Chapter 29: An Audience With The Grand-Duc

Three days later, the morning of Flora's celebratory feast arrived. It was an unusually fine Fereldan summer day, the sky a clear and uninterrupted swathe of duck-egg blue, blurring into an Amaranthine ocean unruffled by breeze.

Within Denerim, the people chattered amongst themselves excitedly; the gossip on the streets being that the Lady Cousland was returning – albeit temporarily – to the city. Royal Guardsmen were bribed to leak details of her route up to the palace; which gate would be used, and whether she would be travelling on roadways or taking a barge. Fortunately, Theirin soldiers were loyal – and wary of the king's reprisal - and they betrayed no details of the lady's chosen course.

Still, nothing could dampen the spirit of excitement within the city – all districts rustled with a buzz of gleeful gossip, save for the docks. This part of the city still housed near two hundred refugees, those who not yet managed to scrape together the coin for passage out of Ferelden. These unfortunate travellers huddled in grubby clusters beneath the tiles of an abandoned fish market, hungry and forlorn; many of them from Gwaren, Lothering, and Honnleath.

Revanloch, hunched on its rocky promontory, managed to somehow defy the brilliant sunshine and remain as dour and sombre as ever. The late-Justinian warmth could not penetrate the crumbling stone walls, and made little headway within the shadowed courtyards.

Up in the guest chamber, Flora had been awake for several hours in anticipation. She was perched on the edge of the bed, wincing as Leliana wove a half-dozen slender braids within her heavy mass of hair. The bard was determined to emphasise Flora's Alamarri heritage; knowing that her colouring of pale skin, watercolour grey eyes and oxblood hair harkened back to these first ancient rulers of Ferelden.

"Ow! Ouch."

"If you'd brush your hair and braid it in the evening, like I tell you, it wouldn't work itself into such a bird's nest by morning!" retorted the bard, whose own strawberry blonde locks were already neatly coiffed. "Anyway, have you changed your mind about the robe?"

"No!"

Flora, having successfully negotiated her way into her usual navy tunic and boots, now watched Leliana put the final touches on her makeup. The bard had managed to perfect the art of enhancing her features so subtly that it was impossible to tell that cosmetics had even been applied. The lay sister tsked at herself in the mirror, licking her fingers to mute some of the rouge decorating her cheeks.

"Too much maquillage for this outfit," she murmured absent-mindedly, smoothing a hand over her damask Chantry robes.

"Mack-a-what?"

"Cosmetics," replied Leliana, taking one final glance in the mirror. "Are you ready, ma petite? Ugh, are you wearing those boots? I despair!"

Flora finished tightening the leather strap around her knee, feeling the usual reflexive defensiveness that rose whenever Leliana criticised her footwear.

"These boots have been with me since Ostagar! They've been in the Deep Roads, the Brecilian Forest… I killed the Archdemon in these boots!"

"All the more reason to throw them out," retorted Leliana, immediately. "They're probably covered in all sorts of- "

"Lady Cousland?"

A servant clad in a Chantry tabard made a demure entrance, head bowed.

"Oh, is the escort from the Palace here?" Leliana asked, glancing around for her silken purse. "Tell them we'll just be a moment. They're early. Is Bann Teagan with them?"

The Chantry servant bowed once more, while simultaneously shaking his head.

"No, lay-sister. The Lady Cousland has a guest, they're waiting downstairs."

Flora frowned, she was not expecting anyone in particular. Leliana's face settled into a more prominent scowl, her powdered nostrils flaring.

"They've picked a poor day to visit," the bard grumbled. "We need to depart for the feast; they'll either have to accompany us, or wait here until we return. Who is it?"

The servant swallowed, and Flora noticed beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"An Orlesian, by the name of G-Gasper Deshallyon."

"Gasper Deshallyon?"

"Gasp.. Gaspard Deshallon…"

Leliana inhaled sharply, her fingers fluttering towards her mouth.

"Gaspard de Chalons? The Grand Duc? Cousin of the Empress Celene? Chevalier of the Order?"

"He's a long way from Val Royeaux," Flora said, unimpressed by a string of titles. "Do you think he's lost?"

Leliana shook her head slowly, finely plucked eyebrows lodged within her auburn hairline.

"Non."

"Then why is he here?"

"I believe he has a purpose, though I know not what it could be," the bard murmured. "Still, there is only one way to find out. Are you ready for your first diplomatic exchange with the Valmonts, ma crevette?"

Flora grunted, grateful for the natural haughtiness of her fine-boned features; solemn and enigmatic as any Orlesian mask.

