Y is for Yield
This will end in one of two ways, because there are only two possible endings: a crown on her head, or her head on a spike.
Cailan is dead and the darkspawn are coming; the countryside burns in a wide swath from Ostagar north to Lothering and beyond. The bulk of Cailan's army- her army, now, with no one left to lead it- lies slaughtered, full four out of five dead in the battle and half of the survivors blight-infected and put to the sword.
Except for Father's soldiers, of course. Father's soldiers are hale and hearty, and ring the palace and the city in neat ranks.
The darkspawn march ever northward, but she will need protection sooner, and from another foe.
The last Grey Wardens are coming, Father says, to murder them both as they already murdered Cailan, to usurp her reign and to return Ferelden to Orlesian control. They must be prepared.
"But why, Father?" She stands at the window and looks out over the horizon. "The Grey Wardens, allied with Orlais? Duncan was always a friend to Cailan."
"And to Maric before that, since he ended their exile." Father sighs. "I can only imagine that the Orlesians bought his loyalty. Why else would he conscript Maric's bastard from the Templars, if not to put a puppet king on your throne?"
Anora grips the windowsill until her fingertips go pale. "It isn't mine! I'm a dowager queen now; I'll keep my title, perhaps my rooms, and when I die they'll put my urn next to his. I can't-"
He turns her around to look at him, one hand on each side of her face. "You must."
"I can't, Father. Cailan is dead, and we've no fit king to replace him. I cannot fight two wars at the same time."
Father bends, a little, until his forehead rests against hers (in the way he used to do when she was very small, so many years ago, but in those days he would kneel and she would stand on her tiptoes, balancing her hands against his chest). "Indeed. But I know of a queen who is more than suited to rule, and if she does not fight this usurper she will have no kingdom to defend from the darkspawn."
She closes her eyes.
"Anora." His voice fills her ears, drowning out the clatter of boots on the battlements. "Did Cailan make a single decision, in all the years he was king, without consulting you?"
"He never asked me about his whores, I suppose." She chokes back the laughter that rises, unbidden and inappropriate, and shakes her head. "But the things that mattered... he sought my counsel, always."
"And now, when you no longer must offer counsel, but govern as queen," Father releases her, "you doubt yourself? Would you truly yield the power you hold to bastards and Orlesians?"
She opens her eyes. "No, Father."
"Then you agree?"
Anora turns back to the window. "Do what you must. We are at war."