#what else do you expect from someone who said 'like dogs shianni.'

[tragedia]

there's not a single city elf origin playthrough where loghain was recruited. reyna would sooner die herself than allow him to become a warden after he turned a blind eye to what happened in denerim's alienage re: tevinter slavers.

[shannaraisles]

A Rose By Any Name - Chapter 3

In which King Alistair meets his ten prospective brides, and very nearly manages not to put his foot in his mouth. Banner created by the superb @kagetsukai.

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

For your convenience, here are the face claims for the ladies you are about to meet.

The feasting hall in Denerim Palace was loud, hot, and far too crowded for Alistair's peace of mind. He didn't like these overly done-up occasions at the best of times. Every so often in the course of a year, Eamon insisted on throwing a few feasts that were just an occasion for every arl and bann to invade the palace and watch the king like a hawk for any sign that he might possibly be about to suddenly turn Blighted and start the next civil war. Every time, Alistair found himself stuck in a room filled with people who couldn't bear the sight of him on the throne mingling with people who praised him to the heavens with no actual clue of what it was he did every single day.

Of course, there were a few people here who didn't want to see him fail. Fergus Cousland, for one; despite the tragic circumstances, both Alistair and Fergus had risen to their respective seats at the same time, in the same chaos, and both were within a few years of one another in age. They had somehow managed to become good friends, despite the miles separating Highever from Denerim. And Fergus was not the only ally Alistair could call on if necessary. In this room, he could count six others who had always supported him, right from the start - Arl Bryland, Bann Teagan, Bann Sighard, Bann Alfstanna, Bann Gallagher Wulf, and of course, Bann Shianni Tabris. She might need as much support as he did, being an elf among humans, but he was rather proud to be able to call the acerbic elven leader of Denerim his friend. Other banns and arls were, at best, fair-weather friends - Ceorlic sprang to mind - acting mostly in their own interest, or the interest of whomever had paid them off. Still, he had an ace up his sleeve this month that would see some of them hand back whatever Eamon had paid them to promote the Orlesians as soon as she made herself known.

Alistair grinned into his cup at that thought, almost belligerently looking forward to the reaction when Dem made her entrance. The Bannorn seemed to have forgotten that she was still very much in existence, thanks to her long absence. This should be fun.

"Don't smirk, Alistair, it does nothing for the appearance of nobility you wish to exude."

The grin dropped from the king's face at the sound of his uncle's voice. He lowered his cup, turning to greet Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde, feeling a prickle on the back of his neck at the false smile bestowed on him by a woman who had hated him since he was a child.

"Uncle, Lady Isolde," he said, inclining his head to them both. "I was under the impression this was supposed to be a party?"

Eamon sighed, shaking his head. "You must make a good impression this evening, Alistair," he said sternly. "If you do not, all the ladies may choose to leave in the morning, and then where will you be?"

"Engaged to the most suitable choice, of course," Isolde answered in her cold way. "Only a fool cannot see that Marguerite De Montefort would be a fine addition to this court."

"Sadly, Lady Isolde, I was raised among dogs," Alistair reminded her, inwardly rather pleased to see her wince. Yes, it was petty, but he didn't have much opportunity for getting his licks in before she did generally. "A little foolishness is to be expected, I understand."

"Alistair." Eamon's voice was low; a warning not to push his luck.

"Oh, don't worry, uncle," he assured the arl, tilting his cup toward the man. "I do solemnly promise not to lick any of them unless they ask me to."

It was worth playing the idiot just to see the look of neutered outrage on Isolde's face, but something better was coming. The herald slammed his staff hard against the flagstones, calling for the attention of the gathered nobles to announce the next guest, and Alistair was delighted to have a front row seat, as it were, to the visible reaction of his uncle and aunt as the name was absorbed.

"Arlessa of Amaranthine, Warden-Commander of the Grey, Demelza Tabris, Hero of Ferelden!"

The murmur of surprise, dismay, and interest made Alistair's grin reappear as he watched the color drain from Isolde's face. The arlessa had never been very good at schooling her expression; given the way she glanced at her husband, it was a very good bet that Eamon hadn't told her Dem was in town. Eamon himself had drawn his lips into a thin line, disapproval radiating from every orifice. Or was it consternation? Dem being in town was one thing; Dem being present for the bride-finding events was quite something else. Infinitely pleased by the fact that his friend's mere presence was enough to discomfort his uncle, Alistair turned his head to take a look at her himself, choking back a low laugh. Well, she had said she wouldn't show up in armor.

Dem had presented herself in a simple shirt and trousers, her unruly hair bound up to deliberately display her pointed ears. She was armed, too, secure in the knowledge that no one was going to ask the Hero of Ferelden to surrender her weapons even in the presence of the king. Two daggers on her back, two at her hips, and Alistair was fairly sure she probably had a pair tucked into her boots as well. She ambled easily among the milling nobles, offering insincere smiles to those who deigned to acknowledge her. For those she considered worth her time, however - Teagan, Fergus, Alfstanna, Wulf - her smiles were genuine, and she paused to greet them on her way past, finally fetching up in front of Alistair with a lazy grin.

"Did I miss anything important?" she asked without ceremony.

Alistair chuckled. "Dem, you are something important," he pointed out, clasping her arm cheerfully. "Shianni's around here somewhere."

"Oh, I know," she assured him. "She's good at not being obvious." There was a pause, just long enough to be insulting, and she turned her gaze onto the arl and arlessa beside him. "Eamon, Isolde."

"Warden-Commander," Eamon responded in a tight voice, offering the bare minimum of a polite bow as Isolde bobbed the shallowest curtsy she could get away with.

