Author's Note: A plot bunny that just would not rest. A new DAO novel, a tale I have been dying to write for a long time. Enjoy.

The Lady In The Tower

Prologue: Atonement

Let the blade pass through the flesh,

Let my blood touch the ground,

Let my cries touch their hearts.

Let mine be the last sacrifice.

-Andraste 7:12

Blood. It was everywhere, drenched in her hair, soaking her face, hands and neck in sinister, darkening splatters; scarlet emblems of shame and loss that she wore like a general might carry his cloak after a long, exhausting battle. Refusing to accept defeat, she had held her head high at the guards shuffling her out of the Landsmeet chamber, away from her father and from the only life she had known since birth. The Warden's satisfied smirk had not escaped her, the young elf being anything but subtle in her vindictiveness only made it easier to discard her opinion as what it was: The opinion of an infatuated girl, blinded by the sparkles of a crown and the sweet taste of vengeance. It was very telling of course that Eamon had given the order to take her away after Ferelden's new king had mumbled something about not being able to kill her. That was his first mistake and Anora knew that, given those whose advice he was bound to listen to, it would not be his last. Never thinking beyond reaching a goal beyond his personal desires, he would dance to the Bannorn's tune until the strings snapped in a bitter realization of having bitten off far more than he could chew.

As for her own immediate future, the line of the Mac Tirs was effectively extinguished, the remnants of decades of diligent, dedicated service reduced to a pool of blood staining the floor of the Landsmeet Chamber and an unwanted husk of a daughter better locked away for the greater good. Her heart clenched at the thought, shuddered at the humiliating end her father had suffered at the hands of people presenting themselves as paragons of virtue, popularity and goodwill. Yet, for a brief moment, the Hero Of River Dane had effectively undercut their wave of satisfying bloodlust and hypocrisy by not only embracing his death with the dignity of a seasoned warrior and statesman, but by the moving way he had addressed her shortly before offering his neck to the butcher's blade. Robbed of his honour, pride and titles, he had been naught but a concerned father in the end, and if Anora knew her nobles at all, that gesture would undermine the loyalty of several members of the Landsmeet who might have agreed to an alliance with the new government. Had they shown more foresight and practical sense, the takeover of power would have run its course smoothly and her own cause would have been lost forever.

"Milady," one of the guards spoke up uncomfortably. "The King has issued no specific orders where you are to be lodged until preparations for…" He had the grace to blush at that. "For your long term confinement are completed. All that is required are secure doors that lock from the outside…" Unable to look her in the eye, he focused on the wall behind her. Incompetent, blasted idiocy was already taking root. Whoever treated a prisoner of state with anything but clear orders?

"My father's former chambers," she responded immediately. Knots of grief in her heart be damned, she would salvage whatever she could of his memory and leave nothing to the wolves…or sheep.

"Certainly, Milady. They have been thoroughly searched by now and should be ready to receive you." Beyond embarrassed at this point, the guard murmured a quiet apology. "None of his personal assets have been taken." Quiet encouragement to take a keepsake or two and the unsaid promise to look the other way; Anora felt gratitude flooding her mind at the man's loyalty.

"Thank you," She fixed him with a meaningful gaze, the only heirloom of her father's on her features. "I will not forget your kindness to me today, soldier. What is your name?"

"Robin Gascell, Milady." Flustered by his former sovereign's dazzling smile, the man was quick to bow. "Both my father and my grandfather served at the River Dane…."

"Hold on to that memory and let no one turn it into loyalty to a traitor to the crown." Anora spoke softly; her eyes however were liquid steel. History was written by the victors after all. "Much has changed in our homeland and if the Blight does not conquer us after all, nothing will be the same afterwards. If I am not to see you again, remember me and my gratitude."

"But certainly they wouldn't consider…" Robin sputtered, his hands held up in a helpless gesture of shock.

"Shut up already, Rob." Another guard cautioned roughly. "Don't go on making promises to her now. She may have been King Cailan's wife for years, but now she is nothing but a memory. Or she might as well be." His tone softened slightly. "Beg your pardon, Milady, just stating the facts, grim though they are. We have wives and children and our loyalty must not be questioned."

If anything, Anora appreciated the man's harsh pragmatism more than the stammering youth's wide eyed shock at the harsh reality of the world they were living in. The boy's tendency to blush, stammer and fidget reminded her of her father's killer and that was no welcome memory at all.

"Indeed. Loyalty is a far too fleeting virtue among men and women of all descents." The former queen's smile was serene, yet inside she was seething with powerless fury. "Do as you must, but do it quickly." The excuse about her future place of detainment not being prepared had only confirmed her suspicions further. A seemingly genuine accident such as falling down a flight of stairs to disguise a broken neck, it was far easier than the actual trial and condemnation of Ferelden's former queen. Fear of those still loyal to her revolting outright had probably staid Eamon's hand when it came to demanding her execution but that still left the way of the assassin.

