#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. 

[shannaraisles]

A Rose By Any Name - Chapter 7

In which Princess Felicita gets a glimpse of the world she might want to be a part of. Banner created by the superb @kagetsukai.

[Read on AO3] OR [Read from the beginning]

Alistair Theirin was not simply a mouthpiece for his government. No, he was a true king who worked for his people and his land, a great part of each day devoted to council meetings and decisions that would shape Ferelden in the days and months to come. That, in itself, made this month of queen-vetting somewhat unusual, in Felicita's mind. How was he managing it, she wondered. Was he working long hours into the night to make up for the time taken from his usual working hours to entertain visiting dignitaries? Or had the council moved to lessen his workload for this short time only, to allow him at least a chance of discovering some hidden gem among the ladies vying for his attention?

The concept of a working monarchy was one she had only a passing acquaintance with, personally. In Antiva, the royal family was very much constitutional, their role in ruling diminished by the power of the merchant princes, many of whom by now had married into the royal blood and could be said to be just as much royal as the king himself. She knew that her father's seal and signature was necessary to pass certain edicts, to confirm certain amendments to laws, but King Fulgeno's role was never to have a hand in the forming of those laws and edicts. He was little more than a figurehead, the monarchy in Antiva maintained only because their line remaining unbroken for more than two thousand years was a point of pride for the merchant princes who actually ruled the land.

Thus, Felicita was fascinated when an invitation was issued to the ladies to witness the Petitioners Court, though she was one of only a handful who accepted that invitation. Leona, of course, retired to the chapel in the palace for the morning; Callista had spirited Ciara away to explore the palace more fully together. Delphine was in bed, apparently with a sick headache, though the uncharitable might put that down to the sheer amount of elderberry wine she had imbibed the night before. Amandine was there, of course, never one to place herself out of the king's sight unless it was absolutely necessary, and perhaps she truly was interested in seeing how this king administered the law of his land. Ceri had inserted herself into Fergus Cousland's plan to run training drills for the palace guard, something he was no doubt both embarrassed and delighted by. Rosamunde's attendance was something of a surprise - the haughty Fereldan woman tended to avoid the overtly Fereldan activities, claiming she had no need to be taught how her own country worked.

And, of course, today was Lady Maria's specified day to spend with the king. The little girl had outright refused to sit with Alistair while he performed his duties, mollified with the promise of sword fighting and horse-riding when the work was done, and instead elected to remain with Felicita where she had found a seat in the gallery of the Landsmeet Hall. She was full of questions about what was happening, questions Felicita could not answer herself, but as luck would have it, Teryna Anora Mac Tir had requested to sit with them. The teryna of Gwaren knew exactly what was going on, and she was more than happy to explain to both Rivaini and Antivan what they were witnessing.

The Landsmeet Hall was exceptionally full, the doors to the palace opened to allow anyone of any rank to enter and watch the proceedings of the court. While the nobles were gathered on the galleries that loomed above the main floor, merchants and commoners, humans and even a few elves filled the space below, though it seemed to Felicita that most were more interested in getting a personal look at their king, and at the ladies from whom he would soon be choosing a queen for them all. Still, it was an encouraging display of Alistair's integration policy being put into practice, however much the Fereldan nobility might object to it. There was a certain charm to the way the king had a tendency to pause between judgments to send a wink in the direction of a child who caught his attention, or to acknowledge someone from the lower ranks of society whom he seemed to have met at some point. At such times, it was easy to recall that he had spent more than a year trailing all over the country, meeting all sorts of people, almost all of whom he remembered. He was so at ease under the eyes of the lower ranks - far more so than he was under the sole eyes of the nobility, that was clear. No wonder his people loved him so dearly.

"Does the king make all his decisions right now?" Maria asked, watching a smiling young woman reunited with a mother whose husband had attempted to keep them apart through improper use of the law. Alistair had overturned that decision without needing much time to consider it.

Anora smiled at the little girl, fondly squeezing her hand.

