This chapter is more about the other young versions of characters we encounter later then about Eamon and Alistair. I just couldn't resist having a glimpse into their thoughts and lives after getting them all conveniently gathered together in one place like this. The update kind of ran away from (or with!) me and is rather lengthier then I originally thought it would end up. Enjoy!


Vaughan frowned as he looked across the room at the small group of older teens talking together and enjoying themselves in the corner near the fireplace. Cailan and Anora sat at the centre of the little group, Anora composed, back properly upright and hands clasped in her lap, an amused smile quirking her lips as she listened to whatever tale Cailan, seated to her right, was telling that had them all so enthralled. Fergus was on the second bench, to Anora's left, leaning back, long legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest, a grin on his face as he too listened. Nathaniel was next to him, sitting cross-legged on the bench, whittling on something, a frown of concentration on his face as shavings of wood fell to litter his lap and the bench and floor around him. Then he looked up for a moment, hands dropping laxly to rest on his knees while he listened to Cailan speak, a sudden brief smile lighting his face before he shook his head in disbelieving amusement and returned to his whittling. Even Oswyn, just a year older then himself, was over there, lying sprawled on the floor to Cailan's right, all gangly limbs and too-big hands and hair sticking up in all directions like an exploded haystack, clearly accepted by the others as part of their group.

He was of age now, fourteen, old enough to marry if he and his father wished it, and he was stuck over here with the little kids. It just wasn't fair. He turned his back on the gathering, looking sullenly at his own companions. Habren had been looking more then half asleep for a while, and he wasn't surprised to see she was gone now, carried off by her nursemaid for a nap, leaving him with just Thomas and Delilah. He frowned. This was boring. And it was his special day today, he shouldn't be bored, not when they were all here because of him.

"I'm bored," he muttered, knowing his parents would not approve of him saying so in front of their guests. It was bad of him to do so, he knew. Little boys – young men, he reminded himself – should be polite and pleasant and quiet at all times, and never, ever complain. A rule his father always upheld, punishing him the few times he'd ever accidentally or intentionally broken it. The thought of his father's displeasure if he had heard those two simple words made him feel scared and racked with guilt for a moment. And then, as he realized that there was no way his father could know he'd said them, an illicit little thrill, at getting away with something bad.

"What?" Delilah asked, looking up at him curiously.

He bit his lip, not quite daring to repeat the words. Then, to his shock, Thomas used the very words he had a moment before.

"I'm bored," Thomas said. "Isn't there anything fun we could do?"

Vaughan blinked, secretly shocked – and again, feeling that secret thrill – at the boy's complaint. Especially when Delilah seemed to think nothing of it, but just frowned in thought, then shrugged. "We could play outside?" she suggested. "Make a snowman?"

Thomas and Vaughan exchanged equally disgusted looks. Making a snowman - that was what kids did, not young men and older boys. Vaughan graciously decided that he would accept Thomas as being a young man too, not just a boy, even if he was still a half year shy of also being of age.

"We could throw snowballs," Vaughan suggested, then hastily clarified. "At a target. Not each other."

Thomas nodded, and the two rose to their feet and left the room, Delilah trailing along after them.


Anora fought to keep her face composed. It was hard, with all four of the boys seeming determined to make her blush. Even young Osywn had joined in on it, though he was blushing much more at his own gently teasing words then she ever would. Really, you'd think the four – Cailan, especially – would remember who her father was, and suspect that she was not some easily flustered, sheltered, shrinking violet of a noblewoman.

Cailan was the worst of the group, precisely because he knew her so well. It was the hardest to keep her expression placid when he began teasing her. And then, under cover of leaning forward, voice dropping low as he told some particularly salacious bit of his current story, he slid his hand down behind her, cupped his hand around her lower ribs, and tickled her. She sat bolt upright and gasped, then turned red with anger, which of course the other three interpreted as a blush, not anger.

She rose to her feet, and turned a cold gaze on Cailan. "Enough of this," she told him. "I think we are wasting too much of a fine day sitting around indoors, talking."

Cailan grinned as he rose to his feet. He suspected what was going to come next, even if the other three, who knew her less well, didn't. "And what does my lady suggest?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit. "Weapon's practise."

Cailan's eyebrow rose just slightly. "I fear my armour is all at the palace," he said. "And my weapons."

