Characters: Offpage but audience Thomas Howe, mentions of Nathaniel Howe, Rendon Howe, Eliane Howe, Maric Theirin, Cailan Theirin, Loghain Mac Tir, Anora Mac Tir, and Bryce Cousland. F!Cousland (Gwyn), Fergus Cousland, Dog (Cavall), OFC Elen, OFC Tulia, Oriana Cousland, Oren Cousland, Eleanor Cousland, OFC Erdri, Nan

Pairings: Background Bryce/Eleanor Cousland; implied Cailan Theirin/Anora Mac Tir; Fergus/Oriana Cousland

AU Elements: None

9:25 Dragon

Castle Cousland, the Teyrnir of Highever, Ferelden

17 Firstfall, 9:25 Dragon

Castle Cousland, Highever

Dear Thomas,

I was happy to receive yours of the 2nd. Fergus was glad to hear that Nathaniel is safely settled with Lord Ruberne in Tantervale and did the Howe name proud in the latest tournament. I hear Tantervale has lovely winters, with frosts that grace the fields with white and the rooftops with icicle adornment but don't storm and sulk and freeze everyone indoors for weeks on end like the winters here. Nathaniel should also be able to learn quite a lot about Marcher styles of combat, which are quite different than the styles here. Also, you must ask him about Marcher politics. I find the structure and interplay of the Free Cities fascinating. Does Nathaniel know why Tantervale has a Lord Chancellor but Starkhaven a prince? What is his personal take on the efficacy of trade between cities?

My apologies if I bore you. I must write to Nathaniel myself, even if he is more Fergus's friend and always thought me a bother. Perhaps I'll be lucky, and he'll be grateful for the word from Ferelden instead of tossing my letter on the rubbish heap as an extra round of lessons when he really wants a rest.

How are you? Is your family well supplied for the winter? You must tell your mother to write if you are not. I know Arl Rendon doesn't like to make requests of my lord father even if Amaranthine has had a poor year, but as a lord in my father's teyrnir, he has the right to ask for anything your people might need, and your lady mother knows that even if he doesn't. I know trade at the port has been suffering since King Maric's disappearance at sea.

Regarding King Maric, Father sends news from Denerim that the Landsmeet has finally agreed to pronounce him dead—or those that are not are at least willing to finally rule that, after nine months without word or sign, he is unlikely to return soon and resume his duties. The Landsmeet has also voted to confirm Cailan as Maric's successor. The vote was far from unanimous, with over a dozen banns and arls opposed even to the end, and it began with half a dozen nobles putting in their own claims for the throne, and more arguing for the absent Teryn Loghain or my father to assume the throne. But Father steadfastly refused to be considered, and he writes that with his support and Lady Anora Mac Tir's, ably acting in her father's place, Cailan was able to carry the day.

I'm glad. While Cailan has always been friendly to our family, I truly do think that after Maric's loss, his son has the best chance of holding the country together. Maric was a mammoth, an icon. His loss has devastated our country enough without compounding the confusion with the fall of the dynasty that has guarded Ferelden since Calenhad first united her. Cailan doesn't have to be an icon himself, and he has good advisors. All he needs to be in 9:25 Dragon is his father's son, a just and well-meaning man who knows what he does not know. Ferelden has had many a season where local lords wield more power than her king. I would venture to say this has been the case for most of her history. It is only during the occupation and since that we have wanted a stronger head of state. It's quite possible that Cailan knows that, or that his advisors do.

Things are well here. We all miss Father, especially now, but we understand why his duties keep him in Denerim until Cailan's coronation. His duty is likely very heavy to him now. By the time he returns, his grandchild and the new heir, after Fergus, will already have been weeks in the world.

