(Author's Note: Amusingly, the internet seems to have failed me when it came time for pulling up a reference picture of Ser Temmerly. I had no Awakening saves left after a great old character deletion sweep a few weeks ago, and so I was forced to sit through an entire Awakening playthrough on YouTube to find the big guy. And, in the end, it turned out that the person running the playthrough neglected to do the quest that featured Ser Temmerly, thus forcing me to rely upon my own shaky memory.)
Aedan
He woke to the bedroom door slamming open.
The slamming of the door might not have sounded impressive to other people, but to Aedan Cousland, it may as well have been a battering ram: the impact of wood bashing against stone reverberated throughout his head, giving him cause to wince and moan and complain.
"My lord," the voice of Ser Gilmore announced, "you are needed at the main gates. The host from Amaranthine approaches."
Gilmore? It can't be Gilmore, I can't see him. Where'd your voice get off to, Gilmore? For all Aedan saw was a blurry shadow in the doorway, one arm outstretched to hold the large wooden door open, and the other tight around the collar of some… thing that stayed close to the ground. It too was a large, indistinct shadow, but there were some differences: it apparently had a collar. And it did not walk like a man. Gilmore, is that you?
Rising partway from his fur sheets, Aedan blinked furiously at the intruder in order to clear and focus his vision. He couldn't just obey the man's commands and get straight out of bed: it really was too early for that, and Aedan really had no reason to do anything that he said. Unless the orders came from Teryn Bryce Cousland, then Aedan didn't have to follow them. Besides, he was stark naked underneath his sheets.
The shadow with the voice of Ser Gilmore, who was starting to resemble Ser Gilmore at a passing distance, inclined his head towards the Cousland. "Are you going to rouse yourself from your bed, milord, or must I rely upon others to do that for you?" In response to this, the hideous thing that walked on all fours let out a loud and boisterous bark.
Aedan groaned and put a feeble hand up to his temples. "Stop!" He weakly called, but the terrible shadow simply barked once again, its foul breath coming in heavy pants. The thing radiated filth and darkness and death and wet dog, and he wanted it out of his bedroom immediately. Turning over to the shadow, Aedan groggily shook his head and moaned. "I will get up, ser." He laid his head back down upon his pillow, and drew the fur sheet over his uncovered torso. "In time."
The shadow that was Ser Gilmore sighed. "Very well. Sic him, Dog," He commanded, releasing the collar and taking a step back.
And the thing that was named Dog barked once more and leapt onto the bed, baring razor sharp fangs and claws that ripped open his sheets and cut his legs to bloody strips. The thing scrambled up across his chest towards his face, splitting bone and skin and muscle with every step. Aedan howled in pain and tried to push the beast away with both hands, but it opened its mouth and swallowed his arms whole, biting down at the shoulders and ripping the limbs in two. After taking but a brief moment to digest the arms, the thing opened its big, slavering mouth, filled to the brim with sharp teeth that reeked of foul saliva, and bit Aedan's face off. The skin tore easily, like parchment, exposing his raw muscles to the unforgiving elements. But soon even his muscles went into the thing's belly, followed by bone and the bed itself. Soon, everything that ever remained of Aedan Cousland was swallowed up by that hungry monster that Ser Gilmore had brought. A fitting end, some would say.
Oh, I wish. Then I wouldn't have to go and talk with Rendon fucking Howe.
"Damn it, Gilmore!" Aedan shouted, fighting to say even that, thanks to Dog. The stupid hound was sitting on his chest, one massive paw upon his shoulder, licking away at his face with his stinking tongue. Lick, lick, lick, endlessly and repeatedly, until Aedan's face was slick with saliva and his hair reeked of bad breath.
Ser Gilmore continued to stand in the doorway through all of this, smirking as he watched his lord's son fall prey to a dog. Eventually, though, he seemed to grow tired of this sick sport, and bowed his head to the Cousland. "Your lord father and mother request your presence at the main gate, sooner rather than later. That is, if it doesn't inconvenience your lordship." He saluted smartly and then marched down the corridor, disappearing from view.
"You can bet it fucking inconveniences me!" Aedan howled after the knight, but there was no use: Gilmore didn't pay him any heed, and no one else was bound to come to his rescue. Chances were, the majority of the household was at the main gate, watching the arrival of Arl Howe and his family, his knights, his soldiers, and his banns. It would be quite a momentous occasion, but Aedan personally considered the arrival of a flea more important than a Howe's arrival. Stupid weasel-nosed bastards.
But there was nothing for it. Father had requested his presence, and when Bryce Cousland asks for something, he usually gets it. If Aedan didn't show up now, he would never hear the end of it from his father and his lectures, or from his mother and her scolding. And Aedan would rather be killed by his own dog than sit through another lecture or another scolding, especially when the words of the last one were still ringing in his ears.
I'm a disappointment to Highever and the Cousland name, but Father still wants to place me on a pedestal and gloat about my accomplishments.
Aedan sighed and placed a firm hand upon Dog's muzzle. "Alright boy, that's enough. Stand down." The hound inclined his head quizzically at him, but did not argue, thankfully. Dog hopped off the bed neatly and curled up into a ball at the foot of it, giving Aedan some much needed breathing room.
It was cold in the room, he realized. Far colder than Highever had any right to be. Glancing down, Aedan could guess at the reason: despite his efforts, in the end he had wound up stark naked. Stupid Dog had kicked off his blankets, leaving him at the mercy of the brisk morning air.
Best start with some breeches, then. He pushed himself up off the bed and hobbled over to his bedroom armoire, wincing as the cold stone chilled the bottoms of his feet. Highever was closer to the warm north than anything else in Ferelden, but it was still subject to cold winters and cold nights. And in Castle Cousland, the mighty fortress at the heart of the territory, warm air was hard to find. Other than Dog's breath, that is.
Gingerly, Aedan hopped into a pair of fine breeches and pulled them up to his waist, lacing them nimbly despite the chill. Look at that, I can dress myself. I wonder if Arl Howe can say the same. Pulling a white tunic over top of his torso, Aedan comfortably grunted. It immediately felt warmer in the bedroom than it had previously, and he felt marginally more confident about meeting the Amaranthine host.
And then he got a look at himself while washing his hands and face in the water basin.