"Never fear, I am sure you can locate suitable practise armour and weapons in Arl Urien's armoury," she pointed out coolly. "Or you can send a servant for your own things. I will see you all out in the practise yard in half an hour, my lords," she added, giving all four young men a commanding look before sweeping out of the room, clearly expecting them to obey her suggestion.


Cailan knew Anora well enough that he did send a servant running over to the palace for his armour, a simple set of heavy steel chainmail that his father had said they'd have to replace with his first set of real plate soon, once he stopped growing up and out so alarmingly quickly. His growth did seem to have slowed significantly over the last few months, so he had hopes to be in plate mail before next Wintermarch. Maybe even by summer.

Nathaniel and Fergus both had their own armour and arms here, and headed off to their suites to change, while Cailan took Oswyn to the armoury and helped him select and change into a set of splintmail. "You're almost as tall as I am already," he observed, looking the boy over. "Once you've put on some muscle you're going to be formidable."

Oswyn grinned. "So my father tells me," he said agreeably. "He keeps reminding me that I need to fill out as well as shooting up. I keep telling him I will, just as soon as my body decides to stop turning food into additional height."

Cailan laughed. His manservant arrived with his own armour just then, and the two of them helped him to arm as well, then Oswyn selected a sword – a good-sized two-hander, which he handled as easily as if it was little more in size then a longsword. He might be skinny still, but he was certainly fit. Cailan tried to picture him a few years older, filled out to match his height, with a weapon like that, or worse... frightening!

They headed out to the practise yard, and found Fergus and Nathaniel already there waiting for them, Fergus in heavy chain with his sword and a light shield bearing the Highever crest, a helm under one arm, laughing as he talked to Nathaniel. Nathaniel was leaning against the wall, a tolerate smile on his face, a pair of daggers slung low on his hips, hands clasped loosely around an unstrung bow stave. Cailan momentarily envied the two their obvious friendship; he had no really close male friends. Not like that, anyway. Fergus and Nathaniel were building on an existing friendship of their father's, and had the added closeness brought by the knowledge that Nathaniel would some day be Fergus' vassal.

A scuffing sound in the passageway from the house made the four turn to look. Anora emerged into the wan winter sunshine, dressed in dark, tight-fitting leathers, a long sword and dagger at her hips, a strung bow across her back, hair neatly up in the coiled braids she preferred when wanting her otherwise quite lengthy hair out of the way. Cailan grinned, little doubting from their expressions that at least two of the other three had not realized she intended to practise with them, not just watch – Fergus, at least, perhaps due to his own mother's martial reputation, looked very little surprised at the sight of her in armour.

"Well, gentlemen?" she said. "How shall we begin?"


Nathaniel had been surprised at first to see Anora as armoured as they were, but it took only a thought to remind himself of whom her father was, and realize that of course she'd be reasonably well-trained in the fighting arts. By the almost idiotic grin on Cailan's face, the prince had expected her to show up dressed like this, and was enjoying the surprise to himself and to Oswyn. Fergus might have been surprised as well, he supposed, but if he had been, he covered it well. Much better then Oswyn, who'd frankly gaped upon seeing her.

He straightened up. "Archery first," he suggested. "Our aim will be better when half of us aren't exhausted from dancing around in heavy armour."

Anora nodded, eyes lighting. "Good point. Though it would also be interesting to see who can still shoot accurately when tired from fighting, though I fear you and I would have the advantage there."

The others agreed, and there was a brief wait while Fergus, Cailan and Oswyn went and found themselves suitable bows from the armoury. While they did so, Nate and Anora checked that the archery butts were dusted free of snow and well-aligned, and paced off a series of lines in the snow from which everyone would shoot.

As the others rejoined them, Nate strung his bow, smiling at the familiar feel of the tension in the smooth wood. The five lined up along the first mark, selecting arrows and eyeing their targets. Nathaniel, anchoring one end of the line, glanced at the faces of the others as they prepared.

Oswyn was to his right, looking nervous. His grip on the bow was wrong, and it was a little too short for his height – the boy must be getting more training in sword work then in archery. Unsurprising, perhaps, given the size he seemed to be growing into.

Fergus stood beyond him, thoughtfully trying the pull on the unfamiliar bow, a slight frown on his face. Probably missing his own bow, Nate decided, well-knowing what a wicked archer the man was.

Cailan was next to him, still grinning cheerfully, and paying more attention to Anora then to his bow or the target, though at least he was handling it with reasonable skill and confidence.

