Aedan was perpetually accompanied the impish man Mancer. He was a hangover from the days of Teyrn Loghain, a retainer and a dutiful seneschal of his house, but his loyalties did not appear to extend beyond the opulent estate that Aedan had inherited upon the end of the Fifth Blight. Mancer was a man whose interests lay solely in the betterment of Castle Gwaren, whoever sat on its chair was simply the personage he was forced to appeal to for his own individual plans. There was a strange feeling of unease for Aedan when he considered how seamlessly he had transitioned from one Teyrn to the next, daring to wonder for a moment if Howe's men had found similarly turncoat retainers when he had pillaged Castle Cousland.
Aedan Cousland's arrival at Castle Gwaren was a moment of revelry – a façade, he later learned, put on by the servants out of a sense of duty rather than any feeling of genuine mirth at their new lord. He was little more than an object to them, a continuation of formalities that they had long since abandoned any sense of attachment to. Moreover, the presence of their Teyrn was almost like an unwelcome change of pace. Loghain Mac Tir had taken up the Teyrndom of Gwaren as a matter of formality, as the champion of Fereldan's independence it would have been absurd to expect him to not take on such a title – but his heart had been in service of the kingdom, in whatever capacity his mind and his heart had led him to. That meant weeks on the field and an increasingly large amount of time in the capitol. That meant that the only task Mancer had truly been left with was keeping an eye on the idle and increasingly lazy servants.
Indeed, Aedan's only true merit he found in the seneschal was that he was as annoyed as the new Teyrn was at the corners being cut by the house servants. With no one routinely sleeping in the official or the guest chambers, guests of Gwaren instead being differed to Denirem, and the halls remaining dormant, man would work for little more than half their shifts and accomplish only a handful of their tasks – and what was worse they would fight back if the fact was pointed out to them.
Mancer assured Aedan that he could return the discipline in a matter of weeks at most – at worst many of the servants would simply be replaced. Aedan had nodded his head slowly at that, while being quietly amused at the fact that it was the Elves of all the servants who had not seemed to miss a step in their master's absence.
For everything else, however, Mancer was a nuisance. Aedan recalled their first meeting and how he had desperately wished to unleash his hound on the man for his words. It was the kind of slithering, viper-like contempt that one could only learn how to wield in the service of politics, and one the target could only understand if they had been raised at court. The impertinent scathes were the kind one could easily get away with in a crowded room, leaving just enough doubt to wonder if there genuinely was mockery in the tone – and it was not so much the barbs that aggravated Aedan as the contempt that lay behind them, the intent to so prejudicially air grievances that had been unearned.
Their first true ruckus had been over the tapestries depicting Loghain's defeat of the Orlesians. They were classically designed in the Fereldan style, simple using only browns, whites and blacks that told a stunning tale of his desperate marches, the manner in which he would keep his soldiers rallied despite the frigid colds of Fereldan's winter nights, and their final triumph over the Empress. Mancer had been beside himself when Aedan had made it clear that they would stay as they had in the main hall.
The small, plump had furrowed his brow with a tight indignation, as though the thought had been some sort of threat against his manhood. Aedan had recoiled a bit as he watched him, tilting his head at what could have certainly passed for a side show - though the servants about the room remained indifferent. They were apparently accustomed to such outbursts from the man, but Aedan was intent on breaking him of it soon enough and he had refused to relent.
They were a matter of history – Loghain's blood was in the halls of Castle Gwaren and regardless of the deeds at the end of his life, the estate's heritage was Loghain's heritage. Mancer refused to see it that way.
They had butted heads on seemingly every other detail of the castle's décor, the schedules for the servants, even the clothes that Aedan would wear as he simply rode his horse in the woods. Mancer was like an inseparable cancer of agitation that would one day prove to be terminal for Teyrn Aedan Cousland – and that name was the source of the day's current argument with the seneschal.
"There is already a considerable upset in the council," Mancer said in a voice that was like a blanket of dry leaves against Aedan's skin. "There only remain two Teyrndoms left and frankly, despite your worthiness of the greater of the two, the nobility quickly forgets merit and begins to look at the politics of it all. It is already whispered at court that King Alistair is sandwiched between two Couslands."
Aedan was seated on a veritable throne – though he was loathe to call it such. Ferelden did not operate like the Orlesians or Antivians, the power of the king floated upwards from the banns, the arls, and the teryns – it was only by their good grace did he rule, which made his title alone, much less Aedan's actions at court, the kingmaker. But even with all that responsibility and all that power he felt humility was in order – it was simply referred to as the Teyrn's chair.