Oh Maker, Mother will kill me. The very first thing that was noticeable about his dishevelled appearance was the unruly tangle of long brown hair upon his head, with thin strands sticking out in every direction. Aedan's hair was a beast to maintain, and more often that not it resisted his attempts to control it, completely and utterly. If Aedan's hair answered to anyone, he had not yet met the person or prayed to the god. Frowning, Aedan quickly raised his hands up to his forehead and tried to ease his hair back into a somewhat decent looking mane. It seemed to work, but only barely.
Unfortunately, that was not the only problem with his appearance. His bloodshot eyes and the dark bags underneath them seemed to suggest a nightly habit that would, of course, bring shame upon the Cousland name, although Aedan was unsure about what exactly Mother would suggest it was. Will it be whoring, this time, or drinking? I've done naught of either, but you'll accuse me all the same. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about that. His eyes and the bags underneath would compliment Lady Howe's bags. Or so I've heard.
And, finally, there was his nose to consider. It was there, on his face like everyone else, but wrenched sickeningly off to the side, crusted blood forming around the nostrils and cracking over his lips. It had been broken the night before, though the exact specifics of the incident eluded Aedan for the moment. In fact, he could barely remember the previous evening at all: just the vague memory of a fight and the impact of fists hitting his sides. If he examined his body in full detail, he would probably find bruises adorning the skin, but luckily nothing showed above the neck. Aedan leaned his face in close to the water basin and did his best to wash away the blood.
After making himself presentable, but only just, Aedan slipped on some boots and threw a fur cloak over his right shoulder that extended down to his thigh. It was fashionable and warmed him to a small degree, which was more than he could hope for at this point. He headed out the open door and into the corridor, followed obediently at his heels by the now-attentive Dog.
Fergus had once asked him why he hadn't named Dog anything more impressive, like Killer or Beast or Ghost. Aldous, the historian at Castle Cousland, had advised him on several legendary names for the hound, such as Dane or Hohaku. "If you want him to be special, boy, then name him something special," the old sage had said. "A dog named Dog won't be remembered in the tales."
That was just fine, as far as Aedan was concerned. He wasn't going to go on and get ballads sung of his achievements, why should Dog get a song? At any rate, he had christened the hound "Dog" as a younger boy, and the name had stuck from that point on. Why call him anything else, when that was his name from the very beginning? Mother was always plenty happy with the name. "Aedan, fetch that dog from the larder and get it to stop harassing Nan!" "Aedan, stop that dog from ruining my salon!"
Dog seemed happy with the title, but then again, he was always happy. Mabari hounds were preferably suited for war, and indeed, that was Dog's official bearing within Castle Cousland. He was a war dog, and slept with the other war dogs in the kennel, and didn't ostensibly get any special treatment. But, upon seeing that stupid blank look in his eyes and the way his tongue lolled about in his mouth, you wouldn't think Dog a killer of any sort. He was too thick and too dense and too loveable to kill even a pesky fly, and Aedan loved the dog for it.
He was certainly built for killing, however. Mabari hounds, rumoured to be products of magical experimentation, were giants compared to other dogs. Dog was huge, half the size of Aedan when he was on all fours, with thick burly legs and sturdy haunches. His face was bullish, with scrunched up features and beady eyes that looked fearsome in combat, but looked slow at all other times. His fur was short and scruffy, and coloured muddy brown in the typical Ferelden fashion.
He was probably the most impressive thing that Aedan could attribute to his name, and the most impressive part of Aedan's entrance into the courtyard.
Built in the Divine Age, more than eight hundred years ago, Castle Highever was sturdy as a rock and almost impossible to siege, or so the legends claim. When the barbarians massed at the gate, the proud then-ruling family Elstan fought them off from the battlements with arrows and stones. When the Couslands took control and rebelled against the reigning Howes of that time, it was the fortress that they renamed after themselves that wore down the armies of Amaranthine and allowed the Cousland army to maintain independence from the expanding bannorn. When werewolves terrorized the countryside, it was Castle Cousland that protected the people of Highever from the bestial monsters.
I'd expect any stone wall would do against werewolves, though. They don't climb, after all.
Part of that was due to the castle's ingenious construction. Situated on a high hill overlooking the actual town of Highever, with steep slopes in every direction and a thin road travelling up the eastern side of the hill, Castle Cousland did not allow much room for besieging armies. It had to be assaulted from the base of the hill, and should a foothold be gained into the defences, potential invaders would have to make the long slog up to reach their destination, opening them up for sallies and arrow fire from the walls. In addition, the actual stronghold of the castle, the main hall, was located at the very center of the fortress. This meant that there were no weak spots on the wall to bombard with siege weapons: any attackers looking to take the keep had to fight through the defences on the defender's terms.
Aldous once told me that Castle Cousland has only been breached from the inside, from treachery and betrayal, but never from an outright attack. It was a lesson about the dangers of men and the weapons that they use. I think, anyway: I had dozed off a minute into the lecture.
Another aspect of the design was the main gate of the castle. Rather than have a large metal portcullis that was difficult for an enemy to breach, Castle Cousland opted for simple wooden doors barred from the inside against invaders. These doors were much easier to destroy than an iron portcullis gate, but the gateway was thin and far narrower than it would have been with the portcullis. This allowed less room for attackers standing side-by-side, and thus meant that fewer attackers could get inside the castle at any particular time, making the smaller mobs easier to dispatch than a large horde.
A useful feature for wartime, perhaps, but it also made getting into the castle with a large host a pain in the ass. Arl Howe had to take his time in moving his soldiers, knights, and guardsmen into the castle, and this allowed Aedan to make it just in time for the arl's own arrival.
Glittering men in silver armour seated atop noble chargers paced endlessly about the courtyard, their swords sheathed and their lances lowered, boasting for all the world of the wealth and power of Amaranthine. They were the knights of the arling, each of them carrying a different sigil on their arms: a brave river trout here, a bright purple flower there. A glowing thunderbolt atop a man's iron shield, a clenched fist emblazoned on another's cloak. With so many different images and signs to take in, Aedan found it difficult to find the fierce bear of Amaranthine in the shiny procession. Father does it differently: always remember to whom you owe your allegiance first, and then display your own heraldry second.
There were about twenty foreign knights in the courtyard, but more were coming by the minute. It seemed like an endless flow of men were coming through the open doors, men all adorned in the shimmering colors of the rainbow, from glorious gold to sombre black, from stark silver to vibrant greens. In contrast, the soldiers of Castle Cousland seemed much more one note and uniform: they wore hard iron and trustworthy steel, but little else. And with each and every man sworn into the service of Highever, you would find the open wreath of the Couslands stretching out across their shield's face. Not as shiny or as pretty as their Amaranthine knights, but good in a fight. Dependable, resourceful… you'd be hard pressed to beat them in single combat.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Aedan's back and clasped his right shoulder tightly. Aedan winced as he was pulled against the side of Fergus Cousland, winced as his brother grinned at him from ear to ear. "Aedan!" He practically shouted. "Thank the Maker that you look like shit. I wouldn't have been able to find you otherwise."
