Val Royeaux was the gleaming jewel of Orlais, as they said. It was a huge city, filled with life and grandeur. People thronged in their thousands, and shopkeepers shouted above the din to sell their wares. It was a place of beauty, the seat of Thedas' strongest nation.
And it was slowly crumbling.
The Empire was in a state. Its decline had begun with the Fereldan rebellion, a gesture of defiance that had sparked and fueled countless others like it. There were groups moving all throughout Orlais' puppet states, working to gain independence and freedom. Even within Orlais sympathetic groups petitioned for the Empire to grant independence to those states that had been conquered centuries ago.
And of course the Empress had replied with legions of Chevaliers.
The Empire's famed knights were now policing those parts of the Empire in revolt, squashing with great violence any signs of defiance they stumbled upon. Celene I was an effective ruler in that manner.
But the Chevaliers could only do so much. Their numbers had been depleted in the Fereldan rebellion thirty years ago, many young men killed. Two whole legions had been demolished at the battle of River Dane and several more had fallen to attrition in the three years that followed. There were now too few sons of Orlais to serve in the Chevaliers, and the dozens of legions that were left had been spread thin to put down the brushfires that threatened to engulf the Empire if left untended.
That left few to police Val Royeaux and their traditional station as the personal guards of the Empress. Celene I was crafty though, and so had used the Orlesian wealth where her manpower failed. And she had hired whole battalions of mercenaries.
They weren't the most loyal servants, but they were effective. And many were far more experienced than the vast militias that protected much of Orlais' countryside.
So Lance wasn't very surprised to see several Rivaini men in the garish uniforms of Orlesian soldiers standing guard outside the palace. A recent riot in Val Royeaux's vast merchant quarter had called away most of the proper Orlesian troops, and left only a large army corps of mercenaries to defend the Empress.
Not that she cared much. It was a show of power. The Orlesian court was so powerful that it need not fear assassination from anyone.
That clashed dramatically with the tales of Orlesian nobility Leliana had shared. According to her first-hand accounts, the nobility was all embroiled in the Game. Some sort of spy contest to see who could be the most polite at court but hide the biggest knife.
The Empress was in on it, too, having assassinated her uncle and kept three cousins at bay to gain the throne. Outwardly she was the very picture of beauty, not much older than Lance with golden curls covering her shoulders in mimic of the shining half-sun that was the symbol of Orlais.
She greeted him with a pleasant smile, and he gave his most polite bow, perfected during years of training from his parents and tutors. It had yet to come in handy.
"Greetings, Warden Commander," she said. "Lance Cousland."
She was trying to impress him with her knowledge, a cordial gesture from one noble to another. It wasn't hard to see how she had made such an effective ruler. She was outwardly pleasant, very wonderful, she held herself with a grace that spoke of born nobility. But he knew that it was a mask, concealing the machinations that worked behind those wonderfully blue eyes.
He was just the same.
He had come alone, the others having gone to stay at an inn with what money that he had brought from the Amaranthine treasury. He was unarmed, naturally, though he was sure he could have smuggled in a dagger or two considering how lax security was.
She wasn't surrounded by the customary honor guard of a division of Chevaliers. Instead she had a dozen or so soldiers standing at ease with pikes – likely ceremonial. A band played nearby, a dozen minstrels, probably bards in her employ. If the stories were true then that might have been all the security she needed.
He didn't come to kill her though, so she had little to fear from him. On the surface this appeared as a social call, a noble and hero from the east come to pay homage to a great and powerful ruler as a matter of courtesy before going to mingle with his comrades.
A terse man stood near the Empress, his dark skin marking him as a Navarran, the plate armor marking him as a mercenary captain. He was perhaps the leader of the troops that currently defended the palace. Perhaps a noble in his own lands.
"Your Majesty," said Lance, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. "It is an honor."
He couldn't help but notice the expensive carpet on which he stood, likely made from the finest Orlesian silks. It was no doubt replaced with regularity, one of the garish expenses of the nobility that made his skin crawl. Good thing Alistair wasn't so wasteful.
