A/N:

Anora is one of my favourite characters in DA:O, despite her brief screen-time. I love her for exactly the same reason most people hate her: she actually acts like a feudal monarch. So I decided to write a fic centered on her and Loghain, retelling some of the game's events from her perspective.

Sins of a Father

Chapter 1

There should have been some kind of sign. A terrible dream; a premonition; a fearful storm tearing apart the heavens to signal the Maker's displeasure. But for Anora, there was none of these things – not even the vague sense of unease that always seemed to afflict the heroes of novels, warning of trouble to come.

The first she heard of Cailan's death was when his seneschal, Finley, stumbled into her private sitting-room without even bothering to knock. His face was chalk-white, and he seemed almost on the verge of tears. "Your Majesty…" he began, and then broke off helplessly.

She ignored the lapse in protocol and hastened to her feet, sensing that something was badly wrong. "What is it, Finley? News from Ostagar?"

"Yes, your Majesty." He drew a rather shaky breath. "I hardly know how to tell you this, my lady, but… the King is dead. He was slain in battle against the darkspawn."

For a moment, the words barely registered. "What?"

"I am sorry, my lady."

No. No, that wasn't possible. In Cailan's last letter, he'd told her they were winning every battle with ease. Her father's own letters had said much the same, and she trusted his cautious, sober assessments a lot more than Cailan's. "There must be some mistake," she said firmly, as if speaking the words aloud could somehow undo the reality.

"No mistake, your Majesty. The messengers have just arrived directly from Ostagar." Finley shook his head. "I… could hardly believe it myself at first. I still cannot."

"Then… then the army was defeated?" The full horror of the situation suddenly hit her. "My father…!"

"The Teyrn lives, your Majesty. He managed to escape along with many of his soldiers. But the King's forces are lost to the darkspawn, and Ostagar with them."

Anora turned away, guilty relief warring in her mind with shock and disbelief. It was only a few weeks since she'd stood with Cailan in this very room, heard him laugh off her fears with his usual blithe self-assurance, and proclaim that he'd be back home within a month. How could he be dead?

She was still half convinced that this had to be a jest, the kind her brash, thoughtless husband might find amusing. At any moment he would appear in the doorway, chuckling softly at her expression – "Fooled you, didn't I?" – and then he would stride over and sweep her into his arms, nuzzling his lips against –

She whirled round and saw only an ashen-faced Finley, standing motionless by the door. Dimly she realised that he was still waiting for orders. "The palace staff will have to be informed, of course," she said mechanically. "And… proclamations issued. Please, Finley, could you attend to it? I… need some time alone."

The seneschal bowed and left the room without another word. Anora sank back down into her chair, trying to shake off the sense of being trapped in a bizarre dream. She did not truly deny the fact of her husband's death, but understanding it and actually feeling it were very different things.

She tried to picture Cailan lying still and cold in a muddy field, his eyes gazing blankly up at the sky. It was no use; her mind still saw him as he'd been on the day they parted, boisterous and cheerful and utterly, irrepressibly alive.

The whole army lost. She swallowed, wondering just how many had died, and how many more would fall as the darkspawn horde moved northwards. Thank the Maker that her father had managed to save most of his own men, even at the cost of her husband's life.

Who would rule Ferelden, now that he was dead? They had no heirs of their own, and Maric had no other children – well, apart from that bastard son who'd been raised as a templar, and he clearly wasn't an option. Bryce Cousland, perhaps?

She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred to her. The Teyrn of Highever was a competent enough ruler for his own lands, but he did not have the makings of a king, and she doubted that he'd accept the position even if it were offered him. No, for the moment at least, the throne was hers. And though she'd been ruling the country in all but name for five years, there was something daunting about that thought.

She remembered how Cailan had come to her after Maric's death, looking scared and lost and unsure of himself for the first time in his life. How he'd confessed that he didn't feel ready, didn't know how to be King, despite a whole lifetime spent in training. And she'd calmed him down and reassured him that he'd soon grow into the role, that she would be there to support and advise him, just as she always had. If she could do that for Cailan, she could do no less for herself.

