Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The late afternoon summer sun was streaming through the window-like opening above the loft in the stables. Alistair lay on his stomach in a clear patch of the loft. He was playing with his golem doll—figurine, he mentally corrected himself—and some of the other figures Arl Eamon had given him over the years. Right now, the golem was trying to kidnap an innocent princess who was being defended by a brave and honorable knight.

Alistair brought the figures of the golem and knight together—somewhat gently so as not to scratch the paint or chip the little statues—and mimicked what he thought the sounds of such a battle would be. The fight was long and epic, each side giving and retaking ground until finally the weary, wounded knight stood victorious over his foe.

Dropping the golem to the worn wooden planks, Alistair grabbed the figure of the princess and rushed it towards the knight. “My hero!” he whispered in a high, breathy voice, his best approximation of how he had heard maids in the castle speak to the knights and guards. It certainly wasn’t any way he’d ever head Lady Isolde speak. He shuddered at the all too well known memory of her voice and turned back to his game.

Now, at least according to all the stories, the princess was supposed to kiss the knight. Alistair hesitated. Kissing was…gross. He’d spied on enough of the maids in the castle and the thought of doing that, of wanting to do that, made him gag slightly. He settled for having the princess give the knight a peck on the cheek. There, a kiss and none of that icky stuff.

His game done with for the moment, Alistair rolled over onto his back, pushing his long hair out of his face and wincing as a jagged nail caught on a snarl, and stared out the window. He’d finished his chores early today and been told the rest of the day was his to do with as he pleased. Quickly evaluating his options, he’d run back to the loft that served as a bedroom. Hopefully, no one would come looking for him and he could play in peace for several hours before getting some supper and maybe going for a quick swim in Lake Calenhad.

Squinting into the sunlight, he tried to judge what time it was. It was hot and he wanted to go for a swim, but if he went too early, he’d only get sweaty again. He sighed. Still too early for a swim and he was tired of playing with his toys. Maybe…. Maybe he could sneak down to see the mabari pups. The kennel master liked him and the pups were old enough now that he could play with them.

Just as he was resolving to get up and enact this plan, he heard the stable door creak open, and he froze. Booted footsteps resounded against the plank flooring, coming closer to the ladder that led up to his loft.

“Alistair? Are you up there?”

Alistair poked his head over the edge in surprise, a small grin lighting up his face. “Bann Teagan! I didn’t know you were here! Do you want to come up and play with me?”

Bann Teagan, Arl Eamon’s younger brother, had always had a soft spot for Alistair, playing with him like no one else did. Alistair thought that having Teagan around might be like what having an uncle was like. The bann certainly didn’t treat him like anyone else did, not looking down on him as a commoner and not reviling him for being a bastard. Alistair loved it when Teagan came to visit Redcliffe. Out of everyone he knew, Teagan was his favorite person and he loved the older man.

But Bann Teagan shook his head, looking very serious and worried. A cold sweat broke out over Alistair’s body. The only time he’d ever seen Teagan look that way was when Alistair had accidently caught Arl Eamon and Teagan arguing over his…father. Whatever reason Teagan was here now, it couldn’t be good.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “D-Did you need something, Bann Teagan?”

Teagan nodded. “Aye, lad. I need you to come with me.”

Alistair nodded and shoved his figures into the small chest that held the few possessions he owned, and edged towards the ladder. Teagan frowned as he got to the top of the ladder, taking in his sleeveless smock and the ragged trousers that ended at his knees.

“Do you have any better clothes than that, Alistair? And maybe a towel? If not, I’ll go find you some.”

“No, I-I do.” Alistair scurried back to his chest and rummaged around. Teagan’s manner right now was scaring him and his heart was beating painfully in his chest. Good clothes and a bath—Teagan was almost certainly bringing him to see Arl Eamon. He shook slightly. There’d been talk recently that the arl was planning to send him away, probably to the Chantry to become a templar.

That thought scared Alistair more than he wanted to admit. Redcliffe was the only home he’d ever known and he didn’t want to leave. He also didn’t want to be a templar. There were templars in the Redcliffe Chantry—stern, dour men whom he’d never seen laugh or smile. Alistair didn’t want to be one of those men.

Casting his gaze about the loft frantically, he sought a way out. But short of throwing himself out the window, which would no doubt result in a very painful landing, there was no where he could go. He sighed in resignation. Even if he did run, where would be go? No one else would take him in. He grabbed his best tunic and trousers out of the chest, along with the small, worn linen sheet he used as a towel, and made his way glumly down the ladder.

Teagan put his hand on Alistair’s shoulder when he reached the bottom. “Come on, lad. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Teagan?” Alistair asked as the left the stable and began the walk towards the castle. “Am I in trouble? Whatever I did, I’m sorry! I won’t do anything bad again, I promise!”

With a heavy sigh, the bann stopped walking and dropped to one knee before Alistair so he could look him in the eye. “No, Alistair, you’re not in trouble. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m afraid the fault here lies with grown men who should have known better. I won’t lie to you—this is a very serious situation. But I want you to remember that no matter what happens none of this is your fault. Do you understand me?”

Alistair nodded, unable to speak and blinking back the shameful prick of tears. Boys didn’t cry. Especially not a parentless boy who’d grown up hearing himself called “bastard” as often and easily as his own name.

Teagan shook his head and twisted his lips. “Come on. Best we not tarry.”

They entered the castle through the kitchens. “Gertie,” Teagan said, speaking to the head cook, “do you have that hot water for me?”

“Aye, my lord, here ‘tis in this bucket. I added a bit a cold water to keep the boy from burning ‘imself. And some soap and a rag. I expect the scamp’ll be needin’ it.” The plump woman threw a fond smile in Alistair’s direction. She’d always been kind to him, ready with a soft word or tasty morsel when he needed it.

“Thank you, Gertie. This way, Alistair.” Teagan led him to a small room and deposited the bucket on the floor and handing him the soap and the cloth. “Get cleaned up as best you can, and quickly.”

Alistair shed his clothes, dipping the rag into the bucket and then rubbing the soap on it. The water was hot, the soap strong and the rag rough. By the time he was done and hastily wiping the water off him with the thin sheet, it seemed like every inch of his skin was pink and tender. Shivering, he pulled his clean clothes on and opened the door.

“Bann Teagan? What do I do with my old clothes?”

“Don’t worry about them, Alistair. Gertie will take care of it.”

Teagan frowned as he looked him over and Alistair wondered if he’d forgotten to wash something. “Maker, I should have gotten you boots or something. Never mind, we don’t have time for that now. We’re already late, but I wasn’t going to let you walk into that room without at least that much of a bath.”

Teagan led him up into the castle proper. There were a lot of guards here, far more than usual, and the halls were very, very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that as they approached the arl’s study, Alistair could clearly hear the sound of raised male voices shouting at each other. He recognized Eamon’s voice, but not the other two—although one tugged at a vague memory.

His eyes widened in shock and he stopped dead in his tracks as that half-remembered voice suddenly rose above the others.

“The Fade take you, Eamon, that is not what I asked you to do with the boy!”

Oh, holy Maker! King Maric was here in the castle. The king, his father, was here and angry about him.

“Please, Bann Teagan,” he whispered through numb lips, “don’t make me go in there!”

The look Teagan gave him was full of concern and pity. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I can’t do that. Just remember what I said and you’ll be fine.”

And pulling the boy gently by the arm, Teagan opened the door to the study and ushered him in. The arguing in the study stopped abruptly as the door opened and three very large, very angry men all turned to look at him.

“My lords,” said Teagan, his voice unnaturally loud in the sudden silence, “I’ve brought Alistair.”

Chapter Text

Arl Eamon stood before his desk along with Maric and the third unknown man in a rough circle. The arl was angry, bright spots of color burning on his cheeks above his beard and Alistair flinched slightly when his guardian turned his glare on him.

The unknown man was dressed in gray armor, and was pale, with dark hair and a stern, foreboding visage. He seemed angry as well, but Alistair thought it was more a cold anger—he seemed controlled, for all that Alistair had heard him yelling as well. Alistair could feel the dislike rolling off the man and he took a hesitant step closer to Teagan, hating the way this man made him feel so small and afraid.

“So,” the stranger drawled, his deep voice just as cold as his face, “this is the boy. I’m surprised, Eamon, that you’ve kept him hidden this long. He’s practically a mirror image of Cailan.”

“Enough, Loghain!” Maric snapped and Alistair swallowed audibly. The Hero of River Dane and Teyrn of Gwaren. And the man hated him. This was going even more poorly than he’d initially feared.

Maric looked at the three men in the room. “I’d like to speak with the boy alone. Leave.”

Teagan ducked in a quick half-bow, backing out of the room as if his heels were on fire. Arl Eamon clenched his jaw, gave a jerk of his head to signify his assent and followed his brother. For a long moment, Loghain and Maric looked at each other before the teyrn finally shook his head in disgust.

“This is a stupid idea, Maric. You do the boy no favors by this, nor your son, and you will regret it.”

“I’ve done a lot of things I regret, Loghain, and I’ll do more, but I don’t think this is one of them. Please, my old friend, do as I ask.”

“Then as you wish, your Majesty.” With that, Loghain strode from the room, offering not even the slightest hint of respect or deference to the king. Alistair stared after him agog. Well, if there was anyone in Ferelden who could do that to the king, it would be Loghain Mac Tir.

The king blew out a long breath and sunk down into a chair, rubbing his forehead. Alistair stood in silence, looking at his feet shifting on the floor. The stone was cold and he half-wished Teagan had thought to get him some boots before bringing him here.

“Alistair.”

The king saying his name caused him to jerk his head up and then back down. How did one deal with a king? Was he allowed to look him in the face? Should he keep looking at his wriggling toes? He settled for picking a point halfway in between, his gaze focused on the king’s muddy boots.

“Alistair,” Maric said again. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Alistair dragged his eyes up to look at the man who was his father. He’d only seen him once before from a distance, when Maric and Cailan had visited Redcliffe. In fact, it had been shortly after he’d overheard that fateful conversation between Eamon and Teagan. For the duration of the king’s visit, Eamon had done his best to make sure they never met and he succeeded, with the exception being the brief encounter Alistair had with Cailan.

“Come here,” Maric said, beckoning with one hand. “Closer. It’s all right. Yes, like that.”

Alistair stopped about a foot away from the king, and Maric leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees so that their faces were level.

So Alistair had never gotten a good look at the king’s face. Being this close, he could see the similarities he had seen with Cailan came from their father. Their coloring was similar, though Alistair was darker, and he didn’t have Maric’s blue eyes. But he had the same nose, the same jaw, the same mouth. It was startling to see his features on someone else’s face, more so when he realized his features came from the man before him.

The anger had gone from the king’s face and all Alistair could see in it now was concern, and maybe sadness.

“Do you know who I am, Alistair?”

He nodded. “You’re the king, your Majesty,” he replied quietly.

Maric’s face tightened. “Is that all I am, Alistair?”

“I…. You…you’re my father, your Majesty.”

Maric sighed. “Eamon says you’ve known for about two years now. Is that true?”

Alistair nodded. “Yes, your Majesty. But I haven’t told anyone, I swear!” he added earnestly. “Arl Eamon says I wasn’t to mention it to anyone and I haven’t! I really haven’t! Am I in trouble? Please, your Majesty, whatever I did, I’m sorry! I promise I’ll never tell anyone!”

An unidentifiable expression twisted across Maric’s face and he buried it in his hands for a long moment, drawing deep breaths before looking up at Alistair again. “No, you’re not in trouble. And please stop calling me that. You can call me ‘Maric’ or ‘ser’ or whatever else you want, but please stop calling me ‘your Majesty,’ all right?”

“Y-Yes, yo—ser.”

“Good.”

Silence fell in the study again as the king studied him. He seemed to be searching his face for something and finally Maric nodded, as if he had found what he was looking for.

“Eamon says you’ve heard the talk about sending you to the Chantry to enter templar training. Is that right?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Do you want to go to the Chantry, Alistair?”

Alistair was baffled by the question. In his entire life, no one had ever asked him what he wanted, and now the king of Ferelden was asking him, personally, what he wanted to do. And what did he want matter anyway? It confused Alistair, but he shook his head vigorously.

“No, ser, I don’t. I want to stay here.”

“All right. Then you don’t have to go.”

“I don’t?” Alistair eyes widened. “Y-You mean it? Even though Arl Eamon said—”

“Arl Eamon doesn’t have a say in that any longer,” Maric cut him off, anger returning to his voice again and Alistair quailed. “No, son, I’m not angry at you. Never that.”

Inside his chest, Alistair heart gave a funny little jerk when Maric said “son.” He knew the king didn’t mean it in the literal sense, using the word like Eamon often did. But hearing it from Eamon had never meant anything more to him than the terms “lad” or “boy” did. But hearing it now from King Maric made him ache to be someone's—anyone’s—son. If there had ever been anything he was ever jealous of, it was seeing the other boys in Redcliffe with their families.

“You can stay, if you want,” Maric continued. “However…there is another choice, if you want to hear it.”

“Ser?”

“You could, if you wanted, come back to Denerim with me.”

“With you?” Feeling stupid repeating Maric’s words, he struggled to understand what the king was offering. “You mean, going to be a servant in the palace or the like?”

“Maker’s breath, no!” Maric burst out, horrified. “Oh, sweet Andraste, that’s not what I mean at all! No, Alistair, what I’m asking is if you want to come back to live with me, in the palace, not as a servant, but as my son.”

There was nothing Alistair could do but gape. How many times had he dreamed of this, especially after learning the truth? How often had he had fantasies of his father swooping into Redcliffe and acknowledging him and taking him away to live with him? This was like every hope and dream he had ever had rolled up into one and offered to him on one of those silver platters Lady Isolde used to serve her tea.

For one brilliant, beautiful moment, he thought about accepting the king’s offer, the lure of having a family of his very own a greater temptation than any fantasy his mind could conjure. And then that little voice in the back of his head that had been steadily growing louder for the last few years spoke up.

Stupid Alistair, it said. No one wants you around. You’re nothing but an embarrassment, an accident, a mistake that no one wants. You know he doesn’t really want you. He’s probably just using you for something. Why even bother getting your hopes it? It’s only going to end badly, just like everything else. If you deserved a family, you’d already have one.

Alistair swallowed hard, biting back those bitter thoughts and his sudden urge to burst into tears. He looked away from Maric and shook his head.

“No, ser, I don’t want to.”

“Oh.” The sound from Maric was quite possibly the saddest, most disappointed thing he’d ever heard a grown man make. “May I ask why not?”

Alistair took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. “I’m a commoner, ser, and a bastard. Someone like me, especially me, has no business pretending to be a prince or be around someone like you. I might not understand much, ser, but I understand that.”

“I see. And who told you this? Eamon?”

“Yes, ser.” Maker, Eamon was going to be so mad at him, but Alistair really didn’t think it was a good idea to lie to the king, given that he was already a terrible liar and if he tried he’d only fail miserably. “I can’t go to Denerim. I’m inconvenient, ser, and a threat to your son.”

Maric moved suddenly, grasping Alistair’s shoulders in his hands tightly and making the boy look at him. Alistair gasped.

“You,” Maric said firmly, “are my son, Alistair. As much as Cailan is, and as much of a prince, no matter who your mother is. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life, and I’ve done a lot wrong by you, but I’d like to start making up for it right now, if you’ll let me.

“I want you to come back to Denerim with me, but I won’t lie. It won’t be easy. There will be others who will say the same things that Eamon did, who will treat you differently because of your birth. And there are some not very nice people who will try and hurt you with the truth even though they don’t know all of it. I won’t always be able to stop them.”

“That won’t be very different then,” Alistair muttered. At Maric’s curious look, he hurriedly explained. “Most here think I’m the arl’s bastard, ser. Every thing you’ve said is what already happens here, only those that say it aren’t fine lords and ladies.”

“I’m so sorry, Alistair,” his father replied softly. “Will you give me this chance to undo some of my mistakes? If you don’t like it, we’ll work something else out, I promise you, but I’d like you to give me this chance.”

Alistair bit his lip. The man before him was the king—he could do want he wanted. He could have Alistair dragged kicking and screaming to Denerim and no one would lift a hand to help him in defiance of the king’s wishes. But Maric was leaving the choice entirely to him. And Alistair wanted to believe him, believe that he really meant what he was saying. He had a chance right now to do something for himself, give himself a chance he might never have again, but he was so scared. Yet, under the fear, something else was fighting hard to come out, to force the right word past his lips. If he could just take this one risk….

“Yes!” he blurted out, the word exploding from him before he had a chance to think anymore about this and change his mind. And then it was done. He’d given his answer and it was too late to turn back.

Maric smiled, his face instantly transformed by the joy that overtook it. “Thank you, Alistair. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Then looking a little unsure, he asked, “May…may I hug you?”

Alistair nodded, and large hands on his shoulders slid down over his back and pulled him tight against his father’s hard chest. Alistair’s own arms slid hesitantly around Maric’s neck and he felt Maric tighten his hold on him. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Maric whispered in his ear.

The thought that his father wanted him rocked Alistair to his very core. The knowledge that his father wanted him—had always wanted him—and wanted him to live with him and was hugging him right now was suddenly too much. His vision went all shimmery with tears and they spilled down his cheeks onto his father’s fine shirt. He sniffed loudly, trying to pull back a bit and not make a mess of a garment that probably cost more than all the clothes he had ever worn.

But Maric wouldn’t let him move, his large hands stroking Alistair’s back in a soothing motion, and to his horror, Alistair began to cry harder, his chest jerking with the force of his sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Alistair,” Maric repeated in his ear, his own voice thick. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s all right.”

His father held him until his tears finally stopped and finally released him to offer a wrinkled handkerchief that he pulled from his pocket. Alistair blew his nose noisily and tried to hand the cloth back, but Maric just chuckled. “No, you keep it. I have others.”

Of course he would, Alistair thought, tucking the cloth into his own pocket.

Maric rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and stood up. “I think you’ll like Denerim, Alistair. Maybe not the tutors so much, but there are lots of exciting things to do.”

Tutors? Tutors taught you things. And if Maric meant that Alistair was going to have one, then that meant….

“A tutor, ser? Does that mean I’m to get to learn how to read?”

Maric went very still and looked at Alistair carefully. “You don’t know how to read?”

“No, ser, but I’ve always wanted to learn. I like it when Bann Teagan reads me stories, but he’s not around very often. I’d like to be able to read them to myself without bothering anyone.

“Without bothering….” Maric took a deep breath. “Yes, Alistair, you’re going to get to learn how to read, among other things.”

“All right!” Alistair bounced up and down on his toes and Maric laughed again.

“You say that now.” Shaking his head in rueful amusement, he glanced out the window. “It’s a bit late in the day to be setting off for Denerim. We’ll spend the night here and leave in the morning, if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine, ser! Besides, I need to go to the loft and get my things anyway.”

“The loft?” Maric asked.

“Yes, ser, in the stables. I keep all my things where I sleep and I don’t want to leave them.” An odd look crossed his father’s face and he faltered. “I…well, if that’s all right with you, ser. I don’t have to bring anything.”

“You sleep in the stables?”

“Yes, ser….”

As he answered, Maric’s face grew angry and it was different from when he first entered the room. This was a cold, terrible anger and Alistair suddenly knew what a king was supposed to look like. Oh, Maker. He’d done it now. Stupid Alistair had done something wrong again. Was there anything good he could ever have without ruining it? He took a hesitant step back, ready to flee back to the safety of the stables as soon as Maric corrected his mistake in offering to take Alistair away..

Maric noticed the movement and his expression instantly became one of worry. “I’m not angry with you, Alistair. Please, don’t look so afraid. You don’t have any reason to be afraid of me, and you never will, I swear it. Listen, I want you to go and get your things and then come back here. I need to discuss some things with Loghain and Eamon, all right?”

Maybe he hadn’t ruined it? He should hurry, just in case. But something stopped him just as he turned to go, and he swung back around. Maric raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Ser? Do you really mean this? You really want me to come with you?”

“Yes, Alistair, I do.”

A doubt niggled in the back of his mind and the question was out before he could really stop it. “What if you change your mind?”

Closing the distance between them with one step, Maric crouched in front of Alistair. “I’m not. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No,” Maric interrupted him and reached out to grip his upper arms gently. “I am not going to change my mind, Alistair. I want you to come live with me and nothing is going to change that.”

He wanted to believe that so badly, so very badly. But everything was so…. He didn’t understand what was really going on or why or why now. If his father really meant what he was saying….

Maric squeezed his arms gently and rose. “Go get your things. I’ll be waiting right here.”

Stop questioning it, Alistair, and just do it!

“Okay! I’ll be right back!”

Alistair flew through the door his father opened, running through the halls of the castle and taking the stairs two and three at a time. Guards and servants cursed and shouted as he wove around them laughing. The horses in the stables started slightly as he burst in and flew up the ladder. There wasn’t much in his chest, and he carefully wrapped his figures in his extra tunic and trousers before shoving them in a small bag. Once those were packed, the only other things he had were his old boots, which he quickly shoved his feet into.

His return into the castle was much the same as his exit and by the time he got back to the study, his chest was heaving and he was gasping for breath. Bann Teagan was leaning against the wall outside the closed study door, and without stopping to think, Alistair hurled himself at the man.

Teagan caught him in a rough embrace and Alistair grinned up at him.

“Bann Teagan, did you hear?! King Maric wants me to go live with him in Denerim and be his son for real!”

The bann laughed fondly. “I did hear that. Congratulations, lad.”

Alistair laughed with him and was about to say something else when Maric’s angry voice boomed out through the closed door.

“He sleeps in the stables! The stables! Maker, Eamon, what is wrong with you?!”

Alistair flinched away from the sound and Teagan put a hand on his back to steady him.

“Easy, lad. He’s angry at my brother, and rightfully so, not you.”

Whatever Eamon’s answer was, it wasn’t audible. But Maric’s voice continued to issue out of the study as if there weren’t a two inch thick door in the way.

“He can’t even read! No! I asked you to raise him as a commoner, not as an ignorant peasant! I also asked you that he not learn about me because it wasn’t fair to him and you couldn’t even manage that!

“Some of the blame for this fiasco lies with me and I fully accept that. I should have checked up on him and what you were doing. But that did not give you permission to treat him the way you did. No! Don’t start with your excuses of trying to protect Cailan! You went too far, Eamon, and the only reason I knew was because your brother had the guts to tell me what you were doing.

“Rowan’s brother or not, you had no right to do that to a child—to my child! And if you were anyone else, you can believe me that there would be far more serious repercussions. But in deference to the memory of your sister, this will be it. I don’t want to see you in the morning.”

The door banged open and Maric came striding out. Past him, Alistair could see a pale, shaking Eamon leaning on his desk. Maric stopped when he saw Alistair and his expression softened. He held out a hand and Alistair tentatively slipped his smaller one into it, his father immediately enclosing it in a tight grip. The way his father held his hand felt like Maric never intended to let go, and Alistair smiled up tremulously at him.

“Come on, Alistair,” he said softly. “How about you and I find something to eat, eh?”

Alistair nodded and still clutching his small sack of belongings to his chest, walked away beside his father.

Chapter Text

They ate in Redcliffe’s dining hall, though it was a small gathering. Alistair got the impression that if Eamon showed up, Maric might run him through, so the arl and the arlessa were understandably absent. And since Loghain declined the invitation to join them, dinner that night consisted only of Alistair, Maric and Teagan. The three sat at one end of the long table, the men talking quietly while Alistair fidgeted in his seat.

Alistair kept expecting someone, probably Isolde, to come in and ask him what he thought he was doing, eating at the arl’s table. He was hungry, ravenous really. The last hour had drained him and his stomach literally cramped with hunger pains. Yet the thought of actually eating food made him want to retch. He poked at his dinner, finding that what he did manage to choke down was too rich and settled uneasily in his gut.

Maric kept looking at him, concern pulling his brows low. Alistair could see the questions forming on his lips when Bann Teagan briefly touched the king’s arm, calling his attention.

“I believe this is Alistair’s first time at the table, Maric, and I think he’s understandably nervous.” The bann glanced at him and Alistair nodded hastily, relieved to be spared having to voice what was wrong. “Perhaps we should let him retire for the evening, and then we can continue our conversation.”

His father nodded slowly. “I hate to impose, Teagan, as you’ve already done so much, but if you would get the boy settled…?”

“Of course, Maric. Come with me, Alistair.” Pushing away from the table, Teagan rose and came around to take Alistair’s hand. “We’ll find you a room, and a snack from the kitchens. Maybe Gertie has one of her sweet rolls left over for you.”

Finding him a room and getting him settled had been extremely awkward and embarrassing for Alistair. Things had happened so fast in the castle that not all the servants were aware of what had transpired. The servant Teagan asked to prepare a room had laughed and tried to shoo Alistair back to the stables.

Teagan hadn’t gotten angry at the man, merely very quiet. He repeated that King Maric had commanded that Prince Alistair be given a room and anything else he might need for his last night in Redcliffe. It wasn’t the title that affected Alistair—though it was a shock to hear—it was the authoritative emphasis Teagan had placed on the words. There was an unspoken power and threat behind them.

The servant had laughed once more before realizing that Teagan wasn’t joking. And then his face paled, and he nearly tied his tongue in knots apologizing. Maids were fetched and within minutes a guest room had been prepared, clean linens were laid upon the bed, the wash basin filled with warm water and lamps lit and turned down low.

The entire time this was being done, Alistair stood with his head down, shifting nervously from foot to foot. People, whose orders he had followed his entire life, were suddenly rushing to follow commands to serve him. Not a few confused and angry glances were thrown his way, and his face was hot and flushed. The tips of his ears felt like they were on fire. Adding to the awkwardness, the servants seemed unsure how to address him, directing all questions to Teagan and trying to avoid referring to him entirely.

Finally everything was done. Alistair washed up, even though he’d had a bath only a short time ago. This time, however, he greatly appreciated the lightly scented soap and soft wash cloth. He was given a clean, white nightshirt and his clothes were taken away. He almost protested before realizing the servants were just doing what they were supposed to. When the last maid slipped out the door after turning back the bedclothes, Alistair sighed, slid under the sheets…

…and wondered why he’d ever been envious of anyone who slept in a bed.

The feather mattress was soft—too soft. Every time Alistair was still for a minute, it felt like the bed was swallowing him whole and he would bolt upright in panic. He tried everything. Sleeping on his stomach was out of the question, and laying on his back or sides was only marginally better. Finally settling for curling up against the pillows, he tried to sleep.

And it continued to elude him. In the stables, there had always been noise—the soft shuffle of hooves or the quiet whickers from the horses. Even outside the stables hadn’t been silent, with the sounds of frogs or night birds calling out. But here, inside the castle, the silence was deafening. Beyond the door to his room was…nothing, the thick walls and heavy door proving an effective buffer to muffle any disturbances. Even the open window didn’t help because the room was too high up to allow the normal night sounds to drift in. And being summer, there wasn’t even a fire in the hearth to provide comforting background noise.

Alistair eventually got out of bed and padded over on bare feet to the window. There was a slight ledge and he pulled himself up on it, curling his legs underneath him. Easing the window open a bit more, he leaned against the casement, looking out on the village. From up here, everything looked so tiny. Soft lights twinkled from house windows and the tavern, and the vanes of the windmill caught the early moonlight.

If everything that had been said tonight was true, this really would be his last night in Redcliffe…and he didn’t know how to feel about it. Like he had told Maric—his father, and, Maker, it was difficult to think of him like that—he did want to stay in Redcliffe. Or he had—when the alternative was a life in the Chantry, Redcliffe seemed like the Golden City in comparison. But now he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t going to the Chantry after all. He was going to Denerim to live in the palace and the thought still terrified him as much now as it had earlier.

What was he going to do? He already knew he wouldn’t fit in. And it’s not like he could tell Maric he changed his mind. Some good would come out of going to Denerim. He’d learn to read for one. And maybe he’d get to learn to use a sword. He’d always wanted to do that. And anything he ended up doing would probably be nicer than the work he would’ve ended up doing in the village.

Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching his room until they’d almost reached the door. Chest seizing in panic, he threw himself off the ledge and raced for the bed, diving under the sheet and curling up just as the door opened.

As he listened to the door shut and the footsteps cross the room towards the bed, he screwed his eyes shut tight and hoped whoever it was would think he was asleep. The footsteps stopped by the edge of his bed, and then a heavy weight dipped the side of mattress down as the person sat.

There was an amused chuckle before his father spoke. “You know, Alistair, you don’t have to pretend to be asleep. I won’t get mad.”

Alistair cracked his eyes open, uncurling slightly so he could look at Maric. The king sat comfortably on the bed, one leg drawn up and his weight braced on one arm. “Can’t sleep?”

Alistair shook his head.

With a small smile, Maric nodded and reached out a hand to smooth his hair away from his forehead. The touch was both wholly unfamiliar and soothing at the same time, like the memory of something that had never been, but should have.

“Well, you’ve had a long day. I’d imagine it might keep you up. Try to get some rest though. It’s going to be a long trip back to the capital.” Maric paused, looking away for several long moments before looking back down at him. “Any reason in particular that you can’t sleep?”

Alistair debated with himself, wondering if he should tell the truth or not. Deciding right now probably wasn’t the best time, he shrugged. “Bed’s too soft,” he mumbled, and then winced. What kind of idiot complains about a bed being too soft?

To his surprise, Maric just laughed. “Oh, I can understand that.” At Alistair’s curious look, he explained. “I spent my entire childhood either running from the Orlesians in the woods or going from keep to keep among rebel sympathizers. After the war, it was months before I was even comfortable sleeping inside on a regular basis. I understand it’ll take some getting used to. Don’t worry about it too much, Alistair. Just try to get some rest.”

Alistair nodded, finding that listening to Maric talk and the feel of his hand in his hair was relaxing. His father looked like he was about to say something, but then Alistair yawned. Maric shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Another time, then,” he said quietly, ruffling Alistair’s shaggy locks.

His father shifted, standing. “Go to sleep, Alistair,” he said, tucking the sheet around him—another first for Alistair. “We’ll be leaving early.”

Maric took a moment to turn down the lamps, snuffing them and letting darkness fill the room. As he opened the door, he was framed momentarily in the doorway by the light in the hall—a tall man, strong, with wide shoulders whose head was bowed as he left.

“Ser?” Alistair called out hesitantly.

“Yes, Alistair?” Maric said, turning back towards him.

“Thank you.”

There was a slight flinch from the figure in the doorway and a long pause before he answered, “You’re welcome.”

The door closed quietly, and Alistair curled up a little tighter, the bed somehow not as frightening as it was earlier, and fell asleep.

Sometime during the night, Alistair’s body forgot his mind’s fear of the bed. When he finally woke in the morning, being roused by a gentle hand shaking his shoulder, he was sprawled out across the bed, limbs flung in every direction. He blinked as he looked around, confused about where he was until yesterday’s events came rushing back.

He sat up quickly, looking at the person who woke him. It was one of the maids in the castle, Erika, Owen the blacksmith’s wife. He didn’t know her well, but he did know she had a daughter around his age. Not that Owen let her play with him, but he still knew who she was.

“Oh, good, you’re awake. You need to get up, your Highness. His Majesty wants to set out as soon as possible and we have to get you ready.”

She drew the sheet back and stepped away to go to the door. Your Highness? Oh right. That was him now. As he slid out of bed, the maid opened the door to let in other servants carrying in buckets of hot water to fill the tub. The awkwardness of last night returned. It was beyond bizarre to stand there waiting for others to fill a tub when not even a day ago he might have been one of those carrying the buckets.

Thad, one of the boys carrying buckets, glared at Alistair as he emptied his burden into the stone tub. Thad was one of the boys who’d always picked on him. He was older and bigger than Alistair, husky, with a thick, meaty neck, and took particular pleasure in grinding his face into the dirt while hurling insults at him and his dead mother. Alistair always gave back as good as he could, but their encounters remained decidedly lopsided.

Now, though, Thad was serving him and didn’t have any choice about it. No matter how much he hated it, there was nothing he could do. And if he tried…. Alistair wondered what the punishment was for laying hands on a prince. A whipping, at the very least. He allowed himself a small, vicious grin at Thad, the smile growing wider as Thad’s face darkened.

The smile was wiped off his face once the other servants departed.

“All right, your Highness,” Erika said as she bustled about the room, “into the tub with you.”

Alistair shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for her to leave. Eventually she turned around, raising her eyebrows in question. “The water’s only going to get cold, my lord. I suggest you get in.”

He flushed. He couldn’t take a bath, not with her there. “Uh…aren’t you going to leave?” It came out ruder than he intended. “Sorry! I, um, I just….”

The maid’s lips quirked, as if she were trying to not laugh. “Very well. I’ll go get you some breakfast while you bathe and get dressed. Hurry, please, though. We have a lot to do and not much time to do it in.” She set a thick towel on a chair near the tub and a change of fresh clothes on the bed.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Alistair divested himself of his nightshirt and smallclothes and hopped into the tub. A hot bath was a rare pleasure. He was used to washing off either in the lake or with buckets of cold water drawn from the well. As he lathered himself up enthusiastically, he frowned, a thought occurring to him.

This would be his third bath since yesterday afternoon, if washing up last night could count as a bath. Was that normal for nobility or was he just exceptionally dirty? Had Maric noticed that and ordered him to be bathed again before taking him to Denerim?

The earlier elation he felt in his momentary victory over Thad evaporated completely, the pleasure of the bath overwhelmed by the fact that he was so filthy it was necessary if he was to be fit to be in respectable company.

He finished washing hurriedly, suddenly wanting to be done and dressed and away from the room. The towel was thick and absorbent, and within couple of minutes he was dry and pulling on his clothes.

Well, not his own clothes, that was obvious. They were of a better weave and cut than anything he had owned. And while he’d never seen them before, they fit perfectly. Eamon—or someone, he had trouble picturing the arl doing it himself—must have gotten them from one of his knights who had children about Alistair’s age. There were enough of them around that it wouldn’t have been hard.

He tried not to let that bother him. It was hardly his fault he didn’t have suitable clothes. He tried to take care of what he had, but it’s not like he had a huge wardrobe or high quality clothes to begin with. But it did firmly bring home just how much he wasn’t a prince, no matter what people called him now.

There was a sharp rap on the door just as he finished tucking his shirt in and it swung open. The maid, carrying a breakfast tray and a basket looped over an elbow, nodded when she saw him.

“Very good,” she said, placing the tray down on the desk. “Here’s some breakfast for you, my lord. When you’re done, we’ll take care of a few last things and you’ll be all set.”

Alistair sat down at the desk, lifting the cover from the tray and breathing in deeply the scent of buttered toast, ham and eggs. After yesterday, he found he was starving and quickly set to work demolishing the food. Erika continued working as he ate, folding clothes and placing them into a well made pack. His own forlorn sack still sat on the floor next to the door, untouched.

The pack Erika was filling was obviously meant for him, and it was just as obvious she had no intention of putting his other belongings in there. He frowned. The clothes he didn’t care out, but he wanted his figurines. He’d have to sneak them into his new pack when he had a chance.

“All done with breakfast, my lord?”

The question startled him and he looked down, taking in the crumbs that littered the tray. “Um, yes, ma’am.”

“Very good. A couple more things and you’ll be good to go. Come over here.” Erika positioned another chair in front of the window where the light was brightest. Alistair crossed the room to her and sat, wondering what was going to happen next. His confusion only grew when she placed a towel around his neck and over his shoulders.

“What…?” he began, turning to look at her, but she gently pushed his head back to where it was. There was a touch on his head, and then the feel of a comb running through his hair.

“We’re just going to neaten you up a little, your Highness.” She continued to run the comb through his hair, pausing when it caught on snarls to gently work them out. Finally satisfied that all the tangles were out, she picked up a pair of scissors and began trimming his hair.

“Hold still, your Highness,” she murmured as she worked, cutting first the back and then side of his hair, eventually moving to the front where he closed his eyes to keep anything from falling in them. Erika worked for a while, checking several times to make sure everything was even. She finally lifted the towel from around his neck and opened the window to shake the scraps of hair free from it. A soft cloth was run over his ears and along his neck to free it of any lingering hairs, and then a mirror was placed in his hands.

“What do you think?”

Alistair blinked at the reflection in the mirror. His hair was short, shorter than he could ever remember having it. It came down maybe two finger lengths from his scalp. This short, it was spiky on top and he ran a hair through it. It felt odd, but not bad.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the mirror back.

Erika smiled impishly at him. “My pleasure. I must say, I think it looks good on you. You’ll have all the little noble ladies chasing after you at court.”

He flushed hotly at that and Erika laughed quietly. “Or maybe not quite yet. In a few years, though…. Ah, one more thing.”

Walking back over to where she’d placed the mirror and scissors down, she picked up a couple small objects and pulled another chair over by his. Sitting, she took one of his hands and began to carefully trim his nails with a small pair of scissors, then filing off any uneven edges and removing any lingering dirt from underneath them.

There was a knock at the door just as she was finishing, and Bann Teagan leaned into the room. “Is Alistair just about ready?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Erika, standing. “He just needs his boots and he’ll be all set. Now where did I…? Oh, I left them when I couldn’t carry them up with the tray. There’s a pair of socks on the bed, your Highness. Get them on and I’ll be back in a moment.”

He did, pulling on the thick socks hurriedly and then scrambling to his sack on the floor. Fishing out his figures from within, he stuffed them between the clothes in his new pack and quickly refastened it. They were safely away by the time Erika returned with the boots—also new.

He tugged them on, wriggling his feet into position since the stiffness of the leather didn’t leave much room for give yet. He stamped his feet to settle them. Slightly too big, but the socks would help with that.

Erika took one last look around the room and nodded. Opening the door, she called “He’s all set, Bann Teagan.”

Teagan reentered the room and looked at Alistair carefully before grinning. “Nice haircut.” Alistair grinned back shyly, rubbing the back of his head nervously. “Well, your father’s waiting, so best we get going. Thank you for your help, my good woman.”

“My pleasure, ser.”

Hefting the pack, Teagan gestured for Alistair to walk beside him. Unlike last night, when the halls had been almost crowded with guards, there were very few people about. The reason for that was apparent as they walked down the castle steps to the courtyard.

Mounted knights where everywhere, forming up in rows across the bridge leading to the village. Others were lashing items to pack animals or stowing things in saddlebags. One came up and took Alistair’s pack from Teagan. In the middle of the organized chaos, Maric and Loghain stood talking beside three horses.

Both men were armed and armored. Their talk ceased and they turned as Alistair and Teagan approached.

“Ah, Teagan, you’ve got him. Good.” Maric’s voice rose over to tumult. “Good morning, Alistair.”

“Good morning, ser.”

Maric squinted up at the sky. “Well, we’ve got a long week ahead of us, so we should get going.” Looking back down, he asked Alistair, “You’ve never ridden before, right?”

Alistair shook his head. “No, ser.”

“All right. You’re with me then.”

Loghain grunted and swung up onto his own horse. “Finally. We’ve wasted enough time with this foolish excursion.”

With a roll of his eyes, Maric ignored the teyrn. “You’re coming with us, I hope, Teagan?”

“Yes, your Majesty. Things are a little…uncomfortable between my brother and me at the moment.”

“I’m sorry for that, Teagan, but not sorry for the reason. I’m glad you’re coming back with us. I think it’ll be good to have you around when we get back, for Cailan’s sake.”

The mention of his half-brother made a shiver run down Alistair’s spine. He hadn’t even considered Cailan when thinking about what going to Denerim would be. He couldn’t see how the prince would be anything but resentful of his presence.

Maric mounted his own horse and then held out a hand. “Hand him up to me, please, Teagan.”

Alistair felt Teagan’s strong hands grip him around the waist and lift him up. Maric leaned down, reaching for his son and settling him into the saddle in front of him. Suddenly very conscious of the huge, powerful animal beneath him, he clutched the front of the saddle, holding on for dear life.

A gauntleted hand slid around the front of his stomach, pulling him back to rest against his father’s armored chest, even as the other picked up the reins. “Sit up a bit straighter,” Maric said and Alistair did. “Good, just like that. I’m afraid this won’t be the most comfortable journey, but we’ll be able to move faster. Hold on however you need to feel secure. I won’t let you fall.”

Maric turned the horse one-handed, and with Loghain and Teagan on either side of them, headed for the bridge. The knights formed up around them. Alistair tried to relax as they began to ride out. His father’s armor was hard against his back, and like he’d said, not very comfortable. The gait of the horse was very unfamiliar and he knew it would be a while before he was comfortable with the motion.

As they left Redcliffe, the villagers cheering and waving, Alistair twisted around to look back once. As the only home he’d even known slowly receded into the distance, he was shocked to discover that, even with the myriad emotions swirling within him, the strongest one was…relief.

Chapter Text

When they left Redcliffe, Alistair was a little wary. For all intents and purposes, he was going to be alone with Maric for days and was unsure what was expected of him. Would the king have questions for him? Would he expect Alistair to ask questions? Was Maric going to start telling him about all the things he would have to do now?

Those fears were unfounded. For the most part, Maric seemed content to just let him be. Oh, he talked with Loghain—which consisted mainly of Maric talking and Loghain answering with grunts or monosyllabic answers—and Teagan, and that conversation seemed to focus on boring things like politics, nobles and crops. He talked to Alistair, usually about nothing, merely pointing things out or chatting idly to the withdrawn little boy, untroubled by the lackluster response. There was a slight wariness that Alistair could sense from his father, but didn't know what the cause was. It didn't seem like anything he'd done, so he tried not to let it bother him.

The casual familiarity between the king and his men also surprised Alistair. Eamon would never dream of allowing his knights to address him like Maric allowed his guards to. And while he hadn't given to any thought of how they would travel back, he was shocked that Maric seemed to prefer that they made camp along the road and didn't stop at inns or nobles homes. His idea of what a king should be like was turning out to be nothing like how Maric actually was. Except….

Except for the fact that it was clear that his men respected him. They didn't fawn over the king, but there was a clear respect and deference to him. Maric sometimes watched them, then looked at Loghain, and both men would share a brief laugh that Alistair didn't understand.

At the outset of the journey, Alistair was told the trip to Denerim would take about a week and a half. It seemed odd to him at first since most in the party expected it to take less time, especially given Loghain's muttering. Then he realized he was used to going to Denerim with Eamon and Isolde. The arlessa always rode in a carriage and it was far slower than men on horseback.

Despite a shorter journey than he was used it, it was less comfortable. Riding in the back of a wagon, while not exactly the lap of luxury, he at least had some freedom to move, to even hop out and stretch his legs if he wanted. Riding with his father, caught between the front of the saddle and Maric's plate armor left him stiff and sore. Coupled with spending the better part of each day on a horse, and by the time they camped for the night, he was often hobbling into the bedroll he was given.

On the morning of the fifth day, Alistair stood waiting for Maric's guards to finish breaking down the camp, glaring balefully at his father's black charger.

"So," his father said, coming up behind him, "ready to try riding on your own today?"

"Ser?"

"Don't think I haven't noticed you limping around in the evening. I know it can't be comfortable for you, riding doubled with me, so we thought we'd try you out on your own horse."

Alistair gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. One of his father's men led a smaller, brown horse over to them. It stood quietly and Alistair just looked at it.

"Here," Maric said, touching his shoulder and drawing him closer. "She's a good girl, old enough that we don't have to worry about any nonsense." Clucking his tongue, Maric petted the horse, holding her head so Alistair could do the same. Her nose was velvety soft under his hand and Alistair laughed when she blew out warm breath against his hand and it tickled.

"See? She likes you. Don't worry. I'll be holding the lead the entire time. Now, up you go."

Alistair placed his foot gingerly into his father's laced hands and he was boosted up, swinging up surprisingly easily. He held onto the front of the saddle as Maric adjusted the stirrups to fit the length of his legs.

It was scary, being up on a horse by himself without his father's solid bulk behind him and controlling the horse. Still holding the lead, Maric showed him how to hold the reins, how to sit in the saddle to maintain his balance and how to stand slightly to stretch his legs while riding. Satisfied that Alistair seemed to at least understand the basics, he led the horse at a walk so Alistair could get used to riding alone.

It was strange, but the longer he was mounted, the more used to it Alistair got and began to relax a little. His father smiled encouragingly at him and he found himself grinning back. He felt like one of the boys in Redcliffe, whose fathers had shown them things in exactly the same way. It all seemed so…normal, and slowly a warm, tingly feeling kindled in his stomach.

Maric finally seemed satisfied and led the mare back over to his own horse. The black sniffed at Alistair's mount and then snorted, dismissing them both. Still holding onto the lead, Maric swung up into the saddle and drew the mare closer, so that he would be close enough if Alistair needed him.

While they had been busy, his father's men had finished packing up the camp and now they were ready to head out. The first of the guards started down the road and Maric, Alistair and Loghain took up their customary positions in the middle of the column.

He never did find out what spooked his horse on the third day.

One minute, he was riding beside his father, talking about something unimportant, and the next his horse was rearing under him. He tried to hold on, and managed to the first time the mare reared. But a second time was too much, and he found himself sailing through the air.

That was actually a little bit fun, underneath the terror, right until he landed.

On the road.

Hard.

Pain exploded along his back, head and arms and legs. For one heart stopping moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't make his lungs work to draw in air. He finally managed to draw in a choking gasp of air, and then another.

"Alistair!"

He heard his name being called and tried to sit up. Hands pressed his shoulders back down and something leaned over him, blocking the sun from his eyes. His father.

"Just lie still. Don't move." Maric's voice was tense, anxious, but the hands holding him down were gentle, exerting just enough force to keep him from moving. The hands moved off his shoulders and down his arms, squeezing gently. "Tell me if it hurts."

Maric didn't let him move until he had checked nearly every inch of him and made him wiggle all his fingers and toes. Then he gently helped his son sit up, softly feeling the rising knot on the back of Alistair's head. Frowning, his father took a good long look in his eyes and then nodded.

"Aside from that bump on your head, which is going to hurt a whole lot later, and some bruises, you'll be fine."

The sound of a metal shod boot grinding on the stone of the highway next to him caught Alistair's attention and made him look up. Loghain stood looking down at them, an inscrutable expression on his face. Alistair flushed. Loghain made him nervous. It seemed like the man was always judging him and finding him wanting. He waited miserably for the teyrn to make some biting comment.

"Well," Loghain began and Alistair braced himself, "he's definitely your son."

There was a moment of silence—in which Alistair tried to understand the comment—before Maric started laughing.

Alistair looked at his father, but Maric was looking up at Loghain, a wide grin on his face and laughing. For his part, Loghain's visage softened into…something. What, Alistair wasn't sure. Not a smile—he was fairy convinced that if Loghain ever did actually smile his face would crack and fall off—but an expression of something less harsh. It was then that Alistair understood that the comment wasn't really about him, but about something Loghain and Maric shared that was far likely older than him.

Wiping his eyes, Maric rose and helped Alistair up, dusting him off. "Come on, we'll put you back with me for the rest of the way back."

He hesitated. Not that he wanted to end laid out on the road again, but he didn't want to give up. The knights at Redcliffe always said you got thrown at least once when learning to ride and that you had to get right back on. Going back to riding with his father now would feel like he failed. Not the mention he wasn't looking forward to having his bruises pressed against all that silverite plate.

"Uh, ser? I'd…like to try again, if that's all right."

One of Maric's brows rose. "Are you sure?"

"Um, I think so. I mean, yes, yes, I'm sure," he added hastily at the doubtful expression on Maric's face. "I think I could hold on a little better now and I'll be watching for it. I just wasn't paying attention. Please, I'd like to try again."

With a thoughtful hum, Maric looked at Loghain, who in turn looked at him, the mask that let no thought or emotion through back in place. "Maybe not so much like his father after all," he said quietly. He shrugged. "Let the boy try again. Maybe by next time he'll have learned how to fall."

"All right, then. Up you go." His father lifted him into the saddle. "I'll keep her snugged up to me a little closer, so if she rears again she won't be able to go so high. And if it happens, try to hold on as best you can."

"Yes, ser."

Threading the reins back through his fingers like he'd been taught, Alistair took a deep breath, trying to relax. Every step the horse took made him wince, the motion jarring the rapidly rising bruises. The last couple days of this trip were not going to be fun.

As the guards formed up around them again, Alistair caught several of them giving him approving looks and small grins. One of them even nudged him as he rode by, murmuring, "Good on you, lad."

He flushed with pride, trying to sit up a little straighter in the saddle. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Loghain watching him and turned to look the teyrn full in the face, without trying to show his nervousness. The thoughtful look returned for a moment before Loghain turned his gaze away, dismissing him.

Alistair let out the breath he'd been holding, feeling unaccountably like he'd won some sort of victory. That had been…interesting. As the column picked up speed, he turned his focus back to his horse, determined not to get thrown again—and also to keep his thoughts off the fact that Denerim really was just a couple days away. Alistair was pretty sure that once he arrived, problems like not getting thrown from his horse were going to be among the least of his worries.

Denerim lay less than a day away and they had settled down for the last night on the road. Camp was set up as efficiently as it had been on each of the previous nights, and soon all the tents were up and two freshly caught deer were cooking over the fires.

As Alistair crouched by one of the fires, breathing in the rich scent of roasting venison, he looked over to where his father was sprawled by his own fire, Loghain and Teagan next to him.

On the journey, they had passed towns more than large enough to provide lodging for the night, but the king had avoided them. It could have been the cost that made Maric eschew the comforts of an inn—Alistair had no real idea about what something like that would cost, only that it probably wasn't cheap—but he didn't think so. They'd also passed keeps and castles of various nobles. They had risen on distant and not-so-distant hills and rises, solid stone structures more than large enough to hold the contingent of his father's men.

No, he was getting the suspicion that Maric liked traveling like this. And the thought occurred to him that his father might have lied to him that night in Redcliffe castle, and that maybe Maric had never gotten used to sleeping in one spot. He shivered. The thought wasn't reassuring and left him wondering how badly he would adjust once they got to the city.

Trying to put the thoughts out of his head, because thinking about it wasn't helping, he turned his attention back to the roasting meat, watching the golden juices drip off into the fire. Would it be possible to swipe his finger across the haunch real quick to get just a quick taste? He didn't think anyone would mind, and edged slightly closer to the spit.

"You'll burn yourself."

Alistair started guiltily at the gravelly voice and looked over his shoulder to seen who had spoken.

An older man, his face worn and scarred, was watching him sternly. Alistair licked his lips and was about to apologize when the man suddenly grinned, the lines on his face becoming ones of humor, and he let out a breath realizing he wasn't in trouble.

"It'll be done soon enough, lad. No sense burning your fingers because you can't wait another half hour." The man patted the log he was sitting on and Alistair walked over to join him. Together, he and the warrior watched the fire.

It had been easy for Alistair to stick to what he knew on the trip. He'd always been more comfortable around the soldiers and working men of Redcliffe and in camp he naturally gravitated toward the same types of men. There had been a day or two of the guards being a little unsure of his presence, but he suspected his father had said something since after that they accepted him without comment.

They were kind to Alistair, answering questions or letting him help out with tasks if he asked to. That kindness turned into a warmth as the soldiers realized he wasn't some spoiled lout looking to bother them or waste their time with useless tasks. In the time they'd been on the road, Alistair had learned how to pitch a tent, start a campfire, dig a latrine ditch and the basics of how to care for armor and weapons.

He liked spending time with these men, even when it amounted to nothing more than just allowing him to sit and watch, as he was doing now.

"You're a good lad."

"Ser?" Alistair looked at the knight.

"You. You're one of the good ones, I think. You're quiet, you keep a civil tongue in your head and you do as you're bid. Quick, too, especially here." He reached out and tapped the center of Alistair's forehead with two fingers.

Alistair flushed. The man was kind, if what he said was untrue. He'd gotten in trouble enough at Redcliffe to know he was loud and clumsy and that he spoke out far too often. As for doing as he was bid, well, that was better than a cuff to the back of the head. And he didn't need the memories of being scolded and chastised to remind him of how not quick his mind actually was.

"Modest, too." He grinned as Alistair blinked at him. "You don't believe me, but you'll see. Ought to be interesting to see you with the crown prince."

Oh, Maker. Cailan. Alistair's stomach clenched at the thought of his half-brother. Memories of the one time he'd met the prince hadn't left him very hopeful of what would be waiting for him in Denerim.

The warrior chuckled at his grimace. "Don't look so troubled, lad. You'll be fine. Just remember you're as much the king's son as he is and don't let him boss you about."

"Easy for you to say," Alistair muttered and the man laughed outright at that.

"Aye, I suppose it is," he said, clapping Alistair on the shoulder. "Mark my words, though. Your da's a good sort, too, and I think you favor him, as does Cailan. Now, I think that deer's just about done, so get yourself back over to the king and we'll see about getting you fed."

Alistair nodded, getting to feet. Walking back to the nobles, he wondered how much one soldier could see from a boy in little more than a week to have the confidence that said boy would be just fine in the royal palace.

No sooner had he sat back down at Maric's fire than several men brought platters of food and some jugs of ale over. Obviously, though they had passed towns and not stopped, some of the men had gone for provisions since there was fresh bread to go with the venison. Alistair saved his for the end, when he could dip the bread in the drippings, sopping up the tasty liquid. Teagan occasionally snuck him a sip of his ale, making his nose wrinkle at the bitter taste, but taking in nonetheless because it gave him a thrill to have something usually reserved for adults.

Warm and full, he drowsed by the fire, the low voices of the men lulling him into a comfortable stupor. The sound of his name made him blink at his father. "What?"

"I was just saying, Alistair, that we'll be in Denerim tomorrow, and after Redcliffe, it might be something of a shock."

Alistair shrugged. "It's big, and there's too many people, but I don't think it'll shock me like it did the first time."

"First time?" Maric's voice was puzzled and he frowned quizzically. "Alistair…have you been to Denerim before?"

He nodded. "Yes, ser. Arl Eamon's been letting me come and stay at his estate when he goes to the Landsmeets."

There was silence around the fire and he looked up to see the three men looking at him intently. The scrutiny made him squirm slightly and he sighed in relief when they looked at each other instead, something unspoken passing between them.

"Alistair," Teagan said carefully, "I usually stay at Eamon's estate during the Landsmeets and I don't think I've ever seen you there."

With a laugh, Alistair shook his head. "I don't stay in the estate, Bann Teagan. I stay in the kennels." He smiled at the memory of cuddling next to warm, furry, wriggly puppies and of helping the kennel master care for them. That was always fun, and he felt a small pang of loss to realize he wasn't going to get to do that anymore.

It took him a moment to notice the deafening silence around him, not only among the nobles, but among the guards who were carefully and unobtrusively backing away. When he looked up, Maric's face was white with shock.

"Y-You…" he began and then stopped, gathering himself. "You stayed in kennels?"

"Y-Yes, s-ser," he stammered, the warm feeling around the fire completely dispelled. And suddenly Maric was The King and not his father and Alistair wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and die."

The king surged to his feet. "I'll kill him," he said simply. He turned and started to walk away from his fire. Loghain and Teagan both hurriedly got to their feet, Teagan reaching out to grab Maric's arm, and Alistair realized that his father's stark sentence wasn't just a meaningless statement.

"Your Majesty, please. Calm down a moment. This is not the time for hasty action. I'm sure Teyrn Loghain would agree."

"Indeed," Loghain drawled. "Get a good night's sleep first, Maric. I might even join you if you leave in the morning."

"My lords, please! Your Majesty, I understand you're angry, but—"

"Angry?" Maric cut him off incredulously. "Angry? Bann Teagan, angry doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling right now. I've just discovered that due to your brother's foolish actions, I've likely been within a hundred feet of my son several times and never knew it. And not only that, but that your brother saw fit to have my son sleep with the dogs!"

Maric flung his arms out to the side, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Alistair was caught between the desire of wanting to slink away into the darkness and wanting to see where exactly his father's tirade was going to go. He chose to stay put.

As it turned out, the tirade didn't go much further as Maric seemed unable to put voice to his anger besides a few choice, pithy curses. He finally just shook his head and asked, "Did you know about this?"

Teagan's eyes widened. "No, of course not!"

"Then we'll discuss this later." With that, he walked away from the fire, into the darkness.

Alistair saw a couple of guards follow his father. Without prompting, he immediately went to the larger tent he shared with Maric, pulled his boots off, and crawled into his bedroll. Hot tears dripped from his eyes and he scrubbed at them angrily, not knowing what he was feeling or why.

He lay awake for a long time, long enough to hear his father return and enter their tent. He kept his back to his father as he heard him putting things away and taking his own boots off. There was silence for a long time, and Alistair thought Maric might have gone to sleep, when he heard his father's quiet step next to him and the quiet rustling of his clothes as he sat next to Alistair's bedroll.

Finally growing too tense with the silence, Alistair turned over.

"I'm sorry I upset you, Alistair. I'm sorry that you're seeing me angry like this. It's not fair to you."

"You wouldn't be this angry if you'd left me in Redcliffe," Alistair replied quietly. "You can send me back, if you want. I won't be upset." That was a lie, but he wasn't about to show anyone how much of a baby he was.

"This last week's been really great, but I understand that I'm too much trouble," he went on, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I won't mind, ser."

"But I would mind." Maric shook his head. "I need you to understand that I'm not angry with you, Alistair. I'm angry at someone I trusted to do something incredibly important and it appears that the more I discover, the more I learn how absolutely this person failed me."

"Arl Eamon."

"Yes, Arl Eamon." Alistair heard the frustration in the king's voice. "I'm beginning to wonder why I ever sent you there. It's not like I ever wanted to send you away in the first place."

That admission was probably unintentional, something said without conscious thought, and something let go inside of Alistair when he heard it. A decade of wondering why suddenly came to a head.

"Then why did you?" he asked harshly. "If you didn't want to send me away, then why did you? Why didn't you keep me?"

Pain and sorrow flickered across Maric's face. "The answer to that is…very complicated, Alistair. I wanted to keep you. From the first moment you were placed in my arms, I loved you and wanted you with me."

"Then why didn't you? You're the king! You can do what you want!" Alistair could hear the hurt and anger in his voice, and flinched back from his own outburst. Maker's breath, he was surely going to give the king every reason to send him back.

But Maric merely nodded, accepting Alistair's anger.

"You're right, I could have kept you. There's nothing that could have stopped me if I had decided to do that. But…I was trying to do right by your mother, Alistair. To honor her wishes. We were both trying to do what was best for you, but I never envisioned it would go like this, and I think I can safely say neither did she."

"My mother?" No one ever spoke about Alistair's mother. He didn't even know her name. The only thing he had of hers was the amulet around his neck. Out of everything he owned, meager as the collection was, it was his most prized possession. It was his and his alone, having belonged to him for all of his life and the only thing not given to him out of necessity or as a gift.

"Yes, your mother. That's another very complicated story, and one that I'll tell you someday, but not now. Suffice it to say that mistakes were made by everyone along the way, and sadly, you're the one who ended up paying for them.

"I will make this up to you, Alistair, as much as I can, if you'll let me. I know nothing can change what's happened, but it can be better."

Maric's voice was intense, almost pleading, and for the first time, Alistair was beginning to understand that sending him away had hurt Maric. Not in the same way it had hurt Alistair, but maybe just as deeply. For a moment, the voice in his head surged forward. Good, it said. It had better hurt. He deserves it. They all deserve it.

He shoved it back. The voice had helped him, become a source of strength where none other had existed—as both armor and a weapon to face the struggles life threw at him. But it wasn't helping now. So he ignored it as best he could. It wasn't gone, but at least it was quiet.

Instead, he just nodded jerkily. Maric's hand hovered over his head for a moment before settling on the back of it, a warm, comforting weight.

"Get some sleep," Maric said hoarsely and got up to head to his own bedroll.

Sleep eluded Alistair for a long time, long enough to hear the noises from the other side of the tent that sounded suspiciously like weeping.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Maric was gone from their tent by the time Alistair awakened. When he eventually pulled his boots on and stumbled outside, his father was talking to some of his men, no sign of last night's turmoil evident on his face. He wondered if he'd actually heard what he thought. There was no way he could ask. He very much doubted Maric would appreciate him asking about something so personal.

Everyone appeared in a hurry to depart, and already most of the camp was struck and horses being loaded. Once he was out of the tent, a handful of guards immediately began taking it down. His cheeks burned as he realized that they'd been waiting on him and hurried over to his father, who was for the first time Alistair had seen, unarmored and dressed in finery.

As they waited for everything to be ready, the guard he'd spoken to last night walked by and handed him some bread and cheese to eat while their horses were readied. Alistair smiled back in thanks and proceeded to eat quietly while watching the men work. When everything was done, he hastily gulped down the last of his breakfast and took a few swallows from a proffered water skin. Then mounting his horse—something he was proud to be getting better at—he waited for the others to be ready.

They arrived in Denerim a couple hours past noon, and Alistair had to admit privately that it was a whole lot more impressive when you rode in next to the king rather than sitting in the back of a wagon.

Guards at the main gate greeted Maric and his party cheerfully, clearing traffic off to the side so the king could ride through unimpeded. As they traveled the wide, main streets deeper into the city, people drew back to allow them to pass. People called out as the rode past, and Maric responded with little waves or head gestures. Alistair noticed not a few small curious looks directed at him, people putting their heads together to whisper quietly, and he squirmed in the saddle, wanting to be anywhere except where he was.

Their route through the capital allowed him to see more than he had in the past, especially the other noble estates. He had always thought Arl Eamon's estate was big, but some of the others…. He gawked at the size, the gray stone castles rising high into the air.

His awe of those estates was eclipsed as they arrived at the gates to the palace and he saw the royal palace for the first time. He gasped. It was the biggest building he'd ever seen and he was going to be living there. He swallowed hard.

Grooms ran out as soon as they stopped in the main courtyard, beginning to unload the pack horses and leading horses away as their riders dismounted. Alistair slid down off his own horse and quickly hurried off to the side, waiting out of the way. He busied himself with looking around, absorbing the new sights.

Loghain and Teagan both dismounted, and each conferred briefly with Maric before walking up the steps into the palace. The teyrn didn't spare him a second glance, but Teagan looked over and gave him a quick reassuring grin before he left.

A hand touched his shoulder and he look up to see his father looking down at him.

"Ready to head in?" Maric asked him quietly. Alistair bit his lip and nodded. "You'll be okay," his father reassured him, keeping his hand on his shoulder as he guided Alistair up the wide steps.

The great double doors swung open as they approached and a man in a more formal type of livery stood waiting for them. He stepped forward as they drew near, bowing to Maric. "Welcome home, your Majesty."

"Ah, thank you," Maric replied. "Seneschal Farrell, this is my son, Alistair."

The seneschal bowed to Alistair. "Your Highness," he murmured. "Welcome to the royal palace."

"Um, thanks," Alistair said, cheeks burning.

"Did you set up everything like I asked before I left?" his father asked.

"Yes, Sire," Farrell replied. "I've had rooms prepared for him not far from your own, and have personally made sure everything he needs for now is in there. I have arranged for Mistress Audrey to attend him and Master Warwick says he can begin lessons on the morrow if that's what you wish."

Glancing down at Alistair, his father frowned thoughtfully. "I think we may want to hold off on the lessons, at least for a day or two. I'd like to get him settled in. Actually…." Maric's frown deepened. "I'd like to talk to Audrey about something. I don't think I want Alistair going to Warwick just yet."

"As you wish, Sire. I believe Mistress Audrey is already arranging for baths, so she should be available as soon you've had a chance to refresh yourselves."

"Excellent, Farrell. If you would…." Maric gestured with his hand toward the hallway.

"Of course, your Majesty. Follow me." Farrell bowed again and turned, leading them farther into the palace. Alistair followed quietly.

The halls of the palace were wide, the walls made of the same ubiquitous gray stone and supported by dark, heavy support beams. The timbers were carved, covered with intricate knot work and depictions of mabari and dragons. In between the supports, the walls held a multitude of decorations—weapons and shield, paints, flags.

The paintings caught his attention. Great murals depicting epic battles, smaller frames showing stunning visages and scenes, and portraits. Alistair was startled to realize that some of the people shown bore resemblances to Maric, and that these people must be his ancestors. He wanted to stay and take a closer look, but the two men were walking quickly and he was unable to. Perhaps he could sneak down later.

The seneschal guided them deeper into the palace, up wide curving staircases and turning this way and that down long hallways. They passed people as they walked, most dressed in livery similar to Farrell's. The servants stopped and stared, whispering behind their hands once they passed. Alistair edged closer to Maric.

"Ah, here we are." Stopping before a large door, Farrell moved forward to open it, stepping into the room beyond and waiting for them. Maric and Alistair followed.

"I trust everything will be to your liking, your Highness." Farrell stood, looking expectantly at him.

"My liking?"

"These are your rooms, Alistair," Maric said gently.

Alistair blinked, jaw dropping as he looked around him. The room was huge! The same gray stone as the rest of the palace made up the floor and walls, but here the ceilings were high and there were large windows along one wall. There was even a full window seat beneath the largest. Thick, brightly colored rugs were scattered on the floor, soft and plush underfoot. The same type of paintings and wall hangings decorated the walls—no weapons—though they were of quieter, prettier scenes than the others he had seen.

There was a heavy desk set along one wall, as well as a large wardrobe, a bookcase and several chests. Through a doorway, Alistair could see another, smaller room, the corner of a tub just visible. But what really caught his eyes was the wide bed. Bigger than even the one he'd slept in during his last night in Redcliffe, it was high, made of heavy, dark wood that shimmered faintly from polishing. While the bed at Redcliffe had been odd to sleep in, this one, with the quietly expensive bed coverings and small mountain of pillows, made him want to sink down into it and sleep for a day or so.

"Alistair?"

He turned back to his father. "Um, yes?"

"Is everything all right? Do you need anything else?"

"What? Oh, no! This is great! Perfect!"

"Very good, your Highness. I'll send Mistress Audrey to attend him now, Sire. Servants will up shortly with hot water for the both of you."

With that, Farrell bowed and walked from the room, Maric following and speaking to him quietly in the hall and leaving Alistair alone in the room. Unable to help himself, Alistair walked over to the bed, testing the firmness, and was pleased when it didn't seem quite as soft as the one at Redcliffe. He'd probably be able to sleep on this better.

Indulging his curiosity, he explored the desk, pulling open drawers that held little besides some parchment, quills and a small, stoppered jar of ink. The bookcase held some books, but as he couldn't read, they didn't hold much interest for him yet. The mostly bare shelves might be a good place to put his figures, though.

He was about to pull the wardrobe open when he noticed Maric leaning against the doorframe, watching him. Alistair jumped back. "Sorry," he said immediately.

Maric shook his head. "Don't apologize, Alistair. This is your room. Everything in here if yours to do with as you please. Well, aside from destroying it. I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that." At Alistair's shocked expression, he smiled. "A joke, Alistair. I was joking."

Alistair grinned briefly. "Is this really all mine?" It was hard to believe. To go from having almost nothing to this was…. He didn't even know how to describe it. It was awesome and incredible and unbelievable, and in the back of his mind, that little voice was waiting for it to all be snatched away so it could say, I told you so.

Maric sighed and pursed his lips slightly. Pushing himself off the doorframe, he walked toward and past Alistair, touching his arm gently to draw his son along with him.

"Here, sit," said Maric, sitting down on the bed himself, drawing one leg up and leaving the other touching the floor. Alistair hopped up facing his father, crossing his legs and waiting for his father to speak.

There was a pause while Maric rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. "I don't think," he finally began, "that I truly understood what you would be coming from, Alistair. For all that I talked about having trouble getting used to sleeping inside, that was more due to simply being in the same spot for so long. So much of my life was spent on the run, avoiding people who wanted me dead, and then not having to worry about that was what was odd. I was a prince—albeit an exiled one—and I enjoyed many of the perks that came with it.

"Cailan is a prince, has been raised as one. He's only known the life that he leads now, and that's been a happy one. For the most part." Maric's face grew clouded and sad. "He lost Rowan too young to remember her, and I…. I made mistakes with him, too. But even so, he's only ever known wealth and privilege."

His gaze focused on Alistair. "But you've never had that, not even close to it. I didn't know how little you had, or understand how difficult this might be for you. I mean, I knew it would be hard. One doesn't just simply move into the nobility effortlessly—and you could ask Loghain about that—and now I realize exactly how hard this is going to be for you.

"For now, I don't think I'm going to introduce you to very many of the nobility. And no, it's not because I am ashamed or embarrassed by you. If anything, you're the one who should feel that about me. But sending you out into that circle would be like throwing you to the wolves. You're too young, too innocent to weather that just yet, and I won't have them doing that to you.

"There are some I will introduce you to. Good, solid men and women who won't judge you for things you had no control over."

"Like Teyrn Loghain does?" He asked the question quietly, and knew it was daring to ask such a thing since his father and Loghain were friends, but wanted to know anyway.

"Loghain…." Maric gave a rueful half-smile. "There are many days when even I don't understand him. But no, Loghain doesn't judge people like that. He very much judges people on their worth and merit, and he's very good at seeing to the heart of person. He is wrong sometimes, but not often. He doesn't know you, not yet, so he can't judge you very well yet."

"He doesn't like me."

"No, he doesn't," said Maric truthfully. "But that has nothing to do with you. Unfortunately, Alistair, for Loghain, you represent all the parts of me that he hates. To him, you're the sum of all the things I've done wrong."

Alistair looked down, plucking at the cover beneath his fingers. To hear it stated so plainly left him shaken. A warm hand under his chin forced him to look back up.

"You're not," Maric said firmly. "You, Alistair, are the sum of all the things I've managed to get right, usually by stumbling over them."

Maric placed both hands on Alistair's shoulders. "You needed to hear that. I'm beginning to understand that now. You deserve this and it won't be taken away from you, I promise. And if you don't believe me now, I'll keep telling you until you do. All right?"

He nodded mutely. It was as if a weight had been lifted. He believed Maric, believed him so completely that the doubts of the last week and a half just disappeared, leaving him light-headed with relief. He was suddenly tired and wrung out.

It was without conscious thought that he moved toward his father, across the space between them, to hug him, burrowing his face in his father's broad chest. He simply needed the contact, needed to feel the comforting hold of someone who cared for him. An experience he'd rarely ever had at Redcliffe outside of an occasional hug from Teagan or Gertie.

His father's arms came around him and the two just sat for several moments. Finally, Alistair pulled back a little so he could look at Maric.

"Thank you," he said simply. He didn't know how else to express what he felt—that it wasn't that he was being given things or being sheltered from those who would harm him. It was that someone cared enough to do those things for him.

Maric seemed to understand. He nodded once, ruffled Alistair's hair, and stood up. "Come on. Mistress Audrey should be here in just a moment and best not to let her catch us marring her clean linens with more than a week's worth of road dust. She'd tan both our hides and I don't much fancy trying to sit in my throne if she does."

Alistair laughed at the image of Maric squirming on some big ornate throne like he had sometimes done on a kitchen stool back in Redcliffe. Maric joined him, and suddenly, for the first time since his father had come into his life, everything was right.

Mistress Audrey turned out to be plump older woman, with a wealth of steel gray hair pinned up on her head. She bustled into Alistair's room, followed by several servants bearing hot water, and shooed Maric out. She directed the servants to quickly pour the water into the tub, hustled Alistair into the bathing chamber, and said she would get to work setting up so she could alter his clothes when he was done.

Blinking at the sudden change, he looked around. The bathing room was large, with a deep stone tub built it and sunk into the floor. There was a wash stand holding a gleaming pitcher and basin, and a covered chamber pot. A sturdy wooden stand held several soft towels and a fresh change of clothes was laid out on a bench.

Alistair use the simple hook and latch lock on the door to make sure no one would just barge in. He tested the water and found it still really hot. Grinning he shed his clothes and stepped in gingerly, hissing as the water touched his skin, and then sighing in relief as he leaned back against the edge of the tub.

This…this he could get used to, he thought to himself as he plunged under the surface. He'd always thought it kind of silly how so many at Redcliffe castle had expected others to do things for them—even simple tasks. It seemed different now that he was the one benefitting from it. And if he had to bathe like so many seemed to expect him to, he wasn't sorry that others had to do all the hard work. Maker knew he hated doing it for others in Redcliffe.

Coming back up for air, he explored the various bottles and soaps set on a stone ledge along the back side of the tub. Most were lightly scented with flowers or other things that smelled "girly" and it took him a little while to find one that just smelled like soap. Finally locating one, he set to work scrubbing dirt he hadn't even been aware of off his skin and out of his hair.

The water was cloudy when he finished, but Alistair figured at this point there were equal amounts of soap and dirt, so soaking a bit longer couldn't hurt. The water was still hot, and simply sitting there left him feeling boneless and drowsy. He leaned back, letting the heat leech his aches away, closing his eyes for just a minute….

A brisk knock on the door jerked him awake. He sat up quickly, splashing water over the side.

"Your Highness?" Mistress Audrey called through the door. "The water must be cool by now. Do you need anything else?"

"U-Uh, no! I mean, I'll be out in a minute!" The water had cooled off, barely tepid and Alistair realized he must have fallen asleep. He hopped out of the tub quickly, shivering, and reached for a towel. Drying off, he tugged the new clothes on, noting that they were slightly too big, and unlatched the door.

While he'd been in the tub, Audrey had apparently emptied the wardrobe, the clothes inside sorted into several piles. The woman herself stood in the middle of the room, beside a sort of low stool, an open basket near her feet.

"Ah," she said as he emerged, "I thought so after seeing you. Right up here, young master, and we'll get your clothes sorted out."

As soon as he stepped onto the stool, Audrey knelt, and immediately began turning up the cuffs of his trousers, hands deftly inserting flickering needles to mark the new hem. She repeated her actions with his shirt, and then sent him behind a screen that had been set up to carefully take them off and put new ones on.

He lost count of the number of times she had him do this, and he quickly became thoroughly sick of it.

"Mistress Audrey," he said, climbing up onto the stool yet again.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm not taking anyone's clothes, am I?"

She laughed merrily. "Oh, no, you're not, dear. Don't worry. These are some of Cailan's clothes that he outgrew long ago. We'll tailor them for you now until we get your own made."

"Oh." Well, that would explain how nice these clothes were. They weren't ostentatious, but were made of high quality cloth, with fine detail. He shrugged. Really, who was he to complain about hand-me-downs?

Finally, she declared him done and sent him to change into clothes that fit him without needing alterations.

"The girls and I should have that done for you in a few days, your Highness. Now, you've a few hours yet before dinner. Might I suggest a nap? The last few days must have taken a lot out of you."

Looking at the high bed, he nodded. A nap sounded great. "Thank you, Mistress Audrey."

"Oh, please, call me Miss Audie. Everyone does. No need to be quite so formal."

Alistair grinned. "Okay!"

Miss Audie smiled back at him, picking up her basket. "Do you need anything else before I go, your Highness?"

"No, I'm all set. Thank you. But…do you mind calling me Alistair? I mean, I don't want you to get in trouble or anything. It's just…." It's just that I miss hearing people say my name.

Her smile softened, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. "Alistair. That's a lovely name. Of course I'll call you 'Alistair.' I think most people set far to much store in titles as it is."

"Thanks," he breathed in relief."

"Now, you settle yourself down. You're practically falling asleep where you stand. I'll come and fetch you before dinner." And with that, Miss Audie bobbed a quick courtesy and swept from the room.

Alistair waited until the door was closed before looking at the high bed. After a quick look to make sure he really was alone, he ran and hurled himself onto the bed. He laughed as he landed with a whump. He'd always wanted to do that.

Laying on the soft bed—and he was right, not as soft as at Redcliffe and easier to sleep on—he sighed quietly. His last thought before his eyes drifted shut and he entered the Fade was maybe this was going to work out after all.

When Miss Audie finally came to wake him, the sun was low in the sky, beginning to set. He rubbed his eyes with balled fists and stretched, his jaw cracking during one particularly wide yawn. After tugging on his clothes to smooth some of the wrinkles out, he followed her back down the labyrinthine hallways to a very small dining room, with a modest table set for four.

"Have a good nap?" asked Maric once they were alone.

"Yeah, the bed was really nice."

"I'm glad you like it. Hungry?"

"Starving," Alistair confessed.

Maric grinned. "Ah, that's a tone I know well. We'll eat very shortly, just as soon as—Ah!" He cocked his head to the side, listening. "Yes, I think that's them now."

Alistair turned toward the door, also listening as the faint sound of footsteps and quiet voices grew louder. He recognized Bann Teagan's voice and drew a quick breath, also recognizing the other speaker. It was older than the last time he'd heard it, a bit deeper, but not yet quite a grown man's voice.

Teagan and Cailan turned into the dining room. There was a brief moment of hesitation from Teagan before the bann moved off to the side, out of the way.

Cailan stopped, his reply to something Teagan said dying on his lips. He focused immediately on Alistair, looking him up and down and frowning slightly. This was very different from when he'd accidently bumped into Cailan at Redcliffe. There, the prince had almost instantly dismissed him, paying him no more mind than he would any other servant far below his notice. Now his brother scrutinized him, a slight crease forming between his brows as he contemplated his younger brother.

There was a palpable tension in the room, a sense of waiting from to two men to see what the result of this meeting was. Alistair held his breath. He was torn between wanting to hide, become the nobody Cailan had met once before, and meet his brother's gaze proudly, affecting a confidence he didn't have yet.

He ended up looking Cailan in the face and then away, before looking back again. Cailan had Maric's eyes, the same shade and shape, but there was a judgment in them that Alistair had never seen—a look that said Cailan was measuring him and weighing his worth.

"So this is him," Cailan remarked.

"Yes," said Maric evenly, "it is."

There was another moment of waiting, and then Cailan smiled and Alistair let out the breath he'd been holding. His brother stepped forward to offer him a hand and Alistair took it. They shook briefly, no overt warmth in the gesture, but neither did he detect any hostility or resentment from Cailan, which had been his biggest worry.

They sat then to eat, and Alistair was content to let the others talk, conversation following easily around him. Cailan chatted eagerly about the hunt Teagan had arranged for a few days hence, and then Alistair understood that Teagan had come to Denerim to distract Cailan more than to be a support to him.

He felt a stab of jealousy. He'd always felt closer to Teagan than anyone else, and thought the man had felt close to him. But Cailan was his actual blood relative, and while Alistair might look on Teagan as an uncle, he really was Cailan's uncle.

He wasn't left to dwell on those thoughts long as the others asked him gentle questions every so often to draw him into the conversation.

When dinner was done, Cailan and Teagan excused themselves, leaving Maric and Alistair alone. Maric looked at him thoughtfully.

"Are you up for meeting someone, Alistair? If you're too tired, it's all right. But we have some free time right now, and if you don't mind…."

That piqued his interest. Who could his father want him to meet?

"Sure, that sounds great," he replied.

"Good. Come on, we'll go to my study. I was planning on meeting with him this evening anyway, so he should be by shortly."

Maric's study was large, dominated by a large desk on which papers and scrolls were piled. There were more bookcases here, nearly overflowing with heavy tomes. "Feel free to look at whatever you want. I want to attend to a few notes I received."

Once his father seated himself at his desk, immersed in his writing, Alistair drifted around the room, eventually coming to stop before a large map that dominated one wall. He couldn't read what was written on it, but it was very detailed and he ran his fingers along spidery networks of roads and rivers, tracing the peaks of mountains and the edges of forests.

There was a brief knock at the door, and it swung open without waiting for a response. Maric stood up to greet the man entering. He was tall, with dark skin—darker than Alistair had seen before—with black hair and eyes. A neat beard covered his jaw, and his hair was caught with a simple leather tie at the back of his head. He wore armor, an odd combination of leather and metal that Alistair hadn't seen before, and he was armed with a pair of daggers at his waist.

"Duncan!" Maric said fondly, catching the man in a rough embrace which Duncan returned.

"Your Majesty," Duncan replied, his voice just slightly rough, but tinged with good humor.

"I thought I told you to stop calling me that," Maric grinned.

"Indeed. But you know how well orders and I go along. I'm glad you're back, Maric."

"As am I. What I wanted to talk to you about can wait, Duncan. Right now, there's someone I want you to meet."

His father turned, and beckoned him over. Alistair approached slowly, watching as Duncan's eyes found and appraised him much the way Cailan's had. But unlike Cailan, Alistair felt Duncan's gaze penetrate deeper. And also unlike Cailan, when he finally stood by his father's side, Duncan crouched down, to look at him on the same level.

Duncan studied his face intently, and it reminded Alistair of that first long look Maric had taken of him at Redcliffe.

"He looks like you," he eventually said. "Except for the eyes."

"Yes," Maric replied softly. "Except for the eyes."

A look passed between the two men, and Alistair couldn't even begin to understand it. For a moment, each man looked angry and then sad, and he knew, somehow, that if he wasn't the cause of it, he was involved somehow.

"Alistair." Maric turned toward him. "I want you to meet Duncan, Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden."

Alistair's jaw dropped. "A Grey Warden? Really? Wow!

One of Duncan's eye brows quirked. "'Wow' indeed," he said gravely. "You seem rather impressed."

"I've heard stories about you! You're heroes!"

"Are we? Your son seems to have an appreciation for the Order that many people lack these days, my old friend."

"And that's as it should be."

"Indeed."

Duncan rose to his feet. "It is my very great pleasure to meet you, Alistair." He held out his hand. And when Alistair raised his, Duncan clasped his forearm in a strong grip, giving it a reassuring squeeze. As much as he had sensed Loghain's inherent disapproval of him, and Cailan's silent measuring, he got a feel of genuine warmth from Duncan's words and actions. It appeared his father had been right in saying there would be those that didn't hold his background against him, and he grinned at the dark man.

Maric squeezed his shoulder. "I do need to talk to Duncan alone, Alistair. I'll have one of the guards show you to you room, and then I'll be in to see you later. All right?"