You wouldn't be saying that if Father or Mother or your wife or your son were standing here, next to us. But they aren't, so feel free to mock me. Aedan often thought sourly of his brother, but could never resist a smile of his own when confronted with Fergus Cousland face to face. Partly because it would appease Fergus and stop him from badgering Aedan just like their dear old Mother, but also partly because he enjoyed Fergus's company. "I wanted you, for once, to look better by comparison."
Chuckling, Fergus shook his head. "Strong words! I wonder if we can pass Dog off as you for the evening. He'd be more handsome and more polite than you ever would be." Dog inclined his head to the side, as if perplexed by the suggestion, and then returned to stupidly wagging his tongue at the Couslands.
"Be my guest." Aedan grumbled as his brother led him over to the rest of the family. "Saves me from seeing good old Arl Howe again."
The Cousland family was gathered at the far end of the courtyard, as was befitting the heads of the household. Fergus's wife, Oriana, and their son Oren were stationed on the left side of the arrangement. Upon seeing them, Fergus was quick to abandon Aedan. "Good luck." His brother murmured before letting go of him and approaching his wife, greeting her with a generous kiss upon the mouth. Oren wrinkled his nose at this behaviour, and Aedan found himself mirroring the action, Dog, of course, following suit.
If one was asked to point out the heirs of the Cousland legacy in a crowd, one would most likely pick Fergus and Oriana. He bore a noble and confident bearing and was ruggedly attractive; she was all delicate beauty and humble grace. He had shortly cut raven hair and a chin full of stubble; she had short brown hair left hanging around her eyes, with thick and full lips. He dressed in fine furs and leather jerkins; she dressed in Orlesian gowns and handmade bodices. He was the perfect Ferelden man; she was the perfect foreign wife for a Ferelden man.
If anything, Aedan bore more of a resemblance to Oren than Fergus, and not just appearance wise. He was too young for anyone to truly tell, but all signs pointed towards Oren not inheriting his father's good looks. He had too thick a brow, was too gangly a boy, and was too dense to be a proper noble grandson. He liked to play in the stables and play with stable boys and mock stable girls, which had once been Aedan's favourite pastime. Ah, but who knows? Eventually the boy will shape up, no doubt thanks to his powerful and handsome lord father. The Couslands will always have a worthy heir, no matter what they have to do to create one.
"Aedan, come here." Eleanor Cousland's soft and deceiving voice drifted over to him, a voice that was capable of mighty shouts and tremendous rages, and he could only let out a sigh. He had tried to prolong it for as long as possible, but there was no escaping it now. He had to face the lord and lady of Highever, who also happened to be his parents.
While Fergus and Oriana had distinct differences that complemented the other, Bryce and Eleanor seemed to be cut from the same cloth. A hard-faced man and a hard-faced woman, brought together by their once bold and passionate romance, united by their love of family and their capacity to rule. Grey-haired, grey-faced, with cold eyes and noble looks, the Teryn and Teryna had been ruling peacefully for thirty years, which was no fluke. Bryce had strength, strategy, and military prowess backing him up, while Eleanor bore the political cunning and charm necessary to destroy any potential threats before they could arise. And if that doesn't work, she'll just take Father's mace and bash her opponent's head in. Together, they made a powerful alliance.
The question being, what did Aedan have to his name?
Upon getting a closer look at his face, Eleanor let out an aggravated sigh. "Oh, what have you done now?" Reaching out with one withered hand, she somehow managed to tightly get a grip upon his chin. She inspected him with a critical eye. "Ser Gilmore didn't mention this."
"I would hope not." Aedan growled, glancing away in either direction. Ser Gilmore was intelligent, far more intelligent than Aedan would ever admit, and would know better than to stay in his close proximity once the Teryna got her hands upon him. He recalled seeing Ser Gilmore standing in another part of the courtyard, eyeing the Amaranthine knights with an icy disposition. Was there a hint of envy in his gaze, or did Gilmore only regard his fellow knights as a challenge and nothing more? Regardless, Aedan would have given anything to switch places with the Highever knight. He would have switched places with just about anyone right now, had the offer been made.
Eleanor gave a frustrated little noise as she tilted Aedan's head back. "Look at all this blood! Didn't you at least wash your hands on your way here?" Before he got a chance to get a word in edgewise, his mother continued on her tirade. "You knew we had noble guests coming, you knew perfectly well, and yet you still couldn't resist getting into a fight!"
"Mother, I was not fighting. I slipped on a loose stone during the night and bashed my face agai-" Eleanor pinched the end of his twisted nose with her free hand, effectively silencing him as he grit his teeth in pain.
"Don't try to lie to me, Aedan. I can smell a Cousland lie." She released her iron grip upon his chin, and glanced over to Fergus and his wife. The two had finally stopped exchanging saliva and were now content to stand side by side, albeit with their arms firmly wrapped around the other's waist. What will she say now, my dear Mother? "Aedan, it's time you got yourself an honest and decent wife." "Aedan, you should strive to be more like your older brother."
Instead Eleanor smiled, which was surprising. A wistful, sad little smile that spoke more of resignation, shame, and disappointment more than anything else, but it was a smile nonetheless. "At least you're a better liar than Fergus. And your father. By the Maker, was he awful at coming up with excuses." Stepping back, Eleanor turned her head over to Bryce and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "What did you come up with, when you tried to explain away your little hunting trip in Amaranthine? I can't remember."
Bryce Cousland, to his credit, did not run away shrieking from his lady wife. It's what Aedan would have done, in his father's circumstances. But Bryce managed to muster a tired, exhausted smile. It was genuine, though. Honest. His attention was fixed upon the newcomers heading through the gate, but he spared a brief glance towards his wife. "I recall that the city was being attacked by a dragon and Rendon urgently needed my assistance." Turning to Aedan, Bryce shrugged and gave his son a mischievous little grin. "Turns out the dragon was his wife, and I assisted by hunting bears with him."
