Chapter Seven - Upheaval

Castle Cousland

Many years ago

The storm raged against the very foundations of Castle Cousland, with the wind and rain lashing at every stone of every tower. Thunder echoed deafeningly every few minutes or so, and even in the heart of the Teyrn's bedchamber Leliana knew she would get no sleep.

She poked Aedan in the arm. He just grunted and rolled away from her, covering his face with a pillow.

"Aedan."

"I'm not answering you, woman," came the muffled reply.

"Aedan, I know you can't sleep either."

"You're wrong. I am asleep."

"So who's speaking then?"

"...this is the voice of a demon. I've possessed your husband. Fear me."

Leliana poked him again, a little harder this time.

"Don't joke about things like that!"

"I'm not joking. I've really been possessed. In a second I'll grow an extra head and spit blood at you."

A second passed.

"Aaaaany minute now..."

Leliana grasped the pillow and tugged it away. Aedan kept his eyes resolutely shut.

"Leave me be Leli, I'm tired."

"Aedan you sound like a petulant child."

"I've had a long day."

"You spent the entire day doing nothing but eat and play with Baskerville and little Rolann." She poked his belly. "I think you're getting flabby, monsieur."

"Spare me your verbal barbs, miss bard."

Leliana bent down and gently brushed his forehead with her lips. Her hair fell like a red curtain around Aedan's face, and he opened his eyes and smiled that irascible half-smirk that Leliana found infuriatingly adorable.

"Hi."

"Hey you."

They kissed, slowly, unhurriedly. Taking their time and getting it right. It was a good long while before they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Mommy?" came a voice from outside. A child's voice.

Aedan raised an eyebrow. "It seems your son has need of you."

Leliana laughed. "You and Rolann are exactly alike. Any time there's trouble both of you come running to me."

Aedan chuckled, but his mood grew pensive. "Leli...do you honestly think of Rolann as your son?" he said, as Leliana got up and put on a nightrobe. She went back to Aedan's side and kissed his cheek.

"Yes. Yes, I do. I may not have given birth to him, but I love him just the same."

"I was wrong to do what I did," sighed Aedan. He would not look at his wife.

"Yes, you were. But it was a mistake borne out of love. And the boy should not have to suffer for your sins, Aedan. I have come to love him just as much as you."

Aedan's expression smoothed itself over. Once again he was at peace. Leliana opened the chamber door and gathered up Rolann in her arms. The boy looked solemn, as he often did, his dark eyes peering at her under a curtain of dark hair.

"What brings you to us, sweetheart?"

"It's the storm," said Rolann, trembling. "I know I shouldn't be afraid, but I thought I heard something else. It sounded like a bird."

"What kind of bird?"

"I think I saw it, in my dreams. Big and black."

Aedan and Leliana exchanged an uneasy glance. "A raven?" he asked, but Leliana silenced him with a look.

"Hush now, Rolann. Everything's all right."

Rolann hopped up onto their bed and snuggled down under the covers between his parents. Soon he had drifted off to sleep, his snoring soft and regular.

Leliana yawned. The storm had not abated, but having Rolann beside her made her feel sleepy too. Without looking she reached for Aedan's hand and grasped it.

"Good night darling," she whispered.

"Good night love. Go to sleep now," said Aedan. It had always been his way, whether they were sleeping in a flimsy tent on a patch of frozen ground in the middle of uncharted wilds, or safe at home in Castle Cousland. He always let Leliana sleep first, while he remained awake a little while longer, ears and eyes alert for the slightest hint of any danger.

Leliana closed her eyes, knowing she was safe, knowing she would wake up with the sunlight on her face and see her husband and son beside her.

The Royal Palace

Denerim

Leliana opened her eyes. She turned to her side, expecting for half a moment to see Aedan's lined and weatherbeaten face looking back at her, before remembering he was dead.

The strong sunlight streaming in from her window startled her. She had meant to rise early, perhaps breakfast with Aeryn. Judging by the light it was well past dawn.

She called for her serving girl, who arrived with a jug of water and fresh clothes. Leliana washed and put them on, a long green gown with long sleeves. The girl brushed her hair and nattered on about everything and nothing. Leliana listened politely. She had come from Highever with her, and the sights of the capital city were still fresh to her. She talked about a play she was going to see when the next holy day came around, all about the werewolves of the Brecilian forest.

I could tell you what happened there true, moreso than any acting troop, thought Leliana. When they were done she thanked the girl and left her chambers, intending to find her daughter.

At Highever she had known all of her servants by name, a habit of Aedan's that had rubbed off on her. As she moved through the long corridors and spacious halls most people took the time to nod their head and offer her a greeting, but she knew less than half of them. The lady mother of Highever's Teyrn was much respected in Denerim, especially one who had fought during the Blight. Still, she couldn't help feeling a little wary. The capital was an infamous nest of vipers, and ever since her daughter had been kidnapped here some years ago she had never liked it.

Still, her old fears and troubles were nothing compared to Aeryn and the realm. She was not Aedan, who had commanded respect and wielded authority as easily as a farmer might lift a hoe. Leliana preferred to keep her cards close to her chest, and watch and wait. Her days as one of Orlais' most infamous bards were long gone, but old habits died hard. She would need all of her skill and wit if she was to survive on the king's council, much less thrive there.

