#Muse: King In All But Name (Anora Mac Tir)

[songcfmuses-a]

Casual Reminder

Cailan Theirin cheated on Anora Mac Tir almost their entire marriage, and not once fathered a child. 

Anora and Cailan were engaged in 9:10, but still hadn’t been married by 9:23 when he was 18 years old. Meaning she wasn’t of age. Meaning she could not have been born before 9:06 Dragon, and she could not have been born after 9:09 Dragon as Loghain was taking her to court in 9:10.

They were married by 9:25 at the latest when he was crowned King, meaning - she was born either 9:06, or 9:07, making her either 24 or 23 during Origins, and either way - not an old barren woman who deserved to be put aside for the empress of Orlais, who if you didn’t know is a lesbian, and older than Anora and Cailan. After she just spent five years doing the royal duties he chose not to. 

The wiki states she’s been married five years, making her birth year of 9:07 more likely. 

Therefore, my Anora was born 9:07 Dragon, and by 23 Cailan had managed to convince her and the court she was infertile while he shirked duties and had affairs. Lovely husband, really. 

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 12 - The Sword and the Hand that Wields It

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 4372 Chapter summary: Rosslyn makes a triumphant return after weeks of battle, but things don't go quite as planned.

Art in this chapter by the amazing @allenvooreef 

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Fifteenth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon

“They’ve been busy.”

Rosslyn glanced at Morrence, who grinned widely atop her gelding, and shook her head in exasperation. Now that they were within sight of Deerswall, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease a little, but she lacked the energy for anything more. The sun was barely above the horizon, and already her cavalry had been riding for over two hours.

Almost a month ago, she had sent small units of fighters into Highever’s heartlands with orders to disrupt Howe’s takeover of her home in any way they could. The rogues blocked roads, stole supplies, and showed the people there was still a fight to be had, if they wanted one. When had she followed barely a week later to raid the weakened Amaranthine patrols, stories of her tragedy had already spread and grown so that, wherever she went, the people rallied into open defiance and Howe’s soldiers swiftly learned to keep their hands to their sword hilts.

It was never enough. Stories whispered in taverns told how, wherever the enemy threatened, she swept in like a falcon out of the sun, never leaving anything but death in her wake, and the epithet stuck. She liked it. She had decided, in the grove at Deerswall, surrounded by the smell of damp moss and the whisper of her mother’s gods, that she would make Howe regret her escape, make him fear the very shadow of her name before she took her vengeance, and what better way to become the raptor most beloved of the Lady?

But the weeks of guerrilla fighting had taken their toll, and now the guards at the outer gate scrambled to salute as they called ahead to let everyone know of her return to Deerswall.

She had to admit, the work was impressive. Where before there were only lines of muddy tents, now there was a palisade, barracks, stables, training yards, and at the very centre a wooden keep still under scaffolding, crowned with the fluttering colours of all the vassals who had answered her muster. There were fewer than there should have been, but then again, word of her family’s murder had spread, and the Bannorn could not be blamed for deciding to wait before they committed themselves, especially when she had so few soldiers to protect them.

She shook the thought from her mind, smoothing the worry from her face to sit taller in her saddle. People – mostly refugees, by the look of them – were gathering along the main road to get a look at the troopers as they filed past. Rosslyn nodded to Morrence and within moments the cavalry settled into parade columns three abreast, trotting towards the keep with the Falcon of Highever proudly at their head. Lasan arched his marbled neck and flared his tail, and Rosslyn smiled at the way he flaunted himself for the crowd. The curved raptor’s beak moulded into her helmet hid the expression from the people watching, but it also hid the dark circles beneath her eyes and the stiffness caused by her bruises, so she kept it on. As all eyes turned to her, she felt glad that she had heeded her captain’s advice and already sent the injured ahead to the infirmary; in such uncertain times the people needed to see her victories, not what it cost to achieve them.