Despite himself, Aedan managed to laugh at his father's comment. A small and insignificant laugh, emerging as a slight, "Heh," from the back of his throat, but he laughed all the same. He often didn't remember his father's jokes or his father's smiles when Bryce Cousland was off breaking bread with the nobles and overseeing the locals. All he remembered were the grimaces, the glares, and the cold commands. I wonder if there's a reason for that. But Aedan managed to laugh, despite all of this.
Apparently an ill-timed laugh, as Bryce suddenly lost all mirth in his expression and gripped his son's shoulder. "Not now, pup." The Teryn was staring straight ahead, his focus once again upon the Amaranthine host, and Aedan could only groan inwardly. Oh shit, Arl Howe is here. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to hide. Into the breach, then. Reluctantly, he turned about and faced the incoming nobles.
"Bryce." A gruff voice called out, cutting through the mindless noise of hooves padding against stone that echoed through the courtyard. "Good to see you again."
It was Bann Loren, of Little Hill. Thank the Maker.
Aedan breathed a sigh of relief and smiled as the bann led his hackney horse through the open gates, over the stone ground, and towards the Cousland family. The horse swayed and rocked about with every step, and Loren's lips moved wordlessly to accompany the motion, no doubt some vulgar curse that he didn't want to utter in front of his noble hosts. It was Loren's style to curse and swear along the walk towards the Couslands, a style that Aedan could whole-heartedly agreed with.
Bann Loren was not a figurehead in Ferelden, was not a big freeholder or leader or warrior. Indeed, he was perhaps more suited to the bannorn of Little Hill than anyone else in Ferelden: such a small and inconsequential land deserved a small and inconsequential lord. South of West Hill, a massive fortress west of Highever, Little Hill paled in comparison to its larger and more prosperous neighbours. Once, it had not always been so: Little Hill once boasted abundant farmland and rewarding trade from both the Coastlands and the Bannorn. However, in the years of the Orlesian occupation, Little Hill had been ransacked for its abundant farmland time and time again, finally being put to the torch under the orders of the now dead King Meghren. Trade slowed to a crawl, and Little Hill began its torturous and slow death, a death that was still happening to this very day. It had become a black and inhospitable land, with only a few ragged settlements formed upon the treacherous and disagreeable soil.
And Aedan was still very unsure on what, exactly, Loren had done to deserve this fate. He wasn't a very good warrior, but he was no fool. There was some talk that Loren had fought in the rebellion at White River, a battle that Bryce Cousland and Rendon Howe had participated in, a battle that was now remembered as an infamous defeat. It was said that much of the shame of that defeat could be heaped squarely at Loren's feet, even though the man had not commanded the Ferelden soldiers into battle. Aedan's father did not speak of it, and Bann Loren certainly wasn't forthcoming with the information.
His extraordinarily dismal plight and legendary defeat were not the only things remarkable about Bann Loren, however. Despite his scarce land and coin, Loren had managed to worm his way into every social circle in the Bannorn and Coastlands, a mystery to those involved. He showed up at every festival, feast, salon, or military gathering, and nobody protested his presence. Nobody requested it in the first place, but that didn't seem to matter to Loren. He just came, listened, gave solid advice, and then left in the morn for the next destination. He spent more time on the road than in his bannorn, which Aedan could hardly blame him for. Who wanted to spend time in a shithole like Little Hill?
The strain of constant travel did not seem to affect Loren, as it would turn others thin and worn and ragged and thin. A large man with balding silver hair and a heavily wrinkled face, the bann still managed to retain a plump girth that was clearly visible underneath his red tunic. He looked more like a farmer than he did a noble, and the cheap hackney horse suited his appearance well, despite his apparent misgivings about the bloody thing.
His son, Dairren, who trotted along behind his father dutifully, seemed to deserve the appellation of noble more than Loren did. A tall and lean boy, about Aedan's age, Dairren bore surprisingly pleasant features, a wonder given whom his sires were. Parted auburn hair, a soft face, two beautiful blue eyes, Aedan was willing to bet all of Highever that Dairren was a bastard. Nobody that handsome could be squeezed out the legs of Lady Landra.
Groaning, Loren eased himself off his saddle and onto the stone floor, shaking his legs as he did so. "Fucking horse." Aedan could distinctly hear the mutter; try as Loren might to keep it quiet. "Fucking saddle." Upon getting settled back on the tangible ground underneath his feet, Bann Loren approached Bryce and offered an impressive bow, his fat tumbling out from his belt and dropping down. "Your Grace."
Bryce nodded at the display of respect, and patted Loren upon the arm. "That's quite alright, Loren, I wouldn't want you to snap in half now." His face red, with embarrassment or exhaustion, Loren nodded back and pulled himself back up to his full height. Aedan's attention was fixated pointedly upon the man's great lump of flesh that hung free from his belly, a lump that had been presumably tucked in during his approach to Highever.
Oren frowned and tugged on his mother's sleeve. "Why is he so big? Is there a pillow under his tunic?"
Aedan, Fergus, and Dairren couldn't resist a slight laugh at that. The three of them broke in unison, chuckling guiltily behind tight smiles. The rest of the party became deathly silent. Bann Loren stood there, staring at the boy, his emotions hidden underneath his quiet face. Oren continued to pull at his mother's arm, oblivious to the offence that his statement had caused.
But finally, there was a crack in Loren's defences. His mouth curved upwards, and he glanced over to Bryce. "Well, at least he has the decency to say it." He grinned, and started laughing all on his own, a barking laugh that reminded Aedan more of Dog than anything else. The big bann dropped to a knee before Oren, and leaned over to ruffle his hair. "Aye, a pillow is underneath my tunic. A pillow of deer and duck, my boy. A pillow of fat."
Fergus had a wicked smile upon his face. "And do you sleep on it, Loren? Do you just lean forward and bury your face into your stomach when the night comes?"
"Fergus!" Eleanor and Oriana cried.
"All the time." Dairren declared, his eyes twinkling.
Aedan would have paid more attention to the exchange, but his focus was drawn elsewhere when he heard the rattling of a wheel against the stone. Turning his head slightly, his eyes widened as he saw the covered wagon come bustling through the gates. Led by two large draft horses and a grime-covered driver, the wagon veered uncertainly about the courtyard, causing a few Amaranthine knights to curse and dart out of its path. Finally it shambled before the Couslands and came to a hasty stop, and no sooner had the wheels stopping spinning did the door to the wagon burst open.
