My apologies for how long this took! The shiny newness of DA 2 eclipsed Alistair and Thora's voices for a while, and I had trouble with the tone. I think I've got it now, hope you enjoy! With very big thanks to WellspringCD for her ever-supportive betaing and rebetaing and to my husband for reading everything and not being afraid to give his honest opinion. (Disclaimer: Dragon Age is BioWare's baby ... I just like dressing it up in cute new clothes!) End of this chapter is NSFW.

"No, no, Thora, it will look better if you have a bow right here."

"No bows!"

"Or some flowers? We could weave them into the dress like this."

"I like flowers, but not in my clothes. Or as my clothes." Thora stamped her foot impatiently. "Leliana, you're sure I have to wear a dress? I look ridiculous in dresses. Especially … those." She eyed the pile on the bed with disgust.

"They're lovely!" Leliana cried. "I had them made by the best dressmakers in Ferelden." She smiled down at her friend. "Well, perhaps that's much like saying you've been made love to by the best courtesans in the Chantry…"

"Leliana!" Thora glanced across the room to Anawyn, who was hanging wide-eyed on every word, and back at her friend.

"Sorry." Leliana giggled.

"Can we please give up on the dress issue for today?" Thora turned around in the one Leliana was currently torturing her with. "Honestly, Leliana, I have armor that's lighter than this thing."

"It is a bit bulky for you." Leliana raised a suspicious eyebrow. "You're not wearing armor under that, are you?"

Thora frowned. "It might look better if I was."

"Mother, you aren't taking this seriously!" Anawyn cut in. "This is the most important day of a woman's life."

Narrowing her eyes, Thora glared at Leliana. "Wonder where she heard that."

Leliana's eyes twinkled. "Believe it or not, she heard it from Oghren. Although I do not think he meant what she thought he meant."

Shaking her head, Thora turned back to Anawyn. "Trust me, dearest, there have been many important days in my life, and the last thing I was worried about on most of them was what I was wearing. I don't even see why we're doing this—can't Alistair and I get married without all the … fuss?"

"He's the King of Ferelden!" Leliana and Anawyn said together, in identical tones of shock and outrage.

Thora yanked the sleeves of the dress off her arms, grumbling. "When I was the Princess of Orzammar, I didn't have to wear anything like this. Andraste's knickers, I'm the sodding Paragon now, and I wear what I bloody well please."

"Too much time with Oghren," Leliana sighed, picking up the pile of unwanted wedding gowns. "Come, Anawyn, we'll go try on your dresses. That, at least, should be fun." She frowned good-naturedly at Thora on her way out of the room.

Left alone, Thora sighed. It had been six months since she and Alistair had decided to get married, and somehow the wedding had taken on a size and importance that, in Thora's mind, it simply did not warrant. She and Alistair shared a life together already, they had a child (children, if you counted Duncan, who was slowly warming to Thora), they slept in the same bed. What more was needed? All she really wanted was a simple ceremony, surrounded by those who were closest to them, the people who had been with them along the way. But Alistair seemed happy enough with the plans, and everyone else seemed to think the big wedding was an important thing. Thora didn't have the heart to disappoint them all.

She wandered back to her small office, looking over the small amount of Amaranthine correspondence she had.

Truthfully, she was bored. Due to Alistair's responsibilities, they seemed to spend more time in Denerim than in Amaranthine. Nathaniel Howe and Oghren kept the Vigil and the Wardens running smoothly enough that Thora hardly felt like a Commander anymore, but she had no specific role in Denerim to occupy her time. While in residence at the palace, the time she would have spent running the Vigil had been spent working on wedding plans. It was an activity that made Thora want to run screaming through the palace, searching for a darkspawn to behead.

She pushed a giant pile of papers—seating charts, many of them—aside, sitting down behind the desk and rubbing her eyes with her hands. This simply could not continue. She'd been in command of others for her entire adult life—there had always been something she needed to do. This tedium and the lack of physical activity now that she had no Wardens to train were driving her crazy.

"Thought you might be here."

At the sound of the familiar voice, Thora looked up. "Did you come to talk wedding fripperies, too? I hear you've been filling Anawyn's ears with the importance of the wedding day."

Oghren roared with laughter, the sound echoing through the palace corridors. "I said 'wedding night'. Best part, wouldn't you say?" He winked at Thora. "Cave tick heard what she wanted to hear. Gotten all swoony now she's a princess, she has."

It was true, Anawyn was acting more and more like a soft noblewoman these days. The little girl was another who needed something to do. "What do you need, Oghren?" Thora asked. "I really have to get through these."

"The Thora Aeducan I know woulda ripped those up months ago," Oghren said bluntly, plopping himself down in a chair. It creaked beneath him. "Sodding human furniture," he growled. He looked at Thora. "What's wrong with you, girl? Mopin' around here. Life with the nug-humper not what you expected?"

"No! I—Alistair … well, you know, Oghren." Her cheeks flamed red, but even with her oldest friend she couldn't bring herself to gush. "It's not that."

"Then what? Who do you think you're talkin' to, some nancy-boy noble? Ya got everythin' you ever wanted, and you're draggin' around here like a crippled bronto."

