A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Cel, for her wonderful idea. :) I should have mentioned that earlier, sorry doll!

Ashlyn sat on the large sofa in she and Alistair's sitting room, legs curled under her, and a book in her lap. She'd been lost in the story for hours, her mind far off in a different world, with different struggles.

"Ashlyn?"

The woman looked up, her eyes blinking slowly as she attempted to drag herself back into the real world.

Finally she smiled at her husband. "Hello, dear."

Alistair stepped over to her and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Where's Bryce?"

Ashlyn's eyebrows furrowed. "I thought he was with you."

After a moment of horrified stillness, they both sprung into action, racing out of their rooms and into the hallways. Alistair was just about to call to a guard for help when they heard the scratching sound of paws skittering down the hallways. They both turned to see Camelot racing down the corridor, a four year old with a shock of red hair sitting atop his back, brandishing a wooden sword.

"I will defeat you, darkspawn!" the little boy cried as they raced by.

Both Ashlyn and Alistair watched in silence as the strange scene passed, until the mabari and his tiny rider had turned the corner. After another moment Ashlyn sagged against her husband.

"You never should have given him that sword," she said with a little chuckle.

Alistair wrapped an arm around her. "You never should have given him our son."

"Alistair?" Ashlyn stage-whispered into the nursery. The darkness was nearly complete, only dim embers still glowing faintly in the fireplace. It took a good few minutes for her eyes to adjust.

When she could finally see, the red head smiled.

Alistair was leaned back against the wall, a children's book lying open and limp on one side of his lap. On the other side, Camelot's head was resting, drool steadily dripping from his lightly snoring jaw. And resting against the dog's side, head nestled in it's fur, was she and Alistair's son, face slack in sleep.

With the small smile still gracing her face, the queen silently exited the room.

Ashlyn was sitting in front of a roaring fire, Camelot's body resting on her toes to keep them warm, when her young son walked in with the most serious expression she had ever seen on his face.

"Mommy?" he said, in a somber tone.

"Yes, Bryce?" she asked, genuinely concerned. Camelot raised his head in sleepy curiosity.

After frowning for another few moments, Bryce asked, "Does the Maker have feet?"

Ashlyn was immensely glad she was sitting down, because her knees physically went weak from how cute the question was, and her poor son left many minutes later only more confused.

A sixteen year old Bryce Theirin stomped angrily into his rooms, his stormy expression eerily similar to the one his mother wore when she was particularly cross. Strange, considering he looked so much like his father.

Alistair happened to be walking through the hallway when he saw his son tramping his way across it, and decided to investigate.

"Bryce?" he asked as he walked in. The red-haired boy huffed and turned away. "What's happened?"

After a minute of angry silence, the boy finally responded snappishly. "Neala and I were taking a walk by the lake."

Neala was the daughter of Hawke and Fenris, born only a year after Fergus. The two had been friends for some time, and Alistair and his wife were fairly certain they would be married one day. Since Leliana had become Divine, elves, dwarves, and all crosses were more widely accepted.

"What's wrong with that?" Alistair asked, puzzled. His son had admitted to liking the girl not three days ago.

"I…" Even turned away, the king could see Bryce's ears were burning red. Much the way his own did when he was embarrassed. "I think she was going to kiss me."

Alistiar smiled, surprised, but pleased. "But..?"

Bryce whirled, pointing angrily at Camelot. "He pushed her to the ground so she wouldn't! She landed in the mud and left cursing at me!"

Camelot sat smugly, head held up proudly, sure he had protected the young prince from the attentions of an unworthy girl.

Bryce stormed out of his own rooms in an angrier fit when his father only doubled over in laughter.

A/N: I know this is short but I'm just not feeling these two – three? – today. Either way, I hope you like it.

P.S. The Maker's feet bit was inspired by Dana Carvey

Special thanks to Cel, NonOmnisMoriar, and the Guest for their reviews! You guys rock!

Happy reading! :)