"How is Connor these days?" Dem asked them, going straight for the kill. She hadn't liked Isolde right from the start, and Eamon had done nothing to endear himself to her in the aftermath of the Blight. "I heard he returned to Redcliffe when the mages were given sanctuary there."

Isolde gasped, her hand rising to her throat, but Eamon simply clenched his jaw before answering. "I understand he is doing well," he said without emotion. "I believe he passed into full mage-hood not long ago, under the auspices of the new College."

"Wonderful." Dem smiled brightly. "It's so good to know that he's been getting the care and guidance he needs, isn't it?"

"I ... Yes, my lady," Isolde answered weakly. "Eamon, I believe Bann Golde wished to speak with us?"

"Ah, yes." Eamon inclined his head to both king and commander. "Do excuse us."

"A moment, my lord." Dem held out a hand to prevent their leaving. "I know I am just an elf, but I do believe it is courtesy to ask your king's permission to leave his presence. Or do you not extend courtesy to your king? Arl Eamon?"

Alistair felt himself gulp, his eyes flickering to Eamon and Isolde as banked fury crossed his uncle's eyes for a brief moment. He'd never enforced those rules on his uncle, but he had to admit Demelza might have a point. Eamon treated him like a child most of the time. A reminder that Alistair was actually his king was probably long overdue. The arl stiffened, offended no doubt at being jerked up short by an elf, just as he was offended to have been saved by an elf and had to rely on the same elf to save his country shortly afterward. He turned to Alistair, his glare only just held in check.

"May we have your permission to withdraw, your majesty?"

Alistair gaped, startled out of that astonished stare by the sensation of one small booted foot pressing hard onto his toes. "Uh ... yes, of course, Arl Eamon. Arlessa Isolde."

"Thank you, your majesty." Each word seemed to take huge effort for the arl to say, but he managed it, bowing properly this time before drawing his wife away and into the crowd.

"Maker's breath, Dem," Alistair breathed to the tune of his friend's laughter. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

"Oh, relax," she chuckled, patting his arm. "He acts more like a king than you do. Someone should bring him down a peg or two."

"I'm the one who has to live with him," Alistair pointed out mildly, though he could feel himself beginning to smile at her unrelenting cheer.

"So kick him out of the palace," was her simple solution. "He's got his own house in the capital, make him live there."

"That's ... he's been very helpful," he attempted to reason, but in his heart, he knew she was right. He sighed. "Where have you been, anyway?"

Demelza grinned impishly at him, snagging a cup from the table behind her. "I've been admiring the view in the vestibule," she informed him. "There are a lot of pretty faces out there. And some very interesting shapes, too. If I wasn't a taken woman, you might have some competition."

He blushed, laughing quietly at her outrageous commentary on the whole thing. Then his smile faded as he realized what it was she had actually said. The princesses and ladies were waiting in the vestibule to be announced. He really couldn't get out of this now. As if answering that sense of dread suddenly knotting in his stomach, Cormac appeared at his elbow.

"The ladies are ready to enter, your majesty," his secretary said quietly. "If you would take your place?"

Alistair sighed, nodding to the man. He eyed Dem worriedly. "Don't leave me alone," he muttered in a hopeful tone as she grinned at him.

"As your majesty commands," she answered, turning to escort him to the throne on the dais, opposite the wide entrance doors. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

His friend's enjoyment of this farce was just a little inappropriate, he thought as they moved toward the throne, reaching up to scratch underneath the heavy press of the crown on his head. I really should get someone to make a lighter version of this. He had that thought every time he had to wear the thing, and yet had never quite got around to having it done. Eamon had insisted on the crown tonight. In all honesty, Alistair despised wearing the thing, but he'd given up fighting that fight. He always lost it, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe the headache would be worth it this time, he reflected, reluctantly seating himself on the throne that still didn't feel as though it belonged to him. Maybe having a headache would keep him from saying anything awful to the ladies about to be presented to him.

He glanced to the herald at the far doors with brief nod, steeling himself for what was to come, aware that Dem had leaned herself comfortably against the tall side of the throne. Her presence, it seemed, was enough to keep Eamon from moving to take up position on the other side. Alistair swallowed a faint smile. He appreciated that his uncle was doing his best, but it was good to have Dem around. She reminded everyone that they wouldn't be here without the two of them.

The heavy staff of office banged loudly against the flagstones, drawing the chatter to a close as the herald began his announcement. "Your majesty ... Warden-Commander ... lords and ladies of Ferelden ... I present His Majesty's guests!"

The great doors swept open. Alistair felt his stomach drop with icy uncertainty at what they revealed.

"Lady Marguerite Ocativie De Montefort, daughter of the late Duke Prosper De Montefort, lady-companion to the Empress of Orlais!"

The woman - he assumed it was a woman - walking toward them was a veritable confection of pale blue ruffles and bows, ridiculously wide hips, gloved hands, and a mask that covered the entire face, connected to a strange squared-off hat and veil that hid her hair. The expression painted on the mask was supposed to be serene, but Alistair's immediate impression was of some kind of monster eyeing him up for dinner.

"Andraste's mercy ..." he muttered under his breath, swallowing as Marguerite reached the bottom of the steps to the throne and offered him a florid curtsy. He could feel Dem grinning behind him as he rose to greet the woman. "Lady Marguerite."

"Majesté," she answered, her breathy voice sounding hollow and echoing behind the mask. "So kind of you to invite me to partake."

It took a moment for him to decipher her accent. Was she actually trying to sound more Orlesian? Shaking himself, Alistair offered her a hand to help her rise, trying not to shudder at the sharp tips on her glove as she touched him. Maker's breath, the woman has claws.

