Chapter 3

Let The More Loving One Be Someone

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Peace treaties.

Why was it always peace treaties?

It wasn't as if Alistair didn't know that he was here to create and sign a treaty, that was to be expected. He just hated all the additional worries. He had been relatively silent for the two days they had been effectively locked in the meeting room, allowing Celene and her advisors to state their terms, sometimes accompanied by a slight shake of Zevran's head when they made an untrue claim and often followed by a cry of outrage by one of his own retinue. Teagan was developing a fairly impressive forehead vein.

People could say what they wanted about Celene, she didn't pull any punches. Every one of her terms blatantly favoured Orlais, without so much as a single concession to Ferelden. But that was to be expected. When arguing the point with Harrowmont over treaties the discussions could last for weeks, and Alistair had enough experience with these kind of meetings to know that this was the starting point for negotiations. Celene would demand the world, he'd offer her an apple, and they'd end up somewhere in the middle.

What surprised him most was that there was a certain element of comedy to the proceedings, largely due to one High General, who was, without a doubt, living up to Celene's claims that she would be invaluable to their discussion. She hadn't said a word for the entire time, and in fact hadn't made eye contact for the entire time, except when Teagan's voice started to carry a note of hysteria, then she would slowly look up, offering the Bann an icy glare. His mouth would snap shut and his colour would rise another shade while he silently fumed.

It didn't escape Alistair's notice that this was no venue for swordbreakers, she was carrying her longswords, ready to leap to Celene's defence at any second. This was likely what the empress had meant about her contribution. She was the muscle, intended to intimidate, and she was very good at it.

"No, no, no, we cannot have a Ferelden trading post this side of Frostback," Teagan said. "Orlais is both better equipped to build a post and less impeded in construction."

"Ferelden would benefit more from its existence," one of Celene's advisors replied, causing another wave of indignation from the Fereldans.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, this bloody trading post would be the death of him. To be fair, it was one of the only conditions he had a serious problem with. Not so much the idea of having a set trading point for imports, but more Celene's continued insistence that a Fereldan workforce lug all the materials across the range at their own expense and man the post, making the repeated hazardous journey alone. Maybe she was overestimating how much his country really wanted Orlesian silk and incense, or maybe she was just being stubborn to prove a point.

"Why don't we build two posts?" Alistair threw out. Every eye in the room turned to him, questioning, looking like he had lost his mind.

"Two posts, sire?"

"One either side of the mountains." He indicated on the map. "Contraband gets stopped at the border, each post only has to make import and export runs half as often, both countries have free access to the supplies without every merchant having to cross the range."

There were a few exchanged glances, but it was Celene who spoke. "Who do you propose should fund this?"

He shrugged. "Each country funds its own post."

"I am... willing to concede. This sounds like the most practical proposal." The empress inclined her head as though she was graciously giving him her first born child. Cousland's mouth quirked, almost smiling, still examining the wood grain of the table.

Alistair leaned back against his chair, his burst of kingliness done with, and let the others debate the point about chantries and extradition and whatever else they could come up with to ensure they wouldn't be done any time soon. There were times when he desperately missed Wynne, he was certain she could end this whole thing with a stern look and a lecture on working together.

Extradition. Why were they even talking about that? Crime and punishment was relatively identical in both countries. Now they were just being contrary. A deserter in Ferelden gets beheaded, in Orlais they get keelhauled. Maker forbid a deserter should be inappropriately executed, this was an issue that seriously conflicted with peace. Clearly.

He'd have to ask Zevran for a rundown at the end of the day, there was no way he could seriously listen to all this. Now there was a perk of being king he'd never get sick of, having people to listen to things for him when he'd rather be thinking about cheese. Or pretty grey eyes that flicked to his for just a moment.

The talks went on for hours, the sun dipped under the horizon, food was brought and taken away by servants, Celene finally conceded that perhaps deserters could just be extradited, Teagan had to take a breather before his head exploded. It wasn't until the late evening that Celene finally called an end to the day, allowing everyone to leave and insisting they take the next morning off before resuming talks.

