Wynne silently marched alongside the knights, refusing to answer their questions. Fear coiled in her gut, but she still held on to the righteous anger in her heart. The lad…the Prince…strolled alongside, making smart little comments every few minutes. She couldn't read the faces of the knights, but somehow knew they did not like the boy.
They entered through a guardhouse and she was made to follow as they entered the castle. She stared up at its battlements in wonder. She had never seen such a building before, aside from the books her mother kept in their library. But to see it in real life.
"Oh my…" she breathed.
"You haven't seen a castle before?" one of the knights asked kindly.
"No. I'm not from here." She almost stumbled at she turned her head to look up at the portcullis they went through. "It's bigger than I thought. Our whole house could fit in that guard tower."
"Poor little country bumpkin," the lad mocked.
Wynne ignored him.
She was made to wait in a small antechamber, manacled to a chair. The Princeling accompanied the knights and she was left alone. She examined the room. It was an office, that much was apparent. A large desk occupied most of it, covered in reports and maps. There were paintings on the walls. She arched her neck to stare at them. A qurnari, a dwarf, a mage, a priestess. There were others, she was sure, but manacled down, she couldn't see them.
Left for a while, she studied the manacles. They were heavy and rubbed painfully on her wrists, despite the bracers she worse. She gave a faint smile. She was pretty sure she could pick them. Zev had taught her how. She had been his star pupil, he had said, even better than her mother. She was just checking the hinges to be certain when the door to the office opened and a man entered.
He was tall, blonde, somewhere around her mother's age. He was quite plainly dressed, breeches tucked into battered boots, a tunic belted at his lean hips. He carried with him her bow, quiver and dagger and set them on the table.
"Who are you?" he asked, his expression carefully neutral.
Wynne chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. Maybe he was a captain of the guard or something. Maybe she could explain? The kid was an ass. Maybe this guy would be sympathetic.
"My name is Wynne." She tilted her chin proudly.
"And why did you shoot an arrow at the Prince?"
"He was being a jerk to some old guy in the marketplace. Striking him with a stick like he thought him a dog to be beaten." Wynne couldn't stop her voice expressing her rage.
"And you shot him?"
"No." Wynne shook her head in protest. "I shot between them. I didn't want to hit either of them."
"And you are that good a shot?" One blonde brow arched in query.
"Yes." Wynne nodded proudly.
"Who taught you?"
"Well I had a couple of teachers. An elf called Zev taught me most of all, but my mother made me practice whether I wanted to or not. Then I always wanted to."
"The Prince says you threatened him with a dagger."
Wynne shrugged. "He was going for his sword. He looked more like he would cut himself on the sharp edge than know what to do with it."
The corner of the man's mouth quirked, just a little. "He has been trained by the best of the knights here."
"Well they should have worked on his manners then," Wynne snapped, and looked immediately chagrined.
He picked up the dagger and drew it from it's sheath. He studied the blade. Wynne took the moment to study him. He had an odd expression on his face, and when he rammed the sharp blade back into its housing and straightened, she looked at him questioningly.
"What's going to happen to me?" she asked, the prickling of fear making her feel ill. "And…who are you?"
"To be decided. I need to speak to someone first." He strode for the door. "And my name is Alistair."
Wynne swallowed against her dry throat. Alistair? That was the king?
She wanted her mother.
Solana walked slowly through the grand hall, trailing the footman who escorted her by a few paces. She itched to stride her usual pace, after all, she knew this place pretty well. She scowled at the tapestries that hung on the bleak stone. The last place she wanted to be.
The footman gestured for her to take a seat in a small alcove.
"His Majesty is detained for the moment. He will not be long. Can I get you anything?"
"No. Thank you."
Solana did not sit though. She moved to one of the massive windows and studied the city, her hands linked behind her. She was not left waiting long. The sound of a door closing, followed by rapid footsteps on the flagstones had her turning around.
And there he was. Dressed plainly, as she remembered him. Silver threaded in his short blonde locks. Deep creases scored his eyes. He looked weary, but still held himself tall, still strong.
"Your Majesty," she sank into a curtsey.
"Solana," Alistair's voice was gruff. "Don't. Don't curtsey. Not to me."
He approached and Solana straightened. He pulled a dagger from his belt and laid it on the windowsill beside her. She followed his movements and panic sang in her veins.
"Wynne…" her voice was strangled gasp. She looked wildly at Alistair.
"She's fine." He said, laying a hand upon her arm. "She is here."
