She is now trapped.
Trapped in a dying body filled with taint. Trapped in a hero's mindset, selfish decisions rare and destructive. And now trapped in the world of politics, every move she makes deconstructed and analyzed.
She longs for freedom, for that happiness they once shared. He is as chipper as ever, moreso since she announced the news. He coddles her, treats her like the fragile rose he once gave her, forgetting who she once was. The Hero of Ferelden, a Grey Warden; that woman is as good as dead.
Now The Queen is who the people turn to, who he makes love to every night. She accepts the identity with grace and dignity, never once voicing her anguish. And why should she?
The Warden said what she wanted. The Queen understands politics.
The Warden wore armor. The Queen chooses dresses.
The Warden lost everything. The Queen won't let that happen.
"I'm off to visit Fergus for the weekend." A lie to the most powerful figure in Ferelden; a lie to the man she loved. It was off to see Avernus, to plead with him to use the blood magic she had forbidden. She knew it would bring nothing but trouble, knew that it was the equivalent of making a deal with a demon. But there were no other options, and The Queen was aware it was her last chance. Their last chance.
Eamon wouldn't let the matter go. Alistair refused to take a mistress. She wouldn't have an affair. The Circle's rituals had done nothing. The Chantry offered false hope.
The Warden ignored them all. The Queen listens, and gives in.
The news was met with joy and celebration. Another Theirin would be born, the bloodline preserved. Her husband was overjoyed, praised the miracle the Maker had blessed them with. And she smiled along with them, never once speaking the truth. What she had given up to allow this to happen.
Seven months ago, The Warden had screamed at The Queen, cussed her out for being pathetic and weak, for bending to pressure and another's will. The Warden couldn't understand; she had chosen to marry Alistair early, yes, but that was out of love. This...thing inside of her was out of sheer desperation, a political ploy, a sad attempt to get people off The Queen's back.
The Warden was strong. The Queen was a pathetic fool.
Now The Warden lay silent as the grave. The Queen made sure of that.
And yet it isn't enough. It will be given life soon, two months and counting. The Queen is the only one who can take care of it, nurture it. A nanny would be seen as unkind, uncaring to the heir of Ferelden's throne. A man cannot take care of a child, especially one as important as the King; he is not an option either. It falls to The Queen alone to raise it, to show it the way to bow and smile and lie through its teeth.
"See what I contend with, Howe? You can't tell my fierce girl anything these days, Maker bless her heart."
The Warden's father was right. The Warden was right.
The Queen is trapped.