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kiivg · 18 days ago

Note

hey uhm. very respectfully. where can i find your gaspard/ alistair fic. for reaserch purposes.

.Okay so I wrote Peacekeeper back in 2016, and that’s over on Ao3, and this ~18k thing I never finished years ago, and I’ve not even reread it so bear with because it's probably awful idk 😬. If I do read it I will definitely want to rewrite it lmao, which is ??? Who knows 😘.

.I would like to say that I still do like Alistair/Gaspard even if I’m like one of very few, it works damn you IT WORKS!!!!!!.

.Enjoy ✨🤷‍♂️✨.

“If I don’t win your heart in a month we can call off the wedding.” Gaspard said, his normal tone seeming lifeless. He knocked back his brandy in a quick motion, shaking his head to accommodate the fiery ache it left in its path. He nodded to Alistair, and with a quick bow he marched from the room to deny the man his chance to respond.

It was Celene who was intended to marry the ruling King of Ferelden, to produce heirs and to promote a healthier relationship between the bordering countries. Maker knows that the people of Ferelden would never accept an Orlesian King after the tyranny that Meghren had wrought. But the softer, kinder heart of Celene? Her poisoned words would melt through their objections ever so easily, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Though through a duel that Gaspard had sorely lost, she had coiled his words so tightly that he felt bile rise in his throat and his blood curdle. He had been raised as an Emperor, and now he was being sold like a prized horse to some bastard King of the backwater. The whole idea was a farce, and it had seeded itself so deep in Gaspard’s belly that the man feared he would sooner carve it out than don the golden painted ring.

The King himself had never been part of the negotiations. Alistair had received a letter from Celene thanking him for a sense of open mindedness, rarely found beyond Orlesian walls. His advisors had scattered like mice when he sought to find out. Odella, who is arguably the bravest of them, had explained they could not survive an Orlesian invasion should his refusal anger Celene, or worse mildly irritate Gaspard. His military strength in the form of his chevaliers, and his own tactical mind would carve through Ferelden like the paper that made up the maps.

Gaspard’s journey was made with a sour face, irritated at being packed and presented like a trussed up nug waiting to be peppered by doglord arrows. The backwards people were too idiotic to build their own crossbows, ones that could hold more than one measly prick of a needle bolt anyway, and they had never truly mastered the ballistae in the ages past either.

Celene had, in an overt gesture of supposed kindness, had her seamstresses create several outfits lined with fur for Gaspard to wear in his future days. The Grand Duke had only kept them because depositing them on the road would seem petty, and damage his reputation more than actually being seen in the garments. Each outfit was made from bear hide or canine leather, a hilarious joke Gaspard thought sarcastically, and was surprisingly and embarrassingly comfortable. Quality if not hideous. His escort, two score of men armed and armoured and acting more like gaolers than guardsmen, had travelled with his carriage through the Frostback Mountains. He had been denied a horse, and had thought about simply stealing one from Celene’s men and bolting into the night, but his pride kept him caged inside the padded and mobile cell.

The journey through Ferelden had been just about as exciting and amicable as Gaspard had presumed it would be. The patter of rain came just as quickly as the patter of rocks, and through the dull sound Gaspard lost track of which was what. He knew how he was perceived in Ferelden, contrary to belief he did keep an ear to the ground in his neighbouring countries, and especially the one Orlais had so recently lost.

He wondered if he would be greeted with a soldier’s song. Old King Meghren, an Orlesian song to mock the faulted and failed King. Perhaps they would change it to Old King Gaspard, perhaps they already sung it in Orlais, or maybe Celene was having the lyrics rewritten for his wedding.

His escort had dropped him outside of King Alistair’s castle where he was received, not by the man himself, but his advisors. That was an insult, and Gaspard would not let it lie. The two score men had saluted and left, abandoning Gaspard in a foreign land that thought he was here to conquer, and insisted on using a mixture of backwater Trade and Noble Fereldan idioms which he would never admit to not understanding. Bastards. He’d start speaking in Orlesian and see how well they did. A foreign man with a foreign tongue, they’d piss themselves silly.

One of the advisors, a middle aged woman who’s hands gave away her age where her soft face did not, lead Gaspard through the halls. Her hair was braided and knotted in Rivaini fashion, though she lacked the gold which was common in that country. A short tour of what was where and which areas he was strongly advise to avoid. He had asked why, irate by being told what he could and couldn’t do.

“That wing belongs to the royal alchemist, he has his rooms inspected monthly to assure us that he is practicing safely. Do not worry, Your Highness, he is perfectly kind.” She smiled, her voice was a tune that he couldn’t place, it lacked the north eastern lilt he had expected from her. It danced between the fine line between sweet and bitter. He hummed his answer and the tour continued. She was pleasant to look at, and her knowledge of the castle belied an intimacy within the stone walls.

Gaspard had been gifted a royal guest room, attached were three additional rooms; a dressing room, a bathing room, and a storage room. The Grand Duke sniffed as he entered, in Val Chevin his room had high dome ceilings adorned with paintings and golden arches. This room had carvings of dogs around the fire place, an absurd amount of burgundy and, he sighed, a war painting complete with war hounds. The other rooms fared no better, he had to compliment the wood they had used throughout, dark and hefty, it’s sturdiness may be useful in later days.

He had bathed in the marbled tub built into the room with runes to adjust temperature. Gaspard made himself presentable, changing into fresher clothes and trimming his beard, and then strutted to where he had been told Alistair’s rooms were. The servants had all politely averted their eyes, obviously confused as to why an Orlesian man, wearing heels with glittering jewels over the toe, was caving in their monarch’s door with equally jewelled fists. They did however know exactly who he was, and the echoing whispers told him exactly what they thought.

“Ah. Gaspard, I’m sorry I couldn’t-” Alistair began; he was awkwardly fumbling with letters that left his fingers and cheeks stained with black ink. Gaspard had ignored him, opened a decanter of brandy, poured himself a glass and-

“If I don’t win your heart in a month we can call off the wedding.” Brandy drank, message received, back to bed. Gaspard had no true intention of luring Alistair into a marriage, perhaps into his bed; he after all was a pretty sort of man. Though a doglord nonetheless. The Grand Duke knew how Orlesians got their pleasure; he could make women quiver with a sideways glance and a nod of his head, and the men? He could talk low and deep from his gut and make them wet their breeches without even touching anything. He laughed to himself, halfway nude he supposed you’d just bark at a dog to get them into bed.

The Grand Duke, soon to be Prince Consort de Chalons or worse Prince Consort Theirin, found out quickly that King Alistair ate heartily. He ate more than a man his size should, assuming that the leathers he wore were padded and the man wasn’t actually that fat. He constantly made jests about cheese and dogs and how he once knew a mabari called Barkspawn, well not technically Barkspawn but it was a good name and Mahariel missed out on a good opportunity, right? Gaspard had ignored the man and drank to equalise how much Alistair ate. A drunkard and a fat man sharing the throne? He tipped his wine back into the large glassware and let his mood spoil his supper.

For all his faults Alistair was still ruling Ferelden, and doing a better job than Meghren ever had done. But still, whilst Meghren had been hailed a tyrant by the dogs he could hardly contain, this King seemed only to slap them on the wrist and send them on their way. Grand Duke Gaspard was forced, as he was soon to be a monarch of sorts, to sit through all of Alistair’s courts unless he was given permission to go. Gaspard was truly not in the habit of asking. So he endured, on a throne much smaller than the King’s, though he had six inches in height and a width to his shoulders which forced him to sag in the chair, lest he skewer himself on the protruding wood. Yes, wood, he thought irritatingly, he might as well be sitting on the privy. Alistair had sent a man to serve a night in the stocks; Gaspard would have taken his hand. A horse thief was a horse thief, and one was less likely to steal again if one couldn’t hold the reigns. Not to mention a man with one hand seemed a lot more grateful than men with two.

That night, the King had approached Gaspard with a nervousness he left at his bedchamber door. Hoping that perhaps the man would be kinder with a full stomach, even if half of it was the sweetened wine they had served with the freshly caught fish.

“I like your attempts to woo me. Avoidance is definitely adorable.” He jested lightly. It went amiss as Gaspard didn’t respond; instead he turned to look at the intruder and then went back to the letters he was currently writing. The servants had lit a fire beautifully in his rooms, allowing it to keep the oncoming winter chill away. Gaspard’s skin was a flickering orange, and it made lined shadows dance across his face, weeping into the corner of his eyes and dragging below his nose. Unlike Alistair, he had not smeared ink across his face, but it was slowly staining his thumb and forefinger a rich blue. The wooden surface beside the two seated settee already had rings where the pot had been lifted and reset. “One month.” Alistair said after clearing his throat. The other man’s silence made him nervous.

“One month.” Gaspard murmured. “And if avoidance is working then perhaps you should leave me be.” He stuck the end of his quill in his mouth and whistled low at what he had written. It was too thinly veiled, and his message was hardly obscure. The ink tasted foul too. He sucked his teeth quietly and swiped them with his tongue to rid them of the liquid.

“Touchy. Someone got out the wrong side of the bed.” Alistair said. More jesting, he always made jests when he was nervous.

“Wrong side of the Frostback Mountains.” He hissed through smoke stained teeth. Gaspard balled up the paper and threw it into the fire; he swallowed his wine roughly and sneered as it went down awkwardly. He took his time to glare at Alistair, mask-less in his new home, and to lean far enough that he could grab a bottle from the several which stood beside him. He didn’t care what it was so long as it got him more inebriated, his tongue had mixed a dozen flavours already so another could hardly wound him.

“For someone trying to win my heart you’re not really trying that hard are you?”

“No.” Gaspard let the whiskey fill his glass, and drank deeply before skidding the bottle along the far cabinet. It clinked as it hurtled into the others, forcing a few to wobble in anxiety. “If you want me to do something you can drop your breeches and sit on my face.” He let his head fall on the back of the settee, and grinned. His tongue snaked from his mouth, peaking from behind his moustache and pointing upwards as it wiggled. “I am all tongue.” He grinned and tossed his drink back.

“I think I prefer avoidance. Definitely adorable.” Alistair said. His faced pinched at the sight of Gaspard doing- well, surely the Orlesians didn’t think that was attractive. Gaspard’s bare feet hit the floor with a smack, marching towards Alistair with heavier slapped steps. He grabbed Alistair’s jaw so viscously that his mouth opened and his lips puckered. The hook of Gaspard’s nose dug strongly into Alistair’s scalp and his moustache tickled the shell of his ear.

