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"Love didn’t just happen to us. We built it slowly, stone by stone, over the years." - Catelyn Stark, A Game of Thrones
Sometimes, when it is early in the morning and Alistair is just barely awake, when the dove-gray sunlight hit Anora’s hair just so, he forgets about when and where and almost thinks it’s the other one, the one that he really wants, sleeping beside him.
He could almost fool himself thinking that it’s her, that she would shift around to face him, hair loose around her peaceful face, just a thin layer of clothes between them. It’s those moments that he had treasured the most back then, when she allowed herself to be utterly vulnerable and young and soft around him, when there was nothing about civil war or the Blight etched on her features. It must have been like this, he had thought, before everything went wrong, before Duncan found her.
Then the sunlight would harshen, and she faded from view.
Anora stirs, but remains sleeping. It remains a surprise that she sleeps next to him at all—probably for her own security than anything else, Alistair imagines. Probably to keep the tongues from wagging. They were rivals for the throne once, but Anora knew him enough that he wouldn’t kill her while she slept. And he was still a battle-hardened warrior, and that was protection too in itself—from other people, and from her, especially.
A year into their marriage, and he still has all these questions: Did you love Cailan? Do you really hate me as much as you say? Is Erlina your lover? But early on in their partnership, it’s an unsaid agreement that neither would share anything of their own unless given freely. And so she sleeps beside him, this beautiful, dangerous stranger.
As if conscious of his mindful of his questions, Anora suddenly breathes very deeply. Alistair shuts his eyes again, pretending to be asleep, not wanting to be caught in that ice-blue stare. Five more minutes, he thinks. Five more minutes of quiet, before he does his duty as King, as husband, whatever that means.
——————————
Anora stares at him in horror but for once he doesn’t care. He’s faintly aware that his knuckle is a little raw from hitting Bann Tallis square in the jaw. The hall around them goes quiet, drawing stares from the other nobles gathered.
“Get him out of my sight,” he growls lowly. Two soldiers rush forward to awkwardly help Bann Tallis out, flinging limbs over limbs to carry him out of the party. He leaves the room. Anora follows.
“Was that really necessary?” she barks at him the moment they are out of earshot.
“Did you hear what he said, Anora? To our faces? To call the Queen of Ferelden a barren icy wasteland in front of us? I am his King!” Alistair does not mean to yell at her, but the reminder of the man’s words brings the rage again.
Anora closes her eyes. “We were asking for a favor.”
“Asking him a favor does not give him the right to insult us. Who does he think he is?”
“Stop it, Alistair. Just…stop it.” Anora says, resting one palm against her forehead. “I think you have made your point very clear.”
He stands there, glowering.
“Once you’ve collected yourself, we will go out there together and apologize to Bann Tallis, do you understand?” Anora continues, as if to a stupid child.
He shakes his head and laughs, derisive. “You are quite something, Anora.”
Anora’s gaze grows a little harder. “What do you mean?”
“You’re asking me to apologize to someone who has just insulted you like this? If you’re thinking I’m going to agree with this sort of politicking, you’re in for a surprise.”
“The knowledge that their King is not a barbarian upstart is the kind of politicking I had in mind here, thank you very much,” Anora says levelly. “If the suggestions of my inability to have children would elicit such a reaction from you, I’m afraid you will be punching a great deal more people in the future.”
“Never had a problem with punching people before.”
Anora rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know. But you must know that having your children is a matter of State, one that the nobles always feel like they must comment on.”
Had she been dealing with impertinence like this since Cailan?
“I am intact. The words do not bother me. I would have made short work of him. They should not bother you, Alistair,” Anora says carefully, watching his face.
Then, a realization: He feels sorry for her.
“Alright,” he says, uncrossing his arms. Anora smiles at him—a grateful little smile, and it’s surprising. “No direct apologies; just invite him to our summer lodgings or something for the winter.”
“Understood.”
“But, Anora,” his stern tone catches her attention. “I don’t care if it’s a matter of State—no one will ever question you or me about this ever again, alright? Otherwise, they should expect a punch coming from a mile away.”
Anora looks a little displeased, but he doesn’t care. “Understood.”
——————————
It’s Harvestmere, and the lands have been fruitful, more than they had hoped after the Blight. Fires have been lit, and the wine is flowing freely. All eyes are on them again to lead the first dance.
Anora is dressed in autumn colors, green and gold setting off her fine hair. She smiles widely at him when he asks her to dance, although the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Remember, as we practiced,” she says in a low tone as they sweep past the other guests. “Don’t step on my toes please.”
“I’ll try,” he replies. The band begins playing, and they dance. As if on cue, the other people in the room sigh in unison at the sight of their king and queen, beautiful and tall.
“Well, how are you this evening? This season’s success is all your doing, after all,” Alistair says, just to make conversation. It’s true though—he had never had the patience to go through contracts and the like as Anora does.
Anora looks at him in that way, as if ascertaining if he is joking or serious. “I’m alright. Just a few more assurances about some trade routes, then I’ll be better, I think.”
“Such a hard worker,” Alistair chuckles.
“It wouldn’t have been possible without your efforts towards our country’s security,” Anora says, and he notes the little begrudging tone of admiration in her voice.
“Oh, so are we complimenting each other now? What has the world gone to?” Alistair can’t help but grin at that.
“Careful, I don’t want to fall over with your big head throwing us off-balance.” Anora says wryly.
“There you are. I was starting to worry you were getting a bit soft on me, Queen Anora.” Their eyes meet and there’s a little charged moment of—-something. He doesn’t want to think about it. How unnerving.