"No, my lady," she told them both, for Felicita was just as interested in the answer as her small companion. "There are petitions made for the king's judgment every day, and I am sure he gets through at least a few of them whenever he sits at his desk. The Petitioners Court is held once a month, for the passing of those judgments that the king feels need to be witnessed by the people. He has already seen all the evidence, taken all the advice, and made his decision before the case is ever presented here."

"How do you know?" Maria pressed.

Felicita watched Anora's smile falter, just for a moment, recalling a little too late to warn Maria that this woman had once been Queen of Ferelden herself.

"Because that is how it was done when I was queen, Maria," the blonde lady assured her. "My husband was King Alistair's elder brother, King Cailan, and I was very involved in the running of the country."

Maria's mouth dropped open in amazement. "You were a queen?"

"She was the best queen Ferelden has ever had," Rosamunde interjected from Anora's left. "Ousted by fools afraid of their own shadow."

"Hush, Rosamunde," Anora chided with a frown. "What is done is done, and it has come to be for the best."

"Your father was -"

"My father was a traitor," the teryna said, her expression stern, but her voice sad. "That is all there is to it."

"When I am queen, I will restore you to a position of honor and power," Rosamunde told her, seeming to forget that she was not the ranking lady in their little group. Not yet, anyway. "Regardless of the king's wishes."

"Then you will be a very poor queen." Anora's glance brooked no further discussion on the matter. "Be quiet and learn a little humility, Rosamunde. You are not queen yet."

Even Maria felt the awkwardness in that moment, looking worriedly up at Felicita as Rosamunde fumed in silence. It appeared as though the influential connection the Fereldan woman had been counting on did not actually consider her to be a good candidate for the role she was aiming for. Felicita waited until Rosamunde was looking away before smiling at Maria, though. She didn't want to be drawn into some petty feud over a misapprehension of being seen to laugh at the candidate from Gwaren.

"I am curious, Lady Mac Tir," Felicita murmured, dark eyes watching the movement below as a fresh case was brought before the king. "When you wore the crown, were both you and the king present for this Petitioners Court?"

Anora seemed to relax a little. She was not comfortable at court, clearly, but Felicita found her rather good company, and a gold mine of information for someone unfamiliar with the workings of ruling politics and government.

"The tradition is that the king should preside over the Petitioners Court," she explained quietly. "But Cailan was often away on other matters, and as queen, I had the authority to act in his stead. I understand that Alistair would like to involve his queen in the workings of the country, however, so it is entirely possible that after his marriage there will be two crowns on the dais."

"So whomever is asked to take that position, they will have a great deal to learn before Summerday," Felicita mused, her eyes following the advance of a clearly pregnant woman and her male companion toward the dais, followed by an armored templar.

"The new queen will have advisors and tutors," Anora predicted confidently. "As the king does himself. It is not isolated power, and very rare that the monarch must come to a decision entirely alone."

"But the advice must be sound for the decision to be fair," Felicita pointed out, biting back any further comment as Maria shushed her, eager to hear what was happening on the floor below.

Surprisingly, it was the Warden-Commander herself who stood between the two supplicants to the throne. Felicita felt herself begin to smile at the way the king straightened imperceptibly as his best friend bowed to him. That was a friendship she could appreciate, even from a distance; their shared experiences had made the bond between human king and elven Warden stronger than dwarf-forged steel.

"Your majesty," Demelza declared, her voice clear even amid the flurry of speculation crossing the crowded hall. "As Arlessa of Amaranthine, I submit this case for your judgment, as it was submitted to me. The mages Fehris and Amara, both of the College of Magi, have accused Ser Kirdan of the Order of Templars of harassment and threatening behavior. I, and my people, have examined the evidence provided on both sides, and here I present to you the bare bones of the case. Ser Kirdan wishes to place Amara under watch until her child is born, at which point he will remove the child from her care according to Chantry law. He has stated under oath that he will at no point further harass Amara or Fehris once this is accomplished. Fehris and Amara state that the Chantry laws governing the children of Circle mages does not apply in this case, as they are mages of College of Magi and not under Circle or Chantry jurisdiction. Ser Kirdan does not recognize the College of Magi as a body separate from the Chantry. He has been witnessed making threats against the continued safety and well-being of both Fehris and Amara, should they not conform to his demand. Fehris has also been witnessed making threats against Ser Kirdan's continued health should he not desist. I did not feel this was a case I could judge with due authority, and so, have submitted it before your majesty."

