A/N: Friendly warning that I don't know anything military beyond what's in movies and video games :D
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Carver trained himself to the ground for the next two years. The commanding officers there quickly picked up the same observation as the Templars of Lothering - that Carver was More Hard-Working than Half the Bloody Recruits. He was also remarkably eloquent and learned.
"Carver Hawke, was it?" Loghain Mac Tir folded back a page of the bound stack in his hands. Everyone, including Loghain, was standing at parade rest.
Loghain had bags under his eyes after two years of a long and fruitless search for the beloved King Maric lost to sea. The royal court was already calling for Loghain to cease his efforts and conclude the king deceased - because everyone was physically tired, emotionally exhausted, had long given up - so the eye bags were looking to be permanent. But Loghain didn't want to give up. In fact in the two years Carver had trained in the king's army, Loghain had aged more in a month of debate with the court than in two years of simultaneously commanding an army and combing a sea for a body. Additionally, the Lieutenant-Commander - second only to the king, the Head-Commander - didn't have to regularly see the rank-and-file face-to-face, but he did so anyway. Loghain was a straightforward man who never forgot where he had come from.
Everyone in the king's army deeply respected him.
"You have any experience in requisitions?"
"Requisitions, Teyrn?" Carver understood numbers, but not how to quantify the force of an army, and the potatoes to fuel it.
"If not, you will now." Loghain looked up and met his eyes. "Answer to Ser Cauthrien tomorrow on the sixth bell. You shall serve alongside her quartermaster."
Carver eventually caught on to the intentions of his superiors. He was better at numbers than most farm-raised recruits, he wrote with a clear voice, and most importantly, he was driven to succeed where he could. Cauthrien pushed him through different missions and widely-varied roles at a punishing pace. Carver could just be starting to adjust to his new responsibilities, then be handed another assignment before his head could stop spinning.
The soldiers around Carver received promotions as time passed, while Carver himself was only ever moved laterally. He was a convenient filler - and one that rarely complained. Carver realised too late that it was possible he was simple-minded.
He didn't mind.
He told himself he didn't, compared to what he expected ahead of him. He had come to deeply value the figures in his life that could no longer be reconciled with flat, fictional characters in a story. Carver just needed to be with the king's army when they marched to Ostagar.
Then Cauthrien summoned him to her office. The soldiers who had surpassed Carver were also present, and smirking at him.
"Teyrn Loghain regrets that he can't be here," Cauthrien shared. "The crowning of our new king demands the attendance of all council members and the royal court through the full ceremony. Teyrn Loghain has therefore assigned me the task of swearing you in to Maric's Shield in his stead."
"Congratulations, kid," one of the soldiers chuckled.
Carver stared, blindsided.
Cauthrien didn't delay. "Carver Hawke of Lothering, you are now promoted to Knight and submitted into Maric's Shield, the elite force of the king's army. From now on, you answer only to myself, Teyrn Loghain, or the king."
Walking out of that room was an out-of-body experience.
Carver's senior commented on it. "You must be tough as nails, kid."
Carver ignored him, but his senior slung an arm over his shoulder and trapped Carver in a conversation.
"Thought he looked familiar," another soldier said.
A laugh. "We must have passed by him at least once on our way to Maric's Shield. Kid's been in all kinds of roles."
"You're young," said the first, tightening his arm. "Got an explanation for that?"
Carver understood what they meant. Everyone in Maric's Shield was weathered and grey. Before his promotion into the elite force, Carver had served as equals with - or superiors over - men and women who still remembered the last war, and no matter the world, no one liked seeing a young face in high ranks. The town kids of Lothering had treated Carver like a stray cat, but the soldiers of Denerim had treated him like less than dirt - just short of stepping out of line. Carver had been hazed since his first role change in the king's army, and he didn't expect his time to improve now that he was in Loghain's personal unit.
Carver shrugged. "I go only where my merit takes me." He couldn't give any less a reason for others to find fault in him.
He received a slap on the back for his words. "Ha! Like I said, tough!"
The other members of Maric's Shield crowded around without slowing their pace. In the upper floors of the army fortress, they didn't have to worry about blocking the halls as they walked. The senior officers were more curious about Carver in the fashion of another world, where male soldiers would be curious about a female addition. Carver was an oddity, but in time acceptable.
