Alistair finished stoking the fire, the pops and whorls entertaining him. He was about to put the poker back, when he heard a few wild claps break from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he took in the small horde of children fighting for space on the royal rug.

It was somewhere in the dozen or so range, normally cause for terror to have so many in one place, but they were all stuffed full of roast duck and pickled chestnuts. With bellies overburdened from rich foods, and just enough sugared plums, or cherries, or whatever fruit they had around to keep 'em awake - the kids were ready for the next part.

"You like that?" Alistair asked, jabbing at the logs again. One hissed, its bark shredding as it tumbled to the stones. That deserved a few claps, some of the children inching closer. Okay, don't want any flambéed babies on Satinalia night. Tugging the screen back in place, he turned to gaze around at the adoring audience.

It was all wide eyes and sugar coated lips. Each of the babes were slipped into the same red and black plaid pajamas, the monotony of it making Alistair feel very over dressed. He plucked at the royal attire someone knotted and clasped around him, then frowned. Maybe he could get a set of those pjs if he asked nicely.

"We want the story," a little girl shouted. Her golden curls turned orange by the shifting firelight. Alistair smiled at her and she jammed her thumb in her mouth. In the other hand she clutched tight to a stuffed griffin. There were quite a few of them gifted this year, nearly all the children clinging to their newest toys.

Extending his hands wide, Alistair smiled, "All right. What is Satinalia without the story?" He tugged over one of the high backed chairs and moved to sit down in it.

Pausing, Alistair hefted the heavy crown off his head. He scrunched his nose up at the pathetic reflection - the man in it clearly unfit for such a thing. It was a wonder they didn't drag him out into the street, really. With a smile, he dropped it onto the head of the boy closest to him. Fingers coated in jams stumbled up to the crown, the kid smiling as Alistair fell into the chair.

From behind his back he pulled the book. Its pages were oversized, the font giant so anyone could read it, and there were some interesting illustrations done for each. They varied from more stylized, to fairytale, to hyper realistic. He wasn't certain who did them or when, but this was his favorite copy by far.

"The story," the first little girl began. She clapped her hands on her knees and started to rock back and forth. The others joined in, their tinny voices calling for the story.

Coughing into his fist, Alistair hefted up the book to show the drawing and began:

"'Twas the night before the siege, and all through the land,

Darkspawn were swarming, bloody swords in hand;

The creatures maimed, leaving none in their wake,

Their lust for torment could never be slaked.

The armies were scared, all trembling in their shoes,

Each head bent in prayer while fearing the news;

And there I stood, at the head of the crowd

Listening to the screams growing e'er loud."

He darted a finger to a drawing of a soldier with his head bent over in prayer. Far too close to be perspectively accurate was a hurlock's face. It seemed to be in pain, but the kind one suffers from having your genitals pressed by a brick. All of the children ooed and awed at it before Alistair turned the book back to continue.

"Their rot infested all, both home and friend,

What chance dare we have, thrust before the end?

All seemed lost, our doom certain as the sun,

When one stepped forward to get the job done."

The kids all gasped, their eyes widening even as one of the girls snatched the crown from the boy's head. She tried it on herself, the rim perched upon the edge of a pigtail. Coughing, Alistair drew back into the book. His heart pounded, the scent of darkspawn blood filling his nostrils. Damn thing would never go away.

"A set to her jaw, how her teeth clenched,

She dared to not let her heart fill with dread.

Striding through the ranks, helping them to cope.

For the first time we all felt it - hope.

Railing through the streets, we ran towards danger,

Brothers and sisters, none of us strangers.

Ogre's blood bubbled deep into the cobbles,

Her arm was steady, her heart never wobbled."

One of the kids shouted, "That's the hero!" before a dozen other tiny voices shushed him. But Alistair smiled wide at the crack. Yes, it was her, though she wasn't called that at the time. Neither of them were, just...wardens doing what wardens did. How times changed.

Shaking off the melancholy, Alistair threw on a smile and twisted the book back to the kids. There was a particularly good drawing of the Hero screaming her face off. He was really impressed with all the stink lines emanating from her head. Someone told him they were supposed to represent movement, but he remembered what they all smelled like while camping for a year. Baths were few and far between.

"When flying o'er our heads, wings beat the sky,

The dragon unleashed its fiery cry.

How the skin sizzled, the hair how it stank,

We all lost our nerve, if I'm being quite frank."

Gasps broke from the children, their eyes bulging as each mouthed the word "dragon." The latest to snatch up the crown was so shocked it plummeted from his fingers to the ground. That caused one of the nursemaids at the side to come dashing forward. She didn't yank the crown away, but placed it on the child's head for safe keeping.

"Yes," Alistair nodded, "scary times. Not for the faint of heart by any means." Not for any heart, but they got through it. They prevailed. Licking his thumb, he turned the page.

"But the Hero strode tall, refusing to bend,

She swore at Ostagar to see this to the end.

Lifting her head high, her bright eyes a cleanse;

Cupping her mouth she bellowed for her friends.

On Alistair, Zev, and Morrigan;

Leliana, Shale, and those with a plan,

Tonight the archdemon dies, the blight ends,

For Ferelden, to the void is where it rends."

All the kids shouted the names with him, in particular his own as if they found it funny. To think of that silly ol' King in a picture book, preposterous. They only made those about important people, and ducks. Very important ducks. Shifting higher in his chair, Alistair held the book out.

"Certain in her steps, her heart never in waver,

She turned towards Fort Drakon, our lifesaver.

Through the tow'r did we climb, monsters abound,

But the archdemon, it could not be found.

Upon the fort's roof, the Hero did stare,

Deep into the dragon's purplish glare.