A large banquet table off to the side caught Lance's attention. His throat was very dry, the anxiety of seeing Morrigan again working against him.
He didn't quite know what he'd say to her.
"Come with me if you want to live" might have been a good choice, had it not sounded so damn stupid. He hadn't seen her in a year and he wasn't about to make an ass of himself now. And he wasn't about to let her know that he had slept with Velanna. He had a hard time forgetting that, still feeling like he was filthy with the woman's sweat and saliva.
"Are you hungry?" asked the Empress, apparently having caught the look he was giving the foods so delicately arranged. He cleared his throat loudly.
"I have been on the road for a time, Your Majesty. I've not had a decent meal for longer."
She gestured for him to help himself, and he muttered his thanks, bowing again. He wasn't sure if foreign customs were anything similar to his own, but he had never been taught to wait for every action to be approved, not even by the King.
"I understand that you are the one who ended the Blight," said Celene, the formality dropped.
"I am," he said. He was too tired of saying it to add that he was not alone in doing it. Besides, it often paid to be a bit of a prick to nobles.
"That is very impressive."
He grabbed a roll from the table, and a butter knife. The Orlesian butter was much creamier than in Ferelden, and not at all soured. He liked it.
"I'm glad you think so," he said. And she nodded.
"I also understand that you were at Ostagar?"
"Yes," he said. He didn't bother to add that he had been the one to retrieve Cailan's body, and certain correspondence.
"You know, I sent men to aid at Ostagar," said Celene. "Many divisions of Chevaliers to halt the Blight."
"Teyrn Loghain turned them away," said Lance around a mouthful. "Don't worry; I killed him."
She flashed a small smile, a look of curiosity crossing her face. She certainly wasn't used to this sort of man, and found it a somewhat refreshing addition to an otherwise dull game.
He swallowed the roll, reaching to grab another. He was shaking, she saw, and wondered why he would be so nervous. The captain beside her noticed, too, and leaned in to whisper something.
She laughed.
"Warden Commander, my Captain here – Dirge – seems to think that you are nervous! Perhaps you are planning on killing me?" she asked with a wide smile, showing off her perfectly white teeth. They were quite expensive and cost great amounts of lyrium from the local Circle. Lance smashed as much Orlesian butter as he could on one side of the roll, not sharing the laugh.
"No, Your Majesty," he said. "I've not come to kill you. I do have a favor ask, if it is not too presumptuous."
She laughed again. Of course it was presumptuous to ask a favor of the Orlesian Empress within ten minutes of having met her. Who was he kidding? Captain Dirge looked a little off-put by it, and gestured in a manner that he thought was covert to several of his men. Their hands drifted away from their pikes to the hilts of their swords.
Lance ate hungrily, waiting for a proper response from the Empress before asking his favor.
"I would be very grateful to provide whatever aid I can to the man who single-handedly fells Archdemons. Anything, certainly."
He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry again. His stomach became a pit and he was suddenly afraid that eating those rolls had been mistake. He reached out for a goblet of wine, and an Elven servant appearing from the shadows to fill it for him before disappearing again.
Neither seen nor heard, in the Orlesian fashion. At least not until later in the evening when the lord or magistrate or whoever reached out with his greasy hands.
Sickening.
Lance was just very briefly reminded of his own romance with a house servant sometime prior to his joining the Wardens. He had cared for her. She had died at the hands of Arl Rendon Howe. But Lance had slain Howe and in so doing made his family pariahs in Ferelden, so that undoubtedly evened the score.
It didn't.
He swallowed the wine, growling at its unusually sharp taste. Wine wasn't supposed to taste like that, and it was no doubt some Orlesian bastardization of an otherwise fine product. That was of course the problem with foreign products; it just never tasted like home.
Which was fine by Lance.
"I understand that an adviser of yours," he said, unsure how to broach the subject but now unable to stop. "She's a good friend of mine. I would like to be able to meet with her."
And he put the goblet down, the shaking of his hands making the wine slosh annoyingly. The Empress nodded to him.
"Of course. Did she have a name?" she asked, a sweet smile on her lovely lips. The very definition of "noble".