Alistair could not have been more relieved. He decided to leave his summary meeting with Zevran until the morning, he needed to be rid of political talk for the day.

Ameline met him in the hall, already brandishing a glass of water and a waiting to take his weapons. He gave her a nod of thanks and downed the water in one, letting her trail behind him. He had to give the girl one thing, she was good at anticipating his needs.

She didn't talk as they ascended the stairs, simply holding anything that looked too heavy and was easily accessible, waiting until he was safely in his room before filling him in on the business of the day while she stripped his outer armour.

"Word has been received from the army, they will be presenting at Val Royeaux within the week before returning to their homes. One of your hounds has been fighting with another in the kennels, but Cedric assures me that the situation is under control. Empress Celene has asked you to meet with her after you have rested sufficiently, she would like to speak with you this evening in the lake overhang, but insisted that if you are too tired, the meeting can be delayed."

"I'll meet with her. Lake overhang?"

"The balcony on the upper tier, sire, overlooking the gardens. It is directly above this room. The Empress spends most of her spare time there."

He watched her while she worked. It was strange, his first instinct had been to label her as a shadow of the woman he really wanted by his side, but after three days of watching a stranger inhabit the dying body of the woman he loved, Ameline's vibrancy was setting her apart. She was almost closer to his pup than the pup herself was now.

That was a horrible thing to think, he wished he could take it back.

"She'll probably want some time to herself for now, we'll go later."

"Of course, sire."

She dabbed a wet cloth at the back of his neck, a habit she'd taken up ever since his imaginary heatstroke episode. He didn't object, it was more than welcome and she smelled nice. Like some kind of flower, he was never any good at picking scents. Something light and sweet, like a violet.

"I think you owe me a rundown of the battle against Andraste."

"Surely you must be tired of hearing me talk, sire, you don't need to be polite."

"No one has ever accused me of being polite," he said. "And it's Alistair."

"Sire?"

"My name, I'd like you to use it."

"I... I.... sire, it's not appropriate to..." Ameline stammered, wide eyed at his request.

"Consider that an order." Alistair gave her his most charming smile and she relaxed, smiling with him, looking a little like a teenager breaking the rules.

"Very well... Alistair."

He liked the way she blushed. Many years ago he would have found it a sign of childishness, of inexperience, but after everything he'd seen a little innocence was refreshing. Definitely a change from the living brick walls he was being forced to talk to all day. The freezing stare of Cousland, of the other generals, even at times Celene herself, made him appreciate the way Ameline looked at him. A little starry-eyed, a little playful.

"Now, the battles with Andraste, if you will."

He listened to the story of Andraste's downfall, her jealous husband abandoning his duties in grief, betraying her to their mutual enemy.

It was a cautionary tale he'd heard a thousand times before, but he was more interested in Ameline's telling, the way her mouth worked, shrugging in dissatisfaction at the more memorable parts of the tale. She was so even-handed in her telling, making it more a history lesson than a chantry lecture. In fact she didn't mention the Maker once, portraying Andraste as a brilliant general, not a martyr. A very unpopular view in Orlais.

He stopped her just before the execution part of the tale, knowing that he was keeping Celene waiting listening to her lady's tales. She took no offence, just smiling happily and helping him to rebuckle his armour for the meeting. He'd never taken the damn things off and put them back on so many times in a few days.

The lake overhang was dramatically named and more dramatically positioned. Alistair's own view showed off the lake and the flowers, but from the upper floor it made the gardens look more like a battlefield, not a single detail outside the Empress' notice.

The woman herself sat in a throne overlooking her land, back to the door. A dozen guards were posted around her. If anyone wanted to assassinate her, this was the perfect place and it obviously made her men edgy.

"Alistair," she greeted without turning around.

"Celene." He kissed her hand and took up a seat next to her.

"It's good of you to join me at this late hour. We both have a large week ahead of us."

