A/N: I still do not own Dragon Age, which is still a shame.

I said this during the previous one and will probably continue doing so for a few chapters, but my knowledge of Dragon Age lore and such isn't very good. I'm familiar with the game and avidly read the wiki, but haven't yet read Stolen Throne or The Calling, though I'm planning to soon. I appreciate corrections or suggestions.

I've read that it was confirmed that Nathaniel's age is 30 in Awakening, but… nah. I'm making him just two years older than Maris Cousland since this is fanfiction and I can do what I want. In regards to that, he's been in the Free Marches for a year.

30th of Harvestmere, 9:28 Dragon

Her mother has long since bowed to the fact that she will steal Fergus's clothes if necessary and now the castle tailor simply accepts that most of his duties for her clothes includes shirts, trousers, and jerkins. She knows what her parents expect of her in exchange for this arrangement and puts up with the gowns and slippers for formal parties with a grimace and half-hearted glare, though Maris Cousland suspects that she can't be too upset with her parents for this. Any other nobles would have shipped her to be embarrassing elsewhere (or worse, she thinks with a shudder, she'd be forced into the satin monstrosities).

As she ties the top of her shirt and pulls a jerkin on for the day she makes a look in the mirror at herself and grins before smoothing down the front of her shirt. She and Fergus are going hunting today and she supposes she should get a cloak. The wind coming in off the sea is bracing and she knows if she has to take Fergus's cloak he won't let her live it down. Of course, she's not sure he ever lets her live anything down, as though it hadn't been his fault her inkwell exploded on her five minutes before King Maric himself walked into the library looking for a book on dragons or the time- well, Nan still refuses to let Sarim near the kitchens when she's making pork pasties.

Maris turns to her bed, where her mabari is still sprawled on his back, tongue lolling. His russet colored fur gleams under the sunlight coming in through her window and she wakes him by scratching behind his ears. The smell of his breath makes her grimace and she playfully pushes him.

"Sarim, did you eat whatever's at the bottom of Thad's tanning pit?"

He gives her a doleful look. She screws up her face.

"You didn't really, did you?"

She's sure if mabari could roll their eyes he would now. As it is he rolls over to his belly and bounds gracefully off the bed, tilting his head while he looks at her. He seems to recognize her hunting outfit as his stubby tail wags back and forth and he grins, showing off his massive teeth.

"Yes," she says, kneeling down to pet him, "your teeth are lovely white and fierce. You can tear apart all kinds of things with them."

He barks as if to agree and she pulls herself up, hearing Fergus blunder down the hall as he sang.

"Maris, Maris, will you dare us to march to Amaranthine? The storms are fierce and our mothers proud, but if-"

"If you sing like that in the woods the animals will just run the other way," Maris says when he strides in.

"It's the most traditional Highever ballad," he says, sniffing. "It's not my fault if you're too unsophisticated to appreciate it-"

She knows she'll never get him to stop singing his favorite song, so she slaps his arm lightly.

"Father made us promise that if he talked Mother into letting both of us go today we'd get a good deer for supper tomorrow. Keep singing and we'll never get to go hunting again."

She grabs her bow and quiver, strapping a dagger to her ankle before snapping her fingers for Sarim. He stiffens and becomes alert, his ears perking up. She turns to say something to Fergus and it's caught in her throat as she looks at him. He's a few inches taller than she is, but broader and his forearms are massive compared to hers and she's suddenly struck by him in that moment. Although he's so much a grown man now and beyond her in ways, his cloak is fastened crookedly under his ear. He's one of her favorite people in the world, surpassing even Nathaniel. She doesn't know what she'd do without him, most days.

"Let's go, Frog" she says, grabbing her brother's arm. "Before anyone finds us and keeps us here for even longer!"

She ends up scrambling up a tree, Fergus behind her, in order to perch and observe the trail below them. Sarim is off in the woods, attempting to corral deer, though Maris suspects he mostly wants to try and play with them. She sits on a branch and Fergus sits below her. Her feet dangle, near his face, and he pushes them away.

"You're worried about my singing and you smell like a dead darkspawn!"

"Knife-ears," she says with a sneer.

Fergus bursts out laughing and grows quiet as the wind blows and rustles the tree leaves. After a long silence he speaks.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" he asks.

"For what?" she asks, pushing it away. She knows what he's referring to, but she's not going to acknowledge it.

Betrothal inquiries.

She sticks her tongue out at nothing in particular.

"You know," he says, uncharacteristically serious. "You can't push this off and pretend like you didn't know it was coming. I know you've been trying to paw through the letters in Father's study-"

"I didn't open the desk drawers," she says idly, looking down at the trail.

She presses her lips together, surprised at the sudden heat in her eyes. She supposes there's still hope. Harvestmere isn't quite over, after all.

"That's still not-"

"Oh please," she says. "Like you didn't- in fact, you asked me to help you pick the lock on his study door and on his desk."

She can't see him, but she knows her brother well enough to know he's blushing.

"Well," he says, "it is a big thing."

"Did Mother only agree to this to get you to talk to me about being a proper lady?" Maris asks. This is something that has occasionally happened and now that she's closer to seventeen than not she knows it's inevitable.

"No," he says, laughing. "Do you think that's the only reason I'd go out with you?"