"Okay…." He wanted to stay and talk to Duncan some more, see if he could coax some stories from him, but now was not the time. Whining never accomplished anything in Redcliffe, and he was sure it wouldn't work here either.

One of the guards in the hallway was directed to show Alistair back to his room. Once he was there, he looked around for something to do. His pack had been brought to his room, and he decided now was a good time to take his figures out.

He unwrapped them carefully and began arranging them on one of the shelves on his bookcase. He'd never been able to this before and took his time, placing and turning them to best show them off. When he was finally satisfied, he tucked his backpack back where it had been and pulled off his boots, placing them neatly at the foot of his bed.

Not quite tired enough to sleep, he walked over the window and sat on the seat, looking out. His room overlooked a small courtyard, and he could see guards standing at attention or walking through. These knights were more splendid, more grand than the ones at Redcliffe, and he was quite happy just watching them.

When fatigue finally did start to pull at his eyelids, he slid off the seat. Someone had come into his room while he was at dinner, turning back the bedclothes and laying out a sleeping shirt for him. He shrugged out of his clothes and dropped them into a wicker hamper, and then pulled the shirt over his head.

He padded around the room, dousing the few lamps that had been lit and climbed into bed, sliding beneath the sheet. Sleep stole over him gradually, and he was almost out when his door opened quietly. He's learned the sound of his father's gait by now and so he wasn't surprised by the gentle touch on his head.

"Did Duncan leave?"

Maric made a slight surprised sound. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Wasn't really asleep," he mumbled.

"I see." Dry humor touched his father's words. "In answer to your question, yes, Duncan left."

"Like him…."

"I like him, too."

He felt more than heard his father lean down, and felt the kiss his father pressed upon his temple. He smiled sleepily.

"Good night, Alistair."

"'Night, Dad…."

He though he might have heard a quick intake of breath, but he couldn't be sure. His eyes closed the last fraction of an inch they'd been open and he knew no more.

Chapter Text

Over the next several months, Alistair slowly settled into life in the palace. It wasn't always easy or straightforward, but he did adjust. He no longer jumped or squirmed when someone called him "your Highness" or "ser." When someone called out for him, he no longer expected to be chastised or reprimanded for doing something wrong.

That wasn't to say the journey was entirely smooth. Alistair proved constitutionally incapable of staying within the bounds of what was considered proper behavior for a prince. He still liked to hang out around the servants and soldiers of the palace, their mannerisms and speech comforting reminders of what he knew and was used to. The soldiers accepted his presence readily enough—apparently Cailan had also spent a lot of time with them—but it provoked some consternation among the household servants.

They tried—repeatedly—to shoo him away, but he kept creeping back. Alistair knew he was making a pest of himself, but he couldn't help it. There was a security that he craved by being surrounded by familiar things.

Gradually, they got used to him being around and stopped trying to return him to the more "proper" areas of the palace. He suspected this was helped by Miss Audie's unerring ability to somehow locate him no matter where he was. She would stroll in, chattering brightly to the other servants about something or other, and then "notice" Alistair, making a show of her surprise. After asking if he was bothering them—which the servants always said he wasn't—Miss Audie would smile, ruffle his hair, and leave. This resulted in the servants finally giving up and cheerfully accepting him in their midst. It seemed that as long as someone in charge approved of him being around, they weren't going to get in trouble and could relax.

Alistair happily spent a portion of his days bouncing between the servants and soldiers, slowly learning names, places and how to get around. From the servants, he learned little shortcuts around the palace. And as there was no animosity towards him here, they shared the latest and juiciest gossip with him. He didn't interact with the soldiers much, mostly keeping out of their way and contenting himself to watch. But when he was alone, either in some secluded section of the grounds or in his room, he would practice the moves he'd seen them using, an invisible sword his weapon as he sparred with his shadow.

He also got used to being part of a family. Cailan had warmed up to him more, and he began to include Alistair in some of his activities—sneaking pies from the kitchen late at night, giving him riding lessons, and teaching him how to climb trees. Cailan seemed to enjoy the childishness of some of their activities, laughing and grinning in a way that made him seem far younger.

When his father's duties allowed it, he, Maric and Cailan often ate private suppers, occasionally joined by Loghain, Teagan or Duncan. There they would talk of small, domestic things—what they'd done that day, what they were doing tomorrow, if anything important was coming up. Sometimes, and these were the nights Alistair loved best, Cailan would be off with some friends and the other adults would be busy, so it would be just his father and him.

Oddly, it had taken him longer to be comfortable with Maric than the others. Well, he still wasn't comfortable with Loghain, but that wasn't the point. Even though Maric never said anything, Alistair felt this enormous pressure to live up to the expectations that his father must have for him. He dreaded letting the king down lest he be sent back to Redcliffe or the Chantry—something that held actual fear for him now he'd gotten a taste of what his life could be like.

But his father never said anything like that. As the weeks passed, he continued to draw Alistair out. He listened patiently to Alistair's stories and asked questions to make sure he had everything he needed. And as Alistair grew more secure with his surroundings and began asking questions about anything that occurred to him, Maric answered them gladly. The hugs and kisses and little touches of affection turned into something he came to look forward to, rather than unexpected gestures that confused him.

They were enjoying one of those private dinners tonight. Cailan was dining at Teyrn Loghain's estate with Anora—Alistair was just beginning to grasp that someday his brother and Loghain's daughter would be married—and Maric hadn't extended an invitation to dine to the visitors he'd had today. That left the two of them to spend a quiet evening together.

Taking a sip of wine from his goblet, Maric pushed his plate away from him and asked, "How are your lessons coming?"

In the middle of attacking a chicken leg with gusto, Alistair said, "Miss Audie says that—" He stopped at Maric's raised eyebrow and hastily swallowed his mouthful of food, washing it down with some cider. His father wasn't very strict, but talking with your mouth full was definitely something he disapproved of. Cailan said it had to do with growing up around soldiers.

Swallowing one more time to make sure his throat was clear, he began again. "Miss Audie says I'm doing really well. I can read just about anything she gives me these days and I know all my letters. I've started learning script, but that's harder." He frowned. "Using quills is really hard. It's easy enough on the slate, but she says they might have to pluck every goose in the kingdom before I'm good at it."

Maric laughed and set down his goblet, reaching over to cover Alistair's hand where it lay on the table. "Don't feel bad, Alistair. You should hear my advisors lament over my penmanship. Leave that to the scribes. I don't think the men of our family are ever meant to wield a quill as their weapon of choice."

Alistair looked at his father's hand covering his own. His father's hands fascinated him. They were huge and strong, easily capable of crushing his own small ones. They were hands that had seen so much, the story of his father's life written in the scars and calluses that covered them, in the tense muscles of his fingers and veins that snaked along the back and up his arm.

Those hands had freed men and taken lives. Alistair didn't dare ask himself, and Maric never brought it up, but he'd heard the stories of how his father had beaten a man to death with his bare hands in order to escape the Orlesians. It was odd to think that the hands that had done so much violence were the same ones that held him now, warm and loving.

The silence stretched out and he looked up to see his father watching him. "Copper for your thoughts?" Maric asked softly.

Alistair shook his head, cheeks pinking slightly. He didn't want his father to think he was weird forthinking about his hands.

"All right. So what else does Miss Audie say?"

"Well, I know all my sums. She says I'll have to learn higher mathematics from Master Warwick. And she's begun teaching me some history."

"Hmmm, very good. You learn quickly."

Alistair grinned. "She gives me cookies when I learn something new."

His father chuckled. "I see. Well, as long as you're earning your reward that seems like a fine system to me. Did Audie say if you'll be ready to go to Warwick soon?"

He nodded. "She said she'd be talking to you about in a few weeks."

"Good, good." Maric leaned back in his chair and directed a stern look at him. "I hope you realize lessons with Warwick will be a lot harder and that he's not going to be giving you cookies. That won't be an excuse for you to neglect your studies."

Alistair ducked his head. "No, ser, I won't."

"I didn't think you would."

Maric leaned forward, placing his elbows on the tables and resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. "Are you happy, Alistair?"

"What?"

"Are you happy, here, living in the palace?"

For a moment, he just gaped at his father. "Are you serious? Of course!"

"So you don't wish you just a normal boy?"

"I, um, thought I was normal." Alistair frowned in consternation. "What's not normal about me?"

"No, no, I didn't…." Maric laughed. "You are perfectly normal, Alistair. What I mean was that you don't mind that you'll never live a normal life? I know you haven't seen much of it yet, but living…here will put demands on you, ask sacrifices of you. I want to make sure you're all right with that."

Alistair considered his father carefully. Maric often went oddly serious at times—sometimes falling into solemn introspection or asking deep questions that seemed to have little to do with the discussion at hand. At first, he'd assumed it had been because of something he'd done. But Cailan had reassured him, when he'd gotten up the courage to ask, that it was just the way their father was—that Maric had been that way ever since he could remember.

"I don't know what a normal life is like," he answered honestly. "I mean, I sort of saw what people consider to be normal when I lived in Redcliffe, but…." He shrugged.

"If you're asking if I want to go back to that, then no. I don't. I wouldn't trade this for anything. I like living here with you and Cailan. I like…I like having a home. Like a real home, not just some place I live. If that means I miss out on some stuff, I don't care. It can't be that great anyway."

Maric closed his eyes and let out a relieved breath. His body relaxed and he smiled at Alistair as he opened his eyes again. "I wanted to make sure. If that ever changes, Alistair, if living here ever makes you unhappier than you can bear, you'll tell me, right?"

Alistair snorted. "Yeah, sure. Like that's ever going to happen."

"I'm serious. Promise me that you'll tell me."

"Dad…." Alistair drew the word out and squirmed in his seat, slightly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. "I promise, all right? Can we not talk about this anymore?"

His father nodded. "All right. You got it. We won't talk about it anymore. Now finish your dinner. I think Cook made apple pie."

"Yes! I love that pie!" Alistair dug back into his meal, glad that conversation was over and eager to get to dessert.

Maric gave a quick bark of laughter at his enthusiasm and refilled his goblet. "You and me both, son. You and me both."

Alistair stood before the bookcase in his room, looking at the figures lines up along the shelf. Yes, there was definitely one missing. Where the delicate figure of the princess should have been there was only an empty space. Where was it? He knew he had put it back after the last time he'd played with it.

Frowning, he began checking the floor, looking to see if it had somehow fallen off and rolled behind or under something. Nothing. As far as he could tell, it wasn't in his room.

He took a deep breath, trying not to get upset. He hadn't played with his figures in awhile. He really was too old to play with them like he had in Redcliffe—and there were far more interesting things to occupy himself with now—but still, they were his and had been gifts and he liked having them around to look at.

Think, Alistair. When was the last time you saw it?

Eyes closed, he stood in his room, trying to recall the last time he'd seen it. It had been recently. In fact, it was last night, wasn't it? Cailan had been in his room and made some comment about how cute his dolls were. His brother had even picked the princess up, saying what a pretty dress she had on. Cailan….

He came out of his room at a run and stopped dead. Cailan was down at the far end of the hall, leaning against a wall. He straightened when he saw Alistair, a smile creasing his face. His brother held something up, and while it was too far away for him to really see what it was, he knew.

"Give it back!" he yelled.

"Oh, Alistair!" Cailan had pitched his voice to a high, breathy falsetto. "Save me!" And with that, Cailan turned and dashed down the hall.

"Stop!" Alistair shouted, running after him. Cailan was a lot taller than him, nearly as tall as their father, and he was faster than Alistair. Racing down the halls after him, Alistair just barely managed to keep his brother in sight, his laughter mocking him and making him see red.

When Cailan turned into a room at the end of a long hallway, Alistair didn't even stop to think before charging in. His brother was standing with his back to the door and Alistair slammed into him, his fist catching Cailan in the ribs and eliciting a surprised grunt from the older boy.

"That's mine!" he cried. "Give it back!" A second punch landed and Cailan grabbed his arm, holding it to keep Alistair from hitting him again.

"Alistair!"

The sound of Maric's shocked voice made his stop dead.

Looking over, Alistair saw his father sitting in a chair, eyes wide. In horror, Alistair realized he wasn't alone. Loghain sat in another chair, watching the scene unfold with a slightly upraised eyebrow. And it got worse. There were three other men, of whom Alistair recognized none, but judging from their clothes they were all nobles as well.

Silence filled the room as every eye stared at him. With a sick feeling, Alistair realized that Cailan had to have known they would be in here. He'd entered, knowing Alistair would follow and that he'd make a fool of himself.

Hot tears stung at his eyes and he twisted out of his brother's grasp. Forgotten were his figure and his anger over his brother taking it. All he wanted right now was to find somewhere dark to hide and never come out.

He bolted out the door, running as fast as he could. Behind him, he heard Maric calling his name, but he didn't stop. Alistair wasn't even conscious of where he was going as the hallways blurred around him and he bolted through a side door into the sharp winter air. A moment to get his breath and let the pain in his side ease up, and then he was racing down the stairs towards his destination.

The kennels were always warm. The building was made of thick stone and was well insulated. Filled with huge, furry bodies and hay, it always felt safe and close. It was empty at the moment, for which Alistair was profoundly grateful. He wiped at his eyes and started down the center aisle. Some of the mabari barked in greeting as he ran by, accustomed to his presence.

Unlike he usually did, he didn't stop to pet or play with them, simply making his way to unused stalls where hay was stored, and threw himself down on a thick pile. Shame churned in his gut and for a little while he thought he might actually be sick. Oh, Maker. How was he ever going to face anyone ever again?

Alistair lay curled in the hay for a time. He might even have fallen asleep but for the sound of the kennel door opening and closing, followed by the tread of measured footsteps. He held his breath, listening as the footsteps came closer, pausing as whoever it was checked every stall. Maybe if he was very, very still and very, very quiet….

"Ah, there you are."

No such luck.

The man stood looking down at him, an amused grin tugging up one corner of his mouth. Alistair recognized him as one of the men who had been in the room, and—oh, Maker—he was laughing at him.

He turned away as the man stepped into the stall, fully expecting to be hauled to his feet and marched back into the palace. Instead, the man slid a crate next to the pile of hay he lay on, and sat down, sighing and stretching his legs out in front of him. And there he sat, saying nothing.

Alistair turned over to get a better look at the man. He was about the same age as his father, maybe a little older, his face worn into the same lines he'd seen on Maric's face, Loghain's face and many others. But there was humor there, in the lines that crinkled around his eyes and along the sides of his mouth. His dark hair was half gray, and cut shorter than most of the other nobles he'd glimpsed.

"You know," the man said conversationally, "this is usually the first place I look when my daughter's hiding after having a fight with her older brother. She spends so much time in the kennels we're beginning to think she's part mabari."

He looked over, blue eyes twinkling. "She's a year or so younger than you. Maybe I'll bring her with me to Denerim in the future. The two of you might get along."

Alistair shrugged half-heartedly. After today, he was going to be lucky if they let him out of his room for meals.

"They're all looking for you, you know," the man continued. Alistair just shrugged again. The man sighed. "If I may offer a bit of advice, coming from a father. You can stay out here as long as you like, but the longer Maric has to look for you, the worse it'll be when you go back in."

The man stood and held out a hand. Alistair stared at it for a moment before sighing and taking it and letting the man help him up. He held still while the man brushed the bits of straw off his clothing. As they exited the kennels, he shivered. He hadn't thought to bring a cloak when he'd come running outside and now, having been still and coming from a warm building, he was freezing.

"Come on, let's get you inside." There was a slight pressure on his back as the man urged him forward, and even though he dreaded going back inside, the promise of warmth got him moving. He was escorted back into the palace and into the throne room. Word was given to one of the guards, and Alistair fidgeted as he waited for his father.

He didn't have long to wait. Within minutes, the king walked into the throne room and stood looking at him silently. Finally, "Go to your room. I will talk to you later." His voice was quiet, neutral, and somehow that was worse than if he'd yelled at Alistair.

Alistair just nodded, hurrying from the hall and to his room. He shut the door hard behind him and leaned on it, trembling. The princess figure was still missing from his shelf and he was suddenly angry. It wasn't fair! It wasn't like he'd told Cailan to steal one of his figures, or gone after his brother for no reason. Why should he be in trouble when he wasn't the one that started it?

He paced his room restlessly for awhile, hoping his father would come up soon so he could get his punishment over with. But again, it appeared the Maker wasn't listening and the afternoon dragged on. He tried reading, but none of the books held his attention. He tried playing a card game one of the guards had taught him, but that ended with the cards strewn about the floor.

Finally, with the small possibilities of his room exhausted—and having picked the cards up—Alistair flung himself onto his bed, boots and all. The angle of the sun caused a beam of light to fall across his bed, and he watched the motes of dust floating in it, wishing he was back to being as small and insignificant.

In time, a servant came and set a dinner tray down on his desk, leaving without a word. Great. So stuck in here for meals, too. He got up to check the tray, which held only a slice of fowl pie, a chunk of bread and a cup of water. Too upset to really eat, but with his stomach growling, he picked up the bread, gnawing on it as he climbed back onto his bed.

The sun set and he continued to just lay there in the darkness. At some point he fell asleep, for when he woke, a small fire burned in the hearth and someone had draped a quilt over his curled body. Audie, he thought sleepily, catching the slight floral scent that always accompanied her.

His stomach rumbled and he slid off the bed and walked to the desk. The tray had been removed, but there was a napkin wrapped bundle, which held another chunk of bread, some cheese wedges and an apple. He ate these quickly, washing them down with water from the pitcher that had been left.

He thought Maric would've come by now. It was late, the palace quiet and he wasn't sure whether to feel relieved that he hadn't been yelled at yet or upset that he'd been forgotten. Padding over to the small waste bin, he dropped the apple core in and shook the crumbs out of the napkin.

About to turn away, a sound from the hallway caught his attention and he crept closer to the door and pressed his ear to it.

"…why you're so mad," Cailan protested. "It was just a harmless bit of fun!"

"It was not a 'harmless bit of fun!'" Maric snapped. "I don't expect the two of you to always get along, but I do expect you to be a brother to him. You will not humiliate him like that again."

"I wasn't trying to humiliate—"

"Bollocks. You knew what you were leading him into. I won't have that done to him."

"Why not?" Cailan retorted angrily. "Why should he be coddled and sheltered from that? He can't be wrapped in swaddling forever."

"Because everything is going to be harder for him. You know that. He doesn't have your advantages. He's going to have to fight for every single thing. He's been here for six months and you've seen how far he's had to come just to get where he is. And you already know what people say about him.

"He's not stupid. He knows how the nobility is going to see him. He said it right to me in Redcliffe. So while I can't stop it, I won't have it rubbed in his face. He doesn't need or deserve that."

Maric made a frustrated sound and Alistair could envision him running his hands through his hair.

"I know I've made a mess of both of your lives, and I'm trying to make it right. So whatever anger you have towards me, don't take it out on him. We're all he has right now. If you can't…. I can't force you to love him. But you will be civil to him. You are my son, a prince and the future king and I expect you to act accordingly. If you can't, you are going to find your privileges strictly curtailed. Am I understood?"

"Yes, ser."

"Good." There was a pause. "I suggest you get to bed. Sergeant Iain is expecting you just after dawn and you will not be late. Or do you have a problem with that decision?"

"No, ser."

"Then go."

The note of dismissal was clear in Maric's voice, and Alistair took that as his cue to creep away from the door. He did not want to get caught eavesdropping after hearing that conversation. Quietly, he pulled his breeches off and slid underneath the blankets on the bed, shivering slightly because they were cold. He lay there, waiting for the knock on his door that never came.

The next morning Miss Audie woke him with a gentle shake. He washed up while she set out clothes for him, disappointed that his father hadn't come to see him last night. She pointed to the desk. "There's some porridge and milk for you. Eat up. Your father wants to see you when you're done."

Oh, Maker….

He ate quickly and then followed Miss Audie silently as she led him not to Maric's study or another room, but to his own private rooms. She knocked and when Maric bade them enter, she opened the door and gave him a little push inside.

Alistair swallowed as he looked around. He'd been in his father's rooms a few times, but it had always felt like he was intruding on some sort of private sanctuary. It felt no less like that now. Maric sat at a desk, chair turned so he could face the door, and he crooked a finger at Alistair.

Obediently, Alistair crossed to stand before his father, not meeting those stern blue eyes. Maric slid a drawer open and removed the little stone figure. He held it out and Alistair reached up to take it. But his father didn't let go.

"In the future," he said, waiting until Alistair was looking at him, "be aware of your surroundings. Cailan shouldn't have taken it and he's been spoken to. But even if he does something he shouldn't, that doesn't mean you can act the way you did. I expect better of you in the future."

"Yes, ser. I'm sorry."

Maric didn't respond, just nodded once. "Go put that back. I think today you have a lot to study with Audie."

"Yes, ser."

His father let go of the figure and Alistair ducked his head, practically bolting out of the door.

The palace was decorated for First Day, bright buntings and evergreen branches softening the drab gray walls and bringing a pleasant bite to the nose when one breathed in. The annum was celebrated by all in Denerim as the old year ended and the new began. As was custom, the king gave a feast so that the bounty of his table might be shared by all in the land during the coming year.

Alistair wove around the room crowded with people, tugging on his new clothes that were still stiff. It was his first real annum as a prince and his father had stated in no uncertain terms that he expected both his sons to be there. He had still been too new to Denerim when Funalis occurred, so Maric had allowed him to skip. And Satinalia was really just an excuse for all the children to run wild, so again nothing was expected of him. Today, First Day would be—fittingly—the first time he was expected to put in an appearance.

Thankfully, his father hadn't asked too much. He had been introduced to some of the nobles in smaller groups, and had sat to Cailan's right during the banquet, but Maric hadn't paraded him around. Cailan loved the attention and that took a lot of the pressure off him.

Right now, the banquet had ended and most of the guests had broken off into more informal activities. Mulled wine flowed freely. Some guests were dancing, while others stood watching, talking and laughing. Others were taking the opportunity the gathering provided to discuss business and politics.

Alistair just wanted to go somewhere quiet. The sheer number of people, the heat and the noise, were giving him a headache. He slipped out of the main hall, and while there were people in the hallways, they were much less crowded. Breathing a sigh of relief, he kept going, seeking out less populated areas.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

The smooth, cultured, sneering voice came from behind him, and Alistair froze in his tracks. He looked back over his shoulder and then turned to face the group of young nobles, all around Cailan's age.

They were led by Vaughan Kendalls, the Arl of Denerim's son. Alistair only recognized him because he was one of the nobles he saw most often, being in such close proximity. He reminded Alistair of Thad, the bully from Redcliffe. Vaughan thought he was better than everyone else, but unlike Thad, he had real power and made sure everyone around him knew it.

Well, he hadn't backed down from Thad, even at the cost of a bruised and aching body, and he wasn't going to back down now.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, look, lads. A talking dog. Whatever will they come up with next?"

The boys behind him snickered, except for one with dark hair, who merely looked on impassively. Alistair hands curled into fists. There was no way he could fight all of them, but he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of giving up.

"Leave me alone."

Vaughan laughed again, the sound high and cruel. "He thinks he can give orders. How amusing. Apparently, the king's bastard has forgotten that 'bastard' is the important part of what he is." The young noble tutted. "Such a shame. It seems someone will have to teach him that animals have no business pretending to be princes."

"Enough, Vaughan," the dark-haired boy suddenly spoke up. "There's no sport to be had here."

"Then leave, Nathaniel," Vaughan sneered. "I'll not have this mongrel thinking he can speak to his betters as if he were an equal."

Nathaniel started to shake his head and turn, but then stopped. His gaze flicked past Alistair, fixing on something behind him. "No," he said, "I think I'll stay."

Alistair turned, wondering if it were a trick, and went cold as he saw Cailan coming up behind him. Things had been strained between the two of them over the last month. Ever since the incident with the figure, the two brothers had for the most part avoided each other. Alistair knew Cailan had been punished for his behavior, and he hadn't taken it well. He swallowed hard, wondering if Cailan was finally going to get back at him.

"What's going on?" the prince asked softly.

"N-Nothing!" one of the other boys immediately said and Vaughan threw him a withering look.

"Nothing to concern yourself with, my lord. We were just talking with your…brother." He sneered the last word, undisguised contempt dripping from his mouth.

"Were you?" Cailan asked, stepping up behind his little brother. Alistair tensed, waiting for the axe to fall. One of Cailan's hands touched Alistair's shoulder, and he flinched. But Cailan just gave his shoulder a little squeeze.

"Well, I'm sure whatever you have to say to my brother you can say to me," said Cailan. "After all, we do share the same blood. Please, Lord Vaughan, continue. I would hate to have interrupted your conversation."

Alistair could hardly believe what Cailan had said. He darted a quick look up and back and his brother winked at him. He relaxed, the tension leaving him as he realized Cailan was sticking up for him.

The other boys paled, except Howe who just smiled faintly. Vaughan's eyes widened and he licked his lips as he realized how badly he'd misjudged the situation.

Cailan continued when nothing more came from the group. "I think your drink might have gone to your head, Lord Vaughan. Perhaps you should retire to your estate before you cause your family any more embarrassment. Oh, and I think your 'friends' should go with you."

"I, ah…. Yes, your Highness." Vaughan sketched a quick, barely adequate bow and fled, his toadies fast on his heels.

"Nicely done, my lord," said Nathaniel, the same tiny smile pulling at a corner of his mouth.

Cailan snorted. "I thought you had better sense than to hang around that one, Nate."

"Well, you know what they say. Friends close, enemies closer, right?"

Cailan just sighed and rubbed his forehead. He looked down at his little brother and then back up at the other noble. "You get going, Nate. I'll meet you in the main hall in a little bit."

Nate dipped his head and left without a word.

"Thank you," Alistair said when they were alone.

"I'm sorry," Cailan replied. Alistair blinked in confusion. Was his brother sorry for helping him?

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. They never would've dreamed of doing that to me. When Father said…." His hand tightened on Alistair's shoulder. "I didn't realize that any of them would dare do that to your face in our home. Arrogant bastards. They need to be taught a lesson."

He squeezed Alistair's shoulder once more and then released him. "You stood your ground though. Good job, little brother. I think you've had enough for today. If you want to get away, say, to the kitchens, no one will mind. I'll make your excuses to Father."

A slow smile spread across Alistair's face. He grinned at his brother and Cailan laughed. "Go," he ordered, pointing down the hall, and Alistair ran off, laughing, and filled with a warm, happy feeling.

Chapter Text

Outside of the room where Master Warwick tutored him, the sun was shining brightly in a brilliant blue sky. It was an absolutely glorious day and Alistair was stuck inside doing his lessons.

Not that he didn't like his lessons. He did. He loved them, in fact. Everything he learned was new, and his mind absorbed the information like a dry sponge. After years of not being able to read and no education at all, every new subject he was presented was like entering a whole new world.

And it wasn't easy, not when he started so far behind. Master Warwick was a harsh and unforgiving taskmaster, and he'd been appalled at how little his student knew at first. But he challenged Alistair in ways that he'd never been challenged before, and Alistair thrived on it. He thrilled at meeting and then exceeding the goals Warwick set, in eliciting a grunt of approval and the rare "Well done." from the scholar.

But on days like today, when everything outside the windows fairly screamed at him to abandon his lessons and go and do something—anything—fun, it was a challenge to remain focused. He was determined not to let anyone down—his father, Master Warwick or Miss Audie, who'd taught him how to read and given him the confidence to feel he could do well.

He also wanted to prove himself to himself. Everyone had told him how hard it would be, but they all seemed to have faith he could do it. He wasn't so sure. But every time he mastered something, it showed him that he could do this.

A hard knock on the back of his head broke him from his reverie.

Master Warwick rapped his cane against the desk. "Focus! Wool-gathering will not help you further understand the intricate politics and balances of the Landsmeet."

"Yeah, yeah…" Alistair muttered.

The cane rose a fraction of an inch and Alistair jerked himself up straighter. "Yes, ser!" he said quickly and hurriedly turned back to the open book in front of him. Picking up his quill, he carefully wrote a note. Master Warwick had been hinting that he was going to expect a paper on how the Landsmeet worked and Alistair knew from experience that he did better taking notes while he read instead of going back later.

After another page of laboriously copied notes, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Master Warwick, I hate to interrupt…." Miss Audie's regretful voice drifted from the doorway. Alistair glanced over his shoulder as the woman entered.

"His Majesty wonders if Alistair might be excused from the rest of his lessons for the day. He has something he'd like his son to be present for."

Master Warwick glowered at Alistair for a minute before giving an annoyed sigh. "Fine! Take my student! How he's ever to learn with all these constant interruptions, I'll never know."

Miss Audie murmured sympathetically.

"Alistair!" Master Warwick's voice cracked through the air and Alistair jumped. "You'll take your things with you and finish those notes later tonight. Knowledge bows to no king and you'll not use your father as an excuse to shirk your responsibilities."

"Yes, ser," Alistair agreed, carefully recorking his bottle of ink and gathering his books, papers and quills. Miss Audie reached out to take some from him as they walked back to his room to drop them off.

"What does my dad want? Do you know?"

Miss Audie shook her head. "No, he didn't tell me. Just asked me to go and get you."

Alistair gnawed on his lower lip. He hadn't done anything to get into trouble that he could recall. His lessons were going well. Cailan was out in the Bannorn with Teagan, meeting with the nobility and getting to know the land and subjects he would someday rule, so it wasn't like their father suspected them of conspiring to commit trouble.

With a laugh, Miss Audie bumped his arm gently with her elbow. "You worry too much, Alistair. You're not in trouble. Your father was meeting with Teyrn Loghain, the Warden-Commander and Captain Ian."

He gaped at her. "Audie!" he exclaimed. "What about that group makes you think I'm not in trouble?"

"And I said you worry too much. Here." She put down the books she carried on the desk in his room and reached out to smooth the hair off his forehead. Then she ran a cool hand across his brow and down his cheek. Alistair looked into her merry gray eyes, realizing with a start that they were the same height. When had that happened? Miss Audie wasn't a tall woman, true, but when he'd first come here almost two years ago, she'd been taller than him.

"I've served in this palace since your father took it back from the Orlesians. I've watched your father go through every mood it's possible for a man to have. Trust me when I say you're not in trouble. Now, they're meeting in the throne room and you know the way, so I'd suggest you get going."

He nodded and hurried toward the hall, wondering what exactly his father and the others wanted him for. Taking a deep breath, he slipped inside one of the smaller side doors.

Maric was seated, not on his throne, but on the lower steps leading up to the dais, his arms resting casually on his knees. Before him stood the other three men. Captain Ian was at the most attention, hands clasped behind his back in a loose parade rest. Duncan and Loghain stood opposite each other, poses mirrored, with their arms folded across their chests. There was a tension between the two men, one that he'd felt every time he'd seen them together—though those occasions were admittedly rare.

He cleared his throat quietly.

Maric turned. "Ah, Alistair, good. We were just discussing you. Come here."

Doing as he was bid, Alistair came to stand just at the foot of the steps. He looked at all four adults and decided that focusing on his father was the safest bet.

His father scratched his chin. "You're twelve now, right?" He waited for Alistair's nod then continued. "I'd like to do with you what I did with Cailan and start your arms training. You're old enough now and have started getting the physical size necessary for it."

Alistair's eyes went wide. Arms training? He'd wanted that for so long. Excitement raced through him. It was all fine and well to watch the guards training, but he wanted to do it, too. He wanted to be out there sparring with his father and brother as he'd seen them do with each other often.

"With that in mind," said Maric, "since I'm your father and likely to be biased, I've asked these gentlemen for their opinion on how we should conduct your training." He cocked an eyebrow at Ian. "Captain?"

The captain gave a curt nod. "As I only know the prince from my duties, I cannot offer an assessment of whether or not his character and temperament are suitable, though from what I have seen, he will do well. Physically, he is more than adequate to begin training. I can't yet say which discipline would suit him best, but I would suspect he would be like you or Prince Cailan, and take well to sword and shield or greatsword training."

"For the training itself, I concur with the teyrn's earlier assessment that he's not suitable for squiring and instead should be placed with small squad of the royal guard. There he'll learn how to properly care for arms and armor before he begins weapons training.

"Thank you, Captain. Duncan?"

The dark Warden-Commander regarded him gravely for a moment. "I would second both the teyrn's and the captain's assessment."

Alistair went very still. Growing up in Redcliffe, he knew very well that those who undertook formal training were always—always—squired to knights. It was there that they learned both discipline and skill. But he wasn't suitable for squiring? All the previous joy he'd had died.

"I would still like to know what business a Grey Warden has in a discussion such as this." Loghain's hard voice cut through the room.

Displaying no outward sign of anger, Maric replied calmly. "He's here for the same reason you are—he's a friend and I value his opinion when it comes to my son.

"Then we're in agreement," said Maric, standing. "Thank you, all of you, for your time. I'll be meeting with you later."

Looking over, his father smiled at him before the expression faltered. Then he frowned. "Huh. Now, I would've thought that you'd be excited about that. What am I missing?"

"Nothing. I am excited, really. Thank you. It's just…such a shock."

"You're a terrible liar, Alistair. Come on, out with it. What's wrong?"

"Why am I not suitable to squire?" He looked away and then back. "That's what you're supposed to do when you're becoming a knight."

There was a heartbeat of a pause, and then, "Did you squire Cailan?"

"Ah, so that's what this is about." Maric sat back down on the steps, running his hands through his hair and tugging on it a bit as he thought.

"You need to stop comparing yourself to Cailan," he finally said. "You're not him. I don't want you to be him. I want you to be Alistair. Do I want the same things for you? Yes, any father does, I think."

He sighed. "It's hard, isn't it? Following after someone for whom everything seems so easy. You keep trying to be like them, to make sure you measure up. And no matter what everyone always tells you, you always feel like you fall short, like you're not good enough, like you'll never be good enough."

That hadn't been quite what Alistair was expecting, to have his feelings put into words so succinctly. Or to have his father be the one to say them.

"You've felt like that?" he asked.

"My whole life," Maric answered.

"But…with who?"

"With my mother." Maric looked down the long empty chamber. "My mother was…. She was an incredible woman. I've never met anyone like her. She was brilliant and cunning and beautiful. Completely fearless no matter what the situation, from standing on a battlefield to walking into a roomful of nobles."

He laughed quietly at some memory. "You have no idea what it was like to be her son, to know that someday I was going to have to follow her. She always told me that it would come to me, that I'd grow into my position. And sometimes I even believed her. But then I'd mess something up and it would be right back to wondering how I was ever going to manage to be half the person she was."

These were revelations Alistair had never even dreamed of. Maric always seemed so sure of himself, so confident in everything he did. He tried to picture his father like he'd described himself—as an awkward, unconfident boy desperate to follow in his parent's footsteps. He couldn't make the image stick. And despite what he said, surely his father had never been quite as unsure of his abilities as he was.

Leaning back, Maric looked at Alistair intently. "When you look at Cailan, what do you see?"

"I, uh…." Alistair frowned and sat down next to his father. How was he supposed to answer that? "I see a prince, a guess. I mean, everyone likes him. All the guards talk about how well he fights, and he gets along with all the nobles. He always knows what to say. He's smart and strong and he'll be a great king someday."

Maric hummed thoughtfully. "And how are you different?" At Alistair's confused look, he chuckled. "Everyone does like you, Alistair. One look around this palace and it's clear that everyone who's had a chance to get to know you has the same opinion: you're good, smart, honest and likable."

"The nobles don't like me."

"True, some don't. But you really haven't met very many, yet. Don't judge them all by the likes of Vaughan and his cronies. You don't want to be liked by men like him. See what the others do when you get to know them better, like Teyrn Cousland or Arl Bryland. I think you'll be surprised.

"I've talked to Warwick, at length. Don't see yourself short, Alistair. You're doing very, very well—better than I could've hoped. And as for fighting…well, that's what we're taking care of now, isn't it?

"And about squiring him…. No, I didn't squire Cailan." He made a frustrated sound. "The irony of this situation galls me. I can't squire either of you, and for completely different reasons. Cailan never would've taken to it and he needed it. You don't need it, but you would take to it only too well."

He paused before continuing, choosing his words with careful precision. "Let me be brutally honest. The reason I can't squire you, Alistair, is because in the long run it would hurt you. Because it's known that you were raised as a commoner, to have you seen serving a man of lesser rank—even though it would be part of your duties—would undo everything you've accomplished for yourself in these last two years.

"I was inclined to let you do it, since I know you'd do well and probably enjoy the training, right?" At Alistair's nod of assent, he went on. "Loghain pointed out rather bluntly how poor of an idea that would be. I can't afford to coddle you, but neither can I allow you do something that will harm you that much, no matter how you might want it at the moment. And though it doesn't exactly please me, he makes sense. That's why we're following his suggestion.

"You're going to train under a small group of hand-picked knights. They'll teach you everything you need to know about what being a soldier is. When you're a little older, and ready to begin martial training, they'll assist a weapons master in educating you in the how to fight.

"More importantly, they won't lord it over you like others might. They might be hard men, but they will be fair. Do you understand?"

"I…think so." Alistair wasn't quite sure he really did, but what his father said made sense. He knew that people like Vaughan would see him serving others and take it as a sign to treat him the same way in all situations. It would cement his status as commoner in their eyes. This method, however, would keep that from happening.

He felt a little better knowing that his father really was just trying to protect him, and managed a small grin.

"When can I start?"

Word came back while Alistair was in the barracks that Cailan had returned. Practically dying of impatience to go find his brother and tell him all that had been going on since he left made it extremely difficult to finish his task of cleaning armor. When the guard had at last pronounced his armor clean, Alistair bolted back to the palace.

His soft boots made little noise as he ran. Back to his room quickly to change clothes and then maybe he could get Cailan to spend some time with him. Maybe, if he was very lucky, Cailan would consent to spar with him a bit. Well, not really sparring. Alistair was just learning forms and stances and had yet to do little more than cross practice blades with his instructor a handful of times. But maybe Cailan could help him.

Just as he was about to enter his room, he heard a giggle coming from the partially open door to Cailan's room across the hall. Silently, he crept across the hallway. The giggle came again, along with some whispered words that he couldn't quite make out. What in the world was going on?

Creeping along the wall, he crouched down and peered in through the crack in the door.

Cailan was in his room and he wasn't alone. With him was one of the palace maids. He thought it was Maggie, but he couldn't be sure. Cailan had her pressed against a wall and was kissing her, one hand on her hip and the other in her hair.

Alistair swallowed hard. It wasn't that he'd never seen this before. He had. Lots of times—both in Redcliffe and here. But…Cailan was his brother. And he was betrothed to Loghain's daughter, Anora. Cailan shouldn't be doing this!

He'd only met Anora a few times, but she'd always seemed very fine to him, with her pretty face, long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. Her gowns were always rich and immaculate and her manners exquisite. He knew, basically, that when she and Cailan married she would be his sister. And while she wasn't exactly a warm person, he rather liked the thought of a lady like her being part of his family, rather than someone like Lady Isolde.

What would she think if she could see Cailan now? His brother was cheating on her! For a moment, Alistair was filled with a white hot anger and he contemplated bursting into the room.

And then he remembered what he was.

Suddenly, the view before him changed and he wasn't seeing his brother and a maid in the royal palace, but Maric in a room at Redcliffe, clasped in the same embrace with the faceless woman who had been his mother.

Thirteen years ago it had been his father doing this exact same thing, only he left behind a reminder, an accident, a mistake. Was this what his family did? Whisper sweet words in the ears of peasant girls, and then get children on them? Bitterly, Alistair wondered how many women in the households Cailan had visited this summer were now swelling with his brother's bastards.

Then Cailan shifted. His mouth fell to Maggie's neck—for Alistair could see her face now—and the hand on her hip rose to cup her breast. Maggie whimpered as Cailan slipped a thigh between her legs and Cailan groaned and suddenly Alistair was feeling something completely different.

"The door, my lord," Maggie whispered. Cailan mumbled a protest, but he dragged himself out of her arms to close and lock the door.

Alistair backed away from the door as if it were on fire, stumbling in his haste and just barely managing to get around the corner before he heard the door shut and the bolt thrown. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, pulse racing and cheeks hot.

He didn't want to think about what he'd just seen, what he'd felt or what it meant. At the moment, he just wanted to be away. He pushed himself away from the wall, fleeing back down the way he'd come. It had been a long time since he'd felt this confused and out of sorts, and he sought out the place that had always been his refuge in the past.

The kennels were quiet. A lot of the mabari were spending time in estates outside the city, the kennel masters working on their training. Most of the dogs still here were older ones, past the time when they'd be used in battle, but still able to breed.

Right now, there was only one litter of pups old enough for him to be around. They'd been born in the spring and were about four months old now—old enough to be away from their mother, but not quite old enough to go with the kennel masters.

Alistair opened the gate to their pen, slipping into amongst them to the sound of their happy yips and barks. He settled down onto a pile of hay and they immediately crowded around him and into his lap, rolling over so he could scratch their soft, furry bellies.

The pups squirmed against him, settling down to sleep, their little bodies warm and solid against his. There was peace here, among the pups. He loved them and they loved him and it was as simple as that. A few pats and scratched from him, a few licks and nuzzles from them, and all was right and well. Here there were no obligations or expectations to meet. There was no judgment or worry about failure. And there most definitely wasn't any wondering about strange new feelings that came from seeing his bother entangled with a maid.

The sound of the kennel doors opening made him sit up. He lifted the pup in his lap off and stood up, brushing the straw from his clothes. He opened the pen door and was about to step out when something tugged on his pant leg. Alistair looked down.

It was the little cream-colored puppy. She was the smallest in the litter, and an odd color. Not the true white some mabari had, but a warmer off-white. And along the top of her head, her back and the outside of her legs, it looked like someone had dusted dirt over her, the fur turning a few shades darker to a light tan. The kennel master said it happened sometimes, and that likely mean she wouldn't be very highly prized, most nobles preferring mabari with the "proper" colors.

He bent down and gently pulled her off his pants and set her back in the pen. Stepping out, he went to shut the door, but she wiggled her way against it, pushing back and managing to escape.

"Hey!" he whispered. "Stop that!" Shutting the pen, he reached for her, meaning to put her in over the side. She stood still and allowed him to pick her up, but as he moved to place her back inside she began twisting and squirming, whining frantically.

The sound of booted footsteps coming toward him made him look up in panic. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be playing with the pups. "Come on," he said desperately. "Be a good girl and go back in quietly."

She whined sadly and when Alistair looked in her deep brown eyes, he thought his heart might break.

Why didn't he want her? She was so sad and just wanted to be with him. She'd be good—the best mabari ever if he just let her stay with him.

With dawning realization, Alistair looked at the pup and slowly, tentatively, brought her to his chest. She yipped and swiped at his jaw with a wet, pink tongue. Oh, Maker, how was he going to explain that a mabari pup had imprinted on him?

The footsteps were getting closer and though it hurt to do so, he put the pup down, nudging her over with his foot and hoping he could just excuse it as her escaping until he figured out what to do.

To his horror, it wasn't simply a guard who came around the corner, but Loghain. Alistair's eyes widened as the teyrn stopped in front of him. Of all the people to find him now…. Holy Andraste, he thought, please don't let him ask why I'm in here.

"Y-Your Grace," he stammered. "I, uh, did you need something?"

"You. I'd come to see if you'd finished with your moping—a trait you inherited from your father, I see—and were ready to come back to the palace."

Alistair felt the pup tugging on his trousers again. "Um, yeah, I'll, uh, be right there." Please don't look down, please don't look down, please don't look down….

No such luck, the teyrn's icy blue eyes swept down him to rest on the pup that was doing her best to chew through Alistair's pants. Loghain's eyes flickered back and forth between Alistair and the pup several times and then stepped closer. Alistair braced himself for the reprimand that was surely to come.

But to his shock, Loghain merely crouched down, extending his hand to the pup. She stopped chewing on his pants just long enough to sniff the teyrn's fingers. Apparently deciding he was all right, she barked and went back to chewing.

"She's imprinted." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, ser." Alistair licked his lips. It was a long shot, but he had to try. "Please don't tell my father."

Loghain was silent for a moment. Then, "You're quite lucky, to have your own mabari. She'll be your best friend, and a truer, more loyal companion you'll never have."

"Ser?"

The teyrn looked up, and the normal dourness of his expression was gone. It wasn't soft, but it was something gentler. He reached out to stroke the top of the pup's head, a smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.

"I had a mabari once, when I was a boy. She was…wonderful." Loghain's eyes were slightly distant with the memory. Then he stood and headed for the door. "Come. If she's that hungry, best we get her some pork bits before she eats your trousers entirely."

Alistair blinked, hardly daring to believe he'd just heard what he thought. "You want me to bring her?"

Loghain turned back. "She's imprinted. There's nothing you or I or your father or the Maker can do about that. She's yours now, and it'll be your responsibility to make sure she's raised properly. Now bring her and come."

Alistair scooped the puppy up, hurrying after Loghain and wondering when exactly his world had turned inside out, upside down and backwards.

True to his word, Loghain led him to the kitchens, tersely ordering the cooks to provide some treats for the dog. Then he took them back outside, letting Alistair feed the pup slivers of smoked meat slowly.

"Ser?" Alistair asked, drawing his fingers back quickly from the pup's needle sharp teeth.

"Hm?"

"What was your mabari's name?"

Loghain's eyes went distant again. "Adalla," he said quietly.

"That's a beautiful name."

"She was a beautiful dog, in all ways." He sighed. "I often think the world would be a better place were more men like their hounds."

Deciding it was better to say nothing in response to that, Alistair finished feeding the puppy the last of the treats. Wiping his hands on his pants and then picking up the dog, he looked at Loghain. "What am I going to tell my father?"

Surprisingly, Loghain gave a huff of laughter. "Leave your father to me. I'll handle it. You'll be there, of course, but I'll handle it." He frowned. "Take her inside and get cleaned up. We'll do it after dinner. Maric's always more easygoing after a good meal and some wine."

Alistair flashed a tentative smile at the older man, and if he wasn't rewarded with an answering smile, Loghain at least nodded at him. Holding the puppy tight to him, he scampered off back into the palace.

Throughout the long, interminable dinner, Alistair did his best not to give anything away. Sitting at the same table with Cailan and Loghain was pure torture given the events of the afternoon. He noticed his father give him some curious looks at his uncharacteristic quietness, but Alistair refused to acknowledge them, let alone give any answers.

Finally, when it was over and the others drifted away, Loghain suggested to Maric that they speak alone for a moment. When Maric agreed, Loghain nodded at Alistair, and he took that as his cue to go and get the puppy.

On the way back into the palace, Loghain hadn't told him what the plan was in regards to convincing his father that he should be allowed to keep the pup. He'd only said that Alistair wasn't to let anyone know—except Miss Audie who could be counted on to miss nothing, but also to keep a secret—and for the Maker's sake, keep his mouth shut around Maric. After dinner, he'd send him to go get the dog and only then would the matter be dealt with.

The puppy was excited to see him and it took Alistair a few minutes to quiet her before he hurried back to the study where his father and Loghain were. He knocked on the closed door and waited for permission to enter. When it came, he slipped in quietly.

The two men were sitting in chairs, small snifters of brandy held loosely in their hands. Maric looked over at him as he came in, turned back to say something to Loghain and then did a double take. He turned to look at his son more fully.

"Is that a mabari?" Alistair nodded. "Why exactly do you have one?"

Alistair licked his lips and opened his mouth to answer, but Loghain beat him to it.

"She's imprinted on him."

Maric swung back to look at his friend. "How did this happen?"

"Boy looks at dog, dog looks at boy, dog imprints. Pretty simple. I thought you knew how imprinting worked."

His father gave Loghain a long-suffering look. "Haha. Very funny. What I'd like to know is how it ended up happening when my son was supposed to stay out of the kennels and away from the pups."

Alistair squirmed uncomfortably. It was true. He'd been told to stay away from the mabari, especially the pups, to avoid the chance of this ever happening. He hung his head.

"Does it matter?" Loghain asked. "What's done is done. Punish the boy if you must, but I thought you should know why you'll have a mabari living in the palace."

Maric rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I'll have to talk to the kennel master. Perhaps if she goes back into the kennels, he can re-imprint her—"

"No."

Dropping his hand, Maric looked at Loghain incredulously. "No?"

"You heard me."

"Do I need to remind you that this is still my home and my son? This decision isn't up to you."

Loghain's hand cut through the air. "It has nothing to do with that. The pup has imprinted on Alistair. If you take her away, she'll die."

Alistair gasped, squeezing the puppy tighter to his chest. She whined and burrowed against him, his distress making her anxious. No one had ever told him that. If they had, he definitely wouldn't have risked it. He couldn't let his father take her away. If she died because of his carelessness, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He stepped closer to Maric.

"Please, ser, don't take her! I was wrong, I know. I disobeyed you and I'll face the consequences for that. But don't make her pay! She hasn't done anything wrong and she shouldn't suffer because of me."

Maric looked back and forth between the anxious boy and the hard-faced general. He started to say something and stopped several times, a suspicious frown on his face.

With a shake of his head, he threw his hands up. "Fine! Keep her! Don't know why I should have any say in these things. I'm just his father."

The last of his brandy was downed in one swallow as he rose. He fixed Alistair with a stern look. "You'll have to fit her care and training in with your other responsibilities. If you can't manage that, you'll find your amusements will be the ones to suffer."

"Yes, ser!"

Face softening slightly, Maric reached out to scratch's the pup's ears. "She is a cute little beast. You didn't have to browbeat me into this, Loghain. I'm not unreasonable."

"Just sound strategy, my friend. Leave the enemy no room to maneuver or retreat, and his only option is to surrender."

Maric grunted. "Well, then, if you're finished, I have some correspondence to look over. Good night, Loghain. And you." He looked at Alistair. "Don't stay up all night playing with her."

"I won't. Thanks, Dad."

After his father left, Alistair looked over at Loghain who still sat in his chair, sipping his brandy. "Thank you," he said, unable to keep the smile from his face.

Loghain waved a hand. "I did it more for the dog than you."

Alistair nodded, but thought privately that that might've been the first untrue thing he'd ever heard Loghain say. The older man's face had softened again as he watched them, and acting on impulse, Alistair walked over to him and held the puppy out.

Slowly, Loghain reached out and took her from him. The puppy rolled and panted happily as Loghain rubbed her tummy and under her chin. "Good dog," he said quietly.

They stayed like that for a few minutes before Loghain finally spoke again. "She'll need a name."

Alistair hesitated. "I…sort of think I have one, if it's all right with you."

"You hardly need my permission, boy."

"I think I do." He waited until Loghain looked up at him. "I'd like to name her Adara."

The look in Loghain's eyes was unfathomable. Then a crooked smile crossed his lips and he handed the pup back to Alistair.

"I think that would be a fine name."

Chapter Text

Crouching by Adara in the hallway, Alistair put an arm around the hound's neck and pulled her close. "All right," he whispered, speaking into her ear. "Here's the plan. You go in first to distract them. And by distract them, I don't mean sit there and beg for pork bits." Adara whined. "Yes, I know they'll give them to you if you beg, but I don't want pork bits that've been in your mouth. Our goal here is to snag one of Cook's mince pies."

Adara wagged her tail so fiercely that her entire rear end shook back and forth.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that. She's been baking them all morning and she's not going to miss one, but she's not just going to hand one over either. So you distract the kitchen staff long enough for me to run in and grab one and then we'll be on our way. Deal?"

Adara barked, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth in a doggie grin. Alistair scooted forward so he could look into the kitchen. The staff was busy, mixing and kneading large balls of dough, chopping meat and vegetables, and stirring large pots hanging over even larger hearth fires.

Alistair already had the makings of a picnic lunch stashed away—fresh bread, a sharp white cheese and a large slice of cake. The pie, more for Adara than him, though he'd be sure to get his share before she devoured it completely, would be the finishing touch.

"Okay," Alistair whispered. "Go."

With a bark, Adara bounded into the kitchen. At first, her appearance caused a flurry of laughter, the cooks and servants trying to lure her out with the time tested handful of scraps. But instead of taking them, Adara continued to jump around the kitchen. The laughter and amused chatter soon turned to cries of exasperation.

"Get that mutt out of my kitchen!" the head cook cried. "I'll not have that dog ruining my food, or Maker forbid, getting into the larder! Get it out!"

The servants tried to catch Adara in earnest now, but she kept hopping and wiggling past them, dodging just in time to avoid their hands. Alistair waited until they were occupied and then slipped in, moving along the wall to avoid notice. He looked around furtively as he reached the cooling racks. Kneeling quickly, he reached for the lower racks and the cooler pies, pulling the cloth sack he had tucked in his waistband free and slipping the pie into it.

Twisting the top around his hand, he stood, looking to see how Adara fared, and the head cook spotted him. "You!" she cried, an Alistair winked at her, bolting from the room. He whistled to Adara as he ran and the hound broke from toying with the staff and followed at his heels. The outraged cries of the cook followed them as they ran down the hallway and out a side door.

Once outside, Adara quickly outpaced him as the made for the hideaway up on one of the battlements that they often used. He took the stairs up a small tower two at a time and collapsed laughing next to the small bundle he'd hidden earlier that day. Adara landed on top of him and he quickly put the pie off to the side so she wouldn't destroy it.

"Clever girl!" he cried, wrestling with her. "You're the best mabari ever!" They tussled for a few minutes before Alistair pushed her back a little bit, sides aching with laughter.

He reached over for the two bundles of food and slipped his boot knife free. He sliced some cheese for himself first, slipping the mabari a few slices and then cut into the pie. Adara managed to restrain herself until he worked a quarter of the pie free and set it on the floor before her. As soon as his fingers were clear, she fell upon it as if she hadn't eaten for a week.

"Glutton," he mumbled through a mouthful of bread and cheese as she practically inhaled the food, licking the last bits off the stone. She looked back at him expectantly and he set another quarter down for her, that piece disappearing nearly as quickly as the first.

The sound of a clearing throat made them both look toward the doorway. "Cook is apparently decrying the utter destruction of her kitchen and railing at a pair of brazen thieves making off with all her hard work. I don't suppose the two of you would know anything about that?"

Alistair and Adara looked at each other somewhat guiltily. The cook was blowing it out of proportion of course, but…. He looked at the food strewn about. Giving the guard a cocky smile, he held up a slice of the pie.

The guard looked at it, and then his eyes narrowed. "Is that…mince?"

"You bet."

"Hmmm." The guard looked back over his shoulder and then reached forward to take the pie from Alistair. "I do believe I just came across an empty room. I'm sure by the time I make my next pass through here, oh, in about a half hour or so, the room will be just as empty as it is now."

Alistair nodded at the time limit. By then, he and Adara would be done and long gone. Popping another piece of cheese in his mouth—and glad he'd pilfered the good stuff—he set out the rest of the pie for his dog. "Come on," he said. "Let's finish this and then go see if Cailan wants to go for a ride."

Being king, Maric was called upon to host events throughout the year. Not only was the palace the biggest and most opulent place to have social gatherings, the nobles were delighted at the fact that they didn't pay directly for the festivities with their own coin. It was at these events that a good deal of political and social maneuvering occurred and invitations were more highly prized for that than anything else.

While Maric hosted several gatherings, the Summersday annum was the most popular. The good weather and lull in work between planting and harvesting made it an excellent time for most of the nobility to travel, and nearly all took advantage of those things to attend. The palace was stuffed with visitors in the days leading up to and just after the celebration.

Alistair had come to love these occasions. Since beginning his martial training, Maric had taken to including him more during these events, and he had at one point or another been at least introduced to most of the nobility. He was more familiar and more comfortable now with the most frequent visitors to the palace—Arl Urien, Bann Sighard, Arl Howe, Arl Bryland and Teyrn Cousland. His familiarity with some of the nobility, coupled with the fact that Cailan and Nathaniel Howe kept an eye on the likes of Vaughan, meant Alistair was free to enjoy the festivities.

This Summersday was a particularly good one. Ferelden was extremely prosperous at the moment, which meant food was plentiful, wine flowed freely and people were in a very genial mood. Alistair was tentatively making friends with some of the younger sons of the Bannorn, and the boys spent a good deal of time running a bit wild and stuffing themselves full of cake in between their parents' attempts to contain their rowdiness.

After the incident with Cailan and the maid—which Alistair didn't think about as it still bothered him on several levels—he had became more aware of girls. And at the ball, decked out in their finery, the daughters of the Bannorn proved an interesting distraction. When he was taking a break, he found his eyes wandering over to them, only to find that all too often that they were looking at him.

Their scrutiny made him blush, which seemed to provoke a flurry of giggles and only made him feel more awkward. Girls were weird, he decided after the fourth of fifth time it happened.

The only bad part of the Summersday celebration was that it was hot. The sheer number of people, in addition to the candles, made for a stifling atmosphere as the evening drew on. Like many of the guests, Alistair eventually sought refuge in the relative coolness of the gardens.

Adara was waiting for him when he came out, having been forbidden to come into the palace during the party. At over a year old now, she had increased in size, though she was no where near her full growth. Alistair spent some time scratching her head and stomach before heading deeper into the garden with her. There were benches and fountains in the garden he could have relaxed around, but he instead made for the few trees that grew there.

Leaving Adara down at the base of the tree, he climbed up into the branches easily. It was cooler up among the dark green leaves and it let him relax for a little while without worry about being watched. Audie would almost certainly take him to task for mussing his clothes this way, but he didn't really mind at the moment. He was happy, full, and just a bit sleepy. Nevertheless, he was careful not to tear them.

He stayed long enough to cool down and was about to come down when he heard Adara give a curious whine. He looked down to see her rise to her feet, cocking her head to the side as someone approached.

"Oh, aren't you a beautiful boy?" he heard a young, female voice say.

Adara barked—somewhat indignant—and the voice giggled.

"Oh, a beautiful girl. My apologies.

Peering down, he saw a girl in a deep rose colored dress approach the mabari, her hand held palm out. She stopped a few feet away, allowing the dog to approach her and sniff her hand. Adara did that, and then immediately sat and pushed her head against the girl's hand. The girl laughed, a delighted, silvery sound and proceeded to give the hound a good scratching along her neck and behind her ears.

"What are you doing out here?" the girl asked. "Waiting for someone?"

Adara barked again, turning toward the tree and looking up, wagging her stumpy tail with glee.

"Someone's up there, huh?"

The girl stepped forward directly under the branches and peered up. When she caught sight of him, she grinned. "Now that's a fantastic idea. Mind if I join you?"

Alistair gaped down at her and said the first thing that popped into his mind. "Girls don't climb trees."

She snorted, a very un-lady like sound. "Show's how much you know. Here," she said to the hound, kicking off her shoes, "watch these."

Then she stepped up to the tree, found a good handhold and pulled herself up. Alistair expected her dress to give her trouble, but she moved as if she were used to it, nimble hands and stocking feet helping her climb effortlessly.

She was slightly breathless as she joined him. Alistair sat on a bole between two limbs, braced against the trunk. The girl opted to sit on one of the thick branches, her feet dangling over the open air beneath her. Alistair tensed slightly at the slightly precarious perch. She seemed perfectly at ease, but a fall from this height would injure her and he wondered whether he should offer to switch places with her.

This close, Alistair could see that she was close to his own age, maybe a year or two younger. She had long dark hair tied back in a thick braid, though wisps had escaped, framing her face and clinging to her damp cheeks. Her eyes were dark, but there wasn't nearly enough light to tell the color. She looked vaguely familiar, but he wasn't sure from where. He decided that he'd probably just seen her somewhere in the party.

"This is nice," she remarked.

"The tree?"

"Yes. We have bigger ones back home, but I suppose in a city this is as good as it gets. Unless you felt like sneaking into the Alienage and climbing the tree there. Ahhh…." She sighed as she swung her feet back and forth. "I really needed a break from all that."

"You don't like the party?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I love parties. Especially Summersday, as I get to treat it like one really big nameday party. My birthday was last week and we always combine the celebrations back home," she confided. "It's just that there are so many people here that it gets to be a little much."

He laughed. "I know what you mean. And, er, not to be rude, but what's your name?"

"Lya." She stuck out her hand and he shook it, returning her grin. Again the name was vaguely familiar. "And you are…?"

"Alistair."

Her mouth dropped open comically before she snapped it shut. "Maker's breath," she muttered. "My mother would skin me if she could see me now. I'm sorry, your Highness, I didn't mean to be inappropriate."

"Please, don't. Just call me Alistair. And really, this isn't inappropriate at all. I don't mind. Don't get all formal and use titles, at least not on my account."

"All right. Works for me. Your hound won't rat us out, right?"

"Not if she wants the table scraps I'm going to get her later."

Lya giggled and then sighed. "You're so lucky to have your own mabari. She's gorgeous. I've begged my father for one, but he says I'm not old enough yet. And Mother's no help—she keeps insisting I be a lady."

"Well…aren't you a lady?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, yes, technically I am. And pretty dresses and fancy parties are all fine and well, but that's not what I want to be."

"What do you want to be?" Alistair asked, genuinely curious. This was the most unusual noble girl he'd ever met. In Redcliffe, girls were just as likely as boys to roughhouse or roll down hills. But he hadn't seen that in the capital, at least not with the nobles. Granted, he hadn't met all that many, but he couldn't see any of the girls inside doing what Lya had. It seemed far more likely that they would take one look at the dress she was wearing and go into paroxysms of delight, not blithely climb a tree in it.

"A warrior!" she breathed excitedly. "Father's already started my training, even though Mother fought with him about it. I'm going to be just like my parents. They both fought during the Rebellion. And no matter what my mother says now, she still keeps her leathers and bow close at hand."

Leaning over, her voice dropped down into a whisper. "But do you know what I'd really like to be?"

Alistair shook his head. "What?"

"A Grey Warden! Aldous, my tutor, has taught me about them and they sound incredible!"

For the first time, Alistair relished his position and he leaned towards her, also lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I know the Warden-Commander."

Lya's eyes went round as sovereigns. "Really?" she gasped. "Oh my goodness. Do you…do you think I might be able to meet him?"

He bit his lip. It wouldn't do to lie, but if she was going to be in the city and could visit again, there was a good chance he could "arrange" to bump into Duncan for some reason or other.

"Maybe," he said. "It might take a few days."

"That would be amazing!"

Alistair grinned at this strange, quixotic creature sharing his tree. She seemed a little excitable and her enthusiasm was infectious. She spoke animatedly, gesturing as she did so, words tumbling out as if she would lose them if she didn't speak them.

The two talked for a long time, laughing and joking about some of the people at the gathering, or swapping stories about their training thus far. They shared a great deal in common, besides a love of war hounds and sword play. He learned that her tutor, while not using a cane to encourage her, had a rather caustic tongue. Alistair couldn't imagine what her tutor saw to say she had a "yawning chasm" between her ears. And while she expressed longing for a maid like Miss Audie, who would cover for her and sneak her sweets, he would love to meet her Nan.

Suddenly, Adara gave a soft bark and they fell silent, listening.

"Pup? Are you out here?"

Lya swore softly and Alistair looked at her. "My brother," she explained. "My parents must have sent him looking for me."

"Pup? Your nickname is pup?"

She grinned. "My father says I'm part mabari—and as fierce and loyal as one, so it seemed appropriate."

The footsteps came close and a tall, dark-haired man came into view. Alistair recognized him as Fergus Cousland and he looked over at Lya. That was where he knew her from! She looked like her father and he had been briefly introduced to her earlier that evening. He started slightly as he realized he'd been up in a tree with one of the highest nobles in Ferelden and that it probably wasn't all that appropriate.

Fergus looked up at them, his arms crossed over his chest, a wide grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. "Well, well, well, what have we here? A prince and a lady secreted away somewhere private. Hmmm, whatever for, I wonder?"

"Stuff it, Fergus. We were just talking."

"Talking, eh? I know how that goes."

"Fergus," she said testily. "I'm warning you…."

"Oooh, I'm shaking in my boots. Alistair and Lya, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—"

"Fergus!" she shrieked and launched herself out of the tree at him.

Alistair gave a small cry of alarm and reached for her, but he wasn't fast enough. But he needn't have worried. Fergus caught her easily, the motion appearing long practiced. He set Lya on her feet as she pummeled him with her fists, raising his own arms to ward off the blows.

"Calm down, little sister. You just needed some time alone. I know how that goes."

"Oh, I know you do! Don't think I haven't seen you and Oriana, either. The two of you should really make sure you're alone first, you know."

Even in the low light of the garden, Alistair could see Fergus's cheeks darken. "All right, all right," he muttered. "You win. Just don't tell Mother. Please?"

"Then apologize!"

"Fine. I'm sorry for teasing you. Happy?" She pointed up in the tree toward Alistair. Fergus's lips twitched. "I'm sorry, your Highness. Forgive my rudeness."

"I, uh, that's all right," he replied, cheeks flushing as he remembered what Fergus was saying before Lya threw herself out of the tree.

"Apology accepted," Lya sniffed haughtily, earning a laugh from her brother.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you'd best come down, too, Alistair. Your father is looking for you."

Alistair nodded and began climbing down as Lya slipped her shoes back on. Once on the ground, he dusted his clothes off and looked at Lya, whose eyes he could now see were a dark green.

"It was nice to meet you."

"You, too, Alistair."

He put out his hand and she grinned and shook it briskly. She started to head back into the palace after her brother, but stopped after a few steps. Fergus turned back to see why she'd stopped, an eyebrow lifted in question.

Lya appeared to think hard about something, and then dashed back to his side. With a defiant look at her brother, she leaned over and planted a swift kiss on Alistair's cheek. Then with a breathless little laugh, she raced back into the palace, leaving her brother to chase after her.

With a wondering hand, Alistair reached up to touch his cheek. He could feel the heat all the way to the tips of his ears, and wondered vaguely just how red he was. By his side, Adara barked happily and he dropped his other hand to scratch behind her ears.

"I know," said Alistair. "I like her, too."

"All right. Again."

Alistair shifted, resetting his stance and swung his practice sword at the dummy. It was an unusually warm fall day, and he'd been in the practice yard for hours. His shirt was soaked with sweat and all of him ached from repeatedly going through exercises.

"Again."

Trying not to sigh at the terse command, he did as he was told. The grunt from his current instructor told him that the man wasn't pleased with the effort.

"Enough."

Loghain strode forward and Alistair turned to face him, sword point lowered to the ground. The older man selected a practice sword from the racks and stepped up to the practice dummy next to Alistair's.

"Watch closely. You need to use your hips more when you execute the stroke." The teyrn faced the dummy, paused for a moment and then moved. He was fast, faster than Alistair had expected, and it seemed that no sooner had he begun his swing that the dummy was shivering from the impact and the sword was back at Loghain's side.

"Right now you're only using your arm and shoulder," Loghain continued, demonstrating slowly. "That's no good. Not only will it tire you more in battle, but you lose both power in your stroke and the ability to surprise your opponents."

Alistair watched as Loghain moved in slow motion again to demonstrate. Today, the general was dressed in a worn set of black leathers that made his movements easy to see. And with his motions slowed down, Alistair could see how the teyrn used his whole body—arm, shoulder, back, hips and knees. Loghain showed him several more times and then gestured to him. "Now you try."

Alistair took a deep breath, shifted the grip on his sword and tried to emulate Loghain's actions. It was tricky at first to get the hang of it, and several times he was stopped by Loghain as the man adjusted his stance and movements.

Eventually, though, he seemed to get the hang of it. His arm still ached—he had been doing this for hours after all—but he could feel the way the force and motion were carried with his whole body.

"Better. You'll still need a great deal of practice, but that is better. It appears you aren't completely hopeless."

"Yes, ser." Alistair fought back a small grin. From Loghain, that was high praise indeed.

"All right. That's enough for today. We'll go over it again tomorrow. Rack your blade and get a drink before you pass out."

Following Loghain, Alistair leaned his sword back in the stand and walked over to a barrel filled with water in the corner. He used a dipper to drink a few times and then dipped a small bucket in the barrel and up-ended it over his head. The water wasn't cold, but it felt refreshing as it soaked his clothes and sluiced over his sweaty body.

A few more drinks and most of the heat had leeched from his body. His clothing was soaked, but in the heat of the late afternoon, it felt rather nice.

Loghain gestured to the bench he sat on and Alistair joined him, sitting far enough away that he wouldn't get Loghain's leathers wet.

"Now, besides the fact that making sure your form is correct will keep you alive longer in battle, do you know why else what I just showed you is important?"

Alistair frowned. "You said something about being able to surprise my opponent."

Loghain nodded. "Correct. Since the force from the blow is coming mainly from your body, that means you can aim with your wrist and arm. You don't have to commit to where the strike is going to land until the very last moment. That makes it difficult to predict, and thus gives you a slight edge over your foe.

"Now, on the other hand, you have to watch for that yourself, at least from a good swordsman. There are some things you'll be able to do with a shield that can help, but we won't get to that for awhile yet."

That gave Alistair pause and he cocked his head at the teyrn. "You intend to keep instructing me?"

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "Unless you'd prefer I stopped?"

"Oh, no! Not at all. I was just…curious." He scratched his head, then raked his hair back away from his forehead. It would need to be cut again soon. Unlike Cailan and his father, or even Loghain, he had no desire to grow his hair longer again. He was too impatient with it.

He looked up at the older man. "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course. I assume you now want to ask me another one."

"That obvious, huh? Who would've guessed?"

"I suggest you ask instead of being smart."

Alistair grinned. "Right. Got it. Anyways, I was wondering…why didn't you do this with Cailan? I mean, I always thought the two of you being who you were that you would've trained him, but he says no. So why not? And why me?"

Loghain frowned and rubbed his jaw. "I suppose that's a fair question. Tell me, did Maric say why he isn't training you? He's an excellent warrior in his own right, probably better than the men who guard him, yet he's not here instructing you."

In fact, Alistair had asked his father that question, and he repeated back his father's answer now. "He said that he was too close—that his relationship would bias him and make it hard to judge my progress. There was the risk that he'd be tempted to go easy on me or be too harsh, and that either one would ruin my training. He said that it would be unfair to place that burden of expectation on me."

He paused a moment. "He also said children are apt to want to learn more if their teacher isn't their parent."

"It appears age has given your father wisdom. I would say that's as good an answer as there is. I hired instructors for Anora, even though I could have pinned them to wall like a butterfly with either sword or bow. And I stayed away Cailan's training for the same reason. Given that I helped raise him, and he will someday marry my daughter, I thought it prudent not to get involved. Your brother also favors the greatsword, and I'm afraid I'm of little help in that area." He gave a half shrug. "I don't think it would have affected me, but Cailan would have seen it as interference and resented it."

"Oh." For a minute, Alistair just sat, absorbing both the information and the fact that Loghain was speaking to him openly and frankly. "So why bother with me?"

Frowning again, Loghain looked at him critically. "Because you're different," he said bluntly. "You've got a smart mouth on you—I'm beginning to think it's in the blood—but you keep it shut when you should. And you listen. You take all this," he gestured at the practice yard, "and learn. There's a lot to be said for that. You also show some talent for this, and I've found men are like good swords. Temper them correctly while they're being forged, put the edge on them when the blade is new, and in the end you'll have a better weapon. Or fighter in this case."

It was more of an answer than Alistair had been expecting from the normally taciturn man. He wondered why Loghain was being so forthcoming. Probably not a good idea to press for too much information.

"Does that answer your question?"

"Oh, yes, ser. Thank you."

Loghain grunted and stood. "Your hound has been waiting most patiently for you, and you still need to get cleaned up. I will see you back here tomorrow at the same time."

Alistair scrambled to his feet. "Yes, ser!" He gave a small salute and he swore he saw the teyrn's lips twitch before he dismissed Alistair with a wave and walked off in the opposite direction.

Chapter Text

Alistair looked through the shelves in the library. Warwick and Maric had started instructing him on how to begin understanding motions brought before the Landsmeet and making decisions about them. After an initial introduction to a historical problem, he was tasked with writing out the solution he thought was best. The two men, Warwick more so than Maric, would then go through his arguments and tear them apart. Then Alistair would have to go back through the records, see what the actual decision had been and write up an assessment on it, and detail how he was either wrong or right. Eventually, he would be expected to do this during Landsmeets, to test his ability to handle current issues.

All in all, Alistair thought it was a tremendous waste of time. Coming to Denerim hadn't changed the fact that Cailan was the heir and that Alistair was never expected to assume the throne. He'd brought it up to Maric once, saying that it would be better if he spent more time training for something more realistic. Maric had shut down the conversation with a terse "This isn't up for discussion."

So it was that Alistair found himself poking through the shelves, looking for the records from the Landsmeets during Queen Fionne's rule. Her reign had seen some of the most ridiculous behavior from the Bannorn and it was one of Warwick's favorite collections of examples.

He was finding it hard to concentrate, though. Less than a week ago, his father had informed him that they'd be going to Highever for Fergus Cousland's wedding in a month. As the heir to the teyrnir, and the second most important family in Ferelden, it was expected that Maric attend such an event, and he was bringing his family. While Alistair was glad to be getting away from the capital for essentially a week long party, that wasn't what was making it hard to concentrate.

Telling himself he wasn't eager to see Lya again would have been a lie. Somehow, every time she'd come to Denerim, whether as part of a political trip with her father or social trip with the whole family, they'd managed to spend time together. Alistair considered her his first best friend and there was an easy understanding between the two of them. They shared adventures with Adara, and as their training had come along, they'd been allowed—under close supervision—to spar with each other. She was the perfect accomplice to carry out little schemes with, as she was clever enough to deflect most trouble. And when that didn't work, she seemed happy enough to share in whatever punishment their parents meted out.

Lately, though, it had become something else for Alistair. It hadn't escaped his notice during their last few visits that Lya was…developing. She was definitely a girl and he was beginning to notice it in ways that made him slightly uncomfortable. It didn't feel right to feel…that way about his best friend. To make matters worse, he was pretty sure she didn't feel the same way.

Those early looks from girls had gotten a whole lot more direct and pointed as he started to grow into manhood. He'd hit a growth spurt and his training had added layers of muscle. While still nowhere near his father or brother, even he could see plainly see the physical changes in him from the small boy he'd been.

Those changes apparently made him very attractive to the fairer sex, and more than a time or two, he'd found himself in secluded corners, wrapped up in soft, sweet-smelling limbs and lips. Each time the experience was heady and he thrilled at the sensations.

He'd observed enough from his time at court to know that if he'd wanted more, at least some of the girls would be more than willing. And while he was curious, had thought about it and experienced some rather vague dreams that were more want than anything else, he wasn't quite ready for that, not yet.

And, the voice in his head—that had stopped being so bitter for the most part—would whisper quietly, they're not who you really want.

Having found the book he wanted, he sat down morosely at a table, flipping through to find the section he wanted. Had Lya shown even one sign that she felt anything other than friendship, he might be willing to try for more. But she hadn't, so he wouldn't. It wasn't worth losing what he had with her in the vain hope for something more.

A sound made him look over to see Anora emerging from behind another shelf, frowning thoughtfully with an open book in her hand. Thinking of Fergus's wedding abruptly brought to mind that she and Cailan would be married at the end of the spring Landsmeet.

He stood as she approached and she looked up in surprise. "Alistair. I didn't see you there."

"I just got here. Warwick has me looking things up. I'll take it back to my room so I don't bother you."

She waved him back down. "Don't be silly. Sit. You're not disturbing me. And two scholars can work side by side without proving a distraction, I should think." She pulled out a chair across from him and seated herself as Alistair sat back down.

Anora's relationship with his brother had always confused him. They were betrothed, yes—had been since they were children. But there seemed to be a genuine affection between them. The way they acted showed a deeper bond than just being raised together and being friends. He'd seen Cailan doting on her, giving her little presents or lavishing attention and affection on her. And Anora returned it, though her manner was far more reserved than Cailan's.

But…. But there was no way she didn't know about Cailan. His brother wasn't that discreet. Granted, he didn't rub it in everybody's faces, but everyone knew. And Anora, for all her calm demeanor, was too smart not to know.

He wrestled with himself about whether or not to ask about it. It certainly wasn't his place to pry into their relationship, but it bothered him. Anora seemed too proud to lower herself to begging scraps of affection from any man, and too smart to fall for Cailan's obvious charms. So why would Loghain's daughter behave as she did?

His curiosity was going to get him in really big trouble one day.

"Can I ask you a question?"

She looked up. "Of course, Alistair. You should know you don't have to ask. Is it about what Master Warwick has you studying? I'd be glad to help."

And she could help. Anora was scary smart. He'd seen her analyze contracts and treaties with seemingly little effort, and she spoke four languages—common, Orlesian, Antivan and Tevene—a language that had made Alistair literally flee when Warwick brought it up.

Pushing the thought away, he shook his head. "No, it's not about my schooling. It's about something else. I just don't want to…offend you."

She smiled gently. "I doubt you could do that, Alistair. Please, ask what you want."

"Do you…like my brother?"

A lift of her eyebrows was all that betrayed her surprise. "Of course I like your brother. It's rather hard not to."

"No, that's not what I mean. Everyone likes Cailan. I wanted to know if you…like Cailan."

Anora sat back in her seat. "You're asking if I love him."

"Yeah."

She closed the book before her and drummed her fingers on the cover. After a moment, she spoke. "That's both a very easy and very difficult question to answer, Alistair. I'm not sure you're old enough to understand."

"I'll be fifteen in a week," he replied, just a touch belligerently.

She smiled and laughed softly. "So you will. My apologies, your Highness, for doubting your ability to understand."

Oh, Maker. This is not where he wanted the conversation going at all!

"Don't do that," he said quickly, then winced as he realized how much of an order it sounded like.

"Oh, Alistair, I tease. Surely I can do that? We'll be family after all in a few months."

"Oh, um, yeah. Sorry. Just a little…overreaction on my part. Listen, you don't have to answer. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Anyway, in answer to you question, I'll start with the easy part first. Do I love your brother? Yes. He has many wonderful qualities—he takes care of those close to him, he's generous and kind. He counts honestly and loyalty as more important than hard coin and he's fair when he deals with anyone—whether they are noble or common."

She sighed. "But that being said, you must realize, Alistair, we've been destined to marry since he was an infant. Is Cailan perfect? No, of course not. None of us are. But since this is my course, I can either accept him for who he is, and love him for that, or I can make the both of us miserable. And I've no desire to be miserable.

"We make a good match, he and I. And we are very good friends. Surely that's not so bad?"

"No, it's not." Even as he said it, Alistair realized that whatever his future held, that's not what he wanted. When—if—he married, he didn't want it to be because he had to, or have all he felt for her be friendship. Or the other way around. He didn't want any future wife to be with him because it was a duty, and it would be nice if she loved him.

He realized that silence had fallen in the library as he became lost in thought. Anora sat watching him, head tilted to the side.

"What brought all this on?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about…weddings."

"Ah. Fergus Cousland's wedding in particular, I'd imagine." He nodded. "That should be a great deal of fun. The Couslands are wonderful people, and Oriana is quite charming—even if she's remained enchanted enough by the novelty of snow to want a winter wedding."

She shuddered slightly. "I cannot even begin to imagine the logistics Eleanor had to go through to get that all arranged. Though I suppose merchant contacts through Oriana's family helped."

Alistair made a noncommittal sound. He really had no idea about the logistics of a wedding, other than making sure there was enough cake.

"What's a noble wedding like?" he asked, suddenly curious.

"You've never been to one?"

He shook his head. "No. Well, not a noble one. There were some in Redcliffe and I would usually sneak in. But I can't imagine this will be anything like that."

"You might be surprised. I think the main requirements for a proper Fereldan wedding are plenty to drink, plenty to eat and plenty of entertainment—which can be either drunken revelry or a fist fight."

Alistair laughed. "That sounds like a post-Landsmeet celebration."

"Indeed it does. Don't worry about it, Alistair. It will be like any other formal gathering, albeit with a bit less political talk and a great deal more dancing."

"Dancing?"

"Yes, but you needn't be concerned about it taking up your entire evening. I suspect after a few turns about the floor, your duty will be considered discharged and you'll be free."

"B-But…but I…" he stammered, wiping his suspiciously damp palms on his thighs, old fears about being publically humiliated reasserting themselves. "I don't know how to dance."

Anora opened her mouth to respond and the stopped. Closing her lips, she looked at him thoughtfully. "No, you wouldn't, would you?" she murmured. "I believe Queen Rowan taught Maric, and I taught Cailan, but you haven't been instructed in all the courtly arts, I suspect. Maric likely never even thought of that. Hmmm."

"Can you teach me?" he blurted out.

"I would be happy to." she said gently. "Let's see. We have a few weeks before you leave yet—that should be more than enough time for you to master the basics. Why don't you come for lunch at our estate tomorrow? There's a lot more privacy there."

"That…that would be great."

"Excellent. I'll go now, arrange for someone to provide music. I think some of my maids have a passing talent there." She rose, picking up the book. "Tomorrow then."

After she left, Alistair let out a breath. He tried to go back to his own book, but ended up closing it and laying his head down on top of it, unable to focus. Maker, something like this should not cause stress. It was just dancing!

He wondered what it would be like to dance with Lya.

"Argh!" He threw up his hands and stormed from the library. He had to stop doing this. It was going to drive him insane. Warwick was just going to have to wait for his damned paper. Right now, he was going to go find his dog and go do…something…suitably manly that had nothing to do with girls or dancing or weddings.

The journey to Highever was cold, but quick. The ground was frozen solid, and with the lack of snow—something Anora said would make Oriana very cross—they made very good time. The men—Maric, Loghain, Cailan and Alistair—rode on horseback, while Anora traveled in the closed carriage.

Alistair was enjoying this trip immensely. This was the first time he'd been this far away from Denerim since he arrived and there was a freedom to it, even as surrounded by guards as they were.

Looking at Anora sitting in the carriage, blonde head bent over a book, he felt a surge of gratitude for his future sister-in-law. True to her word, she'd taught him to dance, displaying great patience with his slowness and easy forgiveness when he trod on her toes. She'd also kept the whole thing private, having only one of her maids there to play, to spare him embarrassment.

