavory man, but one who had helped smuggle Alfstanna and her men into the city with the promise to look the other way as they continued their illegal practices.

An agreement that still rankled her, so she invited him to join her inner-circle in hopes of being able to keep an eye on him. A trial onto itself as his presence and smugness grated on the rest of them including Ser Walter.

"You will have more refugees flocking into this city in the coming hours," Dirk leaned back in his seat, using his dagger to pick at the dirt beneath his nails. "Hungry mouths and useless bodies piling up right before a battle." He looked up from his filing, his large cat-like eyes dancing in the light, "A poor combination before a siege."

"What would you have us do?" Lord Eddlebrek challenged him, his calloused hands gripping the arms of his seat tightly. "Do nothing?"

"No," Dirk played off the Master of Fareval Plains outraged, "You close the doors and bar entrance," he corrected, "Then do nothing."

"Abandon them?" He sputtered, face reddening in anger at the implication of condemning those people, his people to Howe.

"You want to win this battle do you not?" he asked unphased by the Lord's angry glare which was being leveled on him.

Eddlebrek responded with a scoff, and looked ready to curse the smuggler.

"Enough," Alfstanna raised her voice to be heard, silencing Eddlebrek's retort and gaining the attention of Dirk, who lounged in his seat, a posture of indifference at her scolding and Eddlebrek's anger.

"My lady," Eddlebrek spoke calmly, his face returning to its normal shade, "You are not considering his advice."

"Tough decisions must be made," She reminded them, noticing the Bann's eyes widen at her consent, "However, we will not refuse those who seek shelter." Ignoring Dirk who rolled his eyes, instead settling her attention at the pleased look of Sister Dorothy who bobbed her head in agreement, and Eddlebrek's relieved smile.

"Action still needs to be taken," Walter pointed out delicately, "To prepare ourselves for this battle."

"I agree," she felt the bitter lump form in her throat, at the next part she knew she had to say. "That is why riders will be sent to ask farmers to come to the city and then we must burn the fields." She finished over the outrage of Lord Eddlebrek.

"Burn the crops?" Eddlebrek's voice a mixture of dismay and anger. "These are our people. You'll destroy their livelihood."

"Howe and his forces cannot be given access to it," Walter agreed, nodding his head to her decision. "We can't have them getting fat off the land while we starve within the city."

"You surprise me, my lady," Dirk smiled up at her, "Here I thought you didn't have the stomach for this sort of battle."

"You'll be surprised what I can stomach," She replied.

He chuckled, raising his glass in her direction before drinking.

"You must rethink this," Eddlebrek insisted.

"You know this is the right course," Walter replied, "It's not the easy choice." He sent her a sympathetic look, but there was a hue of respect in those blue eyes directed at her, "But it's the only choice to make if we have a chance of winning."

"I never should have agreed to this," Eddlebrek stood abruptly from his seat, "I've damned my people to burnt crops and bloodshed." He ran a hand through his short white hair. "I cannot support this." He shook his head, looking ready to leave the room, but Cordero and Calida stood at the doorway and stepped forward to intercept his escape.

"Lord Eddlebrek," Alfstanna stood up, "Please, don't do this."

He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes hooded, stinging from this perceived betrayal. "I must return to my people." He looked back at the two Rivaini siblings, neither looked inclined to indulge him in his request. The two lieutenants were seeking permission to grant his request from either her or their direct superior Ser Walter.

"Your people are trickling into the city," Alfstanna reminded him, "They're here now. Worried about what the future will bring them and their families," She moved towards the upset Bann, "We cannot afford to add to those worries by looking divided just as an enemy force nears our doorstep." She reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, relieved when he didn't recoil from it.

"We can rebuild these farms, plant new crops," She continued, looking at his contemplative expression at a means to continue, "But the people?" she asked him, "Those cannot be so easily replaced."

"You're right," He sounded tired. He rubbed at his eyes, "Damn this war," he grumbled, "I will not leave," he promised, "Where is there to go now that Howe is on his way?" He let out a bitter laugh, "I joined this alliance in hopes of protecting my people and their livelihood," he shook his head, "While all I did was drag them into this bloody mess."

"You are protecting them," She squeezed his shoulder.

He looked down at her hand, as if just registering its presence on his shoulder for the first time. "I cannot undo the choices I've made," he sighed, "but that doesn't mean I can ignore my duties moving forward. If you excuse me I'm going to see to those of my people who have arrived and to make sure they are settling in."

"Thank you," She dropped her hand from his shoulder, nodding to Cordero and Calida, who stepped aside.

He responded with a distracted nod before leaving the room without another word. She watched him leave wondering how truthful were her words in the face of his accusations.

Were they truly protecting the people of Amaranthine?

She found herself wondering, thinking back on her actions and choices in this fight. The answer she found herself withbrought a sliver of guilt to worm its way into her chest.

Andraste, she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the answer that chilled her insides, Give me strength and guidance.

She stood alone on tallest tower of their family's castle, hands leaning on the merlons, as her eyes looked out at the beautiful Waking Sea that stretched as far as the eye could see. The rising sun splashing orange and red along the water, glittering with color and light. It was a breathtaking sight and one that Alfstanna never grew tired of.

The beauty of what was before her, the salt that wafted in the air, the caress of the wind that went through her hair like fingers, she breathed it all in. Hoping the beauty and comfort of it all would help to calm her nerves, the skittering of her heart against her chest, still trying to come to grips with her brother's stunning revelation.

This was to be all mine, she thought numbly, taking her eyes away from the sea and towards the other side of the castle, her family's castle, and the green and rocks that surrounded it. I will rule this land, apprehension clung to her tightly, and her people, the trepidation in her thoughts was quick to add.

"Alfie." The soothing voice of her brother broke her from her thoughts and fears to see him smiling at her, as he approached, already dressed in his novice templar armor which shimmered in the sunlight. A gift from mother and father, a blessing for him to follow his heart with the choice he came to.

"Ric," greeting her brother. The two falling into their respected childhood names for each other.

He chuckled, "You haven't called me that in years." He moved to stand beside her, "Maker, what a view."

"It is," She agreed, not knowing what else to say, as he looked out on the horizon, she looked towards her brother, not knowing the next time she'd see him. His hair was short and dark, his face cleanshaven, he had inherited mother's blue eyes, and father's large nose.

"I'm going to miss this," he admitted, turning his attention away from the sea and towards her. "Suppose I'll miss you too," he added with a cheeky grin.

She rolled her eyes, "Ass." She swatted his arm.

He chuckled, wrapping his arm around her before pulling her into an embrace, "Why are you fretting, sister?" He whispered to her ear.

"Fretting?" It was her pride that made her repeat his word, ignoring the feeling in her gut of the fraying nerves at the task set before her.

"Yes," he confirmed, looking down at her, standing only a few inches taller, but as her older brother he might as well be towering over her. "You have nothing to fret about, Alfie."

"That's easy for you to say," she replied. "You're the one leaving it all on me."

"Only because I know you," he assured her. "You will make a fine Bann."

"Why do you have to leave?" She found herself asking. A decision she wrestled with since it meant he'd gave up his rights as heir to join the Templar Order.

"I go to serve a higher purpose," he answered without hesitation. His armor glinting in the sunlight, as if the rays of Andraste pierced the heavens to shine down upon him to prove his point. "Fighting demons, helping mages, protecting the people," he listed off his reasons, "Those are duties I can do." He reached to grab her hands, "Ruling this land, leading the people. You have the gifts to do this, Alfie." He squeezed her hands, "Never forget, and never doubt." He bent down and kissed her forehead.

"Thank you, brother," She said quietly, thankful for his encouraging words. He always had that way of quelling her fears. "I-I had something made for you," She went into her pouch to get the gift. "It isn't much," She didn't want to get his hopes up, grabbing the item and presenting it to him.

"Oh Alfie," he smiled, looking down at the ring she had commissioned for him by their smith. It was a large golden signet ring which bore the seal of the Waking Sea Bannorn. He carefully picked it up to inspect it, "There's an inscription inside," he held it up to the light to read it.

"It says: For Irminric, so you never forget to write." She recited it before him, smiling in satisfaction at the words she chose to have engraved.

"Never," he promised her, sliding the ring onto his index finger, and flexing his fingers to see how it fit and looked. "That goes for you too."

"Don't worry, brother," she told him, "I don't need a fancy ring to get me to write."

He laughed, "Oh Alfie," pulling her into another embrace, "I shall miss you terribly."

"I'll miss you too," she felt the tears swimming in her eyes, clinging to her brother tightly.

"Lady Alfstanna."

Her family's castle blurred out of existence, allowing her to blink back into reality to see Ser Walter Smith standing before her.

"I came for some fresh air," she said softly, choosing a spot on the ramparts of the walls of the city that allowed her to look out onto the Sea. Giving her time and a chance to reflect upon their earlier meeting and the decision she had come to in regards to the farms surrounding this city.

Do I still have your trust, brother? Do I still have your blessing?

Thinking glumly how her brother would react to the choices she found herself making in her time during this war.

"We have a visitor who seeks an audience with you."

She frowned, "There was no one scheduled."

"No, there wasn't," Ser Walter agreed, "But you'll want to see him."

"Very well," she said, curious to who this unexpected guest was, "I'll see him in Lady Esmerelle's study."

"Very good," The general bowed and left to carry out her orders.

"Alfie," there standing in front of the fireplace was a man she hadn't seen in years-Nathaniel Howe.

"Nate," she replied in dismay.

He dipped his head, "You look lovely."

She found herself suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. Her short, curly hair wasn't in its usual braids, but wind swept from her time outside. Her face equally flushed while she was wearing dirtied trousers and a conservative wooly tunic in a plain brown color. "What are you doing here?" Her hands going through her hair to try to smooth it down.

"How's the second best archer in Ferelden?" He grinned, his dark eyes taking in her form in a way that brought memories flooding back to her.

"Second best?" She scoffed, her competitiveness easily trumping her vanity of her appearance. "I think you're mistaken."

He chuckled, a rich, soothing sound, "Hardly," he tapped one of his long fingers against his chest, "Now that I'm back its only fitting you drop a spot."

She found the corner of her lips tugging upwards, not realizing how much she had missed the sound of his voice, his confidence, his presence until she found herself back with him. "That's a challenge I can arrange shortly." She promised him, moving across the table so as to make sure there was nothing standing between them.

"What brings you back to Ferelden?" She had wondered if and when he'd return home. She knew the answer, but she wanted him to say it. She wanted to see his reaction, read his face when it came to discussing the bloody war that has arisen between his family and the Couslands.

"The war," he answered, turning his head away from her and back towards the fire, one hand resting on the stone mantle place, "My father's madness," he added quietly.

"Nate," she found herself moving towards him. Alfstanna knew full well the animosity between father and son. It was in that understanding that she knew he never would've come as a messenger for his father.

When she found herself within arm's reach she hesitated on what to do. The desire was there to comfort him, but a voice in her head gave her pause, remembering the last time they were this close. His departure to the Free Marches, he had given her a tender goodbye, one that lingered within her heart even after all these years.

She pushed aside her trepidation and brought her hands towards him in an embrace that he didn't fight. Alfstanna felt her heartbeat quicken when his arms wrapped around hers, her mind's eye bringing with it the many memories they shared together. She took in his familiar scent, but ignored the temptation to get lost in the haziness of their past together.

"He's turned into a monster," he mumbled.

"Does he know you're here?"

"No," he answered quickly, breaking away from their embrace, looking at her and smiling, "I missed you."

She smiled, ignoring the flutter in her chest. "I missed you too," she reached out, surprised by her own boldness, her fingers gently ran along the stubble that grew on his chin, "Not so sure about this though," She added wryly.

Nathaniel laughed, reaching to clasp her hand into his own, his calloused hands were warm, but gentle in their grip. "Always one to speak your mind," he noted, the smile lingering on his lips, "One of your traits I always admired about you." He squeezed her hand before letting it go. He straightened up and took a step away as if to remember why he was here and to not let himself get distracted. "I come on behalf of Anora."

"Anora?" She couldn't hide her surprise at that reveal. "I thought you weren't with your father."

"I'm not," he replied quickly, sounding hurt at the mere implication. "Anora is our friend, Alfstanna."

"Anora is with Howe and Loghain," Alfstanna said bluntly, an observation that hurt to speak aloud. Having spent time together in their youths to a degree that she considered the woman a friend, but to see what she's done or more importantly hasn't done since the war began was painful to witness.

"She isn't," he insisted, "She was appalled and furious at what Howe did in Highever," His voice wrought with anguish with what his father had done. "She wanted him in chains."

"He doesn't look chained to me."

He frowned. "She had no army at the time." He moved to pour himself a glass of Orlesian wine that had been left with them. One of the many bottles of wine that they had confiscated from Lady Esmerelle's cellar.

"At the time," Alfstanna didn't miss the words he used.

"No," he smiled, but he settled for a sip before elaborating, "She has gathered a modest size force of loyal officers and soldiers who are equally disillusioned at what our fathers have done in the name of preserving Ferelden." He made a face at his last words, clearly conveying his thought on the matter.

"She seeks an alliance?"

"Yes, between her growing forces and those that Edmund has already assembled." He poured a second glass and offered it to her.

She took the glass, but didn't drink from it. "And what are the terms of this alliance?"

"The usual," Nathaniel waved his hand, "pledge of support against their enemies, a show of unity between the leaders, wanting to bring a quick end to our fathers rule and to undo the damage and to prepare for the danger ahead." He took a longer sip from his glass, "And a marriage to seal the terms."

"Marriage?" Alfstanna should've guessed as much and she had a strong inkling on who was intended for this betrothal.

"Yes, between herself and Edmund."

"My lady!" A new voice came from behind the closed doors, before they opened to show Ser Walter walk into the room, his faithful lieutenants, Cordero and Calida flanking him. "An envoy of Lord Howe has come to the city." He informed them, "He requests an audience."

Alfstanna had chosen the throne room of Amaranthine Keep to greet the envoy of Howe's forces. She sat and waited on the timber throne above the raised dais. A large banner of the Cousland laurels hung behind her, while banners of the Couslands, Highever, and the Waking Sea Bannorn were draped between the tall pillars flanking both sides so that any who enters and walks the distance to the throne could know who led this city.

"Bring him in," She ordered, guards lined along both sides, armed and silent, standing beneath the still banners.

Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. He didn't want his father to know he was here. Or that he was giving terms on Anora's behalf. She quickly agreed and had him taken to one of the guest chambers. Knowing they needed to protect his presence by keeping it a secret.

"Lady Alfstanna," Drawled Ser Temmerly. He walked across the throne room resembling a conquering hero and not an envoy. Ser Walter walked behind him, but the old general didn't bother to mask his immediate dislike towards the arrogant knight, aiming a glare towards the back of his head.

She resisted the scowl that was imminent at seeing who it was Howe had chosen. Alfstanna didn't like or respect the man before him, known as the Ox. The rumors about his methods towards his people, and how he spent his land's wealth on his armor and friends instead of his people, made him a poor leader in her eyes.

He was a tall, vain man, dressed in his armor even as his men carried the white banner of peace behind him. He was without his weapon, but Alfstanna knew the man still posed a great danger. His towering, muscular physique made him a worthy adversary even if he was unequipped. When he reached the front of the dais, he offered her a brief bow that leaned more towards mockery then respect.

"Ser Temmerly," Alfstanna greeted him with as much respect as she could put into her tone, "This is a surprise."

"Yes, I know," He looked around the throne room, his blue eyes resting on the guards that lined the walls, "I'm more of a soldier than a negotiator," saying the word as if it was beneath his prowess. "However, when your liege lord gives you a command," He turned his attention back towards her, "It is wise to heed it."

"Is that your defense of the Highever massacre?" She asked, irritation churning in her gut from being in this man's presence.

He shrugged, looking bored and unaffected by her veiled accusation. "It was more pleasing then this task." He grinned, "Better to trade blows then words." He winked at her.

"Ser Temmerly," Walter's voice had a dangerous warning lurking beneath. The old general who stood to her side, loyal to the Couslands, and furious at the injustice did to them in the unwarranted and illegal butchery and seizure of their lands and titles.

"Is there a reason for your visit?" Alfstanna spoke up before Ser Walter could finish his threat.

"Yes, I bring terms on behalf of Lord Howe, Teyrn of Highever," He grinned as he spoke the unlawful title of his master, "You have two days to surrender this city to him. So by the time His Lordship arrives with his sizable force there can be a smooth and peaceful surrender."

"This city is equipped to handle sieges," Walter observed.

"Defenses I have no problem testing," Temmerly's eyes were on the general. He snapped his fingers, "But my lord has another means of making sure this surrender is given before bloodshed." One of his men came forward carrying something, but instead of giving it to Temmerly, the servant moved past him towards Alfstanna.

"What is this?" Walter stepped forward to intercept the servant.

"It's not poison," Temmerly scoffed, "Or a weapon." He crossed his arms over his burly chest, "Just part of the message."

"Walter," Alfstanna stood from her seat, the gruff general stepped aside, the servant didn't meet her eyes as he held out the item. She felt her heart drop at the signet ring in his hand. She snatched it up, despite the ill look it made of her position. Heart pounding painfully into her chest, as she looked to examine it, and to her horror, her fears were confirmed.

It was her brother's.

"What madness is this?" asked a confused Ser Walter.

Alfstanna's legs shook, she moved backwards, nearly tripping over her feet, her hands trembling as she clasped to her brother's ring. She found her seat, but her eyes remained on the ring.

"The Lady knows," Temmerly answered smugly.

Coldness churned in her stomach at the horrifying realization that her brother was a prisoner of Rendon Howe. "You had no right!" She shouted, "My brother is a Templar. He is immune to this conflict." One hand gripping the ring, the other pointing down at the envoy.

Temmerly looked more amused then alarmed at her words. "This is war, Lady Alfstanna," his eyes held a dark hue to them, "It is for the victors to decide what it is right and what isn't."

She shook her head, biting her lip, the turmoil of her brother's wellbeing threatening her composure.

"Could your master slink any lower?" Walter growled, "The gutter rat." He took a step towards Temmerly, while his men backed off, but the knight didn't move.

"If you harm or detain me, my men have their orders for your brother, my lady." He threatened, "It isn't a good fate one would want for a loved one." He turned to his men, "Come, the lady needs time to think over our generous terms." The men turned to leave.

"Two days, my lady," Temmerly reminded her. "Two days to surrender this city to Lord Howe. If you have the foolish idea of being noble and refusing," he clicked his tongue, "Then we shall send you a different body part of your brother until we run out."

"GET OUT!" Alfstanna shouted, anger lashing out, burning hot and uncontrollable. She stood from her seat, fists shaking as the burning rage of what Howe and his men did overwhelmed her senses. "Get out!" Jabbing an angry finger down towards the knight and his men.

Temmerly laughed, leading his men away, "I assure you, I will go to great lengths to make sure your brother is alive to the very end of the ordeal if you refuse." He delivered a mocking flourish. "I'll see you in two days."