She reached her daughter's bedchambers. As she shared it with the king, two guards blocked her way. They weren't mere guards, but handpicked knights who would not be easily intimidated.

"You are not allowed to enter, Lady Leliana."

"And why not? I wish to see my daughter."

"King's orders. Ever since the assassination."

Grudgingly, Leliana had to admit he had a point.

"Can you at least tell me where the queen is?"

"Her highness is not within her chambers."

"Where is she then?"

"Her highness forbade us from following her."

"And you just stood there and let her go? My serving girl makes a better watchman than you, sers," said Leliana angrily. She left in a hurry.

She knew her daughter. She knew she liked to go off by herself when she was in one of her moods. That would have been fine for a peasant girl. It would even have been acceptable for a lord's daughter. But she was the queen of Ferelden, and even a simple thing like solitude was no longer as easy to find as it once was.

Leliana went down to the stables, mentally groaning at the thought of her fine clothes in contact with all that muck. But she knew there was a little secluded spot right beside it, and the stableboy was a friend of Aeryn's.

"Mika," said Leliana sternly, causing the boy to jump. "Where is the queen?"

"I don't know..."

"I do not have the patience, boy."

"Just there," said Mika, pointing. Leliana swept past him and into the yard.

There she found a sight she did not expect to see again, her daughter Aeryn in riding leathers and boots practicing swordplay. The young queen had tied her hair back in a ponytail and was cutting the air with a longsword.

"Aeryn," called Leliana. Aeryn stopped, but she did not look around. Leliana went over to her.

"Aeryn love, why are you doing this?"

Aeryn's shoulders were slumped, whether from exhaustion or guilt Leliana could not say.

"Mother," she said quietly. "I half expected you to find me."

"Look at you," admonished Leliana. "All alone...you could have been in danger."

"I have this," said Aeryn, holding up her sword. It was a slim blade, more like a rapier than a real longsword observed Leliana.

"Where did you get that?"

"I took it from the palace armory. No one's like to miss it. Not like the cry that would arise if Starfang had gone missing."

Leliana sighed at the mention of her husband's sword. He had given it to his daughter as half the realm looked on. But it was now in a glass case in the royal trophy room, instead of in a scabbard belted at her daughter's hip. "I thought we discussed this."

"I know we did mother. My fighting days are long past. It's just – oh, never mind."

"Tell me what's on your mind."

"Nothing."

"Aeryn ever since you were a girl you would run and hide and play with your swords whenever you were angry about something. I don't think anything has changed."

Aeryn turned away and slid into the Antivan fencer stance, presenting only her side to some invisible enemy. Leliana recognised it, Zevran had to have given her a few lessons. It was quite unlike the style she had learned from Aedan.

She made the sword hum as it whirled through the air. Faster and faster, then suddenly she jabbed out, as quick as a striking snake. Aeryn held that position for a second, breathing hard. Then she swung her sword upwards to kiss it, before sheathing it.

"If I cannot give Duncan an heir, I am worthless," said Aeryn finally.

"Darling -"

"You know it's the truth mother. I can ride. I can joust. I know the sword and the axe and the dagger and the lance. I can hunt and scout and run and fight. I would have been a great knight."

"Knighthood was not what we wanted for you."

"Say true? Why else would father teach me how to become one?"

"So you could protect yourself. Aedan wanted you to be a great queen."

"Maker help me mother, I've done nothing since becoming a queen. I can't even help people the way I used to, because I'm not allowed to go off on my own. I can't help them as the queen, because I'm not on the royal council. I'm not allowed to command the army, or take part in tourneys, or do anything I am good at. I have one job mother, and I am failing miserably at that."

"We had hoped..." began Leliana softly.

"What now?"

"Aedan's blood taint," she said. "Grey Wardens rarely have children."

"I'm no Grey Warden."

"You are the daughter of one. Eight long years I prayed to Andraste and the Maker for a child, Aeryn. Then you were born."

"The realm will not wait eight years. I know what will happen before that. The courtiers will whisper in Duncan's ear that he must find another woman to continue the Theirin line. I will not be cast out like a beggar. I will take my leave before it happens."

"But where will you go? What will you do?"

"I don't know, mother."

"Aeryn," said Leliana. "What of Duncan?"

The queen did not speak for a long moment. Then she wrapped her arms around herself and her eyes glistened with tears.

"I love him," she said quietly. "I do not want to leave him, but I have to. I cannot give him what he needs. What Ferelden needs."

Leliana drew her daughter close to her and let her sob on her shoulder. "Aeryn, listen to me. I know how important having a child means to you. To the both of you. But please do not do anything so brash as to leave in the middle of the night."

"I wasn't planning to," lied Aeryn.

"You must have patience my love," said Leliana. "I know it sounds difficult, but we do not run away from our problems."

"This is not a normal problem."

"Yet running away changes nothing all the same. Aedan and I had our miracles. It took a long time, but you came, and Dare soon after. You have to be patient."

"But the court -"

"Will have to deal with me," said Leliana firmly. "I have some small experience with whispers, as you may no doubt recall. And I do have a seat on the council. Maybe in time I can persuade Duncan to let you in. But I will stop any foolish talk of the king setting you aside dead in its tracks."

Aeryn smiled, wiping away a last tear. "Thank you mother. I'm being foolish."