As I write this, Mother, Nan, one of the elven servants, and the Highever healer are with Oriana in her labors. As I have no skill in healing and have produced no children of my own, my help in the birthing room was deemed "no help at all." Instead, I was banished far away to the great hall to sit with Fergus and keep us both out of trouble. Easier said than done. He's pacing around like a wild thing, half-drunk, but unwilling to drink until his anxiety is completely out of mind lest he be reduced to a gibbering moron when they call him to introduce him to his firstborn, or ever forget the event. Cavall is attempting to check my brother's career about the room, as though he were a herding dog and not a war hound. He seems to become whatever kind of dog he needs to be, the loyal, excellent beast. Normally, I could tempt him away from dogging Fergus with some tasty tidbit, but right now, he is proving a more able nurse to the distraught father-to-be than I am.

But the reports from Fergus and Oriana's chambers are all good. Oriana is stronger than she appears in drawing room conversation and ballrooms, and her labor has been steady. I will add to this letter before I send it to you and tell if I am aunt to a niece or a nephew, and I believe I will be able to do so before tonight's supper.

My respects to your father and your mother, the Maker's blessings on you and yours and your people, etc.,

Lady Gwyn Cousland, written in my own hand

Gwyn sanded her letter thus far but left it open on the table. In truth, she was not as sanguine as she pretended to Thomas. Oriana had been shut up with Mother, Nan, and the servants for hours and hours now, and the sounds Gwyn had heard from her quarters and Fergus's, the few times she had ventured into the family wing, were simply horrible. Gwyn felt absolutely useless. Returning Thomas's letter had provided some distraction, but attending Fergus would be none whatever. His mind, every instant, was on his wife's current business, and there was no looking at him and thinking of anything else.

Every now and then, Cavall paused in his pacing after Fergus, looked her way, and whined. Fergus was usually so glad and confident. His current anxiety was making the dog anxious. Gwyn had tried playing chess with her brother, as well as several different card games, but he couldn't focus for the space of more than a few moments together.

"They say she's doing fine, Fergus," Gwyn said. "Until we hear anything different, we shouldn't worry. It can take several hours to have a baby, you know. Even more than a day."

"Yes, but the longer it takes, the more dangerous it is for her," Fergus answered. "She's such a little thing, sister. Such a little thing . . ."

Gwyn rolled her eyes. "No smaller than most women. Just a good deal smaller than you. And women smaller than Oriana deliver healthy babes all the time." But her voice was sharper than she liked. "Please sit down, Fergus," she begged. "You're driving me mad." Women died in childbirth all the time too, and because Oriana hadn't had any problems so far, Mother hadn't sent for a mage healer, just the local herbalist. Oriana had become an integral part of their family in a very short time, and if she or her child was lost, it would devastate all of them. A smaller, more primal, and intrinsically selfish part of Gwyn was also looking forward, dreading the day where she would probably have to undergo the very ordeal Oriana was passing through now, a gauntlet every bit as challenging as any war, that women alone endured.

"I'm driving you mad?!" Fergus burst out. "That isn't your wife having your child in there!"

"Fergus, any more of this, and I really might conk you over the head until it's over," Gwyn threatened, desperate.

Fergus's eyes flashed. "I'd like to see you try!" he declared. But he had stopped pacing. His eyes were alert and interested.

Gwyn nodded sharply. "You want to fight?" she asked. "Keep your mind off things?" She rose and strode over to the service bell. She tugged it.

One of the servants, a girl named Elen, entered and curtsied. "Lord Fergus. My Lady Gwyn?"

"Bring a sword for each of us please, Elen," she asked. "Lord Fergus has decided he'd like to spar."

"Right away, milady," Elen said, curtsying again and rushing out.

"You don't stand a chance, you know," Fergus told her. "I'm twice your size and seven years older, and you prefer to keep things at a distance. I like to get in close, where I can look in the eyes of the person I'm about to thrash." He spoke with confidence and satisfaction now, much more himself now he had something suitably energetic to focus on.

Gwyn tilted her head. "I'm not as small as I once was, brother, and you're half drunk and distracted besides. Don't worry: I'll go easy on you."

Fergus laughed, grinning. Elen returned with dulled practice swords, and Gwyn and Fergus took them from her and squared off in the clear area before Father's high table. Fergus held out his sword straight in front of him, evaluating her guard. Gwyn kept hers in the at rest position, waiting.

