A few years passed without much change in the status quo and, as the tales would say, I grew tall and strong. Eamon was off the capital again; the war was not too far in the past and borders, titles and trade rights were still a little shaky. I don't recall what was being decided on that occasion, truthfully. Politics has never held the interest for me that it has for my brother, but it was particularly true at that point in my life, when I was more interested women, warfare and hunting.
As Eamon prepared for his departure, I realized that I was being watched. Isolde seemed to always be glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes she seemed suspicious, but other times she looked at me with the half-lidded leisure of a predator pretending sleep while watching a potential meal.
Needless to say I was jumpy from the moment he left, but Eamon continued to think that this woman was Andraste reborn. I had no idea who to go to for help or advice; certainly any other friends would have no sympathy for me; how can a young man complain of being pursued?
Unfortunately, I couldn't just leave Redcliffe; Eamon had tasked me with some aspects of leadership in his absence. I avoided her as much as I could, but there was only so much I could do. In retrospect, I probably should have feigned illness that evening, but I didn't think of that at the time.
The unavoidable situation was a dinner to which some dignitaries had been invited, people of some small rank, but no one that stands out in my memory; I was more than a little distracted, sitting in one of the places of honor, right next to Isolde.
I remember her leaning across me to reach for things. I remember her warm hand on my… thigh. I was no blushing virgin, but this was my brother's wife! I stammered my way through dinner and did my best to ignore it all, difficult though that was. With all the blushing, I must have looked like I was taken of a fever.
As everyone left, she blocked my hasty departure and placed one of those strong hands on my chest. She had been married for five years, and still she was childless, she commented lightly. Leaning in, she whispered to me that perhaps it didn't matter which brother fathered a child, it would still be of the same blood, after all…
I escaped with my virtue, if not my pride, intact, her laugh following me all the way to my room. Clearly she reconsidered her amusement however; I found an unsigned note suggesting I would regret my actions. And, curiously, that I would not inherit the arling.