Disclaimer: "Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only
Words From The Author: In case anyone questions it . . . typically Morgreth/Urthemiel is just called 'him' or 'he' without capitalizing it, however when it IS capitalized (Him, He, His) as you will see in this chapter, it's because the character through whom we are reading the perspective, has recognized Urthemiel as a god.
Ancient Tevene is written as Latin. So Latin-English translations courtesy of Ancient Translator Rom. It's hard to know if the translations are a hundred percent accurate since the language is a dead one, but it gets the effect across I think.
Adveho, valde unus. Compello vestri vernula. = Come, great one. Speak to your servant.
Ut audivi te vocant, ita nunc voco te. = So as I have heard you summon me, so now do I summon thee.
In game canon, the whole thing going on between Cailan and Celene (Empress of Orlais) is more hinted at, than made concrete in any way. Though I'm told that David Gaider did say that Loghain's paranoia on the subject wasn't without reason. That said, I think in the game Eamon may have been a bit more supportive of it, maybe because 'he' had married an Orlesian, but in THIS story, Eamon had another bride in mind for Cailan, and Cailan's thoughts on the matter might not be what you expected either. Just when you thought all that would be left of Cailan in this story was his amulet. :p So differences between game canon and Fate and Forbearance canon? Yes, not absurdly so, but yes.
Also, there's a phrase repetition between two different sections, and it's on purpose, I liked tying them together like that, so no 'oops' on my part . . . well, at least not THAT time. :p In addition 'I' am not saying that being unmarried at the age of twenty-one makes a person an old hag, if that were the case, I've been on the shelf past my expiration for quite some time. Rather it is the type of idea that flourished in the Rennaisance, as young ladies got older, the rush to have them married off before their twenty-first year was pretty prevalent. Just want to make sure I don't offend.
Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!
Chapter Thirty Seven:
Well Laid Plans
She cut her palms, barely wincing at the familiar pain anymore, and smeared them across the glass, taking a finger to trace patterns in it across the mirror's surface. The only interruption, when she turned her head at every little sound to make sure she hadn't been followed. Hidden away in a forgotten storage room of the royal palace, the location wouldn't be easy for anyone to stumble upon, but the mage couldn't risk being caught. Her master would be sorely upset and His wrath was a terrible thing to endure.
When her spell work reached its conclusion, the mage braced herself for the painful experience of hearing her dark lord talking inside her head, something that she doubted any mortal could become accustomed to. The sharpness of His words was matched only by the barely restrained power behind them. Never would she forget what He had done down in the dungeons of the palace, when she had refused to kill the late Queen Anora. Possession from a demon was bad enough, possession from a deity was quite another level of suffering. His voice, His words, and her body had done the deed, and the piercing pain inside her skull had taken a week to dull away into nothing. She almost thought she was going to be killed, the amount of energy He used for it nearly stealing away her life.
At first she questioned whether Urthemiel was as He claimed, but months upon months of being at the old god's beck and call, Neria Surana no longer doubted it. The heady power she felt at conversing with a god had lessened as her fear of Him grew. Her gratitude after her near capture by the templars, had become a duty instead, bound by the threat of His punishment is she failed Him.
'Oh Neria, you silly elf, what have you gotten yourself into this time?' Her friend, Jowan's voice was an echo in her mind, because she would never hear it again.
Eyes clenched shut at the threat of her tears, knowing Lord Urthemiel wouldn't appreciate them. He required His supplicants to be strong of will, and He accepted no weakness but what He perceived to already be the inborn weakness of mortality. His supplicant . . . Neria could no longer deny that was what she was to Him, even if He called her His beloved servant, or His dear child, to Him she was a tool, but she couldn't escape from Him. Her bravado, little as she felt it to be, had let her make the attempt a few times, but they had been utter failures. His punishment still left scars on her that she could feel but no one could see, and Neria hadn't dared to try again.
"Adveho, valde unus. Compello vestri vernula." The young elf chanted, the spell work of the ancient imperium magic seeming to bath her tongue with a power that was beyond the simplicity of Circle magic. Each word in itself a cry unto the forces that provided the incantation. Since Neria had been introduced to the complexities of the arch-magi of the old world, she could compare nothing else to the feelings that coursed through her veins as the words left her lips.
"Ut audivi te vocant, ita nunc voco te." She hissed out, low and caressing as if it was the vocal equivalent of worshiping on one's knees. Hands pressed against the mirror, her blood cooling there as familiar grey and red wisps swirled in the glass like a whirlpool, the surface seeming to ripple. Neria bent her head and bowed as she felt the presence of the old god. "Lord Urthemiel. I heard you calling to me as I slept, and I wish only to serve you." In the common tongue, her petition of servitude seemed less sincere somehow, and she winced, anticipating that her master might notice such a thing.