"I ... trust your journey was ... pleasant?" he heard himself ask, groping for something safe and small-talky to say. He only had a few minutes before the next one was announced; just a few minutes to get an impression of each one, and this one was already being mentally crossed off his internal list. One, she was Orlesian; two, she was aggressively Orlesian.

"Oh, it was terrible, majesté," she informed him, blue eyes behind the mask not even focused on his face, but on the crown atop his head. "Your guardsmen were in such a hurry, I have barely had time to catch my breath."

"I am ... sorry to hear that, my lady," Alistair said carefully, steering her toward Eamon and Isolde. He happened to know for a fact that Maguerite De Montefort had refused to leave Orlais until the last possible moment, and the guards sent to escort her had hated every second of it. Let Isolde handle the complaining. She'll enjoy it. "It is to be hoped you will find something to love in Ferelden."

A coy, affected laugh erupted from behind the mask. "I think I already have, majesté."

His smile was more of a grimace, aware that the majority of nobles in the room deeply disapproved of her mere presence in Ferelden. A clumsy attempt to flirt with him when he couldn't even see her face was not going to win her the crown she couldn't seem to take her eyes off.

"That is, uh ... good to know, my lady." He couldn't hide the relief on his face as Eamon bowed to him, though. "Lady Marguerite, may I present you to Arl Eamon Guerrin, and his wife, Arlessa Isolde? They have kindly offered to chaperone you for this evening."

"Lady De Montefort, it is such a pleasure to see you again," Isolde said smoothly as Alistair transferred that claw-like grip from his hand to Eamon's. "Your late father was such a good friend of my own dear father's."

"Ah, Lady Isolde, how do you stand this country?" Marguerite answered as the king excused himself. "It is so dull!"

Dem was still grinning as Alistair sat back on his throne. "One down, nine to go," she murmured impishly, handing him a cup.

He took a deep drink. "Maker, I hope the others at least have faces."

"Trust me, they're all very pretty," Dem assured him.

He was going to have to take her at her word on that one; she had spent the last half hour or more enjoying the view in the vestibule, rather than mingling with the nobles he'd been having to endure. Bracing himself again, he caught the herald's eye.

"Lady Amandine Liane Orrick of Tantervale!"

After the horror of Maguerite, almost anything would have been an improvement. Alistair had not been expecting the improvement to be quite so ... Sweet Maker, she's lovely.

Amandine of Tantervale was a lithe young lady with winsome eyes so dark they were almost black, possessed of beautifully warm golden-brown skin that seemed to glow in the light from the chandeliers high above. Her deep chestnut hair was bound in an uncomplicated braid that fell over her shoulder; her gown was in satin red, the Free Marches style of a fitted short bodice and generous skirt, long dappled sleeves. Her curtsy was simple, without performance, and her smile as he raised her to her feet took his breath away.

"Lady Amandine," he said, forcing himself not to stutter over her name. "Welcome to Denerim."

"It is a great honor to be here, your majesty," she told him, and even her voice was warm, the friendly cadence more than enough to make something deep in his stomach flip over with interest. "And in such unusual circumstances, too."

Alistair felt himself laugh at the playful way she said that, changing his mind about who he had intended to deliver her to. She didn't deserve to be stuck with Ceorlic all evening. "Yes, well ..." He cleared his throat awkwardly as he drew her toward the gathering of nobles to the left of the throne. "I would hope it isn't too awkward for you."

"Not at all, your majesty," Amandine assured him. "I find the experience far more entertaining than watching cattle drovers losing control of their herds in the middle of my city."

That was a mental image too good not to grin at. "Perhaps I should visit Tantervale sometime," he suggested in amusement. "Purely for comparison's sake."

"I am sure you would be very welcome, your majesty."

Smiling, rather charmed by her easy manner and beauty, Alistair paused, inclining his head to her before catching the eye of Arl Bryland. "My lady, Arl Bryland will be your escort for the evening," he told Amandine, pleasantly surprised to find that her smile did not cool when bestowed upon the arl. Perhaps she isn't faking it. "My lord, I am placing Lady Amandine into your custody for the evening."

"A pleasure, your majesty," Brylan replied, bowing as he took Amandine's hand into the crook of his arm. "How do you find Ferelden, my lady?"

"A little chilly, my lord, but it is winter," Amandine answered him as Alistair stepped away.

He caught Dem's eye as he mounted the steps to the throne. The elven Warden was grinning again, toasting him with her cup even as she handed him his own.

"Better?" she asked teasingly.

"Better," he agreed, chuckling as he sat down again. "If I had to choose right now, I know which one I would propose to."

"Just as well you don't have to choose right now, then, or you might start a cat fight out there," Dem snickered, taking the cup from him again as he nodded for the third time to the herald.

"Lady Callista Maritza Thekla Andrasteia Grizelda Damaris of Nevarra!"

Who turned out to be a decidedly buxom woman not much younger than Alistair was, with bold caramel eyes and a wicked little smile that looked him up and down and declared to the entire room that she definitely liked what she was seeing. Her mustard yellow gown was in soft velvet, with a bodice that didn't so much draw attention to her ... assets ... as serve them up on a flouncy lace doily. Her curtsy was short and to the point, and she was already rising as he descended the steps to her.

"Lady, uh ..." Alistair swallowed, feeling the tips of his ears burning as he desperately tried not to look further down than her chin. "Lady Callista, you ... you seem to be ..." He forced the whimper not to emerge, and gave up. "Welcome to Denerim."

"I am truly delighted to be here, your majesty," Callista informed him, her accent as rich and promising as her form suggested it would be. She seized his arm, pressing the back of his hand a little closer to the very edge of her neckline than he was entirely comfortable with. "And may I say how delighted I am to find that Ferelden's king so very much more handsome than his portrait suggests?"

