edit: I had originally intended for Leliana to accompany the wardens to the hostel, but then sent her to the Shaperate and forgot to replace her in the dialogue with Gavorn. My apologies for the inconsistency. It has been fixed.


Orzammar, by all accounts, should have been a fascinating place to visit. The culture there was a living, breathing being unto itself – entirely separated from everything the Wardens knew on the surface. Although dwarves now traded in goods made on the surface, much of their daily lives were still carved from the Stone they revered and lived in. Food was a strange affair – often some mixture of root vegetables, crunchy flatbread and a cooked meat that was the product of a burrowing, pig-like creature that Charlotte found revolting. The animals were roughly the size of a hog, but had pupiless, black eyes that peered dimly from a rabbit-like face entirely bald of any fur. With its constant stream of high-pitched, urgent squeaks; rat-like tail; and long ears, the Nug was very ugly indeed. Charlotte wondered if the dwarves had merely eaten them out of curiosity after killing them to get some peace from the squeaking.

Apart from the fuel that physically sustained them, the dwarves found comfort in their social standing, caste, and daily routine. The Wardens observed little mixing among the groups outside of the merchants' floor in the Commons and saw many a leery eye among the nobles before they were properly announced within the Assembly. Tradition stood on much ceremony here; with so much of their culture lost to the darkspawn, the dwarves were left only with their pride and fervent desire to protect what little they had left. Orzammar was a great thaig disconnected from all its sister thaigs, with only one other known to still be in existence. It should have been no small surprise, then, that its potential rulers would be suspicious, even demanding of outsiders. But just because something isn't a surprise doesn't make it easier to accept. And a new place can inspire as much revulsion as it can fascination, under the right circumstances.

Shortly after her talk with Dulin Forender, Charlotte stomped her way back to meet the others, with Mastodon and Alistair keeping a careful distance behind. Aneiren, Leliana, Cullen, and Zevran were already waiting.

"Ah," Zevran turned, quick to notice the Commander as always. "Hello, my imposing temptress. How did you find your claimant's second?"

"Maker's bloody balls!" Charlotte roared; everyone stared in amazement. Mastodon sniffed at her leg and whined.

Practically spitting, she gesticulated wildly to the group, "A Proving! Ridiculous! Grey Wardens aren't supposed to get involved in politics!"

"What happened?" Aneiren looked at her with no small amount of awe, impressed by her outrage.

"Forender said Charlotte or one of the other Wardens would need to fight in an Honor Proving under Lord Harrowmont's name to convince him of our 'loyalty.'" Alistair snorted, rolling his eyes while Charlotte steamed, muttering invectives to herself. Leliana, concerned, went to put a gentle hand on her friend's shoulder.

"If you ask me, it's a waste of time," Alistair inserted, equally vexed. "We are not his errand monkeys."

"Certainly not," Leliana agreed, trying to soothe Charlotte's temper. Charlotte shook her off.

"It's more than that! Wardens are not supposed to get involved in politics – the very act of intervening upon the outcome of their election would be a violation of our code!" She turned to Zevran, her expression strained from all the stress of unforeseen obstacles. "Please tell me Prince Bhelen is more reasonable."

"Perhaps a tad," Zevran allowed; with a twirl of one hand, he produced a sheaf of papers for her inspection. "His second is a rather slippery fellow – he avoids questions about his Prince adeptly, if I may say so. And he claims to have proof of wrongdoing on your Lord Harrowmont's part."

"He is not mine," Charlotte retorted, taking the papers and scanning them with narrow eyes. Zevran smirked, wondering idly what it would take to belong to such a fierce creature. Alistair caught him staring and glared.

"It says here that Lord Harrowmont has promised the same land to two of the Assembly deshyrs," Charlotte handed them to Alistair, who frowned down at the scribbled writing. "Where did these come from?"

Zevran raised a delicate eyebrow, "Ah, yes. Our oily little friend was most reluctant to part with that information – but he felt it would speak well of us if we were to pass these documents along to the interested buyers."

Cullen's brow lowered in heavy suspicion; he went to peer over Alistair's shoulder and muttered: "Then we should discover their source quickly, lest we stumble into a dishonest plot."

"I agree," Leliana piped up, smiling beatifically at the Templar. Cullen looked embarrassed, but was obviously pleased. Charlotte made mental note of the fact that her new recruits' confidence was growing; hopefully, this was a good sign. Just then, they were joined by Jowan, Wynne, and Sten.

"The witch is still studying the tomes of the Shaper," Sten reported in his deep rumble. "She felt it best to withdraw from interaction with others."

"She was very rude to a young girl who expressed interest in the Circle!" Wynne snapped, clearly still smarting at whatever caustic remarks Morrigan had made. "She was only trying to make an inquiry to establish contact with the First Enchanter; she wants to do research on magic and rune-making." Drawing herself up with dignity, she added, "I told her I would be happy to make a letter of introduction."

"She wants to go to the Circle?" Aneiren asked, his tone dubious. "But… why?"

Wynne gave him a hard stare, "Not all who encounter a place of discipline and study are so unequal to its measures, young man." Aneiren opened his mouth to retort.

"No! Aneiren, we haven't time – Wynne, Aneiren is now a Grey Warden and due some respect. Please apologize."

A little sourly, she assented with a nod, but did not actually speak the words. Gritting his teeth, Anieren turned away from her, arms crossed. Charlotte certainly asked a lot of him, expecting him to take such insults from that old crone.

Noting his discontent, but wishing to proceed, Charlotte continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. "Now, Lord Harrowmont is asking for a very public declaration of our allegiance, which is entirely inappropriate. Prince Bhelen's task seems less taxing, but these papers first require some investigation." In an undertone, she muttered, "The last thing we need is to embroil ourselves in more political scandal." Charlotte raised her voice again, "So, Leliana, as our resident expert in such matters, I wish you to go back to the Shaperate and study these papers. Who here can copy a map?"