"I knew her as Morrigan," said Lance. And the Empress' eyes went wide, though the rest of her features stayed neutral. And then Captain Dirge leaned in again, whispered. She nodded.
"Of course," said Celene, smiling once more. "Morrigan is a close friend. I am happy to count her as such."
And she waved a servant Elf out of the shadows, bade him fetch Morrigan. And Lance felt another rush of anticipation, his palms becoming sweaty.
But something was wrong. His gut urged him to be wary, to look out for some trap. And then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye. He didn't dare look away from the Empress, lest she know that he knew.
But he could see it, could feel it. Two guards, shutting the door leading to the outside. It was silent, almost magically so.
He never would have known were he not the Hero of Ferelden, son of Bryce Cousland.
And then the messenger Elf returned, relayed whatever news he carried to Captain Dirge, who then whispered again to the Empress. She nodded.
And the smile faded.
Captain Dirge stepped forward, spoke in a self-sure sneer.
"We know all about the little witch-girl," he said, and Lance could see the Empress twitch at that. They must have been close friends indeed. "We know that you are not operating under an official Grey Warden capacity."
He wondered how the Captain knew, seeing as the whole thing was supposed to be undercover. He also feared for Morrigan's safety, whether she was already in the hands of Templars, being taken to the Mage's Prison or worse. He wondered about the child he never met, that he didn't know well enough to love.
He wondered if he could.
The Captain waved for three of his men to take Lance into custody, and they stepped forward, hands reaching for him. He sighed.
It was to begin. The promise he'd made to himself. The promise he'd made to every god that dared listen. There would be blood now. And there would never cease to be.
He looked past the Captain, at Celene herself.
"If you do this," he said. His resolve was steady. It was not a threat. It was a simple fact. "If you keep me from her. Then your entire world will come crashing down around your ears. I will kill everyone. Everyone."
And the first soldier grabbed him. Lance reversed it easy enough, swept his hand into the man's elbow, knocked him to the side and then plunged the butter knife into his throat. The second man took less time, three sharp bangs of Lance's elbow into his nose and a quick stab through the side of his neck.
The last didn't even have time to draw his weapon, on the ground holding his neck with bloody hands in an instant.
Lance looked across the room at the Captain and the Empress. She watched with some mix of awe and horror. She was impressed.
"Get him," Captain Dirge said to the minstrels. And the Empress' bards drew daggers and charged, a good dozen of them, while the mercenaries watched.
He clapped the first one to approach him in the nose, felt it break. The second was a pretty young Elf, curly brown hair making a convenient handle with which to turn her around and shatter her knee. He used the butter knife on two others, parrying blows and slashing jugulars.
They surrounded him, watching in mute desperation as their comrades fell around him.
He wasn't quite conscious of his actions anymore. He was simply doing, fighting. He grabbed an arm, sent the butter knife into it and relieved the attached hand of its dagger with a snap of the wrist. Now he was properly armed and could begin killing in the proper manner.
A few blades hit home, buried themselves in his leather armor and did little more than cut his flesh. He was better.
The loose Orlesian clothing did nothing to protect and soon he was standing in the middle of a chamber, surrounded by groaning, moaning individuals in varying states of injury, holding a bloody dagger and searching for another target.
The Empress' mouth was agape in awe, and she couldn't help the smile that crossed her face. If she thought that he would kill her, she didn't show it. Instead, it looked as though she considered this all a show for her personal amusement.
Perhaps it was.
The more heavily armored troops from outside entered then, summoned by a runner sent while Lance was cracking the skull of a very irate young woman with a knife.
They were too heavily armored for his dagger to do anything, and he wasn't interested in fighting the whole Orlesian army, so he dropped his dagger, let it clatter noisily to the floor and he turned to face the Empress.
He kept his face neutral as he put his hands on his head, even while he was being forced his knees with a few painful kicks.
"Take him to the Tower," said Captain Dirge, invoking the name of the legendary prison of Val Royeaux where the Empire's political enemies ceased to be. He was already planning his escape as they dragged him away.