"No one gets here easily," someone to Carver's right said. "Not even one of noble blood."
"Princess here is noble-blooded," teased the soldier with an arm around Carver.
Princess was bearded, tall, and built like a mountain. His bicep was the size of Carver's head.
"You can relax here, you know," Princess shared. "Everyone in Maric's Shield knows you can't get to where we are without working hard. Teyrn Loghain handpicks each one of us, and he's as fair as you can find."
"Hear, hear," the others agreed.
Carver's brows furrowed, bewildered. "He handpicks us?"
"We don't hesitate in our duties, we can cooperate with others when necessary, and we're good at what we do," Princess ticked off. "Can't tell what Teyrn Loghain sees in you, with how busy he is, but I hear you were moved laterally for several months straight and no one heard a frustrated peep from you."
"Maybe the kid's a masochist," a soldier suggested, and everyone laughed.
Carver's tense shoulders eased. He wasn't being hazed, and that was good enough for him.
"Say, kid, what's your name?"
"Carver Hawke."
More laughter. "No, your real name."
Military life. No one went by their born name the instant they were called something else. At one point, people could only identify each other by their nicknames, because their real names were never used except on paper or by soldiers clearly under-ranked to them. It was a pain for Carver when he handled paperwork for the army. If "Mumble" wanted more paper and soap, then Carver would have to update their provider and have the supplies delivered to "Ser Carac's" barracks.
Not to speak of the military organisation of Ferelden's army. Anything structured in Ferelden was no older than the rebellion against Usurper King Meghren, and Ferelden's tradition of personal freedom engendered a laissez-faire attitude that hindered further development. Ranks were in Carver's opinion oversimplified, while positions like "quartermaster" were mere job descriptions independent of one's rank.
From the lowest rank to the highest, there were the Squires, Pages, Soldiers, Sergeants, Knights, Captains, then finally Commanders. Squires and Pages were sometimes the same person. Knights included both former squires who were finally knighted by their mentors, and commoners whom a superior officer recognised, so skill wasn't consistent within that rank. Everyone above the Pages was called Ser, except commoners who weren't knighted and Sergeants who led patrols below a size of sixty men. Outside the ranks, members of an army were all called soldiers.
Then there were the basic units of Ferelden might. A "legion" was a bann, arl, or teyrn's personal forces. An "army" was the military power of a noble and every lesser noble in their domain. The "king's army" was a legion specific to the crown, but in times of war, it could expand to reference the military might of every noble under the crown.
It made Carver want to tear out his hair.
Carver's lips thinned. "I wasn't called anything."
"Maferath's trousers you weren't," the others insisted.
Carver agreed. "Nothing I can repeat, anyway."
There was a glum pause.
Then a slap to the back. "We'll find you a new nickname, kid, one perfectly regrettable."
"Or simple," someone suggested. "How about 'Hawke?'"
"No!" Carver immediately rejected. His voice flattened into a whine. "Why not just 'kid?'"
"No!" Princess followed. "You have to suffer the same as the rest of us!"
Carver didn't see a difference in his burden of duties before and after joining Maric's Shield. He was still shuffled through various roles, except now it was just Cauthrien and Loghain assigning them, as opposed to Cauthrien's small army of secretaries. One month, Carver could be hunting bandits down the western highway; the next, Carver could be sitting at a desk and slaving through papers.
He did, however, make a few acquaintances.
More accurately, Maric's Shield was forcibly and oftenly exposed to each other in their overlapping assignments, that they couldn't help but learn more about each other than they wanted.
Nails had once dated Satin's sister. Maker's Breath could pass gas louder than a war horn. Speechless could talk about anything, any time, without ceasing.
Carver felt out of place with the generational gap between him and his "peers," but the informal conduct that permeated the interactions of Maric's Shield wore at his discomfort like sandpaper. They weren't his friends, but granted, Carver wasn't particularly close with anyone. If he were to put it kindly, Maric's Shield was the closest of those he knew to the idea of "friends" - slightly above Lothering's Chantry sisters, Templars, and Templar initiates. Carver might not grasp his peers' jokes or relate with all their stories, but at the end of the day, everyone was odd. They resembled a collection of uncles, aunts, and nephews rather than a family, which was more than Carver had expected from his previous exposure to the king's army.