“Then leave.” He hissed. Alistair wiggled from his grasp and massaged his face. It was reddening under his finger tips and he prayed he wouldn’t have bruises the next morning. He opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut under Gaspard’s gaze. No matter the years he had on him, Gaspard still boasted a well trained fighting form, even if his belly did fold and sag when he sat down. The King left the door open on his way out, a gesture of childish aggression, and apologised to the servants he startled on his way to his rooms.

Alistair ignored him over the next four days, proud of how well he was avoiding the Grand Duke. Until it was pointed out that Gaspard had not left his room since their argument, and there was no way Alistair could have bumped into him.

“It wasn’t an argument, and how do you know about it anyway? A little privacy wouldn’t go amiss Edmund.” Alistair said.

“Your Majesty, a servant saw Grand Duke Gaspard assaulting you, she was eager to tell me. It has me a little worried, if he means to take the throne here, after Orlais has abandoned him.” Edmund said. His hints were always a little too heavy; it came with the naivety of his age, and being thrust into a position after his father had passed. “It worries me, if he has access to poison- to your chambers.”

“He’s not going to kill me. I’ve fought Darkspawn, he can’t be much worse.”

“So has he.” Edmund bowed low and left the King to his training. With the thought of a lion in his bed Alistair fought harder than he had before. He should have convinced Mahariel to stay, elven or not they wouldn’t have let this happen.

Gaspard, on the other side of his newly acquired Fereldan prison, was busy nursing a four day hangover. Three quarters of the letters he had written had been burnt and he had found a dozen pages of colourful language written in large looping letters. He tossed them into the fire before he called for a bath. The letters which had survived the tantrum of a man half his age would be sent to friends in Orlais. He hoped to garner some attention on the marriage, praying that someone would find the whole idea abhorrent and kick up such a storm than Celene had no choice but to void it. Which would cause warfare and she would be blamed for the destruction of Orlais, leaving Gaspard to rise from the ashes and bring her to glory.

Odella had pestered Alistair to fix the problems between him and Gaspard, ignoring that their problems went back centuries, and it was not in fact a lover’s trifle. The King had stepped into Gaspard’s room, hoping to find the man passed out or unconscious. Not naked, and wet, and naked. Maker. Alistair had stuttered and mumbled and left before Gaspard could laugh him out the room. His gut had burned almost as brightly as his face, and he couldn’t exactly tell which head his blood was rushing to. The Grand Duke looked incredible for near seventy.

Edmund had come running towards him after they had eaten, sans Gaspard, and was breathless and slightly wet on his brow.

“Majesty,” He panted “Gaspard is trying to leave. The front gates. Horseback.” He groaned as Alistair jogged to find him, and he was required to follow. “You need to stop him- ah- we can’t risk war with Orlais so soon.” It was strange for Edmund to say such, Alistair thought, but he had to put his trust in his advisors. True to his word Gaspard was armed and armoured, and dressed in such Orlesian finery you could hardly mistake him for anyone else in the castle. Alistair would be sore if this was a distraction for the Grand Duke’s real escape. He doubted it as he approached, Gaspard’s fluent Orlesian echoing through the courtyard filled with guests who were thrilled to watch the red faced man spit venom on the guardsmen. More fodder for nightmares.

“Grand Duke Gaspard! What is the meaning of this?” Alistair quelled the image of him naked from his mind, once he had been told that was how to view your enemies. Now he wasn’t exactly sure how to view his enemies, or even if Gaspard was one. Maker it was too confusing.

“Majesty, if you would be so kind as to move your guardsmen before they end up with dirt between their crooked teeth.” He said.

“Where are you going?”

“Hunting. There may be no wyverns about but I suppose dogs will do.” The guardsmen bristled at his words, and Gaspard was thrilled to know his words hadn’t gone amiss.

“Then let him pass. Grand Duke Gaspard is not a prisoner here, though he may act like one, and he may come and go as he pleases.” Alistair spoke louder to make sure some eavesdroppers heard him clearly. “Within reason of course.” He added at Gaspard’s low chuckle.

“Thank you, Your Majesty, I’ll take pleasure in coming,” He paused “and going as I please.” Alistair cursed inwardly as Edmund stuttered out his objections; whatever his advisor had been planning he hadn’t played into it at all. Nothing had happened and yet the King’s face told a thousand stories in its hue. He had returned to his castle eagerly, muttering about cold baths, freezing lakes and bloody Orlesians.

Gaspard had enjoyed the first hour or so of riding, galloping into the woodlands which surrounded the castle and ignoring the way birds scattered before him. His stallion seemed eager to simply bound through the endless trees with him as well. That had been one of the many things he was beginning to miss, his personal stallion had been pure bred and groomed so brilliantly to be his. He’d gone to war on that horse and lived a dozen battles on his back. He could simply... go back. His mind whispered. He was a good navigator, and Celene hadn’t truly exiled him yet. With a grin he spurred the animal to ride north; he could get a boat from Highever to Val Chevin and be home within a month.

Alistair expected Gaspard to return that night, and had grown more and more anxious as the days wore on and the Grand Duke did not return. Edmund thought it was for the best, this way they have lost the prospect of Orlesian rule whilst keeping the threat of war at bay. If it could be proved that Gaspard left of his own accord, and not coerced into it. Though Odella urged Alistair to send out a party for him, better the man be found alive and embarrassed than dead.

The Grand Duke had been a day and a half’s ride before his stopped at an inn. He’d rented a room and eaten, surprised at the quality of meat they had served before he started listening to whispers. Orlesian, nobleman, must be rich. Gaspard snuck out before nightfall and camped in the woodland. He was not a coward by any means, but what was he doing running away from a throne? If that was not cowardly then- Gaspard kicked at the ground and climbed back on his stallion. No, Gaspard would not cower like a mongrel; he was a lion, proud, strong, and Orlesian.

“Perhaps it would be wise to let him go Your Majesty.” Edmund said. He was poised ready to write permissions to leave Gaspard alone, or to pen a letter to Empress Celene in Alistair’s place.

“No. Ferelden’s safety requires this match. Whether he is the monster we have been told or not,” Odella interjected, “King Alistair this is necessary, when you took the throne you did it for Ferelden, for your home. This is much the same.”

“She is right Edmund, and he is out there alone. What if he’s injured?” Alistair sighed.

“The only outcome worse than that is if the man is already dead. Celene could claim murder, and that would start a war or some sort of weakening of Ferelden. Whether it be compensation or a lack of trust between us and the rest of Thedas.”

“So we need to find him.”

“I’ll speak to the guards Your Majesty, and I’ll take my leave.”

“Goodnight Odella. Edmund if we-”

“Perhaps he simply doesn’t wish to be found. Perhaps we should leave him be.” Edmund was frowning now, his fingers paled against the brown of his writing board. “Perhaps-”

“Goodnight Edmund.” Alistair left the man standing in the private council room, too tired to continue the debate. He wondered if placing Edmund in his advisors was a smart move, his father had been kind and intelligent, leading honestly and truly to Kind Cailan even with Loghain’s poison. He wondered if Edmund had learnt more from the Mac Tir traitor than from his own father. The thought soured in his gut, Ostagar had happened years ago but it was fresh in his mind and the wounds still painful. Odella on the other hand had been a fantastic addition to his advisors. She kept her loyalty to her country strong in her decisions, for the good of Ferelden, she would often say, and was adamant that there was nothing between her and the King no matter how many rumours passed her by.

The castle gates were full of soldiers as Gaspard returned; all chattering and pointing at him as he passed. Odella had worked hard and quickly to track the man’s movements, even sending a few men to the north to investigate rumours. It made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, he felt like he was on an execution march. He may as well of been by the expressions Alistair’s advisors wore.

“Look he’s back now, safe and unharmed, we can all go back to normal” Alistair said, ignoring the obvious tension around them. “And look, he’s brought us gifts.” Gaspard had eventually gone hunting, bringing back three deer pelts and a full fresh deer. Odella had done her best to hold her anger, and Edmund had done his worst. The Grand Duke knew that word would get back to the castle eventually, perhaps the thugs at the inn hadn’t known exactly who he was, but they knew he was Orlesian and that could be enough.

Gaspard had bathed, and they had eaten meat that had been caught a few days ago by the resident hunters. The deer he had caught would be served in a couple days time, and it would be perfect, after all he had spent three hours tracking the beast before killing it.

As the hours wore on Gaspard grew tired of triple guessing his actions and scowling at letters which swam on the page even as he was sober. That had been one of his failings, reading, he could read, it just took him longer. He was much better at drinking and fighting; and a drunken man with a swollen eye couldn’t be blamed for struggling to read. The gentle knocking on his door was a welcomed noise, even if it was Alistair. At least he brought wine.

“The kitchen sends their thanks for the meats, and a few of the seamstresses wants to sew you a fur cape in thanks for the hide.” Alistair said. Gaspard waved him over to the settee, and grabbed two glasses for them before joining him. The King knew it was a peace offering, and he thought that bringing his own alcohol would stop Gaspard from raiding his own. The head chef had griped about how much the Grand Duke had drank in such a short amount of time, not to mention the cost of what he had consumed. One hundred year old Antivan brandy! Gone in minutes!

“Hang it.” He scoffed. He already owned enough fur to last him a lifetime, and that at least had been made by an Orlesian. Alistair thumbed the base of his glass; Gaspard clearly had no intention of speaking. He had to quell his laughter as he watched the older man’s eyes flutter closed and then snap open moments later. The fire seemed to be lulling him to sleep, and he had only sipped at half his glass.

“I should take my leave,” Alistair whispered, “I can see the six day hunt has left you exhausted.”

“My apologies, Alistair.” He grumbled. It was strange to see him like this, all those years of hearing how horrible Grand Duke Gaspard was, how he intends to conquer Ferelden and enslave her people. He’s just an old man really, Alistair thought, an old man whose voice is unfairly akin liquid gold. “I thank you for the wine, and bid you good night.” Gaspard stretched as he moved, his back popping and knees cracking. “You’re staring.” He said, voice clearer and slipping away from his sleepy haze.

“Am I? I mean- I’m not.”

“Why, Your Majesty, wine by the fireside, did you come here to seduce me?”

“No- I- No I came to-”

“Came? Already?”

“No! That’s not what I- Maker,” Alistair laughed nervously when Gaspard angled his body closer. “You received a lot of letters while you were away.” Diversions, brilliant, Alistair thought quickly for more but the subject seemed to have disgruntled Gaspard. All of his written replies from so called friends were completely useless. They spoke of neither an alliance towards himself or Celene, gave him well wishes for his future endeavours, and practically sent a two fingered salute. Bastards. He’d soon be calling himself a pariah or a martyr.