"I assumed you wanted to speak about something important."

The king watched his counterpart. Her face was cast dark, something in her eyes he hadn't seen before. She contemplated the lake, making none of her usual effort to engage him.

"That is true. We have been in negotiations for two days now, and I must admit I am pleased wth our progress."

"I sense a 'but' coming."

"But..." she conceded. "I wish to know how you see the future of our countries' interaction."

A reasonable question, Alistair supposed. He had thought about it often, and frankly he saw it as strained and belligerent. But that wasn't really what she was asking, she was asking how he wanted it to go.

"My only aim is to maintain Ferelden's independence. Beyond that, I hope we can keep things civil."

Celene gave a wan chuckle. "Independence. It sounds reasonable, does it not? Reasonable, but naïve. Things are changing, Alistair. Our army grows by the day, as do our territories. Within your lifetime there will be no Thedas, just Orlais. Do you intend to be the sole rebel? A state separated from the rest of the world, bound by ancient laws and cut off from territories it could be freely interacting with. Perhaps the only source of military conflict, continuing petty struggles where people could instead live in peace."

She will make it seem like a good idea, I can guarantee you that.

Zevran's words echoed in his head. This was how an Empress gained her power, making her opponents seem backwards and misled, even to themselves. The dystopia she described certainly seemed like a bad idea.

"Should I take this conversation as a declaration of war, then? Or are we just idly chatting about my kingdom's destruction?"

"I will make no threats, for now. I offer you this as a warning. Orlais will continue to expand, you already know this. Whether you come into our fold over time with diplomacy or quickly with bloodshed matters little to me."

"So this whole treaty business is just a ruse, what you really expect from this is the first step toward Ferelden becoming a territory of Orlais. I have to say, Celene, that's cold-blooded."

"Please do not mistake me. I am more than happy to see this treaty go ahead and I hope for many years of peace between us. It may be more accurate to say that I invited you here so that you would understand Orlais' future, and how it will effect you."

Anger welled in Alistair's chest. He almost laughed. This political talk, these euphemisms. All she was doing was trying to scare him into fealty. It disgusted him.

"Soon your army will return to the Anderfels, leaving Val Royeaux all but unguarded. Insinuating yourself as a threat to Ferelden may not be the best idea."

Celene chuckled. "Of course. I keep you from your rest, Alistair. Let us complete this treaty and leave tomorrow to another day."

The dismissal was obvious, so Alistair rose and walked away, but he didn't believe for a second that Celene actually meant to let him get out of the city without her seal on his actions. It had been a bad move to remind her of her vulnerability to the south, it wouldn't scare her, only make her more determined to have them under her banner.

He dreamed that night of Andraste, tied to the pyre, watching her husband, her lover, stand at the right hand of her executioner. Maferath hadn't meant it to turn out this way, his eyes were filled with pain. It wasn't until after he turned to stone, a statue that watched her impassively, not seeing her burn, that the screaming started.

In his dream Andraste was never spared the fire.

He woke gasping, unease nearly choking him. It was like the jaws of a trap were closing around him, he was trapped. He couldn't see how just yet, but he was trapped.

Ameline was conspicuously absent, a faceless servant delivered his breakfast, and he found himself missing her company. The morning was free, he was sure any second someone would find him to tell him that Denerim had burnt to the ground or rats had eaten his horse or something else that needed his immediate attention. He was almost looking forward to it, being alone with his thoughts seemed like a dangerous activity nowadays.

It was at least midmorning when there came a knock at his door, and he nearly melted with relief when Zevran entered.

"Using doors, now? You must be losing your touch."

"It seemed the proper thing to do, sire. I wouldn't want to catch you undressed, I may never sleep again."

"Just tell me you have some good news, Celene has me completely depressed."

Zevran grinned. "I did warn you that she was a force to be reckoned with."

"You did," Alistair agreed. "And I will never doubt you again. Now tell me what's going on."

