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: My apologies, dear readers, for the abysmal waiting time between chapters. I went through a move, and then when the dust cleared from that, found that my love life had fallen victim to the curse known as infidelity. Also, time consuming, I'm left in the position of 'another' move. Then I had to have all four wisdom teeth removed, and that was giving me some trouble. So my mood was a bit too black to do much writing. It also put me in the frame of mind of Gwyneth's 'romance is bullshit' and silently seething against Gwyneth herself for doing something similar to poor Anora. So, I knew I had to recover from that in order to write again. It's no good writing when your perspective has been skewed, I needed to be able to get into the heads of ALL the characters again. Plus, writing while medicated turned out to NOT be a good idea . . . who knew? :p

It did give me the opportunity to go back to the earlier chapters and do a bit of tidying, fixing of some continuity errors (age and such). So I'm slowly working my way through the story from the beginning now, while continuing ahead with the new chapters. So if you go back for a re-read, you might find some differences.

Bit of information in this author's note that makes it longer than the others, so sorry for that. I've actually cut back from the original note, though. :p

A TON of inspiration for this chapter, both in the appearance of Highever/Castle Cousland (which we'll get to more in the next chapter) and musical inspiration as always. Links to all musical and image inspiration has been linked in my profile, again you have to copy paste the links in your browser, for now at least. Unless they fixed it while I wasn't paying attention. I also did some research about the earliest versions of 'machinery' that would have 'just' started being used during the late Tudor/ early Renaissance age, where a lot of inventions came about, so any machinery you see mentioned isn't what you're used to seeing in this day and age.

In addition! Gwyneth's voice! :D We know what most of the other's sound like, from their parts in the game, but Gwyneth's voice was only in my head until now. It's long been taking its cues from Emilia Fox, the actress who played the sorceress Morgause on BBC's 'Merlin' but I thought I'd share it with you all, so you might hear Gwyneth as I hear her during the next bit of dialogue she has. That, of course has also been linked in my profile and the bloke she shares a scene with sounds a LOT like Nathaniel Howe, as well, which is quite nice, (he even has the big nose) though I think Nate is braver than poor Cenred. :p

You might have also noticed a new subtitle next to the story name. I've gone ahead with my plan some time ago, to separate the story into three parts, though not for convenience sake really, but because each section has its own climax and with the story being as long as it is, I decided it'd be nice to have those three parts. But they will all be titled Fate and Forbearance with the part title next to it, so easy to find. I hope. Anyway, we haven't come up on that yet, but we will eventually. Both the closing 'scene' for Part One and the opening 'scene' for Part Two is quite chilling, if I do say so myself, so I already have that planned out, so no fear, I haven't lost any ambition, just a bit of steam during the wee life crisis I had.

There's also a bigger look see at the story cover art. I made it with stock footage and my shoddy skills with MS Paint, so no guarantees on quality :P but if you 'do' want to see it, I've put up a link for that as well, listed as always, under extras in my profile. Internet cookies for those that know what plant is in the image, though if you are consistent readers of FnF, I'm sure you all would know anyway. ;)

And as a last tidbit, if you see the Coastland's Brogue referred to here, it's a slight Scottish undertone to the speech that some of the people of that region still carry. I always imagined their ancestors to have some Scottish influence. Highlands - Highever - Coastlands? Maybe. ;)

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


Chapter Fifty Six:

Legacy of Laurel


If we are true to plan,

our statures touch the skies.

- Emily Dickinson


June 21'st, 9:31, Dragon Age

They were a day's travel from Highever, having turned at a fork in their path that led away from the Laurel Faireway, both Couslands glancing longingly down the road that they dared not to go, lest the bridge was still out. Alistair could recall how they had been, nearly forlorn as they headed down the Branson Road instead. They'd still get to Highever. Teyrn Fergus had assured their party of that, by way of the lower coastal route through Deits, but it was clear that wasn't the preference.

"I should have so liked to have seen it again." Gwyneth lamented, her face sallow for the wearied sorrow that had dragged the light from her skin. The wounds had healed well those past three days, so well in fact that Alistair had grown suspicious she was using her culcae cream again, but he hadn't dared to ask and while brave enough to search some of her things when she was asleep, had found none. Yet, even for the return of her good looks, her smiles had become more false than ever they had been before, mouth tight and stern as the queen tried not to look back at the covered wagon where her mabari's body was lain, preserved with oils beneath a tarp.

"Seen what?" Alistair dared, if only in the hopes that there would be some excitement left in her. He wouldn't have thought he'd find himself in a position of goading conversation from Gwyneth, a lady full of more bold talk and speeches than the entire Bannorn on a rowdy day, but there he was, all the same.

Faint was the ghost of smile on her thin lips, curling so briefly as to have never been there at all, her voice low amidst the din of the wagon and the horses, jangling bits and armaments clattering about them. "The Laurel Stones, set high upon the knolls, just past the vineyards of Lord Covington. A hundred men strong it took to lay them you know, and I'm told at least a year before they were perfected. Hauled up from the coast, chosen for their size. My ancestors were no less exacting than my father." A gloved hand went to her chest, fingers flat against the collarbone above her heart, and Gwyneth took a deep breath, eyes alight. "They made the shape of our family crest, great boulders of white stone. You could see them from a distance, a clear sign that you were entering the lands of the Couslands. So proud a family we were . . . are." She corrected, glancing beneath the rim of heavy lashes at her king husband.