There was momentary confusion at the abrupt shift in topic, but Sten caught on quickly. "I can provide serviceable work in cartography."

"Very good, Sten – I wish you to accompany Leliana. Copy maps of the villages to the West where Brother Genitivi might have gone to seek the Ashes. Also, Leliana, find out more about Prince Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont. Did anyone find room and board?"

"For that, I can be of service," Zevran bowed gallantly, a wicked gleam flickering through his eyes. "And many other things, should you ever need them." Grinning at the flush in her face, he pointed to the Assembly, "There is a man in there named Steward Bandelor who was very interested in us. He requested a formal audience with you at the earliest opportunity."

"Fine, let's go see what he has to offer – perhaps we'll get some help after all. Everyone follow me." Charlotte swept passed the mischievious elf, hoping that neither he nor Alistair noticed the way his saucy remarks had gotten her heart pounding.


Steward Bandelor was eager to minister to Charlotte's every need – he had finally fulfilled the expectation of respect so often associated with their order. Following their formal introduction to the Assembly – and reassurances that their arrival had been recorded in the Memories – he sent a note to the Palace requesting accommodation in the Grey Warden hostel, which was connected to one of its many grand wings.

"The palace?" Zevran quirked an eyebrow, "That should be luxurious indeed!"

A guard led them to Orzammar's royal heart, his face somber underneath his helmet. A rather surly-looking welcoming party awaited them at the front gate.

"Warden-Commander, I presume?" A dwarf with short hair and a beady gaze approached Charlotte, who had taken point of the group with Mastodon at her side. He wore scale armor and a broad-bladed axe at his back. Behind him, his men were fully armed and armored, their faces blank underneath the exquisitely crafted helms.

"You presume correctly; am I to understand that you are Prince Bhelen's second, Vartag Gavorn?"

"You are, my lady." Gavorn leered a smile so insincere it made Charlotte's skin crawl; he bowed to her and she did her best to acknowledge the effort without revealing her distaste.

"Well met; we have come to seek your hospitality, Lieutenant Gavorn. We are rather careworn from our journey and were hoping to get some rest and resupply."

"Most understandable; however, I must warn you that Prince Bhelen is displeased he has heard nothing of your word on those documents we shared with you. It makes him uneasy in these… treacherous times."

Charlotte repressed the urge to growl at him, placing a restraining hand on the collar of the only other person in her group she felt would do the same. Alistair stepped forward, trying to smooth things over – in his Alistair way.

"Ah, yes, well you see that's because Grey Wardens have no political loyalties – we are apolitical, you might call it. We haven't any idea what's going on and no desire whatsoever to overthrow Prince Bhelen. We are actually much more interested in a bath and a bit of bread, if you must know."

Mastodon puffed his chest, satisfied that the blond pack mate had put the uppity stone-being in his place. He sniffed at his mistress to gauge her reaction and sensed a mixed review.

"That being said," Charlotte added, disliking the way Gavorn's brow shot up and then almost lowered into the floor by the end of Alistair's statement, "We are most interested to hear Prince Bhelen's side of the story. So unfortunate, what happened to his brother! I imagine he is most upset?"

Gavorn reared back like a mongoose that had stepped on a snake, "By the Stone! His grief knows no bounds, of course!"

"Of course," Charlotte agreed with a hammy sigh. "You know, before I joined the Wardens, I was the daughter of a high lord in the Ferelden court. I can only imagine how difficult it would be to manage not only his grief, but…the scandal." Charlotte lowered her lashes, peeking up from underneath them as if she were the most demure maid in the all the land.

Behind her, Zevran repressed his glee, while Wynne heaved knowing sigh, anticipating the the adept manipulations of their leader. Alistair was bemused, not following her line of thought. Cullen, like Wynne, was perturbed to see what he perceived as dishonesty, while Aneiren thoroughly enjoyed it and Jowan had absolutely no idea what was going on.

Trying to be supportive, Aneiren echoed, "Oh yes, the scandal!"

"What scandal?" Gavorn barked, Charlotte's spell broken by Aneiren's exclamation. "My lord Bhelen had nothing to do with his brother's death! He proved it!"

Charlotte made a dismissive gesture behind her back with one hand, while leaning down to make eye contact with Gavorn again. She didn't need to lean so much as bend.

"We believe you, Vartag, our only concern is the other people – the ones who might vote for Lord Harrowmont."

"Exactly!" Zevran volunteered, his face bright as he pushed forward to join Charlotte. "Gossip is a terrible thing, especially among lords and lady of the court, yes?" Charlotte glanced at him briefly out of the corner of her eye, then retained focus on Gavorn.

Gavorn's face settled into a visible, mechanical effort of thought. "Yes, that's true," he allowed.

"So, it seems that our job will be to set the record straight, if we can – after all, Grey Wardens believe in justice." Charlotte emphasized the last word carefully, trying to manage a fidgety Alistair without turning around.

"But that's exactly why I'm here," Gavorn said, now appearing confused. "Because you haven't done that yet."

"Well, of course not!" Charlotte declared, as if it were painfully obvious. "We're hardly presentable now, are we?" She gestured to the group, most of whom slumped helpfully (including Mastodon, who lowered his ears) to try and look as bedraggled as possible. Cullen and Jowan were the odd men out, one stoically disapproving while the other was nonplussed. Wynne was but a pursed mouth and a severe expression.

"So," Charlotte continued, her voice lowering to a compelling octave, "Allow us the rest we need, Lieutenant Gavorn, and we will be ready to meet your measures."

Gavorn shifted on his feet, clearly at loose ends without the Prince to guide him. Finally, with some muttered orders to his men, he begrudgingly allowed their entrance, ordering a restriction on their movements that would isolate them to the hostel wing of the palace.