Even from here, Felicita could see the slight shake in Demelza's hands as she stepped back. Addressing the crown, the court, and the commons all at once was daunting enough for a human noble; she could not imagine how nerve-wracking it must be for a former elf of Denerim's alienage. But it had been presented well, albeit far more formally than she was used to hearing the elven Warden speak.

"Cleverly done," Anora murmured, catching the princess' attention with her quiet approval. The teryna met her glance briefly. "To have the Hero of Ferelden present such a difficult case in person. She's clearly been coached, but her presentation is impartial at first view. The king, however, is a close friend, and they will have discussed it."

"What would you do?" Felicita asked her softly, as below them the mages presented their view to the king.

Anora frowned thoughtfully. "As I say, it is difficult," she mused. "If I had such a case before me, I would seek to hand it to others better suited to judge it, but if a judgment was required of me ... It is a delicate peace, between the templars and the mages, no matter which institution they belong to. A judgment on either side could reignite old conflicts, and Alistair has already shown his preference for dealing generously with mages."

So what was the right response, Felicita wondered to herself, only vaguely paying attention as Ser Kirdan began the defense of his own position. She tried to imagine herself in Alistair's position - the king of a country that was popularly considered weak by its neighbors but not yet worth the trouble conquering yet again; whose progressive social policies were not at all in keeping with the rest of Thedas, yet whose known associates were among the most powerful or feared across the lands; who had dealt fairly with the mage rebellion until they forced his hand, and who had once trained as a templar. The more she considered it, the more she realized that Anora's initial assessment was good advice - this was not a judgment he could make with any confidence of his order being upheld by either side. The true judgment was in who he would pass the case to; might he pass it directly to the Divine herself?

She straightened as the king began to speak, her interest piqued even more now that she had her first true taste of what it was to be a ruling monarch. Alistair sat upright on his throne, far more confident in this than he seemed in other situations.

"Fehris, Amara. Ser Kirdan." He inclined his head to all three. "If I were to lay a judgment upon you, would you swear by Andraste and the Maker to uphold my words and live by them?"

The hesitation of all three spoke volumes, but it was Ser Kirdan who spoke.

"With respect, your majesty, yours is a secular authority," he said, as deferential as he could be in the circumstances. "As a templar, I answer only to the Chantry and the Maker Himself. I cannot swear to abide by your judgment if I deem it wrongful under Chantry law."

Alistair nodded, the golden crown on his head catching the light that spilled through the stained glass portrait of Andraste at his back. "Thank you for your honesty, Ser Kirdan."

There was a pause, and for a moment, Felicita wondered why there should be one. If, as Anora said, the decision had been made before this was ever played out for the people crowded into the hall to witness, surely there was no need to wait and consider. But the answer was an easy one to find. The king must be seen to be just and fair. It was a show, the pacing prepared long ahead of the performance, something she understood well from her own experience. Of course he must appear to be considering his options. A decision seen as hasty would not be respected, and would certainly not carry tales of his just rule beyond the city.

"It seems that any judgment I might make here and now will not hold," the king declared, glancing between the two sides of the argument before him. "And rightly so. I do not have ultimate authority over mages or templars, except to the point of preventing violence within my borders. Therefore you will journey, under escort, to Skyhold, and present your case to the Inquisition, where both the heads of the College of Magi and the newly reformed Seekers of Truth will be able to determine the best course of action. Should you fail to abide by their ruling, I do not doubt that the Divine herself will take a hand in ensuring a peaceful resolution."