Carver's tireless days blended together, becoming months, becoming seasons. Then Satin teased him about a girl.
"I don't have one," Carver denied.
"Oh?" The others joined in, leaning over to Carver and Satin's piles of papers. It was raining, and everyone's desks were crowded together. Only bad weather could reliably see paperwork processed. "Then who's Bethany?"
"What."
A few of Maric's Shield jumped. No one had heard Carver's temper crack before.
Carver suddenly rose from his desk, and Satin surrendered a letter without prompting.
Carver accepted it stiffly. Scanned the letter with stormy eyes. Then pivoted out of the room without another word.
Those who had witnessed this hastily followed Carver at a distance, already amused. They watched him locate the sergeant who had recently returned from the southwest. The latter stood tall, wearing armour, weapons, and weathered skin all twice more seasoned than Carver's - while Carver looked up at the sergeant with the gangly limbs and ill-fitting armour of a teenager a few steps short of adulthood.
"Who're you?" the sergeant grunted.
Carver spoke coolly, not allowing his appearance to dominate the atmosphere. "Ser Carver, Knight of Maric's Shield."
The sergeant hastily straightened and crossed his chest in the Ferelden salute, flustered. "Ser!"
"What is this?" Carver held up Bethany's letter between them.
The sergeant stared. "Ser?"
"This is mail," Carver continued. "From four years ago."
"Aye, ser, Lothering." The sergeant lowered his arms. "Any farther south, and you hit the Wilds. Nothing important there."
Carver stiffened. "Sergeant, remind me the purpose of patrolling."
"To protect the highways, ser."
"Why are the highways important?"
"Because of trade."
"And?"
"…Mail?"
"Communication." Carver's ice-blue gaze hardened. "An army is only as good as its information. Answer to Ser Charis tomorrow and receive your new patrol routes from him. Dismissed."
"S-Ser!" The sergeant morosely saluted.
Carver hunted down the rest of Ferelden's backed-up mail. He found fifty letters from Bethany. She had spoken for the family to him in her writings, until Malcolm had apparently fallen ill and passed away the year Carver had left. Then Bethany's letters had turned inward - soft little things that could have been Bethany merely writing to herself the way she used to murmur to Carver at night, like he was her reflection outside a mirror. Bethany had written about whatever had sprouted to mind:
Of Peaches' fruitless pursuit of Garrett, and not of how Garrett was closing himself off under a veneer of wit.
Of Bethany's passing jobs when she wanted to buy something for herself, because Leandra was occupied with grief.
Of how Bethany missed Carver.
He thought that his letters and the money he had been sending weren't being answered. Mediaeval mail was slow, but Carver knew when he was being rebuffed. Now, however, he realised that the state of Ferelden's mail south of Drakon River was still recovering from the Rebellion. After all, there was a difference between kicking out an Orlesian ruler, and driving out all Orlesian influence, and King Meghren hadn't ruled effectively to begin with. Ferelden was a patchwork the Orlesian king had abandoned halfway. Even the Orlesian Circle of Magi had been able to take and occupy Kinloch Hold without notice eight years after the Orlesians had been pushed out at the Battle of River Dane, until Loghain had learned of the tower and liberated it, and Maric had swept out the darkspawn drawn into the conflict.
Because recovering from an empire hadn't been enough - oh no, a wave of darkspawn had had to kick in as well.
Maker's breath.
It didn't help that the sergeant hadn't spoken falsely concerning Lothering's significance, or lack thereof. By a certain apostate's own description of the village, Lothering was the awkwardly isolated sort of settlement where for years, an apostate could draw Templars into the Wilds and kill them, and Lothering's Templars would still fail to successfully alert the Circle or call for backup.
"I hear you transferred Sergeant Kylar without Ser Charis's permission, Ser Carver."
Carver saluted Cauthrien where she ambushed him. "Sergeant Kylar underperformed in his duty for the past four years, without notice by Ser Charis. I gave them both the opportunity to move forward from their blunder."
Cauthrien crossed her arms.
Carver remained saluting.
"Teyrn Loghain will hear of this."