"Do you, my sweet child? I think you lie to me, I think you wish to escape from our agreement." The disembodied voice was no less frightening for the lack of physical form to represent it, the god's essence speaking from the vortex within the glass. "It pains me to think of your disloyalty, after all I did for you. I saved you from the templars that hunted you, I saved you from the demons that you first sought for aid. There in the Fade of Dreams I found you, and gave you more power than years of paltry instruction at your prison of a mage tower ever could. Yet, you do not wish to help me in return?" His tone was that of an unhappy parent, but behind the censure was a malicious bite that spoke of things far worse than mere disapproval.
"No! I do! I do wish to serve you!" Panicked, Neria raised almond shaped eyes to the mirror, her urgent whispers pressing towards it.
"Is that why you have sought escape from me, despite the stupidity of it? Is that why I had to take the late Queen of Ferelden's disposal in hand myself? You have disappointed me before, sweet one. If you truly wish to serve me, you must prove your worth, and that's more than you have done so far." He sent his intentions towards her, wishing He had chosen a servant of stronger will to do as they were asked.
"I . . . I do not know how I have disappointed you again, my lord. I did all that you said, the wine . . ." She shrieked as his anger pounded inside her skull, making the mage curl up on the floor.
"The wine ran out, idiot mortal!" The old god roared His anger like a great dragon, His voice sounding only in His servant's mind, but there it was louder than the ending of the world.
"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry!" Neria wailed, fingers curled into fists and pressed to her agonized temples. "It hurts! Please . . ." She gasped in pain, and when He finally released His hold on her, she slumped to the floor, barely daring to raise her tear stained face. "The queen drinks the wine every night, and I made sure there were cases and cases of it on the supply wagon, I did, you must believe me!"
"Must I? Yes, I suppose I do, as I also believe you were not thinking. Because she drank all she had, and now I have no access at all. How do I influence her mind if I cannot get to her thoughts? Tell me that, little Neria." He knew there would be no answer, as she struggled to come up with one, and he didn't particularly want her to question why he didn't merely possess her again and do it himself. "Don't trouble yourself, mortal, I know it taxes you to try and use that brain inside your skull, but that's why I am here, to help you succeed. You must enchant more than just the wine, that way you insure that she will be affected. Her cosmetics, her bath salts, her food, use your imagination, since I know you have one. Such a fine one in fact, such potential, my precious elf."
"But . . . But I don't have the energy for . . ."
"I will give you the energy, if and only if, you swear upon your life not to defy me again."
Neria bowed her head, shifting to find her feet as she rose up from the floor. "I swear, Lord Urthemiel, I swear."
"Good girl. Perhaps this riposte will relax her and make her think I will come to her no more, which may provide an unforeseen new tactic, and so I am willing to forgive your mistake . . . this time. I shall not be so magnanimous in the future." He crooned at her, soothing the cuts in her mind that He'd caused in His anger. "Now, sweet one, put your hands up to the glass and I will teach you all that you must learn to better serve me. There shall be no more mishaps."
September 4'th, 9:30, Dragon Age
"I've been getting reports on darkspawn, mostly from scouts in the wilds and some few Chasind that have gone to the southland villages for trade. Anora thinks I am putting too much stock in peasant rumors, which could almost be funny, considering her bloodline." Cailan snorted in dark humor, recent and thick fighting with his queen putting them at odds, and that time he wasn't sure they could recover, or if he even wanted to anymore. The threat of darkspawn had a least given him another focus.
Eamon sat with him on a thin balcony overlooking the courtyard of Rainesfere, his brother Teagan's holding, enjoying a late lunch with his nephew. Their visit there had been to hold a meeting with the local bannorn and see where all of them stood if the rumors of darkspawn proved more than that. He looked out past the railing, more for distraction while he thought, than to take in the scenery of the moorlands, though in the early fall, the tress were full of lovely colors.
He raised a mug of honeyed mead to his lips, careful not to drip any on his iron grey beard. "That old Warden, associate of your father's . . ."
"Duncan?"
"Yes, when is he set to arrive?"
"Sometime next week, by his last letter." Cailan hummed, disinterested as his mind wandered to thoughts of actually fighting again, and against darkspawn no less. The last scrap he'd been in had pitted him against paltry bandits, and even then his honor guard had kept their king out of the fray. Cailan itched for a good battle, though he was concerned about not knowing that much about the enemy. 'Son, it's never wise to go up against a dragon without knowing the size.' His father had told him once, during a retelling of Maric's own adventures. The advice seemed appropriate for the times.
"Hmm, I bet Loghain won't like that." Eamon smirked into his mug, imagining the scowl on the veteran's face. Though he scowled so often, that wasn't a difficult image to conjure.