There was the day Loghain had walked in to ask his daughter something. He'd just looked at the two of them and snorted, "Foolishness."

As he walked out, Anora leaned over and whispered loudly enough to be heard by her departing father. "Ignore him, Alistair. He's just jealous because he can't dance."

There was another amused snort from the hallway and Alistair stifled a laugh.

Anora pronounced him fit to be seen in public before they left, and he was approaching this whole thing with a lot more optimism and eagerness. He'd actually enjoyed himself—both in learning to dance and in getting to know Anora a little better. She would probably always be a bit reserved, but there was a quiet humor to her, and perhaps a spark of mischief.

The Couslands came out as the party arrived in the courtyard. They were bundled up in warm cloaks and ushered their guests inside quickly so they wouldn't have to remain out in the chill any longer than necessary. Alistair walked in beside his father while Cailan escorted Anora. He was going to ask where Adara would go, but no one said anything as she walked in beside him, so he figured it must be all right.

Once inside, servants took their cloaks and they all warmed themselves before a roaring fire while their trunks were brought in. Bryce and Fergus handed his father, brother and Loghain each a glass of brandy, while Eleanor pressed a goblet of spiced wine into Anora's hand. Teyrn Cousland lifted an inquiring eyebrow at him, but Maric shook his head and laughed at Alistair's slightly disappointed expression. "He's a bit young, I'm afraid."

"Completely understandable. My own youngest keeps asking, and doesn't seem to want to listen when I tell her she'll appreciate it more when she's older.

Bryce's youngest was currently bouncing on her toes at her father's elbow, her expression pleading. She was clearly dying to do or say something, but was holding back for some reason. Her father glanced down and shook his head minutely. "Patience, pup," he murmured. "Wait or your mother will have both our hides."

She let out a frustrated little sound and Eleanor's stern gaze immediately snapped over to her. Lya settled and tried to stand still, fixing her face into a smooth expression—though her hands continued to pluck at the leathers she wore.

After they had finished their drinks, they were shown to their quarters. Lya's mother looked at them apologetically. "Accommodations are a little cramped, I'm afraid, with all of Oriana's family here as well. You'll have your own rooms, of course, your Majesty and Teyrn Loghain, but I hope it'll be all right with Cailan and Alistair if they have to share a room."

"Of course, my lady," Cailan said smoothly, pressing a kiss to Eleanor's knuckles. The teyrna laughed and blushed prettily. Slightly behind her, Lya rolled her eyes.

Fighting his own grin, Alistair also agreed that that would be okay with him.

"Very good. I did want to make sure. I've arranged for Anora to room with my daughter, who's more than happy to share."

"Of course, Eleanor, that would be fine."

"Excellent. Your belongings should already be in your rooms and there are servants waiting to help with anything you might need."

They all spoke their thanks.

"Mother, may we go now?" Lya spoke up. Eleanor gave her daughter a long look. "Please?" Lya added, her expression sweetly hopeful.

Eleanor waved her hands. "Fine," she sighed. "Go if you must. But I warn you, you'd best be dressed and ready for dinner. And you'll not be responsible for delaying his Highness either."

"I won't!' A broad grin creased Lya's face. She stepped forward, grabbed his hand and pulled him along the hall with her.

"Where are we going?" he asked as they raced through the hallways, dodging people, Adara running beside them.

"You'll see! Oh, I can't wait! I've been waiting to show you, Alistair. Come on!"

Their course led them outside, and Alistair was grateful they both still had their cloaks on. Lya didn't let go of his hand, pulling him toward an outer building. He helped her push open the heavy door and they stepped in a warm hay-scented stable. Closing the door behind them so the heat wouldn't escape, Lya took his cloak from him when she'd removed hers, hanging both on pegs.

"This way," she said, tugging on his sleeve. Farther back into the stables, past stalls holding fine warhorses, they finally came to a few mabari pens. Easing open one door, Lya slipped in, beckoning him to follow.

As soon as she stepped inside, a dark shape detached from the straw and launched itself at her. Laughing she fell to her knees and caught the wriggling form in her arms. "Look," she breathed, holding up the puppy for him to see. "Isn't he gorgeous?"

Alistair knelt by her, reaching for the puppy who happily began licking his face. The puppy was a dark chestnut color with warm brown eyes. When he scratched the pup's ears, it yipped and tried to lick his hand.

Adara whined and he put the pup down in front of her. "Look, Adara, a new friend."

She bent her massive head toward the puppy, sniffing carefully. Finally, she barked her approval and licked the pup, dampening nearly an entire side of the smaller mabari with one swipe of her tongue.

"His name's Golanth," said Lya, gathering the puppy back into her arms. "He was in the last litter born. He almost didn't survive. The mother had trouble and we lost her and the rest of the litter."

Adara whined sadly and pressed her head against Lya's chest.

"I know. Thanks. We almost lost him, too." She looked up at Alistair. "That's why I couldn't come to the fall Landsmeet. I was nursing him."

That explained her absence. "I wondered, but your father didn't say anything. Just that you were fine. I…" I missed you. "I'm glad it was this. Well, I mean, not glad about what happened, but that there was nothing wrong with you."

"I understand, and I asked him not tell. I wanted to surprise you."

He reached out to rub Golanth's head. "Having a mabari is pretty great, I can tell you."

Lya giggled. "Can you imagine all the fun we're going to have now?"

He laughed, already envisioning the horrified looks from the kitchen staff both here and in Denerim.

"Oh, I wanted to ask Adara something, if that's all right."

"Sure."

Turning toward his dog, she set the pup down in front of her. "Adara, I have a favor to ask. Golanth's can't stay in the castle right now, and I'm afraid he'll be lonely all by himself out here. Would you mind staying with him?"

Adara turned her head to look at Alistair and he nodded. Then she looked down at the puppy, wuffed, and picked him up by the scruff of the neck, carrying him back onto a pile of straw and then curling up around him.

Lya blinked. "Well, all right then. I'll see if I can't get Nan to give us something extra tasty to give you."

She brushed off her leathers as she rose. "Come on. You've never been here before and I want to show you around."

"All right. Hey, wait a second." Reaching out, he plucked a piece of straw from her hair.

She laughed. "That always happens." Running her fingers through her loose hair, she asked, "Anything else?"

"Nope, you look good."

"Okay, then, let's go!"

All in all, the wedding was rather nice.

Being held at Highever in the winter, it was a smaller gathering than it might have otherwise been. Besides their party, Arl Howe was in attendance with his children, Thomas and Delilah. Bann Sighard was there with his wife Enilda and son Oswyn. Bann Alfstanna was also present, her Bannorn being close enough that she could reach it easily. Bann Teagan also joined them a few days later, having decided to close up Redcliffe's Denerim estate and go to Highever before continuing his journey home to Rainesfere.

Making up for the relative lack of nobles was the presence of Oriana's family. Her father was a rather wealthy merchant from Antiva and it seemed as if he'd brought his entire family to his daughter's wedding. They were a loud, colorful bunch, their clothing rich and vibrant, and they easily filled whatever space they were in.

Alistair definitely approved of the ceremony. Held in the Cousland's small, cozy chantry, Revered Mother Mallol clearly didn't intend to keep her attendees too long. She spoke with genuine affection for the couple and added her own personal blessings on their union, along with the Maker's.

When the ceremony was done, the real celebrations began. There was a feast in which the guests stuffed themselves with rich food and toast after toast was made to the happy couple. Alistair managed to drink a glass or two of wine and was pleasantly muzzy-headed by the time the tables were moved away and minstrels took up their instruments.

He was pulled onto the dance floor along with a bunch of others. The dancers arranged themselves and he found himself opposite Lya.

While Oriana had worn a gold gown trimmed with white lace, the women who attended her—including Lya—all wore deep crimson gowns. The style was Antivan, leaving her shoulders and arms bare, and the skirt was very full. The look suited her, the color bringing out her eyes and the cut displaying her figure nicely.

Alistair pulled his eyes back up to hers as he sketched a nervous bow to start the dance. Then the musicians played the cue for the dancers to begin and her hands were in his and they were moving across the floor.

Very quickly, Alistair forgot his nervousness. It was impossible to feel anything like that amidst the ordered chaos of the dance floor. There was laughing and singing as partners spun and switched. And if Alistair messed up some of the steps, he wasn't the only one.

He caught sight of others as he danced—his brother and Anora together, then Bryce and Anora. Maric and Eleanor, and then Oriana. It seemed like everyone was there and having a good time. He caught sight of Loghain standing off to the side, watching the revelers, and felt a brief moment of…what—pity? Sorrow?—that the man wasn't joining in. But that always seemed to be Loghain's place—always on the edge of everything, watching and waiting for something only he could see, never able to actually be part of something.

After Maker knew how long, Alistair was damp with perspiration, his doublet far too hot in the now very warm room. When the current dance ended, he found himself opposite Lya again and she tugged him off the dance floor.

"Come on!" she called over the noise, her own face flushed and tendrils from her elaborate hair style clinging to her cheeks. "Let's get some air. I'm dying!"

They exited out of a side door onto a small terrace. The air was cold and felt very, very good. White clouds puffed from their mouths as they drew in huge breaths of air. Alistair tugged on his doublet to allow some air inside while Lya pressed a handkerchief to her face and neck.

"Having fun?" she asked.

"You have to ask?" he grinned back.

"I love this. It's so much fun. And…" she said, looking at him curiously. "I didn't know you could dance."

He laughed a bit nervously and tugged on his collar. "It's one of my many hidden talents."

Her answering laugh rang through the still air. "I wish we could do this more often, though my feet are probably going to be killing me tomorrow. Mother and Oriana both refused to let me wear more practical shoes." She lifted the hem of her gown, holding out a slippered foot. It was all very pretty, with a dainty pointed toe and heel, but Alistair winced at what they must be like to walk in.

"Tell me about it," she said, dropping her skirt back down.

A gust of wind swirled around them, and Lya shivered slightly. They were both much cooler now and it was really too cold for her to be outside in the dress she was in.

"Hey, let's go back inside," he said. "Maybe we can get some more cake."

"That sounds like a great idea! Maybe we can—oh, Ali, look!"

She pointed up. Alistair followed her gesture and saw the small white flakes beginning to fall.

Taking a step further out, Lya lifted her face and closed her eyes as the snow fell and landed on her.

They stood side by side as the silent flakes continued to drift down. The snow melted when it touched skin, but clung to their clothes and hair. She tried to catch some of the snowflakes on her tongue, with mixed success.

"I love snow," Lya breathed. "Especially the first snow." She turned toward him. "Don't you?"

Alistair looked at her, the snow caught in her hair and sparkling like tiny diamonds, the spots of color high on her cheeks. When he didn't answer, she tilted her head to the side. "Alistair?"

He licked his lips. "Lya, I…." Shaking his head, he cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again. "I…."

Her full attention was focused on him now. Curiosity was painted across her features as she waited for him to speak.

"Oh, sod it," he muttered.

And kissed her.

It wasn't much. He cupped her face with his hands and pressed his lips to hers. They were warm and soft under his and he enjoyed the feel for a few seconds before he pulled away.

Huge green eyes looked at him from a stunned face. Her lips were parted slightly and she raised a hand to touch a few fingers to them. She said nothing, the normal constant stream of chatter from her stopped. The silence dragged out between them and Alistair began mentally berating himself. Of all the stupid, idiotic things to do, he had to go and do this! He'd told himself that he wasn't going to, that he could handle being just her friend. But looking at her just now had made all his resolve fall away and he'd ruined everything.

"I'm sorry," he said as he looked down, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I…I shouldn't have. I'll just…go now, and leave you alone. It won't happen again."

He turned and headed back for the terrace doors, wondering if he'd be able to slip through the crowd and make it back to his room. Returning to the party was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

Lya's hand caught his before he made it two steps, and she tugged him back around to look at her. The shock on her face had been replaced by a sort of surprised delight and her lips slowly curved into a wide smile. She didn't say anything, but stepped closer to him, closing the distance between them.

She looked at him from under lowered eyelashes as a blush pinked her cheeks prettily. A blush! On Lya! His heart hammered beneath his ribs as she raised her hands to place them on his chest. Acting on the silent cue, he settled his hands on her waist and pulled her against him as he dipped his head toward hers.

This time, she met him, her lips parting softly against his, arms coming up to wind around his neck and his hands slid over her back. Alistair felt hot and cold, tingly and numb all at the same time. She tasted of wine and honey and some spice he couldn't identify. This kiss was better—infinitely better—than any of the ones he'd had before.

They parted to take a breath and he rested his forehead against hers. "You've done this before," Lya murmured, her breath tickling against his lips.

"So have you," he said, realizing there hadn't been any hesitance or awkwardness from her. "Who?" he demanded, feeling an instant stab of jealousy.

"I'll tell you if you tell me."

Alistair blinked. "I…I can't remember."

She laughed, the sound low and rich, before raising her face to kiss him again. "Good."

For how long they stood in the cold with the snow falling around them, he didn't know. But there was a gentle clearing of a throat from the direction of the door and they broke apart almost guiltily.

"I hate to interrupt," said Maric, amusement evident in his voice and a twinkle in his eyes. "But we're about to send the newlyweds off and I believe your parents would like you there, my lady."

"Oh, uh, right." She stepped back, smoothing her skirts and touching her hair nervously.

"You look fine," his father reassured her softly. "And no one even noticed where the two of you had gone."

Lya flashed him a relieved smile and slipped back through the doors. Alistair straightened his own doublet and started to follow her. Pausing to look at his father, he asked, "What?"

"I didn't say a word." The corners of Maric's lips twitched though. Alistair hoped that once back inside, people would think the flush on his face was from either the cold or the heat.

The crowd called out raucous good cheer as Fergus swept Oriana into his arms. A slim hand crept into his as Fergus carried his bride from the hall, grinning like an idiot. He looked down at Lya, into her smiling face, realizing that he was probably also grinning like an idiot—and didn't care.

The last few days at Highever, while not as exciting as the wedding, had nonetheless been filled with activities and fun. The snow that fell quickly piled up and most of the younger folk used it to their advantage. They were among the last guests to depart, and that afforded Alistair more time to spend alone with Lya. Their relationship didn't change a great deal from how it usually was between them, aside from the fact that he was now just as likely to receive a kiss as a light punch on the arm and that he was free to hold her hand or hug her when he wanted.

It was a very contented and happy Alistair who rode back to Denerim. Lya had promised to be there at the spring Landsmeet—with Golanth in tow—and she said she would see about remaining in Denerim straight through the summer. Her parents would have to approve, of course, but she was confident they would agree.

"You like her, don't you?"

Startled, Alistair looked over at his father, who had drawn his horse up right beside his. "Who?"

"The Cousland girl. What's her name? Leah? Lyra?"

"Lya."

"Ah, yes, that's right. Pretty girl, with those big blue eyes-"

"Green."

Maric grinned and Alistair flushed, realizing his father knew these things very well and was teasing him. Then his father shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. "Alistair, I realize we probably should have had this discussion earlier, but you do know where babies come from, don't you?"

Horrified, Alistair looked over at his father and he could feel the heat rushing to his face.

"I realize that—"

"Yes! Maker, yes, I know!" Alistair choked out. "Just...stop!"

Visibly relieved, Maric sighed and settled back into a more relaxed posture. "Good. I, uh, thought so, but I had to make sure."

For a moment, Maric looked off into the distance, then he fixed Alistair with a pensive look. "I do have one piece of advice."

Alistair groaned. "Could...could we please not talk about this? I don't really think I'm ready for anything like that yet."

"No, I don't think so. This needs to be said. When the time comes—whether it's with Lya or someone else—be good to her, Alistair."

This was not happening. This was just not happening. "I don't even... You know what you're suggesting, right? That I...that she...that we might..."

"Have sex?" Maric finished. "Yes, I know exactly what I'm suggesting. It will happen someday, Alistair, and it might even be with Lya. I don't worry about a girl like her because if you ever hurt her, she'd feed you your guts herself. But there are others that could be hurt all too easily. You need to be careful to never use them, Alistair. It's wrong to both them and yourself."

"You think that even needs to be said?"

Maric's eyes flicked up to Cailan riding ahead of them on his charger beside Loghain. "Yes," his father said very quietly. "I think I do."

So his father knew then. Alistair always wondered if Maric truly didn't know about his oldest son or if he willfully ignored Cailan's behavior. Seeing what Cailan did, he understood that his father probably felt the need to impress certain things upon him now before it was too late.

"I'm not asking you to be chantry-sworn, or promise yourself to one girl or anything like that. Your life is your own and you have to make your own choices. All I want to you to remember is that women deserve to be treated with respect and kindness. It is very, very easy for someone with power to hurt others, even if they don't intend to. And there are always—always—consequences for your actions, especially for someone in your position."

Wide hazel eyes met serious blue ones. "I understand," he said quietly. "And besides," he added bitterly, "our family doesn't need any more bastards, does it?"

Maric frowned and shook his head. "I suppose I deserved that. Alistair, I—"

He broke off. "Still too damn young," he muttered under his breath.

"I promised you that someday I would tell you about your mother and I, and I swear to you that I will. But you're still too young, Alistair. Maybe in a few years, you'll be ready, but not now. I'm sorry.

"But my concern does not come from worrying about my image or anything like that. I don't believe you would neglect your duties or responsibilities, but I highly doubt you're ready to be a father. Am I wrong?"

"No..."

"I didn't think so. I say this out of concern for you because I love you and I don't want you getting hurt. And I want better for you than Cailan and I have managed. We've both done stupid, destructive things that have hurt those we cared about. I want at least someone to avoid those mistakes.

"And if you do mess up and make a mistake, I am always here for you. Remember that."

Alistair nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Brutal honesty about how flawed his father was always left him feeling unsettled. He knew his father made mistakes-everyone did-but he disliked hearing them laid out so plainly.

And these occasional references to his mother disturbed him. How difficult could it be to tell him about a serving maid? There was something his father left always unsaid, and it clearly upset him.

"I didn't mean to upset you," his father said softly. "Go back to thinking about happier things. If it makes you feel better, I'll talk to Bryce about Lya staying in Denerim-either in their estate or the palace. I think the two of you might benefit from training together more."

Alistair forced a smile he didn't completely feel, and tried not to think anymore about the issues his father had raised and how uncomfortable they made him. He urged his horse forward into a canter, calling to Adara as she ran beside the road throwing up plumes of snow. Let the cold and wind in his face numb his mind to this right now, at least until he was prepared to deal with it.

Chapter Text

When spring came, Denerim was packed to the walls with people. It seemed like anyone and everyone was piling into the capitol in preparation for the royal wedding to be held after the Landsmeet. Everywhere Alistair looked, there were crowds of people, from nobles to foreign dignitaries to commoners to servants.

For his part, Alistair tried his best to simply stay out of the way, often retreating to his room or the barracks where he did most of his training. While Warwick's current workload was light—because of the upcoming wedding—work to be done in the barracks had increased tenfold. Under Loghain's orders, security had been tightened and nearly every active guardsman found themselves pressed into service. This left the bulk of weapons and armor care to the servants and squires—which included Alistair, at least in this capacity.

He spent hours each day removing the tiniest bits of rust from metal and polishing it until it gleamed. Other times he carried equipment to and from smiths for repairs and deliveries. The normal distance between he and the other squires dropped during this time, and Alistair and the others would exchange exasperated eye-rolls and rude gestures as yet another captain would come in screaming that his men needed something right now and someone would pay if it wasn't taken care of.

In between all of this, Alistair was often called to meet with certain arriving nobles or dignitaries. Not to actually host or be responsible for them, but to put in a greeting or perhaps meet someone he hadn't yet.

He couldn't help but grin at the merchant delegation that arrived from Antiva. They made Oriana's family seem positively stodgy by comparison.

The merchants didn't seem to be in the city for the wedding, per se, merely taking advantage of the fortuitous timing. Their main goal appeared to be discussing trade terms that Maric had been working out. They wanted him to come to Antiva to meet with the heads of the merchant guild to settle the final terms.

Maric thanked them, but turned down the offer to go to Antiva. "I still have interests at home requiring my attention."

"But surely, your Majesty, after the crown prince's wedding, there will be time to come finalize these treaties."

"Ah, no, my apologies. Leaving home right now, even after Cailan's wedding, still isn't possible. But I do share your desire to see this business concluded. I would be more than happy to host whatever delegation your masters choose to send."

The merchants talked among themselves for a bit before the one chosen to speak for them replied. "We, too, desire to see these most important talks concluded. If you indeed cannot leave Ferelden at this time, then we shall send word to the Guild. If all goes well, then perhaps they will send someone and we can all reach a satisfactory conclusion, yes?"

With a smile, Maric nodded. "That sounds like an excellent idea to me. You will be staying for the wedding, I hope?"

"But of course, your Majesty. It will be far faster to send a messenger back to Antiva and we would not miss the uniting of two of Ferelden's brightest stars for the world."

"Very good. I believe you have everything you need at your embassy, but should you need anything, please just ask. I look forward hearing back from your Guild."

The merchants floridly bowed their way out of the throne room and Alistair breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he would soon be free for the day. His father looked over and quirked an eyebrow upward. "You're a bit too quick there to think you're off the hook. I think perhaps some more time spent studying trade might be a good idea."

"Yes, ser," said Alistair glumly.

"And perhaps I might be able to cajole Anora in helping out. Not until long after the wedding, naturally." He favored his soon-to-be daughter-in-law with a winning smile.

"Naturally," Anora agreed dryly. "I think Alistair and I can work something out."

"Excellent!" Maric clapped his hands sharply and rubbed them together. "Now what say we see about lunch?"

"Alistair? You in there?"

There was a soft knock on the door before Cailan pushed it open. Alistair was lying on his bed, feet propped up on his pillows with Adara stretch out beside him. He tilted his head back a little to look at his brother upside down as Cailan entered.

"Hey. What's up? Did you need something?"

"Nah, nothing like that." His brother pushed the door shut and then leaned against it.

Twisting onto to his side so his neck wasn't so strained, Alistair asked, "Does Dad need me or something?"

Cailan shook his head. "No. Well, not right yet, I should say. I wanted to come get you first."

"Oooh, sounds serious. Come on, out with it. It must be important if you're here and not busy doing something for Anora."

"Oh, don't remind me," Cailan groaned. "I think I've had my fill of being stabbed at by skinny men with sharp needles. I swear, I might give up wearing clothes entirely after this."

Alistair grinned. "That ought to be a sight."

Cailan smiled again before he frowned slightly. "You know how everyone's arriving for the wedding, right?"

"Uh, yeah. That'd be a little hard to miss, what with the thousands of people here for it."

That earned him a small chuckle. "I suppose it would at that." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture and his expression so like their father that Alistair felt his skin break into gooseflesh.

"Not quite why I'm here, though. I wanted to let you know before someone else did…Eamon's here."

"Oh."

Adara whined curiously and pushed her head into his side as he rolled all the way over onto his stomach and then sat on the edge of the bed. Alistair reached out to scratch her head reflexively, the movement habit.

Eamon. Alistair hadn't actually thought about the arl in a long time, and hadn't seen him in nearly five years. Ever since he'd come to Denerim, Teagan had been the one handling all of Redcliffe's affairs and speaking for Eamon at the Landsmeets.

He didn't know quite how he felt about the arl. He hadn't thought a lot about his life in Redcliffe and the more time passed, the less he was able to remember. Gradually, most memories were turning fuzzy.

There were a few things that stood out in sharp detail—village boys taunting him and shoving him in the mud. Isolde screaming at him for tracking said mud onto her immaculate floors. Eamon telling him over and over that he was a bastard and a commoner, not a prince, and then giving him toys to play with.

"You all right?" Cailan asked softly.

"Yeah, I…I'm fine."

The door creaked slightly as Cailan pushed off and crossed the floor. The mattress dipped slightly as his brother say next to him.

"You know, Eamon's my uncle, but I've always liked Teagan better."

"Me, too."

"Ha, I can imagine. The thing is, it's not just because Teagan's more fun. I love them both, and I know they love me. But with Eamon, I always feel like when he looks at me, he's not seeing me. I suppose I should be used to that. For a long time my name could have been 'Maric's son' and not 'Cailan.'"

"So…what? You think he's seeing our father?"

"No." Cailan sounded thoughtful. "I think he's seeing my mother. Most people look at me and see a just prince or the son of the man who threw off the yoke of our dreadful oppressors. Which is irritating, but I can live with it. For Eamon, though, not only am I Maric's son, I'm also Rowan's son.

"He always manages to bring her up whenever we talk. It's 'Your mother would have been so proud.' Or 'I wish Rowan could see this.' And when I was younger, I heard a lot about how I looked like her. At least until I got older and it became apparent I was practically a mirror image of Maric.

"It's not that I don't appreciate what he's trying to do, since I think he's just trying to keep her memory alive, but it's beyond frustrating not to be seen as your own person. To just be some sort of…place holder or living memory."

Cailan leaned back, bracing his weight on his hands. "It would probably be a lot easier if I could remember her."

"You don't?" Alistair asked in surprise.

His brother shook his head. "I was three when she died and she was sick for a long time before that. I remember…. She had dark hair. And soft hands. But beyond that…nothing. The only reason I know what she looked like is because of all the portraits.

"And I think that's the irony of it. He looks at us both and sees a dead woman—what's left of her in me and what her death led to in you. And it's not fair to either of us."

"I don't know." Alistair looked down, studying his fingernails. "It shows that he cares, you know what I mean? If he didn't, I don't think he'd bother to bring it up that often. I used to think he cared for me. I'm not so sure anymore. He was always more focused on what I shouldn't do or shouldn't be. It might have been nice to hear every so often that I reminded him of someone, or that someone would have been proud of me."

A silence fell and drew out slightly uncomfortably between them. Cailan finally spoke. "I don't know what exactly happened with you out in Redcliffe. Neither Father or Teagan have answered my questions."

"You asked?"

Cailan laughed. "Of course, I asked. Little brother practically shows up out of nowhere and you think I'm not going to ask? I knew about you, sort of, but nothing really definite until you actually showed up."

"I wonder why they didn't say anything."

"Because it's your life."

When Alistair just looked at him, Cailan shook his head. "That's exactly what Father said. It's your life, so it's up to you when—or if—you share any of it."

He flopped back onto the bed, lacing his hands behind his head. "I used to be jealous of you, you know."

"Of me?" Alistair scoffed. "Be serious."

"I am. Think of it! Being free, doing what you want. Able to just run around with no one always chasing after you to make sure you don't fall and Maker forbid scrape a knee. No stuffy scholar making you read even stuffier books and filling page after page of notes. No formal affairs where you have to watch what you say to who and how you say it. Just…freedom."

Alistair burst into laughter. "You can't be serious. You're having me on, right?"

"Not at all. Of course, that's what I used to think. I've rather gotten the impression that's not actually what things were like."

"Hardly." Alistair almost left it there, almost didn't say anything else. But for all that he had mentioned a few things or heard others talk about them, he'd never actually talked about his life with someone else. So he took a deep breath and plunged on.

"I suppose there was freedom, yes, but not because I wanted it. I didn't have a choice. It's not like I had a home to go back to at night or parents waiting for me. I didn't have a family to sit down to meals to. I was fed, clothed and had a roof over my head, but that was it.

"It could have been much worse, I know that. And I'm grateful for what I did have. I wasn't beaten or anything, but it was lonely. There were things I wanted and couldn't have and I couldn't understand why."

He looked over. "Do you remember when you came to Redcliffe?" Cailan nodded. "I hated you."

His brother's eyes widened.

"And when I say hated, I mean, I really hated you. And it wasn't for your fine clothes or the horse you rode in on or the food you ate. More than anything, I hated you because you were Maric's son and I never could be. It was something forever outside my reach and I couldn't stand seeing it."

"I…wow. I had no idea."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly proud of it. And I don't feel that way now," he was quick to assure Cailan.

"You don't say," Cailan drawled.

"Oh, shove off," Alistair grinned. "As for Eamon, I don't know. I'm not mad at him, never have been. As bad a job as he might have done, he was only doing what he was asked to."

"You're more forgiving than I would be." Cailan sat up. "I wanted to let you know, so that if you didn't want to see him you had time to make yourself scarce."

"I appreciate it."

"Anytime. And just so you're not surprised by this, Eamon has a son."

Alistair blinked. "Really?"

"Yup. His name's Connor."

"I had no idea."

"You're not the only one. Apparently, he took his exclusion from Denerim to also mean he should keep important news like that quiet."

"I guess. How old is Connor?"

"From what I gather, he turned four several months ago."

Something fell into place in Alistair's mind. "Holy Maker," he breathed.

"What?"

"That must have been why they were sending me the Chantry," he said, still speaking more to himself than to Cailan.

"Uh, hello? Want to fill me in?"

"Eamon was going to send me to Chantry to have me begin templar training," Alistair replied. "I'd heard about it for a little while and I get the feeling I was only weeks—maybe days—from being sent. Isolde must've known she was expecting by then. Since she and a lot of others thought I was Eamon's bastard, she must have wanted me out of the way for her own child. She wouldn't have wanted any one else muddying up the succession."

Cailan whistled. "Life's never stays dull, does it? Do you ever wonder what it might be like to be normal?"

Alistair laughed. "All the time."

With all the guests, Alistair didn't have to really meet Arl Eamon. He was there when Maric greeted him—a bit formally—but other than that, they didn't speak. Eamon glanced at him a few times, but Alistair couldn't tell what he was thinking. Isolde, too, seemed extremely subdued and quiet, perhaps doing what she thought to deflect any lingering anger Maric might have.

The boy, Connor, was quiet and well-mannered, too young to really understand what was going on and clearly more interested in everything going on around them to pay attention to any tension among the adults. Alistair felt a stab of pity for the boy, having Isolde as a mother.

And then the meeting was done and Alistair was free. He emerged feeling like he'd won some sort of victory and resolved to put Redcliffe out of mind. It was a chapter in his life he could close the door on.

The wedding lived up to its expectations.

It was a week long affair, celebrated by both nobles and commoners alike. Between the parties the nobles threw themselves and the goods handed out to the populace by the Crown, everyone had more than enough to treat this as annum in and of itself.

The only sore spot that Alistair saw was when Arl Howe arrived. Cailan greeted him and asked where Nathaniel was. Rendon replied that he was still in the Free Marches and that the boy still needed far too much training for Rendon to have even thought of calling him back to Ferelden.

Cailan had been upset by that news, though he did a good job masking it. Alistair knew that Cailan—much like him—didn't have a lot of people he considered close friends, and Nathaniel was one of the few. He'd been troubled when Arl Howe sent him off in the first place and he wasn't happy with this latest revelation.

Cailan's feelings on the matter were pushed off to the side as the festivities got completely underway and everyone's time was consumed with the sudden rush of last minute things to be done. There was no time to enjoy the arrival of the Couslands and he didn't even get to see Lya at all until the wedding itself was over.

When they finally did meet up, it was like the months apart hadn't happened. They spent a few moments—well, more than a few—getting…reacquainted and then it was off to enjoy the dancing, games and food. And if anyone noticed that they spent all their time together, no one commented.

The stones of the training yard were gritty under Alistair's boots as he faced his opponent, armed with sword and shield as he was. He settled his weight carefully, keeping it centered on the balls on his feet so he wouldn't lose his footing. Across from him, the other fighter was doing the same, mirroring his movements.

"Now," Loghain said from next to him. "You have the advantage of height and weight on her, but she's faster than you are. And you wield the same weapons, but your styles are different. You're much more defensively suited, so you need to choose your attacks more carefully.

"Let her make the first moves—in fact, let her make as many as she wants as long as she doesn't land any good hits. It'll let you see how she fights and tire her out, both to your advantage. If she's to win, she'll need to take the advantage quickly. So keep your feet under you. I imagine her brother is giving her similar advice."

Across from them, Fergus was leaning toward Lya, speaking quietly. She nodded every so often at his words, shifting her grip on the hilt of her sword.

Bryce and Eleanor had agreed to let Lya stay in Denerim through the end of the fall Landsmeet while they went back to Highever. Fergus and Oriana would be staying with her to keep an eye on her, but for the most part, everyone was comfortable allowing her to follow along with Alistair's studies and training.

Alistair was very much looking forward to having her around for the next several months, even though Cook had already banished both of them and their hounds from the kitchen.

Loghain stepped back, as did Fergus, allowing their charges to step forward to meet each other in the center of the ring.

The two circled each other for several moments, testing to see who would strike first. When it became apparent that he would not, Lya made the first move, a single, almost casual stroke that he easily blocked with his shield. The match began in earnest after that.

Alistair tried to follow Loghain's advice. He struck when he saw an opening and quickly learned that not all apparent weaknesses were such. Lya was clever at feinting, often drawing him into striking an opening that wasn't really there. He had to pull back for a bit and let her take the upper hand. Loghain was right, she was faster than him and he needed to fall back into the defensive posture that gave him the advantage and wait for her to make a mistake.

He was surprised, however, at how hard she did manage to hit. His left arm was slightly numb from bracing against repeated blows and he hoped he would be able to switch to offense soon.

Ah, there. She was a bit slower now, choosing her attacks more carefully to conserve her strength. He lunged forward, slamming his shield into hers and forcing her back. She grunted with the force of the attack, giving ground so that she wouldn't be at the mercy of his strength up close.

They traded blows at close range for awhile. Sweat poured down Alistair's brow and he blinked against the sting of it in his eyes. His arms and legs burned and he knew tomorrow he would be bruised and sore. From what he could see through the open parts of her helm and the way she moved, Lya was struggling against the same thing.

Finally, Alistair saw an opportunity and swung his sword in low, intending to catch the bottom of her shield and force her into a purely defensive posture.

As he brought his arm forward, Lya slipped, going down to her left knee, her shield going wide and dropping down. Alistair was too close, already committed to the swing and his sword slammed into her upper left arm with the full force of the blow behind it.

Lya cried out in pain, dropping her sword and shield to the stones and clutching at her arm. Their swords were just practice swords, blunted and dulled so as not to cut. But they were still made of heavy steel, capable of hurting even through the layers of leather and chain they wore.

Alistair dropped his own sword and shield and tore his helmet off. He stepped forward and knelt before her, one hand reaching out. "Oh, Maker! I'm so sorry! Are you—"

A gauntlet encased fist lashed out and took him squarely in the face. The blow made him fall back onto his ass on the stones. Bemusedly, he reached up and touched his split lip.

"There," Lya hissed, face and voice tight with pain as she held her arm against her body. "Now we're even."

Loghain and Fergus both burst into laughter, and the teyrn held out a hand to help Alistair up as Fergus tucked his hands under Lya's arms and hauled her to her feet.

"I think that's enough for today," Fergus said.

"Good," said Lya. "Now can we please go see a healer? My arm really hurts."

Fergus laughed again and wrapped an arm around her shoulder to lead her back inside while Alistair and Loghain followed after picking up the weapons.

Hours later, after Lya's arm had been wrapped and bound and she had been given something to help her sleep and take the edge off the pain, Fergus took her back to their estate and Alistair found himself wandering around the palace, at odds with what to do with himself.

Within hours after the accident, Lya's arm had darkened into the most impressive bruise he'd ever seen—a large portion of her upper arm nearly black. The healer said she would be fine, that there was no damage to the muscles or bone. A few weeks of taking it easy and she would be good as new.

Alistair had been vastly relieved at the news. He had feared that he'd done something to hurt her permanently and that thought was too awful to contemplate.

He ended up in the training yard, scuffing his foot over the ground and looking at a training post critically. Given what had happened this afternoon, it would probably be a good idea to stick to those for awhile.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Gah!" Alistair jumped, whirling around to see Loghain standing behind him. "Maker, Loghain, don't do that! You scared me half to death."

The teyrn lifted a brow. "Don't do what? Walk around and speak to you?"

"No, I mean don't sneak up on me like that."

Loghain snorted. "I was hardly sneaking. You've been out of it all day. An entire legion of chevaliers could thunder through here and you wouldn't even notice."

Alistair ducked his head, silently acknowledging the truth of Loghain's words and turned his attention back to the post, running his hand over the scarred wood. "You're wrong," he said quietly.

"No doubt. What am I wrong about this time?"

"It was my fault." He knew what Loghain was talking about when he first spoke. "I…I should have been more careful. She got hurt because of me."

There was a long moment of silence before Loghain spoke. "What is it do you think we're training you to do?"

"Ser?"

"With all this." He gestured around them. "With all the training. What do you think we're doing?"

"Teaching me how to fight?"

"No. What we're doing is teaching you how to kill. Learning how to fight is part of it. All the armor, all the weapons, all the techniques—that's just part of making it easier for you to kill others and harder for others to kill you. That's it.

"You have to learn how to survive to kill your enemy. That's what all this training teaches you—how to stay alive long enough to make sure the other man dies. We wrap it up in pretty packages and fancy terms and talk about honor and nobility, but it means nothing. In the end, it'll just be you with your sword in another man's guts or his sword in yours."

Alistair swallowed, the sudden vision of him standing over a fallen opponent with his sword buried in the man's stomach filling his mind. He shuddered.

"What happened today," Loghain went on, "is part of what happens in the life of a warrior. You hurt her. It was an accident. Feel awful all you want, flagellate yourself in private if you must. But you can't dwell on it. In battle you don't have that luxury."

"But it's not the same! We were just sparring! I—"

"No!" Loghain's hand cut through the air. "It is the same. In war, you will see those you care about cut down. You will watch them die. Some will die because of you, one way or another. If you cannot handle seeing that, then you don't belong on the field because you will only get more people killed. If today had been real, and you hesitated because you saw her hurt, both of you would have died for your mistake."

The criticism cut sharply through Alistair and he looked away. "Then maybe I don't belong doing this. I shouldn't have been fighting her anyway. What if I had really hurt her?"

"Don't be stupid."

Anger flared in him. He rounded on the older man. "What do you want me to say? You come down here and tell me these things, what am I supposed to do? What's the point of this conversation if not to get me to admit how badly I failed?"

"To get you to stop moping about, for one. Also to make sure you know exactly what's at stake. The girl, she gets it. She's young yet, and hasn't learned to fight through the pain, but when she saw an opening, she took it.

"Now I'm not suggesting you punch her in the face when she's down. Just know that you have to be strong enough not to let seeing someone you care about get hurt affect you when it counts. You show a lot of promise, and this is a lesson best learnt now when it won't result in someone's death."

Loghain turned and began walking away. "And just so you know," he called back over his shoulder, "I heard your girl telling her brother she wants a rematch. She's a warrior at heart, and wouldn't thank you for thinking she wasn't your equal."

Alistair watched Loghain walk away. Was that what he really had been thinking? That Lya wasn't his equal? The idea was absurd, but…. He had been thinking it wasn't right to fight a girl, that it was unfair since he was bigger and stronger than she.

He grinned. Lya would wallop him if she ever caught him saying that. He kicked at the stones once more before turning back to go inside. Loghain wasn't completely correct. It wasn't the thought of her being hurt that upset him, or even being hurt because of him. It was the thought of him hurting her directly that bothered him. He wouldn't belittle her by thinking that again. He would just…be more careful in the future.

The rest of the spring, and then summer and fall passed quickly. Everyone counted Lya's stay a success. Warwick delighted in Lya's presence, often turning lessons into debates where Alistair and Lya each had to research and argue positions. And aside from that first unfortunate sparring match, Alistair's martial trainers were also quite pleased. He learned how to counter some of the advantage her quickness gave her while she learned how to counter and turn an opponent's superior power against them.

They were a relatively evenly matched pair, the victories for their sparring matches nearly even. They often attracted a small audience, with friendly wagers placed on which young warrior they thought would win each round. Cailan and Maric came to watch some of them as well, with Cailan often standing with Fergus and Lya to offer encouragement and Maric with him and Loghain.

And as they began understanding how each other moved, Loghain arranged for group sessions so that they could learn how to combine their strengths and fight side by side. That was a very different experience than fighting alone, and more than once each of had nearly bashed in the other's brains with an ill-timed or ill-directed sword swipe or shield bash.

Eventually, the fall Landsmeet came and with it, Lya's departure. Bryce and Eleanor were pleased with their daughter's progress and said they would consider doing it again. Or perhaps even having Alistair spend next winter in Highever.

The Couslands did stay on for a little longer after the Landsmeet and Alistair and Lya took the opportunity those days provided to just concentrate on having fun and saying their own private goodbyes.

Their last night, they snuck onto a roof and watched the moon rise. Alistair sat with his back against the wall leading up to a tower with Lya in front of him, leaning her back against his chest, her head tucked just under his chin. Her hair tickled against his throat, but he didn't mind. Besides, it smelled nice.

"I had a lot of fun," she said.

He smiled. "Me, too. Do you think your parents would let you do it again?"

She hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know. I can't get a definitive "yes" out of my father yet. He said something about maybe having plans for next summer, but wouldn't tell me what. But I wouldn't worry. I'm his pup, he won't deny me anything I really want."

Alistair tightened his arms around her. "I wish you didn't have to go."

Lya chuckled. "Why, good ser, are you suggesting keeping me from returning to my ancestral home and being with my kin?"

"Maybe. Well, no, not really. It's just that…you're going to be gone for months. I'm going to miss you."

"Oh, Ali." Lya half turned, laying her head in the curve of his shoulder, one arm wrapping around him while her other hand came up to rest of his cheek. "We can write, you know. There are always couriers going back and forth between Denerim and Highever."

"It's not the same."

"I know." Lya's voice was a bit thick, and Alistair could feel something damp against the skin of his neck. He loosened one of his arms to turn her face up and then bent his head down to kiss her. She shifted slightly, making for a better angle and the hand on his back reached up to thread through his hair.

"Alistair?" Lya asked when they broke apart, the thumb of her hand still on his cheek rubbing gently.

"Yes?"

"I think you need to start shaving."

Just after the Landsmeet, a trade delegation from Antiva arrived. Docking just before the winter storms set in, they intended to remain in Denerim for the course of the winter finalizing trade negotiations.

This group of merchant princes was very different from the others Alistair had seen at court. While all displayed their wealth, most chose showy and flashy clothing and jewels. This group of men and women were different.

Their clothing was rich and a tasteful. Dark, heavy brocades shot with gold and silver thread and thick, shining fur to keep them protected from the harsh Fereldan cold. They wore jewels and had others worked in their garb, but the cut and quality was far more telling than simply the amount they wore. And they were always perfectly groomed, their hair oiled and arranged in elaborate styles, the women artfully made up, and all of them smelling of exotic spice and perfume.

More than that, they carried with them an indefinable sense of power. These were people used to giving commands and having them followed immediately and without question. It frightened Alistair a little, to see the complete control they had over their servants and guards. Not that his father or other nobles didn't have control, but it was very, very…different.

Their guards. From the moment the merchants arrived, their guards put everyone on edge. The men who protected the merchants were unlike the palace guards and Alistair couldn't help but drawing comparisons.

The royal guard tended for the most part to be made up of large men who carried thick muscle over heavy bone and wrapped themselves in layers of steel. They reminded Alistair of the mabari that was so much a part of the Fereldan character.

The Antivans did have some men like that, but most of their forces were comprised of leaner, lither men who favored leather and light chain. Most carried two weapons and for all that the blades were slimmer and lighter than Fereldan weapons, were no less sharp and deadly looking. These men Alistair couldn't help but to compare to the stories he'd heard of sleek hunting cats kept by Orlesian and Antivan nobility. They were fierce and deadly, waiting only to be let off their leashes to unsheathe their claws and attack.

Also unlike the Fereldans, the Antivans had elves among them and no women. Alistair was used to seeing women armed and armored and doing that duty that when he realized there were none among the visitors, it rattled him. Was this normal of other places? Which was the anomaly: Antiva or Ferelden? He'd have to ask Warwick.

He'd also never quite understood why elves weren't supposed to carry weapons. After all, hadn't some of them fought with his father to free Ferelden of the Orlesians? Judging by what he saw now, watching as the guards prowled—there was no other word for how they moved—during a dinner, it wasn't because they were incapable. And didn't the histories speak of the fierceness of the Dalish?

Thoughts of the Dalish called his attention to one of the guards. An elf, maybe the same age as Cailan—give or take a few years, it was hard to tell—with long, pale blond hair and eerie amber eyes. But what caught Alistair's attention were the markings on the elf's face. He'd never seen anything like it. Stories said the Dalish elves marked their faces and he wondered if this elf was a Dalish, and if so, what was he doing here?

He looked back over and found the elf looking at him. Ah, blast. Flushing slightly, he turned away. It had been rude of him to stare at the man as if he were some sort of freak or oddity. He'd been raised better than that. He looked back, wondering if he should apologize. But the man was gone.

Well…that took care of that then. He turned, intending to maybe get some more cheese, only the find the elf directly behind him. Reflexively, he sucked in a breath and took a step back.

Instantly, the elf's alert posture relaxed slightly and he suddenly looked far less intimidating. He spread his hands, open and palm up. "My apologies," he said in his rich, accented voice. "I did not mean to startle you."

"I, uh, no, th-that's fine. Just not paying attention."

"Still, I should have given some sign of my presence and I did not. For that I am sorry."

"Um, thanks."

The elf smiled and nodded. Alistair expected him to move away, but the man remained where he was, looking at him speculatively. "Might I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"I have noticed you watching me for some time. May I ask why that is?"

Alistair flushed, feeling the heat all the way up to his ears. Damn it. "About that…. Listen, uh…."

"Zevran," the man supplied helpfully.

"Right, Zevran, I was being rude. I'm sorry if I offended you."

"I am not offended at all. I'm just curious as to what warranted such…careful observation from one such as you."

"I…. Oh, bother it. Never mind. You'll just laugh."

Zevran shook his head. "I promise, I will not laugh. If you have a question or need something, you have only to ask."

Alistair chewed on his lip. Well, if he didn't mind….

"The markings on your face. I heard the Dalish had them and I wondered if you were one."

"These?" Zevran ran a finger along the dark, curving lines that ran down the left side of his face. "What you refer to is what the Dalish call vallasin—blood writing. The Dalish choose the symbols of one of their Creators and mark their faces when they come of age.

"And while my mother was Dalish, I am not. What you see are simply tattoos."

"Oh, well, thank you for explaining."

"You're quite welcome. Is that all you wished from me?"

Nodding, Alistair replied, "Yeah. And I'm sorry for the staring thing."

"Do not be, Alistair," Zevran reached out and clasped him on the shoulder lightly. "If you are curious about something, you should always ask."

"You know my name?" Alistair was vaguely surprised at that.

"You are a prince," chuckled Zevran. "It would be rather hard not to know your name."

"Ah, right." Alistair grinned tentatively. "I keep forgetting about that sometimes."

Zevran's eyes narrowed slightly. "You are a most unusual young man. You are quite sure there is nothing else you need of me?"

The delicate emphasis on the word caught Alistair's attention and he frowned slightly. "Uh, not that I can think of. Why? Should there be?"

A nonchalant shrug of a leather-clad shoulder. "That is for you to tell me. Usually, when an attractive young man stares at me, he is not curious about my tattoos. At least, not the ones on my face."

For a moment, Alistair just stared at Zevran as comprehension slowly dawned and he looked at the elf as if seeing him for the first time. Suddenly, everything about the elf clicked together—his posture, his deferential demeanor, the desire to please evident in his attitude and speech…. Alistair blushed so hard he thought his toes might be scarlet.

"O-Oh, Maker! I just…I don't…Oh, no. Listen, I am so, so sorry! I never meant—that is, I wasn't trying to…." At that moment, he wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him whole as he stammered in embarrassment.

Zevran took a step back and help up his hand. "Please, do not. I meant to cause you no distress. I am still unaccustomed to your Fereldan ways—and I believe I may have misjudged your age—and I thusly fear I have given offense where I meant none. Accept my deepest apologies. I have put you in an awkward position and that was truly not my intention."

"Listen," he said quickly. "It was a misunderstanding, that's all. Let's just forget about this."

Zevran nodded. "A most excellent suggestion. I leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening then."

"Sounds good to me."

Alistair hurried off, letting out a deep, relieved breath and vowing to never, ever stare at people again.

Chapter Text

The big roan gelding stood still as Alistair brushed it. If it didn't rain tomorrow—and he had never quite realized how much it rained during early spring before—he'd be able to get outside Denerim for a ride. Teagan was coming by, and Cailan was talking about a hunt, but Alistair doubted they'd find anything at this time of year.

He didn't particularly enjoy hunting, and he wasn't all that great at it. After the first few times he'd tried joining in, he went just for the opportunity to get out away from the city. It was relaxing and the atmosphere of camaraderie was refreshing. He suspected that's why both Cailan and Teagan loved it so much. They were undeniably better at catching their prey than he was, but they never seemed to bring in all that much.

The liberal imbibing of spirits also probably had something to do with that.

With a few final strokes of the curry brush, Alistair patted the gelding a few times and left the stall. Replacing the combs and brushes neatly back where he'd taken them from, he stepped out of the stable. He stood for a moment, stretching and thinking about what he should do next. Perhaps he should see if Ser Egil was around. The man was a terror with his greatsword and Alistair wanted to get in some more practice against an opponent like that. If he wasn't available, then maybe Ser Adela would be. Extra work defending against her knives also wouldn't go amiss.

Walking back to the armory where his sparring armor was kept, he slowed as he got closer to the building. A familiar figure was leaning against the wall near the door and Alistair cocked his head in curiosity as he got closer.

"I didn't expect to see you down here."

Maric smiled. "I figured you'd be by this way eventually. It's a nice day, so I decided to wait. Heading for a bit of training?"

Alistair nodded. "Yeah. I really need some work in a few areas."

"Feel like sparring for a bit?"

Alistair's jaw dropped. "Against you? Wait, seriously? You mean it?"

"Of course. If you'd like to, that is. I understand if you'd rather just stick with what you were planning to do."

"What? No! I mean, I'd love to!" Alistair practically yanked open the door to the armory, holding it open as his father entered behind him.

He tried not to rush through putting his armor on. His father had never offered to spar with him before and Alistair hadn't actually seen Maric practice against anyone except Loghain before. And even that was infrequent.

Next to him, Maric was buckling his own practice armor on. It was probably the nicest practice armor in Ferelden. It looked almost new, any scuffs or scrapes having been buffed and polished out. And the armor itself was finely crafted and worked. Not as elaborately as Maric and Cailan's official sets, but enough so that it was clear it belonged to nobility.

Maric caught him looking and laughed. "Absurd, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing to himself. "Even something as common as this has to be all fancy."

"It's nice," said Alistair.

"Nice." Maric sighed. "I knew men who would've given their left eye for armor like this during the war and I'm just supposed to use it for practice." With a rueful shake of his head, Maric finished tightening the last of his straps. "Some things you never get used to."

Alistair reached for his usual blunted blade, but when he reached for his shield, Maric touched his arm. Raising an eyebrow, Alistair glanced at his father, looking for an answer to his unspoken question.

"No shields," Maric confirmed.

"How come?"

"Because you won't always have one in a fight. They get lost or broken and it's a good idea to know how to defend yourself with just a sword."

"Makes sense."

"I manage to do that sometimes," Maric grinned. "In fact, if I were going to have a brilliant idea, I'd suggest we'd get you training while it's raining or at night. Battles can happen under any conditions and the better prepared you are for them, the better your odds."

His father's words, while different in tone, were startlingly similar to Loghain's previous ones, and he wondered if the two men got together to discuss words of wisdom they intended to pass on. Or they both felt that these were things that he needed pointed out.

Maric selected his own sword and the two walked across the flagstones to the middle of the yard. Once there, his father showed him how to alter his stance and guard to compensate for the lack of a shield and began walking him through a few routines.

Alistair felt distinctly off balance. The missing weight of a shield kept distracting him and he didn't know how to move his left arm. Maric seemed to have no such troubles and time after time his father's blade slipped under his inexpert guard. It was never hard, never enough hurt, but the sheer number of times it happened soon had him swearing in frustration.

Finally, he stepped back and lowered his sword, breathing harshly and trying to unclench his jaw.

"Frustrating, isn't it?" Maric's tone seemly wryly sympathetic.

"Yes," he bit off. "It's like all my skill is just…gone! Like I worked for nothing!"

Shaking his head, Maric also stepped back, dropping the tip of his sword to touch the ground. "Don't feel like that. This is supposed to be difficult and it's not something you have any experience in yet."

"I know. I know that, but I want to be good at it."

"And you will be. Give it time. You're still young yet."

"Not that young."

Maric groaned. "All right, really? You're sixteen. Until your hair starts turning grey, your joints ache when it's cold and you start running to fat, you're not allowed to complain about not being young. Understood? We elderly folks need something to complain about that's all our own."

Alistair laughed, understanding that his father was deliberately joking to lessen his tension. "Sorry. I sounded ridiculous. Don't know why it bothered me so much."

Waving his free hand, Maric dismissed it. "Not to worry. Apparently, it's something all children go through. If I managed to survive Cailan at that age, I think I'll survive you."

"Cailan was the same way?"

Maric rolled his eyes. "Oh, you have no idea. At least you're not moping about the palace writing bad poetry."

That earned an incredulous look. "Cailan wrote poetry? I think I would remember that."

"It was before you came. But trust me, it was bad poetry. I'm not even sure it counts, really."

For a moment, Alistair said nothing. Then he started laughing. A few chuckles at first and then came deep, belly-shaking laughter. It shouldn't have been that funny, but the thought Cailan—who tended to take his public appearance so seriously—moon-eyed and scribing bad odes when he was Alistair's age was hilarious. He laughed until he cried and eventually had to put his hands on his knees to keep from falling over.

It must have been infectious because his father soon joined him, the both of them gasping for breath in the middle of the practice yard while they laughed like fools.

"Okay, okay, we need to stop," Maric choked out.

"Right."

It took a few minutes, but they managed to get themselves under control. There were still a few lip twitches as they faced off against one another again, but an outside observer wouldn't think they had suddenly taken leave of their senses.

His father raised his sword again and then lowered it just a quickly. "Oh, sod it. Go get the shields, Alistair. If we're going to do this, we might as well do this right."

Alistair jogged back into the armory, grabbed two shields and hurried back out, handing one to his father. They slipped the shields on, and Alistair immediately felt more confident. This was what he knew and was good at.

Once more they set themselves. Grinning at him, his father said, "Take it easy on the old man, all right?"

"You're hardly old," Alistair replied, bracing against a blow and then darting forward to return it.

"I suppose it just feels that way, then. Besides, I'm more likely to win if you're worried about hitting me too hard and breaking a hip."

They were going at each other in earnest now, and Alistair had to concentrate on keeping his father at bay. It was unlike sparring with Loghain or the other knights. Again and again they traded blows and Alistair was aware that time was passing, the sun climbing higher and hotter in the sky.

"You fight different," he said when he pressed close, their shields pushing against each other.

Maric shoved him back, causing Alistair to stagger a little. "I do. If you listen to Loghain, I'm too reckless."

"I'd have thought the two of you would fight pretty much the same way, since you fought in the war together." Blocking yet another cut, he saw a brief gap and thrust his blade forward, jabbing the blunted tip into his father's thigh.

"Gah! Maker's blood, that hurt." He caught his father's return parry, but Maric unexpectedly dropped his arm, and he stumbled forward a step only to be met with Maric's shield striking his shoulder. Arm slightly numb, he struggled to keep his grip on his sword as he moved quickly out of range.

"I can see why you might think that," Maric panted. "But Loghain kept refining his technique. Me, I stuck with what worked."

"I can see that," Alistair grunted, trying to dodge yet another cut and failing. "Ow! All right, enough. I yield."

His father immediately stepped back. "Good. I think I'm just about done anyway."

Slipping his shield free, he walked back to armory and racked his sword and shield before slumping onto a bench. Maric sunk down on the bench opposite him. Both of them were still catching their breath and covered in sweat. Alistair shucked off his gauntlets and fumbled for a water skin, took a long drink and then passed it over to his father.

"Old man, eh?"

With a weak grin, his father nodded and took a drink. "Loghain ever get this winded?"

Alistair shook his head. "Nah. He's usually still ready to go when I'm begging off…oh."

Loghain and his father were the same age, just about—Loghain might have been slightly older. His father was still active, still fit, but Alistair hadn't realized how much Loghain had kept himself in a fighting state until now. He and his father were always linked together, one rarely mentioned without the other.

"Why don't you train more?" he asked, now genuinely curious. "Against others, I mean. I know you work by yourself."

"Who do you suggest I train against?"

"Any of the knights, Loghain. I guess there are Cailan and me, too."

"Hmmm." Maric stretched his legs out, stripping his own gauntlets off and starting to work on his buckles slowly. "Cailan and I…we're not very good as sparring partners. You and I might be, but…." He looked over slyly. "I'm still too much for you."

With a laugh, Alistair half-heartedly threw a gauntlet at him.

"Hey," Maric protested, catching it easily. "That's not very nice."

The straps on his breastplate were undone and he pulled it off, his padded jacket underneath completely soaked. Maric pulled it off with a grimace of distaste.

"As for the knights…well, they would if I asked them to, but none of them like it. So I don't."

"That doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Doesn't it?"

"Wouldn't they want to spar against you? They seem eager enough with us—Cailan and me, I mean."

"Ah, but you and Cailan are people." Alistair's confusion must have shown plainly in his face. "I'm not a person to most people. I'm a…a title, a story, a legend. A thing to be looked at and even admired. But risk bloodying me? Oh, no, not a chance. That doesn't leave me with many options."

"Loghain?" Alistair prompted.

Maric looked away, a sad, thoughtful expression on his face. "We used to a long time ago. Not anymore though."

"Why not?"

Rarely did Alistair ever feel he pressed for too much information from his father. This was one of those times. The look Maric directed at him wasn't angry, but there was a sense of warning he'd gone slightly too far.

"Sometimes, Alistair, you go through too much together. And raising a blade to your friend, even blunted and in practice, is a poor idea. Remember that."

"Yes, ser."

They finished removing their armor, cleaning it and putting it away in silence. The silence held even after the exited the armory and began the walk back to the palace.

Maric stopped suddenly. Alistair got a couple steps passed him and then turned back, wondering what was going on.

"Do you like this?"

"You lost me."

"Everything we've been having you do—the training, the fighting, all of it."

Alistair shrugged. "I guess so."

"No." His father shook his head. "I need more than an 'I guess so.' Is this something you really enjoy?"

"Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Ignoring the question, Maric continued, "Why?"

"Why? I don't know."

"Not good enough."

Alistair sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. "Why is this so important all of a sudden?"

"I need to know."

He blew out a breath and chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "I guess because…I like the discipline, the challenge. It's something I'm good at and…I don't know. I just…I fit. You know?"

Pursing his lips, Maric nodded. "All right then. Good." Then he started back to the palace.

Alistair didn't like the way his father said that. There was something he wasn't being told. Something he thought might be pretty important. But his father said nothing else in response to his questioning looks and Alistair let the matter drop.

The Landsmeet was coming to a close. It had gone a little longer than usual this spring, drawing out over a week and a half while more intense arguments of increased trade and the ramifications that would have among the Bannorn had consumed most of the discussion.

Alistair was eager for it to be finished. He wanted to get a chance to talk to Bryce Cousland. The teyrn had come down from Highever late, not two days before the start of the Landsmeet and alone. The reason for that was easily explained by the fact that Oriana had given birth to a son not two weeks earlier. Alistair tried to be happy at the news of little Oren's birth and made all the polite replies, but he didn't particularly care.

He was impatient to see Lya again, had waited months and the only contact they'd had were letters. Cailan had teased him about pining away for his "little friend" and for some reason Alistair had gotten truly angry with his brother. He certainly wasn't pining for her, but he wanted to see her and Cailan making light of it bothered him.

But hopefully, he could talk to her father very shortly and see if they'd be able to visit at all.

"My lords and ladies!" Maric's voice called out over the crowd of assembled nobles and their representatives. The quiet murmurings died down as those present listened to the closing comments of the Landsmeet.

"I want to thank you for coming. This year has held many changes and there were some difficult things to work out. I'm glad we were able to reach a satisfactory conclusion to most matters."

There was some grumbling. Not all were pleased with the settlements and resolutions reached.

"There is one last matter I'd like to address before we call this Landsmeet to a close." His father turned and paced slowly on the dais, the movement forcing those below and on the balconies and pay attention. It was Lya who'd pointed out the little bit of theatrics needed to capture the attention of the crowd, the way a speaker had to keep his audience engaged.

Finally, Maric stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. "It has been a number of years since Ferelden's military was assessed. With that in mind, and having already discussed it with a number of notable figures you, we shall be taking a look into how well prepared we are should, Maker forbid, any conflict arise. Teyrn Loghain will conduct the assessment, and we hope to have it finished by the fall Landsmeet."

There was immediate protest from some of the crowd while others nodded and murmured their agreement.

"Our people are our own," one bann spoke up. "What right do you have to meddle?"

"Your people are their own," Maric countered. "Everyone in this room, and everyone who serves under them, has the right to serve whom they wish. But for all of us, our allegiance is to Ferelden. Should our homeland come under attack, and we all know well that it has happened before, we must be ready to defend it. And in order to do that, we need to know what forces we can call upon in a time of crisis."

He raised his voice to silence more protests before they could begin. "This is not mandatory or required. If you truly object, you do not have to participate. We are trying to do what is best for Ferelden as a whole."

A pause as he waited for further objections or comments, but none came. "Very good. I thank you, my lords and ladies. We will see each other again in the fall."

And with that, the Landsmeet was over, Maric stepped down from the dais, a subtle incline of his head commanding Alistair to follow as he left the hall and headed back to his study. Loghain also followed, while Cailan and Anora stayed behind to mingle with the nobles who hadn't begun dispersing yet.

Maric sighed as Loghain shut the door behind them. "I expected them to put up more of a fight."

"They're tired," Loghain shrugged. "Had you announced that at the beginning, undoubtedly they'd still be arguing about it now."

"True." Rolling his neck to relieve the tension, his father looked at him. "What do you think about it?"

"Me?" Alistair blinked in confusion, looking back and forth between the two men. "I, um, think it's a good idea?"

"Good, because you're going with Loghain."

"What?"

"Is there a problem?"

Alistair fumbled helplessly for an answer, one that wouldn't leave him looking like an ingrate, an idiot or both. His shoulders slumped. So much for his hopes this summer.

"No, ser."

"Then I'll leave the two of you to begin going over what you'll need."

With that, they were dismissed. Alistair glanced at Loghain, hoping for an explanation, but the teyrn merely returned the look impassively.

Later that night after going over in detail what he was going to need during months of traversing the Bannorn with Loghain, Alistair made his way back to the family quarters. They'd been hours at it and he was exhausted. Sleep and the oblivion it brought with it were a welcome thought right now.

He was almost at his room when he caught the sound of a conversation. Curiosity piqued, he wandered closer to his father's room, recognizing Cailan's voice. After their marriage, Cailan and Anora had taken over one of the suites in another area of the palace. It gave them privacy and place to call their own. Alistair wouldn't have expected his brother to be back here, not this late at night.

"…understand why he's going."

"Because I said he is. There's nothing more to discuss."

"Do you know what this is going to look like? For him to accompany Loghain while assessing our military strength?"

"Would you prefer to go instead?"

"No! That's not what I'm saying."

"So you just don't want him going."

"Maker, no, that's not what I'm trying to say." There was a frustrated sigh. "It's just going to look…odd…to some people."

"You're honestly worried this might make people think he has aspirations to your position." Silence. "Damn it, Cailan, really?"

"You cannot deny how some people will view this."

Maric laughed. "If some people choose to be fools, let them. You should know better than that. Alistair has no designs on your throne. Even if I wanted him to—and I don't—that was taken care of long before he came here."

Alistair felt his cheeks heating slightly at the frank discussion about him. It was one thing to know people thought you couldn't do something, another to hear them talk about it openly.

"Then why?"

"Because it'll be good for him. And it'll be good for you. You need to trust me on this. I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to do anything to harm either of you or your position."

There was a sigh and Maric said tiredly, "Just let it go, Cailan. You should be above this. I would've hoped you would have taken this as an opportunity to give him some advice about dealing with the pit of vipers the Bannorn can be."

"You don't think he's ready for that?"

"Do you? I don't know that he ever will be. I wish you'd rubbed off him a little more in that regard."

With that, Alistair slipped back and into his room, closing the door noiselessly. He leaned against it, swallowing hard. That's what he got for eavesdropping. Total, brutal honesty at how he failed to measure up.

Spending several months in the Bannorn was suddenly looking very appealing.

They left Denerim a week later with a score of guards handpicked by Loghain and Maric, and Adara who would not be left behind.

Some of what their father had said to Cailan must have stuck, because during that week he sought Alistair out to give him some advice about dealing with all the nobles he'd be meeting. Alistair tried not to let on that he'd overheard his father and brother and thought that he'd succeeded.

Listening to Cailan's advice objectively had helped, as most of what he had to say made sense. Be polite, smile, and promise nothing. People would think that because of his youth and background he would be an easy mark to elicit favors or guarantees from that, even if he couldn't fulfill them, could be used against their father.

And then they were off. Loghain was concentrating his attentions on the main part of the Bannorn itself. There was no need to venture south as he personally attended to the military affairs of his teyrnir. And any further west than Lake Calenhad was unnecessary as there were few bannorns there and the arls could be trusted to deliver fair and accurate reports. Travel would start west along the North Road, where they would then venture into the heart of the Bannorn. About halfway through, Loghain intended to head north to visit Highever briefly and resupply before finishing his survey.

Alistair was looking forward to stopping at Highever, no matter how short the visit was. In truth, it was completely unneeded except for the supplies, as Bryce Cousland was well-known for his support of the Crown and his vigilance in keeping his teyrnir well maintained.

The weeks passed quickly and Alistair forgot his original disappointment quickly as the task before them consumed his attention. Seeing Loghain out in the field was quite different from in the city walls of Denerim. He was…almost relaxed, seemingly completely at ease surrounded by his men. Normally quite taciturn, conversation flowed more freely, especially when discussing plans with his second, Cauthrien. He often drew Alistair into the conversations as well and Alistair learned more about the subtleties of leading men in those few months than he had in years in Denerim.

He learned about what to look for when judging the readiness of a fighting force, how to tell when nobles weren't provisioning their men adequately, to look for signs of equipment that needed to be replaced or was shoddily maintained. Loghain would quietly point out what to look for in the leaders of the forces, whether or not the nobles led their men themselves or passed the responsibilities off to others. He was taught how to tell the difference between men who followed others because they chose to or because they felt they had to.

The last of his resentment towards his father and brother bled away as he realized that what he was learning was in many ways far more practical and valuable than anything Warwick had taught him. And while dealing with the nobles was sometimes every bit the pit of vipers Maric described them as, he was truly coming to enjoy this expedition.

That didn't stop him from grinning like an idiot when they stopped at Highever midway through the adventure.

Bryce came out to greet them, welcoming them with promises of baths and cool drinks to refresh themselves from the sweltering summer weather. Alistair glanced around as he dismounted, half surprised that Lya wasn't already out here. Maybe she was still inside and didn't realize he was here.

Her father caught him looking around and sighed regretfully. "Ah, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Alistair, but Lya's not here."

"Not here? Where did she go?"

"Not that far, but not close enough to get word to her. I sent her out into the teyrnir with a company of my knights and soldiers to learn about the teyrnir and the skills she would need if she ever has to lead a campaign."

"Excellent plan," Loghain commented.

Bryce nodded. "I sent Fergus when he was about her age. And when Maric said Alistair would also be unavailable this summer, I thought it best to have her do this now." He looked at Alistair sympathetically. "I can understand your disappointment and I'm sorry it worked out this way. She'll be coming with us to Denerim in the fall, though, and I'll see if we can't come down a little early."

Alistair nodded mutely, trying to hide his crushing disappointment. Telling himself that a few more months wouldn't be that much longer and that he could wait helped, but not much. The Couslands did their best to make him feel at home for the two days they were there, but it wasn't enough to make him forget the reason he'd been excited to come.

When they set back out, Alistair only felt relief at putting Highever behind him.

Teyrn Loghain's official report to King Maric stated that for the most part, Ferelden's military forces were up to strength. In the event of an emergency, troops could be called up quickly and most would be adequately outfitted and supplied Those nobles who were not prepared, but through no fault of their own would be offered help from the Crown to see their forces brought up to where they needed to be. The remaining nobles would be encouraged—strongly—to do the same with their own coin.

His father asked Alistair a lot of questions about the trip, asking for details about any and all things. By the time he was done, Alistair felt like he'd delivered a more in-depth report than Loghain had.

As he'd promised, Bryce brought his family down to Denerim more than a week before the Landsmeet. Alistair paced agitatedly while he waited for them to arrive at the palace for a smaller dinner party Maric was holding to talk with some of the banns. It had been nearly a year—a year—since he'd seen Lya last, months since they'd exchanged any communication at all. It was killing him to have to wait to know if the forced separation had changed anything.

What if she didn't feel the same way anymore? What if she'd found someone else? A hundred different questions tumbled about his head and by the time the steward announced the Couslands' arrival, he was just about ready to tear his hair out.

She was the first thing his eyes sought out when they walked in and almost all of his tension drained away when he saw that she did the same thing. She looked wonderful. Her skin had tanned to a golden glow from spending so much of the summer outside, and she was taller. He was shocked momentarily to see that her hair had been cut in a straight line just below her jaw. And she'd also…filled out in a way that made him feel uncomfortably warm.

He smiled broadly as greetings were exchanged, and she returned it with a small one of her own, but it was slightly off. It didn't quite light her face up like usual. There was something shuttered in her expression. His smile slipped slightly as she turned her attention back to her parents.

This…was not how things were supposed to go. He wasn't quite sure how they were supposed to go, but it definitely wasn't like this. Desperately wanting to ask what was wrong, Alistair was forced to wait as this was neither the time nor the place for it.

They were called to dinner and the conversations broke off as they took their seats. Being a more informal occasion, the younger people were allowed to sit next to each other so that the adults could hold their own conversations more easily.

Alistair ended up sitting across from Lya, surrounded by Thomas and Delilah Howe, Bann Sighard's son, Oswyn, and a few other nobles their own age. Most of the talk revolved around events of the summer, ranging from training to parties, but Alistair was having a very hard time focusing on anything. Lya wasn't avoiding or ignoring him, per se, but the familiarity and warmth he was used to from her were gone.

And she acted differently. He was used to being able to laugh and joke with her and get similar responses. She wasn't always poised and controlled, concerned with nothing but her image. But now when he tried to tease those same responses from her, she just smiled and changed the subject.

"So, Bryce," Arl Urien's voice rose slightly, "tell us. What plans do you have for your daughter? I see she's growing into quite a lovely young woman."

"Indeed," Arl Howe added. "She is…most accomplished."

There was something in their tones that set Alistair on edge, some slight, subtle dig that he didn't understand. Lya looked up at the men and then to her father, a slight flush on her cheeks.

"Ah, well, Eleanor and I haven't given it too much thought yet. She's still quite young, after all," Bryce replied diplomatically.

"They're never too young to be thinking about these things, especially for someone in your position, Bryce. With Highever's succession secured, your daughter could make an excellent alliance with one of Ferelden's other noble houses, to the benefit of both."

"You are correct, Urien. It is something we'll have to think carefully about."

"Indeed. It's about time for Vaughan to settle down and he will be in need of a capable arlessa by his side. The duties of the Arl of Denerim are not light after all. They would make a fine match."

"So that's your game, Urien. Take her off the playing field before the rest of us have a chance to make our own offers." Rendon Howe offered a smile as false as the warmth in his voice.

Urien laughed. "Your Thomas is too young for her, Rendon. Unless…." He looked over at the other man slyly. "Unless you're intending to bring Nathaniel home? Wouldn't that be a coup for you? It would practically reunite your arling with Bryce's teyrnir."

Howe's expression grew flinty and Bryce cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I think perhaps these discussions are better left in private. I assure you, Eleanor and I will listen fairly and with an open-mind to whatever you want to discuss."

"A most excellent suggestion." Maric rose, forcing the others to also stand. "It's a lovely evening and might I suggest we enjoy the gardens? Some fresh air would do us all some good."

The guests rose and began to follow their king out into the gardens.

Throughout the entire uncomfortable conversation, Lya had kept silent, keeping her gaze mostly trained on her plate. As different as she was being, Alistair could tell she was upset. He wanted to grab her, drag her off someplace private and demand that she tell him what exactly was going on. But Lya followed her parents and Alistair was forced to trail after, still looking for an opportunity to get her alone and speak to her.

Once out in the gardens, Lya drifted off by herself and Alistair followed, coming up alongside her as she strolled down a path.

"Um, can I…walk with you?" he asked tentatively.

"Of course." She smiled and this time it was more real and she seemed more like herself. Alistair felt a little bit of his tension draining away.

They walked in silence for awhile, and he was tempted to try holding her hand, but she kept them clasped in front of her. "So," he said after several long minutes. "That was, uh, awkward."

"Very. I don't look forward to many more discussions like it."

"I can imagine." He grimaced. "Ugh, can you imagine being married to that toad, Vaughan? Eesh, the horror."

Expecting an agreement or a laugh from her, he was met with only more silence. Lya stopped walking and Alistair turned to look at her curiously. Her face was tight and unhappy and she wouldn't look at him. "It's not funny," she whispered.

"Oh, come on!" Disbelief painted his words. "You can't honestly be worried. There's no way your father would do that. And if he did, who says you have to listen?"

"Alistair." Her voice was pained. "You don't understand. I'm a Cousland."

"So?"

"So that means I have a duty to my family. I don't think my parents have any plans for me yet, but if they decide something is in our best interests, I will do it."

"Even if that means marrying someone like Vaughan?" He couldn't believe it. There was no way Lya would take that sitting down and just accept a decision that terrible. Not the Lya he knew.

She nodded miserably, hands twisting together in front of her. "I'm not free to just do what I want, not anymore. I can't act like a child any longer and ignore the consequences of my actions and the impact they have on my family."

Her hand reached out to him, but she drew it back quickly. "I'm sorry. This isn't…. I don't want…. I'm sorry, Alistair. I-I have to go." She turned and walked quickly away, leaving him standing dumbly on the path.

Alistair felt like someone had punched him in the gut and he was having a hard time drawing breath. This was wrong, all wrong, and he didn't know what to do. He wanted to be angry, but toward whom? Her for giving up what she was? Her parents for forcing her to make a decision like that in the first place? Or the nobles like Urien and Howe who saw her as a pawn to be used to further their own goals?

Or himself for not listening to that voice in his head all those years before and embarking on a course that ultimately just cost him his best friend?

For a long time he just stood there, the sense of loss just hanging over him. It's not the end of the world, he tried to tell himself. It's okay, I'll get over it. Except deep down, he knew this would stay with him. The hurt might fade in time, but it would never truly go away.

He took one deep, shuddering breath. Then another. And another. Shaking himself slightly, he started walking again, forcing a smile onto his face as he crossed paths with others and joined in some light, mind-numbing conversation. It was better than focusing on the way his chest ached.

Chapter Text

"Rise and shine!"

A solid weight landed on the bed beside him and Alistair groaned, turning his face so that it was completely buried in the pillow. "Sod off, Cailan," he muttered.

Cailan just laughed and tugged the pillow out from under his head, causing Alistair's face to fall onto the mattress. Sighing, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked at his brother.

"Is there a reason you're tormenting me this morning or are you just bored?"

"A little bit of both, perhaps. I just wanted to make sure you got your nameday off to a bright and sunny start, and who better to do that than I?"

Frowning, Alistair casually reached out, grabbed another pillow and smacked Cailan in the head with it. Cailan returned the gesture with the pillow he held in his hands and then hopped off the bed, smoothing out his hair. "Anyway, you're awake now, so no point lying about in bed. Get up, get dressed, and get something to eat. I know Father wants to see you at some point."

The grin on his brother's face was just a little too self-satisfied and Alistair squinted at him. "All right, what's going on?"

"You'll see. We have a few surprises for you today. Come on, get moving." With that, Cailan moved across the room, threw the curtains wide and left the room whistling cheerfully. Alistair groaned again and let his face fall back into the mattress to cut the glare from the bright morning sunlight streaming in.

Rolling over onto his back, he blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted and stared at the heavy ceiling beams overhead. Ever since the horrible, disastrous turn things with Lya had taken—and it seemed like everyone knew, despite the fact that he hadn't said much about it—Cailan had seemed extra friendly. Maybe a little too friendly. The thought had occurred to Alistair that maybe Cailan was taking pleasure in his misfortune and misery. Almost as soon as it came, he pushed it away. His brother didn't seem to be enjoying it, simply making an effort to distract him.

Maric had done much the same thing. Neither one mentioned what had happened, but they made an effort to avoid the topic and give him other, more pleasant things to talk about and discuss. Alistair appreciated it, mostly. Not that he wanted to talk about it, but it would have been nice if the both of them didn't just carry on and pretend it didn't happen.

Ironically, Anora had been the most sympathetic, and even she hadn't discussed it. She had merely found him a few days later and given him a hug. Alistair had been touched by the uncharacteristic demonstrativeness she displayed, the understanding in her eyes and touch. She hadn't needed to say anything. Out of everyone, she knew and understood, and while she couldn't help, she offered what support she could.

And today was his nameday, which undoubtedly meant his family would be trying extra hard to make it a good day for him. The thought brought a smile. He was being a child, he'd realized. There was no point in being miserable, and while it wasn't easy, it had gotten a lot better. That his family cared enough to do this for him now meant a lot and helped him get back to a more normal frame of mind.

Stretching, he sat up and slid out of bed. He debated for a minute whether or not he wanted to go through the hassle of calling for water for a bath before deciding, yes, he did, but not until after he'd eaten. Breakfast was definitely on the agenda first.

Throwing on his clothes from yesterday—he wasn't going to be wearing them that long anyway, no sense in dirtying clean ones—he ambled out of his room. Ignoring the servants he passed—time and experience had taught him as he got older that attempting to be friendly, or even more than polite, just made everyone uncomfortable—he stopped when he saw Audie coming out of a room.

With a wide smile, he wrapped her in a big hug, which she returned. He would always have a soft spot for this woman who had taken care of him when he first arrived. And she was the one exception to the unspoken "no servants as friends" rule.

"Maker's breath, Alistair," she laughed when he released her. "You're getting too tall for me. I'm going to have a permanent crick in my neck if I have to keep looking up at you."

For a minute, he just blinked at her and then grinned as he realized she was right. She'd been taller than him when he was ten, but now she didn't even come to his shoulder.

"Well, that's what you get for taking such good care of me," he teased.

"Ah, well. I suppose I can live with that. Though you've the look of your father and brother, so I doubt I'm solely responsible." She patted his cheek fondly and stepped back. "Why are you up so early? I'd have thought you'd sleep in today."

"Cailan. He thought I'd slept long enough." He rolled his eyes and Audie laughed.

"That's what brothers are for. You off for some breakfast?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"All right then, I won't keep you. Do you need anything?"

"I'm all set, unless you'd like to get someone to fill my tub?" he asked hopefully.

Audie laughed. "I can do that, m'dear. You go have a good day now."

"Thank you, Audie."

Breakfast was tasty, his bath hot, and by the time Alistair wandered off in search of his father a couple hours later, he was in a pretty good mood. Inquires made to a few guards discovered that his father had gone to the armory. Alistair made his way down, wryly thinking it would have been nice to know if his father wanted to spar before he'd bathed.

That was probably the best thing to come of the last few months. Feeling emboldened by their one session together, he'd pushed his father to join him more often. Maric had refused at first, but Alistair was persistent, cajoling and even out right demanding until his father had caved.

He wasn't sure why he fought so hard for it. Maybe it was simply that he liked spending time with Maric. It was perfectly normal to want to do things with one's father. But a part of him recognized that it was more than that, that this was something his father needed. As he'd grown older, Alistair had noticed his father's tendency to brood sometimes, and while Loghain, Cailan and others dismissed it, it nagged at him. Better to try and change, he thought, and Maric's mood when they sparred was a definite improvement.

Alistair found his father in one of the smaller rooms in the armory, where everything belonging to the royal family was kept, standing in front of his set of formal, silverite plate.

"I hope you're not thinking of sparring in that," Alistair quipped. "I'd hate to be the one to scratch it and draw the smith's ire." He shivered in mock fear.

Maric started and then relaxed. "No," he laughed. "I thought I'd take it easy on you today."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Besides," Maric continued, "this is nice, but I miss my old set." He sighed. "Lots of good memories with that set."

Stepping forward, Alistair looked at the armor. It was exquisitely worked and etched. He carefully picked up a gauntlet, amazed at the lightness of the metal. There was a faint hum, almost a buzz and he examined it more carefully.

"Runes? Enchantments?" he asked and Maric nodded. "Dwarven work, then?"

"Yes. They were a little put out with me when I lost the first set they made for me, but they agreed to craft another."

"Lost? You…lost…a set of full plate armor."

"Yup."

"How exactly does one do that?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Oh, I probably will. But not right now. Right now…." His father stepped back and turned, reaching for something set on a chest behind him.

"Right now, I wanted to give you this." A long, polished wooden case was held out to him and Alistair took it carefully. The cover was carved and fitted over the top and he lifted it carefully, and then nearly dropped the case in surprise.

He shouldn't have been surprised. They were in the armory after all, and really, what else could be in a case like this except for a sword?

It lay nestled in the fabric lining the case. The dark scabbard and wrapped hilt seemed to absorb the light while the bright silver of the pommel and guard reflected it brilliantly. He set the case down and then eased the sword from it, and pulled the blade free of its sheath.

It was fantastically light, and once he held it, he could again feel the same buzz as he had from his father's armor, though not nearly as strongly. It was polished to an almost mirror brightness and the edges looking wickedly sharp. Setting the scabbard down, he took a few steps over to the side and hefted it carefully before going through a few forms with it.