"Maybe not entirely," said Leliana thoughtfully. "I see no reason why you shouldn't continue your swordplay. Albeit in a more secure place than this yard."

"Say true?"

"You have only ever known the iron dance, of hacking and hammering. I loved your father, but he was such an unimaginative fighter. That was his noble upbringing, I'd stake my life on it. Never could accept any other style as equal to his own."

"Mother?"

"I see you've learned the fundamentals of the water dance. Zevran, I take it?" asked Leliana, and Aeryn nodded. "Good. Much more suited for you. Aeryn dear, you are strong, but you will not be the strongest knight. Let me show you another way."

"You, mother?"

"And why not me? I have forgotten more swordplay than you ever knew," said Leliana, in such an affronted tone than Aeryn had to laugh.

Council Chamber

Royal Palace

Denerim

Leliana cast an irritable glance at the lengthening shadows in the room. After having breakfast with Aeryn, she had arrived for the Council meeting at noon sharp and had been waiting for a considerable length of time for the king to show his royal person. Although she did manage to make some headway in discussing the list of items in their agenda, they ultimately required the king's decision one way or another. And the longer he took his time, the longer the work would pile up.

There were a million things to get done. The coronation of a king did not end with the ceremony. Alliances had to be reaffirmed, letters to various monarchs had to be drafted and sent. The old skinflint Bhelen, always looking out for new opportunities to make himself richer. The reaffirmation of Ferelden's ties to Orlais. The calls from the Dalish keepers for greater autonomy. Ferelden had always been somewhat of a disunited land, bound only by shaky allegiances and the might of the Wardens, and there were few times as unstable as when a king was newly crowned.

Leliana had not wedded her daughter to the king only to have him lose the kingdom. She resolved to work to keep the realm running as smoothly as possible, by any means necessary.

She sipped from her goblet of pure cold water (disdaining wine when there was work to be done) and looked around the great table, where each member of the council was seated. If like her they were annoyed at the king's tardiness, they took pains not to show it.

Thornton Wilder, the Lord Commander of the Grey Wardens and the current Arl of Amaranthine sat across from her, staring straight in front of him in a dutiful silence. Her husband had thought him a colossal fool, but his perception had perhaps been clouded by the fact that Arl Wilder had gotten his great friend Shale the golem killed. Leliana had been in close contact with the man for some time now and had concluded that while he was no genius, he was far from being an idiot either. Arl Wilder had fought bravely in both the retaking of Denerim and the defense of Amaranthine, and was an able replacement for Aedan as Lord Commander. He took great pride in his status as a Warden, and was forever writing to her son Rolann to ask for his membership and support. Leliana found it rather amusing that she got along rather well with a man who rubbed both her husband and son the wrong way.

To his left sat Lina Traverse, the young mage who served the court and lent her voice on all things to do with magic. Selected personally by Rolann, she had long red hair, a slight build, and great magical talent like her son. Lina could be brash and hot-blooded, and didn't think twice about speaking her mind. Leliana sometimes privately wondered if Rolann had appointed her solely to annoy the rest of the council. Despite her headstrong ways however she had thrived on the small council, which signalled that she had a keen mind that could navigate the treacherous waters of the Denerim court politics with ease.

Lina was deep in conversation with Lord Bryand of House Marding, a dwarven noble and representative of King Bhelen. Having a dwarven ambassador in his court was one of Alistair's better ideas, who had always maintained strong links with the dwarves. Bryand was courteous and dignified but difficult to read. Leliana couldn't recall having had a long conversation with the dwarf. He was richly clad in green and silver, and wore a fine golden chain around his neck, on which was hung a dazzling emerald. House Marding did not lack for coin.

Speaking of coin, beside Bryand was the council's master of coin, a small nervous man named Bann Arctan Dimmesdale. The younger son of a minor Arl, Dimmesdale distinguished himself by running his brother's modest estates more efficiently than the drunkard could ever hope to have done. Noticing his capabilities, Queen Anora had summoned him to court and put him in charge of the royal treasury. Dimmesdale had arguably the hardest job in all of Ferelden, with his main headache trying to ensure that the kingdom's nobles paid their taxes on time.

Next to Dimmesdale was the elven ambassador, Keeper Mathias. Although hailing from Dalish lands, he worked tirelessly with the city elf magistrate to better the lives of his people, both in the forests and in the cities. With Alistair's support and influence he had mostly succeeded, and it was not uncommon to see elves serving in the king's armies or opening shops in Denerim and other towns. Mathias had a lordly air about him, and rarely spoke during councils, only offering his opinion when asked. This made him very popular with the others.

Beside Mathias was an empty seat. Normally this would have been Zevran's, as royal spymaster, but the king had seen it fit to dismiss the elf from his service following the death of the queen. Leliana thought that it was an ill decision, but one that Zevran had taken with his customary good grace. The alternative had been death for failing to protect the queen, until her daughter had stood up in his defence. Zevran had left quietly, and now no one knew where he was. Even sadder, no one seemed to care. Leliana wished she could see him again, the Antivan always seemed to know what was going on at any given time.

The sound of the chamber door being thrown open interrupted her thoughts and made her rise to her feet. The king had arrived.

Duncan walked into the room, still wearing black out of respect for his slain mother. It contrasted rather strikingly with his blonde hair and pale complexion. The king looked tired and frustrated, and did not offer a smile before bidding the rest of his council to take their seats.