“Go to bed Alistair, rule your country, and send me a girl who’ll suck my cock and let me come on their face.” Gaspard huffed. He spread his legs and palmed the rise in his groin, the thought of fucking Alistair before had gotten him excited. Whatever jests fell from his lips the man was pretty, with darker skin which glowed in the firelight, his stubble goatee was ridiculous in Gaspard’s opinion, but that didn’t make him look any worse. What made him look better was the redness in his cheeks and the way he slipped onto his knees between his thighs.

“I can... do that.” He whispered, “It’s worth a try.”

“What exactly are you doing?” Gaspard knew, of course he did, the Grand Duke simply wanted to hear him say it. I want to suck your cock Gaspard, he could almost imagine it in the Fereldan drawl of his, please let me suck your-

“You know, lick a lamppost.” Gaspard was silent, his hand still on his cock covered by his breeches, the King’s hands on his knees keeping them spread open. He looked completely honest in his statement, not a single trace of embarrassment on his features. His laughter bubbled from his throat in short bursts, and Alistair soon joined him. “What? Have you never licked a lamppost in winter?” They’re both laughing, red faced and wheezing breathlessly. Alistair is leaning on the Grand Duke’s knee, wiping the wetness from his eyes.

“Maker have mercy.” Gaspard grunts. He had never heard something so absurd in his entire life. He tapped Alistair across the scalp and reached for the wine, he took his thoughts back. He liked the King jester. As the night wore on the men drank heavily, both creeping in closer to one another, and stretching to pour drinks. Alistair had left well into the morning hours, flushed from alcohol and stumbling in whispered laughter.

Court the next day had been agonising for both men. Alistair fared better for having taken a remedy for his pain whilst Gaspard insisted he did not need one. His souring demeanour was hardly out of place within the castle, and it was hardly different for people to entirely ignore his presence in the Grand Hall. He took his appointed seat beside Alistair, on the smaller throne made for the hips of a woman, and still the most insulting thing about it was the dogs that leapt from the armrests. He shuffled in his throne and spread his legs wide. His knee assaulted Alistair’s own as he spread his legs, and he felt his cock swell at the sight of offended nobles, aghast when Alistair’s own thighs closed. He could see the scandalised fear slipping from brow to brow; King Gaspard de Chalons of Ferelden, he grinned behind his fist and jolted when Alistair commanded his attention.

“What do you think Ser Gaspard?” He had one elbow resting on one of the wooden dogs, his fist squashing into his cheek; he looked more childish than ever even with the heavy crown upon his head. Gaspard raised an eyebrow in question and silent anger, Ser Gaspard, as if this was something worthy of being compared to a duel. He missed the days when he was His Imperial Highness, before Celene was born and Florianne still wet the bed. “What should be the outcome of this claim?”

“Flog them both.” He gestured with a loose wave to the two men. The room erupted into gasps of horror and then fell into silence.

“You can’t punish them for seeking help.” Alistair hissed under his breath. It had been a risky move to include Gaspard verbally, even Edmund from aside him was wide eyed and barely restraining himself.

“No. But you can flog them for lying under oath to the Maker and trying to defraud their King, kingdom, and country.” He snorted. Idiots, he thought, Gaspard had been playing the game since he had learned how to talk. Dissembling adults when he was a mere child. Granted he had lost his hunger for the Game when he found that hitting things was much more satisfying. He rolled his ankles in his boots in a display of laziness, acting like a cat in a field of mice. He sat up as best he could, avoiding the outcropping dogs, always dogs, and delved into his explanation. “The druffalo were not stolen but killed and sold as meat and hide. The money they had was probably gambled or used to pay off debts, aside his wedding ring and whatever thing casts that sort of absence of tan. Out of pocket and livelihood, and possibly a spouse, they want the crown to pull them from their own grave.”

Alistair was speechless; his brown eyes wide and face less-squashed by his own fist.

“My father served your father M’Lord, he fought with King Maric, rest his soul, and my brother died with our good King Cailan, rest his soul.” One of the men whimpered, crumpling a rough spun hat in sweating fists. The other was chewing his lips and glaring at Gaspard, the Grand Duke almost wanted to goad him into an attack.

“They are liars, Your Majesty, you should have tongues ripped out for less.” Gaspard hummed nonchalantly. The bastards have nerve, asking for money and the flaunting how their family worked against King Meghren, Gaspard’s own once removed cousin, albeit a distant one considering rumours that were whispered about his uncle. “And, they forget in whose company they speak.” Both men turned to Alistair, begging mercy with their expressions, knowing that Gaspard would give them none.

“It seems no true crime has been committed,” Edmund spoke loudly, clearing his throat, “I believe his Majesty thinks you are free to go. Do not make this attempt again.” Alistair nodded dumbly in agreement, the two men darted off leaving thank yous in their stead. Gaspard sneered at the advisor for the rest of the court, taking a victory when the younger man mopped his brow thrice. Alistair side eyed him once or twice when Gaspard cared to notice. He was torn between asking for his advice and obeying the very obvious signals that Edmund had been throwing his way for the last few hours. On one hand Gaspard had stopped him from being defrauded and embarrassed in public, not to mention it wouldn’t be something people made re-attempts of. But he did publicly tell him to rip out a man’s tongue.

“Craven aren’t you?” Gaspard sniffed to Alistair as they exited the court, he added a low threat to his following advisor. “Never undermine me again boy, or it will be the last thing you ever do.” His steps drowned out Alistair’s spluttering defence before he halted and turned. “I’ll have supper in my rooms, with a pretty girl to serve it.” His steps continued as if he had said nothing.

The girl he had requested was a pretty thirty something, with only the smallest signs of ages creeping across her temple. He’d kissed her with passion and grace and raw strength in his grip, she moaned as his hands crept across her thighs, spreading her wide and drowning himself in her cunt. She shook and wailed and felt boneless by the time he pressed his cock into her arse. He came quickly, her softened hands already having pulled him to the edge, and slapped her thigh as he sent her on her way with shaking legs. Dinner had gone cold by the time he came to it, but he ate what little he wanted and reread the letters he had been sent until sleep claimed him.

He remained mostly to himself for the following days, drinking, smoking, and writing more letters that only ended up as kindling for the fire. To the outside world he was sulking, to himself he was working against the marriage. Alistair was... Fun, he knew but this was an insult to both of them. Placing Gaspard on the Orlesian throne now would bring a stronger bond between the two nations than this proposal ever could. It also ended the true Theirin line and true de Chalons line, and he owed Florianne more than that. Lest he claim the bastards he sired decades ago.

Alistair, on the other hand, was trying to calm the fears that had risen in the alienages. They hand improved dramatically since the blight. Elves were free to intermingle with humans, to trade and drink with them, praised for their assistance in fighting against the blight when it spilled into Denerim. That had been Mahariel’s boon, to give the elves the rights they deserved, especially after what Loghain had done to them. It made him feel ill. He often wondered if his mother had been an elf, as a serving girl she wouldn’t have been out of place, and the pointed ears wouldn’t have shown on his own person.

The elves feared that all of this progress, and it had been hard won progress with nobles trying to squash them back into their poverty moulds, that it would all be undone with Gaspard on the throne. His public hatred for the people was widely known, and they were smart to be worried. Alistair himself did not know what Gaspard would want when he was gifted partial rule. Still everything would be deferred to himself, and anything could be overruled by his say so. But was it right to judge Gaspard before he even truly knew the man? He knew how people had judged him at first; the greedy hard done by bastard clutching for the throne with outstretched dirty palms, but now they loved him. Gaspard could surely win them over, elves and all.

The King himself had met with a group of elves, he remembered Shianni from before, wishing her well and greeting them all personally. He told them it would be fine, that Gaspard would not undo any changes that Alistair had brought to the Kingdom. It would bring dishonour to his right as King, and would deeply offend his dear friend Mahariel who had fought for the rights of Dalish and non-Dalish alike. Dropping the Hero’s name was a shallow move, but it worked.

He also told them rioting would make it worse, it was only when one elf spoke up about the elven rebellion in Orlais that the sector remained peaceful. Empress Celene, the supposedly kinder monarch had trounced them in practically a day, and in turn Gaspard’s army had destroyed her army. Another elf piped up that perhaps Gaspard was defending the elves, and Alistair did nothing to deny it. With that issue fixed for the time being, he had only to tell Gaspard that he had made an agreement concerning him, without him, and that the small alienage might have a few awestruck elves in it. He wondered what else the Kingdom might fault Gaspard for, there were a lot of negative things being said about his intended, most of them were probably true and there was no use in blinding himself to it all.

Odella once more advised Alistair to calm the waters between the couple, ever the voice of reason. The King had turned red and spluttered until Edmund rescued him by speaking out against Gaspard. Which Alistair denied, Edmund was starting to remind him of Loghain, and with that came memories that he didn’t want to relive. The fear of losing Mahariel to the Archdemon, and one of his first acts of becoming King was beheading Anora as she started to build a rebellion in the name of her dead father. Gaspard wouldn’t blink an eye, ripping tongues from liars and hands from thieves. Perhaps, he thought solemnly, perhaps Ferelden needed the poison that Gaspard breathed, and the gentle antidote that Alistair would become. He would be kind where Gaspard was cruel, and in turn he would be strong where Alistair was weak.

He was however, an Orlesian and still extremely distrusted in Ferelden. He had received letters of sympathy disguised as congratulations, messages that wouldn’t be repeated in kind company, and even an offer from Zevran to dispose of him. Alistair couldn’t say that the Grand Duke was making anything better in his actions. Almost constantly fanning the flames of fear he was creating, reinforcing the horror bound idea of another Orlesian monarch, and laughing at the ripple effect he was causing. Alistair dismissed Odella and Edmund, waving the others away as well. It was late, and he was tired, and confused by his own thoughts. Would Gaspard make him a better King? Or would it all be fake? A shroud of offering the worst only to see how good things were before.

The King made his way to Gaspard’s chambers with an oil lantern in hand. The castle still had several sconces lit for the ever working servants, but he was just being cautious in the night. He gently rapped his knuckles on Gaspard’s door and nodded to the servants who curtsied before passing him. Alistair waited until he heard shuffling and the pad of footsteps. He inhaled and stood poised regally to meet his intended. What little height his pose gave him melted away when he sagged to stare at Gaspard. Wet and naked, covered only by a fur blanket clutched about his waist, his free hand holding open the door and a half burnt cigar billowing smoke. His fingers were ink stained once more, the wetness dyeing the fabric minutely, his eyes burned as smoke was blown out through Gaspard’s nose and mouth into Alistair’s face. He stuttered and glanced away from the Grand Duke’s waist and into his bolt metal blue eyes. He held back his grin well at Alistair’s embarrassed stutter, and winked at the servants who scurried past with reddened faces.