Chapter Text

King Cousland.

King Cousland.

Edmund stirred, images and sounds of that night leaking through his slumber. They were chanting and cheering, toasting and celebrating as he stood before them, a mask of stoicism in place but within nerves churned and his heart raced.

"Your Majesty?" A hesitant voice broke through his reverie

"I dreamed I was a king." He blinked and groaned, unable to stave off the sunlight that bathed his room, banishing his sleep and chasing away his dreams.

"Your Majesty?" The voice called again, more timid.

"Do not call me that," Realizing he could no longer fight the inevitable, he put aside his covers, and swung his feet around as they touched the bear-fur rug. "I am not a king."

"Your Maj-" the voice cleared its throat in correction, "M'lord?"

Now that grogginess was melting away, he was able to discern the voice as female. He looked to see a young woman standing respectfully away from the door. She immediately curtseyed when their eyes met. She had a tumble of blonde curls and warm eyes. She was not one of the servants whom Edmund recognized from his Uncle's household.

"They proclaimed you a king last night, m'lord," she said politely, "I saw it, I heard it."

"I remember," His voice was more curt then he intended.

She frowned, "I don't understand. They picked you. You accepted."

"Not all of Ferelden will agree or follow what transpired last night, especially the nobility." He winced at a tinge of pain which bloomed in his head. A reminder of the revels that were had the night before when the supposed Landsmeet decreed him their king. "It's just not that simple."

"I can't speak for the nobility, but the people out there," she pointed to one of the open windows, where outside the castle walls hundreds of refugees were camped seeking protection from the darkspawn and the troubles in the south.

"They know you were the ones to help us. You were the only one." Her eyes swelled with tears, "We may have lost our home, but not hope or our faith when it was announced you were chosen as king. They celebrated, and others cried because it was as if our prayers had been answered."

Edmund stayed quiet, mulling over her words and reflecting on the emotion in which she gave them. He was humbled by them both, "You are kind, my lady. I consider myself fortunate to have such a stalwart supporter on my side."

She flushed at his praise, hiding it further with a clumsy curtsey. "I was only suppose to wake you, your majesty," she revealed, "And to let you know your breakfast would be here shortly."

He smiled, "You have my thanks."

She returned it, hers more hesitant and brief before curtseying and then retreating to the door.

"You are new to my uncle's household," His voice stopped her from leaving, "May I have a name to put to the voice of such steadfast support?"

A look of surprise flickered over her face, "I am, Your Majesty," it seemed she hadn't thought he'd notice or take an interest. "I'm Mia, Your Majesty," She introduced herself, her composure faltering, when she added, "My family hailed from Honnleath b-but…"

He held up a hand to stop her, seeing the pain and loss in her eyes that had chased her and her family from their home. "Well met, Lady Mia," he gave her a reassuring smile, "You have my sympathies."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she straightened up at his condolences while her eyes were still swelling with unshed tears. "I'll inform your uncle and the cook that you are awake and ready for your breakfast." She didn't allow him a chance to reply before slipping out of his room.

Your Majesty, Edmund repeated the words, reflecting on the responsibility that they entailed, as he got himself ready for the day.

"What do you think, Sarim?" Edmund asked his mabari, "of King Edmund?" It sounded ridiculous hearing it out loud.

Sarim looked up from his bed by the hearth, tilting his head. He let out an agreeable bark before going back to sleep.

"Thanks, Sarim," Edmund smiled at his faithful hound's endorsement.

He still wasn't sure he was ready for such a title, or even legally allowed to hold it. However, after listening to Lady Mia's stirring words, he realized he needed to put aside his reservations about accepting the mantle of king and do all he could to protect those who had put their trust in him.

With his mind made up, he got himself ready, knowing that today would offer him an experience he never had before.

My first day as a king.

To Edmund's relief his first meeting was going as smoothly as the countless ones he had before when he oversaw them as his nephew's Regent. He did have to get use to the title and bowing, but he hid his discomfort for it knowing that would be disrespectful to the men and the title itself. They named them as his king, and to insult or ignore that choice was not something Edmund was going to do.

He stood overseeing the large map of Ferelden spread out before him, the pieces of the various factions scattered throughout, based on their latest reports and scouts missives. With him for today's meeting was his Uncle, Leonas Bryland, The Arl of South Reach. Lord Barris an important and respected voice in the Bannorn. Lord Olsen who had long established himself as the leader of the coalition of families and forces from Gwaren who had defected to Edmund's side after the Battle of Gwaren. The Lady Wynne, a Senior Enchanter, an envoy of the Grey Wardens, and the leader of organizing the efforts of the Circle Mages and the templars in their deployment and involvement against the darkspawn.

And then there was Lord Sighard, the Bann of Dragon's Peak. He had spoken little throughout the meeting. His son Oswyn had been recently lost in an incursion in the north, which had brought the Lord of Dragon's Peak into a permanent melancholy mood.

"Lady Barton advances quickly through the Bannorn to reach Crestwood," Lord Barris brought their attention to the Lady of Elk Glen's forces which were positioned in the heart of the Bannorn and marching west to relieve the town of Crestwood from darkspawn forces.

"Let us hope the town is still standing when she reaches it," Edmund said gravely. He had ordered that forces be gathered and sent as soon as the messenger from Crestwood came to them with their plea for help.

"May Andraste guide them," Lord Barris added, "And the Maker protect them," he bowed his head as if finishing a prayer.

"What of the latest from Denerim?" Lord Olsen asked, after a respectful silence had been observed, "The latest report from that position," he hesitated, eyes shifting towards Lord Sighard.

It had been the last report Oswyn had sent before he disappeared in a clash between their forces and Howe's.

Sighard stiffened at the reminder, but said nothing.

"It says that a force has left the capital, past Amaranthine," he moved his finger along the path they had apparently been taking, "And towards Highever or," he gently moved the two wyvern wooden pieces that represented the forces, "Crestwood." He placed them right on the small dot on the map that represented the town, and directly in front of the two pieces of laurels that represented Lady Barton's.

"Perhaps they've sent a relief force to the town," Leonas suggested, "The messenger said, the mayor sent several riders out," he crossed his arms over his chest. "It is likely this is the Anora's response," he glanced over towards Edmund, "Especially given Lord Wulff's proposal."

Edmund felt the eyes of the others upon him, as he focused his attention on the pieces on the map. The matter of Wulff's proposal was not something that he wanted to reflect on at the moment especially in such a crowded room.

Thankfully, Lord Olsen didn't let the uncomfortable silence linger. "We should send word to Lady Barton urging caution." He scratched at the tip of his mustache, "A precaution, especially when dealing with a viper such as Howe."

"Is that necessary?" Wynne asked disapprovingly. "The darkspawn are our enemy. You cannot hope to beat it by fighting each other," she chided them in a tone as if they were children and she was their mother.

"You could ask my sister if it's necessary," Leonas grumbled darkly.

Wynne wisely didn't press her opinion upon realizing she was outnumbered. She bowed her head, but the look that adorned her face conveyed her annoyance at their refusal to listen to her.

Edmund didn't like or want the reminder of what Howe had done to his family in his home. It was with that dark reminder that his eyes found themselves drawn to the Lord of Dragon's Peak.

"Lord Sighard," His voice stirred the silent lord to blink up from his vacant stare to show dark rings beneath his eyes.

"Your Majesty," he cleared his throat, it sounded scratchy, he bowed his head.

"Has there been any word about Oswyn?" He asked cautiously.

"None, your Majesty," his voice thick with anguish. "I fear he was killed." His tone trembled into a howl which the Bann of Dragon's Peak muffled by putting his hand over his mouth. "Forgive me," Tears ran down his cheeks. The unasked question in his painful gaze.

"Of course, Bann Sighard," Edmund acknowledged it. "Your son will be in my prayers. A prayer to Andraste that she guides him home, safe and hale."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Sighard hiccupped, he then managed a stiff bow, before excusing himself from the room.

In watching the Lord of Dragon's Peak leave, Edmund noticed his breadth of advisers had dramatically decreased since the start of their rebellion. He had lost Bann Loren when Howe seized and destroyed Caer Oswin, Lady Barton was leading their forces to Crestwood to fight darkspawn, Lady Alfstanna had taken the Horns of Highever north and had successfully taken the city of Amaranthine from Bann Esmerelle and Howe's clutches.

"What are we to do about Teagan?" Olsen brought their attention towards Eamon's envoy. The Bann of Rainsfere had come with terms from his brother. Those had been strongly rejected when they chose to name Edmund not Alistair the King of Ferelden that they'd follow.

"What do you mean?" Lord Barris frowned.

"His brother refuses to help us unless we bend the knee to some bastard," Olsen groused, ignoring Wynne's disapproving huff at the mention of Alistair, her friend and their ally as a Grey Warden, "We should keep Teagan here, extend his stay as a welcomed guest…"

"You mean hostage," Edmund corrected bluntly, seeing the small wince coming from him confirming that he hit the mark with what the lord was suggesting.

"A guest," Olsen said delicately.

"A hostage that you'd have us use against his own brother," Leonas shook his head, "That would make us no better than the bloody Orlesians."

Lord Olsen took offense to the comparison. "It is a nudge to push Eamon towards the right choice."

"Our cause is better than this," Lord Barris voiced his dismay, his eyes turning to Edmund, "Or that is what I've believed and hoped since I joined your side."

"And what have you seen, Lord Barris?" Edmund responded, biting down the annoyance at the insult that Lord Barris had just implied.

He seemed to have seen his error. He bowed his head. "Nothing that has made me question my support, Your Majesty."

Edmund nodded, satisfied, "Indeed," he then turned to Lord Olsen, "Lord Teagan is welcome to stay in South Reach to continue trying to negotiate an alliance between our forces and his brother's. He is also free to leave if he believes that is more prudent."

"Eamon's cause is lost," Leonas spoke up, "The Warden Alistair shows no willingness to make a bid for the throne," he looked to Wynne to question his observation.

"He has not," Wynne's voice was measured, "Alistair is happy serving with the Grey Wardens." The look that accompanied her report made Edmund wonder if she thought differently.

"Exactly," Leonas looked pleased, "So once they return from Orzammar with the dwarf's support and realize that we've put forth Edmund's bid as king to counter Loghain and Howe's power grab, then Alistair will likely agree and support the measure."

"The bastard will have to make a speech in front of the Landsmeet," Olsen pointed out," and sign some documents forswearing any claim he or his progeny may have for the throne."

"I don't think Alistair would mind," Edmund remembered the friendly and dedicated Grey Warden who much preferred fighting in the yard then politicking or planning strategy with the nobles during their stay here.

Unlike Solona, his eyes moving to the spot on the map labeled Orzammar, the dwarf capital. She had been the first to make the bold suggestion that he put his name forward as king. He wondered how she'd react upon hearing that it came true.

"What is the meaning of this, Olsen?" Leonas' voice pulled Edmund out of his thoughts on the Grey Warden mage to see a soldier holding something, and standing beside his Lord.

"I have an issue that needs to be addressed," he gestured for the soldier to step forward and place what he had on the map so the others could see. "There have been reports to the east from the Brecilian Forest."

The soldier carefully placed what he was holding onto the table, as to not move or ruin the pieces. It was a dirty, ripped piece of cloth but when he spread it out for them to see, it became a tattered standard of a pale halla head upon a red field. There were stains of mud and blood splashed and smeared upon the cloth.

Edmund didn't know a lot about the Dalish, but he knew enough to recognize the design of this cloth to belong to the heraldry of a Dalish clan. "Where was this found?"

"By my niece's scouting party, east of here," Lord Olsen informed them, "We believe the darkspawn have entered the forest and are fighting the Dalish." He ripped a piece of the cloth bearing the Dalish standard. "This was found on the edge of the forest with a few slain darkspawn scattered around, but no elven bodies." He reported grimly. "The Dalish involvement is a welcome reprieve from our forces who've had to face the brunt of the darkspawn attacks in the south."

"We must send them help," Wynne suggested at once.

"Help them?" Olsen sounded amused, "Their heathens and brigands," he placed the piece of cloth he had been holding and put it to the flames of a nearby brazier, "It helps our cause for the two to slaughter each other while we regroup." His eyes taking in the burning cloth with unconcealed satisfaction.

"They are our allies," Wynne looked disgusted by Lord Olsen, turning her disapproving expression away from him and towards Edmund where it shifted into a pleading look. "We have treaties with them. Solona and Alistair had planned on trying to find them and bring them into the alliance."

Olsen scoffed, "You wasted weeks in the forest and you couldn't find them."

Wynne glowered at him, "We abandoned our search when we received word from your riders asking for help."

"We saved you from a fruitless endeavor," Olsen didn't seem bothered by the reminder of them coming to their help in the aftermath of the Battle of Gwaren.

"That isn't true," she argued, "We believe that there were Clans in the Brecilian Forest, at least two or three, and if we could've just found one of them, we could've recruited all of them."

"And why would they help us?" Olsen put himself forward as the dissenting voice to this alliance.

"We have treaties."

"Those savages don't respect our laws and alliances like we do." He rolled his eyes, "Forgive me if my history is a little foggy, but they didn't even help when they had their own kingdom."

"That is true," Lord Barris agreed hesitantly.

Edmund recalled it as well. The Battle of Montsimmard during the Second Blight, it was said the armies of the Dalish Kingdom watched as the Orlesian city nearly get destroyed by the darkspawn armies. That incident would be another block to the growing foundation of animosity between Orlais and the Dales. That built itself into the Exalted March that the Chantry called against the elvish kingdom.

"Exactly," Olsen's eyes lit up, seizing Barris' admittance as a show of support. "And now you think these wood dwelling savages will join us now when they've become nothing but nomadic bandits."

"Lord Edmund," Wynne pleaded.

"He is our king, now," Leonas' voice was soft, but firm in his correction.

"Your Majesty," Wynne didn't hide her annoyance at the need to change her address, "Solona and Alistair were counting on the Dalish forces. They were going to recruit them after the dwarves."

"I know," Edmund remembered Solona telling him of her plans. She had been certain that they'd help, while he was cautious. Since the history between the two sides was bloody, filled with injustices and prejudices. He wasn't certain they'd answer the call just as Lord Olsen predicted, but in Edmund's mind he wasn't sure if that made them the villains or not.

The mage looked relieved at his admission as if believing she had won him over, but his silence that followed must have made her realized that he had reached no decision. "You'll do nothing?" She didn't try to mask her disappointment.

"I didn't say that," Edmund bristled.

"Sending forces to the east would cause some problems," Lord Barris observed, "We are already overextending ourselves by being between Howe and Loghain," he pointed to the northern bloc that their enemies controlled, "And the darkspawn," gesturing to the southern pieces of darkspawn forces that continued to creep closer to their position at South Reach.

"To send forces to the east to try to make contact with the Dalish," Lord Barris frowned, "Would require men and time, to not only relay a message but to be prepared to stave off attacks from either them or encroaching darkspawn."

"Lord Barris is right," Edmund gingerly scooped up the discarded Dalish Standard, "We must move carefully," he looked down to see the pale halla head, its empty eyes gazing upwards at him as if in judgment. He folded the cloth over to avoid the cold look. He sensed a further argument coming from Wynne, so he added, "But I am aware of the need for allies." He carefully put aside the folded Dalish standard, "And will keep that in mind when it is time for a decision to be made."

Wynne looked placated, "Your Majesty," she ducked her head.

Olsen's mouth twitched in annoyance so he quickly bowed his head, "Your Majesty is wise." He added, overcompensating on his tone to try to mask his dislike of the notion.

Edmund was ready to call an end to this meeting to get some rest and hopefully spend some time with Oren, when a servant came scurrying in, pale and sweaty.

"Your Majesty," he dipped low, "Word from the gates. A rider who claims to be a Grey Warden."

The messenger's words brought a swift reaction from the group.

Edmund silenced it by raising his hand, noting it as an advantage of being a king. "Send him here." He didn't wait for the messenger to respond turning his attention back to his group of advisers. "Did Solona or Alistair mention other Wardens here?"

"No, but its possible Wardens from Orlais or the Free Marches were sent," Wynne answered.

Leonas nodded, "With Loghain closing the border and the Blight spreading with no Wardens to fight it," he paused, "A wise or a determined commander would try to send in scouts or envoys to report back to them."

"Or it's a trick from Howe," Lord Olsen cautioned them. "An assassin hiding beneath a banner we would trust."

"It's possible," Lord Barris conceded, "This Warden would be a stranger to us and one who we'd have to take at their word."

"They already sent assassins after us," Wynne dismissed Lord Olsen's warning, "And they weren't subtle about it."

"We shall be receptive," Edmund decided, "But cautious," He amended which earned a look of approval from Lord Olsen.

Before more could be said or argued, the doors opened once more, two guards stepped forward and in between them, Edmund assumed this was the rider who claimed to be a Warden. He recognized the walk of a warrior, this was a man who knew how to fight and had seen battle. He wore a cloak that clung tightly to him, but when he pushed it aside, it showed dirtied clothes, and nothing else. There was no sheaths or holsters of any sort of weapon.

The man had tan skin and dark hair that fell wildly over the man's sharp face. He had dark unruly stubble that covered his face, but despite his haggard appearance, Edmund wasn't fooled by the man before him. The rider's eyes were sharp, and a pale blue, and alert. Darting around the room at everyone in the room, measuring everything and everyone that the room contained, and when his eyes finally fell on Edmund, he dipped his head, the traces of a smile forming on his lips.

"My name is Riordan," the rider introduced himself. His voice was rich with a hint of an Orlesian accent, "I am a senior Grey Warden from Orlais," his eyes never leaving Edmund's, "And I've been sent by the Warden Commander Alisse Fontaine to offer whatever help I can give in ending the Blight."

"The Maker shielded you," Wynne's face was wrought with relief and her eyes shone in wonder once the Grey Warden had finished telling his tale.

They had retired back to Edmund's study along with Wynne. Lords Olsen and Barris had excused themselves while his uncle went to instruct his household to prepare a room and a meal for their new Warden guest.

"Indeed," Riordan agreed from his seat, "Loghain and Howe were out of the capital fighting you," he pointed towards Edmund, "That allowed me the precious freedom and time of going to the Warden compound to get what was overlooked and hidden before slipping out of the city without the two ever knowing I was there."

Edmund raised his glass in the warden's direction, a silent toast to him escaping the clutches of their enemies. "And what sort of things did you recover from your compound?"

"Warden items."

Edmund bit back a frown at that frustrating and nonspecific answer, "I see," He sipped from his wineglass, letting the soothing taste smooth the irritation he felt at Riordan's vagueness.

"Can you…" Wynne hesitated, doubt pulling at her tone.

"We can," He confirmed grimly.

Wynne sagged in relief. "Truly the Maker is smiling down on us."

Edmund watched this exchange in mild annoyance. He didn't like being uninformed and it seemed he was missing some very key bits of information judging by the mage's reaction to Riordan's answers.