Behind the king was another man, wearing black as well. He was bald with a black goatee, and his small dark eyes shifted continuously as he surveyed each of the council in turn. Leliana had never seen him before. He sat down in Zevran's seat and steepled his fingers together.

"This is Bann Rylon Garrett," said Duncan without preamble. "He is my new royal spymaster."

"His majesty has accorded me great honour," began Garrett. "I will make every effort to hunt down the person responsible for killing our beloved queen."

"You had better succeed," said Duncan ominously, and a little colour drained out of Garrett's cheeks. "What news do you have for me?"

Garrett launched into a long and boring ramble of all the many things he had done to seek out Anora's murderer while not actually making much headway. It took a great deal of time, and the other councillors were not consulted at all.

Finally Garrett was finished, and Leliana seized the opportunity to get the ball rolling.

"Your majesty, there are many matters that require your attention."

Duncan looked at her with faint displeasure.

"My mother's killer is still free within the borders of my kingdom, Lady Leliana. All other matters are secondary to me until he or she is brought before me in chains."

"I realise that, your majesty," said Leliana slowly. Carefully. "Yet Bann Garrett has finished his report, and there seems to be little we can do for the present moment."

Duncan still looked annoyed, but he gave a sharp, curt nod. Leliana silently thanked the Maker and moved on with getting some real work finished.

They were doing fine until Bann Dimmesdale mentioned something about hearing a rumour that Qunari sails had been sighted off the coast of Estwatch.

"A huge fleet, far larger than anything ever seen," said the master of coin anxiously. "The people say that Estwatch has fallen."

Duncan frowned. "Estwatch is a Free Marcher city. It has little to do with us. Even if this is true, let the Free Marches deal with the Qunari. We are too far south for them to attack, and I have other more pressing matters on my mind."

Leliana stirred. This was the first she had heard of a Qunari attack. "Your majesty, it may be prudent to send scouts to find out if Estwatch has indeed fallen to Qunari invaders."

Ser Thornton nodded. "Amaranthine is near the coast, your majesty. My wardens could sail there and give me a report."

"I'd sooner have them assist Bann Garrett," snapped Duncan. "Looking for news of a Qunari invasion is ridiculous. The sailors and fisher folk always spread ludicrous tales. Bann Dimmesdale, I'd rather you not waste our time with foolish talk."

"My deepest apologies, your majesty," said Bann Dimmesdale, turning red.

Despite the king's disregard Leliana still felt worried. Highever was on the coast as well, and Estwatch was just a few days sail away. Not that she seriously considered the possibility of a Qunari invasion, but she hadn't lived this long without being cautious. She resolved to talk privately to Ser Thornton and see about sending a warden or two over to Estwatch as soon as possible.

Brandel's Reach

Northern Ferelden

The days were long, slow and peaceful on Brandel's Reach, an island a little way to the north of Amaranthine. Named after King Brandel the Defeated, he who had lost his kingdom to the Orlesians, the island was a reminder of happier times. The king had visited the island once, the northernmost point of his realm, and a castle was built around the village where he had slept in his honour.

Other than the keep there wasn't really much else of interest on the Reach. Just fields and villages and hills where the shepherds grazed their sheep and a few plains where ranchers raised their cattle. Traders would sometimes stop by, but more often then not they would head onwards to either Amaranthine or Highever, where bigger marketplaces were situated. The islanders didn't mind. They were a private people, and tended to get few visitors.

Two knights on horseback cantered along at an easy pace along the coastal road, enjoying the breeze blowing in from the sea. The knights served Arl Stonewood, lord of the Reach, and were keeping an eye out for bandits. They wore mail shirts and had swords at their waists, but were otherwise unarmed and unarmored.

"Is there any ale left?" called the younger of the pair.

"None, you wine-sodden fool," shouted the elder over his shoulder. "At least, none for you."

"Give it up Beric, lest I'd be forced to hurt you."

"When that day comes Osric, I'll dig my own grave to save you the trouble."

Ser Osric Harrion laughed heartily. He had received his knighthood from the Arl barely two weeks back, and although he would never have admitted it, riding with his older brother as a fellow knight and equal was still something he was getting used to.

"What say you to a sparring match when we get back? Loser buys the winner all the ale he can drink in a night."

"Bad idea. I'd rather not take all your money."

"What makes you so sure you're going to win, Beric?"

"Even if Andraste herself handed you a flaming sword I'd still beat you hollow."

"Try me."

Ser Beric sighed theatrically. "I will grant your wish for a ripe crop of bruises and an empty purse, Osric. Let's return to the 'hold."

"Aye!"

Ser Osric dug his heels into his horse's flanks and sped onwards. But it was a few minutes before he realised he was hearing only one set of hoofbeats on the road. He looked behind him. Ser Beric had remained behind, staring intently at something on the horizon. Wheeling his horse around, Ser Osric went back to him.

"Changed your mind?"

Ser Beric didn't reply immediately. He had shaded his eyes with his hand, squinting at something. Ser Osric turned to see what it was had captured his attention.

"What's going on?"

"Can't you make out something out at sea? Look, just there."

Osric looked harder, straining his eyes. For a while he could see nothing but the wind and the waves. Then a black dot appeared on the horizon. Then it was followed by several more. Then even more, until it looked as though the entire horizon was filled with them. No matter how far he looked to his left or right, there was a dark shape. They were growing bigger.