Roaring to quake, three mages it roasted,

The dragon's prestige need not be boasted."

It wasn't heat but lightning that poured off of that thing, stinging the skin, turning his teeth to mush, and making everything smell like ash. How it'd swept over them, each beat of its massive wings nearly hurling them out of their shoes. Alistair did his very best to act brave, to try and save face, but when he spotted her he nearly lost all control.

She was grim, her cheeks wan. They fought the entire night up the tower, slaughtering hundreds of darkspawn, ogres, emissaries, and she didn't even blink. But with that giant lizard flying around breathing its purple lightning on them, she paused in terror. When she'd felt his eyes on her, she turned her head and the stupidest, most out of place smile lanced up her lips. With a shrug at him, she ran into the fray - Alistair quickly behind.

"Unmoored, unshaken, the Hero did charge,

Her head tipped back as the dragon grew large.

The blade bit deep into the dragon's scales,

I feared for a moment, what if this fails?"

"But it doesn't!" one of the kids shouted, needing to ruin the ending they all knew. The other children all shushed him again, some trying to whack into the boy with their stuffed griffins. Alistair waved a hand, attempting to get them to calm down and back into place.

"Come on, just a few more pages. We're getting to the best part," he insisted, watching as his crown circled somewhere near the back. He didn't really worry about it. If it was lost, oh no he'd no longer have to suffer a neck and ear ache from the damn thing. Such a shame.

Coughing into his fist, he turned the page and braced himself for the pain to rock his bones. This was one of the realistic pages, drawn to capture the moment her sword struck the archdemon. He had no idea what it looked like from the ground, being in the blast range and all, but he remembered the pain far too well.

"A fist hurled us back, bodies piled high;

I staggered up wondering, did she die?

Soldiers answered the cry with pain-filled moans.

Smoke curled around the dragon's stripped bones."

The kids were ensnared, all of them sitting on the edge of their pillows. Did she live? Did the mighty hero die along with her prey? What was the answer? Turning the page, Alistair smiled.

"Leaping through fog, I spied the Warden's face;

In the hero's story, she cinched her place."

A great slapping of tiny hands broke from his audience. He wanted to tell them the book wasn't over yet, but his tongue froze. Their eyes were wide in wonder, their heads high as if each of them was imagining their place amongst the heroes. As if each of them held the sword that slew an archdemon.

Alistair opened his mouth, about to read the last line, when a tiny body scurried towards his chair. The hands had to grip onto the back as the girl stood up on her tiptoes. With as much care as a 6 year old can manage, she placed the crown back upon Alistair's head. Nodding his thanks, he twisted the book around and read.

"Wiping off the blood she earned in the fight,

To darkspawn she cried, "Who wants some tonight?"

Every child formed the same fist Alistair did, waving it at imaginary darkspawn and threatening them. How they all scattered back into their holes, terrified of the one woman atop a tower challenging each to death. The book didn't talk about the after, the rebuilding, the funerals, the wondering what came next. This was a happy book with a happy ending, which the children all adored.

As he closed the cover, a few cried out, "Read it again!" He glanced back at the keepers and noticed quite a few stern looks. This was supposed to lull the children to sleep not get them riled up.

"Ah, how about tomorrow. Judging by the faces back there, I'm guessing it's past your bedtime. Want to be getting to sleep, lest Andraste finds out you were being naughty and steals your toys away." A few of the younger kids clutched tighter to their stuffed griffins, thumbs in place, but the older ones were catching wise to such a toothless threat.

Chuckling, the King rose out of the chair, his trick knee whining at the abuse. Ever since he fell upon it in the blast from the archdemon, it needed to be rested upon a pillow. After massaging into the offended kneecap, he bumped into one of the higher ranked nannies. Her arms were folded as she watched the lesser ones usher the children to trundle beds.

Soon there'd be dreams of sugar plums, lights, decorated trees, and swords stabbing dragons. Alistair turned from the heartwarming picture right into the folded eyebrows of the woman. "Yes?" he asked, trying to not fidget. Too many memories of his time in the templars roared back at him.

Not as if she could make him stand out in the rain with a bucket on his head reciting the chant of light. Right?

"Why that story?" she asked, her arms crossed right.

He twisted his beloved book around in his hands, "The kids like it."

"But it's Satinalia, a time for merriment. Shouldn't you read them something light and happy."

Alistair frowned a moment, "This is happy. We win, the darkspawn lose."

"It's rather violent for children," she chided.

"The world is rather violent to children," Alistair added back, causing her to purse her lips. Shit, it's the ruler against knuckles next. "I read it because if it weren't for this, this actual story, they," he waved his hands to the young crowd who'd never known the blight, would never have to, "wouldn't have a Satinalia to celebrate."

If not for one stubborn as hell woman striding across the country, building an army, and lunging at the archdemon with a shrug none of them would be around to celebrate anything. It was the happiest damn book he had in his library. The nanny remained less than pleased with his answer, but she scuttled off to assist with tucking the children to sleep.

Alistair's lungs filled with the air of hearth - of happy times, of golden memories, of silver promises. He never knew this kind of celebration as a boy, nor as a young man, which made him try extra hard to make certain as many children as he could had a good Satinalia. Walking towards the door, his hands drawing over the cover of the book, he paused.

"Happy Satinalia to all," he called back to the children. Their heads perked up a moment, nannies following suit. Raising his fist, Alistair shouted to the roof, "'Who wants some tonight?'"

Every child shouted back, their blood pumping with vigor. Three adult women glared at Alistair as if they intended to rip him limb from limb, but he'd already skipped off down the hall, his laugh echoing against the sword that slew an archdemon.