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: So, input on flashbacks is that you prefer them in italics, so I changed the one in the chapter previous and going forward I'll be sure to keep that formatting.

Here and in the following chapter you'll meet the official (my official that is, not Bioware official) Banns of the Bannorn, which is the central area of Ferelden. There are banns outside of this area, but these are the ones I've settled on for the boundaries of the central moorlands *aka the Bannorn* I gave myself a migraine planning even a 'portion' of Gwyneth's political machinations, and the creation of the names for other bannorns will hopefully come through cleaner than it did in my mind. At any rate, the Bannorn itself is suppose to have a lot of banns within it, yet game and book canon offers only a few, so I had to make up the difference. White River already existed, though I had to flesh out the family a bit more (though you've already met Aurelia Hascal in a previous flashback), and Bann Ferrenly is mentioned in the information of Anders' items from the Awakenings game, so he isn't mine, but the bannorn name is my creation, as well as the rest of his family. Rainesfere is obviously not mine, but beyond that, the rest of them are only my creation, so there won't be any canon associated with them. Not ALL the banns in the whole country would be at the meeting, only those that have holdings within the borders of, or on the borders of, the actual Bannorn.

As far as Teagan's very minor interest in Gwyneth, it felt enough like canon (with a female PC, not always a female Cousland in particular), despite the fact that getting those dialogue points is optional. So I have included it, but to me it always seemed more a case of attraction than anything substantial. Though I've read some pretty decent stories where it's more than that, but for Fate and Forbearance, he's not in love with her or anything like that. Besides which, I think Gwyneth has enough admirers. As for how he feels about Alistair, I always saw him and Eamon both as caring for him, but hampered by their position and in Eamon's case, his wife as well. I think both men didn't always treat Alistair as they should've, probably Eamon more than Teagan, but I don't think it was caused by lack of affection, just more bad decision making. Though how I see it, may not be how 'you' see it and that's fine, though at this point it's established in the story, but that doesn't mean I'll pitch a fit if others don't share that view. As always, I encourage free thinking, and as long as you're entertained, I'm happy.

Also, brief note. It isn't a typo, Eamon and Teagan's father (and Rowan's) was named Rendorn, while good 'ole dead Arl Howe was named Rendon. Both in canon, and with a difference of only one letter. I bet the late Arl Guerrein is seething wherever he is now. I'm thinking I might use that later in a flashback or two when I get around to explaining why the Eamon is this story did NOT stay away from Ferelden for the whole duration of the uprising, but that'll be a while yet.

Most of the politicking takes place in the following chapter, but we're right in the thick of things now boys and girls, and without further ado, I return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!

Chapter Thirty Eight:

Welcome to the Bannorn

June 13'th 9:31, Dragon Age

Gwyneth raised a hand to her brow, settling back into her saddle, peering out to the dip in the terrain before her. The damp and misted Bannorn that the locals called the moorlands. Even though the sun had deigned to come out that early afternoon, the rolling moors hid their curves well, plenty of shaded copses dotting the lands that fell below sea level, cradled by the taller hills around them.

Willow trees flourished in the summer climate of the Bannorn, and a tall one offered shelter to a small flock of sheep, away from the fence with intent, either their owner's or their own. They were willful animals when the mood struck them. One black faced ewe looked up at the king's caravan, giving a short listless bleet before it was back to its far more enticing task of grazing. Their protectors, a pair of scruffy gray dogs, seemed more interested, ears drawn back as they growled. Noble growled right back and they seemed to recognize the mabari for what he was, settling down on their haunches and watching warily in silence.

It was a bit of a surprise to see the herd out, but then the moorlands hadn't been hit as hard by the Blight as the outlying regions. There had always been ghost stories about the Bannorn, some said it was hallowed ground where those of evil intent feared to tread, others told even wilder tales of banshees wailing into the misted night to search out the souls of their prey, that they would then devour. Gwyneth put no stock in such hokum but perhaps there was something about the lands that kept the darkspawn away.

A thin and sparsely cobbled road led past the sheep and down around a modest family cemetery, the bleached white stones looking paler still in the over bright sun. Two men had been resting against a tall curved headstone, one smoking idly at a pipe, while the other had his broad hat over his face, sleeping; the owners of the dogs and the sheep, like as not. As one of them noticed the royal retinue, golden mabari flags fluttering at the front corners of the largest two wagons, he roused his companion until both of them were shuffling to make an awkward salute.

Alistair smiled at the shepherds, sending them a short wave as they passed by, the two men holding an unpracticed bow.

As Gwyneth turned back to watch the herdsmen, she found them staring after the caravan in surprise. "And so wherever he goes, the king makes an impression amongst the peasantry." She smirked as Alistair flinched, still uncomfortable with the show of fealty he had encountered amongst some of the rabble. His shoulders remained stiff as their company headed farther down the road, stopping at the queen's order, at a lonely windmill, the structure offering a bit of reprieve from the sun and a nearby mill pond providing a drink for the horses. Gwyneth had made it clear that they were to arrive in their formal attire, and needed to freshen up before arriving at Rainesfere.

The location seemed as good as any she could've chosen, and Alistair was willing to concede to his wife and her knowledge of the Bannorn, though he felt an itching to protest against being treated as a second in command. The need to assert his dominance surprised him, and he felt a similar alpha reaction when Gwyneth tossed her hair over one shoulder to smile at him over it.