“Majesty.” He whispered, inhaling from his cigar once more, his foot keeping the heavy door from swinging shut. Alistair swallowed thickly. He had spent the night before last vividly remembering the sight of Gaspard naked before, it was only fleeting, though it made him pink all over and sweat until his bed sheets needed changing. It was nothing compared to this. A mere foot away he could see the patterns in how his chest hair grew, where it split in favour of pink gashes and burns, the water droplets sliding down and- no.

“I wanted to- I- Make we speak inside.” He pushed passed trying to limit the body contact and also avoid the wandering servants. Gaspard closed the door and slid the latch shut, exhaling smoke as he took his seat on the settee. He stripped the blanket off and threw it over the back of the furniture and made himself comfortable before pilfering through his letters. “How has this castle been treating you?” Alistair spoke clearly and tried to hide the strain in his voice. He was stood in the middle of the room acutely aware of Gaspard’s nudity and the scars which lined his shoulders.

“Well. The entertainment a few hours ago was... Thrilling. Doglord or not, women are always the same under their skirts.” He chuckled at his own joke and turned to face Alistair. “Will you not sit?” Alistair felt sweat bead on the back of his neck, the days had been colder as of late so his coats were thicker, he was most certainly not nervous. He sat, awkwardly, and at the furthest point away from the Grand Duke, who was still unabashedly naked.

“Unless they’re a pirate.” Alistair laughed awkwardly; he made a hooked hand in place of the wooden leg he meant, though the jest was spoken far too late to make any sense. He felt as if he were chewing through his own teeth as Gaspard remained silent, save for the scratching of his quill. Alistair quickly glanced at the man’s rippled gut before returning his eyes to the fire. “I met a pirate once, in a brothel.” He choked on his own words, “Not- not that I was there f-for the- the- the women.”

“Men?” Gaspard replied without hesitance, half muted by his cigar.

“What? No. I wasn’t there for the... For the.. For anything.” He wished he hadn’t said anything, he wished he hadn’t even come here tonight, why Mahariel had needed him to go to the brothel all those years ago was beyond him. Gaspard fixed him a look which said a lot more than words ever could, and Alistair had to turn away. Talking about brothels in front of a naked man wasn’t something Alistair excelled at. The fire, still the object of his gaze, was littered with inked vellum. Rejected letters or private replies he didn’t know, Alistair had heard that clearing wax from the fire bed had become a chore for whoever tended to Gaspard’s fires.

“Brandy?” He stood and stretched, his bones creaking in protest, and grabbed two glasses. He poured generous amounts in both before returning, glasses and bottle in hands. He stood in front of Alistair and grinned at his flustered skin, and the way his hand shook as he took the drink and looked away. “You said something about lampposts?” He whispered. It made Alistair’s gut tingle and he knocked back his brandy quickly and steeled himself to stare at the Grand Duke.

“In Winter, always more fun in Winter. Oh look, outside, the trees still have leaves and the sun is shining. In the day, not right now. Still there’s no snow, no Winter.” He laughed. Gaspard deflated and sank back down into his seat. He spread his legs wide and knocked his knee into Alistair’s, he didn’t close his legs this time, but concealed the need to bounce his foot. He thought himself heroic for keeping it there, perhaps the other night he had been brave, bolstered by his own strong words and full of confidence. But now, in this very moment, after he had masturbated over the other man and imagined him in a dozen different ways? He had deflated quicker than a burst nug skin.

Alistair thought to tell him about the elves, how there had been reports of fighting within the alienage where most of them still lived. Some of them remained vigilant against Gaspard becoming their monarch, while one named Thalion had taken to praising the Grand Duke for attacking Celene who apparently sought to wipe out all elven kind. Others had started to follow Thalion’s opinions, and it was creating a treacherous valley between the people.

Edmund had advised Alistair to silence that young idealistic elf; he was causing most of the problems by preaching about Gaspard. But the King thought it wasn’t harming anyone yet, he would send someone to try and calm the sector, or perhaps he could even go himself. Odella told him to see what happens, to strike now would cause problems and reinforce the idea that Gaspard was truly a threat to the elves. The best they could do was to stop it before it turned to murder.

Alistair kept his mouth closed and chewed on his lip instead.

The silence remained, even as Gaspard poured him a second, and drinking himself a fourth. It made him anxious; the only reprieve was the Grand Duke standing to relieve himself in the other room. Even then Alistair had to listen to the sound of his piss hitting the chamber pot. He wondered if this is what people did in Orlais; sit around naked and getting drunk with friends. Were they friends? They seemed to lack any similarities bar a royal bloodline, himself a bastard and Gaspard branded with the wrong name. What a pair, he snorted as Gaspard came back in, he felt more comfortable with brandy in his belly.

“Are you well here?” He asked quietly. He tapped his nails on the rim of his glass before Gaspard refilled it. “I realise this must be difficult, a new country, everything must be so different.” He meant it, undoubtedly. He remembers how Mahariel had to adjust to living with people who weren’t Dalish, how strange it was to them. When he had visited and hadn’t needed to hunt for every meal every day. It wouldn’t be the same for Gaspard, but he would be used to Orlesian finery. Golden silks and silken gold, everyone wearing a mask at every moment, Alistair himself had heard people pondering over why Gaspard wore heels. The man was already tall enough, and he had stooped underneath several door frames since arriving here.

“I’m naked, knocking knees with the King of Ferelden, and you’re supplying me with enough whiskey and cigars to drink and smoke myself unconscious.”

“So... Well then?”

“Do not pity me Alistair. I did not learn how to play the Game for fun.” Gaspard sighs and pulls his knee away from Alistair’s. He swallows his brandy in one turn and grunts when the last of the bottle barely tops a finger’s width.

“I wasn’t- You’re so touchy.”

“I apologise if I am not enjoying my death march in a foreign land.” He spat.

“Who said anything about dying?”

“You have an alternative for this farce? Celene wants me to be the first male Queen of Ferelden. This is the legacy that I leave my family, a fur gown and a tin crown.”

“You still have fifteen days to-.”

“Yes, I do, and I will spend them fucking your servants and drinking your finest wines.” He drinks the quart and tosses it into the fire place, and it shatters under the strength behind the force. Alistair stays his flinch but holds his own glass closer to his chest, clearing wax from a fireplace is nothing compared to glass. “My apologies, Alistair.” Gaspard sighs and presses his fingers into his eyes. He’s too drunk to be doing anything right now, frustrated from the swimming words and itch of ink under his nails. He stubs out his burning cigar and pulls the fur blanket back around his shoulders, the cloth is cold on his shoulders but he bears it well.

From what little he knows of Alistair, the stories of him as King and Grey Warden, and from sitting beside him drinking at night, he knows he is a good man at heart. Naive and foolhardy perhaps, but deserving better than all this. Alistair was a victim of Gaspard’s own mishap, and that was dishonourable.

“When...” He began, stopping short to recompose himself, “When this month ends there are two options. Three perhaps.” Alistair nods with intent, entirely focused on the man beside him. “One, we marry and history writes us as lovesick fools or traitors to our homelands. Two, I refuse the proposal and flee into the night whence I am known as a coward and a deserter.”

“You’ve done that already.” Alistair laughs softly. “Hunting? At an Inn?”

“Of course. I apologise for that, I don’t truly know what overcame me.”

“It’s accepted, and forgiven.”

“Three, I refuse the marriage and Celene declares me an enemy of the Empire, wanted for high treason and lese-majesty. Which would no doubt bring your country great joy; for my head will be worth at least several thousand sovereigns.” He gently takes Alistair’s glass and swallows half of it. “Whatever happens I lose, marrying you or dying by you grants her the same result. I am no longer a valid player of the Game, and Ferelden becomes an ally of Orlais even if she is poisoned,”

“How? I-”

“I lost another duel, that lying bastard Michel. He- He ruined me.” He seethed. Alistair felt himself moving his lips but the sound was absent. He takes his drink back after a few moments, prying it from Gaspard’s white knuckled fist, and drinking what little remains. He places it on the floor soundlessly and shuffles closer to the Grand Duke, taking his prickled jaw in both hands. Gaspard’s anger leaks from his face when Alistair presses their lips together, softly, ever so softly, and lets his fingers slip into the man’s dried locks at the back of his neck. Gaspard’s hands remain clutching at the fur that covers him, his eyes sliding open when Alistair pulls away.

“What are you doing?” He whispers. His lips grace Alistair’s as he speaks, and he feels the King taste his own. The illusion is broken as Alistair pulls back and coughs into his fist.

“Kissing. I might not have done it before but I’m certain this is how it goes.” His laugh is stuttered and his cheeks tinged with red. Gaspard’s face pinched in anger, convinced that he was somehow becoming the punch line to a very exhausting jest. “Right. I’m ah, saving people is what I do, and if marrying you saves you then I have only one option.” He grinned widely, his teeth a shining white against his lips. “Lovesick fools isn’t the worst thing to be.”

“Idiot.” Gaspard breathes. Up close Alistair is rather beautiful, straight nosed with dark features, a small scar on his cheek and a few freckles from what little sun Ferelden is graced with. He lets his thumb linger on his lower lip before tapping him upside the head. “Fifteen days, ass.” He turned away and bit his thumbnail; if he was a simpering waif he’d have wet himself at that kiss.

“I bruise easily you know.” Alistair laughs and knocks their legs together again. The Grand Duke squeezes his knee and laughs with him in deep grumbles.

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

Gaspard awoke with a pain behind his nose and vivid memories of the night before. The letters he had received were borderline useless, the only one with some practicality was from Lord Cireron. It gave him details into Celene’s life from years ago, small hints that could easily be excused as anything else, but lead him in a direction where he could speculate and understand. He had spent time rewriting the letter in his own code and burned the original. It would be impossible for Lord Cireron to visit him without Celene thinking something was wrong, his only hope would be that he manages to get a place travelling with her to see the happy couple.

The Grand Duke preened himself through the morning, shaving his beard down to a slight stubble, trimming the ends of his moustache, and applying a sweet scent to his neck and wrists. He even made the attempt to don an outfit with some fur that didn’t entirely consist of a dead fennec across his shoulder. He’d huffed as he looked at himself, and redressed in Orlesian finery. He held his mask for a moment, thumbing the crevasses and the jewels it held, before setting it down.