Fehris frowned, half-a-step toward the throne before he pulled himself up. "Your majesty's choice is just, but ..." He gestured toward his wife. "Amara is entering her eighth month. Such a journey is too risky for her, and though the custom is for expectant mothers to live under the protection of the Chantry until such time as their husbands may return for them, I do not feel that protection will extend to allowing her to keep our child."

Perhaps surprisingly, Ser Kirdan spoke in agreement. "This much is true, your majesty," the templar admitted. "My actions have been spurred by Chantry law. If born while under Chantry protection, the babe will be taken from her, and I fear worse will come of that."

"Why does the Chantry want her baby?" Maria whispered curiously.

Anxious not to miss Alistair's judgment on this aspect, Felicita nonetheless bent her head to answer. After all, Maria was a victim of the same policy, albeit an unknowing one.

"When the mages were all in the Circle, they were ruled by the Chantry," she explained quietly. "The Chantry do not believe it is appropriate for a mage to be allowed to raise their own child, and it was written into Chantry law that any mage who gave birth would be given the care they needed to recover while their child was placed in a Chantry orphanage, or with a responsible family. There are a great many people out there who never knew their parents because of that law."

"Oh." Maria nodded, frowning. "That's not fair."

"No, little one, it isn't," Felicita agreed. "That is why this is very important."

"Amara will remain in her home here in Denerim, under the protection of the crown," Alistair was announcing from the throne. "Any attempt to remove her or her child from Ferelden's care before a verdict is agreed to by the Inquisition will result in immediate sanctions against the templars and the Chantry, as mandated by the precedent already laid out within Andraste's laws and confirmed by previous Divines. Grand Cleric Perpetua, do you agree?"

Felicita's head turned sharply to the head of the Chantry within Ferelden's borders, and found a frown aimed back at the king from a lined face. The Grand Cleric of Ferelden had little choice but to agree to the king's terms, offered in such a public way, and Felicita felt her mouth relax into a smile. She could appreciate the skill with which King Alistair had maneuvered the Chantry into a corner. To deny his request so publicly would be to declare that anyone's child could be stolen by the Chantry without warning or reason, regardless of their magical ability. The last thing the Chantry needed was to be labeled as the abductors of children, especially after the last decade of very public mistakes. As she watched, Grand Cleric Perpetua sighed, rising to incline her head to the king.

"It shall be as you say, your majesty," she agreed, rather graciously for someone who didn't have any choice but to obey. "The Chantry will punish severely any among her ranks who attempt to circumvent the application of both your justice, and the verdict handed down by the Inquisition."

"Thank you, Grand Cleric." Alistair seemed a little relieved not to have been argued with. His eyes returned to the trio standing before him. "Ser Kirdan, Fehris? What say you?"

This time, it was the mage who spoke first.

"Thank you, your majesty," Fehris said, bowing to the king. "I will gladly travel to Skyhold to see this matter resolved, secure in the knowledge that my wife and child are safe in your care."

Ser Kirdan scowled, but also bowed. "As you say, your majesty."

"Excellent!" Alistair rose from his throne with a bounce. "My guard captain will discuss the travel arrangements with you both. I declare this session of the Petitioners Court ended! And now, if you will all excuse me ..." He flashed a wide grin that found an echo in many of the faces of the commons looking up at him. "I have a date with a beautiful dark-eyed visitor from the north-east."

A ripple of laughter filled the hall as the king hooked his crown off his head and headed down the steps from the dais to disappear through one of the side doors. Curious eyes turned toward the ladies who were sitting in the gallery, no doubt trying to identify which of the unfamiliar visitors the king could have been referring to. Had he meant Lady Amandine, perhaps; or was he referring to the princess herself? Rosamunde's eyes were blue and bright, that ruled her out.

As the speculation rose, Felicita found herself laughing as she stood, holding out her hand to Maria as the little girl jumped down from her seat. No wonder the people loved their king so much, she reflected. He was as human with them as he could get away with being. It was ... well, it was strangely endearing.

