A/N: I've edited the first four chapters of this fic. Thanks a bunch to SteveGarbage for giving amazing concrit!
"Think of it, Majesty," the grey-haired adviser said. He placed a box in front of Alistair, who opened it and saw a diamond ring.
Arl Eamon wanted him to marry Lucilla Cousland, recently restored to her birthright as Teyrna of Highever. She was a strong woman, as lovely as she was dutiful—the only reason, Alistair believed, why Ferelden stood a chance against the Blight.
But the young King laughed inwardly, because he suspected that Eamon wanted Lucilla as Queen to evade the wrath of Anora. It was no secret that the old arl disdained Anora's lack of noble blood—one of the man's fundamental faults—daring even to tell Cailan to divorce Anora in favor of the Orlesian empress. Alistair also suspected that Eamon had already worked out a deal with aristocratic Lucilla to secure his position as Arl of Redcliffe and an adviser to the throne.
Not that Lucilla was unloved across the country: quite the contrary. She was highly esteemed throughout the land, and not just because of her lofty name. She ended the civil war in Orzammar, restored order to the Circle, even secured the allegiance of the elusive Dalish. She had friends in high and low places: arls, banns, innkeepers, travelling merchants. She had a way with people, and she used that to ensure that her parents' legacy in Highever, which had been prosperous before Howe's invasion, was extended to the rest of Ferelden.
"Teyrna Lucilla is already educated and trained to lead," Eamon explained. "You are partners now, and see what you have done together for Ferelden. Both of you have united us and conjured up an army from nowhere, dedicated to eradicating the Blight. You have restored order to places no noble would even have imagined aiding. Imagine marrying her, bound to you and the country forever. With your moral compass and her dedication to duty and justice, the Cousland name united to the Theirin—"
"And the Mac Tirs have not served Ferelden faithfully as any other noble name out there?" Alistair asked impatiently. "They drove the Orlesians out and ensured Fereldan sovereignty over Fereldan soil."
"I do not need to remind Your Majesty what the Mac Tir patriarch has done. Good day, Sire," Eamon replied coldly, as he bowed and left.
Alistair would never have dared to pull such a stunt with Lucilla, but he had enough of Eamon's incessant rhetoric about marriage. He had yet to be crowned, the Blight was at their doorstep, and royal weddings were at the man's mind?
He looked around the rich study. Shelves lined with books and tapestries of mabari fighting alongside the heroes of the Rebellion decorated the walls. Lucilla would probably like a tome or two from here, and he made a mental note to find her later. But right now, he wanted to find Eamon's stash of whiskey. After several minutes, however, he had to concede that the arl had kept none—or that Oghren had filched it.
Lucilla believed in him so much that she gave him the crown, with the promise that she would stand by him always. When he told her of his lineage early in their journey, she had laughed and said, "So you're not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?" He thought no more of it when she started talking about the rudiments of politics, trade, taxation and the administration of lands. He found that he enjoyed listening to her explain the intricate and fragile balance among the nobles, freeholders, farmsteads, knights and soldiers, merchants and mercenaries, even the Chantry. She did it so jovially, so casually, as if an older sister telling a folk-tale to her younger brother—or, more to the point, how he would have imagined her teaching her nephew, had fate been kinder.
It was only after all the Warden treaties have been secured and Eamon revived that Alistair realized Lucilla had been grooming him to be King.
Eamon was an astute man who knew, or guessed, that Lucilla was more than a simple Warden or even a frivolous noblewoman. And Alistair suspected that it was no secret to his sort-of uncle that he loved Lucilla greatly.
Sadly, that love was not reciprocated. Alistair had once given Lucilla a rose and declared his intention to woo her, only for her to accept it sadly, and, with great care, told him that she loved him too—as a friend, even as family, but never a lover. Her heart belonged to someone else, she had said. He guessed that the bard had offered her a sanctuary from her unspoken woes, or a swashbuckling romance full of court intrigues and finely dressed players that had reminded her of her old life. He never really had the courage, or the heart, to delve further.
So he had to content himself with loving her from a distance and taking what he could. He eagerly awaited her invitation to spar, to discuss strategies and local affairs, even to simply clean their blades and armor together. He relished that he alone shared with Lucilla the bonds of being a Grey Warden, that it was he, and not Leliana, who could comfort her when the Archdemon or the ghosts of Castle Cousland haunted her dreams.