"Not really."

Before they left the room, Leliana slid one of her narrowest blades up her sleeve, expression carefully blank. Flora gaped, eyes expanding like saucers.

"Do you think he's dangerous?"

"Not dangerous, exactly," replied the bard, summoning a bright and detached smile. "But ruthless – oui. Very much so."

The Grand Duc was waiting downstairs within the Knight-Commander's office. The Knight-Commander himself had been relegated to the mildewed corridor, twitching and unhappy. The entrance to the office was flanked with Orlesian guards, clad in the argent and blue livery of the Valmonts. Instead of the closed-face helms worn by the Theirin Royal Guardsmen, these soldiers had their faces obscured by ornate silver masks. Their halberds were decorated with finely worked filigree, though the blade's razor-sharp edge proved it a weapon well enough.

As Flora and Leliana entered the room, Gaspard de Chalons was inspecting a moth-eared tapestry depicting Andraste and her disciples. Hearing the door open, he turned on a heel with militaristic swiftness; crossing the room in a handful of strides.

"My lady Cousland," he said, bowing down with a practised flourish. "It is a privilege and an honour to meet you."

He gripped her fingers and kissed them in typical Orlesian manner; Flora took advantage of this brief interlude to dart her eyes quickly over this mysterious new arrival. The duc was a stocky, powerfully built man who appeared to be nearing his sixth decade, greying hair cropped close enough to his head to see the pink skin below. He was regally clad in crimson and ochre, and small, clever green eyes were framed by a silvered mask.

Flora continued to gaze at the duc thoughtfully as he straightened, not entirely sure what to say. The Orlesian noble graciously pulled out a chair for her to sit, taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk. Leliana elected to remain standing; made subtle by the demure camouflage of a Chantry sister.

"May I first pass on our gratitude to the nation of Ferelden for the defeat of the Fifth Blight," Gaspard said quietly, peeling off his leather travel gloves one finger at a time.

Flora nodded slowly, her pale eyes meeting the glass-green irises of the duc. He was staring at her with unblinking intensity, as though trying to penetrate the ambiguous mask of her haughty features in order to perceive the girl underneath. Flora, who had once looked the Archdemon in its scaled, hooded eye, was unimpressed.

Is he trying to intimidate me?

There came no response, and Flora gave an inward sigh; wondering if she would ever get used to the silence that now followed her thoughts.

Well, I think he is trying to intimidate me. What is it with these Orlesians?

On getting no reply from Flora save from a slight nod and a contemplative stare; Gaspard continued, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Orlais would have stood ready to assist… if assistance had been requested."

"Ferelden managed well enough alone," said Flora blandly, fixing her pale, Cousland eyes on him.

Gaspard nodded, settling back in the chair and touching his fingertips together.

"Oui, especially considering that Ferelden is not exactly renowned within Thedas for its military prowess."

Flora felt outrage flare within her stomach; with effort, she kept it from her face.

"I'm surprised that Orlais doesn't remember the strength of our army," she replied, innocently. "How many decades has it been since the rebels ousted you from Ferelden?"

Gaspard's grey eyebrows rose from behind his mask, his fingers steepling together.

"Forgive me, my lady," he countered, in arch tones. "Were you even alive during the Orlesian occupation, or the Fereldan war of independence? You do seem very… young."

"You're right," replied Flora, equally neutral. "I'm not old enough to remember a time when Orlais was a great military power. I'll have to check my history books later."

Leliana had to bite back a smile, inordinately proud of her young charge. The grand duc looked astounded for a moment, and then let out a gruff bark of laughter, looking a fraction friendlier.

"My lady, I have a gift I wish to formally present to you, on behalf of the Empress and I."

Gaspard barked out an instruction in his native tongue, and two livery-clad retainers came struggling in; clutching something large and covered in a silk cloth. With mutual grunts of exertion, they deposited the item onto the desk, bowing low before making their exit.

The grand duc rose to his feet, taking hold of the navy satin and pulling it free with a triumphal gesture. A great golden fish rose up from a sculpted wave; each fin and scale carved with exceptional care. Flora stared at it, utterly nonplussed.

"It is, ah, how do you say it? Un hareng."

"A herring," she translated, having recognised the shape of the fin.

"Oui. The story of your… unusual upbringing has been a source of much fascination in the salons of Val Royeaux."

The duc eyed her from behind the ornate mask, his curiosity no less assuaged by meeting the Hero of Ferelden in person. Florence Cousland gave nothing away, her face as ambiguous and fine-featured as any Orlesian mask.