"Of course," Zevran and Charlotte soothed, making Alistair roll his eyes when the guards weren't looking. The palace shut them up after that; mother of pearl was carved in sweeping lines against the stone walls, which were smooth and polished. The floor was inlaid with pure marble, making their steps echo like the march of a thousand soldiers all the way to their rooms. Even Zevran, who had seen some of the most elaborate architecture Orlais and Antiva had to offer, thought it was an ostentatious presentation. Then again, he may have missed some of the finer points of his surroundings during those particular occasions, seeing as he had been focused on blending in with shadows on his way to a kill. Seeing a servant eyeing him nervously as they passed, Zevran grinned crookedly, enjoying what could be interpreted as a respite from his usual duties. To stay in one place for more than a few hours was in itself a vacation, no?

"Make yourself comfortable, Warden-Commander." Gavorn lowered himself in the proximity of respectful acknowledgement, keeping his eyes on hers. "And then we will speak." The door shut with a resounding beat behind him. Charlotte knew they were under heavy guard. She sighed.

"Well, that could have been worse," she turned to look at the rooms and was impressed; the dwarves had not skimped on luxuries for their Grey Warden friends. She could imagine that Bhelen would be displeased to know his second had allowed them respite here before completing his assignment – it would be a tantalizing prize to hold over their heads in order to garner their support. Or, more accurately, force it.

Apart from a suite of offices and even a place for weapon storage and maintenance, there were private baths and barracks to sleep in. The beds were strange – they were made of stone and, as one of the servants who came to attend them revealed, padded with mattresses stuffed with dwarven hair. It was eery and Charlotte did her best not to think about it when she finally went for a short lie-down.

"Ooh! These are delightful! They're even better than the ones we had in the Circle!" Aneiren marveled over the rune-controlled bathhouse. Nearby, Alistair grunted and tried not to look so freely about him. Cullen at least had the sense and dignity to keep his eyes to himself, but Aneiren was completely unconcerned with such conventions and stared about him, agog, as if there were no rules. Perhaps his lifestyle at the Circle had left him with no expectation of privacy. Zevran, of course, was completely impossible.

"But Alistair!" he declared with a tut, "You have no tattoos! And neither do you, my Templar friend." Cullen stiffened underneath the spout where he was rinsing, his face turning brick red.

"Tattoos?" Alistair asked, deciding not to rise to the bait and encourage Zevran further. The more of a response he got, the more outrageous the elf became.

"But of course! Don't you see mine?" Zevran twisted prettily to show of the designs on his back, his tan skin gleaming under water and foam.

Cullen rinsed more quickly and hurried out; Zevran chuckled, turning back to his own water spout and rubbing more soap on his chest with languid pleasure.

"So innocent! You would think he had never had sex before!"

Alistair gritted his teeth, but Aneiren piped up helpfully: "Oh, he probably hasn't. Templars are celibate, you see."

"Truly?" Zevran asked in amazement, "But… how do they stand it?"

Aneiren shrugged, "It's part of their vows. Mages aren't supposed to have sex either, but we usually do… in dark corners, when the guards are at the farthest point of their rotation…"

"How marvelous!" Zevran laughed, "Life, it always finds a way, yes? Did you have many conquests, my twinkly friend?"

Aneiren drew himself up with dignity, "A good lover doesn't kiss and tell."

"No indeed," Zevran agreed with enthusiasm. "A good lover does many things without ever even speaking at all!" The two men laughed out loud.

There was a short silence in which Aneiren hummed to himself and Alistair's hands slowed on his chest. A good lover; suddenly, he was fraught with nerves. Charlotte had never… but what if she expected him to?...

"Alistair, are you a good lover too?" Zevran inquired, turning around to rinse his back and face the Grey Warden. Becoming aware of his audience, Alistair cleared his throat and resumed washing. His brain worked furiously to come up with a suitable retort that would serve to hide his embarrassment and throw Zevran off the scent.

"I…well, it's like Aneiren said…" Alistair was aware he was mumbling. Zevran gasped.

"No! You are… you are without experience? Oh, my friend!" Zevran put one hand over his heart, as if hearing of a great tragedy, "We must fix this at once! Incidentally, I am very open-minded…"

Forgetting his embarrassment, Alistair swung around, "Well I'm not so you can just stop talking about it!"

Zevran chuckled, "Very well, no harm no foul, yes? But what of you and… the other Grey Warden?" At this, Aneiren's ears perked up like a Mabari's hearing the dinner bell. Without a hint of pretense, he also turned around, even turning the water rune down so he could hear better.

For a moment, Alistair hesitated; most of him wanted to tell Zevran to go stuff himself, but there was a smaller, more worried part that also desired to please a woman he cared for deeply. He took the plunge.

"Zevran, you've…had many women in your time, right?" Aneiren's head swung round to watch Zevran's response, his face rapt with attention.

Zevran shrugged, "I have indulged, from time to time, when my attention was not elsewhere."

Alistair nodded, "Right. Well, how do you... woo them? Is there a... technique? Or...?"

Zevran's eyes seemed to bulge, "'Woo' them? Are you quite serious?"

Irritably, Alistair snatched a towel and shut off his water, "Forget I asked."

"No! Wait, I must hear more of this… wooing you are so interested in. What exactly is it that you wish to do?"

Aneiren joined him eagerly, "Yes, Charlotte's really something special. If you're going to…" He looked Zevran for help.

"Woo her," Zevran supplied, a sardonic smile curving his lips. Aneiren nodded, "Then you're going to need our advice – women are very particular, you know."

This threw Alistair for a loop, confirming his worst fears. But then there was that smug smile that told him Zevran was only too happy to lead him into the path of disaster, so he respectfully declined.

"Thanks, but you're right – she is special, and she doesn't need to be treated like some piece of meat for us to dissect." Satisfied with himself, Alistair marched out. Behind him, a pair of cunning golden eyes narrowed, and wheels began to turn within a handsome head.


"Twas most revealing, but entirely unsurprising. Power is the only currency of any meaning in this world. It is only sensible to pursue it when felicitious conditions are there to support it."