She was teasing him, he was certain of it, even if the frustrating woman had made no overt movements or said anything obvious, Alistair was still sure that was what she was about. Languidly washing herself in a soaking wet white chemise, winking at him when he 'caught' her at it, and the following days had seen a change in her that Alistair was most certainly not convinced was genuine appreciation for him. The map she'd made was an enigma that he couldn't wrap his mind around, since Gwyneth seemed honestly excited about it, which made it seem more a gift for her than him, and yet the two days of travel from Dunharrow to the moorlands had seen both evenings spent with her prying him away from his reading to study her gift. She was up to something, and it made him feel as edgy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He'd stop in her tracks this time . . . just as soon as he figured things out.

"You look lost in thought." She untangled her braid with practiced fingers, brushing out the long ringlets with her hands until she had all of it shaken and pried loose.

Staring at her, trying to stare through her, and suddenly Alistair was caught out, realizing a bit too late that she was talking to him. "I . . . yes, maybe."

An amused curve pulled at one side of Gwyneth's mouth. "Well which is it? Yes or maybe?"

He lowered his voice as he moved closer to her, the pair of them under the shadow of the supply wagon. "Don't keep teasing me."

With an annoyed huff of air, she squared up to him. "For goodness sake! I don't need this right now, Alistair. I'm just trying to get you to relax before we arrive at Teagan's holding. I've teased you before, when we've been friendly with one another, like I thought we were now. You didn't complain those times."

"That was different and I'm just . . ." Some of his knights were laughing amongst each other as they gathered around the pond to wash road dust from themselves, and Alistair hunched his shoulders, grabbing Gwyneth's elbow to steer her around to the other side of the wagon where there was more privacy. Before she could protest, he was speaking again. "I'm just trying to figure out what you want."

"What I want?" A roll of her eyes as she slid her elbow from her husband's grasp. "To arrive in Rainesfere with no hassle and looking as proper as we can, and then to find your adopted uncle and ask him to bring me some serving women so I can get a decent bath before dinner. Then, to go over the political map with you again, so that in the morning when we have our first meeting, you are prepared. That, Alistair, is what I want."

"Nothing else? Why are you being so nice? You aren't like this, Gwyn, and you can't expect me to keep on acting like it's normal." His voice was angry, his eyes were searching and neither seemed to do him any favors when she only glared in return, arms folded over each other, perhaps arguing the point of her ' being nice' without saying anything, though that silence was short lived.

"Well, forgive me for trying to make some peace between us. The fighting is getting tiresome, even more so the awkward silences, and our meeting tomorrow is very influential. It shouldn't be darkened with our disagreements, there's enough to worry about, far more important things. I thought you understood that, clearly I was mistaken." She narrowed her irises at him, a habit of hers in her ire, but made no move to cede the high ground to him, as it were; feet planted firmly on the damp soil.

"Come on, Gwyn, don't be this way. It isn't . . . I'm not complaining about having peace between us. I'd never complain about that."

"Oh no? What is this all about then, Alistair? Hmm? Were your smallclothes bunching where they ought not on the ride here?" A mean smirk was ready and waiting behind her teeth, but Gwyneth managed to restrain herself.

"No! It's only . . ." His mind was buzzing like an angry wasp and he nearly told her 'It's because I don't trust you and I'm on edge.' An absent hand rubbed self consciously at the back of his neck, only to find it irritated from the sun and the sweat of their travel. He should've told her why he was so bothered, but he didn't. "I just feel overwhelmed. Eamon warned me about the banns, that they aren't easy to please, and I guess I just find it easier to take it out on someone else." She was watching him as he fidgeted, hating himself for his own dishonesty but unable to muster up the desire to bare his thoughts plain. "I'm sorry, Gwyn, and I think . . . I still need your help."

He wasn't the conniving liar that she was, but it must have worked, because her limbs relaxed along with her eyes, a self satisfied smile on her face. It was a rare thing, her ease of forgiveness for any perceived slight, and it didn't make Alistair feel anymore reassured.

"Well then, you shall have it. First and foremost, I was thinking blue for our attire, royal purple is appropriate, but not for the season." She didn't need to look behind her to know he was following, as the two of them went to collect their clothes from the supply wagon. "Perhaps something similar to what you wore during your coronation? I brought two gentlemen's vest, both in blue, but one's a bit darker . . ." A tilt of her head, as she peered into the wagon, appearing to give the matter quite the bit of consideration. "It might be difficult to maneuver in the wagon . . . well, perhaps I'll have your knights hang up one of the tent lines and drape the tarp over it, to give us a little privacy instead. So . . . light blue or dark blue?"

"Pick out what you think works best." Came the disinterested answer, but Gwyneth was pleased enough that he'd conceded the decision making to her, in matters of attire, that she didn't notice his lack of enthusiasm, or more likely she was too excited about the meeting with the banns to care. Alistair listened with one ear as Gwyneth droned on, his eyes following the road to the keep that was teasing into view over a sparsely wooded knoll. Castle Guerrein, and there he would have even more to be concerned about than whether or not he could ever hope to trust his wife again. At Rainesfere he had to be worried over the banns trusting him. A hand at his arm caught his attention, Gwyneth fixing him with a gaze severe enough to pause all thought, but for what she said.