Anora was pointedly ignoring Cailan's continued prattle, eyes coolly appraising the target, bow held in her hands as naturally as if it was an extension of herself. Dalish make, Nate thought, eyeing it enviously. But then, Loghain had been the commander of the infamous Night Elves, and their Teryn was heavily forested, likely home to several clans of the wandering elves; if anyone would have the contacts to acquire one of their bows, it would be Loghain.

When they all finally took their three shots, Nate wasn't surprised that he and Anora were closest to their bull's eyes. He was surprised that Cailan was the third-best shot, his three covering a slightly smaller area, closer to the mark then Fergus had managed. He suspected Fergus would have done better if he'd had his own bow, instead of one from the armoury. Oswyn had missed the butt entirely on his first shot, and his two subsequent shots were wide-spread, one near the edge of the outermost circle, the second almost in the bull's eye, but obviously by chance, not skill.

He retired to the sidelines, and the remaining four moved back to the next mark, and did another round of shots. Again Nate and Anora were best, but Fergus and Cailan were so close that they had to have the two fire a second round of three shots before deciding that Fergus had the tighter cluster. Cailan grinned and good-naturedly retired to the sidelines as well.

The next round was of course handily passed by Nate and Anora, Fergus going over to stand with Oswyn and Cailan as they watched the two drop back to the next mark.

They tied, their clusters so tightly packed around the bull's eye that it was impossible to say which was better.

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at Anora, meeting her amused smile, and solemnly dropped back another few paces in the snow. She nodded and did the same. Again they shot, and again they tied.

Anora was grinning now, the first time he'd seen her with so much expression on her face. "One arrow each," she said challengingly as they paced off another few steps. Nate nodded.

He was especially careful in choosing this arrow, as was Anora, both of them taking their time. The other three watched them in utter silence. Finally they set arrow to string, raised bows almost in unison, pulled... the faint snap of bowstrings releasing might have been a single sound, the thud of their paired arrows sinking in the targets the same. Nate drew a single long breath as Cailan bounded over to examine the targets, the other two following behind him. Heard Anora's matching inhalation, and exchanged a momentary look of perfect understanding with her.

The boys looked back and forth between the butts a couple of times, before Cailan turned, grinning happily at the pair of them, still standing at the far end of the yard, bows in hands. "Nate," he decreed in a carrying voice. "Your arrow is more fully in the eye then Anora's – though it's still damned close to even, and would have been heartshots both against a real target."

They nodded, and unstrung their bows in companionable silence.


Fergus frowned slightly as he faced off against the younger boy. The biggest danger in their spar, he judged, would be allowing for Oswyn's inexperience, so that he neither hurt nor was hurt by the boy. For all his size and the apparent ease with which he was wielding his massive weapon as he swung it through a series of warm-up moves, Oswyn was four years his junior – closer to five, really – and only just getting past the worst of the awkwardness from his recent growth spurt. Fergus would have preferred to spar with one of the other three, but he thought it was best that the most experienced fighter be partnered with the least experienced. Besides, he'd trained against several quite good two-handed fighters already, and he wasn't entirely sure if Cailan, the only other one of them in suitably heavy armour, ever had. And he certainly didn't want to have either Nate or Anora facing that vicious blade with nothing but light leathers between them and it.

So Cailan was sparring with Nathaniel, while he took on Oswyn, and Anora sat this round out. He found himself feeling absurdly conscious of her gaze. Perhaps because he had so little opportunity to interact with female nobles his own age; between the occupation and the rebellion, and the years of mopping up even after the rebellion had turned so decisively against the Orlesians at River Dane, there was a decided dearth of noble children their age in Ferelden, and as chance would have it, they'd run largely to boys.

His father had already let him know that he would not object in the least if Fergus came home from his upcoming travels with a bride in tow – he'd have little enough choice of brides here in Ferelden, after all. Not unless he wanted to wait into his twenties or even thirties for the girls in the next generation or two to grow up to marriageable age, or marry a commoner. Which father had also said he wouldn't fight Fergus on if that was what Fergus someday decided he really did want, though he did point out how politically unwise it would be for one of the second-most-powerful families in the kingdom to completely ignore the few unattached noble females of the right age. Better foreign then common; their neighbours were less likely to choke on it. At least as long as she wasn't both foreign and common, that would likely be rather too large a bite for them to swallow.

Realizing his mind had been wandering, Fergus sharply pulled it back to the present.

"Finished your warm-ups?" he asked Oswyn. The young man nodded, and they took up their stances, Fergus just slightly crouched behind his shield, long sword held warily out just a bit to the right, Oswyn balanced on the balls of his feet, sword cocked up over his left shoulder, casting a wary look over his opponent.