"When he does," Carver surrendered, "please forward this to him as well." He lowered his arms and extended a bound stack of papers to her with both hands.
Carver was made to wait in anticipation for three days.
Apparently drawing an audience with the king took time.
"This isn't a real blight." Loghain shook his head. "It's too soon, and these reports are too infrequent. The scale of the darkspawn attacks is ultimately inconsequential."
"Not for the peasantry," Cailan pointed out. His diadem glinted across his forehead, thin and regal. "You agree that we should move to protect them - otherwise, you wouldn't have brought this issue to me."
"Yes, but we need not send the entirety of your army," Loghain intoned. "Arl Eamon possesses the ideal means and men to address this issue. Let him sweep his backyard. This is an opportunity for us to reflect on the southernmost lands' lack of bannorn, and grant the peasantry the right to elect a long-awaited landlord. Ferelden can afford more structure close to the Wilds."
Cailan straightened. "And how would Arl Eamon know the appropriate procedure for erasing darkspawn influence on the surface? What orders could give him this knowledge?"
Loghain hesitated.
Cailan pressed. "What are we currently doing at the moment until I can locate such orders?"
"The only fault of the reports was in their delayed arrival." This, Loghain could answer. "Your army is already improving communications." His eyes flicked to Carver.
Cailan turned.
Carver straightened where he stood, the analysis he had written sitting open in Loghain's hands. When Carver had combed through four years of mail from southern Ferelden and noted concerning reports in the most recent year, he hadn't expected Cauthrien to actually share his paperwork with Loghain, who had then insisted that Carver accompany him to meet with the king.
Loghain recognised that between he who commanded the king's forces, Cauthrien who served as his right hand, and Carver who changed desks every new moon, Carver himself had compiled the reports and analysed them for inconsistencies, and thus knew the contents more thoroughly than Cauthrien or Loghain could from scanning his final report. Carver was to attend the meeting as the source of any detail his superiors wished to hear more about. Otherwise, he just had to stand still and look pretty.
Then Cailan peered at Carver. "I understand you compiled the reports yourself, ser knight."
Carver nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"According to your grasp of reconnaissance, what is the recommended next step?"
Carver glanced at Loghain, who nodded. "I wasn't present at the sightings, Your Majesty, but the reports don't contradict each other. The darkspawn are behaving in invasive patterns. Protocol dictates we treat this as a hostile invasion."
"Secure the highways, establish communication with the enemy, and evacuate the people?" Cailan recited. "What of protocol against mindless anarchists?"
"Cailan," Loghain warned.
"We need experts!" Cailan insisted. "We need the input of the Grey Wardens and to crush this darkspawn invasion before it can gain momentum, just as my father did!"
"We don't need to send your entire army!" Loghain repeated. "Let the Wardens dally south with Arl Eamon - you are not crossing the continent!"
Loghain had known Cailan since the latter had been in his nappies.
They both showed it.
"I will hear from Warden-Commander Duncan," Cailan declared. "Then I will decide how to move my army."
Duncan was summoned from the Grey Warden Compound in Denerim. He bowed to the king.
"This is a blight."
Duncan looked like he hadn't been sleeping well for a year, though he wore exhaustion better than Loghain, with tighter skin and a clearer gaze. He didn't wait for Cailan to relieve him of his bow; Duncan straightened up on his own, then stood not at rest or attention, but as equals with the king. As a Warden, he had no obligations to heads of state. His willingness to answer when called, however - and without a fuss - reflected well on him as a man of reason.
Carver doubted that anyone in the room noticed it.
Loghain dropped Carver's report on the nearest table. "A blight!" he repeated.
"How do you know?" Cailan's voice lifted.
Duncan was cool as milk. "The Wardens have their ways. My vows stay my tongue, but I can assure Your Majesty that the darkspawn threat is real."
Loghain spluttered. "Scattered sightings of darkspawn do not constitute a surface war."
"Uncle," Cailan curbed. "The Wardens grasp the danger of darkspawn better than anyone. If Warden-Commander Duncan identifies this invasion as a blight, then we are compelled to treat it as such."
"And how would the Warden know?" Loghain's eyes narrowed at Duncan. "He hasn't glanced once at the reports since stepping in here. Do the Grey Wardens run their own information networks in their host nations, independent of local governance? Do the Wardens maintain cross-border correspondence during times of peace as well as blights?"