He would've pressed for more, it was the most she'd said since they had last packed up camp, but Gwyneth had battened down like a clam in its shell. Alistair could tell by her posture that he'd not likely get anything else from her for a while, or at least until she was damn good and ready. At least her sorrow hadn't changed everything, she was still as stubborn as an all seasons mule.

So the king sat back on his mount, resting his hands on the saddle horn and pretended to be interested in the scenery, though after some time, he found that he didn't have to pretend. He'd never been to the coastlands around Highever, and having heard plenty about the city and her surroundings, the curious boy inside him was brought to life anew.

The road they traveled was made of pressed dirt, ruts the reminders of the cart wheels that has passed long before the king's party, but that soon gave way to large smoothed cobbles, laid well if not meticulously. Alistair imagined for a time, all the hard working commoners that had broken a sweat and their bodies to make a road for the nobility. Distaste settled in his gut to know that he was now a member of the same aristocracy that built their fortunes on the backs of those deemed 'less worthy' Still, for that, looking around him, he couldn't deny the grandeur of County Highever.

Her rolling knolls were deep green with the vitality of good earth and warm coastal sun, and she greeted her visitors with the scent of willows, laurels and the tease of the ocean's shoreline in the distance. Wide houses with roofs of stone and gardens of flowers and herbs colored the side of the road, markers carved of bright chestnut along their route told all who passed by what owners lived inside. Mazel, Betten, Abbot, all proud and burned into place before two storied abodes that could never be called cabins.

Alistair had seen nothing like it. The rest of Ferelden, you only knew who lived in which home by asking. In County Highever, it seemed even the peasants had pride of place, at least in their own minds. The king looked curiously on his brother by marriage, that noble face kept impassive, but for the few smiles the teyrn offered to what people were out, of those few, they had come to the fences to wave at their returning liege lord, gasping aloud to see he had the King and Queen of Ferelden in tow.

A pretty pair of younger ladies, likely sisters, came from a one-story home made with an almost Antivan look, to the edge of the fence, faces looking to the teyrn with girlish admiration. He nodded his head at them, grinning as he commanded one of his men to toss the girls some coin.

"To buy pretty things, for the pretty ladies." Fergus nodded at them, voice smooth as silk, as they giggled over their fancy.

Fergus was handsome as the day was long, and the bastard knew it, too. Like his sister, his wounds had healed decently enough, the bruise around his eye, that had been an ugly purple was faded now to the slightest tinge of yellow, though some of his ribs must've still been tender, because he continued to favor the right side. For his admirers, however, they noticed none of those things.

Gwyneth seemed to find the interest her brother had garnered to be of amusement. "Some things never change." Her remark came from the snide curl of a lip as she looked on the peasant girls.

"Did you expect them to, sweet sister?" Fergus chimed, looking all too pleased with himself.

"More the fool, I, if I did." Gwyneth sighed, one hand going to rub at her neck, wincing at the tense pain still residing at the base of her skull, though blissfully she'd been able to take the head wrap off.

Alistair glowered, turning instead to glance at Harold, where the young boy was sat next to the driver of their lone wagon. His eyes were big and round, looking at the world around him. He probably hadn't seen houses with name markers in front of them, either.

The sun was out that day, casting a fine golden flow across the orchards, sturdy trees grown in lines that went well past viewing distance. Young Harold's mouth watered at the small apples that were beginning to form on the ends of thick branches, peeking in pinkish-red past the white apple blossoms that still flourished, for a brief period in kind with the fruit they always preceded. By the autumn they'd be ready for harvest, and it looked to be a good one.

A pair of horses lifted their heads from behind the confines of a painted fence, snorting at the procession, equine ears twitching. It was likely the most activity they'd seen all day. Harold took a fistful from the small sack Fergus had bought him from an outpost vendor, originally filled with sweet cakes, but through the Greenfell boy's fingers there now sifted only crumbs. He tossed them to the horses, laughing when one butted into the other in a short lived scuffle to get them.

It was a place where death was hard to imagine. The king could feel the proof of that in the air, tangible enough that Alistair thought if he curled his fist just so, he might capture that feeling in his hand.

As they started down an incline, sharp rocks began to jut out from their green brows, the blades of grass blowing teasingly over the stone like the bangs on an unruly child's head. Staring down the Branson Road, the village of Deits came into view, curls of smoke winding from bronze lit cliffs, seemingly cut into the hillside. The bowl shaped cavern was huge, almost the size of Redcliffe, and Alistair blinked at it.

"What's that smell?" Harold covered his nose with the sleeve of a new shirt.

"Copper, Master Tennan. A hearty smell, if unpleasant." Fergus drolled out, pressing his hand flat above his eyes, the wink of the sun catching on the metallic threads in the far off rocks. "I think maybe they've started a new shaft, Gwyn, I don't seem to recall the pit stretching so far southwest."

The queen shrugged. "As if I've a care for copper mining." She bit out.

With the sun beating down on his back, and the wink of the massive copper mine in his eyes, Alistair turned to narrow his gaze at the teyrn. Harold had said his name was Hewitt, and yet Fergus had just called him Tennan, and the boy had barely blinked. When Gwyneth turned, as if sensing her husband's unease, he raised a questioning brow, that she only ignored.