The main gate of the palisade groaned open ahead of her. The odours of sawn wood and animal dung, hot metal and baking bread, spilled out with the first glimpse of the keep, and the murmurs of the crowd grew louder. Someone was singing, though she didn’t catch the words. Teagan stood at the top of the steps that led into the hall, his expression too far away to see, while around him clustered the bevy of lords who had answered her call. She scanned the dais, out of mere idle curiosity, but twinge of disappointment fluttered in her gut nonetheless when nobody else appeared. Of course, it was silly to think –

“Lady Falcon! Lady Falcon!”

She caught a flash of yellow. Lasan caught it too and baulked, a catlike leap sideways that almost carried him into the crowd. Rosslyn might have reined him in, might have found her seat again and calmed the beating of her heart, but as her horse danced against the bit to face his unknown enemy, a man came barrelling into his path, yelling as he threw himself between the little girl and the threat of flailing hooves.

The world upended. Lasan reared, bellowing. Rosslyn grabbed for his mane, cursed as it slipped through her fingers, lost all sense in the one weightless instant when the sky lurched and blurred with the scared, shocked faces of the people behind her.

“My lady!”

She clung to her seat with only iron will, the specially designed prongs of the cavalry saddle digging into her thigh. The reins bunched in the hand gripped against the saddlebow. The other splayed as a brace against Lasan’s trembling neck. Through the thrill of her nerves, her nose filled with the sharp, dusty odour of equine sweat, the scuffed balsam of pine chippings from the path churned beneath his hooves. Distantly, under the ring of silence and snorted breath, she heard the sound of someone crying.

“Lady Rosslyn?” Morrence’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“Gabh air do shocair,” she muttered in Clayne as she slithered inelegantly the rest of the way to the ground. Her legs shook as her feet touched earth, but she kept her voice steady, soothing. “Bhith ciùin. Chaidh am blàr a tha thairis.”

Her charger’s ears flicked towards the sound of her voice as she came to his head. Every bunched muscle stood tense, his neck arched and eyes rolling, and her arms were barely long enough to reach up to his cheek, but by degrees her words reached through his training and his panic – calm, be calm, the battle is over – the proud head lowered, and Rosslyn allowed herself a breathy chuckle. “There, now that was silly of you, wasn’t it?”

Lasan snorted and gave her shoulder a good-natured shove.

“You can stand down, I’m fine,” she told the waiting Morrence, and glanced over at the man who had caused the uproar.

He flinched. His brawny arms wrapped more tightly around the child he had dived to protect, the fear in his expression betraying the soft reassurances he tried to whisper in her ear. The girl sniffled and buried herself deeper against her father’s leather smock, her sunshine yellow dress stained and the sprays of white Andraste’s grace braided into her hair thrown into disarray. A pair of guards stood on either side, grim-faced but resolute, waiting for orders.

She’s younger than Oren, Rosslyn realised, and had to push aside the clench in her chest. The people were watching. Lasan nudged her arm again.

“Is the child hurt?” Sawdust caked the back of her throat.

“N-no, just shaken.” The farrier darted a glance at the armoured men looming next to him, then back to his daughter, and finally to Rosslyn, earnest. “Please, Yer Ladyship, she meant no harm. It’s her name day, y’see, and she wanted’a see ye…” He faltered. “I shoulda kept a closer watch on her, I’m sorry.”

Around them, the crowd buzzed, waiting to see what Rosslyn would do. Her reputation as a warrior might make them cheer for her, her lucky escapes might be fodder for stories, but it was her response in this moment that would win or lose their loyalty forever. Easing out a slow breath, she reached up and undid the clasp that still held the falcon helmet in place, welcoming the cool air against her forehead when she removed it so the implacable mask of the Lady of Highever could fall away.

“What’s your name, girl?” she asked, as gently as she could.

The farrier’s eyes widened. He jiggled her on his hip to get her to look at him. “Are ye going te answer Lady Falcon?” He smiled encouragement, half-turning her in his arms so she could face Rosslyn directly.

The girl flushed, red as her hair. “M-Molly…” she answered, and hid herself away again.