"What is she doing here?" Solana's voice trembled. "She was at home."
"Who is she, Solana?" Alistair didn't release her arm. "Who is Wynne? That name can't be a coincidence."
"She is my daughter. Where is she? Is she hurt?"
"Wynne is your daughter." His voice gave her pause and she looked into his eyes. "She is fine. She tried to intervene in an incident…with my son."
Solana groaned and sat down on the windowsill beside the dagger she now clutched in her hands.
"Solana." Alistair's voice made her look up. "She has my eyes."
Solana closed her eyes, shuttering the view of his stricken face.
"Is she ours?" he asked.
Solana hesitated. This was not going the way she had intended.
"Is that girl in there our daughter?" he pressed again, moving to stand just shy of her legs, looking down at her with serious intent.
"Yes," Solana whispered. "She is."
Alistair's hand curved over her cheek and she pulled back. His hand dropped and he crouched down at her feet.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked fiercely.
"I couldn't." Solana set aside the dagger and clenched her hands tightly in her lap. "You had to focus on saving Ferelden. You had to marry Anora and make peace amongst the nobles. You had to do the right thing." Her chin was in serious danger of wobbling at the look on his face.
"The right thing?" He rested a hand on either side of her hips upon the windowsill and bowed his head. "The right thing…"
Solana reached out. She couldn't help herself. She touched his hair with a featherlight caress. "Alistair."
His voice was faintly muffled. "How old is she?"
"Sixteen."
He was silent for a time. Then: "It was that last night, wasn't it? We made love that last time and you left me."
"Yes," she said.
He looked up at her, his blue eyes bright. "Once it was all done, why didn't you tell me? I should have known."
"I couldn't." Solana touched his brow, tracing her thumb over the frown that seemed to settle there with ease. "I couldn't bring Wynne here. Not with Anora, and the spectre of who I was to you hanging around. You needed a clean slate, and my daughter deserved one. How could I explain to her that she was the bastard daughter of a king?"
"She is the daughter of my heart, Solana."
"You have a son, Alistair," Solana reminded him sharply. "I recalled hearing of his birth."
"He is not my blood. I am bringing him up the best I can with his mother now taking lovers in Orlais."
"Not…your blood?" Solana was confused.
"Anora grew impatient with my hesitation in the bedchamber." Alistair shrugged. "I did not desire her, and she was a harpy who reminded me every day I was not the equal of her late husband. She took lovers. Antivan. Orlesian. Any of them could have done the deed. He is blonde enough so I suspect Orlais, though it could have just as easily been any of the young swains who paid her court in those days."
"Oh Alistair." Solana touched his hand and squeezed it. His fingers caught hers and held them within a firm grasp.
"I should have told them all to go to hell," he growled. "I should have said that you would be my wife and that was the end of it."
Solana smiled, a little sadly. "You know that is not possible, Alistair. Not then. And not now, even after everything that has happened." She gazed at their linked hands. "You are the king. And you have obligations. Expectations."
Alistair rose to his full height and leaned forward. His face drew close and her breath caught. Though the years had tempered his youth he was still achingly handsome. "What I have is a faithless wife whom I have not seen in four years. A son who grows wilder and more arrogant. A crown that I despise because of what I had to give up to wear it. And a heart that never stopped loving one woman."
Solana caught his face between her palms and brought her lips to his. He was startled at first, then his long, strong, so familiar arms wrapped around her and it was as though the past decade and a half fell away. She came to her feet and he drew her against him, their lips never breaking. They drank deeply of one another, breathing the other's scent and when they broke apart, Solana's eyes were slumberous and his own dazed.
"Please, don't leave me again," he said hoarsely. "I couldn't bear it."
Solana touched his lips with her fingertips. A long silence stretched between them. "I want to see Wynne."
Alistair released her gently. "Of course. She is in my office."
Solana rested her hand over his heart. "I promise we will speak again, but I need to see to my daughter. Is she going to be punished?"
Alistair shook his head. "No. I could not."
"Thank you."
"What will you tell her?"
She hated extinguishing the hope in his eyes. "Nothing. Not yet."
"Fair enough." He nodded jerkily.
"You have to understand, Alistair. It has been Wynne and I for the past fifteen years. Today is not the day to reveal her father is still alive. Please. I need a little more time."
"I could never refuse you anything." Alistair gave her a shaky smile.
Solana stepped back out of his embrace. "Thank you, Alistair."