This is an act, Alistair tells himself. The united front, strength in two monarchs. He doesn’t trust her, shouldn’t trust her—but the truth of the matter is, he hasn’t had a friend for a while, and she’s been on his side all this time. Maybe she could use a break from his suspicion. Maybe he could, too.
Anora looks nice with her hair down, he thinks.
——————————
They have developed habits. Habits.
She settles down with a book, he settles down with official letters he has not attended to during the day. Sometimes, these letters include invitations, and he reads them aloud to Anora, for her to decide if they would attend or not. They fall into a comfortable silence, especially since Anora’s taken it upon herself to tell Erlina not to linger in their bedchambers unless she really has to. It’s one of the biggest signs of trust Anora’s ever shown him, and Alistair is glad for it.
“The Wardens have invited us for the commemoration of the end of the Fifth Blight at Amaranthine,” Alistair says. Anora pauses from her book.
“If you want to go, we can.”
“Should we? Weren’t you complaining the other day that we should be, I dunno, distancing ourselves from the Wardens when they wouldn’t divulge information about the attack on Amaranthine?”
“Wardens keep secrets, you know that.” Anora puts down her book down and walks over to Alistair’s desk, where he hands her the letter for her to look at herself. “It’s not like we can deny that we’re here because of them.”
“Why I’M here, you mean,” Alistair says with a little tired laugh.
“No. I know how it happened. I was there, I do not delude myself that I am here on my own merit.” The fact that Anora easily admits to this surprises him. He wonders if the old hurts are still there, if she still wonders if it could all have turned out differently. If she still wants a different outcome.
She stares at the letter for another second and sets it down. “We’ll tell them we’ll go.” To his surprise, she smooths a hand over his head, a bit absent-mindedly. “Don’t stay up too late.”
He expects to feel a shudder of revulsion, but it does not come.
——————————
He dances with her more often at social occasions, and she starts wearing her hair down, because “this is what the King likes.”
Alistair wakes up earlier, but it is Anora who rises up to meet the day. He watches her from bed, drawing her dressing gown around her, tying up her golden hair neatly, already going through today’s schedule. Their newfound…amiability has led to people speculating that he has bedded her, but he has not.
“And why should I not be amiable? You’ve kept up your end of the bargain, after all,” Anora has told him this once. Reminding him that they have, after all, begun as a partnership of convenience.
But they finish each other’s sentences now. Their arguments have been less…explosive, and deference to each other’s judgments have been more respectful than he had expected. For good or ill, Anora is his ally now. He does not question it. She will not get back at him for having a hand in her father’s death—she is too pragmatic for that, and the Warden ensured that Alistair would have no blood on his hands.
Maybe that’s why she left him, in the end. Maybe he’s supposed to make up for that for the rest of his life. Make Anora happy, because I have killed someone she loves for you.
Then there’s the gossip: The King of Ferelden loves his Queen. Somehow, that’s slightly a bit more vexing than the infertility rumor. This is not what it is—he knows what love is. It’s heady and strong and passionate. These do not apply to Anora at all.
Speaking of which, he should really stop staring because he’d never hear the end of it.
——————————
Anora sees him off to Kirkwall. “Do come back safe, Alistair,” she says. “The people are fond of you, for some reason.”
He leans over and gives her a peck on the cheek. “Take care of yourself too, Anora.” He feels a little rush of glee at her irritated look. Then, a look of worry crosses her face, and she clasps his hand.
He leaves.
——————————
She starts to hold his hand in public, and sometimes (sincerely) laughs at his jokes. He makes jokes to make her laugh is also a shocking thing. Maybe she’s starting to hate him a little less, but he does not presume to know Anora’s mind.
On the long days, when they’re both tired and lying in the dark, she tells him stories—stories of her childhood, the day her father brought home the roses. He says nothing, only listens, lets her talk, until she falls asleep.
Sometimes he teaches her about war tactics and Ferelden history. She’s eager to show off how much more knowledgeable she is, but in reality, maybe they’re just tired of being at odds with each other. They have enough of that with the nobles, with everyone else. They need someone to talk to, at the end of the day.
One day, she stops making snide remarks about his intelligence, and he notices that, too
——————————
The King of Ferelden loves his Queen.
This is how it happens.
He’s awoken in the middle of the night as Anora settles next to him in bed to hand him a letter from Connor. The mage-templar war had broken out, and Arl Eamon’s only son had been lost in the confusion. Alistair has been sleeping uneasily since then. He understands Anora’s look to know that Connor is somehow safe, and the letter confirms this to be so.
“He says Grand Enchanter Fiona is hoping Connor’s connection to Teagan will allow them sanctuary at Redcliffe,” Alistair says after he scans Connor’s letter. He looks at Anora, almost an instinct, to ask for her opinion.
She nods. “Of course. Connor’s well-being is our priority.”
Anora doesn’t have to care about Connor. Old hurts mean that Arl Eamon should be less than nothing to her, but Alistair knows her well enough by now to know that her concern is genuine. It’s that moment that Alistair loves her, really loves her, more than life itself.
He throws an arm around her shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “Thank you. Let’s send a raven as soon as possible.”
“I’ll send for one. Let me write a response,” Anora volunteers as she makes a motion to stand up. Alistair holds her back.
“Anora. Thank you.” He kisses her forehead, hands on both sides of her face. He knows he could not have found Connor without her. He hopes she understands.
She closes her eyes, and places one hand over his. “You are my husband,” she simply says, as if this explains everything.
Perhaps it does.