Maric leaned with one shoulder against the wall and watched him, smiling slightly. After a few minutes, Alistair looked over. "This is for me? Really?"

"Yes, really. I thought about armor, but if you're anything like your brother, you'll be growing up and out for the next few years. And armor isn't like a pair of pants. You can't just tailor it when it doesn't fit anymore. So a sword seemed like a much better idea. You won't outgrow that."

"Thank you! I mean it, this is amazing!"

"I'm glad you like it. And don't take this the wrong way, but I hope you never need it, Alistair. I'd be naïve if I didn't think it wasn't a possibility, but I can hope just the same."

Alistair nodded. "I understand. But…I can enjoy this, right?"

With a laugh, his father nodded. "Oh, of course! And I would strongly suggest working with it, too, but only against practice dummies. The sword is silverite, much lighter than steel. It's a very good thing in battle, but it takes some time to get used to. The more familiar you are with it, the better."

He nodded and for a moment debated doing that right then and there. But it was cold outside and he didn't really feel like getting all suited up just for that. Instead, he slid the blade back into the sheath and set the sword back into the case, closing the cover carefully. He picked up the box carefully, and there was an awkward moment as he and Maric stood looking at each other. Finally, Maric clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go somewhere warmer."

The rest of the day passed in very relaxed, very nice way. Maric airily declared he wasn't doing any work today because he had better things to do. Instead, the four of them—himself, Maric, Cailan and Anora—simply spent the day together, talking and playing games. It was warm and cozy and pleasant, one of those rare occasions where it seemed like they could just be any other family enjoying each other's company.

The odd little smile Cailan had worn in the morning hadn't left and after dinner, it widened as he stood and clapped his hands together. "All right, I think it's time I gave my little brother his gift." He looked at Alistair critically. "I suppose you'll do. Get your cloak, Alistair, we're going out."

Alistair arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. Come on, up you get." Cailan gestured impatiently and Alistair got to his feet wondering what his brother was planning.

"Cailan." Maric's voice had a hint of warning, and both princes turned toward him. "Keep an eye on him."

His brother waved their father off. "Of course. I'm not about to let him go roaming back alley streets.

"And you're taking guards with you."

The sigh from Cailan was slightly irritated. "I know, Father. I've already arranged for it. I won't let any harm come to your precious little boy."

Alistair bristled slightly at the description, but before he could say anything, Maric frowned slightly and spoke. "I'm not saying it just for him. You know that." Then Maric shook his head. "Go, the two of you, and have fun. Try to be back before dawn, hmm?"

"No promises!" Cailan called as he slung an arm over Alistair's shoulder and almost dragged him out of the room with him.

"So…where are we going?" Alistair asked once they had their heavy fur-lined cloaks and gloves on and were heading out.

"Oh, maybe a couple of places. We'll see. You need to get out more, little brother. Too much staying cooped up inside is unhealthy."

"Is it now?" Alistair's tone was wry.

"Of course it is. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. Ah, good, the guards are ready for us," he pointed to a pair of mounted royal guards waiting just outside the stable. "I might be inclined to walk, but it's too cold. Our mounts should be ready inside."

A groom opened the door for them and they strode in. Turning toward the stall that held his roan, Alistair stopped, gaping in surprise.

Instead of the gelding, a large, steel gray stallion stood in its place. It was bigger than his other horse, more heavily muscled, with a black mane and tail and black stockings on its legs. It danced in its stall and Alistair could almost feel the desire in it to get out.

"Do you like him?"

Alistair turned to look at his brother standing next to him. "You did this?"

Cailan nodded, and reached out a hand to stroke the horse's neck. "You don't like to go hunting with us." Alistair started to protest, but his brother held up a hand. "What I mean is that you like to get out, to just be by yourself and ride, right?" He nodded wordlessly.

"I know. So this fellow," another pat on the proudly arched neck, "will let you do that. He's not built for speed like our coursers, but he'll carry you wherever you want to go, for as long as you want."

Reaching out to stroke the stallion's soft nose, Alistair said, "Thank you."

"Oh, it was nothing," Cailan said cheerfully. "Just don't tell Loghain." He lowered his voice to whisper conspiratorially, "It's an Orlesian horse."

Alistair started laughing and Cailan grinned. "I figure if he can wear a chevalier's armor, you can ride a chevalier's horse."

"Yeah, but he'd probably want me to kill the chevalier for it."

"Probably. And as tempting as a quick jaunt to Orlais would be, I'm aiming for a shorter trip tonight. Come on, mount up and let's get going." Cailan slapped his back and headed to his own horse being held by a groom.

"So where are we going?" Alistair asked when they were finally outside, the guards riding on the outside of them.

"You'll see."

True to his word, the ride wasn't that long as Cailan led them to the Gnawed Noble. Alistair grinned and shook his head as he dismounted. He'd been to the inn a handful of times, but usually after hunts and always under Teagan's supervision. From the amount of light and sound coming through the windows and closed door, Alistair had a feeling tonight wasn't going to be quite like past experiences.

He was right. As soon as they entered, a helpful serving girl led them to a private side room already full of people. All friends of both he and Cailan, drawn mostly from the ranks of the nobility along with a few well chosen knights and squires, their arrival was greeted with a loud cheer and a tankard was immediately thrust into his hand.

The gathering was a raucous affair, the young men free of any inhibitions as the ale, wine and harder spirits flowed. There were drunken songs, drinking competitions and plenty of insults and disparaging remarks about manhood going about the large room. The serving girls were efficient at their jobs, replacing empty mugs and goblets with full ones almost immediately, and they boldly returned the outrageous flirtation directed at them.

Alistair wasn't quite sure how much he had to drink. He didn't remember emptying his tankard, but he was quite sure he'd imbibed far more than one drink. By the time the party started to die down, he was in high-spirits, flushed and pleasantly muzzy-headed.

Cailan suddenly laughed, and clapped Oswyn—who was sitting next to him—on the shoulder. "An excellent idea!"

Standing up, he raised his voice to be heard. "My friends, Oswyn has just made a most amenable suggestion—that we switch locales to…one more fitting for this time of the evening."

The suggestion, as vague as it was, was met with enthusiastic agreement from several others. Those who brought their own mounts left to get them, with varying amounts of steadiness to their gait, while those on foot left in a larger group together. Cailan spoke to the barkeep briefly, handing over a heavy purse, and then turning to join Alistair as he exited the building.

Alistair was briefly befuddled by his horse, which seemed to have grown a couple feet taller while he was inside. After three tries, he finally managed to get mounted. His head swam briefly, but the cold air was helping to clear it. Beside him, Cailan was ready—having only needed two tries—and he urged his horse forward. One of the guards leaned over to ask his brother a question and Cailan replied too quietly for Alistair to hear. Whatever his answer is, it made the guard frown slightly, but the man said nothing, merely straightened in his saddle.

They rode through the quiet streets and eventually turned down ones Alistair didn't know. He could tell they'd left the noble district and even the merchant one. The buildings weren't exactly run down, but it was clear they had left the more affluent section of the city behind.

The building they stopped before, though, was large and well-maintained. There were only a few windows—and small ones at that—but they emitted a dim light. As they drew up, a stable boy dashed out to take the mounts. Alistair looked around, trying to figure out where they were. The only sign he could see was one on the building that depicted a stylized oyster shell, opened with a pearl sitting inside.

Something nagged at his memory, but before he could follow the thought, Cailan was pulling him inside, one of the guards opening the door ahead of them and the other following behind them. They entered into a small ante chamber, a large man guarding the door silently. A serving girl—more like "wench," Alistair's slightly tipsy mind said, given how she was dressed—took their cloaks, and then Cailan guided him into the larger room beyond the chamber.

Sweet holy Maker.

Staring was rude. He knew that. Staring in complete and utter shock with his mouth hanging open was especially rude, but at the moment he couldn't do anything else. The room was full of people, some faces familiar—and a few members from their party were already there and…with people—but most were unknown to him. But that's not what caught his attention. It seemed like everywhere he looked, there were women and men wearing the most revealing clothing. And what their garb didn't reveal seemed to be wrapped obscenely tight over curves and taut muscle.

He was vaguely aware that he made a strangling sound and Cailan patted his arm reassuringly.

A woman approached them, smiling widely, and for a moment Alistair was profoundly grateful that she was wearing a proper dress…until he noticed how it molded itself to her every lush curve.

"Cailan," she said warmly, quietly as she got closer, and leaned in to press a brief kiss on each of Cailan's cheeks. "It's been so long. I'm so happy to see you again. What's your pleasure tonight?"

"It's good to see you, Sanga, but alas, I'm not here for myself tonight." He slung an arm over Alistair's shoulders and pulled him closer. "It's my brother's nameday and I thought I'd treat him."

Sanga's smile widened as she looked him up and down, and Alistair felt himself growing hotter from more than just the alcohol he'd consumed earlier. Her gaze left him feeling like a piece of livestock being examined for auction. "Well, now," she finally said. "A handsome lad like him…it shouldn't be too hard to find a lass to please him. Just a moment."

As soon as she'd moved out of earshot, Alistair whispered frantically, "Cailan! This…this is a…a…."

"A brothel, yes," Cailan finished blandly. "I'm aware."

"You've been here?" For some reason, that shocked him, though it shouldn't have.

"Not for a long time. Sanga's very good though, and the Pearl is the best establishment in Denerim. You're in good hands."

"But I don't…I can't…I mean, I've never…." He was blushing furiously as he stammered.

Again that reassuring pat on the arm. "Yes. I know, hence why we're here. Don't worry about it. The girl will take care of you." There was a pause. "You do like girls, right? If not, we should tell Sanga now and make other arrangements."

"Of course I like girls!" It came out far too loud, and a few curious patrons turned to look. Alistair could feel his face flaming and he dropped his voice to hiss furiously, "Of course I like girls, but that's not the point! You can't just expect me to—"

"Gentlemen." Sanga's voice made him turn and look, and whatever he was about to say died on his lips. Behind her was a young woman and all Alistair could see was long, red curls, a heart shaped face with wide blue eyes, and creamy skin with a smattering of freckles over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, good choice," he heard Cailan say.

The girl reached out and took his nerveless fingers in her own slim ones. "If you'll come with me." Maker, even her voice was lovely, somehow sweet and rich and full of promise all at the same time. Alistair couldn't speak, couldn't think—though his mind was screaming a thousand things at him—and he let her lead him from the room without protest.

She led him from the main room down a hallway. Opening a larger, more ornate door than the others they'd passed, she pulled him inside and then quietly closed and locked the door behind him.

The room was large and his eye was immediately drawn the massive bed that dominated it. With a little giggle, the girl pulled him toward the bed. Her hands were gentle as she sat him on the edge before sitting down next to him.

"Nervous?" she asked. He nodded. "Is this your first time?" He nodded again. "With someone like me or ever?"

"E-Ever," he stuttered.

"There's no need to be nervous," she said softly. "It won't hurt, I promise." And then his arms were full of soft skin and smooth silk, the scent of her hair filled his nose and warm lips were pressed against his.

An inner conflict about whether or not he should actually go through with this raged inside of him. He was half-tempted to bolt, but the thought of the mockery that might await him kept him frozen in place. Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax. This was…normal, something people did every day. And though he was slightly uncomfortable, he decided he could do this. There was…no reason not to, after all.

She teased and coaxed him with supple lips and tongue, and when he shoved his doubts and fears aside and returned the kiss, she sighed happily, her arms winding around his neck. This was all at once like every embrace he'd ever had before and like none of them. There was knowledge in the way she kissed him that bespoke of experience.

He shivered as her lips slid from his and over the line of his jaw. "You can touch me, you know," she murmured. Tentatively, he slid his hands lower on her back to rest on her hips. So far, this was what he knew, nothing strange or out of the ordinary.

"My, you are an innocent." He blushed, and then blushed harder when she picked up one of his hands in hers and guided it to her breast.

Alistair was struck dumb. The weight in his hand was warm and pliant, soft and firm all at the same time. Carefully, she guided him, showing him what to do. When he brought his other hand up to repeat the lessons she'd just taught him on her other breast, she made a pleased little sound and he felt himself flush again, but this time with a wholly male pride.

There was still a little fear, a little uncertainty, but it was now mixed with desire. Dreams and fantasies were one thing, but now with a willing—and apparently eager—woman before him, he was struck by how much he wanted this.

Her own hands went back to work, running over his shoulders and arms, tugging his tunic up so that she could slide her hands along his stomach when a sudden thought occurred to him. "I don't know your name."

She pulled back slightly to give him a curious look. "You can call me Scarlet."

His brows pulled down as he frowned at her. "That's not your real name, is it?"

Scarlet laughed gently. "It is here. Don't think about it," she said softly, and her fingers stroked his brow, smoothing the frown away. "We're having such a lovely time."

After tugging his tunic completely free, she moved back and drew it over his head. She pushed him back to lie down, propped up on the pillows piled high at the top of the bed. She kissed him again, letting her fingers play over his chest and abdomen. There was a slight tug as she pulled on the laces of his leather breeches. Her fingers brushed over him as she worked, light fluttering touches that made his breeches feel far, far too tight.

And then, halfway done, she pressed against him, palming him through the leather, and he panicked. Every uncertainty, every fear came rushing back and he was scrambling off the bed. He stood a few paces away, facing away from her, completely mortified by what he'd just done.

"O-Oh, M-Maker, I'm so s-sorry!" he stuttered out. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her and his hands shook as he retied the laces on his breeches.

"It's all right," she said soothingly, coming to stand before him. Scarlet took his hands in hers, but instead of leading him back to the bed, she guided him to a chair set before the fireplace. He sank down gratefully while she moved off to the side. There was the sound of glass clinking against metal and liquid being poured. She returned moments later to press a goblet into his hands.

While Alistair gulped the wine gratefully, she perched on the edge of the other chair and regarded him thoughtfully. "Was it your idea to come here tonight?"

He shook his head. "No, i-it was my brother's idea. And I thought I was okay with it, but I don't think I am. I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize. This is far from the worst thing that's ever happened. There's nothing wrong with the way you feel. You can go as far or as little as you like. This is about your pleasure. And if I'm not to your tastes, we can find someone else."

"No, no, it's not that," he said hastily. "You're very pretty. I just don't know if I…if I'm…."

"If you're ready for this yet?"

"Yeah."

"And that's all right, too. This," she gestured to herself and the room, "isn't for everyone. You're young, yet. You've plenty of time to meet someone nice who you do want it with."

Alistair laughed weakly. "Yeah, well, that doesn't seem to work so well for me either."

"Ah. Girl troubles?"

"Not anymore."

Scarlet stood, took the empty goblet from him, refilled it and handed it back. As she walked behind his chair, he regarded the dark liquid, unsure if he should really have any more. Her hands touched his shoulders and he jumped.

"I'm not trying anything," said Scarlet. "Just a massage, to relax you. Tell me about her."

For a moment, he kept silent. But as her capable hands kneaded the muscles of his shoulders and back, everything came out. Every half-formed hope, every fear, every emotion he'd felt and never spoken of to anyone in the last few months, came tumbling out to the sympathetic ear of a whore whose real name he didn't know. And when he'd exhausted that, he kept going, talking of other things just for sake of fulfilling the need to say them to someone.

She said nothing as she worked, letting him get everything out, occasionally making small, soothing noises of agreements. When he finally fell silent, he felt tired and drained, but in a good way, like he was strangely unburdened by all the little things that he'd been carrying around for years.

With one last pat, Scarlet came back around to sit in the other chair. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, I do." He was warm, all tension and nervousness gone, and her skilled hands left him feeling boneless and relaxed. Belatedly, he realized he probably shouldn't have spoken so freely. "I, uh, listen, everything I just said? I'd appreciate if you, um, didn't tell anyone."

Her grin was wry. "Discretion is part of the job description. Don't worry. Nothing you ever say or do here will ever go past this door."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure."

"Um, are you sure this was all right? I mean, we didn't…."

"You pay for my time, not necessarily my body. It was absolutely all right. Many come here seeking this very thing—just time with someone who'll listen and won't judge them."

"Oh."

"And if you ever want something like this again, I'd be more than happy to listen to you or talk or do anything else you might like."

"That's…good to know."

She smiled widely and stood, fetching his shirt and handing it to him. He pulled it back on and tucked it back in. Scarlet smoothed the front of it, ran her fingers through his hair to muss it slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

"There," she said. "Now everyone will assume what happened here was completely ordinary and your secrets are safe with me. You have a good night, your Highness."

"How did you…?"

"You arrived with your brother."

"Oh, right. Well, thank you again. Good night, Scarlet."

"Maggie."

"What?"

"My name is Maggie."

Alistair smiled. "Then good night, Maggie."

Back in the main room, Alistair found Cailan presiding over a small group. From the spots of color on his cheeks, he'd clearly continued drinking while Alistair was in back, and the alcohol made him even more outgoing than normal, which was quite a feat. The group was roaring with laughter when Cailan spotted him and bounded up from his seat.

"Alistair! I was beginning to think the wench was going to keep you all night! All finished then?"

"Er, yes," he said quietly, blushing. That only seemed to confirm what Cailan was expecting because his grin widened. "Excellent!"

He turned back to the others. "Well, my friends, I hate to cut this short, but I've got to get my little brother back home. Maker knows the girl probably wore him out and best to get him back into bed before he falls down."

The description was probably more apt of Cailan, who was swaying as they walked back out into the winter cold. The guards helped his brother back onto his horse, and the small group made their way back to the palace, Cailan humming happily the whole time.

By the time Alistair managed to get into bed, he was exhausted, and sleep claimed him mere seconds after putting his head down.

The next morning, no one came in to wake him early and Alistair slept well past mid-morning. His head ached abominably and he had to drag himself through his morning routine. By the time he was fully awake and dressed, it was nearly noon. There was nothing he really needed to do today, and after yesterday, the thought of just some peace and quiet and several hours with a good book was very appealing.

His father found him while he was browsing the shelves in the library.

"Alistair." Maric's voice was quiet, serious, and Alistair felt his gut clench when he saw his father's face. Nothing ever good came from that expression. He sighed in resignation. Obviously this was going to be about last night and he was going to get lectured. The unfairness of it galled him. He hadn't even done anything, and here he was about to have to listen to a long-winded lecture about how he was supposed to behave and what he wasn't supposed to do.

"About last night," his father began.

A surge of anger rose up in him. Damn it, this was unfair! Why, with all the antics Cailan pulled, was he the one getting the talking to? Had his father even bothered having these conversations with his brother? It seemed like any time Alistair was going to do something out of line, he got a long talk about how he should be careful, and not to make the same mistakes his brother or father did, yet Cailan was allowed to do as he pleased.

"What about last night?" he asked sullenly.

Maric's eyes narrowed slightly and he frowned. "I wanted to talk to you about where you went."

"And?" No way was he going to give his father any help to chastise him.

"I just wanted to remind you that you need to be careful. This is—"

"I know," Alistair cut him off. "I remember the conversation we had before. Don't worry, it's fine."

"Alistair, I know you're responsible, and I…understand. I only speak out of concern—"

"Out of concern for me. Yeah, I get it." His lips twisted. "Everything's always out of concern for me, isn't it? 'Do this, Alistair.' 'Don't do that, Alistair.' 'Here, Alistair, listen to me so you don't do anything wrong.' Maker forbid I actually get to live my own life."

His father's jaw clenched and a muscle twitched in his cheek. When he spoke, he was very quiet, the effort to remain calm evident. "As your father, I'm just trying to do what's best for you."

"Then maybe you should be having this conversation with Cailan and not me. Maker knows, between the two of us, he's the one that needs it."

Maric's eyes widened and Alistair felt a little shocked himself. He'd never spoken to his father like this before. Part of him was horrified at his behavior while the rest of him cheered him on.

"I don't want to discuss Cailan right now. His behavior isn't the point."

"Yes, it is! Don't even try to tell me it isn't. The only reason we're having this discussion right now is because you don't want me to be like him. Or rather, you do, you just want me to be a better version. You messed up raising your first son, so now you're using me as a chance to do things right."

His father's jaw dropped open and when he said nothing in response, Alistair took the opportunity to keep going.

"What if I don't want to be what you want me to be, huh? What if I want to spend my time wenching and drinking and being concerned only with myself? There's no reason not to! It's not like anyone's looking to me to have any real responsibilities or do anything important.

"And besides, who cares if I sire any bastards? Maker only knows how many Cailan's already got. Or how many other half-brothers you've got for him stashed around Ferelden. Tell me, are they all living in stables or the Chantry, or did I just get lucky?"

He laughed bitterly. "You know, I guess I should be glad you didn't follow your own advice, or else I wouldn't exist. So, thanks for that, I guess."

He was shaking when his tirade finished, and he clench his hands into fists to still them. For a moment while he was yelling, he thought his father might have struck him. But now, Maric just stood there, staring at him in shock, looking pale and slightly horrified.

The silence that drew out between them was agonizing and Alistair had to look away.

Maric drew a shaky breath. "I…I suppose I deserved that," he said quietly. "I don't know what you want from me, Alistair. An apology? Then you have it, and gladly. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I let happen to you—for what I did to you. I'm sorry that I'm not a good father and that the things I've done have hurt you—and Cailan—so much.

"You're right. You're absolutely right. I should have had this conversation with Cailan. I should have had a lot of them. And I didn't. I failed him. But right now I'm trying not to fail you, except I don't know how to do it any better, as piss-poor of a job as it is."

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to hold onto the anger. Instead, he felt stupid and childish.

"I just want you to be happy, Alistair. I don't want you to be haunted by the same mistakes and regrets that I am."

"Yeah, well, I don't plan on tumbling any servant girls, so I don't think I have to worry about any mistakes like me in the near future."

His shoulders were grabbed roughly and Maric shook him slightly. "Look at me." Alistair raised his gaze to meet his father's. "You are not a mistake," Maric said vehemently. "Don't ever think that. Not ever! There's only one thing I regret about you, and that's the fact that I was so much of a coward that I lost the first ten years with you."

There was a lump in his throat, and the hot press of tears behind his eyes. He wouldn't cry, he vowed silently. But his father was making it awfully hard.

"I'll regret not having those years with you until the day I die. I should never have given you up."

"Then why did you? You say that—you've said it before—but I don't understand. Was it just to protect Cailan?"

"No," Maric said. "It wasn't just to protect Cailan. That was part of it yes, but it's not the real reason."

"Then why?"

His father closed his eyes and sighed, and suddenly he looked old to Alistair. When he opened his eyes again, Alistair saw the decision in them, the shift in something between them. For the first time since his father had plucked him from Redcliffe, Alistair knew that now Maric was going to answer the question that had haunted him his whole life.

"I can't answer that question simply, Alistair, and in order to do that, I need to tell you about your mother. There's so much I need to tell you, and I'll tell you if you want, but you have to be sure. And I mean really, really sure because I can't un-tell this. And you can't speak of it to anyone. Not Cailan, not Loghain—no one. Do you understand?"

Alistair shook his head in bewilderment. "Why so much secrecy? Is it that bad?"

"No. No, it's not bad at all. But it is potentially dangerous—mainly to you. So I will answer every question you have, but only if you're sure."

Perhaps he should have taken longer to think it over. Maybe he should have considered all the potential consequences to knowing such a secret and being unable to speak of it. But Alistair did neither of those things. Of all the questions he'd ever had, this was the one he wanted answered and his voice was firm as he spoke.

"I'm sure."

Chapter Text

Maric nodded. "All right. But not here. Follow me."

In silence his father led them from the library up to his own rooms, and through the sitting room and into the bedroom. With a start, Alistair realized that he'd never been in the room before. He was a little surprised as how austere it was. Take away the few clearly sentimental things, and the personal effects on the desk, and it would like just another room.

First, Maric busied himself at the fireplace, building up the banked coals. Within minutes, a fire was burning brightly and beginning to take the chill from the air. He moved one chair slightly closer and Alistair moved another. Then Maric went to a cabinet, removed a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses, and set them on a small table that he pushed closer to the two chairs.

Gesturing for Alistair to sit, he poured a measure of the alcohol into each and then finally sat himself. Maric reached for the glass, then changed his mind, and dropped his hand back to the arm of the chair. "Where to start?" he murmured to himself, and then nodded decisively.

He turned to face Alistair. "What were you told about your mother?"

Alistair's hand came up to lightly touch the amulet around his neck through his shirt. "Almost nothing. Eamon said she was a serving girl at the castle and that she died when I was born. He wouldn't ever say more than that, nor would any of the other servants. I never knew why, and then after I found out about you, well, I figured they were just trying to keep me from asking potentially embarrassing questions."

Nodding slowly, Maric said, "Understandable. I hadn't intended for you to be told that little, but it doesn't matter. What you were told, Alistair, isn't true."

That wasn't entirely unsurprising. His father had dropped enough hints over the years that Alistair knew that whoever his mother was, there had to be more to her than what he'd been told.

"When you say that isn't true…."

"She wasn't a serving girl at Redcliffe castle. I assume there was a woman working there who did die in childbirth that he could pass off as your mother."

Alistair tilted his head slightly. "Then who was she? A servant from the palace?"

What he wasn't expecting was the soft huff of laughter. "No, Alistair, your mother wasn't a servant. I think she would've taken great umbrage at being thought of as such."

A frown pulled his brows down low. "Then who was she?"

Maric took a deep breath. "Your mother…was a Grey Warden from Orlais."

A log in the fire popped, the sound loud in the sudden silence. "What?"

"Let me explain."

And so Maric explained in detail about the time the Wardens petitioned for re-entry to Ferelden. Alistair had heard the story before, but not in any great specifics, save that Duncan had been among the group and had returned to help set up the Wardens when they were formally allowed back into the country.

Maric fleshed out more of the details—the Grey Warden commander who was seeking something in the Deep Roads, the group that had come with her, the fact that he himself had snuck away with the Wardens to escort them.

There were gaps in the retelling, certain things that his father skipped over or rushed through. Things that Maric was clearly unwilling to discuss at the moment. Alistair struggled to listen without interrupting with a thousand questions, to just allow his father to tell the story first. The thing that stuck in his mind the most was that his mother's name was Fiona—and he finally, finally had a name to put to the formless being in his mind whenever he thought of his mother—and that she and Duncan had been friends.

Eventually, his father fell silent, allowing him time to sort through everything he'd heard. Alistair thought about Duncan, about the other Wardens he'd seen. To know that his mother had once been such as they were was shocking, confusing and…gratifying. Fiona hadn't been some poor servant, either at the mercy of a king's unwanted attentions or seeking out favoritism or fortune for herself by bearing the king a bastard.

But for every question that Maric's explanation answered, another was raised in its place. If what his father said was true, then it made Alistair's childhood even more confusing. And the explanation didn't quite add up with the cryptic comments about the truth being dangerous.

"I don't understand," he confessed. "If my mother was a Warden, then why send me to Redcliffe? And why would that be dangerous? I mean, I can understand people not liking the Orlesian part, but could it really do any harm? It doesn't make sense."

Shifting slightly in his chair, Maric picked up his glass and swirled the whiskey around, staring into the liquid as if it held answers. "That would be because there are still a few things left to reveal. And they're all connected, sort of."

He took a sip. "When we left the Circle Tower, Fiona was dying. She was taken to Weisshaupt, and at the time she left, neither of us knew that she was with child or if she would even survive. And I heard nothing for almost a year—not until Duncan sent word that he and Fiona were returning."

Draining his glass, he set it back down on the table and turned it slowly with one hand. "I was…very glad to see her. Knowing that she was all right lifted this huge burden off of my chest."

"Did you love her?" Alistair interrupted. It seemed impossible that it could be true. But it would be nice to know he came from something more than a meeting of flesh and a slaking of lust.

"I don't know." The answer was slow, hesitant, as if Maric hadn't thought about it before. "I cared about her, there's no question. But love? I just don't know. I think…I think had we been given the time, I could have loved her. There was something between us, but I don't think it ever quite became love."

Alistair nodded. That was more than he could have hoped for. "What then?"

"Like I said, I was glad to see her. And she seemed happy to see me, but…she was sad, too. I knew there was something else going on.

"And then Duncan walked in carrying you. I was shocked, to say the least. Fiona had been so close to her end that to learn not only was she alive, but that we had a child…." He shrugged. "There are no words for it. You were this tiny, impossible little miracle. A gift that that showed without a doubt that what I—what we—had felt really had happened. And I loved you the moment Duncan put you in my arms."

He broke off and coughed, clearing his throat a wiping a hasty hand across his eyes. Alistair also felt a suspicious burning in his eyes and his vision blurred slightly before he blinked it rapidly away.

"I'd hoped with the Wardens being in Ferelden again, she might be able to stay, but she said that was impossible. That Weisshaupt wanted her there and she had only been allowed to leave for one reason—to bring you to me. Warden children are rare, and the Wardens usually place the children somewhere where they can't be a distraction to their parents." His lips twisted bitterly.

"I would have fought to keep her. I told her that. I had some leverage, being that I could have had the Wardens expelled again if they didn't let her stay. But she said no. That it was…better if she went back."

"She didn't want me."

Maric's head snapped over to look at him. "Alistair, no! Oh, Maker, no, that's not it at all. She loved you, don't ever doubt that. Leaving you was the hardest thing she ever did. You could see how much giving you up cost her."

"Then why didn't she stay? If she wanted it that badly, she could have."

"It's…. The situation was…complicated. Had she not been who she was, had I not been who I was when she met me…things might have been different.

"There's no easy way to say this. Your mother was more than just a Warden and an Orlesian. She was also an elf and a mage."

Alistair's eyes went wide and he felt his jaw go slack. Was there no end to the surprises about his mother? His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and Maric pushed his glass closer to him. Alistair took it and drained it without word, letting the whiskey burn its way down his throat as he sat there in stunned silence.

"That's what would have made any attempt to stay here in Denerim next to impossible, and what makes knowing who she is dangerous. People could accept if your mother was an Orlesian Warden. But an elven mage as well? No." His lips tightened. "There are some to whom it wouldn't matter. But others would see you as something that shouldn't be, let alone a prince. There's too much fear of mages and too much contempt of elves, no matter how much I wish it wasn't so.

"This is why you can't tell anyone, Alistair. Even if the Chantry didn't call for me to disown you—and I'm half-convinced they would—that's not true for most of the Landsmeet."

Reaching out, Maric gripped his arm hard. "I wouldn't ever do that. I would fight it every step of the way. But I don't have absolute power. If the Landsmeet decided something with enough support, there's little I could do. And that's hoping they all remain honorable about it. I also don't want to wake up to find that you've been slaughtered in your sleep. Or to have you fall prey to a "bandit attack" or have an unfortunate encounter with a case of bad fish."

The tension in his voice was evident, stressing the concern he felt, and Alistair could only nod dumbly. He drew a shaky breath and rubbed his forehead. "So you sent me away to protect me?"

"Not entirely, no." Maric shifted again, this time slightly guiltily, or so it seemed to Alistair. "That was part of the reason, yes. The other reason was that Fiona wanted you to be free of the burden of both her legacy and mine.

"When your mother met me, I wasn't in a good place. Rowan had been dead for two years, and part of me still mourned her. And I felt guilty. I'd wronged her so much and it seemed so unfair that she appeared to pay a price I should have. I stopped caring…about everything. Loghain had to take over, both in doing my duties and taking care of Cailan.

"I knew I was failing everyone—my wife, my son, my friend, my people—and it shamed me like few things ever have. When the Wardens came, I saw it as a chance to escape, to leave my failures behind. I took the coward's way out and left my son, and hoped the journey would kill me. I thought everyone would be better off if I did die. Cailan wouldn't have a failure of a father who wasn't really there, not in the ways that mattered. Ferelden could have a ruler who actually gave a damn and not simply some puppet wearing a crown. And I wouldn't have to face Loghain anymore, who told me with every look just how much I was dishonoring what he and Rowan had done."

He poured another measure of whiskey into his glass and drank it in one swallow.

"And even though I came back and did better, it still haunts me. I look at Cailan and wonder how much damage I really did to him. If I had been a father, if I had been there, how different would he be now?"

He fell silent, and Alistair scarcely breathed for fear it would halt Maric's story and cause him to stop. Never had he imagined that this lay under Maric's surface, that these thoughts were the ones that caused him to withdraw.

"Fiona saw all that. Maker, I told her some of it. She knew how trapped I felt, how much I hated my life. And she didn't want that for her son. She didn't want you to face what I did, and more, knowing you'd be at the mercy of politics and always be seen as competition for Cailan."

"But I'm not—"

Maric's look stopped him. "Aren't you?" he asked harshly. "What happened to you in Redcliffe was unfair, but so is what I've done here. I've deliberately kept you away from certain things to protect Cailan's position. With the nobles, I always refer to my heir and not my heirs. I don't want you and Cailan pitted against each other. And I haven't been entirely successful. There are those who don't like Cailan who would try to use you against him.

"You and Cailan are both princes. You're not free to just be brothers, and though I've done what I can to give you that, I'm scared it hasn't been enough."

There was nothing to do but nod in silent agreement. It hurt to know that however Maric felt in private, in public he would always push Alistair off to the side in favor of Cailan. He struggled against the anger and resentment that no matter what he did, he would never be good enough, and accept it the way his father meant it—as a way of protecting both his sons.

"As for Fiona's legacy…" Maric continued. "Her life in Orlais was…not good."

He gave a short laugh, though there was no humor in the sound. "Who am I kidding? Her life was pretty horrific. She didn't want you to know about your elven blood because it only ever caused her pain, and she didn't want that for you. She wanted you to believe your mother was human, and dead, so that you had a reason not to wonder where she was. If she could have seen a way to stay with you, she would have."

Alistair wanted to say something, to ask some question, but nothing came to him. It was too much to take in so quickly. Everything he'd thought he'd known was wrong, had been a lie. And though it was done with his best interests in mind, it didn't change that it was a lie, that he wasn't who he thought he was. There was so much he wanted to know, but no way for him to ask it right now.

Instead, he sat back in his chair, sagging against the cushions. The movement caused his amulet to shift on the chain and he pulled it out of his shirt to look at it. It was a cheap thing, a simple silver disk with the image of Andraste's flame stamped into it. The years had tarnished it, causing only the most raised of the worn lines still showing as bright silver while everything else had darkened to black.

"Is this a lie, too?" he asked quietly, looking at his father, fingers curling in a fist around the amulet. "Something given to me to reinforce the story of the dead serving girl so I wouldn't ask questions?"

For his whole life, he'd treasured this, knowing it was the only link to a mother he'd never know. He thought of all the nights as a child he'd fallen asleep with it clutched in a grubby palm. The times he'd pressed it to his chest as he sobbed and cried in private after another public humiliation. It was the only token an unloved child had had to tell him that, once, someone had loved him.

Now those memories were as tarnished as the amulet itself.

"It was given to you to reinforce the story, yes," Maric answered. Alistair grip tightened and he started to yank on it, wanting it off and away from him. Maric's hand shot out and closed around his fist, stopping him before the chain snapped. "No, let me finish."

He pried Alistair's fingers off it, and held it in his own. "It was given to you to help the story, but it was given it to you by Fiona. When it came time for her to leave, she couldn't quite bear to leave you with nothing. Fearing to go to the market herself, lest she arouse suspicions, she sent Duncan to find something that would be appropriate, that a woman might have and leave to her child. He came back with this."

Maric carefully tucked the amulet back into the collar of Alistair's shirt. "She put it around your neck herself. And then she kissed you and left." He smiled sadly. "It was the last time I ever saw her."

That…that was better. He traced the outline of the amulet through the linen of his shirt.

"How did she die?" he asked softly.

"What?" Maric appeared startled.

"Fiona. How did she…?" He trailed off, realization slowly beginning to dawn on him.

"Alistair," his father said gently. "Fiona isn't dead."

He didn't remember getting to his feet, but he must have because he was staring down at Maric.

"She's not dead."

"No."

It shouldn't have surprised him. Nothing his father had said tonight even hinted that his mother was dead. Of course it was logical that she'd still be alive.

"Does she know? About me?"

Maric nodded. "She and Duncan still keep in touch. When I brought you here, I asked him to tell her. He says he did, and I believe him."

Running his hands through his hair, he left them fisted around the strands while he thought.

"And that's it? He told her and…nothing? Doesn't she want to know anything?" Dropping his hands, he gestured aimlessly, the motions taking in himself and the area around him.

His father struggled to answer. "It's not that simple."

"Why not? I'm her son! You say she cared, but did that stop when she left Denerim?"

"Maker, no! You have to understand that once she left, she never expected to ever hear about you again."

"Never expected to hear or never wanted to hear?"

Clenching his jaw, Maric drew a steadying breath. "She considered you lost to her, Alistair. The same way I considered you lost to me. You don't know what it's like. There were these times, right as I woke up or if my mind wandered, when I would think about you and wonder. Wonder about how you were or what you were doing at that moment. I used to imagine what you were like, if there was anything of me in you.

"And then in the next moment, I'd remember that I'd never know. You were so close—so close—yet so far, beyond my reach. And each time it was like losing you again. Maker, it hurt—every single time, it hurt. Seeing you that one time at Redcliffe…." He held a hand over his eyes for a moment before looking back at Alistair. "I hope you never know that—to be close enough to your child to touch them and be unable to…. It was unbearable. It's why I was so mad at Eamon that he'd brought you to Denerim." His hands curled into fists atop his thighs. "If I'd seen you, the temptation would have been too great."

The memory of when Maric came to Redcliffe rose in his mind. Standing before Maric in the study and his father asking if he could hug him.

"But I got lucky. I got a chance to change that. Fiona never will. She never had, will never have, the chance to know you. So I don't blame her for not wanting to know because knowing just makes it hurt worse, and if you dwell on it, it'll drive you mad.

Maric rose and reached out, but Alistair jerked back out of reach. He was confused and angry and sad, and he wasn't sure why. This was too much to take in all at once. On the one hand, he was glad to know that he truly hadn't been a mistake. An accident, yes, but not a mistake. That he'd been wanted and loved by both his parents.

On the other, his mother didn't want to know about him. Had maybe never wanted to know about him. He didn't want much. It wasn't like he wanted to go to Weisshaupt and see her—did he even want to see her?—but would it have been too much for her to show even a passing interest in him?

"Alistair?"

His father's voice broke through his musings and he held up a hand. "I need…I need to think. This is a little much right now."

"I understand. I'll be here when—if—you want to talk about it some more, all right?"

Acknowledging the words with a brief nod, he left, needing to be alone for awhile. He eventually made his way outside, the cold air feeling good. After walking around the grounds for awhile, earning the curious looks of some guards, he found himself up on the battlements, looking out at the stars.

Somewhere out there, he had a mother.

Who didn't want him.

Avoiding his father over the next few days was fairly easy. Realizing he needed space, Maric kept his distance. He didn't push, didn't pry, didn't try and force Alistair into any discussion he didn't want.

Cailan was the only one who inquired about the sudden rift between father and son. But when Alistair snapped out that it was none of his business, he let the matter drop, and Alistair was left to his own thoughts.

Alistair didn't know what to do with what his father told him. He'd wanted to know more about his mother, had always assumed that knowing more about her would be a good thing.

But now? He was beginning to regret ever wanting to know at all. It had been hard enough growing up believing his father didn't want him. That thankfully had turned out not to be true and had ended years ago. Now he'd learned that not only did his mother know about him and still not want anything to do with him, but that she had forced Maric to give him up.

His hands balled into fists and he pressed them into the stone of the bench he sat on in the middle of the empty, winder-dead garden. He didn't even have anyone to really discuss this with except his father. He trusted Cailan, but the risk of something slipping out was far too high. And right now, with everything considered, he really liked his life. There was no way he was going to jeopardize what he had because of what his mother was.

That didn't make dealing with how he felt any easier. He couldn't shake the feelings of anger, confusion and betrayal. How could Fiona have done this to him?

Behind him, someone cleared their throat and Alistair half-turned to see who it was. Oh. "Um, Warden-Commander. Hi."

"Please, call me Duncan. May I sit?" Alistair nodded and Duncan eased down beside him, his armor creaking and jingling. "Maric thought you might want to talk to me."

Alistair shrugged indifferently. "I don't know what good it'll do."

"We don't have to talk. But as I was good friends with Fiona, and like to think I still am, I might be a better source of answers than your father."

For a long, long time, Alistair was silent. Beside him, Duncan also sat silently, seemingly content to wait however long Alistair needed to either ask a question or tell him to go.

"I don't know what to think," he said finally, turning to look at the Warden-Commander. "I went from knowing almost nothing to being told that what little I did know was a complete lie, and that the truth is far more complicated than I could have ever imagined.

"My father says she loved me, but with everything he said I find that hard to believe."

"She did love you," Duncan said quietly. "And before you start going off about how that can't possibly be true, remember that I was with her for the entire time. I was by her side while she carried you. I held you mere hours after you were born. I came with her from Weisshaupt where she held you for every minute she possibly could—as she rode, as she ate, as she slept.

"She talked to you constantly. Maker's breath, she sang!" He chuckled. "I didn't know she even knew lullabies, yet there she was crooning to you whenever you fussed and to get you to go to sleep."

The slight smile faded. "Fiona wasn't a very emotional woman, unless you count being irritated and annoyed as emotions. With your father, I saw a different side of her. In the brief time they were together, her anger and bitterness faded. The hard shell she protected herself with cracked enough to really let someone else in.

"You punched right through that crack, creating a hole she hasn't ever been able to patch. With you, I saw her truly vulnerable in a way I never had before. She wanted you, more than anything else she had in her entire life."

"Then why?" he asked. "Why did she do it?"

"Why did she leave you in Ferelden?"

"Yes. Why didn't she stay? There must have been some way."

Regarding him thoughtfully with dark eyes, Duncan shook his head slightly. "You want to see options where none truly existed. Had she been able to think of a way to be with you, she would have."

"She couldn't think of a way to stay with her son?" He practically spat the words at the older man. "She was Warden. You came back and stayed here. Why couldn't she?"

"The Wardens, the First Warden in particular, wanted her at Weisshaupt. Fiona wasn't really given a choice. So she brought you here and then returned to the Wardens."

"Just like that, huh? Have a kid, get rid of it, and then go back to your awesome Grey Wardens?"

Duncan sighed and cursed softly. "It's not nearly that simple. Defying her orders would have meant she had to leave the Wardens."

"So she chose the Wardens over me?" Part of Alistair knew he was being slightly unfair, and the look Duncan directed him strongly spoke of the fact that the man wanted to shake him.

"Leaving the Wardens to stay in Denerim, or anywhere else, would have meant she would have lost the protection they offered her."

Alistair frowned in confusion. "What protection?"

"Have you ever been to the Circle Tower, Alistair?"

"What? No. What does that have to do with anything?"

"The Tower is where mages live, you know this. You should also know that mages don't have a choice. You live in the tower or you're hunted down as an apostate. You were almost enrolled in templar training. Had that happened, you would have been trained to hunt down and neutralize—which is a nice way of saying incapacitate or kill—rogue mages. Would your life have been any different if your mother had been locked away in the Tower? Or would you prefer her to hide, living a furtive life always in danger of being discovered by the templars?"

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, but found nothing to say.

"What about the Alienage?" Duncan asked. "Do you have any idea what life is like for the elves there?"

"No…."

"Of course you don't." Sighing, Duncan shook his head. "Life is harsh there, Alistair. Many don't see elves as people. In response, the elves close ranks, forming tight bonds. While that's good for them, it leaves those who are strangers or different on the outside. What do you think life would have been like in the Alienage for you as a human child—a noble's bastard no less?"

He wanted to say something—anything—to refute the hopelessness of what Duncan said. To find a way Fiona could have stayed. Discover something that meant he could have had some sort of family for the first half of his life.

Duncan's hand gripped his shoulder. "With the Wardens, Fiona had—has—a life where she's free and doesn't have to live in fear. She had neither of those things when she was an Orlesian slave or a Circle mage. She didn't want to go back to that, and can you blame her?"

Alistair's head came around at the mention of slavery. "She was a slave?" he whispered.

"When she was a child, yes."

He looked away, swallowing hard. "So why did she even bring me here? Why not just let the Wardens put me somewhere?"

"If I had to guess, I would say because she thought you should be raised in Ferelden. She might never have intended for you to know your true heritage, but you're Fereldan. You had the right to know your country. For another reason, she believed Maric had to the right to know. She could have kept him ignorant, but it sat ill with her."

"So she told him, only to insist he have nothing to do with me?"

Duncan spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "She wanted you to be free, Alistair. To someone like Fiona, there was no greater gift she could have given you. She thought Maric would be able to ensure that you would be raised to have that freedom. That he was in the best position to make sure you were raised as a completely normal boy."

Alistair laughed bitterly. "And look how well that worked out."

"It didn't, obviously. Your father erred. No one will deny that, least of all him. Your life was not what your mother wanted for you. But she can't be blamed for that, Alistair. Once she left, she had no more control over what happened to you than the wind did."

Something…let go in Alistair's chest, his anger sliding away. He'd come to peace with his father's role in his life, but some part of him still looked for someone to blame. Someone he could pin it all on and serve as a focus for his frustration and unhappiness. But that person just didn't exist. They'd all had a hand in it—they were all responsible, to varying degrees, and he had to move on.

"I…understand." The admission was a trifle sullen and Duncan chuckled.

"Do you?" he asked, quirking a brow. "Understanding is not necessarily acceptance. It will take some time before you can really accept what was done and what happened to you, if you ever truly can. But it's a start."

"Duncan?" Alistair asked after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes?"

"My father said…. He said you wrote to Fiona about me. That you told her what happened, and that she didn't want to know. Is that true?"

Duncan hummed thoughtfully. "Yes and no. I did write to her, both while you were in Redcliffe and after Maric claimed you."

"While I was in Redcliffe? Why would you write to her about that?"

A dark brow rose and Duncan frowned. "Did Maric fail to mention the part where I volunteered to keep an eye on you and bring him information as I could?" When Alistair's jaw dropped, he sighed. "Obviously."

He shifted on the stone bench. "I offered to send him word about you when I could. It wasn't very frequent. My duties kept me busy and I couldn't show up in Redcliffe too often without drawing undue attention."

"So you knew and told him and he did nothing for ten years?"

"Not…exactly. As I said, my visits were infrequent. Each time I did go, you appeared as any other village child—rambunctious, muddy and in trouble as often as you were out. It might have been just happenstance or it's possible Eamon knew something and arranged for that. I simply don't know. When I delivered news to your father, I also included the information to Fiona.

"But I didn't get very detailed. Too much news or information would probably hurt her. I sent a more in-depth letter once you came to Denerim—relating both what Maric had done and what had happened to you. She…wasn't very happy."

"But she still didn't want to know anything."

"No, because nothing had changed for her. She accepted that life was better for you here, but you were still no closer to her. And even if something changed, she could never approach you because of what she was. Maric bringing you here made her even more adamant that you never know about her because of the direct danger it places you in."

"Uh…. Right, well, um, that obviously didn't happen."

"No," Duncan laughed. "It didn't. I've learned nothing ever goes quite like expected when there's a Theirin involved."

Allowing himself a small smile, Alistair nodded. "Thank you. For talking to me."

"You're the son of two very good friends, Alistair. It was my pleasure." Duncan rose. "Now, these ever-aging bones of mine grow cold out here."

Alistair gained his own feet, and walked next to the Warden-Commander. "Would it be possible for me to learn more about the Wardens? I'd like to know…."

Stopping just before they re-entered the palace, Duncan gave him a searching look. "I believe your father has already included the Grey Wardens in your education, hasn't he?"

"Yes. But you could tell me more."

Duncan frowned. One hand rubbed over his bearded jaw while the fingers on the other drummed against his thigh. "Maybe," he finally agreed. "I'll have to talk with Maric first, but we might be able to arrange something."

Nodding to him once they were inside, Duncan began to walk away. Before he got more than a handful of steps, he stopped and turned. "For what it's worth, Alistair, I'm glad you know.

"And you have her eyes."

Long after Duncan had left, Alistair stood in the hall. Eventually, he shook himself slightly. He would need to talk to his father again, apologize for the unfair harshness of his earlier words, but for now there was something else he needed to do. Once back in his room, he lit a lamp and turned it up so that it lit the room and then retrieved his small shaving mirror from the bathing chamber. A gift from Lya, it had arrived with one of her letters the previous winter. It was Orlesian, made of silvered glass, and showed a crystal clear reflection, perfect for his needs right now.

Sitting at his desk, he held the mirror up and peered closely at his eyes. Unlike Maric's and Cailan's, they were hazel, bright in the light with tiny flecks of gold. After meeting his father and brother, he knew he must have inherited them from his mother. But knowing and knowing were two different things.

He set the mirror down and leaned back in his chair. His mother's eyes…. He smiled. He might never meet her or speak to her, but in a way she'd never completely left him.

Two weeks later, Alistair sat in Duncan's private study. Duncan and his father had worked out an arrangement. Alistair would be allowed to come to the Warden compound and learn more about the Grey Wardens. Maric could only see the benefits to it, but Duncan was slightly more hesitant.

Before taking him to the compound, he'd informed Alistair that these were no social visits. He might be allowed to visit, and even ask questions of the other Wardens, but he wasn't to mention Fiona. Nor was he ever to snoop or sneak around. There were things which the Grey Wardens must keep secret and that he would not be privy to under any circumstance. If he defied any of Duncan's order, his privileges would be revoked instantly.

Although being slightly offended at the notion that he would spy around, Alistair nevertheless agreed. Once Duncan had his promise, he showed Alistair around the compound and then set Alistair down with some books, offering to answer any questions Alistair had.

That was a week ago, and in that time, Alistair had learned more about the Grey Wardens, the Blight and the darkspawn than Warwick had ever taught him. It was fascinating. And though there things that were clearly missing from the books, or that Duncan avoided talking about, it gave him a greater appreciation for the Wardens and what they did.

Duncan pulled a chair against the opposite side of the desk Alistair was at, and sat down, placing a small box carefully on the dark wood before him. Alistair looked up curiously, and the closed the book he was reading.

"I'm not sure I should let you see these," Duncan said abruptly.

"What are they?"

"Letters from your mother."

Alistair's eyes opened wide and he looked yearningly toward the box.

"I've already gone through them, removing anything you can't see, but what's left…. She never intended them for any eyes but mine, and she'd probably be displeased that I haven't destroyed them, but I think you need to see them. They can make what she felt real in a way words from your father or me never can."

Pushing the box across the desk, Duncan said, "I leave the choice to you. Read them or don't read them, it's your decision."

With that, Duncan rose and left the room quickly. For a moment, Alistair just stared at the box, and then he opened it with a shaking hand and removed the small pile of letters. The parchment was slightly discolored and worn, as if they'd been opened and read many times. A quick check revealed they were in chronological order. He picked up the first, smoothed flat on the wood and began to read.

Most of it was personal communication to Duncan. Some lines had been struck out and some pages were clearly taken from longer letters. But here and there, lines jumped out at him.

…relieved he's healthy and doing well…

So Maric named him Alistair? Odd, seems such a big name for a little boy…

…said I wouldn't ask, but does he still look like his father?

He's happy then? Good. He deserves it…

Some of the newer letters, dated from shortly after he'd been brought to Denerim, contained a markedly different tone.

He promised me, Duncan! He promised that Alistair would be taken care of, that he wouldn't do this to Alistair...

What good was trying to protect him if it came to this in the end? Maker, we didn't give him up so that all three of us would be miserable…

Please watch him, Duncan. As my friend, I beg you, keep him safe. He shouldn't have to pay because of me, because of Maric…

There were only a few more vague references to him as the letters got closer to the present. It seemed like Fiona was deliberately distancing herself. Alistair went back to the first letters, the one were the writing wavered slightly, as if her hand shook while she wrote. He reread those over an over, drinking the words like a man dying of thirst drinks water.

In time, Duncan returned, and Alistair had only one question. "Can I write to her?"

Duncan hesitated. "Alistair…."

"She doesn't have to answer," he said quickly. "If I don't get anything back, it's all right. I just want her to hear from me. To know that I know, and it's fine. I'll tell her it's okay if she doesn't write back. You can tell her the same thing. I just want the chance."

He held his breath, waiting as Duncan looked out the window. It was like waiting for a Satinalia gift, unsure if what was under the wrapping was a treat or a trick. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and he rubbed his damp palms on his thighs, hoping his nervousness wasn't as painfully obvious as it felt to him.

Finally, Duncan nodded. "As long as you're aware of what might happen." He leaned over, opened a drawer and removed parchment, ink and quills. "I'll make sure it gets to her safely. Be circumspect, Alistair. In the event that there's any regular correspondence, we can create a cipher for you to use, but one letter should be safe enough.

"My seal and wax are in the center drawer. You may use those when you're done."

Alone again, Alistair stared at the blank parchment. So much to ask, yet his mind was blank. Then, nodding, he picked up a quill and dipped it in ink.

Fiona,

My name is Alistair….

Chapter Text

Things with Alistair's family had been up and down in the month since he'd sent his letter to his mother. About a week after the night Maric told him about Fiona, his father and Cailan had a falling out. Perhaps spurred on by things that Alistair had had thrown in his father's face that night, about how Maric held him accountable for things he didn't hold Cailan responsible for, his father had apparently had a long talk with Cailan.

What exactly had been said between them was unknown, but it had descended into an argument. A long, loud argument. Alistair had fled that wing of the palace when he heard tempers begin to rise, so he didn't know how it ended. It didn't come to blows, though judging by the gossip he picked up from the servants, some thought it might have had it continued much longer. Cailan had eventually stormed out and retreated to his rooms.

Alistair hadn't seen much of his brother over the last three weeks. Cailan didn't seem angry at him—well, not exactly. It was hard to figure out if someone was mad at you or just sulking when they didn't really speak to you. Cailan was, however, angry at Maric. If Alistair had any consolation, it was that his brother was at least speaking to him. The same couldn't be said of their father. It had been left to Anora to play peacemaker between the two, attempting to smooth things out so that they could at least be civil. He had to wonder at her patience at that task. There weren't enough sovereigns in the treasury to get him to attempt that.

He'd been content to just let the storm blow over and keep his head down. With Loghain in Gwaren for the winter—a rare occasion when he went back to his teyrnir to deal with matters his seneschal had deemed best to be left to him—Alistair had managed to convince his father and Duncan to let him train more with the Wardens. The Warden-Commander was leery of Alistair being seen as getting too close to the Wardens. Loghain's dislike of the order was well known, and Duncan had no desire to earn them any more animosity than they already had.

While acknowledging the possible risk, Maric had encouraged it. He promised to take the full blame should Loghain be unduly upset, and he said the potential benefits outweighed the risks.

So, now every other day, he found himself heading to the Warden compound. It was…awkward. Sort of. In private, Duncan was showing to be warmer and more caring than Alistair had ever suspected from his public persona. But that was in private only. Among other people, he was the same stern Warden-Commander everyone knew him as. The difference was a little startling.

And the Wardens…. They scared Alistair, a little. The Wardens were a tight knit, almost clannish group. And while individually a Warden might be more open or funny, they had a way of closing ranks and standing together that clearly bespoke an "us versus them" mentality. And while they were unfailingly polite, there was the definite sense that Alistair was an outsider.

So, yeah, it was uncomfortable, but he could ignore that. He was an outsider, after all. In return, though, he had the chance to train with some of the best fighters he'd ever seen. Whatever the Wardens had been—and some of them were rather sketchy looking—their skills were impressive. They challenged Alistair the way only Loghain, Maric and Cailan had been able to. Not that Alistair was immensely skilled, but the palace knights and guards held back in a way that his family didn't. Nor did the Wardens. There was definitely no coddling or preferential treatment with them. When he ended up on his ass, he was expected to pick himself up, return to his position and do better next time.

Almost perversely, Alistair loved it. He loved having to earn respect with these men, prove himself before they offered so much as a single, grudging compliment. In that way, they were exactly like Loghain, and Alistair wondered if maybe the teyrn should spend some time with them.

A creeping thought also began to enter his mind. Could he join the Grey Wardens? He knew anyone could be conscripted, so he didn't see why he couldn't join voluntarily. His father seemed extremely pleased that he was spending time with the Wardens, and his mother was one. He might not be skilled enough to join them yet, but in a few years he surely would be. He liked the discipline and training found among the Wardens, and yearned for that closeness they shared. Alistair might have tight bonds with his family, but time had not made him any less aware that he still stood on the outside of most circles. If anything, it had only sharpened his perception of it.

The Wardens…could be a way out of the conundrum he found himself in, and he found himself seriously considering going to his father with the idea.

Or, he had been until he'd received Anora's summons.

His sister-in-law was often busy. Her aptitude for numbers and law made her invaluable to Maric when it came to trade and contract matters. He saw her often enough, it was true, at social gatherings and meals, or when Maric had him sit in on discussion. On the rare occasions she sought him out, it was invariably for some more schooling in one political area or another.

But he'd never been invited to the rooms that were her and Cailan's private little sanctum. Looking at the dark, carved door before his, he was hesitant to knock. He knew Anora asking him to come had to be about something more important than trade terms or the finer points of contract negotiation.

Steeling himself, he knocked softly, and the door was almost immediately opened by Anora's handmaid, Erlina.

She dipped a quick curtsey and held the door for him. As he entered, he looked around. That a woman lived here was obvious. The rugs scattered across the floor were deep and soft, the chairs and couches upholstered in rich Orlesian silks. Small tables were stained dark and carved in flowing, intricate lines. On the walls hung exquisite paintings and small decorations were placed to tastefully accent the room.

Anora and Cailan were standing next to a window, talking quietly with their heads together. One of Anora's hands rested on Cailan's arm, lightly gripping his elbow. Seeing them so close struck him as odd, and it suddenly hit him how formal they were in public. There was affection between them, but they weren't affectionate. He didn't think he'd seen them kiss since their wedding.

Right. Awkward. He cleared his throat carefully, and they both turned to look at him.

Anora moved first, coming toward him with a warm smile. "Alistair, welcome." Turning toward her handmaid, she lifted one slim brow. "Erlina, if you would…?"

"Yes, my lady. I shall return shortly."

As Erlina slipped out, Anora gestured to a chair and Alistair sat. After seating herself on a couch and smoothing her skirts, she looked over toward where Cailan still stood by the window. She said nothing, made no gesture or expression, but after a moment, Cailan sighed faintly and came to join them, sitting in a chair opposite Alistair.

"So…what did you want to see me for?"

"A moment, Alistair. Let's wait until Erlina returns with some refreshments, and then we can talk without being disturbed."

The few minutes spent waiting for Erlina to come back were filled with idle chatter, Anora asking Alistair what he'd been up to lately. After Erlina returned with a tray of tea and some small snacks, Anora dismissed her with a quiet word. She poured herself a cup, looked at Cailan and Alistair, and when they both shook their heads, settled back onto the couch.

"Now, Alistair," she said after taking a sip, "I realize this might seem unusual, but your father asked Cailan and I to do something for him. Well, for you really, but it was his request as he felt we were the best choices."

"Also the only choices," Cailan added quietly.

That sounded…ominous. "And, um, that would be…?"

A slight frown marred Anora's brow as she pursed her lips. "How to phrase this? Maric is concerned about your…no, not ability. Reticence…to interact with the nobility."

"I interact with the nobles!" he protested.

"Yes, but not well," Cailan said wryly. "Oh, don't give me that look."

Alistair glared at his brother. "It's not like I make a fool of myself in public."

"Of course not!" Anora assured him quickly, and threw a stern look at her husband.

Cailan rolled his eyes and sighed. "You know that's not what I mean. You're just not one them, Alistair—and that's not a bad thing!" he added hastily at another look from Anora.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. "Look, no one makes any bones about where you came from, not anymore. It simply doesn't matter. The problem is you were sheltered from a lot of it. No one ever forced you to be a part of things you never wanted to be, so you never learned how to really be one of them."

"Oh, I don't know. I seem to recall Dad insisting I be part of a whole bunch of things."

Shaking his head, Cailan said, "No, it's not the same. When you go to some gathering or function, you don't make an effort to interact with those you don't like beyond the required civil greetings."

Alistair looked at his brother incredulously. "Why would I want to?"

"Because you don't live atop some tall tower, or deep in the woods," said Anora gently. "You must learn how to interact will all of the nobility, no how much you like or dislike them personally. It's a vital skill that you'll need in the future."

"Why?"

Anora and Cailan looked at each other. It was one of those looks that said they knew something and were trying to decide how much to tell him. A shiver ran down Alistair's spine. He hated this, the way things were decided long in advance for him and then people dribbled out information to him. It was only about him, why would he need to know?

"Your father has been thinking about your future, Alistair. About what might be suitable for you once you reach your maturity. He's come up a solution—a rather ingenious one—but you're not ready for it yet."

"So everything been decided just like that, huh? All nice and neat? Another loose end all tidied up?"

"Oh, Maker's blood!" Cailan cursed. "Come off it, already. What do you want? For him not to care? Would you just prefer to be someone like Vaughan? A waste of space, doing nothing except using his family's wealth to indulge his appetites?"

"Of course not!"

"Or maybe put somewhere you don't belong and that you would hate, like the Chantry? Enough younger sons end up there, and while it might be a first, I don't think they'd turn away a prince."

Alistair just glared at him sullenly. "Am I to know this grand plan, then?"

Sighing in frustration, Cailan ran a hand through his hair. "You're probably not going to like it very much. I know you prefer working with weapons and training, but you can't be a soldier or a knight or even a Warden. Father would like to see you have a commissioned rank in the army."

Tilting his head to the side, Alistair looked back and forth between Cailan and Anora. "That doesn't seem so bad. I mean, it seems to be pretty much what I've been trained for."

"It's not quite that simple," Anora disagreed quietly. "What Maric intends is an officer's position. And unlike a noble's private forces, where they can promote anyone they want—like what my father has done with Ser Cauthrien—all the officers in the army are landholding nobles."

Things quickly fell into place in Alistair's mind. "You're talking about Dad giving me my own lands? I didn't think he had any to just give away like that."

"There are always nobles without heirs. Most usually name someone as their heir when that happens. But Father can pull a few strings and have you named as the heir instead, so that legally everything belongs to you without…ruffling any feathers or yanking any titles."

"So…I'd be like Teagan, then? With a small bannorn or something?"

"Or something," Anora murmured. "Your father probably has something a bit bigger than Rainesfere in mind. A bigger estate gives you a better position."

Alistair nodded. "That makes sense. Huh. I'd never thought about that before." He rubbed his chin as he thought. "I don't know what this has to do with you though, or with me not making nice with the Bannorn."

Anora nodded. "Giving you land serves more than just easing your way into the army, Alistair. As Cailan's brother, you will someday be in a unique position, having closer ties to influence him than any other in the Landsmeet. You will need a voice in the Landsmeet, and a strong one, if you're to support him and have the influence to do so.

"But in order for that to happen, you need to be an active member of the Landsmeet, able to work with and make deals with the rest of them. You have friends among the nobility. But they alone are not always going to be able to help you, and they might not always agree with you or support your positions. You need to learn how to act like one of them if you're to have any success influencing them."

Setting her cup down on the table, she leaned toward him and gently touched his hand. "My father has taught you many things, but he also serves as an example and a lesson. People respect him for what he did for Ferelden. He's a hero and that is what they love him for, the reason they follow him. They do not follow him because he's a great politician. Indeed, he has no patience for it, nor with soothing and stroking the collective egos of those who hold a great deal of power.

"Should anything happen where his one area of influence is lost, he will have little power, despite being a teyrn. You must not allow that to happen with yourself, Alistair. So that's where Cailan and I come in."

"We're going to make you our little protégé," Cailan said cheerfully. "You may never be the deftest hand at all the social and political wrangling, but you'll be able to hold your own."

For a long minute, Alistair just sat there thinking about what they'd said. It made sense. A lot of sense, actually. He didn't really want to be too involved with politics, but if he didn't learn how to do it, he'd never be able to if he ever needed to.

Something else occurred to him. "So I'd have a bannorn?" They both nodded. "Um, slight problem. I don't know how to run one."

Again that exchange of looks, and Alistair frowned. People really needed to stop doing that.

"That's…also be taken care of," Cailan said. "You know Bann Sighard?"

"Of course."

"Father's asked him if you can spend a few months at Dragon's Peak, just after the spring Landsmeet. Things won't be quite the same, no two estates ever are, but he'll be able to show you the basics—how to manage people and the land, how to maintain your soldiers and knights, and issues that are likely to crop up when holding audience and deciding legal matters.

"Bann Sighard's pretty respected by just about everyone. He's got a reputation of being fair and even-handed. And since Dragon's Peak is so close, he and Father will be able to keep in touch."

"And you will have a seneschal, Alistair." Anora smiled. "A good seneschal is one of the best things a good lord can do for his estate. No lord or lady can ever expect to always be available, and someone must be able to take care of things while they are absent. Again, look at my father. Teyrn though he may be, and as beloved as he is by the people of Gwaren, were it not for his seneschal the teyrnir would be in shambles."

Alistair nodded slowly. Again, it all made sense, though there was that slightly rankled feeling that no one had thought to consult him. It's not like he wouldn't have agreed. The logic in the plan was all sound, and had his father simply sat him down and spelled it out, he would have agreed readily.

Well, it could be worse, much worse. The fledging dreams of being a Grey Warden—as unrealistic as they were—died, but in their place was a plan that would serve him well. The army part was the most exciting aspect and he was greatly looking forward to it.

He reached out and snagged a pastry off the tray. "So," he said after taking and swallowing a huge bite. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow," came Cailan's prompt answer, accompanied by a grin. "Not my first choice, but Vaughan's having a party. He likes to make himself feel important, so we're all invited."

The following evening, Alistair watched the crowd at the Arl of Denerim's estate with a careful eye. He'd arrived with Cailan and Anora not more than a couple hours ago, and was trying to remember what they'd begun to teach that afternoon.

Right now, Anora stood at his elbow as they engaged in some polite and pleasant conversation with others that they knew well and were friendly with. She would occasionally whisper things, to low for anyone to hear but him, tips for how to address someone, or a question to ask. He was amazed at her ability to speak with her lips still curved in a smile.

"Here comes Bann Franderel. Start by shaking his hand—once, firmly—and saying how nice it is to see him—perhaps comment on his doublet, he's rather vain—and that you're pleased he's chosen to winter in the capital. After you exchange pleasantries, follow his lead on whatever he wants to talk about. When you're about tired of that, ask him how well trade is for him in West Hill. It's not a huge port, but it is the closest one Ferelden has to Orlais. Try to remember as much as he says. We can pick it apart later."

The low stream of commands issued without pause, and when she was done, Anora turned right back to the conversation she was holding with one of Arl Wulff's sons.

Franderel was approaching and Alistair did his best to follow Anora's advice. To his surprise, the bann seemed friendly and open. He visibly flushed with pleasure at the compliments and answered Alistair's questions verbosely. When another noble eventually caught his attention, he drifted away, and Alistair had to try not to gape.

"Is it always like that? I say a couple nice things and he'll just tell me anything and everything?"

"Not always, no," said Cailan, coming up to them and handing his wife a goblet of mulled wine. "But it does work a lot of time. Ego-stroking goes a long way, and for the most part they love to hear themselves talk and crow about their successes. Compliments can be worth more than gold, you just need to be careful about overusing it. The value of that type of coin diminishes if you overuse it."

Alistair wisely bit his tongue from saying Cailan himself often seemed a prime target for that type of behavior. His brother was very fond of being the life of the party and having everyone fawn over him.

Unless…that was partly an act? Alistair thought Cailan's pleasure in it too genuine for it to be completely faked, but what if he played it up in order to get more out of people. He tried to think back to the times he'd observed Cailan when he was surrounded by people. Very much the life of the party, but Alistair couldn't remember him discussing anything of importance.

"Hello? Alistair?"

He started, blinking at his brother. "Er, sorry. Was thinking."

"Right…. Anyway, as I was saying, we might want to leave sooner rather than later."

"Oh?"

Darting a quick look around, Cailan dropped his voice. "Vaughan's getting pretty deep into his cups. His father's here, so it might not lead to anything, but I'd rather not be here if he goes looking for trouble.

Anora nodded quickly. "Indeed. It would be ill-advised were we to remain and become embroiled in Vaughan's scandals." She cast an appraising eye over Alistair. "I think he's done well for tonight. We'll have other opportunities."

They made their exit swiftly, but politely. Anora was profuse in her reluctance to have to leave, and Cailan promised a get together in the future. There some subtle hinting that Alistair might be the cause of their departure, but nothing overt enough to cause him embarrassment. As Vaughan's cold eyes slid over him, though, Alistair didn't really care if his brother and Anora made him out to be a child who was up past his bedtime. There was something about Vaughan that made his skin crawl and he was glad when they were well away from his estate.

"Vaughan's not like Franderel, is he?" he asked as their guards escorted their carriage, the enclosure keeping their words private. "You can't simply flatter him to get what you want."

"No," Cailan said darkly. "Vaughan can be…persuaded into some things, but it's not worth the cost. Don't ever end up in any kind of debt to someone like him, Alistair. You'll always regret it."

"Enough." Anora's voice was quiet. "There will be time to discuss this later. For now let's just go home." Both princes nodded, and Cailan threw an arm over Anora's shoulders, and she leaned into him.

Alistair wondered at that, the fact that Cailan and Anora seemed to be closer. Something had happened, and if he had to guess, it was because of whatever happened between Cailan and Maric. But it had to be a good thing. Right? Though it appeared that it had driven a wedge between his father and brother, Cailan seemed more…relaxed, at least around him. And Anora seemed happier.

As they got back to the palace, he tried to put it out of his mind. It wasn't any of his business, and it's not like he could do anything to fix whatever was wrong. Not when he might have been the cause. He would just have to wait and see what happened. For now, he had to concentrate on remembering what he'd learned today and think of ways to apply it in the future.

Chapter Text

Spring came early to Ferelden, arriving in a sudden rush. The clear, pale blue skies of winter were exchanged for the heavy gray clouds of spring, and the near constant rain they brought. The hard, frozen ground turned soft and muddy overnight. It was, of course, the perfect time to go riding in Cailan's mind, and he cheerfully dragged his younger brother out with him as soon as the leaden clouds above cleared enough for a ride that wouldn't be truly miserable.

Alistair adjusted his cloak as he rode. It wasn't raining, true, but it was damp. He watched, smiling faintly as Cailan cantered across a field, Adara racing by his brother's side. How his brother managed not to foul his horse in the mud and be thrown, he didn't know. By the time Cailan rejoined him on the road, color was hectic in his cheeks and a wide grin split his face.

"I'd've thought you would be eager to get out of the palace, little brother," he called as he approached.

"I am," Alistair replied dryly. "But it's hardly what I'd call a good day for riding."

Cailan laughed. "It's the perfect time to go riding. Not cold enough to freeze your ass off, but not warm enough to have to share the road with anyone else. It gives us a chance to talk without any listening ears." He threw a glance over his shoulder toward the small handful of guards who rode behind them. With a slight gesture of his head, the guards slowed, falling back to give true privacy to the two princes.

Alistair shot his brother a curious glance. "So I take it today wasn't just about getting out of the city for a ride?"

"No," Cailan shook his head. "Though I did want to, I could have just as easily gone by myself. But I wanted to talk to you. About what we've been working on over the winter with Anora."

Heaving a long suffering—and somewhat theatrical sigh—Alistair asked, "What have I done wrong this time?"

With a chuckle, Cailan shook his head again. "Nothing, nothing. You've done really well actually. Surprisingly so." He paused and frowned. "No, not so surprising. I'm just not used to thinking of you as grown-up, and it keeps catching me by surprise when I realize it."

Alistair blinked in surprise, but before he could say anything, Cailan pressed on. "I wanted to give you a little more advice, something that hasn't occurred to Anora, but something I think you need in order to protect yourself."

"Something Anora hasn't thought of? This should be good."

Cailan grinned. "I know. She's unspeakably talented, so it's rather shocking, isn't it? It probably hasn't occurred to her because it's not really a concern for her. Well, I suppose it is, but she perfected it so long ago that she doesn't even need to think about it anymore."

"Are you going to tell me what it is I'm missing or continue being obscure?"

"Sorry, habit. As I was saying, you've done well. We've kept our ears out, and so far, what people are talking about is good. You've presented yourself as someone who's growing up and becoming more interested in politics and it's going over very well."

Alistair frowned. "I'm not seeing the problem here, then. I've been doing what you've told me, and it has become a lot easier, so this should be what I should expect, right?"

"Yes…and no." Cailan furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "You're not doing anything wrong. That's not what I'm trying to say. The problem—and I suppose it's not really a problem except for the fact that it could become something to be exploited later—is that you're too honest."

For a moment, Alistair said nothing. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

"You're too honest," Cailan said again, without a hint of amusement or jest in his voice.

Thinking back to all the little white lies and social chitchat where he was blatantly not telling the truth, he tried to see where Cailan was getting the "too honest" thing from. And came up blank.

"Cailan," he sighed. "I'm damp, muddy, and when we get back, I'm going to have to dump several buckets of water over my dog and then spend the rest of the day keeping a wet mabari off my bed. So instead of making me try and figure out what exactly I'm missing, why don't you just tell me?"

"You take all the fun out of this, you know. It's not that you say the whole truth all the time, or come right out and tell someone they're being an ass when they are. You don't point out how stupid an idea is or how rude or churlish people are behaving. You're just…you."

"Yes, well, I'll get right on fixing that. Thanks."

Cailan huffed out a sigh. "All right, that came out poorly, but bear with me. It's difficult to explain. Look at it this way: When people speak to you, what they see is what they get. And that's not a bad thing!" he added hastily, holding up a hand at Alistair's darkening countenance. "You're sometimes very easily read, brother, and you're known for basically telling the truth when something is asked of you."

"And these are bad things how?" Alistair asked irritably. Of all the things for his brother to bring up, this seemed like an unfair criticism.

"It's not, exactly, but it does leave you vulnerable. You need to protect yourself by making sure that what you really think and feel is kept under wraps. That there are layers to keep others from knowing what you truly think and feel."

When Alistair didn't immediately respond, Cailan went on. "Anora's been doing it her whole life—she doesn't even need to think about it. She hardly ever lets her guard down, and then only when she's positive there's no possible way it could have any repercussions. Father does the same thing. You've seen the way he is. He's always guarded, always watchful. Both of them do it as a way to keep control and prevent others from using themselves against them."

That was true. Alistair had seen Maric when his guard was down, the vulnerability he showed would only be used by the Bannorn to further their own aims. It was a weakness—loath as he was to admit it—and one that would be used against his father.

"And you?" he asked, looking over at his brother.

Cailan's blue eyes clouded slightly, and he pursed his lips. "And me," he said quietly. The look he gave Alistair was somehow both wry and a little sad. "Come now, you don't really think my only concerns were chasing skirts, hunting, swords and fine spirits, do you?"

Alistair flushed slightly, and looked away, unwilling to admit that, yes, at times those seemed like the only things his brother actually paid attention to. He'd wondered before how much of what Cailan presented was actually him and how much was an act. He had a feeling he was about to find out, and the unkind thoughts he'd had about his brother in the past embarrassed him. "I, uh…."

"It's all right." There was a soft sigh and Alistair glanced back over. Cailan was gazing up into the sky. "It's my own fault. It's not that I don't enjoy those things, but they're not the whole of my existence. When I was younger…maybe. Not anymore."

He shifted in the saddle. "I've continued to encourage it, though, because people forget themselves around me and say things they really shouldn't. They don't think I'm paying attention, or that if I am, I'm not really smart enough to put things together."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Alistair asked aghast. The thought of people thinking he really was a fool made his gut churn uncomfortably. It was one thing to do something foolish and deal with the repercussions from that, another to have people truly believe you were just a cheerful dolt.

Cailan shrugged. "It does, a bit. But there's not much I can do about it right now. Everyone knows Anora's smarter than I am, so I make up for it by being the personable one. And if I suddenly stop being what people believe me to be…then my cover is completely gone. People will either believe it's a lie, or not trust whatever else I present myself as. In either case, I've lost my advantage.

"I'm trying to change it, but it's a slow process. As long as I keep being the genial, gregarious prince they all know and love, they'll accept a gradual change as I 'grow up.'"

That made…sense, of a sort. He'd seen the way most people opened up around his brother. If they thought he was less intelligent or more inebriated than they were, the way they likely pressed their perceived superiority would allow them to leave themselves open and reveal things they normally wouldn't.

On the other hand, it seemed like a very risky gamble. If Cailan was perceived as being a fool, then it could ultimately jeopardize his power and position.

"Isn't that…dangerous?" he offered cautiously.

"It is," Cailan affirmed soberly. "Something I realized far too late. Which is why I'm not going to suggest you do exactly what I did. Nor am I going to suggest what Father or Anora do. You'll notice no one really confides in them. For you, we need to take what all of us got wrong, and fix it."

"So…like a combination of everything?"

"Exactly. Nothing huge. We need to craft you a persona that you can maintain. You might be good at many things, little brother, but you're a rather terrible liar."

Alistair frowned. "I'm not really that bad, am I?"

Cailan grinned and nodded. "Yes, you really are. Once you depart from the little white untruths, your face completely shows when you're lying."

He couldn't help that. He knew the value in being able to deceive and dissemble, but it was hard for him. His own dislike of being lied to was always in the back of his mind, reminding him that doing the same thing to others made him a hypocrite.

"I don't know that I can change that," he said quietly.

"No, probably not. I don't really expect you to, and it would be too obvious."

"So what do you expect me to do?"

Chewing his lip for a moment, Cailan cast an appraising glance over him. "You know all the other young nobles your age?"

"Yes…." Alistair answered cautiously. "What about them?"

"Be like them," Cailan said simply. "When they go out carousing, go with them. When they want to dice or play cards, join them. When they go looking for a good time, have fun."

Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, Alistair looked away from his brother to watch his dog chasing through the field after a small animal. "I don't know if I can do that," he replied quietly.

Cailan made a disgusted sound in his throat. "Of course you can. Listen, I'm not saying to go as far as they do, and definitely not as far as I did. When you drink, limit yourself. Don't ever get so drunk you can't remember to guard yourself. And if you gamble, don't drink while you do it and set an amount you can afford to lose before you stop."

"And when I want to 'have fun?'" He looked back over at his brother, curious about how Cailan would approach this issue.

The look Cailan gave him though was serious, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and thoughtful. "I know it's a sensitive issue for you. Something that's been made clearer to me." He grimaced faintly. "If you're concerned about…repercussions, there are ways to avoid that. Stick to the Pearl or other reputable establishments. Sanga and other madams know how to take care of their clients and their girls. They can make sure nothing comes back to harm you.

"And if you're still concerned, pick a favorite. A girl that you like and can trust. Make her feel special, give her gifts so she doesn't feel the need to try and milk you some other way. I'd suggest a mistress, but you're a little young. This is something no one would fault you for. They understand how sensitive it can be."

Even a year ago, this conversation would have made Alistair extremely uncomfortable. It would have unnerved him, maybe even made him feel slightly ill at the way his brother treated these things so casually. But now, after spending so much more time with Cailan, he knew that wasn't the case. Cailan actually took it very seriously, given the amount of thought he'd put into how to approach Alistair about it. Whatever he said, he said because he cared and because he was trying to help.

"The point," Cailan continued, "is to have you be approachable. To make the nobles feel like you're one of them." He gave a short laugh. "You aren't. You can't be. But we all like to pretend. We pretend that we can be just like one of them, and they pretend that they're equal to us, that their friendship with us will benefit us. And for some of them it will be true, but only the ones who come the closest to being true friends. Think about it, Alistair."

For a long time, he was silent, riding beside his brother as they turned back around and headed back to the city. Finally, he quietly asked, "And you think this is necessary?"

"No," Cailan said, shaking his head. "It's not necessary, but it is advisable. It'll make it easier for you to guard your secrets when you have them, and to reach out to others when you need their power."

"I'll…think about it."

"That's all I can ask."

They returned to the city, and like he'd predicted, Alistair had one very muddy, excited dog to clean up and then feed. Once he had taken some time to fill his own stomach, it was well past midday before he made it down to get some weapons practice in. After that, it was off to Madame Girard for lessons in Orlesian. He would likely never be proficient in the language, but Maric thought it advisable for him to have passing familiarity with the language of their largest trading partner.

By the time he made it back to his room that night—after having successfully kept Adara from climbing on his bed—he was ready to go right to sleep. So tired was he, that he almost missed the letter on his desk, noticing it only as he went to turn the lamp down.

Frowning, he looked at the blank envelope, lying neatly in the center of his desk. He picked it up and checked both sides, but there was nothing written on either. Reaching over, he turned the lamp up to give himself enough light to see the seal and his mouth went dry.

Dark blue wax, a rampant griffon stamped boldly into it.

For a moment, he just stared. Then, with shaking hands, he tore the seal apart, unfolding the parchment so that he could read.

Alistair,

For a long time, I considered not responding to your letter. But I realized that it was unfair of me to hold what others did against you. You have done nothing wrong and you do not deserve to suffer for the mistakes of others, though in truth it is far too late for that.

Duncan and your father have each written to me to tell me of what you have been told, and while I was at first very angry, I confess that I cannot regret what they did, not once I received your letter.

My dear boy—and I realize I have little right to call you that—I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am for what we have done to you. Know that what happened to you was something that I  never  wanted to happen. What I wanted was for you to have what none of us ever did: a loving family, a normal life, a chance to be free. Nothing I say can ever be enough to tell you how heartily sorry I am that you were denied that.

I know you must be angry, and you have every right to be. I just hope you know that it was not easy for me. Nothing I have done, or will ever do, was as hard as walking away from you was. Please believe that.

Both Maric and Duncan have told me of what a fine young man you've grown in to, and it makes me glad to know that you've weathered the trials of your life so well and come through intact. From your letter, you seem like the kind of man I would be proud to know and I only wish that I could know you as more than just words upon parchment.