"Uh ..." At a loss for words, and still trying not to look down, Alistair floundered, unable to think of a single thing he could possibly say while moving to present her to her chaperone of the evening, the matronly Arlessa Elayne.

He'd never been flirted with quite that enthusiastically before; she had him stumbling over his tongue with barely a momentary effort, knowing perfectly well that he did not have the first idea where to look that wasn't her generously displayed cleavage or that naughty-eyed gaze of hers. Every part of her strategy seemed designed to inform him that no other woman would be quite as much fun in bed as she was. It was almost a relief to walk back to the throne and Dem's knowing smirk, but he couldn't help glancing back toward the voluptuous Nevarran woman once he was sat down.

"Plenty to hold onto there," Dem murmured, making him choke on his wine.

"I was trying not to think about that," he spluttered, hoping he hadn't dribbled on his tunic. Not the impression I'm supposed to be making ...

"Why not?" his friend commented, sounding far too happy for his peace of mind. "That's obviously what's on her mind. Make sure you lock your door at night."

Alistair gaped at her. "D-don't ... no," he said firmly, turning back to the doors. "No, I'm not ... No."

"Lady Rosamunde Darvelle of Gwaren!"

Wiping his mouth, he spared a brief glare for the elven rogue leaning against his throne, and turned his eyes forward once more. Another bold-eyed woman, though more modestly presented than the last, nonetheless Rosamunde carried herself like a queen already. Fereldan to her toes, she was just a little intimidating to Alistair. This was someone who knew his history, and came from Loghain's part of the country.

"Lady Rosamunde, welcome," he said as warmly as he could manage, not entirely sure he was comfortable with the expression in those bold cinnamon eyes of hers. "Please, rise."

She took his hand, meeting his gaze with forward assumption. "Your majesty," she greeted him in return. "Thank you for inviting me."

"It is always a pleasure to have fellow Fereldans here at court," he answered, instantly wincing at his own turn of phrase.

"Do you not consider all these arls and banns Fereldan, your majesty?" Rosamunde asked, a brittle edge to her tone that flustered him immediately.

"No, I mean, yes, that is ... I meant to say it is a pleasure to have you here," he managed awkwardly. "Not that it isn't a pleasure to have everyone else here, too, of course." He only just kept himself from looking over his shoulder to Dem, mentally screaming for someone to rescue him.

"I can understand your reticence, your majesty," Rosamunde allowed him as he steered her to the corner of the room he was most uncomfortable with. "It is, of course, difficult to discover true Fereldans among our countrymen these days, since the death of our champion."

"Our ... champion?" Alistair asked hesitantly. He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming.

"The sense of true patriotism in our land has fallen dramatically since Loghain fell," Rosamunde informed him, apparently without malice. But if she meant no harm, why say it at all? He'd been the one to wield the sword, after all. And he had to endure presenting her to Anora.

Who didn't give him a moment to speak. "Rosamunde, how wonderful to see you," the former queen declared, taking the woman's hand into both her own and completely ignoring the king himself.

"It is an honor, your grace, to see you once more in the capital," Rosamunder responded, her voice suddenly much warmer for a disgraced ex-queen than it had been for the king she supposedly wanted to marry.

Alistair did the only sensible thing he could do - he bowed to them both, and got as far away as he could as quickly as he could. He didn't want to hear them discussing the one and only execution he had performed with his own hands.

As deserved as Loghain's end had been, it had never sat particularly well on his shoulders that he had taken the head of a true hero. For all the man's faults toward the end, he had delivered Ferelden from the Orlesians with King Maric. The fact that he had died a traitor at the hands of the angry young man his best friend had never once openly acknowledged as his son stung Alistair still. Though it had felt right at the time, in the months following he had been forced to confront the fact that he had acted out of a wish for vengeance, not justice. There had been no need for Loghain to die like that; indeed, Dem had been given the option of inducting the man into the Grey Wardens. Yet the grieving anger that filled Alistair at that fateful Landsmeet had not allowed for any shades of gray. He'd looked at Loghain, and saw the man who had killed Cailan, Duncan, so many thousands of others, in his paranoia and hubris. He'd wanted Loghain's blood spilled in payment for Duncan's life, for the fact that he now had to be king in place of a brother he'd never known. It had been revenge, not justice, and it had taken him years to accept what he had done. Whole populations across the country had not agreed with the execution. Apparently Rosamunde of Gwaren hadn't forgiven him for it, either.

"Let me guess," Dem mused as he sank back onto the throne. "She has views on Loghain?"

"And an ally in Anora," Alistair told her quietly, his expression solemn. He'd never told Dem about his regrets over this particular issue, knowing she had wanted the teryn dead as vehemently as he - perhaps more so, given the way he had sold her family into slavery.

"Beats me why you invited Teryna Tight-Knickers to this shindig in the first place," his friend pointed out in a mild tone. "Or let her stay a Teryna, for that matter."

"We took enough away from her, Dem," Alistair said sadly. "She showed her hand, and she lost."

"Without any grace," Dem reminded him, but she subsided at a glance from him. "All right, I won't provoke her. Just ... don't marry her pet, all right?"

Alistair sighed, leaning back on the throne. "I hope the others are less ..."

"Less?"

"... everything," he groaned, taking a deep breath as he sat upright once more. He signaled the herald for the fifth time.

"Her Royal Highness, Princess Felicita Amelita Braulia Salome of Antiva!"

