Author's Note: Story follows a particular Male Cousland and explores what his relationship with his father's best friend could have been. Partially inspired by the lack of fanfare that follows Howe's death in-game… you'd swear the Warden didn't even enjoy it.
The Arl of Denerim's estate was a grand structure standing proud in the capital of all Fereldan, the kind of home that ambitious nobles coveted in their deepest dreams of grandeur. Fitting for a man like Rendon Howe, Patrick Cousland mused as he and his comrades fought their way through the manor's dungeon to rescue Queen Anora.
The scent of blood hung heavy in the air but the young Warden suspected that was more due to consistent use than his group's efforts.
He had known that Howe would probably be somewhere within his own home, and that rescuing Anora was a perfect excuse to gain his revenge without risking any serious negative political backlash for the act. So why was a tiny (almost insignificant) part of him praying that Howe had business elsewhere, that the two would not encounter each other that day?
The sight of his father dying in his mother's arms, Iona falling backwards with an arrow through her throat, his sister-in-law and nephew lying dead in a pool of their own blood… it all tugged at some primal part of the noble-turned-Grey-Warden's mind, whispering fates for Howe far worse than he would ever unleash upon the Darkspawn. Hell, the things he'd heard and seen in Denerim alone would have been enough to justify castrating the vicious old bastard before hanging him in Denerim's centre for all to see.
Yet it wasn't enough to erase one simple fact… Howe had once been all but family to Bryce Cousland's sons and an accidental role model for the Teryn's youngest.
Fergus was the warrior and Patrick was the politician, that was always how the two had been growing up. And, for all the nobles he had met, not one was held in higher esteem by Patrick as a manipulator than Amaranthine's illustrious Arl.
Patrick bounced awkwardly in his seat, his eight year old attention span reaching breaking-point as he partook in one of the Teryn's banquets, his father having made clear the need to occasionally smooth over the rougher edges of vassal relations. Still, who could blame such a young child for being a little pent-up after two hours of doing nothing?
The sour faced man to his right, it seemed.
"You're drawing too much attention," came the emotionless reprimand as Arl Howe continued to thoughtfully swirl the wine in his glass, not even glancing in the youngest Cousland's direction.
Patrick inwardly scowled but outwardly smiled the way his mother had shown him to and swallowed his annoyance, "I'm sorry, sir."
Howe's piercing eyes caught his for a brief moment and a single eyebrow quirked upwards. "You're a rather good liar for one so young," Howe said in what passed for an amused tone with his incredibly dry sense of humour.
Patrick froze in place, his mouth hanging agape before a flash of crimson bloomed on his cheeks. No one ever caught his lies (save for Nan and Mother on special occasion, he noted as an afterthought) and the embarrassment clearly showed as his childish nature quickly ate away at his composure. Mother would be most displeased with him if she noticed.
"But you still have much to learn."
Howe's curt dismissal was too much of a challenge for Patrick to resist and he felt himself responding in kind, "I'd like to see you do better."
Howe pointed across the table (discreetly, of course) at an overweight noble with a gaudy necklace hanging in just such a way to perfectly accentuate the man's second chin.
Patrick vaguely recognised him as the man Howe occasionally suggested executing when he and Bryce got rather more inebriated than was good for them, his slurred speech no more obviously serious or joking than was his norm. He often claimed the chubby gentleman was a boor who would run his family into ruins and weaken the Terynship by association.
Patrick nodded slightly before meeting the Arl's dark eyes, curiosity peaking in his own light green irises.
Howe called out to the other noble politely, the other man turning to face Howe with a mixture of surprise and disdain, his attempts to mask it so feeble they may as well have been non-existent.
Within five minutes of talking, the fat highborn was laughing jovially while Howe maintained his neutral composure. Having listened to every word that fell from Rendon Howe's silver tongue, Patrick Cousland was certain of two things.
One, it was impossible to ever tell the difference between a sarcastic Howe and an honest one, and Two, Howe was one of the most amazing manipulators to ever live when he wanted to be.
Subconsciously, Patrick Cousland found himself setting a new goal for his future… being half the negotiator his sour-faced almost-uncle was.
The door swung open with no resistance, no lock in place to protect the denizens inside, just another room in the underground chamber of horrors that cemented the surviving Cousland's desire to tear its master limb from limb.
The air was sucked out of Patrick as his green eyes were caught by a pointed glare, the disdain upon his face blatant to even the most unperceptive of onlookers.
Patrick pulled his bowstring taut and let another arrow fly, this one finally hitting the bullseye in the centre of his trio of shots. Not a single miss but only one completely on target… it would do, the fledgling archer thought to himself while smirking at his own prowess. Fergus may have inherited his father's skill with a blade but it was his younger brother who had been blessed with their mother's impressive marksmanship.
Nathaniel Howe, nine years his senior, clapped politely from his position sitting on the nearby fence while his brother Thomas, a year Patrick's junior, scowled jealously.
Patrick met the enraged scowl with a placid smile, its apparent sincerity almost perfect. Thomas would not have the satisfaction of knowing that Patrick's loss in their sword duel the previous day still weighed heavily upon him.
Patrick opted to taunt his rival in the most underhanded manner possible, rubbing the back of his head while eyeing the sky thought fully.
"And that makes the final score, with my one bullseye and no misses versus your two misses and no bullseyes… I'd say I won that one, eh." Patrick said, his smugness not bleeding into his tone at all.
Thomas fumed at Patrick's words while Nathaniel looked on with narrowed eyes, clearly fed up with the younger boys' petty rivalry.
