A/N: I want to thank everyone who is reading, favoring, and alerting this story.

I also want to extend my appreciation to Bloodwolf432, thepkrmgc, Lady Cougar-Trombone, Master Thomas, KnightOfHolyLight, Ioialoha, NightlyRowenTree, DarkquillMaster, 'Guest,' 5 Coloured Walker, Maryz Fayner, The Invisible Pretender, Axular, Janizary, V-rcingetorix, mille libri, and Trojan20 for taking the time to review. It means a lot to me. Your incredible support keeps me and this story going.

War of the Laurels

By Spectre4hire

37: Howe

Caer Oswin was burning.

Howe watched it unfold with a feeling of satisfaction.

He had gathered all of his lords, both minor and high, captains, knights, and all other men of importance within his campaign. He wanted them to view the complete destruction of the former Bann Loren's seat. Let them see what happens to those who reach beyond their means.

He was no fool. He knew some of these men who he had gathered here would betray him for the right price. They would not scoff at being offered Amaranthine or Highever or Denerim in exchange for disposing of Howe.

Loyalty could only be stretched so far. The allure of power was too strong to ignore.

This would remind them that he was still on the top. To try to betray him, to try to move against him was folly. Better to stand in his shadow then in his way. He watched as their ashen faces as their eyes took in the orange glow that was all that was left of Caer Oswin.

There was only one more part of the lesson for them to remember. It was not just the destruction of the lord's seat, but the need to eradicate the line itself.

Howe turned to one of his guards. "Bring me my captive."

The guard bowed crisply, before leaving to bring back the prisoner.

Waiting for his captive, Howe could only smile as he recalled the brief siege that took place at Caer Oswin. His forces had overwhelmed the few men stationed at the lord's estate. The majority of those camped outside the walls were refugees: Children, women, and men who were too craven to fight in the war. They surrendered without provocation.

Like they had a choice, Howe pointed out. They were half starving and tired, ranting about darkspawn attacks from the south. They then had the audacity to plead for help as if their pathetic cries were suppose to move him in having him share his army's rations to feed their ungrateful mouths.

A small part of him regretted even coming here. No matter how badly he wanted to punish Loren, he didn't need the burden of these refugees. They had proven their worth by aiding in Loren's swift downfall to Howe's forces. Their loyalty to Loren had been fickle. They sensed an opportunity and swiftly pledged themselves to him seeing the strength and size of his forces. They sought to latch onto a larger host. Loren's compassion had been his undoing and they weren't even grateful to him.

He was now stuck with all these refugees. If he allowed them to come with his forces they would be a parasite, leeching off his supplies; a drain that he could not allow. They were all but useless.

It gave him a headache just thinking about them. It will all be over soon, he reminded himself. Before he could address that rabble, he needed to address the traitor.

"Lord Howe?"

On his knees in front of him was Loren. The plump man didn't cower in his presence. He met Howe's eyes with a glare. He then moved to lunge at him, but the guards were quick in stopping him. One held him back while the other delivered a swift kick to the gut that sent Loren on all fours like a beaten dog. The former Bann gasped for air while his shoulders shook as his arms hugged his rotund midsection.

"You know why you're here, Loren?"

"Yes," Loren wheezed, raising his head to send Howe a look of such burning hatred it was nearly enough for him to take a step back.

Howe steeled himself before inwardly chiding his cowardly reaction. He had nothing to fear from this minor, broken, former lord. He was the Teyrn of Highever, Arl of Amaranthine and Denerim, Protector of the Coastlands. The man before him was nothing.

"I'm here because I had the courage to hold you accountable for your crimes against the Couslands!" Loren growled, "And seeking justice for my wife and son who you butchered!"

"You are here for rebelling against the Queen, as well as her appointed Lord Protector of Ferelden, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir," Howe corrected him. He spared a glance at his lords looking for any hint of sympathy in their ranks. Their looks remained impassive, but he wasn't completely fooled by their indifference.

"Is what you tell yourself?" Loren let out a wheezy laugh. "You're no fool, Howe. You know what sins you've committed." He was propping himself up on his knees while one hand remained clutched to his side from where the guard had kicked him.

Loren's body shook, but he forced himself to stand on shaky legs. "Kill me and be done with it." His eyes met Howe's. "I go to the Maker's side and to see my family again."

Howe paid the man's words no heed. They were the ramblings of a condemned man. Who was fooling himself into thinking death was preferable to life. Believing a benevolent god was waiting for him and a reunion with his dead family: A feast in the Maker's Hall.