She had noticed after all.

"You must govern yourself, show neither trepidation or anxiety. That was but a piffle, what we saw at the Landsmeet. Had the favor not been upon us, you might have seen the truth of it. In Denerim all should fall to bended knee for your favor, no matter their opinion. However, the lords of the Bannorn bite worse than any arl or lord, for they lay in the middle, neither of great prestige, or of low, yet with the responsibilities of both. My father once likened them to pack Mabari, they who can smell fear upon a man as easily as the scent of wood smoke in the air. When they are not under the crown's weight in Denerim, and in their own element, they can hold the high ground. We must not allow that to happen." The fingers tightened on his arm, Gwyneth nearly snarling with the curl of her lip. "Do you understand me, Alistair?"

"Of course I understand, what do you take me for?"

"At present? A man who only half listens when I explain the importance of attire and its effect upon the prestige classes." The shrug that followed was almost nonchalant, as she held out a dark blue vest, brows raised as she waited for Alistair to remove his cloak. "Now, try this on and tell me which one you prefer."

She was behind him, swift hands placing the embroidered vest over his arms, even as she was calling for the knights to create a makeshift screen, behind which they would change after fetching a quick wash. Alistair let his eyes shift, moving with his men, until Gwyneth's palms slid around to his chest, the rest of her following as she smoothed the fabric.

"There now. How does that feel? I had the seamstresses widen the shoulders before we left."

"Why?"

"Well . . . you seem a bit . . . larger than before."

"I'm not fat."

"I didn't say you were." Her face would've looked sincere, if not for the amused tilt of her lips.

"Why are you smirking then?"

"Maybe my face just looks like this without trying."

"No it doesn't." He narrowed brown irises at her, funneling his anxieties into suspicion and focusing it at her.

"Have it your way if you like, but I don't find you to be fat." She motioned Ser Amstead over, sending him to secure the tent lines from wagon to wagon. "The tarp to cover the supplies should work fine, so long as we keep them in the wagon and out of the sun, shake the dust from it as well."

The knight bowed, taking up the duties of servants in the absence of them, without complaint. Alistair made a note to thank him later. "As it pleases Her Majesty." Ser Amstead offered a quick bow, and was off on his task.

"They are the Knights of Denerim, they aren't nursemaids, Gwyneth." Alistair scolded, feeling emboldened by it, though Gwyneth was quick to disillusion him.

"I am aware of that, thank you. Whom then should assist us? Seeing as how we did not bring our household along. Perhaps I should write a letter to my Siofra, asking her to come to the moorlands to pitch up a screen for us, and the three weeks it'll probably take her to get here should be easy to explain to the banns. 'Oh, well you see, my lord husband was put off by asking his knights to perform such a service.' Despite the fact that their position is indeed one of service to king and country." She tightened the stays near his shoulders, fingers working as her mouth moved. "Sometimes I forget that you are still so common, despite what I have tried to instill in you."

The tone of her voice did nothing to disguise the disdain in her words, that she should find Alistair to still be simple, when it came to matters of possessing a higher pedigree. Even as the queen buzzed about her husband, picking at his attire, he wasn't willing to let that go, though the tepid peace between them may have lasted a bit longer. It was her responsibility as well, and he wouldn't bear the weight of it forever, letting her lay her insults on him. Well spoken they might have been, but they were still insults. "Don't talk to me like that."

"Like what?"

"You bloody well know! I'm not going to stand here and just take it anymore."

She sighed, hands paused at the engraved buttons of his vest. "I apologize."

He growled, well immersed in his anger. "No of course not, you never . . . wait, what?" As the reality of her words hit him, he had nothing to do with his irritation but let it sit there.

"I do not mean to sound . . . discontent. It is merely that you are common, in many ways still, and I know that you can't remain so. You have generations of blue blood in those veins that outweigh any bit of peasantry that might remain, and it's . . . well it's frustrating. I can see what you might be, but you cling to these old ideals and sentiments, and they won't help you to be a better king, and I want that. For all my conceit, such as you perceive it, you have to believe that I wish the very best for Ferelden, above even myself." Whether Gwyneth was genuinely apologetic had gotten lost in her ability to turn almost everything into a speech. It was of great aid where they were going, but not nearly as much in her own marriage.

Yet something must have stirred in Alistair's mind, because the anger seemed to leave him. "I don't think it's as worthless as you imagine, 'common' blood. Maybe it makes me see things differently, but that's not always a bad thing. It can't be, because not everyone is the same, so why should every noble be the same? Our differences, don't they make us who we are?"

Gwyneth smiled, feeling proud of this man that she had called a fool, a worthless stable boy, later a friend, and later than that, a husband. "There, you see? That bit of wisdom you like to hide behind an odd sense of humor and off hand commentary." Lowering her voice, it lost it's taunting quality, eyes serious beneath her lashes. "The peasants will love you for it, you know, your half common blood, much as the commoners loved Loghain and Anora because they were kindred in that. But I fear you will find some dissention amongst the banns, who will see you as a half breed covetous upstart, now that the shiny glimmer of a new crown has begun to wear off. We used that thinking to our advantage at the Landsmeet, against the Mac Tirs, when we announced our intention to join our houses, but my name won't aid you forever, and not in all things. You must be cautious to present the stronger side of your blood, your father's lineage, for Loghain never had that, and his daughter had but a drop of low nobility from her mother. Show the banns that you are Maric's son in all things, while maintaining an individuality that will allow you to outshine him, and you might brook a similar reaction as you did from the herdsmen back there. Shoulders straight, remember, head held high . . . and do not forget, you are superior." Irises narrowed in sternness. "None of them had serving girls for mothers, but none of them had the King of Ferelden for a father either."