If you would like, I would be extremely glad to continue our correspondence. There are precautions we must take, and which I've tried to take in this letter, but I would love to get to know you for myself. Duncan will explain if you ask him. For my part, I hope to hear from you again.

I'm afraid this letter will be short. I find myself overwhelmed and don't know where to begin, or even what questions you want me to answer. Just know that there hasn't been a single day that has gone by where I haven't thought of and missed you.

All my love,

Fiona

Alistair read the letter once, and then again. He started for a third time, but the letters blurred as his hands trembled and his eyes shimmered. Making a quick decision, he refolded the letter and strode from his rooms, not bothering to grab a shirt of robe. The walk to his father's rooms took mere seconds, and he scarcely bothered with a hasty knock before walking in.

Never before had he ever contemplated just ignoring his father's wish for privacy, but at that moment, there was no one else he wanted to see. It seemed his father didn't mind, for he stood in front of his own desk, a letter open upon it and shards of blue wax sprayed across the surface. Maric looked up as Alistair shut the door behind him, eyes red-rimmed.

Alistair held up his letter. "She…she wrote."

Maric nodded. "I know," he said, tapping the paper in front of him. "She wrote to me, too. The first I've heard directly from her in over fifteen years."

Taking a few steps closer to his father, he gestured with the letter from Fiona, from his mother. "She said what you did. That she l-loved me and that she's missed me. I—" He stopped, swallowed hard and sniffed. "It wasn't really real to me before this. I wanted to believe what you said, but it was so hard. It was just…."

He stopped, overcome. It was like Redcliffe all over again, when he had learned that he had a father who hadn't forgotten him, who loved him. That moment was etched indelibly into his mind, and right then, he felt the exact same way. He was a child again, wanting desperately to be loved and wanted, and finding out that he was.

And like that day in Redcliffe, his father was there, sliding his arms around him and holding him while the ten year old boy who had become a man let go of the last of that childhood loneliness and pain.

He should have been embarrassed at how easily the tears came, at how openly he wept, but there was nothing else he could do. Even though he had a family, had people who loved him, part of him had still been the little boy who believed himself completely unwanted. To now have the last bit of that torn away, replaced with the knowledge that that had never been true, he was overwhelmed.

When he quieted, Maric released him and silently offered a handkerchief. Alistair gave a watery chuckle and blew his nose. "Thanks."

"Feel better?"

"Yeah." He laughed again, stronger this time. "I really do. Thank you."

"Anytime, Alistair." His father gestured to the parchment that was scrunched in Alistair's fist. "Will you write to her again?"

Smoothing the letter out against his leg, Alistair nodded and grinned up at his father. "Yes, I think I will."

Chapter Text

As spring wound down, Denerim began to gear up for the Landsmeet. Banns and arls closer to Denerim, as well as those whose holdings didn't depend on farming as their main resource, began to arrive first. It occurred to Alistair, as he watched the streets and estates fill with nobles in their finery and their servants in their far more practical garb, that the Landsmeets represented a constant, measured passage of time. Not like the annums, falling on the same days every year, but they occurred without fail to mark the seasons and the turn of another year.

And if everything went according to plan, this might be one of the last Landsmeets he attended merely as an observer. The thought was…not as terrifying as it had once been. Alistair mulled that over, the difference that as little as two years could bring to things. Instead of panicking over whether or not he could do this, he found himself excited by the prospect. He still had a lot to learn, of course, but he was looking forward to it.

Speaking of learning….

Bann Sighard had arrived earlier than most of the nobility, as was his custom. Dragon's Peak was so close to Denerim that he often spent a lot of time in the capital. This year, though, instead of spending time renewing friendships and alliances with nobles from more distant bannorns and arlings, he spent several days closeted with Maric.

Alistair knew he was the center of their discussion, and so made sure not to interrupt. Instead, he found himself getting to know Bann Sighard's son, Oswyn, better. The blond man was a couple years older than Alistair, a couple inches shorter, and already knew about Alistair's impending stay at Dragon's Peak.

"Your father told you?" Alistair inquired as the two young men sat against a wall, watching the hustle and bustle as servants get the palace ready to host the Landsmeet.

"Yes," Oswyn replied, nodding cheerfully. "There were some things he had to take care of, and he also didn't want my mother, Leah or me being blind-sided by it."

"Leah?"

"My little sister. Oh, Maker." Oswyn rubbed a hand across his face. "My sister."

"Difficult?" Alistair asked with a wry grin.

"You've no idea. She's perfectly pleasant when she wants to be, but the problem is that she very often doesn't want to be. It's all 'Swords!' and 'Horses!' and 'Da, Oswyn won't spar with me!'" He laughed. "Mother's practically tearing out her hair in frustration. Which would be amusing if she didn't make me feel the exact same way. She'll probably behave for the first couple weeks you're there, but after that, watch out. She might pester you as much as me, and believe me, you don't want that."

"Oh, I don't know," Alistair mused. "It might be kind of nice. I don't have a younger brother or sister."

Oswyn snorted in disbelief. "You say that now. Trust me, it won't last. If she gets to be a real bother, tell me, and I'll tell Father and Mother. They don't want her embarrassing them."

"I doubt it will be that bad," Alistair said, "but I'll keep that in mind."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. "Want to go get something to eat?" Alistair offered.

"Maker, yes," Oswyn laughed. "And then afterwards, I say we go find something fun to do."

The Landsmeet concluded quietly. Ferelden had been fairly prosperous for a good numbers of years, and people across the country were reaping the benefits. The biggest issue that came up was that the landholders in the center of the Bannorn—where almost all of Ferelden's food was grown—wanted to make sure that they weren't shut out of the increased profits to be had. All of the surplus grain would normally drive down prices, but merchants advocated selling more of it to the eastern parts of Orlais, the Free Marches and Antiva. Fereldan grain might not be exotic, but it was plentiful and a staple across Thedas. So the merchants made more by selling at higher prices to other lands, and port holdings saw increases in their tariff revenues. This threatened to leave those that actually grew the food with smaller profits, until a settlement was worked out for the Bannorn to receive a percentage of those extra profits, hopefully resulting in an increase in prosperity for everyone.

By the time all of the debate and discussion was done, Alistair was more than happy to see it end. His head swam with numbers and trade law, and he couldn't quite wrap his mind around why Anora was so pleased with the way she inserted a clause allowing the Crown to buy grain at a reduced price. He knew that it was important somehow, but he would need a break before he could figure out why. All he really wanted to do was finish packing and prepare for his stay at Dragon's Peak.

The day before he was to leave with Bann Sighard, Maric called him in to go over exactly what was expected of him. They had already gone over with Bann Sighard a lot of the minutia that would fill his time. Alistair had to learn all the little ins and outs that only came with having hands-on experience—how to manage an estate and make sure all those in his employ were cared for, how to settle and smooth disputes between all of the lesser nobles under him, and how to dispense justice when he was required to hold court.

The last bit made Alistair uncomfortable. It had been part of his education, true, but very rarely had Maric ever been called upon to mediate a dispute—twice, when the issues would have led to fighting had they not been resolved—and never to sentence a criminal. There had simply been no crimes committed to warrant such an extreme measure. And furthermore, the Crown did not have the sole burden laid upon them. The seneschal and other magistrates were largely responsible for all of the proceedings, and the sentence was already predetermined for a large number of things, though the Crown could always override that.

As a bann, it would be Alistair's responsibility to hear all the evidence, make a decision and then possibly sentence someone. He would have a great amount of leeway and discretion to do as he wanted, as long as he didn't violate anything Fereldans viewed as right and proper.

That was the point his father had kept coming back to, hammering the point home over and over again. Alistair had been ready to scream by the time Maric finally decided that it was enough, and moved on to making sure Alistair behaved appropriately.

He knew his father didn't mean tumbling chambermaids—though there was a slight, unspoken thread of that. What concerned Maric was that Alistair would in no way, shape or form interfere with Sighard's running of his Bannorn. Here, in the palace and in the capital, he was very familiar with most of those he interacted with every day. Though everyone was always courteous and never improper, there was also no real awe over the fact that he was royalty. Once he left, that would change. It was something he had seen during his travels with Loghain, except now he was a man and not a half grown boy. Everything he did and said would be given far more weight than he was accustomed to, and he had to conduct himself according.

Of that, Alistair had no doubts that he'd manage fairly well. Lording his position over others, or using his power to influence people, had never really been a temptation for him. Oh, it had come in handy when they were caught by a guard sneaking in and out, or benefitting from the more attentive service in taverns, but that was a far cry from what he could do, as evidenced by nobles like Arl Vaughan, and more recently Thomas, Arl Howe's younger son.

But being a dutiful son, he allowed his father to lecture him without comment. Time and experience had taught him that this was more for Maric's benefit than his own. It was his father's way of reassuring himself that he didn't forget anything, that his sons—both of them because Cailan received lectures just as he did—knew what he expected of them. And Alistair far preferred a slightly overbearing parent than an absent or uncaring one. He did wonder why Maric seemed so anxious. It wasn't his first extended trip away from the capital, having accompanied Loghain a couple of years earlier. Perhaps it was just that, for the first time, he would be gone and out from under the eye of either his father or his father's best friend. Whatever the cause, he chalked it up to just nerves, and took his last day in Denerim, lectures and all, with good humor.

The day of his departure, there wasn't much for him to do. His belongings had already been packed and sent to Dragon's Peak the day before. The actual ride to Sighard's bannorn would take less than a day, so there was no need to bring any extra supplies. Even the rations they would eat during the day would be carried by the guards, so Alistair was left with nothing to take care of except his chainmail armor and weapons.

Alistair was aware that some nobles didn't arm and armor themselves when traveling, elderly nobles or those with families in particular choosing to travel in carriages. But those who had fought in the war with Orlais tended to, uncomfortable with the thought of being caught unable to defend themselves. Alistair was also aware, through Oswyn, that the returning contingent to Dragon's Peak would have extra guards, made up of trusted members of the Royal Guard. They would wear Dragon Peak heraldry while they served, so as not to draw the unwarranted attention or give the wrong impression, but the king was making sure his son was safeguarded while not under his eye.

The morning of his departure was quiet. There was a private, hearty breakfast that was filled with light, airy conversation, and then a final check to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Anora embraced him, dropped a light kiss on his cheek, and murmured encouragement. Cailan clasped his arm, caught him in a rough hug, and told Alistair that he expected to see him and Oswyn at least a few times over the course of the summer.

His father didn't say much, but accompanied Alistair out to where the party was getting ready to leave. Alistair's gray stallion, Warden—and Alistair couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed by what his sixteen year old self had named his horse—was waiting, saddled and ready, as well as Adara who was nimbly running around amongst the legs of men and horses alike. Turning to his father, he asked, "Any last bits of advice?"

Maric frowned thoughtfully for a moment and then grinned. "Have fun," he said simply. "I already know you'll apply yourself to the task and learn all that you can, but don't forget to have fun."

Alistair returned the grin. "I think I can manage that."

Both men laughed, and Maric hugged his son, clapped him on the back, and held Warden's reins while Alistair mounted. The last person in the group now ready to depart, the guards began forming up, and the entire party began moving toward the gates. Alistair looked back once just before he crossed through. His father stood at the top of the steps, and raised his hand. Alistair returned the gesture, then straightened in the saddle and nudged his horse forward to come beside Oswyn as they set out for Dragon's Peak.

The journey took most of the day, and they arrived just as the sun was beginning to set. Sighard and Oswyn had begun pointing things out as they drew closer to the bann's lands. Most of it was pointing out cursory information. Sighard's bannorn seemed to deal with a little bit of everything. There were farms, quarries, timber and river trade that the older man would be able to explain to him. It was another reason that Dragon's Peak was such a good choice. Where ever Alistair ended up, he would have received at least some education in areas he would need to know about.

A small crowd was waiting for them as they finally entered the keep, set up slightly on the side of the mountain, the town spread out below it. The first to greet Sighard as he dismounted was a diminutive dark-haired form. Realizing this must be the sister Oswyn mentioned, Alistair watched Leah hurl herself up into her father's neck with a cry of delight. The next few minutes were filled with the sound of the young girl talking in a non-stop stream, asking about what Denerim had been like and what he'd brought back for her.

A groom came by as he stood there, taking Warden's reins to take him to the stable. Alistair handed them over happily, grateful he wouldn't have to groom the horse himself after such a long ride. He also sent Adara with the groom. The stables would be fine for tonight, and he could find out tomorrow how amenable Sighard was to having the mabari stay in the keep.

After indulging his daughter for a bit, Sighard set her down and pushed her gently in Oswyn's direction, while he embraced a plump older woman who smiled broadly at him. The rest of the party was already dismounting and unloading, giving their lord and lady a few moments of quiet reunion.

Leah pouted as she made her way over to them. "Hey, Squirt," Oswyn said, as he reached out to muss her neatly braided hair.

"Jerk," she snapped, slapping his hand away and sticking her tongue out. "I hate you."

Oswyn smirked at her and deliberately tugged on her braid. This close, Alistair saw that she was older than her height suggested. Still a child, but on the cusp of beginning to grow up. She was short, but had the gangliness of budding adolescence and still retained baby fat in the chubby cheeks of her round face.

"I must confess, I'm amazed to see you in a dress, little sister," Oswyn teased.

Leah scowled at him. "Mother didn't give me a choice. She threatened to put me on scullery duty for a week if I embarrassed her when the prin…."

She trailed off, mouth falling open and eyes widening as she realized who was standing behind her brother. Wild panic filled her eyes for a moment before her mouth snapped shut with an audible click and she sketched an awkward curtsy. "Your Highness," she mumbled.

Alistair couldn't hold back the grin that was tugging at the corners of his lips. "Just Alistair," he said easily. "And even though you might not want to, best to do as your mother says. Believe me, scrubbing pots leaves a lot to be desired."

Olive green eyes peered brightly out at him from under a fringe of brown hair, and the girl grinned slyly. Her expression clearly said she thought might have found a more sympathetic ear than her family was likely to provide. Knowing he shouldn't encourage her did nothing to keep Alistair from giving her a quick wink.

Straightening quickly, Leah laughed brightly and slipped between the two men, tugging on their arms to get them to follow her. "C'mon! Mother and Father will be making kissy-faces for awhile, so I'll show you where you're staying. We have some time before supper, so you can get unpacked. And tomorrow, me and Oswyn can show you around. Oooh! Wait 'til you see the mews! Father says yours in Denerim isn't nearly as extensive as ours! And then after that…."

Oswyn rolled his eyes at Alistair over Leah's head. Alistair just grinned.

At supper, Sighard formally introduced his daughter, Leah, and his wife, Enilda. Oswyn's mother was a lovely woman, with a pretty round face and eyes that crinkled at the corners when she laughed or smiled, which was often. She made Alistair welcome, sitting him down and chattering away as if he were just another member of the family. Despite Oswyn's previous warnings, so far Leah was proving not to be irritating or annoying. While she appeared to fight for self control at times, in order not to speak out of turn, she was polite.

When they had finished eating, Sighard sat down with Alistair in his study to go over what his time in Dragon's Peak would cover. A lot of what Sighard had to show him could be done within the keep proper—tasks within the castle itself such as running a household, selecting and overseeing a seneschal, keeping a budget, training and commanding the bannorn's knights and soldiers. On this last point, Sighard emphasized that a lot of time would be spent there. Keeping track of taxes and other revenues, both collecting them fairly and spending them wisely, was of paramount importance, and Alistair, with little previous experience, needed to learn all he could.

Other tasks would require them to go out into the bannorn—maintaining good relationships with the landowners, ensuring men who could be called up for military service had adequate training and arms, making sure no little problems or tensions flared into bigger squabbles.

Sighard leaned back in his chair. "Ferelden has a lot of minor banns, as well as simple landowners without titles. Some bannorns are little more than a farmstead, worked by a single family and headed by a knight or someone who received a title as a reward. Some landowners control large pieces of land, and have several families working under them, but they have no title. Do you see where that might cause issues?"

Alistair nodded. "The banns, despite how small their holding is, can vote at the Landsmeet. The landowners though, even if they're powerful and wealthy, can't. So a minor noble could influence something for his benefit, at the cost of a landowner's."

"Very good. Some never seem to grasp that. But it's not quite that simple. Most minor banns realize that individually they can't accomplish much, and so they band together in order to have a bigger say. Non-titled landowners do the same thing, seeking out those with titles to speak for them at the Landsmeets. For the most part it evens out. You'll need to make sure that those with power—either through noble titles or using money and goods—don't exploit those who are looking for their support."

Alistair nodded again, and then frowned thoughtfully. "Where do you fit into this? I thought most of the minor banns were sworn to the banns or arls above them."

Sighard shifted, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. "For the most part, yes. In my case, Dragon's Peak is on the larger side of the bannorns. Most of those under me agree with the majority of my decisions, and so trust me to make the right decisions at the Landsmeets. Those that don't are free to vote on their own, or if they strenuously object to my rule, leave and swear allegiance to another bann or arl. I've yet to have that happen.

"Now, if you look at another holding, say…Redcliffe, you'll find things a bit different. The village of Redcliffe itself is quite small, but the arling is huge. They are many, many banns and landowners under Arl Eamon, and what's best for him won't always be what's best for all of those who are sworn to him. So there's a lot more fluidity in the allegiances the smaller landholders form. What works one spring won't necessarily work the next. That freedom generally keeps tensions down, and allows the system to work correctly. You'll find exceptions to that are times of crisis, when all of a bannorn or arling follows the lord because the power and influence they wield is worth the temporary sacrifice of their own power."

"Sounds…complicated."

Sighard laughed at that and shook his head wryly. "Oh, it can be. In reality, it's more convoluted trying to explain than actually seeing it in action. Like a river, men tend to follow the path of least resistance. They don't want trouble, they want to be able to live their lives free, raise their families and tend to the land and businesses. As long as nothing interferes with that, they're content to let those above them do as they please. It's not near as daunting as it sounds, trust me. You'll see once we get out into the bannorn."

And get out into the bannorn they did.

Alistair quickly discovered that Bann Sighard was correct, and that most of the minor banns and landholders were happy and comfortable with the system in place. He watched Sighard address the issues and grievances they had, and it didn't seem all that different from what he'd already seen his father and brother do, just a smaller, more intimate scale. It was a reassuring realization, and gave him a boost of confidence.

The same was true for overseeing Dragon's Peak's forces. The years Alistair had spent working and training with the Royal Guard and palace knights had prepared him for this. He knew what a well-trained force should be like, what their training should be like, and how they should conduct themselves.

The things that he did struggle with were the running of a household, and maintaining a budget. At home, things were simply done as they were supposed to be, as if by magic. He'd never quite realized that not only was it not magic, but there was actually a vast amount of work, preparation and protocol behind the smooth running of palace life. And when Sighard sat him down with the treasury and finances of the bannorn, his head swam with numbers. Every income and expenditure had to be accounted for down to the last copper. Sighard pointed out that not everyone was as rigorous as he when it came to accounting, but that doing so could only help him.

These lessons were combined with the one about finding and keeping a good seneschal. Sighard's was a no nonsense woman in her middle years by the name of Enid. She was remarkably patient with Alistair when the bann turned him over to her, guiding him carefully in the art of spending coin wisely. Eventually, all of the information began to sink in as the summer and early autumn progressed, until she declared him fit to run his household, providing he had some help. Alistair thanked the dear woman with an impulsive kiss on the cheek, which caused her to blush and mutter that maybe he wasn't quite as ready as she thought.

Alistair also found that he got a great deal of amusement from Oswyn's little sister. Having a younger sibling was something he had no experience with, and Leah seemed to adopt him as a surrogate older brother since she annoyed her own so often. Being able to teach instead of always being the one taught was also a novel experience, and while he could see how it could wear on someone after a time, he enjoyed it.

He and Oswyn were taking a break from their own workout, and watching Leah work over a training dummy with her own practice daggers, when a thought occurred to him. "You know," he said, "she reminds of someone."

"Lya Cousland," Oswyn immediately replied, and Alistair gave him a startled look. Oswyn shook his head. "For the love of Andraste, don't tell her that. Odd name and creepy physical similarities aside, she met Lya a few years ago and declared her her hero." He pinched the bridge of his nose, a long suffering expression on his face. "She cried for two days when father told her she was never going to be big enough to carry a sword and shield and gave her daggers instead."

They both laughed, and when Leah threw them a suspicious look, just smiled toothily at her. She grumbled under her breath, and went back to her practice, her disgruntled mutters floating across the yard to them.

"Could be worse," Oswyn mused. "She could have taken after Habren." He shook his head. "Father doesn't understand why Bryland doesn't take the girl in hand. Maker knows had she been one of us, Father would have flayed her for the way she behaves, and she only gets worse with each passing year. And unless something drastic happens, she'll still be one of the most eligible women in a few years, by simple virtue of the fact that South Reach is a wealthy and powerful arling. I'm lucky I don't need any lands, else I'd worry about Father attempting to match me with her. It's one of the reasons I try to stay on his good side. Can you imagine being married to that?"

Alistair grinned at his friend. "I really don't want to." He paused to stretch and roll his shoulders before asking mildly, "So no other lucky ladies have caught your eye, then?"

"No, not yet, though there are a number of lovely daughters among the Bannorn. What everyone's really waiting to see is what happens with…."

Oswyn trailed off, and turned an interesting shade of red. "Well, this is awkward," he muttered.

"What is?"

"Well, to be honest, a lot of people are waiting to see what Bryce Cousland does with his daughter."

Oh. Lya. Right, well, that would explain the awkward. Alistair shrugged. "No reason to be awkward about it. That's all in the past."

"So you and she aren't…?"

"No." He shook his head. "That's long over, and we were kids, really. I certainly have no claim on her."

Oswyn blew out a relieved breath. "Good. Some men are touchy on the subject of past flames and I didn't really want a fist to my jaw or anything."

"No harm done," Alistair said easily.

"Good. I'd hate to lose a friend over mere speculation. Most people figure Cousland and Howe might cement their alliance in a more permanent fashion in a few years, though for some reason, it looks like Howe is fronting Thomas, rather than Nathaniel."

He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Alistair. "No one really knows what happened there, only that Nathaniel did something to piss his father off. Enough so that it appears Howe is trying to cut him out of his inheritance altogether. Shame, really. From what everyone says, Nathaniel is a far better man than his father or brother."

Alistair frowned, trying to envision Lya married Thomas Howe. The young man was an unctuous wastrel, and it made as much sense pairing them together as it did Oswyn and Habren. He remembered Nathaniel Howe as a good friend to his brother, and while he was a fair number of years older than Lya, it seemed like a much better match.

"I can't see Teyrn Cousland agreeing to that. Nathaniel, maybe. But Thomas?"

With a shrug, Oswyn sat back. "No one really understands it. I can't ever see her agreeing to it, and everyone knows Bryce will never force any of his children into doing something they don't want. Howe's actions are baffling."

Shaking his head, Alistair stood, ending the conversation that was just the tiniest bit uncomfortable, no matter what he'd told Oswyn. "Nothing we can do about it. Come on, let's go give your sister a hand.

Oswyn rolled his eyes, but got to his feet as well.

Part of having your own lands was also enjoying having your own lands, and the privileges that came with them. Several times during the summer and early fall, Oswyn and Alistair made the trip to Denerim for a bit more fun than could be had in the town of Dragon's Peak. This provided the opportunity for Alistair to use the advice his brother had given him.

It worked. Together with Oswyn's completely relaxed attitude around him, the other nobles were more at ease as well, and their outings yielded both more fun and faster friendships. And when the gatherings inevitably turned toward the Pearl on several occasions, well, he used another piece of Cailan's advice.

Maggie was delighted to see him each time, and they repeated his first trip the Pearl, albeit without the awkward groping. A part of Alistair—a more southerly region if he were honest with himself—lamented at the fact that he thought of Maggie as a friend too much to ever actually do anything with her, and still too slightly embarrassed to take her up on her offer to get someone else. She teased him about it a bit, and called him sweet, and took a slightly different tact with him.

One night, she asked him if there was anything he was curious about. And after hemming and hawing, he finally admitted that yes, he had questions, which prompted Maggie to dash out of the room and come back with a…book.

A book filled with pictures. Naughty, naughty pictures.

After his blush had faded somewhat, he and Maggie poured over the book, giggling like children. She reassured him that most of what they were looking at wasn't common, and that he shouldn't ever worry about attempting it unless he was feeling adventurous. But she used the opportunity to draw more mundane questions out of him, to allay his fears and show what to do without forcing him to do anything.

"You must think I'm a fool," he muttered one night.

Maggie chuckled. "Not at all. Like I've said before, this isn't for a lot people."

"I know, I know. And it's not even that I don't want to, because I do!" He groaned. "Maker, I feel like an idiot. I just…."

"You want your first time to be special?"

He nodded. "It sounds dumb saying that out loud."

Maggie leaned over across the bed where they sat cross-legged and hugged him. "Well, I think it's rather endearing. You're a gentleman, Alistair. Don't apologize for that. You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for what your friends expect of you, right?" He shook his head. "Then don't worry about it. You know I'm not offended. At least this way, when you do find that special someone, you won't be all hands."

Alistair laughed weakly. "Somehow I think that's going to happen anyway."

"Oh, pshaw. Give yourself more credit. You'll be fine."

"Mmm. Maggie, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Why do you work here? You seem like a nice girl." Then, realizing how that sounded, he hastily backtracked. "Not that anyone else here isn't a nice girl. Or boy. But I mean, you didn't seem like the type…uh, not that there's a type, or that you're not nice for working here, it's just…."

Maggie laughed warmly and stilled his babbling with her fingers over his lips. "Alistair, it's all right. I understood what you meant." Her mirth subsided and she looked away. "It's not like I planned for this. No one here does. We just make the best of a bad situation. In my case, I lived with my mother, father and brother on a small farmstead just outside the city. Several years ago, a fever swept through the area. My family got sick. My father and brother died, and my mother was left mostly blind."

Stricken, Alistair apologized quickly. "I'm so sorry! I didn't know, or I wouldn't have been so insensitive."

"Alistair, it's okay. I've done my grieving and they're with the Maker now. I couldn't work the farmstead, and it's all my mother can do to take care of herself. With no other recourse, we sold the farm and I bought my mother a little cottage to live in. I came to Denerim, and she thinks I have a job as a washerwoman. Now, what I make here supports her, and pays to have someone check on her."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

Maggie shrugged. "It's in the past now. I'm happy enough, and knowing my mother is cared for is the most important thing."

"Can I help?"

"No!" she burst out. And then seeing his taken aback expression, smiled and said more gently, "No. I'm sorry, but you can't. There's little chance you could keep that hidden and you have to think about what that would look like. If it makes you feel better, I won't be here forever. I'm careful with my coin, and I save all that I can. What you do give me helps with that a lot."

"If you're sure…."

"I am," she said firmly. "As much as I enjoy your visits, you can't get too attached, Alistair. Believe me, if someone can ever use me against you, they will. I've seen it before. Look to yourself first."

"All right," he nodded. Her revelations and attitude toward her situation left him disquieted, but there was little he could do about it.

The halls of the palace were oddly quiet. Alistair walked through them restlessly, bored but unable to find anything that held his attention for more than a few minutes. Had it not been raining, he most likely would have gone for a ride, but the foul autumn weather had made that, as well as sparring, out of the question. Perhaps Anora would be up for starting a game of chess? She'd begun to teach him before he'd gone to Dragon's Peak, and he wanted to get back into it before getting too rusty. Barring that, maybe Cailan or even some of the guards would be up for a game of cards.

"Alistair?"

He had already turned, starting back toward the family wing when his father's voice stopped him. He looked back over his shoulder, one eyebrow rising in an unspoken question. Maric walked toward him, closing the distance between them. As he got closer, he said, "I'd like you to join us in my study."

Alistair nodded and fell into step beside his father as they made their way to the study. When he opened the door and stepped inside, both of his brows went up in surprise. Waiting for them were Loghain and Teyrn Cousland, seated across from each other at a small table. Maric gestured and Alistair pulled out a chair and sat as his father did the same.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I sent you to Sighard to learn how to hold and run your own lands," his father said without preamble. "He assures me that you've done the best that you could with the time given to you. Which brings us to the current situation."

Alistair waited patiently while his father drummed his fingers on the table top.

"Cailan and Anora told you I was planning to give you your own bannorn, correct?" Alistair nodded. "I'm not going to do that."

The words hit him like a punch in the gut. After everything, his father changed his mind. His shock must have registered in his face, because Maric held up a hand. "Don't panic, let me explain. It was never my intention to give you a small bannorn, but at the time I made the decision about what I was going to do, I couldn't tell you the truth without overwhelming you. I wanted to make sure you were ready first."

"You take too long with this, Maric. Tell the boy and be done with it."

Maric raised a brow at his old friend. "Perhaps you'd like to do this, then?"

"Fine." Loghain regarded Alistair with a steely blue stare. "I find myself without an heir for my teyrnir. The people of Gwaren deserve more than to just be some prize for a spoiled noble, and they need someone who will be there to be an actual teyrn for them, something I've been regrettably unable to do in recent years. You've a lot to learn, and you're young, but you would do right by my people. With your father's permission, I've named you my heir."

Alistair was vaguely aware that gaping with his mouth hanging open was neither intelligent nor noble looking, but for several moments he was unable to do much else. Oh, Maker. A teyrnir. He was going to be made a teyrn, equal in power to Bryce Cousland and second only to the throne.

He was stunned.

He felt light-headed.

He…had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

"I…I'm not ready for that," he stammered. "I think I could maybe run a bannorn, but a teyrnir? I can't."

"We know," his father said gently. "We don't expect you to. But we want to make it public knowledge as soon as we can to give the Bannorn time to come to grips with it. We also need to show that this isn't a decision made lightly, and that you'll be ready for that responsibility."

Maric's eyes flicked over to Bryce Cousland. "Which is why you'll be going with Teyrn Cousland in a few days. He'll use the winter and spring to get you as ready as he can, and then if we all think you're capable, I'll announce it at the spring Landsmeet. Then you'll move to Gwaren with Loghain, and begin learning what you need to there."

But I just got home, was Alistair's first thought, and he had to quickly swallow back a reaction to object to this plan. He could see the benefits of it. Andraste's flaming sword, a blind man could see the benefits. But it didn't make his shock any less, nor did it make the prospect of leaving his home for good any easier. From his father's grave expression and dark eyes, he could tell Maric felt the same way. He was doing what he thought best for his son, but he was also sending him away.

Again.

"I'll see you in a few days, Alistair, your Majesty," Bryce said quietly, and pushed himself away from the table. Loghain followed a heartbeat behind, and closed the door behind him quietly.

"Are you all right?" Maric asked quietly.

"I will be," Alistair answered slowly. "It's just…a bit of a shock."

"I know. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I wanted you to have as much time without all the responsibility as you could get."

"Thank you." He meant it. He'd seen what the crushing weight of duty did to all of those around him, and while he would never shirk his own, he appreciated that his father had given him time to grow without being burdened by it.

"Alistair." Maric reach across the table and grasped his arm. "This will always be your home, no matter where you live. You know that, right?"

He looked at his father and smiled, seeing the tension and uneasiness in his father's face relax. The surprise was passing, leaving a desire to rise to the challenge set before him.

"I know."

Chapter Text

Alistair had only been to Highever twice before, and his memories of the two visits were very different. He was surprised, and not a little relieved, to discover than he wasn't really nervous about going. There was some anxiety, yes, but it centered on the responsibilities he would be facing. He'd be lying if he told himself he didn't regret what happened with Lya, or that the prospect of living in her home and having to interact didn't make him just a bit nervous, but he was older now, wiser, and time had tempered the initial hurt. And he wondered if there was anything remaining or salvageable from their initial friendship from so long ago.

The ride to Highever was quiet and uneventful. The weather held, the roads were clear, and they made excellent time. Castle Cousland came into sight in just under a week. Bryce Cousland had proved a gregarious travelling companion, talking and laughing with the guards and handlers that rode with them. It was different from what he'd observed with Sighard or other nobles. With them, as much as the laughed and joked, they were always careful to observe class boundaries. That wasn't true with Bryce.

Or rather, it was true in a different way. There was nothing inappropriate about any of the interactions, and Bryce was given every inch of the respect he deserved, but from observing the guards, Alistair noted how fiercely proud they were. It went beyond what he usually saw, approaching the levels of loyalty he'd only seen among the Royal Guard.

Alistair frowned, trying to sort the history he'd learned, and the bits of gossip he'd overheard. The northern coast—especially Highever's holdings—were considered somewhat clannish by the rest of Ferelden. The Couslands had been the fiercest of Calenhad's opponent's, and the last to capitulate before his ancestor has united Ferelden. They were an old line, older than the Theirins, and centuries of wisdom and judicious leadership had earned them the respect of nearly all. And their people repaid them with unwavering loyalty. It had been whispered in the past, that while the Couslands were staunch royalists, there were those who would prefer them on the throne, and that if the opportunity ever arose, they would find support in a bid for it.

As they rode up the last crest to the castle in the setting sun, Alistair studied Bryce. His father was completely unconcerned with the loyalty they were given, confident that the Couslands were, and always would be, his most ardent and vocal supporters. Alistair knew Loghain wasn't quite as sure, often questioning the Couslands connections with Orlais. He had the feeling that had there been another option for Alistair to expand his education, Loghain would have pushed for it.

Watching Bryce Cousland, Alistair couldn't help but second his father's assessment. The teyrn seemed far too happy, content with his place, unlike so many other nobles who constantly schemed and grasped for more power. Granted, there was only one step higher Bryce could go, but regardless, he was proud of his family and his role.

"Do I meet with your satisfaction?" a wry voice interrupted his thoughts.

Groaning, Alistair rubbed his eyes. He really had to stop doing that. "I apologize, ser. I meant no disrespect or offense. It seems to be this terrible habit I have."

Bryce laughed. "No offense taken and no apology necessary. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"No, just…thinking."

"Very well then. Don't hesitate to ask though. I doubt there's anything you could ask that would offend me."

"It'll be my luck that I find something, then," Alistair said dryly, "but I'll keep it in mind. Thank you."

They were just about at the castle by then, and conversation stopped as the party rode through the gates. Alistair noted that while there were guards on the wall and in the courtyard, they seemed relaxed and at ease, and from the marks he could see on the ground, it appeared the gates were often left open. The Couslands were confidant, secure in their power, but not so much as to be foolish. As the gates closed behind them, they swung shut on silent and well-greased hinges, the men dropping the heavy beam across with the ease born of long practice.

The courtyard filled with the sound of men shouting and calling to each other as the party dismounted. Grooms came to take the horses and other servants began unloading the wagons. Alistair handed Warden's reins off, and fell into step beside Bryce as the older man beckoned him over and then led him inside.

"We're later than I'd have liked to be, but no matter. Runners informed everyone that we would be coming in tonight, and while Eleanor knows not to hold dinner, Nan will have something waiting for us. Would you like to get cleaned up first or eat?"

"Eat," Alistair said decisively. "It's been a long day and right now a good meal is more appealing than a bath."

Bryce laughed. "Spoken like all young men everywhere. This way, then. Let's not track road dust through the halls."

They ducked through a servants' door and made their way through back halls to a large kitchen. Immediately, and older woman bustled over in a no nonsense fashion and practically pushed them into seats. Plates heaped with food were set in front of them, and Nan admonished them to eat it all. Alistair dug in gratefully, polishing off all that was set before him, but then declined the seconds Nan insisted he take.

When they were done, Bryce led him up to the family quarters. The layout was fairly simple, and Alistair remembered where everything was, even though he'd only been twice. This time, he was given the room his father had used when they came for Fergus's wedding. Alistair's trunks were already in the room, and a hot bath was waiting for him.

"Would you like a servant to help you with anything?" Bryce offered.

Alistair shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll manage tonight. If I need any help tomorrow, I'll ask then." He paused for a moment, and then asked cautiously, "Is…the rest of your family here? I thought I might see them."

"In the morning," Bryce answered. "Trust me, Eleanor is more than eager to welcome you properly, but I thought it best if you were given at least some time to relax. Tomorrow, we'll all have a chance to get together."

"All right, then."

Turning to leave, Bryce hesitated just before the door. "If I may…touch upon a personal matter, Alistair?" Alistair swallowed, but nodded. "Whatever there was between you and my daughter has no bearing on what we're doing now. Lya can be…difficult. Don't let her get to you. Not that I think she'll do anything to upset you," he added quickly. "But I don't want you to feel awkward or unwelcome because of her."

"Thanks."

For a moment, Alistair wondered if he should elaborate at all, but he had no idea how or where to begin. But the point was soon made moot as Bryce stepped into the hall. "Good night, Alistair. Relax and get some sleep."

"I will, thank you. Good night, Teyrn Cousland."

As Bryce has said, the entire Cousland family greeted him at breakfast. Eleanor welcomed him warmly, and inquired if there was anything at all he needed. Fergus shook his hand, and his wife Oriana, voiced her greetings, being unable to offer more as her arms were full of a flailing, almost two year old Oren.

Lya also greeted him, but did not shake his hand. She seemed somewhat reserved, which Alistair more than understood as he felt the same way. But she also seemed…calmer, more open than the handful of times they'd met in Denerim. If she didn't really speak much over the meal, neither did she ignore him or attempt to leave early. Inwardly, Alistair breathed a private sigh of relief. Had she chosen to, Lya could have made his time in Highever extremely uncomfortable, and he was glad she had chosen not to.

After the meal, Bryce pulled Alistair and Fergus into his study to discuss the "battle plan," as he called it with a wry smile.

"Running a teyrnir shouldn't be all that much more complicated than running an arling or a bannorn," Bryce began. "Yet, the area you control is so much bigger that everything becomes several times more complicated. You have to balance the needs of so many more people, and on top of that, you need to consider the greater implications your actions will have on the rest of Ferelden.

"As a teyrn, you will have a great number of people whose lives you affect, and control a large territory. Policy you set for your own lands will eventually move out into the rest of the country."

Bryce clasped his hands behind his back and paced for a moment before facing them again. "Gwaren is smaller than Highever in population, but bigger in territory. That will present different challenges for you than I or Fergus face. Gwaren also has more diversified trades. You will need to know more about each area in order to decide things fairly. And it will also make the finances of the teyrnir more complicated.

"To that end, Teyrn Loghain has proved very insightful. He's sent the records from his time as teyrn—nearly twenty years' worth—for you to use." Bryce paused. "I don't think I need to tell you how much trust he's showing by doing that. Loghain isn't the most trusting of men in good times, and this presents a huge risk for him, and for all of Ferelden.

"The records will be kept in the treasury, under lock and key, until they are needed. And even then, you are not to discuss them with any but myself and Fergus. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ser." Though he didn't know Teyrn Cousland well, Alistair was rapidly beginning to understand why the man was so popular. He was honest, well-spoken and open, but behind that there was strength, a nobility and quiet authority that demanded those he treated with behave honorably and in good faith. Alistair should have maybe felt insulted by the way he gave orders, but Bryce gave them in such a way that Alistair knew he was acting in his best interests.

"There will be time enough over the winter to go through the records. While the weather is still relatively pleasant, I'd like to get you out into the land a bit. I know what you've covered with Sighard, but there are a few other things we'll need to go over. The city of Highever is the second biggest after Denerim. I believe the last time there was a census there were just over 20,000 residents. Gwaren is a bit smaller, with slightly more than 10,000, but it's still the third largest city in Ferelden. I want to get you familiar with dealing with the mayors and councilmen of cities like that.

"And like Highever, Gwaren is a port. That's something else we'll be spending a lot of time on because tariff law can be complicated and it's extremely important, as is keeping ports secure."

Nodding, Alistair listened quietly as Bryce set out a rough schedule of what they would cover and when, with occasional input from Fergus. The winter and spring would be busy, and he would have to apply himself more diligently than he had ever had with Warwick's lessons. Slacking off from his lessons or not paying complete attention wasn't an option, not when so much was riding on how well he did. Alistair couldn't help but feel a swell of pride that all of those around him thought him capable of the task. No, more than that. They thought he would do well at it, that he could meet this challenge. And Alistair would prove to them that their faith would be rewarded.

During the rest of the autumn, Alistair spent a lot of time getting very well acquainted with Warden. Bryce sent them out as long and as far as he could before the first snows fell. They were often accompanied by Fergus, and less often by Lya. There was talking and observing and more talking, endless facts and numbers and information, meeting with people from every profession and every background. A meeting with a farmer might take precedence over an audience with a bann or arl if the teyrn thought that what Alistair would get out of the encounter was more important.

Once winter set in, Alistair found himself more or less confined to the castle and the stacks and stacks of ledgers sent from Gwaren. Going over them, Alistair could see that over the years, the teyrnir had become more prosperous. Or at least taxes were more efficiently collected and spent. Bryce remarked, more than once, that Loghain's seneschal was an exceedingly honest man. There was absolutely no hint of graft or other improper use of funds, and for a land whose lord was rarely ever there, it was more than a little surprising.

His eighteenth nameday came and went, and though Eleanor asked him if he wanted to do anything special, he declined, accepting a particularly delicious meal in lieu of a celebration. Fergus did, however, insist on taking him into the city—anonymously—and getting him slightly drunk.

On the good days, when the temperature was above freezing or a string of warm days had melted any snow and ice, Alistair made his way to the yards. The guards of Castle Cousland, as well as Fergus himself, were more than willing to spar with him when he requested. While that was welcome and appreciated, he found that sometimes he just wanted to work on forms alone, and early mornings proved the best suited times for that.

He walked out into the yards one morning to discover that he wasn't the only one who thought so. A slim figure, dressed in warm, fur-lined leathers similar to his own, worked against a post, alternately striking and slashing with a sword and slamming it with a shield. Alistair hung back, watching Lya work. She was better, he realized, than the last time they had sparred together. Her movements were far more sure, her hits harder. She moved easily, confident.

When she stopped to catch her breath, bracing her hands on her knees, he stepped forward, out from under the shadow of the castle's wall. "You're very good," he said quietly.

With a startled gasp, she spun around. They stared at each other before Lya looked away, licking her lips. "I didn't realize you were there."

"I only came down a little while ago."

"Right."

An awkward, heavy, expectant silence fell between them, and Alistair fiddled with a buckle on his leathers. This was the first time they'd actually been alone together in Maker knew how long, and with no one else to guide them along, neither had any idea what to say to each other.

Finally, Lya coughed to clear her throat said, "You, uh, you must want to train. I'll leave the yard to you." She walked by him quickly, head down, the heels of her boots clicked on the cold flagstones.

"Lya."

Alistair wasn't sure why he spoke up, only that this was an opportunity he wasn't sure he would get again. And despite the fact that time had dulled and worn away most of the hurt, he still wondered. Questions still lingered in the back of his mind.

He turned, and she was looking at him over her shoulder. There was…something in her face that stopped him from asking his question, a certain tightness about her eyes and mouth. So instead he changed his mind, voicing another thought that ached in a different way. "We used to be friends, remember?"

Her lips curved in a sad smile and she nodded. "I remember," she said softly.

"I miss you, you know," he said softly. "I miss being able to talk to you, and all the stupid trouble we used to get into."

"I miss you, too." The words were faint, almost too low to be heard, and Alistair did not miss the regret and hurt that flashed across her face. He could let it go at that, and they could both continue on their way knowing the other shared the same regrets. But Alistair just couldn't do that. This wasn't a situation that would resolve or fix itself if he waited long enough, and he was no longer a child, too frightened of making a misstep that he kept his doubts to himself.

"Can't we just try to be friends again?"

Her eyes pop wide open and she turns to face him more fully. "You don't think that would be…awkward?"

With a sudden laugh, Alistair shook his head. "Awkward and I are old friends. That hasn't stopped me before and I see no reason it should stop me now. If you don't want to, it'll be okay. I won't be mad or anything. I just…wanted you to know that I'd like to."

Lya bit her lower lip, worrying the flesh between her teeth. "I will…." She broke off and shook her head. "I'll think about it, all right? I can't promise more than that."

Alistair nodded. It was something, and that was better than nothing. "All right. When you've decided, well, you know where to find me."

A quick smile pulled up the corners of her mouth. "All right."

She turned back toward the castle, and Alistair started out into the yard. Whatever happened, he'd at least know that he tried. That if they couldn't even be friends, it wasn't because he'd been too timid. But she didn't say no, and that gave him hope.

It was two weeks before he answered a knock on the door to his rooms to find Lya standing there, bundled up with Golanth at her side. "I thought we might take the dogs out. There's a break in the weather, and the roads are clear. They could use the exercise," she offered tentatively.

Before he could even close the book he was reading, Adara had bounded from the bed, nearly bowling Golanth over as the two mabari greeted each other and wrestled in the hallway.

"Well, if I were to say no now, I'd have to deal with the puppy eyes for the rest of the week."

"If you don't want to…."

"No, no, I do," he said quickly. "Just give me a couple minutes. Meet you at the stable?"

"That's fine."

The two hounds bounded along at Lya's side as Alistair drew on some warmer clothes and his cloak. Snatching a pair of fur-lined gloves off a table, he hurried out to find Warden and Lya's own chestnut mare saddled and waiting. He looked around, but it was just the two of them. "No guards?" he asked in surprise.

"They've already gone to scout the road," she confessed. "I promised we wouldn't go far, and there's already little enough traffic on the road from here to Highever, that they shouldn't have any trouble keeping their distance while keeping you safe."

"Lucky me," he muttered.

"Hey, it could be worse. They could not care enough about watching you and let you sprout a rather inconvenient dagger between your ribs."

"Yes, well, I suppose when you put it like that, it's a bit more bearable."

Lya grinned, and tossed him a bundle as he checked Warden's saddle straps.

"What's this?"

"Lunch," she said. "I wasn't sure how long we'd be out, so I figured we'd better go prepared."

"Excellent plan."

They swung up onto their mounts, and followed the two dogs—who were nearly out of their minds with excitement—out onto the main road leading to the city of Highever.

They stayed out for most of the day. Conversation between them faltered often, drifting into uncomfortable silences. They alternated between talking as if strangers, touching upon trivial gossip, or using the dogs as a distraction, and reminiscing about not so long ago adventures and antics. And sometimes, while racing along the road or wrestling with the mabari in a snow covered field, it was just like old times, the two of them laughing like fools, and it was if the time apart never happened.

Eventually, the handful of guards herded the two young people and their dogs back to the castle.

"That was fun," Alistair said as they rode through the gates.

"It was," Lya agreed with a wide smile.

"Are we going to do this again?"

Lya turned her green eyes on him with a thoughtful look. "I think I'd like that," she said seriously. "I didn't realize quite how much I'd missed this until today. So as long as you're willing—"

"I am."

She laughed, shook her head and wiped at the corner of one eye. "Then, yes, let's definitely do this again. And Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"I didn't really want to stop being friends. I just…didn't know how to go back to the way things were before. I'm sorry."

Alistair grinned ruefully. "Me, too. But I'm glad it's worked out this way."

"Yeah," Lya agreed, turning away to start working on her buckles. "Me, too."

It was remarkably easy to fall back into their old ways, once the initial hesitation passed. Their old antics, sneaking into the kitchen or pulling pranks, didn't have the same appeal that they once did, and instead they turned their focus on more age appropriate activities. They trained together again, and Bryce invited them, along with himself and Fergus, to engage in tactical games, laying out maps of Ferelden and other countries, and re-enacting historical battles or speculating on future ones. And there were spirited political discussions with the whole family, Eleanor and Oriana neatly using their quick wits to back the others into corners.

Though more than once Nan arrived in the kitchens in the morning to find that a pie set aside for after dinner that day had mysteriously disappeared. And Alistair and Lya were chided several times for gossiping worse than two old women.

Alistair noticed the interested and sidelong looks the rest of the Couslands often threw their way, but was thankful that there were no comments or questions. He wasn't sure himself if he wanted to examine his reawakened friendship with Lya too closely, and instead simply enjoyed it for what it was.

Wintersend came, and with it, the spring thaw. Farmers began going back out into their fields to prepare for the spring planting, and Alistair went with them. Certain crops were planted for certain reasons, and Bryce wanted to make sure Alistair understood why the freeholders that would be under him did what they did.

There were other problems Alistair had to be made aware of, ones that were unpredictable and uncontrollable—rivers and streams that flooded with a late rush of snowmelt, more waterways that dwindled or dried up because there was a blockage upstream. A late storm that washed out already planted fields could devastate an entire area, just as a sudden lack of rain during the hot summer months could wither crops needed to feed families. While Alistair wouldn't be able to prevent these disasters, it would be his responsibility to see that his people didn't suffer unduly because of them.

It was during one of these trips, with Fergus this time, that Lya's brother turned to him and said, "You know, I'm beginning to wish you wouldn't leave when the Landsmeet comes. Lya's been a whole lot less miserable since you've been here."

Alistair looked over, startled. "She was miserable?"

"Insufferable. Maker's breath, it was like having a permanently kicked puppy around for months. And she wouldn't talk about it, just look at with those big, sad eyes." Alistair had no response for that, so Fergus went on. "Listen, I don't know what happened between the two of you, outside of the basics. Mother eventually cornered her to figure out what happened, but she declined the share specifics with me, and quite frankly I didn't want to know.

"But… as frustrating and exasperating as she can be, Lya is still my sister. I considered calling you out for leaving her heartbroken, but my father convinced me that wasn't a terribly wise idea."

"She wasn't the only one" Alistair said quietly.

Fergus nodded. "I figured as much. She also told me, in a round about sort of way, that what had happened had been her doing. I'm going to assume you never talked about it?" Alistair shook his head. "Didn't think so. Not really the type of conversations people want to have. It's not my place to say, but I would try talking to her about it before you leave. You're friends, and I think that's great, but make sure that it's not going to be a problem in the future by dealing with it now."

"I don't know that she'd want to discuss it."

"And you don't deserve answers?" Fergus asked bluntly. "She might be my sister, but don't let her put you off about this, Alistair. You, of all people, should know the truth, don't you think?"

Alistair grimaced. "It would be easier if we just left it alone, I think."

With a sigh, Fergus shrugged. "Suit yourself."

For the rest of the day, Fergus didn't utter another peep about the subject. No comments or looks. The man had said his piece and what Alistair did with it was up to him. It wasn't that Fergus was wrong. Alistair was curious, he still wanted to know, but he was leery of doing anything to put his rekindled friendship with Lya in jeopardy.

As they were unsaddling their horses that evening, the kennel master approached Alistair.

"Do you have a moment, your Highness?"

"Of course." Alistair handed his reins off to a groom and stepped off to the side. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, nothing like that, ser. I was wondering, though, have you considered breeding your hound?"

"Adara?" Alistair shook his head. "No, I haven't. Why?"

"Well, to be honest, I've had a beastly time keeping her and the young miss's mabari apart during the winter. Those dogs are real fond of one another. So if you'd considered breeding her, this would probably be a good opportunity. Both dogs come from good stock, and you'd get a litter of fine pups."

"Even with her coloring?"

The man scoffed. "Too many put too much importance in that. Your dog's a smart girl, very intelligent, and she's strong. Clean lines, a perfect specimen of her breed. And so's the sire, for all that he's a more common color." He winked slyly at Alistair and chuckled.

"You don't think Lya will mind?"

"I'll bring it up to her, same as I'm doing with you now. The pups would be yours, of course. Unless you split the litter with her, since I don't think she'll be charging you a stud fee."

"I guess as long as Adara doesn't mind…."

"Oh, she won't." He laughed again. "Mabari are good parents, and the pups are darned near the cutest things you'll ever see. I'll talk to the miss."

Talk to the young miss he did. Not too long after that, the kennel master approached him again, grinning.

"Everything went well, I take it?" Alistair asked.

"Just fine, ser. I'll be moving her to the kennels until she whelps." He grimaced slightly. "The miracle of life can be beautiful, but it's often real messy until it pretties up. Trust me, you'll want her down here. She'll be just fine, don't you worry. I'll let you know when her time arrives."

"Thank you. I can, uh, still visit, right?"

The kennel master laughed heartily. "Of course, of course. If you didn't, she'd probably be upset. Come by when you're all set here, and I'll show you where she'll be staying."

The pups were born a few weeks later. Alistair and Lya both helped the kennel master while Golanth sat outside the stall, his mistress having insisted that if they were going to be there when his pups were born, so would he. By the end, five tiny puppies were nursing at an exhausted, but rather pleased with herself, Adara as she lay on her side. Alistair felt a surge of pride for his dog, and the little squirming bodies that nuzzled her.

"Good girl," he whispered, scratching her ears. "They're beautiful."

Adara licked his hand, whining softly, her stubby tail thumping on the straw. She would have to stay in Highever until the pups were old enough to be weaned, so he'd be going back to Denerim, without her. Hopefully, she'd be all set to join him when—if—he set off for Gwaren,

He leaned down to give her one last pat. "You really are the best dog ever."

Fergus's words nagged at Alistair. Spoken only with the desire to be helpful, they brought back all of Alistair's own questions to the fore, and this time they would not be quieted. Finally, one night when they were propped up with cushions on the floor of the sitting room in his rooms, reading in companionable silence, he worked up the nerve to ask.

"Lya?"

"Hmm?"

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, nose still buried in her book.

"With us."

Lya's face went very still and she closed her book without marking the page, setting it on the floor beside her hip. "Alistair…" she began, but he spoke up before she could continue.

"If you really don't want to say, fine. I don't even know if what we had would have lasted. But I do wonder, you know. If there was something I did or could have done differently."

She sat up quickly, stricken. "Oh, Alistair, no! It wasn't that at all."

"Then what was it?"

With a sigh, she dropped her head into her hands. "You truly wish to know?" her muffled voice asked him.

"Yes."

She sat up all the way, tucking her feet underneath her knees and letting her hands rest in the bowl of her lap. "I was stupid." The laugh she gave was quiet and sad and just a little bit brittle. "You know how my father sent me out to learn what it's like to live on a campaign?" He nodded. "Well, before he did that, he sat me down for a long speech. He only really does that when he wants to make a point. That time, he was trying to impress upon me that I had a duty to look beyond myself and my own wants. That is was time for me to grow up, stop playing like a child, and put my abilities towards doing what was best for my people and my home."

She paused, rubbing at her eyes tiredly. "And me, being a sixteen year old idiot, took that further than he meant. He just wanted me to buckle down on my studies and to quit some of the more foolish behavior that would reflect badly on the family now that I was getting older."

Alistair frowned. "I don't understand. You talked about having to marry someone like Vaughan."

"I…yes. I did. Growing up, marrying to cement an alliance or to unite two families for the benefit of both was something I was familiar with. It's normal and happens all the time." She shrugged. "I'd always expected something similar for myself when I was old enough. And then…you and I kind of happened."

"And I wouldn't have been good enough for a teyrn's daughter then, right? A second son with nothing but his name." Old bitterness tinged his words, try though he might to avoid it.

Her head snapped up and she looked at him in true shock. "Oh, Andraste's flaming sword, tell me you don't actually believe that bullshit! I couldn't have cared less about that. And neither does my family. You could have been someone like Ser Gilmore and it wouldn't have mattered to any of us."

"But that's the reason you gave me, thin though it was. That your father might marry you off to help your family. And I couldn't have done that. So which is it?"

"Both and neither," she said miserably, looking away. "I was trying not to hurt you."

"You were trying not to hurt me?"

"Yes."

"By ending what we had?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well, good job there," he muttered sarcastically. "Tell me, do you help the injured by stabbing them, too?"

"That's not fair!" she snapped. "Maker's breath, it seemed so logical at the time. I know how this sounds. Just…let me see if I can explain.

"As it has been made very clearly to me since then, my family has absolutely no intention of marrying me to anyone against my will. Any marriage based alliance would have to meet my approval first. Mother and Father won't force me to marry, if the match would truly make me unhappy

"But I didn't understand that at the time. I thought that if my parents saw an advantageous match, that they'd make it. And I didn't want you to have that hit you like that out of nowhere. I thought that if I ended it, if I did it before we got too attached to each other, that it would be easier for us both. I wouldn't have to turn you away when I cared more, and you would be free to find someone without my obligations hanging over your head."

"Lya, that's…." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Stupid. I know. I told you that earlier. If I'd been home, if I'd had someone to talk to…it probably never would have happened. I thought my mother was going to shake my head off for being 'ridiculously silly,' in her words. My father kept looking at me like he couldn't believe one of his children had the audacity to be so foolish. And by the time I realized my mistake…it was far too late."

"You couldn't have tried?" he asked incredulously.

"I didn't know how!" Her tone was full of frustration and anger. "I used to walk around, talking to myself, going through possible conversations, and I couldn't get it right. My family probably thought I was a little bit mad. I thought once that I'd worked up the resolve to tell you the next time I saw you in Denerim, but…you'd moved on. And I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Alistair didn't know if her words made things better or worse. On one hand, it was a relief to know that he hadn't actually done anything wrong. But on the other, that this had all been because of a misunderstanding was galling. The feeling sat in the pit of his stomach, an uncomfortable, unwanted weight.

"I'm sorry," Lya said quietly across the silence. "I know it's too little, too late, and my reasons were truly abysmal. But I can't undo it, no matter how much I wish I could."

"And now?" he asked, the words slipping free before he could stop them.

The look Lya gave him was utterly raw in its agony, and when she blinked a tear slipped free to land on her cheek. "I still care about you," she said simply. "Leaving didn't mean I stopped, and it's never really gone away. Why do you think I avoided you? It hurt too much to be around you. It still does." Then she looked away. "I shouldn't have said that," she mumbled. "Sorry."

He wished there was something he could say to fill the empty air between them, but there wasn't. Nothing he could say at that moment would help, and so, he kept his mouth shut.

Lya got to her feet jerkily, refusing to look at him. She bent down to pick up her book, then grabbed the cushions and tossed them back onto the sofa. Alistair watched her in silence as she finally moved to the door. Pausing on the threshold, she drew a breath as if to say something, but then released it and slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.

Slowly, Alistair got to his feet and picked up the rest of the things strewn about the room. He wished heartily that he hadn't asked what had happened because he knew without a doubt that things couldn't just go back to way they were. If she still had feelings for him, then no matter how much he wanted to be her friend, he couldn't in good conscience ask her to pretend those feelings didn't exist.

They avoided each other like a plague for the next week, each of them throwing themselves into the tasks at hand. Lya took her meals in her room, so Alistair didn't even see her then. He found himself angry at her revelations, and then angry at himself because he cared about it. He felt cheated out of a friendship and out of a deeper relationship they could have had. But the anger was formless, and there was nothing to direct it at. However foolish her actions seemed now, he couldn't truly blame her for what she'd thought and done. After all, how many years he had labored under false ideas about his own family, only to have them be turned on their heads?

The worst part of it was, by being around her so much, by restarting their friendship, he found that he still liked her. He couldn't say he cared about her, at least not the way she felt about him. Maybe once, a couple of years earlier, he'd have declared his feelings to be so, but they were too muddled now for him to get a proper hold of what exactly he felt. But he'd grown used to being around her again. As the first week passed and began to stretch into two, he found that he missed her, and he hadn't the slightest idea what he should do about it. And like Lya, not wanting to be around anyone, he started staying in his rooms. He'd be going back to Denerim in a few weeks anyway, it hardly seemed all that important to mingle with the rest of the Couslands now.

A soft knock on his door was the only warning before it swung open and Oriana glided in, holding a tray. "Your lunch, your Highness. We thought you might like to take it in your room today. After all, it does seem to be all the rage," she said, her rich Antivan accent, warm with mirth.

"You didn't have to do that, Oriana, but thank you."

"Oh, it's no trouble," she assured him, setting the tray down on a table. She moved back a pace, but continued to stand there, looking at him expectantly.

"Is there, uh, something else I can help you with?"

To his surprise she laughed, and rolled her eyes. "Men," she chuckled fondly. "No matter where one goes, you're all the same."

"I'm not sure—"

"Are you happy?"

"I—what?"

"Are. You. Happy?" She spoke slowly, as if he were very dull. "And if you tell me yes, then Maker help me, I might just take up the quaint Fereldan tradition of boxing your ears."

She placed her small fists on her hips, and gave him a direct look. "You and Lya are both miserable. Everyone here can see it, and you're miserable because of each other. Yet when you were together, you were both happy. The solution to this problem seems obvious."

"It's not that simple," Alistair stated firmly.

"Yes, it is," she returned, just as firmly. "The Maker intended for us to be happy, Alistair, but the road to that happiness isn't always easy. But we'll never get there if we don't take the first steps. You are worried, yes? You have doubts, fears? Do not let them hold you back."

Oriana crossed over to him and reached up to place her hands on his shoulders. "Do you think that love is easy? Or that is comes without worries? It does not. Do you think I had no fears about leaving my family and my homeland to come live in this wild and strange place? That I harbored no doubts about having as a husband a man that all in my country would call a barbarian? Of course I did! But I love Fergus, and I trusted that as long as we were honest, all would be well. And my faith has been well placed.

"Now you and Lya must do the same. She is my family, and I know her far better than she thinks. And you, Alistair, are so honest and earnest in everything that you do, that anyone who truly looks can easily see into your heart. Perhaps you and she are not meant to be at all, or perhaps you are not meant to last, but you will never know unless you try. And if you do not, you will always spend the rest of your life wondering."

She squeezed his shoulders gently. "You are both so stubborn, and you will make yourselves miserable to prove a point. Don't do that. Don't let this slip away without a fight."

"I don't know if I can, Oriana," Alistair said honestly. "I wouldn't know where to start."

"Start where you left off," she said kindly. "Be truthful. Be bold!"

One last squeeze, and then she stepped away. "And eat your lunch before it grows cold."

Alistair watched her sweep from the room, feeling slightly dazed.

As the day for the departure for the Landsmeet drew closer, Alistair continued to think about Oriana's words. It was hard to miss the pointed looks and raised eyebrows she sent his way, but she didn't know how hard this was for him. Everyone time he thought he was ready to speak to Lya, his courage fled him as he sought her out.

With less than a week to go, he worked himself up to actually do it. He had to, or the uncertainty might kill him. And so it was that he found himself in front of her closed bedroom door one evening, wiping his hands nervously on his breeches, like a boy courting his first love. Which, as he thought about it, was a rather apt description.

He knocked, and from beyond the door, he heard the sounds of someone walking to the door. It swung open and Lya's face blinked up at his in surprise. "Alistair…um, hi."

"Can I come in?" he asked bluntly

"O-Of course," she said, stepping back so that he could enter, shutting the door behind him.

"What are we going to do about this?" he asked.

"Do about what?"

"Don't," he pleaded. "Please don't do that, Lya. We both know what I'm talking about."

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I know how I feel, but I can't make you feel the same way. And I don't want you doing anything because you somehow feel guilty or responsible."

Alistair shook his head adamantly. "That's not why I'm doing this. These last couple of months, I really enjoyed being with you. I was telling the truth earlier when I said I'd missed you, I just didn't know how much. And now these last few weeks? I can't do this. So either we admit that we both messed up and see where it goes from there, or we have nothing to do with each other anymore. And at this moment, the latter option isn't very appealing."

"I don't know, Alistair. You're going to Gwaren after the Landsmeet, right?"

"Only if your father says so."

"He will." She flashed him a quick smile. "He has nothing but praise for you." Her smile faltered. "But I can't see how this is supposed to work when we'll be across the country from each other."

"We did it before," he reminded her. "We can write. I'm fairly certain I'll be able to send my own couriers instead of having to wait, and the roads will be good."

Lya stepped away from him, looking away at a wall while her brows drew together in thought. When she looked up, there was something determined in her expression.

"You will be Loghain's heir, someday the Teyrn of Gwaren," she said. "Every eligible woman will have her eye on you." She paused, taking a steadying breath. "I don't want you using me as an excuse to dodge them. Right now, there isn't anything formal between us. We can write to each other, and I will do so gladly, but I want you to at least see if there's anyone else who catches your interest. I don't want you to wonder if there was someone you turned down because you felt obligated to."

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest. "Fair enough. I can live with that. On one condition: You do the same."

"That's not—"

"No, fair is fair. I don't want you using me as an excuse."

"All right," she agreed, though a bit reluctantly.

"And I'm telling Oriana, so that you can't weasel out of it."

Her jaw dropped in shock. "That's cheating! What am I supposed to threaten you with?"

"You don't have to. I give you my word. We try this. Until the autumn Landsmeet, we'll write and see if anyone catches our fancy. If not, and if we still feel the same way, then we take it from there. Deal?" He stuck out his hand.

Lya eyed it warily, glaring at him. "Deal," she said, reaching out to shake on it. "Until the Landsmeet."

Alistair allowed himself to smile then. "Can I at least get a hug?"

She held her stern look for a few moments longer and then laughed. "Yes, I suppose that would be allowed."

Enfolding her in a tight hug, it felt a little bit like coming home. It was at that moment that he realized he was probably already lost, but he would abide by the terms they'd set. He also realized how much bigger he was than the last time he'd held her. She wouldn't thank him for thinking she felt small and vulnerable in his arms, so he wouldn't tell her.

At least not until the fall.

Chapter Text

The return journey to Denerim from Highever was a more arduous undertaking than the trip from Denerim in the fall. Bryce Cousland would be attending the Landsmeet and then take ship from Denerim's port to Val Royeaux. The trip was intended to further bolster Highever's booming trade and promote better relations with their Orlesian neighbors. Many still harbored resentments against Orlais for their occupation of Ferelden, but Empress Celene had made overtures in the last several years, and Bryce said it would be foolish for Ferelden to turn down growth and profit because some could not let go of the past.

The comment bothered Alistair, and he couldn't help but feel that it was a dig at Loghain. Bryce Cousland was a soldier of the rebellion and a survivor of the battle of White River. Alistair couldn't question his loyalty to Fereldan. He couldn't believe that any man who'd survived what Bryce had, who'd gone through events so terrible could ever turn against his homeland, but he wondered if there was some truth to Loghain's caustic comments that men grew too complacent and forgot where the real dangers lay.

Bryce would be going to Orlais alone, bringing only some trusted banns and retainers. Fergus and Oriana were staying in Highever, and Eleanor and Lya would be staying in the Cousland's Denerim estate until Bryce returned, which could be as early as the end of summer or as late as the beginning of winter.

Alistair didn't realize how excited he was to be back home—and Denerim was still home, despite the fact that he'd been there for many two weeks over the last year—until the tower of Fort Drakon came into view, followed by the tops of the tallest estates and the city walls. For all that Highever was lovely and the Couslands had welcomed him warmly, Alistair missed the palace and his family. Coming home really did feel like…coming home. He grinned, patted Warden's neck, and nudged his way toward the front of the column.

And his family was waiting for him when they finally cleared the palace gates. Maric, Cailan, Anora and Loghain coming to greet him.

"Teyrn Cousland," his father said to Bryce after he'd wrapped Alistair in a hug. "Might you have time to stop by tomorrow and talk?"

"Of course, your Majesty," Bryce replied. "At your earlier convenience." He threw Alistair a quick grin. "I imagine there will be much for you and Teyrn Loghain to arrange."

"That's very good to hear. I shouldn't think too early, and please bring your family with you. It's been too long since we've had the pleasure of your company here in the palace."

"They'd be delighted, Sire. And now that I've returned your son to you safe and sound, I should see about getting my own family settled in."

"Of course, Bryce. Thank you."

Leaving the luggage and horses to be attended to by servants and grooms, the small group made their way up the stairs. Loghain fell into step beside Alistair as they entered the palace. "Where is your hound?"

Alistair grinned. "Still in Highever with her pups." At Loghain's startled look, he laughed. "She's almost ready to leave. The kennel master is arranging to have her sent here before I…well, if I leave, she should be back before then."

"And the pups?"

"He says he'll find homes for them, and then send the coin back here."

Loghain nodded. "Then whatever else happens, your time in Highever was not wasted."

"I'm not sure it was something I needed to learn," Alistair chuckled, "but my dog having puppies was educational."

They were interrupted then by Cailan striding over and throwing an arm around Alistair's shoulders. "Little brother!" he cried. "Do you mind if I borrow him, Loghain?" he asked, looking at the teyrn with a cocky grin.

Surprisingly, Loghain smiled faintly. "Take him. I've no doubt he's earned whatever you have planned for him."

"Excellent!"

Cailan pulled him away, peppering him with questions. His brother seemed disappointed that Alistair hadn't spent more time than he had having fun, and resolved to correct it that evening after dinner. While dinner itself was spent answering more serious question from his father and Loghain, Alistair enjoyed Cailan and Anora's lighter banter. It was nice to focus on smaller, inconsequential details rather than facts and figures and protocol and law and all the myriad things he'd been cramming into his head during his stays at Dragon's Peak and Highever.

And later, when Cailan dragged him out, he even enjoyed—much to his surprise—the evening spent at a tavern. There was a kind of anonymity he was able to achieve among the commoners of Denerim that wasn't available to him elsewhere. Sighard's bannorn had simply been too small, and in Highever, Bryce and his family were so well-known that everywhere they went, at least someone recognized them or their guards. Ironically, it was in the capital that Alistair came closest to escaping the attention his station brought. And given the plans his father had for him, it was likely he wouldn't be able to take advantage of it much longer. So he raised his tankard to toast against Cailan's and enjoyed the rowdy atmosphere around them.

Dinner the following night was also rather enjoyable. It came after Maric, Loghain and Bryce spent a few hours holed up in Maric's study together. Alistair knew very well that they were discussing him. While the urge to listen as the door was tempting, he restrained himself, occupying his time by playing Wicked Grace with Cailan and Lya while Anora entertained Eleanor.

A not so subtle kick to his shin made him look at his brother. Cailan looked at Lya and then raised his brows. Alistair scowled and shot his brother a warning look. Cailan grinned widely and winked and Alistair kicked him back. Lya glanced up from her hand of cards with a slight frown, looking between the two brothers. "Is something going on?"

"Oh, nothing!" Cailan said airily. "Just glad to have my little brother back one again, safe and sound. I do hope he didn't cause too many problems, I know how much of a git he can be sometimes."

Alistair's hand tightened on his own cards, bending them, and he gritted his teeth. Of all the times for his brother do this….

Lya's frown deepened, her brows pulling together in a way that Alistair secretly found endearing. "He's not a git," she said firmly. "He was a perfect gentleman at Highever. We'd have him back anytime."

"A perfect gentleman, huh?" Cailan smirked at him. "How disappointing. And here I thought I'd been a better influence." He tsked slightly.

Lya sighed and sat back, rolling her eyes and smiling slightly. "Oh, I see. It's one of those big brother things, isn't it? You'll have to forgive me, Prince Cailan, if I don't have quite as much of an appreciation for it. I spent enough years at Fergus's tender mercies that I have a profound sympathy for all younger siblings across Thedas."

Cailan laughed. "I see I'll have to get some tips then. I wouldn't want Alistair to get anything less than what he deserves."

"You do that," Lya returned dryly.

"Cailan."

Anora's call had them all turning to see Cailan's wife beckoning him over. "Why don't you join us for a bit?"

"Yes, dear. Coming." Sliding his chair back, Cailan grinned at Alistair. "We have some more catching up to do later, little brother." Then he tucked his chair back under the table and joined his wife and Lya's mother.

"Sorry about that," Alistair muttered when Cailan had moved away.

Shaking her head, Lya said, "Don't be. I know how it is. Besides, it could be worse."

"Really?"

"Yes. He could not care enough to tease. Or you could have a brother like Thomas Howe."

He cracked a reluctant grin. "I suppose you're right." Alistair shifted awkwardly, idly shuffling the deck of cards. Even with Cailan halfway across the room, he could see his brother still grinning at him whenever Anora wasn't looking. He stood abruptly, feeling the need to get away from his brother's knowing looks.

"Do you want to go for a walk or something?" he blurted out.

Lya flicked her eyes in Cailan's direction and bit her lip, which did nothing to hide her grin. "I think that would be a good idea."

She stood and inclined her head at him. "Lead on."

"So."

"So what?"

Dinner had finished hours earlier and the Couslands had gone back to their estate after a pleasant evening of conversation and games. Maric had told Alistair they'd talk in the morning, and feeling restless, Alistair roamed the halls of the palace for a bit, feeling oddly out of place and alone. Cailan cornered him as he was finally heading back to his room.

"You and Lya."

"What about me and Lya?"

Cailan shrugged, looking anything but innocent. "I just noticed that the two of you seemed very friendly is all."

"We're friends," Alistair replied shortly. He didn't like Cailan's prying, poking at a subject still raw and tender.

"Hmm. Is that friends or friends?"

"Cailan!" He took a step toward his brother, raising one hand to jab his brother in the chest. It startled him for a moment to realize they were the same height, though Cailan still had a good deal of breadth on him.

"Don't," he said, gathering himself. "Just…not about this. Not right now."

His brother pursed his lips and scratched at an ear. "Is it that serious?"

Alistair searched for the right answer. "Right now it's nothing. It might never be anything more than what it is right now, if that."

Taking a step back, Cailan raised his hands in quiet surrender. "All right, I won't pry, no matter how tempting it is." Then he cocked his head to the side. "But answer me this, what do you want?"

"I don't know," Alistair said honestly. "I like her, I always have. But we've grown apart and I'm not sure what I feel for her anymore."

"But you're friends?"

"Yes."

"And you like being around her?"

"Yes."

His brother shrugged and tossed him a lopsided grin. "Then have fun. Enjoy what you have now for what it is."

"Thanks," Alistair drawled. "Because I couldn't have come up with that on my own."

"Probably not," Cailan agreed cheerfully. "You think too much sometimes, Alistair."

"Why does that seem like irony coming from you?"

Laying a hand across his chest dramatically, Cailan pressed the back of his other to his forehead. "How you wound me, little brother! So cruel!" Then he grinned and punched Alistair with a little more force than necessary. "Go to bed, Alistair. You're going to be very busy this next week or so, and some people really can't afford to miss their beauty sleep."

Cailan laughed as he nimbly leaped back to miss Alistair's return shot on his arm. "Good night, little brother!"

Alistair had attended Landsmeets before, sitting with Cailan and Anora on one of the landings off to the side, set apart from the Bannorn as per their station and yet not on the dais with Maric. Countless hours had been spent listening to the nobility and their proxies discussing matters great and small. But this was the first time he felt such a personal interest in the entire affair. Though it wasn't required and the Bannorn didn't have to approve, Loghain intended to announce what he was doing at the end of the Landsmeet. There had been enough turmoil over Gwaren's seat in the past that they all wanted some measure of openness about what was going to happen.

The first two days passed uneventfully. Matters to be discussed each day were always a mix of important and relatively inconsequential issues, to allow people to come and go as they needed to. Votes were usually taken at the beginning and end of each session, to allow for the maximum numbers of people to take part.

On the third day, shortly after the tentative schedule for the day had been read—it could always change—the floor was opened for people to present issues to debate.

"The throne recognizes Arl Rendon Howe," Seneschal Farrell called, his voice effortlessly carrying to the furthest corners of the room.

Howe stood in one of the upper galleries, and stepped up to the railing when his name was called. Briefly, his eyes flicked over to Loghain in the gallery across from him and then over to Alistair before finally settling on Maric. Alistair didn't like that look, nor did he like the faint smirk that crossed the man's face before he began speaking.

"Your Majesty," he began, "I don't mean to presume, but something has been brought to my attention that I was hoping you could clarify."

Shifting slightly and sitting forward in his throne, Maric nodded at Howe to continue.

"You see, Sire, several of us have noticed a…curious series of events. A few years ago, you sent your son—your younger son—with your most trusted general on an evaluation of Ferelden's military strength. And since then he's also had two extended stays, first with the Bann of Dragon's Peak and then with the Teyrn of Highever."

Next to him, Alistair saw Bryce mouth something to Howe. The teyrn's face was tight, his cheeks reddened slightly in anger.

"I assume you have a point, Arl Howe?" Maric asked.

The Landsmeet chamber was very quiet, all eyes drawn to the players in question. From his vantage point, Alistair could see that for a lot of the nobility Howe's revelations had surprised them. Here and there, nobles had their heads together, murmuring in barely audible tones. There were a few others who did not seem surprised, namely banns from Dragon's Peak and Highever, though there were others. Most were passive, but there were a few who seemed positively gleeful at the discussion.

"Indeed, Sire. I merely wish to know what's going on and why all the secrecy."

"Can't be too big a secret if you know," a voice called out, followed by a ripple of laughter through the crowd.

Howe's visage darkened. "I am simply concerned that there is a matter that should be addressed before the Landsmeet."

In the other gallery, Loghain stood and also stepped up to the railing.

"The throne recognizes Teyrn Loghain," Farrell called quickly.

"Stop beating around the bush, Howe. Say what you mean and have done with it."

"Very well. Maric, do you intend to give Gwaren to Alistair?"

There it was, laid out plainly for all to see. The anger from Maric and Loghain was palpable, from their expressions and the way their hands tightened into fists. Next to Howe, Teyrna Cousland had her hand on her husband's arm and was speaking quickly. Another ripple moved through the crowd, this time surprised gasps—at either the question or the audacity of it—and Maric waited for it to quiet before he stood.

"I don't see why I have to explain to you or anyone here what I have planned for my son. What anyone chooses to do with their family is their own business, and there's no reason for it to be brought up here."

"Forgive me, Sire, if I don't believe that. If what you say is true, then why all the secrecy? Why not discuss it openly? This is Ferelden! We do not hide the truth! Just as we do not simply hand the most important titles and seats of power over to people simply because they're blood. Such a thing strikes me as very Orlesian, especially when the person is question has such…unusual history."

Alistair felt his cheeks grow hot, even as Cailan surged to his feet with a shout of protest. There were other shouts in the room, both against and in support of Howe's comments. Anora's touched his hand lightly, gripping gently as Farrell tried to restore order.

"You dare!" Loghain's voice was like iced gravel, cutting through the commotion. The crowd stilled, focusing their attention on Loghain as they waited to hear his answer.

"You dare accuse your king, the man who drove the Orlesians out, of being the same as the Orlesian emperor? Maric is no Florian and Alistair is no Meghren, and for you to suggest so is an insult of the highest order."

"These are your lands we're discussing, Loghain. Are you saying you're willing to hand them over an untried boy?"

"I chose that "untried boy," as you call him, and your insults and questions will not change the fact that I've made him my heir."

"But would you have chosen him if he wasn't Maric's son?" Howe sneered. "I find it hard to believe that in all of Ferelden, he was the best possible choice of an heir. How many other worthy and talented sons and daughters of the Bannorn have missed a chance because you looked no further than your best friend's son?"

Loghain's lip curled in contempt. "Like yours, Howe? You've already shipped the best you have to offer across the Waking Sea."

"Enough!"

Maric's snapped command halted the argument, though Howe visibly struggled against the urge to retort.

"In answer to your question, Arl Howe," Maric continued, "I am not giving the teyrnir of Gwaren to Alistair. Loghain has named him as his heir, and we've spent the last few years preparing him for that role with the help of trusted friends. We are all well aware that like any in his position, he's not yet ready for so weighty a responsibility. This is why we're still preparing him, and why he and Teyrn Loghain will be going to Gwaren at the close of the Landsmeet.

"It was also never our intention to hide it. We were waiting until everything was finally decided before doing the Bannorn the courtesy of informing them. And now, I think a short recess is in order."

His father turned on his heel, striding through a doorway and leaving the Landsmeet to discuss amongst themselves. Loghain did the same, disappearing down the stairs from the gallery to follow the king. Beside him, Anora tugged Alistair up, flanking him along with Cailan as they exited.

"He had no right!" Cailan fumed as they swiftly made their way to the family quarters. "Arrogant, self-serving son of a bitch! Who does he think he is?"

"Cailan, language," Anora murmured.

"I don't understand," Alistair said as he entered the study where his father and Loghain waited. "What did he gain from that?"

"On the surface, not much," Anora replied. "Howe's little outburst has no immediate effect on him. However, by bringing it up now and in this manner, he's made it seem like we have something to hide. It also stirs up resentment for others who feel like they've been passed over in years past or who dislike the policies that have been put into place by your father and mine, and others like Bryce Cousland."

"Contrary to what you might think, Alistair," Maric murmured with a touch of humor, "I'm not universally loved."

"But wasn't that like calling you out? Why would he oppose you so openly?"

"Because in doing so he makes himself the focus for others who feel the same way." Loghain sighed in frustration. "Now those who want to advance an agenda in opposition to us have an extremely visible voice to focus around. It's not as if Howe has to worry about losing popularity. This will only gain him more sycophants, and he'll reap the benefits, most likely in favorable negotiations and political clout."

"Oh." They were all quiet for a few minutes before Alistair dared speak up again. "So…what do we do now?"

"Nothing. By choosing how and when this was revealed, Howe forced us to defend rather than simply explain." His father looked at him steadily. "We've said our piece, and while I expect I'll have to do a lot more explaining to some, we're not going to keep defending it. It's done, decision made, and they're going to have to accept it."

"And if they don't?"

"They have to." Cailan answered this time. "It's not a matter for the Landsmeet to decide. Some won't like it, true, but in the end our father is still king and this isn't a big enough issue to try and remove him from the throne over it. They'll whine and complain, but they can't actually do anything about it besides nurture their resentment. So now we just go on and act like we're not bothered."

But they were bothered, Alistair could tell that easily. For different reasons maybe, but no one was happy by the way things had come out. So was Alistair. He didn't really mind the subtle dig at his background. He knew the truth. What did bother him was all the work he'd done being dismissed so easily. True, he wasn't ready, not yet. But that didn't mean he never would be or that he didn't deserve the chance to prove himself. That struck him as extremely hypocritical. Almost all of the nobles in the room had their positions because they inherited them from their parents. Why shouldn't he have the same chance? Just because his chance came in what some saw as a prize they thought they had a chance at?

