A/N: I don't own Dragon Age. If I did certainly the whole thing would be from Loghain's point of view.

I'd like to make a few comments- I have no idea where this is going. I write in a slipshod fashion and go back to edit later. I'm also a short story writer first and foremost, so this is an attempt at a longer piece. I'd like this piece to be its own thing and to begin the civil war/Blight with a sequel, but we'll see.

My knowledge of Dragon Age lore is sort of sketchy. I know the game pretty thoroughly, but things that happen in The Stolen Throne and The Calling I know from reading other fanfiction, discussion, and the Dragon Age wiki. Any corrections are appreciated.

10th of Harvestmere, 9:28 Dragon

In his hands the paper crumbles and for a moment he is reminded of an Orlesian, a chevalier, whose arm he had broken at one point in the Rebellion, but he can't remember when or where it had happened. Somewhere in the Bannorn, he is sure, perhaps not even a proper battle, but a skirmish or some such thing. Perhaps he had simply seen the chevalier on his horse and picked him off somehow. It all blurs together in his mind now and what is even the point in trying to remember such things, when it was far behind him and he has done far worse than break a man's arm with his bare hands?

For some reason it is this thought that calms him and allows him to pull the paper towards himself, smoothing it out over his desk as he takes a moment to read it over again.

. . . he has spoken to B.C. . . I don't believe B. wants to agree, but may waver . . My source indicates he is looking for alternatives. . . She and N.H. are old childhood friends. . . Very Ferelden young woman with a faithful mabari. . . B. has made it clear potential betrothals must be sent by the end of Harvestmere so the announcement can be made according to tradition on Wintersend.

The Hero of River Dane, Butcher of Ferelden, Commander of Ferelden, Councilor to King Maric, Teryn of Gwaren, Maric's Butcher, Mac Tir. These are all his names, in some way or another, but one of his most prized is what he reads at the top of this letter in his daughter's graceful script. Father. And now she has impetuously written this to him (she knows better than to put such things to paper), warning him of Cailan's intention to set her aside, but mostly what he reads is the threat to her, shoved off to be heir to his teryn in a good case and off to a Chantry somewhere for vows in a worst case. If there is a life Loghain Mac Tir does not wish for his daughter, it is being a Chantry sister. Andraste may be good and well, but the Orlesian fingers are slipped into a few too many Chantry pasties as far as he's concerned.

This will not do. It's not part of the plans, the ones made so long ago by himself and Maric, looking at their two young children playing together in the royal garden. More than that, however, is the threat to Anora posed by Bryce Cousland's daughter. Certainly her blood makes her eligible for the throne, but it seems as though her family hardly wants it for her, not in the way Anora does and has been raised for. Would Cousland be a strong influence over Cailan? Would she be able to curb his excesses and know the ways of keeping his short attention span towards the modicum of governing he bothers himself with? In short, Loghain thinks, would she be able to do what Anora has done for years already, used to it from childhood?

He has met her a few times, danced with her once, even talked with her, and found her charming enough, wild in an interesting way and clearly uncomfortable in her gown and slippers, eyeing her brother's trousers and doublet enviously. She was noble, but hardly acted like it. Howe referred to her derisively as "Bryce's little spitfire," but Loghain kept his response to himself.

Your queen was my little spitfire at some point. She climbed trees with Cailan, went "camping" with him in the royal gardens in summer, defeated legions of darkspawn and chevaliers at his side, skinned her knees and chipped a tooth when they tried to climb from a window at night to watch a meteor shower-

As he remembers these things of his daughter, he returns to the rest of the parchment, his index finger tapping his upper lip thoughtfully. He has no idea why these sudden memories make him more inclined to look at her suggestion, but they do.

I have sent this with our most trusted man because of what I ask of you: offer yourself for Maris Cousland. While I have nothing against her personally (or the Couslands generally), her lack of a formal betrothal is a problem. That sudden interest in her is untenable for a variety of reasons, not least of which is my own position, but also, as I know you're already thinking, whether or not Maris Cousland is capable of keeping on the sort of leash that's needed.

