Author's Note: Hi there! Jonathan here and this is a new fanfic from yours truly! I have to say that I love Dragon Age as much as I love Mass Effect. Yes, I even like the much maligned Dragon Age II *raises flameshields*.
It wasn't that bad of a game. Yes, Dragon Age II was rushed, and it had TONS of things wrong with it, but come on! It had an improved combat system (though the greatsword movements could have reflected the fact that Hawke was carrying a *greatsword* and not a bloody feather!) I've always been a fan of the dialogue wheel. And the story wasn't that bad (though Kirkwall did get a bit boring at times, I'll give it that, and I believe that Bioware lampshaded that somewhere in their DLC). Loved FemHawke, loved Merrill (that cute little welsh elf!)…loved FemHawke and Merrill together (as do a lot of DA2 fanfic writers it would seem -_^). There were some good things about it!
Anyway, rant about DA2 over. Why am I even talking about it in a DA:O fic? Ah, well. This is an Alternate Universe story set during DA:O. The AU part meaning that there is no blight. I'm basically writing this because I believe that the events of the Origins would occur regardless of the blight, and that the Warden would be…the Warden…purely because of Duncan's intervention, and I would like to see what would follow the events of the Human Noble's origin.
I'm using Cousland (despite the fact that their origin seems most affected by the blight) because I feel that the HN is most likely to survive past their origin, as I believe that Amell/Surana is sent to Aeonar for helping Jowan, Aeducan is lost in the Deep Roads, Brosca gets executed, as does Tabris, and Mahariel succumbs to the blight trapped in the Eluvian. So um…yeah.
There's going to be some FemCousland/Leliana in the future, just to let you know. And anything that belongs to Bioware…belongs to Bioware, I guess. I think the only thing that's mine is what I named the Dog…
Enjoy! ^_^
The Wreath of Highever.
A Dragon Age: Origins fanfiction by mcdorfman.
Chapter One: Death to the King.
Your Majesty,
Cailan, I beseech you, as your uncle, to please reconsider your marriage to Queen Anora. I must remind you that you do not have an heir, and your death – and it pains me to think of it – would plunge Ferelden into chaos.
While an heir borne from the Theirin and Mac Tir bloodlines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you, again, that it might be time to put Anora aside. We parted harshly the last time we spoke of this, but it has been a full year and nothing has changed.
Please, nephew, consider my words, and may Andraste's grace be with you.
Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe.
As Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren, read the letter – and reread it, again and again - an inescapable flood of rage flowed through him. Arl Eamon had fought beside him decades ago, along with Maric during the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, they had fought and bled together in order to drive the Orlesian scum from their lands and deliver freedom to their country. Teyrn Loghain thought he knew the man, and now this…Eamon advising the king – his son-in-law – to drop his daughter like some sow past her prime in favour for…greener pastures. Were Eamon here before him, Loghain would surely run him through for the comments made about his daughter – as any true father would.
But it was the next letter he read which let loose the flood of rage within him.
Cailan,
The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to problems with our neighbours in the north: Nevarra. You understand, of course? These Nevarrans have such an odd sense of timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first, my love. Once that is done, we could discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden.
With love,
Empress Celene I of Orlais.
When the letters were brought before him, he was told that this one was already crumpled before being carefully smoothed out, folded, and stowed in the king's drawer for safe-keeping. As he read the letter, he could smell the faint sickly odour of Orlesian perfume – the Empress' no doubt – which further fuelled his anger. When he finally had enough, he crumpled the letter and threw it at the wall of his study. "That cheating bastard!" he snarled at the other man in the room: Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine.
"I am so very sorry to be the bearer of bad news, your grace," Howe's oily voice slithered like the very serpent that was his reputation. Loghain doesn't particularly like the man – nobody in Ferelden did, except perhaps for Bryce Cousland – and he had no reason to have believed the snake were it not for the proof he had just crumpled up in his fury. He turned to the ball of paper that was the empress' letter to the king, pointing at it as if doing so would bestow some damning curse upon its author. "Did you read it, Howe?" he asked the arl, "Did you see the familiar tone with which she writes him, as if my daughter was not already his wife?" The teyrn grunted in disgust as he placed his hands across his hips and paced across the room. "'My love'," he spat mockingly. All this must be some…Orlesian plot to reclaim their old province. It has to be!