Sten glowered distastefully at the mage, whose yellow eyes cast about her with smug disdain at the wondering stares she drew from the crowd. At least, some of them were wondering – many others were appalled. Sten could not agree more that her manner and garb – perfectly serviceable armor, which she had unnecessarily cut to attach her magical trinkets and leave less to the imagination – were offensive. She did not entirely lack sense, this female, but she applied it stupidly and for superficial reasons that served no one but herself. Sten thought it fatuous to think only of the one when functioning within the many. The many would ultimately define the one, shaping the very presence of possibility, so it was futile to attempt to separate one's fate from others'. Ultimately, he imagined she would have to choose death or assimilation, as would all of Ferelden when the Qun came here to spread its wisdom. Her opportunity may just come sooner than their armies would to Ferelden shores.

"You would say that, Morrigan," Leliana snapped in irritation. "How predictable that you would devalue life, love, and all that is good below that which you believe will secure your desires. Murder and greed are sins reviled by the Maker."

"Oh, so it is time for our daily lesson in patronizing drivel?"

Leliana's eyes burned brightly in the low, orange cast of the lava and lichen lanterns, "Do you not believe in the Maker? How can you deny Him, when all around you there is proof of His work? Light, darkness, evil, and love – these all somehow randomly co-exist?"

Morrigan nearly snorted, but restrained herself from producing such an unattractive effect; "The fact of their existence does not presuppose an intelligent design by some absentee father figure."

At this, Sten grunted appreciatively, while Leliana went a delicate shade of scarlet.

"I don't believe that," Leliana countered, "I believe we all have a purpose, even if we do not understand it from the beginning."

"That is wise," Sten agreed. "Purpose is an inherent feature of existence – to suggest there is no purpose for a being is to deny the functionality of our world, which is nonsensical. Unless, of course, they deny their purpose and live aimlessly, which is a waste and violation of the natural order."

Sticking her chin out, Morrigan attempted to put an end to this irksome conversation. "Attempting to impose order over chaos is futile. Nature is, by its very nature, chaotic. And weren't we supposed to be making a report?"

The two women turned away from each other, their faces set. Between them, Sten resigned himself to their irrationality and lack of self-discipline. Such was their limited capability that had been borne from a culture without the truth of the Qun. He would assign himself to his tasks and maintain focus; their petty squabbles were irrelevant, if annoying to endure.

The hostel had been well broken-in when the smaller party arrived. The others were gathered around a table, making what they could of the local fare and thinking wistfully of sunlight and stew, when their three companions made their presentation.

"So, we were right to be cautious, then." Alistair looked solemnly upon a record copied from the Shaperate, documenting the fallacy of Prince Bhelen's twin land deeds, which the master Shaper himself had studied and found to be illegitimate. Charlotte was not pleased.

"Further, little warden, it seems the source of the claimants' dispute is that the Lord opposing the prince was present at the King's death, which suggested to others that he had engaged in some foul play."

"They are both small men making large grabs for power," Morrigan drawled carelessly, sniffing and discarding a piece of flatbread with distaste. Charlotte ignored her; Morrigan would eat when she was hungry, and she would be glad for the food she received. She didn't have the tolerance for pettiness at the moment.

"The King died, but happened to name this Harrowmont was his new heir right before he conveniently snuffed it?" Aneiren clarified, confused.

"You say that as if he would be the first to obtain his throne that way," Zevran answered, his expression amused. "In Antiva, kings are not so much elected as assassinated until someone can pose enough of a threat or please enough people with their antics to secure the throne. Neither men sound so unusual to me." Cullen gave him a disgusted look, to which the assassin only shrugged unapologetically.

"And so were are faced with two men that shape our prospects directly and neither of whom present a very attractive proposition. The question I feel we must ask here is: what is our responsibility?" Wynne sipped on her ale, a black substance brewed from fungus which no one else had been able to tolerate. Fortunately, the palace had the benefit of a Prince who coveted trade with the surface, and some surface ale had been provided to better suit their tastes. The food, however, remained a repulsing mystery. Alistair nearly vomited on the spot when offered the roasted innards of a giant, underground beetle. They had managed to communicate an apologetic denial without too much offense to the palace servants, and had been brought a large tray of dried meat, cheese, and lichen bread.

As everyone turned to Charlotte to hear her opinion, they fell silent at the expression on her face. All the color had leeched from it; Mastodon padded to her side, trying to nudge her hand with his nose. When he whined, all felt the level of his anxiety.

"What is it, Charlotte?" Leliana asked gently. For a time, Charlotte did not reply, her eyes fixed somewhere not presently in the room, her jaw tightening with the passing seconds. When she finally spoke, her voice was so low, the others had to strain to hear her.

"So," she murmured, her tone icy. "Prince Bhelen had his brother killed, blamed it on his sister, who is now likely dead – and then threw a fit when another man played his game, did he?" She clenched her hand tightly around her napkin, crushing it into a tiny ball that became nearly invisible to the human eye.

"That seems to be the sum of events," Morrigan agreed. Her unfeeling response drew a harsh glare from Leliana, but not before Charlotte rose abruptly from her seat to pace the floor with agitation.

"This man deigned to include us in his seedy blackmail scheme, but could not be bothered to speak of the Blight? He kills for his own benefit, damning the innocent to whatever fate befalls them, then rallies for the remainder's support? It is indefensible!"

Charlotte grabbed and chucked with great force one of the metal goblets on the table. It clattered noisily in the opposite corner of the room; Aneiren, Cullen, Alistair, and Zevran all shot to their feet in alarm, instinctively protective. Jowan sat wide-eyed at the spectacle. Leliana raised a stilling hand to the other men, a semblance of understanding dawning upon her. Carefully, she tried to coax Charlotte out.

"Charlotte," she spoke quietly, as if to a potentially dangerous animal that could lash out at any moment. "Think very carefully: we are not here to pass judgement, yes? We are here to get a job done, who can we count on most easily to help us do that, do you believe?"