As Ser Amstead returned to bring the tarp and slung it over the tent lines, Alistair lowered his voice on par with his wife's. "You make it sound like I should always walk around with my ego as large as Thedas. What about humility?"

Gwyneth climbed into one of the wagons, the area surrounding it now hidden away behind the pale white cheesecloth tarps. She spoke over her shoulder, her posture not lending itself to severity, but her words were all the same. "I think you'll find there's very little use for humility in the Bannorn.

Teagan Guerrein shifted on the balls of his feet, his thumbs idly twiddling as he watched the snaking road that lead up to his holding, the knoll tapering down around a small patch of trees, the rocky soil baring large stones under the sun. Behind him were most of his collected servants, what few that weren't, remaining in the gray stone keep at their backs, making last minute preparations for a royal visit. He was a man that lived modestly, and the number of staff he had was never kept very large, which suited the Bann of Rainesfere just fine, except in such instances where he hosted his fellow nobles of the Bannorn. At least most of them had thought to bring their own footmen and the like.

Ruben Hascal, Bann of White River, sent Teagan a brief nod. He was a good man, and a loyalist to the crown, which would certainly help matters. His wife was a severe woman, but had good footing with the late Couslands, and likely decent ties to the queen and her teyrn brother.

The Strathclydes of Strathmore were harder to figure out, but he didn't suspect any trouble from their quarter either.

He was less certain of the young Tarquin Loren, formerly of Lothering, but more recently of Nevarra, where the remnants of his family remained. The young lord was sure to make an official bid to take his father's title of bann, but he had been content until then, to let Lord Lothian manage what was left of the settlement and surrounding lands. With his mother and youngest brother killed in the plot against the Couslands, and his father taking up with the late Teyrn Mac Tir and falling during the Blight, there was nothing of reassurance or certain animosity and the lad himself hadn't said much since he arrived. Lord Loren brought his younger brother, Zacharius with him, and that man was far too twitchy to make Teagan comfortable, but he gave his instructions for his servants to be generous with him, lest there be an incident during the meeting. Then he'd be on his way, and Rainesfere wouldn't have to play host to his . . . eccentricities.

In more worrisome matters, Kesteven had frequently been a troublesome holding, the Pontifax family having been whittled down over the years due to some difficulties with fertility. The desperation of their survival had often led to bloody disputes within the Bannorn, only the word of the late Cailan calming those waters, and Teagan half suspected it had been Anora's words that did most of the work. Yet they had barely taken a second breath before siding with Loghain Mac Tir during the Blight, and their dislike of the new king and his bride was hidden thinly enough that there had been blatant rumors when Lord Osborne had arrived during the Landsmeet. The man himself stood there next to Teagan, well into his sixtieth decade and his face no kinder for the years he'd been granted. His first wife had been dead for some time, and the only occasion that Osborne looked happy at all, was when he was parading his significantly younger second wife about.

Rounding them out were the calmer but no less quieter or covetous banns of Rochforth Falls and Eastbrook. Teagan had dealt with all of them individually, and though he'd certainly been present for larger meetings, Eamon usually came in support, as did the other arls. Today and tomorrow he had only himself, his adopted nephew and the young aristocrat that was their queen. It should prove interesting, if nothing else.

He heard the horns of the guards at the cobbled wall long before he saw the caravan, all and sundry straining their necks to see, as the golden banners came into view, the retinue of wagons making their way with a slowness that was as exasperating as it was sure. In the sun, the shiny armor of the king's knights seemed even more so, and Teagan credited Gwyneth's instructions and some well applied polish. He'd not seen her since her marriage to Alistair, and she'd cut an impressive and stunning figure then, and he didn't imagine much had changed in that regard.

For the second time in as many months, the unmarried Bann of Rainesfere found himself wishing he'd made some interest in Gwyneth known before. If he had realized she'd grown up so well, he might have, but fate, as always, was an unkind mistress, and that realization came far too late. Now she was Alistair's wife, and Teagan was not so afflicted with jealousy as to do anything against the boy, certainly not for a lady he barely knew. He could admit to himself that most of the interest was based more on her fine countenance than her personality, he didn't know her well enough to base it on that instead.

Though it was his affection for the new king that kept his interest to little more than a passing daydream. He loved Alistair as well as he could, finding in the lad an infectious jubilance that saw past the unimpressive blood of his mother, and such had never been Alistair's fault. Long had Eamon and Teagan had a relationship with Maric's second son that was more familial than was appropriate, but never enough that Alistair had felt comfortable calling them uncle, nor they to call him their nephew. Though that changed when Alistair was given the crown, when the propriety of such personal titles was not only not inappropriate anymore, but nigh on demanded by the propriety of court. People liked a sense of unity and family, and that's what they were given, but for Teagan's sake, a bubbling fondness remained for Alistair and the bann couldn't say that he was sorry to be calling him 'nephew' in public now.