"Please excuse us, your ladyship," she apologized to Anora, who was waiting patiently for them to pass. "I must deliver the king's dark-eyed visitor to his care for the day."

Rosamunde scowled, but Anora actually let out a bright laugh of her own, gently tweaking Maria's nose as the little girl giggled.

"By all means, your highness," the teryna assured her. "I have business of my own to attend to. And thank you for your company this morning."

"It has been a pleasure, Lady Anora," Felicita answered, holding firm despite Maria's hard tug on her hand. "One I hope to repeat."

"As do I."

Anora's smile was warm as Felicita finally allowed Maria to pull her forward, the two of them carefully edging through the milling nobles toward the door that would allow them into the body of the palace itself. It was no surprise to feel Amandine fall into step behind them - they were going to meet the king, and any opportunity to put herself in Alistair's eye-line was not to be sniffed at.

Away from the sound of the commons being herded out of the palace, the corridors were quiet but still brimming with life, the nobility making their own way at a more sedate pace to their personal pursuits and duties. Alistair was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, in conversation with Demelza Tabris. The Hero of Ferelden looked a little harassed, Felicita noted, but that was understandable. After presenting such a difficult case before so many people, anyone had the right to seem out of sorts. Maria's hand slipped from her own as they reached the floor, the little girl from Rivain letting loose an outlandish cry as she threw herself at the king. Alistair laughed, catching her in mid-air to swing her about before setting her down.

"To arms already, little lady? Will you attack an unprepared enemy so viciously?"

Maria giggled again, swinging his hand back and forth between them. "You said we could play when your work was done, and your work is done, and I want to play and fight and ride and all the rest of it!"

Alistair grinned down at her. "What can a poor, beleaguered king do in the face of such imperious insistence?" he answered teasingly. "Can he possibly tempt you to lunch, first?"

"Aww ..."

As Maria pouted, Felicita chuckled at their back and forth. "An army cannot march on an empty stomach, little one," she pointed out fondly.

"But after, can we play?" Maria asked, turning her big eyes onto Alistair.

"I swear, by all my finger puppets, after we have eaten, you may merrily beat me into the ground with a stick to your heart's content," he promised her, raising his eyes with a chuckle at her cheer to focus on Felicita. "And how did you find the Petitioners Court, your highness?"

Sweet Andraste ... were his eyes that beautiful last week? So bright and warm and golden ... Surprised by her sudden acknowledgement of at least one of the king's charms, Felicita swallowed, raising a smile of her own in answer to his.

"Educational, your majesty," she told him. "And very well done. I enjoyed seeing how a good king administers his realm."

To her delight, Alistair's ears turned a charming shade of pink as he cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'm not sure everyone would agree that I'm anywhere near a good king ..."

"Then their opinion is wrong," she said simply, her smile deepening at his rather sweet inability to accept that he was actually good at his role in society.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Amandine step forward, inwardly bracing herself to give up Alistair's attention, but to her surprise, the Tantervale lady narrowed her focus onto Demelza.

"Warden Tabris, I was wondering if I could speak with you a little further on elven life in Denerim?"

Dem hesitated for just a fraction of a moment. "I haven't lived an elven life in Denerim for more than ten years, my lady," she countered quickly. "The best person for you to talk to about that would be Bann Shianni Tabris."

"Truly?" Amandine seemed surprised, but not uninterested. "And she would be happy to educate me?"

"Oh, Shianni loves educating human nobility about elven life," Dem assured her. "She's over there."

As Amandine turned away, moving with purpose toward the pointed-out elven Bann of the Denerim Alienage, Alistair's poorly concealed grin erupted into a cackle of laughter.

"Shianni is going to kill you for that," he predicted to his friend, who just shrugged innocently.

"She did say she wanted to be educated," Dem defended herself. "Best person for that is Shianni, right?"

"I reserve the right to deny you immunity from her retribution," was Alistair's response, even as Maria pulled hard on his hand. "Yeeeees? Oh, yes, lunch. Do excuse us, ladies. Um, your highness."