“Your Ladyship,” her father prompted.

“… Y’ Ladyship,” Molly repeated dutifully.

Rosslyn’s frown softened. “Molly. You scared my horse.”

“Din’ mean to.” The girl sniffed. “Y’ Ladyship.”

“He’s a big, silly beast, and he meant nothing by being startled,” Rosslyn mused, taking a tentative step closer. “Would you like to make friends instead?”

Molly peeked out from her father’s shoulder, eyes wide, and nodded. Like something out of her bedtime stories, she watched as the towering roan charger plodded towards her, led at the lightest touch by the proud warrior maiden her father had said would save them all. The stallion’s ears pricked forward, a cautious regard that eased as every beat ticked by and nothing leaped out to attack him, until at last, with a greeting whuff of breath, he lowered his head to accept the feel of tiny, hopeful fingers.

“He’s so soft!” Molly’s giggle broke the bated silence of the onlookers. “Good horsie!”

The ghost of a smile touch Rosslyn’s lips. “His name is Lasan.”

“Lasan.” Molly smiled and repeated the name to herself, babbling compliments while the adults talked in serious voices and the horse basked in the attention, as if he hadn’t been preparing to kill everything within range of his hooves just moments before. She traced the velvet lines of his nostrils and the uneven white snip splashed between them, and beamed when he lipped at her palm, looking for a treat.

“I canna apologise enough, Yer Ladyship,” her father was saying. “I just panicked. She – she’s all I’ve got left.”

Rosslyn nodded, stroking a hand along her horse’s neck. “I understand.”

“Aye, I know.”

Stiffening, Rosslyn pressed her lips together and cleared her throat. “I’m glad she wasn’t hurt, at least. And that’s enough pampering for you, I think,” she added to Lasan, who swished his tail and grunted at the unexpected twitch in the reins.

“But he likes being petted!” Molly whined.

“He needs te go to the stables, pet, and have some breakfast,” her father explained. “He’s very tired.”

“Oh.” The girl sagged in his arms. “Alrigh’.”

“H’oway then, and say goodbye te Her Ladyship.”

Rosslyn smiled. “It was good to meet you, Molly.”

Suddenly shy again, Molly ducked her head and clung to her father’s shoulders, but smiled out as she mumbled, “Good’a meet ye too, Y’ Ladyship.”

“That’s it, now let’s –”

“Wait!”

Rosslyn turned, blinking in surprise. Molly wriggled on her father’s shoulder, fidgeting with her hair until a stalk of wilted white flowers came away in her fist. Not quite understanding, the farrier waited while Rosslyn bent her head to allow the gift to be knotted behind her ear.

“How does it look?” she asked when Molly leaned back to survey her handiwork.

“Good.”

“Thank you.” She straightened. “I will treasure it.”

“There’s a good lass. Let’s let Lady Falcon be on her way now.”

The little girl’s farewell followed Rosslyn all the way to the bottom of the keep steps, where the cluster of nobles had gathered to greet her. Though they all gave her respectful bows as she approached, only Teagan seemed genuinely pleased to see her alive and whole and untrampled. She passed Lasan’s reins to a groom with a final pat and nodded to Morrence, who took charge of dismissing the company.

It left her to deal with the nobles, all standing in a line: Bann Loren, watery-eyed and bald as an acorn; Telmen of Aidanthwaite, with wisps of grey in his dark hair; Crestwood’s Bann Auldubard, who could still be called a youth, if only just. And there in the centre was Bann Franderel, who had always given her father such headaches, his thin arms crossed over his thin chest, looking her over the way a polecat might regard a fledgling bird. It was he who had summoned her, like she was a dog to come to the whistle. Like she had nothing more important to do.

“Well met, my lords,” she said brightly, with a smile she didn’t feel. “It’s a lovely morning, don’t you think?”

“Made all the lovelier by your return, my lady,” Loren replied. He had always been a sycophant.

“It was perhaps more eventful than we were expecting,” added Teagan.