The main hall of Castle Gwaren was notably empty however, and Mancer was beginning to forget his formalities.
Aedan waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I am Aedan Cousland, Teyrn of Gwaren, and that is how it will remain."
"Sire," Mancer insisted in a tone one would use when trying to explain basic math to a toddler, "you will always be a Cousland, this is true. But your surname should be in the old style. You are Teyrn Gwaren of House Cousland, and it shall lend such a credence to your-,"
The main hall's great oak doors burst open to a host of knights that blessedly saved Aedan from any of Mancer's retorts. The knights' armor shimmered in the flickering torch light and it was the first indication to him just how long he had been sitting on listening to Mancer – the sun had long since descended and they were kept awares only by candle and torch light.
Their faces were covered entirely in a silver colored steel, but their shields were emblazoned with the brown hounds of Ferelden – they were knights of the King, and whatever message they carried was of a far greater weight than the ramblings of Mancer. Teyrn Aedan Cousland rose to his feet to greet them, offering them the same reverence he would if Alistair had entered his court chamber with a long, gracious bow.
Mancer offered a similar token greeting, though it was a hollow and contemptible thing, a mechanical recreation of actions without their due respect. The knights did not bother to regard him.
They each removed their helms and took a knee before the Teyrn of Gwaren. Aedan recognized the leader of them, a Ser Kyle who had forsaken a number of opportunities at inheritance to serve the legendary Grey Warden King.
Aedan gestured for them to rise, and with them rose Mancer. There was a momentary tenseness that lingered in the air as they regarded him before Aedan cast a disdainful glower on the seneschal.
"We have business to discuss. Begone," he said curtly, his tone carrying the violence of his travels that left no room for argument. Mancer puffed out his chest for a moment, then finally shirked away and slinked into the shadows, disappearing from view entirely as he made his way for the exit from the main hall. Satisfied with this, Aedan turned his attention back to Ser Kyle who seemed to have the slightest hint of approval in his expression.
"How can I help knights of Denirem?" Aedan asked, as much out of gratefulness for driving the imp Mancer away. That alone would have merited their audience. They each had a look of gratification and duty on their faces, a refreshing sight indicating that the news they harbored was not ill.
Ser Kyle stepped forward. "I bid that you must make your castle ready," he said in a commanding voice, the kind of tone no mere knight would take with a Teyrn unless under direct order from the king, "King Alistair, Maker shine upon his name, shall soon bless your estate with a visit, and all preparations must be made."
Aedan felt a smile suddenly swell his features which brought a warm nod of approval from Ser Kyle. "Excellent," he said approvingly, "I shall see to it. Tell the King that he may take my quarters." It was a mere matter of courtesy – but after nearly a year spent enduring the wilds of Fereldan the private chambers of Castle Gwaren seemed an overly warm and restless place. He would have been perfectly content sleeping in the wretched stink of the stables as long as it was beneath the stars.
But a strange restlessness washed over Aedan at the thought of Alistair's visit. Ever since Alistair's ascension to the throne Aedan had reclused himself in Castle Gwaren, appearing only at token moments in order to fulfill his duties as the commander of the Grey Wardens. It was easier that way – the Blight was easier forgotten…Morrigan was easier to forget. Alistair's arrival was his own past pursuing him to the high stone walls of his castle, leaving a sinking feeling in his gut that he had done well to suppress.
He did his best to hide the grimace from his face, though he suspected that he was unable to hide the truth from the observant knights who stared on at him. Ser Kyle in particular showed no signs of having been fooled by his weak attempt at hiding his dismay, but the knight wisely said nothing.
"We shall report to his majesty at once," Ser Kyle said, knowing that his place did not involve mediating the affairs of high lords and their personal despairs.
The Knights rose from their bow all at once and filed out of the room, leaving Aedan alone – though he had learned his first day as Teyrn that alone simply meant that he had ten personal guards instead of twenty. There was no privacy for a man of his stature, not any more. Such a privilege was lost the moment Alistair had blessed him with Loghain Mac Tir's lands the day after the end of the Blight. That inaugural ceremony seemed a lifetime ago – if only because Aedan had done such a miraculous job pretending that he had begun a new life as the Teyrn of Gwaren.
Some had tried to remind him of his past deeds – the slaying of the Archdemon, the saving of Ferelden…indeed his very rule as Teyrn of Gwaren was due to those very days. But they were a dark and morbid time for more reasons than just the arrival of the Darkspawn horde, a time that brought with them tides of anguish and pain that he did his best to try to blot from his memory.