He thought back to the kiss, and it turns his gut unpleasantly. Alistair was only doing this to save him. Gaspard scoffed to himself, he had never once been kissed out of pity and it felt horribly kind.

Alistair had been happy to see the Grand Duke walking the halls of his castle. He had found him in the Grand Library once, frowning into a stack of books. Thedas: Myths and Legends, The Battle of River Dane, The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden, The Heirs of Ferelden, Royalty: The Kings and Queens of Ferelden. Alistair’s face screwed up in confusion, some others were history books documenting wars across Thedas, and some were bundles of nursery rhymes. It all made him nervous.

All of them had been checked out of the library and sent to Gaspard’s rooms. The man who worked there had carried them all personally for him. He had asked him why he needed so many books, surely he couldn’t read them all at once, then he explained how angry the man had gotten. Red faced and gritted teeth, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough, truly frightening. Alistair apologised on his behalf before he was swept away by Edmund.

The Kind had noticed that whenever he was with Gaspard, whether it be eating or merely making an effort to be friendly, the people surrounding them would whisper and grin behind their hands. He thought momentarily about the kiss as they watched his guardsmen train. Had Gaspard told people about it? Had someone seen them? Neither man had approached the subject yet, it had been four days, though that didn’t mean Alistair hadn’t caught Gaspard staring at him a time or two.

“How many Champions are in your military?” Gaspard said. He was posed regally with his entire attention on the men below.

“I’m not sure.”

“You should demand a hundred Chevaliers or more from Celene. We are the finest warriors across Thedas, easily.” He turned his piercing gaze to Alistair and the corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly.

“Perhaps you could train them. Once we’re married I have no issue in giving you some control of the soldiers.” Alistair shrugged and turned away from the Grand Duke. Would it be so terrible to have a mixed army? Already elves and surface dwarves had signed up, what harm could a dozen or so Chevaliers do?

“Marrying a General? Careful Alistair, you’re following Cailan’s footsteps a little too closely.” He frowned as he gazed back down to the fighting. He focused on the three men with great mauls, hefting large chunks of metal and stone around their heads. They were clumsy, and Gaspard felt his scowl strengthen as he remembered the battles he had won with one in hand. All for Orlais, all for Celene. It soured him to no end, the times he spent fighting darkspawn for Celene, fighting the Nevarrans for Celene, fighting all across Thedas for Celene. If one cannot find the Queen, one must destroy the hive. He swallowed thickly around his anger; perhaps he had spent too much time in Ferelden if he thought destroying Orlais, his home, was a suitable plan.

“When was the last time you fought?” Alistair asked, his tone was innocent but Gaspard bristled at him. The last time Alistair had engaged a foe who wished to kill him was beside the archdemon, a great beast of a hurlock with bloodied jaws and a shield three inches thick.

“The last time I truly fought I ended up with half a blade in my gut.” He snapped, his anger lashing out unprovoked. Alistair wasn’t to know the events how it had come about, kneeling in an ancient ruin, bloody and in agony, dying as a Chevalier. Only to have the noble death ripped from him, Michel was a fraud, and Briala had saved his life by calling in a debt. Back then he had been glad of it, thankful for another chance to destroy Celene. But now? The blade had broken inside of him, and a servant had found him passed out with a black swell on his belly a few days after it all. The damage it had done was irreversible.

The next few hours were kept in painful silence until they were called for supper. Even then Alistair remained quiet unless Edmund brought something to his attention; the chatter in the hall is as it usually was, save for the eyes he felt on him every few moments. Less than a fortnight away and they would announce their plans for the wedding. He had received word that Celene would make an appearance to show her faith in her dearest cousin; Gaspard hadn’t taken the news happily. He knew in the back of his mind that she would show up, more fun for her when she announced she wanted his head. The Grand Duke could imagine it easily, vicious slobbering dog lord nobles clambering over their tables to gut him, to be the one to give Celene his head and collect the prize. He wondered if Alistair would defend him, or perhaps skewer him on his own blade. In some sort of sick justice they may proudly display his body above the front gates of the castle, as Meghren did with his own enemies, as he had done with Alistair’s own grandmother.

Gaspard had returned to his rooms to freshen himself up, and to grab a bottle of rich Orlesian wine as an apology. It was cruel to have snapped at Alistair as he had done so. Crueller even to think of him betraying him for coin, with what Gaspard had learnt from his arduous research Alistair had been betrayed as Cailan was. To accuse him of that, even in his own mind, was unworthy. He stopped with his hand on the door handle, and reflected on their similarities as people. Both warriors, noble men with stolen destinies, their families so cruelly taken, he wondered if Celene knew this, or it had been dumb luck on her behalf.

The idea of marrying Alistair, a mirror of himself though younger and gentler, was slowly growing softer in his belly. It no longer curdled like milk but rather, he broke his thoughts with laughter, solidified into cheese. Perhaps he had spent too long in Ferelden, or the King’s jests were truly wearing him down.

Alistair was half way into his nightclothes when Gaspard arrived with an apology on his tongue. It felt strange to have him in his own bedchambers, his mind supplied that as soon as they had gone through with the ceremony they would have to share their quarters. At least for a short while. Throughout their nightly visits they had always met in the Grand Duke’s rooms, this was the first time, bar their initial meeting, that Gaspard had properly sought him out. He hoped it was progress, but the talk of soldiers and his choice in books left him anxious. He daren’t share his minor fears with Edmund yet, he’ll blow it out of proportion, again.

The Royal Quarters were incredibly large; triple the area of what Gaspard now had. Most of it was filled with ornamentation, the only purpose it has was being there to fill the room. Behind one door, Gaspard could see, were several suits of armour; Templar, Grey Warden, what he presumed to be royal armour, and a set of bejewelled ceremonial armour. Swords and shields to match each set, all others were hidden beyond the wooden door. Above the fireplace was a Grey Warden shield, it held his attention nicely whilst Alistair slipped on a tunic.

“This is yours?” Gaspard asked. He had already poured the wine into clean glasses and sipped half of his already.

“No, I mean eventually, it belonged to Duncan originally,” He paused and cleared his throat. “He was family to me.” He gladly took the glass the Grand Duke offered him and stared at the painted metal, the design was scuffed and scratched through years of use but Alistair couldn’t bring himself to have it fixed up. He felt like that would take away Duncan’s mark, and he had nothing else from the Senior Grey Warden.

“My own father was not a soldier, becoming a Chevalier made him proud. I gave him my first yellow feather, and he kept it on display in a glass box like it was made of gold.” He sighed and smiled. Alistair thought it was the kindest that he had ever looked, the lines on his forehead softened and those around his eyes pinched together. “I do not know Ser Duncan, though I cannot imagine a man who would not be proud of someone becoming a King.” Alistair tapped their glasses together softly.

They both moved on from sombre topics, opting instead to let the conversation carry itself. The spoke for an hour on darkspawn, arguing if hurlocks were worse than genlocks, and Alistair taking it upon himself to describe the horror of a broodmother. Gaspard ignored him entirely and denied that it was even feasible to have such a beast. They drank their way through Alistair’s cabinet, something which was rarely used, and sprawled themselves over Alistair’s bed like common men. It was, after all, comfier than the settee which had a hard back and swirling decor lining it’s edges.

“Have you made your decision yet?” Alistair slurred. He prided himself on keeping up with Gaspard’s drinking, though it seemed to have a stronger effect on the King. The Grand Duke was almost constantly pickled to some degree.

“I have ten days.” He wiggled his fingers as best he could around the whiskey tumbler. Having moved on from wine and brandy already, Alistair sighed as he rolled over onto his belly, spilling liquid as he moved. “Or nine, it is late no?”

“You’ll have to decide soon,” Alistair’s voice dropped down to a half covered whisper, “I need to pick out a dress.” He props his head up on his hand a sips at his drink. “I’m sure clashing is an Orlesian sin.” He giggled when Gaspard slapped him lightly across the scalp. They lay there for several moments more, basking in the glow of inebriation and tiredness. Gaspard’s hand still lay on Alistair’s scalp, fingers gently threading through his cropped hair, slowly cradling the man to sleep. “I’ll have to wear heels,” He yawned, “To kiss you.”

“Your height won’t change your ability.” Gaspard chuckled, he scratched at his chest through the gaps between buttons on his shirt. Alistair laughs with him, flushed and grinning. He knows it’s an insult but he doesn’t care, looking across at the man in his bed, looking nothing like the Orlesian monster he had always seemed. They had their disagreements on almost everything, but it brought a freshness that Alistair could not find in Edmund nor Odella.

Gaspard left his empty glass on the chest beside the bed and sat up opposite Alistair, with a sigh he leant down to kiss the King. His lips were slightly chapped with the winter weather approaching, but he tasted like sweet brandy and light wine. Purely intoxicating. Alistair hums into the kiss, his hands gentle in holding the Grand Duke’s face, his thumb shifting the trails of his moustache away from their moving lips. One slips to the back of his neck as before, and sighs when Gaspard opens his mouth ever so faintly. He pulls away to wet his lips before kissing slightly firmer, and Alistair cranes his neck higher to meet him at every tilt and turn of his head.

His manicured nails scratch down Alistair’s neck and leave the sensation of sewing needles in their wake. He huffs his breath out and grabs Gaspard’s neck tighter, pulling him closer so he is forced to straddle the King, lest he fall atop him. His tongue is wet with soured whiskey and ash, and he is briefly reminded of the first sexual comment he ever made. With Gaspard’s tongue pointed like a serpent’s, how he was inclined to place it somewhere other than his mouth. In that moment, with the heat of the Grand Duke above him, he would. Maker he would. Gaspard wouldn’t refuse him, sated with whiskey he would kiss the man everywhere.

Alistair’s hand moves from his jaw to rest on Gaspard’s own, following it up his arm and down the path of his chest, catching the fabric of his tunic as it slid over his collarbone and passed his belly. His fingers are warm when they slip inside his shirt, pushing it up and over his gut until it bunches up under his arms. The air is getting colder; he notices it offhandedly, the fire dwindling from the long hours they had spent together. It slips from his thoughts when a hand cups his chest. He moans quietly between heavy breaths, angling his hips away from Gaspard’s own, trying to stave off the swelling in his cock.

It doesn’t matter, Alistair realises, when he feels the Grand Duke’s own cock pressing against the length of his hip. He pays attention to the rise and fall of his own chest as his nipple is rolled under a wide calloused thumb, it’s new and incredible, and he pushes himself into Gaspard’s grip eagerly. Alistair thinks for a moment too long, should he raise his leg? To put pressure against the other man’s cock or lay still and continue simply kissing? He curls his toes in his socks and his thigh twitches.