"Word has it that while we were locked away yesterday there was a great meeting of the Archdukes, at the Empress' command. While the subject matter of this meeting was closely guarded it is the popular opinion that Nevarra has stabilised enough to install a king, who should be announced within the month."

Hell. Celene wasn't kidding when she said that Orlais was expanding quickly. "You don't have any good news for me?"

"Not unless you are a lover of spectacle. It also seems our hounds tore apart one of the Empress' bitches during the night. Ouberman apparently had quite the fit of hysterics."

"Mabari don't attack other dogs. Ameline said Cedric had this under control."

"As it turns out, they do and he doesn't." Zevran shrugged.

Alistair sighed and grabbed his sword. "Duty calls, I guess."

The elf followed him downstairs, heading for the kennels. He guessed this was an improvement over the disasters he was expecting, but it didn't look good in Orlais' eyes to have a pack of wild dogs tear apart one of their own. It was almost a relief to have something to distract him from Celene's ominous words the night before, which had ruminated in his head all morning.

The kennels were on the far side of the gardens, a far walk. They smelled of clean hay and fine hair. Nothing but the best for the Empress' hounds. They were strange creatures, with none of the physical imposition of the Mabari. Alistair couldn't imagine what use they'd be in war, but the Orlesians swore by them. If he was honest, he was a little interested to see Cedric at work, he had a far reaching reputation.

A reputation that apparently wasn't restricted to his military technique, Alistair thought sourly as he rounded the corner.

Yellow morning light filtered through the windows, casting Cedric gold as he leaned against the wall, no more than a few inches separating him and his lover, who was smiling at something he'd said. Her face was lit, animated. They didn't touch, but one of her braids was wound around his fingers, his thumb toying with the end as they spoke. Alistair blushed at the intimate moment interrupted.

The moment the couple spotted him they leapt apart.

"Uh, thank you for helping me with the Mabari, General Cousland," Cedric stammered.

"Of course, Master Ouberman." She was much smoother, her voice cool and clean, no hint of embarrassment. The light fled from her face, she was the stone general again.

Alistair stood frozen as she breezed past him with a polite nod of her head. His stomach twisted into knots. That wasn't her in the arms of another man. They were barely touching. Even if they'd been making love in the hay, it wasn't his place to care. But he needed to talk to her. He was here about the hounds, he didn't have time. There were all kinds of official reasons for him to just let her walk by, but all he wanted to do was run after her.

Zevran glanced at him, seeming to understand that the king was slightly in shock. Mercifully he stepped forward, leading Cedric away while talking in a muted tone, gesturing toward the Mabari.

Alistair turned and strode after the general, letting her reach the gardens before he caught up with her, far out of earshot from everyone else. "Wait."

"Your majesty," she bowed.

"'Your majesty'? You're just making fun of me now, we're not in court."

"I don't understand, sire." Her face was sincerely blank, as if she didn't understand how she'd offended him. Maker, she was as stubborn as a drunken dwarf.

"Fine, we'll play it your way. Do you want to explain to me what's going on, here? And don't play dumb, you know what I'm talking about."

She pouted, almost petulant, like she was considering claiming ignorance despite his protests. "You ask me why I'm in Orlais, but you haven't given me any argument why I wouldn't be."

"Why you... What?"

"Why wouldn't I be here, sire?"

"I thought it was something of an unspoken rule, if you have a statue of yourself in Denerim, you don't defect to Val Royeaux." Stubborn as a drunken dwarf.

"I was never part of the Fereldan military, defection is impossible."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. Don't you have any loyalty to your home?"

She shifted her weight and refused to look at him. "I think Ferelden has had its fair share of my particular brand of loyalty."

She spat the word out like it tasted bad, disgust written all over her face. Disgust with herself.

"What are you talking about?" Alistair whispered, his wrenching stomach making its way down to his shoes.

"How is Ferelden?" She met his eyes suddenly. "Harrowmont? The Dalish? The Circle?"