"He doesn't like much. I don't know what my father ever saw in him, all he does is gripe at me. About his daughter, about the country and the way it should be run. I say, piss on Loghain, he's not the king, I am." Cailan had his own scowl as he picked at his lunch, pushing some cherry tomatoes to the side of his plate. "Though, he is a very good strategist. There's no denying that. I'll get the old man to come around, I always do anyway. He'll grumble and glower, but he'll agree in the end."
All that Eamon had to say to that was a short nod and a brief 'hmm', before he'd moved on. "What does the empress say, should the need arise?"
"Celene says she would be more than willing to send us some of her chevaliers, if I were to ask it of her."
"Celene is it?" That sharp Guerrein mind caught on to Cailan's tone quickly. "You need to be cautious boy, the wounds of this country are not yet healed and when it comes to Orlais, we must always walk carefully."
"I'm not a boy, I am a man whose twenty fifth birthday is in two days, and secondly, those are strong words coming from someone who married an Orlesian." Cailan snorted, setting his lunch aside completely. "I know where you are going with this, and I can assure you that I know what I'm doing."
"Do you now? Let us hope so, for all our sakes. You are still a young man, despite what you may think to the contrary, and young men can make mistakes. Certainly since you've made the error of thinking your Aunt Isolde and I compare in any way to a dalliance between the King of Ferelden and the Empress of Orlais." The elder man huffed, in a low secretive voice, not without his own bluster, as he rose from his chair to stand and look past the railing at an approaching caravan. "Cailan, I love you, as both my nephew and my king, I want only what is best for you and Ferelden. In all things, and all I'm saying is that should you decide that you want another on the throne beside you, it would be better to look to more local prospects than Orlais."
"We aren't having this conversation again, Uncle, we really aren't!" Cailan threw his napkin down on to the small table before standing beside the shorter man. "Anora knows how to manage her duties, she's helped me rule this country since I was crowned. I don't intend on robbing her of the ability to perform her many talents." What separated the truth from the lies in that statement, was kept hidden behind the sharp tang of Cailan's defensive tone.
"Which don't seem to include providing Ferelden with an heir."
"Uncle . . ." Cailan cautioned, growling under his breath, preparing for another heated argument with Eamon on the same topic they'd already discussed at least a dozen times before then.
Eamon threw his palms in the air, shaking his head, as blue-grey eyes narrowed on the wagons and carriages making their way from the road to the courtyard below them. "Fine, fine, and besides it looks as if Teyrn Cousland has arrived, and we ought to go down and greet them."
"Them?" The king blinked, brushing a long blonde lock of hair out of the way. He knew Bryce was coming, he'd asked for the northern teyrn's support at the meeting with the bannorn, but he'd no idea the man was going to bring his family.
"Yes, he's brought Teyrna Eleanor and the Lady Gwyneth with him, Lord Fergus is managing Castle Cousland."
As the Arl of Redcliffe trailed off, leaving the balcony, Cailan stayed to watch the traveling party collect itself. 'Gwyneth.' He smiled, running a hand over his hair to make sure it was in order, before he followed his uncle downstairs.
Down below he made the rounds, greeting all as he should. Cailan was cautious not to look at Gwyneth too closely, planting a brief kiss to the top of her offered hand, with the girl's father looking on all hawk eyed. There had been rumors about the two of them, and Teyrn Cousland had been none too pleased about anything sullying his daughter's honor or virtue, not that the king could blame the man. If he had a daughter, he'd imagine he'd be much the same.
And there it was, he had no children, no heirs of his blood. Eamon was right in that, and the thought was souring. It was only his insistence that his mistresses take herbs to prevent conception that kept him from siring bastards, but were times he'd been desperate enough to consider it. Then Gwyneth snuck him a smile when no one was looking, long cinnamon ringlets the same color as some of the autumn leaves in the maple trees, and such cares were set aside.
He sought her out when he had a free moment, cautious that no one would think anything untoward about his motivations.
She was out in the simple kitchen garden with her mother, the two women walking arm in arm and inspecting the herbs that were growing.
Teyrna Eleanor sniffed one of them and made a noise akin to retching. "Oh, dear me, that's positively pungent! Gwyneth, do you know what these are?"
"Chives, I think."
"Quite so, let us be certain we don't grow our own anywhere near my strawberries, I shouldn't like the taste to blend. They are good in a soup, when you have your own household, be sure to have the servants cook some for your husband, won't you?"
"Strawberry soup? I'm not so certain of that." Gwyneth smirked as her mother batted her arm.
"Herb soup with chives. You know what I mean, why do you tease me so? You are as bad as your father." Eleanor chided but didn't seem half serious about it.
"Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not, but if I might be excused, I want to make sure they've secured a good spot for Noble to sleep. I have half a suspicion they will have lumped him with the hunting hounds, and you know him, he's quite particular." Which more likely meant it was his mistress that was particular. Gwyneth nodded as her mother excused her with a wave of her hands, leaving the open garden for one of the covered walkways that went around three sides of it.