It was enough for Howe to scoff. The only feast that was being had was that of maggots devouring what was left of Loren's wife and son in an unmarked grave outside Highever. His headless body would be fodder for carrion and wolves. There was no glory in that. This fallacy of the Maker's compassion was the reasoning of a man who faced death and was too stubborn to admit to being craven at what they truly faced at the end of life.

His attention was on his loyal men. Howe was ready to strike if any even so much as showed disagreement in his actions or pity towards Loren. They were waiting, he knew it. They were ready to show their true colors once he turned his back on them, but he wouldn't.

He was vigilant. He would not give them that chance. He had risen too far to allow himself to lose it all from a dagger in the back.

"Any last words, Loren?" He'd rather just kill him and be done with it, but some precedents were worth respecting. In this case since his nobles were present, he granted the disgraced lord this one boon.

"Aye," Loren straightened up as if good posture would make for a good death. He looked up towards the starry night above them.

"You have chosen and spilt the blood of innocence for power." Loren's attention shifted towards the bright, orange flames that were all that remained of his family's seat.

"I pity your folly, but still more do I pity those whose lives you have taken in pursuit of selfish goals." Loren's eyes then swept across the gathered nobles and knights within Howe's ranks.

"No more will you bear the Light!" His eyes met Howe's. "I am ready."

Howe ignore the slight chill he felt crawl up his spine. He tightened the hold of his sword. He would not falter in front of his men. He gave the signal as his guards pushed Loren back onto his knees, while another had brought out the block. Loren didn't fight as his head was put to it.

He moved into position, swrod in hand. He pushed aside the words that Loren recited. They were nothing, like the wind they were fleeting. Howe looked out at his assembled men one more time. He dared them to challenge his judgment, to try to defend this traitor.

They didn't. They remained silent. However, he noticed more than a few were no longer looking at Howe or Loren, but elsewhere. They either didn't have the stomach for executions or it was something else.

That would be addressed, Howe made a note. First, he had to deal with the traitor he knew, and then he'll deal with the traitors who have yet to reveal themselves.

He swung down his sword, and felt satisfaction when blade met the flesh on the back of Loren's neck. He didn't spare the headless corpse another look. His eyes went back to his men, his sword dripping with the lifeblood of a traitor.

"Put his head on a spike," Howe commanded, his eyes never leaving his nobles, "Let everyone know the fate of traitors."

Watching his men soon disperse, Howe was certain Loren's head would not be the only one on a spike before he left Caer Oswin.

Let them come, he thought. I'm waiting.

Liars and fools, Howe thought, that's who he was surrounded with. He had gathered his men together the next evening. They had accomplished their task. Loren was dead, his estate a smoldering ruin of stone and ash. Now, it was time to make preparations to move on.

"We should return to Denerim," chirped Lord Guy, his brown eyes searching up and down the table for agreement. "We should regroup with Teyrn Loghain."

"Denerim?" Ser Timothy sneered. He had a long face, watery eyes, and an aquiline nose. "Our forces are mobilized. We should march on South Reach itself!" He pounded his fist onto the table. "Let us end the Cousland threat once and for all."

"Here, here," cried out several nobles, tankards clanking, while hands slapped the table in agreement.

All Howe wanted to do was end this farce. He shifted in his seat. His elbow was resting on the table while his fingers drummed his empty tankard. He sent one of the servants a pointed look.

The silent message was quickly received. The servant rushed over, careful not to spill the ale, arriving to Howe's side. He poured him more only stopping when it reached the brim, Howe waved him off. The servant didn't need to be told twice as he slunk away quietly.

Look at them all, he thought. Up and down his table. They were eating his food and drinking his wine. Giving him smiles while plying him with advice as if he'd be so easily coaxed by their obvious deception.

He was no Bryce Cousland. He was no fool. Bryce had been so trusting. He always wanted to look for the best in people. And it had cost him everything. Bryce thought of Howe as a friend. That was his folly. Howe saw him as his liege lord. A man who had grown weak, having spurned his fellow Fereldans for Orlesian favors.

Enough, Howe stemmed his thoughts on his former liege lord from continuing. He took a long sip of ale from his tankard, appreciative of the warm, bitter taste that lingered in his mouth.

"What of the refugees?" asked Lady Liza Packton, dressed in her red steel armor, her light brown hair was put up in a battle braid to keep out of the way of her sharp blue eyes. Her small mouth twisted as if tasting something sour when she added, "They linger with our forces, begging for rations."

"Rations are for the soldiers," Howe cut in. "If they want to be fed then we shall feed them." He noticed the confused looks many of the lords were sending him. "We will conscript any man of fighting age. Any boy nine and up will be enlisted into our services. They have an obligation to serve their proper liege lord."