He offered up a perfunctory bow, and got ever so slightly stuck there as Maria took the opportunity to clamber up onto his back. And there they remained for a few interminable seconds - the king bent double as though afraid moving might flip the child off, and Maria draped over his back as though attempting to mount a particularly difficult donkey. Felicita could feel her cheeks beginning to ache from the effort of keeping her smile small, making the mistake of meeting Demelza's eyes. The elven Warden was laughing silently, holding her stomach at the ridiculous view Alistair was presenting to the majority of his nobles for the sake of a little girl.

"Would you like a little help, your majesty?" Felicita asked, as innocently as she was able.

"Ah ... a little help would be ... helpful, yes," Alistair managed in a faint grown, the position doing nothing for his ability to complete a sentence in comfort.

Chuckling, Felicita lifted Maria a little way, helping the girl turn about and hook her arms about the king's shoulders. Alistair's hands rose to tuck beneath her thighs as he straightened up, red-faced but smiling himself.

"I appear to have been mounted," he declared, hoisting Maria a little higher. "Shall we gallop, fearless knightling?"

Maria raised a hand, pointing down the corridor. "To lunch, and then play time!"

Releasing the most tortured parody of a neigh Felicita had ever heard, the king turned and ran full-pelt down the corridor, nobles scattering before him with more annoyance than amusement at his behavior. The princess herself laughed, pressing her hands to her stomach as she turned to Demelza.

"He seems very at ease today," she commented.

The redheaded elf grinned back at her. "That was the real Alistair," she intimated. "Not the king, or the boy on his best behavior. If you want to be the queen, that's the man you should be learning about, your highness."

"And what if I am not here to be a queen, Lady Tabris, but to be a wife?" Felicita heard herself ask, curious to know how the king's best friend would react to this.

Dem's grin faded into an approving smile. "In that case, my advice would be this," she said calmly. "Use him, hurt him, forget to appreciate him, and I will end you. But love him, and I will be the best friend you will ever have."

Felicita's brow rose at the gently-put threat. "It is a poor woman who will give her heart to a man merely to attain the friendship of his friends," she countered quietly, her eyes rising to look along the passage where the king had disappeared, unaware of just how soft her gaze was in Alistair's wake. "You could hate me for eternity, Warden-Commander, and it would have no effect upon any feeling I might learn for King Alistair. It is not your children that the queen will bear, but his. Anyone who believes love can be bought is a fool."

"Aye, that is true."

Her eyes flickered back to Demelza, noting that the approval in the elven woman's smile had not faded with her words. It was a strengthening feeling, to realize that she was being tested by the one person in the palace who knew Alistair the man, rather than the king. And as aloof as Felicita had been holding herself from the contest, she had seen enough of the king to understand that the man beneath the crown was a man she could see herself befriending. A man she wanted to know better. It was still a week or more until her own one-on-one with Alistair, days in which he might be enticed by others more than herself. Days in which she might not be given the opportunity of admiring his eyes for more than a moment at a time.

She smiled to herself, inclining her head to Demelza as she turned to find Don Carmello, the Antivan ambassador, waiting to escort her to lunch. No, she had not seen enough of Alistair Theirin to have formed a firm opinion of him yet, but if that small glimpse had been of the man he was not often allowed to be, then her interest was definitely piqued. I wonder ... how long does it take to fall in love? Perhaps it was time to read some of those romance novels so thoughtfully left out for them in the ladies' common room. If she were to have a fighting chance in this competition - and she realized that she did wish to engage in this strange courtship ritual - it was time to be more than just the perfectly behaved princess.

For better or for worse, Felicita's decision was made. She would fight for her place on this battlefield, but her prize was not a throne, or a crown, oh no. It was brown eyes in a handsome face, worried and warm and hopeful, afraid to be open to the people who mattered. Alistair was more than just a king. He was a man alone in a sea of strangers, and one she was very interested to learn more of.

[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.