She almost screamed when an arm snaked out and pulled her into an alcove. Sharp eyes glared up at her king over the palm he had pressed across her mouth.
"Did I scare you, Gwyn?" Cailan grinned, dropping his voice to a whisper, even as Gwyneth did the same, her voice hissing when he removed his palm.
"You know you did, you nearly frightened the life out of me!" She turned her head, the dark blue ribbon holding her loose hair back, tickling her neck as the young lady checked around the corner for anyone that might see them. "We aren't suppose to be alone like this anymore, my parents gave me quite the tongue lashing about inappropriate behavior, and I don't imagine your wife would care too well for similar rumors about you." She huffed, arms folded and pressed against her sternum, looking every bit the noblewoman with the posture.
"You make it sound as if we are having an illicit affair, and more's the pity that we aren't." Cailan sighed for dramatic effect, swallowing his laugh when it earned him a slap to the shoulder. "Alright, perhaps that was in poor taste."
"Perhaps?"
"Fine, it was in poor taste and I apologize." He sobered, watching her nod her acceptance. "But really, all we are doing is talking as friends, and all this sneaking about it wearing on my nerves. I didn't even know you were going to be here, Gwyn. Why didn't you tell me in your last letter?"
"Because, I am being cautious. We ought to have been more careful before, and then maybe the gossip hounds wouldn't have made this more than it is. I have to be mindful of what I say in my letters. I'm not one of your serving girl doxies, I'm the Lady of Highever, I have a high reputation to maintain, if I want to make a successful match."
He made no effort to refute the fact that he had doxies, it would've been useless when she knew the truth of it, and didn't judge him harshly for his affairs. "I am aware of that you know, it's the only reason I've tolerated all this rubbish for so long. There is very little I would not do for you, my pretty, witty Gwyn." He smiled, bright blue eyes seeming to glow with his affection, even in that dim alcove. One dark red ringlet was caught between his finger and thumb as he lightly tugged at it, grinning when she playfully batted his hand away.
"Hmm." Was her only response, but she was smiling.
"There we are, that's what I like to see. No more scowling." Cailan teased, before his thoughts caught up with him. "So what's this about a match? And your mother was talking of cooking chive soup for your husband."
Gwyneth shrugged, not surprised that he'd been listening, likely waiting to get her alone so they could speak. "Just the usual bits of talk, really. Though, my parents seem to have someone in mind, despite the fact that they have said nothing to me, I've picked up on it. It makes me nervous, they've always discussed my engagements with me so that I could participate in charming my intended. This silence on the matter makes me think they either do not trust in my ability to present myself as a highly suitable bride, which I know is a load of nonsense, or that the perspective groom would not be to my liking. In all honesty, I do look forward to being married,, and they should know that."
"You do?" Cailan found the thought of Gwyneth married, displeased him greatly, and he tried to keep the feelings of envy out of his voice. That some lesser noble would have the fine beauty on his arm when he didn't half deserve her, rankled like a festering sore.
Oblivious to his thoughts, the young lady carried on. "Indeed, lest I turn twenty-one and I am still unmarried, then to be thought of as an old hag."
"You could never be a hag, Gwyneth." He cleared his throat, pressing back into the cool curved stone behind him, when two servants walked past. "Besides, I think you will be married before your next birthday."
"Know something I don't, do you?"
"That's for me to know, and you to find out." Cailan grinned at her, bowing in the small place with as much flourish as he could manage. "Speaking of birthdays, are you going to be attending mine? Being that we are all secretive now."
"We are to travel with your own party back to Denerim, yes, and I have your present. I think you'll like it." Someone was chattering from the other end of the open hallway and Gwyneth stiffened, relaxing only when the noise had passed. "Finding the opportunity to give it to you shall be a chore, but I am very resourceful."
"I have no doubt. So what is it?"
A catlike smile pulled up one corner of Gwyneth's thin lips, turning Cailan's words back on him. "That's for me to know, and you to find out."
"Oh-ho! That's how it's going to be then." The minutes were ticking by too quickly for his liking, but he knew he had to prepare for his meeting with the banns. "Much as I would rather spend the rest of the afternoon with you, I'm afraid I have some politics to drown myself in. Are you going to be at dinner?"
"Of course, Bann Teagan always has a good feast ready whenever he's been host. Speaking of banns, go speak to our head man at the caravan, he has something for you. A political map that will be of much use during your meeting, I suspect. The banns are impossibly stubborn and not easily swayed one way or another, unless one has leverage to use against them." She smoothed out an imagined wrinkle in the rich blue velvet of her gown. "A comprehensive list of the liaisons, known bastard children, old ties, current alliances and even some food preferences of the banns collected here. I'm more than certain it's better than anything Anora may have given you, she hasn't the insight of the Couslands." It was the calmest of insults Gwyneth had flung at the other woman in quite some time, and she was secure in knowing that Cailan wouldn't scold her over it.
