The Quality of His Enemies
Anora betrayed them--again, despite her insistence that her father needed to be stopped. Dull surprise had wound through Bryn when the Queen appeared and accused her of slandering Loghain, but in the end, it hadn't mattered. Ferelden's nobility was firmly behind The Warden and Maric's son.
The duel was a formality, a way for Loghain to retain what little honor the title of Hero of River Dane still afforded him after everything he'd done over the past year. Bryn had considered fighting Loghain herself, but she chose Alistair to be her champion. It was his opportunity to stand apart from her, to allow the bannorn to get a taste for their new king's ability.
Bryn watched the battle, trying to keep her face calm and impassive. Zevran stood close on her right side and she knew he had situated himself so near her not to be lewd, but to offer as much support as he could. Who would have thought that the Antivan assassin would turn out to be one of her most trusted companions? Bryn kept her arms crossed, and if anyone noticed the marks her fingernails were leaving in the skin of her upper arms, no one mentioned it.
Thrust. Block. Parry. Strike. Repeat. A familiar dance, but never had victory meant so much. If Alistair fell here, the Landsmeet would revert to support Loghain.
He would not fail.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the regent dropped to one knee, breathing heavily. He tossed down his weapon and shield, his eyes firmly on the floor. Alistair stood over him, his sword held in perfect form as he waited.
"There's some of Maric in you, after all," Loghain rasped, regaining his feet. "I yield."
Alistair whipped off Cailan's helm, and it clattered to the floor. "Forget Maric," he spat. "This is for Duncan."
Bryn rushed forward as he threw aside his shield and she stayed his sword-hand with hers. His eyes fastened on her, and she saw the hate still roiling in her chest reflected in those darkened, tormented eyes. He opened his mouth to protest, but she wordlessly offered him Duncan's sword.
With a tight nod, he gripped it, and carried out justice.
###
"So, it's decided. Alistair will take his father's throne."
Eamon's voice rang throughout the subdued Landsmeet chamber. Bryn let her eyes travel over the assembled nobles, gauging their reaction to the Arl's proclamation. A handful nodded in agreement; others seemed less decisive, whispering to their neighbors. Still others' faces were dark with rage or horror. Bryn's lips pressed into a thin line. Alistair's first action as King--Loghain's brutal execution--may have ripped the throne from under him before he'd ever really claimed it.
"Wait, what?"
Bryn's eyes whipped to Alistair. He wasn't--oh, Maker, please let him not be protesting the outcome now…
The ex-templar raised his hands as if to ward off Eamon's words. "No. Nobody's decided anything!"
Heat rushed up Bryn's neck into her cheeks. "Alistair," she hissed.
"Everyone's heard him!" Anora crowed. "He refuses his father's crown and abdicates in favor of me."
Eamon groaned, one gloved hand rubbing the lines etched into his forehead. "Anora, I hardly think you're the appropriate party to mediate this. Warden! Will you settle this dispute?"
Andraste's ass. Of course it would come down to being her choice. Bryn carefully kept any emotion from her face, her noble's mask firmly in place.
"Certainly, Arl Eamon," she answered, pleased that her voice was even. "Alistair, might I have a word?"
His brows twitched in puzzlement but he followed her a short distance from the rest of the nobility. She made sure her movements stayed calm, measured, even though she wanted to wrap her leather-clad hands around his neck.
"What are you doing?" she said softly. "You knew this was going to be the outcome if we won. Why--"
"Maker's blood. I don't know." His face was tight, his muscles coiled as though readying for a fight. He closed his eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" She wanted to lay a hand on his arm, to offer some kind of reassurance, but she couldn't. Not with most of the bannorn watching.
His eyes snapped open. They gleamed with determination, with unvoiced arguments, and Bryn knew he was going to back down from their plan. How were they going to explain this--
"Make me king," he demanded. His voice was strong, sure; nothing remained of the uncertainty that had colored it even a day ago. "Anora is not an option."
Bryn blinked and it took a moment for her to formulate a response. "You--you sound so certain."
"Shouldn't I be?" His eyes narrowed. "You're the one who told me I should take a stand after meeting my--after meeting Goldanna. And you were right." His gaze softened, just a little. "Maker, you were right. All I've done my entire life is wish that things were different and resent it when they weren't. But this…I can do this. I might not know politics the way Anora does, but I know what needs to be done. I can get the armies moving against the Blight. She's already betrayed us twice; who's to say she wouldn't just have us thrown into Fort Drakon if you handed her the crown?"
"Warden," Eamon prompted gently.
Bryn realized the nobles were starting to stir, murmurs lifting from the crowd.
"Are you ready?" she whispered.
One corner of his mouth quirked. "As ready as anyone ever is for this kind of thing, I suppose. Which is to say…" He inclined his head. His lips curved, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes. I'm ready."
She nodded. She and the would-be King stepped back to stand beside Eamon and Anora. Bryn cast her gaze about the hall, stalling for just a moment more. The gathered nobility waited impatiently, restless. The words she'd overheard Alistair speaking to Eamon fluttered through her mind.
She's the one to whom the nobles have all pledged their aid, not me. As Bryce Cousland's daughter, she would have just as much support as I would garner.
She didn't want power. Like Alistair, she'd never wanted it. She'd heard the rumors that had begun floating about Highever, hints that her father was considering naming her his heir instead of Fergus, and they'd terrified her. She'd never had the chance to discuss it with him, so she didn't know if they had any root in truth.
But, Maker, Anora could not be trusted to rule. And she didn't know if the nobility would accept Alistair on his own.
"I'm ready to decide," she announced. Her voice rose above the mutters and whispers, and the room quieted.
Relief colored the Arl's features. "Yes, Warden?"
The Landsmeet stilled. Waiting.
"Alistair will be king," she stated clearly. Gasps peppered the crowd. One or two protests emerged, but Bryn held up her hand and waited for the crowd to settle down once more.
When it did, she continued. "And I will rule beside him."