"Hm," Flora said at last, reaching out to run her finger over the gilded scales. "I'm not sure how good a swimmer this fish would be. But thank you for this imaginative present."

Gaspard made no reply; merely curled his lips upwards at her beneath the mask.

Leliana took advantage of the pause to clear her throat delicately. When she spoke, the Orlesian accent had been smoothed away to near-nothingness, her tongue shaping words like a Fereldan.

"Lady Florence, the feast will be starting soon. We ought to depart."

"Please," interrupted the duc, inclining his head politely. "Allow me to escort you to Denerim, my lady. I have a carriage and horse waiting in the courtyard."

In a split second, Flora weighed up the benefits and drawbacks to accepting the Orlesian's offer.

He's not going to hurt me. It'd start a war.

What's a carriage, anyway? Some sort of fancy cart?

If I say no, it'll look like I'm afraid.

Leliana will be with me, I'll be fine.

"Thank you," she said at last, unable to stop herself from casting a final, dubious glance at the golden fish statuette.

As it happened, a carriage turned out to be more than just a fancy cart. A sweating coachman held open the gilded door, as Flora eyed the ornately worked metal with increasing wariness. Leliana clambered in beside her, with a soft purr of appreciation at the velvet furnishings.

"I'm not sure carriages have caught on yet in Ferelden," the duc commented idly, settling back against the cushions as Flora sat rigidly opposite, trying hard not to let her apprehension show on her face. "Does your king still ride around on horseback?"

"Yes," Flora replied, summoning some spirit into her reply. "The king of Ferelden is loved by his people and can ride freely among them. From what I've heard, it's no surprise that some Orlesian nobles require a layer of protection between them and their subjects."

The duc snorted once more, eyeing her with increasing appreciation as the carriage set off.

"You are… not what I expected, Florence Cousland. That child is the king's, yes?"

Flora nodded, already deciding that she hated this new form of transport. They went over a large pothole and the entire carriage rattled, the occupants within jolting up and down. Grimly, Flora anchored herself to the velvet bench with her fingertips, offering a silent apology to the little creature within her belly.

"I see," replied Gaspard, seeming to retreat into his own thoughts. "Interesting."

The journey took longer than it would have done on horseback, due to the need to navigate the crumbling roadways and clifftop path. The horses made a wilful effort, sweat breaking out on their flanks as they heaved the carriage down the final long incline towards the city walls.

To one side, the Alamarri plains stretched out to the west of the city, the river estuary gleaming in the sunlight as it snaked leisurely towards the Bannorn hills. The land had been irrevocably scarred by the battle that had taken place there a month prior; only a few scant patches of grass remained amidst a sea of mud and earth. The remains of the dwarven trenches and gullies could still be seen, along with the tangled wreckage of field weaponry too broken for redemption.

Flora did not want to look at the plains, memories of the battle too raw and sharp still for palatable recall. Gaspard, conversely, appeared fascinated by them; shifting position along the velvet bench to gain a better view.

Meanwhile Leliana hummed softly to herself, peering out of the window and fiddling with the lacy edge of her glove. By some miracle – or a set of well-honed abdominal muscles – she barely seemed to register the uneven surface; remaining perfectly serene and stable as the carriage lurched about her.

"It appears that Ferelden's roadways are in need of some maintenance," offered the grand duc at last, relying on his muscled bulk to keep him steady on the cushions. "You may wish to whisper something on the matter to your king, my lady."

Flora, who was jammed into one corner of the bench in an attempt to wedge herself in place, managed to summon up a retort.

"My king is committed to rebuilding the nation after the Blight," she replied, feeling the little creature nudge irritably against her kidney. "Filling in holes in the roads is not a great priority for him at the moment."

Gaspard opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching hoof-steps, and the shouts of men. Leliana peered out of the carriage window, her sky-blue eyes lighting up like Dalish lanterns.

"It's Bann Teagan and the escort. Stop the carriage!"

The bard reached out to open the carriage door as the bann reined his horse expertly to a halt alongside them.

Teagan's expression was a mixture of raw suspicion and naked alarm; he had clearly identified the Valmont coat of arms painted on the side of the carriage. Surprise was quickly added to the blend as his gaze settled on Flora, rigid and unhappy in one corner. He stared at her, and she made a tiny grimace back at him.

"Grand-Duc," the bann said, after a short pause. "You're aware that you've arrived a fortnight early for the coronation?"

"I am aware, bann," replied Gaspard, equally coolly. "I have some personal business with the new teyrn of Highever."