"If your father made it for me, why didn't he say anything in the courtyard? He had more than enough time to give it to me in private, had he wished to pull me aside." Cailan quirked one trimmed blonde brow.
Gwyneth's conceit was showing at the edges, in the egotistical smile on her face, making her look almost predatory. "Because my father didn't make the map . . . I did." She bowed cutely, still smirking and full of pride, as she took in the surprise on Cailan's face. "Now, I have to take my leave, and you should as well. I shall see you at dinner . . . and I'll try to sneak in another moment with you if I can."
Cailan nabbed her hand as she made to get away, kissing the top of it and winking roguishly. "Until then, dear lady." As she tossed him a long look over her shoulder, leaving the alcove, his lips were drawn in hearty enjoyment of Gwyneth's continued surprises. No matter how long, or well, he knew the girl, there was never any way that he could determine everything inside her sharp mind. His pretty, witty Gwyn, indeed.
As the King of Ferelden made to find the Cousland's head man for Gwyneth's promised map, he thought on his Uncle Eamon's advice on setting Anora aside. The notion was always in the back of his mind lately, festering there, but Cailan was beginning to come around, despite his guilt over the matter.
For over a year he'd entertained a new alliance with Orlais, but it had only been in the last six months that it had gone on to a more personal joining of the two leaders. Long had the wounds of the occupation been a black mark in the hearts of Cailan's people, and he wanted more than anything to move Ferelden forward. A new age of refinement, of foregoing more barbaric customs to put them on par with countries such as Orlais. Though he was not so naive as to believe the people would simply accept a union of matrimony, they could learnt to adapt.
However, the responses to Celene's letters had lessened in the past four months, the tone falling back into words more impersonal than the those of the empress, and the young sovereign knew why. The reason was tall, cultured, red haired, and lovelier than any other woman he knew. 'It would be better to look to more local prospects than Orlais.' Eamon had suggested, and suddenly the idea didn't seem without merit.
Gwyneth was from a lineage of blue blood, as old as Cailan's own, from her mother she had also likely inherited a healthy fertility. Eleanor Davenport-Cousland had four children, one stillborn and another miscarried in the sixth month, but four there had been, with two surviving children. Those points would stand out if Cailan were to make a list of perspective brides, as would the loyalty of Bryce Cousland to the king in question and the man's staunch involvement with protecting the country's best interests in moving forward.
What would never be on a list, was the way Gwyneth made him feel. The way her smile was like the sun on his skin, accepting and warm, offering promises of a bright day ahead. How they functioned on the same level, and their interaction was much in kind. She did not chide him about his dreams, in point of fact, doing quite the opposite with both encouragement and the injection of her imaginings to blend with his own. Gwyneth made him do more than just dream, she made it possible to believe such visions could be realized.
At first it had been the typical deference, with 'Your Majesty's and 'My Lady's aplenty, but now they were just Cailan and Gwyneth. Yet for the simplicity of that, what the young king could never achieve with a lesser noble, his desire for her company was nothing short of consuming and irrational. His liaisons with whatever woman had captured his brief attention, were never difficult to get over and move on from. Such was not so with his Gwyneth, and he could not help but wonder if it wasn't the lack of physical intimacy that made him feel so enamored of one single girl from the Coastlands, yearning for what was just out of reach. Still, Cailan knew that she was more worthy of him than nearly any other woman he'd kept company with, and more to the point, that he was more worthy of her than some simple arl's get or foreign lord.
The idea of her marrying anyone was very distressing, unless she was to marry Cailan himself, and the idea of that was more pleasing than it should have been.
Such dreams and fancies carried him forward, even into his meeting, putting an extra jubilance in an otherwise dull affair. In the end, he had won most of them over. The banns were a difficult lot, but not impossible.
June 11'th, 9:31, Dragon Age
The banns were a difficult lot, but not impossible, Gwyneth had learned that some time ago, and she wasn't without aids to use in her political dealings. Her father had taught her a great deal about politics, and the young queen was most certain that she was more talented a politician than any other woman in Ferelden. Another facet of her personal pride, but one she felt was quite deserved.
There had been times, not even a whole year past, where she'd been willing to advise only, never possessing the desire to be directly involved. Fergus' accusations the last day she'd seen her brother, held that much truth, but things had changed. Before, Gwyneth had been bred and raised to be the bride of a powerful man, but not as queen . . not until her parents and Arl Eamon had made plans centered around Cailan. To be queen was more than just 'some' nobleman's wife, she was the highest of nobility, even more so than the teyrna she would've become, had Fergus not survived and the marriage to Alistair hadn't panned out. It required a more 'hands on' approach, even as she made plans that would put her husband forward as the one in charge, she was the one that wrote his speeches, that decided on what points should be brought to the fore and when. He listened because of his inexperience, but more than that, Gwyneth liked to think that Alistair trusted her input, in politics if nothing else.