"Madam?" The older soldier froze in his tracks, quite unsure just what she had intended to imply.

"I would prefer to be spared the moment of surprise and I do not relish the thought of a pillow on my face or a drop of poison in my food. Any soldier knows how to end a life quickly and painlessly." It was not that she did not want to live or had resigned to her fate willingly, but rather than not knowing when the dagger or poisoned chalice would do its gruesome task, it was the dignified way to accept death as she always had lived. Following her father's shadow to the last.

"Milady, there is no question of that." The soldier called Robin cried out in indignation.

"We have no orders to that effect, Madam, rest assured." His burly friend added more calmly. "I too descend from a long line of soldiers loyal to the efforts of the rebellion and should the current holders of power order me to assassinate you, I will not stoop to a knife in the back." His gaze dropped, the wrinkles around his eyes growing deeper. "I served under your father for many years. A great man, that one, he had a way to keep his boys in check. Knew all of us by name, never forgetting a single one's concerns; Maker keep him. No matter what the status quo dictates, should the worst come to pass, I will make sure that you have time to prepare. You have my word on that."

"Mine too!" Rob added eagerly.

"It lifts my heart to see such dedication to my father's memory." Folding her hands in a devout gesture of faith, she struggled to keep her iron clad composure from shattering. "You have my gratitude, both of you. I have no favours to give other than a solemn promise to reward you loyalty, should I ever be capable of doing so. Let us go on, we have lingered for far too long as it is."

Her father's chambers awaited her arrival. Only this time she would not find him pouring over his map collection or even taking care of his correspondence. That sight, so dear and deeply entrenched in life long memories, was forever lost to her.

Hours had passed in silence with no one to attend on her and no news from beyond the heavily fortified oak doors had slipped through. Buried alive as she was, Anora busied herself going through her father's few personal treasures. There was very little she would be permitted to keep, certainly nothing of value or import, such as the dark blue seal of Gwaren he had commissioned upon taking the reins of the teyrnir. Orlesians used red wax and Loghain would be damned first before doing anything in a remotely Orlesian way. His personal map case…there was no need for anyone to take that from her, given that most it contained were ancient parchments, of no interest to anyone but avid map collectors…or orphaned daughters.

A key turned in a lock and an elven girl carrying a basin of water, towels and several of her gowns hurried in. More out of habit than anything else, the girl curtsied before setting down her load. The enigmatic, large grey eyes held the hostility Anora had come to expect after the events in the Alienage.

"I've been ordered to deliver these to you, Madam." A surprisingly harsh timbre for a woman of such youth. "You might want to get all that blood off you and change into a clean gown." Not that she cared either way, given her open show of triumph and lack of tact.

Staring down at her hands, she noted flakes of blood crumbling away from her skin and it was more that she could bear. This was her last real reminder of her father and as she neither expected permission nor desired to attend the funeral pyre he might receive, it hurt all over again. The thought of him not being sent into the Fade properly but his body being left to rot, the bled out head on a pike for all to see until the crows had hacked everything away … Far too many had met such a tragic fate on the battlefield where such casualties were unavoidable, yet…

"Get out!" Anora hissed coldly, her eyes gleaming with powerless fury. She would permit no elven chit to bask in the shade of her sorrow.

"My orders were…" The brat had the audacity to talk back, it was insufferable.

"You have followed your orders. Now get out and pester someone else." Turning her back on the insipid creature, Anora took deep, lungful breaths to steady herself. She paid no heed to the girl's rude –Tsk Tsk!- sound and only turned around again as the sound of the key locking the door could be heard once more.

Her legs were shaking, her mind on the verge of collapse as she entered the bedchamber. A lone candle sent warm flickers of light across the walls, the whole room completely impersonal in its simplicity. Save for one thing drawing her in like a beacon. Loghain's dark blue traveling cloak rested on the bed, clearly having been tossed there. By Eamon's spies discarding it as worthless or by her father being in a hurry to attend the Landsmeet…? A lump formed in her throat at the sight of the lone garment she had seen flowing from her father's shoulders every time he had returned home to Gwaren… "Why? Why did you do this?" she ground out, biting down on her tongue until she tasted blood. "I will survive. For you. For Ferelden. For all that Maric never lived to see. To atone for the part my testimony played in bringing about your untimely, wasteful end." she vowed; her heart heavy with regret. Pressing the velvet folds to her cheek, she smelled clovers, leather and a faint echo of horses. Home.