In truth, the aim here wasn't to win at all. It was more a game of endurance, to defend against Fergus's blows, serve as a live practice dummy for him, until he wore himself out enough to relax. When Fergus struck, Gwyn snaked her sword up to block but made no counterattack. His mouth twitched, half frustration, half gratitude. He knew what she was doing. He was annoyed by it. His pride and intellect would be better served with a straightforward contest of arms, but he wasn't up to it today, and he knew it. He would take what she was giving him, but he would make her suffer for it.

He attacked again, with a force that could break bone even though the practice blades were blunted. Gwyn deflected this blow, sliding it in a different direction instead of trying to match Fergus strength for strength. She could do it, perhaps, for a short time, but she would tire more quickly than he did, and he would quickly overpower her. He came at her with a series of blows then, too fast for him to check if she failed to dodge or guard appropriately. She would have to defend herself or suffer the consequences. It was how Father and Arms Master Towry had trained them both.

This was the kind of dancing Gwyn had always preferred. In the ballroom, expected to blend into a line or conform to a pattern, to follow someone else's lead, she lost track of the time. She stumbled. She was awkward and always seemed to have twice as much limb as anyone could ever possibly need. In the forest, stalking her quarry, and on the field of combat, she had as much or more grace as anyone, and a far clearer head. The hum of bowstring and the clashing of sword and dagger was all the music she ever played.

She was handicapping herself a little in this bout with Fergus. He was correct. She had always had a strong preference for range weapons, a hunter and an archer where he had trained to be a warrior, with several types of blade. And whenever she had trained with blades, she had always worked with throwing knives or with double blades. Single-hand swordplay was not her forte. But then again, he was half-drunk and distracted.

Better distract him some more, Gwyn thought with a wince, as she blocked a particularly vicious downstroke. Her arms were beginning to tire. Swordplay used an entirely different set of muscles than archery.

"Do you hope it's a boy or a girl?" she asked, through a labored voice, dodging a side cut and feinting a thrust.

Fergus shook his head. There was sweat on his face and in his hair, but he was breathing easily and looked less anxious than he had all day. Cavall had relaxed as well, lying down in front of the fire and watching the bout with attentive but unworried brown eyes. He had seen many a practice session. "Anything," he answered, ignoring Gwyn's feint and using the moment to aim a blow at her exposed neck. Gwyn's sword flashed, blocking the attack. "So long as it's healthy. A boy would be a fine thing. We'd have a lot to talk about. But don't know that a girl might . . . be more of a challenge."

He was moving with her now, using the activity to clear his head, let go of his fears, and cross over to a place where he could discuss what was happening without impediment. Less interested in "thrashing" her, either in an honest competition or for refusing to actually compete with him. "How so?" Gwyn asked.

"She could be anything," Fergus explained. "Could be like Oriana. I'd have to do some work if she was. Could be like you . . . which is a different kind of problem altogether."

Gwyn tried an attack then, cutting low toward Fergus's inner, foremost thigh. He parried, smiling. "I really want to be a dad," he admitted. "Probably cock it up a dozen different ways. Pardon me, Gwyn."

Gwyn shook her head, dismissing the vulgarity.

"But it's a blessing from the Maker. Little miracle in everyday life," Fergus continued. He held up his hand and lowered his sword, and Gwyn lowered hers as well. "Thanks," he said, panting.

"Milord?"

A voice at the door, and Gwyn and Fergus turned to see not Elen but Tulia there in the doorway—the elf who had been with the others in the birthing chamber. She was smiling.

Fergus went to her. "It's over?"

"It is, milord," Tulia confirmed, dimpling as she curtsied. "You have a son. A bonny, big, strapping lad. Ten fingers, ten toes, and howling at the top of his lungs to be here. Lady Oriana's weary, but she's grand. Just grand."

