Chapter Text
Everything in Orlais smelled like flowers.
And not the simple, nice flowers that grew in the gardens of Ferelden’s royal palace; roses and daisies and sunflowers. No, Orlais smelled like frilly and pretentious flowers; the type of flowers that only grew when the soil was an exact shade of brown or the sun shone directly on them for exactly four hours everyday and whose names were at least four words long. Compared to Orlais, Ferelden really did smell like wet dog.
Though Alistair would take wet dog smell any day over the Orlesian palace’s air that hung thick with the heavy Orlesian perfumes that came in tiny glass bottles with names like “L’Oeuf” and “Le Cul” and “Musc Virile.” Not that it mattered. He would only be leaving when either a peace treaty bore his signature or a formal declaration of war did.
Celene’s palace in Jader was unlike any of the manses and castles scattered throughout Ferelden. Those pretentious Orlesian flowers Alistair hated so much sat arranged carefully in crystal vases, at least three to a room. All the furniture had an air of fragility to it; Alistair worried he’d break the chairs just by sitting on them.
“Elissa’d hate this sort of thing,” he murmured, staring wide-eyed at the bejeweled headboard of the bed in his room within the guest wing of the palace, naked women carved into the fancy white wood.
“What was that, Your Majesty?” the steward, a timid little man with a thin mustache and an unpronounceable name, fluttered nervously about the room, rattling off pointless information about the bedsheets’ thread count and the wood quality of the end tables the damned flowers in their damned crystal vases.
“Oh, uh… nothing. Just… talking to myself. You know.”
The man’s nose wrinkled in puzzlement (or was it distaste? One could never be too sure with these Orlesians) beneath his elaborate mask, but he quashed the look with practiced ease. “Of course, Your Majesty. Her Imperial Majesty wishes for you to make yourself comfortable during your stay. The empress also wishes for me to convey that you and the members of your party are free to move about the grounds as you please.”
“Uh-huh. And when exactly will I be meeting the empress.”
“The Inquisition’s ambassador, Lady Montilyet, will go over the itinerary with you upon her arrival, Your Majesty. Until then, the empress wishes for you—”
“—To get comfortable, do as I please, blah blah blah. I get it, thanks.”
“Very good, Your Majesty. If there is anything you need during your stay, just alert any of the staff and your needs will be taken care of immediately.” The man bowed so low his nose nearly touched the floor before turning on his heel and leaving the room, closing the doors and leaving Alistair to himself in the large, ornate bedroom.
Alistair stripped off his traveling clothes, throwing them in a haphazard pile on the floor and changing into a clean undershirt and pants before collapsing on the bed, his tired body sinking into the soft down of the mattress. Within just a few minutes he was drifting on the verge of sleep, and then—
Knocking. Harsh, persistent knocking, each beat of fist against wood a cruel punishment from the Maker himself for daring to acquire a bit of relaxation on this trip of upmost importance—
“Your Majesty? Are you in there?” Came the muffled voice through the door.
“Ugh.” Alistair groaned into his pillow. “Go away.”
The doorknob turned, and the flagrant offender’s footsteps echoed on the room’s marble floors.
“I said go aw—oh. It’s just you.” Alistair sat up, yawning pointedly. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Teagan crossed his arms over his chest, squinting at Alistair. “Clearly.”
“I’m the king,” Alistair grumbled, getting out of bed as Teagan made his way over to the table across the room. “If I want to take a nap, I can. I should have you thrown in the dungeons or something.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You can nap later,” Teagan said, rolling his eyes. “First I need to go over some things with you before the meetings begin.”
Alistair took a tentative seat beside Teagan, releasing a breath when the delicate chair didn’t collapse beneath his weight. “What’s there to go over? The way I figure, it’ll just be something like, ’You don’t attack us, we won’t attack you.’”
“It’s not that simple. There’s trade regulations to discuss, military aid agreements—”
“I know, I know. I just… ugh. This whole country smells wrong.”
Teagan chuckled. “You’ll get used to it, trust me. At any rate, the Inquisition’s people should be arriving tomorrow morning. I’ve been communicating with Lady Josephine; she’s very good. She’s completely prepared to facilitate the negotiations.”
“Great. Wonderful. Perfect. Don’t you find it a bit strange Celene hasn’t even tried to greet me or anything? Not even a quick stop by to say ‘hello’? Talk about hospitality.”
Teagan smirked. “You know these Orlesians. Every move carefully calculated and precise. Which I must remind you, Alistair: the Orlesians live and die by the ‘Game.’ Don’t be fooled by false sincerity; every person who talks to you will have some sort of agenda hidden behind their mask. And be very careful with what you say, as well. Orlais may be in no place to strike at Ferelden, but that won’t stop their nobility from dissecting your every move. When it comes to these people, no one ever simply ‘stops by.’”
“Perhaps I should get my own mask, then. A mabari, maybe? I bet they’d like that.” Alistair grimaced at his own joke, imagining himself and the members of his court wearing masks decorated to look like dogs. It was not a pretty sight. He sighed.
“Tell me honestly, Teagan: what are my chances of getting assassinated?”
“I’d say slim to none.”
“Hm. Good enough, I suppose. But if I die tomorrow, tell my wife I love her.”
Teagan barked out a laugh as he stood up to leave. “Once again, Alistair, stop being so dramatic. You’ll do fine.” He strode over to the door, turning to bow as he opened the door. “I’ll see you at dinner, Your Majesty.”
“Right. And when is that exactly?” Alistair asked.
“Someone will fetch you. Go back to your nap.” The door closed, and for a second time that day Alistair was left alone in the strange room.
“Thanks, Teagan,” Alistair grumbled to himself. He sighed heavily, running a hand down his face. “No one better try to poison me. I should really have hired a food taster,” he said as he made his way back over to the bed. Alistair flopped back onto the mattress, finally falling into a much-needed nap, full of unpleasant dreams of the negotiations to come the next day.