Written for a challenge posted on the Dragon Age Writer's Corner forum:
"It's all pretty much accepted the Arl Howe is a right bastard. He's evil, and power-hungry, and all that awful stuff. But was he always like that? Or did he have a good side to him too? I want to see a short story about the softer side of Howe; could be him taking care of his people, or a pleasant time with his family, or something. Because even evil people have their good days."
Rendon Howe walked through the stables, checking one last time that everything was ready. They marched for Highever on the morrow, and it would not do for his plans to go awry because of something as simple as a lame horse or worn tack. His stable hands had assured him that all was in readiness, but he preferred to see for himself. This was too important to leave to underlings – all must be ready. Howe was gambling his future on this. He'd hand-picked the men who would accompany him to Highever – his most loyal and most bloodthirsty men. All of them had been told the same story that he had told Teryn Loghain – that the Couslands were in league with the Orlesians to retake Ferelden. Howe had told that story so many times that he half-believed it himself, now. Good thing, too, since everything depended on Cousland not suspecting a thing. Too many times Bryce Cousland had come out ahead…too many times Howe, despite all his plans, had come in second to Bryce Cousland, the man to whom everything came without him even trying. Not this time.
Howe was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost missed the golden eyes peering at him from the corner of the stable. He shook his head at himself – he prided himself on his powers of observation – even a cat, one of the masters of stealth, should not have been able to escape his notice. Probably one of the mousers that was kept around to protect the grain. A good investment, that. Grain was dear, much more dear than the few meat scraps the cats were fed to keep them around. He'd always liked cats - they didn't ask for much, unlike his wife, Howe thought with a grimace. On a sudden impulse he crouched down and held his fingers out to the cat. He didn't expect it to come to him, but one never knew. The stablehands sometimes made friends with them, after all.
The cat uncurled itself from the corner and stretched, making sure Howe knew that it was not coming because he called it, but rather because it felt like it. That was one of the things he liked about them – their independence. Howe would have that same independence for himself soon, assuming the events of the next fortnight worked as he planned. Highever would be his, he thought with a smile.
The cat, a young queen, he noted, had reached his outstretched fingers and was delicately sniffing at them, perhaps in hope of a morsel. "I have nothing for you, Madame Tabby," he said solemnly. She regarded him unblinkingly for a moment and then rubbed the side of her head against his hand. Ah, one of the friendly ones, he thought. He slowly moved his hand so as not to startle her – even a friendly cat might bite or claw if spooked – and gently scratched the underside of her chin. She leaned her chin to the left, clearly wanting him to scratch on the side of her head.
"Have an itch there, do you?" Howe said, lip curling into a small smile. He obliged the petite ginger tabby, scratching along her jawline. She began to emit a rumbling purr, which made Howe smile a bit more. He definitely preferred cats to most dogs. His mistress Esmerelle had this yapping thing that she called a dog, although Howe had his doubts on that score. Seemed the thing was only good for soiling the carpets. It seemed to pick the most expensive ones to relieve itself on, too, he thought with a sneer.
"Not like you, little one. You're useful. You keep the mice out of the grain, don't you? I imagine all the mice live in fear of you because you're the queen of the Stable, aren't you?" he asked. The cat evidently agreed; she increased the volume of her purring and rubbed harder against the side of his hand. Howe moved his hand along the side of her head and down her back. This was apparently a bit too familiar for her, as she abruptly stopped purring and darted away, disappearing between the slats of a nearby stall towards the far recesses of the barn. Howe thought he saw a flash of light reflect from her eyes, but he couldn't be sure. "Fickle beast," he said, but without any heat. Cats were cats, after all. Being fickle was part of their nature. He stood and dusted his hands on his leathers and then left the stable. The armory was next – all must be in readiness when they marched on the morrow.
A/N: No, the cat is not Ser Pounce-a-Lot. Pounce is described as a "kitten" when the Warden-Commander finds him in Awakening, so he wouldn't have been born when Howe was about to leave Amaranthine for Highever. She could be his mother, though….