"The sooner we can get into town, and get ourselves ready for Highever, the better I'll feel." She sighed into words, lending them weight.

But Alistair already wasn't feeling so grand, the familiar sensation that something was going on that he hadn't been made aware of, tingled up his spine.


A swath of green lay across Gwyneth's lap, her fingers busy with white and gold thread, one laurel branch already completed. She held the boy's cloak up for inspection, nodding in approval as she made sure the other branch was going to be even. A set of candles burned on the desk next to her, a bowl of rose water and spiced incense burning beside them. It was a thick smell, but she'd needed it to get past the cloying odor of the room they were in. It was the nicest inn within town, but that didn't mean the place hadn't been steeped with the scent of smelt copper and old wood.

A low humming began in her throat, as she kept her mind busy with work. Depression finds its seeds in idle minds, or so her mother had always said. A knock at the door came, rapid and harder than she'd been expecting, and Gwyneth accidentally stabbed her finger with the needle, in her surprise.

"Ssst!" A short hiss, and the finger went to her mouth, gritting her teeth together behind it. "Come in."

That blonde head could've belonged to no other, and she sighed. "Alistair, do you not find it absurd to knock at the door of your own room?"

"Every other time I've surprised you, you screamed, I thought I'd avoid that." He turned to lock it behind him, pacing across the room and looking out the window.

"Hardly every time, but I suppose that's fair." She went back to her sewing, assuming he was bored of his meal and the company to be had downstairs, but when he only stood at the window, Gwyneth had a feeling he might've been brooding. She set the cloak on the desk, clear of the candles. "Alright, out with it then."

"Arl Wulff sent a small company of men from Highever to travel with us back to city. I think your brother chose wisely when it came to seneschals. A Lord Covington, by name, asked specifically to be your champion. Ser Hadrian had thought he was the Queen's Champion, while somehow, I wasn't even aware you had to have one. How is it that the king doesn't know the most basic things, when everyone around him does, and is content to let their king go on remaining ignorant?"

The bite to his voice wasn't hidden and Gwyneth wasn't in the mood to indulge him, but did so anyway. "Alistair, its hardly so important a matter. It is usually customary for the queen to have a champion amongst the Knights of Denerim, but not always. Though in Highever, my great-grandfather made it law, after an attempt on the life of Cilla, the wife of King Brandel, your own great-grandfather. So if I'd had none, it would be tradition that I was given a champion to enter the gates of Highever." She laid her hands on her lap, folding them. "So you see? Now you know and the matter is settled. Though you may tell Ser Hadrian that he can remain my champion, I doubt Lord Covington shall object. It was more of a courtesy, I imagine."

"Oh yes? Well, that was easy wasn't it, to grant that courtesy?" He turned, lips taut. "A pity I've not been given the same."

"Alistair . . . I'm weary, and honestly, am in no frame of mind to play word games with you. Solicit for it straight, or not at all."

A harsh chuckle escaped him, and Alistair walked closer, almost backing down for the shallow circles he spied beneath Gwyneth's eyes, but pity wouldn't stay his words. "That's a riot of laughter, coming from you. When have you Couslands ever given anyone straight answers? I'm betting not very often. So I suppose I should be thankful your brother finally decided I deserved to know what was going on with the Greenfell boy."

"Young Harold? Is that what this is all about?" She finally did roll her eyes, standing slowly to square her shoulders at him. "Oh, for goodness sake Alistair. What does it matter? Fergus is to squire him, not you. Why do you give such a holy damn, anyway?"

"A squire of Highever? I was pretty sure I've heard your father's rule of thumb was never to allow peasants a position in his court. Even to squire. You told me that yourself." He ignored her last question.

She nodded, tucking her curls behind her. "That's true, but your father made a farmer's son into a teyrn, a poor decision as it turned out, but the people accepted it as truth. That's what they'll always do, what they have to do, accept the truth that we give them."

"What if they don't like it?"

"Who could question the squiring of the last born son of the mayor of Greenfell? A lesser noble, but a noble all the same."

"Ah yes, that's where the Tannen came from." Alistair scowled, too tired to even raise his voice very much. "Mayor Tannen. You know damn well he isn't the mayor's boy. His father was a shepherd, like as not."

"Was he? I can't recall anything like that."

"Have you gone mad? Pretending that something is true, doesn't make it so!"

"Doesn't it? Harold will be given a different life, a different title, and the only way to do that and publicly keep to my father's ideals, is to introduce him as a lesser noble. We're hardly making him into Lord on High. The boy understands that, he had no complaints." Gwyneth felt herself beginning to grow defensive and angry.

"The boy understands nothing . . . because he's a boy! He lost his whole family, his life and has no one to watch out for him. Of course he isn't going to argue with the teyrn, that his father probably taught him from birth, was to be obeyed, and he wouldn't argue with a queen either. Harold's not a brainless peasant, but he is young and frightened and you would take advantage?"

Gwyneth's eyes widened in disbelieving anger. "Advantage? He was a sheep herder's boy. He would've grown up to marry some simple village girl, and father a slew of simple minded boys to help him with the family farm when his father died, and on and on it would've gone. Now he'll be a squire, he'll be Harold Tannen, last surviving son of Greenfell, the mayor's own blood, squired at Highever, under the Cousland banner he was raised to serve. I'd damn well say he has the advantage, not us."