Thora sighed. "I know. It's just—there's no place for me here. I don't belong here in Denerim at all. The nobles have made no secret of the fact that I make them nervous; no matter where we are one of us is always so busy catching up on work that we have too little time together; and I have nothing to do here." Thora looked down at her hands, biting her lip. "I'm beginning to wonder if this arrangement can really work."

"Sayin' all this to the wrong person, ain't ya?"

"I can't say this to Alistair. He has enough on his mind. And I wouldn't want him to worry that— I wouldn't want him to worry."

Oghren looked at her for a long moment, his eyes unusually sober and serious. "Huh," he said eventually.

"Scintillating commentary," Thora said wryly.

Oghren merely grinned at her and left the room without another word.

Thora watched him go with trepidation, wondering what kind of mad scheme he was concocting. Eventually, she decided she'd never guess what might be going on in Oghren's brain—and probably didn't want to—and turned back to the seating charts.

Alistair sighed with contentment as he made his way through the palace toward his bedroom. He'd never been happier than these past six months. Anawyn's bright brown eyes across the breakfast table, happy notes and drawings from Cybele, Duncan's little smiles … and Thora in his arms every night. What could be better?

As he passed the children's doors, poking his head inside each room to look with delight at the sleeper within, he admitted it would be nice to have fewer meetings. Missing dinner, as he'd done tonight, happened too frequently. But he hoped that would be temporary, just until he learned how to adjust his schedule to the moves back and forth between Denerim and Amaranthine.

He pushed his own door open, taking a moment to look at his love as she sat in the middle of the bed, papers strewn around her, red head bent studiously over one.

"Do you think it would be suitable to seat the Rivaini ambassador next to the Grand Cleric?"

Alistair sighed. "Probably not."

This was his least favorite topic. Little had he known when he dreamed of marrying the love of his life that it would require all this paperwork. All he really wanted was a small ceremony, with their old friends and their children. Something that would be more heartwarmy and less headachy. But given their stature in the country, all this mess seemed necessary. He felt badly for Thora, though, as she was clearly struggling with all these wedding details, which were no more her type of thing than they were his. He reached up to loosen his doublet and walked toward the bed, shedding clothes across the room as he went.

Down to breeches and smallclothes, he sat gingerly behind her, careful not to disturb the papers. He bent over, nuzzling the back of her neck with his nose.

"Alistair," she said.

"Yes, love?" His fingers combed slowly through the red hair, finding the pins that held it up and letting it fall around her face. It wasn't nearly long enough yet—he still fantasized about the days when her hair, unbound, had brushed the floor—but it was growing out enough for him to be able to feel the silky softness of it between his fingers.

"I should finish this."

"Bother the seating arrangements," he said. He brushed the hair back from her ear, his tongue tracing the edge of her lobe and up around the shell.

She shivered. "I have to get these done." Her voice was breathless now.

"Here's a thought," he murmured, his hands finding the laces at the front of her shirt—his shirt, actually, and how he loved coming in to that sight. "Let's just let everyone find their own seats."

Thora gave up, pushing the papers together into a messy pile. "That's just not done. At least, not according to Leliana," she said, leaning back against Alistair's shoulder.

"All the better. We could be trendsetters. Better than that," Alistair said, his hands finding the hem of her shirt and tugging it up over her hips, "let's have it in Orzammar. You can be all Paragony and insist the ancestors told you where everyone should sit. They'd have no choice."

Thora sat up to let him pull the shirt off over her head. "I couldn't," she said with regret. "That wouldn't be fair to Gorim."

"In that case," Alistair said, running his hands down the firm muscles of her back and grasping her hips, "I suggest we worry about it some other time." He pulled her back against him, his hands moving to cup her soft, round breasts.

"Agreed," Thora gasped. She arched against him, pushing her breasts more firmly into his hands as he squeezed and stroked them.

Alistair's mouth moved along the top of her shoulder. "Maker, how I love you," he whispered.

Thora turned in his arms, straddling his lap and finding his mouth with hers, kissing him fiercely. She might have complaints about their new life together—but it was together, and at heart, that was what mattered. "Let's get you out of these," she said, tugging at his breeches, "and let me show you how much I love you."

"No argument from me," Alistair said, lifting his hips to let her pull the offending fabric off.

When he was naked, Thora knelt in front of him, taking him into her mouth, tasting him with avid delight. Alistair's hands tangled in the red-gold hair, setting the pace. As she worked him, her hand stole between her legs, touching herself. Alistair groaned, watching her, then he gently pushed her back.

"Keep doing that," he whispered, watching in fascination as her hand moved faster, rubbing in small circles. He took over his own pleasure, seeing her pale skin turn red as she writhed on the bed under his rapt gaze.

Soon the flush reached her face. She raised her hips sharply up off the bed, her mouth opening in soundless ecstasy, and Alistair felt his own control give way as the fluid erupted from him, spattering her stomach.

He held onto the bedpost to steady himself until his legs stopped trembling. Then he went to fetch a warm cloth to clean her—and himself—up with. Together they curled up under the covers. The pages of seating charts lay strewn across the floor, forgotten.