Chattering of agreement and praise met Howe's decision.

"What of the woman and the elderly?" asked Lady Morag, her braided dark hair fell in loose strands just above her equally dark eyes. Her choice of dress complemented her curves and allowed a glimpse of the dusky skin beneath. She was one of the younger nobles in attendance and it was only her family's wealth that had provided them a seat at Howe's table. They brought little men, but plenty of coin.

Howe had been expecting her father, Lord Randall to sit in on his council not his daughter. Seeing how she was dressing and the looks she sent him, he understood the game. Seduction, Lord Randall was whoring out his own daughter to try to secure a better spot for his family.

No, not whoring, Howe corrected himself. Whoring implied payment for services given. Howe had no intention of paying. He was their liege lord. They swore him fealty. They pledged him their service, their men for his protection. Or in this case Lord Randall was offering his daughter.

"I have a suggestion for the women," Ser Temmerly the Ox spoke up, a man whose combat prowess not political wit had earned him a seat on Howe's council. He was a loyal brute who had led men into Cousland Castle without question. He had also thinned out the ranks of any Cousland sympathizers after the Couslands had been brought to justice.

Ser Temmerly towered over the lords and ladies around him from his spot on the table. He had wavy blonde hair and hard blue eyes, dressed in his armor he was imposing even when sitting down.

"The soldiers are tired and grumbling of all this marching," he scratched at the stubble along his jaw line, "They could use certain ah, comforts to help raise their morale."

Howe noticed the look of disgust that came to Captain Chase's expression who sat across from Ser Temmerly at what the knight was suggesting.

"So be it," Howe agreed, better for them to serve some purpose then none at all.

A triumphant smile came to Temmerly's lips at Howe's ruling, a pleased nod followed as he leaned back in his seat, satisfied with himself.

"And of the elderly?" Lady Morag's dark eyes met his without hesitance. Her stony expression not letting slip how she felt of Temmerly's suggestion or Howe's approval of it.

"Leave them," Howe said simply. "I will not allow our forces to be bogged down by extra burdens. We are an army not a charity."

"Lord Howe?" That was Captain Chase.

Howe turned to him. He was expecting the captain to speak up in disagreement about Howe's choice of role for the refugee women. Instead, what he saw was Captain Chase standing from his seat, a letter in his hand, a messenger standing a few feet behind him. "What?"

"Word from Vigil Keep."

"What does it say?" Howe bit down the frustration threatening to seep into his tone. Must he command them to think too now?

"It's Amaranthine, Your Lordship," Chase looked up from the note. "It has fallen to the Couslands."

Buzzing voices greeted this revelation. Up and down the table, nobles and knights were fighting to have their outrage heard above others, thundering declarations, fists hitting tables joined together to form a symphony of indignation.

Howe's eyes roamed the seats, alert for any signs or tell of communication between them. Looking to see if anyone didn't react to the news, didn't look surprised at the announcement. Howe was certain the Cousland brat had help from his lords. How else could Amaranthine fall?

They now sensed weakness. He had lost his most prized holdings within his Arling. They would soon circle him like a pack of hungry wolves, thinking him easy and wounded prey. They would be wrong.

"How could this have happened?" lamented Lord Guy, when the wave of voices began to die down.

Chase turned to the lord. "It does not say." He then turned to Howe. "It is believed that Lady Esmerelle is dead."

A hush fell over the nobles at the news that one of their own had fallen.

"May she be welcomed to the Maker's side." Lady Liza Packton said somberly, holding up her glass of wine. They mirrored her movement, toasting the deceased Lady of Amaranthine.

Actors and charlatans, Howe knew this performance well. Oh, how they played the wounded, loyal supporters. They pretended to mourn the loss of Lady Esmerelle, while all of them were silently salivating at the now open, prestigious seat of Amaranthine City. Some of them were already probably planning how quickly they could switch over to the Cousland's side. They would plead ignorance and fear while hoping to be rewarded with the vacant seat in Amaranthine or the Arling itself!

Howe shifted in his seat again; uncomfortable in this rigid chair. How was he supposed to sit comfortably in this damned seat?

"Who holds the city now?" The nobles continued in their little show.

"Lady Alfstanna Eremon," Chase had to reread the note to give the answer.

Howe noticed a peculiar look flicker across the Captain's face when he mentioned who held the city. He'd get an explanation for that soon.

"That is enough," Howe stood up from his seat. "We will march on Amaranthine and reclaim it from these traitors!" He ignored the nobles' voicing their agreement and pledges of services, "And we will put their heads on spikes! Assemble your forces we leave at first light."