Alistair wanted spit his frustration. "You can't just do that! Just make up some story and will it into being, pretend that it's the truth!"

"Isn't that what we do every day? Pretend our people are safe, pretend that we can keep them that way?" When her husband winced, she continued. "All the while, covering villages like Greenfell in a burial shroud and telling the citizenry that we don't know what happened. Smoke and daggers, Alistair, that's all anything ever is. Especially for the King and his Queen Consort."

"And what? Harold will just have to go along with it, make believe that his parents are someone else? What about his real family, dead now, and you are suggesting they should also be forgotten." He knew she couldn't mean that, she'd lost her own family, and she just couldn't mean it.

"Yes. That is precisely what I'm suggesting. They're gone, as you have said and as we all know. Gone, like most of your knights are gone, like most of Fergus' men are gone, as my Noble is gone! I will not come away from that village with absolutely nothing, I refuse!" Gwyneth caught herself beginning to shriek, and reined her temper in. "Harold will find no benefit from the weight of the dead."

He scoffed at that. "So your solution is to force this boy into a role he isn't ready for?"

"Are we talking about Harold, or you?"

That hurt, and Alistair felt his anger slipping, a nameless melancholia taking a hold of him. "That's not fair."

"And what is fair, anymore, Alistair? You tell me that." She had leaned against the desk, as if tired of her own words.

Something was there, like a stone beneath the river's water, and if he squinted, Alistair could almost see it, what was driving her. "This isn't about me, or Harold, is it? It's about you, and how you keep trying to emulate your father."

Fury coursed in her veins, and she rose from the desk, jabbing Alistair in the chest, but he refused to bend to her displeasure. "How dare you! You don't know anything about my father!'

"But I do. I've heard enough, from your mouth and all the other nobles in this country, some hating him, some afraid of him, and some people, like you and your brother, worshipping him, like Bryce Cousland was the bloody Maker himself!"

Gwyneth slapped him, enraged, a red welt left on his cheek from her wedding ring.

His eyes were dark and dangerous, voice just as coiled. "You aren't your father, and trying to force yourself into the mold he left behind will never shape you into him. You talk about the weight of the dead, but you carry that around like shackles, more than the rest of us. I don't know if you're trying to follow in his footsteps, or eclipse them and make your father proud, but this? Pushing an innocent boy around like he was a chess piece to your grand plan? That doesn't serve any best interest, certainly not his, and while you think differently, it doesn't serve yours either."

"And who left a legacy for you? Eamon gave you an education, furthered by the chantry, and that was the only preparation you had. You were a forgotten boy, saved by circumstance, where a lot of people pretend that they don't know what you are, where you came from." She pressed her advantage as if words alone could win the battle of wills. "Well, I know, Alistair, just as I know that this marriage saved you, that without me, you'd still be that lost boy. Even if you could have won the Landsmeet without my hand, we both know you wouldn't be the king that you are, without me at your side, without my favor. I have given you the chance you always needed. I did that. Not Eamon, not the people of Ferelden, and certainly not Maric, but me."

"Gwyneth, I never said . . ." He started in, but she'd have none of it, voice lowered enough to give Alistair pause.

"I am not trying to become my father, I am using what he left me to better myself, to better this country, and you can cry it off if you like, but you know that you've benefited from the education he gave me, the legacy you want to turn your nose up at now, because it makes you uncomfortable. Well, you tell me, this boy that has no family, no friends left, what is better for him? I suppose one could call you an authority on the subject, so tell me, what would be better?" His silence was the backdrop to the wicked curve of her lips.

"Yes, that's what I thought. Next time you want to accuse me of using someone else to cover my own personal problems, at least have the words to back that up. The boy stays in Highever, and Fergus will give him a life he'd never have had otherwise, he'll become a young lord of the Coastlands, and forget that he was less than that, remembering his parents fondly from time to time, saddened, but grateful for the hand of fate that brought him a better future. You can't tell me that after all this, he doesn't deserve that. It is hardly the awful burden you claim it to be, and while you may not always like my methods, you cannot argue with my results. I improve the lives of those deserving of a better hand, not imprison them with unfair demands, and if I 'push them around like chess pieces' at least in the end they'll be on the winning side of the board."

The king shook his head, sad but not resigned. "No, I can't argue that you have skills, that you've a way with people that I'll never have. You are the only one that could've made sense of the political mess that was Orzammar. But that doesn't change the fact that your reasons for this latest idea of yours, aren't altruism. It's guilt and heartache moving you forward, pushed and pushed by what your parents wanted you to be. Don't think your speeches can hide that from me, I know you too well now. Maybe you should've hid your intentions better, if a lost boy from Redcliffe could see them."

"Alistair . . . wait . . . I didn't . . . ." Caught out, she tried to find her path forward again, but he was ready for her.

"It isn't that you want to help this boy, though I confess that maybe you do a little bit. But it's because you couldn't help your nephew, isn't it? A lot of things are your fault, just as a lot of things are my fault, but that isn't. From what you told me, there's not a damn thing you could've done that would have saved him and you both, and having your brother squire this boy, who so recently lost his own family? That doesn't change the past."

"So, what do you suggest, oh Wise King Alistair?" Gwyneth sneered.