Arl Howe watched Loghain's display with concealed amusement. This was too easy. And he did not even have to fabricate the letters! They were as genuine as the existence of darkspawn. For years, Rendon Howe had plotted and schemed to amass more power than his current title would allow. Although already a powerful man in his own right, he wanted more, felt that he deserved more! He wanted Highever, to start with, and then maybe the arling of Denerim…perhaps with time and careful planning he could ascend to the very throne of Ferelden! And then an opportunity had fallen into his lap, when one of the elven palace maids – as much in his pocket as the royalty's – happened upon the letters when cleaning the king's chambers. When he received the letters, he saw in them a weapon which could be used to direct Ferelden's mightiest general to accomplish his ambitions…if he could control him, of course. He thanked the elven maid profusely in his bed, and then arranged to have her killed the day after. She was a loose end, after all.
Howe coughed, masking the amusement he felt. "Your grace," he began. "King Cailan loves your daughter with every ounce of his heart. It was plain for all to see."
Loghain gave the arl a look so incendiary that it could melt steel as dragonfire would. "Are you blind, Howe?!" he demanded, pointing to the crumpled letter once again. "The plot is clear as day within that letter! Love or no, Cailan was going to cast my daughter aside and wed himself to that…bitch, Celene! In a single vow, Orlais would claim all they could never win by war! And what would Ferelden gain? Our fool of a king could strut about and call himself an emperor."
"Your grace," Howe said, ending the teyrn's pacing with his arms across Loghain's shoulders. "Cailan is a fool, of that there is no doubt. But he is still the king."
"He'll be a damn corpse when I'm finished with him!" he snarled shrugging the arl's unwelcome touch. "And Celene too!"
This really was too easy for Rendon Howe. Good, make him even more furious, he'll be easier to manipulate. "Your grace…Loghain," he ventured addressing Loghain by his first name, if only to annoy him further, "think about what you are saying! Are you honestly considering the death of the king of Ferelden? The son of your closest friend, Maker rest his soul? Loghain, that is madness…treason even!"
The teyrn bristled, "I had no idea we were on a first name basis, now…Rendon."
And that worked, Howe smiled inwardly while he presented himself in apology. "Of course, your grace," he said bowing, his voice slithering toward Loghain's ears, "my apologies."
Loghain accepted his apology even as he grunted in disgust of the man before him. Rendon Howe was more of a worm than a viper. "At any rate, yes, Howe. I am 'considering the death of the king of Ferelden.' If he thinks he could make a fool of my daughter like this and deliver Ferelden to Orlais, then you're damn right I'm considering it! He is the traitor!" He glared at Howe. "Unless of course you think you can stop me, Howe, 'treason' and all?"
Howe backed away, hands in the air as a gesture of appeasement. "Of course not, your grace." He began. Now is the time. "I too weary of Cailan's rule sometimes. Like I said, he is a fool. And for all that has been said of me, I am a patriot –"Loghain scoffed, remembering the Fereldan rebellion, when Howe's family fought for the Orlesians, only to defect to their cause when it became apparent that the rebels were winning, which was the reason his family kept Amaranthine. Howe continued, "and I would rather the throne be in the hands of a true patriot, rather than a 'would-be emperor'. But storming to Denerim and confronting the king would harm your cause. It might even get you executed."
"So what do you propose?" asked the teyrn. He might as well hear this worm out if Howe is going to join his newly founded cause.
"Let me deal with the king," Howe answered honestly. "Once he has been dealt with, call a Landsmeet to the nobility and announce your intentions to rule Ferelden as regent to queen Anora."
"Interesting," Loghain had to admit, this plan had some merit, and it would get less people killed than simply storming the palace and confronting Cailan. "And what do you think Anora would say about this?"
"She is your daughter, your grace," the arl answered simply. "Only you can answer that."
"Fine," Loghain grunted, "get it done."
Arl Howe nodded the affirmative. "Of course, your grace," he acquiesced, and then paused for the appropriate amount of time before pressing further. "Your grace, there is also the question of opposition."
"Opposition?" asked Loghain, wondering just what the hell he was blathering on about now.
"Yes, your grace. To our cause. Cailan might be a fool, but he has several powerful and popular allies. There is his uncle, Arl Eamon, and Teyrn Cousland, to name the most popular of them all. When you announce your regency, they would more than likely reject it out of hand. It might even lead to civil war, your grace."
Loghain visibly shook in anger as he remembered the letter from Cailan's uncle, the one declaring Anora barren and telling his nephew to replace her. "Then I'll crush them," he said simply, and then a thought occurred to him. "And I thought Bryce was a friend of yours," he said, not adding that Bryce Cousland was probably Howe's only friend, at least one who was not one of his sycophants.
"Yes, your grace, a dear friend," he feigned sadness at the prospect that his friend would oppose them. All part of the plan. "But the last time I had spoken with Teyrn Cousland, he had expressed a desire for greater relations with Orlais. Would that he knew of…the letter," he nodded toward the letter Loghain had crumpled, "it would be likely that he would approve of Cailan annulling his marriage to Anora and wedding Celene. He would sell Ferelden out to Orlais!" He displayed a false display of shock. "And to think, I was going to offer him a proposal that one of my sons wed his youngest, Elissa."
