The chair came to a grinding halt on the flagstones, the reverberation of its violent fall echoing. There came another lesser clatter a moment later as a steward dropped their empty tray. Those seated at the table were struck into silence: astounded by the spectacle of the old king reincarnate. There were a few present old enough to remember Maric Theirin in his youth, and several of them had witnessed his fearsome temper in person. Teagan had been a child but he remembered one argument with a salient clarity. Maric, Loghain, Eamon and Rowan stood at opposing angles, a knot of dissent within Redcliffe's courtyard. Maric was determined to launch a rescue for an ally captured by Orlesian chevaliers, Loghain adamant that it was a fool's mission. The two men - closer than kin - faced each another: one incensed, the other dispassionate.

The likeness was eerily uncanny. There were some small physical differences between father and son: Alistair's complexion tended towards olive and his eyes had more green in them than brown - but the affinity went beyond mere comparison of feature. It was in the bearing of the broad-shoulder, the cant of the head and the furrow of his broad noble brow; the clench of the smith's fist as it hovered above the table. Maric cast a long shadow on the tiles in his son's wake.

Even those who had never known the old king were transfixed by the pulsing energy at the end of the table: as though something dangerous and volatile was kept barely in check by the thinnest of tethers. The myth that Theirins had dragon-blood in their veins no longer seemed like a rumour told at closing hours. The messenger who had borne Loghain's words looked as though his final moment had come.

There followed a full half-minute of silence. Those gathered in the ruins of Redcliffe's great hall were stuck in a tableaux of awe and astonishment. Alistair's shoulders shuddered as he drew in deep, angry breaths; the air felt as though it were curdling in his throat.

Flora had been expecting Alistair to launch himself across the table. Where she came from, leaping to one's feet with clenched fists always resulted in a lunge, a punch, and an ensuing mass brawl. When her brother-warden did not start to mindlessly flail at his surroundings, she realised that he was as frozen as the others: caught between fury and utter helplessness.

There isn't going to be a big fight?

Ha! Her general was scornful in its incredulity. No. This isn't a gathering of Herring madmen.

Since there was to be no riot, Flora turned her head and looked up at Alistair.

If there ain't going to be a brawl, she thought to herself, peering up at her brother-warden. He needs to settle himself.

Confident in his response, Flora made no attempt to touch him, or even to speak. Sure enough, Alistair's shocked face swung down towards her, grey beneath the olive. His stare, the pupils shrunken to pinpricks, met hers and she felt the line between them pull taut: the bait cast and taken. Compliant as a fish with a hook in its throat, he stood still, mesmerised in the moment. The pause lasted only a few heartbeats, but it was enough. The storm-surge of Alistair's impotent anger was broken. She felt him take a deep, measured breath: a palm sliding over the rumpled fabric of his anger to flatten it out.

"Sorry about that. I shouldn't have- well."

The words were contrite and genuine; accompanied by a half-grimace. Maric had always apologised for his outbursts of temper; which were seldom directed against anyone other a member of his council. Never though had he taken out his fury on a subordinate. With those lesser in rank, his anger emerged as taut, carefully measured displeasure. Such restraint had been one of his most admired qualities.

A servant crept forward to retrieve the toppled chair. Alistair, increasingly embarrassed, hastened to stop him; picking up the chair himself and returning it to the table.

"So," said Leliana, clearing her throat delicately. "Our response to the usurper and his impudent message?"

A vein in the bann's neck twitched.

"The man is fishing for information," Teagan said, flatly. "He doesn't know whether my brother is alive or dead. Eamon's never had much faith in Anora mac Tir- compares her to Rowan and she always falls short - so he would not support her claim."

"Every woman falls short of your blessed sister," interjected an acerbic Isolde, crossing her arms across her silk robes. "The queen is still the queen , even if her husband is dead."

Teagan's nostrils flared, but Leliana intervened with the timing and precision of a scalpel.

"My lady, you know that is not how things are done in Ferelden," she murmured, letting Orlais colour her words to remind the arlessa of their shared geography. "The throne does not flow through the family like water from one cup into another. The crown is awarded by Landsmeet vote, not by marriage - nor even by blood."

"Then the Landsmeet seem to like voting for Theirins," replied Isolde tautly and yet without conviction: she had no desire to engage in a debate on the subtleties of the Fereldan succession. "Since they have elected them for centuries."