Unconsciously, Alistair sat straighter at the announcement of a princess, instantly feeling like a fraud. The young woman now making her way from the wide doors had been born into royalty, lived her whole life as royalty. He was just a bastard. But who was wearing the crown in this equation, he reminded himself. There was no suggestion of even a glimmer of gold on the beautiful woman approaching the throne, not even a glimpse at her ears or her neck. Actually ... He focused his eyes on her as she drew closer. No, there was nothing ostentatious about her at all.

Thick black hair caught into silver thread cages on the sides of her head, a trail left to curl down her back and over her shoulders; golden-brown eyes that seemed to be smiling of their own accord; smooth skin whose color put him in mind of the gently tawny coat of his favorite mabari in the kennels. Her gown was modest; a deep red bodice with puffed sleeves that ended at the elbows in a cascade of white lace, over a black skirt that skimmed the floor with each step.  She was calm, poised, just as Amandine had been, offering no challenge in her smile as she lowered into a smooth curtsy before the dais.

Alistair almost tripped over his own feet in his rush to help her rise, feeling like a fool before he even opened his mouth. What came out of his mouth did not help that feeling.

"That's a very ... long name you have, Princess Felicia Ame ..." He trailed off, feeling himself blush as she raised a brow curiously. His lips moved silently as he recounted her name in his head. In years to come, he could never quite pinpoint what had possessed him to continue. "Welcome to Ferelden, Princess Fabs. Do you mind if I call you Fabs? Because you're ... fab ..."

He heard Dem snicker behind him as his voice trailed into silence. The princess' wide mouth was twitching toward another smile, betraying the hint of a dimple in her left cheek.

"That is a very familiar thing to do with a person you have just met, your majesty," Felicita told him. At least he was on firmer ground with her voice; he'd had to listen to Zevran talking far too often to get lost in the intricacies of the Antivan accent. "I was not aware that, in Ferelden, strangers are welcomed with pet names."

His mouth dropped open. "But ... didn't you come here to marry me?" he asked, a little bewildered, silently thanking the Maker, Andraste, and whatever other handy gods were out there that no one else could actually hear him talking to her yet. Dem didn't count.

The princess tilted her head. "I do not know you, your majesty," she reminded him. "Nor do you know me. If this month allows us the means to change that, perhaps I may wish to marry you. But you really shouldn't show such partiality on the first night. You may offend your other guests."

"I wasn't saying I want to marry you -"

Alistair abruptly shut his mouth. She had a good point there. I really have to stop just talking for no good reason. Pulling himself together, he cleared his throat, turning to lead her across the room to where Fergus Cousland was grinning at him. No doubt the Teryn of Highever could make a reasonable guess at why his king was blushing like a beetroot - Alistair's ability to make himself sound like an idiot when he didn't think before speaking was close to legendary among those he called friend.

"Princess Fa - Felicia, may I present Teryn Fergus Cousland, who will be your escort for the evening," he eventually steeled himself to say as they reached his friend. "I believe you have already met?"

"Indeed we have, your majesty." Fergus bowed to the princess. "Princess Felicita, it will be an honor to escort you this evening."

"Thank you, Teryn Cousland." The princess smiled as her hand laid gently on Fergus' arm, releasing Alistair from her grasp. "And thank you, your majesty. It is a pleasure to visit Ferelden."

Alistair felt the last of his inner strength crumble. I didn't even welcome her to the country. He sighed, bowing to her with resigned defeat. "Ferelden is very pleased to have you, your highness."

Stepping away, he walked smartly to the dais, circling around behind Dem and the throne, and sank down into a crouch, the crown hanging from one hand as he cradled his head in his arms. He might even have been groaning; he was too caught up in his own idiocy to notice. A familiar callused hand touched the back of his head.

"This is a disaster," he whimpered into his arms, feeling Dem crouch down beside him.

"It'll only get worse if you hide behind here for the rest of the night," she pointed out gently, stroking her fingers over the back of his head.

It was oddly comforting to have her do that, transporting him back to those first awful days after the Battle of Ostagar, when she'd comforted him during his outbursts of grief over losing everything in the course of a single night. Despite all the hardships, he sometimes wished he was back there in those times, when it had been just the two of them against the whole world. At least then he had known who his friends were, who he could lean on safely. And he wasn't in a room with several women who wanted to marry him. Correction, four women who wanted to marry him, and one princess who apparently had the ability to make his brain disengage from his tongue just by saying hello. And there were five more waiting to be presented. He groaned again.

"All right, Longshanks," Dem said sharply. "Get up, sit on the throne, and do your duty. The Alistair I know doesn't hide behind big bits of metal just because a pretty girl got him so jumbled he forgot how to speak properly. You're the king. Act like it."

He raised his head, surprised to hear her actually say aloud that he was better than this. He knew she felt that way, of course, but it was surprisingly reassuring to hear her say it. Taking a deep breath, he put the crown back on his head, wincing as the familiar weight sparked off the familiar headache all over again, and rose with her.

"I can do this," he said, nodding to her as she patted his shoulder. "Yes. I can do this. I just ... have to stick to small talk."

"The smaller, the better." Dem smirked, stepping back to allow him to come out from behind the throne and take his seat yet again.

Only five more to go, Alistair reminded himself. Halfway there. He raised his chin, nodding to the herald who was eyeing him worriedly from the door. I can do this.

"Lady Leona Charing of Starkhaven!"

Presenting a calm face to the beauty walking toward him, Alistair was struck by the contrasts she presented. Her skin was sepia, the mellow-brown shade of the faded portraits that hung in the long gallery - portraits he always wanted to reach out and touch because of that clouded warm quality - yet her hair hung bright about her face and shoulders in delicate waves of tawny-gold. Her expression was serene, yet her gown was elaborately made, yellow and red brocade trimmed with crimson velvet. She curtsied like a queen, but he was pleasantly reassured to note the nervous uncertainty in the midnight depth of her eyes. He wasn't the only one wary of this entire situation.