"Forgive me," Edmund pulled their attention away from each other, "But if we are to remain allies, some level of trust is needed."

Riordan looked at him with a guarded expression, "We keep secrets out of necessity."

"Yes, which allows your enemies to fill in the gaps with whatever lies they want to further their cause and damn yours," Edmund countered.

"My concern is the Blight," Riordan answered curtly, "Not Fereldan politics."

"Riordan, he has the trust of Alistair and Solona." Wynne reminded him.

The Orlesian Warden didn't respond right away, looking down into the contents of his glass. His expression stoic before he let out a sigh, signaling his contemplation was over. "I have what is needed to induct new recruits into the Order."

"You mean to become Grey Wardens?"

"Yes, despite the repaired relationship between our Order and Ferelden, Duncan was wise enough to protect some of our secrets and hide them from unwanted eyes," he chuckled, "Even after all these years Duncan is still the same wary thief I remember from our time together."

"Thank you for telling me," Edmund could tell the matter of becoming a Warden was a sensitive subject. It was one of the few things Solona had never divulged to him during their time together. It seemed a very carefully guarded secret, and if Edmund wanted to retain this alliance it was something he'd need to respect.

A flicker of surprise passed over Riordan's face as if expecting a flurry of questions and demands within the nature of becoming a Grey Warden. He replaced it with a look of appreciation, nodding towards Edmund, a silent show of gratitude.

"A few other things were taken including some documents and letters," Riordan revealed, who seemed more open due to Edmund's previous response. "They're for Alistair," he clarified, "I was hoping to give it to him here. Duncan wanted him to have them."

"Unfortunately, they're in Orzammar," Edmund was curious about these letters, but he hid his interest in them.

"They can wait." Riordan's tone had a touch of finality to it.

"We don't have to solely rely on what you gathered at the Warden compound," Edmund said, "We have secured Amaranthine. Do you think your Warden Commander would be amendable in sending more Wardens to help us?"

"I do," Riordan answered, "And I know plenty of Wardens who want to come over and serve."

"We'd appreciate any help your Warden Commander Fontaine will send us."

"I will write a letter to her. She and some of our Wardens should still be stationed in Jader awaiting further word from me," Riordan took a sip of his wine. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. It was clear he was still tired from his dangerous and long trek between here and Denerim.

"I think you are due for some rest, Warden," Edmund offered, "You had quite the journey getting here."

"It was longer then I would've liked," Riordan admitted, his tone laced in regret. "With this Blight that Ferelden faces, time is not something we can waste." He stood and stretched, "However, I would not protest to a meal."

"I imagine," Wynne replied with a knowing smile, "I've seen Wardens Solona and Alistair eat."

Riordan chuckled, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Yes, it can be quite the sight."

"My uncle instructed a meal to be sent to your room when you're ready. Our time with our Warden allies was taken into account when preparing yours."

Riordan smiled, "You have my thanks," he dipped his head. "I look forward to working together to end this Blight."

"Riordan," Wynne spoke up suddenly, "There is something we need your help with."

"Yes?" That caught Riordan's interest.

"There have been Dalish sightings east of here," Wynne explained, "They've come under attack from darkspawn."

"And nothing has been done of this?" Riordan's tone stung with accusation.

"We've only just received the scouting reports this day," Edmund replied, "It is a delicate matter," he sent Wynne a look, "Our forces are strained and if we sent some into the forest the Dalish could perceive it as an attack on them."

That mollified Riordan, "Of course, forgive me," he turned to Edmund, looking contrite, "We Wardens don't have need of the social graces needed for politics."

Edmund nodded, "If you're determined in finding them-"

"I am," Riordan cut-in, "it is our duty to gather allies in fighting this Blight."

"Very well," Edmund said smoothly, despite being interrupted, "I may have an idea on who to send with you."

"You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?" Revas Surana bowed low when Edmund turned to face him. He was dressed in studded leathers, two sheathed swords could be seen on his back. The hilts of them poking over his shoulders.

"Revas," Edmund smiled at the elf before him, "It has been some time," he noticed a confident stance and a certain look in his eyes that was a stark contrast to the timid apprentice he remembered all those months ago in the aftermath of the Battle of Gwaren.

"Your Majesty, we've been busy training," he answered, "Thanks to your decision to arm my people. We've had an influx of volunteers, all of whom are ready to prove themselves and fight for your cause."

"I've heard only good things about your group," Edmund saw Revas' chest puff proudly at that observation.

Loghain and Maric had their night elves during their rebellion against Orlais, and needing men after losing so many in the Battle of Gwaren, Edmund had found himself making a similar decision, arming elves despite the laws that opposed it. It was a choice he never regretted, not because it boosted their numbers, but because of the opportunities it brought to so many who wanted a chance to prove their worth such as the elf before him.

Speaking of night elves, he thought, "I've heard your fighting force have a name now too?"

"We do, Your Majesty," Revas answered, before hesitating, "with your permission, we'd like to be called the Fangs of Ferelden," he looked up, uncertain, "If you would permit us."

"A splendid name, Revas," Edmund approved, "Nothing is more fierce or respected in Ferelden than a mabari," his praise earned an agreeing chuff from Sarim who sat near him.

"I'm honored to have you and yours fighting for my family." He held out his hand for Revas, who looked surprised at the gesture, but quickly recovered to shake his hand.

"We are thankful for this opportunity," Revas replied earnestly. "We are the ones who should be honored."

"Truly?"

His one word question caught the eager elf off guard, "Your Majesty?"

"I've given you a sword that is true, but I've also put a target on your back."

"That's true," Revas admitted, hesitance pulled at his features, "But that sword also serves as a shield for me and others who wish to protect ourselves," He straightened up, "And for that you will always have our thanks."

Edmund smiled down at the young elf, admiring his spirit and his strength, and said as much to him.

Revas' composure faltered at the praise, "T-thank you, Your Majesty."

"I sent for you because I have a task."

"A task?" Interest shone in Revas' large blue eyes. No doubt, he was eager at the chance for them to prove themselves after so much time spent training.

"Yes, by now you've heard of the arrival of the Grey Warden?"

"We have."

"He is going into the Brecilian Forest in search of the Dalish elves to forge an alliance between the Wardens and the elves."

"Ah," understanding came to Revas' face, "And you'd like elves to go with him." There was something in his tone, that Edmund couldn't quite place.

"Yes," Edmund wouldn't deny it. "If we marched in with just humans, it would likely lead to a skirmish which neither side can afford." Edmund explained. "If he comes with some elves, we hope it'll get the Dalish's attention and lend us a chance to meet."

"I understand." Revas nodded, "And I volunteer to go with the Warden."

"I thought as much." Edmund said, "You'll be going out with the Warden and Wynne from the Circle Tower."

"A mage?"

"Yes, will that be a problem?" Edmund noticed a change come over him.

He shook himself out of the stupor. "No," Revas answered hastily, "N-no, it will not, Your Majesty."

"Good," Edmund could tell there was something bothering him, but he didn't believe it was his place to press so he left it alone. "Get some rest, Revas. You'll be setting off in the morning."

Chapter Text

I failed them.

Anora stood on the tallest turret in Caer Bronach. She wanted the best view so she could see what her failure wrought. Looking down the water shimmered in the starlight, masking the death and despair it swallowed up when the dam broke and the town of Crestwood was flooded.

My people, she felt her heart clench as she tried to grasp the depths of how she couldn't save them.

Beneath those calm waters, how many of her people drowned? Men, women, children, her chest ached at the thought. They perished because she and her army were not fast enough to get here. They arrived to the devastating sight of Crestwood having been engulfed underwater while the few survivors led by their mayor, Gregory Dedrick limped away and took shelter at Caer Bronach.

The mayor had been solemn in his report to her of the darkspawn attacking the Gilded Horn which led to the dam controls being destroyed and their town washed away. The only good news from his dreary report had been that the flood had taken the darkspawn too, and that there hadn't been any new sightings of the monsters in the following days since the flood.

A chill swirled in the air and Anora tried to stem the cold by tightening the furs that draped over her. She would not abandon her vigil. She heard the noise of her army turning away from the waters she looked to see the torchlights of their camp, having taken to settling in the area around the Crestwood keep. Making it look as if Caer Bronach was surrounded by a ring of light.

Anora knew her forces couldn't linger. The darkspawn may have been gone, but they corrupted the land like the disease they were. The survivors of Crestwood would be fortunate if they could live off what remained. She couldn't allow her army to sap up what was left.

"Your Majesty?"

Anora turned to see the Bann of the River Dane, Lady Reginalda approach. The solemn woman had an air of confidence to her. On this night she wore her leather armor, the sigil of her bann was stitched across her chest. She had become one of Anora's strongest supporters within the Queen's makeshift army. However, that had never stopped the Bann from voicing her opinion regardless of Anora's thought or decision on the subject.

"Lady Reginalda," She greeted, "Is something wrong?"

"No," when she was close enough the bann bowed. "The army is restless and its leaders are confused." She reported, "Crestwood has fallen, but we must move on." She was blunt and near emotionless in her observation on what had transpired here.

"I was of a similar mind." Anora beckoned the bann to join her by the ramparts. She did so.

"We must adapt," Reginalda put in, "Our original purpose washed away with these people." She looked out at the waters, but her face betrayed nothing. "Are we to return to Denerim? To your father's reprimand?"

Anora remembered the plans she had discussed with Nathaniel and Seneschal Luwin back in Denerim. When her forces and allies were slowly mobilizing under her. They had decided on Highever, the home of the Couslands. However, upon seeing Crestwood in such a state, her confidence on the decision ebbed away, leaving her doubting herself and struggling to come with alternatives.

Should it be Howe's men or darkspawn we fight? She wanted Howe to be punished for what he had done, but she had an obligation to also help her people. Looking at Crestwood, she was slowly understanding the devastation the darkspawn were doing throughout Ferelden.

How many other towns had they destroyed? How many people had they killed? How much land had they corrupted by their touch alone?

In seeing such an aftermath of the darkspawn, Anora wasn't certain she should ignore them any longer.

"If what the mayor said is true then we should prepare ourselves for the other army to approach." Reginalda observed, "If a rider did reach South Reach then I suspect they will respond with their own forces."

"It won't come to battle," Anora found herself saying. "We cannot give battle with our allies."

"Allies?" Reginalda raised an eyebrow, "I do not recall any agreements being made. As far as I'm aware your father and Lord Howe have declared them enemies of the crown," she looked pointedly at Anora.

"They're not our enemies," She said softly, "Lord Howe is."

"And your father?"

"Will see reason," Anora didn't hesitate. She would not give up on him.

The Bann made a noise in the back of her throat conveying what she thought of that, but did not openly object. "It is unfortunate what befell Crestwood, but it is a blessing that we did not have to face the darkspawn. Our army remains in tact, and what has happened here has only instilled those who serve with you to your cause. They see that you're serving Ferelden instead of yourself."

"What would you have me do?" Anora could not afford to shy away from her doubt. She couldn't let pride ruin her people because she was afraid to ask for help,.

"You're the Queen," Was the Bann's glib response.

Anora bit down the annoyed rebuke that was first to come to her lips. "I am," She agreed. Instinctively straightening up as if a meaningless pose could better articulate her statement and reinforce her claim. "However, a good leader understands not just the need to seek good counsel, but to listen to it."

Reginalda's lips curved, "Indeed they do." She turned back to the flooded land below them. "Your father has forgotten that, but I am pleased to see you have not."

My father made her disillusioned, Anora knew that loss of faith was what brought the Bann to Anora's cause. Reginalda had been a stalwart supporter for him for years, but she was a growing number who were leaving her father's side. They were dissatisfied and frustrated at how he was handling the chaos that was enveloping Ferelden. Her father's dubious alliance with Howe pushed others away as well. So they were turning to Anora's banner- nobles, freeholders, knights.

"And I am pleased to count you as one who's counsel I seek."

"Our first priority should be the handling of any reinforcements that come from South Reach," Lady Reginalda started. "I've already sent out scouts to the surrounding region. They have been instructed to report back immediately if they spot any sign of either Cousland forces or darkspawn."

Anora nodded, "It is imperative that no misunderstanding breaks out between our side and theirs." The last thing they needed was a battle to happen because of a failure to communicate. She would not have it. "They may see us as enemies, but we must be quick to sue for peace, to speak."

"Agreed," Reginalda nodded, "But we must prepare ourselves for battle, nonetheless."

"Very well," Anora agreed, which left a sour taste in her mouth. "Can I trust you to oversee such preparations?"

The Bann smirked, "I've already started."

"Good," Anora ignored her stomach clenching. She prayed it did not come to it, but she knew they had to be ready for it.

Before more could be discussed, an out-of-breath soldier announced their presence with a hasty interruption, "Your Majesty," the soldier wheezed, "A scout has returned. They've spotted the Cousland forces."

Anora found herself standing at the Lawspeaker's Assembly.

When the army arrived, Anora was quick to send a message that established her side came in peace and with no desire to fight. Afterwards, more messages passed that eventually led to an agreement of a talk between the two sides.

The mayor had suggested the Lawspeaker's Assembly. Gregory was currently standing nervously in front of her. He kept looking over his shoulder to where they expected the arrival of the leaders of the Cousland forces to appear. She could not fault the mayor for his behavior. He had two armies within his town, that was already reeling from a costly darkspawn attack and a catastrophic flood.

Crestwood has faced so much, she reflected. After being at the center of so much destruction, she hoped for the town to witness something good, something to give the survivors hope. Anora looked out at the empty stone blocks that faced her. This alliance will be that.

"We've had marriages here," Gregory mumbled, as if trying to distract himself from the pending meeting between armies. "And this is where criminals are executed," He licked his lips, "But we've never had a meeting of this sort."

"Hopefully, a meeting that will change the tide of this struggle."

The Mayor nodded at that. "Yes, yes, with Andraste's blessing, let us pray that what happened before this day will turn into a distant memory."

"They're coming," Ser Mhairi interrupted, stiffening her posture from where she stood beside Anora. Her hand on the hilt of her sheathed weapon, as she stared at the approaching visitors.

He is not among them, Anora pushed down any traitorous thoughts that tried to emerge of memories shared between them. She focused on the one who was leading the Cousland forces, Lady Barton of Elk Glen. She was short, stout, and a renowned warrior. Anora recalled the popular gossip back in Denerim, whispers that Lady Barton had dwarf blood in her veins. However, no one was ever bold or foolish enough to mention it in her presence.

She was dressed in her armor. Her twin axes sheathed, she was the only one to move forward, leaving behind the others who had accompanied her this far. They lingered at the edge of the stage, watching silently as she moved without them.

"Lady Barton," Mayor Gregory greeted her with a shaky smile. "My town is thankful for your army's answering of our pleas."

She turned to regard him. "It was Lord Cousland who made the decision. He believes its his duty to protect Fereldans."

"A noble duty," Anora complimented, not at all surprised by Edmund's sentiments. He was a man of compassion. His charisma was strong and his convictions were stronger. That had in part what drew her to him when they had been younger, nearly being enveloped by his charm. He was the only one to give her pause about ascending to become Queen.

I was willing, she amended, she had wanted to make the changes that he spoke of, and had found a way to do so.

As a Queen, Edmund, I can help the people.

A bittersweet choice that brought with it the power to enact change and to try to make a difference, but it had cost her the man she had loved and respected. I chose ambition over affection, and now, I must handle the repercussions.

"It is customary to kneel before your Queen," Ser Mhairi said sharply.

"I see no Queen before me, unless a Landsmeet has been called that I was unaware of," her eyes met Anora's. "I see a claimant to the throne and nothing more."

Anora met her stare. She refused to blink or cower to the bann knowing she was trying to bait her. She'll get nothing from me, Anora was determined of that.

"However," Lady Barton was the first to break eye contact, bowing her head. "I see a widow, and one who has my condolences. Our king was a good man. He died for our people, to protect our lands, and that legacy should not be forgotten."

"Thank you, Lady Barton," It was true Anora still wore black to mourn her husband, but it was more out of obligation at this stage. She knew that sounded callous, but her grief for Cailan had lessened. She cared for him as a friend, and loved him, but theirs was not a love that was spoken of in the stories. She missed him, but she couldn't allow herself to drown in his passing not when Ferelden was in such a state.

It was the deaths of Eleanor and Bryce that still festered within. The loss of the woman who had been a second mother to Anora that helped push her forward despite the temptation to wallow in grief and despair. I will avenge them, she had vowed after watching helplessly Howe be rewarded and not punished for his treachery at Highever.

That day had been when the seeds of division had been planted between her and her father. It will not last, she was certain once Howe was dealt with, her father would be set free from Howe's poisonous influence. She had to believe that.

"I seek a peace between our sides," Anora said. "We can have common ground to stand on to allow us to deal with the true threat that is facing our country, the very threat that took my husband. We cannot allow the darkspawn to take Ferelden too."

Lady Barton stared at her with a scrutinizing gaze. "And what of Lord Howe?" She challenged, "What of your father?" She crossed her arms over her chest, "Lord Edmund will not call Howe an ally."

"Neither do I," Anora quickly put in. "This army I gathered is from those dissatisfied with Howe and my father." It pained her to say it, feeling more like a betrayal to the man she grew up respecting above all others. "I offer a solution."

"A solution?" Lady Barton tilted her head, "What sort of solution?"

"An alliance between myself and Lord Cousland," Anora found it suddenly difficult to put her next proposal into words, "a betrothal between the two of us."

"Marriage?" Lady Barton was unable to hide her curiosity at such an offer. "The two of you to remove your father and Howe?"

"Edmund may deal with Howe, however, he pleases."

"And your father?"

Anora hid her hesitation beneath a calm veneer. She knew she needed to choose her words carefully, and that she could not tip her hand too early. She could still save him. Anora couldn't allow her father to follow Howe down the path that would have history paint him as a villain and a traitor. "My father will be dealt with accordingly."

"It's an unexpected offer given the history between the two of you," she smirked.

Anora wouldn't bristle at the remark. Her history with Edmund was no secret. It was gossip and known throughout Ferelden due to Edmund's public exile. Lady Barton was not the first to make such a jab, and she should not be the last. It was an awkward arrangement, and she was certain would amuse many, but Anora wasn't concerned of their thoughts on the matter. It's only awkward if I allow it to be.

"What do you say?" Anora ignored the bann's previous statement.

That only seemed to impress not annoy Lady Barton. "I can take it back to Lord Cousland."

That wasn't good enough,Anora had sent Arl Wulff to try to negotiate with Edmund, and had heard little from him and that had been months ago. Then it came to her:

"I shall accompany you with my forces," She noticed the suspicious look that clouded Lady Barton's face. "If the south is in such dire need of help then to prove my good faith, I pledge my men to the cause regardless if Edmund agrees to my offer or not."

Lady Barton eyed her silently for several heartbeats, lips pressed in a thin line. "Very well," she said slowly, "You have an agreement."