The tension was broken by a familiar and disdainful tone, "Maker, Thomas, what have I told you about losing your temper?"
Thomas froze in place, his eyes falling to the ground to avoid his father's (no doubt disapproving stare) and he quietly mumbled an apology.
The Howe patriarch's attention was soon turned to Patrick, who raised his lips a fraction of an inch and widened his eyes to affect a look of innocence.
Howe barely paid it any attention before saying, "You should learn from him, Thomas," Howe informed his youngest son while nodding his head vaguely in Patrick's direction, "He's already mastered hiding his pettiness and aggression beneath a smile. As all noblemen should."
Patrick was taken aback by the (accurate) accusation, his eyes flying to Thomas to find him in a similar state of confusion.
Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest, uninterested in his father's lecturing while the older man stood a little taller, pride evident in his posture.
"Even while you sharpen the knife; your target should be ready to invite you into his home without a moment's hesitation. It is the politician's way," Howe explained simply, the shadows beneath those words later haunting Patrick whenever his father's dying form crossed his mind.
Despite its… unpleasant connotations within his memories, the lesson had served the young Warden well.
He could negotiate with Demons without a hint of emotion or chat amicably with an assassin drenched in innocent blood, all the while twisting their power to his own ends before delivering their deserved ends. Arl Howe had done more to aid the Warden on his journey than merely catalyse its beginning; he'd provided the guile necessary to see it through properly.
It was a stomach turning thought as Howe and Cousland finished their exchange, the older man noting the pride that Bryce would have had could he have seen his little Pup now.
As the combat started, Patrick briefly wondered if Howe had always harboured such hatred for him and his family. Painful as it was to admit, Patrick couldn't help but think he had.
The battle was swift and brutal, both Howe and himself issuing orders to their allies while the two noblemen attempted to finish their duel. Howe with his daggers, Patrick armed with his bow.
Given the ferocity of the combat, Patrick wondered how close one would have had to been to Howe to know just how deep the dark waters of his bitterness ran.
"So, you want me to teach you how to use the bow? Is that it?" a teenaged Nathaniel asked curiously, staring down at the nine year old Cousland who promptly shook his head.
"No, just teach me to be better with it. I already know how to use it," Patrick said confidently, giving a toothy grin to the dark haired archer.
Nathaniel shrugged his shoulders before taking his bow in hand and nodding once to show his agreement.
"I still don't understand why you thought to ask me for aid, I recall my father mentioning that Teryna Cousland was rather skilled with the bow." Nathaniel voiced his confusion, unable to read the younger boy's features when his green orbs gazed up at him blankly.
"Because you're the best one I know," Patrick responded simply, managing to supress a slight blush at the implications of training together.
That was a lot of time to spend with the older boy he admired, all alone. His later infatuations with Darrien and Iona would show him his… less than picky sexual persuasion but in that moment all Patrick knew was that he enjoyed Nathaniel's company immensely.
It was only natural given his increasing fascination with Nathaniel's father, Arl Howe having become something of a favourite grouchy uncle to the future Grey Warden.
"Father probably will not approve," Nathaniel thought aloud before brushing off the genuine look of confusion that crossed Patrick's face. "Don't worry about it."
Patrick scrunched up his face in confusion before a light seemed to appear in his eyes, "Is this about all those times he says we Cousland's have it too good?"
Nathaniel stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening at the revelation of how obvious his father had been in his jealousy.
Patrick, in all his boyish arrogance, simply continued talking, "He doesn't mean it, you know. He and Father are such close friends; Arl Howe is just bad at showing his feelings to people."
Nathaniel gave a weak smile in response, the action never quite meeting his eyes, "Of course, what was I thinking."
Patrick just grinned in response, his inability to read the Arl seeming to extend equally to his oldest son.
Despite the different method, the Howe father and son also shared a similar talent for battle, Nathaniel's always certain aim clearly reflected in the Denerim Butcher's skill when slipping his knives beneath flesh. Alistair's shield arm was all but immobilised following an opportunistic cut beneath his armour and Leliana was forced to throw her back against a wall, her ability to dodge coming to almost naught due to a deep gash in her thigh.
Despite his musings, a sense of satisfaction had overtaken Patrick when an arrow pierced Howe's armour right above the chest, the Arrow of Slaying skill having struck the protective garb in its weakest spot.
As he lay upon the floor, Howe spat out his dying words "I deserved…," the twisted old man gave one final heave of breath, "…more."
Howe collapsed afterwards, Patrick's arrow standing proudly upright as if to mark its prize from the former battle.
Relief, joy, anger, satisfaction, sadness, elation, bitterness… Patrick didn't know exactly what to feel in that moment as every relation he'd ever had to Howe was severed in one final act of vengeance. Perhaps, reflecting on his memories, that indecision marked the final thing Howe had managed to steal from him… a satisfying revenge.
"Bastard." Patrick muttered before turning to his companions, "Morrigan, heal their wounds as quickly as you can. We're done here."
His unusual abrasiveness as he skulked from the room left little room for questioning, the group moving forward to rescue Anora as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
Ultimately it was just more blood on the Warden's hands that would never quite manage to prick at his conscience.
Author's Note: Hope that went well. I know I paint Howe in a semi-decent light (which is definitely OOC) but in-game canon suggests that Bryce Cousland was one of maybe three people who actually liked Rendon Howe and most Human Nobles probably took after him in that aspect (especially fellow manipulative Rogues).