But there’s a knock at the door. Three gentle raps that he can hardly hear. He doesn’t pay it any attention to focus on the hand gliding across the hair on his belly, but the sound of the latch hitting the top of the metal loop? He jolts up and cracks his forehead against Gaspard’s own. The Grand Duke pulling away with a grunt of pain, and a hand flat across his injury. He curses under his breath and sits at the edge of the bed.

“I’m here to tend the fire Your Majesty, Your Highness.” She curtseys and does her best to hide her reddened cheeks. It’s stark against the blonde wisps of hair and light brown bonnet she wears. She pokes at the flames and sets a few more logs down beside the fire. She places a few thin strips in the chamber to bring it back to a healthy state, and sets a log at the back. It will fall in place when the smaller kindling has burnt through, and keep it burning until the morning servants sweep and reset the fire.

Usually King Alistair is asleep, bundled up in several layers of furs and mumbling in his sleep. When there was no reply she had thought it was as usual. He slept heavily most of the time, and almost everyone knew in the castle that the nights he didn’t sleep that it was always the taint keeping him from peace.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness.” She curtseys once more and leaves with a heavier flush and an emptier basket to move on to another room. Gaspard is slipping on the overcoat he wore and lighting an oil lamp to make the journey back to his room, Alistair doesn’t know whether to stop him or not. The kissing was nice, more than nice, he’d never been kissed like that before in his entire life. But there was the ingrained fear that had been drilled into him as a child. How the Maker would cast him down, lightning raining from the sky to punish him for his sins.

“Goodnight Alistair.” He says from the door, he waits for Alistair’s stuttered response and grins as he leaves for his own chambers. He staggers slightly when no one is in the halls, meeting the fire wood girl who keeps her head low as he passes. Gaspard can easily tell she’s more than embarrassed. Her thumbs twitch on the handle of the wicker basket, and her toes scuff together. The fire in his room is blazing nicely, one log firmly blackening around the edges suggesting it couldn’t have been there long. He wonders whether she was the one to set it, whether she knew that the Grand Duke was absent from his rooms and thought to catch a glimpse of him elsewhere.

Disrobed and sitting on his own bed he could see the beginning of the sunrise stretching into the night sky. He stretched and groaned as his spine popped, delving under the furs and blankets, and rolling until he was comfortable. He glanced at his digits in the firelight, wiggling them with disappointment.

“Nine days.” He whispered. Whatever pleasure and companionship that lay with Alistair, he still could not agree to this marriage. He did not love the King, and he would not find love within the month he was to stay a partially free man. Damn Celene to the void. He thought through the terms once more, the ones he had been given no choice but to agree to. The marriage would be announced within a month at an engagement ceremony, to which she would attend to offer her congratulations, and they would be married before winter had passed. Divorce would not be an option, she had stated that as plainly as she could. He had wasted too much time writing letters, but he had no other cards to play save what Cireron had gifted him.

Florianne had always been better at playing the game than he had. What he could not do with words she could, and what she couldn’t do in strength he could. They were true siblings, and he missed her dearly. If he could have beaten Michel de Chevin then she could still be alive, but would she have played against him? Surely not, he thought, but his throat swelled in sorrow.

When the sun broke the horizon mere hours later the chambermaid entered silently to tend to the fire and empty the chamber pot. Gaspard slept through it all with grumbling snores and huffs of heavy breaths. At his age he should have honestly known better, but he was a soldier through and through, years of rising with the sun ingrained into his body. That didn’t mean he slept through it when the fancy took him, who would deny a prince such a thing.

The thought sliced through his mind like acid, prince, the title had once been a notion of pride now it grew as an insult. Mere moments awake and Celene’s polished nails had clawed through his day already. He stumbled his way over to his settee, a new set of letters had been placed there this morning, empty promises, belittling insults, and another from Cireron. It didn’t hold any new information and was merely to dissuade and suspicion between the two men. He penned a nice letter back, commenting on how dreadfully entertaining it was here, and how he had engaging conversations with the servants.

He had spent two hours going over the details of what Celene had told him, and no matter how strong his military mind was, he could not think of a way to outmanoeuvre her. The seedling that had rooted in his belly weeks ago had grown and was spreading through his gut, tangling around his crooked spine and knotting in his throat. He groaned and stretched, his back aching from slumping in his seat, and climbed back under the fur covers.

Alistair had slept until midday, Odella was the one to wake him after being told of what exactly had transpired last night, and the servants had been hovering around his door hoping to catch a glimpse of the Grand Duke sneaking back to his quarters all morning. She was glad to see the King alone under the covers, and even better he was clothed.

“Your Majesty, it is time to awaken.” She shook him gently, and received a huff and grunt in response. She sighed and pinched his cheek until he sat up and slapped her hand away, gently of course, and begged his way into a hangover remedy. She tidied for a few moments to keep her busy, collecting empty bottles and corks into a spare basket, before the King returned looking much fresher than before.

“Thank you.” He nodded and sat down to lace up his boots.

“If it is not too intrusive, one of the chambermaids told me that Grand Duke Gaspard was in here last night, if not this morning.” She sounded like a disappointed aunt, catching her nephew in her private drawers or trying on her powders. Alistair scratched at his nose and coughed, his cheeks flushing heavily as he remembered exactly what happened in their drunken fumble. “Neither of you broke your fast this morning either, which leads to more rumours.”

“I thought you supported this.”

“I do, but a majority of the nobles in Ferelden know you as the Virgin King, they would think it tactless if Gaspard came in here and took this from you.” She paused when Alistair gaped at her. Honestly the very idea that his innocence needed to be preserved was beyond him, what else had people been saying? “And I might point out you don’t technically need to be intimate with him, the action of creating a trueborn heir is impossible. I’m sure he knows this as well Your Majesty. He has hardly kept his... affairs hidden.”

Alistair chews his lip readily and sends Odella away. If, he thinks carefully, if Gaspard knew that the marriage didn’t require any form of that, then surely he wouldn’t have made a move to do anything at all. Alistair had initiated their first kiss, he grumbles the childishness of it all, but the Grand Duke had been the one to kiss him last night. Kiss him on the bed, to push up his tunic and feel his skin. Maker. He swallowed thickly around his tongue. He wondered what would have happened if that girl hadn’t arrived to stoke the fire. Would they have curled up together under the furs, sweating with their cocks pressed flush together? Or would Gaspard have left in the middle of it all anyway? Why the man left was still beyond him, The Grand Duke had never motioned that he required privacy about his more base encounters before, maybe it was because Alistair was a King. With modesty, and innocence he thought sourly, to be preserved.

Edmund was absent from the morning council, so he sat there alone listening to Odella argue with an elderly noble who claims he suffered at the hands of the Orlesians and would not stand by while his monarch met one with his legs splayed wide open. Alistair stopped his advisor from defending him and explained why the comment was inappropriate, insulting, and improper, and then proceeded to have him escorted from the premises.

It was not a wise move, he was informed later, if only because he had publicly chosen his absent intended over one of the most influential noblemen in Ferelden. It was unfair for anyone to decide he must choose between Gaspard and his own nation, simply because there had never been the option to do so. Alistair knew he was making the best of a bad situation, in time he may have found a nice woman to settle with, to sire children and give the country the much needed Theirin heir. But Ferelden needed safety and it needed peace with her neighbouring countries, the alliance with Gaspard gave her that.

So what if Alistair enjoyed the man in private. If Gaspard was simply human who got angry and upset like any other, who laughed until his eyes were wetted and his face red. Who held him like he was the first Chevalier feather he had been given. He might be over thinking things, falling in too fast and too deep if only because this was his first experience. Did it matter?

Gaspard, having awoken an hour ago, had sent for a platter of meats and cheeses. It came with a few sliced loaves and fruit on the side, why the kitchen thought one man could eat so much he didn’t know. He still had work to do; Cireron’s information had been truly enlightening. Not only did it tell him Celene had been forging allies far beyond Orlais’ walls, and not the kind of allies that Orlais would want, but far closer to home and now of a far more personal nature. He thumbed at the pages of The Battle of River Dane, watching how the tale of mighty Loghain Mac Tir, farmer’s son, made his way to father of the Queen. Such large steps for a pauper, he thought, such large steps he wouldn’t want undone.

The knock at his door shook him from his thoughts, he thought briefly to the chambermaid, and quickly packed away his books. Nobody needed to know exactly what he had been reading after all. At the door was Alistair, wine in hand, and Gaspard moved to let the shorter man in. The servants were suspiciously absent from the long halls, he wondered it a moment before shutting the door and bolting it.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Majesty?” He grabs for two glasses and hints for the man to join him on the settee. The fire is still roaring, keeping the room lit brilliantly in the oncoming night. The Grand Duke had not expected Alistair to join him tonight; the King had been awkward about the first time they had kissed. Choosing to linger around the edges of his vision and almost deny that anything had happened between them. At first Gaspard had thought that Alistair wished he hadn’t kissed him, but with flushing cheeks and quickly glancing away whenever he caught him looking? It wasn’t too hard to figure out the kiss hadn’t been born of pity. This wasn’t Orlais, he had to remind himself, the Game wasn’t played as viciously or as cruelly here. The kiss itself had been at least somewhat genuine. With what feeling and how much of it he did not know, but last night, Maker, that had been something else. Perhaps it had been the whiskey, and the wine, and the brandy, but he had felt young and foolish.

“I’ve been thinking about last night.” Alistair started; he was picked up slices of cheese and stacking them five high on a slice of bread. It made Gaspard’s face twitch before he disguised it away; still the King’s hunger turned his stomach. “I was always told by the Chantry sisters that the Maker would strike me down for, well you know,” He paused and glanced away “Acting out of wedlock.” He bit down on the short diary wall he had created and swallowed it eagerly. “They never said how long I’d have to wait until he’d come for me.”

“Is that supposed to be a jest?” He frowned.

“What? No. Not the sort you’re thinking of. Maker is nothing safe?” He laughed. He scoffs the remainder of the bread and follows it with a gulp of wine. Gaspard has the decency to wait until he has at least paused in his feast before moving to relieve himself. He grabs an orange slice and slips it between his teeth as he passes the King. Shuffling his breeches halfway down his arse and sighing around the mouthful as he chews and pisses simultaneously. He leaves the door open an inch or three to save him from lighting any of the candles in the washroom, and Alistair finds the fire fascinating once more.

