"I will offer you no less than a prince," he had promised. Marian often found herself closing her eyes and taking herself back to his words, and in an instant she could breathe in swirls of incense and the warm tenor of his voice echoing in the Chantry. She remembered that moment as the day she firmly decided on a course of action, and that nothing would stand in her way.
As the years passed, she still had all kinds of details stored away in her heart: his blue eyes, the small dimple in his right cheek from his lopsided grin, and-Maker!-his voice. Sebastian's promise was a beacon of hope that kept her strong even through all the trials, the fighting, and the long nights she spent building Kirkwall back up from its ashes.
The Viscountess was more used to fighting in armor than negotiating from a desk, and made no secret about it. She often found herself wishing that she could run through her opposition with a blade rather than politely mince words in front of an audience. She wasn't any good at this-the only reason she was deemed the Champion of Kirkwall in the first place was because she ran through someone with a blade. Her seneschal was much better at this sort of thing, and she reminded him of this fact very often.
But then, after what felt like an endless series of arguments and compromises, the turmoil ended. The only paperwork that came across her desk were building permits and treasury balances. Marian could finally rest, and build her life anew; after running and fighting for ten years, she could stop.
The timing was uncanny. A few days after she started discussing succession with Bran, a letter sealed with brilliant blue wax appeared in the tray on her desk.
Her breath hitched in her chest as she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, but she quickly exhaled when she came across the flourished handwriting and formal language.
Dear Lady Kirkwall-
His Royal Highness the Prince of Starkhaven requests the honour of your presence at Arrow's Rest.
It wasn't even his handwriting-she had seen him copy manuscripts at the Chantry before, and there was a small slant to the simple form of his letters.
Marian's hands were shaking in disbelief, and the air in her lungs left her all at once, leaving her chest concave. She backpedalled into the chair by the small fire in her study, falling back into the soft material.
All those years, all the work suddenly felt like it was for nothing. She should have made it a point to write him regularly-why hadn't she thought of that? Marian could feel the tears begin to well up in her eyes, and she clenched her teeth trying to will herself to stop lest Bran barge in again and find her in such despair.
And then she saw it.
The parchment, still in her trembling hand, was up against the fire, so close that dark brown marks appeared in the middle of a blank space. A few letters, neat and blocky, and slanted to the right. Marian leaned closer to the fire, desperately trying to bring more letters to light without burning the page completely.
Your prince awaits you.
-SV
Her heart leapt out of her chest at the words, and she bounded out of the chair and the study, down the hall, and into her bedroom to start packing.
Starkhaven was cold, but Marian rode on amongst the guards. She was mildly kicking herself for insisting on the subterfuge and riding on horseback in nondescript armor instead of using a Chantry sister as a decoy in the carriage with all the blankets.
Her old instincts told her it seemed like a good idea at the time, especially when the guards were all newer recruits while Aveline's best stayed in Kirkwall. That decision was the one compromise she managed to keep - the Guard Captain and the Seneschal flatly refused her original plans to ride out herself.
It was Varric's idea to ride as a guard. Given her adventurous history, it sounded like a good idea … at the time. Until she realized just how much colder the Starkhaven winters were. Kirkwall's warm weather had spoiled her.
Blighted state visits. It would have been much easier to go alone and ignore all these completely unnecessary protocols and gestures. What did it matter if she went to see him after all these years, why did it have to be such a grand thing when she would likely be so nervous she'd harf on her shoes and doom the entire visit?
Not long before the sun set, the entourage saw the high walls of Arrow's Rest in the distance, and they could make it into the city before nightfall.
Once the entourage was safely within the city walls and her decoy was escorted inside the keep, Marian coaxed her tired horse through the streets in search of an inn, and thankfully it did not take her long to find one. The streets were dark and empty save the occasional street lantern, and the inn's large and heavy sign was clearly illuminated, had bright colors from new paint. Marian smirked at the name. Starkhaven took its archery very seriously, it seemed.
"Welcome to the Bow and Arrow, messere." A stout, smiling face looked up and tugged at her heartstrings when it reminded her of Bodahn. From his last letter, he and Sandal were somewhere in Orlais and thoroughly enjoying the novel cuisine.
While brushing her horse in the stable, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she sensed someone in her peripheral vision. With her weapon close by, Marian ran through the possibilities in her head. She didn't have any active disputes with anyone in Kirkwall-none that she knew of, anyway. Perhaps it was a goon looking for some fast coin. Either way, she was ready to spring into action when she turned around, but there was nothing there.
Uneasy, Marian kept staring into the dark night, scanning the area. It wasn't unheard of for someone to get the drop on her, but she knew she was terribly out of practice, and the thought of growing slow and nonchalant scared her. Especially in new surroundings. After a while, she accepted the small defeat and went up to the room she paid for.
After the long and cold journey, she was grateful for a warm bed and a hot meal. She fell asleep as soon as she lay down she fell straight to sleep, too tired to be nervous about the next morning.
Oh, but her nerves were fine company when she woke at first light, especially after she found that there wasn't enough hot water in the inn for a proper bath. She made do with a large bucket of hot water and a washbasin, and worked hard to rid herself of all the grime from her travels before she went up to the keep.
Her hands shook as she dressed, remembering the reason she came, and cursing the ceremony of the occasion. She had already deviated from the traditional route by not spending the night in the keep, but Maker be damned if she allowed Sebastian to see her fresh off the road after all these years.
No matter that he had seen her in far worse shape before, covered in blood spatters of various origins. Marian was going to do this differently.
She fidgeted with her dress and coronet enough to be mildly comfortable, and wrapped herself in a fur-lined cloak (which, to her amusement, had both the Kirkwall and Amell colors), and carefully pulled the hood over her head so she wouldn't upset her coronet. She found a pair of simple black gloves that would keep the wind from biting her hands, and made her way to the fortified stone structure that towered above the rest of the city.
Her stomach wouldn't stop flipping.