Fergus shifted his feet just a little, moved his sword just the slightest bit out of line, inviting attack. Without his facial expression changing in the least, Oswyn exploded into motion. Fergus bit back a curse as he fended off sword with sword and shield, before back-pedalling out of Oswyn's range. He'd underestimated the man's skill – he was fast, too. Perhaps this fight was going to be rather more challenging then he'd thought it would be. He felt a grin crossing his face as he moved to the attack, saw a matching grin crossing Oswyn's face. After that, all that mattered was the fight, as swords and shield clashed and rang, sometimes drawing grunts or gasps of effort from the two.


Oswyn felt carefully at his lip.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Fergus asked, frowning down at him.

Oswyn checked his fingertips. A little blood, but nothing to worry about. He'd probably have a spectacular bruise later. It could have been much worse; when his foot had skidded on the snow-slicked cobbestones that way, sending the two of them crashing together, he'd been scared spitless that one or the other of them would skewer the other with their sword. Thankfully Fergus had managed to bat his descending sword aside, though it had thrown him enough off-balance as well that he'd had to throw out his arm to the side, the end result of which had been the edge of Fergus' shield clipping him in the mouth. Really, a split lip was a more then satisfactory end, compared to how it might have turned out.

"I'm okay," he said, realizing Fergus was still waiting for an answer. "Just a little shaken."

The older man nodded, looking relieved, and held out a hand, pulling him to his feet. They moved over to the sidelines, joining Nate, who'd already finished his spar with Cailan, and watched Cailan and Anora sparring.

"She's better with a bow," Nathaniel said after a couple of minutes.

Fergus grunted agreement. "Not bad with blades, either, but you're right, bow is more her weapon. Cailan's getting overconfident though, I'll bet she... ah, there she goes," he finished, sounding satisfied.

Oswyn couldn't follow what happened then, it was faster then he could make sense of, but it ended with Cailan flat on his back, laughing, sword halfway across the yard, and Anora's blade pointing at his throat. "Yield," she said, clearly.

Cailan grinned up at her. "I yield," he said agreeably.

A slow clapping made all five of them jump. They turned, to see that at some point they'd acquired an audience – King Maric and Teryn Loghain, the King looking amused, Loghain looking at Cailan with a rather dour expression. It was Loghain that was clapping. "Bravo, my prince," he said acidly. "You have once again fallen to my daughter's blades. I was quite sure I'd demonstrated the counter to that move sufficient times that even you should be able to remember it by now."

Cailan bounced to his feet, grinning unrepentantly. "I'm afraid her beauty distracts me far too much, my lord," he said. "I get lost in her flashing pretty blue eyes, and the next thing I know, I've lost to her flashing blades as well."

Cailan gave Anora a theatrical bow after completing this bit of flattery. Oswyn bit back a bark of laughter as Anora and Loghain gave the prince equally disgusted looks, and bit his lips, looking around to see Fergus' eyes glinting with amusement, and Nathaniel looking especially poker-faced.

"Then perhaps you need to practise it more against someone whose blue eyes will not distract you, my Prince," Loghain said, voice wintery, and drew his own longsword. "Anora. Lend me your dagger."

Anora wordlessly offered the dagger to her father, so that he was armed as she'd been, then walked over to join the others on the sidelines. Cailan looked nervously at Loghain, then at his father. Maric just grinned at him, shaking his head, and walked calmly over to stand with the youths.

Prince Cailan's face lost its usual lighthearted smile, a much grimmer, warier expression settling over it as he faced off against the Teryn.

"Errr... shouldn't your father put on armour first?" Oswyn worriedly asked Anora. It being a social occasion, the teryn was dressed in light clothing, not armour.

"He doesn't need it," she said confidently, eyes shining as she watched the pair. "Not against Cailan, certainly."

King Maric snorted in amusement, grin widening at her words, then nodded in agreement before turning his attention back to the pair.

The spar started off slowly, the two circling slowly, making little movements with sword, dagger, or shield, but not actually attacking. Not yet. A silence settled over the yard, broken only by the squelch and scuff of their boots across the slush-covered stones of the pavement.

"Whenever you're ready," Loghain drawled.

Cailan exploded into movement. Oswyn could only follow some of his moves, but Loghain countered all of them easily, fending off sword and shield with careless grace.