"I think squiring him is a good idea, but with his own name."

"We can't do that. You know we can't. There are rules . . . there are . . ."

Alistair shook his head. "Explain it away, like you always do, but that's not going to bring your nephew back to life, or heal the hurt inside your heart. You want to pretend that you don't suffer inside unless it suits you, that your sadness is a fleeting thing and you can always get over it. Well, you can't. I suffer for Duncan, I suffer for the Grey Wardens lost at Ostagar and those wiped out in Amaranthine, I suffer for the fact that my father didn't want me, and that the only woman who did, I sent away to marry you. Time heals wounds, but it doesn't keep the scars from forming, Gwyneth. Nothing can do that, and if you want to help this boy, if you truly want to 'salvage' something from Greenfell, do it for the right reasons, and don't try to pretend that you aren't hurting right now and that it isn't affecting how you think. Being a Cousland, being your father's daughter, it doesn't make you more than human."

She was shaking, face reddening in anger. "You son of a whore! I won't be spoken to like this, certainly not by you!"

For the first time, he didn't let her barbs get to him at all. "You're angry, because I'm right."

"You assume far too much!" She blustered, but already the mask that had been her ire, was wearing thin.

"Do I?" His dark golden brows raised, clear in his intent. "Here's what I 'assume' I almost lost you in Greenfell, not a passing worry that you could die, but a very real chance of that. So I know, while I was praying for you to wake up, to be better, that you're right. I wouldn't be the king I am without you, I need you, but you need me too."

She didn't agree, but she didn't deny it either.

Alistair knew he was getting to her. "You go on and keep pretending you have the answers to everything, but you don't. No more than I do, and you can try to hide the fact that you're vulnerable, but I know better. I see you for what you are Gwyneth, and no matter how you hide from that, I'll always be able to find you, to see where you are. We're two halves of a whole now."

Her face turned down, as she murmured under her breath, only half hearted. "You've a lot of nerve."

She didn't see the smile on his face until he took her chin in his palm, turning it up. "Yes, I do. I learned it from you."

The smile wasn't returned, but a sigh drained the last of her ire. "I won't disrespect my father's wishes. Harold has to be squired under a banner man's rank at least. Why not give him this fresh start? Are you really so opposed?"

"Gwyneth . . . it's not true, so how are you honoring your father's wishes?"

"I told you, the truth is . . ."

"What we make of it, yes." It was Alistair's turn to sigh, brushing a hand back across the top of his head, as was his wont when he worried. "I don't like it, but no, I can't be that opposed to giving the boy something better. Of course I'm not . . . but next time, maybe you can talk to me about these kinds of things." Her chin was still in his palm, oddly they'd both forgotten, until he remembered enough to hold it there, so she couldn't glance away. "Didn't we both promise to try harder at making this work?"

"Yes . . . yes we did." Relenting, she finally gave him a smile, if a tired one. "I didn't honestly deceive you, you know, not this time. I just didn't really think about it. With coming home, and deciding how to tell Ser Gilmore's father that his son is dead, and what kind of a funeral I want for . . . for Noble . . . I . . . I just . . ." Her composure fell in that instant, salty tears running down the pallor of her cheeks.

For so often finding themselves on opposing sides, they came together so easily then, his arms around her back, her shoulders shaking into his frame. Alistair pressed his cheek to her hair. "It's alright, Gwyn, it's alright."

"No it isn't. It won't ever be alright." She sobbed into his shirt.

"Yes it will. The truth is what we make of it . . . remember?" His sad smile was drawn against the softness of her hair, as it tickled his nose.

She turned to look up at him, a shadow of a laugh in her voice. "Trust you to make a joke of it. What japes you'd have spun were I not here to keep you in line." She expected him to laugh at that, embarrassed now for her tears, a rarity that they were spent without the desire to use them.

Instead his face was serious, a palm against her cheek, fingers curling under her jaw. "No. If I'd lost you in Greenfell, there would never be another joke out of my mouth again, sweetheart."

Discomfited by how intent he seemed, she tried one of his own tricks of lightening the mood. Her mouth curled in the corner. "I told you, don't call me . . ."

"Sweetheart." Alistair whispered against her lips, before he claimed them in a kiss, fingers twining into the curls that lay against her cheeks, still wet with tears and those too he kissed away. He pulled back to touch her nose to his, smiling at the shock on her face. "Sweetheart." The repetition came again and again, her mouth unyielding under his, until finally, she kissed him back and there were no more tears that night.


Dawn came as a gray crawl of light, dim and joyless as it fell onto the open pit mine, failing to reach into the deeper shafts. That slow sun was in no more of a hurry for the royal party waiting beneath it than it would've been for anyone else, cloud cover not promising that the sun would even show its face that day. No matter how strong the will of Fergus Cousland, he couldn't control the weather.

"Shit day for a homecoming. The Maker could've at least given you some sun, My Grace." Lord Lanen Covington looked up at the sky from atop his mount, a well bred chestnut from the Free Marches, and a gift for his twentieth birthday that past spring from his lord father, Adley, whose many vineyards gave the man an enviable wealth. A pair of light blue eyes glanced behind him, taking in the few teyrn's men there were left. "Seems you've been having a time of things, anyway."