Charlotte swung around, her face contorted. "They're both bastards – men who feel nothing for the people they claim to represent! All they represent are their own ambitions! I hate them!"

Wynne spoke with reproach before Leliana could stop her, "Who you hate is not the question. You must do your duty."

If there was an expression that could kill, Wynne would have been merely the sum of her remains – a dried out husk, whose soul had been violently shoved into the Fade. As it was, she stood her ground, but was patently aware that her proselytizing had been badly timed.

"I will not," Charlotte said, her voice trembling with suppressed fury, "Become a pawn to men who kill innocents for their own gain. I will not submit to their scheming in order to 'get along' for my duty. The Grey Wardens may not foreswear their duty, but I will not forswear my principles and be cut from the same cloth as those who would sooner see thousands die than sacrifice their personal ambitions to do what is right."

With that, the acting Commander swept from the room, her tiny frame disappearing with blinding speed. Mastodon followed closely behind her, but not before sparing the elder pack mate a withering stare that spoke volumes more than mere words could express. To the delight of Morrigan, who was not above caring that her somewhat-friend was upset – and who manifestly detested Wynne in every way – she saw that the old hypocrite was shaken to have suggested such a thing. She blustered through it, however.

"That is not what I meant," she declared to the room at large, her normally serene face unusually flushed. "I meant only that she should think of responsibility before emotion and not allow her feelings to cloud her judgment."

For once, Alistair was unimpressed with the woman he had come to regard as a motherly figure. "Yeah, except her entire family was murdered by a man who wanted her father's social position, so she wouldn't likely see that in an objective light, would she?"

"I think we should just behead them both," Sten inserted decisively. "They are clearly poor leaders and not deserving of their station."

"That is a fair point," Zevran lowered back into his seat, his eyes still on the empty doorway where Charlotte had stormed out. "I do not think we would be thanked, however – or make it out of here alive."

Sten seemed to ponder this, then nodded, "That is probably true."

Aneiren was still fixed on Wynne, his expression tense with dislike. "You always have to lecture others, don't you? Wise Windbag Wynne."

The senior enchanter spat a rude retort that surprised everyone. "My dear," Zevran said, his eyebrows high and his tone impressed. "Such language from an elder!" He tutted, "It is most…. Enticing." Wynne gave him his second disgusted look of the day; Zevran smiled back, unbothered.

"This isn't helping!" Jowan went a brilliant magenta as everyone turned to him, amazed. Rallying his courage, Jowan blustered on:

"I didn't know that about Charlotte's family – but I can understand why she would rather stand for her principles than give in to what others say is 'right'." At this, Jowan spared a hostile look to Wynne, but so quickly that many at the table were uncertain that they had even seen it. "At the same time, we have to find a solution, don't we? Harrowmont, from what you told us, is the best of two bad choices. He may be a traditionalist who doesn't value trade with the surface, but surely he can be made to understand how important it will be following a Blight? Not to mention how much of an advantage he will have for rebuilding Orzammar after offering his allegiance to the Ferelden crown." Jowan hesitated.

"Continue," Alistair encouraged, still a bit flabbergasted. This was perhaps the highest number of words Jowan had uttered in one go since his recruitment.

"Well… Harrowmont wants Charlotte to fight in an Honor Proving. If she wins, which she almost definitely will, that will get us an in with him. Of the two things we have been asked to do, that sounds like the least immoral. They're both political stands, but…. At least this one won't make Charlotte sick with herself."

Cullen patted his friend on the shoulder, while Leliana beamed at him. Wynne glared at them all and added waspishly, "While it may be more 'moral', my point remains: this order is needed for an essential service which cannot be denied when it is convenient to the Wardens."

"Why?" Aneiren shot back, "The Circle only helps its mages when it's convenient for them, and it's the Templars' sworn duty to protect their safety and well-being."

Before Wynne could retort, Jowan interceded again. "That's not the point! Weren't you listening? We have to help Charlotte!"

Zevran nodded, "I concur, she has done much for all of us, we should find a way to help her with this."

Wynne crossed her arms, impatient, "She should take responsibility for her own fate, not delegate it to others when her emotions get in the way."

Several mouths opened to issue a series of furious insults on the older woman, but Sten's sensible remark was the first to be heard. With a frown, he said, "For an elder, you are curiously obtuse. Do you not see that helping the little warden and completing our mission are one and the same?"

Jowan burst out, "Exactly! Sometimes there are things more important than your lessons! Friendship is one of them – Charlotte is trying to save the world. You don't think we can give her a hand?"

"Yeah," Aneiren leaned forward, his tone nasty. "Or are you too accustomed to hiding behind your Templar friends while someone else does the dirty work? Don't worry Wynne; if you're too old for this, you can always go back…."

Wynne scraped back her chair and exited the room, her posture stiff. Aneiren sat at his ease, his smile satisfied. Jowan shook his head.

"You're no better than she is," he told his old friend. Aneiren was taken aback – whether at being addressed by someone he had vetoed from his presence, or because of his statement, no one could tell. Although he stammered somewhat, Jowan went on.

"Using this as an opportunity t-to hurt someone else isn't honorable. We have a duty and we should do what is r-right – for the world and each other."

Aneiren didn't appear to have a response; his face drawn, he too stomped from the room, ignoring all on his way out. Everyone turned back to look at their most diminuitive companion, a new respect in their eyes.

Alistair grinned, "Maker, Jowan – you sure have a lot to say when you get talking!"

Cullen nudged the sheepish mage, "I told you," he muttered in an undertone. Morrigan was studying Jowan beadily, her face calculating.

"Indeed," Morrigan said softly, "Tis most surprising what comes out of that trembling mouth." Leliana glared at her, but smoothed the moment over.

"That was noble, Jowan, and so very true. I am grateful you had the courage to say it."

"So, what would we like to do? How shall we tame this hairy beast of a problem?" Zevran smiled serenely, his hands steepled on the table.