Alistair stopped dead. Half dead and under siege. Receding from society, making themselves outcasts. Increasingly conservative and tyrannical. That wasn't it, was it? Ferelden had its share of problems but they couldn't just run away from them.

"We're moving forward, you should be there with us."

She gave him a sad smile. "You've learned to talk like a royal. I'm glad to see it."

"Pup..." He reached out to her, letting his fingertip trail down the braids that hung over her shoulder.

She jerked back. "It's a Grey Warden's duty to maintain neutrality, I didn't have that choice in Denerim."

"You could have had anything you wanted. I would have given it to you." The words went straight from his chest to his lips, unfiltered, and he instantly wished he could take them back. Her face fell, her shoulders sagged, she looked like he had just hit her.

"Ferelden is better off without me." Her words were quiet but clear. She pushed past him, into the gardens. "It's been good to see you again, sire."

Alistair couldn't quite figure out how that conversation had gone so wrong. He hadn't expected it to be easy, but he'd thought he'd get somewhere, at least get some answers. He shouldn't have said he'd give her anything. It took his mind spiralling back to the last time he'd seen her happy. It didn't take a genius to see that their quest against the Blight had taken its toll on her, but sometimes it was like she forgot, like she wasn't in the middle of a battlefield.

The last time he saw her smile before that dark glint had entered her eye was the landsmeet. After Anora had been taken away, Loghain's body dragged from the room, the last voices of dissent silenced, when it had truly hit everyone that Ferelden was united under Alistair himself. She had smiled, and it had been so beautiful it broke his heart, he knew what he had to do.

After that each blow seemed to come heavier, met with cold pragmatism. She still laughed and joked, kept everyone's spirits up, kept the army moving. She'd joked with him the night she'd come to him about Morrigan, kept him calm and in control when he wanted to scream.

I'll deal the final blow.

When Riordan told them the price they'd have to pay to kill the archdemon she hadn't flinched. Not a single moment of hesitation before she offered her life up. There was just something about the way she'd said it, like it was the final puzzle piece falling into place, like she'd been expecting this all along.

How could he not have noticed her spiralling downwards?

"How are you faring, sire?"

Zevran's voice jerked him out of his reverie. The elf sauntered up beside him, waiting patiently for him to speak. His eyes were still fixed on the spot she'd disappeared. He was missing some piece of her puzzle.

"You took her out of the city."

"Sire?"

"The day of the Hero celebrations, you were the one to smuggle her out of the city."

"Is now truly the time for accusations?"

"What happened to her, Zevran?"

"Nothing of importance." Zevran shrugged, looking sincere enough.

"Why don't you tell me, and I'll decide how important it is."

The elf let out a heavy breath, considering his words carefully before he spoke. "There is little to say. Sten, Leliana and I were walking past her room, we heard her fall. She..."

Alistair watched his perfectly composed friend stutter and frown, bringing a hand up to his mouth. He'd never asked about that day. Zevran didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to know. Now he needed her on their side or it could cost Ferelden everything, he needed to know.

"How did she fall?"

"We don't know. She had no injuries. She was not crying or stricken. She simply... fell and did not get back up. We took her to Highever and stayed with her there. She neither moved nor spoke a word for an entire week. On the seventh day she was gone, taking nothing with her and leaving no sign of where she was going."

"She said nothing? For a week?"

The elf paused, contemplating. "She used to talk in her sleep sometimes. Mumbled about a tournament."

"A tournament?"

"'I should have lost,' she would say. 'The tournament started this.' I don't suppose you can shed any light on this match."

"None." Alistair shook his head. "She didn't compete in anything when I knew her."

The two men stood in silent contemplation. The shock had faded mostly, giving way to anger. She had no right to do this, to put all of Ferelden in jeopardy because recovering from a Blight was hard work. Whatever this tournament was, it wasn't worth putting them under Orlesian rule.