Loghain nodded, and then he thought of Bryce's daughter, Elissa, his youngest child. Teyrn Loghain had only met her just the once, at a tourney in Gwaren…was it three years ago, now? He remembered watching as young Elissa Cousland met with and defeated men and women in the duelling ring. Opponents who were much larger, stronger, and some of them even quicker than she. Experienced knights, scouts and soldiers, the lot of them, and she bested them. She didn't win the tourney, of course, but she had proven herself as a brave girl and a formidable warrior, for all her youth and inexperience. She seemed to be a young woman of admirable character, one worthy of remembrance, and one whom a man would be proud to call his daughter. But then again, Bryce Cousland seemed to be a man of admirable character, and if what Howe was saying was true…
"Very well," Loghain decided gruffly, "we shall deal with Eamon and the Couslands."
"No, your grace," said Howe, feigning sadness. "I shall deal with them. It's my duty as a Ferelden and as a former friend to Bryce."
Several days later, at the edge of the Becillian Forest, King Cailan Theirin of Ferelden was hunting boar. He was bored one day, stuck in the palace at Denerim, surrounded by sycophants and brownnosers all sucking up to him because they all want something. And so he decided to do something fun for a change! Maybe it is for the best. Anora was better at statecraft – and more interested in it – than he would ever be. Cailan was more interested in gallant heroes saving damsels in distress from some irate dragon. In the histories of the blights, and the Grey Wardens swooping to Thedas' rescue – yes, swooping was good. It was a shame that there was no blight this time, and likely wouldn't be one in his lifetime. What he wouldn't give to fight alongside the Wardens and slay the Archdemon with his father's sword, and forever be immortalised in the tales. But, alas…it was not to be. But at least he can do this, despite some protest from the people who wanted something from him. He was the king, and so he could do anything he wanted, even hunt boar in the Brecilian, even if he had to be surrounded by guards the whole time.
The young king rolled his eyes at the idea of guards on a hunt as he followed one boar's tracks. Guards on a hunting trip! Really! It would be a wonder if he caught anything with all their clanking around in armour. And it wasn't as if there were assassins lurking about in a forest, now were they? Preposterous! And so he commanded the guards to stay back and keep quiet, he's going home with a kill if it's the last thing he ever did.
He kept following the boar's trail. It was a big one! He thought, moving through the trees, grasping the spear in his hands tightly. Anora is going to love this! And then he thought, probably not. As he tracked the boar, he thought about his wife, Queen Anora, and the letters he had received from both his uncle Eamon, and the Orlesian empress. He was so angry at Eamon for even suggesting that he leave his wife because she hadn't provided him with an heir – though not for lack of trying, he smiled briefly. But he loves his wife, maybe more than his wife loves him, but still. They had fought an army of Ogres in a wine cellar as children, for the Maker's sake…at least that was the explanation provided to explain all of the broken bottles. He chuckled silently, mindful of the quarry he is pursuing. When he returns to the palace, he is going to write back to Eamon, commanding him to drop the matter, or be banished from court. He hated that he would have to do that, but it was either Anora or his uncle, and he chooses Anora.
Which brings him to the matter of Celene. It had begun as a standard correspondence between two heads of state, in order to smooth relations between two old enemies: Ferelden and Orlais, to remove the bad blood between them, for peace's sake. And then the letters became more…familiar. They were flirty and teasing in their wording, as if the two were courting. And then came the latest letter from Orlais, referring to him as Celene's 'love', and talk of a 'permanent alliance'. As stupid as people think him to be, Cailan knew exactly what Celene meant by 'permanent alliance'. A marriage pact, surely, and he was certain that Celene loved him even less than Anora did. Anora at least, was a close friend, and she was fond of him as such even if she did think of him as a fool – albeit a charming and lovable one. Celene? No. No matter what the empress says about him, she would probably think him some stupid Fereldan turnip she duped into giving her Ferelden.
He knew what the real score was, and he'd still rather be with his wife. His beautiful barren wife. And so he decided to turn down Celene's offer, in favour of an alliance which didn't involve the marriage bed. A shame, really. 'Emperor Cailan' had such a nice ring to it.
He heard a twig snap behind him, probably those bloody guards he thought, annoyed. He had told them to be quiet and to keep away from him, lest he loses his quarry. He turned toward whoever stepped on the twig and alerting the boar. He was going to give this person a piece of his mind, until the assassin who was following him had run him through the heart with the dagger he was wielding.
End Chapter One.