"I have an idea," Alistair said after a pause in which they all considered. "Sten, you're going to like it – it might involve some beheading."


The crowds screamed wildly, their voices a cacophony of sound in the packed stadium. Pennant flags made a glittering pattern in the air, their various colors and heraldry announcing loyalties to thaigs and individuals fighting in the ring. Alistair wiped some blood off his blade, wincing at a splintered feeling underneath a rib on his right side. He clutched it and wheezed.

"This seemed very valiant when I first thought of it," he told Sten, who was stoically regarding the entry of their upcoming opponents.

"It could have benefited from further consideration," he replied, twisting Asala in one hand to gain a better grip. "These warriors are clearly well-trained, perhaps more than you. However, it bore the fundamentals of a good plan." Sten's violet eyes were serious as he spoke, "If you die, I will be certain to record your efforts to the Arishok to honor your devotion to the Order."

"Oh," Alistair tried to cover his lack of breath, squinting enviously at Sten's unaffected posture. They had won against one other pair who had come to the Honor Proving to represent Prince Bhelen. At first, Alistair had done well on his own, but as the Proving moved up in rounds, the number of opponents increased and he was forced to recruit help into the ring. "That's comforting to know, at least. Thanks Sten." Alistair wiped the sweat off his brow, facing forward and readying his shield.

"And nooow!" The Proving Master's voice boomed over the chaos, prompting a fresh round of hysteria as fans recognized the warriors closing the distance to the Grey Wardens. "Wojech Ivo will fight with his second, Valanz, in the name of our Prince Bhelen! Warriors, bow to your opponents!"

A sturdy dwarf, even by the standards of the warrior caste, bent stiffly at the waist in his heavy ceremonial armor. By his side, a slightly smaller warrior jerked his head in acknowledgment, clanking steel against steel as one hand made a fist on his chest. Sten nodded at them both, and murmured something solicitous in Qunlat: "Ataash varin kata, warriors." Alistair focused his energy, lowering slightly into a defensive stance.

The fight was a lesson in skill over brawn; though Alistair could rely on his size and force against most humans and certainly elves, dwarves possess a lower center of gravity with their stout form. This, plus his overwhelming strength, made Wojech a difficult opponent to fell. He smoothly out-maneuvered Alistair's shield and sword, then retaliated with a blow to his leg, nearly bringing the warden to his knees. It was only sheer will that kept him moving, his mind whirring with tactics as he avoided the swing of Wojech's blade.

Sten's duel was much shorter; though the man was obviously talented, Sten overpowered him quickly, casting a shadow that eclipsed the warrior before he hardly had a chance to lift his blade. Not wishing to insult the Warden's honor, Sten held back, sword at the ready, watching Alistair's and Wojech's fight.

"Blast it! Go down!" Alistair yelled through clenched teeth as he feinted with his sword and brought his shield around, finally surprising the dwarven nobleman. The shield connected with a sickening crunch; Wojech folded over and lay still.

"And the glory goes toooo…..The Wardens!" Many shouts and boos drowned out the Proving Master's next words. Supporters for Harrowmont were beside themselves, dancing like maniacs in their seats. Alistair noted drly how many of them were noblemen, waving pennants with great enthusiasm, but lifting neither axe nor sword to vouch for their chosen King.

"And finally, there is but one warrior! Piotin Aeducan, who has come to fight in the name of his royal cousin, Prince Bhelen!"

A thuggish-looking dwarf swaggered into the ring, his head shaved and his face shadowed with stubble. Behind him, three other soldiers marched onto the arena, their faces intent.

"I thought he said 'one'," Alistair said nervously. Sten grunted.

"This warrior has led his team to triumph over every unit he has faced in the Proving arena!" The Proving Master beamed as spectators roared their approval. "Gre-eat," Alistair drawled, itching to drop into a crouch at the belligerent expression on Piotin's face.

"Challenging him on behalf of Lord Harrowmont are the Grey Wardens, who have risen from nothing to stand at the competition's summit!"

What had begun as patchy support had transformed into at least a third of the crowd, their catcalls and shouts screeching to be heard over the general pandemonium. Alistair understood why Orzammar seemed so under-populated; most of their numbers were going mad in the Proving Grounds.

"Each side will lead a full unit of four soldiers. Grey Wardens, pick your remaining men!"

Alistiar visibly perked up at this news; for a moment there, he'd been honestly concerned that Sten would have to compose his epitaph. With a wave of new energy, Alistair clanked over to the nearest entrance gate into the arena, where Morrigan, Cullen, Jowan, and Zevran were watching. Leliana had coaxed Charlotte back to the Shaperate, along with Aneiren and Wynne. Leliana had lured her there on the pretense they could more research before making a decision, while the others collected information on the ground. Alistair had made certain to remove all their belongings from the hostel and check them into Orzammar's largest (most public) inn, already predicting stormy reception of their performance from Bhelen.

"Morrigan, get out here! I need your magic!" Alistair gestured urgently, making Morrigan sigh with irritation.

"I can see with my own eyes where I must go, you ingrate, do not wave your hands at me." Morrigan retrieved her staff and stepped through the metal gate, her posture very dignified. Upon seeing her, the crowd once again lost control, excited at the prospect of watching a mage in action. Morrigan waved at them with queenly good grace before flouncing to Sten's side. She gave Piotin's men a cool stare and some of them actually drew back, alarmed by her yellow gaze.

Alistair turned back to the gate, where Cullen tried to temper his enthusiasm with a serious expression and Jowan danced eagerly from foot to foot. Zevran leaned casually against the iron bars surrounding the opening in the gate.

"Alistair, if I may, I would like to tell you that if you choose the Templar or mage over me, your handsome self may come to…poisonous harm." Zevran's smile was benign, but his gaze was fixed and glittering. Cullen looked irritated, while Jowan sagged with disappointment. Alistair glared at the elf momentarily, but upon further study of his face, he jerked his head towards the arena.