Ser Osric's breath hitched in his throat. The shapes were unmistakeable, he'd seen far too many ships sailing past the Reach to think otherwise. But there were so many.

"A trading fleet?" he ventured nervously, scrambling for something, anything other than the cold and bitter answer that he knew in his heart to be true.

"Don't be a fool," said his brother softly. His eyes had narrowed, and his mouth was set in a thin, firm line. "Those are warships. We're being attacked."

"But how? By who?"

Ser Beric remained silent for a few minutes. Then his eyes grew wide.

"The diamond standard," he breathed in disbelief.

"What does that mean?"

"Only one race flies the diamond standard on their banners. The qunari."

"Qunari? Here?"

"We need to raise the alarm. We must ride with all haste back to Branhold. Then we need to send a message to Denerim. The king must be warned."

Beric kicked his horse into a gallop with a roar. Osric did the same. For too long he had wished for some action, some great and glorious battle that would take him far away from the sleepy little island he had lived all his life. Now it seemed the Maker had granted his wish, and the young knight cursed Him bitterly for it.

Shift

The qunari assembled in their neat rows on deck. They were arranged in order of seniority, with the highest ranked nearest to the side facing the land. There was not enough space on deck for all of them, and there was fierce competition among the men for a spot. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse, to be able to tell his comrades that he was there the moment the Arishok took his first step on Ferelden soil, not as an envoy, but as a conqueror.

The Arishok emerged from his cabin, straight-backed and regal in his armour. It did not gleam, although it was well-polished. It had taken far too many knocks, blows and cuts for that. Yet the Arishok refused to obtain a newer set. Likewise, the longsword he had strapped to his back was made of plain steel, without ornament of any kind. Yet the ordinary looking sword had cut a bloody swathe through a sea of darkspawn. The time had come where it would cut through the men and women of Ferelden just as easily.

The Arishok held in his hands a large flag, the standard of the qunari. He alone would have the honour of sinking it deep into the territory of the enemy.

He clambered on board the gunwale, a little off balance in his heavy armour, but doing so without assistance. Grasping the flag tightly, he crouched and leaped.

It was a long fall, and might have broken the legs of a human. But the Arishok was made of sterner stuff. He landed on his feet, and kept his balance. The qunari warriors watched and waited.

The Arishok turned around. He unwrapped the flag, and plunged it deep into the ground. The diamond standard of the Qunari fluttered in the breeze, the cloth slapping in the wind.

The Arishok drew his sword and thrust it into the air. He bellowed, and the roars of a thousand Qunari warriors filled the air. Seagulls took flight in their fright, putting some distance between themselves and the sound.

"I claim this land in the name of the Qun!" roared the old Arishok. "I claim this land for the qunari people! Their chantries shall be torn down, their mages shall be slaughtered, their knights and soldiers shall be cut down, and their commonfolk shall be made to walk the true path! From the Frostbacks to the Brecilian Forests, from Highever to the Korcari Wilds, all shall bend the knee to us! We will go forth, and conquer!"

He bellowed again, and the qunari answered in kind. If the Arl of Brandel's Reach had not spied their sails, he would have now been warned of the danger at his doorstep.

Branhold

Brandel's Reach

Arl Emmon Stonewood, the master of Branhold and lord of Brandel's Reach, paced restlessly round and round his great hall. Light from the fire and torches cast his shadow long and ragged upon the walls. The Arl was a tall, gaunt man, and his bald head was marked with liver spots. He had belted a sword to his waist, yet everyone knew he had not swung a sword since the Blight, well over twenty years ago.

His wife and daughters had already fled, clutching each other for comfort and sobbing on the way out. The oldest was a woman grown, the youngest still a babe. The Arl's only son and heir Davan had died during the same war, after which he swore never to take up a sword again.

He had done so now. The threat this time was not darkspawn – evil, foul twisted monsters – but qunari warriors.

Qunari. Arl Stonewood wanted to scream and rage at the injustice of it all. The Qunari had not moved south of the Tevinter Imperium for over two hundred years. They had not moved during the long years of his ancestors' reign, nor twenty years ago when he was a young man and strong, ready to take on an enemy and win.

He had lost his son, he had grown old, and now he cowered in his castle like a rat caught in a trap, as death marched in endless grey ranks, drawing ever closer to his walls.

His knights Ser Beric and Osric had ridden without pause to bring him warning, though there was little he could do. All the commonfolk within a few hours ride of Brandelhold had been roused by messengers and were told to make for the castle with all speed, and to bring whatever weapons they might possess. But deep in his heart of hearts, Arl Stonewood knew it was a futile gesture.

He had a bare retinue of fifty knights, led by Ser Beric. His household guard numbered two hundred, and half of that freeriders and sellswords and untrained boys. He could equip perhaps another hundred of the stoutest peasants, although he doubted more than one in ten could draw a bow.

A large standing guard had seemed like folly during the years of peace, for a quiet Arling like Brandel's Reach. Arl Stonewood had neglected his duties, ignored his family, instead brooding on his lost son and old wounds. He had not cared for the defense of the island or thought about war for a very long time. Now he was being forced back into the fray.