Loghain sighs deeply, pushing the braids away as he massages his temples. Why a letter? Why could she not ask him about this in person when they had seen each other a few short hours ago or when they will see one another tomorrow? She knows he detests games and this feels like a political one, somehow. He has never been particularly savvy in regards to those. It seems far more useful to keep an eye on the army, train Maric's Shield to his exacting standards, stay vigilant against the Orlesians-

As this thought crosses his mind a scowl comes over his face, turning into a frown. Bryce Cousland is awfully close to some Orlesians, he has learned. Not in a truly troubling way, but it's a worrisome sort of closeness, one that bore watching for the future. He does not doubt Bryce's loyalty to Ferelden, regardless of his being thrust forward for the throne, but he doubts the Orlesians' ability to maintain friendly relationships without an ulterior motive. He wonders how friendly the Orlesians would be if his daughter married the Butcher of Ferelden, and even if they chose to continue their "friendships" with Bryce perhaps having Maris Cousland in his home would not be a terrible strategy. It would be one way to keep an eye on that particular intrigue, if one can call it that, and Loghain doesn't doubt he can. They're Orlesian, after all. Every thing is a bloody intrigue, part of their "Grand Game."

Loghain looks over to the corner of his study where the River Dane armor sits on its stand, only brought out for special occasions since the cessation of active war. It needs a good polishing and to be checked for issues.

The frown deepens. Where did that thought come from? The last special occasion had been the burning of Maric's pyre, pathetic though it had been with just a white shirt. He and Cailan had stood together and he recognized the weakness in his son-in-law, how the king's bowed head and shoulders weren't what the people needed, but in that moment what the people needed mattered less than what a boy beside him needed. He'd put a hand on Cailan's shoulder and Cailan had looked up at him with a weak smile, a smile holding the remnants of the ten-year-old who had cried when he thought he'd killed Anora during the meteor shower incident (I swear, Loghain, I meant to help her down, I swear it, but-).

His thoughts scatter and his lips become tight as he thinks about that night. What had Cailan wished for on the meteor shower? To be strong and fight like my father! and with a whisper he'd asked to protect Anora better, especially once they were married. Anora had held her tongue, reminding him that he couldn't know what she wanted or else it wouldn't come true, but she had told him, several years later once the superstition wore off. I was a silly child, Father, I wanted to be a good queen, but I wanted to have a happy marriage with Cailan, mostly.

For reasons he could not understand, his daughter loved the man and had for a long time. How Cailan had gone from that spirited, thoughtful boy to whatever he was now (a foolish boy playing at king was Loghain's most frequent and never uttered thought) was a mystery, but there it was. He had become a weak man, unable to set aside his own desires and whims for the good of the country he ruled. Anora loved him and had for a very long time, possibly close to their whole lives. She did not light up upon seeing him, but her smiles became easier and her eyes always softened as Cailan chattered inanely, her hand on his arm as they strolled around the gardens or Denerim. Loghain knew being set aside would devastate her, partly for the throne, yes, but partly for her own reasons.

And what would it do to Ferelden? He doesn't doubt that's in her thoughts as well. He supposes that Bryce Cousland's daughter would be a good queen, but it wouldn't be the proper queen. It wouldn't be the one sanctioned by Maric. He can't pretend that hasn't crossed his mind. This marriage is what Maric wanted for Ferelden and Cailan wants to throw it all away for some- some infatuation with a nobleman's daughter. His whims are more important to him than Ferelden and while he can't imagine a Cousland neglecting their duty, he knows Anora will be exactly the queen needed while he can only wonder about this Cousland.

Would he marry her- a girl nearly half his own daughter's age- to see the throne safe, to see Ferelden secure with their current king and queen and avoid scandal at such a low point? Wouldn't the Orlesians view such discord as a perfect opportunity to reach out or launch some sort of attack? They would, the cowardly bastards. But Maris Cousland's formal betrothal means that such things could be avoided. Cailan would mope, but he would forgot about it with the next pretty woman who wandered along. And the throne would stay secure.

Would he marry the Cousland girl then? For his daughter's sake and for the sake of the throne and stability for Ferelden?

What a ridiculous question. Of course he would.

Under his fingers the paper begins to crumble again. His lips turn back to a frown as he thinks of the Orlesian chevalier whose arm he had broken. He knows better now. He wouldn't bother with such frivolities, not on the battlefield. Loghain glances over Anora's letter one last time, picks it up, and crumbles it before tossing it into the fire, his eyes making sure it's totally ash before he sits back down at his desk. His reply is short, but he expects she knows that about him.

A,
We will meet tomorrow for supper for further discussion. C has said he will be out for other business.
F

"Ultan," he says and the elf hesitantly sticks his head in from the hallway.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

Loghain folds the letter and seals it, but uses a worn signet ring to stamp it. He'd picked it up off a battlefield from so long enough ago he hardly remembered. Anora will recognize it, but no one else would now that Maric is gone, he knows. Except perhaps Ultan, once one of his elves in the Rebellion. It had been Ultan and his young bride, Keava, to suggest scaling the cliffs. There are many reasons he trusts Ultan, especially with the duty of directing handling all his correspondence. He has very particular skills, for one.