Gaspard ties his breeches, the ones he had slept in for most of the day, and sits down beside Alistair. He fingers his way through the sliced fruit to pick out more orange slices, using his nails to pick away the loosened with flesh that clings to them. Alistair couldn’t help but stare at the way his moustache moved as he ate, and how his bottom jaw moves so his teeth can pull at the hair above his lips. He felt a little jealous in all honesty, he had never been one to grow a lot of facial hair; the best he could ever manage was the little he had now. The minor stubble which grew upon his chin, thinning and fading as it crawled to the apex of his jaw.

“You missed the council today.” Alistair said, fingers tapping idly across his wine glass.

“I was kept busy last night.”

“Funny ha ha. There was a man who made me think about how to get the people of Ferelden to know you.” His eyebrows pinched and his lips pursed at Gaspard’s interruption.

“They already know me.”

“They know of you.” He stressed it urgently. “That man, he thought you were Meghren reincarnated. Almost everyone is afraid of you here, and that might work in Orlais, but here, Ferelden is not ruled by fear nor malice.” He paused to stare into Gaspard’s eyes, momentarily thinking to grab his hand to convey his desperation. Alistair knew that time was running out until the announcement of the wedding, after one month of courtship, and he knew that he had to calm Gaspard as much as the people. “The alienage is on the brink of splitting in two, the nobles don’t want you here at all, and the common people are afraid they’ll lose their homes to a tyrant once more.”

“None of this matters Alistair.”

“Of course it does.” He snapped. “These are my people, this is my country, and you Gaspard are not the man we had been warned about.”

“We will not marry Alistair, and that is why this does not matter.” He sighed. Alistair deflated in almost an instant, his face running through a dozen expressions before settling on confusion. “Perhaps I should tell you now, I have only eight days and a few hours left.” Gaspard’s gut churned and his mind begged him not to tell him. But did it matter what cards a dead man held?

“Tell me what? Gaspard.”

“I have been trying to overthrow Celene’s right to the Imperial throne, and by doing so I could release us from this engagement without causing warfare between our nations. So far I have two things, two paths and choices that Celene has taken which would turn noblemen and women against her.” He paused and swallowed. “But I fear it is not enough, and it will not be pleasant for you to hear.” Alistair urged him with the smallest of nods, his eyes wider and his hands shaking enough for him to place his wineglass on the floor. “Celene allied with the Qunari, or rather the deserters they have-”

“Tal-Vashoth.”

“Yes, those, perhaps she intended to make Orlais stronger. Duke Prosper de Montfort was angling for some sort of powder or poison, something strong and potent known only to the Oxmen. The meeting failed and the Duke died of an unbeknownst cause, and he cannot testify to what would have happened but there may be letters sent between them which implicate my cousin. Maker knows she has always been sloppy and sentimental with those sorts of things.”

“And the second?”

“Celene, she intended to marry your brother Cailan.”

“What? No. Cailan was married to Anora, how could he- Why would he-”

“Anora offered him nothing, the marriage was possibly born out of their fathers friendship. With Celene he would have set our two nations in peace just as we are intended to do.” He paused and waited for Alistair to signal him to carry on. “They sent letters to one another, whilst Cailan was married, and before the blight struck Thedas. Divorcing Anora, would have given her less than what she had as Queen, she would be a Teryna at best.”

“Loghain knew.” Alistair whispered.

“I believe so. She was influential in not only the death of the King of Ferelden, but the actions which lead to the death of her Queen and well loved General. With this knowledge, Celene would be decimated by her proposed intimacies with a doglord King, or Ferelden could be forced into war with Orlais by-”

“No.” Alistair stopped him instantly, Gaspard biting his tongue and narrowing his eyes in reaction. “There can be no warfare between us and Orlais.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes aggressively, flopping back on the plush settee. “So many died at Ostagar, but more will die within a new war. It, no matter how much this hurts, it cannot be a reason for revenge.” To be kind, where Gaspard could be cruel, echoed in his mind. The words ached in his chest as he thought back to Duncan. If Loghain had known about Cailan’s plans, then assassinating the man was the only way to ensure that Anora remained on the throne, and he had done it so smoothly. Hundreds had died beside Cailan, his family, Duncan, it had a miracle that he and Mahariel had lived, and it was all for greed. He wondered what may have been different, could they have saved Lothering from the blackened wasteland it now was? How strong could the army have been with a thousand or so Wardens against the archdemon?

“You have my sympathies, Alistair.” Gaspard said solemnly, his palm was heavy on the King’s shoulder, warmth burning on him where the fire did not. It was not spoken what either men would do with the new information, but he hoped the Grand Duke would stay his tongue. Surely the man did not wish to destroy Orlais to gain a crumbling throne, no matter his ego he could not want for that.

“You must excuse me, Grand Duke, I...” He swallowed thickly and looked away. His throat was aching and his eyes were prickling with tears. No matter how many years had passed he would not forget the sight of the signal fire burning, and how everything simply continued. He and Mahariel had been swarmed by darkspawn within minutes, distracted as they watched Loghain’s army marching away from the battle.

“It is late, Your Majesty.” Gaspard nods. His hand is gentle as it squeezes Alistair shoulder, and he takes no offence at the King’s rushed escape.

Death in Orlais is celebrated with passion and joy, to remember how the deceased had lived and to show that sorrow would not consume them. But he remembered the pyres lit for a dozen soldiers because they could not use the wood to burn them individually, he wonders if there had been bodies to burn at Ostagar. He knew that Darkspawn ate from the corpses, and infected those still living, there had been a time when he had almost been felled by one. He took it’s bloodied great axe as a trophy and had it mounted in his smoke room.

Gaspard leaves the food and wine where it is, a chambermaid will clear it in the morning, and settles in for the night. Alistair doesn’t fair as well, he tosses and fidgets on his settee staring up at Duncan’s shield, and sleep eludes him.

The King is notably absent from the morning meal once again, though Gaspard had been there. He didn’t go as low as to sit in Alistair’s place, though he would have enjoyed the looks on the noble’s much more than he was now. The guests in question were scowling and whispering, and on their minds was the fear of Gaspard ruling alone. Even if they knew the King was probably still alive and hopefully in his own quarters.

He dines on fish and blackened bread, with a sweet white wine to wash it all down with. The food was something that Gaspard was slowly becoming accustomed to. He had heard that all the Fereldan’s ate was slop in pastry, but he had seen nothing of the sort, and they served so much fish. In Orlais it was always hog or some wildebeest that the Grand Duke didn’t care to know the name of as much as the locations it nested in. But with the several docks which lined the Eastern coast fish was a delicacy, certain fish like mackerel, he had learnt, were commoner’s food and not to be eaten by such a perfected palette. It was a compliment, even if he thought it ridiculous, he had once been a soldier and had rationed his way through salted meat strips before. Still he did like rich foods.

With little to do, and no friends inside of the castle, Gaspard watched the soldiers train. A servant carried a small brazier to him and lit it to bathe him in the warmth; Ferelden winters were far colder than those back at home. There was no doubt in his mind that the troop of soldiers had skill, not as much as his Chevaliers did, but enough to cleave through an army. He thought back to the proposal he had given to Alistair, with rumours in the right ears he could cause enough uproar that the King had to act. It had worked magnificently with Celene, and he had worked on a mere whim that time. The only fault that he had in his plan is that he didn’t know who exactly the right ears were, but knew that they would not trust him on baseless speculation.

Gaspard rubbed at his eyes and frowned, a little over a week until he would sign his own certificate of death, and he was hardly any closer to pushing Celene off the throne. He knew it wouldn’t be an easy task, void he had spent years rallying against her and it had all fallen on a single duel true to Orlesian tradition.

“May I join you?” Alistair said from beside him. He wore a long burgundy cape lined with fur which dusted the floor as he moved.

“As King, I do not think I could stop you.” He nodded. A servant came quickly to tend to the brazier but Alistair waved her away, Gaspard would have to adjust to the weather at some point. Odella had given him reports of snow down in the South, slowly creeping northward, and estimated to reach them within a week or two. He’d thrown on one of his lightest capes after being told once more of the Grand Duke’s movements. It was frightening how much Edmund watched the man, with his own eyes or not, but he always kept someone nearby. Alistair kept scouring the area trying to pick out who was reporting back to Edmund, was it the girl who tended the fire? A guardsman? He wriggled uncomfortably in his seat and Gaspard shot him that look.

“I thought we could go hunting before the snow comes in.” Alistair said, his eyes watching a few men running through basic shield drills. “It’s usually quite heavy so we tend to store a lot of meat over the winter.”

“Will I be accosted at the gates once more?” Alistair laughs and chews his lower lip when Gaspard’s eyebrows knit together.

“Of course not. Will you attempt to ride north again?”

“No.” Gaspard clacks his teeth together and looks away. It was embarrassing, and it had been a false glimmer of hope in everything that had happened so far. The Grand Duke felt frost biting at his ears and nose, a foreign feeling when his mask usually kept his face warm in the winter. He felt a stab of jealousy at the rosy patches on Alistair’s cheeks, the man looked like an overstuffed pheasant, but at least he looked warm.

“On the morrow then? I have to take council soon, but I will see you tonight?” Alistair’s gloved hand rests on Gaspard’s forearm, warmth heavy through the leathered fingers.

“If there is brandy, I will be there.” He laughs with the King as he dusts off his legs and bows his goodbye. But there is a part of him which glows at the thought. He scoffs under his breath and folds one leg over the other, young and foolish indeed.

Alistair’s cape is taken from his as he enters private council room, Edmund and Odella standing in the centre of one side of the large table, waiting for Alistair to take his place between them before he sat. Subjects were ran through quickly, stopping when more detail is needed, and skipping when things became too monotonous.

The alienage was still causing problems; some families had moved from their homes and were seeking new homes away from the tiny civil war that was brewing. On one side Shianni defended the elves newest strides, wanting to keep them in safety and to let the momentum of new economic advances continue. Which meant Gaspard could not be a part of any negotiations which would decide the outcome of the elves’ lives. Thalion on the other hand preached that Gaspard would bring a new lease of life to the alienage, raising them up further than Alistair had done so far. After all it had been a Dalish elf that had saved them, and yet the Dalish still denied them and thought of them worse than the humans ever did. The King was sorely beginning to regret not telling them the truth about what had happened years ago in Orlais. He thought about having Gaspard tell them, but Thalion was such a wild card that the boy could react disastrously.

The matter of the scorched noble was a pride of place in the meeting. Alistair told Odella to write him a formal apology, usually Edmund wrote his letters, but Edmund had not been there. He held him back after the meeting; Odella had left last and curtseyed at the door before shutting it behind her.