Anora shook the bann's offered hand, feeling the calloused fingers and hard grip, but she did not flinch.

Mayor Gregory Dedrick clapped his hands from where he stood between the two women. Moments ago, he had looked ready to faint, but color was returning to his face.

There would be no bloodshed, no conflict. The armies would leave in peace.

"I cannot say how Lord Cousland will respond to your betrothal," Lady Barton told her, "But I know he will be relieved and thankful for your offer with your forces."

Anora nodded, "The people of our great country must come first." She saw Lady Barton's agreeing smile, "Betrothals and marriages can wait," she added, "as can crowns," surprising herself with that admission.

Queenship had been everything she had wanted. She had sacrificed her own happiness and love in order to walk this path. As Queen she had a tool for her to use and wield to build power and influence. To help reshape Ferelden after Orlais' brutal occupation. To help bring her home into a more respectable standing with the rest of Thedas. With Cailan's blessing and the backing of his crown, she had been able to enact real change to help her people during their reign, and all of that hard work was threatening to be undone if Ferelden was overrun by the darkspawn.

What good is a crown when there are no more people to help?

-WOTL-

It is not Highever.

Anora reflected on the deviated plan, but in her heart she knew this was the right choice. She was looking down at a borrowed map of Ferelden which was resting on her desk. Her eyes lingering on the black dot that signaled the seat of the Cousland family.

She had set out to reclaim it. It was losing Highever to Howe did Anora realize that she was walking a different path than that of her father. It was the goal of retaking the Cousland seat that emboldened her with her defiance and in the choices she made, culminating in gathering her own small army. However, that said army was marching south, away from the purpose that had been driving her since Howe's treachery.

Ferelden is more than one city.

She scanned the map that had markings and other scribbles upon it to help convey the darkspawn advance and the losses that Edmund and his forces had been taking. Her hand clenched around her wine glass. She hastily took a long sip to try to banish the cold fingers that wrapped around her heart. The fear of losing her beloved country to the darkspawn menace, only grew upon seeing the map she borrowed from Lady Barton.

If you are to be joining us then you have the right to know how we are faring, Lady Barton had bluntly told her upon showing up to Anora's tent, unannounced. In her calloused hands had been a worn and rolled up map. A show of trust between us, she waved the map, and a show of what Lord Cousland has been dealing with, her mouth twisted, while you and your ilk have been scheming and squabbling. The Lady of Elk Glen didn't linger and had left just as promptly as she arrived.

Anora had poured over the map and the writings ever since. Edmund's forces were valiantly stymying the darkspawn advance. However it was evident giving the scribbling of numbers that the fighting was taking their toll. They had received a boost with the arrival of the mages and templars, freshly recruited allies by the Grey Wardens to help along the front.

Despite her limited knowledge in warfare, Anora could see that Edmund's forces were vulnerable. He was stretched too thin trying to contain the darkspawn. His numbers declining due to continued losses in the fighting. She was certain that he wouldn't be able to repel attack from the north if her father or Howe were inclined to.

A chill climbed up her back with that realization and upon learning Edmund's true strength.

I could use this, she recoiled at her own callousness. She pushed down on the pragmatism she had relied upon in helping her to govern Ferelden so well these past few years.

She was thankful of the sweet taste of her wine. It helped to alleviate the shame that had settled in her stomach. We must be beyond such things in order to beat the darkspawn.

Squabbling and scheming, that's what Lady Barton had called it.

So instead of writing or plotting how this information could suit her and her aspirations. Anora began writing upon the back of it. Revealing her own strengths and numbers to better help in planning their strategy against the darkspawn when they joined up at South Reach.

"Your Majesty," Ser Mhairi was as faithful as Anora's own shadow. The knight was standing within Anora's tent flap. "You have a message from the capital."

Anora put down her quill, "I'll have it."

Ser Mhairi stepped forward with the furled piece of vellum. Anora took it with a smile, "My thanks."

The knight nodded, and slipped out of the tent without word to return to her post.

Anora noticed the seal that had been pressed into the wax was that of her faithful seneschal. It must be news from Denerim.

She opened it with a swift flick of her dagger, breaking the seal to see a brief message written in a messy scrawl-

Teyrn Loghain was dead.

Chapter Text

Family, Faith, Ferelden. What should I choose?

Alfstanna had not let go of her brother's ring since Ser Temmerly had delivered it to her as well as his threats and Howe's commands. Her anger and outrage had dimmed as fear took root in her heart that her brother was at the tender mercies of Rendon Howe. The man responsible for the brutal butchering of the Cousland family and household in the Highever Sacking.

She could not believe the gall that the man had in interfering with the Templar Order. All around her, the council spoke and argued voicing their thoughts and feelings on what they had heard.

Her focus remained on the ring in her hand.

My brother's ring, Her fingers instinctively clenched around it. In her minds' eye, she could still see his supportive smile and his armor glinted in the sunlight when he said his farewells and where she had given him this very ring. For Irminric, so you never forget to write.

She wanted to smile at the memory, but it faded away. Flickering before her vision was her brother in a cell.

A prisoner of Rendon Howe, an innocent in this war, but when did innocence ever matter to Howe or war? She bitterly thought.

"Surely, the Grand Cleric can issue a command in order to release him," Ser Walter suggested loudly, "He is a bloody Templar! And Howe has no right to capture or hold him!" The knight's hands were fists where they rested on the table.

Lady Dorothy's milky white eyes turned in his direction. "It will take days for a rider or message to reach her," She bowed her head. "Days Ser Irminric does not have."

Days my brother does not have, she corrected, My brother will die. She felt the cold grip around her heart. Family, Ferelden, Faith? What can I choose?

Lord Edmund had given her his orders. She was to hold this city for his cause. The Cousland laurels were not to be removed. Would he still expect me to follow them when the pieces of my brother are slowly being sent to me?

The burning taste of bile gathered in her belly, but she pushed it down as well as the gruesome images that accompanied those dark thoughts.

"I have heard troubling news from Denerim," The Elf smuggler, Dirk drawled, "Well troubling for your cause," he smiled, and shrugged.

"What is the news, pirate?" Ser Walter growled.

Dirk's smile was sharp when his cat-like eyes turned to the Commander of the Horns of Highever. "That the Grand Cleric and the Denerim Chantry have accepted bribes from Rendon Howe," He answered, "Paid for out of the treasury of Highever itself."

"Impossible," Ser Walter shook his head, "Surely, Her Grace would do no such thing."

The elf smuggler did not look to care whether he was believed or not. "As I said, just the stories and gossip brought to us on the seas."

"Thank you, Dirk," Lord Eddlebrek was the elf's only friend on this council. Having dealt with him for years in his successful attempts at undermining the previous Bann of this City, Lady Esmerelle.

"Lady Alfstanna?" Eddlebrek's voice was polite when he called her name.

"Yes?" She felt the eyes of everyone at the table on her, but she would not show weakness in front of them.

"What are your orders?" Eddlebrek asked hesitantly. Will you condemn your brother or this city?

"My brother chose the life of service and sacrifice," She pushed down the lump that was forming in her throat. "He followed a noble calling to serve Andraste and Her people." Her fingers tightened their grip around his ring. "If we surrender this city then we've all but assured victory in this war to Howe and Loghain."

Ruling the land, leading the people. You have the gifts to do this, Alfie. Never forget and never doubt.

It was time for her to make her decision and then-I'll pray for forgiveness.

"Forgive me," Nathaniel Howe, the newly arrived envoy to Anora, and her old friend spoke up for the first time during the meeting. His presence was met with suspicion due to his name and his association, but Alfstanna counted him a friend, and would hear no protest to her choice to let him attend.

He was standing by the hearth. The only one who was not sitting. "I may be able to help."

"How?" Lord Eddlebrek asked, "Are you going to walk into your father's camp and free him?"

Nathaniel met Eddlebrek's jape with a small smile. "Not exactly," his dark eyes then found hers, and she felt old memories bubble up to the surface at that heated gaze. An old comfort that wrapped itself around her like a blanket on a cold day. "Ser Temmerly is holding Ser Irminric, I have no doubt."

"The Ox," muttered Eddlebrek disdainfully.

"Yes, but he is not just called that for his strength," Howe replied. "He's as smart as one too." He kept his hands by the warmth of the fire. "I believe I can sneak into his camp and find your brother, Alfstanna," he hastily corrected as he was about to call her-Alfie.

"Alone?" Eddlebrek sounded incredulous.

"It wouldn't be sneaking if I brought a bunch of men with me," Nathaniel replied glibly.

Eddlebrek frowned at the perceived jape at his expense.

"This will be no game, Nathaniel," Sister Dorothy spoke with a polished familiarity that hinted there was some sort of past between them. "If they truly have Ser Irminric then I fear that he may be feeling the effects of Lyrium withdrawal." She shook her head, "He will not be easy to reason with. His mind will be," The blind sister looked to be trying to find the right or delicate word before deciding on- "Troubled."

"I understand that risk," Nathaniel did not sound troubled by it.

"He will be loud. He will be suspicious," Dorothy went on as if she was as deaf as she was blind. "He will be uneasy."'

"Could Nathaniel not bring him some lyrium?" Ser Walter's eyes flicking between the Sister and the Howe.

Sister Dorothy pursed her lips together in thought. "We do have some lyrium," she admitted, "And a small dose may ease him and make him more pliable to commands." Her blind stare turned to Nathaniel, "But there is no guarantee of this. I cannot say for certain, because I am not aware of his symptoms or how long he's been without his lyrium."

"And if he's been without it for too long?" Alfstanna felt something cold touch her back.

Sister Dorothy sighed.

"I will take the lyrium," Nathaniel interrupted, not letting her answer, but everyone in the room understood Irminric's fate by the Sister's silence. "You have my thanks for your caution as always Dorothy."

Dorthy's lips formed a wry smile. "It's good to see your time in the Free Marches haven't dulled your charms, Nathaniel."

He chuckled, "Never, my lady."

The blind sister shook her head but her smile remained.

"I can do this," Nathaniel turned to her. He stood straight, conviction and certainty in his stance and tone. "I know this surrounding area better than anyone. I know how to slip in unseen. I can find him, and I can bring him back to this city."

"It is a risk," Eddlebrek said the obvious. "If you are caught-"

Nathaniel did not seemed worried. "If I am caught then I will be given to my father." His face darkening at the mention of him.

"And my brother could be killed," She finished for him, knowing any prisoner escape especially if his mind was as addled as Dorothy believed, they'd be more inclined to kill him then try the more challenging approach of keeping him alive. Temmerly had all the cunning of a rock.

"Yes," Nathaniel agreed grimly.

"Leave us," Alfstanna announced to the room, "I wish to speak with Nathaniel alone."

Sister Dorothy was the first to get up. Her wrinkled hands in the folds of her plain garb. "Find me, Nathaniel, and I will get you the lyrium you need." She then turned in Alfstanna's direction, "Only if you have the Lady's blessing."

"Thank you as always, Dorothy."

Ser Walter looked like he had more to say, and was not pleased to be dismissed, but as a good knight, he took his orders and left the room. She knew she'd seek him out after this to fill him in. To do anything else would be foolish.

Dirk, the elf smuggler did not seem to care that he was dismissed. He left the room quickly, but not before his large eyes turned from her to Nathaniel and a little smirk played on his lips as if he uncovered some sort of clandestine affair.

She very much wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, but that would have to wait.

"Your brother will be in my prayers, Lady Alfstanna," Lord Eddlebrek took his dismissal with dignity, bowing his head to her.

"Thank you, lord," she inclined her head towards him. "I hope to speak with you later in the day if you permit it."

He understood, "I do, my lady." He left without another word, the door closing behind him.

"Alf-"

"Don't," She held up a finger to stop him. "I need to know why, Nathaniel. Why are you doing this?"

"Ah," he moved to the table where a pitcher of wine remained, he grabbed a nearby glass and poured himself one. "You think I'm doing this for Anora?"

"It crossed my mind," She admitted carefully. She trusted him, but she had not seen him for years. Only for him to arrive after all this time, claiming to have been sent by Anora to try to strike a truce between her and Edmund.

A truce of marriage, Alfstanna thought, if the situation wasn't so dire, she'd laugh at how events had led to this possibility. He was exiled for her, only for him to end up marrying her. She wanted to shake her head and wonder what sort of path had the Maker put them on.

"Irminric is a good man, Alfie," Nathaniel said, "He deserves better than to be subject to my father's hospitality."

She saw the sincerity in his dark eyes. She could hear it in his tone, and her heart sagged in relief in knowing that he hadn't changed in those years of exile. He was still loyal and willing to help his friends without hesitation.

"Thank you, Nate."

He nodded, taking a deep drink from his glass. "Does this mean I have your blessing?"

"It does."

"Then I'll leave at nightfall," he put the glass down and made his way around the table. "With your leave?" He stood before her.

"You have it."

He did not leave. He hesitantly put his hand around hers that had been holding her brother's ring. "I'll bring Ric back." He vowed.

"Thank you," She said softly, wanting to believe him. "But," she paused, knowing that by authorizing this mission that it could also condemn her brother if they were caught, or killed while fleeing. She was risking her brother's life on this small hope that Nathaniel was right in his ability to sneak into the camp and rescue Irminric. A templar without his lyrium, who would be unstable despite the lyrium Sister Dorothy would provide.

Not to mention her unsaid answer when asked if her brother had been without it for too long. It hinted at a tragic truth that she had to face: He might be too far gone. A body would remain, but a shell of my brother with a broken mind...

"If you cannot free my brother," she began, taking a deep breath, and willing the tears not to show in her eyes, "Then I'd ask you to give him mercy."

Nathaniel's eyes flashed and his grip on her hand tightened instinctively before loosening. "Alfie-"

She shook her head. "No, Nate. If he is going through his withdrawal he'll be in constant pain and wracked with paranoia. He may be too far gone to be saved. It would be a mercy." She could not meet her friend's stare, and fixed her eyes above his shoulders. Forgive me.

"If the withdrawal does not kill him then Howe and Temmerly will, and they'll do it slowly. I cannot have my brother suffer in such a way." She cursed her voice when it cracked to betray her misery at what she was saying, at what she was ordering. I'm sorry, Ric. Any choice I make ends with a failure.

"Alfie," Nate's voice tender and she did not deserve that.

Cold claws sunk deeper into her heart, refusing to yield their prize.

It was the touch of his long fingers upon her cheek that caused her to finally look at him. "Those are my orders." She would not wilt beneath his intense stare.

His lips dipped into a frown, a protest wanting to push past his stoicism, but he nodded, "Very well."

She dispelled a breath, and felt her shoulders shake. A sob wracked through her body, but she stood still in its wake. "Thank you." The words came out a strangled mess.

I'm thanking him for letting me condemn my brother to death.

"It will not come to that, Alfie," he assured her.

"I pray you're right." She wanted to hope. It was a foolish trick, but she wanted to believe it. To think she could keep the city and have her brother too.

Ferelden, Family, Faith. What should I choose? How can I choose?

His fingers lingered on her cheek, he then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead, before his hand dropped. "I will return, Alfie," he promised, "And I'll have your brother." He turned to go, but stopped, "And then, I hope," he paused as if he changed his mind, "we can discuss other matters."

"I'd like that." She felt a small smile despite the painful sorrow embedded within her. A warmth tickled in her ribs.

He returned her smile then he dipped his head and left.

The smile melted away and that promising warmth was smothered by the coldness that settled in her chest. She fell into her chair, and felt the tears in her eyes.

My brother will either be spared or slaughtered come the new day.

She could never recall a more agonizing night then the one she was currently enduring. Alfstanna was certain she'd never feel one such as this for the rest of her life. Every hour came with silence while she waited in dread for any news, reports, or sign to learn what had become of Nathaniel's rescue efforts for her brother.

I was a fool to agree to this. She cursed herself for the umpteenth time. Doubt and fear were coiled tightly in her belly.

The hour was late, but sleep did not dare come to her. She was as alert now as she had been throughout the day. Weariness would not tread, as if knowing it could not try to claim her, and wisely kept its distance.

She had moved throughout the Amaranthine castle. In more and more areas she saw only fragments and leftovers from the previous ruler had still remained. Cousland laurels were ever present, hanging above hearths or on rafters and on the guards livery. As if everywhere she turned, she saw the laurels, a reminder to the oaths she made to Edmund and her duty to fulfill them.

I promised him. She told herself when she walked past a pair of patrolling guards. I vowed to take and hold this city in his family's name.

Alfstanna found herself in one of the guest chambers. An old portrait of one of Esmerelle's ancestors was put above the hearth. They were pale and garbed in Orlesian clothes with colors and designs that looked more fitting on a court's fool than a nobleman, but Orlais was always eccentric in their tastes. The man had a long, hawkish nose, beady eyes, that looked down at her with disdain as if she was an intruding vermin in his room. She very much wanted to rip it down and feed it into the hearth.

Before she gave into such indulgences, she spotted a statue of Andraste that was on the mantle below the portrait. The Maker's Bride looked powerful, but pious in her carved pose, her hands out in offering, and head dipped in reverence.

Faith, Family, Ferelden.

Please, welcome my brother, Irminric. He was your faithful servant, she found herself praying, Whether he comes tonight, she felt a pain in her chest as if stabbed by an icy sword. Or in the future, please tell him, I am sorry. I failed him.

She blinked back tears. Alfstanna was taught at a young age by the Mother of her family's castle that it was wrong to pray for ill things to come to people. In her heart, she yearned to continue her prayer, asking for Howe to be sent to the void not for what he's done in this war, but what he's done to her brother. Let him burn for all eternity.

Alfstanna selfishly wanted it to be her hand that sent him there, but even in her vengeful haze, Lord Edmund's name punctured through and she knew he was the one who had a stronger claim for the kill. Still in her thirst for vengeance, she wanted to be the one to put the sword through the snake's belly. Let me watch him writhe in his own blood. Let me see him suffer like he wished to see me suffer.

"Lady Alfstanna!" Ser Walter came into the room, "We were looking for you."

"Has there been word from Nathaniel?"

He ducked his head, "No, I am sorry." He sounded contrite for misleading her. "There is something else you must know."

She frowned, but pushed past the disappointment. She still had responsibilities that she could not abandon. "What is it?"

The Commander of the Horns of Highever did not answer, instead he turned to his trusted scouts, Calida and Cordero. "Tell her what you just told me."

"My lady, it is Howe," Calida stepped forward, "It is Rendon Howe." She clarified.

"What? What about him?"

"Its his armies, they're marching," Cordero exclaimed.

"They're here?" Why wasn't she told this?

"No," Calida shook her head, "They've changed directions. They're no longer marching towards Amaranthine."

She frowned. "What?" She couldn't believe it. There must be some mistake.

"Ser Walter sent us out for our usual scouting," Cordero filled her in on information she already assumed and did not find urgent, "And from a distance we saw the camp being packed up, and we thought they'd finish the march to Amaranthine, but they didn't. They turned around and marched back."

"Marched back?" She repeated.