Duncan acknowledged Loghain. "I grew suspicious of a darkspawn threat two months ago, and forwarded my concerns to Montsimmard. They have since confirmed the presence of an archdemon in Ferelden."
"Montsimmard," Loghain repeated.
"It is the location of the Grey Warden headquarters in Orlais."
"It is also the location of Orlais' Circle of Magi." The same organisation that had occupied Kinloch Hold, until Loghain had to personally drive them out. It was also no secret that Duncan had served the Orlesian order of Grey Wardens until King Maric had overturned King Arland's banishment of the Wardens from Ferelden. Loghain frowned. "What of the archdemon?"
Duncan opened his mouth.
"Not you." Loghain turned.
Carver blinked. Everyone's eyes were on him.
He cleared his throat. "The reports are insubstantial," he trod carefully. "However, highway patrolmen rarely deviate far from their path. We have learned just this month of a Dalish clan in the Brecilian outskirts that has possibly been camping there for at least a year."
Cailan nodded. "Without orders to investigate the less populated areas south of Drakon River, our soldiers cannot learn more of what possibly lies in Ferelden. The archdemon could be lurking in the Korcari Wilds!"
"Along with witches," Loghain muttered. "Until our scouts gain a firmer grasp of the situation in the south, we cannot send an army marching across the continent without expecting repercussions. Need I remind you, Your Majesty, the kingdom's capital sits by the sea."
"We have amicable relations with the Free Marches," Cailan dismissed. "We haven't been at war with a foreign power since you and my father drove the Orlesians out. This is the perfect opportunity for my army and I to address an event that the world hasn't witnessed since the age of griffons! I've decided - the king and his army shall march south to Ostagar and eradicate this evil from Ferelden!"
"The king," Loghain curtly added, "will also be accompanied by his banners. Starting with Teyrn Bryce Cousland. If you want this to be a war, then treat it as such."
"Uncle!"
"This is court," Loghain returned. "One must observe etiquette. Your advice has been heard, Warden-Commander."
Duncan bowed.
"He's coming as well!" Cailan pointed. "The Warden-Commander from now on has my ear equal to a council member. Everyone is dismissed!"
They were kicked out of the throne room.
Loghain didn't speak to Carver until they were back in the army barracks.
"Has the king any more mail from the past four years?" Loghain turned.
Carver's lips thinned. This wasn't his day. "I've repaired the flow of mail to the capital, Teyrn. The darkspawn reports were the only articles that I judged required immediate attention."
"Answer the question, knight."
Carver inwardly sighed. He extended a letter sealed with the Redcliffe heraldry. "This was sent to the king through the common mail. Apparently, Arl Eamon hadn't found it important enough to send with a runner like the rest of his missives to the capital. It equates to a passing thought."
"I'll reserve my opinions till after reading it." Loghain took the letter. The wax was unbroken, if a tad pudgier than expected from an arl's careful hand. "Hmm." Loghain glanced up at Carver.
Carver's face was stone.
Loghain broke the seal and scanned the letter. Carver knew the gist of what it said.
Queen Anora hadn't borne a child in the decade since she and Cailan had wedded. Cailan was still young enough to consider a more fitting wife.
"That's a letter for the king, Teyrn," Carver said quietly.
Loghain folded the letter. "So it is," he firmly agreed.
Queen Anora's possibly barren womb was already a long-standing rumour, but it was different seeing the unconfidence reflected in the hand of an arl, even if Arl Eamon was Cailan's uncle by blood. The second blow came with the fact that Eamon's Orlesian wife had delivered him a child after a decade of marriage.
Loghain would have to reseal the letter by melting the wax a little. "You didn't read this, knight."
"I understand."
Their discretion was moot.
Somehow, with word of a blight rode rumours of Cailan and Empress Celene. The king obviously acknowledged a southern darkspawn threat great enough to summon the military power of not just a few Ferelden nobles, but of the kingdom's three big names - Theirin, Cousland, and Guerrin. The "king's army" had now grown from a legion to an official army. However, Ferelden's Grey Wardens - the keys to success - were far from numerous enough to address a so-called blight, while the bulk of the Wardens' continental forces sat west in Orlais.