When they eventually returned, there were some significant looks, but no comments. Whatever concerns or questions people had wouldn't be voiced now. They would wait to get Maric or one of the others alone. That way they could come to their own decision and decide who to support without having to declare it publically.

He didn't like the speculative, appraising looks as he took his seat. The majority of the Bannorn probably didn't have any opinion of him, and now that his position had changed, they would be looking to size him up. He was a potential ally or enemy and they would have to figure where he stood and if he could be used to further their own goals.

This was what his father and Cailan and Loghain and everyone else faced all the time. Alistair knew they all dealt with a great deal of scrutiny, but it didn't fully hit him until that moment how pervasive it was. It was almost enough to make him run off and join a monastery.

Shaking himself slightly, he focused his attention on the next speaker. What was done was done, and he simply had to deal with it.

Gwaren was…different.

Very nearly the southern-most inhabited part of Ferelden, it was separated from the rest of the country by the vast Brecilian Forest and the Southron Hills. There was traffic through the port, and a much smaller amount through the Brecilian Passage, but for the most part Gwaren was isolated. As a result, they were suspicious of outsiders, and the journey through the teyrnir to Loghain's keep was a quiet one, marked by hard stares and closed mouths through every village and town along the way. Even in the city itself, Loghain's presence was only occasionally acknowledged with a nod or a wave as the people went about their business.

While the unusual atmosphere made Alistair nervous, Loghain seemed to relax in contrast. He settled back into the saddle and his posture lost the slight rigidity it always had. And while it didn't make him more outspoken or humorous, it did seem to make him less likely to snap at things.

The castle, when they arrived, was also unlike the other keeps and castles he'd been in. All the structures were built with defense in mind, but Gwaren Castle seemed to embody that idea far more strongly. It was an imposing building, but Alistair immediately noted a drawback. The thick stone of the walls and narrow windows made the keep seem dark, almost gloomy. It wasn't. The rooms were large and the furnishings rich, if a bit sparse, but the dimness of the halls and the required lamp light gave it that feel.

They had been met at the gates by Colin, Loghain's seneschal. The man appeared to be maybe a little older than Loghain, with a no-nonsense air about him. He greeted the teyrn and Alistair in turn, appearing neither pleased nor displeased to see them. After a brief—very brief—summary of what had happened during Loghain's absence, Colin showed Alistair to where he'd be staying.

There were two rooms—a sort of sitting room or study, with a desk and bookcases along the walls, and a bedroom, smaller than he was used to, but brighter than the rest of the keep thanks to fact that it was on a corner and had two fairly large windows on each outside wall. The rooms were furnished plainly, if with high quality items, and there were no personal touches. No rugs on the floor beside one rolled up to the side, waiting for him to place it where he wanted, or something decorative on the walls. Put together, it all felt rather cold and impersonal to Alistair, but he wasn't about to complain. He had a feeling such things would fall upon a rather unsympathetic ear with both Colin and Loghain.

"Will there be anything else you need?" Colin asked.

"Uh, no. This…this is fine. Great. It's…it's great." Way to go, Alistair. Wonderful first impression there.

Colin looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Will you need any help unpacking your things?"

"No!" Alistair said hastily. "No, no, I think I'm more than capable of managing that on my own, thank you." If there was one thing he didn't want to it, it was making anyone here think he was incapable of doing even the smallest of tasks on his own.

Colin nodded and left. Alistair tugged off his gloves, laying them on the desk as he looked around. A quick check of the drawers revealed that they were empty. The books on the shelves seemed fairly common fare. A few classics that everyone seemed to have plus a wide assortment of other things to appeal to all interested.

As he was looking, there was a knock at the open door and he looked up to see porters with his trunks. "Just put them anywhere," he said. "Thank you."

The men deposited their burdens along one wall and then ducked their heads and departed. Alistair flipped open the lids of the trunks, trying to figure out what was in each one. Nothing looked familiar and he began pulling things out and going through them. Some of the choices befuddled him. A wool cloak? Really? Did Audie think Gwaren was going to be that cold, even in the summer? There was probably some lesson about packing his own belongings to be learned in this, but at the moment he wasn't feeling very much like learning it.

He worked for awhile, sorting and putting things away in wardrobes, setting aside the few personal items on the desk for later. A small, heavy cloth wrapped bundle drew his attention, and he grinned at the golem figurine within. Alistair placed it on one of the bookshelves, set against the row of books like a book end. Pleased with himself, he turned to flip the lids to the trunks closed and started violently to see Loghain leaning against the doorframe.

Pressing a hand to his chest as if to calm the sudden wild racing of his heart, he muttered, "I know I've asked this before, but please don't do that."

To his surprise, Loghain chuckled. Then his eyes flickered around the room. "Are these rooms all right?"

Alistair nodded. "Yeah, it's fine. I like it."

Loghain nodded once. "Your father used to stay here on the handful of occasions whenever he visited. Something about liking the light. I thought you might feel the same way." He shook his head once. "Come. I'm hungry, so I know you must be."

As if to confirm Loghain's words, Alistair's stomach chose that moment to give a loud rumble. "Lead on," Alistair said, quickly cheered up by the prospect of food.

Loghain led them to a small dining room, one Alistair suspect might have been for guard officers who weren't ranked high enough to eat in the main hall, but with enough discipline that they had their space away from the men. Since the keep didn't have a large enough standing force at the moment that it needed to be used, the small dining room was just right for Loghain and himself.

Like the private family dinners he had at home, no one served them. Food and drink was set on the table, and then the girl who brought it withdrew, leaving the men to take what they wanted. For a long time, there was no conversation, just the sounds of cutlery and eating and drinking. Underneath the table, Adara—who gotten back to Denerim in time to makes the journey with them—gnawed on an ox bone helpfully provided by the cook. Finally, they were both sated, sitting back comfortably in their chairs and sipping from mugs of ale.

"So…" Alistair said."

"So," Loghain repeated.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Alistair quirked his lips in a wry smile. "What's the plan?"

"The plan," Loghain mused. "The plan is to get people as comfortable with you as quickly as possible. I want to turn things over to you as soon as I can."

Alistair blinked in shock, gaping at the older man. "That doesn't seem, I don't know, a little hasty to you?"

Loghain shrugged. "For the past year, you've been preparing to do this. Now it's time to test what you've learned."

"Loghain, ser, I…" Alistair searched for the right words to explain what he was feeling without making himself look like an incompetent ass. "I'm not ready for this," he said bluntly.

Frowning, Loghain pushed his plate back and set his mug of ale down in front of him. He turned it idly with one hand, rubbing his jaw with the other. "Is anyone ever really ready?" he asked quietly.

"I don't—"

"Is a soldier ever really ready to take the field and kill some other poor bastard just because he's been trained to? Is a commander truly prepared for the first time he has to command his forces in battle? Do you think any noble is ready when he takes control of his lands for the first time? Do you think I was?"

Loghain sighed and pushed the mug of ale away from him. "Training helps. Education and being shown the way helps, but in the end, it comes down to whether or not you—Alistair—can handle the responsibility. Whether you adapt to each new situation or freeze up like a deer in a hunter's sights."

He pushed the mug away. "Answer me this: Will you try to do your best for the people of Gwaren?"

"Of course."

"Will you put them and their needs first, above your own?"

"Yes…." Alistair wondered where, exactly, this conversation was heading.

"And will you swallow your pride and ask for help when you need it to do your job?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll be fine, and have me beaten on at least one count." Loghain picked his mug back up and took a large swallow. "The thing about Gwaren, Alistair, is that it almost runs itself. You've noticed how I'm very rarely in attendance here. Now, the people of Gwaren don't want someone who interferes in their lives. They want to be left alone, to work and live as they see fit. And I've encouraged that because I want the same thing. Here, I'm not the Hero, not the way the rest of Ferelden sees me. I'm just a man, same as any of them, if with a bloodier background. I leave them alone and they leave me alone."

Alistair nodded. He'd already noticed that in the short amount of time they'd been in the teyrnir, and now that it was explained it made far more sense.

"But," Loghain continued, "that isn't really fair to them. They deserve a teyrn who lives here, who shares—as much as any noble can—their lives, the same trials they go through. They deserve someone they can take their troubles to without having a seneschal as an intermediary or waiting months for a response. I can't give them that. I haven't been able to in years."

The flow of words lapsed and Alistair pondered his own mug of ale thoughtfully. "And you think I will?"

"Eventually, yes. Colin's not going anywhere and I can't think of anyone better to have at your side. If there's anything the man doesn't know it's not worth knowing. And you…."

He broke off with a self-derisive chuckle. "I'm a sentimental old fool, and I'll gut you if you repeat this to anyone. You'll be able to make a home here, I hope. I never was. Not even with Celia when Anora was small. I know it's not what you're used to, and that it's far from your home and family, but Gwaren is a good place. It's got good, strong, loyal people, and if you prove yourself to them, they will follow you without question. Do you think you can do that?"

In one of the few and far between times since Alistair had met the man, his normally hard-bitten exterior had dropped. Alistair could hear the pride Loghain had in his lands, see the respect on his face for his people. And while Loghain might not consider Gwaren home, his love for the land was readily apparent. For the first time, Alistair began to appreciate what Loghain had risked in setting this plan into motion. If he failed, Alistair had the potential to ruin the trust and atmosphere Loghain had built here. That…was really a rather lot of responsibility.

But Loghain's question demanded an answer, so he took a quick sip of ale to wet his throat. "I hope so," he responded. And then realizing that wasn't quite what he meant to say, he quickly added, "I mean I'll try. I'll do my best."

"That's all I can ask, and more than most get." He pushed away from the table, draining his mug and setting it down. "Now, tomorrow you're going to start learning about trees, so I suggest you turn in early."

And learn about trees Alistair did.

By the time fall started turning the leaves of the coniferous trees red and gold, Alistair felt like he'd walked through every inch of the Brecilian forest. He'd known that Gwaren was known for its lumber, but he'd never given a thought to how complex the industry could be. He'd assumed a tree was a tree and when you needed wood, you cut one down. He learned, very quickly, that not all trees were created equal, and that these people took the differences very, very seriously.

The people of Gwaren had been earning their livelihoods from the forests they lived in for hundreds, if not thousands of years. And in that time, they'd developed certain methods and practices that had, in some cases, became law. The forests were owned in a sense by the towns and villages they surrounded. The woodsmen worked collectively to fell and harvest trees, sharing the load and the profits from the heavy grunt work. If in his spare time, a man chose to fell a few of his own trees for his own use, no one begrudged him that.

There were also rules that governed planting trees. Alistair quickly realized that if the woodsmen simply cut down all the trees around them, in time they'd have to go further and further out from their homes and do more work for the same results. Instead, what they chose to do was selectively fell trees, choosing the ones they needed and leaving the rest to keep growing. Tall, straight trees in particular fell into the latter category because they were prized as ship masts whenever there was a demand for them. Afterwards, the extra limbs and branches would be hauled away, to use as firewood and to make sure they didn't choke little trees from growing.

Some larger sections were completely cleared, but those were rarer. And when they were, the younger men and older boys would go through the fields, removing the stumps and replanting seedlings that were grown near their homes. Other times, land was cleared to give a farmer another field, but no land was ever just left cleared and unused.

Loghain often accompanied him as he learned these lessons, both men dressed in battered leather breeches and linen shirts. The forests of Gwaren might have been cooler than Denerim, but not by much, and not enough once they were walking and working hard enough to build up a sweat.

Alistair learned—or tried to—the differences between each type of tree, which woods were good for which uses, how to tell if a tree was ready to be cut or should be left for later. He even tried his hand at woodcutting, shocked at how tiring the work was and how much his muscles ached from being unaccustomed to the movements. The woodsmen ribbed him good-naturedly about it, the fact that he was willing to work winning them over a bit and taking the sting out of their jibes.

And then there was the process of turning the wood into something usable. Apparently, it didn't just go from tree to table with the wave of a hand. The trees had to be shipped to mills where they were cut down and turned into lumber. That raw lumber then had to be sent to drying barns to dry out and season, which could take months or years. Only then could it then be sold and shipped to buyers. Nearly all of Gwaren's infrastructure went into making sure the system worked. Rivers had to be kept clear so that lumber moved that way could float or be barged unimpeded. Roads had to be hard packed and kept in good repair so that they could support the wait of the long wagons and so that a hard rain wouldn't wash them out or make them too soft.

Another thing to be learned was that if something affected one area, it had a ripple effect of spreading out and affecting them all, to a much greater degree than any of the other areas he had been to. A tax raised on one thing would increase costs for all. Loghain was careful to explain that this didn't mean taxes shouldn't be changed or applied, but that he had to consider all the possible repercussions before making a decision.

For the most part, Alistair could see that Loghain's assessment of Gwaren running itself was true. There were towns and villages that had almost no contact with the outside world except for trade or when the taxman showed up. The people were fiercely independent and proud of it.

Alistair knew that Loghain had informed his seneschal and household about him, and rumor apparently traveled quickly because as the summer progressed, he found himself meeting and speaking with people who already knew him as Loghain's prospective heir. It was intimidating, being around these men and women who really had no say over him, but whose judgment and approval could go a long way toward making his life easy or miserable. He wasn't sure what they thought. It was too hard to tell, especially for people accustomed to being taciturn.

He mentioned as much to Loghain one day. The teyrn didn't offer much reassurance, just squinted off into the distance. "They let you into their lives. That's probably as much of an approval as you're going to get."

Adara, however, loved each and every minute of their time out in the woods, and Alistair had seen more dead and half-eaten rabbits in those few months than he had in his whole life.

When Alistair wasn't busy learning about the teyrnir's main source of income, he spent the bulk of his remaining time writing. The first thing that occupied him was a journal he'd begun shortly after arriving. No secret collection of emotions and musings, rather it was a way for him to keep straight all the things he was learning. First impressions and useful facts all went in, in a sort of random order that forced him to go back and read and pay attention to how his thoughts and feelings changed over the months.

The second thing was writing to his family. Even with the good weather and couriers, correspondence still traveled slowly. It was better if he saved up longer letters to send every month or so. The time let him make letters longer, more detailed than the previous quick notes that'd he'd used. In addition to his father and brother, Alistair also continued writing to his mother. That…was complicated. They'd decided early on to pretend as if Fiona was merely someone who knew his mother well, so things had to be worded and coded circumspectly. He also had to write out a letter, painstakingly transcribe using the cipher Duncan had given him, and then burn the original. And after all that effort, he could still only expect to hear back from Fiona two or three times a year. As a result, he usually sent her packets of shorter letters he wrote over the course of a few months, so that details and specifics weren't forgotten or glossed over.

And, finally, there were his letters to Lya. Of everything, that was what he agonized over the most. He wanted to let her know how he was doing, but he didn't want to simply repeat what he wrote to his father and he wanted to make it more personal. Multiple attempts were often fed to the fire before he finally wrestled his words into some semblance of order, hoping that what he'd written was at least somewhat interesting.

What he did know was that he found himself missing Lya, more keenly than when they'd first stopped…being whatever they had been, because now there was the promise of something more, hanging almost tantalizingly out of reach. And given the fact that he got stupidly excited and grinned like an idiot whenever one of her letters arrived, he was pretty sure he wanted to see where this was going to lead them.

Maker, if she didn't want the same thing when he got back, he wasn't sure how he was going to deal with it this time around.

The stack of letters on his desk was rather sizable by the time he finished affixing his seal to the last one. He waited for it to cool and then gathered them up, bundling them with a bit of twine and wandering off to give them to Loghain. Alistair found Loghain in his study, frowning at a sheet of parchment.

"Trouble?" he asked carefully, stopping a few feet away from the desk.

Loghain grunted and then tossed the parchment across the desk at him. "You could say that. But not in Ferelden. Trouble's brewing in Orzammar."

Alistair set his bundle of letters down and picked up the letter, smoothing the creases out of it as he read. Soon, he too was frowning down at the sheet. "I…is this real?"

Loghain massaged his temples. "The dwarves are a strange people, and their politics make Denerim look like a backwater. I don't envy our ambassador there."

"But…this says that King Endrin's son killed his older brother and was then banished to the Deep Roads."

"Yes. In a matter of one day, two contenders for the throne were neatly eliminated, leaving only one son to claim Aeducan's throne."

"But couldn't he," Alistair glanced down at the sheet in his hand, "Duran find his way back and make a claim for the throne?"

Loghain gave him a long, hard look. "If Duran Aeducan was sentenced to the Deep Roads, then he was dead before this letter left Orzammar."

Alistair swallowed hard. "You…there are stories about you in the Deep Roads, aren't there? I hadn't thought about them in a long time, but this reminded me. It was you and my father and Cailan's mother, right?"

"Alistair." There was no inflection behind his name, but Alistair could almost see Loghain raising his walls brick by brick. It was a look Alistair hadn't actually seen in a long time, and he swallowed hard at the shuttered look on Loghain's face. He might not be the brightest star in the sky, but even he knew when not to press the older man.

"Right. So, um, let's see. Uh…." He skimmed the rest of the page quickly. "King Endrin's dying now?"

"So it seems," Loghain replied dryly. "From the rest of the letter, it appears Bhelen Aeducan's support isn't strong enough to win the throne outright. It appears Orzammar is going to have a war over the succession."

Not wanting to sound ignorant, but knowing it was better to ask now, Alistair said, "And that affects us?"

"Not directly." Loghain drummed his fingers on the desk. "It'll affect trade a little bit. I think we'll only really see problems if the dwarves somehow take all leave of their senses and stop the lyrium shipments to the Chantry. If that happens, things will get…testy."

Alistair nodded, looking back down at the parchment. "Is that…common there? Killing your brothers to get at the throne?"

This time, the look Loghain gave him was steady, and the slight twist of his lips indicated some sympathy. "It's common enough, and not just among the dwarves. Don't worry, Alistair. Cailan isn't one to send you to the block for thinking you might be a threat."

"I wasn't thinking that!" Alistair protested. "It just seems…strange. That they'd do that to family members, I mean."

"Men are strange creatures," Loghain offered. "And most will do anything for even a sliver more power than those around them. Never forget that."

"No, ser."

Clearing his throat in the uncomfortable silence that fell, Loghain gestured to the letters on the corner of his desk. "You want those sent with the next courier?"

"Yes, thank you," Alistair said, handing the letter—a copy of the one from Maric's ambassador in Orzammar—back to Loghain. The teyrn grunted noncommittally and Alistair left quickly.

That night, Alistair's sleep was disturbed by dreams of politics and power and brother betraying brother. He awoke in the morning, turning the vestiges of his dreams over in his mind, grateful to be where he was.

Chapter Text

As far south as Gwaren was, the weather turned cold early. Though Alistair had resigned himself to spending his next winter in Gwaren—and indeed the rest of his winters if all went according to plan—he was still grateful they were leaving early in order to get to Denerim for the Landsmeet with plenty of time to spare.

He was even more grateful for the cloak Audie had packed. Maker bless that wonderful, wonderful woman.

While they could have traveled by ship, Loghain preferred to go by land. Having never been on a ship himself, Alistair couldn't say whether Loghain's aversion to them was justified or not. He enjoyed riding, even if extended journeys left him sore, and their route provided Loghain with the opportunity to question him on what he'd learned. Every stop became a chance for Alistair to show that he'd been paying attention.

For the most part he thought he did well. He could recall most of the salient features about a majority of the areas, even if the specific details escaped him. Loghain seemed pleased, and assured Alistair that to know everything was too much to ask for right then. In time, he would come to know his lands, but right now his effort was what mattered.

Denerim was bustling when they arrived, but unlike before, this time Loghain directed their party to his estate within the city instead of going straight for the palace.

"We're not going to the palace?" Alistair asked him.

"Later. We need to establish you as your own person, not attached to your family. If you want to be seen as my heir and the future teyrn of Gwaren, and not just as Maric's second son or Cailan's younger brother, then you need make sure that's how you act. That begins with small things like this—going to your home and not the palace."

Slowly, Alistair nodded. It was practical and necessary, but it did underscore yet another change that had never occurred to him. And then he narrowed his eyes and looked at Loghain.

"Wait a minute. You usually just go right to the palace."

Loghain grinned wolfishly. "I don't count, remember."

"Fine, fine," Alistair muttered, but good-naturedly.

When they reached Loghain's estate—well, it was Alistair's estate now, too, he supposed—they stayed only long enough to unload their trunks, clean themselves up and throw on a fresh set of clothes. Then they made the short walk to the palace on foot. They were ushered in immediately and found Maric sitting and talking with several others—including Cailan and Anora—in one of the smaller sitting rooms.

As they entered, Maric stood and embraced Alistair warmly. "Welcome home! I was told you'd arrived. How was the journey? Pleasant, I hope."

"It was fine," Loghain stated blandly. "Horses, road dust, sleeping in the woods. You know how it is."

"Indeed!" Maric clapped his friend on the shoulder and then looked over at Alistair, his expression turning sly. "I hope you don't mind, but Teyrn Cousland returned from Orlais not too long ago and I invited him and his family to dine with us this evening." He gestured behind him to the guests he'd been speaking to when they'd arrived.

Bryce stood with his wife, Eleanor, and they exchanged greetings, Alistair going through the motions because he was looking for…yes, right there behind Fergus and Oriana, was Lya. A little half grin tugged up one corner of her mouth and her green eyes were crinkled at the corners with mirth.

A very small part of Alistair wondered if the excitement he felt when receiving her letters would carry over to actually getting to see her. He supposed he had his answer now because he couldn't help the wide grin or happy little skip his heart gave. He'd missed her, and he hadn't been quite aware of how much until she was actually in front of him.

"Hi."

"Hi," she replied, grinning openly and right back at him now.

Behind him, someone cleared a throat and Alistair turned to look. Maric looked at him with a faintly indulgent smile—one that all the others seemed to be wearing as well—and said, "I think we have some things to discuss. Why don't you and the others take some time for yourselves until dinner?"

Fergus laughed and needed no further prompting to sweep his wife from the room, Oriana giggling the whole time. Cailan and Anora left with a bit more decorum, leaving Alistair to quickly take Lya's hand and follow the others out. If that wasn't nearly a direct order to go and get reacquainted, he didn't know what was.

They found themselves wandering down one of the halls, looking through a window that looked out onto the gardens, currently being prepared for the winter. Alistair wished there was a bit more privacy because all he really wanted to do was find a corner and kiss Lya senseless. Instead they stood there, the silence stretching out awkwardly between them.

"So…how was Gwaren?"

"Good," Alistair replied a bit too quickly. "It was good."

"That's good." They continued looking out the window. "And the trip back?"

"Good. I mean, not much happened. No bandits or anything, so that's…good."

"Well, that's, um, good."

"Yeah." More silence. That was…great. "Uh, what about you? How was Denerim?"

"It was…good." Alistair wanted to smack himself in the head. Really? Six months apart and this was what they were coming up with?

"Oh, sod it," Lya muttered. She reached up, curled a hand into the collar of his tunic and tugged him down to press her mouth to his. Alistair immediately wrapped his arms around her to pull her closer, and sod privacy—this was worth the risk of being interrupted.

"That was good," he said without thinking when they broke to come up for air. There was a moment's pause and then Lya started laughing, clinging to his tunic while her shoulders shook. Alistair tried to hold back his own laughter, but there was little point and for the next few minutes, they alternated between trying to compose themselves and giggling.

"Let's just start with that next time instead of trying to talk," she gasped out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I love the way you think." Alistair stepped back, tucking a piece of hair neatly back behind her ear. It had grown longer since he'd last seen her, and he took a minute to enjoy the feel of it between his fingers. "Come on," he said, taking her hand firmly in his. "Let's go somewhere else."

After checking a few places, they settled in a small sitting room—rarely used—lounging on one of the couches, Lya's back pressed against Alistair chest as they stretched out.

"So, honestly, how was Gwaren?" Lya asked when they were comfortably settled, his arms around her waist and her hands threaded through his where they rested on her abdomen.

"It really was good," he chuckled. "I learned a lot. Gwaren is different. I don't know if I can explain it accurately. It's not better or worse than here or Highever or Redcliffe or anything, it's just not the same."

"Did you like it?"

Alistair thought for several long moments. "I did. It was almost…relaxing? People still had expectations of me and there was still pressure, but I was judged by my own merits. It made me feel good."

Lya nodded, turning her head back so that she could look at him. "It's a lot to live up to for you, isn't it? Being Maric's son?"

"I suppose. But isn't that the same as you, following after your father?"

"My father isn't Maric the Savior," she said softly.

"No, he's not." Alistair sighed. "I don't mind it, not really. And it's not as much pressure as I used to think it would be. But I won't deny that I'm looking forward to being known as "Alistair" and not as "Maric's son" or "Cailan's brother." I want people to think of me for myself before they think of those other things."

"'Teyrn Alistair,'" Lya mused. "Or perhaps 'Teyrn Theirin.' Hmm, I don't know. Which one do you think sounds better?"

"Minx," Alistair muttered affectionately.

"No, no, I don't think 'Teyrn Minx' sounds good at all."

He couldn't help it, he laughed. "Enough. I have time yet before I need to decide, if I even care one way or another. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"No great and terrible pressure to live up to your parents?"

Leaning her head back on his chest, she shook it slightly. "Not really. I mean, there are certain things expected of me, yes, but most of that burden falls on Fergus, since he's actually inheriting the teyrnir. But even if it was me, living up to my father isn't nearly as daunting, and our people are forgiving. I'd be fine."

"Are you…?' How should he word this? "Do you ever envy Fergus for being the heir and not you?"

She turned more fully within the circle of his arms to give him a searching look. "Sometimes," she said. "We were both raised for the same thing, after all. It can be hard, to know that despite all your hard work, you'll never get to apply it for the reason it was meant." She fell silent for a moment. "Is this about you and Cailan?"

"No, not really. Or at least not anymore. I've always known where the two of us stood. Having to learn to rule always seemed like a bit of waste, and I'm just glad now that I have a chance to use it. I just wondered how others felt about."

"Hmm. I don't know if I'm the best one to ask. Not everyone feels the same way. Lots of younger sons resent that they'll never inherit. And I can't imagine many princes being so at ease with their lot. I think you're an exception."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "It's not like I'm not getting anything out of this. So if not ruling Highever, what will you do?"

"That depends," she chuckled. "My options right now are fairly wide open. I haven't decided yet. There are also other considerations."

"Oh?"

Lya quirked an eyebrow up. "Yes. Like you and me."

"Oh." A flush heated his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "I don't…I mean, I've still got a lot to learn. And I probably shouldn't make any, er, big decisions like that until—"

Her quiet laughter stopped him before he could dissolve into babbling. "Maker, Alistair, I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm not ready for that, let alone worrying about whether you are. I'm just saying that our…understanding gives me time. My father's not going to force me into anything."

"I do want you, you know," he hastened to assure her, and then immediately cringed when he realized how it came out. "I didn't mean like that! I mean, yeah, like that too, but I just meant that I want you around and I like you as a friend. But, uh, not just a friend! I…."

He stopped talking, face and neck hot, and closed his eyes. Maker, why had he been born with a tongue? All it did was get him in trouble.

Lya shifted, turning around to face him, and two cool hands cupped his cheeks. Alistair cracked his eyes open to see her, a crooked grin on her face.

"You're adorable," she murmured.

"Yeah, exactly the sentiment I want to give off."

A quiet, fond laugh greeted his words and she tweaked his nose. "I know what you meant. I feel the same way. And before you ask and die of embarrassment, yes, I mean both ways."

He opened one eye. "Really?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, really, and you know it."

Spurred on by a bolt of courage—and mortified at the thought of doing this with anyone else—he pouted. "Doesn't mean I don't like to hear it."

Both of her brows lifted in disbelief. "Then by all means let me make sure your fragile ego hasn't suffered any damage. You drive me positively wild with desire."

She was teasing him, her words meant in jest, but Alistair didn't smile or laugh. He was too busy desperately trying to tell his body to behave. It was a losing battle, and the amusement in Lya's face was quickly replaced by shock, a scarlet blush staining her cheeks. Quickly, Alistair moved her over so that they weren't touching, and stood up, taking a few steps away from her and running his hands through his hair.

"Sorry," he muttered, looking at her over his shoulder.

"No, it's fine," she said a little too quickly. "I-I didn't mean to tease you, not like that. But…." She licked her lips. "But I—we—can't, Alistair. It's too risky."

"I know. I know, just…give me a few moments."

"Do you, uh, need me to leave?"

"No! We should probably head back together anyway. I'll be fine in a minute."

She nodded and stood, smoothing out the fabric of her dress and moving to examine a painting on the wall. Alistair took a deep breath, trying to focus on some of the mental exercises that accompanied his arms training. Finally, after a few minutes, he no longer felt like it would be indecent to go out in public, and he cleared his throat.

Lya turned quickly. "All set?"

"Yes, I think so. Why don't we go see if they're ready for dinner?"

She nodded, and he took her arm for the walk back. They were going to need to be very careful.

The Landsmeet came, and this time Alistair attended by Loghain's side instead of with his family. He followed the teyrn up to his appointed spot on the balcony, exchanging greetings with the nobles they passed. Some offered congratulations as well, and while Alistair was sure that some of them were well-intentioned, he knew that many would prefer to see a relatively untried youth in the position of power, rather than the grizzled general, believing he would be easy to manipulate.

He clung tight to the things his family had taught him and promised nothing. He wasn't in charge yet, and so technically, couldn't offer anything yet, but he wasn't about to give anyone even the illusion of offering something. Let them push and pry. Right now, he wasn't letting anything weightier than "good luck" pass his lips.

Like every Landsmeet he had attended, there was the usual assortment of mundane matters to attend to—boundary disputes, law revisions, taxes. It wasn't until talk turned to lowering tariffs on Orlesian goods came up that Loghain's seeming ambivalence fell away, and he focused all of his attention on the proceedings. Loghain's stance was, quite naturally, that tariffs should not be lowered. But he was in the minority, though his voice carried a lot of weight.

The leading voice in favor of increased trade was Teyrn Cousland, and Alistair was uneasy at how the issue pitted the two men against each other. He respected Bryce, knew him to be a good man, but he didn't like the way he cavalierly dismissed Loghain's concerns. It wasn't…right. Across the way and beside her father, Lya offered him a quick, tight smile. She looked just as uncomfortable with the way things were going, but she was in even less of a position to change it than he was.

Eventually, after endless debate and discussion—and not a few hurled insults and deprecations—a middle ground was decided on. The resolution left both sides agitated and unhappy, feeling like they hadn't gotten what they wanted and that they'd made too many concessions.

When the Landsmeet was over, Alistair felt wrung out, even though he hadn't actually done anything, and it was with no small amount of relief that he turned his attentions to the customary post-Landsmeet events hosted by the nobles in the city. Urien Kendalls, Arl of Denerim, was usually the first to have his ball, touching off the week or two long series of parties.

Having arranged to meet Lya there—they were both a little leery of declaring openly what they had—Alistair went with Cailan and Anora, and surprisingly Maric and Loghain. They arrived, made their greetings and dispersed into the crowd. Alistair waited what he deemed was a respectable amount of time before seeking out Lya, and then promptly claimed her arm for his own. She smiled widely when he did, and he realized that if he looked as happy as she did, they were going to be the worst kept secret ever.

They were with talking in a small group with Cailan when Vaughan Kendalls came over, his hand clutched around the arm of a pretty, dark-haired woman. She was vaguely familiar and Alistair was trying to place her when he noticed Cailan's face darkening with thunderous anger.

"Cailan," Vaughan said smoothly, the gloating in his voice unmistakable. Vaughan had been cruel when Alistair first came to Denerim, and he'd only grown worse in the years since. There were rumors about him, servants vanishing in the night, but so far there had been no evidence to bring against him. Or his father's money made sure no evidence ever came to light.

"I want you to meet my betrothed, Delilah Howe."

Cailan's hands clenched into fists. "How did this happen?" he said through his teeth.

Vaughan smiled, and it turned Alistair's stomach, as did Delilah's pale, frightened face. "Our fathers are rather good friends, and they thought we might as well make the bonds between our families more formal."

A muscle ticked in Cailan's jaw and his hand twitched as if to reach for a sword that wasn't there. "Nathaniel will know of this."

"Nathaniel? Oh, you mean the disappointment of a son Arl Howe disowned?" Vaughan laughed, and the last little bit of color drained from Delilah's face. "Indeed, he will know. Perhaps I should write him myself, since we'll be family of a sorts. What do you think?"

"Alistair," Cailan grated, "we're done here." With that, he spun on his heel, striding for the door.

Alistair sought out the others in the crowd. "I see Anora," Lya whispered. "I'll get her, you go find your father before Cailan does something he'll regret."

He nodded, and kept an eye on his brother while he looked for their father. He spotted Loghain standing near a wall, and something in his expression alerted the man to the fact that all was not well. Loghain struck a beeline for a small knot of people, emerging with Maric moments later. Every one caught up to Cailan in the front entrance hall of the estate, and after taking one look at his oldest son, Maric turned to Lya. "Lady Cousland, I think it best if you return to your family. Please give our regrets."

Lya dipped a neat curtsey. "Yes, your Majesty," she said and hurried off, back into the gathering.

Moving as if they'd done this before, Maric and Loghain neatly boxed Cailan in, keeping to either side of him as Anora and Alistair quickly followed, the guards adjusting quickly to the change in plans and carrying their cloaks for them.

They were barely within the palace walls when Cailan jerked himself away from the others. "He can't do this!" he snarled.

"Who can't do what?" Maric asked calmly.

"Howe!" Cailan snapped. "He's selling his daughter off to that whoreson, Vaughan. He can't do that, I won't allow it."

Maric's mouth thinned. "You won't allow it? I'm sorry, Cailan, but he can do that."

"You know what he's done!" Cailan exploded. "You can't let the same thing happen to Nate's sister!"

"And what exactly has he done?"

"Besides raping and murdering his servants, you mean?"

"Can you prove it?" Maric asked quietly.

"You know I can't."

"Then hold your tongue. This isn't Orlais, Cailan. I can't issue decrees like that, not with out repercussions from the Bannorn."

"They would protect that monster?"

"They would protect their rights." Maric sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I am extremely disturbed by what I've heard of Kendalls's son, and that Howe is willing to marry his daughter to him…." He shook his head. "We can't step in without proof of Vaughan's wrongdoing. Do that, and I'll personally lead the city guard when they arrest him. But until then, there's nothing you can do."

Cailan spun away from them, hands flexing and chest heaving. Anora tried to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. "I need to be alone right now," he said tersely and stalked off down the hallway.

The others exchanged worried glances. "I'll calm him down," Anora murmured, and hurried after her husband.

"He needs to control his temper better," Loghain said when they were alone.

"Leave it, Loghain," Maric snapped. "He's upset."

"He doesn't have the luxury of being upset, not like that," Loghain returned, just as strongly.

"I think maybe we should all call it a night," Alistair said quickly, moving between the two men before things got out of control. They both looked at him in surprise—surprise that Alistair himself felt at being so bold—and stepped back.

"You're right," his father said. "It's been a long week and we're all out of sorts. Good night, Alistair." With a nod to Loghain, Maric also made his way deeper into the palace.

Loghain gave him a long, steady look. "Good man," he simply said, and quietly exited the palace.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and heaved a sigh. He didn't like the tension and arguments, and he especially didn't like it within his family. They were all right and they were wrong and there was no happy answer for what troubled them. With a weary sigh, Alistair turned like the others and sought out his bed.

They avoided most of the other gatherings, with the exception of Bann Sighard's and Teyrn Cousland's. Maric's gratitude for their assistance would not allow him to brush them off because Cailan was upset. But once the bulk of the nobles had departed for their own holdings, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Bryce, after a fair amount of pleading from his daughter, had agreed to allow her to stay in Denerim, but only if Fergus and Oriana agreed to stay with her. Both he and Eleanor had been gone from Highever too long for comfort, and he made it adamantly clear that as much as her parents trusted her, she was not staying in the capital without at least some sort of watchful eye on her.

Fergus and Oriana agreed, and Alistair had to wonder what the price Lya's brother exacted in exchange. On one of the afternoons that she visited, he asked.

"Babysitting," she said shortly. "I have to watch Oren whenever Fergus and Oriana want some…alone time." She blushed faintly as she said it.

"Oh. Oh!" Alistair chuckled. "Surely it can't be that hard."

"No, Oren's a good boy, especially now that he's getting a little older and talks more. It's Fergus that's the problem. I think he delights in ruining my plans for an afternoon or an evening."

"Yes, well, brothers."

"Tell me about it."

They settled into an easy routine, as they'd done once before. They didn't see each other every day, but a few times each week, enough so that saw each other without running the risk of doing something foolish because they were together too often or missed each other.

Alistair also, to his ever lasting embarrassment, grew accustomed to his body refusing to listen to him when he spent too much time next to Lya, either relaxing or kissing her eminently kissable lips.

Maker, he liked doing that. And while he wasn't looking forward to spending six months away from her when he went back to Gwaren in the spring, he was beginning to think it might be a good idea.

It was on one of those off days, sitting in the small study his father had set up for his use, going over more records from Gwaren, that Cailan came to get him. While he'd outwardly calmed down over the incident with Vaughan, Alistair knew his brother well enough to know that he was still seething on the inside. Nathaniel Howe had gone to the Free Marches years ago, but he had been one of Cailan's closest friends and Alistair knew the two still kept in touch. Cailan was livid over what was going to happen to Nathaniel's sister, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"You need to come with me right now," he said without preamble.

Alistair closed the book he was going through and stood. "What's going on?"

"Eamon's here. There's trouble."

Trouble with Eamon? That surprised Alistair. He hadn't heard much about the arl in recent years. "What kind of trouble?"

Looking around to make sure they were alone, Cailan leaned close and said in a low voice, "Connor's a mage."

Alistair couldn't help the gasp he let out. Andraste's flaming sword, that wasn't good at all. Mages couldn't inherit, which meant Redcliffe was going to be left without an heir. Eamon was getting on in years, if it was likely he and Isolde would've had more children, it probably would have happened by now. And Teagan was unmarried and childless as well. Redcliffe was an important and influential arling. This was going to upset the balance of power in the Landsmeet.

And then Alistair felt a flush of shame that his first thoughts had been of politics and not the personal tragedy Eamon and his family were going through. The arl and his wife were losing their only son. Connor was being taken from his parents and locked away in a tower in the middle of a lake. Alistair recalled his own terror when he was the boy's age at the thought of being sent to become a templar. How much worse would it be for Connor?

Was this what his mother worried about when she asked Maric not to keep him? That he might inherit her magic and face the same fate? That it might be easier for all of them if that happened?

He stumbled slightly as something else occurred to him. His mother was a mage. If Alistair got married, if he had children, there was a chance that the magic in their blood could manifest. Like Connor, they would be taken to the tower. The blood drained from his face. Could he risk doing that to his child? To his wife?

"Are you all right?" Cailan hissed, grabbing his arm.

"I'm all right." Alistair shook himself and pushed away. "It's nothing."

Cailan gave him a suspicious look, but thankfully let the matter drop. They hurried down the smaller passage way that led to the back of the throne room. There they could slip in quietly to watch what was happening.

"…must be something that can be done," Eamon was saying as they entered. He stood before the steps to the dais, Isolde off to one side, her thin arms clutching at Connor. Just behind them, two templars stood, waiting.

Maric was sitting forward in this throne, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. "I wish there was, Eamon." Sparing a quick look at the templars, he sighed heavily. "Truly, I wish there was, but there isn't. I can't defy the Chantry's law in this. I'm sorry, but your son has to go to the Circle."

Eamon nodded, resignation heavy in his face. "I understand, your Majesty." It was likely he'd known what Maric's response would be before he asked, but he had to try. Despite what he'd been through, Alistair couldn't help but feel sorry for the arl. He looked and sounded tired, old in a way Alistair had never experienced before. His reddish-brown hair and beard were streaked with gray, for all that he was younger than Maric and Loghain.

"No!" Isolde burst out. "I will not allow them to take my baby!" She drew her son closer to her, squeezing tight enough that the already upset boy became even more distressed.

Eamon turned to her, to either comfort her or pull her away, but she took a step away from him, dragging Connor with her. She looked around wildly, eyes darting here and there as if to find some escape from her situation. Her eyes alighted on Alistair, standing in the shadows, and she thrust a hand in his direction dramatically.

"It's because of him, isn't it?" she cried. "You won't help us because you are still angry with us! We took your bastard in when you didn't want him, gave him a place! I endured years of rumor and insult, and for what? To have it cast back in my face, to be punished unjustly for it! And now that you decided you want your son, you don't care that mine is being taken from me!"

"Isolde!" Eamon hissed, his face flushed and mottled. "Be quiet!"

"Non!" Her Orlesian accent grew thicker, coloring her words. "I will not be quiet when the life of my son is at stake!"

"Enough." Maric's icy voice did not need to be loud to draw the attention of everyone on the room. Standing, squaring his shoulders, allowing his height and bulk to intimidate those who stood below him, he spoke to Isolde. "Arlessa Isolde, I am sorry for what has happened to your family. Believe it or not, this is not some plot to get back at you for events that I consider long dealt with. Connor will go to the Circle for his own safety, and the safety of those around him. Right now, while your grief is understandable, you are terrifying your son during what will likely be one of the most difficult periods of his life. Pull yourself together.

"Furthermore, you will remember to whom you are speaking. You will not insult me or my family again. If you do, then you will learn what it means for me to be angry with you."

Turning his attention from her, he looked at the templars standing behind them. "I am given to understand that Connor is supposed to go to the Circle immediately, correct?"

One of the templars stepped forward a pace. "Yes, your Majesty. We've already bent the rules a great deal in allowing the arl to come here."

"Your name, templar?"

"Ser Cullen, sire."

Maric nodded. "Thank you, Ser Cullen, for your honesty and your dedication to your duty. I am grateful that you've bent the rules this much, but I would ask that you show a bit more leniency. Allow the arl and his wife a few days to say goodbye to their son before you return to Lake Calenhad."

Ser Cullen hesitated, clearly uneasy with the thought of defying his king.

"Three days, Ser Cullen," Maric said softly. "Surely that's not too much to ask for a smoother transition for a frightened boy."

With a sigh, Ser Cullen relented. "I do not think the Circle will begrudge that much. He will require, ah…supervision, though. We cannot break that rule."

"I understand. My seneschal will see to your lodgings in the palace. I think it best we not tempt fate and attempt to do this in the city."

"Very good, sire."

The templars waited while Farrell appeared from nowhere to escort the weeping arlessa and her son to guest quarters, and followed behind as unobtrusively as possible. When Eamon was the only one remaining, he looked up at Alistair's father.

"Thank you, Maric, for at least trying."

Maric walked down the steps, and gave the man a sympathetic embrace. "I am sorry, Eamon. But my hands are tied. I wish I could do more."

"You've given me time to say goodbye to my son. It will have to be enough."

"If you want, I will write to the first enchanter and the knight-commander to ask that you be allowed to visit when you like, as often as you like."

Eamon managed a small, sad smile. "Thank you," he said, his voice gruff. "That would be appreciated. Now I'd like to go spend some time with my son."

"Of course. If you need anything, just ask."

With a small bow, Eamon walked quickly from the throne room. Maric's shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face with a tired hand. Throwing Cailan and Alistair an inscrutable look, he said, "I suggest the two of you find something to occupy yourselves with."

They didn't need to be told twice and hustled from the throne room.

For the rest of the day, Alistair was out of sorts. The scene with Eamon had shaken him and it showed. It came as no surprise when late that evening, his father walked into his room after a perfunctory knock.

"You want to talk about it?"

Alistair tossed down the book he'd be reading onto the bed next to him. "My mother was a mage."

"Yes, she was."

"I could have been a mage."

"Yes."

"If I have children, they could be mages."

"They could."

Alistair studied the ceiling. "Is that fair to do them? To risk having that happen to them? Is it fair to put my wife in a position where she might lose her children?"

Frowning, Maric sat on the end of the bed. "Maybe not. But if I can give you any advice about this, it would be to not live your life afraid of the what-ifs. It might happen, it might not. It's a chance we have to take."

"Sounds like a pretty big chance to me."

"You don't think you're a little young to be thinking about this?" Maric asked with a wry smile.

"Would it be better if I pretended I didn't know the truth?" Alistair returned pointedly. "Young or not, it's something I was planning on. Ignoring reality doesn't make it go away."

"No, no, it doesn't." Sighing, Maric sat in silence for a few moments. "You have to do what you think best. If that means not getting married or having children, so be it. But don't deny yourself a family on the chance that something could happen to them."

Nodding, Alistair tugged at an ear, thinking. "I know you said I had to be careful about who I told about my mother, but…."

"Lya's an intelligent woman, I think she could handle knowing just fine."

Alistair looked at his father sharply. "I never said—"

Maric started laughing. "Alistair," he said, "come on. I might be a fool at times, but I'm not blind. I'm not expecting anything soon, but you're crazy if you don't think we can't see how the two of you feel about each other."

Blushing, and suddenly finding his hands extraordinarily fascinating, Alistair mumbled, "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes," his father chuckled, "it really is."

"Oh." Yes, the worst kept secret ever.

"I'm happy for you, Alistair. Don't worry about any of this, not yet anyway. Enjoy your life as it is right now. Enjoy being young and in love and don't make more problems for yourself. When the times comes, you'll figure out what to do."

"I'll try."

"You do that. You worry too much as it is."

"I just want to do things right."

With a shake of his head, Maric looked at his youngest son fondly, but with a great deal of exasperation. "You're doing fine. I couldn't ask more." He paused, tilted his head. "You do know I'm proud of you, right? I might not say it often enough, but you should know how proud I am to be your father."

Alistair felt the blush to the very tips of his ears. "I know," he mumbled, feeling just a bit ridiculous by how much his father's words pleased him.

"You'd better." With a groan, Maric pushed himself up off the bed. "I'm getting old," he muttered. "I think I'll turn in early. Isolde's tears wore me out earlier."

He headed to the door, but stopped to turn back after he opened it. "You can always come to me for help. You know that, right?"

"I do. I just…I really want to do this on my own."

"Fair enough. Good night, Alistair."

"Night, Dad."

After the door had closed, Alistair tried to go back to his book, but couldn't concentrate. His father was right, at least in part. Until he left again in the spring, he wouldn't worry about it. Back in Gwaren, he'd think about it some more, hopefully with a bit of distance to clear his head.

Chapter Text

This time, when they went to Gwaren for the spring and summer, Alistair found that he wasn't concerned very much at all. Perhaps he should have been, but when everyone around him had such rock solid confidence in him—as unearned as he privately thought it was—it was impossible to doubt himself to any serious degree. He was going to make mistakes, he knew that, but he'd come to realize that, at least in the beginning, there was very little he could do that would cause everything to end in disaster. As long as he was competent, and tried his best—and wasn't too proud to ask for help from those around—everything was going to be just fine.

Loghain continued his hands-on education in the same way he had before, and this time around Alistair felt less pressure, less need to get the answer to every single question right. He learned to relax, learned to let others know that he expected to need correction and guidance, and tried his best to display the same confidence and competence that he saw in Loghain and his father.

It wasn't always easy, especially those times that he truly felt out of his depth, but Loghain seemed pleased. In fact, pleased enough that once the harvest was in, to mention that perhaps next spring Alistair could return to Gwaren on his own.

"I'm not ready for that," Alistair protested.

Loghain gave him a flat look, lips pursed slightly. "Are we going to go through this again, Alistair?" he asked dryly. "I am no fool. I wouldn't suggest if I doubted you."

"No, I know that," Alistair said. "It's just that I…."

Loghain waited a moment. "You what?"

"I don't feel ready," Alistair confessed.

They'd been walking and Loghain suddenly stopped, forcing Alistair to halt beside him. "You've trusted me before, when it came to your training, when it came to Adara and when I decided to make you my heir. Have you suddenly stopped trusting that I know what I'm doing?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then trust me now. You will return next spring, alone. And you will be fine."

Alistair looked at the set of the older man's shoulders, the hard look in his eyes. "Yes, ser," he said quietly, and followed as Loghain nodded in satisfaction and resumed walking.

Well, he thought wryly, that's that. He shook his head. Ready or not, he no longer had a choice. Alistair laughed to himself. Somehow it seemed easier to face that way. He lengthened his strides to come up beside Loghain. If he was going to do this alone, he needed to spend every second he had left under Loghain's tutelage making sure he got the most from it.

Denerim was oddly quiet when they arrived for the Landsmeet.

"Something's happened," Loghain muttered from beside him, watching as people scurried out of the way quickly. "Too many guards out."

Once he'd said it, Alistair noticed the unusual number of guards as well, and was slightly annoyed that he hadn't noticed it himself. The guards patrolled in close groups, and he could see them stopping to question people, usually elves.

"What do you think is going on?" he asked.

"I don't know. I doubt it has anything to do with your father or brother. We'd have been met by a messenger on the road. We'll go straight to the palace instead of the estate." Loghain let his mount fall back to speak to the wagon master before rejoining Alistair. Together, with Loghain's captain Cauthrien, they broke off from the rest of the party to take a faster, more direct route to the palace.

When they entered the palace, they ran into Cailan first, and Alistair's older brother was practically radiant with good cheer. "Alistair! Loghain!" he cried. "Welcome home!" He embraced both of them warmly, still grinning from ear to ear.

"What's happened?" Loghain asked without preamble, his own dourness not the least bit affected by Cailan's mood.

If anything, Cailan's smile grew wider. "The Arl of Denerim, Vaughan Kendalls, is dead," he said happily.

"Vaughan?" Loghain frowned, brows pulled low over his eyes. "How? Another unfortunate tumble down the stairs?"

"No, nothing like that. It seems like the good arl decided to have a bit of sport and kidnapped several elven women from the Alienage during a wedding."

Alistair and Loghain both winced. Vaughan's behavior had been no secret, but for him to have acted so blatantly was shocking even for him.

"It seems one of the women took poorly to that idea," Cailan continued. "She butchered her way through his guard, and then beheaded Vaughan in his own bedroom, along with two of his cronies: Braden and Jonaley."

"Tragic," Loghain murmured, sounding like it was anything but. "The real pity is that she'll hang for it."

At that, Cailan's grin turned sly. "Ah, normally, yes. But in this case, Warden-Commander Duncan stepped in and used the Rite of Conscription. And since Father was the one who reinstated it in the first place, he was hardly in a position to object."

Alistair let out a small sigh of relief. It would've been grossly unfair if the elf was executed for what amounted to defending herself just because her attacker was a noble.

Loghain, however, did not share that same relief. His countenance grew troubled and he shook his head. "Maric should not have allowed that."

Incredulous, Alistair eyed Loghain askance. "You can't mean that. You think she deserved to be executed?"

"No, that's not what I mean." Loghain sighed heavily. "I sympathize with her plight, and agree that Kendalls got the end he deserved, but very few will see it that way. Nobles will use his death as an excuse to crack down on the Alienages and elves within their own towns, which will cause more unrest with the elves."

"But wouldn't hanging her just do the same thing?" Alistair countered. "I mean, she was kidnapped and defended herself like anyone would. If she was executed for it, wouldn't that have angered the elves even more, leading to more unrest that way?"

"Possibly," Loghain conceded. "Likely, even. However, then at least, it would seem like yet another riot or purge, and the nobles would forget quickly. This will linger with them. The elves suffer either way. I just fear that this will be worse in the long run."

"Father's not naming a new Arl of Denerim right now," Cailan added. "He is aware of how volatile the situation is right now, you know. He wants to make sure whoever he gives the arling to isn't going to make things worse, as well as give the elves a chance to calm down. Despite all the guards, they're pretty calm right now. The fact that the elf is actually getting a position of honor seems to be helping."

Loghain grunted. "I still need to speak with Maric." Casting Alistair a quick glance, he said tersely, "We'll go to the estate tomorrow," and then set off down the hall toward the private family quarters.

Cailan and Alistair watched him go. "The more things change…" Cailan murmured. "Ah, well." He shrugged and turned toward Alistair, clasping him on the arm. "They're going to be at it for awhile, so what say we get you something to eat?"

"Sounds good to me," Alistair agreed, even as his stomach rumbled. Cailan accompanied him down to the kitchens, filling him in on what had been going on as the cooks filled a plate with food and poured two mugs of ale. His brother was in high spirits, and Alistair couldn't fault him in the least for it. Vaughan's engagement to Nathaniel Howe's younger sister had been a sore point for the crown prince since he'd learned of it, and Alistair suspected that it would have taken a much bigger tragedy to take the shine off this victory for him.

As he and his brother parted ways to allow Alistair to get a much needed bath and some rest, he wondered if he'd be able to go to the Warden compound tomorrow. He was admittedly curious about the elf. The theory, elves weren't allowed to carry weapons. He understood the reasoning…sort of, even though he didn't really agree with it. If elves could wield weapons, they should be allowed to, not held back because some humans held a nameless fear that that one day the elves would all rise up and slaughter them. Perhaps if they did, humans might be nicer to elves, treat them like actual people.

Alistair grinned slightly, recognizing that he wasn't actually neutral on the subject.

Even so, despite the ban on weapons, somehow, somewhere this elf had gotten training. Enough training that she'd been able to overcome Vaughan's personal guard and the arl himself—though given what Alistair had seen of Vaughan, martial prowess didn't seem to be his forte. He wanted to see her, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, and partly to maybe tell her that not all nobles were bastards like Vaughan. Given what she'd been through, it seemed only fair.

The answer to Alistair's request to go to the Warden compound was a resounding no.

His father had barely let him get the question out while they were eating breakfast before he was shaking his head. "No."

Alistair ground his teeth in frustration. "Why not?"

There was a warning look in Maric's blue eyes as he responded, "Because I said so."

"But—"

"Don't." His father cut him off with an emphatic slash of his hand. "Not now, Alistair. We will discuss this later."

Later didn't come until after lunch, when Alistair finally managed to corner his father in his study. "You can't really be mad at Duncan for saving that girl's life."

Maric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You speak of things you don't understand," he said.

"Then explain it to me!" Alistair snapped. "I've spent half my life looking up to the Wardens because you do, and suddenly that's changed?"

"Alistair…."

"Don't. Don't brush me off, not on this. Not when my mo—"

His father jerked his head sharply, and Alistair bit the words off, clenching his jaw. Then Maric cast the quill in his hand onto the desk, shoved himself up from the desk and stalked over to a window to look out.

"I am angry with Duncan, yes," he said after a long moment. "But I don't think he was wrong. That girl doesn't deserve to die, but I have to weigh the good of the many against the good of one."

He turned around to face his son. "The nobles are angry, Alistair. One of their own was murdered. And, yes, I know he earned that death," Maric said, holding up a hand. "But that doesn't change how the nobles feel. That girl's execution would have soothed their wounded pride."

Alistair stared at his father, aghast. "You…you can't mean that."

Maric shot him a long, hard look. "Have you ever seen a purge of an Alienage, Alistair?"

"No, never."

"Be glad," his father said grimly. "I've been unlucky enough to see a few. I've had to order some, though I don't think there's been any since you've come to Denerim, and I've worked hard to try and keep it that way. They're not…pleasant. Life in an Alienage is hard enough, and a purge ends up costing many more innocent lives. I know that the elves would have rioted if she was executed, just as I know that the nobles will extract vengeance on the elves if they can. If I'm to try and protect as many lives as I can, I cannot condone what Duncan did. It's bad enough that I do it in private, here with you, but to do it in public would be condemning innocent people to death. Innocents, Alistair. Women, children, the elderly and sick as well as the agitators. I can't let that happen."

With a heavy side, his father rested his weight against the window casement. "Unfortunately, that means I can't let any of my family show approval. It's hard enough to keep Cailan from crowing about it. I can't let you be seen with any of the Wardens, not even Duncan."

Alistair said nothing. His father seemed truly distraught about the situation, and from the lines of his face, it was clear the strain he was under wasn't faked. He wanted to deny that things were as bad as Maric was making them out to be. Surely people could see reason.

But then he remembered the nobles like Vaughan, the ones who caused this entire mess to begin with, the cruel, petty people for whom no amount of truth and logic would ever make them see reason. And he remembered Loghain's words last night. It was hard to contradict both his father and Loghain when they seemed to sure about what they were doing.

"What about letters from Fiona?" he asked quietly instead.

"The letters won't stop," Maric said softly. "Duncan and I use private, trusted couriers, and I know his messengers to Weisshaupt are even more dependable. We're not going to punish either of you because Duncan and I are at odds."

Alistair nodded. "Thank you." Then he swallowed. "I…shouldn't have challenged you. I know you have your reasons. It just seems unfair."

"I know." His father's voice was weary. "I know. And you've always believed in fairness, Alistair. But life isn't fair. It never has been and never will be."

"It can be better," Alistair said stubbornly, unwilling to wholly concede the point.

"Maybe," Maric said evenly. "So prove it. In Gwaren. If you believe you can do better, then show people. Fereldans aren't stupid. Show them a better way, and they'll follow."

Alistair cocked his head to the side, and then narrowed his eyes. "You've been talking to Loghain."

The grin that split his father's face was wide. "Did you have any doubt?"

Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "No, I didn't. Don't know why I'm surprised. I should know better by now."

His father chuckled. "You should. Now, off with you. I imagine Loghain will want to make some rounds with you before the Landsmeet starts."

Alistair made a face, but went. The end result of the conversation wasn't exactly what he'd hoped for, but he thought he understood better now.

With no sign of his father's stricture on letting him associate with the Wardens lessening, and no change in his public opinion—no matter how his private one differed—Alistair was forced to move on and accept things as they were. His mother's letters continued to arrive at irregular intervals, delivered by secret messengers from Duncan, and his replies were sent the same way. Maric's ire toward Duncan would not extend to denying Alistair the communication.

One night after Firstday, once they had settled in for a relaxing evening, Maric produced a small packet of letters. He set them out on the small table between him and Alistair. Curious, Alistair eyed them. They were thick, made of heavy, expensive parchment, the writing dark and ornate. With the silent permission offered by his father, he picked one up. The broken seals were of varying rich colors, thick, and holding silk ribbons in place. Alistair eased the first letter from the envelope and unfolded it, skimming over it.

To Your Most Royal Majesty...Greetings and Felicitations...

...long held your lineage in great respect...a proud and noble line...feel that an joining of our two houses...

Alistair blinked and read the letter more carefully. As he read, he felt his eyes going wide, his mouth falling open until he gaped like an idiot. A comical sight to be sure, for his father chuckled, and Alistair's head shot up to stare at him.

"Th-This is...this is..." he stuttered.

"A proposal for a betrothal of marriage," Maric finished. "With you, specifically. Which one is that?" He leaned forward and flipped the envelope over to see. "Ah, the Antivan one. They were most complimentary."

He grinned, leaning back in his seat. "You should see the one from the Empress. It must have strained her advisers mightily to come up with that many nice things to say about us."

"The Empress?" Alistair asked in disbelief. "As in the Orlesian Empress, the ruler of Orlais, the country that looks at us like a backwater province they'd like to reclaim?"

"Mmm, yes, that one," Maric agreed mildly. "She has a younger sister. Lovely girl, by all accounts. The perfect Orlesian lady. She sent a miniature along with her letter, too." He reached for the thickest packet in the pile and slid a small, thin frame from it, holding it out to Alistair who took it with numb fingers.

A girl, maybe slightly younger than himself, stared back at him. Her face was a perfect oval, fair white skin framed with equally pale blonde ringlets. The eyes were blue, too bright to be natural and her lips far too red. She was dressed in a gown far more ornate than anything he'd seen before, all ruffles and lace and pearls. She looked painfully young to Alistair's eyes, and soft. He frowned, trying to picture such a girl as his wife, running Gwaren at his side.

It was laughable.

"This is a joke, right?" he asked, looking up. "They can't be serious."

"Deadly serious, I'm afraid," Maric said quietly. "They're all hoping you'll end up on the throne and their precious daughters or sisters will bear the heirs of a country, giving them all that much more standing."

Alistair snorted. "Right. Well, I'm not interested."

"Oh, really? I hate to break this to you, but you are going to have to get married someday. And I'll admit, these are some very tempting offers."

"Yeah, well, like I said, I'm not interested," Alistair repeated. A flush had begun to warm his cheeks, and he wanted his father to drop the subject. Not because the talking of marriage had him skittish, but because as soon as he'd considered the idea of wedding one of the women mentioned in the letters, he'd immediately rejected them all in favor of someone else.

"Hmm," Maric hummed thoughtfully and gathered up the letters. "Well, we don't need to compose responses just yet. Still, something to keep in mind, wouldn't you say?"

Mumbling a hasty agreement, Alistair stood, proclaiming a sudden tiredness and that he was retiring. He very nearly fled the room and down the halls. This was something he didn't particularly feel like discussing with anyone.

Alistair wasn't stupid and he wasn't naïve. He'd grown up watching the machinations and matchmaking of the nobles. He knew marriages were mostly for political benefit, though not always. And he'd always known that even as the second son, he wouldn't be exempt from the same expectations. But he knew that none of the women proposed in the letters would appeal to him.

"You know, Alistair," a wry voice said behind him, where he'd stopped midway down a corridor, "sometimes you think far too much."

He turned to face Cailan, and was irked by the knowing expression on his brother's face. "I don't see how this is any of your business."

Cailan rolled his eyes, coming closer. "You're making this far more difficult than it needs to be. We're not blind, you know. You've been in love with Lya since practically the day you met her."

Alistair felt the heat creep up his cheeks. "I have not."

"All right, fine. In like with her then. Is that better?" His brother sighed ruefully. "Father's just trying to give you a nudge. He doesn't really expect you to marry any of those girls." Cailan tilted his head slightly. "Not that he'd deny you, if you wanted to. But he's pretty sure you're already taken."

For a long minute, Alistair said nothing. His fingernails became a fascinating point of study while he decided how to reply. "It's not like I haven't thought about it, you know," he said quietly. "But what if she doesn't want to?"

"Oh, Alistair," Cailan chuckled fondly. "Even if she didn't love you—and trust me, anyone who's seen the two of you together knows better—she wouldn't say no. You're friends. She likes you. She could do worse."

"I don't want her to marry me just because we're friends."

Cailan shifted his stance, nodding once. "I understand. But that's a lot more than some people get. Don't discount it." His brother reached out, clasped a firm hand on Alistair's shoulder. "I'd like to say don't rush into anything, that you have time, but that's not always the case."

The odd choice of words made Alistair frown. "Why do you think I might not have time?"

Shaking his head, Cailan replied, "No, I think you have time. She's the one who might not have as much as you think."

"What do you mean?"

Cailan turned and gestured down the hall for Alistair to follow him. "You have options, Alistair. A lot of options, actually, if those letters are anything to go by. And I imagine you're only going to get more in the future. You're going to have time to find a wife of your choosing—one you actually like and who hopefully brings something with her."

Eyes wide in incredulity, Alistair stared at his brother. "I'm twenty! I don't understand why you and Dad are pushing this. Don't you think it's a little early for me to be thinking about getting married?"

His brother shrugged. "I was betrothed before I was even born, so no, not really. And while it's not very common here in Ferelden, it's not unusual for marriages to be arranged between families when the couples are still children. Being in Ferelden just means that the timing is delayed—the political importance of such matches doesn't change.

"Now, you, Alistair, are in an enviable position. You will be the Teyrn of Gwaren, brother to me, the future king, and my heir. That means—"

"Your heir?" Alistair interrupted.

Cailan nodded, his face taking on a pinched expression. "Until Anora and I have children, you're my heir. Unless I name someone else, and providing the Landsmeet approves you if it ever becomes an issue, though I don't see either of those being a problem. It's been in my will for the last two years."

"Your will?"

Again a nod answered him. "Morbid, really, but necessary. You'll almost certainly be drawing one up as soon as Loghain makes everything official. Now stop interrupting me."

"Sorry."

"As I was saying, you're going to have a lot of choices, and there's no real rush, though I expect lots of people will be pushing to have the issue settled quickly. Now, Lya on the other hand, has far fewer options. Anyone she marries in Ferelden—with the exception of you, not that I'm trying to pressure you—will be a step down. The Couslands aren't as fanatical about that as some others are, so that's unlikely to sway them much.

"However, outside of Ferelden, it's a different story. Outside of you and I, and since I don't think Fergus is going to leave his wife, she's the closest thing to royalty Ferelden has. Nobility from other countries would consider her quite the prize."

"She's not a prize!" Alistair protested.

"She is politically," Cailan countered. "Bryce is very friendly with Orlais. Surely some duke or baron would snap at the chance for her hand. Or perhaps one from Antiva or a lesser lord from Nevarra. I could see a prince from one of the Free Marches city-states needing a capable princess."

The thought of Lya packing up and heading off to a foreign country, leaving and never coming back except for perhaps a few visits to her family, made Alistair's chest tighten uncomfortably. Their separations, while necessary, always left him missing her fiercely, and eagerly looking forward to their next meeting. The thought of a lifetime of that, of seeing her once or twice a decade…. That was beyond unbearable.

And it occurred to him, that while they could possibly remain friends, she would no longer be his. He blinked, stunned both by the revelation that he considered Lya his and by the near-overwhelming surge of jealousy. The latter was an unfamiliar sensation. He'd never had cause to be jealous over her before, but with the thought of someone else holding her and kissing her, touching her and…and bedding her, he suddenly saw red.

"Well, then!" Cailan said cheerfully, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, and Alistair blinked as he was dragged back into the present. "I'll leave you to your thoughts. Good night!" And whistling cheerfully, his brother sauntered back down the hall.

It took Alistair three weeks to work up his courage, and even then, it was his father who finally gave him the nudge he needed. They were playing Wicked Grace, playing for coppers and drinking mulled cider, when his father spoke. He was shuffling the deck when he casually asked, "So…should I sit down and have a chat with Bryce?"

The coppers Alistair had been stacking suddenly scattered across the table. "Wh-What?" he stuttered.

Maric gave him a knowing grin. "Bryce. Cousland. I believe you've met him. Teyrn of Highever. A rather agreeable fellow. And, oh yes, father to one Lya Cousland. I thought he and I might sit down and…discuss some things."

"No!" Alistair blurted immediately.

His father raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to look through that list of letters again?"

"No!" he cried out, nearly frantic. "Why do you keep pushing this?"

The shuffling of the card slowed, unless his father was simply cutting the deck repeatedly in his hands. "I'm not really trying to pressure you, Alistair. But…Loghain intends to turn Gwaren over to you. Not in the spring, but in the fall, after one more summer and fall there." Maric laughed softly. "I thought I was doing such a good thing all those years ago, making him a teyrn, but he's never wanted it. He's never been happy there, or even content. He wants to be free of it almost as much as he wants to do right by his people. He thinks you're ready."

Alistair took a deep breath. "I hadn't thought…. Not so soon, anyway."

His father shrugged. "You'll be fine. But if it feels like I'm pushing you on this…well, maybe I am. A bit. Feel free to tell me to sod off, but I'm mostly just thinking about your well-being. You'll be living in Gwaren, and I'll likely only see you a few weeks a year. Gwaren is remote, especially in the winter you'll basically be alone there. I don't worry about you," he gestured vaguely, "moping or pining or anything like that, but I know how isolating not having anyone to confide in can be. It's an added stress I don't think you need."

"So the solution is to get married?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"Yes," Maric said simply. "I know you care for Lya, but more importantly, she's your friend. She'll be there to support you, to help you. You won't be alone down there."

Alistair fiddled with his coins. "I hadn't thought about that," he confessed. "It's just that I…." He trailed off, not quite sure what he wanted to say.

"It's really very simple. Do you love her?"

"Yes." It was an answer he didn't really have to think about.

"Then ask her. Be happy, Alistair. It's all any of us want for the two of you."

"You make it sound easy."

"It is. It really, really is." His father's expression fell slightly, and his smile turned sad. "Don't wait. You never know how long you're going to get with the person you love." Then he looked away and coughed, clearing his throat noisily and Alistair averted his gaze to give his father a minute to compose himself.

"I'll think about it," Alistair said quietly. "They're still up in Highever, and I don't want to do this by letter. And I…I don't want you to talk to her father either. This is…I need to do this. Myself."

"All right," Maric said easily, finally dealing the cards out. "That's fine. But if you need to talk, I'm here, understand."

"I do," he nodded, relieved and apprehensive. "And, Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

The next few months until the spring Landsmeet passed in agonizing slowness. Each day dragged and Alistair found himself anxious and restless. Once he'd come to a decision—well, pretty sure he'd come to a decision, because he was going to ask…at some point—he found that he just wanted it get it over with.

And then the Landsmeet actually arrived and suddenly each day was going by far too quickly. Alistair found himself unaccountably nervous and panicky when he was alone with Lya. And when she asked if he was feeling all right, he felt like she could see the lie on his face when he said everything was fine. He could feel the sidelong looks his family sent him. Even Loghain, the traitor, who hadn't offered a single word of advice, kept giving him heavily expectant looks.

But it was Anora, sneaky, devious Anora who finally got fed up with his hesitation and took control of the situation. They were sitting down to a formal dinner with a number of nobles, discussing things to be decided at the Landsmeet when Anora leaned over. "I had lunch with Eleanor Cousland today," she said cheerfully.

"Oh?" Alistair asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Yes. And I mentioned that you would be paying them a visit this evening after dinner."

"What?" Alistair yelped, and then immediately turned beet red as several people turned to stare at him. He ducked his head to avoid their gazes. "Why did you do that?" he hissed at his sister-in-law.

"Because you'll put it off until the next Blight if someone didn't step in," she said cheerfully, smiling and agreeing with something the woman across from her said. "Now you will go, tonight, and ask them for her hand."

"I hate you," he grumbled under his breath.

"Liar," she said fondly. "You'll thank me later."

Then she turned her attention to another conversation, leaving Alistair to glare at her profile and frantically begin to think of what exactly he was going to say.

Two hours later, he sat in a rather comfortable chair in a sitting room of the Cousland's Denerim estate. Bryce and Eleanor sat across from him, on a small couch, and waited with patient expressions. Oh, Maker, Alistair thought to himself. You can do this. Just take a deep breath and ask.

"Well, Alistair?" Bryce finally said, breaking the silence when Alistair didn't. "Was there something you needed to discuss?"

"I—yes, um, there was."

"Well?" Lya's father prodded.

"Oh, Bryce, give the poor boy a moment," Eleanor chided. "At least he's bothering to ask us, unlike a certain someone else in this room."

Bryce's cheeks turned pink. "Not the time to discuss that," he said quickly. Alistair's eyes widened slightly, wondering at the back story he was unaware of. Whether she'd intended it or not, the banter Eleanor had provoked put him at ease, and he cleared his throat, gathering his courage.

"I…care for your daughter. Very much. Lya's my best friend and I would do anything for her. I only want what's best for her, and I think I can give that to her. So, if you'll give me permission, I'd…like to ask her to marry me."

As soon as he got the words out, he felt relieved, like a weight had been lifted from him. There, it was done, and hadn't been nearly as nerve-wracking as he'd feared.

Lya's parents smiled at each other and Bryce spoke first. "All we've ever wanted for our daughter is for her to be happy. And believe me when I say that you do that. We have never once worried about her when she was with you. You are a good man. Honorable, trustworthy and honest, and I cannot think of anyone else I would rather have Lya spend her life with than you. We would be proud—more than proud—to have you as part of our family."

Alistair blushed at the praise. He knew Lya's parents liked him, but such unabashed praise still made him feel slightly embarrassed. "Thank you."

Bryce and Eleanor stood, Alistair following a moment later, and returned gladly the firm handshake Bryce gave him, and the tight hug Eleanor wrapped him in. "Now," Lya's mother said fondly. "I believe you'll find Lya in the back garden. There's a much more important question you need to ask her."

Lya was indeed in the back garden, and from the way she grinned at him, Alistair had a feeling he'd been expected. They hugged and kissed and then sat on a bench in front of a fountain, making small talk. The quick, waiting looks Lya kept giving him did not go unnoticed and he finally closed his eyes for a long moment, touching the small pouch in his pocket for a measure of courage.

"Lya," he said carefully, "you like Highever, don't you?"

She blinked, slightly taken aback. "Yes," she said curiously. "It's my home, and I love it."

"Would you…would you be terribly upset to leave it?"

Lya made a thoughtful sound. "It would depend what I was leaving it for. After all, there are things I love a lot more than my childhood bedroom and some pretty scenery."

"Ah, well, that's good to know." He fidgeted slightly.

"Alistair," Lya said, exasperation coloring her tone.

"Yes?"

"If you don't hurry up and ask, I'm going to thrash you the next time we spar."

Alistair grinned and laughed, the tension that had building inside him broken. He turned to face her fully, reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears. For some reason, he'd always loved doing that, especially when she wore her hair loose like she did tonight. "I love you," he said quietly, noting the way she bit her lip and smiled. "It's hard to go back to Gwaren and leave you here. I miss you and…I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to spend another minute of my life missing you."

"I miss you, too," she said quietly.

"So let's stop." He smiled. "Marry me."

She tilted her head back slightly. "Is that a command or a question?" she teased.

"A plea," Alistair said. "A promise that I will try every day to make you as happy as you make me, if you'll let me. I don't want anyone except you, and if you say yes, then I am yours, always."

Lya blinked and then raised her hand to dab at her eyes. "You're too good at that," she murmured.

"Is that a yes?"

She laughed and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck, dropping a light kiss onto his lips. "It is. Was there ever any doubt? Yes, Alistair, I will marry you, and if you asked me every day until the day I die, the answer will always be yes."

He couldn't help but return her laugh, and pulled her even closer, onto his lap so that she was firmly settled against him, feeling light and happy and that he could do anything anyone ever asked of him. "I can't believe I've been worried about this."

"That's you," she said simply. "And I wouldn't change that. Did my parents give you a hard time?"

"No. They were…really great, actually."

"Good." Lya pulled him down for another kiss. "We should probably tell them."

"In a minute," Alistair murmured, sliding his hands into her hair and capturing her lips for a longer kiss. "In a minute. There's something else more important right now that I want to do."

"And what's that?" she breathed against his mouth.

"Kissing you senseless."

"That might take awhile," she laughed. "I have a great deal of sense."

"Then I'll just have to try my best," he said, bending his head to hers once more. "Oh!" he exclaimed, suddenly sitting back up. "I almost forgot."

Lya groaned. "Forgot what?"

"This." Alistair fumbled in his pocket, pulling the small velvet bag free. With one hand, he managed to open it and tip the contents into his palm. "Here," he said, offering it to her.

Lya's eye widened. "Oh, Ali," she breathed. "It's beautiful." She picked up the ring from his palm with delicate fingers, noting the heavy diamond in the setting and the small rubies set in a circle around it.

"It was my grandmother's," he explained. "My father managed to recover it from Meghren's belongings when he retook the palace."

"Are you sure it's all right to give it to me?"

Alistair shrugged. "He said he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather wear it."

"I'll have to thank him," she said softly. "But that can wait. Right now, I'd much rather thank you."

If Lya's parents thought they spent too long outside, or that Alistair and Lya seemed more than a trifle breathless, they didn't say anything.

The rest of the Landsmeet was a whirlwind of chaos. Alistair and Lya were formally announced as engaged, and the wedding, like Cailan and Anora's had been, was set for the fall, after the Landsmeet had concluded. Most nobles offered heartfelt congratulations, though there were always those who begrudged anyone other than themselves any happiness and good fortune, and Alistair had long ago learned to ignore them.

Ironically, he didn't see much of Lya for the rest of the Landsmeet. Her time was suddenly monopolized by Eleanor, Oriana and Anora as they began making plans. Lya threw him a helpless look each time she was dragged off for more consultation, and Alistair did his best not to laugh at her slightly terrified look.

When the Landsmeet ended, he and Loghain lingered in Denerim for a bit longer, to give Alistair and Lya a bit more time together. And when they eventually had to leave, Alistair did so feeling a lot happier than usual.

It affected his time in Gwaren as well. It didn't take long for news to spread that the fall would see an official change in teyrn and that there would again be a teyrna in Gwaren when Alistair returned to live there full time. Having become accustomed to the people he would rule, Alistair wasn't worried when there was no wave of joy. Lya would prove herself to them, of that he had no doubt, and would probably do so quicker than he had.

Occasional deliveries began to arrive at Gwaren's port in preparation for Lya's arrival, and the second shipment was accompanied by a familiar matronly figure.

"Audie!" Alistair cried, sweeping the older woman into a hug. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Audie raised one steel-gray brow. "You're going to need someone to look after you and your lady."

"You don't mind?" Alistair asked. "It's a long way from home, Audie."

She reached up and patted his cheek. "So gentlemanly. My husband went to the Maker's side years ago, and my children have all grown up and moved away. I was delighted when your father asked if I'd like to come here. The palace is too quiet without you. And who knows? Maker willing, there will be some little ones to take care of before too long."

Alistair laughed, embarrassed. "I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself."

"Oh, nonsense. Now, let's get me pointed in the right direction and I'll get started."

The housekeeper took over the running of the keep with a kind of ruthless efficiency that had even Loghain looking on in awe. "We could've used her during the rebellion," he muttered, watching as she directed servants in the moving of furniture and the hanging of drapes. "We probably could have just unleashed her on the Orlesians and had her harangue them back to the border."

Alistair just nodded, finally understanding how the sweet, kindly woman he'd always known had run an entire palace so smoothly. "I think we could stick her in the army and conquer Orlais if she wanted to," he said quietly, and grinned slightly at Loghain's rare, quiet snort of laughter.

"Gentlemen!" Audie's crisp voice had them both snapping to attention. "If you're not doing anything, there's an armoire that needs moving, and you've muscles enough to do it."

"Yes, ma'am," Alistair said hurrying to do as she'd asked, and as soon as they'd moved the armoire, both he and Loghain fled to the safety of the practice yards.

By the time the harvest was over and they were back in Denerim, Alistair was filled with restless energy. He still got flutters of nerves, but he was excited more than anything else. Maric, Cailan and Loghain watched him with amused fondness, and did their best to distract him.

His father used the hustle and bustle to quietly reveal he was naming Bann Teagan as the Arl of Denerim, and in all the commotion, the protests of nepotism were muted. There were some hard looks, and more than a few harsh words, but it was hard to maintain that anger amidst the promise of feasting and revelry. And two days before the wedding, Alistair joined his family to attend the quiet marriage between Teagan and Delilah.

Watching the ceremony, Alistair knew it wasn't a love match, but the two seemed to like each other well enough, and they got along well. And given who Delilah had been intended for, it was clear that all involved thought this was a preferable state of affairs, especially Cailan, who didn't seem at all perturbed that his new aunt was younger than himself.

Still, Alistair felt incredibly glad that his own marriage was not one of just friendship and respect.

The morning of his wedding dawned, and all the excitement Alistair had previously felt fled. He had trouble concentrating on conversations, barely touched food that was set before him. He would find himself simply staring into the middle distance, and was only vaguely aware of his father's exasperated mutter that he was "one of those types."

The morning passed in a flash and then Alistair was washing and dressing and letting a manservant help him with the final touches before they all left for the chantry. Through the walls of the small room they waited in, Alistair could hear the guests arriving, and he was suddenly aware of what was about to happen.

"Cailan," he said faintly to his brother who stood next to him. "I'm getting married."

"Yes, Alistair, we know," Cailan said patiently, with the air of a man who had already heard and said the same thing many, many times.

"Oh, Maker."

"Breathe, Alistair," Cailan said, shaking his shoulder slightly, amusement heavy in his voice. "It'll all be over soon. Courage, man."

Alistair just nodded, and then Maric entered with Grand Cleric Elemena in tow, and the small group made their way out into the chantry proper. When they were set, a cleverly concealed group of players started up and all eyes turned to the great doors. In a daze, Alistair watched them open. He watched Lya enter, her hand tucked neatly into her father's arm. His mind noted that her gown was incredible, that her hair and jewels were stunning, but all the details seemed insignificant. All he really saw was the brilliant smile on her face, and that she had never looked more beautiful.

Then she was next to him, beaming up at him, and his own smile was so wide his face hurt. There were vows exchanged, promises made. A kiss, sweet and chaste and thunderous applause from the guests. There was a feast, toasts and well wishes that went on into the evening, and the entire time, all Alistair could think of was that this was really happening, that all this was really real. He was married. Lya was his wife.

The only time he could remember even being close to this happy was the day his father had arrived in Redcliffe and asked Alistair to come home with him.

When the ceremony was concluded, they made their way back to the palace, Alistair and Lya traveling privately in their own carriage, and they took the opportunity such privacy afforded them. And Alistair was very, very mindful of Lya's whispered order to be careful of her hair.

Once they and all guests made it back, and were settled around the long tables, the feasting began. It may not have been quite as elaborate as Cailan and Anora's wedding, but if so, it was a near thing. It was a sumptuous affair with rare and expensive food and drink in addition to more common foods. And to Alistair, much of it was a waste. He ate and drank, but found that he didn't really pay much attention to what he consumed.

Instead, his attention kept being drawn to the woman at his side. Lya. His wife. His wife. His wife. He couldn't help but keep turning the words over in his mind. It was really real, and he couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

Around them, their were toasts in their honor, and several nobles got up to give rather complimentary remarks and well wishes. And when the main courses were done and the best wine drunk, there was dancing. Alistair later vaguely recalled lots of dancing, but again, in the moment, he wasn't really paying attention.

Finally, after several hours, Maric finally gave them one last, more elaborate toast, a not so subtle signal that they could leave if they wanted, and they very nearly sprinted to the suite of rooms set aside for them. They collapsed on the bed giggling, and for several long minutes just lay next to each other, catching their breath.

"I've had way too much wine," Lya groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. Alistair rolled up on his side next to her, propping himself on one elbow.

"Too much to try anything else?"

Lya lowered her hand, her eyes very wide, and she shook her head slightly. "No, not that much," she said, voice slightly tremulous.

Alistair leaned down and kissed her gently, feeling her hands come up to hold his upper arms. He placed a hand at her waist and slid it up slowly until it rested on her rib cage, just below her breast. Lya gulped, and Alistair pulled back to look at her.