Gwyneth had her head sheltered by a strange small canvas contraption, the tassels hanging down in fancy tendrils, the edging cuffed with lace. Later someone would inform him that it was a parasol, but when he first laid eyes on it, Teagan's brows came together in confusion. Dressed in dark blue, she made a good match for Alistair, the breadth of his shoulders encased in gold trimmed fabric of the same shade. The king waited for the heralds to announce them, before extending a hand to Gwyneth to help her down. It was a courtly gesture of gentility that didn't go unnoticed, even way out in the country holding of Rainesfere.

Teagan expected Gwyneth to speak first, she'd had a knack and fondness for speeches as far as he could tell, but it was Alistair instead, the words surprisingly certain and confident. They seemed more from a written speech than anything that Alistair would've said on his own, though no one except Teagan and Gwyneth were likely to know that, but he delivered them with aplomb.

"Thank you for meeting us here, good people of the Bannorn. I apologize we were so late in arriving, as we were waylaid. I look forward to finding a solution to the problems of my banns, and you are my banns, so after a hearty dinner and some decent sleep, we can begin to find the answers you would seek."

They bowed together, the banns and their wives, and it was likely the last thing they'd do in kind for quite awhile.

"Your Majesties, I thank you for coming, as I'm sure we all do. Welcome to Rainesfere, and though Castle Guerrein is quite humble, compared to the royal palace, I'm sure, I have taken it upon myself to make sure your accommodations are as comfortable as they can be." Teagan smiled broadly, going through the proper motions, instead of the mellow greeting he would've given the pair if they hadn't had such an audience. A rusted orange and cream doublet was showing a bit of gold thread in the afternoon light and making his shoulders look somehow wider as he bowed. His hair was nearly the same deep cinnamon red as the queen's but for the strands of dark brown shot through it, and combed neatly in a shoulder length style that seemed reminiscent of the way the king was wearing his own hair those days. "Please, let us all collect ourselves and get comfortable before dinner. I'm sure everyone is looking forward to that."

"I do hope there's no rabbit stew involved, I grow so tired of it." Banness Victoria Pontifax sniffed lightly, raising her strawberry blonde head to appear stiff at her husband's side, playing at the edge of her gown's sleeve. Her husband, forty one years her senior and head and shoulders taller, glowered at his young bride briefly so as not to be caught at it, clearing his throat.

"Darling, Bann Guerrein always puts on an excellent feast, I'm sure." He nodded his silvery head in the younger bann's direction, hoping to have avoided an embarrassment in front of the sovereigns. Whether he liked them or nay, it just wouldn't do to allow them to think of him or his wife, as lax in their courteous conduct.

"Yes, yes . . . I suppose." Victoria let her eyes wander from her husband, to the king, smiling at him as she took up the excess of her skirt to clear the cobbles as they all began the short walk to Castle Guerrein, the knights and footmen left behind to settle things in and make their own way. "Does His Majesty enjoy stew? I'm told it is a staple of Redcliffe."

Gwyneth snickered, hiding it behind a demure cough as Alistair nudged her in the side, briefly enough that no one noticed.

"I like some stews, yes, though I believe something a little heartier would be better, it was a long trip . . . almost too long."

That time it was Gwyneth that got him in the side, narrowing irises at him in a silent reminder to not complain. He held himself together enough to not let his irritation show, only smiling in return to the pretty young Banness of Kesteven.

"Though, I'm certainly glad to be here."

"As we all are, good king, and more fortunate are we that you arrived here safely." Bann Ruben Hascal added, not seeming insincere, though the set of his face was hard to discern through the steal grey of his beard.

The man reminded Alistair of Eamon, and he spared a thought for his steward as he answered. "I have to thank my knights for that, I couldn't ask for better, and my steward as well. Arl Eamon was the one to suggest those who were not already knighted." His knights, of whom he had a few true gentlemen, and then those men who might have been decent, if not for an unnatural fear of the dark, an obsession with gambling, a bad habit of smoking lotus, and a propensity for spending most of their free time in whorehouses so they could ignore their wives. They were, after all, men, the same as others of lesser peerage, but no one wanted to hear that. People wanted to romanticize knights as the heroes of tales of old, valiant and never sinful or full of pride. Though Alistair wasn't at all certain of his ability to weave half truths, he did know enough to make the compliment sincere. It wasn't too difficult, since for all their faults, they were in fact a loyal company of men, who would give their life to save his own.

"Indeed . . . the Guerreins must be thanked for a great many things." Osborn Pontifax again, moving in the same slow pace as the others and probably grateful for it, but his face was proof of nothing, least of all gratitude.

Alistair watched the man, only nodding in agreement, unsure of what exactly that meant. Already he was dissecting the things the banns were saying, and it was all just inane chatter and greetings. 'How much worse will it be at the meeting tomorrow, or even dinner tonight?' The young king wasn't sure he really wanted to know, but he was certain to find out.