Cailan made no secret of his sudden correspondence with Empress Celene. It would be most convenient for Cailan if he didn't have to share a glorious victory with chevaliers and if Orlais merely used their forces to clear a path out of Montsimmard for their Wardens. Thus, Cailan requested that the empress do her part in addressing the blight, and no more.
Others overanalyzed his message. If Cailan was willing to reach out to an Orlesian ruler for help with the blight, it was a wonder he hadn't wielded the first tool in politics.
Marriage.
Since Celene's premature crowning as empress at the tender age of sixteen, Celene had survived by baiting favourable alliances with her unclaimed hand. The big names of Orlais were proof of her ability to transform stiff families into steadfast allies despite not yet having married into them - even now into her twenty-sixth year. It was to the common people's understanding that if Cailan wanted cooperation from Celene, he would have to at least consider setting aside his barren queen and reaching out to the unmarried empress.
Fortunately, the common folk were not given reason to believe that their opinions were reflected in Ferelden's nobility, who had the power to breathe life into suspicions. Especially as it didn't help that Celene's offer of sending legions of chevaliers to Ferelden anyway could be taken as proof that she had found something pleasing of Cailan, like a marriage prospect.
Half of the nobility secretly and warily watched Celene's responses. Orlais had used the cover of blights to conquer other nations before, from the Anderfels to the Free Marches and Nevarra inbetween, and time had not erased either side's impressions of each other. Vocal Orlesian nobles like Celene's cousin Gaspard de Chalons still viewed Ferelden as a territory that had been misled into believing itself independent, while any Ferelden noble would readily repel annexation. When Cailan and his still-gathering army easily won their first clash with darkspawn in Ostagar, the southern threat shrank from Ferelden nobles' minds in the shadow of a possible western threat.
In the background of wild rumours and the sudden mobilisation of Ferelden forces, Carver rode ahead of Duncan to the Coastlands. There had been initial resistance from Loghain, when he had learned of Carver's plans while the king's army was still preparing to leave for Ostagar.
"Someone needs to sit in the capital while the king and his army are gone," Loghain had said, "and you have studied under Ser Cauthrien long enough."
Carver was better served in logistics than leadership, however - or so he had claimed. Arl Howe's neglect of the roads over the winter had made muddy slopes of Amaranthine's route for Ostagar, and Carver couldn't trust Ser Charis and Sergeant Kylar with the vital necks of the western highway. Carver would oversee them himself - for a little while, then return to the capital.
And then march south to be with the king's army, as was his duty.
Loghain hadn't been impressed with the last addition, but Cauthrien had pointed out that she was still leaving her army of secretaries behind in Denerim. The capital could afford to stand for a month or two without a member of Maric's Shield present.
So while the king's army moved and fought in the south, Carver rode to Amaranthine first, to check on the Howe legion's progress, then to Highever, to check on the Cousland legion's. Ostensibly.
Castle Cousland was breezy, dry, and almost too trusting.
"Val Royeaux?" Oriana echoed.
"Can it be done?" Carver asked tensely.
The wife of Bryce Cousland's heir flipped the sealed letter in her grip. Her hands were paled by a recent life indoors, but Oriana's Antivan blood still faintly bronzed her skin.
The lady pursed her lips, eyes sharp. "My family are mere merchants. We don't involve ourselves in the post business."
"You won't read this when I leave the room," Carver stated. "Even so, the kingdom will be grateful for your family's efforts. Off the record."
"I'll think about it and find you later."
"Soon," Carver pressed. The empress of Orlais needed to understand that spreading rumours of hers and Cailan's marriage would be as detrimental for the empress as it would be for Ferelden.
After all, Cailan was an uncomplicated man. He would not grasp the transient nature of rumours like Celene and her handmaiden Briala would, and Cailan was too honourable to allow himself or Celene to disrespect a deal - even one made unknowingly. Celene was fortunate to have complicated people like Queen Anora and Teyrn Loghain standing between the king and gossip.
The letter was a soup of lies, but Celene was Orlesian.
Oriana later found Carver, her face pale but set firm. "I'll have my father and his contacts deliver this safely," she swore, "if you promise me one thing."