"Fine, but these dwarves aren't kidding around, Zevran – watch your light arse or it might get thrown across the grounds." Cullen resigned himself, sitting down on a bench next to a dejected Jowan as Zevran stepped through the gate.

Zevran unsheathed his blades with a twirl, playing to the frenzied crowds. Still smiling, he muttered, "Light, am I? Perhaps light on my feet and clever enough to kill large buffoons with swords."

Alistair glowered, "Save it for the arena!"

The two men jogged to join their comrades in arms, facing the other group with as much menace as they could muster. Morrigan fell into a leaning crouch behind the others, her hands and staff raised in anticipation.

"Luck be with you," Sten told the other unit, his demeanor calm. His large hands tightened around Asala's hilt.

Piotin was not so gracious; "Stone take you, surfacers, for meddling in that which you cannot understand!"

"Hmm," Morrigan murmured, gathering her mana. "For such a short people, they do make very grand declarations. Do not fret when we kill you, dwarf," she called to Piotin, who reddened like a hot coal. "You will join many others better than you."

"Ouch, Morrigan," Alistair said, shaking his head at her callousness. She giggled lasciviously. The Proving Master's voice resounded once more.

"Let the Proving begin – we will see once and for all who the Ancestors favor!"

A gong rang, and all was motion. As Alistair swung low to avoid the axe of Piotin, Morrigan cackled with laughter, a storm of lightening crackling between her fingers and steaming one of the dwarves in his armor like a lobster inside its shell. Sten emitted a battle roar, nearly cleaving the head off the third soldier, who barely ducked out of its path. As the fourth went to attack Zevran, the assassin seemed to disappear. The warrior stuttered to a halt, confused, only to turn at the sound of a wry chuckle as his breastplate was cut off. It fell with a clank into the dust of the arena and, panicked, he stumbled back, swinging his axe in a haphazard pattern. The visor of his helmet swung back and his eyes raked the ring.

As his lackeys fell, Piotin became enraged. His fury transformed into incredible prowess on the field. Alistair had to fall back, absorbing the worst of the blows with his shield. Though he had put up an impressive fight, he had nearly exhausted himself defeating several experienced champions of the arena on his own before Sten even joined him. As he grew tired, one knee buckled; with a ringing sound that hurt his ears, the tip of Piotin's axe penetrated his shield.

"What say you?" Morrigan called to Zevran, "Shall we save him?"

Zevran was cornering his shivering – and now nearly naked – opponent, who had nothing left but his axe, smallclothes, boots, and helmet. Zevran considered, "If we must!" A dagger whipped through the air and penetrated the other soldier's shoulder, making him scream as he was pinned to the arena wall. Sten's opponent lay bleeding, while Morrigan's continued to smoke gently on the ground.

All three convalesced on Piotin, peeling him away from Alistair, who was holding under the pressure – but only just. Gasping, Alistair fell on his knees when he was released, sweat pouring down his brow. Zevran jabbed and heckled, herding Piotin back from the left while Sten swung Asala in a wide arc on the right. With a grunted effort, Alistair pulled himself to his feet, wavering, but determined.

Just as he was about to rejoin the fray - Morrigan was cackling, earning a series of ooohhhs and aaahs from the crowd as her hands erupted with a storm of wind that nearly blew Piotin off his feet – a familiar voice shouted above the din.

"ALISTAIR!"

He turned around, bewildered, to see Charlotte hanging over the edge of the royal box, standing between Leliana and what looked like a delighted Dulin Forender. Aneiren soon joined her side, his face split into a wide grin. Leliana looked apologetic.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Charlotte roared, terrified for him. He looked like he was about to collapse.

Alistair gave it momentary consideration, then decided on the honest answer; "FIGHTING FOR THE GIRL I LOVE, SO SHE DOESN'T HAVE TO!" Her jaw dropped; grinning, he bound off into the fight, his heart lighter than it had been weeks. He could hear Aneiren whooping.

Zevran was doing some strange little dance around Piotin, stabbing him mercilessly in the open joints between his armor pieces. Sten was not even close to flagging, but nonetheless had his work cut out for him against a man who could draw such energy from his rage. As Morrigan winced at a cut in her side, she summoned her mana to cast an enormous ball of fire, her expression grim.

"Out of the way!" Alistair shouted, his body now pumped with adrenaline. Sten moved automatically, staying close in case Alistair needed him. Zevran rolled out of the path of Piotin's axe; the dwarf was shouting, spittle flying from his mouth, veins pulsing in his thick neck. He had eyes only for Zevran, furious at the elf's mocking dagger-pricks.

Just as Zevran readied a laugh, his dagger was knocked out of his hand by the dwarf's axe. His hand bent back at an odd angle and Alistair heard a faint crack. The elf's face twisted and went white, but he did not scream. Alistair had to respect that.

"HEY, PIOTIN!" Alistair raised his blade; the dwarf turned.

As Piotin's eyes fixed on the sword and he readied to engage it, Alistair took his ruined shield and raised it high as if to defend himself with it. Piotin, using the same trick he had with Zevran, went to knock Alistair's blade out of his hand. Alistair kept his wrist loose and waited for it, then let go just as the axe connected with the Cousland sword. For a moment, time was suspended as Piotin stupidly watched it fly through the air, astonished it had been that simple. Then, he turned just in time to receive the blow from Alistair's shield full in the face.

"Morrigan, go!"

Alistair grabbed Zevran and rolled out of range; a torrent of flame erupted and briefly covered the dwarf, who screamed in agony, his form writhing on the ground. Immediately, dwarven healers were sent for and the match was declared.

"TO THE GREY WARDENS, WHO HAVE PLEASED THE ANCESTORS THIS DAY!" The fans went mad, pennants flying through the air like ravenous birds in flight, some out of joy, and others out of bitter remorse for Prince Bhelen's resounding loss.