A slow, boyish smile spread across Fergus's face, until it was a sun-bright beam. He threw his sword aside, seized Tulia by the hands, danced wildly with her about the room, and kissed her on both cheeks. "A son!" he cried. "I have a son! And Oriana's fine!"

Cavall started barking, excited by Fergus's joy. Fergus let the flustered, laughing elven maid go and turned to Gwyn. He swept her up in a crushing hug, sweat and all, and kissed her roundly on the forehead. "And how do you feel, Auntie?" he asked. "I have a son!"

Gwyn smiled. "Congratulations!"

"May I go to her?" Fergus asked Tulia.

"You'd better, milord," Tulia laughed. "Go see the fine child you and your lady wife have made. Tell Lady Oriana how fantastic she is. She's as brave a little woman as I've ever seen, and I've seen a fair few birthings."

Fergus seized Gwyn's hand. "Come on, Gwyn," he said, almost shouting really. "Let's go see my son!"

Gwyn let her brother practically drag her to the chambers he shared with Oriana, Cavall bounding in their wake. Nan and the herbalist from the town were cleaning up, and Mother was sitting in a chair near to the hearth, looking tired herself, but happy, enjoying a glass of wine.

Oriana was in the bed, pale and drawn, her brown hair pasted back from her forehead with sweat. She seemed dazed, exhausted, but quietly exhilarated, and in her arms she held a red-faced baby swaddled in fresh linen blankets, indeed, howling at the tops of his little lungs.

Oriana looked up when they came in, and her eyes locked on Fergus's. "Isn't he beautiful?" she crowed.

Fergus walked over to stand by her bedside, gazing down into the face of his son. His mouth quirked, and he laughed once, incredulously. He looked up at Gwyn. "He looks like you did," he said. "All squashed and purple, except I think he's a bit bigger."

"Indeed he is," Mother confirmed. "Gwyn was about the size of most new babes. There wasn't any indication of how tall she would get, except her feet. But Erdri here says not many babes come out the size of your son, and almost never does the mother handle it so well. Your wife did well today, Fergus."

Fergus gingerly sat on the edge of the bed beside Oriana, over the coverlet. He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek softly. "You did do well, my love. Tulia told me how brave you were."

A faint pink came into Oriana's cheeks. "Braver than you, Fergus," she murmured. Her eyes flitted up to Gwyn, dancing. "Did he cry out there? Maybe pass out?"

"Neither," Gwyn smiled, "but he drank half a bottle of wine himself, just about wore a groove in the Great Hall floor with his pacing, and then almost murdered me with a longsword."

Oriana laughed, then winced. "Sounds about right."

Fergus's fingers were probing around the edges of his son's linen blanket. The baby was quieting as Oriana bounced him gently up and down, crooning little nonsense words at him every now and again.

"It's strange," Fergus commented. "He looks almost just like Gwyn did, only fatter, but I do think he's beautiful. Must be some father's bias. And how are you today, little Oren?" he murmured to the boy. "Is it so very terrible to be here with the rest of us?" The baby whimpered, whined, and then went quiet. Oriana cuddled him close to her.

"Oren?" Gwyn asked Oriana. The pink was back in her sister-in-law's cheeks, and she laughed again.

"Your brother insisted," she said. "But it's to be Oren Bryce, so your father has some remembrance too in his first grandchild."

Gwyn shook her head, looking at her brother's family on the bed. Her heart ached. All this from an arranged marriage! Fergus adored his wife so much he'd named his firstborn after her. I want that one day, Gwyn thought. I won't settle for anything less than someone I think I can love as much as my brother loves Oriana, and as much as she loves him. Not just someone prudent, but a companion, a sweetheart, a friend and an ally. Someone I'll want to brave childbirth for, and be so happy with I'll honor them in what we decide to call our children.

A great rush of affection for her brother and sister-in-law surged inside her chest. I couldn't leave them for anything less, she realized.

Fergus was holding his son now, stroking the curve of his cheek with one finger, again and again. "Do you want to hold your nephew?" he asked Gwyn.