"This is to go straight to my daughter," he says, handing the letter over. "Straight to her and only to her, as her letter to me did. Understood?"

Ultan bows. "Yes, ser. Shall I wait for a reply?"

"No," Loghain says. "I will see her tomorrow."

He slips some silvers into Ultan's hand.

"Your son needs new boots, does he not? Children grow so quickly."

Ultan's hand clutches the silver.

"Yes, General," he murmurs, holding the silvers closely and then the letter just as closely.

"He's doing well, yes?" Loghain asks. The boy had almost been named after him, but at his request the boy's name was Gareth.

"Yes, my lord," Ultan says with his only smile of the day. "Very well. He's quite an ar- well, he's quite talented in some ways."

"I imagine he is," Loghain says, thinking of how Ultan had once been the finest archer he'd ever known and likely still is, though neither of them can admit it. That his son, Gareth Vander, is just as good is no surprise.

"I'll take this to Her Majesty immediately," Ultan says, the coins going into his pocket. "And then-"

"Ultan," Loghain says, "I don't suppose you've ever been to Highever?"

Ultan pauses. "No, my lord. I've not been quite that far north."

Loghain looks at him, marveling that his most trusted man is an elf.

"I may- perhaps within the next few days I will likely require a courier up there. Would you be interested?"

"I would be happy to deliver something for you," Ultan says, bowing his head.

Loghain taps his upper lip. "I would pay you per hour for the trip and for your travel. It would probably take at least a week, likely longer with bad seas. Gareth might enjoy the trip as well."

"He has been- ah, declaring his intention to get out of Denerim for awhile now."

"I imagine he has."

"He is young," Ultan says, "and hardly understands how his lot would be no different or worse elsewhere."

"Go home when you're finished," Loghain says, thinking about young Gareth Vander. "It's not so late you can't salvage some time."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he says. "I'll be retiring shortly anyway."

"As you wish," Ultan says, bowing. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Loghain says nothing as Ultan slides out of the door, the letter safely tucked into his jacket. Ultan will know the best possible route to the castle, melting in the shadows. It's part of the reason he entrusts him with correspondence. Calling him a footman was rather insulting, Loghain thinks as he stands and stretches, knowing he should go to bed, but he rubs his face and pulls a piece of parchment towards himself. He writes the date at the top and hesitates for a moment, then writes To the Teryn of Highever, Bryce Cousland.

The chevalier is in his mind again for a moment and he looks down, his hand trembling as he thinks of how to begin this. The chevalier had spoken in broken Ferelden, he remembers suddenly.

Monsieur, s'il vous plaît.

His hand is steady again as he presses down to write.

My son. Five. Not old.

Loghain looks down. His daughter can ask anything of him (and of course she does), but she has asked him this. She asks him to involve another person. How will Maris Cousland feel about this potential marriage? Loghain knows that her feelings only matter as far as Bryce will allow them to, of course. It's her father's right to arrange a marriage for her, one that will benefit Highever and their family, and Loghain is aware that Bryce has been pressing for new trade agreements with Antiva for several years, business that would be easy enough to finish with two teryns supporting it. In fact, many of the trade agreements Bryce was interested in would be easy to enough to consider. There are plenty of reasons Bryce has to support this, particularly given his apparent reluctance to involve himself in Cailan's scheming. In ways, Loghain is aware he's the best choice because he's probably the only man Cailan wouldn't challenge (it would certainly tip his intention to set Anora aside much too early), and even if he were challenged by the silly boy-king, once Bryce were to send an affirmative reply even the king had no recourse.

He does not need to care what Maris Cousland thinks of this, but it would be unpleasant to live with an angry young woman. And then she's a young woman. She surely has options other than a surly, bitter commoner-turned-noble. Would it tear her from something else, damage her?

The chevalier's arm is under his hands again and they twitch over his desk. Given the chance, what would he do to the chevalier now?

Mon fils, monsieur! S'il vous plaît!

Loghain sits there as the candle drips wax onto his desk. He looks at it dispassionately. It will need cleaned up in the morning. He drops his quill on the parchment and shoves himself back from his desk. He snuffs the candle flame out between his index finger and thumb. Loghain runs a hand through his hair as the answer comes to him.

Now he would slit the man's throat, run him through, decapitate, disembowel- anything to get him out of the way and assure more dead chevaliers. To assure Ferelden's safety. He wonders if the man had appreciated a few more minutes of life, even with a broken arm and knowing about his imminent death, or if he would have preferred a more efficient death. That is a question worth pondering some night with a tumbler of Gwaren whiskey.

The door closes with a click behind him as he leaves his study, shrouding the beginnings of his letter to Bryce Cousland in darkness.