Auldubard nodded his agreement. “A very fine entrance, indeed.”

“It was lucky the situation resolved itself as it did,” Franderel sniffed over the mutterings of agreement, his arms still crossed. “Destriers are always unpredictable, and when added to a teeming crowd… well, we are all just relieved my lady came out of it unhurt.”

Rosslyn nodded acknowledgement of the sentiment, if not its lack of sincerity. “Your letter was urgent, wasn’t it?” she asked sweetly. “I rode all the way from Tarleton to be here – I thought it best to come directly.”

Franderel’s eyes narrowed. “Such matters are best discussed inside, my lady. Away from prying ears.”

“Then by all means, lead on.”

“If you would like to freshen up first,” Auldubard offered, “we would be more than happy to wait.”

“Of course,” said Franderel. “All the way from Tarleton – the journey must have exhausted you.”

It was a test. Rosslyn could tell by the way his lip was curling, but he gave nothing else away. On the one hand, a rest would grant her a precious hour or two in which to compose herself to properly face the inevitable back-and-forth, but in so doing she would admit her fatigue – or it might suggest she valued her vanity over whatever important matter they needed to discuss. The other option, to go with them immediately, would show her willingness to put business before her own comfort, though that in itself might paint her as too obliging, lacking her own will.

In the end, she was decided by her desire to be away from their politicking as soon as possible. Tugging off her gauntlets, she mounted the steps, knowing they would move out of her way.

“I’m a little tired, maybe, but still perfectly capable.” She smiled blithely at Franderel. “After you, my lords.”

They could not refuse such an invitation, and one by one they filed through the double doors and into the keep. Auldubard hesitated for a moment, but when she kept her attention on the arrangement of her gloves over her arm, he followed after the others. Franderel might have scuppered her chance for a bath and a meal, but she was determined to at least set the pace of the meeting.

She was about to follow when she noticed a familiar figure standing in the shadow of the doors. Alistair was making himself busy by riffling through the pile of papers clutched in his arm, as if to give her the opportunity to walk past him without acknowledgement, if she wanted.

“I see you’re keeping well,” she said instead.

He looked up, caught, and cleared his throat. “Lady Rosslyn.”

“Ser Alistair.”

There was a pause.

“I am well, thank you. Um.” He frowned. “No furry shadow today?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, with a faint quirk of her lips. “As you know, Cuno rates his breakfast more highly than his loyalty, but he’s fine.”

“And you?” Alistair asked. He ran a hand through his hair so it stuck up at the back, sneaking a shy look at her from the corner of his eyes. “Are you… alright?”

Rosslyn snorted. “How do I look?”

He looked at her properly, then, with a care that squeezed on her chest, taking in every detail of her appearance from the tangles in her hair to the bloodstains that mired in the crevices of her armour.

“Honestly?” he asked. “You look exhausted. But,” he added, perhaps noticing he had taken a step closer to her, “uh, you seem a little bit more graceful than usual.” His eyes flicked to the white flowers in her hair.

Her hand followed the movement before she could check the impulse. “You have a terrible sense of humour.”

Alistair shrugged. “It can’t be that bad, if it’s made you smile.”

“And in just a few short moments Franderel will do his utmost to ruin all your good work,” she teased, biting her lips together to control the spread of her grin. She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to know what this is all about, would you?”

“Nobles only, I’m afraid, and I don’t count. But I could take those, if you like,” he added, nodding to her gauntlets and helmet.

She shook her head. “You look overworked as it is. It’s alright, I’ll –” She was interrupted by a loud, unladylike rumble from her stomach. Heat flooded her cheeks, but Alistair only chuckled.

“Looks like someone should have followed the example of their dog,” he said. “Let me at least have a servant bring something to your rooms. Long, boring meetings always go by faster if there’s a hot meal to look forward to at the end of it.”

“So speaks the voice of experience?”

He winked at her, making her smile again. “Don’t let on.”