Less than four hundred against a qunari horde. Ser Beric could not know how many warriors there were, but he had seen the number of sails. If he had ten times the men, and again as many knights the qunari would have still overwhelm him.

He did not delude himself into believing he could win. A qunari invasion was something no Arl could withstand alone. He knew his duty. He had to get the message away to Denerim. The king had to be warned. Ser Osric had drawn the lot, and was now speeding away for the mainland. His wife and daughters lagged behind. Arl Stonewood prayed the Maker and Andraste to guide their steps.

Ser Osric had turned white as a sheet when he had drawn the lot. He had turned to his brother in shock, as if hoping something could be done about it. But Ser Beric's face had been as hard and cold as stone. Osric had been commanded by his liege lord to take the message. Even if that meant he would be the only one to survive while the rest at Brandelhold would be slaughtered.

Beric and Osric had clasped hands in the castle courtyard. There were no words. What was there to say? And if there had been a glimmer of something wet in Ser Osric's eyes, his Arl had not made mention of it.

Emmon had remained behind. The sight of their lord fleeing his holdfast would have induced a panic among the commonfolk that would have been impossible to quell. The qunari would not have needed to raise their banners before cutting them down. He remained behind to direct the defense, while his family left without him.

He did not fear death, on the contrary he had longed for it ever since Davan was killed. But he had to do his duty, by his family and by his king. And no matter how bitter the cup, Arl Emmon Stonewood had always drank it down.

He would make a stand. He would fight as well as he could. He would bloody the nose of the qunari invaders and take a few of them down with him. Maker willing he might kill someone important.

Then he would die, and see his son once more.

The Arl abruptly stopped his pacing and left his empty hall. He would not die like a rat caught in a trap. Better to feel the sun and wind one last time before Andraste claimed him for her own.

He walked along his walls, noting with detached approval that Ser Beric had been hard at work ever since he returned from his patrol on the coast, with barely a pause for breath. The castle's walls were fully manned for the first time in decades. Every man had been outfitted with mail and boiled leather from the stores, and each had a good longbow in hand. The Arl saw at once his resolve to remain behind at the castle was the correct decision. Some of the younger boys were looking terrified, but the fear softened as they saluted their liege lord. Emmon clasped some by the hand, muttered a few words of encouragement here and there. He envied their hope, their blind trust that somehow they would be able to survive to coming storm. As small and as faint as their own hopes were, it was more than what he could manage. Gradually he felt all feeling drain away from him little by little, until it was as though a dark, empty void sucked at his chest. Dimly he wondered if this was how Davan felt like before he died.

He descended from the battlements and strode across the courtyard, as stern and straight-backed as he could manage. A few feet away Ser Beric was barking some last minute commands to his men.

"Saddle the horses and suit up in your armour! I want every last pox-ridden whoreson on his horse with a weapon in hand before I return from the armoury! Donner, Blandel, check the gate again!"

"Ser Beric," said Arl Stonewood softly.

"My lord Arl," said Beric in surprise. He made to kneel, but Emmon stopped him.

"We are past common courtesies, good ser knight. Would that you walk with me for a moment."

"Of course, my lord," replied Ser Beric. He handed the reins of his horse to his squire and followed the Arl. Emmon led him up the stone steps all the way to the highest tower in silence. Only then did he speak.

"I was born in this castle, many winters past. Now I will die in it."

"Not if I can help it," said Beric grimly. The Arl chuckled.

"You were ever the best of my household guard, Ser Beric. You have served me well and faithfully all these years, when even the king himself would have offered you a place by his side."

"I remember the tournament," said Ser Beric, his features easing as he delved into memory. "I...think about it often, my lord."

"It is only natural. What a day it was."

"The roar of the Denerim commonfolk," said Ser Beric. "I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had never heard its like then, nor have I since."

"You unhorsed many a good knight that day, and outfought many more. Ser Cauthrien, Ser Darry...even that giant from Gwaren, Ser Bandon."

"Aye, he was a tough nut to crack. But Ser Artur was the hardest of them all."

"The Iron Knight, I do recall. What a fight that was!"

And so it had been. Ser Beric had fought with Ser Artur Wellsley for half a day, and no finer dance there was throughout Ferelden. Bards still sang of it sometimes. The wily veteran from unheralded Brandel's Reach hammering away at his famed opponent, the Iron Knight. Ser Artur had been given the name ever since he had fought darkspawn in his bare skin after having his armour torn off his body, and did not seem to feel the pain from the many wounds he was dealt. He had defended his modest keep near Gwaren almost singlehandedly against the darkspawn, an impossible feat that won him the king's favour and a high position in the royal army. He was a fearsome warrior, beloved of the royal court and had made quite a name for himself as a battlefield commander. Yet on that day it was Ser Beric Harrion who had proven his skill.

Beric had made as if to try for an overhead slash with both hands, then wrongfooted Ser Artur as he tried to ward off the blow. The Iron Knight had tumbled to the dirt and acknowledged the knight of Brandelhold as his superior.

Queen Anora herself had declared Ser Beric the winner, and hung a golden chain around his neck. Ser Beric had dedicated the win to the young daughter of the Highever Teyrn afterwards. A few eyebrows were raised, but truth be told he was exhausted and the Lady Aeryn had been seated nearest to him. He had then been congratulated by King Alistair, who had offered him a position with the royal guard. Beric had politely declined.