"You didn't say a thing! You just stood there and let me talk to those . . . people, on my own!" Alistair glowered, setting himself on a wide wooden chair in their appointed room, to pull off his boots. He rubbed at his sore heels, tearing off a pair of fine woven socks as a pair of ladies brought in a tub of warm water and therapeutic salts. The wafts of lazy steam smelled of mint and other mixed herbs that Alistair couldn't identify by fragrance alone. He held his tongue until the servants left. "I made an idiot of myself."

Gwyneth was already comfortable in a shift and one of her thinner robes, the gown she was to wear for dinner, hanging over a rack by the wardrobe. Having to explain the necessity of not dressing in the same clothes they arrived in, was almost as irritating as explaining why they couldn't arrive in their traveling attire had been, but Alistair was filled with enough anxiety about discussing anything with the Bannorn, that he didn't fight her on it nearly as much.

It was possible that Gwyneth would've been happy about that, if Alistair's shot nerves didn't grate so much on her own. She nearly bit her tongue to keep from telling him off like she really wanted to. Sharing a portion of honesty, flavored with her own brand of charm, had worked to keep a peace between them better than anything she might have tried before, and it was her own temper that sat on that precarious balance now, but she was determined to keep things calm. So she smiled instead, going around behind him to put her hands at his shoulders, the man's muscles bunching up beneath the thin white material of his shirt, the doublet he was to wear thrown casually across the bedspread.

"Relax . . . now, where was that spot you said Duncan told you would take the kink out of your neck?"

Alistair started at so casual a mention of his late Warden Commander's name, a man Gwyneth had never professed more than a grudging respect for. "It was . . . uh, the base of the skull, just above where . . . ahh!" He let out a sharp groan when he heard a crack at the persistent movements of her fingers.

"Wrong spot I take it? Sorry . . ." The pads of Gwyneth's fingers felt stiff even to her, as she dug them into the taut muscles in Alistair's neck where it met his shoulders. "How about here?"

He tilted his neck forward, flexing under her ministrations as he set his aching feet into the small tub on the floor. "Mmm . . . that's better." Which was only half true, because the massage did wonders for his muscles tension, but very little for tension of an entirely different sort, that he'd felt building for days if not weeks. When Gwyneth had her hands all over him, it was all he could do to remind himself that it was unwise to indulge in that activity with Gwyneth. Both times had ended badly, one the very next day, and the other a few days later.

"You didn't make an idiot of yourself at all, by the way."

Her words seemed to come out of nowhere and brought Alistair out of his thoughts, but if she noticed his wayward mind, she didn't make a note of it.

"You stuck to the speeches I wrote out for you, which I thought were delivered well, and the rest of it . . . it was just conversation, and had you been in any danger of mucking things up, I would've intervened." Gwyneth kept her register low, just shy of crooning at him. If Alistair was so riled up at dinner, she'd have her work cut out for her two fold to keep him from saying something disastrous in his nervousness.

"Yeah, but you're never as quiet as you were this afternoon."

"I need to test your ability to speak with the nobility without me, otherwise I won't know what further instruction you may need. Besides, it's like I've already said, if there was imminent potential for you to truly say something asinine, I would have spoken before it got out of hand and smoothed things over. I'm good at that, if you recall."

"I do, yes." He remembered the many occasions that she'd exhibited that, but that she'd bring it up herself made him snort in sour humor. "You've never really been modest, have you?"

Gwyneth feigned insult, pausing the massage for a moment, to respond. "Of course I have! I certainly don't parade about like some harlot, but if you are referring to a modesty centered more around humility, then no. Why should I be? I am brilliant, well bred, educated, beautiful and resourceful, as well as a great many other things. Those are truths I recognize about myself and I see no reason to pretend otherwise."

He chafed at that, not hiding his opinion that time. "Well, for one, it can be a little . . . intimidating and annoying. Sometimes you come across like you're a braggart."

"It's only bragging if it's embellished. My charms and attributes are plainly true, there's nothing embellished about them." She smiled egotistically behind his back, returning to the work of her fingers on his neck. "You could do with some self esteem yourself."

"I have self esteem . . . sometimes."

"Not nearly enough for the King of Ferelden."

He rolled his eyes, even as he eased back into her wonderful prodding fingers. "Here we go again. Why are you so insistent on making it seem like I should be some kind of . . ." Alistair paused for the right image to make with his words. "Some kind of swaggering peacock?"

"I'm not suggesting that all, what I'm saying is that you are a king of men and I just wish you'd realize what that means. When you have pride in yourself, it's far easier for your people to have pride in you as well."

"What if I develop too much pride?"

Gwyneth laughed, his worry so unfounded as to be comical. "Alistair, there's hardly any worry of that, you're modest enough for the both of us." She leaned down to give one last deep rub of her fingers into his neck, before coming back around to begin her own regimen of relaxation before dinner.

He felt a shiver run up his spine when her breath touched his ear, and he sucked in a lungful of air, but any further reaction was cut short as the warmth of her hands left his bared skin. "Gwyn . . ."

"Yes?"

'Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me? Do you care?' He sighed, shaking his head at himself. "Nothing, it's nothing. Not important."

"For the last time . . . relax!" The sharp command came from behind a wooden screen, her head peering out past the edge to watch him, as he settled like a lump into the chair, rubbing a palm over his eyes.

'That's easier said than done.' He closed his lids to darkness, trying to fill his mind with anything that could ease all the tension from him. Finally at the grumbling of his stomach, the king at least found something to distract him from it . . . hunger. If only he could always be distracted, but that was a useless thing to wish for.