"Yes," Calida confirmed, "Howe's army is marching on Denerim."

Alfstanna silently took in this new but baffling information. She couldn't understand, she did not doubt her scouts, they were talented and had never failed in their tasks, but this news. It did not make any sense. Worse, she felt more troubled than relieved by something that should've been seen as a boon to her and their cause.

"Why?" Her eyes found Ser Walter who looked equally pleased, but confused by Howe's change.

He shrugged, "I do not know, but perhaps, Nathaniel was successful." He suggested, "With your brother out of his grip, he knew a siege could take months."

She nodded, that was one possibility, but if that was the case then where was Nathaniel and her brother? There was no sighting of them.

And still she did not think it in Howe's nature to turn around like a beaten dog regardless if he had lost his prized prisoner. He would've at least sent some force outside the city at least to show his prowess or the threat that he could call down on them.

"Perhaps another army has caught his notice," Calida offered. "Queen Anora has her own forces and last heard they were near Crestwood or it could be darkspawn."

Alfstanna did not think Howe would flee the Queen. He'd think her beneath him and certainly not as a threat, army or no. If darkspawn had reached the capital or were near, they'd have heard it from fleeing Fereldans, especially those within Denerim. The city's denizens would try to come here to either stay behind its walls or cross the Sea to the Free Marches, but they received no rush of refugees to hint that the darkspawn were closing in on Fereldan's capital.

"There has been no sign of either my brother or Nathaniel?"

"No," Ser Walter looked sympathetic when he repeated his earlier answer. "There has been none."

"Thank you, Calida and Cordero," she dismissed the scouts, "Get some food and rest, I'll expect more words on our enemy's movement in the early hours of the new day."

The siblings bowed and departed.

"Alfstanna, this is good news," Ser Walter tried to remind her.

"Thank you, Ser Walter," She replied instead. "Please, let me know if you hear anything else."

"I will," He bowed his head and was gone.

She found her eyes drifting to the Andraste statue.

Why do I receive such glad tidings with unease? She prayed. This should be celebrated the threat of a siege has been lifted and an enemy army marches away from us. But that coldness that swelled in her chest did not lift at this welcome news.

But what of my brother? What of Nate?

I feel we've slipped away from one storm, but another one may soon be crashing down upon us.

Chapter Text

Kylon stood in the Denerim Market District. Watching the citizens of the capital go about their lives, oblivious to it all.

Unaware that the city had been festering from a foreign invasion. That slavery had slithered into this city like a deadly serpent and coiled itself around the alienage, where it squeezed tightly, preying on the helpless elves.

Tevinter Slavers, He spat, Blood mages. He spat again at how they had infected his city. Thankfully, he and Slim and Kallian had been able to lance them.

It had felt good, damn good.

Still, he was not sure he'd forget the sights of the elves in those cages. Cramped, and shivering, people that were being treated no better than livestock. It was sickening.

Kylon had served this city for years, but helping those elves and freeing them from the slavers was the most satisfying he ever felt within the city guard.

If it had not been for Slim or the Dark Wolf, I never would've known. He shook his head at that possibility. I'd be just as ignorant as the rest of these people. Unaware of the Tevinter threat.

There was a calmness to be found here for him. It was so much noise and activity yet to Kylon it was a balm on his soul. He stilled in that comfort at this familiarity. No matter how loud or active it became it did not matter to him. He cherished it.

This is the city's heart. He began to walk through it. To one side he saw a dwarf in red steel armor had gathered a crowd. Surfacer dwarves were not uncommon in the city. They had their own small district within Denerim, and were a mainstay in the Market district to buy and trade and sell.

This one was no merchant. He saw no stand, but when he got closer and was able to hear the commotion, he realized this dwarf was selling something. It wasn't goods. It was stories.

"The great Grey Warden Alistair Theirin came and laid waste to the threat that had inflicted Redcliffe!" The dwarf told a growing and eager crowd. "This evil withered away at his might! The undead that had risen collapsed into bones and dust. The spirits slithering back into the void, unwilling to fight such a stalwart opponent!"

"Not a bad storyteller for a sellsword."

"I know this tale." From the corner of his eye he saw Slim come to stand alongside him.

"Of course you do," Slim agreed, "It was told by our Warden friends when they came to visit."

"Not like this," Kylon hooked his thumb in the direction of where the dwarf was telling it.

"No, not like this," Slim chuckled, "Come, may we speak?" He put his large hand on Kylon's back and began to guide him away from the dwarf and the crowd without waiting for his answer.

"What is it?" Kylon and him were making their way through throngs of people.

"That dwarf back there is from Redcliffe."

That didn't surprise Kylon. How else would he know the story?

"I've also seen him talking to some of your guardsmen." Slim's eyes were on Kylon, and his expression shifted, knowing he had information that Kylon was now interested in.

"Who?"

"Harkin."

"He's one of Howe's toadies," Kylon hated the man. He was a corrupt brute, whose loyalties were to Howe and then to himself, and he wasn't so certain that even Howe was at the top of that short list.

"He is." The two friends had now passed through the District where the crowds began to thin.

"So why is one of Howe's guardsmen talking to a dwarf from Redcliffe?"

That got an appreciative smile out of Slim. "Now you're asking the right questions, my friend."

It was a compliment of sorts, but Kylon was not sure he liked it. He wasn't sly, secretive, or whatever else you wanted to call it like Slim or his agents.

"The situation in Redcliffe was once a murky pool, but now," Slim paused, "Its waters have calmed and become clear." He jerked his head for him to follow and Kylon did. They were moving in the direction of the Denerim Chantry. "That dwarf you saw spinning stories for our warden friends. His name is Dwyn. And I am certain he's under the employ of Arl Eamon."

"Your spies tell you that?"

Slim gave him a look. "Did you miss his stories about Alistair's brilliance?" He snorted, "The dwarf is clearly trying to sell the people on our Warden and his heroics."

"Why?" Kylon had heard the dwarf's tales and noticed it was only Alistair getting the acclaim. There was no mention of his other Warden, Solona or their companions. It was Alistair, and Alistair alone, and Kylon had gotten to know them during their brief stay in the capital to safely say that Alistair would've hated that, and protested it and tried to give the credit to his fellow Warden, Solona. And he'd add in a joke or two.

"It is not out of the kindness of his heart," Slim said dryly.

"It rarely is," Kylon agreed, a trace of bitterness in his tone.

Slim patted his shoulder. "You ser are the outstanding exception."

Kylon ducked his head and smiled at his friend's words, caught off guard by the sudden and sincere compliment.

"Arl Eamon wants to call a Landsmeet and put forward the Grey Warden as a candidate for the Fereldan throne."

"Alistair has my sympathies," Kylon muttered, unsure why anyone would want to take that blasted seat or wade in the muck that was Fereldan politics.

"A great comfort that would be to our Warden friend," Slim held up his hand and they stopped. They were standing outside one of the walls that lined around the Chantry. They were in the building's shadow, but Kylon heard the Chantry Sisters reciting The Chant of Light. Then there was the sound of the armored footfalls of the templars who moved and patrolled the area, protecting the Chantry and helping the refugees they could with succor and shelter.

The Chantry had been filled for months, and refugees had to be cycled through. It was their effort to try to see to the needs of all of the Maker's children through these troubling times. The templars were the shepherds who moved the flocks back and forth and did their best to insure no resistance or fighting broke out, but it was unavoidable.

The people were desperate, and they'd rather cling to the Chantry's walls than face the cold uncertainty that awaited them outside the city where tents and hovels had been put up to try to house the flood of Fereldans who had fled their homes from either the darkspawn or the civil war.

Kylon had heard that a few had been killed, but most were able to be detained. At that threat, the desperate were more likely to get a sword in their belly than food, and perhaps that's what they sought. An end to their suffering, since they must have known they had no chance against armed warriors, but still they tried, and they always failed.

"I will not bore you with the politics, my friend," Slim's eyes looked around the area laid out in front of him, as if expecting something or someone to appear. "However, word has reached me from my friends in South Reach and a Landsmeet was already called there."

Kylon frowned. "How?" He may have hated the nobility, but he lived and served this city for years and understood what the Landsmeet was. It's calling was one of the more busier times that the capital would have in its year. Hosting the nobility and wealthy so they could gather, make rules or speeches or coin, Kylon didn't know, but he was certain they all left feeling proud of themselves.

"They called their own Landsmeet," Slim answered with a shrug, just as confused or indifferent by the whims of the nobility. "Of all the allies who had gathered under the Cousland banner, and there they spoke and argued on who to follow, but they could not decide, and then a new claimant was proposed."

Kylon had a sinking feeling who that claimant was and voiced it- "Cousland."

Slim clapped his hands together. "Well done. I fear you're beginning to have a mind for politics."

"Never a stomach for it," Kylon grumbled.

Slim laughed. The mirth did not last. Snuffed like a candle's flame in a storm with his next words. "Edmund Cousland was proposed and he was declared their claimant and was crowned their king."

Kylon pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a pain throb behind his eyes.

Damn them. He clenched his fist. Damn them all! He could not believe the selfishness of these men fighting over titles and triumphs when they should be marching together to end their stupid squabbling, and get rid of the darkspawn.

"Is there no end in sight for this blasted war?"

"I fear it may get bloodier."

"How?" Kylon then pointed an angry finger behind him where the Chantry wall stood. "These people are losing their homes, their lives. EVERYTHING!" Kylon shouted, "And still the nobles fight over stupid borders and blood." He spat.

Slim took his rage with little reaction. He put a calming hand on Kylon's shoulder, and in his anger he wanted to shake it, but he felt Slim's fingers tightened as if his friend was expecting that from him.

"It gets bloodier because the divisions are only growing deeper between them." Slim's voice was quiet.

The lanterns were beginning to be lit across the city. Darkness was crawling across the sky, blotting out all but a few rays of light.

Slim didn't continue because his eyes caught something in the growing shadows. "Come out, girl," he coerced her, "It is safe."

He wondered if it was due to his friend being part elf that he could see the young woman emerge out of the darkness. Otherwise, he was not certain how Slim could've spotted her. Slim did not have the elf look, but their blood-Perhaps that allowed him to see better and clearer in the darkness.

She was dressed in the garb of the Chantry. White and red robes, but there was also brown around the sleeves and where it fell just above her modest and dirty shoes. She had a hood covering her hair. Her eyes kept flicking back to him.

It did not go unnoticed. "Kylon is my friend, Mildrith." He assured her, "In the city guard just as you're mine in the Chantry."

"Well met, Sister," He dipped his head to her.

She offered him a swift curtsy and seemed calmer now at Slim's words. "It as we feared." She looked around to make sure she could not be seen, but none of the city's lanterns could touch these shadows, and Kylon understood now why his friend had stopped here. They were bathed in the darkness.

Slim sighed.

"Grand Cleric Elemena means well," Mildrith went on, "But she's old and nearly deaf, and trusts in her flock to help guide her." Tears wet her cheeks, "They have lied to her. Manipulated her, and have spun these webs and have her caught like a fly and Howe is the spider." She hiccuped. Her eyes glistening with tears, "They took the coin of slain innocence, blood gold! Tainting Her teachings to serve Howe and not our people."

"The names?" Slim asked.

She hesitated, "What are you to do with them?" She was distraught at what she uncovered, but still she did not look eager to betray them.

Hers is a heart of virtue and forgiveness, Kylon thought, Where prayer and songs could cleanse one's soul. He envied that trust in the goodness of life. And he knew after helping Slim that light had darkened and her picture had fractured.

She thinks she'll become like them, he suspected, or perhaps she just did not have it in her nature to be vengeful. Meek and pliable, he dismissed that, because he did not think those traits would lead her to working or helping someone like Slim.

Slim's face was hard. "Have you no faith in me, Mildrith?" It was then that Kylon realized his friend was insulted by the sister's unsaid accusation. "Do not doubt me a servant of Her?" He bowed his head, "But these are fennecs in the henhouse and they must be caught."

"They have made holy vows."

"And therefore have incriminated themselves," Slim pointed out, "Let the Chantry deal with them. I am just making sure the right people are enlightened."

"Forgive me, Slim," she dipped her head.

"Peace, Mildrith," he told her. "You are serving Her well and the Maker's light will shine upon us," A small smile came to his face then, "But hopefully not at this moment."

Mildrith let out a wet chuckle and nodded. Her hand went into the folds of her robe and she pulled out a folded piece of vellum.

Slim went to take it, and Kylon half thought she'd move the vellum away, but she didn't. Her fingers relinquished the prize. Slim unfolded it and read the names.

"There are a lot of names."

"We are all sinners, Slim," She reminded him.

"Yes, we are," His tone was not mocking, but of a sad acceptance. His other hand went to his collar where he kept a small carving of the Prophet Andraste, and his fingers clung to her as his eyes moved over the list once more. "This will take time." He said regretfully, "There are more names than I thought, and if they have truly corrupted the Grand Cleric then we must find someone with real authority to act and pull out these snakes before their fangs deepen on Her Grace."

"I am looking."

Slim gave her a small smile. "I do not doubt it." He then stepped to her and placed a light kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, Cousin."

"You are welcome." Her eyes moved between them. "May the Maker shine His Light on both of you." She moved her hands to end her prayer and then silently slipped away, retreating back to the Chantry.

"I didn't know you're cousin was a Sister," Kylon wasn't sure what else to say. It was too disheartening to reflect on what he heard about the Chantry and their bribes and Howe seemed to corrupt everything within reach of him. There is no more viler man.

"That's why I am the spy and you are a soldier," He clapped him on the back. "I have so many cousins, if you guess a trade or practice, I am certain to have at least one in it." He laughed at that.

Once their mirth subsided, the Chant of Light could be heard by one of the Sisters:

"How shall your children apology make?

We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling,

Only a Light in this darken'd time breaks.

Call to Your children, teach us Your greatness.

What has been forgotten has not yet been lost."

Kylon felt a shiver go through him that had nothing to do with the cold night air as those words seemed to sink into his very soul.

Slim looked comforted and turned to Kylon but before he could speak, something caught his eye over Kylon's shoulder and he frowned. Suspecting trouble, Kylon went for his sword, but Slim's hand stopped him, and a child came scurrying forward.

Another one of his spies. Kylon dropped his hand from the pommel of his sword and watched as the boy, no older than seven or eight come to Slim. His hair was long, dark, and messy, but Kylon saw the tips of his ears that betrayed his elvish blood. Slim crouched and the boy whispered, and Slim's face changed in a heartbeat.

He's surprised, Kylon observed, and unsure, and for the first time in their friendship, Robert Kylon had seen something in his friend, Slim Couldry that he had never seen before-doubt.

The boy's whispers were insistent and he suspected he was repeating whatever report he had. Slim questioned him just as quietly, but the boy's answer did not change or his expression. Whatever it is he is saying, he believes it the truth.

Slim came to the same conclusion and eventually nodded and fished out a few silvers and put them into the boy's waiting hands. Slim then whispered something more, new orders, probably. The boy bobbed his head up and down, and without sparing Kylon another look, the boy darted off into the darkness.

"What is it?" Kylon felt his stomach souring while Slim slowly stood from his crouching position. The dismay remained on his face.

"Teyrn Loghain," he said softly and slowly. "Teyrn Loghain is dead."

"Get my friend a drink!" Slim had ordered when he got one look at him.

He gave a numb nod of gratitude before nearly falling into his cushioned seat in Slim's private room at the Gnawed Noble Tavern.

This was the first time he had seen Slim since they were together outside the Chantry that fateful night when they got the news of Teryn Loghain's death. That was three days ago, and what followed had been some of the worst that Kylon had experienced.

When Loghain died, his men who had been stationed in and around the city looted and ransacked parts of the city they could. Plundering and raping, killing, and fighting. They could've held the city they occupied, Kylon didn't have the men to oust them, and some of his guardsmen had begun to desert too, and Kylon had doubt they joined in on rioting. Seneschal Luwin was trying to help, but he too had so few fighting men. However, Loghain's men did not try to hold the city, nearly a day after their violent revelry they fled the city.

Fear or shame, Kylon did not know, or they go to find new masters. He could not forget the aftermath they left behind, ruins and corpses, crying children and broken women. A man's heart can be more terrible than any beast.

He took in the carnage and felt sick that this was not in the wake of darkspawn, but Fereldan men and women who had sworn oaths to Teyrn Loghain.

They did it because they knew they could. Untethered they showed why an oath can be as valuable to a man as a leash is to a dog.

Even with the men's absence, Kylon was up to his eyeballs in complaints, curses, and blood. He tried his best to keep order, but he may as well take his sword and use it to try to defeat the Drakon River.

The clang of the tankard brought him back to the present where he barely sniffed the ale before he put it to his lips and took a generous gulp. The ale was bitter, but so good. He had worked day and night with little rest, and knew there was no extra gold for him, but still he had worked because Denerim was his home and these were his people.

Slim was silent while he drank his ale. Food had been brought in for them which had his attention.

It wasn't until he put the tankard down did he realize he'd drank it all. He closed his mouth to stop the burp that was to be the exclamation point on that observation. He wiped his mouth and thanked the server who went to get him another.

It was Howe. Kylon thought with iron certainty. He benefited the most, and he had shown his loyalty was to him and power when he betrayed the Couslands. So why not Loghain too?

Kylon had never seen his friend look so surprised or in disbelief then that night. He had thought Slim knew everything or what he didn't know, he suspected or was suspicious of, and Kylon felt comfort in that. To have a friend be so well informed, an ally who he could rely on. It was a tremendous gift and one he used countless times. So when he saw how Slim take the dark news of Loghain's death, it unnerved him.

He helped himself to some of the warm food, putting it on his plate, chicken and bread and vegetables. He took two bites into his chicken when he was given more ale. He took a measured sip, and the bitter taste was as welcomed as his last sip.

"Howe will be here by nightfall."

"To claim the Fereldan throne." He finished for his friend, but he saw doubt in Slim's expression. "You do not think he'll take it?"

"I do not know," Slim answered honestly, "You saw for yourself that he's sunk corrupt roots into the Chantry. He could very well get them to perhaps crown him King of Ferelden." He scratched at his chin, "But Howe would know he'd have no way of holding it."

"That hasn't stopped men like Howe before," Kylon pointed out. He would savor being a King. He'd relish the crown on his head whether it was for a day or thirty years. It would not matter.

"That's true," Slim looked pensive, "Do you remember what I said about the dwarf the other day? About seeing him talking to Harkin."

"Yeah, you said the dwarf was in Arl Eamon's employ." Kylon despised the Arl of Redcliffe. The nobleman hadn't lifted his ass off his cushy seat. Bitterness aside, he was able to put together what his friend was not saying. It sent a small chill up his back. "You think they're making an alliance?"

"Arl Eamon is pushing Alistair Theirin as the rightful claimant to the throne."

"I know that," Kylon said impatiently.

"Rendon Howe has a daughter," Slim explained patiently. "She is traveling with his army to Denerim."