The sound of quiet sobbing nearby dragged her back into the present. She hastened to the door and opened it, to see one of the chambermaids weeping in the corridor outside. With a sinking heart, Anora realised that everyone must know of Cailan's death by now.

"Edith?" She laid her hands on the maid's shaking shoulders, drawing the girl around to face her. "I take it you've heard the news?"

"Y-yes, your Majesty." Edith sniffled, her eyes swimming with tears. "My lady… will the darkspawn come here? Will we all die?"

"Of course not," Anora said sharply. "My father is still alive, and he's faced down far worse enemies than this. He will not allow the darkspawn to overrun Ferelden. Try to calm yourself, girl."

"Yes, your Majesty." The maid wiped her face with her sleeve, making a heroic effort to stem her tears; then her lips started to wobble again. "Oh, poor King Cailan…"

She choked back another sob and hurried off, leaving Anora conscious of a strange hollowness inside her, an aching void where grief ought to be. How was it that Cailan's servants could weep for him, but she could not? She briefly wondered if the girl had been one of his conquests, then angrily dismissed the thought. What did her husband's infidelities matter now? He was dead.

For the rest of the day she busied herself about the palace, soothing fears and calming wild rumours and trying her best to re-establish some kind of normality. By the time she returned to her chambers, she was so exhausted that she could barely speak. Erlina came and sat beside her and held her hand, and that simple gesture brought tears to her eyes where everything else had not.

She only hoped that time would lift this terrible sense of numbness, and allow her to grieve properly. She had to cry, at least a little, or else people would think she felt nothing for Cailan. As Queen of Ferelden, Anora was well accustomed to feigning emotions she didn't feel – but the thought of having to dutifully squeeze out tears, while concealing everything she did feel, was almost repulsive. For all her late husband's faults, he deserved better than that.

...

The following days were no easier, however; it took almost a week for the reality of Cailan's death to fully sink in. Strangely enough, it was the sight of one of his garments that did it – an expensive doublet, ripped at the seam in a moment of over-exertion, and tossed carelessly over a bedroom chair. She remembered him saying it could wait to be mended until he got back from Ostagar – and all at once it hit her that he wasn't back, would never be coming back. Somehow she managed to stagger over to the door and lock it before collapsing face-first onto the bed.

She emerged from her chambers nearly an hour later, eyes still burning but finally dry, to discover that her father had just returned from Ostagar. She hurried to greet him as he marched into the courtyard, grim-faced and windblown and spattered with mud from days of hard riding, and he folded her into his arms without saying a word. Anora could remember a time when she'd thought her father's embrace could protect her from anything; that time was long gone, but there was still comfort in it.

"Anora." His gruff voice rasped against her cheek. "I'm sorry."

She didn't have to ask his meaning: for Cailan, his soldiers, his own failure, everything. "Father… how? How did it happen?"

"The Grey Wardens." Crushed against his chest, she could feel his voice vibrate with suppressed fury. "They are what happened."

As she looked up at him in bewilderment, he released her and abruptly pulled away. "I must go indoors. I've barely eaten in days, let alone bathed or slept. Come to me later, and I'll tell you everything."

For the next few hours, Anora was left to puzzle over her father's cryptic words. She knew there had been Grey Wardens at Ostagar with Cailan; his letters had hardly talked of anything else. Did Father simply mean that they'd failed in their mission to protect him, and defeat the darkspawn?

At long last, a servant came to inform her that the Teyrn was ready to see her. She found Loghain slumped down on a couch in his chambers, still unshaven and somewhat dishevelled, though rather less dirty. He managed a wry smile when she offered him a slice of currant-cake, and as he wolfed it down hungrily, she stirred up the fire into a comforting blaze and drew up a chair beside him.

"Now tell me, Father," she said, as he polished off the last few crumbs. "What did you mean about the Grey Wardens?"