All the relief that Aedan had felt over Bann Loren's arrival was swiftly replaced by horror as he finally wrapped his mind over the implications of said arrival. Oh no. Not her, not her, it can't be her, it mustn't be her, it shouldn't be her! That bitch, that crone, that hag! He wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to run and hide. Not only did he have to face Arl Howe today, but he also had to contend with the good Lady Landra. Ser Gilmore, you will die a painful and bloody death for waking me up today.
Lady Landra, the Big Teat of Little Hill, pushed herself through the open door, a great smile across her face, and slowly turned her gaze towards the Cousland family. To Aedan's eternal disappointment, Lady Landra was more homely than comely, despite her best efforts. Her face was painted white and her scent altered by Orlesian methods, but the paint was cracking and she still smelled awful, despite the perfume. Her lengthy gray hair was knotted and matted, her face was that of an old and dying cow, and her tits were shrivelled up like old fruits thanks to her age. The name, Big Teat, was a name that Aedan had heard in taverns and places of ill repute, and was a name meant more in jest than in earnest. Perhaps it once was true, back when Landra had been fucking half of Ferelden, but now that it's the other half's turn, she's all wrinkled and ugly and less desirable compared to fair Orlesians and wild Antivans. Almost tragic, really.
Upon spotting Teryna Eleanor, Landra's eyes shot up with excitement. "Ellie!" The woman almost jumped out of the wagon, her rich skirts swaying about gracefully in the wind, the most graceful thing about her. Aedan had never once understood the friendship that his mother bore with this withered… thing, and he knew that he never would. It was a mystery, a mystery best left unsolved.
As Lady Landra left the wagon for her friend, another woman soon emerged from the shadowy interior and into the pale light of the Highever sun. This one was far more appealing to Aedan: a young elven woman, with rosy cheeks, pointed ears and short golden hair. She was dressed simply and plainly, but Aedan was just glad to see someone with a rounded bosom after watching Landra's shrunken breast sway in the breeze. Her lovely green eyes met his after his moment's perusal, and a shy smile crossed her features. A maid, he decided, but far more beautiful than Lady Landra.
Landra lunged forward and wrapped her thin arms about Eleanor tightly, the Teryna awkwardly smiling and returning the gesture with less enthusiasm. In a low voice, Aedan could just barely hear his mother hiss at her old friend. "Are you drunk?" Landra could only softly titter at the question, and she pushed herself out of Eleanor's arms a moment later.
And then she glanced over at Aedan, and a wide grin crossed her features.
Oh Maker, protect me.
"And there's your handsome son, Ellie!" Landra crossed over to him, her piggy eyes hungrily digesting his features. Her breath didn't reek of alcohol, but then again, it always reeked. Perhaps the smell was just masked underneath the odour of hideousness. "Oh!" She cried, inclining her head to the side. "What's happened to his nose?"
"I smelled you coming." Aedan jested.
The shock that was on Eleanor's face soon dissolved into anger, pure fury, and she reached out for her son. But Landra only laughed wildly, and shook her head from side to side. "What a funny boy he is, Ellie. What a clever tongue! You must put it to better use than mocking your guests!"
Aedan's skin crawled with the idea of putting his tongue to better use where Lady Landra was concerned, but he tried to put on a smile. This was not the first time that Landra had thrown herself at him: on his sixteenth nameday, she had attempted to slip his hand up her skirts. "Make yourself a man, a big strong virile man." She was drunk most times that she reached for his cock, and he was never drunk enough to let her hand remain there. And so their relationship continued, a relationship that Teryna Eleanor either didn't notice or didn't want to notice.
"That would be a wonderful idea, Landra, if my son wished to do anything with his time." The fury was now gone, cooled and tempered into simple steel glares that Aedan received from his loving mother. "He'd much rather spend his time getting into fights and embarrassing me in front of my friends."
He gave the Teryna a cold smile of his own in return, and nodded to Lady Landra. "Well, my mother does have the right of things."
"And too bad!" Landra giggled, her mouth flapping open as if to say yet more to drastically ruin Aedan's morning.
And, of course, that was when Arl Howe entered the castle.
A respectful silence seemed to gather around the courtyard at his approach, only the brave and daring summoning the courage to whisper eagerly towards their friends. Bryce stepped forward with a tight smile upon his face, though for what earthly reasons Aedan could not possibly guess at. The Couslands and Howes, as far as history went, had always been, at worst, enemies and, at best, rivals. Once, Amaranthine had ruled over Highever and the Couslands had been nothing more than soldiers, sworn into the service of the Howe's cousins, the Elstans. When the Couslands fought for Highever's independence, they had been fighting against the Howes, and ended up gaining much of the family's former lands. Rendon's father, Tarleton Howe, had opposed the Couslands and the rebels during the Orlesian occupation, and was hanged for his troubles. But yet it seemed that Bryce and Rendon were determined to mend centuries of bad blood in a single lifespan. Don't understand why. We're better off as enemies.
Arl Howe was seated atop a glorious palfrey, a muscular and lean white horse that shamed Loren's hackney and Bryce's own destrier. His armour shamed the knights of Amaranthine: it was a simple set of chainmail, not as large or as cumbersome as the heavy plate that his knights wore, but it glittered prettily in the morning sun, and Aedan heard Fergus draw a surprised breath in upon getting a good look at the armour. Silverite. Valued for its strength and its beauty. What Fergus wouldn't do to ride into battle dressed like that. It was only fitting that Arl Howe was the most well-equipped, well-off noble in Ferelden. His money was his only valuable trait.
It was often joked that a weasel be more appropriate for the flag of Amaranthine than a bear, and Rendon Howe seemed to personify this jibe. A reedy man with cropped steely hair and brown eyes, the Howe's face seemed to extend forward, his long nose and angular features resembling several choice animals, any number of them being hilarious. He had been compared to a bird of prey, a snake, a weasel, two weasels mating; Howe was associated with many jokes and insults within the kingdom of Ferelden. And yet, his power and wealth was felt by all.
I believe that it's less his own capabilities responsible for the wealth and more for the fact that his mother squat him out on Amaranthine, of all places. It would take a fool to remain poor on such a wealth of gold and silver.
Rendon was accompanied by another one of his knights, though the man would certainly have stood out all on his own in a crowd. Clad in heavy bronze armour atop a massive black charger, the knight was huge, easily a head taller than Aedan and twice as bulky. Beside him, Arl Howe seemed positively shrunken and withered, despite having power over this common knight. Aedan couldn't resist a frown upon seeing the man, his gaze drawn to the simple horned helm that the knight wore, masking his features from view. If I haven't heard of this man yet, I soon will.