"Welcome to Ferelden, Lady Leona." Get that out there right from the start this time. "I hope you have found your quarters comfortable?"

"Very much so, your majesty," she answered, her voice so soft he had to strain to catch her words. "I've yet to grow used to the climate. Starkhaven is a much warmer place to live."

"I have heard that," Alistair agreed, relieved that she, too, seemed to be focused on small talk. The weather was a much safer topic than handing out familiar pet names to complete strangers. "But the summer here is very pleasant, I can assure you."

"I am glad to hear it," Leona admitted, glancing curiously about the room as he drew her toward Bann Teagan. "I must admit, 'tis an honor to be invited to Andraste's birthplace."

He floundered for a moment. The last thing he had expected was a comment on the religious mythology surrounding Denerim. "I believe the sisters at the Chantry are highly educated in the mythology surrounding Andraste's origins," he offered, groping for something to say that wouldn't seem trite or dismissive. "Should you wish to speak with them about it, I am sure something could be arranged."

"That is very kind of you, your majesty, thank you."

Alistair felt his ears burn at her smile, genuinely pleased to see the nerves in her ease off at a small gesture of kindness. "Uncle, may I present Lady Leona. My lady, this is Bann Teagan Guerrin, who has offered to be your chaperone for the evening."

"A pleasure, my lady." Teagan bowed to Leona, offering her his arm. He did, however, cut a brief concerned glance in Alistair's direction. The momentary break down had not gone entirely unnoticed, it seemed.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan." Leona's hand left Alistair's perhaps a little too quickly, but at least she didn't look as though there was a frightened nug hiding behind her eyes any longer.

Alistair pretended to ignore the concern on his uncle's face, inclining his head to them both as he headed back to the throne. He seemed to be doing a lot of walking this evening, he realized belatedly. Wasn't the point of being king that you didn't have to do all the walking yourself? Still, that one had gone reasonably well. She was pretty. Void, they were all beautiful, but some certainly caught the eye more than others. Despite himself, he found his gaze flickering toward Lady Amandine as he settled on the throne, forcing himself to nod to the herald once again.

"Lady Ceridwyn Isolde Ardvale of Kirkwall!"

Isolde? Alistair felt Demelza stiffen at his shoulder, both of them glancing toward Eamon and his wife before the appearance of the latest guest grew their attention away. Lady Ceridwyn could have been Dem in human guise - taller, certainly, but possessed of the same fiery, unruly hair, almost transparently pale skin, and cheeky green eyes. Her gown was green satin and gold, in the Free Marches style, but she walked like a woman more accustomed to wearing pants. And she bowed before the throne.

"Evening, your majesty," she greeted him with a cheerful flicker to her gaze as he rose to join her at the foot of the dais. "The viscount sends his regards."

For the first time all evening, a true smile crossed Alistair's face as he took the hand of a prospective bride. "I'm sure he does," he said warmly. "How is Varric settling in to his new position?"

Ceridwyn's grin was bright and unstudied. "He's giving all the old Orlesian families absolute fits," she informed the king rather gleefully. "Insisting on them paying their taxes upfront and on time so the repairs to the city can be made in good time. The Guard Captain shouts at him a lot, too."

Alistair snorted with laughter. "I can imagine." He'd never met Aveline, but from what little Varric and Isabela had told him about the woman, he could well imagine her berating the new viscount for any orders she disagreed with. "I'll have to send him my regards."

"He likes letters, so I hear," Ceridwyn assured him. "Incidentally, I'm not here to marry you. I've got my eye on Highever."

Alistair's sudden laugh echoed around feasting hall, drawing the open speculation of just about everyone around them.

"I probably shouldn't admit that I am deeply relieved to hear that, my lady," he answered her with another genuine smile, drawing her toward Bann Tolveyn. "Alas, he already has duties this evening, but I'll do my best to throw him in your path as much as I can." See how Fergus likes being the bait on the hook.

"I'll be eternally grateful, your majesty." Ceridwyn tipped him a sly wink, looping her arm through Tolveyn's elbow before Alistair had a chance to introduce them. "You're the valiant protector of my virginity tonight, serah?"

The elderly Tolveyn looked like a nug caught in a bear trap, casting a slightly panicked look toward his king. "I ... yes, my lady," he managed, patting her hand on his arm as though she was a daughter or granddaughter. "Bann Tolveyn of Dragons Perch."

"It's a pleasure." Ceridwyn nodded cheerfully to Alistair before turning her full attention to her elderly chaperone. "What do I have to do to get a decent drink?"

Chuckling to himself, Alistair shook his head as he returned to the throne, catching Dem's curious smirk with a grin.

"I'll tell you later," he promised his friend, far more relaxed than he had been half an hour before. Kirkwall manners were some of the friendliest he'd ever come across; it was going to be a pleasure watching Ceridwyn Ardvale lay siege to Fergus Cousland's avowed chastity.

"You'd better," the elven Warden warned him in amusement. "Haven't seen you laugh like that for years."

"Trust me, the wait will be worth it," he assured her, smiling as he nodded to the herald at the door, raising his cup to his lips. He took a mouthful, turning his eyes to the door ... and his cheeks bulged, lips pressed tight together in an attempt not to spit his wine across the dais.

"Lady Maria Eduarda Manuela of Rivain!"

Lady Maria hesitated on the threshold of the doorway as an unkind ripple of laughter swept through the hall. She was beautiful, like all the others; skin the shade of bronzed umber, shy dark eyes that widened at the laughter, black hair caught in ringlets about a sweet face, her gown pink satin and white. She was also ten years old.