As Alistair helped Zevran to his feet – which was like the crippled helping the crippled, with his own knees knocking together in a hollow beat – Charlotte tore across the field, followed closely by Aneiren, Cullen, Jowan and Leliana. Wynne materialized next to Morrigan, who had folded neatly onto the ground as blood poured from her side.

"That was bloody marvelous!" Aneiren congratulated him, raising his own hands to cast some blue magic over Alistair's aching body. The pain eased a bit and Aneiren went to examine Zevran's wrist.

Just as Alistair was thinking how much better he felt, Charlotte came up and slapped him, the sound echoing painfully in the ring.

"You idiot! What were you thinking?!" Alistair grabbed his face, bewildered. Then he saw the tears pouring down her face.

"I wanted to help," he told her sheepishly, wary of being slapped again. Charlotte sniffed and hiccuped.

"We so often do, my friend," Zevran told him in a voice tight with pain; Aneiren took the opportunity to set the break, and the crack was only louder than the hiss between Zevran's teeth.

"What are you doing?" Wynne demanded, coming to oversee his work. Aneiren nearly growled at her. From above, Mastodon began barking in the royal box. It looked like some guards were chasing him.

Alistair looked down just in time to see Charlotte coming; a blur of red and the white of her tunic were all he caught before her lips were on his, insistent and salty from her tears. This pleased the spectators who could see them to no end; some threw more pennants, while a few booed and hissed.

"Oh, how romantic!" Leliana cried, her own cornflower eyes glittering with tears. In a fit of emotion, Leliana grabbed Cullen round the neck and kissed both his cheeks. Spluttering, he pushed her away, "Sister Leliana, you forget yourself!"

Wynne ignored them all, scrutinizing Aneiren's work. With some muttered incantations and the faintest of blue lights, she made some finishing touches on his healing. Zevran sighed with relief, rotating his wrist around in a luxurious circle. "That is much better, I thank you."

Everyone gathered around the kissing couple; Charlotte pulled back, still wiping her face. "You could have been killed, and then where would we be?"

Pleased by the kiss and life in general, Alistair put his arms around her waist, "Well, certainly more secret than we are now." Charlotte stiffened and her face went red; Aneiren issued a low wolf-whistle, and everyone laughed.

"It was fairly obvious," Leliana reassured them, making Charlotte more embarrassed. Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"Yes, obvious is putting it rather tamely, I think."

"Are you alright? Does it hurt anywhere?" Charlotte checked his arms, her hands fluttering with concern. Truthfully, he was bruised and aching, but his chest was fit to burst with something much more pleasant.

"It's always better, as long as I'm with you," he whispered. A secret smile tugged at her lips, and she gently stroked the side of his face.

"Well, we are victorious!" Zevran declared happily, interrupting their moment. "What do our lovebirds say we shall do now?"

Still in Alistair's embrace, Charlotte twisted to look at everyone. "We go to Harrowmont and we get what we came for."

As most of them cried out in excitement, Sten's rumble could be heard. "Beings not of the Qun are strangely inefficient," he shook his head sadly.

Beaming, Charlotte led them through the gate, quickly squeezing Alistair's hand before releasing it. As the group trickled out, Zevran stopped the Warden.

Alistair waited in surprise; Zevran's benign smile was back in place.

"Let it be said, my friend, that you did me a service this day. I am lucky to have escaped with only a broken hand."

Alistair waited for more, but when it became obvious this was the breadth of Zevran's gratitude (or at least the extent to which he was willing to express it), he replied, "No problem."

Zevran nodded and went on, "On an entirely different subject, while you may have the love of our fair Warden for the time being, know this." Zevran looked him dead in the eye, the mischief leeching from his expression, replaced by a predatorial glance that chilled the blood in Alistair's veins. "If you hurt her, I will kill you and make it look like an accident, and then I will invite her to my bed until she cannot remember your name. Do we understand each other?"

Anger, red and hot, briefly flamed within Alistair, but he waited until it settled in his chest – a growling, coiled dragon of jealousy, waiting anxiously to bite. Understanding that Zevran felt the same, he decided he owed him the courtesy of not retaliating. Plus, it would have been admitting the elf had chance, which he would do just as soon as he ran through Denerim's Market Square naked.

"I understand," he replied evenly, clenching his fist on one side. Zevran gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder, which Alistair rolled off when he thought the elf wasn't looking.

"You know, Alistair," Zevran continued idly, as if the conversation they had just shared hadn't happened. "It's a shame really, that we can never be friends."

"Oh?" Alistair sneered, irritated that once again someone had interceded on his happy moment. "And why is that?"

Zevran paused at the rear end of the group, his eyes on the back of the smallest member, an affectionate smile softening his features.

"Because, my non-friend, we will always want the same thing."

Alistair watched his new enemy weave back into the group; at some uttered quip, they all dissolved into laughter and, for a moment, Alistair felt a sense of foreboding.


A/N: Hi! Thank you for reading. I am so sorry for my tardy posts, I've had writer's block. I want to especially thank my reviewers: The Winterborn, olivegbg, momongiri and my wonderful review and beta, eibhlin13. A few comments: I find it very difficult to believe that, even with the strain of a tight schedule, the Warden would not properly investigate both candidates before making a decision. Considering the no end of trouble they've already endured, I don't see them saying, "Oh well!" and just leaping feet-first into such a sticky situation without pausing. Further, I really doubt a Cousland, who abhors traitors and murderers above all else at this very moment, would aid a known commiter of familicide. No matter how strong their desire to stop the Blight, a person who feels as deeply as they portray in canon would not simply bypass that little fact in the midst of all they are dealing with in Orzammar.

Also, I don't understand how the Grey Wardens don't have a post in Orzammar. The darkspawn LIVE there! If there isn't a post – which, considering Duncan's appalling record as Warden-Commander, there very well may not be – there is at least a hostel. They even suggest it during the Noble Dwarf origin, when Duncan is invited to stay in the palace as a guest. So I just added that in. Not that they get to enjoy its benefits much longer….

A Ferelden in Orzammar = An American in Paris.