"We're Coastlanders, we take what we're given and make diamonds out of shit, if we have to." Fergus grinned, not to be deterred. There were five men, under the brief command of Covington, who had grown into his role just as well as he'd grown in general. The pale red haired nobleman was always short and underfoot as a lad, Fergus remembered with some fondness, but he was tall and lean muscled now. A man of the coast. "Damn good of Wulff to send you."

"Hardly any fuss, and it does me good to be seeing your lady sister again." A wolfish smile drew up his lips, the few freckles dotting his cheeks seemed to move in kind. "Fine gem, that one, always was."

Fergus glared. "Careful now, Covington, that's my sister, and your queen now besides."

Lanen was barely phased, smiling. "Aye, milord, both true statements, but she's still a fine gem."

Fergus smirked, trying not to laugh, but Covington had always been a ballsy bastard, even for the smaller stature days of his youth, growing up beside the lady he admired. "Can't argue with that, I suppose. But you keep your eyes where they're proper, and they'll stay in your head."

"You going to cut them out?" Lanen winked, knowing there was little intent behind those words.

"Maker, no! You're the best master at arms that I know . . . but he might." Fergus gestured to the king, busy saddling up his horse.

"The Dragon King, eh? Be mighty queer to see a dragon saddling a horse. Don't kings have men to do that?"

"Usually, but King Alistair is . . ." Fergus thought of his sister's term. "A unique man."

A short laugh escaped Lord Covington, though no less merry. "I'd say so. All sorts of rumors we've been getting on your Dragon King. Cutting off old Mac Tir's head himself, then making the Loren heir shoot his own brother. Tough, for a bastard, and lucky. I don't know of any other bastard kings, save him." The young lord had a pleasant brogue beneath his educated speech, the Coastland's tongue that never quite left its people, though that was ages ago, and they were all 'civilized' now.

"Quite, but I'd not call him that, were I you. He doesn't take it kindly or in any sort of good humor." Fergus cautioned, lowering his voice.

"No, I'm betting not. Big man, though, isn't he? Maybe he is part dragon after all." The Highever Master at Arms noted, turning to take in their new king.

"Bah! Anyone seems big to you, Lanen." Fergus scoffed and the both of them laughed at that. All the while, Fergus rolled Alistair's impromptu title around in his mind. His sister's work, no doubt of that, but he couldn't deny that it made an impression. Alistair caught their laughter and turned to look.

Lanen saluted him and Fergus nodded. "We'll be heading out soon, if we want to make good time into the city. Won't be far now."

"Bless the Maker for that." Gwyneth exited from the inn, Ser Hadrian, a man that truly was massive, behind her. He helped her up on to the seat of the wagon, next to the young Master Harold.

The boy seemed nervous, pulling at the collar of his new doublet, the golden clasp of his velvet green cloak made into the shape of crossing lances. The aged mark of Highever itself. He almost pricked his fingers on them several times, until he'd learned to avoid the clasp. His hair had been washed and combed, and Gwyneth had it treated it for bugs in kind, and Harold tried not to itch it, his scalp feeling a might dry and abused.

With a clean face and clothes newer and fresher than ever he'd had, the ten year old was feeling oddly out of place, but everyone had been cordial to him. The queen had found a small ring, with the carving of a willow tree on it, and had it sized down so Harold could wear it on his own index finger. He didn't know what importance that had, but he'd done as he was asked. All alone and surrounded by adults with titles he could barely remember, he didn't want to get himself into trouble, so he did everything that they asked and tried to smile.

At least they were going to let him keep his first name.

"Good morning, Majesty. Though we've no sun, you have warmth and beauty enough for all of us." Lanen grinned, bringing his horse up to the wagon in a slow canter, that Ser Hadrian watched carefully.

"A flatterer, as always. This is Lord Harold Tannen, the last son of the good mayor of Greenfell, now in passing I'm afraid, as is the rest of his family. Such terrible tragedy there, but Lord Tannen is with us now. He's to be squired at Highever." Gwyneth preened, the words not only for Lanen's sake, but Harold's as well, so he might better remember the role he had been given. "Lord Harold, this is Lord Lanen Covington, we rode past his father, Lord Adley Covington's, vineyards yesterday. Lord Lanen and I grew up together, his family has a long tradition as banner men for the Couslands, and he's been promoted to Highever's Master at Arms, with the seneschal, Arl Magnus Wulff of West Hill. He also serves for Teyrn Fergus now."

Harold tried to remember all that information. "Ah . . . nice . . . nice to meet you Lord Lanen."

"And you as well, young master. My condolences on your loss, family is no good thing to have to say your goodbyes to. And my condolences for Her Majesty as well. Noble was the greatest mabari the Coastlands had ever seen." He put a brief hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Thank you, milord." Gwyneth forced her smile, face taut with the effort.

"It's good to have you home, dear lady." He offered.

Gwyneth nodded her head, an arm put around one of Harold's shoulders. "Yes, and I hope our new squire takes to Highever well."

"She's the finest city in Ferelden, Lord Harold, you can be assured of that, and she'll be glad for more valiant men to protect her, but we can talk more of that when you train with me in the yards." He winked, leaning to ruffle the boy's hair before Fergus called the lord away.

Harold looked at Gwyneth with wide eyes, whispering. "Training?"

