So you ask to hear of the day a young Ferelden almost became the champion of Kirkwall, eh? Well then lad, let me tell you, for unlike so many that tell the stories these days, I've been there. You've heard them, don't you? Of course you have. Stories of bravery, of a duel that decided the cities fate, but that's not true. Whatever bravery was committed in the Viscounts halls that day, I remember only the crushing injustice. Perhaps you'll understand what happened, once you've heard it, once you know what really happened.
I mean, of course there's some truth to those stories. Yes, on that fateful, that accursed day, the Qunari left their Compound, rose up to take the city by fire and sword, to make us all slaves of their heathen religion. The horn-heads had me and the other nobles all crowded together in the hall of the keep. That's where the Arishok threw the Viscounts severed head at our feet, spouting insults at the cities collected nobility, from a throne that was not his to claim. Truly, hope was a scarce thing these days. And none of us would've expected it to come from such an odd direction.
It was in the very darkest of moments, when most of us were certain we'd die at qunari hands, that she appeared. Back in the day, I barely knew her. The young heir of the Amell family. There'd been some uproar when she appeared out of nowhere a few years ago, but noble families come and go in the free marches. What little I knew, painted the young Amell as a scholar, a kind and gentle woman, not that unpopular with Kirkwalls other noble families.
By no means high in standing, compared to many in this room, when she walked into the keep that day, we all stepped aside. Dressed in the battle-torn remains of a once expensive dress, her red hair floating around her head, she was still barely the height of my shoulders. And yet, none of us, not even the Qunari honor guards dared standing in her way. She walked straight up to the Arishok, with not a shimmer of fear in her eyes. A ridiculous sight by all means, seeing a girl that barely counted more then five foot, with a stature better suited to a Dalish, face a monstrosity like the Arishok, eight feet of pure muscle, clad in blood-red armor, all with the whole cities nobility, good knights even, standing by, watching, paralyzed by terror.
Whatever we felt, to make way for the girl so easily, the Arishok as brutish a creature as he was, must've sensed it as well. He spoke up, and she answered. A scholar indeed, for few humans are fluently proficient in the tongue of the Qun. For a few heartbeats, it could've been mistaken for a calm conversation, even with all the chaos around us. Then one of the qunari in the room started screaming. The one to interrupt was an even worse atrocity to the eye then the Arishok himself, clad in chains, rather then armor, his face, thank the maker, hidden behind a golden mask. From where I stood, I could make out but a single clear word.
Saarebaas.
What happened next, happened too fast for any of us, including the Qunari, to react. The Qun warriors next to the stairs tried to interfere, their crude blades at the ready, yet it took but a single movement of the young Amells hand, to send both of them to the ground, their spines snapped like twigs. Their bodies hadn't even touched the paved floor, when a bolt of lightning, brighter then the sun the make gave us, ended the chained Qunaris life. The Arishok himself at least managed to unsheathe his giant Sword, before the young noblewoman turned her fearsome powers against him. The first bolt of blue fire seared the flesh of his sword arm, and sent the blade flying. The second spell hit the Arishok square in the chest, and lifted the giant of his feet, sent his lifeless body crashing into the Viscounts throne, the usurper as dead as the righteous occupant of the chair.
For a moment, silence fell onto the hall, as Lady Amell turned around to face the remaining Qunari, her eyes blistering with magic, and blue flames in her palm. Apostate or not, that moment every single one of the gathered nobles would have testified that the maker himself put her in this room. A true champion of Kirkwall. A prophet of the makers grace.
Until the halls doors where opened anew. Until we realized, that the glare in her eyes was no longer the fury of the righteous, but sheer panic and graceless terror. To the metal sound of armor in motion, the templars had arrived. Over a dozen of them, in shining armor, their blades unsheathed, led by Lady Meredith, their infamous knight-commander. None of them even took note of the few Qunari left in the room. Slowly, silent except for the noise of their metal garments, they passed the ranks of the nobles, and started moving up to the stairs.
All the majesty, all the power that lady Amell had shown just heartbeats ago had vanished. She was no longer the all powerful mage, no longer a champion. Just an apostate girl cornered by templars with nowhere to run, frightened to death. And yet, the flames in her hands were still burning, proof of her destructive powers, a silent reminder that this could only end one way.
And yet again, the girl left us all surprised and speechless. I myself was certain, she'd try to force her way out, but she simply shook her head, and lowered her arms. The flames vanished. It was only much later, that I found that lady Amell had a younger sister in the circle, that violence here, would have put her next of kin in harms way. Back in that moment, I was left with nothing but bafflement. Bafflement, and an overwhelming sense, that what was in motion here, wasn't right. I saw her close her eyes, saw her accept the cruelty of fate, saw her fall onto her knees, with silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
It was as hard to accept that day, as it is for me to talk to you about it now. Whenever I think back to that day, I feel like I should have interfered. Could it truly be the will of the maker, that being dragged off to the gallows like a dangerous criminal was the only reward, the bravest of Kirkwalls defenders should receive?
Perhaps things would have happened otherwise, if I, or any of the other noblemen and women would have dared to speak up that day. But we didn't. We stood silently, watching as the templars dragged Kirkwalls champion away. Perhaps our cowardice is what made everything that's happened in the past four years possible. Inevitable even. You my friend, be the judge.
-Taken from the memoirs of Friedrich of Reinhardt, 9:56 Dragon