The messenger's head rotated between those seated at the table; awaiting the words he was to memorise and carry back to Loghain. The conversation, however, had taken a tangent.

"'Ready to defend against Orlais'" Teagan said, recalling another part of the original message. "When I was in Denerim last month, the teyrn made no mention of this supposed invasion from the west."

"Because it's a lie."

Alistair shifted restlessly on his chair and the wood made a groan of protest. It had not emerged unscathed from its journey across the tiles. "He just wants to summon an army to defend himself. To make sure no one can push him off his - stolen throne."

"It makes no sense," added Leliana, her eyes distant as though she were speaking to herself. "Why would he wish to provoke Celene? Tevinter has been quiet on her northern borders for some time; if tempted enough, she could move her troops east. Maker knows she might not even need an excuse."

"Aye, and she can summon ten thousand men to her flag in a month," Teagan said, with a bitterness that added a decade to his years. "And double that with mercenaries."

"Darkspawn and Orlesians running wild across Ferelden," Alistair said, but under his breath this time so that only Flora could hear him. "Wonderful: that's all we need. Maker's Breath, I don't know which would be worse."

Leliana lowered her hand with measured slowness. She was not drinking ale, but a herbal concoction that shared a scent with Wynne's cup.

"I don't know about the state of Celene Valmont's coinpurse," she murmured, stirring the contents with a tool that bore a suspicious resemblance to a lockpick. "But she is having troubles with her grand-duc cousin again. Some of those ten thousand may not be wholly loyal. It is a letter opener. An unusual design, non?"

This was in response to the bann eyeing the narrow length of steel between her fingers.

"Aye," replied the bann, his pupils keen as darts. "Very unusual. Anyway, we've argued for thirty minutes and haven't decided on our response to Mac Tir."

This was true. The messenger was still seated at the end of the table, fingers dancing nervously across his knees. And yet the shadow he cast was Loghain's: the silhouette of a veteran a decade past his prime, a waistline no longer lean but a sword-arm that still held strength. The teyrn of Gwaren, who had been born in a ramshackle cottage and risen to the third-most powerful seat in Ferelden, seemed to glower at them from beyond the messenger's hunched shoulder; scornful and suspicious in equal parts."

"Don't send nothing."

This was from Flora, who - until now - had contributed nothing to the conversation. She had been listening to the exchange in bemusement, understanding few of the references and none of the politics. However, when they had spent a half-candle in discussion only to circle back to their original point, she decided to intercede.

"It's POINTLESS," she continued, pale eyes sweeping across the surrounding faces like a dawn tide crashing up the shingles shore. "He's just fishing for knowledge. This message- " her finger rose to the messenger and he flinched as though it were an arrow, " - is BAIT. Don't send nothing."

Don't bring up the damned net!

But it's so - so relevant! SO relevant.

Do not bring it up.

The Herring-Skingle rivalry was a long-standing one. As well as the frequent physical altercations, the relationship was punctuated by many false truces and calculated ploys. One of the most infamous had been the Skingle net, where a hole-ridden net had been bestowed on Herring as a Satinalia gift. The net had been repaired with Herring's most innovative and effective new knots, and used to catch the fish they were intending to sell in great quantities. The net was then stolen back, along with the knowledge of the new knots and the valuable catch.

BUT!

Trust us. Don't mention it.

There was a stillness in the hall, like the suspended calm of a town after tavern-close and before dawn. Flora felt the prickle of eyes on her, but she was used to stares and felt no need to look: keeping her inscrutable grey gaze fixed on the bann. Wynne's mouth hung open; the arlessa seemed as though she had seen a ghost. There was the faintest twitch of a smile on Leliana's face.

Alistair was the only one with no issue speaking.

"That seems a sensible idea. The man doesn't deserve anything, not even our words."

She felt his glance as a touch.

Well, I want to tell Alistair about the net.

Later.

The bann gathered himself. At a loss for words, he gave a distracted half-laugh; his mind working frantically behind the humour.

"Aye. If you're both in agreement: well, then. You have your response."

This was directed to the messenger, who was sitting with his mouth in a round O . After a few gaping moments, he seemed to remember his position and purpose in the hall. He inclined an acknowledging head, eyes still fixed on Flora. Nobody made a move to dismiss him, and so he sat and continued to stare.

Teagan made a half-gesture; his tankard was filled for a third time.