"No, boy, with the edge, not the flat," Loghain said after a moment. "And your shield is drifting out of line. Higher. Not that high," he corrected sharply, even as he dropped and struck out, sword in right hand lifting to deflect Cailan's descending sword while the dagger in his left hand flicked out across his body and under the lower edge of Cailan's shield before the prince could bring it back into position. Cailan yelped and backpedalled hurriedly, Loghain instantly switching to the attack, forcing him back several more times before Cailan finally recovered the initiative. The entire time, his voice continued, in the same dry, level tones, critiquing the Prince's performance, giving out advice, criticism, correction and praise as due, without sounding even the slightest out of breath. Cailan, in his heavy armour, was breathing as loudly as a bellows.

It made Oswyn wish he knew more of fighting, could really understand the fight he was watching. The more experienced fighters – Maric, Fergus, Anora – were watching avidly, muttering to themselves occasionally as Cailan or Loghain made some especially brilliant move, or Cailan made some especially stupid one.

"That's better," Loghain said approvingly. "You countered it properly that time. But can you do it a second time, my Prince? Good, very good. Perhaps you might actually last five minutes against the next fighter you face who has pretty eyes," he said, then made a flashing series of moved that ended, as it had with Anora, with Cailan flat on his back, disarmed, and with a sword at his throat, his face bright red with a combination of breathlessness and anger. "Or perhaps not," Loghain said, sighed, and sheathed his sword, before turning and strolling over to offer the dagger back to his daughter. She was grinning again as she accepted it and sheathed it.

King Maric smiled pleasantly at them. "Don't take too long to come back in," he said. "We'll be lunching shortly, after which it will be time to present young Vaughan with his gifts. Come, Loghain," he said, and turned, walking back toward the entrance.

"Of course, my king," Loghain said, turning and following him away, without a single backwards glance at where the Prince still lay on his back in the slush.

"Are they gone?" Cailan asked a moment later.

"Yes," Fergus replied.

Cailan started cursing, slowly sitting up as he did so, moving as if he was tired and sore – hardly surprising after three spars in a row, especially with how vicious that final one had been. Oswyn was shocked at how vile some of the words he used were, and glanced nervously at Anora. She had her usual calm expression on her face, but allowed a slight smile to cross it as she caught his look. "Don't worry," she reassured him quietly. "I taught him most of those. I've been exposed to far more barracks-room language – and stories – in my life then he ever has been," she finished, a surprising twinkle in her eyes.

Oswyn watched in shock as she walked over and gave Cailan a hand to his feet. If she knew those sorts of words and stories, then whatever was it in Cailan's rather mild story earlier that had made her blush...!

"Come on, we'd better head back indoors and get cleaned up and changed," Fergus said. "How's the lip, Oswyn?"

"Oh, errr, it's fine," he stuttered, realizing he'd completely forgotten it while watching the fight. He fell in behind the others, wondering if he'd ever be as fine a warrior as Teryn Loghain obviously was.


Delilah added another snowball to the pile. Thomas and Vaughan had decreed that since she was a girl, and no good at throwing snowballs, that her proper role was to make the snowballs for them to throw at the target. She didn't mind, she liked having things like that to do, where she could think about whatever she liked while her hands did something.

What she was mainly thinking of right now was the snow itself. How beautiful and white it was when it first fell out of the sky. How many different shapes and sizes of snowflakes there were. How cold it was. How many different types of it there was – soft new-fallen snow, light and fluffy snow, hard-packed snow, snow that lay on the ground in little round pellets, snow that made odd squeaking sounds underfoot when you walked on it. And this kind of snow, her favourite snow, was a little wet and stuck together very well, even if it did soak through her skirts and stockings very quickly and make her hands red with cold.

Thomas and Vaughan had picked a spot on a tree trunk as a target, and thrown snowballs at it for a while, before they started arguing about who had hit the target most closely and then given up on snowballs and gone somewhere else. They hadn't told her to stop making snowballs though, and she liked being out here in the silence and the cold, so she kept making them, making small stacks of them, and lines of them, and very small snowmen out of them. A whole city, made of snowballs, inhabited by snow people, going about their cold white snow lives.

"Delilah! You're soaked!" a familiar voice exclaimed.

She looked up and smiled at her nurse. "I'm cold," she said complacently, even as her busy hands made another snowball.

Nurse snorted. "No surprise that, with you kneeling out here in the snow this way! Come, let's get you indoors and warmed up and changed into something dry – it's almost lunch time, little miss."