"A betrothal?" He murmured in disbelief.

"Anything's possible," Slim said quietly. "Arl Eamon is an ardent supporter of the Theirin line. Edmund Cousland has rejected Eamon's terms and has been declared a king. So where is the Arl to look for allies?"

"What of Anora?"

"On her way south to treat with Edmund Cousland," Slim observed plainly as if such information was obvious knowledge.

Kylon didn't speak, bringing the tankard to his lips. The ale's bitter taste was not as good this time as he stewed on what it was Slim was suggesting. A bitter, bloody civil war being drawn out by the nobles.

He could see the ugly appeal to it and how it would tempt them especially if Anora and Edmund joined sides. Eamon would get his precious Theirin king and Howe no doubt would keep his lands and titles and get the added boon of his grandson being the next king.

Slim tore a piece off his chicken. He chewed on it while his face looked contemplative. "I suppose it matters what means more to the Arl of Redcliffe-Ferelden or the Theirin bloodline."

The bloodline, knowing the Arl had his forces, but was not using them to fight the darkspawn unless they encroached on his lands. He was waiting for them to submit to Alistair Theirin as their king before helping anyone else.

"Maker take them all," Kylon cursed petulantly. He finished the rest of his tankard with that toast in mind. A small, but important truth was able to puncture through the ale and anger. "The Wardens and Cousland are allies. They wouldn't turn on Lord Cousland."

"No, they wouldn't," Slim put down the ravaged chicken bone that he finished. "So perhaps you are right and Howe will take the throne and the armies will unite to pull him out like the weed that he is."

"Only a man like Howe would kill Loghain to try to put himself on a throne," Kylon cursed the man, "Not caring how long he could hold it."

"It wasn't Howe." Slim and Kylon turned to the intruder. "It was me."

Standing just inside the doorway was her. She was dressed in her leathers, her standard emblazoned on her armor. Her face was hard and scarred, and her eyes burned like emerald flames. Her straw colored hair was pulled back to show that one of her ears had been crudely cut to remove the elvish tip.

It was the Dark Wolf.

"You?" He gaped at her.

"Yes," she confirmed without a touch of remorse. "What did I tell you, shem?" She asked him, "Or did you already forget the words of a knife-ear?"

"Enough," Slim warned her with a steel in his voice that startled them both. "Robert is a friend to our people and I will not have you belittle him or his help, Kallian."

The Dark Wolf went silent, but her face betrayed her annoyance and her anger at the reprimand.

Kylon felt the cold fingers raking across his heart as her question stirred a memory to surface up for him.

Every shem and slaver responsible will be killed. Noble or not, they'll be dead.

That had been her vow, and he had known she was serious, but still he did not think that Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of the Rebellion, the Regent of the Royal Armies and Lord Protector of Ferelden would fall to her blade.

Why not? A cold voice whispered inside him. It was his signature on those slave contracts.

"You remember now, don't you, Shem."

He looked to see she was smirking at him. Triumph gleamed in her green eyes for what she accomplished. He slowly turned away from her and to Slim, who's expression was solemn.

"Did you know?" He had to ask even though in his mind's eye he remembered seeing the doubt and disbelief spread across his friend's face when his spy told him of Loghain's death.

"That she was to kill Teyrn Loghain? No. If she were to tell me, I would've cautioned against it."

She scoffed, "Caution against bringing that bloody shem and slaver to justice?"

"We could've brought Loghain down in front of all the nobility. With those slavers contracts he would've been undone and ruined." He snarled at her. "Then we could get our justice, instead you killed him in the night and now he'll be a victim and a martyr for most of Ferelden and worse of all you have now unleashed Rendon Howe upon this city, and upon Ferelden."

She shrugged, trying to look indifferent, but his words were cutting through her veneer. "I can kill him too."

"Can you?" Slim asked softly. "The man surrounds himself with the Word of Kaden-Fe. Qunari mercenaries from the Free Marches. And he has mage at his side, who I suspect is a lingering blood mage from when the Wardens' purged their base, because I've had no spies within Howe's household for months." He looked at her with undisguised disappointment. "Your selfish vengeance may have doomed us all."

"I helped our people."

"You didn't do it for our people. You did it for yourself." Slim argued, "And now we must all face the consequences of the action you took with little thought."

She did not rebut his accusations, confirming Slim's words about her intentions were on the mark.

"Besides, it is not in our best interest to kill Howe," Slim surprised them both with that. "He is more valuable to us alive than dead."

"Alive?"

Slim regarded his trusted agent. "Yes, Lord Cousland would give a great reward to the one who were to present to him, Rendon Howe, alive and unspoiled."

"Capture?" The Dark Wolf repeated in dismay. "You'd have us capture him?" She shook her head, "After all you just said about how difficult it would be to kill him?" She dispelled a breath in frustration. "You'd have us try to take him for another stupid noble? Fuck that."

Kylon found himself agreeing with her. His friend painted a bleak picture of Howe's reign and now he proposed they tried to capture the man who very well may crown himself king. "What would you have us do?"

"We endure," Slim answered grimly. "And we wait."

"What for what?" Kylon asked.

"Our chance."

Chapter Text

What's going on?

It was the voices that woke him up. Curious, he pulled back his blankets and went to the door. As quietly as he could, he cracked it open. The light from the corridor was bright, and he was quick to wince and cover his face. It took him a few seconds to recover from the assault on his bleary eyes.

Blinking once, then twice, he turned his focus back to see the familiar faces of Uncle and with him was Wynne. He was surprised to see her, because she was supposed to have gone to the Brecilian Forest with the newly arrived Grey Warden Riordan among others to try to treat with the elves.

They were not standing too far away from his door, and their voices were energetic despite the lateness of the hour.

"A tainted elf?"

That was Uncle. Oren couldn't get a good look at him, since he could only see the side of his face, but he was certain he was frowning.

"Yes," Wynne confirmed, she was holding her staff idly in one hand. She was facing the direction of Oren's room, but her eyes were flicking back between Uncle and something or someone just out of Oren's view. "There were two of them."

"Where's the other one?"

"He hasn't been found."

Uncle didn't seem inclined to settle on that grim news. "Riordan promised to save him?"

"He promised to try," Wynne corrected. She moved to where her attention had been to where Oren couldn't see.

"Was it the same clan?" Uncle took a step towards her.

"Yes, the Sabrae clan," She answered, "They were planning on passing through the forest and travel to Gwaren and take ship to the Free Marches."

"They plan on fleeing." Oren didn't need to see Uncle's face to know he wasn't pleased at that.

"The Keeper is worried for our people," Wynne's tone held none of Uncle's judgment.

"The Dalish have made treaties with the Wardens," Uncle said, but it seemed more to himself than to her. "When will they arrive?"

"In a few days," she turned away from where she was to address him. "You wish to speak with them?"

"I wish to change their mind."

"No easy thing," Her tone was light, but the warning was clear of the challenge that lay ahead for Uncle.

"War and Blights are no easy things," Uncle replied, sounding unbothered, but Oren saw him run a hand through his hair, which he noticed he did sometimes when he was agitated. "When will we know if the elf survives?"

Wynne shrugged. "Riordan will tell us." The bottom of the staff tapped the floor.

Uncle turned away from her, and in Oren's direction, causing him to scramble quickly away from the door so that Uncle could not see him. He stood stiff, holding his breath, in the shadow of his door for the next passing seconds, wondering if Uncle had caught him or not. When he was sure he was in the clear, he let out a relieved sigh and quietly crept back to the door.

"This Warden matter," Uncle waved his hand at the word, "Do you know what it entails?"

"Not entirely, but I'm not a Warden."

"It's all very secretive," Uncle mused, "Even with a life on the line."

"The Wardens are guarded," Wynne chose a different word to describe it.

Uncle chuckled. "I hope he lives." All mirth having left Uncle's tone and stance with the words. "Poisoned by the blight?" He shook his head, "A poor way to die."

"Are there good ways?" Wynne asked wryly.

"I was expecting you to know," Uncle smiled, before turning his back to Oren's chambers blocking his expression from view.

"Is that a jest on my age?" She sounded more amused than annoyed.

"I wouldn't dare. I'm not brave enough to do that."

Wynne harrumphed, but even from where Oren was standing he could see the mage's small smile. "What of here? Any news since we departed?"

"Some," None of it seemed good since Uncle didn't sound enthused.

"I see that Bann Teagen is still in attendance," Wynne pointed out, "Surely that is a good sign."

"He has asked to stay," Uncle answered, "He's hopeful an alliance can still come."

"So there is good news," Wynne sounded happy while Uncle remained indifferent.

"Teagan is not the Arl of Redcliffe, his brother is."

Wynne's staff tapped the floor impatiently. "Did Teagan send his brother a letter?"

"He did," Uncle stood in a way that allowed Oren to only see part of his face. "Bann Sighard volunteered to go." Uncle's tone softened at the mention of the Bann. His troubles were well known throughout the Arling. "He'll deliver Teagan's letter and stay on our behalf to try to come to an agreement."

"He's a good man," Wynne said softly, "I pray daily for news of his son."

"As do we all," Uncle agreed.

The sound of a door caused Uncle and Wynne to look in the same direction, out of view from Oren, but he did not have to wonder or wait too long. The Grey Warden Riordan walked forward.

"He lives," Riordan announced solemnly.

"Praise the Maker," Wynne's voice sounded thick in relief. "Andraste's Light has shone upon him."

Riordan's mouth turned curiously, "A Light the elf may come to curse." He bowed his head, "He is now a Grey Warden."

That seemed to sober them, it was Uncle, who gave the Warden a tight nod.

Oren wondered why neither Uncle or Riordan seemed enthused about the fate of being a Grey Warden. Why aren't they happy? He didn't understand. What's wrong with being a Warden?

"I'll have Revas send a rider to the Sabrae clan to inform them of his survival," Uncle's words brought Oren's attention back to the corridor. "And inform the castle to prepare for the arrival of the Dalish."

"An easier thing to say than prepare for," Wynne reminded him.

"Aye," Uncle agreed, but didn't seem interested in commenting further on that daunting task. He instead turned to the Grey Warden. "Thank you, Riordan, for the help you've continued to give us. I appreciate it."

Riordan dipped his head. "The Wardens are here to serve, Your Majesty, in your fight against the Blight."

They dispersed soon after another exchange of words between them with Wynne wanting to insure their new guest was doing well. Oren moved back to his bed. Crawling under his covers, he thought about what he heard, of the elf, the Grey Wardens, and the pending visit of the Dalish.

It all sounded like one of his favorite stories but that caused his belly to sour.

Life isn't like those stories, the image of his Mother flickering across his vision, lying in a pool of her own blood, a sword in her tummy. He squeezed his eyes shut, murmuring to himself until it went away, and after a few seconds it did.

He sniffled in the darkness of his room, but was too tired to dab at the wetness he felt on his cheek. Instead, he prayed for a dreamless night sleep.

"What do you think they're like?"

It was the next morning when Oren learned what he shouldn't have been overhearing the night before. He was told some new things that made it easier for him to appear surprised when he was told.

The new Warden was an elf named Theron Mahariel.

They were in Uncle's chambers. He let Oren visit after breakfast and before his first lessons with his tutor. Oren was on Uncle's bed, and was unsuccessfully trying to get Sarim to join him. The large mabari raised his head from where he lay by the hearth. He tilted his head, before settling back down, choosing in that moment to sleep over play.

"Who?" Uncle was sitting at his desk, piles of papers spread out, but he was giving Oren his undivided attention.

I can't waste it, Oren thought, Uncle's a king now.

"The Dalish," Oren thought it was a good question to ask because of the importance of their visit. He was also curious about them. He had never really seen one before, let alone meet one. He wanted to see their painted faces, and their Halla, and Aravels.

"Like everyone else," Uncle didn't share his enthusiasm. He followed it with a shrug. "Some good, some bad."

Oren was a little put out, but didn't want to show it. "Have you seen them?"

Uncle nodded, but made no effort to expand on it.

"What were they like?" Oren had heard Uncle tell countless stories from his travels across Thedas, but he couldn't remember him ever mentioning encountering the Dalish.

"Dangerous," Uncle pushed himself out of his chair, "Friendly."

Oren frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

Uncle smiled. "The first time I came across them was when I was in Orlais," he explained, "And we were traveling and they attacked our caravan."

Oren gasped. Trying to imagine Dalish warriors and archers descending on his Uncle. He had heard they were great and dangerous fighters. "What happened?"

"I survived." Uncle had come over to sit beside Oren on the bed.

"Uncle," Oren tried his best not to sound like he was begging, because he couldn't do that. He was the Teyrn of Highever. He especially couldn't beg to his Uncle, who had been named King of Ferelden by their supporters.

Uncle laughed, "I was scared," He answered honestly, not looking the least bit bothered by the admission. "They were fast and lethal. Blurs in the forest," he paused, "Within minutes, most of us were dead," He turned and looked away. "It wasn't a good day."

"But you lived!" Oren pointed out, and for Oren that made it a very good day. Just the thought of his Uncle dying filled him with a cold sadness. It was bad enough the nightmares he still got of his Mama, and Papa, and grandparents. He turned around and tried to stop the cold shudder that filled him, but he couldn't. He tried to chase away those feelings by latching on to Uncle's story and the Dalish. Hoping learning about them will distract him from everything else that made him sad. So many things.

"By luck not skill," Uncle revealed. "My position in the caravan spared me since I wasn't in either the front or where the supplies were. Those were hit the hardest." Uncle scratched at his chin. "By the time we figured out what was happening and rallying what was left of the men, we just saw glimpses of the elves running back into the forest carrying as much loot as they could."

"That doesn't sound friendly," Oren recalled what else Uncle had said about them.

In this story, they sounded like the menaces that his tutor use to always describe them as.

Never trust a Dalish elf, Aldous had warned him. His face had twisted in anger and Oren just bobbed his head in silent understanding, not liking seeing his old tutor look so angry. He also didn't want Aldous' anger to be directed at him, so he was quick to agree.

"My second encounter with them was that," Uncle clarified. "I was in the Free Marches, and they came in peace, traded goods, and kept to themselves and then they left."

He hoped the Dalish clan that was coming to South Reach were like those elves-friendly and helpful.

"Each clan is different, Oren," Uncle advised him as if sensing his thoughts, "Don't forget that. They're just like the rest of us, good, bad, tricky, loyal," he listed, "Dangerous, selfish, selfless," he continued, "Ticklish!"

Oren didn't have time to react before Uncle's hands were on him and he was laughing at the silly sensation that spread through him. He was trying to stop Uncle, but it was difficult because he was making Oren laugh so hard. He couldn't concentrate, he was dizzy with mirth. His breathing was haggard, and he felt his face go warm.

Uncle finally took pity on him and stopped, but he was grinning, looking pleased with himself.

Oren felt his own smile as he sat up. "That wasn't fair."

Uncle didn't seem to care, but before he could voice such a thought in one of his jests, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Your Majesty," The servant bowed after Uncle had given him permission to enter. "We've received a rider. The Dalish have seen sighted."

Uncle gave a tight nod. "Thank you."

The servant bowed and closed the door.

When Uncle turned back to face Oren, he saw the King of Ferelden. There was no smile or twinkle in his eyes. His face was hard and his eyes focused. "You should get ready." He instructed him.

Oren wanted to groan, but he didn't. He wanted to complain, but he didn't. He wanted Uncle to stay and smile and even tickle him again, but he knew Uncle couldn't.

"I will." Oren said instead. That was the only right answer.

Uncle gave him a tight nod, but a smile did emerge through his stoic features. It didn't linger, but it made Oren's tummy better, all the same.

It was time to meet the Dalish.

Outside the walls of South Reach and passed the hovels and tents that the Fereldan refugees set up around the high walls of the town, Uncle and a handful of others rode out to meet the Dalish.

The newly made Grey Warden, Theron, was not among them. Oren remembered Riordan saying it was Blight poisoning, and even now as a Warden, he'd still need some time to recover before he was fully well and rested.

Uncle had dismounted from his Ferelden forder, before moving to help Oren off his small pony.

The Cousland banners flapped in the dying breeze. The flag bearers remained mounted, a few feet away from the other riders. The Grey Warden Riordan was among them, and he looked like he had just stepped out of one Oren's favorite story books.

Riordan was garbed in the grey of his order. The only spots of blue were in the fabric that could be seen here and there. The griffons on his chest plate looked fierce, but magnificent. The Warden inclined his head to Oren when he spotted him looking at him.

Oren wanted to quickly look away at being caught staring, but he couldn't. That's the actions of a boy. I'm a Teyrn. So he raised his head in recognition to the Warden like he had seen Uncle do so effortlessly so many times as a show of respect or acknowledgement. He even jutted his chin out too, but he doubted it looked as regal as when Uncle did it.

Wynne was also with them. She was in her mage robes that were loose fitting and colorful and reminded Oren of some of his old sleeping pajamas back in Highever.

"They're probably watching us," Revas Surana's voice was welcomed since it became a distraction to Oren before he could remember to be sad. The elf was the leader of the Fangs of Ferelden. An armed force of warriors that happened to be made up of all elves.

Oren would not forget some of the anger and blustering by some of the nobles when Uncle announced his decision to have the group formed.

You give them a knife. One noble warned, And they'll stab you in the back with it.

That had worried him, but Uncle had calmed him and said that Revas could be trusted.

We need all the support we can get, Oren.

Oren knew why, the Battle of Gwaren had cost them dearly, and the majority of their forces had perished in the fight against the darkspawn.

He wanted to tell Uncle that he still shouldn't do it. He wanted to say Howe was suppose to be trustworthy too, but he couldn't. He wasn't brave enough to want to speak his name or remind himself of what Howe did. Of who he killed…

So Oren stayed quiet and nodded, lying when he said, I understand, Uncle.

Thankfully, Revas and the elves he gathered had proven Uncle right. They were turning into a formidable force and were loyal to Uncle for respecting them and giving them the chance to fight.

"They probably are." Uncle's reply was late. He wasn't wearing his crown nor his armor. He wasn't really dressed as a king. There were no robes or ornate jewels. He was wearing one of his old tunics and trousers that he was more likely to wear when he traveled then to hosting banquets and guesting nobility.

Uncle's arms were crossed, and his gaze was towards the forest in front of them.

That could be shielding the Dalish, Oren felt the wiggling worry nibbling in his tummy. He was not the only one. He saw that Uncle's words had made the flag bearers go pale. They turned to one another, exchanging their own silent conversation, but neither attempted to speak up or flee.

A Dalish rider had earlier arrived in South Reach with the clan's instructions for a potential meeting between their sides.

That had angered the nobles, who cursed and scoffed at the demands and the audacity. There were several insults, and mutterings, but Uncle had been quiet throughout it. When the din of objection finally died down, Uncle had told the rider that he agreed without any attempt to argue or change them.

That had been the one thing that had united both the dalish elf and human nobility. They had all expected Uncle to act differently, but he didn't. He dismissed the meeting then and left, but not before instructing the Dalish rider's needs were seen to, before he went back to rejoin his clan with Uncle's answer.