"Sweet Maker, they sent a child," Alistair breathed, frozen in place. "Who sends a child to be a bride?"

He had absolutely no idea what to do, ashamed of the Ferelden nobles and their guests for laughing, though their volume did not rise as time went on. He didn't need to look to know that the reason they weren't getting any louder was because Dem was glaring at them. Only a few faces in the crowd were not smiling - Fergus, Teagan, Alfstanna, Shianni - people he knew were more angered by the way the girl was being received than amused by the fact of her arrival. And the longer he hesitated, the longer the amusement around him seemed to grow.

A swish of skirts caught his attention, rescuing him from his paralysis. Princess Fabs was moving, walking swiftly to the doorway to curtsy to little Lady Maria. As he watched, the laughter died on the lips of the nobles around them, aware now that the royal guest in their midst had better manners and a greater sense of dignity for everyone around her than they had just displayed. It was no surprise to see the Antivan ambassador beaming, as though his favorite granddaughter had just displayed a remarkable skill before the unworthy host around them.

As Alistair rose from his seat, intending to go and greet the little girl at the door and feeling a fool for freezing in place at the unexpected turn of events, he saw Lady Maria smile hesitantly at the princess, taking her hand as the Antivan royal rose to her feet. The two advanced toward the throne together, hand in hand, the princess doing more for the little lady's confidence than any reassurance he could give, he was certain. But he kept moving, choosing to join them in the midst of the feasting hall, redeeming himself a little with the bow he offered to little Lady Maria before moving to one knee before her.

"Welcome to Ferelden, Lady Maria," he told her, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. "I apologize on behalf of my court. They appear to be too deep into their cups to have recalled their good manners. I am sure they will do their utmost to make you feel welcome in your time here."

The little girl glanced up at Princess Fabs, who squeezed her hand encouragingly as she smiled back. Then she turned her shy eyes onto the king she had been sent all this way to meet.

"Thank you, your kingness," she said, her voice tiny in the wide space.

Alistair felt himself grin at the new title - it was certainly far more charming than your majesty was ever going to be. Casting aside the thought that anyone was ever going to convince him to marry a child, he let his thoughts run to his mouth.

"Tell me, Lady Maria," he said thoughtfully, leaning a little closer as though sharing some deep secret, "do you like puppet shows?"

The pretty little face in front of him lit up hopefully, stiff ringlets bouncing as Maria nodded, too shy to say another word. Alistair's grin warmed further.

"I do, too," he told her conspiratorially, delighted when she almost giggled. "May I escort you to see the puppet show on market day?"

Another nod, this time just a little bit awed that the King of Ferelden not only liked puppets, but wanted to take her to see some. Alistair nodded back to her.

"That's decided, then," he said, raising his head to look up at the princess standing with them, startled to find her smiling at him with more warmth than she'd offered when she'd presented herself. "Your highness, would I be an awful cad if I asked you to take Lady Maria under your wing for the evening?"

"I should be delighted, your majesty," the Antivan woman answered. "The bond between Antiva and Rivain is one I treasure, and I shall very much enjoy Lady Maria's company."

Alistair felt a sense of having passed some kind of test, an unexpected thrill of achievement. He nodded, pleased with the outcome of what could have been quite ugly, rising to his feet to take Maria's other hand in his as he moved to escort them both into the care of Fergus Cousland. The Teryn's frown had relaxed into a smile with the salvation of the situation, and he, too, lowered onto one knee to greet the Rivaini child warmly as Alistair bowed and returned to the throne.

Dem's expression was about an inch away from declaring bloody murder on the entire room. "Who," she demanded in a low hiss as he arrived in earshot, "who laughs at a scared child? How dare they?"

"Easy, Dem," he tried to mollify her. "She's in good hands."

"That Antivan has more sense than everyone else in this room put together," the elven rogue fumed, drumming her fingers on one of the hilts at her hips. "Most of your precious ladies laughed, too, you know."

"Who didn't laugh?" he asked curiously.

"The Starkhavener, the Kirkwall girl," Dem answered smartly. "And your princess, of course. Looks like we cut your list down to three, because if you marry anyone who laughs at a scared child in public, I will defenestrate you, Longshanks."

He blinked. "You'll what?"

She smirked at him. "Push you out a window," she translated. "Good word, isn't it? The Inquisitor's one-eyed Qunari taught me that one."

"So if defenestrating is pushing someone out of a window, does that mean fenestrating is ... putting a window in them?" Alistair asked, genuinely fascinated with this meandering bit of useless information.

"I guess so." Dem laughed suddenly. "See, I don't just stab people. I fenestrate them."

He snorted with laughter, turning to sit himself down on the throne once more. "Two more to go," he sighed, catching the herald's eye.

The man looked mildly horrified by the behavior of the nobles himself, but he did still have a job to do. He pulled himself together, slamming the heel of his staff on the flagstones to call for the attention of the gathering.

"Lady Delphine Octavie Tabouillot of Orlais!"

Who was, even Alistair had to admit, a vision. What was also immediately obvious was that she knew it. Easily the youngest feasible prospect so far, she flounced joyously into the hall, preening under the gaze of so many turned in her direction. Another blonde who displayed herself in deep red, she wore no mask unlike her fellow Orlesian, her shoulders left bare by a neckline that indecently skimmed her breasts. Her gait as she walked seemed designed to draw the eye to the bounce in her bodice. Alistair swallowed nervously. He already had a feeling he was going to be under siege from one of the ladies already presented, and it looked as though this one might join in.

