It had never been about the throne. Not truly; if he had wanted the throne he could have gotten it himself, conceivably. He was the son of one Teryn of Highever and the brother of another. He had fought his way into marriage with the Tyreness of Gwaren and was the son in law of the deceased. Furthermore, with his knack for coercion and poison making, he could have simply made it so that Fergus had stayed dead. He had become King-consort of Ferelden, and lover of the shadow King of Antiva all on his own; he ruled with a fist of iron…and who was to stop him from taking all he had ever dreamed of wanting? Alistair? Loghain? Both dead. Fittingly enough, they sought fit to tidy themselves up. What did the blond truly think was going to happen, after all, when the Warden had said jump and he had been moronic enough to actually ask 'how high?'
Yes, it was true; outside the protection of his brother, Mirec's youngest child had not known his limits. He hadn't been bright enough to realize that the wilds were merely more forest, and that as long as you kept your head, you would be alright. Nor had he realized that mages were merely another type of warrior, and that his history of having hunted them as though they were animals had not served him well in the eyes of many who had turned out to be of true importance. Instead he had seen fit to rely on his few acquired skills, his heritage, and his one remaining blood relation. At least…he believed that had been the blonde's intent. After all, he hadn't truly cared; as far as he had been concerned, everyone was out to kill you anyway. Whatever the case, his three aces had fallen through.
Apparently having a minor claim on the throne could not quite overcome the justice system once you murdered someone in front of the entire Landsmeet; if only someone had told Alistair that prior to his murder of Loghain, it could have all been resolved. In the end however, the Prince had slain the regent, and had been executed by the Queen. It was truly a pity to see such a sight; but that was the way the Warden had decided to play his cards. He hadn't asked him to murder the man, after all: he had asked him to duel him. It no longer mattered which was which, though, all had happened as it should have. They had even given him a crown and scepter, and thrown a parade. How nice these people were. Of course, with his son holding the soul of the Arch demon, it really had been little trouble making the 'ultimate sacrifice'; he'd gotten a nice nap and the people were dumb enough to think this wasn't pre-planned.
Because the Hero of Ferelden was going to kill himself to save their sorry asses; right. They were moronic enough to settle for what was literally the status quo with the addition of a few cosmetic changes and a role reversal, and he was supposed to go along with the premise that he die so they could live? That was not going to happen, simpletons. He had not fought his way to the top to bow down to the people who only a short while earlier had needed his help to save them. Things weren't as well as they could have been, but they were better; the elves were no longer enslaved, the magi were free, education was coming to masses who sorely needed it, and infrastructure was being rebuilt. If they didn't like the pragmatic path they had forged, he was past giving a damn. Their time to disagree was at the Landsmeet; seeing as that had ended well, their voices were no longer needed.
If rebellion happened, screw it; let there be blood. His brother was Teryn, and his wife was the other, and he didn't care if he had to poison, imprison, decapitate, and starve every last man, woman and child who stood in his way. He had not endured the massacre of his entire household and the derangement of his entire family, followed by a prolonged exile under the Tyranny of Loghain to have to listen to the whining of the masses as he struggled day and night to make their lives slightly less intolerable and backwards. He didn't need to do this; he could've left with his beloved for that city by the sea, murdered his way to a legitimate Kingship if he had pleased, and set up the Crow as his husband and consort to be. Antiva surely would have appreciated his skills more than the constant glares of courtiers who were too ill informed to know that he was the best thing they had received in years, and would likely ever receive again.
Did they think Alistair and anyone by his side would have been any better? Did they think Anora was doing all the work? True, it was an equal partnership; he was not alone in this. Yet her ideas were more internationally minded. She cared little for the day to day business of government. Who in the name of Maker did they think had been making most of the domestic reforms? The Wardens hadn't begun to grow back on their own, fools. The Alienage had a bann now, more rights than ever, and still it didn't seem to be enough for them. They threatened a food shortage, and Anora threatened a crackdown; for some reason, the elves thought passive resistance could truly withstand the power of brute force. That ended with confrontation and calls from the Daelish settlements about rising tensions. Somehow, he knew it would happen. It didn't matter that he'd found a way to protect the urn of sacred ashes. It didn't matter that the werewolves were no longer fucking werewolves; all that truly mattered was that people with petty, meaningless concerns had someone they could hate.