Dismounting from his palfrey was an easier task for Howe than it had been for Loren. Sadly, there was no lump of hidden fat that burst out of his stomach on his approach, a sight that Aedan would have welcomed with laughter. The knight followed him, albeit much slower: his heavy armour clanked and rattled with every slight motion. Rendon pursed his lips as he examined the Cousland family, running his critical gaze over Fergus, Oriana, Oren, Aedan, and Eleanor, finally turning to Bryce with a thin smile on his lips. "Bryce. A pleasure, once again."
"Rendon." The Teryn responded, bowing his head towards the arl. They certainly didn't embrace each other or laugh at each other, or even really smile at each other. They certainly didn't act like good and close friends out in public, amongst their people. Hell, they didn't even act like that towards each other when in the privacy of their respective homes. It had once been different: Rendon had, in the past, always been greeted warmly by Bryce and his wife, and vice versa by the Howes. But now? Things were different. It was behaviour that intrigued Aedan, despite his misgivings about politics. What goes on in father's head when he looks at this man? What goes on in Rendon's?
A moment's silence passed. Eventually, Rendon smirked and pulled off one of his silverite gauntlets, exposing his pale, wiry hand to the elements. "Well, it's been a long road. Shall we go inside?"
"Of course." Bryce answered, gesturing over in the direction of the main hall. Rendon didn't waste any time in heading over there, leaving his palfrey to be stabled by the castle's staff. The horned knight inclined his head to Bryce and marched after his retreating master. Aedan watched them leave, a frown still heavyset upon his face, and sighed once the pair was out of earshot. That wasn't so bad. He didn't even talk to me. He was about to leave, but Bryce placed a warning hand upon his shoulder. "Pup, I expect you and Fergus to be at the meeting alongside me. You're of the age where I expect you to honour your responsibilities to the kingdom and the Cousland name."
No, Father. No, I will not be at the meeting, although Fergus is welcome to you old bastards if he wishes it. But I would rather sleep, or drink, or fuck that pretty elven maid with the golden hair. I will not be at the meeting, no matter what. I would rather lose all my toes and have them jammed down my throat than speak with Arl Howe. I would rather lose all my limbs and be bludgeoned to death with them than exchange pleasantries with Bann Loren about his slut wife. I will not be at the meeting. Aedan was tempted to say all of this, and more.
But when Bryce Cousland asks for something, he usually gets it.
"Of course, Father."
The main hall was warm, far warmer than Highever at this time of year, the fire in the hearth roaring heartily. Aedan grunted as he hurled another log into the hungry flames, and ducked his head as sparks blasted out from the energetic blaze. His latest offering was quickly devoured by the inferno, crackling and breaking under the intense heat of the fire. Wiping a hand across his sweaty brow, Aedan let out a long sigh of relief. It's toasty, and if it was any hotter, I'd be roasting in the fire like a fat sow. However, it's better than shivering my ass out in the castle proper.
Bryce had set out several pewter cups on one of the long tables, and was currently pouring a healthy stream of West Hill brandy into a cup. The dark flow of the drink made Aedan's mouth water, although he quickly suppressed his urge to take a swig for himself. After the first time his mother had accused him of drinking, Aedan told himself that he would never put another drop of alcohol past his lips. Just to spite you, dear mother. Setting the large bottle of brandy down again, Bryce glanced over to Howe as he handed him the cup. "I had thought that your family was coming, Rendon. I told Eleanor to expect Helene as well as Landra."
Arl Howe accepted his cup before answering, a weary look upon his face. "Complications." He brought the pewter to his lips and took a generous sip of the brandy, his throat convulsing in an unpleasant manner. His apple looks like he swallowed a bird and it wants out. Rendon set down the cup and wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand. "We were all set to leave, but Helene's parents arranged another visit without giving me any prior knowledge of it. I couldn't refuse them once they were upon my doorstep, so I left Helene and the children with them. Damned Orlesian vultures. I half wish we were at war with the Empire again just to make the border impossible to cross for them."
If only you had cracked your back, Howe. Bann Loren grinned over at the arl, a stupid and genuine grin. "Aye, a wife's parents are fearsome to deal with. I remember when I first met Landra's folks. You've never seen a strange couple till you've seen the father and mother of my dear wife. Kept staring at me all through dinner, talking about expectations and conditions of the marriage." Father passed him a cup, and Loren eagerly took a great swig out of the brandy. "It's like they didn't even know who they were speaking with."
"Surprise, surprise. Loren was a disappointment to his bride's family." Rendon smiled wryly, swilling his drink about in the cup as if it was an expensive goblet. "I wonder why that is?"
Loren's face grew red again, and he was about to launch into a violent and vile retort when Bryce Cousland cut into the middle of the fray. "I'm sure," He announced in a loud voice that filled the hall and stopped the bann in his tracks, "that we were all disappointments to the families of our noble wives." The teryn held his cup high, the brandy sloshing heavily within its pewter confines. "Here's to impressing them with our valour in the coming battles!"
It was a toast that Loren and Rendon answered half-heartedly, which did not bode well for the coming battles. Aedan glanced over to Fergus, who was standing at the other side of the fireplace, watching the lords at their game intently. Clearing his throat, Aedan held up a hand towards his brother, a hand curled about the imaginary stem of an imaginary wine goblet. "Cheers?" He asked.
Fergus smiled back, mimicking the motion. "Cheers." The two of them clicked their invisible glasses together and downed their non-existent brandy.
"Speaking of marriage, my boy," Rendon started, turning his steely gaze over to Aedan. "I had been tempted to bring Delilah here to see you again. Her grandparents would have objected, of course, and Helene might have had some choice words for me, but it would have been no trouble. She has recently flowered, as I understand it, and I think she would make a good wife for a noble son of Highever." The Howe smiled, and sipped delicately at his brandy. "What do you think of such an idea?"
And there it was. The reason that Aedan resented Arl Howe with every fibre of his being. The reason that he had tried to get himself beaten silly the previous night, in an attempt to be bed-ridden during the arl's visit. The reason that he feared each and every rider from Amaranthine, in the very terrifying possibility that they might be carrying a letter of engagement.