Ser Beric could see it all in his mind's eye. The rueful smile of the Iron Knight as he was helped to his feet. The smell of the queen's perfume as he knelt before her. The strong grip of the king and the warmth in his eyes. The blush that had flamed the cheeks of the Cousland girl when the rose was dropped in her lap. The taste of the wine and the meat at the feast afterwards. The songs the minstrels had sang for him, about him. No meal had ever been so sweet.

For a few moments it made him forget about his impending doom, that marched in great grey ranks and shook the ground when they walked.

Ser Beric looked askance at the Arl. "Why do you speak of that day, my lord?"

"I would know why you turned down the king. Comfortable as Branhold is, surely it cannot hold a candle to the splendour of Denerim."

"My lord, I..."

"Please. Grant an old man his wish."

"This is my home, my lord," said Beric finally, gesturing at the land spread out in front of him. "I have never known any other. I was not made for glory or songs, but a life of service to my liege. Brandel's Reach was where I was born, and I would do anything to protect her."

Arl Stonewood nodded. "Just as I thought. Thank you for your answer ser. Your faith and service have been more than any noble deserves."

"I swore an oath, my lord. I do not forsake it."

"As you should. Tell me, have my wife and daughters been seen to safety?"

"Two of my knights are escorting them to the mainland."

"And what of your brother?"

Ser Beric bit his lip. "He has the message. He will do his duty."

"I must confess ser. I had a hand in the lot drawing."

"My lord?"

"It was my wish that Ser Osric would take the message to Denerim."

Ser Beric's eyes widened as the full meaning of the Arl's words hit him. "My lord...truly? It was your doing?"

"Yes."

Ser Beric fell to his knees and kissed Arl Stonewood's hand. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you."

"You have done me great honour, ser. Osric is a good man, a young man. He should not have to share our fate. Saving your brother's life was the least I could do to repay you."

Ser Beric got up, and when he spoke his voice was cold and firm. Already he seemed taller, stronger, more fierce. Arl Stonewood had seen for himself the knight's struggle to contain his emotions when his brother was picked to fly to Denerim.

"Let the qunari come, my lord. Maker willing and by Andraste's grace we shall cut ten of them down for every man we lose."

"Maker help us all."

Shift

Few qunari were riders. They were seafarers and sailors, and in the far northern jungles of Seheron and Par Vollen there were huge spotted cats that could make a quick meal out of any pack animal. Being a naturally huge people, there were few horses who could bear their weight and still be trained for battle.

They would conduct this first stroke without cavalry. But they would not need cavalry against a target so badly defended.

The Warden King had not grown up under the thumb of a foreign oppressor, and Queen Anora rarely bothered to think about what was going on beyond the borders she ruled, if at all. Cousland would have not lain idle had he been on the throne, but Cousland had been content with his father's city and lands. Even the old hardbitten paranoid Loghain Mac Tir would have mounted a better defense than this.

Alistair had assumed all enemies were darkspawn, who would threaten the kingdom from the inside. The Warden King was lost far beneath the ground, but the Arishok intended to make his son pay dearly for that mistake.

"Sten," called the Arishok. "Report to me."

The young Sten ran up a moment later, already armed and armoured. He saluted.

"Arishok."

"Tell me what you see."

"A modest castle. Thick walls, but they should pose no trouble."

"And why not?"

"We'll make straight for the main gate instead. It seems a waste to wheel out the siege engines for such a weak target. In an hour's time I can have my karashoks bring down a few trees for battering rams."

The Sten was young, eager, champing at the bit to fly into battle, reflected the Arishok. That was not necessarily a bad thing, but his word still ruled and the Sten would bow to his wishes.

"Speed is a crucial element of war."

"Perhaps the most."

"But this war is different. It makes no matter how fast we take this island of Brandel's Reach, scouts are surely on their way to the capital by now."

"What are we waiting for then? We must stop them!"

"We have not brought mounts, and our quarry are likely to be ahorse," said the Arishok mildly, but something in his eyes made the Sten swallow his words and adopt a meeker demeanour.

"Arishok," he began, more carefully this time, "what was the flaw in my plan?"

"No flaw," said the Arishok. "But it was not the right one for the situation. We have brought many strong warriors with us, but we are a long way from Par Vollen and Seheron and it will be some time before we can be reinforced. The soldiers we have now will have to suffice, and we cannot fling their lives away so cheaply. Look at the gate."

The Sten did so.

"Now look closely at the way the overhang juts out over the entrance."

"I see it."

"There will be murderholes, for the castle defenders to hurl rocks, shoot crossbows and fling buckets of boiling pitch down on any battering ram crew we send. We will break down the gate, but the handful of warriors I will lose is too high. Not when we have catapults and trebuchets packed away on the ships that can be assembled in a night."

"Yes Arishok, but the messenger -"

"Is of little concern. I want him to bring word of our coming straight to the king. I know the measure of their defences and what strength they can muster on the field. It makes little difference whether he finds out today or on the morrow. Either way he will know fear."

The Arishok's manner suddenly turned cold, like a frost wind off the sea of Seheron.

"See to the siege engines, Sten. I have a castle to take."

"Yes Arishok!"