A long, slow hiss of breath escaped him. "There was a plan," he said at last. "Cailan's forces held a good defensive position. They were to draw the darkspawn's attention, while some of the Wardens lit a beacon to signal my forces to charge from cover."

"And the Wardens failed to light the signal?"

"Oh, they lit it, but too late. By which time your fool of a – " He broke off, seeing her expression. "Forgive me. By which time, your husband had already led his own men in an utterly suicidal charge against the darkspawn." His eyes narrowed to hard slits. "I believe," he said quietly, "that the Wardens goaded Cailan into making that charge."

Anora opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her father's expression was deadly serious, yet from anyone else, his words would have seemed sheer lunacy. "Why?"

"Because…" He hesitated. "It's my belief," he said slowly, "that it was a deliberate plot, hatched between them and the Orlesians. I see no other explanation. What better way to dispose of Cailan and install their own puppet on the thone?"

For a moment, Anora wondered if she was the one going insane. "What 'puppet', Father?"

"Who knows? They are not here to ask." He turned his head slightly, gazing into the fire, and she saw the dancing flames reflected in his eyes. "Whatever their little scheme was, it backfired. Most of them were killed along with Cailan."

"And the rest?"

He shrugged. "I've ordered my men to bring in any survivors."

A long silence followed – Loghain still staring into the fire, while his daughter tried to picture the scene as he described it. Nothing about it made sense to her; she saw each of them in her mind's eye, Cailan and the Wardens and the darkspawn, yet the pieces just did not fit together. There had to be a more rational explanation – but after days of over-exertion and several sleepless nights, her mind was simply too tired to grasp at it.

"Was there nothing you could do to prevent this?" Her voice had sunk to barely above a whisper.

Loghain shook his head. "What could I have done? By the time I realised what had happened, Cailan and his men were already overwhelmed. I barely managed to pull out my own forces in time."

"You didn't even try to save him?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. "The battle was already lost. Would you have had me sacrifice the entire army in a vain attempt to save Cailan?"

"Of course not. But we've lost more than one man's life, or even an army." Anora's fingers gripped the arm of her chair. "Have you considered who will take the throne now that Cailan's dead?"

"You will, I assume."

She sighed. "You make it sound so easy. I have no legitimate claim, you know that."

"Not by blood, perhaps. But by every other measure, that throne belongs to you, and has for the past five years." He shifted round to face her, a slightly cynical expression on his face. "Don't tell me you've been too consumed with grief over Cailan to think about this, Anora. I know you better than that."

She stiffened slightly at the implication that her grief had not been genuine, but chose to overlook it, knowing he hadn't meant it that way. "As a matter of fact, yes," she said quietly. "I have thought about it, and I have a plan. But I will need your help, Father."

...

Cailan's funeral procession took place on a dull, frosty morning early in Drakonis. There was no body to burn, of course, but still they sang all the usual hymns and chanted the prayers and lit a pyre in his honour. And when it was over, Anora stood on the palace balcony before the huge crowd of mourners, and announced that she was making her father the regent of Ferelden.

The crowds roared their approval, filled with joy and relief to hear that their country was back in safe hands. Their beloved Queen would remain on the throne, and Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane, would lead her armies. The darkspawn would soon be vanquished, and all would be well again.

Anora knew that it would be rather more difficult than this; her father's regency could only be a temporary solution, at best. But at least it would buy her some time, time to plan and strategise and form alliances. The traditionalists would cry foul at the idea of a non-Theirin on the throne – let alone a woman whose father had once been a common farmer – but there would be others who'd support her, happy to see a strong, competent ruler in charge and avoid a damaging power struggle. When the time came for the Landsmeet to choose the next monarch, she would have to make sure they were in the majority.

Yes, it was possible. But she would need to tread very, very carefully. As the people's cheers echoed round the walls of the palace, she cast a surreptitious glance at her father, wondering if he realised how much was at stake. For her country's sake, and her own, she would have to pray that he did.