"When you spoke just then," he said, very quietly. "You brought to mind someone else. A voice I've not heard in some time - and will never hear again, now."

His fingers clenched around the tankard handle, and he took another fierce gulp. An astonished Flora sat up rigid in her seat, knee colliding with Alistair's. Leliana's eyes darted to her, keen as a blade.

"Where did you meet someone else from Herring?" Flora asked, delighted. "Were they lost?"

The bann's mouth moved silently; Leliana let out a barely audible sigh.

"Was it Bolf? Hotch the Mad? Toothless? Toenail?"

Teagan still had no words: Flora continued, oblivious.

"Nude? Dandi Sagarus? The one who eats sand?"

Everything that emerged from Flora's mouth cemented Alistair's desire to never venture within fifty miles of Herring. He could not understand how his sister-warden could have originated from such a cursed place.

"No," replied Teagan at last, faintly. He seemed to share the same sentiment as Alistair. "That wasn't what I - what I meant."

He did not elaborate, but fell into a brooding silence, contemplating the emerging bottom of his tankard. The empty air was splintered by the startled messenger, who was still - incongruously - present.

"The teyrn had a price on your head."

The man looked astonished at his own audacity, but his gaze did not waver.

"I know," said Flora. "How many eels am I worth? More than twelve."

She could not count beyond twelve: the number of ribs within a human anatomy. The words emerged nonchalant, but Flora was genuinely curious. She heard Alistair's teeth grind in his skull: neither of them needed a reminder that they were branded outlaws.

"No, my lady," the messenger clarified, pressed back in his seat by the Marician glare. "He had a price on you. It was withdrawn."

This was a surprise: swift glances were exchanged between those seated at the table. The cold desert of Flora's face did not betray her confusion.

"He doesn't want us dead anymore?" Alistair asked eventually, a deep crease dividing his brow in two equal parts. "We've had mercenaries after us this very morning. They must have missed the amendment."

"Well, the teyrn still wants you dead, Warden," replied the messenger, who had a keen eye and a honed mind. "But he does not think it possible for the lady to be captured by any man."

Flora felt a strange and disconcerting kinship with Loghain. His thinking resonated with her. It was shaped by northern practicality; he was well aware of the peculiar, potent narrowness of her magic. He had seen her reluctantly practising at Ostagar; he had turned an ear to Duncan's praise. Neither chains nor cages could hold her; no blade could penetrate her shield.

It's pointless, she thought to herself in a mirror of her earlier sentiment. Pointless to try and have me caught.

He should have abandoned the bounty on Alistair, too. The concern makes him seem weak.

"Neither of us is getting caught by Mac Tir," interjected her brother-warden, tersely. "Especially not given the caliber of idiot he's sent so far. Anyway, you've had your message for the teyrn: nothing, which is exactly what he deserves. Well, he deserves a sword in the belly, but that can wait. We've got more pressing business."

Never before had Alistair spoken with such authority within the walls of Redcliffe, where he had formerly lived a lowly and unremarkable existence. It was as though he had strode from the stables of his childhood clad in burnished metal: the sun reflecting from him in splinters. He was outranked by both teyrn and arlessa; he possessed no title but the old blood needed no formal recognition.

Despite the presence of two Guerrins, the messenger yielded to the unspoken authority. He rose - almost bowed, before catching himself - and then reversed in a daze, intercepted by Teagan's astonished steward.

"He did not mention the omen, then."

Leliana spoke softly and almost to herself, though confident she had drawn attention with her words. She had finished her tea and had balanced the silver tool on the rim of the cup; precisely positioned so that it hovered as though floating. Teagan, sorely tempted to call for another ale, resisted the temptation: while elder brother was incapacitated, he had a duty to remain somewhat sober.

"An omen?"

Wynne canted her head, guardedly curious. In her experience, most omens were mere tricks of the eye: mirages formed by cloud and sun, or the play of light upon water.

"Oui. The news came to me last night."

The bard paused, aware that all attention was now on her. She half-smiled before continuing: drawing on a half-decade of storytelling to snare their attention.

"It was seen at midday above the harbour, a month ago today. Two bright spots flared at either side of the sun, as though it had spawned twins. Three shining suns in total. It lasted a candle-length and then melted away as though it had never been. But it was witnessed by thousands. The talk of Denerim for weeks."

"I've heard of this phenomenon."

Wynne leaned forward, eyes bright and youthful with curiosity.