"Majesté," she declared as she dropped into a fulsome curtsy at the base of the dais, rising even before he had the opportunity to stand himself. "It is such an honor to be invited to your country!"

Well, at least she's excited, Alistair mused to himself, trying to ignore Dem's poorly disguised snickers behind him as he stepped down to take the Orlesian girl's hand.

"It is a ..." He hesitated as she enveloped his hand in both her own, batting big brown eyes at him hopefully. Maker's breath ... "Uh, you are very welcome, Lady Delphine," he managed, his eyes scanning the hall more out of panic than a real desire to look at the thinly-veiled disapproval on the faces of his court.

"I hope very much to be honored with your presence during my time here, majesté," she added, a comment that put her firmly in the besiegers section of the prospects all around him. "A king should always be handsome, don't you think?"

"I-I ... I can honestly say I have never looked at a king and reflected on his handsomeness," Alistair fumbled, trying to extract his hand from her grasp as discreetly as possible while gesturing to Bann Ceorlic. He couldn't escort her anywhere while she was breathlessly clinging to his fingers and being just a little too eager for his company.

Delphine laughed, and to his surprise, it was a husky, sultry sort of sound that fell from her lips, immediately catching the attention of certain parts of him he did not want her to notice. "I am sure that, in such cases, you are the handsomest man in the room, majesté."

"Uh ... thank you, my lady. Ah, Bann Ceorlic." Alistair had never been so pleased to see the crotchety old patriot in all his life. "May I present Lady Delphine? My lady, Bann Ceorlic will be your chaperone for the evening."

The brief flicker of distaste on the girl's face told him everything he wanted to know about her. She wanted a crown, and the fact that he was only a decade older than her seemed to have decided in his favor. Alistair neatly placed her grasping hand onto the old Bann's arm, bowing as Ceorlic drew her away from the dais. Let Ceorlic bore her into wanting to leave.

"She seems friendly," Dem commented as he thumped down onto the throne, automatically handing him her own cup as he groaned under his breath. "Might want to stay away from closets around that one."

"I'm not going to go into a closet with her," Alistair defended himself, only a little gruffly. Between them, Delphine and Callista might drive him to lock himself in a closet entirely alone and refuse to be extracted.

"Don't worry, Longshanks," the elven Warden assured him with an audible grin. "I'll buy you a chastity belt, how about that?"

"I'll wear a chastity belt when you convince Monster to wear one," he countered, abruptly chuckling at the thought of her studly mabari even considering consenting to such a thing. "I hope he knows he's to stay away from Lady this time. She did not enjoy having puppies."

"If she's in the kennels, I am not taking responsibility for Monster rutting on her," Dem shot back with a grin. "Besides, with him boosting the population, you'll be able to give all your runners-up in this marriage contest a pup to take home."

"I would never send a mabari to Orlais. The very thought!" Alistair gasped exaggeratedly, signaling to the herald for the final time. At least this last one was Fereldan. "Be nice, this one's from your arling."

"Lady Ciara Trevithic of Amaranthine!"

Dem rolled her eyes. "I haven't visited my arling for about four years." She did look up curiously at the name, though. Trevithic was one of the banns who had actually supported her during the disaster that had been the Architect and the Mother.

The girl that entered was the youngest bar one of the ladies who had presented themselves, only just old enough to be considered marriageable among the nobility. She was a picture perfect Fereldan woman; fresh faced, cream skin touched with rose, blue eyes, long thick waves of honey-brown hair. Garbed in blue and green, she didn't smile as she curtsied, seemingly more shy and worried than any of the others had been prepared to show. It must have been her first visit to any noble gathering, Alistair realized, feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl as he reached to help her rise.

"Welcome to Denerim, Lady Ciara," he told her, meaning it a little more than he had for anyone but little Maria thus far this evening. But then, Ciara was barely more than a child herself, for all her beauty and trained grace. No wonder she looked so frightened of everything around her. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you, your majesty," she answered, the barest tremble in her voice betrayed by the gentle quiver of her hand in his. "I have never been to the capital before."

"Then I hope you find yourself at home here before too long," Alistair assured her. He glanced briefly to Dem, a subtle shake of her head telling him not to even think about making her an escort for the evening, and gently began to lead the girl on his arm toward the reassuring presence of Bann Alfstanna. "Though I doubt we can compare to the familiar sights of Amaranthine."

To his relief, the girl at his side smiled faintly. "There is beauty everywhere, your majesty," she offered in her shy way. "You simply have to look for it."

Unbidden, a memory stirred in Alistair's mind - of a single rose in the midst of the chaos in Lothering, just days before that village was razed to nothing by the Blight. He smiled in answer, inclining his head as he gently transferred her to Alfstanna's care.

"Very true, my lady," he agreed. "Please, enjoy the evening. Bann Alfstanna will  take care of you."

"Thank you, your majesty."

As he turned away, Alistair could feel that smile lingering on his lips, just barely aware of the curious eyes that followed him. His gaze found that of little Lady Maria, watching him solemnly over the rim of a cup that appeared to have been filled with milk. He winked at her, his smile deepening to a grin as the little girl giggled, tucking herself a little closer behind the dark skirts of the Antivan princess. Well, at least one of them likes me, he reflected, returning to the throne for the last time as the herald slammed his staff against the stone for silence. All eyes turned to the king as he raised his cup.

"To Wintersend!" he declared, listening to the echo of their voices as they toasted him and each other. His stomach growled, his ears burning as Dem snorted into her wine. Well, it had been a long day, and the smells wafting from the kitchens were not helping. "Ah ... shall we eat?"

Monster chapter is over! And I will not be producing chapters this long on a regular basis, I assure you. ~chuckles~