"Fergus!" Oriana scolded. "His grandmother should get first privileges."

"Right!" Fergus said, looking over at Mother guiltily, outside of his direct line of vision. "Sorry, Mother. I—I don't know what I'm doing. I—can't believe this. Gwyn's right there, and you're over there, and I . . ." he trailed off into more laughter, and when Mother rose to take Oren from him, he almost didn't hand him over after all.

Mother smiled. "I completely understand. Bryce was just the same when you first came into the world. I don't think he put a coherent sentence together for two hours. Oh, come here, darling," she whispered to the baby. "My sweet little Oren."

Gwyn nodded at Nan, who came over with a smile, taking both her hands and squeezing them. "He's a wonderful baby, milady," she whispered. "I'm so happy for Fergus and Lady Oriana, I could just about burst."

"Open a cask of ale for the servants, in and outside the house itself," she said. "And wine for you, for Tulia, and for Mistress Erdri."

"Thanks, milady," Erdri, the herbalist said. She had heard and come over to the two of them.

"I'm sure my lady mother will wish you to remain tonight and tomorrow, in case Lady Oriana has any complications later on. But take an hour or so now to celebrate. I'll tell Elen to stand by if anyone needs anything."

"Aye, milady," Erdri agreed.

"I'll get on supper in the kitchens," Nan said.

"Don't put yourself to any great trouble, Nan," Gwyn told her. "I daresay most of us will be too tired for any proper supper. Mother will probably want a feast in a few weeks' time, most likely when my father returns, to introduce Highever and the local nobles to the new Cousland heir. But for now, let's keep it simple, and just say a prayer in the chapel tonight thanking the Maker for my sister's safe delivery and for her and Fergus's son."

"Aye, milady," both Erdri and Nan said. Erdri curtsied before leaving, but Nan gripped Gwyn's shoulder, thrust a lock of hair back from her face with her other hand, leaned in, and kissed her cheek.

"Gwyn," Mother whispered from the other side of the room. Gwyn walked over. "Would you like to hold him?" she asked.

Gwyn looked down at her nephew. He had fallen asleep now. Doubtless he was as tired as everyone else after his passage into the world. She could see dimples in his cheeks, in his neck, in one chubby arm sticking out from his blankets. They all said he was big for a baby, but he looked very small to her. "I—I've never held a baby before," she said. "How do I . . ."

"Relax," Mother told her. "He's small, and his neck and head are rather fragile right now, but you won't drop or break him. There. Support his head."

Gingerly, Gwyn took Oren from Mother, walking close to Fergus and Oriana, just in case Mother was wrong and she did get into trouble. Oriana was watching her son like a hawk now, for all her weariness. She could see Gwyn was uneasy.

"You don't have any little brothers and sisters of your own, or little cousins," she observed.

Gwyn laughed nervously. "No," she said.

He was so little, she thought. So round, with arms and legs that couldn't actually be crooked, because someone would have said something, but looked like it anyway. And he was squashed and purple. She certainly didn't think he was beautiful. He hardly looked human. She glanced down at Cavall, sitting by her feet. Her dog looked back up at her, and gave a noncommittal whine.

But there was something about him, Gwyn thought. Something precious and vulnerable. Miraculous, as Fergus had said. She wondered what color his squinched-up eyes would be. She wondered what kind of boy he would grow into, and what kind of man. Her nephew.

"He has the Mac Eanraig nose," Oriana told her. "See? Just like yours, Teyrna Eleanor, and Fergus and Gwyn's. I was thrilled when I saw it; it's such a lovely nose, nice and straight."

Gwyn's mouth quirked. She was not overly fond of her take on the so-called Mac Eanraig nose. It was straight and narrow and well-shaped enough, but on her, it was just long enough to notice, closer to Fergus's masculine version than Mother's dainty feature. When she'd complained about it in the past, Mother had said it gave her face character. But maybe on Oren it would be all right, or his nose would turn out more like Mother's, which really was remarkably pretty.