Many in the kingdom were still attempting to recover and rebuild their lives years after the end of the Blight: wives were still mourning fallen husbands and fathers, communities still lived in the shadow of fear, indeed, even Ozrammar still carried the scars of that terrible conflict. While it was difficult to find a part of his body that had not been marked, in some way, by his battle with the Darkspawn, Aedan's heaviest burden was the still open wound in his heart.
He had hoped, as Leliana had told him, that that wound would one day heal, even in part. The Orlesian had been wrong however, the pain was as fresh now as it was the day of Alistair's inauguration. The only way to numb the throb in his chest and the burn in his stomach was to simply ignore it and pretend that it had never happened.
Aedan tried to do that now as he shuffled to go find Mancer – at the very least he could force the man to busy himself in preparing for the coming visit from Alistair, that at least would keep the seneschal out of the Teyrn's hair.
The throne room of Denirem's royal palace seemed like it had been ready to burst, every occupant that could receive leave to enter and watch the crowning of the already talked about Alistair had insured that they were as close as the guards and the rest of the crowd would allow them. As Aedan looked out amongst them he suspected that there were even many that had managed to squeeze their way in off of the street without any form of special dispensation or invitation. The king's guard saw assassins lingering in every corner, but Aedan's hand rested comfortably on his sword, and though it seemed impossible to imagine that any would wish harm on one of the Grey Wardens responsible for the destruction of the Archdemon, Aedan trusted that any assassins not dismayed by common decency would be swept up by the former Antivan Crow Zevran.
Standing in front of Aedan, Alistair appeared to shrink away from the priestess that held the crown in her hand, though with a quick glance at the Grey Warden that had accompanied, even led him against the Blight, he grew a swell of strength and approached proudly. There was something altogether assuring in the wake of Loghain's reign of terror to view their imminent king resistant to the power and the responsibility and the slight murmur of approval that washed over the crowd showed that the people of Denirem agreed.
Alistair approached and bowed reverently as the priestess completed her chant and placed the crown on the new king's brow – and a cheer went up from the crowd as the weight seemed more of a burden than a pleasure to the Grey Warden. Alistair looked down at the crowd, his eyes a quick search until they locked in on Aedan Cousland. His eyes brightened immediately and he gestured for him. Aedan did not protest and ascended to the throne at his king's side, then turned to look out at the crowd.
With the throng of people inside the throne room it appeared impossible to distinguish any one individual from another, it was a sea of faces no more familiar to him than the endless leaves on the trees of the Dales. If he focused just hard enough he would catch a glimpse of Leliana between two taller heads, he thought he might have spied Wynne, wrapped in heavy robes and with a look of disbelief and admiration the likes of which she possessed the first time she'd laid eyes on the Urn of Andraste.
One of the only figures he could plainly make out was the indomitable, dark skinned figure of the Qunari Sten, whose passive features Aeden still struggled to read, though he suspected in some way he was deeply moved, possibly even impressed, by the display.
At the front of the rows of people, Aedan's Mabari warhound Mufar had managed to find a way to slip between legs until he stood proudly, the envy of the other Mabaris in the palace, if only with his brilliant red kaddis that distinguished him as a surviving veteran of the Battle of Denirem. His stub of a tail wagged happily as he looked on admiringly. When Aedan's eyes wandered past the dog his entire body seemed to light up and he shook his head in anticipation of being pet.
Mabari were not unfamiliar in the palaces and castles of Fereldan, indeed even the royal standard bore two brown hounds facing one another on their hind legs, but even in a kingdom where the dogs were as common sight as people Mufar stood out among them. To Aedan's surprise, however, another dog sat next to Mufar, a lean retriever that had none of the glow of his Mabari. There was something altogether unnerving when he looked at it and realized that its eyes were locked on his own, but its face looked heavy and dismayed, the way Mufar would look when he would be scolded by Aedan.
Most unsettlingly, Mufar turned to regard the retriever then offered an approving bark, earning him a glance from the retriever for only a moment before it turned its gaze back on Aedan. A cold and familiar feeling washed over him, but he dared to not allow his mind to wander to the possibilities. Instead he looked at Alistair at his side, who seemed equally unnerved by the impossibly familiar, but unrecognized hound. Perhaps sensing the four eyes regarding it curiously, the retriever shirked away into the crowd and disappeared – and Aedan let out a breath he did not realize he was holding.