Written for Christine, because I love her headcanon and her Lady Cousland.
"She is my wife." He informs his mentor, his voice tightly controlled as he struggles not to shout. "That may not mean anything to you, but I took my vows seriously."
"I am merely-" Arl Eamon begins, but Alistair cuts him off with a sharp gesture.
"No. You will not speak of it again." He is sick to his stomach, both from what the Arl has suggested—him taking a mistress to spawn the heir his wife and he seem incapable of producing—and from outright rejecting his mentor's idea for the first time in his life.
Things between them had steadily gotten worse as Alistair and Cecily strove to improve their kingdom for all its people. Alistair had recognized this, had sought to close the gap that had felt more insurmountable with each passing day. And then Eamon had had the audacity to suggest that he have an affair. As though he would be willing to create another bastard like himself, to grow up feeling unwanted and unloved by his family.
He had hoped that Eamon of all people would be able to understand why this is not an option for Alistair. Why it could never be an option. But the truth is clear; he and his surrogate father will not be able to agree about this. It makes him ache in a way that he cannot begin to explain.
He doesn't realize he's left the room until he's standing at the edge of the training yard. Cecily is sparring with one of their men, all fluid motions and brutal grace. He knows the moment she sees him—and realizes how distressed he must look—when she falters. She quickly calls an end to the match, and crosses the space.
Her hand rests against his cheek, and she peers up into his face, a small frown turning her lips down and creasing the space between her brows. As usual, he is awe struck by how beautiful his wife is, and there is that familiar warmth in his chest as he looks at her.
"My love?" She asks, and he's crushing her to him, bowing his head and breathing in the scent of her. Even encased in armor and coated in sweat she feels perfect in his arms. She pulls back just enough to bring her lips to his, her fingers thread through his hair, and he knows that it is entirely improper to display their affection in such a public manner, but he just can't make himself care.
"It will wait until later," He says, reluctantly releasing her. "Please, continue if you wish. I will be in my study."
She's still searching his face, knowing that something is wrong. He wants to tell her, to have her rage with him, but he understands how important this daily regimen is to his wife. When Cecily was just 'Lady Cousland' she was able to learn to fight. As a Grey Warden, she was required to. But now, as the Queen of Ferelden, she is told again and again to put the sword down and practice more "appropriate" hobbies. He is loath to interrupt it for more than a moment.
She is strong, his Cecily, but he knows how hard she's fought to be here, how hard she continues to fight. To prove that she deserves to be by his side. None question him. He is the dead king's bastard son, and that is enough for them. But Cecily is too strong to be a pawn, and she dares to stand by his side, so they resent her. They pick at her, their hateful whispers hurting her in a way she won't admit, even to him.
He hears the gossip, for all that they think he doesn't. Eamon is not the only one to think about a heir, he is just the first to voice it to the King.
He hates that Eamon has put him in this position. He loves the man, but he doesn't like him very much right now, and he's conflicted. There needs to be an heir to the throne, but he is not willing to break his vows. (And Eamon really doesn't need to know about the Dark Ritual that has, in truth, produced a bastard heir.)
"Alistair?" Cecily is there before he has made a decision. She closes the door behind her and crosses the room.
"Tuck," he greets her, his pet name for her rolling off his lips. Despite his inner turmoil, her very presence makes him smile. She perches on the edge of his desk, where she usually sits when they talk. He leans back in his chair, searches her face, and decides that yes, he really does have to tell her.
"Arl Eamon spoke to me today," He begins, hesitantly. She is strong enough to bear this. He has stood beside her through so much more, but this is personal, and painful for them both. He understands that she feels as though she has personally failed them, because she cannot bear their child despite their best efforts. (At another time he might have pondered their 'best efforts' but this was neither the time nor the place.)
"About?"
Alistair almost wishes he could lie. That he could protect her from this.
"He believes I should take a mistress to secure an heir to the throne."
"Oh." She manages. And then she is silent, and he tries to keep breathing. He cannot bear the idea of hurting her, but he must tell her the truth. When she continues, the breath leaves his chest in a rush of air. "What did you say?"
"That you are my wife." He reaches forward, tentatively places his hand upon her thigh. "And that my vows matter to me."
"Alistair," she sighs, and slides off the desk and into his lap. She twines her arms around his neck, and his hands settle on her hips. "I love you."
"I love you, too." He whispers against her lips just before he kisses her. When she finally pulls away for air, she sags against him. He knows this is harder on her than it is on him. There are those that treat her as though this is her fault alone. As though he, too, does not bear the taint. But he is their King, and that somehow exempts him from the blame.
"Perhaps we can name an heir from the nobility?" Her fingers skim lazily along the nape of his neck as she speaks. "It will take some research to see if there is a precedent for such things."
"Where would we begin?" He asks, the enormity of such a task overwhelming him. "Who would we choose? How would we choose?"
"I don't know." She admits, a small sigh escaping her. Her lower lip juts slightly, in a pout that he has always found adorable. It's a habit she's unaware of, left over from being her father's darling girl, he imagines.
"Well, it's a start." He says finally, acknowledging that her suggestion is their best option. She nods. "Tomorrow we will need to start some research.
He kisses her, as though his kiss can solve their problems, can chase away all of the hurt. They both know that it's not possible, that it's going to be difficult to pave the path to a new Ferelden. A better Ferelden. There is a lot of work ahead of them, and a kiss will not make it easier.
But for this night, King Alistair and Queen Cecily are content to pretend that it can.