Gwyneth stroked her fingers absently over the golden wings of Cailan's amulet, playing with it as her other hand scratched at the parchment before her with a blackened quill pen.
Pale morning sunlight came in through the fluttering curtains of the inn room, the window looking out to the trading port of Dunharrow, where King Alistair was inspecting the village at Queen Gwyneth's insistence. She had wanted him to see how a trading port should work, being that the queen was displeased with the level and function of trade in the capital. The woman had already made the rounds herself and taken notes, but she thought it best that Alistair see the functionality with his own eyes, that and it gave her the solitude she needed to think and plan. Things best done in a quiet room, with little distraction.
Noble had decided to lounge about and enjoy his nice large pillow before they had to set off again that afternoon. Hunting held little appeal in town, and for once, the royal mabari was not so very hungry. He raised a head occasionally to check on his mistress, but apart from that, sleep interested him more than attention and the boon for his silence, was that she hadn't ejected him from the room.
Gwyneth glanced sideways at her royal hound, smiling briefly, before she went back to her work. Alistair would appreciate this in the end, Cailan certainly had, and though she couldn't quite remember everything that been on the map she'd made for the late king, it was more than the current king had at his disposal.
This time, however, Gwyneth would be able to see the fruit of her labors in person, and the idea was almost thrilling.
There were those banns who had holdings outside the bannorn, and of those, a few hedged the center moorlands, but by and large they wouldn't be present at the meeting. More often than not, such banns functioned more as high lords of their holdings. It seemed that those situated within the bannorn itself had the most difficulty getting along, with themselves and their sovereign. Though Gwyneth held to the notion that it was the constant fighting over territory, like a pack of mabari all trying to mark the same row of trees, that was the root of their frequent disagreements.
Trying to satiate all of their desires would be a futile attempt, and the end would lead only to the displeasure of the collected lords, and what few ladies might be in attendance. However, gauging the best way to find out what they really wanted, while revealing nothing of Gwyneth's own advanced plans, would be the real trick and she couldn't deny that she looked forward to the challenge. Alistair liked a good fight to test his skills, Gwyneth preferred a healthy debate for her own talents.
She took her colored inks in hand, inspecting her work. Such was a time that she wished for Zevran's presence. The assassin's history of planning out how to attack his marks had led to a talent with cartography, mapping out entire sewer systems beneath Antiva if his bragging was to be believed, but Gwyneth had seen his skill with ink and quill with her own eyes. She could use his less deadly, yet no less useful talents right then, but hers would simply have to suffice.
"So, the white is the imperial highway, and then . . . black or blue for the streams and rivers?" She dropped a questioning gaze on Noble, the mabari looking up at her, appearing to think about the query before offering a short bark. "Yes, of course black, we need blue to mark the holdings that I know will be favorable towards The Crown. You're so intelligent, my dear Noble, I'm glad you're here." She smiled when he panted happily at her, stubby tail shaking back and forth.
It seemed hours later when she finished, hands cramped and back aching, but her handiwork was all mapped out. Not in the cleanest lines, perhaps, but Gwyneth was well pleased. After all, the geography wasn't as important as the list that went along with it. Thinking on such a thing, the queen went back over it, thrice more for good measure, before she nodded in acceptance. Stretching out her limbs, she winced at the sound of her back cracking from where it'd been stressed out of place.
Rolling the pieces of parchment, tucking them gently under one arm, Gwyneth whistled for Noble as she left the inn room behind. The morning certainly wouldn't move itself forward.
They'd been held back a day by the rains, but the rest of their travel had been clear and it seemed that choosing the Coastway Road was a wise decision. With the trading port of Dunharrow spread out around them, the mostly wooden structures looking pale in bright morning sun, Alistair reinforced that opinion and sent an appreciative nod in Ser William's direction.
His thoughts were still heavy, no matter the success of their travel since leaving the old holding. Alistair couldn't quite come to terms with Gwyneth and what she'd done, and he knew in his heart that no amount of talking could make him accept or reject her actions entirely. All the time he'd known her, even from those very first days, she'd been able to talk him into going along with things he wasn't all that fussed about. It continued all throughout the Blight. The more looming memories, those of the group's support for Bhelen Aeducan to take the dwarven throne, and the killing of all the werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, leaving Keeper Zathrian to continue his unnaturally long leadership of the Dalish clan.
He could hear her voice in the back of his thoughts.
'Bhelen is the better contender, no matter his demeanor, he is the one that will move the dwarves forward. Maybe you like Harrowmont more, but he is stuck in dying ideals, and it will ruin his people. Surely you must see that. Their caste system is an antique tradition that only weakens them, and we need the dwarves strong to face the archdemon.'