Oren had asked Uncle why, but he only gave him a smile, but it wasn't of mirth but mystery. He made no further attempt to clarify his thoughts on the issue.

The Dalish wanted a small group not trusting humans and their lies. The Dalish envoy had been blunt in his explanation, and his face was marred with the same anger that Oren had seen on Aldous' face when describing the Dalish.

They hate each other, Oren didn't like that was the only thing they seemed to agree on.

"And if they ambush you?" Uncle Leonas had asked, unhappy and unsupportive of Uncle's acquiescence to the Dalish.

"They won't," That had been Uncle's response. He seemed certain that it would be fine. It was as if he already knew the outcome of this meeting.

Oren had been surprised when Uncle wanted him to come, but he didn't argue. He wanted to see more of these Dalish, and wasn't going to be afraid.

If Uncle's here, I'm safe. He told himself this again and again as they waited for the Dalish to arrive.

The words stilled in his mind when he thought he saw the bushes and trees in front of him moving. They've come alive! He thought in equal parts admiration and worry. The shadows shifted and moved and then Oren discovered it wasn't the trees or the greenery that was moving.

It was people. It was the Dalish!

Assembling in perfect cohesion, stepping out of the shades of the forest were two neat and tidy rows of Dalish elves. Oren thought they looked so formidable and stoic in their armor and gear that seconds ago had him fooled in how they had blended perfectly into their surroundings.

They were so beautiful, and fierce, fantastic and frightful, he watched them in quiet awe and apprehension as they came forward.

There were men and women. Each one of them, Oren noticed had their faces painted, the inks were different colored and designs. The swirls and sharp angles gave them an unnatural, almost an uneasy look. It hooded over their faces like shadows. Their large eyes were bright and alert and were flickering in various directions. And all of them were frowning. Some even had their hands on their own daggers and swords that looked and shaped so much differently than Oren had ever seen.

They were suspicious, Oren realized, they sensed deception, A trap. Even when none materialized before them, the Dalish still did not smile, and most kept their hands on the hilts of their weapons.

They outnumber us, he had counted more than a dozen Dalish, and those were just the ones that had stepped out of the forest. There were probably even more still hiding and just waiting.

Two of the elves in the center were carrying their own banners. The cloth was a bright red and at its center was the shape of a creature with a horned head.

It's a halla! That got Oren to look around eagerly in hopes one of them would appear, but his search only lasted a few seconds and ended in disappointment when none emerged.

Between the two banner carrying elves, an old woman walked forward. She had white hair that was braided, but some of it fell over and partially blocked her face. She like the others had her face painted. The ink was black and it stretched out to all parts of her face like a spider's web, forming an elegant, but confusing design with a meaning that Oren could only guess at.

She was dressed in robes similar to Wynne's, but the Dalish woman had more fur trimmings especially around the shoulders. The color was a deep green, stitched into the material a subtle pattern that could resemble the very forest she just stepped out of.

Oren was standing to Uncle's immediate left, and his eyes went back in forth between Uncle and this old woman, whom Oren suspected had to be the Dalish's leader.

Their Keeper! Remembering the title the Dalish bestowed upon the individual leaders of their clans.

A Keeper has magic. That truth was confirmed when Oren spotted the staff that was nestled on her back. The top of which was poking out over her shoulder.

It was the Grey Warden, Riordan, who was the first to speak. He stepped forward, and bowed his head to the Dalish woman. "Keeper Marethari," he greeted politely, "I'm sure your rider has already informed you, but I shall confirm it. Theron Mahariel lives and is now a member of our order."

Marethari's gaze that had been transfixed on Uncle slowly turned to the Warden. "Ma serannas," Her eyes had softened on Riordan, but they did not when she was back to looking at Uncle. "And you must be the new king, I've heard so much about."

"I am Edmund Cousland," He dipped his head, the motion surprised her, but she was quick to remove any traces of it. "I come as someone who's lost a lot, and you have my condolences for your fallen friend. This Tamlen sounded very kind and very brave. I pray he finds happiness and peace awaiting him in eternity."

Marethari studied Uncle for a heartbeat or more before she took his words with a nod. "Even before we found your allies wandering through the forest, I had heard of you, Edmund Cousland."

Oren felt her gaze suddenly on him and he instinctively stilled, while fighting the urge to turn his head away to avoid her intimidating gaze. Thankfully, she turned back to Uncle after only a glance.

"My clan had hoped to travel north and seek passage across the Waking Sea," Her mouth twisted, when she continued, "But your war has made any travel in the north fraught with peril and difficulty. Harbors are monitored or blockaded and many of your people are now caught with no place to go."

"That was never my intention," Uncle was polite in his response.

That seemed to amuse her. "I'd be very much surprised if my people were even considered as you wage this war." Her attention then moved to where Revas was standing. Her face clouded and it seemed to make the ink patterns darken, but she did not address him.

"It was our inability to travel north to take ship that sent us through the Brecilian Forest trying to avoid your soldiers and the darkspawn," She continued, "And it is there that Tamlen and Theron came upon those ruins." Her eyes looked sad, but not her face. "Even in human wars my people suffer."

Oren didn't think it was fair to blame Uncle for that. He didn't know! He wanted to defend him. Uncle didn't want those elves to die. Oren couldn't muster the courage to speak to the intimidating Keeper.

"You travel to Gwaren to take a ship?" Uncle eventually asked, after a few seconds of silence had fallen over them. He did not acknowledge or accept the keeper's words and accusations. He ignored them.

"We do," Her face was guarded, "Do you object?"

"I do not," Uncle quickly replied, "I can send a letter and a rider ahead of you to insure those in Gwaren do all that they can to help you on your way."

"I do not mean to be insulting when I say, that is unexpected."

"I understand, but what I'm about to say shouldn't be," Oren saw Uncle's lips twitch into what almost looked like a smile. "I'd ask for you and your clan to stay and help in our fight against the darkspawn."

"You make it sound like such a simple thing," She remarked lightly, but her eyes were hard.

"The Dalish are obliged to help the Grey Wardens," Riordan pointed out gently.

"Much has changed in this world since my people made those treaties, Warden," The Dalish Keeper turned to him. "We were a nation then, strong and proud, and free." Her lips pursed together. "Now look what is left of that legacy, of my people." She gestured to those that stood still behind her. "We roam this world. We have no home. We have no borders. Your people chase us away because they are mistrustful. They fight us when they're bored. They hate us because we will not conform."

"And if you help us," Uncle countered, "That will give you good will. The people will not chase you, but welcome you. They will not curse you, but thank you."

"Humans have a short memory," the Keeper's hand made a cutting motion. "We fought alongside your Prophet, and it is true we were given land for our help, but it did not last that peace nor our kingdom."

"We can do better," Uncle promised.

She gave him a sad smile. "And those who come after you?"

Uncle frowned. "If you are to judge me solely on the actions of those who came before me or those that may come after me, then why are we here? You hold me to an impossible standard." He took a step forward towards her, earning an instant reaction from her people, who bristled. The hissing sound of steel being withdrawn followed, but their Keeper held up her hand to stop them. Her eyes remained on Uncle, but her silent order was obeyed.

"We need each other," Uncle told her, "We can help each other."

"How?" Marethari did not hide her interest in her tone.

"I will give you land, rights, status, laws," He went on, "Whatever your people need to show you that I'm honest in my purpose in fostering a new and better relationship between the Kingdom of Ferelden and the Dalish people."

"You are not the king of Ferelden," she pointed out, "You are one of many."

Oren could feel his fingers twitch, so he curled them into his palm. He did not want to look over to see the angry and armed Dalish warriors. So he kept his eyes firmly on Uncle. His mouth was pursed, but his stance was loose.

"You speak truly, Keeper Marethari," Uncle admitted, "However, my goal was never to secure myself a crown, but to secure my people's future." He dispelled a breath. "If it needs to include your people to see it done then I will do it without hesitation."

She moved forward and only stopped when she was within arm's reach of Uncle. Her eyes searching his. "There's truth in your face. A rare thing in a human." She then turned to Riordan.

"There are other Dalish clans that stalk the Brecilian Forest to avoid your war and the darkspawn. My guides will help you find them." Her eyes moved back to Uncle once Riordan bowed his head to her. "And then we shall consider the merits of this alliance between our people and Ferelden."

Chapter Text

"I will not marry him!"

Even in the ground his wife vexed him with their insufferable children.

"You will watch your tone," Howe snapped at his daughter.

She did not buckle to him. "You cannot make me!"

He slapped her for that. "You are my daughter," He watched the red bloom into her cheek in the shape of his hand. "This is your duty. This is your purpose." He raised his finger when she looked to interrupt and it made her quiet. "You are to advance our family's name."

"I will not," she shook her head.

"You ungrateful girl," Howe's hand twitched at his side but he did not strike her. "I'm putting you beside the throne of Ferelden!"

"I don't want it." She stood stiff and stubborn against him.

"I don't care what you want," He told his daughter bluntly. "You will marry the Theirin bastard and you will give him a son, a future King of Ferelden with our family's blood."

They were in the chambers he took in the Royal Palace. The rooms given to esteemed guests and who was more esteemed than him? The father of the future queen of Ferelden.

His daughter who should've been thankful for everything he had done for her seemed more like her stupid and pigheaded mother. She was unable to understand her singular role and what it entailed.

I'll remedy this slip in her education.

Thankfully her appearance has not been sullied in the same way. She took after her mother in the only regard that counted for something-her looks. She was still comely enough to infatuate this Warden bastard. Hopefully, she's fertile like her mother too.

"Father, I can't marry this bastard because I'm already married."

Howe's growing frustration stilled within his chest. "What?" He asked softly.

"Yes," she raised her chin in defiance to him, brandishing her cheek with his hand print as if it was some badge of courage. "His name is Albert. I love him."

This time he slapped her other cheek. "You dumb bitch!" Howe shouted at her, the rage burning hot inside him. "You had no right to marry this man!" His fists were shaking and the urge to hit her again filled him. "I did not permit it!" He continued in his angry tirade at how his foolish daughter was risking everything he had been carefully building these last few months.

"It's too late," The smile she gave him made him think of her mother and that only fanned his fury.

"I give you a crown and you give me, what?" He demanded, "Some up-jump knight? A minor bann?" The more he thought over this Albert he could not think of any within his Arling that bore that name and was of the acceptable nobility.

"He's a shopkeeper."

"WHAT?" He could feel his heart thundering in his chest. The hot lash in his belly, thrashing and turning at his daughter's wantonness and incompetence. "You opened your legs to a shopkeeper?" He bellowed, "You are a HOWE of Amaranthine! Not some whore." His hands were shaking and his urge to further punish her grew with every breath he took. "YOU DUMB BITCH!"

"A mabari bitch is fierce, Father," She shot back, "I take it as a compliment."

"You'll take this correction," He slapped her again, and she cowered, and let out a whimper that was more pup than war-hound. His hit had drawn blood, a small cut below her right eye. She wiped at it, but it smeared, resembling some savage warpaint.

He saw the tears in her eyes that she refused to shed, but it did not quell his fury. He did take pride in her not dirtying her cheeks with tears, a woman's weapon. There's something redeemable.

"Guards," Howe ordered them inside. "My daughter is tired. Escort her back to her chambers where she is confined until further notice."

The guards seized her arms roughly.

"She is a Howe," He warned them in a low voice. "And will be treated as such."

They bowed in submission and carefully took her out of the room. Sullen and silent, she didn't look back, but neither did she cry.

He stomped across his chamber towards his desk where he kept his wine and poured himself a generous offering. He did not sit. He was too restless. The anger was slow in fading. The wine's taste could not douse the flames that lingered. He poured himself a second and drank it until he saw the bottom of his glass.

"Your Lordship?"

Howe looked up and was pleased to see his dutiful Captain Chase standing in the doorway. Loyal and competent, a good man, though his low birth marred his qualities. He had delusions that he'd one day be able to marry Howe's daughter. The thought of some low birth captain marrying his daughter use to make him laugh.

Now, my daughter has married some shopkeep. He poured himself another.

"When you apprehended my daughter," Howe said slowly, his plan quickly formulating in his head to undo his daughter's spontaneous stupidity, "Did she speak of anyone?"

"She did, Your Lordship," Captain Chase's eyes flickered down to his boots.

"What was their name?" Howe asked quietly.

"Albert, Your Lordship," Chase answered with just a noticeable hesitation.

"Where is he?"

"I believe he may have followed us to Denerim."

Howe nodded, "Thank you, Captain Chase," he dismissed him.

"Your Lordship?" Confusion colored the captain's tone.

"That is all," Howe forced himself to smile. "Thank you."

Captain Chase gave a tentative nod before he stepped out of the room.

It was when he saw the plan in front of him that he allowed himself to sit down. The cushioned seat was comforting. The anger was dimming from his thinking and drinking. He leaned back in his chair, knowing what he needed to do.

Black will become her, he mused, reflecting on the next time he'll see his daughter.

A widow's garb to mourn her earlier impetuousness, to remind her of her mistakes and the doom they wrought.

He took a measured sip, his daughter in black flickered in front of him. It was then replaced by her wearing a simple coronet and she was dressed in the colors of royalty with a swollen belly, quiet and grateful.

Thank you, Father. She'd say to him, Thank you for forgiving me, for the crown, for everything.

He'd nod and smile, assuring her that he understood the weakness and whims that befall women. To blame her for such failures would be to blame water for being wet. No, it was in their nature.

His anger had finally ebbed away. He poured himself one final glass to allow himself a silent toast of what was to follow.

His daughter will be a Queen. His grandson will be a King.

Wine had never tasted any sweeter.

"Higher," Howe watched with growing satisfaction as his family's banner took its rightful place within the throne chamber of the Royal Palace.

The servants quietly obeyed, lofting the canvas until it was properly placed above the Fereldan throne. The brown bear was proud and fierce on a field quartered with gold and white. It loomed over all within the hall, a telling symbol of Fereldan's salvation. It was a show of Fereldan's future.

His banner now was above the simple, but finely carved Fereldan throne with its mabaris etched into the wood.

He let his gaze linger on the throne in front of him. He could've seized it.

Who better to rule Ferelden then him? I fought the Orlesians to free us from their reign. I rooted out the traitors when they tried spies and gifts instead of chevaliers and legions.

Howe resisted the temptation. And it was tempting, even now he could take the few steps needed and put himself on the throne. He had the army and he had the capital.

It would be too fleeting, he didn't have enough power, enough men. It irked him that he couldn't take it for himself, but he needed allies if he was to deal with the rebel Cousland who was too stubborn to die. Reaching out to the Arl of Redcliffe had been the only sensible option left to him once Loghain was killed.

Though, once those enemies are taken care of, who knows what could happen? He smiled, war and battle were so unpredictable.

"Your lordship?

He could smell the ale well before Harkin's voice interrupted his thoughts on his well deserved future. He looked over his shoulder to see the man, dressed in the city guard armor. He stopped and crossed his arm over his chest and bent his head when he was close enough.

"What news do you bring me, Harkin?" Howe had given him a very easy, but important task. In seeing the man before him, disheveled with red eyes betraying a night of drinking, a part of him wondered if he shouldn't have sent Chase or Temmerly to nip this nuisance quickly and quietly.

No, my hands must be clean. So it was discreetly given to Harkin, very few knew of his ties to Howe so he thought it ideal as well as the guard's unsavory contacts within the capital.

"It's done, your lordship," Harkin said with a smugness that Howe thought was undeserving of a man of his station. The cheap perfume of whatever whore he just crawled out of bed with still clung to him like a dirty cloak.

"Good," Howe had his hands behind his back, "And?"

"It looks like a bar fight gone wrong," Harkin's smirk lingered. It was foul as his ale breath.

No, Howe corrected silently, it's gone right. He thought such a death was a mercy to a man who thought to besmirch Howe's name and family. A shopkeep defiling my daughter? He should've been whipped through the streets and then gelded, to make sure this peasant never made that mistake again.

The shopkeep received a light treatment in the manner of his demise. He was afforded a quick death because Howe had pressing matters to tend to and he needed this man removed and done swiftly. He just needed to ensure it reached his daughter the right way as well as the stories that will surround this shopkeep's death like vultures circling a carcass.

"You may leave," Howe dismissed the city guard, and decided to ignore the quick scowl that came to his worn face. Just this once because of his handling of the shopkeep, Howe then stopped him when he was near the door. "You'll be rewarded more than usual with your next payment."

That smirk returned to his lips and he bowed his head and left quickly to retrieve that reward.

On whores and ale, Howe knew he'd need to remove him at some point. The man was a spineless insect.

For now let him enjoy his rewards, he decided, intending to squeeze every drop of value out of the man before finally and properly disposing of him.

Of course he wouldn't.

He wasn't surprised by the dwarf's message when he came to see him that evening.

The dwarf, named Dwyn seemed an odd choice for the Arl of Redcliffe to employ, as were the two goons that followed him except in here. He noticed the dwarf lost some of his confidence when they were forced to remain outside.

Howe looked up from the letter written by Eamon to see Dwyn's eyes flickering to the large, but silent guard that stood between them, with his arms crossed.

It was a qunari. He was tall with long curled horns, with patches of dark hair atop his head. Grey skin and golden eyes, he was muscled and well armed. He was the captain of the Word of Kaden-Fe, who were mercenaries that Howe employed who had come from the Free Marches. They were proud to call themselves Tal-Vashoth.

As if I know or care, it didn't matter to him what they called themselves since they proved an effective force and were well paid for their talents that were not just martial but intimidation. His name was Meraad something. Howe couldn't remember the rest, not like it mattered. They weren't nobility so why should he care a wit what it was.

"Arl Eamon doesn't want to get his hands bloody," Howe put the letter down, drawing the dwarf's eyes to the only thing that mattered in this room-me.

"He wants to protect his reputation," Dwyn's defense of his employer was light. The smile on his lips was almost mocking.

"I imagine he didn't mourn the Couslands," Howe took a sip of his ale, "I still remember how insulted he was that Bryce Cousland was even considered to be the next king of Ferelden over Eamon's precious nephew," He was certain the Arl of Redcliffe had never forgotten that insult.

Why else would he do what he's been doing?

The Landsmeet choices then were a fool and a traitor, Howe looked back at the assembled nobles who chose the fool to be their next king. Now, he's a corpse, he got what he deserved, ignoring the counsel of better men who knew war while all he knew was conjured stories and wooden swords.

Howe saw Dwyn's eyes on the pitcher and he waved a hand to signal he could help himself. The dwarf did not need to be told twice quickly getting out of his seat since his short stature made it difficult for him to reach the pitcher while sitting.

"He does complain often of this Edmund Cousland," Dwyn revealed. He drank from his glass, his mouth twisting for a second, before his face relaxed once more. "Its not dwarven ale but its drinkable," He filled his glass to the brim.