"I shouldn't be nervous," she said, a little too quickly. "I mean, there's nothing to be nervous about, right? I love you. I trust you, so—"

He stopped her with a kiss. "Relax."

"Easy for you to say. I don't exactly have much experience with this."

"That makes two of us."

"Don't." She stiffened and pushed him back, struggling into a sitting position. "Please don't. I'm not stupid. I know about your trips to the Pearl, people were only too happy to rub it in my face. So please don't pretend. Not now."

Alistair wanted to curse. He should have known that would come back to haunt him. "I'm not," he said earnestly. "And this is probably not the time or place to discuss it, but I don't want you believing something that isn't true."

Her brows rose. "You're going to try to tell me you didn't go?" she asked incredulously.

"No." He shook his head and looked away. "Because I did go, but it's not what you think. The first time I went…I panicked." He laughed self-consciously at the remembered embarrassment. "I sort of…fled…from the girl." There was a muffled snort of laughter at his side. "Yes, yes, haha, very funny. It wasn't at the time. I'm not going to lie and say I never did anything, because she…well, showed me things, but I didn't actually…. I mean, I haven't…I've never…."

"Oh, Alistair." A slim, warm hand slid over his face to cup his jaw, turning it so that he faced Lya. "You're adorable," she said, smiling fondly.

"So you're not mad at me?"

She blinked. "Why would I be mad at you? We weren't together when you went, and it's not as if I haven't…um, fantasized about things myself, so I can hardly blame you for having…urges." Her cheeks darkened with a rather becoming blush and Alistair grinned.

Smirking, he traced the column of her throat, resting his fingers on the pulse racing beneath her skin. "Fantasies, you say?"

"Mmhmm."

He kissed her. "I think I want to know more."

Lya grinned. "Well, if you must know, they all start with you taking your shirt off."

Alistair laughed and spread his arms wide. "Well, then, dear wife, care to help me with that?"

Lya's smile was wicked as she reached for the laces on his tunic. "With pleasure, husband."

Chapter Text

The best thing about being a newly-married, new installed teyrn in a place like Gwaren, Alistair decided, was that no one actually expected you to do anything. Part of that was due to Gwaren's location. Being so far south, once winter set in, there wasn't much to do. People were mostly housebound, and even on the nicer days they didn't venture very far from the towns. That left little for Alistair to actually oversee except for perhaps a handful of crucial issues that cropped up. The other part was that everyone seemed content to give the newlyweds time to settle in and get used to each other and their home. That led to a great many late nights, even later mornings, and some very interesting explorations of all the keep's nooks and crannies.

There was some adjustment required on Alistair's and Lya's parts now that they were living together. Despite spending most of their free time together before they were married, there was a difference now that they didn't go back to their respective homes each night. They each claimed a few small rooms in the keep, out of the way and apart from each other to treat as their own private little sanctuaries when they began to get on each other's nerves.

But in all honesty, they didn't need them very much at all in those first few months.

Lya was intrigued by her new home, and Alistair did his best to show her everything, occasionally going to his seneschal for more information if she asked about something he didn't know. She made several comments about things she wanted to change in the keep itself, but noted that it would have to wait until the spring when it would be easier to work and have things shipped. Alistair agreed readily. Though he would never say so, he didn't really care what style the furniture was or what color the bedclothes were. As long as they served their purpose, he was fine with almost anything.

His wife also took an interest in the teyrnir, going over the books and records in much the same way Alistair had when he was introduced to it. She asked a few questions—fewer than he'd had, at any rate—and lamented the weather that kept her from exploring the land more fully. They did manage a few short rides through the city itself on the nicer days, and people greeted her rather warmly. Well, warmly for people of Gwaren. He could see that Lya was slightly taken aback by the seemingly cool reception and did his best to assure her that it was all quite normal.

"Are they all like that?" she muttered one afternoon as they headed back to the keep, the sun beginning to sink low on the horizon.

"Yes," he said. "It's fine. They'll warm up in time, don't worry."

"And when exactly can I expect that?"

"I don't know. When they begin doing that with me, I'll let you know."

That earned him a wry grin and a chuckle. Later that evening, sprawled together on a couch with Lya's head on his chest, each reading from a book, Lya asked him, "So is this everything you expected it to be?"

"Hmm?" He closed the book, using his finger to mark his place. "What do you mean?"

"I was just wondering if you liked it here. It's so much quieter than living in Denerim."

"I do. It suits me, I think. I have people to take care of and who rely on me, but not so much so that I need to worry that a single wrong decision will hurt them. As for being quieter…I like it, very much so. I like the city during the rest of the year. It's just big enough that it has everything we need, but it's not as busy and crowded as Denerim. And there's less…pressure. I don't need to worry about every little thing I do being scrutinized."

A thought occurred to him. "Why do you ask?" he questioned, a trace of worry coloring his tone. "Do you not like it? I thought Highever was similar. I know it's bigger than Gwaren, but from what you've said, it seemed just about the…."

He trailed off when he heard her quiet laughter. "Oh, Alistair," she said fondly, wiping at a corner of her eye. "You worry too much. I'm quite happy here. I'd be quite happy anywhere as long as it was with you."

"Flattery,"

"Honesty," she insisted. "This suits me as well, very much so. I just wanted to make sure you were happy."

"Well, it's a bit late to change my mind," he said dryly. "I suppose we could always run away to Orlais and eat cake. And while I do love cake, I think it'd probably be frowned upon."

"Probably." Lya picked up the scrap of silk ribbon she used as her bookmark, placed it between the pages, and set the book carefully down on the floor. Then she did the same with Alistair's book and turned over so that she was braced over his chest. "So, besides more cake, I can think of another way to improve our current situation."

"Oh?" he asked, feeling his pulse begin to race.

"Mmhmm." She leaned down and brushed her lips against his. "And tell you what. If you catch me before I make to the bedroom, I'll even tell you."

And with that, she leapt off the couch, racing out of the room with Alistair hot on her heels. Her laughter echoed through the hallways and even though Alistair didn't catch her before she made it to their bedroom, she told him anyway.

A heavy packet of letters was unceremoniously dropped into Alistair's lap as Lya walked around the end of the small couch and tucked herself into the other seat. She drew her legs up, and then slid her stockinged feet—her cold stockinged feet—under Alistair's thigh with a contended hum.

"What this?" he asked, sliding off the thick twine that bound the letters together.

"Mail," she said absently, already tearing into her own packet. "It came on the ship from Denerim that docked in port this morning. I guess with the break in the weather, Maric decided to risk that we weren't iced in."

Alistair nodded. "Good." The cold that settled over Gwaren, freezing everything, even the port, had loosened its grip over the last two weeks. It was still cold, often bitterly so at night, but the respite was enough to melt the ice and make it possible for trade to resume, however briefly. "Did you send off what we had?"

Lya wriggled her toes underneath him and he looked over to see her roll her eyes at him. "Of course I did." She carefully broke the wax seal of the first letter, mindful not to spray bits of blue wax everywhere. "I'm really glad this came in though. I didn't expect to be able to send it so soon, and this will probably be the last we hear from anyone up north until the spring."

"Me, too." Alistair slipped the small knife from the side of his boot free, and held it above the flame of the candle to heat the blade before slipping it under the reddish-orange wax of his father's seal.

"Fancy, fancy."

"Hush you," Alistair murmured back fondly, attention already on the heavy packet, the much smaller envelope with a gray seal that slipped free. He tucked the smaller envelope aside, saving it for last, and began reading.

There was nothing particularly exciting or earth shattering in the letter, simply a rather humdrum account of life at the palace. Alistair knew his father well enough to read between the lines and see that he's a bit lonely, but his pride in Alistair shone through brightly enough to take the sting out of the small pang of guilt Alistair felt.

He'd finished the letter and was about to start on the much slimmer one from Loghain—which was probably a set of instructions about what and what not to do—when Lya gasped softly. "What is it?" he asked, looking up.

Lya blinked up from the letter. "It's from Fergus. Apparently, Nathaniel came home from the Free Marches last month."

Alistair set down his papers. He hadn't yet gotten to Cailan's letter, and he figured that whatever Lya heard from her brother he would hear from his, but he didn't want to wait. "What happened?"

She skimmed the letter quickly. "He came back to visit Delilah. He's apparently quite thrilled that she married Teagan and not Vaughan and, oh!" Her eyes went wide. "He confronted his father about Vaughan, and said, oh, Maker! He said he wanted nothing more to do with him, that he wanted nothing from the Howe name and that Rendon could go hang for all he cared. That he was no longer his son."

Alistair whistled low and Lya nodded as she looked up at him, shock still evident in her voice. "I knew Nate wouldn't be pleased, but I didn't expect him to go that far."

"What's he going to do now? He can't stay in Amaranthine."

Shaking her head, Lya lifted the letter once more. "No. No, Fergus says he's going back to the Free Marches. Knowing Fergus and Father, I'm sure they tried to help him out somewhat. And Cailan might have more to say about that, but he's basically sworn not to return until his father is dead."

"That could be a very long time."

"I've never known Nate to break his word." She sighed, lips compressed in a thin line. "It's a sorry business. My father and Arl Howe used to be friends, but…. He tried to talk Rendon out of it, you know. Marrying Delilah to Vaughan. We all knew what he was, but all Howe could see was how it would benefit him. Ass. Well, at least that put to rest any chance of me marrying Thomas."

Alistair went very still. "What?"

"Oh." Lya blushed and bit her lip. "It was nothing serious, you understand. Just talk. Thomas was too young for me anyway, and given a choice, he's not the son I would have preferred."

He didn't say anything for a moment. "Not the one you preferred?" He tried to keep his voice steady, but even he could hear the uncertainty in it, the thread of anger.

"You're rather adorable when you're jealous, you know." Lya slid her feet out from under his leg and shifted around until she was nestled against his side. "I love you, Alistair. No one else. I never have and I never will. But when I considered others that I could have married…yes, I would have married Nate. He's a good man and I would have had a good life with him."

Reaching up, she cupped his cheek, turning his face down to hers, her green eyes wide and soft. "You make me happy, tough. I don't know how else to say it. I fall asleep in your arms each night and wake up beside you each morning, and there is nothing more I could want. Don't ever doubt that."

For a few moments longer, Alistair was able to hold his glowering façade, but it broke as soon as Lya batted her eyelashes in a patently exaggerated way, and her laugh joined his. Shaking his head, he turned back to his letters, dropping one arm across Lya's shoulders to pull her close, and reading the rest of the missives one-handed.

Alistair ducked his head into Lya's study, rapping his knuckles gently on the doorframe. Lya looked up from the letter she was writing. "Yes?"

"Are you doing anything important?"

"Not especially. Not anything that can't wait anyway. Why?"

"We need to talk."

Lya's brows knit together, but she nodded. "Just give me a few moments." She set the quill back down on its silver holder and pressed the cork back into the inkwell. Leaving the letter where it was to dry in the air, she rose from her seat, smoothing out the simple dress she wore. "What's up?"

Alistair looked around the study and shook his head, holding out his hand. "Walk with me?"

The frown stayed in place, but she came forward anyway, taking his hand when he held it out. She didn't prod him as they walked, but from the looks she kept giving him, he knew he couldn't wait too long.

They ended up in an out of the way sitting room that saw little use and Lya raised an eyebrow as Alistair tugged her down to sit beside him. "What's going on?"

"I need to tell you something," he said quietly.

"You know, you're scaring me a little. Is it bad?"

"Maybe?" Alistair honestly didn't know how to answer that question. He took a steadying breath. "I'm sure you've heard rumors about my mother, right?"

"Yes," Lya answered cautiously. "I never gossiped about you, but it was impossible to escape all talk of it, especially for the first few years after you came to Denerim."

"So you heard about how she was a servant and died shortly after I was born?"

"Yes."

"All right, well, the thing is…." He trailed off, looking down at her hand still held firmly in his. "The thing is…that's not true."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lya tip her head to the side, waiting for him to go on. "My mother wasn't from Ferelden, either. She was one of the initial group of Orlesian Grey Wardens that my father allowed back into the country."

Lya gasped softly. "Your mother was a Warden?"

He smiled. "I like how you focused on that and not that she was an Orlesian."

"Yes, well, it seems the more salient point. But is that all? Because that hardly seems a reason to be so tense."

"No, that's not all. The thing is, my mother wasn't just a Grey Warden. She was also an elven mage." Beside him, Lya went very still, and he rushed on. "Hopefully the elven part doesn't mean very much, because all children of elves and humans are human. But since she was a mage…."

"That means our children could be mages."

"Yes."

He tried not to feel hurt when Lya tugged her hand out of his and stood up, arms crossed tightly as she went to the window and leaned against it.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because I didn't want it to affect your decision to marry me, and then because I didn't want to upset you before the wedding."

"Alistair…." There was an edge of frustration when she said his name, and he watched her cover her eyes with one hand. "You didn't think it was something I needed to know?"

"I did. I just…I didn't want to lose you."

Her hand fell away from her face. "You didn't want to lose me? So, what, you tell me after I can't change my mind? How is that better?"

His head snapped up to stare at her. He had expected her to be angry or upset, but to say she wanted to change her mind…. "So if you had known, you would have told me no?"

"Alistair, no, that's not—" She cut herself off with a frustrated sigh. "All right, look, we can't have this conversation right now or we're both going to say things we regret. I need some time to think about this."

"Sure." He stood and headed for the door, hoping she would stop him before he left and feeling disappointment wash over him when she didn't. He walked through the hallways blindly, not paying attention to where he was going until he finally found himself headed outside, through the bitingly cold air and into the stables. The building, warm and smelling of horse and hay, was comforting. He busied himself, brushing his stallion down and trying not to think about how much he'd made a mess of things.

They didn't speak that night at dinner outside of what was required, and Alistair stayed out late, slinking into their bed long after he knew she was asleep. It wasn't until the following evening, when Alistair was trying to write his own correspondence, that Lya finally came to him.

"First of all," she said softly, standing in the doorway, "even if I had known, it wouldn't have made me change my mind. That's not what I meant yesterday. I married you because I love you and who your mother was doesn't change that. But you still should have told me. I'm upset because you didn't trust me with it sooner, didn't trust that I could handle it."

"I'm sorry."

"As long as you're apologizing for that, then it's fine. I'm not even angry, Alistair, I'm concerned." She came further into the room, pushing the door shut behind her and crossed to his desk. After a moment's hesitation, she slid onto his lap, settling against him, head tucked into the curve of his neck and shoulder. "I'm concerned," she said quietly. "Knowing that your mother was a mage doesn't change that I want a family, but it means that we have to be prepared."

"In case the worst happens."

She sat back quickly. "Having a child as a mage is not the worst that could happen. I'm not saying it would be good or that I want that to happen, but there are worse fates."

"So you're not mad?"

"I'm…irritated. And worried. This isn't something I thought would ever be an issue, so it never entered into my concerns to think about." She reached out, sinking one hand into his hair. "Listen, for right now, let's not worry about it, all right? We have plenty of time and I'm not going to run myself ragged with 'what if' scenarios."

Alistair nodded, leaning into her touch, a weight easing from his chest. He knew that she wasn't entirely at ease with the situation—he could feel the tension in her frame—but there wasn't anything they could do about it, and he supposed she was handling it about as well as he could expect.

"And, Alistair, please, if something like this ever comes up again, tell me first."

"I will, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that."

"You know, we're only staying for a month."

Lya shot Alistair an annoyed look, and then frowned as she looked back down at the trunk she was trying to stuff with clothing. "I need to be prepared for any situation. And so do you. We're going to be expected to put in appearances, and probably host at least a small gathering of our own. We have to look the part, Alistair. It's different now than it was before."

"All right, I get it. But that's no reason to take your whole wardrobe."

"I'm not taking my whole wardrobe," she muttered. "It's just…."

Alistair frowned when she trailed off, and moved forward to take her hand and draw her away from the trunk. A wisp of hair had fallen from the loose bun it was piled in and he brushed it away from her face. "Hey, are you all right? You're not normally this…frazzled."

She sighed and leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. "I'm fine. Just…nervous, I guess."

"Nervous?" He couldn't help the laugh. "Come on. What do you have to be nervous about?"

Pulling back, she caught his gaze, her eyes dark and worried. "I'm serious. I want to do this right. I don't want to embarrass you."

A sudden rush of affection suffused him and he pulled her close again, wrapping his arms around her and breathing in the fresh, clean scent of her hair. "You know that's silly, right? That I'm far more likely to embarrass you than the other way around? You'll be fine. We'll be fine. Just stop and breathe for a moment."

Lya laughed against his shoulder, the sound muffled by the fabric of his tunic. "You're right, you're right. I know. I need to relax. I just can't help it. Enough of my mother rubbed off that I worry about these things."

"Well, I won't tell you not to worry, but just don't worry too much, all right? The sooner we leave tomorrow, the sooner we'll get back to Denerim."

Nodding, she pulled away. "I know. Don't worry, I'll be ready in the morning and probably laugh at myself for being so distraught over something so frivolous. But for now, you should probably just leave me alone to fret over whether or not styles have changed very much in six months."

With a grin, Alistair let her go. "Probably safer for me that way. I'll, um, check to see if my packing is finished. See you at dinner?"

"Of course." She leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss on his lips. "See you then."

Alistair left quickly. It was rare that Lya got in a mood like that and he didn't want to make it worse by bumbling around. He was confident Lya would be back to her normal self by the morning.

As Lya had said, she was back to being herself the next morning, laughing over her silliness. They opted to ride to Denerim instead of traveling in a carriage, and thankfully the weather cooperated. The sky stayed dry, if not always clear, and they made good time to the capital.

Alistair half expected their families to descend upon them as soon as they arrived, but all that happened was that Fergus came a couple hours after they settled into the estate to invite them to dinner. "It'll be at our estate," he said, "but everyone will be there. Just something casual to welcome you."

"You don't have to do that," Lya protested, drawing back from the tight hug she'd wrapped her brother in.

Fergus gave her a long suffering look. "If you don't let Mother do this, she's liable to follow you to Gwaren. She misses you, little sister. So, please, if not for her, do it for the rest of us. You don't have to live with her anymore, remember?"

Smiling sheepishly, Lya nodded her head. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I miss you all, too, and I do want to see all of you, I just didn't want anyone to feel like they had to go through too much trouble."

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Fergus laughed. "You're married to a prince, there's really very little that's considered 'too much trouble.'" He dodged the playful blow she swatted at his arm. Alistair held out his own hand to greet Lya's brother and Fergus took it only to pull him into a hug. "We'll see you tonight, then?"

"Of course."

"Then I'd best get back and deliver the happy news. I'm sure Mother will appreciate a prompt response."

"I don't know why she's worried. It's not like we wouldn't go."

"Who knows why mothers do what they do?" Fergus shrugged. "Oriana frets over stuff she never did before we had Oren. Guess it's something you have to look forward, huh?"

Lya frowned at him and pushed him toward the door. "All right, you've delivered your message. Off with you now."

"I'm going, I'm going. It'll be good to spend some time with everyone tonight, so I'll see you then."

They said their goodbyes, Alistair and Lya both seeing Fergus to the door. Once he was gone, Lya stood looking at the closed door for a moment, a small frown lingering between her brows. He touched a fingertip to it, gently smoothing out the little wrinkle. "He was just teasing."

"I know." She shrugged her shoulders irritably. "But sometimes I wish he wouldn't always treat me like his little sister."

"It could be worse, you know. At least you—"

"I know." Lya cut him off abruptly and he fell silent, startled, and she sighed wearily. "Alistair, I know. I love Fergus to death. I can't imagine what it would be like without him. But that doesn't mean I can't be annoyed when he treats me like a child." With another sigh, she took a step back and waved him away. "I'm being snappish. I'm sorry. I think I'm going to go lie down for a little while before we have to get ready for dinner tonight."

She swept past him and out of the hall, leaving Alistair staring after her in bafflement. That…was unlike Lya and he frowned, thinking back to how out of sorts she'd seemed just before they left Gwaren. Perhaps she was just tired like she said, but he'd never known her to act that way. Still everyone was entitled to their off days, and he wasn't ready to read too much into it just yet. He wished he had someone to ask because going to Lya's family for help didn't seem right. Maybe he could ask Anora. She'd been able to give him advice when he'd needed it before, and she was a woman. Maybe she would have some insight.

For that moment, he put it out of her mind. It was probably nothing. He knew he wasn't always at his best when worn down. Raking a hand through his hair, he turned and headed for the training yard in the back of the estate. It would be good to get in some practice before he spent the next several weeks involved in politics.

By the time he was done a couple of hours later, and had headed back inside, Lya was up from her nap, definitely looking well-rested. "Feeling better?" he asked.

"Much," she replied with a small smile. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." He bent over and dropped a quick kiss to the top of her head. She laughed and pushed him away, wrinkling her nose. "You need a bath, love."

"Was heading there now."

"Will you be ready in an hour?"

"Yes."

"All right, I'll see you downstairs then."

Dinner was excellent. Alistair enjoyed getting to see his family again. By now, he was used to the long, half-year absences, but this time it felt different, and to be around his father, Loghain, Cailan and Anora again grounded him.

Lya was swarmed by her family, her mother and nephew especially glad to see her. Oren spent nearly the entire evening either by her side or on her lap, begging stories out of her. Eleanor was only slightly less obvious in how much she'd missed her daughter. They looked so happy—even Lya, who, for all her words, had hugged Eleanor very, very tightly when they'd arrived—that he wasn't even the slightly bit upset that he was essentially pushed aside by them for the evening. Instead, he spent his time catching up on things with his family.

"It'll be a quiet Landsmeet this year," Maric said over a glass of wine, and by his side, Loghain grunted his approval. "There are no urgent, pressing matters, and no one seems upset by anything at the moment."

"Except your pet Grey Warden," Loghain muttered.

Alistair frowned. Pet Grey Warden? "What?"

"He means Duncan." Maric sighed. "I'm sure someone will complain, but there's nothing I can do about it."

"What's going on now?" Alistair asked, looking back and forth between the two older men.

"Duncan's managed to upset the Chantry. He was making his rounds, looking for recruits, and he…liberated an apostate being brought back to the Circle after he'd escaped yet again."

Alistair gave a low whistle. "That probably upset a few people."

Loghain snorted. "Not just a few. I thought the templar that had been sent to bring the mage in was going to have a fit. And Elemena didn't look very pleased, but at least she didn't harangue anyone. And though the knight-commander wanted him to be brought back to face justice for escaping again, he wasn't willing to defy the Wardens for it."

"And the first enchanter?" Alistair ventured to ask.

"He just sent a reply that everyone would be happier if they let the Wardens take the mage, so he sent Duncan his thanks, apparently."

"Well, that doesn't seem so bad."

"Yet." Loghain glared at Maric. "If he does this too much, it's going to cause unrest."

"I'm not revoking the Rite of Conscription," Maric stated firmly. "Though if it makes you feel better, I have asked Duncan to be a little more circumspect about when he uses it."

"For all the good it'll do now," Loghain grumbled, but finally desisted into silence with a warning look from Maric.

"My point, Alistair," Maric said, firmly drawing the focus back to himself, "is that you're not going to have to do a lot of politicking this Landsmeet. That might change for the fall, and it will certainly be important in the future, but there's less pressure on you right now."

Alistair smiled, forcing himself to ignore the underlying tension in the room. This was a conflict he had no business sticking his nose into, nor did he want to. He knew where his sympathies firmly lay, but he didn't want to be forced to choose between the two men. Besides, it wasn't as if he couldn't see both sides to the argument. Neither was without merit, even if he did favor one more than the other.

"That's a relief," he said instead. "I appreciate that I'll get a chance to renew friendships and acquaintances without the added pressure."

"I thought you might." His father grinned at him. "Though I can hardly take credit, unless it's just my good luck at work."

"You've always had more than your fair share," Loghain snorted.

Maric's smile grew wistful. "Not nearly as much as most people believe, my friend. I think we both know that."

Loghain tipped his head in silent acknowledgment, and the conversation lulled for a few moments before Anora deftly turned it around, commenting on something innocuous that led them in a different direction and away from the uncomfortable, unsaid thoughts.

They stayed up talking for a long time, until Alistair was finally unable to contain a jaw-cracking jaw. There was a moment's silence, and then a ripple of chuckles ran across the group. "It's late," Maric said, rising from his seat. "You've had a long journey and we've kept you long enough." He stretched, wincing slightly when his shoulder popped, and rubbed the joint for a minute. "And you're not the only one who needs rest. Will you and Lya stay in the palace tonight?"

Alistair looked over at his wife, already shaking his head. Lya caught his eye and began to make her goodbyes. "No. I think I'd rather head back home. Besides," he laughed, "it's not as if it's very far."

"True enough," Maric replied and turned to give Lya a hug as she came up to say her goodbye to him while Alistair did the same to her family. "You're always welcome, though."

"We know. And we appreciate it." Lya gave him a swift kiss on the cheek, and Cailan and Anora as well. She didn't attempt to do the same for Loghain, but she did grace him with a fond smile, which he returned with a quirked eyebrow.

"How are you finding Gwaren?" Alistair heard him ask Lya in a low voice.

"Different." She answered in the same low voice, but Alistair heard the fondness in her voice. "I think perhaps they suited their former teyrn very well, though—tough, stubborn, fierce and loyal."

"Flattery."

"Truth." Lya laughed. "You did your people proud, and they you. I look forward to living my life there very much. We'll take good care of them."

Loghain looked up, caught Alistair's eye, and when he spoke it was to the both of them. "I know you will."

Lya graced him with another tip of her head and turned to catch Alistair's hand in her own. "Ready?"

"Yes. You? Said enough goodbyes?"

"There are never enough goodbyes for my mother, but we should be all set for tonight. Let's go home."

They waved their final goodbyes and parted ways with Lya's family at the bottom of the steps as they got into their own carriages. The ride was short, but Lya snuggled into his side as soon as the carriage door shut, and Alistair wrapped his arm around her shoulders without thought. He was drowsing by the time they got back to the estate, but the motion of the carriage stopping roused him.

He slid out when the door was opened, then turned and held out his hand to Lya. On impulse, he didn't let go when she was clear of the carriage, but tugged her forward, swinging her up into his arms. She gave a short, surprised cry before giggling and wrapping her arms around his neck. He carried her all the way inside and up the stairs to their room before he set her down, and then leaned in for a kiss.

"Thank you," she murmured. "And while I would love to suggest otherwise, right now, the only thing that's going to happen once I'm in that bed is sleep."

Alistair couldn't help but laugh. "Agreed." That didn't stop him from pulling her close once they were under the sheets, but he, too, was asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillows.

As Maric had said, there wasn't much of import at the Landsmeet. Most of the topics brought up were simply about current trade agreements, and in all cases, the vote was simply to continue as things were. There were no new proposals to be debated, which saved significant amounts of time. There was, as Loghain predicted, some few small complaints about Duncan's use of the Rite of Conscription, but they were from the most devout members of the Bannorn. They weren't pleased when Maric said the Rite of Conscription wasn't a matter to be decided upon by the Landsmeet, and then slightly mollified when he said he'd already asked Duncan to use more discretion in the future.

With the shortened Landsmeet, and the pleasant weather that came with spring, there were more social activities than usual. Alistair and Lya spent a lot of time with their families, naturally, but Alistair was also glad to catch up with Teagan, and Lya was eager to catch up with Delilah. They spent a rather pleasant afternoon and evening at Teagan's estate, talking about inconsequential things.

"How have you settled in?"

Teagan sighed. "About as well as can be expected," he answered. "I have never liked cities and I miss Rainesfere fiercely, but…." He shrugged. "We all make sacrifices. I am grateful that your father let me keep Rainesfere as well. I've managed to get away a few times and it's helped."

"And the Alienage?"

That time, Teagan rubbed his forehead wearily. "I've been within its gates all of twice, and that was enough to learn that they hate me."

"But you haven't done anything!"

"That doesn't matter. I expect they'll hate every arl on principle alone. That I'm replacing Vaughan has done nothing to endear me to them. I can hope it'll get better, but I'm not going to hold my breath."

"They'll come around," Alistair assured him.

Teagan raised a brow in disbelief. "I lack your optimism, but thank you for it all the same." He swirled his goblet of wine, watching the dark liquid coat the sides of the glass. "I should probably tell your father first, and I will tomorrow, but you should know. Isolde is with child again."

Alistair's eyes widened. "That…will come as a relief to many, to not have to worry about the succession. To the Guerrins, your father and a few others maybe. Most will gnash their teeth at the thought of an opportunity lost."

"True." Teagan seemed somber delivering the news, so he waited a moment before asking, "Are you happy about it?"

"Yes, of course. For all the faults I think Eamon has, he's still my brother. Losing Connor to the Tower was hard on him, even more so on Isolde. I just worry that fear it will happen again will cloud their joy."

Alistair nodded slowly, thinking of his own connection to just that problem. He threw a quick glance Lya's way, but she was laughing with Delilah and didn't see him. She had taken the news of his own mother relatively well, but he wondered how sanguine she would be about it if they ever did have children. He turned back to Teagan. "Not much to be done about it now."

"No. And I think it's a chance they should take, for a succession battle is a greater risk. If it can be avoided, it should be."

He nodded, falling silently and easing back into his chair. "How is Delilah settling in?"

"Well, I think." Teagan smiled widely and his gaze at his wife was unmistakably fond. "I know it's been hard on her. I'm old enough to be her father and I had rather enjoyed my life as a lifelong bachelor, but I don't regret asking her to marry me at all. She's got a good head on her shoulders, she smart, sensible and kind. I would have been hard pressed to do better. And I try to make sure she knows that she and what she does is appreciated."

"She looks happy, if that helps. You must be doing a good job."

"Thank you," Teagan laughed. "It does help. She makes being here easier for me and I would like to think that I do the same thing for her." He gave Alistair a pointed look. "And you?"

Alistair grinned. "Everything's going really well."

Teagan chuckled knowingly. "I'll bet. You two look very happy together. You're good for each other."

The simple compliment warmed Alistair, and he was glad that others could see how he felt about Lya and she for him. His wife chose that moment to look over and unable to resist, he beckoned her over. She nodded, taking Delilah's hand and the two women joined them. Sitting next to him, Alistair could see the shy little looks Delilah gave Teagan, and he wondered if the older man knew that she was probably more than a little fond of him.

Well, if she was as sensible as Teagan said, she'd let him know soon enough. For right then, he caught Lya's hand in his and turned his mind to the conversation at hand.

They attended several other gatherings over the next couple of weeks, though at a few Lya merely picked at her food and drink, and once or twice pleaded tiredness and asked to retire early. Alistair fretted a bit, but she was always fine the next day, all bright smiles and cheer, so he was forced to conclude that all was well.

They were enjoying a lazy morning in, piled together on the soft down of their mattress. "Alistair, do you have any plans for today?"

"No. Why?"

"I wanted to go looking in the market for some things."

"Oh?" He asked, wondering what she had her eye one. Lya wasn't particularly vain or greedy, but a nice, tasteful piece of jewelry—or more usually a well-crafted sword or shield—could turn her head. "What are you looking for?"

"Some furniture, I think. I'll need some things to remodel the chambers next to ours. Maybe a few clothes, as well."

Alistair propped himself up on one arm to frown down at his wife. "You can buy what you want, but didn't we just get done with everything? I thought you liked things the way we set them up."

"Oh, I do," she assured him quickly. "But there are a few things we really do need."

"Like what?" He couldn't think of anything, and he hadn't thought Lya was one to set her heart of useless frippery and decoration.

"Nothing big, I promise. Just a cradle, mainly. Perhaps a few rabbit fur blankets."

"A cradle? But those are for…." He went silent, blinking down at Lya, who was smiling up brilliantly at him. "You're serious? You…you're…."

"Yes," she said, laughing, "I am."

"Oh." The word seemed far too small to encompass at that he was feeling—sheer, wild joy, worry, fear, love—but it was all he could come up with at the moment. He pushed the sheet away to look at her abdomen, still flat and toned, and touched it gently, settling his hand low on her belly. Was that a slight curve under his hand or was he imagining it? "How long?" he managed to ask.

"A little over two months, I think."

Alistair did a quick figuring in his head. Their child would be born in the winter, probably just after First Day. His head swam with the sudden need to know details, to make sure everything was arranged so that they would be safe.

Lya's hand covered his, her thumb rubbing gently over his knuckles. "Hey. Are you all right?"

He quickly pulled his attention back to her, and laughed, even if it was a bit shaky. "Yes. I'm fine. Just overwhelmed for a minute. What about you? Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine," she giggled. "I hardly even know he's there yet, just when he decides I shouldn't eat."

"Is that why you haven't been feeling well?"

"I've been feeling fine," she protested. "Just sometimes strong smells, from food or perfumes makes me queasy. I'd rather go home when that happens than be sick all over someone's sitting room."

"Good point." He settled back onto the bed, pulling Lya against his chest, his hand still under hers on her stomach. Then he laughed again, but softly, in disbelief and wonder, his fingers stroking over the soft skin below them. "A baby. I didn't…I mean, I knew eventually, but…."

Lya laughed gently. "I'm glad you're happy."

"Very." He nuzzled into the back of her neck and smiled. "Can we tell the others?"

"We can tell them whenever you like, but it should probably be before I start to show."

"Tomorrow," he said firmly.

"Not today?" Lya asked, twisting in his arms to look at him curiously. "I would've thought you wanted to tell everyone."

"I do," he insisted. "And we will. But…I want one day where this is just ours before we have to share."

"All right." Her tone was soft. "We can do that. Tomorrow then. We'll tell everyone at once."

Telling their families all at once was rather convenient, as they frequently dined together, at the palace or one of the estates, in order to let everyone have a chance at spending time together. It was the simplest solution to making sure that no one monopolized what time Alistair and Lya had to spend with them, since Gwaren was remote enough to prevent visits their families might have otherwise made.

That evening, dinner happened to be at the palace, and they waited until everyone had settled into a drawing room before Alistair cleared his throat loudly to capture their attention. Then they each took a deep breath, Lya reached over to take Alistair's hand.

"I'm pregnant," Lya said quietly.

There was a moment of silence before everyone in the room broke out into glad cheers. Lya was immediately hugged tightly by her mother, who was wiping her eyes, while Alistair received claps on the back from Maric, Loghain, Bryce and Fergus. Then Lya managed to pry Eleanor off her long enough to receive hugs from Oriana, her father and Maric, while Eleanor turned her attention to Alistair.

The attention was overwhelming and it wasn't until the initial furor had calmed down that Alistair realized Cailan hadn't come over. He'd seen Anora give Lya a light hug, but nothing from Cailan. He looked around, finally spotting his brother standing a little off to the side, a blank expression on his face. Alistair edged his way over to him. "Cailan?" he asked.

His brother's face tensed for a moment before it relaxed. He gave Alistair a brief, tight smile. "Congratulations." Then without another word, he turned and left the room. Baffled, Alistair made to follow him, but someone caught his arm. He turned to see his father shaking his head.

"Let him go," he said quietly.

"What's wrong with him?" Alistair asked.

"Nothing. Just let him go, Alistair."

"I thought he'd be happy for me."

Maric sighed. "He is. Just give him a few days, all right?"

Alistair frowned, but did as his father said, turning back to the group. He caught Anora's gaze and she just sighed, nodded her head at Maric, and slipped out of the room, after her husband.

Meanwhile, Lya was being peppered with questions, and sat back down next to her. Eleanor's attention was focused on her concern of Lya having the baby in the middle of winter when they were stuck in Gwaren. She was adamant that Lya be closer to her family when the baby was born. Lya, knowing her mother, had already discussed that issue with Alistair yesterday, voicing her own concerns about it, so they were already prepared to tell Eleanor that they would go home for the summer, but when the fall Landsmeet came, they would remain in Denerim to have the baby, and stay until after the following spring Landsmeet. That would give them all plenty of time to be with the baby before they went back home. And, thankfully, Lya's mother seemed satisfied with that.

However, when she next turned the conversation to the topic of finding a good midwife, Lya stifled a laugh by biting her lip and quickly excused them for the night. "There will be plenty of time for that later, Mother, I promise," Alistair heard Lya telling Eleanor, and quietly resigned himself to a very doting mother-in-law for the next several months.

News that they were expecting a child traveled quickly, and for the rest of their time in Denerim, Alistair got used to people coming up to him with well wishes. Like his father had said, after a few days, Cailan did seem more heartfelt when he offered congratulations again, but there was still a sense of reserve about him that bothered Alistair. It hadn't escaped his notice that Cailan had stopped seeking him out, the way he usually did when they were in the capital, and that he didn't offer to spar with him. Alistair tried asking obliquely when they were together, but couldn't get a satisfactory response out of his brother.

He knew that succession had to be a concern for his brother. It was the concern of any landholder, but for Cailan the pressure had to be intensified. Was it enough to cause Cailan to be that upset, though? After all, he and Anora had only been married for…. He stopped, counted, and then frowned. It would be over six years now. He frowned again. That might be a cause for concern then. He would have expected over the course of six years that they would have had a child already, but clearly that hadn't happened.

Well, in that light, Cailan's behavior was more understandable, if not reassuring. Alistair had to imagine it was galling to have been trying for so long—if, indeed, they had been—and then watch your little brother have a child so quickly. He sighed. He would try to stay out of Cailan's way for now, give him some time to come to terms with it. But he wasn't going to bring the topic up. If Cailan had never sought to confide in him about it, Alistair doubted he would do so now and wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. Alistair would just have to see how it played out.

Alistair poked his head into various rooms as he made his way down the hall, looking for his wife. They had been back in the capital for a week or so, and he knew he needed to talk her now before too much time passed. Since their time in Gwaren had been so good, he was loathe to bring the issue up again. The news that an heir was on the way had seemed to thaw the reticence that the residents of Gwaren had showed, and they had warmed up considerably to their teyrna. Alistair had used to the time to keep Lya to himself as much as possible, reveling in how she changed as their child grew. He knew that once they went back to Denerim, he would have to share her with her family, and rightly so, but he appreciated the time he got with her alone.

And he was afraid that this conversation might ruin what they had.

He finally spotted her curled up on a well-stuffed couch in the library, her dark head bent over a book. "Lya?"

"Yes, love?"

"How are you feeling?"

"A little tired, but well. But if you're looking to help, you could rub my feet." She looked up at him hopefully and he laughed, sitting down on one end while she turned, dropping her feet neatly on his lap. He slipped her soft shoes off and began gently kneading the delicates bones of one foot while she moaned in appreciation.

"I did want to talk to you."

"About what?" she murmured, eyes closed, book lying forgotten in her lap.

"About what happens if the baby is…like my mother."

Lya drew a shaky breath. "Alistair…I can't worry about that right now, I really can't. right now my only concern is that our child is healthy and whole."

He nodded, still stroking her foot carefully. "I just…I can't help but thinking about it. If he'll be taken away from us like Connor was from Eamon.

Lya's hands crept down to cover her rounded stomach, fingers curling around the swell of their child protectively. "We'll cross that bridge when—if—we come to it. And until that point, we make sure our child—or our children, however many there may be—knows that we love him, no matter what."

"It if happens, it will be my fault."

"Don't," she protested. "Alistair, don't. If it happens, it won't be anyone's fault. It will just be the way things are. You had no control over who your parents were and no matter what happens, there's no blame or guilt to go around. Please don't borrow trouble. Just be happy right now."

Alistair nodded, but couldn't find his voice for a moment. He had to get this out, had to voice this fear because keeping it to himself was eating at him. "I never want my child to think that I abandoned him," he said hoarsely. He'd thought himself long past that old hurt, but the thought of another child going through that, that he would be the one to inflict it upon them, haunted him

"Oh, Alistair." There was a flurry of movement as Lya swung her feet down and snuggled herself into his side, pulling his head down so that it rested on her shoulder. "We'll make sure that never happens. If it happens, we'll trade Gwaren for Redcliffe. Or we'll pitch a tent on the shores of Lake Calenhad and demand the templars take us across every day."

Alistair chuckled at the thought of Lya living out of a tent and haranguing templars. She probably would do it, too.

"You're being silly," she said softly. "I understand why, and I even share your fear, but it's still silly. And the children we have will know how much you love them. It would be impossible for them not to. I'm almost convinced this one will come out knowing you better than it does me, with all the talking you do to him."

His cheeks burned slightly at the reference to the habit she had developed of speaking to her stomach, telling their child of how much they loved him and all the things they were going to do. But Alistair ignored that and nuzzled into her neck, taking comfort in her embrace.

"I don't think I could do this without you."

"And I wouldn't be doing this without you, so I think we're even." She pulled away to give him a small grin. "Please try not to worry too much, all right? I need you."

He pulled her close, feeling worry and relief wash over him in equal measure. "I won't. And whatever you need, you ask me. I would do anything for you, you know that, right?"

"I know. And right now, my other foot needs a little bit of attention." She looked up at him impishly, and a weak laugh broke free from his chest. He had to put this aside and be there for her right now. He didn't think the worry would ever really go away, but he couldn't focus on it or it would drive him mad. Grinning, he nudged her back and slid her feet back onto his lap.

"What about Aedan? It's what my parents would have named me if I was a boy."

They had been tossing names about for awhile. They had tentatively settled on Eirian or Máirín if it was a girl, but they hadn't yet decided on a boy's name. Alistair hummed thoughtfully, turning the name over in his mind. It was a perfectly good name. There was no reason it couldn't be an option.

"I was kind of hoping to use something tied to my family, as a sort of link. Maybe after my great-grandfather."

"Brandel?" Lya furrowed her brows in consideration.

"Not the whole name, no. But I would like something related."

Lya thought for a moment. "Braden?" she suggested. "Brannon? Bryn?"

"I like Braden," he said. "Both names together. You?"

"I think it's lovely." She patted her stomach. "Hello, Braden," she crooned.

"You're so convinced it's going to be a boy," Alistair laughed.

"It feels like a boy," Lya replied primly. "If by the way he kicks is any way to judge."

"Like you would be a good judge of that," he muttered, and then yelped when she dug her fingers into his ribs, tickling. "Stop!" he laughed, trying to extricate himself, finally scooting out of her reach. "That is completely unfair when I can't retaliate."

"You'll just have to save them up, then," was his wife's smug response. "Besides, it won't be very long now."

Alistair inched his way back over, settling down with his head on Lya's shoulder, a hand possessively splayed across her belly. "Are you nervous?"

"Yes, a bit." He worked his other arm underneath her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "But it's not like I have a choice," she drawled. "Besides, I'm eager to meet him. And I'd like my body back, and unless he's going to start paying me rent, I'd like it back soon."

"Lies." Alistair chuckled. "You love it."

"Most of it," she corrected. "When he's trying to break my ribs or standing on my bladder…not so much. Which, if you haven't guessed, is happening a little more frequently now."

He looked up at her. "It's not too uncomfortable, is it? I mean, do you want more after he's born?"

"Probably. But ask me again after he's born. I might change my mind."

But she grinned quick and easy, and Alistair knew that unless things went horribly wrong—a thought which he quickly and firmly put out of his head—then there would be more children down the road. That thought made him smile again and he leaned up to kiss Lya.

Alistair was at the Gnawed Noble, having lunch with Bann Sighard, when the front door flew open and Fergus strode inside. Seated so that he could see the door, Alistair watched as Lya's brother looked over the room, saw him, and hurried over. "Fergus," Alistair said, starting to get to his feet. "What are you—?"

"Time to go home, Alistair," Fergus said, grinning widely.

"Why…oh." Alistair blinked at his brother-in-law. "Right now?"

"Yes, right now. Come on, let's go."

Flustered, Alistair turned to Sighard. "I, uh, have to go."

Sighard just grinned widely. "Yes, you do. Best hurry home, lad. And congratulations."

"Thank you," Alistair managed and let Fergus put an arm on his shoulder to guide him out of the tavern. A few of the other nobles in their room, obviously surmising there was only one reason for his wife's brother to come rushing in to get him, also called their well wishes, and Alistair acknowledged them with a hasty wave of his hand.

They made their way quickly back to the estate. When they arrived, things weren't nearly as busy as he expected them to be, at least not until he went upstairs to where their rooms were. There he found the midwife directing a few servants, and Eleanor and Oriana bustling around the room Lya was in. Bryce sat in an out of the way corner, and rolled his eyes when he saw Fergus come in with Alistair. "There was no need to get him yet," he muttered.

"You tell Mother that," Fergus shot back quietly.

"What's happening?" Alistair asked, ignoring their by-play.

"Nothing yet," Bryce assured him. "Come on, have a seat. It will be awhile yet. I'm afraid my wife insisted on summoning you long before you needed to be here."

"I want to be here if Lya needs me."

Bryce rolled his eyes again and sighed. "You probably won't even get to see her all that much. Women have a tendency to close ranks in this situation." He cast a quick look at the door to Alistair and Lya's bedchamber and then looked at Fergus, who nodded. "Look, why don't we go downstairs, get a drink, perhaps play some cards. We'd be best not underfoot anyway."

"But…."

"If anything happens, you can be up here in a matter of moments. Fergus take him downstairs. I'll let your mother know."

Laughing softly, Fergus grabbed Alistair's shoulder again, guiding him away as Bryce cracked open the bedroom door to speak to his wife. Fergus got him safely settled in the sitting room, then disappeared briefly, only to reappear with three goblets held in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

"Ah, good," Bryce said, joining them. Fergus opened the wine, pouring them each some, while Bryce located a desk of cards. "Diamondback?" he asked, and then shuffled and dealt the cards without waiting for an answer.

The days passed in agonizing slowness. A couple of times, Alistair was called upstairs because Lya wanted to see him. She looked well each time, though the last time her expression was pinched, and wisps of hair had fallen free of the braid her hair had been tied back in. "Are you all right?" he asked, gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, taking her hand because he was afraid to do anything else.

"Yes, fine," she said, nodding. "Though I really do wish the baby would hurry up."

"All things in their proper time," the midwife said serenely, moving to light a lamp. Lya glared at the woman and muttered something under her breath that was too low to hear, but sounded highly uncomplimentary.

"Do you need anything?"

Lys shook her head. "No, nothing that you can help with. I just wanted to see you."

Alistair nodded, not knowing what else to do. He traced absent circles on the back of her hand and remained silent, letting her rest next to him. They stayed that way for a short while until Lya began to shift uncomfortably and the midwife shooed him back downstairs.

His father arrived some time in the evening. "How are you holding up?" he asked when they had a moment alone.

"All right." Alistair raked a hand through his hair. "Nervous, though. Does it usually take this long?"

"You're asking the wrong person," Maric laughed. Then he shrugged. "It did for Cailan, but from what I gather that's typical."

Slumping into a seat, Alistair nodded, rubbing his face tiredly. "Are Cailan and Anora coming?"

"In a little while. They didn't want to overwhelm you with too many people at once."

Alistair nodded again. The uneasiness between them had been better when they returned to Denerim, and had continued to improve in the months since. He believed Cailan when he said he was happy for the two of them, but there was the slightest darkness to his eyes that never quite dissipated.

"You should sleep, if you can," his father offered after awhile.

"There's no way I could possibly fall asleep," Alistair protested.

Eventually, however, he dozed on and off as the night passed. He always awoke with a start, wondering if something happened, but Bryce, Fergus and Maric—whoever was awake at the moment—were always quick to assure him nothing had changed. His brother and Anora arrived at some point, he greeted them, glad that they had come. He half-expected Anora to go upstairs, but she stayed with the men, reading quietly while they talked.

A hand gently shaking him roused him from a light sleep he'd eventually fallen into, and he blinked up blearily into Fergus's face. "Congratulations, Alistair. You have a son," he murmured quietly, keeping his voice down for the benefit of the two older men who were asleep in their own chairs.

Alistair shot to his feet, nearly knocking into Fergus in his haste. "When?"

"Just a few minutes ago. You can go upstairs. I'll let the others know."

Without bothering to take the time to respond, Alistair took the stairs two at a time, almost running into a servant coming down the stairs with an armful of linens. He deftly darted out of the way and made for the bedchamber, only to be halted by Oriana. "Slow down," she said.

"Fergus said—!"

"Yes, I know. Sit down and as soon as we're done cleaning up your son, I'll bring him to you, all right?"

"But—"

"Sit, Alistair," she repeated more firmly. "Trust me. I'll bring him to you in just a few moments."

Wanting nothing more than to ignore her and go directly into the bedchamber, Alistair nonetheless let her guide him to a chair, drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm while he waited. After a few minutes, the bedroom door opened and Eleanor, not Oriana, emerged, holding a small, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. Alistair sucked in a breath, going very still as Lya's mother walked toward him.

"I've never held a baby before," he blurted out as she went to lean down.

Eleanor paused in surprise and then nodded once. "Well, you're about to get a lot of practice. Here, hold your arms like I am." Alistair mimicked the position, and Lya's mother nodded again. "Good. Be careful with his head. He can't support it himself yet." Then she bent down in front of him and carefully set her burden in his arms.

Alistair sat frozen for a moment, and then he looked up at Eleanor. "What do I do?"

"Just hold him," she said gently. "He may fuss a little bit, but that's perfectly fine."

A tremor ran through him and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. This tiny, little person was his responsibility and he seemed so very, very frail in Alistair's arms. Braden squeezed his eyes shut, squirming in his blankets. Making sure he had his son securely gripped in one arm before bringing up his other hand to gently ease the edge of the blanket away from his face. A tiny, red, wrinkled face greeted him, eyes blinking open, a small, toothless mouth opening in a squawk. "Hello, Braden," he murmured, stroking one finger along the unbelievably soft skin of the baby's cheek. He was incredibly conscious of just how huge and clumsy his hands felt, painfully aware that his son's entire head could fit in one hand.

Alistair nodded, turning his attention back to Braden, who was now blinking up owlishly at him. His eyes were a muddy blue color, but Alistair had been told that was true of most babies. They wouldn't know what color his eyes would be for a few months yet. His hair, a fine, soft fuzz, was equally as uninformative, a brownish color that could lighten or darken as it grew. He wondered who Braden would most look like, him or Lya. It looked like Braden's eyes might have the same shape as Lya's, but it was hard to tell. He searched for a trace of his own features—the chin, maybe?—but it was hard to tell. Regardless….

"He's beautiful," he whispered in awe.

"Yes, he is," came Maric's voice, startling Alistair. He looked up to see Maric looking down at them, a fond smile curling his mouth up on one side.

They stood staring down silently at the baby for a moment before Marci gently cleared his throat. "Might I know my grandson's name?"

"Braden."

"Braden," Maric repeated, and then nodded. "A good name."

"I can't believe he's really here," Alistair said after another moment. "I mean, I knew he was coming, but…." He took a deep breath to steady himself. He was an adult, a grown man, married, teyrn of Gwaren and yet…. "I don't know if I'm ready for this," he confessed.

"A little late to worry about that now."

"I know, I know. And I want this—him—Maker, do I ever, but what if I mess this up?"

"You won't."

"But what if I do? I have no idea what I'm doing. What if I do something wrong?"

"Alistair." Maric settled onto the arm of his chair, settling a hand on Alistair's shoulder to grip tightly. "Calm down. You will be fine. None of us ever knows what we're doing the first time around, yet, somehow, we manage. You're going to make mistakes, we all do. But as long as you love him, it'll be all right. And you have people you can turn to for help if you need it. But for right now…just enjoy your son. There will be enough worry later for a dozen lifetimes."

Alistair nodded and shifted Braden, holding him more securely and pushing the blankets aside for a better look. They spent long moments examining him. He had never imagined that feet could be so little or fingernails so tiny. Braden's eyelashes and eyebrows were like little bits of gossamer. Alistair was startled by the strength in the chubby limbs, when Braden pushed his feet into Alistair's arm, and when he nudged Braden's tiny hand and had a fist clamp around his finger. He felt a sudden surge of sympathy for Lya for having to put up with this for so long.

"What's wrong with his head?" he asked suddenly, running careful fingers over the slightly lopsided point of his son's head.

"Babies have soft heads," Maric shrugged. "If they didn't, there would be a whole lot less of them being born. It'll go back to normal. Don't worry."

Alistair had the feeling he would be hearing that phrase a lot in the days to come.

"Would you like to hold him?" Alistair asked, loathe to let his son go, but knowing without being told that his father would want a chance as well.

"Of course." Maric didn't wait, slipping his hands under Braden and lifting him, holding the baby close to his chest. He stood there, perfectly still but for the gentle rocking motion that he used to soothe Braden.

"Alistair?" Eleanor called him, and he turned, brows raised in question. "Lya wants to see you."

He nodded and went to go, but Maric halted him. "Here," he said, carefully handing Braden back to Alistair. "Trust me, she hasn't had enough time with him yet."

Alistair nodded and held Braden close as he entered the bedchamber, sliding onto the bed next to his tired-looking, but beaming wife. She immediately held out her arms, and he eased their son into her waiting embrace. Lya held him close, cooing gently, touching her fingertips to Braden's nose and mouth and nearly non-existent eyebrows. "We did it," she said faintly.

"You did it," he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I love you so much."

Lya turned her head to the side, looking for a real kiss, and Alistair obliged her with a gentle one. He could see the exhaustion in her features, the dark circles under her eyes. Urging her to lie back against him, he supported her while she relaxed into him, humming under her breath as she continued to study their son.

"He looks like you," she said after awhile, startling a laugh out of him, which he quickly smothered so as not to wake Braden.

"You can't possibly tell that yet."

She grinned. "He will. You'll see. I was right about him being a boy, after all, wasn't I?"

"True," he allowed. "But it doesn't matter who he looks like. He's perfect."

Lya hummed in agreement, settling against him even more. And when the midwife came in a little while to lay Braden in his cradle, Lya only sleepily murmured her protest. Alistair made sure that the cradle was set right next to her, so that she could reach out whenever she wanted and then carefully crept from the room, letting his wife get the rest she needed.

Chapter Text

A shriek split the air of the study as Braden ran from his grandfather, giggling madly the entire time. He evaded Maric for a moment longer before Maric caught him, lifting his squirming body easily and settling him on his back. Braden immediately wound his arms around Maric's neck, still giggling.

Alistair grinned. His son loved to run and did it constantly unless someone forcibly prevented him from doing so. It seemed like he hadn't even walked, just skipped right from crawling to running. And as little as he was—though everyone assured him that he really wasn't that little for being two and a half—he had seemingly inexhaustible amounts of energy. He could wear Alistair, Lya, and his nanny down and still literally run circles around them. The only saving grace was that by the end of the day, he'd exhausted himself as well, and would go to bed without complaint, remaining asleep for the entire night.

And Braden and Maric adored each other. Seeing them caused Alistair to realize the truth about the saying that old men and little boys got up to no good together. More than once, he'd found that the two had wandered off on adventures about the palace and the grounds, lost together in their own little world.

"I still don't see why this is necessary."

At his brother's words, Alistair looked over, glancing first at Cailan and then at his father. When Maric frowned, features tightening, he wordlessly took his son from his father. If they were going to have this conversation again, Braden didn't need to hear the arguing. He nudged Adara gently to wake her up from where she was sleeping before the fire. She opened one eye to look up at him and then got to her feet. "Here," he said, setting Braden down carefully on her back. "Why don't you go have some fun with Adara?"

"Dawa!" Braden agreed gleefully, fisting his chubby hands into the ruff of her neck and thumping his little heels against her ribs. "Dawa, go!" he cried, and with a pointed look at Alistair, Adara padded quickly out of the room, Braden's giggles fading as Alistair closed the door behind them. He wasn't worried about his son, not when he was with Adara. Nothing would get by the mabari in order to harm his son, and she would take them somewhere where there would be others nearby in case something happened.

Then he turned back to others. He couldn't keep the exasperation from his voice when he said, "By all means, let's go over this again."

Cailan glared at him, but didn't back down. "I still think that this is a foolish plan."

Maric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So tell me, what's foolish about securing stronger alliances for Ferelden?"

Waving a hand impatiently, Cailan retorted, "That's not what I meant, and you know it, though now that you've mentioned it, that's also a valid point."

"You don't think we need alliances?" Alistair asked incredulously.

Cailan glared at him, pale blue eyes hard. "I'm not stupid. I'm aware we need alliances. But Ferelden is strong at the moment, trade is growing, and there's been no sign from the border than Orlais is thinking about invading. Why the sudden push to get this done now and not it years ago when we weren't as strong?"

Maric tilted his head to the side slightly, lips pursed in thought. He looked at Loghain briefly and then back to his oldest son. "We did need it years ago. No one is denying that. For too long we were too vulnerable. Thankfully, that's changed. Right now we're working from a position of strength and we need to make the most of that. If we wait and something does happen, we won't have the high ground anymore."

Alistair nodded to himself. The logic was completely obvious to him, and he knew that Cailan knew that as well. His brother was not the greatest of scholars-none of them were, at least not like Anora was-but he wasn't stupid. His refusal to let the issue drop had to be rooted in something else, but Alistair had no idea what it might be.

"I know that," Cailan sighed.

"Then why do you keep bringing it up?" Maric asked, exasperated.

"Because you going is a bad idea!" Cailan threw his arms out wide. "You're the king. Why not send an ambassador or a diplomat to negotiate for you?"

Across the room, Loghain snorted derisively. "Because none of them could be as effective as Maric." Cailan's brows rose in obvious doubt and Loghain nodded. "No, he's not as good as someone like Anora would be, or even Bryce Cousland, but your father can be charming and charismatic in his own way when he wants to be. His advantage is that they don't see him as Maric; they see him as Maric the Savior, the man who defeated an empire to reclaim his country and throne. That's the appeal his presence will have, not his ability to negotiate."

"I still think it's too risky."

"No one's denying that there are risks," Maric said quietly. "There are always risks. But this is far from the most dangerous thing I've ever done, and even if something did happen, Ferelden isn't in any danger. My line of succession is three deep, and Loghain is still my general. As much as the Orlesians might hate me, they fear him. If there is any time for me to ever do this, it's now." He sighed. "Besides, I've waited too long as it is," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Alistair looked up sharply at the odd words, as did Loghain, the other man's features twisting into a scowl. Maric waved him off before Loghain could say anything. "Nevermind. The point is that this is decided. I don't want any more discussion about it. We have more important things to go over before I leave. Consider the matter closed."

He left without another word and Alistair frowned at the stiff lines of his father's shoulders and back. Loghain muttered something under his breath and followed, leaving just Cailan and Alistair in the study. Alistair looked over at his brother and the unhappy set to his face.

"Why do you keep pressing the issue?" Cailan looked over at him. "His mind is made up and it's a good plan. What you're doing isn't helping."

Cailan looked at the door Maric had left from. "I know," he said softly, tiredly. "I know, but..." He sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face and moved to pour himself a goblet of him. Staring into the drink pensively, he didn't look at Alistair as he spoke. "I don't like it. I know we have to do this, that he has to do this, but..."

"Is it because you'll be in charge?" Cailan started slightly and looked up in surprise. "I'm not stupid. You're not exactly a master of subterfuge, Cailan. You're ready for this."

Cailan's lips twisted unhappily. "No, I'm not."

Sighing, Alistair crossed the room and poured his own goblet of wine. Cailan wasn't often maudlin, but when he was, he could really get stuck in his self-doubts. "Stop being an idiot. You are. And you'll have Anora and Loghain and me, for all the help I'll be." The wine was pleasant, as far as wines went, but Alistair didn't refill his goblet once he drained it. He set it down and removed Cailan's from his hand, setting it down next to his. "Anora will kill me if I let you get drunk. Go to bed and stop worrying. You'll be fine."

"You do realize I'm your older brother?" Cailan asked archly, a trace of his usual good humor showing through.

"But clearly not wiser," Alistair grinned back. "Bed. Now." He pushed Cailan on the arm, relieved when his brother relented and allowed himself to be move. They walked through the halls in silence, and while Alistair didn't follow him back to his rooms, he did watch at his own door to make sure Cailan kept going. Hopefully, Anora could help dispel his doubts.

The day of Maric's departure dawned clear and bright. Alistair and Lya got dressed and then Alistair held Braden still while Lya wrestled him into more formal clothes than he usually wore. He fussed and pulled at them, but quieted when Alistair told him that if he behaved, they'd go for a carriage ride.

That they were going anyway wasn't something a three year old needed to know.

In the end, they ended up taking two carriages in order to accommodate all of them. The trip longer than expected as well, because it seemed as if all of Denerim had turned out to see their king off. Luckily, they'd already made sure Maric's things were packed and aboard the ship, so all they had to do was see him safely on board. They boarded the ship with him, partly so they could wave to to crowds from the deck of the ship, visible to all, and so that their words could not be overheard by the very same crowds. Maric stood for a while, waving to the cheering crowd. The little prince was popular with the people and Alistair held Braden up. At first, the sight and sound overwhelmed him and he buried his face against Alistair's neck. But gradually, between Lya and Alistair both reassuring him, he peeked out, willing to at least look at the people, though he clung tightly to Alistair.

One by one, Maric pulled them aside. Cailan and Anora were first and Cailan seemed somewhat reassured by the time they parted. Maric clasped arms with him and kissed Anora's cheek. Alistair and Lya were next and Alistair pulled his father in for a hug. Maric beamed and told them to be careful, to help Cailan, and to take good care of his grandson until he could come back and spoil him. With Braden, he tickled and tossed him in the air until they were both breathless with laughter. Maric hugged Braden tightly enough that the boy squirmed in his hold and he reluctantly handed his grandson back to Lya.

He didn't spend long talking to Loghain, though what words they did exchange were quiet and solemn. Maric gripped Loghain's hand tightly in both hands, as close as an embrace as Alistair had ever seen them in. For a moment, Loghain looked trouble, before the gruff mask descended once more and hid his emotions.

Goodbyes said, they walked back down the plank to the dock, watching as the sailors cast off lines. They waved as Maric's flagship slowly pulled away, followed by the two other ships that carried most of the royal guard that was to serve as his escort and the gifts he was bringing to foreign rulers.

When Braden began fussing again, Lya looked up at Alistair. "I'm going to take him back to the palace before he has a tantrum."

"Good idea. I'd like to stay a little longer, though."

"That's fine." She tipped her head and Alistair leaned down to brush a kiss across her cheek."

"I'll join you." Anora wrinkled her nose slightly. "I've never particularly enjoyed the scent of the harbor."

Cailan chuckled and kissed his wife as well. The women climbed into one of the carriages and headed back into the city, while Cailan, Alistair and Loghain stayed, watching the ships grow smaller and smaller until they could no longer be seen.

Three days after Maric's ship departed, a storm swept through Denerim. Alistair frowned at the sound of the wind and rain lashing against the walls of the palace, trying to force away his uneasiness. It was a storm, nothing more. A bit more severe than they usually experienced, but there was no reason to worry. Maric's ships were well built and crewed by experienced hands. He was sure that the ships would weather the storm just fine.

The storm raged for the better part of a day and night, and throughout the time, he caught others frowning at a particularly intense burst. It was clear they were having the same thoughts as he. As soon as the storm had passed, and the ships that had sailed out to sea had returned, Loghain dispatched one to confirm that Maric's ships made it safely back to port.

It took the better part of two weeks—longer than they expected—before they received any news. And it wasn't good. Maric's ships never made port in Kirkwall. The ship had waited a couple of days, in case the ships were damaged and needed longer to make it to port. When they hadn't arrived, they made their way back to Denerim, stopping at ports large enough for Maric's ships, to see if they had stopped there.

No one had seen anything.

Cailan immediately sent out more ships, to check the coastlines along both sides of the Waking Sea, as well as around Brandel's Reach, the large islands off Ferelden's northeast coast. The hope was that the ships had been damaged and had made for the closest coast. If luck was with them, Maric and his men would be found, roughing it on some deserted stretch of beach.

Unable to do anything else once the searchers had been sent out, they waited.

The messenger was escorted in, and as soon as he passed through the doors, Alistair knew. The man's pale, waxy countenance, the fidgeting of his hands, the very fear written on his face…. No one bearing even remotely good news would look that afraid. Cailan's hands tightened upon the arms of the throne for a moment. "Speak," he said bleakly.

Fresh beads of sweat broke out over the man's forehead as he looked at the assembled grim visages. His swallow before he began speaking was audible. "Y-Your Highness," he stammered. "The ships you dispatched searched, truly they did. For weeks, they found nothing. But...a few days ago..." He paused, taking a deep breath. "One of the ships came across wreckage. Not much, but enough that the captain believes your father's ships went down in the storm. He doesn't...he doesn't think there's any hope. It's been too long to find any survivors."

For a long, terrible minute, Cailan said nothing, and then he nodded slowly. "Thank you," he said, voice almost steady. Anora looked over at him, expression flashing from shock to concern. "My seneschal will see you compensated for your travel. Now if you'll excuse me, I have arrangements to make."

Cailan maintained his stillness until the messenger had left. Once the door had closed, he rose slowly, turning to look at Alistair and Loghain. They looked back at him, and Alistair wondered if his own face held the same hopeless grief Cailan's did, or if it was similar to Loghain's expressionless countenance, devoid of all emotion.

"Go," Loghain said suddenly, voice raspier than normal. "All of you, go. I will begin making arrangements, but your parts can wait until morning."

"No, I must-"

"Cailan." There was an unheard gentleness in Loghain's gravelly voice, all the more strange and awful for the reason it was there. "Go."

His brother took a long look at Loghain, and then nodded, turning away from them without a word. Anora moved forward swiftly, threading her arm through his and pressing close to Cailan's side in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. Cailan's stride stuttered momentarily, but then he pulled Anora closer and covered her hand with his free one as they silently left the throne room. A sudden hand gripping Alistair's shoulder had him turning to look at Loghain. "You, too," the older man said. "These next weeks and months will be terrible enough as it is. Take this time for yourself because you won't have it later."

Also silent, Alistair nodded and let his feet take him from the throne room toward the rooms they'd been staying in since they'd come to Denerim. Lya would be there, and right now, he needed her more than anything else.

Later that night, pressed against his wife in bed, Alistair let the tears that had been threatening all afternoon and evening fall. He cried silently, face pressed against her shoulder, body shaking as Lya held him, arms wrapped tight around him, murmuring softly and running her hands soothingly through his hair. When his tears were done, she wiped his face gently with a soft cloth, removing the visible traces of his grief.

When she was done, she slipped from the bed and his first thought was to grab her to keep her from leaving. But Lya only crossed the room to Braden's small bed set against the wall. She bundled their son up in her arms, shushing him gently when he stirred and brought him back to their bed. Alistair reached out, gathering Braden close to his chest, settling his son there while Lya slipped back under the covers, curling herself along the other side of Braden's body.

The warm, solid weight of his son soothed him slightly, and he had to resist the urge to crush him against his chest. His father was gone—and, Maker, how was he ever going to get used to the fact that his father was gone?—but he hadn't lost everything. He still had the rest of his family, Lya and Braden, Cailan and Anora, Loghain, and even the rest of the Couslands. It would be hard, but he wasn't alone.

He reached out a hand and caught Lya's, twining their fingers together over Braden's sleeping form, and tried to still his mind, to put aside his grief and worries and rest long enough to get the strength he would need for the coming days.

The next morning, they began the morbid discussion about how to have a state funeral without a body to send to the Maker. Part of the problem was also spreading the word of Maric's death. Rumor had been rampant over the last few weeks, but now they had to spread truth and dispel hearsay. Elemena was adamant that they have a pyre regardless, as the symbolism was important both for the people and to reflect the truth that however his death had occurred, Maric's soul had clearly gone to the Maker's side.

And if they were going to have a pyre, that meant giving the nobles time to get to the capitol. Naturally, there would be no viewing, no displaying of the body so that the people could pay their last respects. Instead, Elemena gently suggested that the Chantry hand out ceremonial candles for the people to light in their own homes. They could light them for a week, to honor Maric and help guide his soul to the Maker, until the funeral. Cailan agreed without question.

The rest of the niggling details were handled by Loghain and Anora, leaving Cailan and Alistair to just nod and agree. And frankly, that was all Alistair felt up to doing. After the initial storm of his grief had passed last night, he was left numb, and it carried on throughout the day. His mind kept turning over what had happened, how terrifying his father's last moments must have been. Added to that was the absolute feeling of helplessness that consumed him. There was nothing he could have done, no aid he could have rendered. He didn't even know what had happened until long after it was over. While his father had been dying, Alistair had been carrying on, blithely unaware of the tragedy occurring. He knew it was irrational, but he felt guilty, stricken with the knowledge that when it had mattered, he had been useless.

The numbness carried well into the week. As messengers were sent out to tell people what had happened, informing the nobility and common people both, the closest of the bannorn began to arrive. The mood was somber as the banns and arls and arlessas gave their condolences. It was strange to see how different this gathering was from the Landsmeets. There were no arguments, friendly or otherwise, and no political discussions and jockeying for position.

All of the nobles were solemn and grave, even those who had been contentious, such as Arl Howe. The death of a king was never something to be taken lightly, and with a king such as Maric... Well, there would never be another like him. Soon enough, things would return to a semblance of normality, the usual political bickering and jockeying for position. But for now, there was just quiet sympathy.

Braden was too young to understand what was going on. The concept of death was too foreign to for him to truly comprehend. Alistair and Lya had explained to him a carefully and as gently as they could that his grandfather was gone and not coming back. He'd responded with a child's bewilderment, crying because he wanted his grandfather and because he could sense the sorrow that enveloped the rest of his family. But his grief was shallow, a fleeting thing, and it was easy to distract him.

The others did their best to keep the most outward signs of their grief from him, and his son served as a welcome distraction when the worst of it hit. It was hard to get lost in sorrow when your child put his hands to your cheeks and said, "Smile, Daddy." Alistair did his best, though his laugh was watery.

"I'll try," he told Braden, blowing a raspberry into his son's cheek and setting him to laughing. "I'll try."

The morning of the funeral dawned bright, the sky a bright, cloudless blue. It seemed incongruous with the task at hand, but Alistair wasn't sure if a dreary day would have been any more fitting. His father was the reason there was a Ferelden; perhaps it was better that Maric's funeral be on a day when the sun shone down bright on his people.

At first, he and Lya had been unsure about whether or not to include Braden in the funeral itself, leaving him in the capable hands of his nanny and a few guards instead. Loghain, though, pressed them to bring him, at least until the pyre was lit, his reasoning being that it would reassure the people to see that the line of succession was unbroken. Perhaps if they were burning Maric's body, Alistair might have insisted that Braden stay away, but a short time at the ceremony itself wouldn't harm him. They dressed in silence, helping each other when needed, while Braden's nurse tucked him into the somber little outfit they'd had made for the occasion. When they were finally ready, Alistair pulled Lya into his arms, wrapping them around her and just holding her for long minutes, breathing in the soft scent of her perfume and letting her presence settle him.

"We need to go," Lya said softly.

"I know," he replied, giving her one last squeeze before reluctantly letting her go. She smiled at him sadly and took Braden from his nurse, settling their son on her hip. Alistair slipped an arm around her shoulders, letting his fingers rest lightly on the back of Braden's head and led them out and to the throne room. Loghain was already there waiting, along with the guards. He nodded when he saw them, but didn't say anything. A few moments later, Cailan and Anora entered, arms linked. They all looked at each other for a moment until finally Loghain moved.

"Let's get this over with," he growled.

Cailan and Anora led the way, followed by Alistair and Lya. Loghain walked behind them, the rear guard to a small, sad procession making their way out to the courtyard where the pyre had been prepared. The pyre was ready, looking strangely empty with the lack of a body on it. The nobles stood in a ring around the courtyard, far enough back that the heat of the fire wouldn't harm them. Beyond them, separated by a line of guards, the rest of the citizens were amassed, spilling back into the streets as far as the eye could see. To the side, stood a small contingent of Grey Wardens, Duncan at their head.

Grand Cleric Elemena was waiting, and once they'd taken their places, she stepped forward. Alistair tried to pay attention. He knew what she said was supposed to be words of comfort, of peace, that Maric was by the Maker's side, but the words just washed around him without him truly hearing them. Lya squeezed his hand every so soft and when Braden started to fidget, Alistair took him from her, quietly promising his son that he would answer his questions later. When Cailan stepped forward to take a torch from one of the waiting clerics, Lya slipped her arm through his and held on tightly.

He touched the torch to several places, holding it until the tinder began to catch, and then tossing the torch on top of the pyre. Everyone stepped back a little more as the wood caught and began to burn. It was silent, except for the crackle and roar of the flames, and the occasional murmur from someone close enough to hear. After a few minutes, Lya took Braden back and signalled to a guard. Braden fussed at being handed over, but Lya kissed his cheek and told him to be good before she sent him inside.

It took a couple of hours for the fire to burn down to embers, and as they turned to go, they could see that most of the crowd had stayed for the whole time. It warmed Alistair's heart a bit to see the clear outpouring of love the people had for Maric. As the people began to head back to their homes, the nobles headed toward the palace. There wouldn't be a long or boisterous gathering, but they still had to circulate and thank the nobility for coming. Alistair had no desire to, and he knew Cailan didn't either, but there was no escaping the duty.

Everyone expressed their sympathies, though some were clearly more sincere than others. Alistair nodded, said the right things, and got through it as quickly as possible. Thankfully, the Couslands and Eamon took over taking care of the assembled guests, allowing Alistair, Cailan and their wives to retire.

Back in their rooms, Alistair was exhausted and didn't object when Lya pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed. She slowly undressed him and he followed her instructions woodenly, until he was down to thin linen breeches and a shirt. Then she urged him to lie down, slipped her own gown off, and slipped into bed beside him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, smelling faint traces of soap and smoke.

He let out a shuddering breath and stared dry-eyed at the wall until he fell asleep.

Cailan's official coronation came the next day, when all the nobles were still in the capitol. Cailan sat on the throne for the first time as king and had the crown placed on his head. Lya had expressed some worries about some of the Landsmeet expressing doubt about Cailan's abilities, but either the fears were unfounded or the others had done a good job reassuring those who were uncertain.

Alistair did not envy his brother; following their father was not going to be an easy task. Maric might not have been perfect, but his deeds blinded most people to his flaws. Luckily, Cailan had Anora-who was given the title of queen after Cailan was crowned-by his side and no one doubted her abilities. It was odd, to think of Cailan as king now, and he hoped it wouldn't change anything between them. He didn't think so, but he couldn't always predict what Cailan would do.

And then, starting the next day, the nobles began returning home, leaving them to get used to their new reality. Cailan and Anora settled into the day to day minutia of their new roles, including moving into the royal suite, which Cailan left to Anora to handle.

The hardest part was Braden's inability to understand where his grandfather was. The first few weeks, he kept asking for him, kept looking for him. When they finally explained to him that Maric wasn't coming back, that he couldn't come back, he burst into tears, sobbing the way only a very young child could. Alistair held his son, letting his tears and snot soak through his shirt and he tried to calm Braden. When Braden finally stopped, exhausted and sniffling and hiccuping, Alistair just held him, rocking him gently, his own grief feeling fresh again. He envied his son the storm of grief, expressed so openly, and the calm that followed. For Braden, the sadness would linger, but not the sharp ache Alistair felt. And because he was so young, in time it would fade. Alistair never wanted to forget his father, but he was grateful that this wouldn't be something that would haunt his son.

The door swung open and a guard stuck his head in and Cailan, Alistair and Loghain looked up. They'd been planning a permanent memorial for Maric, placed in the square where his pyre had been. "Your Majesty?" the guard began cautiously—everyone had been cautious these last three months—and then continued. "There's a-"

"No need for introductions; he knows who I am," came a voice from behind the guard and Duncan walked past him into the room. Alistair frowned at the sight of the Warden-Commander. Duncan looked not just tired, but haggard, deep circles under his eyes and dust from the road still clinging to his cloak. More troubling was the scabbed over cut that slashed across one cheek. Only the most desperate of bandits would risk assaulting Grey Wardens and that didn't bode well for anyone, or Ferelden.

"Warden-Commander," Cailan said in surprise. "I had thought you would be out of the capital for some time yet."

Duncan looked at the others in the room meaningfully. "If I may speak in private with you, Your Majesty."

Brows rising in concern, Cailan nodded, waving for the guards and other nobles to clear the room. Loghain remained where he was and Alistair debated whether or not to follow the others out when Duncan said, "I'd like Prince Alistair to remain, as well."

"All right," Cailan agreed. As soon as the door closed behind the last guard, he asked, "What's this about?"

Without speaking, Duncan stripped off his gauntlets, then unhooked his cloak to drape it carefully over the back of a chair, trying to avoid getting most of the grime on it. It worried Alistair. He'd never known Duncan to avoid addressing a problem. If anything, the man could be too blunt in trying to get his point across. Finally, he turned back to face them. "You were right that I hadn't intended to return to the capital so soon. I'd planned to go to Jader to check in with the Wardens there, and hopefully find some recruits along the way. I never made it to Jader, however. Something else came to my attention."

"This ought to be good," Loghain muttered, Maric's death not helping improve relations between him and the Warden-Commander.

Duncan didn't take the bait and looked at each of them, studying them of the intently. "I and my men were diverted to Ostagar."

"Ostagar?" Alistair asked. "But that's just a ruin, on the edges of the Kocari Wilds. There's nothing down there except some Chasind."

Duncan grimaced and then laughed, a quiet, humorless sound that chilled Alistair. "I wouldn't say that, Your Highness. At least not anymore."

When a Grey Warden said something like that, there was only one thing he could be talking about.

"Darkspawn," Alistair said quietly, and Duncan nodded.

"Well, that's not good," Cailan sighed. "Just a raid, you think? Do you have enough men to handle the problem or should I dispatch a company to help you deal with the problem?"

Duncan paused again, the silence drawing out, heavy and ominous. Alistair gripped the back of a chair to keep from fidgeting and even Loghain leaned forward, frowning. "It's more serious than that, I'm afraid." He looked at Cailan, flicked his gaze over to Alistair for a moment, and then back to Cailan. "I've talked with my fellow Wardens. There's no doubt about this, Your Majesty." He took a deep breath.

"The Fifth Blight has begun."

Chapter Text

Duncan's declaration that a blight was coming wasn't announced. Long mistrustful of the Wardens for absconding with Maric years ago—for which Alistair couldn't exactly be upset—Loghain was openly skeptical of the idea, convinced that it was some sort of plot. It was a position he couldn't be budged from, not even by Anora.

Cailan, though, was quick to side with the Grey Wardens, for which Alistair was grateful. He would have advocated strongly for Duncan to be taken seriously on his own, but not having to convince his brother meant that they could present a united front from the start. Loghain, recognizing that he couldn't sway Cailan's mind on whether or not the blight was real,changed tactics from denying the blight to insisting that it not be revealed publicly yet. He was adamant about not spooking the people with the idea that a blight was coming barely six months after Maric died. While any delay chafed at Duncan, they managed to agree to let Cailan tell the public that there was word of a large darkspawn raid to the south, and that the bannorn would be expected to begin calling in their levies. They, along with the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, would deal with the problem.

Duncan was not pleased to learn that the Orlesian Grey Wardens would not be allowed into the country to aid them. Loghain was immovable on that subject. Meetings with both of them present quickly became tense, uncomfortable affairs.

Surprisingly, the mobilization of troops was met with some excitement, at least among the younger generation. Those that had lived through the war with Orlais were in no hurry to see battle again, but for most of the warriors that filled the ranks, it would be their first chance to face an actual enemy in battle, beyond border skirmishes and dealing with bandits. Preparations began almost as soon as the announcement went out, Loghain conferring with the most seasoned veterans on the best location for an engagement and how best to use it to their advantage.

As teyrn of Gwaren, Alistair needed to lead his own troops and levies in Ostagar. Since he was in Denerim, he sent word to his forces that he would be traveling with Loghain and the army, to take command when he arrived. And with Loghain leading the army, Cailan would remain behind in Denerim, a decision that had left him fuming.

Nothing Alistair tried to say to him seemed to help, and Anora fared little better. As the weeks went on and troops began departing for the south, Cailan's temper grew increasingly short. Alistair had no patience for it. He wanted to shake Cailan and tell him that he'd gladly trade places with him. Given the choice, he'd much rather stay with his wife and son, but that wasn't a choice that he had. They had their duties and Cailan acting like a petulant child about it wasn't helping. Eventually, he had to let the subject drop; there was too much to be done to waste time on the issue.

A more personal, if no less pressing problem, could be found closer to home.

One of the things Alistair had learned about his wife was that when she was upset, she got quiet. Alistair watched her pull herself inward, going quiet and still in a way she rarely did, and refusing to let Braden out of her sight. He knew Lya was worried; her husband, father and brother were all going south to battle darkspawn in what could be the first encounter of the Fifth Blight. He was worried enough about himself, it had to be even worse for her to watch so much of her family ride off, unable to go with them.

His last night in Denerim, he made Braden's nanny take him and pulled Lya into their chambers. When she looked at him, he could see the fear in her eyes, finally letting her walls down enough in private to let it show. "Lya—"

"It's a bad idea," she interrupted before he could get any further.

"It's going to be all right," Alistair said, putting his hands on her shoulders, trying to reassure her.

"You don't know that!" she snapped, jerking herself away a few feet. Then she took a deep breath, holding it before letting it go slowly. "I'm sorry, I'm not angry at you. I'm just worried. I don't like the idea of all of you going."

"I know." Alistair approached her slowly from behind, rubbing his hands across her shoulders, frowning at the tension he found in them. "But we don't have any choice. We might not have been there recently, but I'm still teyrn of Gwaren. I have to go. Your father's in the same position. And since Fergus is going to be teyrn after him, he can't very well stay behind when Highever is in no danger."

"I know. I know, but…." She turned her head to look at him out of one eye. "Do you really believe what Duncan said? About it being a blight?"

Alistair kept rubbing his wife's shoulders to buy himself time, carefully working at the little knots of tension while he thought about how to answer. "I have never known Duncan to lie," he eventually said. "At least, not without a very good cause. And I can't see any reason for him to lie now. There's no benefit to it."