Making sense even when it didn't make sense, the conundrum of that only continuing.
'Zathrian's clan needs him, he makes them believe that they can regain what they lost. Illusion or no, the benefit of it remains. I know you don't like that we had to kill the werewolves, but they are monsters. Zathrian was right in that, and they lost control, became violent because he wouldn't buckle to their demands, despite the fact that he did agree to talk. We promised to defend him, and you can't feel baldly about holding up your end of the bargain.'
Here Alistair was again, doubting himself and the way he would just bend and do what Gwyneth asked, what she nearly commanded. Nathaniel Howe was the thorn in her side, not his, she made that clear, and Alistair couldn't fault her for wanting to deny the man martyrdom, but it rankled, sweet Andraste did it ever! Becoming a Warden was not a punishment, and neither was it redemption for men who didn't deserve it, and if Gwyneth had accepted Riordan's suggestion of making Loghain a Warden . . . even now the thought made Alistair want to rage inside. Yet, when a similar situation was presented with a different man, Gwyneth was able to sway Alistair's thoughts. He could say in all honesty that he no longer knew if Gwyneth was wrong or right, she had made him doubt his own ideals and that was maddening.
He took a deep breath, gathering his peace of mind, listening to the sounds of the sea.
From past the wharf, the water glinted, dark but calm with the scent of the ocean wafting over to them. Gulls cried overhead, and for a moment Alistair was transfixed. He'd grown up by the water, but Lake Calenhad was not the same as the coast of the Waking Sea, a vastness to that stretch of open water that seemed limitless to him. Gwyneth had grown up on the northern coast, and he thought that it fit her personality. The tide that rolled in, frothed with a proud white as it reached heights that its lesser lake cousins couldn't achieve as well, was as unforgiving and unpredictable as the queen herself. Dark green sea weeds had gathered on the pale and stony shore, where it was exposed by the lack of dock boards in those areas, reaching out like tendrils, trying to draw the water back. It receded anyway, stubborn in its intent, as the weeds limped back against the sun bleached sand, sagging in defeat, or mourning as the tide rolled back out, lapping only teasingly in its wake.
"We have the wagons all set, Sire." Ser Boughton bowed briefly, following the king's gaze as the taller man only nodded in recognition of the knight's words. "Pretty, isn't she, the coast? Harsher than a cold bitch in the winter though, let me tell you."
Alistair turned to grin at Ser Boughton. "We're Fereldans, we can handle it." He waved the knight off. "Alright, tell Ser William I'm ready to collect my wife and head out when everything is ready."
Boughton nodded, bowing again, before he was just a jogging blot up the cobbled road, weaving out of sight around the corner of the two story inn. As if on cue, Gwyneth walked into view, neck turned to watch the retreating knight, shaking her head in humor as she headed towards the king.
"You've him on a run."
"I think Boughton is just like that, probably why he's so wiry."
"Perhaps. So, I had the maids bring the last of my things down, and Noble has already situated himself next to the driver of the supply wagon. I'd almost take him for a guard dog if I didn't know better." Gwyneth peered up at Alistair, trying a bit of friendly chatter to try and ease him out of the shell he'd been in the past few days, but he only offered her a cursory nod and she sighed. "I know you're feeling awkward, I hesitate to wonder why, but silence isn't going to serve you any better than it has the whole of your life, and we've plans to make. This isn't like Lothering you know, standing on the imperial highway and leaving everything up to me because you just didn't think you could do it. I need your participation."
After their discussion in the abandoned keep, he'd been just as silent as before, except it was filled more with trepidation on his part than animosity. Gwyneth took some measure of hope in that, not feeling as drenched under the weight of another impending fight. It didn't make things anymore comfortable between them however, when Alistair's few words to her were all 'good morning's or 'good night's and the occasional update on what they were doing.
"It's not that, Gwyn, I just . . . I'm thinking." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, gaze focused back on the shoreline.
She feigned a gasp of surprise, a palm over her heart. "Oh dear me! He does speak after all!" It must have worked, because she saw the smile of amusement threatening at the corner of one of his tugging lips. "Here then, oil for that fire you have burning in your skull." From under her arm, Gwyneth handed him the parchments, and he took them, brown eyes narrow in curiosity.
"What are they?"
"A gift, and perhaps they'll put you in a better mood." She shrugged one shoulder in the direction of the wagons. "Come along, we can look at them briefly before we leave, and you'll have plenty of time to peruse them when we arrive at Bann Teagan's keep."
"Yes, but what are they?" Alistair stood his ground, glancing from the rolled parchments in his hands and back to Gwyneth, not wanting to unfurl them right there where it would be very unwieldy.
"That's for me to know, and you to find out." She winked, not willing to be pulled out of the jubilance her planning had created, and certainly not by Alistair's lackluster reaction. Then she stopped dead in her tracks, the reality and memory of what she'd just said hitting her like ice water. Her playful smirk became a thin line of displeasure as she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.