Granted, he had never liked Howe too much before the idea of marriage arose: Rendon had treated him like an ignorant child during his earlier years, and would often make countless stupid jokes that were dull even for his young tastes. But, during his very first trip to Amaranthine, when he had been presented with the Howe children and saw Delilah for the first time, Aedan quickly figured out what his father and Rendon were planning for him, and hated it. He loathed it, feared it, and despised it. Fergus was lucky, as he had received a beautiful wife from Antiva, skilled in trade and a quick learner at love-making. But Aedan would, inevitably, be forced to marry Rendon Howe's daughter and intermarry Cousland and Howe, a powerful step towards absolving the Coastlands of the bad blood the two families had shared for centuries.
I am sorry, Rendon Howe; but I hate the idea. I spit on the idea, it is so terrible and ill-conceived. But wait, I am not even sorry. I laugh in your face, you stupid old bastard. You would think that I, Aedan Cousland, would marry your ugly weasel-faced daughter and take her into my bed? You would think that I would demean myself that much to lay with the vermin that you had spawned from your twisted loins? You have another thing coming, you fucking prick. You, and father, will learn not to shape my destiny for me.
"That sounds like an excellent idea, milord." Aedan replied.
Rendon watched him for a moment, watched him coolly from his seat, watched him from across the top of his wine-filled cup. "A pity," he drawled, "that she is not here, then."
The main hall of Castle Cousland was nothing more than a large and empty room, with a high ceiling and wide walls, capable of being adapted to suit any purpose. It could serve as a throne room, banquet hall, barracks, or a damned latrine if the masters of the castle deemed it necessary. Knowing that he was to entertain noble guests for the night, Bryce had summoned for a long table of polished oak to sit in the very center of the hall, the ends of the table reaching either side of the room. The walls were devoid of artwork or ornamentation, though that was not always so. In the past, Aedan remembered vivid tapestries and colourful portraits adorning the walls, brought out for feasts or his mother's salons. The only part of the main hall that endured throughout the centuries, static and utterly resistant to change, was the enormous hearth that covered the northern wall.
The three lords were seated at the center of the long table; that is, Bryce stood beside the table facing his guests while Loren busily pushed his large frame against the wood, Rendon completing the trio by sitting with one leg underneath the table and the other on the opposite side of the seat. A teryn, an arl, and a bann walk into a tavern. Guards were posted outside the main hall, Aedan knew, on the far side of the wooden doors that marked the western, eastern, and southern walls. Aedan and Fergus both attended the actual meeting, as well as the mabari hound Dog. Well, Aedan and Fergus attended it, while Dog was lazily sprawled out in front of the hearth, panting heavily as the heat from the fire washed over him.
Bann Loren didn't bring anyone from his party into the main hall, but Rendon had taken the liberty of stationing his own man within: the horned knight from earlier. The helmet had finally been removed by the knight and was tucked into the crook of his arm, revealing a dark and tanned face, a shaggy mane of ginger hair framing his heavyset features. Ser Temmerly Packton was his name, a local from Amaranthine who won his knighthood through his prowess at arms. He was a big man, with a beefy neck and broad shoulders, and was destined to earn a nickname at some point during his service to Rendon Howe. All the good knights get a nickname at one point or another. I wonder what his will be. Rendon had assured Bryce that Temmerly's presence was necessary: "I am grooming the boy for command," he had said, "and he should get some knowledge of a general's duties on and off the field." Temmerly had curtly nodded at that in affirmation. It was all he did, nod.
Once Bryce Cousland was finished with his brandy, he set the cup down and took a seat at the table opposite Howe and Loren. "And now, to business." Loren nodded simply and straightened his slouch into a proper straight back, while the arl continued to sit in the same relaxed fashion. Bryce did not seem too pleased by this, and attacked Howe first. "Rendon, along with your family, you seem to have forgotten the rest of your soldiers. Where are they? I will not keep the king waiting for our arrival."
Aedan was puzzled by this. Rest of his soldiers? That host doesn't even consist of the majority of his forces? But all the knights, and the guards, and the foot soldiers! But Rendon only waved his hand idly, shaking his head. "Yet more complications, your Grace. Most of my strength is still being withheld by Bann Esmerelle. She's intent on flushing out some bandits that were attacking the arling, and she won't rest until they are dealt with." Aedan knew the name of Esmerelle: she controlled the actual city of Amaranthine, but still bent the knee before Arl Howe. Rendon sighed in resignation. "I hate to keep his Majesty waiting as well, Bryce. But until my men are finished combing through Amaranthine for the bandits, I cannot send them south."
Father put a hand to his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: find another bann. Esmerelle is only worried about her own pocket, for surely it suffers with these bandit attacks." Rendon did nothing to deny these accusations, and only shrugged. But Bryce did not give up the issue that easily. "Why not pick Lord Eddelbrek instead? He's a good man, cares about the people. If he was bann, we wouldn't be in this problem."
Howe found a tight smile upon his face, and sweetly shrugged again. "I know Esmerelle, my old friend. I don't know Eddelbrek. I'd rather have someone that I know and trust running the bannorn than someone I don't. Rather good principle, wouldn't you say?"
Loren snorted. "You trust her to delay us when it comes time for battle, Rendon?"
Raising an eyebrow, Rendon smirked over at the bann. "I would hardly speak in your place, Loren. After all, I've still brought more soldiers at a quarter's strength than you have at full. Or have your men gotten lost in Little Hill, and cannot find the road?" Grumbling, Loren returned to his drink in moderate silence.
Bryce just sighed throughout all of this. "So your men are indefinitely delayed, is that right?" Rendon nodded. "Bann Franderel has told me much the same: says the forces of West Hill are still marshalling, and won't be ready for another week at least. At this rate, we'll be ready for battle when the darkspawn are defeated." Teryn Cousland reached over for the bottle of brandy, and started to pour himself another cup. "I won't abandon Cailan in the south. We'll begin a march with what forces we have remaining to us and send word for the banns to do the same."
"With all due respect, your Grace," Howe interrupted, "that is a terrible idea." Bryce fixed his cold gaze upon his friend, but Rendon didn't seem affected by it. Indeed, it seemed to inspire amusement in him. "My knights have been marching from Amaranthine in full plate and they are tired. Give them a few days before you send them off to battle. Hopefully, by the time that they are ready, the rest of my forces will have been mobilized for battle."
"Are your men that tired that they cannot make for the south?"
"Unfortunately so, your Grace."