“Your Majesty.” Edmund smiled.

“I always have both my advisors in court, even Odella couldn’t give me a reason why you weren’t there.” He said, standing tall and proud whilst he clipped his cape back over his shoulders.

“I apologise, I was ill that morning.”

“Right.” He dragged the word out in a sarcastic drawl when Edmund looked away. His advisor offered no other explanation and waiting until Alistair said something else, but his lips remained closed. The silenced dragged on second by second and Edmund felt himself sweating under the intense gaze.

“It was a personal matter, Your Majesty.” He whispers with his head bowed low.

“Then I apologise. A bit of warning is never a bad thing though,” He shrugged, “Goodnight Edmund.”

“Goodnight, Your Majesty.” Edmund waited until Alistair’s footsteps could no longer be heard before slamming his board onto the table. It cracked and splintered, the capped ink spilling onto the several clipped pages of blank vellum now ruined. He sniffed and recomposed himself before leaving the room, locking the door behind himself. He stopped with his back against the heavy wooden doors, his eyes aching and straining to see in the low light, he needed rest. As of late he had spent too much time piecing together half burnt parchment, and compiling the movements of the Grand Duke. All for Alistair, he reminded himself, for Alistair.

The King, none the wiser to his advisors pain, had swiped a brandy and a small iced sweet cake from the kitchens, and made his way to his own rooms. He whistled as he walked, pausing every few moments to lick the sugar from his fingers, delicious. Alistair was tempted to go back to grab another three or four, but walked on in regret. He berated himself for not going back to them with each step, delicate little cakes, delicious, he could eat dozens. But Gaspard would be waiting, and the man was horridly impatient. He licked his lips as he walked, the sugar long since gone.

To his word Gaspard had been sat in Alistair’s chambers, the fire roaring and already pinking the man’s cheeks. He didn’t acknowledge the King entering, and stayed slouching on the fine settee until he was handed the bottle of brandy. It was a dark Rivaini blend, the liquid impossible to see through and incredibly potent. It had no scent when he unwound the ribbon and pulled out the cork stopper. He swiped his thumb over the damp side and checked for missing bumps, corked brandy was far worse than corked wine. Alistair picked two glasses and sat beside him, sans cape, and grinned as Gaspard poured them a third each.

“Good news from the council?” He hummed.

“Is there ever good news from something called the Private Council?” he laughed. “They’ve started arguing whether this match is good anymore. They had all been picking out what hats to wear and what cheese to serve for the wedding before you arrived.”

“Such a compliment, Your Majesty. I suppose fur is in high demand.” He swallowed his drink in one mouthful, and took his time to pour a second.

“There’s...” He bit his lip to hide his grin, “There’s bit of hero worship floating around in the alienages.”

“Pardon?”

“Some of them are rallying in your name, it’s all a bit of a disaster really, but they like you.”

“The elves? The elves like me.” He balked. Alistair nods with his eyebrows raised. Gaspard laughed in short breaths, Ferelden truly was backwards. He half wondered if he was trapped in some nightmarish coma, perhaps this was the fade and he died when Florianne attempted to gain him the throne. Wherever he was it definitely wasn’t the Maker’s bosom as was promised.

“They think you purged Celene’s army to save them.” Alistair halted his wandering thoughts.

“Do they now?” He hummed, Celene would have heard then. If there was somebody slandering his name he knew about it, or at least he did back in Orlais.

“In fact one boy, Thalion, he’s practically preaching your name.”

“The others?”

“They, ah, well...” Alistair scratched the tip of his nose and sipped at his own brandy. Gaspard laughed honestly at the King’s flustered cheeks, he thought back to the other night. Half of him wanted to stay, it wouldn’t have been the first time he was caught between someone’s thighs he shouldn’t have been. The King’s thighs would definitely be more scandalous than anything else he could think himself doing, less dramatic than he would want. He wondered if Orlais and Ferelden were picturing Gaspard on his knees with a mouthful of royal cock, he licked his own lips at the thought and swallowed another brandy to stem the thoughts.

Gaspard watched as Alistair poured a fourth and fifth and drank them both quickly. With his knee bouncing and his eyes flitting around the room, it was obvious the King was tragically nervous.

“I- Odella she- I- Why did we-” He chewed his lip and rubbed at the back of his neck, Maker was he sweating? “She mentioned that we don’t need to, ah, you know.”

“A pity.” Gaspard frowned before he realised he hadn’t donned his mask and was playing his face too clearly. “I suppose I’ll see you for the hunt tomorrow.” He stood and brushed his breeches down, abandoning the half full glass he bowed before taking his leave. His appetite easily forgotten. Alistair was left sat there with a sweating glass and disbelief on his face, he- Gaspard actually wanted to- Maker, that he hadn’t expected.

Both men had risen early for the impromptu hunt, servants and stable boys making sure their horses were properly groomed and dressed for the occasion. Despite status, Gaspard climbed atop the larger horse before the King himself could. One of the stable-hands opened his mouth to tell him that it wasn’t his horse, but staring up at the man atop the beast left him frightened and sallow. Alistair hadn’t taken any offense from it at all, even if the men and women surrounding him had.

A few others had joined them, hunters and guardsmen, and Gaspard was thrown back to a time when he had last been hunting with Celene. The memory didn’t do any king favours to his expression. It hadn’t taken that much to chase her off onto her own, to propose peace across Orlais in the form of marriage, though she had scolded his arm with a fierceness he still denied. So many years had passed and now Gaspard finds himself in the exact same position with someone else. He should have just toppled her horse then, crippled her so Orlais could see how weak she was.

“Do you hunt often? Ser Gaspard?” Alistair’s voice brought him from his thoughts.

“I’ve been locked inside a castle like a lapdog, Your Majesty, hunting hasn’t exactly been a viable option.” He scoffed.

“Sorry, I... I meant back in Orlais.” He shrugged and his horse whinnied at the pull of the reins. A few guards took the moment to fall closer to their King, Gaspard felt insulted at how stupid they imagined he could be to attack the King now of all times.

“It was mostly for sport, wyverns, dragons, tuskets, animals that make fine trophies.”

“You’ve hunted dragons?”

“Not high dragons, Your Majesty, those a few in number and as such are rare to find.”

“I’ve killed one.” He shrugged. Gaspard rolled his eyes and forced his horse to a faster pace. He felt absurdly foolish, last night he had made such a mistake that if he had been in Orlais he would have been personally run out by now.

Throughout his life he had scarcely fallen in love, not that he is in love with Alistair by any means, and he had made sure to leave only hints and trails about his affairs. As Prince he had vowed he would only marry as an Emperor, for nobody in their right mind could refuse him. Then his throne had been stolen and marriage became less of a duty and more of a weapon, it sickened him to think that blade had now been turned on himself through his own stupidity.

Several deer had been caught throughout the morning hunt, the huntsmen had carried them over their shoulders so as to gut them in the castle ready to be salted. Alistair had waved his guardsmen off as they approached the edge of the woodland. A few wanted to stay, inclined to notice their King’s nervous disposition.

From inside his hunting satchel he plucked a yellow rose, it’s fading petals made it look rusted but it had been the best of the bunch. He handed it, nervously, and as gently as he could to the Grand Duke.

“You’re having an affair?” Gaspard said, his face scrunching up visibly with his lack of mask.

“I- What?” Alistair mimicked the man’s expression.

“A yellow rose, infidelity, passion found outside of the marital bonds.” He turned it in his grasp, careful of its thorny stem. “Granted we are not married-” He rolled it again in his grip, “Unless I am the affair and you have previous engagements.”

“No, No I just thought, it was between a few red roses and it made me think of you, and you’re well, Chevaliers like yellow, don’t they?” Alistair stumbled.

“Some of them.” He sniffed at the rose, still sweetly scented despite having been sat beside a skin of ale in a leather satchel. “Do you know what this means in the Free Marches?”

“Something better than what it means in Orlais?”

“Nothing in the Free Marches is better than Orlais.” He scoffed and pulled the flower from his face. “They view it as a sign of friendship. Antivan’s see it as jealousy, and the Tevinter’s view it as a sign of death.” He grinned at Alistair’s pitiful choking noises, it was in fact a nice if not thoughtless gift no matter how tainted Gaspard was making it. “But you know how the Fereldan’s view this? Yes?”

“The Language of flowers isn’t that popular in Templar training, too busy hitting each other with sticks.” He laughs, “Maybe we should have been throwing roses at apostates instead of arrows.” He sighs wistfully and pulls at the loosened stitching on his reins.

“I means you’re falling in love with me.” Gaspard hummed, ignoring Alistair’s rampant babbling. He found it ironic, yet awkwardly prophetic that Alistair had awkwardly proposed to him just as he had to Celene. It didn’t escape him that he was Celene in the analogy, and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. “Quite the confession, Your Majesty.” He slipped it into one of the belts across his hunting gear and willed his horse to gallop back to the castle.

Alistair sat astride his horse for a few moments more trying to figure out exactly what had just happened to him. He had attempted to make peace with the Grand Duke after last night’s stumble, but he was entirely unsure of whether it had worked or not. He had been remarkably sour throughout the entire trip, and his guards hovering so close hadn’t exactly helped him in the slightest.

Regardless of what his royal household thought, Gaspard still shone brighter in Alistair’s view. Some thought it was his childish optimism, or that he was just putting on a brave face. Yes he did admit that the Grand Duke was poisonous and could be outright horrible at times, but in private he was little more than an old man. Still admittedly nasty in some ways, but just a man.

The rose, to Gaspard’s overflowing enjoyment, had been adopted by the court exactly how he had wanted it to have been. He had dropped a few hints here and there that it had been a gift from his betrothed, quietly as if it had been a secret between whispering maids, but it had plagued throughout the castle within moments. At their late afternoon feast the gossip was reverent and seemed to fill the guest’s hunger as much as the roast duck and druffalo calf meats. Gaspard had adorned it inside of a button hole on his doublet, it stood out dramatically against the deep greens and silvers he wore and it brought all the more attention to himself as the minutes went on. No doubt it would create rumours inside of the pointed ears of Celene’s spies, filtering through a dozen lips before it graced her own.

#answer #anonymous #dragon age #gaspard de chalons #alistair theirin #alistair x gaspard #gaspard x Alistair #gasstair #fanfic #.Do NOT Judge past me okie dokie.#.im sure I could write it a million times better now but hey ho 🤷‍♂️💕.#.enjoy the research 👹💋.

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