Drinking heavily was no longer something he did only in the evenings. Anora and Howe had taken over the lion's share of the political maneuvering , and most days he had little to do, other then spending some time overseeing the army in the mornings, and brooding the remainder of the day. It was all going to pieces faster than he'd thought it would, his support melting away like snow in spring. Perhaps if Anora had been pregnant, so there'd been some hope of a Theirin heir still... but it was not to be. And already allegiances were shifting, as various nobles took note of who had the clearest claim on the throne if she was removed, and reorganized themselves accordingly.
He suspected the Guerrin's were behind much of it; Arl Eamon had always been an ambitious man, and had never made a secret of his dislike of Loghain Mac Tir and his common origins. And however well Loghain might think of Bann Teagan in general – the man was astonishingly like his long-deceased older sister Rowan in personality, including having a full share of her sense of duty and honour – he knew the younger man was also fiercely dedicated to his brother Eamon. Moreover, after his outspoken words about Loghain's "fortuitous" retreat from Ostagar, he was a likely nucleus for any dissenting nobles to form around.
Couldn't any of them understand that this was not the time for petty politicking!
He cursed, and poured himself some more wine, then walked over to the fireplace. At least the darkspawn had not yet moved far from Ostagar, and with luck would remain in the south through the winter. He'd fight them in winter if he had to – but given a choice, a spring or summer campaign would be far more tolerable.
He heard a scuff of footsteps against stone, and glanced back to see Howe walking into the room. "What is it?" he snapped, annoyed by the man's casual assumption that he was welcome to enter Loghain's quarters without invitation.
"I bring word, sire. There are demands from the Bannorn that you step down from the regency," Howe said softly. "They are said to be gathering their forces. As are your allies. It appears it will be civil war after all, despite the darkspawn. Pity."
Loghain growled, gritting his teeth at the man's echoing of his own thoughts.
"I also have an interesting report," Howe continued. "There seem to be Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar. How I don't know, but they will act against you. I have arranged for a... solution, with your leave."
More footsteps. Loghain straightened, fingers tightening with crushing force on the stem of the goblet in his hand. He was angered even further by the man's presumption. He'd dared invite some third person to Loghain's rooms...
"The Antivan Crows send their regards," a voice said with studied nonchalance in a heavy Antivan accent.
Crows! He spun, and found himself facing an elf, with darkly tanned skin and copper-blond hair, a tattoo curving down one side of his face. Not any of the Dalish patterns with which Loghain was familiar, possibly it was just decoration instead of having significant meaning. The man carried himself lightly on his feet, poised, and Loghain had little doubt he was eminently familiar with the use of the weapons strapped to his back – and that those were only his obvious ones. If he was one of the more highly skilled Crows, he'd be equally deadly stripped naked and with his hands tied behind his back as with weapons in hand.
"An assassin?" he spat, glaring at Howe.
"Against Grey Wardens we will need the very best, sire." Howe calmly responded.
"And the most expensive," the elf boasted with a broad, confident grin.
He turned away, glared into the fireplace. It curdled his stomach to realize that Howe was right. He'd seen Grey Wardens in battle, knew what they were capable of in a fight. Sending any normal soldiers up against even a single warden in anything but overwhelming numbers would be a waste of men. But an assassin... he took a gulp of wine to symbolically cleanse the rank taste from his mouth. "Just get it done," he growled, and hoped the elf was a competent as he was confident.
He listened to their footsteps retreat. Imagined, all too clearly, the look Rowan or Maric would have given him for stooping to such a measure. Cursed, and poured himself another goblet of wine.
They heard nothing further about any Grey Wardens for almost two full months afterwards. Loghain began to believe that the assassin had performed as promised, and slain whatever wardens remained.
Winter set in hard in the south, and the darkspawn incursion seemed at least temporarily stymied. Or so they thought, until word reached them that a sizable force of darkspawn had reached Lothering before the snows, and that the town was now a burnt-out, corpse-strewn refuge for the vile creatures.
At least the political situation seemed to have stabilized; word had come shortly before the fall of Lothering that Arl Eamon was ill, sick enough to have taken to his bed. Loghain couldn't help feeling pleased at the news. A bedridden Eamon was one less hand stirring the pot. Part of him couldn't help secretly hoping that the man would never rise from his bed again; he'd been a thorn in Loghain's side since the day he'd returned from the safety of the Free Marches to belatedly take up the cause of Ferelden freedom – which in his case meant only a concern for freeing Redcliffe from occupation, completely ignoring the rest of the country – and been disgruntled to find the common-born Loghain occupying the position of trusted adviser to King Maric that Eamon felt was due to him by virtue of his noble birth and his sister's marriage to the king. That Eamon was only an Arl while Maric had leapfrogged Loghain straight into a Terynship, second only to Maric himself... that was merely the cherry on top of the Arl's dislike.
And then their belief that the assassin had done his job was shattered when word came that two Wardens had shown up at Redcliffe. They'd saved the village from oblivion at the hands of the walking dead, and killed young Connor, who'd become an abomination and caused the deaths of almost the entire population of the castle as well as a substantial percentage of the village. It was grim news, far overshadowing the word of the Wardens' continued survival.
Loghain cursed when he read a description of the pair. A dwarf with rather uniquely shaded hair, and a tall blond man. He'd last seen the pair standing near Duncan's fire as he was departing to lead his forces to where they were to wait in ambush. The pair who'd been told off to go to the tower and be backup for his own men. That newest recruit of Duncan's, and Alistair.
By the Maker...! Maric's son had just landed on the wrong side of the brewing civil war!