Loren put a hand up to his temples and rubbed them wearily. "I suppose the same can be said for my household, Bryce. If you want me to stir them into action, I'll do it without a doubt, but they do need rest." By Aedan's last count, Bann Loren's soldiers didn't even make a fifth of the lord's combined strength. It seemed, to him anyway, that the bann was here for show, but little else. It was a gift, a boon, to appease him and make him believe that he was necessary. But Aedan doubted that Bann Loren was tricked that easily. Everybody in the room knew that the real power lay on the oak table, resting impatiently between the Teryn of Highever and the Arl of Amaranthine.
The Teryn of Highever shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief. "I will not abandon Cailan in the south." He repeated.
Loren shrugged his shoulders, and took a healthy sip of the brandy. "Maybe," the bann posited into his cup, "the king will be alright even if Highever doesn't march for the south. He's got half of Ferelden already under his banner; does he really need the northern half right now? I suggest that we wait to see the progress of the campaign before sending our soldiers into it."
From the angry look that crossed Bryce's eyes, Aedan could already tell what his father thought of that particular idea. But, surprisingly, it was Rendon that first spoke out against it. "Need I remind you that the king is just sixteen? I would trust Maric to hold out in the south, but not Cailan. You're right, Bryce," He said, a phrase that Aedan couldn't believe would come out of Rendon's mouth, "the boy needs some help from the north. Your troops have been ready for some time now, am I correct?" Bryce waited a moment, and then slowly nodded. "I'd advise sending the men from Highever south as a vanguard while we wait here to build up the rest of the army."
Bryce's brow furrowed as he considered the suggestion, and he seemed to visibly retreat within his own mind. He stepped away from the table, took a few tentative sips of the brandy, and was quiet. Long moments of anticipation passed, and Aedan felt his own patience ebb as he watched his father contemplate the issue. Send the soldiers south! Don't send the soldiers south! Just do something! Finally, Bryce nodded simply. "Very well, we'll do that. My men are ready to march on the morrow." He took a deep breath of air before asking, "Fergus?"
Fergus, who had shown waning interest in the meeting as it grew longer and longer, snapped to attention when his name was called. Aedan noticed sickeningly that his back was straight to the point of snapping, his feet placed perfectly together, one arm barely resisting the urge to salute. What a perfect little solider you make, brother. "Yes, father?"
Bryce looked pained; as if he did not want to say whatever he was about to say, but Aedan knew better. You've been waiting for twenty five years to say this. You've been waiting for Fergus to grow up, get a wife, and get you an heir before this day finally came. You've been waiting ever since you started training us in combat, since you started making us attend political events, since you started grooming us to be perfect little princes worthy of your little kingdom. Why pretend anything else? "You will take the van south along the Imperial Highway to meet up with the king's forces. You will fight at his side against the darkspawn until such a time as we are ready to join you."
If Father was hiding his true emotions behind a mask of pain, then Fergus is sewing his true emotions on his chest despite the pain. For, indeed, Fergus Cousland looked positively overjoyed at this announcement. His smile stretched from one corner of the room to the other, outmatching the fire in its intensity and size. "Thank you, father. I won't let you down."
Bryce nodded. "Good. I have faith in you, my son." And then another mask of pain drifted over Bryce's features, and he turned to face Aedan. Aedan recognized that look; he recognized it all too well. "Aedan, it's time we discussed your activities, here in the castle." "Aedan, it's time we discussed Dog's training." "Aedan, it's time for you to be dragged outside and flogged for not living up to my expectations." "Aedan, it's time for you to take responsibility in Highever. While we are away, I expect you to rule in my stead."
"No." The answer came swiftly to his lips, too swiftly for him to restrain it.
He would have given anything for Fergus to start laughing again, but his brother was tight-lipped and embarrassed, and so said nothing. He would have given anything for Loren to start snickering away, but the bann only had a look of pity upon his face while he drank and drank and drank. He would have given anything for Howe to start taunting him and insulting him, but Rendon only had a thin smile upon his brandy flecked lips as he watched Aedan squirm. He would have given anything for Dog to go wild and start killing everything in the room, but the stupid fucking hound was lazily soaking in the heat of the fire, too busy to do anything of real importance.
This left Aedan alone with Bryce Cousland.
Bryce didn't answer, didn't say a word. He just stared at him, mouth pursed, cold eyes gazing, silent as the grave. Aedan shifted uncomfortably under his father's sudden and complete attention, and glanced towards the door. But there was no relief coming to assist him, no help. He just had to shut his eyes and think of anything else: of West Hill brandy, of brawling in the street, of fucking elven maids with golden hair. But none of that came to mind: instead, only Bryce and Eleanor Cousland appeared, staring at him. Judging him.
"Pup," Bryce finally responded, "I will not repeat myself. You will rule Highever while I am away, and that is final. There is to be no argument about this matter."
"Yes, there is." Aedan found himself saying. "This is a task for a steward, not me. I don't know the first thing about ruling!" Bryce was not easily convinced, and would never sway that easily. "Aedan, I will never take incompetence for an answer. Every man, when called to the occasion, will rise to victory or fail. There is no telling of victory or failure before the battle is even begun. I am training you to be prepared, but no amount of training will prepare you for the hard choices that lay ahead. All I ask is that, when called to the occasion, you do not give up before you rise, or fail." "Please, father, place Oswell in charge. He's more qualified than me!"
The prospect of the aging steward ruling Highever did not seem to inspire Bryce with much confidence. He slowly shook his head, closing his eyes tightly. "It's true that Oswell has served me for many years, and done a fine job of it. But his time is done: half the time that he spends in the castle, he spends it getting lost or falling ill. He's forgotten my name countless times already, and he's convinced that you are his long-lost son." And Aedan knew all of this to be true, and more: Oswell, the age-old steward of Castle Cousland, was not getting any younger.
"Pup, all I ask is that you maintain the peace and keep Highever safe. If you need me to give you advice, I will do so, but I need you to take responsibility for your people." Bryce leaned forward, and placed a hand upon Aedan's shoulder. He did not grip the skin tightly, did not clench his fingers together, did nothing more than rest his palm against the shoulder. But to Aedan, it felt like the heaviest burden in the world. "Can you do this? For me and for your family?"
And Bryce looked to him. His father did not stare, instilling shame into his son. He looked to him instead, looked out to Aedan to find the answer. And Fergus looked to him, biting his lip and offering comforting smiles. And Loren looked to him, eyebrows furrowed, taking the scene in piece by piece. And Rendon looked to him, expectant smile still on his face, drinking casually from his cup of brandy.
And Dog looked to him, and wagged his tongue stupidly.
Aedan sighed. "I will, father. I'll try not to disappoint you."
Maker, protect me.