Of course the teacher has heard of it, thought Flora to herself, darkly.

Your dislike of scholars is immature, irrational, and irritating.

She never schooled me. I learnt nothing at the Circle.

You learnt the usage of 'please' and 'thank you', which have never graced Herring.

"A similar sight was glimpsed in the sky by the Orlesian commander Marcel de Auguert before the Battle of Forladharl. They took it as a sign of victory: the sun and flanking lights symbolic of the three lions of Val Royeaux."

Alistair cleared his throat, intrigued despite his sister-warden's scepticism.

"What happened?"

Wynne turned her clear blue gaze on him.

"They were massacred."

"It is a sign of the Maker."

To no one's surprise, this emerged from Leliana. The lay sister had clearly been brooding over the news for some time, given the sparkle in her eye and the taut rigidity of her shoulder. Her fingers plucked up the tool from her teacup- it was unmistakably a lockpick - and spun it until it was a silvered blur, the flap of a hovering bird's wing.

Teagan shot her a quick and wary glance. The bard was waiting to be pressed further; when no one did, she persevered.

"Two lights - two Wardens. Is it not clear as day?"

Alistair had the prescience to avert his gaze to the vaulted ceiling. Flora, not fast enough, was enmeshed in the bard's penetrating stare: tangled in the skeins of her feverish conviction.

"Eh," she offered, unconvincingly. "Hm."

Leliana narrowed her eyes: detecting the girl's doubt.

"You believe that giants will erupt from the sea to save Ferelden!"

Flora looked mutinous: her story, whispered to her brother-warden in the hush of a frost-limned dawn, now seemed farcical repeated before this array of faces.

"The giants of Highever," Teagan said, his voice distant and wondering. "Someone told that tale beside a campfire, many years ago. It was a family legend, apparently."

Which family?

The question hung in the air, unspoken but audible nonetheless. A peculiar chill ran across Alistair's shoulders beneath the rain-damp linen. He was seated near the hearth and there was no excuse for shivering.

Flora felt her brother-warden tense beside her; just as he had done when the messenger relayed Mac Tir's words. She was mildly perplexed as to why people kept acting so oddly: there were entire moments where everyone around her seemed as though they were actors in a stage-play who had forgotten their lines. Flora had suffered through several enforced amateur dramatics at the Circle, trapped within an audience.

Just then came commotion from a side passage: hurried footsteps, breathless exertion and the slam of wood against stone. A steward appeared in the doorway, his shiny puce face clashing with his Guerrin livery.

"For the love of Andraste," bemoaned the exasperated bann, rising from the table. "What now? It had better not be another damnable message."

"No," said the steward, shaking his head, "no, my lord. There are - there are people in the courtyard. Wounded and dying, men and women. Refugees, the gatekeeper says."

"Refugees," repeated Teagan, incredulous. "From where? We're not at war yet."

Alistair realised that the bann did not understand the peril that Ferelden was in, even now, not really.

"They're from Lothering," he said, soft and bitter. A small part of him had hoped that they had been wrong; that their shared nightmare was nothing more than a coincidence. This was proof of the reality, the dream was a victor's taunt.

Wounded and dying.

Scenting blood in the air, his sister-warden had not waited. The chair beside him was empty and the air was duller for her absence.

AN: Haha, I like the idea that Flora expects that someone leaping to their feet means that there's going to be a mass brawl - as it would in the repulsive hellhole of Herring - and then is slightly confused when that doesn't happen! I do love it when the moments that suggest that Flora has noble blood - her bluntness, the swift decisiveness - could either be from her Cousland heritage or from her lived experience in Herring. I like to leave that a bit ambiguous so it's up to the reader to decide!

I also like how Alistair and Flora can communicate without speaking, it's partly due to their chemistry and partly due to their shared blood!

Haha, the next 'idiot assassin' on his way from Loghain is Zevran, so the opposite of an idiot :P

The omen seen in Denerim is a parhelion, or a sun dog - an illusion caused by ice crystals in the sky! It's so pretty, definitely google it if you don't know what it looks like. Anyway, I stole this blatantly from a Wars of the Roses battle, Mortimer's Cross, where Edward IV's forces interpreted the vision as a sign of victory! It was even referred to in Shakespeare's Henry IV: " Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?/Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun."

The Giants of Highever was a story told by Flora to Alistair before their arrival at Redcliffe, and is the title of a previous chapter!