"All right," she said, contentedly, rising to her feet and taking her nurse's hand. She liked nurse. She was going to miss her, when Nurse left – but she was thirteen now, and her mother had decreed that it was time she graduated from a nurse to a lady's maid.

She glanced back once as they left, looking at her snow city, and the snow people, and hoping they wouldn't be lonely now that she'd gone.


Thomas and Vaughan wandered down a hallway, occasionally stopping to peer into open rooms. It was the part of the manse where the guards lived, so most of it was martial in nature – barracks, an armoury, the soldier's mess. They left the closed doors strictly alone, knowing dangerous things might be behind them – mabari hounds, or sleeping guards.

They were eyeing the open door to the kitchen off of the mess hall when a tall skinny man in drab dark clothing swept into the room and spotted them. "Master Vaughan," he said, sounding disapproving. "You shouldn't be wandering around in the guard's quarters. Come, it's time for lunch, and then your party."

Vaughan nodded. "Yes, Faro," he said.

Faro bowed slightly to Thomas. "If you too could accompany me?" he suggested politely, then turned and walked away, the two boys falling in behind him.

"Who is he?" Thomas whispered, nodding at the man.

"My tutor," Vaughan said, scowling faintly at Faro's back.

Thomas was impressed. A tutor! He didn't have a tutor of his own, just lessons daily with Sister Agrippa, along with his brother and sister and the children of some of the more highly-placed servants and guards.

The tutor led them back to the great hall, now set up for a midday meal. The adults sat at one end of the lengthy table, the children in the middle, and the higher servants and guards who were being permitted to attend at the foot. Thomas found himself between his brother and sister, with Habren across from him, the nurses of both girls at their sides. He didn't feel like talking to the girls – especially Habren, who was still just a baby, really, but Nate and the boy across from him – Oswyn, Thomas remembered, Bann Sighard's son – were busy talking to each other and paying him no attention at all.

"You should try a longbow," his brother was saying earnestly to Oswyn. "With your height, and the strength you're likely to grow into, you'd be able to draw a very strong one."

Oswyn frowned. "I like being in a melee more then making ranged attacks," he said.

Nate shrugged. "Sure, but a sword is only good against an enemy close enough for you to use it on. If you find yourself on lower ground, with someone casting arrows down at you from atop a height, or across a river from you, what are you going to do – throw it at them? More, if you have a longbow, you could easily get several shots off at someone from when they first come into effective bow range to where you need to switch to your sword, and that can make the difference when you have several people charging you at once."

Oswyn nodded thoughtfully. "I'll look into it," he agreed.

Thomas tuned out their conversation. Weapons. That was all Nathaniel ever seemed to want to talk about – weapons, and armour, and horses. He concentrated on his food instead, enjoying the smells and textures and tastes, taking careful sips of the watered win in his cup, enjoying the way its tartness made his mouth feel.

After the meal was cleared away, and the seating rearranged, there came the presentation of gifts to Vaughan. Thomas watched enviously as his friend received his gifts, wishing it was his special day instead – even if a lot of them were things he didn't care for, they were so beautiful.

A gift from King Maric and Prince Cailan came first, a gorgeous bay horse from the King and finely tooled leather tack for it from Cailan. The horse, brushed until it shone, was led right into the room, hoofs clopping noisily on the stone floors, for the boy to admire before it was taken back outside and to the stables. Then a gift from the Couslands – a beautiful pair of daggers, with sheaths and a weapons belt in the Kendells' colours. Loghain and Anora presented him with a sword, and a tunic worked with his family's crest, gold embroidery winking around the neck opening and lower hem. Arl Eamon had a beautiful puppy for him, a silvery-grey sighthound that was thrown from his best bitch, he said, and Thomas' own father, Rendon, gifted Vaughan with some fine riding boots and a jacket of stiffened leather, dyed in his colours. Arl Bryland had a small but well-made bow and a quiver of arrows for him, and Bann Teagan, the least of the nobles in attendance, had a cloak for him, of heavy woolen cloth trimmed with wolf fur and lined with silk.

Then of course the boy had to be taken off by his tutor, and changed into all his new clothes, and they went out to the stable yard and watched him parade around in them before being helped to mount his new horse, sitting proudly but a little nervously on it – it was considerably taller then the pony that had been his previous mount – as it was led around the yard on a rein by the stable master himself.

After that the party broke up again, everyone wandering off to rest or socialize until the final entertainment that night.