Swill, that's what Howe would call whatever the dwarves brewed in their dirty, dank caves under the ground. "I'm sure he does," He was not surprised. Edmund Cousland stands in the way of his bastard Warden taking the Fereldan crown. That was why Eamon did not dismiss his overtures when Howe reached out. Regardless, He was quick to assure him that the poisoning and the mage were Loghain's plans not his.

He doubted Eamon believed it, he wasn't a total fool. Eamon needs me so he feigns friendship, Howe saw it for what it was, Once the Couslands and that commoner queen were dead, Howe knew he'd be targeted next. Eamon probably wants some Orlesian bride for his bastard warden. The mere thought of it rankled him. I've purged Highever from traitors and I will not hesitate to purge Redcliffe of them.

"Soon, we won't have to worry about Cousland."

"You sound confident," Dwyn raised an eyebrow at it.

"I am."

"So, how will it be done?" The dwarf leaned back in his seat and looked expectantly at him as if he was some performer called upon to entertain him. "I know it cannot be in battle," He remarked blithely, "Since he's beaten you at every turn."

"Have a care, dwarf," Howe pointed a finger at him. He would not be insulted in his own home especially by the likes of some dwarven sellsword.

"My apologies," he bowed his head, "I was simply curious," his finger twirling one of the braided strands of his beard. "Since my employer doesn't have the wits or the stomach to do it."

That got a small smile from Howe, and he detected something in the dwarf's tone that he's heard countless times of men of all stations. The underlying lilt of ambition.

"Tell me how loyal are you to the Arl of Redcliffe?"

"Not nearly enough to be insulted by that question and to leave the room," Dwyn sipped his tankard, letting out a contented sigh of appreciation when he finished.

"That is good to know," Howe could use an ally close to Eamon within striking distance. "Good help is difficult to find," he poured himself a second glass, "that is why I'm always generous in my compensation when I do find it." He did not miss the flash of greed in his eyes or the way his lips twitched beneath his beard.

"I'm certain you are, your lordship."

"Let it just be known I have more allies than you'd suspect on first glance," Howe would say no more. He may use this dwarf in the future but he did not trust him nor that sly look in his eye.

He'll take my gold and serve me well for a time, Howe observed, Until a richer offer is made.

Dwyn was able to gather that his presence was no longer needed. He finished his drink and stood up. "Always a pleasure, Your Lordship," He dipped his head.

"The pleasures will only get better, I assure you." Howe smiled, knowing the seed had been planted in that dwarf's greedy little mind and it will flourish in good time he had no doubt and at the right moment.

"How is he?"

"He is," Sheth looked uncomfortable as if Howe asked him some difficult question.

This Sheth was a mage apprentice who Howe found and employed through the Wonders of Thedas shop. They charged an insulting sum for the lending of one of their mages, and he was reluctant to part with that much coin, but their services were needed. He could not falter now when he was so close to seeing all his plans realized. So he paid, but he made sure the coin came from other coffers and not his.

They were discussing one of Howe's more important guests who had just been moved from the dungeons to one of the guest chambers.

"He is mending," Sheth licked his lips, his dark eyes not meeting Howe's. He was a young man, shaved head, with dark stubble covering his chin.

"Can your magic not hasten his recovery?" Howe wanted to snap at this timid mage. Someone with such potent power at his fingertips and he walks around like a frightened kitten.

"I have, Your Lordship, but his injuries were severe," He looked down at his dark blue robes. "Some of the pain inflicted upon him cannot be so easily touched by magic."

"He was an enemy," Howe thought it a simple explanation of the man's prior treatment.

Oswyn, the son of Bann Sighard had been captured during a recent skirmish. Howe was not informed of such a prized hostage until he had already spent some time in the dungeons.

It was an unfortunate oversight, he had been busy assuming control of the city and reinforcing his strength.

When he learned of Oswyn, he had him removed, realizing his value at once. He is the key to Cousland's demise. Howe smiled at the blessing of this boon that's fallen onto his lap.

It had come at the perfect time since they had recently lost Alfstanna's addle brained brother. The fool escaped somehow, and his men proved their incompetence by killing him instead of simply recapturing him.

What good was a corpse? He had punished the men for their stupidity. She can rot in Amaranthine for a little while longer, he thought. Once Cousland is dead, she'll realize the cause is lost and surrender. If not the city will make the right choice for her.

"He'll remain in pain for some time."

Howe brushed that off, that's to be expected for traitors.

"How important is he, Your Lordship?"

"Very," Howe did not like the mage's tone. It reeked with uncertainty.

After all , it was a father's love for his son that was turning Sighard against Cousland, against his king.

Cousland, a king? Howe sneered at the audacity of these rebels. By what right do traitors have to give away the crown of Fereldan?  It was deplorable and to give it to him only showed the danger they posed to Ferelden.

Sighard had gone off to Redcliffe under the guise he was serving Cousland, but in truth he was serving Howe. Cousland and his allies thought he was speaking of an alliance between them and Eamon, but his true role was to seal the alliance between Howe and Eamon.

Then the Bann of Dragon's Peak will promise the alliance has been forged. The desperate Cousland will go to Redcliffe believing he was about to secure an alliance while in fact he was only securing his doom.

Sighard will lead him right to the contingent of Howe's Kadan-Fe mercenaries. Those qunari savages will insure the success of the ambush and of Howe's schemes.

Soon Cousland will be dead and the bastard's last remaining obstacle from taking the throne will be removed. Delilah will marry the Warden and the future king of Ferelden will be his grandson, a Howe.

"I need him alive," Howe turned to make sure the mage knew how deadly serious he was. That this was not a request, but an order, and a threat if he should fail him.

I will deliver Sighard his son, Howe thought, but more importantly, Sighard will deliver me Cousland.

The end was near and his victory was within reach.

Chapter Text

They had made camp for the night, but the fading sunlight lingered basking them in an orange glow.

The Korcari Wilds was not a place Fergus wanted to ever visit again after this adventure.

He had set up his bedroll and checked on the fire they had started. They had picked a small clearing. All around them they were surrounded by tall, thick trees with branches that reached over them as if trying to stop the light from reaching them. The trees were so close together it was difficult to see much further into the forest besides darkness. He could not help but wonder if or what shadows could be lurking around them unseen, but poised to strike them when they least expected it.

Fergus pulled his eyes away from the forest in hopes to stem that thought from spreading. Some of the roots from the trees had slithered through the clearing resembling snakes twisting and turning, sinking into the soil only to then emerge from it here and there. There was a small rock formation that gave them some high ground, but the highest rock was just over Fergus' head. Each rock was about as big and wide as one of the tables at Cousland hall.

The reminder of home made him smile. He closed his eyes and he was no longer in the foreboding Korcari Wilds. He was back at Highever, at Cousland Castle. He could see Edmund in the yard sparring with a laughing Oren while Oriana watched on, trying and failing not to look concerned. The way she worried on her lip or the look in her eyes as she watched their son train.

Fergus wanted to reach out and touch her. Push aside some of her brown hair and run his finger down her cheek. He wanted to kiss her concern away. It'll be fine. He'd tell her trying not to laugh when she huffed in response. She'd always get annoyed when he tried this method to assuage her worries. Because it always works, she explained once with a teasing smile.

Is that why you're so worried all the time? He teased with a wink.

That's just the perils of marrying you, dear. She responded before kissing him.

Then they were in Cousland Hall. Oren, Edmund, and Oriana sitting at their family's table overlooking the rest of the cavernous hall. Oriana and Edmund were discussing something while Oren seemed more interested in giving his supper to Sarim then eating it himself.

He felt his chest ache seeing them before him. This was where he wanted to be right now. It wasn't hard to think that this was what was happening right this moment. How he wanted to take a seat beside his wife, ruffle his son's hair, kiss her cheek, and exchange jests and taunts with his brother which would then somehow turn into a drinking game between them.

"They're close," Brosca's words sliced through Fergus' thoughts. The image of Highever and his family dissolved before him and he was back at their camp in the Korcari Wilds.

Brosca walked past him without another look before taking a seat on the lowest part of the rock formation. There were dark rings beginning to show under his eyes that were not part of his casteless mark. He had rarely slept since they steadily picked up the ogres' trail.

"How close?" Fergus was just grateful his voice didn't squeak when he asked it aloud.

"Very," Brosca's dark eyes turned to him. "We're sure to bump into them tomorrow."

"Good," Fergus nodded, his hand touching the pommel of his sword before he turned away from the dwarf.

They had been following them a number of days since they found the ogres' dwellings. At first they thought and expected to face them soon but the monsters were large and quick. The ogres moved further and faster then them so the chase had continued. To think they were finally so close was both relieving and terrifying.

Once they're dealt with I can go home. He thought, if we survive.

He could not refute the risks they were facing. He had known that from the beginning when he agreed to this. Fergus still couldn't find the right footing between acceptance and confidence even while they went deeper and deeper into the Wilds in pursuit of their targets. He was never the soldier or swordsman like his brother was. Edmund's second bed chamber was the sparring yard, and Fergus was certain it would've been his first if Mother had allowed it. While Edmund trained, Fergus read up on ordinances and laws and listened to his father's counsel to better understand not just what he was inheriting, but how to properly rule it.

Fergus hardly complained then because he thought his sword craft was good enough for whatever bandit or criminal he'd likely come across as a Teyrn. He had never imagined or considered that he'd someday have to face a ferocious ogre.

And not just one, but two. That reminder gave him no comfort.

Ursa had rejoined them from her brief trip into the woods. She was sitting by the fire with a pot resting above it.

Fergus first thought it was supper since she was the one responsible for it tonight but as he got closer, he hoped he was wrong. The smell was terrible. He covered his nose, but the scent seemed ingrained into his mind and his stomach churned in protest. It was sour and rancid. He tried to think of what to compare it to, before giving up because he did not want his mind to further dwell on it.

The pot was bubbling. Leaning closer against his better judgment, he spied a black, viscous substance that was beginning to bubble. It was so dark it nearly looked blue.

"Deathroot soup," Ursa told him.

Fergus thought he might heave but then he saw that she was smiling. "So that's not our supper?" He failed to hide his relief.

She shook her head. "It's Concentrated Deathroot Extract," She had a few empty flasks and vials before her. "I'd not advise sprinkling it on our supper or your clothes."

With that casual warning, he asked. "What does it do exactly?" Fergus knew little of apothecary, but had learned some just by watching Ursa. She was a dabbler of poisons as well as a herbalist. Even though he trusted her, he still sometimes found himself poking at his food the nights she cooked to make sure nothing was oozing out of the stew or festering in the meat.

"It's a poison," Her eyes were on the pot. "I pray it'll help us against the ogres."

He wished her tone had more confidence then doubt, but he still nodded.

"Do not fret I have others to make as the night goes on," She assured him. "Surely, we'll find something that can slow or weaken these monsters."

A part of him wanted to ask if those who fought the ogres before them would have tried these poisons too, but he didn't. Fergus knew one of them had been her brother so the question died on his lips even though the curiosity remained.

"I trust you," He said instead.

"And I you," She replied, "And the dwarf."

Brosca snorted from where he sat. "Like you have a choice," He had climbed up to the highest rock. His feet were dangling off of it. "I'm the only one whose actually fought these monsters." He was using a whetstone to sharpen one of his daggers.

"That's why you're going to be my shield tomorrow," Fergus said lightly.

Ursa laughed while she tended to her pot of poison. Brosca looked down at them, grumbling, but he could not hide the amusement no matter how fleeting that passed over his face.

"Perhaps tonight I'll use you for target practice."

Fergus could only laugh at the dwarf's response. He knew it was more than a threat.

"If you both don't be quiet then I'll make you both try this," She held up a flask that was now filled with the Concentrated Deathroot Exact. It looked like thick ink in its glass container.

Brosca looked down at her and then at the flask in her hand, quietly considering his options. "Pah," he said with no real venom, but all his usual grumpiness. He went back to tending to his weapon.

Fergus found himself leaning on the rock formation. At this spot he was so close to Brosca's feet that he could study his armored boots which were very worn and muddy. He did see a brief insignia stamped on the shin of the metal. It was the symbol of his order-the Grey Wardens.

"You need something?" Brosca didn't look up.

"Just some comforting words."

Brosca snorted, "You're some pompous noble, but ya talk like a commoner." He held up his dagger to examine it in the dying sunlight. The reflection shimmered in the steel making it look for one flickering heartbeat that the blade was forged from the sun itself.

Fergus didn't respond. He knew talking about nobility whether human or dwarf was never an ideal conversational topic with the Grey Warden.

Satisfied, Brosca sheathed it, and tended to his sword. The dwarf was armed to the teeth and clearly wanted everything to be in its best condition before tomorrow.

He was confident that tomorrow would be the day. Tomorrow they'd fight the ogres.

"You're scared." It wasn't a joke. It wasn't an insult. There wasn't any judgment. Brosca stated it like an undisputed fact which it was.

Fergus looked up to see Brosca's sword resting on his lap, his whetstone in one hand, but his eyes were on him. "Yeah," He usually would have lied especially to Brosca, but something in the dwarf's gaze made him decide against it. "I am." Even still he prepared himself to be mocked by him but it never came.

"Good," Brosca said simply, "You'd be a fool if you weren't." He then regarded him, "Well, a bigger fool."

He felt his lips twitch. "I'm surprised the Wardens didn't use you as a recruiter instead of a warrior. You're better with words than swords."

Brosca threw back his head and laughed. His feet kicked air as he did. It was deep from the belly and loud. "Imagine that," His tone rich in amusement, "You hosting me in your lordy castle tending to my every whim with all your servants."

"I'm trying not to," Fergus put in dryly, but he found himself chuckling at the ridiculousness of what they were talking about. "I hope you'd know which fork to use with which course or which finger to raise when you drink and that all depends on the vintage." He added, "It would be quite the scandal and insult if you used the wrong spoon. Wars have been fought over less."

Brosca pretended to shudder in horror while he was still laughing, "Dressed in silk finery and my biggest concern being stuffy nobles like yourself instead of swarming darkspawn."

"Exactly," Fergus said in between his own laughter.

It was a release and a relief for them to talk about something so silly and frivolous, laughable and impossible as it was. They were just taken over by this mirthful madness.

His insides began to protest because of all this laughing.

"I'd still choose an ogre over some orlesian banquet."

"Sounds reasonable," Fergus lied, "Just like I'd take a darkspawn fight over a dwarf friend."

Brosca then did something Fergus wasn't expecting he reached down and clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course you would, you're a fool." There was no bite in the observation, and his tone was anything, but hurtful. As if to shield his true thoughts on the matter of their budding friendship, Brosca proceeded to forcefully nudge Fergus to get him to move.

"Go check on supper," Brosca said gruffly, "And try to make sure we're not gonna be poisoned," he added, "despite the temptation it poses since I'd rid myself of ya."

Fergus wasn't fooled, but he didn't say anything. He walked back to Ursa and the fire, smiling and he felt the dwarf watching him and he knew Brosca was smiling too.

I'm going to die.

Fergus rolled out of the way from a large fist that shook the earth as well as dented it.

The ogre was all malice and muscle. It towered over him. It was at least nine feet tall. It had thick skin the color of amethyst. Atop its head, it was crowned with horns that were large, black, and curved.

"We're nearly ready," Ursa called from the shadows.

Fergus' heart was frantically beating against his chest. "Wonderful."

He didn't have the time to add more as the ogre charged him. He stepped to the side feeling the rush of air go against his face as the darkspawn just missed him. It slammed into a tree that let out a large groan and a crack. The branches shook and some leaves scattered in the wind, raining down on them while the tree wobbled before it finally fell. Luckily for Fergus the tree fell in the other direction. The ogre didn't spare the tree another look. It shook its head and turned back to him.

How did I get to be the bait? He thought while meeting the ogre's ferocious stare.

"Don't tell me ya tired already," Brosca laughed from where he stood out of sight and out of mind for the ogre.

Fergus was winded, but he gritted his teeth trusting them with his life. His face slick with sweat while his hair was damp and messy.

And this was only one of them. That reminder didn't boost his mood. All I know is that I'm not the bait for the second one.

The ogre let out a loud, rumbling cry that reminded Fergus that he shouldn't overlook the towering menace still standing in front of him.

That was when Brosca appeared, emerging from the shadows as if he was slipping them off like a cloak. His sword and dagger coated with the Concentrated Deathroot Extract. The ogre didn't see the dwarf until he was already plunging his blades into its calves.

It made its annoyance known with another roar and tried to swat Brosca away, but he avoided it. He then used his dagger to get a purchase and began to slowly climb up the ogre's back. Each step, he pulled the blade out and then went upwards, each move was another thrust into the beast's skin. It jumped and roared, flailing its arms and trying desperately to pull Brosca off its back.

Brosca remained out of reach which only drove the ogre deeper into its frenzied rage.

Fergus saw the look cloud over its face. The dim in its eyes, it stumbled, the poison was taking its toll on the creature. He saw his chance and ran forward, the ogre saw him and tried to attack, but it was flimsy and weak. Possessed by some crazy thought, he'd never in an Age consider if not for the madness of battle. Even still he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to properly capture not just what he was thinking, but what he was actually doing. It all became a blur.

He leapt onto the ogre's hand as it swung. He landed with a stumble onto its large hand, but before he or the ogre could react, let alone change his mind, Fergus jumped again.

The momentum made the sword puncture deep into the ogre's chest. Fergus found himself hanging onto the sword hilt for dear life. The ogre staggered, letting out a loud groan before it fell backwards. The earth rumbled and a puff of dust and earth came up to consume them both.

Stunned at what just happened, at what he did, Fergus found himself resting on the ogre's chest. He scrambled to his feet, finding it difficult to keep his balance.

The smell the darkspawn was omitting was death. A pungent, rotten smell that made him queasy, but he pulled his sword out of the ogre who did little more than complain with a guttural noise. Its hands were slowly moving, but Fergus moved faster. He plunged his sword into the ogre's head right between its black eyes.

He groaned from the exertion needed for the thrust to force the blade through muscle, bone, and flesh. He tried to ignore the wet, squelching noise. His sword was nearly hilt deep when the ogre finally stilled. It let out one loud, gasping breath that reeked and it hit Fergus right in the face. He nearly heaved right there, instead he rolled off of the ogre, his sword still in its skull. He collapsed to his knees and then promptly emptied his stomach.

The vomit burned when it crawled up its throat and his damp hair fell over his face. His hands were anchored into the ground, while the remaining droplets of bile dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin. He let out a shuddering breath while his reeling gut seemed to be deciding if it was content or if he needed to heave again.

Ursa's hand was on his back and she was handing him a waterskin which he drank greedily from.

"We have no time to rest," Her words were chiding, but her tone filled with relief and sympathy.

"I know," He mumbled, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He used the back of his arm to wipe up his face.

It was the smell, he knew no other cause for his sudden sickness. It was terrible, rancid meat left out in the sun, but it was worse, like it had been half chewed and then spat out. No, it was even worse, his stomach rumbled in protest.