He remained standing as he watched the nobles file out of his tent. Some looked to be milling about, looking for an opening to speak with him privately. "Captain Chase, I want you to stay." Howe would not be bothered by them. "I want everyone else out."

That stopped any more of the nobles from trying to linger. When the last one left, the flaps of the tent were closed, leaving only him and Captain Chase.

Howe took his tankard and finished ale in one sip. He then put it down on the table with more force then he intended. He looked down to see his hand was shaking. He then picked up the pitcher and poured himself more ale.

"You had a curious reaction when it was revealed who led the city now," Howe observed.

"Aye, I did."

Out with it, he wanted to shout, but he stopped himself. Instead, he took a sip of his ale and waited for Chase to speak up.

"We have her brother," Chase said quietly. "Ser Irminric Eremon is in your dungeon back in Denerim."

"Truly?" Howe wanted to chuckle at this turn of events.

"He is," Chase confirmed. "He is a knight-lieutenant in the Templar Order." He looked down at his hands which were still holding the note. "He was brought in by Teyrn Loghain after he caught a blood mage who had escaped the Circle."

It was coming back to him now. He remembered the incident with the Blood Mage and how they used his desperation and gullibility to try to remove Eamon from the game. The plan had ultimately failed, but only due to the interference of the remaining outlaw Grey Wardens.

To think they could get some use out of the templar they detained was an unexpected gift. "I want you to ride ahead to the capital." Howe informed his most trusted captain.

"You are to bring Ser Eremon to Amaranthine. We shall then test the Lady Alfstanna's loyalty to the Cousland cause when she must choose between the city or her brother's life."

"Aye, my lord," Chase crossed his arms over his chest and bowed low.

"What is it, Captain?" Howe noticed the hesitance in the captain's movement.

"He is a templar, my lord," Chase pointed out delicately. "The Chantry will not approve of you using one of their templars in this way."

"The Chantry doesn't approve of murder either," Howe counted, "But that didn't stop the Grand Cleric from taking gold from Cousland Castle," he could still remember the greedy mothers and sisters inside the Chantry in Denerim when he presented them a chest or two of gold from Highever. He hadn't wanted to part with any of it, but he needed to buy not just the Chantry's silence but an alliance.

The Grand Cleric and her ilk quickly spread their denouncement of the Couslands and how the Maker's judgment had been put on Highever. The people like sheep ate it up and were quick to join in to support a cause blessed by the Chantry itself.

It had proven to be a sound investment. It had hit a snag recently. No more were the downtrodden joining his ranks. Many more refugees were now flocking to the city and they were spreading dissent of Howe's actions and praise for what the Cousland brat was doing.

"Very well, my lord," Chase acquiesced, "with the Chantry support we should have no problems with Ser Irminric then."

"See that we don't," Howe replied. That templar was the key in regaining Amaranthine and cleansing the city of Alfstanna and the other traitors who had rose up to steal the city from him.

"There is one more thing, my lord." Chase cleared his throat. "Ser Temmerly's suggestion," his mouth twisted. "It's unworthy of us and completely unwarranted."

Howe knew of the bad blood between the captain and the knight. In some cases he stroked the flames of their animosity for one another for his benefit. He used their rivalry for one another to further advance his cause.

"The other lords won't say it, but siding with the Ox," Chase all but spat the name, "Is unbecoming. We could send them to Highever, anywhere, but to use them in this form. It will ruin us!"

"Enough," Howe held up his hand. "This is war, Captain." He lectured, "You are to either serve or to be slaughtered. There is no middle ground. These women, those that are not fighters this if this all they can offer for our services then so be it." Howe leaned back in his seat, ignoring the discomfort that shot through his back.

"I'd rather have loyal soldiers then disgruntled nobles. A soldier's loyalty will not falter. They'll die for you, but a noble's are more fluid. They're more about self preservation then self sacrifice. "

Chase looked properly chided, but he didn't look done with his argument. He opened his mouth to speak, but Howe silenced him with a stare.

"The matter is settled," Howe had heard enough. "Do not forget your station." He pinned him with a hard look. "I grant you certain liberties because of your loyalty and your services but do not be mistaken into thinking that I will permit myself to be lectured." He felt satisfied at seeing the captain squirm in his boots.

"Now prepare your journey to Denerim," Howe told him. "I want the captive ready to be presented outside the gates of Amaranthine by the time my army has arrived."

"It will be done, my lord." Chase bowed and left without another look.

"Will there be anything else, m'lord?"An elf servant had stepped into the room as the captain departed.

"Yes," Howe looked down on his empty tankard, "Wine and two glasses," a smile coming to his lips, "and send for Lady Morag."

He could use a distraction.