Carver debated the costs. A possible civil war, for a debt to a minor lady. He reluctantly nodded.
"See my husband returns home safely."
Carver winced.
"Promise," Oriana sternly pressed.
Oriana had already skimmed the letter, and couldn't know how much of it was not to be taken seriously, how much of it was a bluff, and how much of it was blackmail. Antivan merchants understood the power of misinformation and thus never shared the contents of their packages - not before contracting a price from their employers, or receiving a better offer. Oriana's protectiveness of her husband was a perfectly reliable price only matched by her vengeful wrath should her husband fall.
Carver inwardly sighed. It was Oriana, or an Antivan who hadn't married into the loyal, patriotic Couslands. Any other communication line to Orlais would be detected by wary and staunch Ferelden nobles like Loghain, whose suspicion of western influences had recently heightened. "It will be done."
Carver had to reshuffle his alphabet and reach for a different plan, which led him to hastily locating Bryce Cousland in the main hall of his castle.
"I wasn't expecting a soldier from the capital." Bryce's brows rose, but he welcomed Carver with a smile. "Is there an update from the king's army, ser…?"
"Just a soldier," Carver dismissed.
He had to balance just the right amount of apathy, inflation, and brevity to persuade his target into a thought without actually thinking. Carver was already young-looking, and not easily mistaken for a member of Maric's Shield. Now, he had to also aim for "harmless."
"Apologies for my sudden appearance, Teyrn Bryce," Carver spoke, "but the king expects timely attendance in times of war, and there is only so much a runner can do delivering messages. I passed the Howe legion leaving for the south while I was riding through the Coastlands, however I could not get into contact with Arl Rendon directly. It would not do for the Howe legion to arrive at Ostagar without their commanding officer, and it is commonly understood that you and the arl share a close friendship. Have you an explanation for Arl Rendon's unknown location that I can deliver to the king?"
Carver had passed the Howe legion leaving for the south - by persuasion of the royal crest of the king's army. No detours allowed.
Bryce blinked. "Arl Rendon sent word to me that he and his soldiers would march to Castle Cousland before following my son south through our own, unmuddied roads. I didn't receive an update that they would brave the western highway after all."
"The king's army has a skeleton crew assisting travel through the highways," Carver shared. "Amaranthine's roads have long been confirmed acceptable for use."
"…It appears Arl Rendon and I have been misled." Bryce paused, then remembered himself and smiled. "I apologise that I can't enlighten the king on Arl Rendon's location."
"The king will understand." Carver saluted and walked away.
Now he had to stay - and avoid the Grey Warden about to visit - until Fergus Cousland's departure. He couldn't have Duncan correct the assumption that the nameless knight in Bryce's castle was anything less than a knight of Maric's Shield.
Carver preferred misunderstandings by his own design.
;
A/N:
The Dragon Age wiki can't give me a reason why some Sers and nobles are addressed by their first name while others are by their last. It doesn't seem to be determined by noble history, noble/military rank, or career experience. Thus for consistency, I've decided to use everyone's first name, because I can accept replacing "Arl Howe" with "Arl Rendon" more than I can accept replacing "Teyrn Loghain" with "Teyrn Mac Tir." It just doesn't feel right.
Loghain is my favourite Dragon Age villain, so I hope to do him justice. That said, when I started researching Loghain's timeline of villainy, I had to grab Eamon by the shoulders and shake him - because Alistair is age 25 and Connor is around age 10 in DAO. Which means Isolde hadn't been able to deliver a child to Eamon until after a decade of being married. Then Eamon had the gall to write to Cailan that he should consider divorcing Anora because she hadn't been able to produce a child within a decade of marriage.
Really, Eamon? I get that Cailan needs an heir, but in DAO, he's only 25 - plenty younger than Eamon, who's at least old enough to be Cailan's father, and had only been able to father a son in the last decade.
Anora's a b*tch, but she has my respect for putting up with this crap like a b*tch. You go girl.
Meanwhile in the background, Loghain had Eamon poisoned - supposedly to delay Eamon from coming to Ostagar and welcoming the Orlesian Wardens and chevaliers into Ferelden. It's not like Loghain isn't also a father. The Mac Tir's are stone-cold mf's and they have my respect.