"There's nothing to fear, all new squires train with the Master at Arms, to find what they're best at." She smoothed his hair back down. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

"I'm . . I'm not afraid." Harold jutted his jaw out, trying to emulate the lords around him and the pride they wore on their faces.

Gwyneth's smile then was genuine. "Good."

Alistair came up beside her, startling her. Maybe he wasn't so wrong about frightening her with his abruptness all the time. "Good morning, My Queen."

"Good morning, My King." She let him take her hand to kiss her knuckles, noting the cheeky light in his eyes. Whatever affection had afflicted them both the night before, was still with him. Gwyneth surprised herself to be pleased at that. There had been nothing but those strangely calming kisses, until exhaustion drew them both down to sleep, and when she'd woken up, Alistair had already folded the blankets up on his side of the bed, and was gone from the room. A note left on top of her hair brush where he knew she'd find it, scrawled in the thin hasty script of his that she was familiar with.

'I told Harold he was riding with you in the wagon seat, I thought that would comfort him and you both. You'll have to chastise me later. - A.'

She hadn't chastised him, as it turned out, and whatever distress he had over the situation with the Greenfell boy, was covered well with a bright smile and keen eyes.

"We'll be in Highever soon, you know, are you excited Lord Hew . . . Tannen." The king corrected at the last second, noting the sharp look he'd garnered from his wife.

"It's a big city, ain't it?" The boy fretted at his lower lip.

'Isn't it. Isn't. We don't use the word 'ain't' milord." Gwyneth tutted at him, before nodding ahead to the main road in front of them. "And yes Highever is a very big city. Though the capital of Denerim is somewhat larger."

"Never been to a big city before, my father said it was dangerous."

Alistair leaned ahead in his saddle, certain to capture Harold's attention with his grin. "We are safe as safe can be, and once you're in Highever, I'm sure you'll feel better." The words were pointed at Harold, but they were for Gwyneth as well. The former tried to smile back, the latter only looked at him with a curt nod.

"Saddle up! We move forward. To Highever and to greet Great Grandfather Ardal!" Fergus shouted as the company started ahead.

"Your great grandfather is still alive?" Harold whispered beside the queen.

A humored smirk drew her lips up, painted a plum rose that morning, making her mouth seem fuller than it was. It lent the smirk a cat-like quality. "Not exactly, but you'll see soon enough."

Behind them, the crowded busy streets of Deits fell away, eaves hanging at sharp angles to cover the path with a shadow. Metal structures traveled past them on flat carts, one even that had an iron claw mounted to the front of it. 'Machines' Teyrn Fergus had called them, creations of the harried and strange minds of the Tevinter inventors. Alistair craned his head around, quirking a brow at them.

"Probably to cut into the rock, and silt the copper out." Ser Hadrian murmured, the man speaking so rarely that it startled his king, who looked at him curiously. The broad shouldered knight shrugged. "I've seen them before, sire. Went to the Holy Emperor's tourneys in Minrathous once or twice."

"Did you win?" Alistair asked.

Hadrian grinned, a more than rare occasion. "I didn't lose, Your Majesty."

The king could only nod at that, shaking his head in amazement. There was still so much he had to learn, even of his own knights. He only had three now. The agile Ser Simon Boughton, at once a scout, and now the King's First Knight, the Qunari sized Ser Arthur Hadrian, who had taken up as his Queen's Champion, and the quiet Ser Belem Cromwell, who had barely spoken since Greenfell.

Teyrn Cousland was left with four, whose names Alistair had to struggle to remember. Leothidus Angmar, whose parents must not have liked him very much to give him that moniker, though the young brunette man must have earned some favor, as it was said he was most likely to become Fergus' Commander of the Guard. Lord Angmar was followed by the pale and narrow faced Brom Selanwen formerly of Jader, who had a strange amalgam of Fereldish and Orlesian accents warring over his tongue. Alistair didn't care too much for him, his black hair and dark brown eyes gave him the look of a crow, and he was all the while squinting as if trying to figure out some difficult puzzle. Then there were the bearded Tanest twins from Dunharrow, a pair of green eyed red heads that had come with Ser Gilmore, the more brash Dansel and the serious Durlem. The king didn't envy either of them the position as fourth born lords. He knew that noble families tended to get crowded after a second son.

With Lord Covington and his five men from Highever, they made a company of thirteen. Alistair hoped that was their lucky number.

His thoughts fell away as they left Deits to round a sharp curved cavern, the stone opening to the sight of the Waking Sea before them, scant daylight skimming on the surface, dark blue for the lack of a sun . . . but Maker was it a sight! He'd seen Lake Calenhad as a boy, and seen that very sea when they'd traveled the coastline from Amaranthine, but this was something altogether different. That expense of limitless blue spread out not a mile below a cliff's edge, but right before them at the stony shore, the sound of gulls nesting and the crash of white capped waves like a song to his ears.

"Are we at the end of the world?" Harold gasped aloud and Alistair sent him a sidelong smile, as Gwyneth only stared at the water.

"Not just yet, Lord Tannen, not just yet." He brought his mount up to the slower moving wagon. "Gwyn . . . are you alright?" A whisper that he wasn't sure she heard, until she nodded.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

But he worried anyway.

Hours seemed to pass much faster, such scenery to be had around them that Alistair was certain he'd have a crick in his neck later from turning his head so often. Green moss made the pathway slick, and he had to keep at least one eye on his horse, but the other was wont to wander.