“Food would be welcome. Thank you.” She fiddled with the buckle on her helmet, realising she had lingered outside long after she meant to – and people were looking. “I should go.”

“Of course.” He gave her a crisp bow. “It’ good to have you back.”

He retreated, and she watched after him as he descended the steps towards the armoury. Her thoughts had wandered to him every now and then on the road, when things were quiet, but she had forgotten how much lighter she felt just being in his presence. A lingering reaction to the circumstances of the night they met, no doubt.

If only dealing with the banns could be so pleasant. They were gathered in the war room, arranged on the opposite side of the table to the door – to her – their contention disguised as deference. As she looked at them, Rosslyn understood the trap Franderel had set for her, and she fought the urge to spin on her heel and run from the embarrassment. Outside, it had mattered little that she was wearing armour and they more genteel clothing, but indoors, surrounded by soft fabrics and clean floors, she looked out of place. Sweaty, muddy, clanking.

She glared at the maps on the table, wrestling down the sudden lump in her throat that tasted bitterly of homesickness. At Highever, if her father had showed up fresh from the battlefield, he would have commanded attention and respect, rather than contempt and backbiting; she herself would have stood in his shadow, quietly learning how to manage armies and nobles and everything else that was a teyrn’s duty, and if she had mis-stepped, he would have been there to intercede.

None of this should be happening.

She lifted her chin. Be fearless, her mother always said, and it will make them unsure what to do with you.

“Is my lady ready to begin?” Franderel asked.

“I’m eager to see what was so important it took me from the field,” she replied. “From the tone of your letter, I’d guess there’s been a change in our circumstances.”

“Indeed. I have the letter here.”

Franderel withdrew a folded piece of paper from his belt and passed it over. It was addressed to ‘The Commander of the Loyal of His Majesty in the North’ but when Rosslyn turned it over, she found the green wax seal had already been cracked open, the Portcullis stamped across it split down the middle.

“The contents are quite straightforward,” Franderel told her as she unfolded the page. “Arl Leonas sends word of a blizzard moving over southern Ferelden – the courier only just made it out of South Reach in time. As you can see, the letter was dated five days ago, and the storm itself is not expected to pass until tomorrow.”

“The Southron Gap is blocked,” Rosslyn mused. “The way the wind blows down there will make travel difficult through the Brecilian Passage for weeks.”

Auldubard nodded, smiling. “Loghain is trapped in Gwaren.”

“Indeed,” added Franderel. “We must seize this chance and make for Denerim while we can.”

Rosslyn frowned, but before she could open her mouth to reply, Loren interjected. “This is the Maker’s will, my lady. Surely you see that. Once we are in Denerim, nobody will doubt the king’s legitimacy.”

“And with your recent actions, as you yourself have said, Howe will struggle to foot a sufficient enough force to challenge us.”

“It will serve as a firm base from which to finally put down Teyrn Loghain and his rebels.”

The lot of them seemed too enthusiastic in their arguments, and too certain of their effects. Rosslyn felt her temper flare. They had already decided their course of action, and were trying to sway her to their side, to control her actions with a few pretty words. She looked to Teagan, who had yet to speak and was staring down at the table as if he thought by scowling at it hard enough, it could make him invisible.

“What about the refugees?” she asked. “Are you saying we should abandon them?”

“They can go south, or west,” Loren replied with a shrug. “The shores of Lake Calenhad are sparsely populated.”

“There are elderly and children out there,” she pointed out. “People who can’t move as quickly as an army. The instant we leave, Howe will swoop down on them and do as he pleases.” Broken families like Molly’s would be torn apart further, and from what she had seen in recent weeks, death would be the kindest outcome for them.

Telmen raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure he would waste his energy on civilians, my lady?”

“Tired, hungry people are easier to kill than trained soldiers.” Rosslyn spoke slowly, to be sure he understood. “Howe has already proven he has no conscience, and Rillside’s declaration of support has shown him what he might gain from wholesale slaughter.” She could imagine it, how many other banns wold side with Loghain out of fear for their lives or their people’s wellbeing; his cause would gain momentum like a rockslide and bury their own. “He would kill them out of spite, if nothing else.”