"What's the matter? Gwyn . . . you look upset." Alistair dared to put a hand on her arm, but she moved away from him, with a shake of her head and a false smile.
"Nothing . . . it's . . . it's nothing." Her voice was overly chipper, she knew, but there wasn't much she could do about it. "We need to go . . . did you tour the docks this morning as I asked?"
"I wasn't sure what you wanted me to look for, but yes, and I think you did a bit more than ask, you practically shoved me out the door." The young king grinned despite himself, flicking back a lock of dark blonde that was brushing against his cheek.
"Yes, well, a woman needs her privacy."
"For what?"
Gwyneth snickered, even more when she turned her head to see the bewildered expression on Alistair's face. She'd begun a slow but steady gait up the hillside avenue, the Waking Sea at her back and the caravan waiting for them at the top, Alistair followed behind, almost reluctantly. No matter how he might have changed since being crowned, there was still a naive chantry boy somewhere inside there. "Brave man, to ask such a question, considering the answer could be something you really don't want to know about."
"Oh . . . oh, right. Ahh, sorry."
She'd had her fun, leaving him to ponder more personally feminine possibilities, and now that his embarrassment was blossoming on his face, she grew bored with her teasing. "No, it wasn't anything like that, at least not this morning. I needed to be alone to make your gift."
"You . . . made these? I thought you just went and picked them up here in town."
Gwyneth scoffed. "Not at all."
"Wow. So . . . but you were gone for hours while I toured the docks."
"Technically, you were gone, and I was at the inn still, however it was indeed some matter of hours."
"Hours spent making these?" He waved the parchments at her while they walked.
"Yes." She huffed, turning on him when they reached the caravan, and he almost ran into her. "You are beginning to sound like a parrot. It can't honestly be that surprising. I can't fathom how Leliana ever gave you half of those little statues you like, you make it next to impossible to give you anything."
"That's not true!" His indignation made more severe by the mention of his sweetheart.
"Isn't it? Just look at them, won't you, the suspense is killing me." Gwyneth rolled her eyes sarcastically, playing with the lace at the cuffs of her traveling shirt. Ser William looked over at them and she gave him a friendly nod. "We'll be but a moment, and then I want us on the road, but have the men check over the wagons first please. I'll have no stowaways on this caravan."
"As Her Majesty commands."
Gwyneth turned back to her husband, nudging him as she made sure her braid was nice and tightly woven. "Well, go on then, look at them."
They were only two pieces of rolled parchment, but Alistair unfurled them as if they were bee hives that he wasn't certain had been vacated. Laying them out flat against the seat of the wagon, he turned his head this way and that, finally looking up at his wife, her slightly amused smirk doing nothing to make him understand. "It's a map."
"Not just any map, a political map. See how the different holdings are lined in either blue, red or grey? That represents the known loyalty those banns have to your family, or mine. Blue are definite allies, red are those we should be concerned about, and the grey ones I'm not certain of." At his confused blink, she sighed in exasperation. "For goodness sake, Alistair! I didn't have half as much trouble when . . ." Gwyneth trailed off as her husband's eyes narrowed suspiciously and she only gave a shake of her braided head. "Ah, that's not important, what is, however is that both the map and that list there shall come in quite handy at our meeting. I wanted you to be better prepared, and since I can't give you my political skills, I thought I would at least share some of the information such skill is bolstered by." She took them back, as they slid easily from Alistair's tenuous grasp, and rolled them up. "You can look at them at your leisure when we get to Rainesfere, the avenue of Dunharrow is hardly the place to be going over something like this anyway, I just wanted you to see them, is all."
She was blabbering, which wasn't anything that Gwyneth did with regularity and Alistair's wariness was on point, but he almost suspected that she might've been as nervous around him as he was around her, lately at any rate. It hadn't seemed very likely before, but even the chance that they shared that made him feel less alone in his discomfort, and he tried to set it aside and find his marital footing again. He didn't really understand her gift, and she certainly hadn't given explanation enough or even the time to comprehend them, but Gwyneth had spent hours making them, to help him when they both knew he still needed assistance in that arena. In that much, at least, he was grateful.
"Gwyneth . . ." Alistair called to her as she made for her saddled mare.
"Yes?"
"Thank you." He tried out a tentative smile, even more cautiously taking her hand to lay a kiss on it, in much the same fashion as he'd seen Ser Caron do. His knights were watching and it made him feel decidedly even more self conscious, but he wasn't going to scold them for it.
"You're very welcome, Alistair"
When she smiled at him, that rare and genuine smile that had so caught his attention as his coronation, there was a new discomfort. One that made him glance back at her several times after they left Dunharrow behind, the sun at their backs and the Bannorn waiting for them.