Now she was a white general with a golden lover, lavished with glowing trinkets and her favourite foods, the darling of the court, while they were under threat of total annihilation. It didn't seem fair for him to find her flirting in the kennels, another man's hands threading through her hair, while he was in such distress. If someone had asked him a week ago for one word to sum her up, 'fair' would have been at the top of the list.

It took him a moment to remember why he had come down in the first place.

"What was wrong with the dogs?"

"Cedric was unsure, whatever took them over in the night has passed."

"Good. I'll apologise to Celene during the meeting."

The walk back to the palace seemed to stretch forever, green turning into white turning into gold. How is Ferelden? Ferelden is under bloody siege and could use a legendary general, that's how Ferelden is.

Zevran excused himself at the bottom of the stairs, trying to find out more about the Archdukes meeting. A spymaster's work was never done, but he had the rest of the morning to himself, it seemed, and he was relieved when he opened his door to see Ameline straightening out the room. She turned to him, a pretty smile lighting up her face.

"Sire, I'm sorry I wasn't attending you this morning."

"Ameline..." he said, giving her a tired smile.

"Alistair. Right. Sorry. Were you alright this morning?"

He laughed without humour. "It's been a very interesting morning."

"I did see you speaking with High General Cousland in the gardens. I... I heard the ladies talking, they said that you two used to be... involved. I'm sorry if she's causing you... distress..."

Alistair caught her fingers and held them as she started to touch his neck in her comforting way. Bloody women, they were a mystery to him and he highly doubted that was due to any lack of experience. The more he entrenched himself with women, the more confusing things became.

"How did she come to be here?"

"No one's very sure." Ameline slipped her fingers between his, letting him take comfort in her presence. "She just showed up, shaved bald and bleeding, asking to see a grimoire in Empress Celene's library. She didn't come out of the palace for months, and then before anyone knew it she was declared Champion of Val Royeaux. I was in Val Chevin at the time and only heard through news from the court."

"I wish any of that sounded surprising."

"Was she as imposing when you knew her, sire... Alistair? I can't imagine her ever being young."

"That's a little harsh. She's younger than I am." He looked up at her in time to see her turn bright red.

"I'm so sorry, sire, I didn't mean to imply... About you or General Cousland..."

"Relax, Ameline, I'm not going to have you flogged." He squeezed her fingers. "She was a lot of fun. Loved to make fun of people, me especially, but she could take a joke, as well. And sweet. She'd go out of her way to bake cookies for maleficarum if you let her, or Qunari as it turned out. Everything just seemed so funny when she was around, she could find the humour in anything."

"I can barely believe you talk of the same person. The generals describe her only as fierce. They say that when she razed Nevarra City, the siege was so horrific that their statue of the king collapsed, back turned as if he was running from the invaders."

"Maker, was she fierce, too, she hated bullies. We found a cult trying to defile Andraste's ashes, and she.. she..."

Murdered them. Never even gave them a chance to scream. Just like she was doing now, on a larger scale.

Ameline looked at him, wide eyed, waiting for the end of the story. She did have very pretty eyes. Flawed, but real and here and watching him with anything but disgust. Not made of glass or stone. Not witness to any atrocities.

He tugged her closer, sliding his free hand around her waist. "Let's not talk about her anymore."

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and stepped a little closer, burnished hair shimmering in the morning light. "What would you prefer to talk about?"

Alistair licked his lips, his gaze flicking to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "Nothing."

She balanced on her toes, bringing herself level with him and their lips met. He pulled her flush against him, sinking into the kiss. Ameline's shyness made him want to taste her all the more, and soon she parted her lips, allowing him to slip his tongue into her mouth, open and warm. She was all warmth, gentle curves and strong muscles.

A knock at the door saw them spring apart, panting.

The door creaked open, Bann Teagan leaning into the room. He glanced quickly between the king and the servant.

"Sire, the empress is ready to resume talks."

"I... uh... right. Let's not keep her waiting."

Alistair offered a bright pink Ameline an apologetic nod as he was led back toward the meeting.