Though Castle Guerrein itself was made of a similar washed out grey stone as other keeps of the same architectural era, inside everything seemed to be of wood, with very little padding or fabrics, save essentials. Rendorn Guerrein had been an arl of simple tastes and that was only compacted by being forced to bear under Orlesian rule. In the end of things, when the Rebel Queen, Moira had turned his head back to the truth of what it meant to be Fereldan, any frivolities that there had been, were obliterated by the harsh necessities of rebellion and war.

The keep of Rainesfere, owned by generations of Guerreins, was meant to be a summer retreat from the humid heat of Lake Calenhad during the sun-peaked season, but it hadn't seen use as such since before the occupation. Teagan wasn't even sure if their father had ever set foot in the place. As a political waypoint, it had been appointed to Teagan as a means of consolation when Eamon became the new Arl of Redcliffe in Rendorn's place.

"Rowan is to be queen, and I am the second oldest, it's obvious that the arling will be mine, but I don't think you should be left out in the cold, little brother. I have been thinking of giving you Rainesfere as your holding when I return home."

In his early twenties, Eamon's voice had none of the gruff register it would develop later on, but it had all the trademarks of a man that would do everything in his ability to see that things would be done to his specifications. Teagan had still been in the adolescence of his youth, and he cared nothing for politics or holdings, but the idea of having a keep all his own seemed appealing, even if he did think that Eamon only wanted to keep his younger sibling out of the way of his own political dealings.

Now there he was, hosting a meeting of the Bannorn, alone for all intents and purposes, Eamon too busy holding Denerim together. Teagan sighed, seated at the right corner of the table, the chairs at the ends of that long slab of engraved oak, reserved for the king and queen. Alistair, King of Ferelden, would be seated so that Teagan was his 'right hand', an arrangement done on purpose. The bann, falling comfortably between thirty and forty, was neither the youngest or oldest bann in attendance, and that at least gave him some freedom from heightened focus. However, such would only be turned on him twice over with the position of importance his relationship to the king gave him.

He had still been shy of twenty when Alistair was brought to Redcliffe, under the cover of night and with as little announcement as was possible. Eamon had commanded his presence there for a 'dire family matter', as had been written on the summons. Such a small thing he was, swaddled up in a knitted infant's blanket, considering the height the boy had achieved as he matured, but quiet, almost unnaturally so, as he rubbed toothless baby gums with pudgy fingers. Eamon was speaking to the king, Maric looking haggard and dismal as he paced the confines of the arl's study. 'How long ago had that been?' And he remembered the night as if it were no more than a week in passing. A maid realized she'd forgotten the babe's milk bladder and rushed off with a quick apology to retrieve it, passing the infant to the shocked young bann's hands as he fumbled to hold the baby, something he'd never done.

Alistair's eyes had been a rich brown then, just tinges of what was left of his newborn blue teasing around the edges, and soon that would be gone. He looked up at Teagan, and the boy hadn't been sure if the baby really saw him or not, and spittle covered fingers left the infant's mouth to try and reach up to feel his handler's face. The bann had wrinkled his nose, mildly disgusted, but also intrigued. He'd never been that close to a baby before, and oddly enough, he had a nice smell to him. Something milky and soapy, and not at all the stench Teagan had believe all infants possessed.

"So, they tell me your name is Alistair. What do you think of it?"

He'd burbled, fussing for a few seconds, before the fingers went back in the mouth.

"Yes, I don't particularly like my name either."

Now look at the both of them, Teagan finding a few stray silvers hairs hiding at his temples, perhaps a sign of the stress involved in running a holding within the Bannorn. Alistair, that burbling, drooling baby, was now a grown man, albeit a young one, and king of the whole Maker forsaken country. It seemed almost laughably impossible, but there it was, reality at its finest. Teagan was brought out of his musings by the prickling feeling of someone's gaze on him from the other side of the table.

Osborne Pontifax narrowed sharply trimmed grey brows above his unfriendly eyes, no doubt imagining how much he hated the Guerreins and reminding himself of how unfair a shake his own family had been given. Teagan only smiled, feeling a cheekiness that didn't speak to his years, not as much as the beginnings of crows feet from too many wide grins and squinted eyes from bright noonday suns. At that, Osborne lifted his goblet, pretending he had been too busy drinking and had somehow missed the silent exchange between himself and the Bann of Rainesfere.

The murmurs of discussion and judging looks ceased for a moment as the king and queen entered the dining hall, after a brief but loud announcement, looking resplendent in light blue that contrasted with the darker hue of what they'd arrived in. A matching set for all to see, and it was clearly intentional, but had no less of an effect for it. Gwyneth was beaming, of fine countenance as usual and her face suggesting that she was looking forward to dinner, as she had an arm curled around her husband's, fingers resting at his ruffled cuff to nod and smile at those gathered as he helped her to sit. His hand was still in hers until he'd leaned down to whisper in her ear, and at the queen's nod, the king moved to take his own seat.

"Teagan."

"Alistair."

A brief and friendly greeting.

"That look suits you." The bann smiled, bringing his chair closer to the table as the other collected banns made their own chatter and greetings, Gwyneth receiving similar attention at her end of the table.