"Not a lot of hair," Gwyn observed, looking at the fair wisps around Oren's purple head.

"Not all babies do have hair," Mother replied. "But it grows in for all of them in time. Oh, I wish Bryce were here."

"A Cousland does his duty," Gwyn sighed. "But Maker, he would love this."

At her sigh, Oren began to whimper. His eyes squinched tighter, and his fists waved. Gwyn panicked. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Oriana, here, take him," she said, hastily relinquishing her nephew.

Oriana smiled. "He's probably hungry, little lad. I should see if he wants to eat something."

Mother put an arm around Gwyn's shoulders. "Come," she said. "We should leave Fergus and Oriana with their son."

Gwyn nodded. She reached out and clasped her brother's hand. "Congratulations," she said again, meaning it every bit as much as she had the first time. She walked around the bed and kissed Oriana's forehead. "I love him. I love you all," she said, "and I wish you all very happy."

"I wish the whole world could be as happy as we are," Oriana sighed, shrugging out of her robe to bare her breast for the child.

Gwyn let Mother wrap an arm around her again, and together they walked out of the room. "You did well in there," Mother said. "Don't think I didn't notice, even in love with that little baby. You gave just the right orders. I couldn't have done it better myself."

Gwyn's face heated up. She was pleased, very pleased. It wasn't often Mother gave her such unqualified approval. There was almost always a suggestion in there about how she could improve, what she could work on next. In a way, she was grateful for it. She knew her mother's love wasn't conditioned on her performance—though her pride and satisfaction in Gwyn sometimes was—and it would be sad to ever feel there was no way she could improve, nothing left to strive for. Still, it was wonderful sometimes just to be appreciated. She reached down beside her and rubbed Cavall's soft pointed ears. He panted at her, and licked her wrist happily.

"Will you write to Father?" she asked.

"I will," Mother answered. "But there are several others who should be notified of the birth of Fergus's son. Will you help me write the letters, darling?"

"Yes, Mother," Gwyn agreed, even better pleased than she had been before. A casual letter to a friend like Thomas Howe was one thing. Mother was allowing her to share in representing the family to make a formal announcement, making her more than just an unofficial ambassador on behalf of her and Father and Fergus. "Send the list ahead to the Great Hall. I've got writing supplies already set up there, and there's a fire lit."

She ruffled Cavall's ears, hugged Mother, and disentangled herself, bounding ahead back to the Great Hall.

She sent for a stack of paper to add to what she had already been using, and sat down to work. But before she wrote to any of the official nobles on the list her Mother would send up for her in a while, she added a few lines of postscript to the letter to Thomas.

Just returned from Fergus and Oriana's chambers. I have a nephew! He's to be called Oren Bryce. Oriana is well and thriving, and Fergus can't string a sentence together, he's so pleased.

Gwyn sucked on the tip of her pen, then added,

The baby is beautiful.

Maker's Blessings, etc.,

GC

A/N: My own nephew was born a few weeks ago. My sister's second child but the first boy. Even ugly babies are beautiful. So: a happy chapter near the end of all the general heartbreak, abandonment, bullying, and death of this section of Subject and Singers. Of course, I'm only twisting the knife for Cousland fans. Dragon Age is dark, y'all.

I do think I've got a grip on Gwyn. Her first two chapters after her infant's introduction were fairly lackluster. The outing to Denerim aspired to greatness but came out too heavy on the exposition. But through her chapters in this part of the story (which I actually only just now realized tell of a funeral, a wedding, and a birth, circumscribing the circle of life at Castle Cousland), she's started to come through much better. She isn't my most vibrant, crackling character, but she has a strength, wholesomeness, and relatability to her I enjoy, my inquisitive, energetic, intellectual, hyper-responsible, hyperconscientious noble girl, imperfect but incredibly devoted sister and daughter, friend to servants and princes alike, awkward in her femininity even as she's confident in her body and leadership ability. She's eminently lovable to me, even if she's not as fun to write as some of the others.

Leave a review if you've got something to say,

LMS