As Alistair pondered on the exquisite details of the study, he heard Lucilla's voice in his head, telling him he should apologize to Eamon—the man was one of his two trusted advisers, after all. It was the sensible thing to do.
He found Eamon in a balcony overlooking the estate's garden.
"I must apologize for my behavior, my lord," Alistair said softly. "It was unbecoming, for everything you, me and Lucilla have suffered."
Eamon accepted his apology with a pat on the shoulder. "It's all right, my boy. I have imagined Connor saying worse things if I arranged his marriage with someone he does not like. But believe me, I would much rather have Connor marry for love."
Eamon smiled sadly. Both men knew that Connor was now unlikely to marry, or to find love.
"You love Arlessa Isolde," Alistair said. It was not a question.
"The Maker graced my life far more than I deserve," Eamon stated. "I am one of the very few nobles who married for love."
The old man looked out at his garden. "King Maric left me a great duty, you know. He made me swear to raise you, far away from court. He wanted you to be comfortable and happy. Until I married Isolde I did just that and more—but I must now beg you for forgiveness, if I had put her above my oath to the late King and your happiness."
As a child, Alistair had always seen Isolde as a cruel woman. She had a shrill voice that he associated with water demons, and she often used it to command her servants to deny him meals for some imagined slight. Looking back, all Alistair could imagine was his fault was the fact that he had been born: Isolde desperately wanted her own child, and was long denied this. She was deeply jealous of the way Eamon had treated him, not as an orphaned bastard, but as a noble ward. Which you are, technically, he imagined Lucilla's stern voice saying.
Alistair's glance fell on a red rosebush. "You don't need to, Eamon. It's been a long time. I met Duncan and the Wardens. And Lucilla, the light amidst all this darkness."
He fidgeted. Had he said too much? Maker damn that red rosebush for reminding him of her again.
With alacrity he turned the discussion elsewhere. "Did my father love your sister, Eamon?"
"Rowan loved Maric as a Queen should," Eamon replied prudently. "She had fought for this country alongside her handsome King, whom she was very fond of. Your father adored her too, in his own way. He had ensured her happiness, and lost all thirst for life when she passed away so young."
Alistair tried to understand. He wasn't Rowan's son, after all, even as he was Maric's. To be fair, he knew that he was born after the Queen's death—but he decided against riling Eamon up again.
Lucilla had told him of King Maric and Queen Rowan's deeds during the Occupation, and, to his great annoyance, she did not downgrade Loghain's role. This was the one time he did not desire her little history lessons, for he knew it well. After he was told that he was the King's bastard, he had tried to read about the man who sired him: an effective strategist, a popular king, a descendant of the Silver Knight, the Savior of Ferelden. A distant figure up a pedestal, so great and magnificent, he could not bother himself with a lowborn bastard. But Lucilla had bitterly added that the only reason her father chose not to accept the throne after Maric's disappearance was because Bryce had respected the Theirin line a little too greatly.
"Most kings and nobles cannot afford to marry the ones they love," Eamon explained. "The few ones who did, like me and Isolde, pay a great price. Isolde has never had a friend here in Ferelden, other than Teagan and myself. I know that she is looked at with disdain by nobles and commoners alike. She was also disowned by her family and cut off from her friends in Orlais after our marriage. And if Queen Rowan weren't my sister, I would have been found guilty of treason just for loving her."
"But the price is worth it, I'm sure," Alistair commented. "You both seem happy with each other."
The old man smiled and nodded. "You have grown into such a fine young man. May I ask, do you love Lucilla? Why do you resist the match so much?"
"I do love her," Alistair answered. He decided to be truthful in this, at least.
"Have you told her how you feel?" Eamon inquired sincerely. "I know I've caused you great pain out of duty for Maric and my Isolde's frivolity. But when Lucilla arrived, I thought I had finally seen a way to beg your forgiveness, ensure the last Theirin's happiness, and not compromise the country."
"I've told her, once," Alistair admitted. "She let me down gently. Her heart is with another."
Alistair's mood was deteriorating, but he nevertheless told Eamon, "I could not ask Leliana to make such a sacrifice, even assuming that Lucilla is willing. They are both good women, and they deserve their joy in this bleak, ugly world."
Eamon stood, placing a comforting hand on Alistair's shoulder. He seemed almost fatherly A year ago, a lifetime ago, Alistair would have given anything for this moment. "Perhaps you do not need to divide them," he said. "Rowan knew that."