Teagan made a quick gesture inside the carriage, his Guerrin eyes hawklike in their unblinking focus.

"This is not the teyrn of Highever," he stated, evenly. "And your decision to visit the teyrn's sister at Revanloch is in deliberate defiance of protocol. She is not of voting age; there ought to have been elders present."

The grand duc smiled, though his eyes behind the mask stayed sharp and thoughtful.

"My apologies," he murmured, after a moment. "Although I do not believe that the lady had any need for elders. She defied me as belligerently as any Landsmeet veteran."

Teagan flashed Flora a fleeting smile of approval.

"Still," he continued, voice steady. "I'll take Lady Cousland to the city from here, grand-duc. Lay-sister Leliana, would you like to accompany us?"

"I'll be fine," a demure Leliana replied in her Fereldan-accented guise, folding her fingers in her lap. "We'll follow you in the carriage."

And I'll see what I can find out about this man's purpose, her eyes added, silently.

Teagan gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, then reached out his arms towards the carriage. Flora clambered to her feet, awkwardly stepping over the grand-duc's boots to reach the doorway. The bann leaned over and lifted her onto his saddle, feeling an internal twinge of relief as she settled back against his chest.

"À bientôt, my lady," called the grand-duc out of the window, his mouth curling upwards in an amused smile beneath his mask.

Teagan barked an order to his retainers, and they turned their horses back around towards the city of Denerim. The city walls were now only a few minutes ride away; they were close enough to see the great banners of Theirin hanging crimson and gold against the lofty stonework.

The bann let out a low exhalation, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Flora's abdomen as they rode slowly towards the western gate.

"I'm sorry that I was late," he said after a moment, removing a strand of her hair that had blown back against his face. "Are you alright, poppet?"

"Mm," replied Flora, letting go of the pommel and trusting in the bann's strong grip to keep her astride the saddle.

"Do you know who that was?"

"… Gosper?"

"Gaspard de Chalons, one of the most notorious members of the Orlesian court and ruler of Verchiel." Teagan wrinkled his nose, his distaste for Val Royeaux politics apparent.

"Outmanoeuvred to the Sunburst Throne by his cousin Celene, his wife Calienne engineered the death of Celene's mother in a hunting accident, then was murdered herself by Celene's father."

Flora twisted in the saddle and gaped up at him. The bann laughed at the expression on her face, shortening the reins expertly as they approached the gate.

"I know, pet. Stuff of stories, isn't it? The Orlesian Court is a snake-pit."

"It sounds horrible," replied Flora, bluntly. "I can't believe someone as lovely as Leliana came out of all that. Why would he want to see me?"

Teagan let out a low, ambiguous grunt, his grip tightening a fraction around her waist.

"Well," he said, softly. "You're a valuable political pawn now, Flora. A Cousland girl, Hero of Ferelden, and carrying a royal child."

In addition to the incalculable advantage of that face the bann thought, but did not add.

"A valuable political prawn," replied Flora, remembering his attempts to teach her chess. She smiled to herself, feeling a low rumble of laughter within the bann's chest.

"Indeed. Looking forward to your feast? I hope you didn't break your fast too extensively this morning."

"Oh, I ate a ton earlier. But I've always got room for more," Flora replied, blithely. "I think I must have two stomachs, like a starfish. You know, a starfish isn't actually a fish? It's part of the mollusc family."


OOC Author Note: I always headcanon Alamarri culture as being based on the Celts, since they're meant to be the tribal ancestors of Ferelden's greatest families. So I envisioned an Alamarri hairstyle to be very Celtic, lots of little braids and woven bits!

I like this chapter because Flora is inadvertently showing her capability to be Queen – Ferelden needs leaders who can be defiant and independent in the face of Orlais. But I think it's important to note that her ability to engage in political wordplay with Gaspard isn't a product of her Cousland blood, but her Herring childhood – she was raised in a community of grim-faced fishermen, who feared the sea and little else. Her fisher-father, Pel, wouldn't have taken any shit from an Orlesian duke; and neither will Flora, lol.

Orlais is definitely still a great military power, haha, Flora is just being obstinate! I think Gaspard appreciates the verbal sparring, though. Imagine her face when she sees the giant gold fish, though! Part of her is like OMG GIANT METAL FISH, and part of her is like what's the point?! Also, she is Bad at Orlesian names... GOSPER.

Updating a day early because we have a public event thing at work tomorrow. Hurray for machine-gun toting police guarding the office! Welcome to London in 2017, lol

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!