“And who provoked him in the first place?” Franderel asked with a pointed look in her direction. “We’ve seen the reports from our scouts. Who is it has been crowning his fallen captains with laurel wreaths for him to find like this is some sort of children’s game?”

“Who has been drawing Howe’s gaze so he does not turn his attention further south?” she retorted. “You’re welcome to try and stand your militia against Amaranthine without my soldiers acting as your shield.” Her gaze flashed to the other banns. “Crestwood and Oswin, too, while we’re at it.”

“Then what do you propose?” Telmen asked. He spoke to the floor, though the buffer provided by West Hill meant his lands faced a less immediate threat from an attack from the north.

“Retake Highever.  Use the blizzard, draw Howe out and beat him before reinforcements can arrive from the south.”

“A waste. We have no siege engines. The breathing space this weather provides will be better spent reaching Denerim to better protect the king,” Franderel insisted.

“And then what? While we remain outside the capital we have the advantage of mobility, something we will lose if we trap ourselves within Denerim’s walls. All Loghain would need to do is wait until we run out of food.”

“All Howe will need to do is wait until we run out of men to throw against the gates of Castle Cousland.”

Rosslyn fixed the banns with a steely glare. “It can be done.”

“There are several options that could be discussed, if only we could all calm down,” Teagan suggested. He was ignored.

“I wonder at the true reason for my lady’s hesitation,” said Franderel silkily. “Inexperience is understandable, and hot-headedness is often paired with youth.” His smile widened, and Rosslyn felt her temper heating further. “Perhaps you cling to the rumours that have emerged regarding surviving members of your family. We’ve all heard them. Is that why you were so adamant to lead the cavalry yourself, my lady, why you are so eager to put your pride above loyalty to the king? Do you think to make yourself a hero with a daring rescue? Do you think if you swing your sword hard enough, it will allay the guilt of your parents’ deaths?”

The slam of Rosslyn’s fist on the table reverberated on the walls, and in the echoes, the weight of her breathing was the only sound that remained. The impact tingled all the way up to her elbow, but she didn’t care. Her heart punched against her ribs, every muscle held tense just on the edge of control. She could do it. She could cross the room; she could take Franderel by the back of his greying, thinning hair and crack his condescending smirk against the table like an egg.

“That’s enough,” Teagan snapped, but the damage was already done. “Lady Rosslyn, you –”

She shrugged off the placating hand he laid on her shoulder. “You forget your place, my Lord of West Hill.”

Franderel’s smile turned beneficent. “My lady forgets that without my generosity, she would have no place at all.”

“And I will remember that generosity in the future,” she ground out in reply. “For now, know this: I will not sacrifice my people for some ill-conceived attempt to woo the king’s favour. Go to Denerim if you must, but you will go alone.” She straightened, pulling her shoulders back far enough that her joints popped. The movement brought back the ache in her muscles, the groans she had heard from those of her soldiers who had been wounded in the field and had to be put out of their agony along the road. “This meeting is over.”

Without another word she turned away from them all, poised as a cat, and swept from the war room into the narrow corridor beyond.

[songcfmuses-a]

“Wars makes murderers of us all” loghain for anora 👁👁

She cannot say she likes the statement. Of the light it casts her father in. The light it casts Maric, of Cailan himself now that they go off to war. Men were not perfect, Anora had learnt that in her years, but the harsh reality of war hit her once more. 

One must kill, in war. That is how one succeeds. Yet, if it were darkspawn, does it still count as murder? 

“War also makes us all desperate. And desperate people do desperate things.” Thievery, murder, what was Denerim in the midst of war but a hotspot for crime? “I do not think one is a murderer for fighting in war. I think the intent changes the act, though feel free to correct me if I am wrong, Father.” She is still so young, so unaccustomed to war that perhaps she was wrong. This she could admit.