The smell of Denerim hit her right at the gate. The air was thick with it – mud, of course, and people, and possibly cabbage, and throughout it all the unmistakeable odor of wet dog. And there they were, people and mud and great drooling hounds, all the way through the city and up to the palace gate, and as they cheered her she had to try not to gag. Instead, she smiled. Her mother had taught her that a lady is always gracious, even when she is trying not to breathe.

"Ah," sighed the man at her side, "the smell of home. I've missed it." And then he turned to smile at her and take her hand, and everything – the weeks of bumpy travel, the uncouth language of the coachmen, and even the fact that she might never again see the graceful towers and manicured lawns of the palace at Val Royeaux – was worth it, just for that.

In all her wildest flights of fancy, she'd never dreamed of this. And, fueled by tales and songs and stories in books, she had dreamed of quite a lot. Miriette had been the flighty one, the one always longing for a handsome chevalier to rescue her from one thing or another and whisk her away to a life of grand romance. Her governesses and tutors had chided her, telling her to get her head out of the clouds and attend to reality. "Margrethe does that so I don't have to," she'd replied, and her older sister had laughed and agreed. The smart one and the pretty one, they were, and in Miriette's stories it was always the pretty one who caught the eye of the knight or the prince or whoever and was swept off her feet into happily ever after.

But it had been Margrethe the envoy had approached about the marriage, and Margrethe who had solemnly agreed to it – sensible Margrethe, who had stood there in the grand entry hall of their mother's estate in a fine dress of green and gold to meet the man at whose side she would rule a brave and filthy nation.

He had come from the capital on foot – Fereldans went everywhere on foot – with a dozen retainers and as many barking hounds, and instead of refreshing himself after the journey, he went directly to introduce himself to his future Queen. Even weary and dirty in travel-stained clothes, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

And it was Margrethe to whom this laughing, golden king smiled and said "My lady," and Margrethe whose hand he bent to kiss. And in that moment (and that night, and every day and night thereafter) Miriette wanted nothing more than for it to be her instead.

Now it was.

The Fereldans were a down-to-earth, lively lot – less civilized people than Miriette would call them "loud" and "badly dressed," but they had come unarmed as per the treaty, and even though their courtesies to a Dowager Princess and a Dowager Princess's daughters could have been more formal, they were far from the barbarians they were rumored to be. No one appeared to have any bear grease in their hair, at least. But their hair! Even the ladies! Especially the ladies!

What kind of women wore their hair short? It would be convenient for fighting, true, but that was why the chevalieres wore braids. Winding, pretty braids, not the messy dangling bits the Fereldans thought were festive. Apparently they also did all their haircuts with swords. Blindfolded.

Even Leliana. Her onetime dancing mistress had disappeared in mysterious circumstances years before, and reappeared in even more mysterious circumstances as a companion to the Hero of Ferelden, a lay sister, and an envoy to Orlais from their eastern neighbor. It was she who had negotiated the marriage, a tentative alliance between old enemies, a small step toward ending decades of conquest, war, and general dislike. But she was still the same sweet, teasing Leliana. Except for the hair, of course.

As for the Hero herself – well, she was confusing. Margrethe greeted her warmly, taking both her hands and kissing her cheek in the Orlesian greeting of highborn lady to highborn lady. The Warden Commader was thoroughly startled by this, staring like a nug in torchlight, and had to collect herself before giving them a mage's bow in return. Wasn't this the woman who had songs sung about her and babies named after her? Why would she be unnerved by simple courtesies?

"What do you think of her?" Margrethe asked. "The Warden Commander, I mean."

"I didn't take much notice," Miriette said. They were embroidering – meaning, they were poking aimlessly at embroidery hoops while gossiping. "I was too busy looking at the King. Maker, Margrethe, but you're lucky! I wish I were in your shoes. Oh, do I ever."

"Don't worry. You're the Empress' niece; you'll have your own highborn figurehead to marry soon enough." She made a stitch without looking, then pulled it out again. "Thought I have to admit this one's better than I'd hoped for. He looks so stern in the official portraits. I'm pleased he's more like his letters."

Miriette had seen some of the letters; he had nice handwriting, but his Orlesian grammar was atrocious, and she had been unimpressed. Right now, however, she suddenly had the urge to steal one and keep it under her pillow.

"You didn't tell me what you thought."

"Oh, you know what I think. You lucky wench!"

"I meant about the Warden Commander."

"Why does it matter?" Miriette sighed. "She does seem less... heroic than I expected. Shorter. More grim."

"I can't say I blame her," Margrethe said, and stitched quietly for a moment. "You know Garet's coming with us?" she said abruptly. "The King – Alistair, I suppose I can call him that now – wants him to head my personal guard."

"Mags! You get all the good-looking men! Leave some for me!" She frowned. "I wouldn't think Garet would be happy about that, though. After.... you know." The poor boy had moped around the yard for weeks after Margrethe had informed him of the engagement and dutifully returned all his favors. She had cried all that night on Miriette's shoulder, but in the morning she was dry-eyed, sensible Margrethe again, although she did get quiet and thoughtful whenever she passed the young knight in the corridor.

"Oh, I think Alistair can talk him into it." Margrethe gave her a secretive smile. "And if I can win over the Warden Commander – well. Maybe I'll end up being as lucky as you think I am."

"Oh, you already are! And if I was marrying Alistair I wouldn't care what anyone else in the world thought of me, Hero of Whatever or not."

Miriette regarded her sister for a moment and then sighed, exasperated. "You're as subtle as a rock, you know that?"

"So you keep telling me," Miriette said cheerfully. "Speaking of which, if I had a rock, I'd gladly club you over the head with it and stick you in a closet so I could marry him myself."

Be careful what you wish for, Margrethe had always told her, but she had laughed and ignored her, as she always did. Where was Margrethe now? Still on her way to the convent in Montsimmard, or already there? Was she cursing her sister's name every step of the way, or had she forgiven her? And did she deserve to be forgiven?

"Is something wrong?"

The king was watching her, concern in those handsome eyes. It made Miriette dizzy, that and the warmth of his hand on hers.

"It's the smell, isn't it? I'm so sorry about that. I forgot it was cabbage season. We should have come in an enclosed carriage. Don't worry, you'll get used to it in time – at least it's not summer –"

"Nothing is wrong, my lord," Miriette said; her court Fereldan was serviceable, but she would have plenty of time to improve it. "But – " it should be my sister here with you, not me – "I am only tired. It has been a long journey."

"Denerim's not Val Royeaux, I know. But it has its own charms. You'll come to enjoy it, I think. I hope, anyway."

"I am happy, my lord," she said, "as long as I am with you."

Alistair gave her an awkward smile. No, she'd only imagined it was awkward; it was a wonderful smile, because it was his.

"Well, you're with me," he said. "That you definitely are."