Wilderberries hung on low vines from the shale and lime of the cliff side, its upper edge far above their heads now as they hugged the sea. In the winter it wasn't likely anyone could use that road, but it was summer and he meant to enjoy it, raising a hand to pluck some berries for the steed beneath him.

"What's that?" Harold shouted again, awestruck, and Alistair looked ahead to see why.

A colossal effigy was ahead of them, nearly as tall as Fort Drakon. Carved from the sides of a cliff, the passage was made between the battling warrior to the left, sword landing into the massive werewolf on the right, the company passing beneath where the combatants met claw for blade. It was so high and huge as to make his head hurt looking at it, craning back as they passed underneath. His eyes widened to big pools of brown, the wonder to be found in boyhood fancies that Harold could enjoy, not so forgotten then. "Andraste wept! How was that made?" The awe apparent in his own voice garnered Gwyneth's attention.

"By a great many dedicated hands, there is another like it if you come into the city from the Faireway above." She put a hand on Harold's shoulder. "That, milord, is my great grandfather, Ardal 'The Wolfsbane' Cousland. Beloved of Ferelden for freeing the country from an infestation of werewolves that nearly swallowed up County Highever once. It is said, that the Maker Himself blessed my great grandfather's silver blade with holy power, enough so that it bled into Ardal's veins, turning his eyes the very silver of his great sword, and ever after we Couslands have been born with silver eyes." Her voice was calming for its delivery, and proud in its certainty.

"You all have silver eyes?" The boy asked, in wonderment.

"Every last one of us born to the bloodline." She assured the little lordling her brother had taken in, gesturing back to the massive statues. "So you see, one cannot pass into Highever without first making it past brave Ardal, and so, you are safe once you are beyond that great lord." Her face turned down, thinking of her own youth, when she'd believed that. "Or so it used to be." Harold hadn't heard that murmer, and that was probably for the best.

The effigies had survived the great many years of Orlesian tyranny, civil war and a Blight, but they hadn't been able to keep out Howe's men. Gwyneth told herself she never believed in magical blessings, but that one had been heart breaking to let go of.

She tensed up, taking a deep breath, and tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, fingers touching the golden droplets of her earrings. The queen was at her finest, dressed in Highever green and gold, the only red that of her crown, lain against her head as a feminine match to Alistair's. Her brother had the etched silver diadem of the Teyrn of Highever, a pearl at its top carved into the crossing white laurels of their house. Alistair was dressed in regal red and gold, cutting a fine specimen, even without the sun to lend any of the company an added brilliance. His hair was getting long enough to tie it back if he wished, but it lay in thick dark gold locks across his shoulders, braided with carved gold stones.

For a moment, staring at her husband, Gwyneth could almost imagine Cailan there instead, but she shook herself free of that painful illusion, eyes going forward to the mighty stone wall of her home.

Home.

The word hit her suddenly, and she almost couldn't get her air, then the great wrought gates of the city came into view. Long fluttering banners of darkest green, crossed with golden spears, hung beside the grey wrought steelwork of the gate, two towers at either side and guardsmen at the ready. A trumpeter announced them loudly as the gear works for the gate came to life, pushed by the many strong men who manned the wall.

Gwyneth's hands tightened into fists in her lap and she tried just to breathe . . . just breathe!

A hand curled over one of hers, strong fingers prying hers apart to hold them soothingly in a gloved palm. Alistair smiled comfortingly at her. "Its alright, sweetheart."

She didn't correct him, eyes wide and fixed as they passed under the gate, the city spread out before them, but she curled her fingers with his, as he kept pace beside the wagon.

"I sing a song of this legacy of laurel, that I be gone never again, for whose mighty gates I find my longing, for home and love and bed." Lord Covington began the traditional madrigal that Gwyneth's father had always wanted sung when they returned from abroad.

Hot tears stung her eyes, and to her horror even young Harold noticed, the brave boy taking her free hand as Alistair held the other. "It's okay. I'm scared too." He assured her, and she laughed, sorrowful and merry all at once, as the other men joined in, her brother's voice strong of timbre amongst them all.

He looked back at her, pressing a hand over his heart, and she smiled.

"Last we stand against the claw, the blade and war. Never our posts we leave, never forgiveness we implore. This legacy of laurel is our love, we never stray again, for honor bound are we, born on Cousland land."

She was a mighty thing, Highever, the different levels of the city cut into the rock bed long ago, slanting cobbled streets leading their traveler's through its terraced homes. All stone eaves and thick stone walls, bright colored flags and signs abound, with huge statues and fountains at nearly every marketplace circle.

Down on the quays long sturdy docks stretched into the Waking Sea like fingers. There were some of the same strange machines as they'd had in Deits, only at the city docks a few were already at work, three to four men manning each of them as the large mechanisms were made to lift huge crates from docked tradesman's vessels.

The smell of wine, and crowded streets greeted their nostrils first, that fresh salt sting of the water hanging over it all.

Above those streets loomed the cliff where generations of teyrns had been born. Gwyneth tightened her fingers on Alistair's even more, eyes finding the blackened stones of the once grand Castle Cousland.

"I'm home, Papa, just like I promised." She whispered, her voice carried away by the din of the city she had once loved more than anything, leaning into the wagon at her back. "We're home, Noble."