The Arishok watched and waited impassively as the siege equipment was carried off the ships and assembled on the plain in front of the Arl's castle, a process that took most of the night. High on the walls he could make out the defenders watching the great army that formed up before them. Even at this distance he could make out the device on their surcoats, a grey tree on a green field. Thanks to the reports he had received, he knew almost every Arl in Ferelden and the strength of the armed force they could summon. He knew that Emmon Stonewood was a tired old man and Brandel's Reach had few fighters of note.

He passed the time in silent contemplation of the Qun, as all around him his warriors yelled threats and banged their shields and prepared for the fight to come. All he did was for the greater glory of his people and the true path. There was nothing that could stand in his way.

Shift

"I yield, ser! I yield!"

The Arishok took a moment to smash his gauntlet into the face of a man-at-arms coming at him from his left. The blow broke bone and sent blood and teeth flying. The man staggered away, and was cut down by another qunari, who yelled with pride at the sight of the Arishok and leapt forward to his next opponent.

Only then did he look back at the fallen knight. The Arishoke had cut him so savagely it was a wonder he wasn't dead yet. His arm was hanging by a thread. Blood was pumping freely from it, staining the earth a dark red.

"I yield. Maker, I yield. Please!"

One look told him the man was about to die anyway. The Arishok's next blow swept the head from his shoulders, a quick death with little pain. The man's body stayed upright for a moment longer before crashing into the dust.

This was why he was born. This was what he lived for. Fighting was what he was meant to do. Past Arishoks had led from the back, commanding battles without ever getting their swords bloody. That would never do for him. Battle was a joy, the song of steel on steel, the cries of the dying and the stink of the dead. All in the name of the Qun.

Another knight on horseback charged at him, levelling the point of his lance directly at his chest. The Arishok barely had time to fling himself out of the way, and the knight rode past him and skewered a young qunari straight through the throat.

That could have been me, thought the Arishok dispassionately. It was not the first time he had avoided walking into the night lands, and it would not be his last.

The knight wheeled around again to try for a second pass, but before he could do so a crossbow quarrel thudded into the flank of his horse. Man and beast screamed together as the agonised horse threw him off. He hit the ground at a bad angle, twisting his ankle grotesquely. The Arishok strode up to him and drove Asala into his throat before he could say a word, avenging the qunari who had died for him.

Asala slid out, her point red and black with gore, and the Arishok looked to see who was next to die. The Arl's men were falling back, his qunari pushing ever onwards. They had breached his walls and were fighting in the courtyard. Light from both the torches and the moon flickered over the carnage.

The defenders were too few, too green. The knights had fought well, but they were up against the fiercest warriors in the world, his qunari ranks. They fought with implacable, unfailing discipline, without breaking formation or missing a step. They took five of the Arl's men for every qunari who fell.

The Arishok arrived at the huge doors that barred the way into the Arl's great hall. He called for a group of his qunari vanguard, and after what seemed like ages they smashed the thing down.

He had the good sense to order his warriors to immediately draw back once the door was down, and a storm of arrows and quarrels clattered uselessly against the stone wall. The Arishok then leapt through the barricade, Asala held high and gleaming.

The Arl had a group of five knights with him, and they hurled themselves at the qunari. The Arishok found himself in combat with a big knight, mailed and helmed. His surcoat was torn and bloody, suggesting that he had taken part in the defense of the walls and had retreated back to his Arl's side only when all seemed lost.

The knight's sword whirled, ringing against Asala as the Arishok was forced a step backwards, then another under the furious onslaught. He fought like a man possessed, trying to wedge his blade in a weak point of the Arishok's armour.

The Arishok blocked one cut, then another, but was thrown back as the knight smashed his oak shield against his breastplate. He staggered and fell on a table, the weight of his armour smashing it to splinters.

The knight swung his sword down, but the Arishok blocked it with his forearm out of desperation, not being able to get his greatsword up in time. It slammed into his plate but the armour held. If the knight had been but a little stronger the blow would have cut through even that, but he had been fighting for hours and his strength had finally given out.

The Arishok lashed out with a heavy steel boot directly into the knight's midriff, sending him sprawling backwards while he struggled to get up. They regained their balance at the same time, and the knight came forward again, striking out in desperation.

He was lucky, the swordpoint found a gap in his plate around the armpit and the blade bit into flesh, deeply but not fatally. A spike of pain shot through the Arishok, but he ignored it and swung Asala one handed. The steel greatsword he had carried since he was a child sunk into the knight's shoulder, scraping bone. He screamed, but he could not wrench free. The Arishok pulled Asala out and slashed again at neck height.

Only then did he allow himself to catch a breath.

"Where is the Arl?" he muttered.

"He's dead, Arishok," said one of his qunari. And so he was. Arl Stonewood lay on the floor, a spear in his chest and another one in his side. He had managed to kill one of his attackers before dying, the dead qunari warrior lying across his legs.

"No matter. We have no need of ransom," said the Arishok. He removed his greathelm and took another deep breath. "Is the castle ours?"

"Yes, Branhold has fallen. We hold the Reach."

We hold the Reach, thought the Arishok. The words sounded far sweeter than he could ever have imagined. Soon they would hold Amaranthine. Highever. Redcliffe. From the Frostbacks to the Forest. From the Waking Sea to Ostagar. And at last, Denerim.

The Arishok lived for the day where he could look over the stinking, bleeding corpse of the city he had once helped to save and hold it in the palm of his hand. All for the qunari. All for the Qun.