"So you do think it's a blight."

"I'm hoping he's mistaken," he answered quietly.

"But you don't think he is," Lya pressed.

"No."

Her shoulders slumped under his hands and he quickly turned her around to gather her in his arms. "No, I don't think he's mistaken," he went on, "but I think we have time. I've studied the history of the blights. It takes time for the horde to gather itself. There are always increased sightings and battles with darkspawn before an archdemon is first sighted."

"That's not actually reassuring, you know," she said, words muffled against his shoulder, arms slipping around his waist.

"Not for Ferelden, no, I know that. And while I know Duncan is hoping to end this blight early, I don't think there's going to be a tainted dragon showing up in Ostagar during the first battle. After this raiding party has been dealt with, we can turn our attention to making sure Ferelden is prepared."

She huffed a weak breath of laughter. "You mean convincing Loghain to let the Orlesians in."

"Yes. That." Alistair grimaced. That was going to be an unpleasant argument, and he desperately hoped that Loghain conceded so that Cailan wouldn't forced to override him. He could have by now, everyone knew that, but they all respected Loghain too much to do that to him. Anora supported letting at least some Orlesians troops in, so hopefully that would help convince her father. If they could present a united front, with proof to back them up, then surely Loghain had to accept that it was for the best.

"I never imagined something like this could actually happen." Lya's voice was subdued. "And so soon after your father…." She pulled back to look at him. "I'm sorry you have to go through so much, so soon."

He tightened his arms a little more. "At least I'm not alone."

Lya moved closer, pressing herself up against him. "Still, you shouldn't have to be dealing with my issues right now."

"I can think of worse things," he said mildly, one corner of his mouth pulling up in a smile. "It's going to be fine, I promise you. We know the plan, we could recite backwards and in our sleep. None of us are likely to be involved directly in the fighting, not unless something goes very wrong."

"These are darkspawn," she muttered. "Something's already gone very wrong."

"You...may have a point." He pulled back just enough to look down at it. "Is talking about it helping? If it is, we can keep at it, but I was thinking of something a little more...fun." He cast a pointed look at the bed.

That got him a genuine laugh. Lya shook her head, trying to fight off a wide smile. "You sure that won't leave you too tired tomorrow?"

Alistair snorted. "You're athletic, dear, but if that leaves me too tired, I don't belong in your bed or riding off to battle. Besides, I'll have plenty of time to rest up on the way to Ostagar."

"Mmm, thin bedrolls on the cold, lumpy ground. That'll be so restful."

"I get a cot," he muttered. "But even so, this is going to be my last night in a real bed with a beautiful woman for several weeks. Would you really deny a man that?"

Lya's eyes softened. "A man, yes. You, never." She rose up on her toes to kiss him, leaving them both breathless. When she lowered her heels, she tugged at him, pulling him toward the bed.

They didn't talk, much, and if they both held each other a little tighter, well, who could blame them?

In the morning, Lya helped Alistair into his armor, something he was deeply grateful for. The process was complicated and intimate, and while it wasn't all that rare for Ferelden, Alistair had never been more thankful for having a warrior wife of his very own.

When he was girded and clad and whatever other euphemism passed for being encased in forty pounds of expertly crafted silverite plate armor and padding, he at least looked powerful and in control, even if he didn't feel it. He might be wearing fine armor and carrying a well-crafted sword and shield, and been trained by some of the most gifted fighters Ferelden had seen in decades, but it didn't change the fact that he had never actually seen battle. Sparring and mock skirmishes could only go so far. All too soon, his mettle would be tested far above anything he'd ever expected.

He wasn't ready for this. Wasn't ready for the responsibility of having so many depend on him, for having so many lives riding on his shoulders. If he made a mistake, good men and women would die. Alistair didn't know if he could bear the weight of that. This was something—

Lya laid a hand on his vambrace, interrupting his thoughts. "You'll be fine," she said quietly.

Alistair nodded shortly. "Lya, if something does happen—"

"Don't borrow trouble like that," she said quickly. "Please."

"Let me say this," he insisted, waiting for her to nod before he continued. "If something does happen, you do what you have to, all right? If that means staying in Denerim, so be it. But if you need to take Braden and go to Gwaren or Highever, you do that."

For a moment, he thought she was going to argue with him, her jaw set in that stubborn way he knew so well. But after a moment it eased. "All right," she said slowly. "But only if I have to."

"Thank you," he breathed. And then because there was more that needed to be said…. "You know I love you, right?"

She smiled gently. "I have never doubted that."

"Good. And...make sure Braden knows, too? Just...just in case."

"He does," she said. "And he will because you'll be there to tell him yourself." She glanced at the window. "We should go, they'll be waiting for you."

Glancing at the window himself, he nodded. Picking up his gauntlets in one hand, he took Lya's arm with the other. In the main hall and just outside the doors, people were bustling about. The atmosphere was almost festive, the anticipation palpable. It seemed strange to him, how people could be so excited for something so grim. Lya just offered him a tiny shrug of her shoulders.

As they waited for everyone to be ready, Braden's nanny came out, holding the wide-eyed little boy as he squirmed, trying to look at everything around him. Alistair took him from her arms, Braden squealing at the cold touch of metal, but quieting down when he found his father's grip unmovable. He looked up at Alistair, his little face going serious. "Da goin' away?" he asked, hands patting at Alistair's breastplate.

"Yes," Alistair said, hugging his son as best he could without crushing him. "Your da's got to go away for a little while." Braden's eyes grew watery and his lower lip started to tremble. Alistair realized that he'd never actually been away from his son before. Every time they'd traveled, Braden had gone with them. "Hey, hey," Alistair said, trying to stop the tears before they started. "It's only for a little while, all right? I'll be back before you even know it. But I need you to stay here and take care of your mummy. Do you think you can do that for me? Be a brave, strong prince and look after her until I come back?"

Braden rubbed one eye with a fist and nodded.

"Good boy," Alistair said, brushing Braden's cheek with a quick kiss. From the corner of his eye, he saw Loghain signal to him. It was time to go. He wanted to stand there holding his son forever, but he couldn't. Gently, he handed his son back to his nanny and turned to Lya. She looked just as somber as Braden, and Alistair kissed her for as long as he dared and then stepped back. A soldier held the reins of his horse and he mounted quickly, if a little awkwardly. When he turned back, Lya had Braden on her hip, his arms around his neck as they watched from the steps. Alistair raised on hand in farewell and lightly his kicked his horse into motion, Adara trotting along beside him, moving up beside Loghain as the formation headed through and out of Denerim.

For a thousand year old ruin, Ostagar was still in remarkable condition. It hadn't survived the ages completely unscathed, but most of the damage was cosmetic. The bones of the fortification were still intact and, more importantly, could be used for Loghain's plan. When Tevinter built, it built to last, a fact which Alistair found himself unexpectedly grateful.

And once in Ostagar, he found that despite his inexperience, he was specifically suited for one particular, critically important task—acting as the liaison between Loghain and Duncan. Both men were more than capable of putting aside their differences, but having Alistair—sympathetic and invested in both sides—serve as a go between kept everything running much smoother than it would have otherwise. Surprisingly, Alistair found he enjoyed it. Both Loghain and Duncan trusted him, and meeting with each of them individually gave him a better understanding of how their battle plan would work.

Right now, Alistair was looking for Duncan's second-in-command, to arrange drills for the soldiers who would be with the Wardens in the van. Duncan had gone to Kinloch Hold, hoping to find recruits among the younger mages. While there were some mages present to fight during the battle with Ferelden's forces, the Wardens of Ferelden had none of their own, an absence Duncan felt especially keenly with the Blight starting. Alistair made his way to the Warden camp, finding almost all of them either sparring or tending to their equipment. One particularly dexterous elf was showing a handful of warriors how their armor could be more of a hindrance than protection if they didn't know how to guard themselves properly. He leaned back against a pillar to watch. His message wasn't urgent and, since he very much wanted to make it home in one piece, he would take all the help he could get.

After the last fighter had picked himself up off the packed dirt, the elf sent them off to take a break and get water before they resumed practice with each other. Then she dusted her hands on her leathers and walked over to Alistair. "Your Highness,"she said, offering a hand. "You were looking for me?"

Alistair took her hand, noting the firm grip. "Word travels fast."

"It does when you're listening."

He grinned. She seemed like a no-nonsense sort of person. He liked that. "That's true. Pleased to meet you...?"

"Warden Kallian, ser."

Alistair frowned. "Kallian? Why does that sound familiar?"

Kallian offered a rueful grin, though her eyes were wary. "I'm the one that killed the arl of Denerim a few years ago."

"Oooh," Alistair said, eyes widening. "Well, from what I hear, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person."

Kallian relaxed, smile widening into something genuine. "My sentiments precisely, but not exactly popular ones."

"True." Alistair hesitated, not sure if he should continue his chain of thought. "To be honest, then, I'm kind of surprised you're Duncan's second. It seems...impolitic."

Taking her hand back, Kallian nodded. "You're not wrong. I'll never be Warden-Commander, not in Ferelden anyway, It would turn too many against the order. But...I have a reputation because of it, and it's not an unwelcome one among the people the Wardens tend to recruit from. They see me as either some sort of hero or as the true epitome of a second chance. After all, if I can make it after what I did, anyone can."

"You have a point." He turned slightly and Kallian fell into step beside him. She showed him around the camp as they went over plans. It was clear that Duncan had filled her in completely, and she seemed more than equal to the task of leading the Wardens in his absence.

"Do you think he'll return in time?" Alistair asked when they were done, having ended up on the bridge, looking at where they would funnel the horde. "I know the battle isn't imminent, but it's getting close."

Kallian frowned. "I hope so. He still has time, though, so I'm not worried. The darkspawn are massing, but they're not ready to attack yet."

Alistair looked at her. "Can you really know that?"

She shrugged. "To some degree of certainty, yes. All Wardens can. We can't predict what they'll do—I don't think anyone can—or know exactly how many we face, but we can sense their location and get a rough idea of their numbers."

"And what do you sense now?"

She hesitated. "The horde is...larger than we anticipated." From the corner of her eye, she must have seen him blanch. "Not that much larger, I don't think," she hastily added. "The numbers and fortifications are still clearly in our favor. But we'll probably see more losses than we were expecting." She made a face. "Don't repeat this; we don't need it getting out among the men. Duncan sent a messenger to the Wardens in Jader before he left, asking for replacements to be sent."

Alistair rocked back on his heels, considering her words. "That bad, then."

Kallian shrugged. "We're Wardens, it's what we do. Should the worst happen here, Ferelden will have a new contingent of Wardens in a few weeks, under the command of Warden Riordan. Kind of hoping it doesn't come to that, though."

"Agreed." Losing Duncan notwithstanding, the loss of most or all of the Fereldan Wardens would worry people. It was the last thing they would need should the battle not goes as they planned.

"Anyway, no reason to borrow trouble." Kallian nodded at him. "We'll begin practising with our combined forces tomorrow. Will you be joining us?"

Alistair shook his head. "No. My men and I will be part of the flanking groups."

"Well then, if I don't see you before the battle, good luck."

"To you as well." Alistair offered his arm, clasping hers briefly before he turned away. Loghain still needed to be informed of the details and he wanted chance to actually work with his own men before their lives were in his hands.

The messenger racing through camp didn't seem particularly unusual. They came and went often, delivering reports and messages to Loghain, making sure they weren't caught off guard by any surprise attacks. But a scant few minutes after Alistair saw the messenger duck into Loghain's tent, he was rushing back, looking around before his gaze focused on Alistair and he headed over. "General Loghain needs to see you right away, your Highness," he said breathlessly as soon as he drew near.

"Is everything all right?" Alistair asked, immediately handing his practice sword off to one of his men and following the messenger.

The man just shook his head, expression pinched.

Frowning himself, Alistair hurried to Loghain's tent, ducking through the flaps to find a stony-faced Loghain glaring at one of the canvas wall. "What's going on?" Alistair asked.

"Your brother's a damned fool, that's what's going on!" Loghain snapped.

"Cailan? What's he done?"

"He's on his way here, only a couple hours out by the scouts' reckoning."

Alistair jerked in shock. "Cailan's coming here? To Ostagar?"

"Apparently." Muscles in Loghain's jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together.

"But why?"

"We're going to find out, but I have my suspicions." At Alistair's questioning look, he shook his head. "I may yet be wrong, but I don't think I am." He closed his eyes for a long moment, visibly struggling to keep control. Alistair wasn't sure what he was more disturbed by: Cailan coming to Ostagar or Loghain being so unbalanced by it.

"I'll want to talk to him alone, but I'd like you to remain close by. Our plans might need to be amended once we've...talked."

There wasn't much Alistair could do but agree, which he did with a silent nod. A cold ball of dread settled in his gut. Given Cailan's behavior before they'd left Denerim, his arrival now, and Loghain's response, he has a suspicion as to why his brother had disregarded what he'd been told and come here.

The scouts' reports had been accurate, and a couple of hours later, Cailan rode into the camp, surrounded by a contingent of guards. He smiled and waved to the soldiers who cheered his arrival, looking happier than he'd been in a long while. The feeling that everything was about to go wrong intensified, and Alistair hung back out of sight as Cailan dismounted and strode through the camp, greeting soldiers as he made his way to Loghain's tent.

The argument began almost as soon as the canvas fell closed behind Cailan, loud enough for those outside to hear, even if the words themselves were indistinct. And it went on for far longer than it should have. Alistair paced outside, Ser Cauthrien shooting him sympathetic looks now and again from where she stood guard, keeping any of the men from coming too close.

After what seemed like an age, Cailan came bursting back outside, heading to the tent that had been hastily set up shortly after his arrival. He paused when he saw Alistair, smiling in a way that was both pleased and bitter. "The general would like to see you, I believe." And without another word, he continued on his way.

Alistair watched him go before he turned for Loghain's tent. Inside, Loghain was standing over the table with his maps, hands braced on it and head hands low, starting unseeingly at the parchment. "Sir?" Alistair asked carefully.

Loghain looked up. "Alistair," he said quietly, and then nothing more. His right hand curled into a fist and he pushed himself upright. "In the morning, you'll be leaving for Denerim."

"What?! Why?!"

"It seems His Majesty has decided that he will personally lead Ferelden's forces in the upcoming battle."

"That's…." Alistair stared at Loghain. "That's insane. Loghain, you can't let him do this."

Loghain's lips twisted. "Short of committing treason by having him subdued, bound and sent back to Denerim tied across the back of a horse, I don't see how I'm going to stop him."

"You have to convince him!" He stepped forward, bracing himself against the table. "We both know he can't stay. Try talking to him again, he'll listen to you."

Loghain looked away, eyes flickering as he looked around. "I'm afraid the time when your brother would listen to and accept my advice is long past. You're welcome to try yourself, but you still need to be ready to leave in the morning."

"Loghain—"

"I will not argue this with you," he said tightly. "I will not risk both of Maric's sons. Do not ask that of me."

That stopped cold any argument Alistair might have put forth. He wanted to do his duty, wanted to stand with and lead those who would be bleeding and dying in the not too distant future. But Cailan's standing aside, Loghain was the one in charge. He was the one who had developed their strategies, who was responsible for everything that would happen in the battle. Having both Cailan and Alistair present and at risk would only make it more difficult to do what he needed to. Still….

Reluctantly, Alistair nodded. "I...understand. But what about Gwaren's soldiers? I can't leave them with no one to lead them. I don't doubt my captains, but—"

Loghain held up a hand. "I share your concern. Ser Cauthrien will lead your men. Short of myself, there's no one else I trust more."

That was something, at least. "Thank you."

There wasn't much left to say, with one last look around, Alistair nodded and turned. Just before he reached the tent flaps, Loghain cleared his throat.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I think you would have done well. I'm sorry it's come to this."

"Me, too," Alistair replied honestly. He nodded once more and ducked out of the tent.

As quickly as he could, Alistair settled his affairs in Ostagar. The royal guard who'd accompanied Cailan would have a night to rest, and then they would accompany Alistair back to Denerim, He explained the change in plans to his captains, who accepted it without complaint, which only served to make Alistair feel worse. Gwaren and her people were an independent lot, but for too long they'd been left on their own. After this mess was over, he would do his best to be the teyrn they deserved.

With everything packed for the morning, there was only one thing left to do.

Cailan's tent wasn't far and the guards outside simply nodded to Alistair as he passed them and entered the tent. His brother had removed his armor, leaving himself clad in a simple doublet and breeches. He was standing over a small table, looking down at a map, but he looked up when Alistair entered. He smiled. "Ah, Alistair, I wondered if I would get a chance to see you before you left."

Alistair ignored the pleasantry. "What are you doing?"

Cailan's expression went flinty for a moment before he smiled again, tightly this time. "I fail to see how what I'm doing is any concern of yours."

"You're my brother and my king. Of course when you do something like this it's my concern." Alistair strode forward until he has standing opposite his brother. "This isn't a joke, Cailan! This isn't some game to be played at!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Cailan snapped back, dropping the facade. "I love you, Alistair, but sometimes you have no idea what you're talking about. You're going to stand there with your perfect life and try to tell me how to live mine? Grow up."

Alistair rocked back on his heels. "What?"

"You have no idea what things are like for me, what it's like to be in my position. You already have everything else; you've no right to try and take this from me, too."

Baffled, Alistair just looked at his brother. "I don't understand what you're talking about."

Cailan threw his hands in the air. "Of course you don't! You, who already has everything! You, with your perfect life, want to tell me how I should live mine."

Alistair shook his head, trying to figure out what was going on. True, Cailan had been different for a while now, but Alistair couldn't have imagined he was holding that much anger inside.

"I don't understand," he repeated, carefully. "My life is hardly perfect." Cailan snorted. "It's not. And your life can hardly get much better. Maker's breath, Cailan, you're the king!"

But Cailan shook his head, denying Alistair's words with a gesture. "You always want to see the best in people. You just…." He broke off and turned away. "Do you have any idea what it's like to follow in our father's footsteps? Everyone looks at me and only see how much I'm not like him. They don't see what I am, they see how much I'm lacking."

"You need to give it time—"

"Don't." Without turning around, he held up a hand. "I know you mean well. You've always meant well, but you can never understand where I'm coming from." He turned back to face him, and Alistair was struck by how much he looked like their father in that moment. "I will admit, little brother, that I'm jealous."

"Jealous? Of me?"

Cailan smiled ruefully. "You don't see it, do you? Just how good your life really is."

"And yours isn't?" Alistair asked incredulously.

Cailan didn't answer for a moment. "Do you know why I need to be here?" he asked, ignoring Alistair's question. "Why I have to be at this battle instead of you?"

"Since I clearly don't, please explain it to me."

"Because if I don't, no one will ever take me seriously." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "Our father was Maric the Savior. He gave up everything for Ferelden. He led our people from the front, standing shoulder to shoulder with them in battle, not sitting safely behind walls hundreds of miles away."

"He didn't have a choice!" Alistair protested. That should have been obvious. For Cailan to compare the two was absurd.

"It doesn't matter!" Cailan's lips tightened into a thin line. "It doesn't matter. If I want to be taken seriously, I don't have a choice. I have to be here."

The words sounded...defeated, and Alistair's anger evaporated into concern. "Cailan…"

"Go home, Alistair," Cailan said softly. "Go home to your wife and son. When this is over, we can talk about it more."

Reaching out, Alistair clasped Cailan's shoulder. Things hadn't always been easy between them, especially recently, but that didn't mean he liked seeing his brother like this. "You don't have to do this," he said quietly.

Cailan smiled, one that managed to look genuine. He reached up and squeezed Alistair's hand before moving it off his shoulder. "I do. But that's all right. Everything will be fine, Alistair. And you need to get back to Denerim before Loghain has a fit."

Alistair huffed a laugh. "And whose fault is that?"

Cailan grinned. "He expects that of me. It's you he worries about." The smile flickered for a moment before returning full force. "Go, get some sleep. It's a long ride, and I expect the guard will want you in the city as soon as possible."

Sighing, Alistair shook his head and stepped back. "Fine." He paused just before he left. "Cailan?"

"Yes?"

"Don't do anything stupid."

Cailan just laughed and shook his head. "I may be many things, but not that. Run along. I'll see you back in Denerim in a few weeks."

Looking at his brother, long, pale blond hair illuminated by lamplight, seeming so confident and carefree, Alistair wondered if their father had ever looked like that in his campaign to free Ferelden. Maric had never talked about the details much, but Alistair didn't think so. Maybe Cailan would come out of this less burdened than their father had.

As Cailan predicted, the ride back was hard. He and the guards pushed themselves to make it back as quickly as possible. While they said nothing, Alistair knew the guards were displeased at having been dismissed from Cailan's side. It would have been one thing to stay by the king's side in the upcoming battle,it was another entirely to be sent away. So he did his best to keep his own annoyance to himself.

Lya and Anora were waiting for him when he arrived. Adara bounded past him up the stairs and into the palace, no doubt seeking out Braden and Golanth inside. Lya was clearly relieved as she embraced him, though she tried to hide it, while Anora looked more reserved than usual. "Let me go get Braden," Lya said, stepping back. "Before the hounds either smother him or get into trouble." She glanced between him and Anora. "We'll be waiting for you once you've had a chance to talk."

Once she was gone, Anora turned, gesturing for Alistair to walk with her. "I am glad to have you here, at least, Alistair," she said once they were inside.

"I tried to get him to change his mind," Alistair offered.

"And he refused to listen, I'm sure. He certainly didn't to me," she added sharply. "But it's of no matter now. Hopefully, once he and my father have returned, this foolishness will be out of his system and we can conduct any future campaigns properly."

"That would be nice."

Anora stopped and looked at him, one corner of her mouth pulling up in a rueful smile. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to snap at you. I truly am glad you're back. Braden has missed you terribly. I am far more equipped to handle my husband's absence than a small boy his father's."

"Still…."

"It's done, Alistair." She shook her head faintly. "I can't change him. I've never been able to, not in any real way, and I never will. What's done is done, and we'll make do, just as we always have." Unexpectedly, she hugged him quickly. "Go spend time with your family. There's not much for us to do now but wait."

Alistair didn't need to be told twice. He paused only long enough to shed his armor and send it to be cleaned before he made his way to their rooms. He was scarcely in the door before Braden slammed into his legs, holding on so tightly that Lya had to pry him off before he could take another step.

It was harder to be angry at his brother then, when he was back home safe with those he loved most. When Cailan returned, he would thank him, because however self-serving Cailan's motivations for going to Ostagar had been, they'd allowed him to come home to this.

Reports from Ostagar came every day for nearlytwo weeks. They were never long, just brief missives to let them know nothing had happened yet. And then...they stopped.

Everyone was aware of what that meant, but they didn't start to really worry until two days passed with no word. On the third, Anora became worried. "My father would never wait this long to send word. Something's happened."

"We don't know that, not for sure," Lya said. Privately, Alistair agreed with Anora, though he knew better than to say that. While he was concerned about Loghain and Cailan, Lya had been dealing with more worry about her father and brother. He didn't need to add to that burden, not right now. Not until they knew for sure.

The mood around the palace became increasingly strained with each day that passed. They'd sent riders out, hoping that they'd discover what had happened and return swiftly incase Loghain or Cailan had been unable to send a message for some reason. But they hadn't returned either.

Finally, word from a city patrol reached them that a column of Fereldan soldiers was nearly at Denerim. From the description, it was part of the forces at Ostagar, flying the flags of several arlings and bannorns, but the numbers didn't add up.

"Did you see the king?" Anora asked the man who'd delivered the report. "Or my father?"

"No, your Majesty, I'm sorry. We only scouted. We saw both the banners, but neither of them. They'll be here shortly, though."

"Thank you," Anora said calmly. "You may return to you post." The man ducked a quick bow and hurried away.

The three of them looked at each other, and Alistair wondered in the fear in Lya's face showed in his. It must have because Anora looked back and forth between them and sighed, a bit shakily. "The throne room," she said. "If we must hear difficult news, it is best to do it where we cannot be observed easily."

Lya's hand found it's way into Alistair's as they walked through the silent corridor into the equally silent throne room. There were a handful of guards, but none made so much as a sound. Anora paused at the bottom of the stairs before deliberately squaring her shoulders and mounting the dais to the throne. She sat, stiffly, back straight and chin held high as they waited.

They didn't have to wait all that long. Too soon, it seemed, there was movement in the corridor and then the doors opened...to admit Loghain, with Bryce Cousland following a step behind him. The wave of relief at seeing Loghain was almost instantly replaced by shock when Cailan did not also step inside.

Both men looked weary and grim as they strode toward to the throne. Bryce glanced at Anora for a scant second before taking a step to the side, toward where Alistair and Lya stood. "Pup," he said softly, reaching out with one hand.

"No," Lya breathed, voice breaking on the word. "No, no, not Fergus."

"I'm sorry, Pup," Bryce said, voice thick as he pulled her into his arms.

Alistair let her go, watching as his wife wept in her father's arms. This was going to be difficult for her. She and Fergus were—had been—very close. He wanted to comfort her, wanted to be the one to support her, but….

He looked over to where Loghain had come to stop at the bottom of the steps, looking up at his daughter. He wasn't saying anything, and Anora sat looking down at him. Her face twisting, expression breaking for a moment before she visibly pulled herself back under control. "General?" she finally managed after a long minute of trying to force the word out.

Loghain kept looking up at her for a moment before he looked away. His gaze took in Alistair before it dropped to the floor and then back up at Anora. "I am sorry, your Majesty," he said quietly. "King Cailan perished at Ostagar."

Chapter Text

Later that night—much, much later that night—Alistair made his way back to his quarters. He was tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that settles in and takes days to shake off. But he didn't have days. Tomorrow, they would resume the grim task of figuring out what to do after the losses at Ostagar. It didn't matter how weary or grief-stricken he was; he had to put the needs of Ferelden and her people before himself.

The rooms were dark and silent when he entered, the fires in the fireplaces down to little more than embers. It left the rooms a little chilly, especially as they were nearly in winter, but not too cold. He padded through the still rooms, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, easing open the door to their bedroom silently when he got there.

Lya was in bed, Braden tucked against her and the covers pulled tight around them. Even in sleep, she looked unhappy, and Alistair was sure that if he'd had more light, he'd be able to see the traces of tears on her cheeks. Standing there, looking down at his wife and son, he felt his heart clench. He didn't know what to do. How was he supposed to comfort Lya when he felt like he was falling apart? How was he supposed to explain another devastating loss to his son? How was he supposed to be strong for all of those looking to him when he felt like he was being crushed by the weight of his grief?

The answers, if they even existed, were nowhere to be found. He stripped off his clothes, dropping them onto the floor carelessly, until he was down to his smalls. Then he crawled into bed on the other side of Braden, pressing close, wrapping his arms around the two most important people in the world. In the darkness, he listened to them breathe, felt the warm, humid puffs of air from Braden against his skin, Lya's pulse beating strong and steady under his hand. Maker, if he lost them….

He shoved the ugly thought away. He would keep them safe, no matter what. Nothing would ever harm them, not so long as he drew breath. No matter what he had to do, he would keep them safe.

Alistair closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, hoping—though it was useless and he knew it—that when he awoke, this would have all just been some terrible nightmare.

The next morning, they gathered for a solemn, silent breakfast. Little was said. Everyone there knew that very shortly hard conversations would be had, and harder decisions would be made. Around the table, they all looked haggard. Anora was pale, her cosmetics failing to hide how awful her night must have been. Lya was seated between Alistair and her father, and she and Bryce were holding tightly to each other's hand, united in their mutual grief. She was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, and Bryce looked to have aged ten years since Alistair saw him last. Loghain seemed calm, but the lines of his face were deeper, harsher, the hollows under his eyes dark and pronounced. From the quick glance into his mirror this morning, Alistair knew that he didn't look much better.

When they were all finished eating what little they'd put on their plates, and there was nothing else to delay them, it was time to get on with it.

"What happened?"

Two little words, but the weight of them fell heavily in the room. It took Alistair a moment to realize he was the one who had asked, though surely everyone there was thinking the same thing. His voice wavered on the second word, but didn't break, and he didn't know if he should be proud of that or not.

The others shifted in their seats. Anora folded her arms tightly across her body, shoulders hunching a little, and Alistair knew that whatever Loghain was going to say, she had already heard. Across from his daughter at the other end of the table, Loghain took a deep breath and then let it out slowly with a sad shake of his head. He took another breath and sat up. "I assume Alistair has told you what the battle plan for Ostagar was."

They all nodded. Bryce, of course, had been there, and Anora and Lya had been briefed in depth. Everyone there had military training, which would make explanations easier in that regard..

"It was a sound plan," Loghain continued, "if not a complicated one. Darkspawn are not intelligent. We needed no elaborate schemes to meet them in battle. And initially, it worked as intended. Earthworks and traps directed the first charge where we wanted it, allowing the archers and siege equipment to further thin their ranks and slow them down. The hounds were released when the leading edge darkspawn were too close for the siege engines to fire. When the horde entered the valley, they were met by the Wardens and the units of heavy infantry we had placed in the van. That worked as we had planned and worked well. We sustained losses, but the line held."

He stopped to close his eyes for a long moment. "What had not been part of the plan was that Cailan was in the van with the Wardens."

Alistair's jaw dropped. "You can't be serious. Of all the places for him to be, that was the worst!"

"I am well aware of that," Loghain said tightly. "His Majesty overrode my objections, as well as those of the Warden-Commander. He was not dissuaded by our concern for his safety."

So Duncan had made it back in time for the battle. The small flicker of hope that Alistair had carried that at least he had survived was snuffed out. He took a moment to gather himself. "So if all had been going as planned, what went wrong?"

Loghain sighed. "We had lookouts stationed in the Tower of Ishal. They were to watch until they could the far edge of the horde. When they could, they were to light the beacon, signaling those in the van to fall back and the flanks to sweep in and surround the horde." He paused. "The beacon was never lit. When it took longer than it should have, I sent runners to find out what happened. The van was never supposed to hold the line as long as they had. If we were going to call a retreat, it had to be done before we sustained heavy losses."

"I also sent runners." It was the first time Bryce had spoken and Alistair barely hid his wince at how broken his father-in-law's voice sounded. "Nothing in battle ever goes as planned, but Loghain is right; when the beacon remained dark, it could only have been because something had gone disastrously wrong. Either they still hadn't spotted the edge of the horde, or something had happened to those in the tower."

"The runners I sent to the tower never returned," Loghain continued, "so I don't know what happened. My other runners reported that while the archers and catapults were still firing, the van was collapsing. By the time my men made it back to inform me, the van would have been overrun, and if not, it would have been shortly. There was no way we could reach them in time. So I sounded the retreat to pull my men back, and sent men to direct Bryce to do the same with his forces."

"You didn't even try." It was the first time Anora had spoken that morning, and while her voice was quiet, the anger in it was clear.

Loghain clenched his jaw, anger and frustration flashing over his features for a moment before he regained control. "Everyone in that valley was already dead. I wasn't going to throw away the lives of more good men and women trying to recover a corpse."

It was a step too far, and they all knew it, even Loghain. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Anora, I'm sorry. I did not mean it like that."

Anora's eyes shimmered before she blinked away the unshed tears. "No, you're not wrong. I just…. It's been a hard day." She pushed away from the table and stood, hands absently brushing over the front of her gown. "We have the answers we sought and we will need to decide our next course carefully. But for now I suggest we adjourn and resume after lunch. General, Teyrn Cousland, I believe you have men you need to see to. I suggest you use this time to do that."

And with that she turned and swept from the room, the line of her back stiff and proud. They watched her go before Bryce, too, got to his feet. "She's right. I need to get my men settled until we decide what's to be done." He turned to look at each of them before his gaze came to rest on Lya. "I will need to return to Highever, as soon as possible. Your mother deserves to hear from me in person, not through a messenger or a letter."

"Of course." Lya nodded her agreement. "I would accompany you—"

"No, Pup, you're needed here. We'll...we'll be all right." He inclined his head to Alistair. "Your Highness, please accept my sincerest apologies and condolences."

It felt so ridiculous and stupid to play their roles, especially now, but it at least gave Alistair some sort of foundation to respond. As much as it hurt to lose his brother so soon after his father, he knew that it couldn't compare to losing a son. "And you have mine, Your Grace. If you need anything, please, let us know."

"Thank you." He bent to kiss Lya's forehead, eyes blinking a little too fast as he turned away.

Alistair watched him go, reaching out to take Lya's hand. She squeezed back, hard. "We should…" he began, but Loghain cut him off with the wave of a hand.

"Go. We'll talk later."

Nodding absently, he rose, Lya standing beside him. He pulled her close as they walked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, their feet guiding them toward the nursery and their son.

For the rest of the day, they busied themselves with the business of drafting an announcement and calling a Landsmeet. The whole thing felt surreal, to be doing this again after barely more than half a year after doing it following the loss of his father. Alistair kept stopping, taking moments to compose himself. When they'd lost Maric, he and Cailan had been able to support each other, and they'd had Anora and Lya to help them as well. Now, they were all dealing with their own losses and he felt alone, adrift. To let himself feel weak felt selfish when everyone else was managing to bear up under the strain.

Once they had sent their announcements out, they had a scant week to come up with a way to handle the Bannorn. The last Landsmeet, despite the circumstances, had progressed without incident. Maric had been well liked by most, and the way he'd died had been shocking enough to keep the few malcontents from making trouble. But now, with so much instability, they had to present a united front to keep things from completely falling apart.

In the evening several days later, Anora came to him. "Might we speak, Alistair?" she asked.

He looked down at the letter he was writing and set his quill down in the holder. "Of course." He stood, stretching to ease tight muscles in his neck and back. "Lead on. I need a break from this room."

Nodding, Anora stepped out of the room and Alistair followed her to one of the guest sitting rooms. At the moment, they were unused, and he welcomed the quiet, near-abandoned feel they had.

"There is an issue we must address," Anora said, ignoring the couches to stand next to a window, looking down at the city.

"Just the one?" Alistair asked tiredly, sinking down onto one of the couches. Maker, his mind felt fuzzy and he was distantly aware that he was hungry. When had he last eaten? Not breakfast. Dinner the night before? Try as he might, he couldn't remember eating then either.

"The most important one, I'm afraid." The corners of Anora's mouth pulled up in a small, sad smile. "One that we cannot put off."

Alistair sighed. "All right. What is it?"

Anora turned from the window, crossing the room to where Alistair sat, and seated herself across from him. She didn't say anything for a long moment, smoothing her gown with careful hands. For as long as he'd known her, Anora had always used precisely the words she meant to. That she was taking this long now made him uneasy. "Alistair," she said finally, carefully, "you are Cailan's heir."

"What does that…?" He sat up straight as what she meant hit him. "No. Anora, no."

She ignored him. "At the Landsmeet, I will declare my intention to step down so that you may assume the throne."

Alistair was shaking his head before she finished speaking. "No. Anora, I don't want this."

She smiled again, pained this time. "What we want has no bearing on the situation. Believe me, this was not how I had planned for things to go. Regardless, the Landsmeet will insist on it, if not now, then eventually. We might as well get it over with sooner rather than later."

"You're the queen," he insisted. "I'm not going to take your throne."

"I am the queen because I was married to Cailan!" Anora snapped. A moment later, her expression softened. "Forgive me. It's not you I'm angry at." She sat back, passing a hand over her face in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. "Maybe if we'd been married longer, it would be different. Perhaps if we'd lost him another way, or if Maric had never acknowledged you, then the Bannorn might be willing to keep me on the throne, but that's not the case. With you and Braden, there is an intact line of succession, and the Bannorn will not allow the throne to pass outside of it while that still holds true."

Sighing, Alistair buried his face in his hands. "I can't…" he began, the words muffled. Absurdly, now he felt like crying, and rubbed his eyes to dismiss the hot stinging in them. "There's no other way?"

The smile Anora gave him was pained. "Not that I can see. Ferelden needs to be united and strong now. My father has already begun to talk about closing the border, and he won't be the only one who feels that way."

Closing the border? That seemed counterintuitive. "This is a Blight. We're going to need all the help we can get."

"I know that, and you know that, but there's no denying that this would be a good time to for outside forces to weaken us further. Closing the borders for a short time would not be inadvisable."

That made sense, but closing the borders entirely would not help. "The Wardens," he said. "Word had already been sent before the battle to the Orlesian Wardens to send reinforcements. We'll need to let them in."

Anora's brows rose. "You know this for certain?"

He nodded. "Kallian, Duncan's second, told me. They knew they would take losses at Ostagar and they wanted to be prepared."

Anora frowned. "They were to bring units of chevaliers with them, were they not? Maker, what a mess. My father will never allow it."

"It wouldn't be his decision," he started to respond, but the withering look Anora gave him stopped him short.

"He won't allow it," she repeated, stressing the words. "He may not be king, Alistair, but in the military defense of the country, the Bannorn will defer to him. We can't afford to ostracize him or those who would follow him." She hesitated. "And to be honest, I understand and share some of his reservations. The chevaliers are outstanding warriors, but too many of our people experienced and remember the cruelties they committed here. To let them in now, after all that's happened, would be asking too much for many of our people."

Alistair let his head fall back. "I understand that, but we can't do this on our own. Even if we start conscripting more soldiers, we won't be able to train them all. We're going to need help." He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "Will he allow the Wardens in, at least? Ferelden has none left and without them we're doomed." He lifted his head. "Surely he would agree to that."

Nodding slowly, Anora said, "Yes, I believe so. At the very least, it's a compromise that would reassure the people and strengthen our forces until we can decide the best course to take. If we are to eventually allow the Orlesians in, we need to have as much support as we can get."

Standing, Alistair rolled his shoulders. "All right. Yes to the Wardens, no to the chevaliers. Borders remain closed to all others for now, to be opened as soon as feasible."

"We'll tell my father first." She paused a moment, and then sighed quietly. "I will tell my father," she said softly. "He's not going to like it and I have to make sure he understands. When we present to the Landsmeet, you must be confident. This is the decided course, and you must present it thusly. Right now, they'll be off-balance. We mustn't give any dissidents the chance to rally their position, whatever it may be. Can you do that?"

He met her eyes and nodded. It wasn't something he was looking forward to, and he might be a wreck before and after, but he could do it.

"Good." She rose to her feet as well, adjusting her skirts. "I have some things I need to take care of and precious little time to do it in. But if you have any questions, please, don't hesitate to ask."

"I won't. Thank you, I think."

This time, her smile was rueful and she nodded once, turning toward the door. Then she stopped with her hand on the handle. "Alistair," she said without turning around and after a moment's pause, "do you think he meant to do it?"

It was something Alistair had wondered himself, in the aftermath. Had Cailan gone to Ostagar intending to die? The last conversation they'd had, the way Cailan had acted and looked, weighed on him. But even so….

"No," he said, "I don't think he meant to die, but...but I think he was prepared to."

Anora nodded, turning her face just enough to look at him. "He was a good man, for all his faults, and he was big-hearted. But these last few months were hard on him. He was often maudlin and distant, and I couldn't help but think that this was his way of escaping."

"I don't think he was trying to get himself killed," he told her, as gently as he could. "He felt that he didn't have a choice, that being Maric's son meant that he had to be there, had to lead his men."

She shook her head. "I understand. Maric cast a large shadow and I don't think Cailan ever had the chance to grow out of it. He wanted his father's approval desperately and he never felt like he earned it." Her hand tightened on the handle. "Maric was a good man, but sometimes I hated the kind of father he was."

Alistair rocked back on his heels, stunned. "He wasn't that bad."

"No. And Maker knows he tried, but he could never quite give Cailan what he needed, especially when he was younger. He tried to make it up with you, and he seems to have succeeded, but that didn't help Cailan."

He remembered coming to the palace as a boy, meeting his older, unknown brother for the second time, but the first time as someone who mattered. There had been tension between them for a few years. Had it felt to Cailan like their father was starting over, giving up on him and trying again with a second son? Had that been what Maric did? Alistair felt uneasy at the thought.

"No, I suppose it didn't," he finally managed.

With a sigh, Anora shook her head again. "I'm sorry. I'm just upset and it's unfair of me to take it out on you."

"There's no need to apologize. This has to be more difficult for you than anyone else." Alistair stepped forward until he could reach out and put a hand on Anora's shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'm here if you need anything."

Anora looked back at him. "Thank you. That means more than you know." With a nod, she squared her shoulders. Alistair drew his hand back and watched as she finally opened the door and left, closing it quietly behind her. Then he stood there, thinking about the latest turn his life had taken.

However Anora had broken the news to Loghain, she seemed to have impressed upon him the importance of what they were doing. He didn't look happy—not that he ever did—but aside from one long look at Alistair, he didn't bring it up.

The night before Landsmeet, Alistair found himself unable to sleep. He wandered the halls of the palace, the last night he had before his position would change tomorrow, and eventually found himself in the throne room. It was empty, and dark, though everything stood in readiness for tomorrow. The throne itself had been freshly cleaned and polished, and bright moonlight streaming through the windows high above made it glow. Slowly, he crossed the hall and mounted the steps, stopping before the throne, just staring at it. Soon enough, it would be his, though he didn't want it. So instead, he turned and walked down a few steps before simply sitting down, gazing down the length of the throne room.

He wished he knew what to think, or what to feel, but ever since his conversation with Anora, something else besides his grief had been gnawing at him. And sitting here, it all focused on one, overriding thought—that for the first time in his life, he was deeply and truly angry at what his father had done.

One of the doors eased open, the movement catching his attention, and he looked over to see Lya slipping through into the room. She wore a robe over her nightdress, and her hair fell loose and long past her shoulders. She looked at him, concern clear in her face, but he wasn't able to even manage the ghost of a smile. As silently as she had opened the door, she closed it, padding toward him on slippered feet. She sat down next to him on the step below his, her body turned so that she was looking up at him, one of her hands on his knee.

Alistair looked away, out toward the empty hall. "This was never supposed to be for me," he said.

"I know," she said simply.

"No." Alistair shook his head. "I don't think you do." He gestured aimlessly in front of him. "Maric never intended for me to ever be in this room, or for me to even know who he was. His plan for me was to grow up, never knowing who my parents were, never knowing that I was loved." His hands hands clenched into fists. "As a child, I never really thought about it. It was simply the way things were. And then when he came for me, I was too busy being finally feeling wanted to wonder about why he waited so damn long."

Lya rubbed his thigh, and he knew she was trying to be soothing, but he was too angry for the gesture to help. "You said that he was doing what your mother wanted, giving you a life free from all of this."

"All look how well that worked out," he laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Duncan told me about what happened when he brought me here to tell my father. Maric sat in this room, on these steps, maybe this very one, and held me and then gave me away!"

"Alistair…."

He drew a ragged breath. "I understand why he did what he did, I suppose. I know his intentions were good even if the execution wasn't. What I don't understand is how he did it." He looked at his wife. "The first time I held Braden...I have never loved anyone as much or as quickly as I did him. I would do anything, anything to keep him safe, and my father just...let me go." He spread his hands helplessly. "I think I'm just realizing what he did and there's nothing I can do about it. I should be grieving for my brother and worried about all the responsibilities I'm going to have very shortly, and instead I'm just angry at a man I can't even confront about it."

Silence fell between them, seeming oppressive in the great space of the hall. "It's all right to be angry," Lya said after a few minutes. "Your father was human and he made mistakes. And some of those mistakes hurt you. It's okay to be angry about that. But try to remember that he did love you. He wasn't trying to hurt you."

"I know." He shrugged, feeling defeated by the enormity of what was happened and what was facing him. "I know." He managed a small laugh. "I never expected this is where I would end up."

Lya squeezed his leg. "I'm glad that you did."

He covered her hand with his, managing a more genuine smile. "Me, too. I wouldn't trade what I have, not for anything, but I wish it wasn't so difficult." He sighed. "I don't know how I'm going to do this."

"We'll get through it." She turned her hand over in his so that there fingers were laced together and stood. "Come on," she said, tugging at him to follow. "You need to sleep."

Alistair pushed himself to his feet, letting his wife lead them from the throne room and back to their own quarters. Which wouldn't be their quarters for much longer. Cailan and Anora had never made the switch to Maric's rooms, and with Anora stepping down, she would either be keeping the rooms she had now or moving to another suite. And since the rooms Alistair and his family were using were a guest suite, they couldn't keep using those. They would have to take over the royal suite and it wasn't a prospect he was looking forward to.

But that was another problem for the future, not something to be worried about tonight. Tonight he would try to put aside all that rested on him and get some sleep. All of his problems would still be waiting for him in the morning.

Between the three of them—Anora, Loghain and Alistair—they handled the Landsmeet with as much direct authority as they could manage. Landsmeets were usually very fluid, almost chaotic, with the Bannorn jockeying for power and position, but they couldn't afford to have any loss of control.

Loghain spoke first, explaining in a well-rehearsed speech just what had happened in Ostagar. He made it clear that what had happened was unavoidable, especially with an enemy like the darkspawn. He painted Cailan as a man determined to stand with his men, unafraid to face the danger alongside them instead of staying safely away. He explained that there would be time to rest and mourn before regrouping to deal with the enemy they now faced.

There were questions, obviously, and he fielded as many as he could without losing control of the crowd. There were some accusations of incompetence and demands that he step down, but thankfully the voices calling for that were few, and shouted down by those who supported Loghain. The mood in the hall was tense, but not angry.

With Loghain done, Anora stepped up, and with more poise than could reasonably have been expected of anyone, announced her intention to abdicate. She was firm and resolute in the face of the questions thrown at her. Alistair could see more than a few people looking to Loghain for how to proceed, prepared to protest should he do the same, but the older man remained inscrutable. Given time, Alistair was sure someone could come up with a firmer basis to protest to the decision, but in the moment, there was no formal opposition, so they moved quickly. Grand Cleric Elemena was present and having been informed of what was going to happen, she was ready to accept Anora's formal declaration and then crown Alistair. In a matter of minutes, Alistair was king, and issuing his first orders.

As per their agreement, he declared the borders closed to all except the Grey Wardens and any Fereldan citizens. He stressed that the closure was temporary, and that as soon as it was safe to do so, they would be reopened. Alistair wanted his people—and how strange to think that they were his now—to be safe from within as well as without, and that he would do all that he could to keep them strong and independent. The aid of other nations would be necessary in the future, but for the moment, they could endure on their own.

It was a busy morning, but with all the business attended to before lunch, it was the shortest Landsmeet he could remember. But as with all Landsmeets, the Bannorn had the right to address the crown if there were any issues or grievances to be addressed. Alistair opened the floor to them, and though there was some murmuring, none spoke up. He was about the declare the Landsmeet closed when a hand on the balcony to his left rose.

"The crown recognizes Bann Alfstanna Eremon of Waking Sea."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." She waited until she had the entire room's attention on her and then declared loudly, "I charge Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine with desertion and treason!"

Shock ripped through the crowd, and above it all was Howe's outraged, "How dare you?!"

"Silence!" Alistair called, having to repeat himself several times before his command was heeded. He focused on Alfstanna. "Those are serious charges. Do you have any evidence or witnesses?"

"I do," she said firmly, ignoring the murderous glare Howe was directing her way. "I have reports from my own men, as well as members of Arl Howe's own house and guard willing to testify that he ordered his men to not to take their position on the flank and then to retreat before the order was given."

If Alfstanna had members of Howe's own household willing to testify against him, then it was nearly certain that there was some truth to her accusation. This had to be handled quickly and carefully, but decisively. He nodded once. "Please make your witnesses available for questioning, and have a list of them delivered to my guards. Arl Howe, you may prepare your own witnesses for your defense. The crown calls for the recess of one hour to allow for these preparations."

Nearly before he'd finished speaking, the noise in the room rose. He swept from the hall, trailed by the guards who would be ever-present now. He made his way to a small audience chamber and didn't have to wait long before he was joined by others. Lya came, of course, along with Anora and Loghain. Following them were Bryce and Eleanor, who looked stunned, and after them Teagan and Delilah.

With the door closed and secured, Alistair turned to the group. "What do we do now?"

"Alfstanna wouldn't lie about something like this," Bryce said immediately. "She has nothing to gain from it. Waking Sea and Amaranthine are nowhere near each other, and she wouldn't give up her home and family seat just for advancement. If she says that Rendon did this, then I have no choice but to believe her."

"But, Bryce, darling," Eleanor protested, "Rendon is your oldest friend. Surely he wouldn't have done that. What could he have possibly hoped to gain from it?"

Bryce looked at her bleakly. "He's been different these last few years. Once, I wouldn't have doubted his loyalty, but now, I wouldn't put it past him. What he hoped to gain, I don't know. It makes no sense."

"Your Majesty," Alistair turned to look at Teagan, who was holding his wife's hand tightly. That was right, Howe was Delilah's father and Teagan's father-in-law. She looked devastated, but resigned.

"My Lady," he said, as gently as he could. "If this is too difficult, you can—"

"No," she said, "it's all right. I wish I could say I was surprised, but…"

"You believe he did this? Truly?"

She looked torn. "My father was a good man, once, but I never knew that man. He hates Nathaniel who's done nothing but try to earn his love, wanted to marry me off to a man who would have beaten me and my children, and dotes on my wastrel of a younger brother. He is intelligent and driven, but also selfish and greedy. He was never satisfied with what he had. He's schemed before to add more than a few holdings to his own lands. This may have been more of the same."

A knock on the door interrupted them, and Loghain opened the door to take the sheet of parchment handed to him by a guard. He looked it over first, expression tightening before giving it to Alistair. "The list of witnesses."

Alistair read down it, but recognized no names. He gave the sheet first to Bryce who went pale as he read it, and then to Delilah who gasped and covered her mouth. "You recognize the names?" he asked them.

"Yes," Bryce replied. "All good men and women, whose character I would vouch for and whose word I would take."

"My Lady?" Alistair prompted when Delilah said nothing. "You recognize the names?"

She nodded. "Yes. Lieutenant Varel used to be our seneschal, before Father sent Nathaniel away. Father demoted him for publicly disagreeing with him about his decisions and about how he treated my brother. And Captain Garevel is the captain of the guard at Vigil's Keep. He would have been with my father in battle. If he says that my father deserted, then he did. Oh, Maker!"

She swayed slightly and Teagan urged her over to a chair, seating her quickly. Alistair looked around at everyone. "Can Howe mount a reasonable defense against this kind of testimony?"

"It would be difficult," Anora said. "Alfstanna is widely-regarded as honest and honorable. Howe can deny the charges, of course, but with his own men and household testifying against, the evidence seems damning."

"Is it enough to convict him of both charges?"

"Of desertion, certainly. The charge of treason is more tenuous. Alfstanna included it because Howe fled a battle that the king was present at. That is technically treason, but Howe could successfully argue that his actions had no bearing in what happened on the battlefield. Most of the soldiers in the flanks retreated without ever engaging the darkspawn."

"So it's a technicality."

"Yes."

He sighed. These were the sorts of intricacies and minutia that he wasn't prepared for yet. He looked at Anora, who he knew was well-versed in legal matters such as this. "All right. I know death is the punishment for treason." Delilah gave a choked sob and Alistair looked over at the couple in sympathy. "But what's the punishment for desertion?"

"For a common soldier, a public flogging followed by a period of imprisonment. For a noble, especially one as highly placed as Howe, he should be stripped of title and lands."

"Exile?"

"Only if you choose it. The king has a great deal of leeway in sentencing, but you must be careful not to appear too harsh or too soft. Especially now."

"Great." He fell silent, rubbing his forehead as he gathered his thoughts. "So, procedure dictates that we have the witnesses to give their testimony in the Landsmeet. The Bannorn needs to hear the evidence." Anora nodded approvingly. "Then we allow Howe to present his defense, if he has one. Do we allow others to question him or present evidence?"

"No, not unless he calls upon them to do so."

"All right. So, after hearing everything, I decide his guilt or innocence and rule accordingly."

"Precisely.

That was fairly clear then. This wasn't how he wanted the day to go, but it had happened and he had to deal with it. "All right," he said after taking a deep breath. "I suggest everyone takes what time we have left and so what they need to. Get something to eat, talk to anyone you need to. Arlessa, if you feel that you cannot be present for this, I completely understand."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I will think about it." She hesitated. "Whatever you decide, he is my father. If you can show mercy, please. I ask you to consider it."

"I will do what I can," he told her.

"Thank you. That's all I ask."

Once everyone had left, even Lya when he asked her to go with her parents, Alistair sat back and thought. At this point, he couldn't see any defense Howe could mount that could save him. Alistair could technically find him guilty of both charges, but he didn't want to execute a man on his first day as king. It seemed a poor omen.

The rest of the hour passed far too quickly, and he found himself back in the throne room, seated on the throne to listen as witnesses were called. They all told the same story, and Alistair could see the mood in the room change as the evidence began to pile against Howe, the disbelief changing to certainty and then to anger. Howe questioned each of the witnesses as well, accusing them of increasingly desperate reasons to speak against him. By the time Captain Garevel gave his testimony, it was clear that Howe truly had no defense. When the very man charged with your protection turns against you, it's hard to convince people of your innocence.

Finally, it was Howe's turn. "Do you have anything to say in your own defense, Arl Howe?" Alistair asked him.

Howe glared at him, lips curled in a sneer. His eyes searched the crowd, looking for a friendly face. They landed on Lya's father. "Bryce, surely you don't believe these lies?" he asked, and it was impossible to mask the desperation that question held.

Bryce looked down at him from his place on the balcony. "Did you leave my son to die, Howe?" he asked. The hall went completely silent and Howe stared at his once friend before turning away. "Fine!" he snarled. "You're all against me! Go ahead, convict me on the basis of these lies! You won't get away with it! You'll see!"

"Arl Howe," Alistair said, cutting him off, "on the basis of the testimony presented, I have no choice but to find you guilty of desertion. While there is enough evidence to also convict you of treason, I will not, as none have shown that you intended for any harm to befall your monarch."

He paused, but Howe said nothing, so Alistair continued. "Your daughter has also asked for mercy on your behalf, but the severity of your crime cannot be overlooked. Rendon Howe, you are hereby stripped of your lands and titles, to be given to your heir."

Howe's face twisted, but before he could begin another tirade, Alistair nodded to his guards. "Have this man removed from the palace." Two of them came up, unceremoniously grabbed Howe by the arms and marched him from the room. Alistair waited until the doors had closed behind him and then stood to address the crown one last time. "Lords and Ladies of the Bannorn, I thank you for your understanding and assistance in our hour of need. We all have grave matters to attend to, so I declare this Landsmeet over. May the Maker be with you."

And with that, he turned on his heel, departing the throne room to begin their preparations for facing the Blight.

Chapter Text

The first task to be accomplished now that the Landsmeet was over was to see how many ready men at arms the bannorn had, how many more could be called up, and how quickly they could be trained and prepared. Alistair recalled that summer he’d accompanied Loghain across the Ferelden. Looking back, those had been truly good times. Maric and Cailan had both been alive, and they’d probably been as happy as Alistair had known them. And Alistair had been happy. He’d begun coming into his own, and had been given the chance to show what he was capable of. He’d had friends, the respect of those he looked up to. Even with the heartbreak of that first young romance with Lya, there was a part of him that would give anything to go back to that summer. To leave all of this behind and return to times that were simpler, easier, where the weight of everything didn’t rest on his shoulders.

Alistair shook his head, dismissing the impossible thoughts. Time didn’t run backward and dwelling on it would only make what lay ahead of them worse. Taking a deep breath, he went looking for Loghain. Unsurprisingly, he found the older man in the meeting room they’d converted into a war room. Loghain stood over the table, looking down at the large, detailed map spread across it. There was a box with tokens set to the side where they could plot the movements of the horde and their own forces when the time came, but for now the map was bare. Alistair stepped up to the table as well, gazing down at his country made miniature, everything that Ferelden was reduced to ink on parchment.

“I’d have given my eye teeth for this during the war,” Loghain said after a minute of silence. 

Alistair nodded. “My father never talked much about it, but from what he did say, it seemed terrible.”

“It was,” Loghain said simply. “And the alternatives were worse.” He glanced up to look at Alistair. “What do you need?”

“That summer we took the survey of the Bannorn’s forces? How accurate do you think those findings still are?”

“Ah.” Loghain nodded. “I see. That was….” He frowned. “Almost ten years ago now.” He fixed his gaze back down at the map. “Longer ago than I’d like. Let’s see.”

After a long moment to consider the map, he pointed to the western side. “Eamon will have kept his men in good order. He has the resources to support a standing fighting force, and knows well the importance of keeping all of his people prepared.” He paused and gave Alistair a considering look. “If you’re up for discussing a bit of strategy?”

“Of course,” Alistair said quickly, moving up to where Loghain stood. He needed to know all that he could. He planned to leave most of the decisions about Fereldan’s forces to Loghain, but….

With his losses so fresh, Alistair couldn’t help but wonder how many more were coming. Loghain kept himself in fighting shape, but there was no denying that he was no longer young. His black hair had in recent years had become shot through with silver, the lines on his face deeper. And Alistair knew there would be no keeping Loghain from the battlefield entirely. He knew better than to place himself deliberately in harm’s way, but in war there was no safe place. Not to mention that for all Duncan hoped to end the Blight quickly, odds were that this conflict would grind on for years. Loath though he was to consider it, Alistair had to acknowledge the very real possibility that Loghain would not live to see the end of this war. There would be others who could advise, of course, but if there was anyone Alistair wanted to learn from, it was the old general.

“Now,” Loghain said, gesturing to the south of the map, “until we can gather more information, we must assume the hoard is still around Ostagar. But they won’t remain there for long. When they do leave, they’ll begin to…hunt, for lack of a better term, for more populated areas. If this is in fact a Blight—”

“You don’t think it is?” Alistair interrupted. “After Ostagar, you still think this is some rogue group of darkspawn?”

Loghain’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I thought your Warden-Commander was perhaps exaggerating the threat we faced,” he grudgingly admitted. The look he gave Alistair was steady, though. “That did not affect my decisions for the battle. I prepared for the threat we faced.” He sighed wearily and seemed to shrink down a little. “Or the threat we thought we faced. There were…too many darkspawn at Ostagar. No one truly knows why the darkspawn do what they do, but there had to be something driving that many of them.”

He shook himself and cleared his throat. “Though some might wish to, I will not deny the reality of what is happening. Blight or not, the darkspawn are moving upon us and we must stop them.

“Now,” once more he gestured to the map, “they are concentrated in the south, but they will not remain there. My plan is for Eamon to keep his forces in Redcliffe, to prevent as much of the horde as possible from getting to the other side of Lake Calenhad. He’ll likely need to draw most of his forces farther west, drawing a defensive line south from Redcliffe itself. It will leave most of his arling undefended, but it's where he can concentrate his forces best between Lake Calenhad’s southern shore and the northern edges of the Korcari swamps.”

Alistair frowned. “Wouldn’t the horde splitting be a good thing? Make it easier to fight them?”

Loghain gave a half shrug. “Against a human army? Yes, any advantage to reduce the numbers you face should be taken. Against darkspawn? I don’t know. All accounts of Blights tell us the darkspawn won’t stop coming until the archdemon is defeated. If we split our own forces to meet them that will likely only leave us less able to mount a more sizable defense later. There is also another consideration.” Waving his hand over the whole map, he continued, “While other enemies, say chevaliers, are a blight upon the land, they don’t blight the land. I don’t know if the areas the darkspawn cross will be fit for habitation after. Ferelden is her land. We need to save what we can.”

“I see.” There was logic in Loghain’s words. “All right. Do you think Eamon has the numbers to prevent the darkspawn from getting through?”

“Given what little we know, I think so. The losses at Ostagar….” Loghain closed his eyes for a moment. “The losses at Ostagar were greater in importance than number. We lost too many good knights, but most of our forces were able to retreat and regroup, including Eamon’s. He can also call upon the arls of Western Hills and Edgehall to increase his numbers. If Redcliffe fell, they would be next in the path of the horde and neither have the forces on their own to hold back that assault. Combining their forces with Redcliffe’s is the only way they have hope.”

Alistair blew out a deep breath. “All right. We’ll have to assume that will work then. If it doesn’t—”

“If it doesn’t, then the western edge of Ferelden is forfeit. We can’t afford to split our own forces.” Loghain smiled grimly. “Though in that case it will become Orlais’s problem sooner than later. And as tempting as that thought is, it’s a price far too high to pay.”

“It couldn’t be truly forfeit. There must be something we could do if that happens.”

Loghain shook his head. “You don’t try to save a limb once it’s begun to rot. If Redcliffe falls it will be a tragedy, but not something we can stop.”

Alistair considered Loghain’s words. There had always been tension between the two men, and Alistair wasn’t sure how far back that acrimony ran or what the cause of it was. “This isn’t because of how you feel about Eamon, is it?” he asked quietly after a moment.

“No.” Looking over, Loghain gave him a measuring look. “I don’t particularly care for Eamon, no, but that doesn’t mean I want the people under him to die.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Alistair said quickly. “It just seems so….”

“Cold? Yes, well, not the first time I’ve been accused of such.” He turned to fully meet Alistair’s gaze. “There are hard decisions ahead. War requires sacrifices. You will give orders that will send good men and women to their deaths. Make choices that mean innocents burn in order to preserve supplies. People will beg you for help and you’ll have to deny them knowing there is nowhere else they can go for help. Are you prepared for that?”

“No!” The answer slipped out without meaning to and Alistair flushed with shame. What kind of response was that?

“Good,” Loghain replied simply. “You never should be. Now the more important question: will you do it anyway?”

Alistair looked back at the map and shrugged helplessly. What choice was there? He was the king. There was no one else to shoulder this burden no matter how much the thought of what was to come left him feeling hopeless. He looked back up at Loghain. “Yes.” The word tasted bitter and left him hollow.

With a nod, Loghain directed his attention back to the map. “The Brecilian Forest isn’t too far to the east, so I suspect the horde will mostly travel north. Then past the highway,” he tapped the center of the map. “The Bannorn. Hundreds of square miles of flat, indefensible farmland. Ferelden’s lifeblood.”

Looking down at the map, Alistair began to feel sick. The Bannorn was where most of Fereldan’s grain was grown. Its value to the country couldn’t be counted in sovereigns. The horde would devastate the people that lived there, and if the farmers weren’t able to plant and harvest, there was little hope the rest of Ferelden could survive long after.

“So many people are going to die,” he said, feeling utterly helpless.

“Yes, they are,” Loghain replied quietly.

Another long look at the map. “Fuck,” Alistair muttered.

Loghain’s humorless laugh was the only reply as Alistair waited for Loghain to continue explaining how very little they could actually do.

After the impromptu strategy session with Loghain, Alistair found himself in a dark mood. He knew that things were dire. How could they not be? What could be worse than a Blight, after all? But still, he hadn’t quite grasped the enormity of what lay before him. It was one thing to know that hard times were ahead, another entirely to be responsible for the fate of one’s entire nation.

He declined dinner that night, giving the poor excuse of wanting to look some things over in his study. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He did want to dig up the records from the survey. They would still need a current accounting of where the lords stood with their readiness, but it would be nice to compare, maybe see who was more responsible and perhaps given more consideration when it came to battle plans.

Lya didn’t seem convinced, but she let his excuses pass without comment, only saying she would make sure a tray was brought to him. He thanked her, ducking out quickly before Braden realized he was there but wasn’t staying. Guilt flickered through him and he pushed it down. It would be all right. Braden was going to have to get used to Alistair being more busy now. The boy would be all right.

Closing the door to the study, he leaned against it, letting the door take his weight as he closed his eyes and tried to just breathe for a minute. When he opened his eyes, he was almost startled to find himself in his father’s study. Of course, it was his study now, and had been Cailan’s for a scant few months, but even though he hadn’t been inside since Maric’s death it looked just as how he remembered it.

Frowning, he pushed off the door and took a closer look around. The few chairs were pushed out at odd angles, as if they’d never been straightened after the sitter last stood. There was seemingly no dirt on the floor, but the wood of the furniture was covered with a fine layer of dust. An empty glass still sat on the small table between the chairs before the fire. As he looked over the desk, he noticed a few personal notes stacked neatly, and a few broken pieces of sealing wax flecked here and there. Picking up one of the notes in the stack, the paper trembled faintly in his hand as he saw that it was addressed to Maric. The note itself was something utterly inconsequential, but the fact that it was his father’s bothered him greatly.

The chair behind the desk, however, was dust free.

A slow sense of dread filled him as he looked around. Everything had been left just as it was the day Maric left for his trip. Not a single thing had been touched. It hadn’t even been cleaned properly if the askew chairs and bits of wax were anything to go by. Cailan had been king for six months. Had he made no changes at all in this room?

Was this some kind of shrine? Everything untouched as Maric had left it, anticipating his return. Had Cailan come in here and just sat? Alistair pictured his brother sitting behind the desk, staring out at the room that had been their father’s private space. Was it wishful thinking, that maybe if Cailan never changed the room that Maric would come back? Or was it something else? Did Cailan leave it untouched as a way to remember their father? Maybe as a way for him to grieve privately?

Or was it something worse? Given Cailan’s odd behavior before Ostagar, could he have left everything as it was to remind himself of what he had to live up to? Of the shadow he had yet to grow out of?

Alistair felt a fresh wave of grief for the loss of both Maric and Cailan, and grief at the struggle that his brother went through, silently and alone.

He couldn’t dwell on that right now, though. Sinking down into his father’s chair, he let his head fall back to rest against the back of the seat and tried to think. 

The afternoon spent with Loghain had pointed out how little they knew about the foe they faced. Loghain had already dispatched men to gauge how quickly the horde was moving and where, but it would be some days yet before they could expect any word back. The scouts had been instructed to use great caution in avoiding even the very edges of the horde. The information they discovered would do little good if they fell victim to darkspawn blades before they could report. But that didn’t mean there was nothing to be done while they waited.

They would also need an inventory of supplies. How many soldiers they could call upon and their readiness was crucial, yes, but they needed to know so much more than that. Ferelden would not only need to supply an army for Maker knows how long, but also provide for all the people that would be displaced once the horde approached their homes, and the areas were evacuated. Such a task would stress even the most conscientious of banns and arls, and there were too many who were far from that responsible, let alone those who simply didn’t have the resources to stockpile. Not just arms and armor, but food, clothing, medicine, tools. Everything from swords to cooking pots would need to be supplied, and then they would need the carts and animals to transport them, and then the supplies that they would need.

And once again was the dire thought of what would happen if they couldn’t plant in the spring. Not even during the height of the Orlesian invasion had Ferelden stopped producing her grain. With a Blight, what farmers would work their fields with the threat of darkspawn erupting from under their feet? They were fortunate now that the harvest was nearly done. Measures could be taken right away to store and ration for maximum efficiency. But if there wasn’t a harvest next year….

Famine was one thing Alistair had never considered possible to happen to Ferelden.

There was also the matter of trade contracts. Ferelden sold a lot of her grain in trade and the current contracts would need to be broken. There would be penalties, but what choice was there? As it was, he was fairly certain Ferelden would need to start importing food staples. Being able to feed his people was far more important than putting the nation in debt. It would cause problems later, but he couldn’t afford to worry about that now.

His thoughts turned to Anora. She had always been the diplomat out of all of them and had always had a head for trade. She had contacts and expertise. If anyone could figure out a way to do this with as little damage as possible, it was her. As much as he hated the thought of burdening her with this right now, he knew her well enough to know she needed something to keep herself busy. And she was her father’s daughter. Ferelden needed her and she would put her country before herself.

His mind wandered back to what would happen to his people as they evacuated. Most Fereldans would probably choose to stay as close to their homes as they could, hoping for the best in the face of even the worst enemy. But not all would.

The question of refugees weighed heavily on Alistair. The safest place for his people would be out of Ferelden, but the thought pained him. How could he ask people to not only abandon their homes, but their homeland as well? And where would they go? Orlais was obviously an option for those in the west, but the idea didn't sit well with him. It seemed like handing Celene and her court a victory, saying without words that Ferelden could not take care of her own and that they would be better in Orlais. The Empress would likely seize that opportunity for political capital. A debt like that to Orlais was not one he wanted.

For the rest, their only escape would lie across the Waking Sea to the Free Marches, a far more difficult journey, and one that made it less likely that those who left would return. And would his people even be welcome? Alistair couldn't say that he would be pleased to have a flood of scared, desperate people pouring into Ferelden, so how could he ask the same of the princes of the Free Marches? It was even more troublesome when he thought about the general state of some of the cities, especially Kirkwall and Starkhaven. To say there was unrest was putting it mildly. While better than a darkspawn horde, it was like jumping from the fire to the frying pan.

Not only that, every able-bodied person who left was one less person left to defend the country. He couldn't fault anyone for wanting to leave. It was the sane thing to do. If he could, he would take Lya and Braden and go anywhere he could in order to keep them out of harm's way. It's what Alistair would do, but as king , that wasn't an option. And as king, he had to think of the future of his country over the needs of the individual people. He had to figure out how to keep his people here, but also how to keep them safe.

Alistair dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his forehead. He didn't know how he was going to do this. Of course, he wasn't alone, and those around him would be doing everything they could to get through this. But in the end, it would be his responsibility. Every home burned, every life lost, every little hurt and indignity his people would suffer would be on him.

Alistair wasn't alone, but he sure felt like it.

When he eventually emerged from his study, their rooms were dim, the lamps turned down low. There was an untouched tray on the floor next to the door and he winced. What little hunger he’d had had vanished once he entered the study and it was yet to return. As quietly as he could, he picked up the tray and took it to the door, handing it off to one of the guards who took it without question.

Lya had managed to get Braden settled into his own bed. They’d moved it back into their own bedroom after Maric died, everyone taking comfort from the closeness. And with recent events, he didn’t think Braden would be moving back to his own small room adjoining theirs anytime soon. He stood beside Braden’s bed for a moment before crouching down, being careful not to make any sound to wake the boy.

Braden’s blond hair was every which way, and his little limbs were sticking out from the light blanket covering him. His cheeks were flushed and he slept the sleep only the very small and innocent knew. Gently, Alistair tugged the blanket free and covered Braden back up, and then took a moment to cradle his son’s head.

He wanted Braden and Lya out of Ferelden, as far away as he could possibly get them. But it wasn’t possible, even if Lya would agree to it, which he knew she wouldn’t. It would look so cowardly. How could he stand before his people and ask them to sacrifice when those he loved most were in no danger? And he didn’t know if he was strong enough to be parted from them for that long. So they would stay and Alistair would live with that terror for every moment until this was over.

A touch on his leg had him glancing over. Adara sat there, looking at him with soulful eyes. Alistair felt another pang of guilt. He’d been neglecting Adara the last several months. Yes, he was around and she protected Braden, but she was still his mabari. “I’m sorry, girl,” he murmured, reaching out to scratch her ears. “Things are…hard right now.” Adara simply leaned her weight against him, the apology all she needed for Alistair to be forgiven.

Alistair stayed there for long minutes, petting his dog and watching his son sleep. He noted with sorrow that the brown dusting of fur across Adara’s face and head was mostly all white now. She was getting old. A lump rose in his throat as he remembered that day in the kennels when she became his, at the tiny puppy who wanted nothing from him but love and pork bits.

He glanced over at Golanth, sleeping on the other side of Braden’s bed. He was older now, too. Alistair knew that the two of them would defend Braden no matter what came, but it wasn’t fair to ask that of them, especially Adara. When it was time to send his family away, he knew he couldn’t send her with them. But his son would need protection, would need someone loyal to death by his side.

It was too late to do anything about that, so with a last scratch to Adara’s head and a gentle touch to Braden’s, he stood and made his way to his own. Even in her sleep, Lya turned to him as he slid between the sheets. Carefully so as not to wake her, he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her as if that could somehow protect from what was to come.

The next morning he awoke early. The first touches of light barely visible on the horizon. He slipped out of bed the same way he’d slipped in. Alistair could feel the tiredness pulling at him, but he ignored it. It was something he’d have to get used to. There would never be enough time for all he needed to do.

With a silent gesture, Adara came to her feet and trotted beside him as he walked through the castle and outside. The kennels were quiet as they made their way inside. A lot of the war dogs had gone to Ostagar and most had not returned. Those that had were kept separate now as some had begun to grow sick, further thinning their numbers. The mabari left behind had been too young or too old or too valuable to the kennel master to risk. Adara looked around and gave him a questioning look.

Alistair dropped to one knee to look into his dog’s eyes. All mabari were intelligent and he hoped that wouldn’t fail him now. He remembered the one moment when she’d imprinted, the uncanny way Alistair had been able to feel what she felt. It had never happened again, but the memory stayed with him. “I don’t know if this will work, but I feel like I need to try. Braden needs someone to protect him. He’s so little, just a pup. We need to find him someone to keep him safe. Can you do that?”

Adara tilted her head and Alistair could feel her thinking. Slowly, she turned around, looking and then sniffing at the too empty pens.

“Ser?” the sleepy voice of the kennel master called to him. Alistair didn’t say anything, just glanced over and the man stumbled slightly in surprise. “Sire! I didn’t know—” Alistair cut him off with an upraised hand and turned his gaze back to his dog who was padding softly up and down the kennels, looking for something that might be impossible to find.

It took long enough that Alistair knew it to be a vain hope. But then Adara stopped, looked intently into one pen, and sat down, glancing back at Alistair. He moved to join her, to see what she had found.

A red brindled mabari looked back at them. He wasn’t a puppy, but not yet full grown. He cocked his head curiously at them, getting to his feet with a stretch to come over and give them a sniff. His tail wagged faintly as they looked at him.

Alistair looked back at the kennel master. “For my son,” he said by way of explanation. “Can you spare him?”

The man nodded after a moment. “Not enough hounds to spare for anyone else, but for you and your boy, ser, aye, we can spare him.”

He should feel guilty. Already this one precious resource—something so innately Fereldan—was spread too thin. And he was stealing a bit of it away for pure selfishness. But he could do nothing else. He owed it to the defenseless boy sleeping in his bedroom to give him every chance to face whatever the future might hold.

“Thank you.” The words weren’t enough, but he had nothing else. The kennel master simply nodded, however, and came over to unlatch the gate. The brindle glanced at the man for a moment and then turned back to look at Adara. Without a word from Alistair, she trotted off toward the castle, the brindle’s black stockinged legs hurrying to keep up with her longer strides. Alistair followed, allowing himself a smile and deep wave of affection for his hound washing through him as they re-entered the castle.

Lya was awake when he returned to their bedroom, though barely. Golanth jerked his head up and the movement caught her attention. She frowned slightly at the third dog that entered their room and looked up at him, question unspoken.

“For Braden,” he said.

She looked back down at the brindle. “Do you think he’ll imprint?” she asked quietly.

“Adara does.”

With a soft, fond smile in Adara’s direction, Lya nodded. “After breakfast then? Give Braden a chance to be fully awake?”

“Of course.” He looked to where their son still slept and realized he couldn’t recall the last time he’d woken Braden in the morning. More guilt to be added to the pile. “You go ahead. Take your time. I’ll have water drawn for a bath for you. I’ll take care of him when he wakes up.”

It was a testament to how much Lya had been shouldering the responsibilities of their son when she simply nodded tiredly and padded into the bathing chamber. Alistair went to the door and quietly requested water for her bath. He held the door open a moment longer so all three dogs could slip out to go outside.

When Braden did wake up, he grinned up at Alistair, reaching up with his arms into the unmistakable gesture of a child to be picked up. “Daddy!”

“Hey, there,” Alistair said, easily lifting him up. “Did you have good dreams?”

Braden nodded and started to babble out a story that Alistair couldn’t have made heads or tails of if his life depended on it. It didn’t matter. He just enjoyed the simple joy of his son as he helped him out of his nightshirt and into his clothes. Lya was waiting for them at breakfast, and Alistair helped Braden with his, taking the occasional mouthful of bread, cheese and ham for himself.

When they were done, Alistair picked Braden back up. “I have something for you.” He looked up at Lya. “Are they…?”

She nodded. “They came back a bit ago. Let me get them.”

As she went to the door, Alistair set Braden back down, staying crouched on his heels as the three mabari re-entered the room. Adara and Golanth immediately headed for the table in hopes of scraps, but the brindle paused, head cocked. Slowly, he padded over to Alistair and Braden. He felt Braden go very still as boy and dog regarded each other. Braden reached out and the brindle sniffed his hand.

With a squeal, Braden launched himself forward before Alistair could stop him, wrapping his arms around the brindle’s neck. He looked back at Alistair with a look that could only be described as pure joy. “Daddy, I love him!”

Alistair felt relief flood through him. At least at one small thing he’d succeeded. “That’s wonderful! You’re very lucky to have a mabari all of your own. You’re going to have to think of a name for him, you know.”

Braden turned back to look at the brindle. “A name?”

“Yes,” he explained. “He’ll want one.”

A serious expression on his little face, Braden turned back to regard his mabari again. He frowned, thinking. Then he grinned. “Dog!” he shouted.

Alistair looked at his son and then at his wife—who just nodded knowingly—and then back to his son. “Dog?” he asked hesitantly.

The brindle—Dog—barked and Braden giggled. Alistair just shook his head. “I’m…not really sure why I expected anything else.”

“He is only three,” Lya said softly, coming to Alistair’s side as he stood up, both of them watching as Braden and Dog started tussling. “Three year olds are simple people. Although if anyone asks, he got that from his father’s side of the family.”

That got the ghost of a laugh, quickly swallowed as it hit both of them that there was no father’s side of Braden’s family left. “Alistair.” She slid her arms around him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” he said softly, returning the embrace. “I know.”

They fell back into silence, watching as their son and his new protector played. 

A hand touched the back of his neck and Alistair jerked his head up, startled. He was in his study, resting his head in his hands, and hadn’t heard the door open.

“Sorry,” Lya said quickly. “It’s just me. I thought you heard me come in.”

He shook his head. “No, I've been….” He trailed off, unsure how to finish.

“Lost in thought?”

“No, just lost,” he laughed humorlessly. He shook his head, forcing the current problems to the side for at least a moment. Turning, he reached out to Lya, settling her on his lap. “How are you doing?”

Lya shrugged. “I don't know. It doesn't seem real, somehow. I keep expecting Cailan to breeze through. It seems so quiet now.”

Alistair grimaced. She wasn't wrong. In many ways, Cailan has been so much like their father. He had been loud and boisterous, and his presence had filled the space wherever he was. His absence left a noticeable void.

“And then I keep thinking about Fergus,” Lya continued. “Or forgetting. Maker, I keep forgetting that he's-” She shook her head. “I don't know how Oriana and Anora are doing this.”

All Alistair could do was shake his head. He didn't know either. To think of losing Lya like that…. No. He wasn't even going to finish that thought. 

He pulled his wife a little closer. “Did you need something?”

“I came to fetch you for supper. You missed lunch. I don't want you missing too many meals.

Food. Right. He didn't feel hungry, but she had a point. He had to eat. “I'll be along shortly. Just need to get a few things done.”

Lya gave him a long look and then shook her head. “I wish I could believe you. Come on. This is enough for today. Eat and then spend some time with your son. He misses you.”

Alistair looked away guiltily. Braden was perceptive and he knew things were wrong. Dog helped distract him, but he still looked at his father with too innocent eyes filled with questions whose answers he couldn’t understand. It was too much effort to try to be happy around him, to pretend all was well, so he'd taken to working late, staying away until after Braden had been put to bed.

Ashamed, he kept his gaze diverted and shook his head. “There's too much to do.”

“Alistair,” Lya said gently, “it can wait."

“No, it can't.” Taking a deep breath, he carefully shifted Lya off his lap. “We don't even know how much time we have before the horde reappears. I'm coming to dinner, but after I have things to do.”

Lya was silent for a long minute and Alistair looked over at her. Her face, pale and drawn, was also angry. “It can wait,” she replied more firmly.

Now irritated himself, Alistair got to his feet. “No, it can't. Ferelden needs me. My people need me.”

“Your family needs you!” she snapped. “Your son needs you! I—!” Her voice cracked and she blinked quickly, recomposing herself. “You're hiding in here.”

“I am not!”

“You’ve had the same papers on your desk for the last two nights I've come in here!” She gestured pointedly at the stack of documents. “You're still waiting for information. There's nothing you can actually do about any of this right now.”

She stepped closer and reached up to carefully smooth a wrinkle from his shirt. “You're hiding,” she repeated gently. “And I don't blame you. Who could? Things are awful and they’re going to get worse. I know keeping busy helps. I know Ferelden needs you. And I know she's going to ask more in the future.” She shuddered. “Ferelden asks so much of her kings, it seems.”

“And her queens,” he added softly, thinking of Moira and Rowan, then Anora, and now his own queen.

“And we give willingly.” She didn’t sound angry or sad, just resigned. And then she shook her head. “There will be time enough to be busy. Later. We need you now while we can have you.”

Alistair reached up to cover Lya’s hand on his chest with his own. She had a point. “Okay,” he agreed. “You’re right. We have a little time.”

She pressed tight against him. “Thank you.”

Alistair swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. This was all wrong and there was nothing he could do about it.

Information had begun to trickle in and Alistair found himself spending more time in the war room with Loghain. Teagan joined them, as did a handful of older, more experienced northern banns. Bryce Cousland had sent word that he would also be joining them shortly, and that he had some hopeful news to share with them.

Any good news would be welcome, though Alistair wondered what it could be. He wouldn’t know until Bryce made it back, however, so he, Loghain, and the rest planned as best they could.

It was in the war room that a rushing messenger came to find Alistair. “Sire! The Wardens are here!”

Alistair looked up. “From Jader? Already? That was fast.” They had to have been rushing in order for them to get to Denerim once the border had been opened for them.

“No, ser. Not those Wardens.”

“Not those Wardens? What do you…?” He trailed off, a strange hope blooming in his chest.

“The Fereldan Wardens, ser,” the messenger explained. “The ones that survived Ostagar.”