That was why no one ever noticed they were making actual progress; the magi hadn't just been granted autonomy, they had spread to Ozammar. Led in part by private and governmental efforts, the people of the dwarf Kingdom were joining with Ferelden in revolutionizing technology and science. Some said Bhelen was a tyrant; as far as he was concerned it didn't matter. If dissolving the Assembly was what the man had to have done in the name of progress, then let nothing, not even the destruction of the people's will, stand in his way. The armies had recovered lost relic's of the genuine article, leading to jubilation. Yet progress was set aside by naysayer's; they saw only Branka and his golem's of madness. It was typical of the lowly, troth eating imbeciles' who inhabited this country to believe that one mistake meant that they had to close themselves off completely: the common people were utterly incapable of understanding the ability to commit basic preventive action, let alone forming a coalition force with another species.
The truth was that if he had been anyone else, their mission would have failed; the average Grey Warden couldn't speak to a mage with due diligence, so how the fuck were they supposed to unite other nations and cultures to fight a FIFTH blight? What, the first one hadn't given them a clue? Did they not think to study to prevent a second? No….apparently he was the only one in this entire Kingdom capable of thinking. That's why this time (for apparently the first time) they were opening a university. His people would appreciate science and learning if he had to shove it down their throats, damn it. He would pull the reigns on the chantry to remove the ban on some of the less offensive literature; it was about time at least half of the adult population understood things he knew at the age of four.
A further, though much more hidden secret which lurked within his mind was that if he hadn't hated his enemies he would have pitied them; Arl Eamon's years of political maneuvering had all been wasted at the Landsmeet, and though he had been allowed to return to Redcliffe following the events of the Battle of Denerim, few had followed him. It was hard, after all, to convince people to return to a town that had been occupied by what had been - in all but name- a foreign force. The fact remained that the people no longer trusted the Arl to govern them, and with the disappearance of the boy a few months later, and the birth of mage which culminated in the death of her mother, his power was all but broken: the only bright spots which could be found in the old ruins were a tavern and a foundry. Howe had met his end, and so had Loghain. When the dust had settled, even the well meaning Duncan had not been spared; perhaps he should have listened to others more. Then, at least, fate wouldn't have been such a cruel mistress as it dragged his carcass slowly into the fade. Or at the very least, he would've followed him out of respect rather than duty.
Whatever the case, the past no longer mattered where those four were concerned; they had chosen their paths. He merely found it interesting, in a passing thought, that Howe stared into the eyes of his father on his dying day, probably believing he would be victorious. Oh, how foolish the mind could be; to think up such plots, and imagine the most glorious of triumphs, all to have it turn to ash at a moments notice. In the matter of Howe, that moment had not been his death; rather, it had been the moment of inception. It had been the very moment he had thought to stain his house with murder. The Arl had forced him to watch as his family and loved ones laid dead, cold as ice upon the stone floor. He wondered, with a thought of vengeance that seemed to course through his veins like fire coursed through a burning village, if Howe had appreciated the irony; he had died on the floor. Surely, in those moments prior to death, he could feel the situational affect of being forced to die alone, as he had all but forced his friend to do, not so ago?
Yet it did not matter what Howe felt or did not feel, just as it did not matter what his critics' thought of his policies; all that truly mattered was that he had obtained his vengeance and his vindication. He had regained his titles and obtained some more, and gained a lover to boot; now he could set his sights on something more. Well, he could once he dealt with the effects of the joining. That project, sadly, was still a work in progress.