"I better hope so, she'll have me dressed like this until I'm dead, probably." Alistair whispered back, at a chuckle from his adopted uncle. How odd a thing that was, but it was the way of things now. Everyone conveniently forgetting how Alistair had been set aside and hidden away, before the Blight came along and Ferelden's future nearly fell through the cracks the darkspawn caused.

For now, there was a modicum of relaxation, until the cooks had finished dinner and it was brought out, after which Alistair had been prepared to make a speech. Then the pretense of casual talk would begin while everyone really was trying to measure out their opponents. Gwyneth had explained it to him, that this was an opportunity to 'test the waters' and figure out who was likely to cause the most difficulty in tomorrow's official meeting. She was in true form, lending an ear to a smiling Banness Hascal and nodding some agreement, looking up briefly to catch his look across the table. 'Relax' those eyes said, a continuing command since they'd been getting ready, and he was still trying to find a way to do that.

"She looks very beautiful."

"Pardon?" Alistair turned a head to Teagan, momentarily confused and forced to gather his wits back together.

The Bann of Rainesfere cleared his throat, speaking slower on the second delivery. "Gwyneth, she looks lovely tonight."

"Ahh, yes, yes she does." He took a sip from his goblet almost as soon as the servant had dipped to fill it, the dull tang of honeyed mead meeting his lips, watching the woman in question across the length that separated them. Gwyneth's creamy skin and dark red hair made her a vision in blue, the contrast standing out. Light blue, a shade that reminded him of his Leliana and all at once the thought of her eyes hit him with a force it hadn't in months.

The frustration with Gwyneth, and now his duties with the equally frustrating Bannorn, mingled with a plaguing self doubt and feelings of loneliness, had left him vulnerable to memories he'd been trying to forget, for his own good if nothing else. Yet, there she was in remembrance, eyes alight, looking up at the stars, singing tales of a maiden's love and hero's plights. She wouldn't know what to make of him now, and for a heart wrenching moment, Alistair felt ashamed for forgetting about her, even momentarily. He'd promised to love her, always, but his promises had proved worthless, and what was worse was that no one was around who even cared, no one but him.

They'd all tell him how lucky he was to have Gwyneth instead. Some honestly, and others with the false notion of placating him by reminding the king of the wife he never wanted. Until lately, when just her hands on him, helping him get dressed, or kneading at his neck, brought to mind how she arched her back when he'd moved just so inside her, or the keening wails she made beneath him. Alistair winced, feeling miserably guilty and took a gulp of ale that nearly choked the air from his lungs.

"I do say, Sire, it is a strong vintage isn't it? Teagan always did like his dwarven ales."

The king tried to recall the name of the bann at his left, a generous smile tipped his way as the man's wife chuckled in good humor beside him.

Attenbury, Burington Attenbury, Bann of Eastbrook. Their loyalties had been underlined in grey on Gwyneth's map, so he wasn't a sure thing. Married young, with their first child, a son that same year. Both of them now in their early forties. Janella, was the banness' name.

All those checkmarks came to Alistair's tortured mind in a fractured, unorganized order, but at least he remembered. "Oh, it's not so bad, I've had stronger."

"Truly? And it didn't put you on the floor?" Burington raised a brow, the banness equally interested as she leaned closer to her husband.

It could have been a honest curiosity that spurred the question, it could have been a good natured rib, or it could have been a malicious prod, attempting to suggest the new king was a lush and couldn't hold his spirits. Alistair wasn't sure which, and there was nothing on the other man's face to make it obvious, fine lines here and there and all of them relaxed. 'How does Gwyneth do this? It's maddening!' She was engaged in talk with Lord Loren, and hadn't had a free moment to note his distress. He was on his own, despite her assurances of earlier, and Alistair felt a knot forming between his shoulder blades, in tandem with the pressure points inside his eye sockets.

A manufactured smile pulled his lips taut, a tilt of his goblet towards the other man forced to be nonchalant. Self esteem, that's what Gwyneth told him he could use more of, and he tried, hoping it wasn't a disastrous thing to say. Remind them that he was his father's son, no matter his own feelings about it, she'd said, and he used that too. "It takes more than some strong ale to put a Theirin on the floor ."

Bann Attenbury grinned, tipping his own goblet right back. "So I've heard, Your Majesty. You and I should talk about the vineyards I own sometime, it isn't ale, but it packs a punch a swift as a kick from one of my mules. I could lend some to the Crown, mules that is, for the repairs you surely must need throughout the capital. Perhaps in exchange for a reissue of the borders of Eastbrook."

"Burington, maybe we could leave negotiations for the morrow. All this talk of mules turns my stomach and I imagine we are all ready to eat, it's been a long day." Teagan interceded as casually as he could, turning a hand to motion to his servants, all carrying in covered trays of their dinner. "Roast pheasant, early summer vegetables and herb bread with a mild cheese spread. Bad breath, after all, is a sin unto our wives."

"I'll believe that when you actually have a wife, Teagan." Brandon Rochforth, Bann of Rochforth Falls, snickered, full mouth curling up to make the middle aged man almost look like a cat. It earned a table of laughter, both genuine and that clearly produced only to maintain the appearance of unity.

'There's very little use for humility in the Bannorn.' Apparently there wasn't much use for sincerity, either.