"No," she says, "but you know how she can be."

He laughs lowly again and Maris takes a deep breath, relishing the knowledge she has Fergus's undivided attention for the first time in ages. The trail is still empty and she hadn't expected to get anything anyway, not this late in the season. Off in the distance she hears Sarim's joyful barking.

"Do you think Father will get anymore letters today?" she asks.

"It's a possibility," Fergus says. "He mentioned that he's expecting some correspondence from Amaranthine regarding some trade issues at port."

The tension in her stomach settles. It's still a young day and she can avoid the unsteadiness in his voice when he says "possibility."

"Good," she says.

"Trade issues are always good," Fergus says dryly.

"Oh, you know what I meant."

"Mmm. Next thing you know you'll be declaring Orlesian blockades as vital to Highever's future-"

She smiles, but says nothing. She knows her smile is strained. As she opens her mouth to respond she catches a sound and leans forward. The sunlight is coming through the brilliant orange, yellow, and red leaves and the brisk wind is faint now, just enough to blow stray hair around her face. Through the leaves she sees tawny fur and raises her bow, notching the arrow into it. The hind picks her way carefully through the small piles of leaves and is followed by a fawn, a few months old at least. Without thinking about it, Maris lowers her bow and puts the arrow back in her quiver, watching the hind and fawn make their way across the trail.

The next morning she does not want to get out of bed. Maris is usually up shortly after dawn, sometimes just before it. She gets out of bed late, when the sun is partly across the sky. There's no hurry for her to leave her room, though she dresses and washes her face for the day. Sitting on the hearth of her fireplace she lifts up a loose rock and pulls out a small sheaf of letters. The first one she pulls out is the most recent, written on the 12th of Kingsway.

My father won't call me back home any time soon. I know that, although I'm still not sure what I did to upset him. I know your father has made it known that any betrothal inquiries must be in by the end of Harvestmere; I've told my father of my interest and hope he has the sense to make the offer. I know he's just greedy enough to see it as a perfect opportunity for himself. Our happiness is secondary (if it matters at all), but your brother is heir, so there's little, if any, chance that he'll get his hands on Highever. We can be the arl and arlessa of Amaranthine and that suits me just fine, as I know it does you. I don't care about your family's land and wealth- that's just convenient for my father.

Maris knows Nathaniel would have brought it up with his father. He's practical, independent, fierce, but so sweet and thoughtful at the same time. He's the opposite of his father, actually, which is a relief. Her parents won't object to such a match either. Nathaniel understands and has assured her that he doesn't care what she wears and that all the things Eleanor has tried to (unsuccessfully) get her to stop doing are what he loves about her.

She takes a deep breath and looks at the end of the letter. All of my love, Nathaniel. She presses her lips to it and sighs, wondering when Rendon Howe will let him come back to Ferelden. Nathaniel is his heir; surely he should be home and learning how to run the arling.

There's a sharp knock on her door. She quickly replaces the letters and stands up nervously, sitting on the end of her bed and petting Sarim as she says, "come in." It's only her mother.

"Your father wants to see you in his study," she says. When Maris leaves her room she expects Eleanor to follow, but she merely looks around at her daughter's room. Sarim is still sprawled out on the bed.

"Seventeen is a very exciting age," Eleanor says.

Maris merely shrugs, one of the many unladylike things she does that she knows irritates her mother. Eleanor looks as though she wants to say something, but changes her mind as she turns.

"I'm going to tend to Oren," Eleanor says, heading across the hall. "Oriana went to town for a bit-"

"You're not coming?" Maris says, then presses her lips together. Eleanor looks at her strangely and somewhat sadly.

"Your father and I have already discussed it. He knows where I stand."

"I suppose I should go then," Maris says. "Sarim, come on. We're going to Father's study."

Once he hears his name he leaps off the bed and trots towards her, walking past and then cocking his head expectantly at her. She follows, wishing her mother were beside her, which isn't something she's thought much lately. She wonders how often she'll think it when she's far off, married to where ever (but please let it be Amaranthine, please Maker and Andraste, whoever I have to invoke).

Her father's study door is ajar and she walks in, taking the seat across from him while Sarim sits by her knee, taking advantage of her position to drool all over her with his head in her lap. Scratching his ears, she sees her father smile broadly and reach into the desk drawer with the lock she can pick in a minute, pulling out a reasonable stack of letters and setting them on his desk. She looks at them and wishes she had something to drink, particularly the ale from Wolf's Rest. Her father pushes something towards her and Maris takes the glass without thinking, her fingers finding purchase as she lifts it to her lips. Whatever it is burns and she sputters, watching her father sip at his.

"If I ever teach you anything, Pup," Bryce says, clearly savoring his drink, "let it be said I taught you to never drink Gwaren whiskey."

"Whatever would Mother say if she knew you were letting me have whiskey before midday?"

"Remember when we went camping and you and Fergus fell out of the tree? And, ah, the arrow-"

"Yes," Maris says, her lips twitching. She knows where this is going.

"It's on that same list- Things We Don't Tell Your Mother."

Despite the weight on her chest, she laughs and smiles at him. The weight shifts, making it just a bit easier to breath, even when he puts a hand on the letters.

"So," he murmurs, "in six months you'll be seventeen."

She isn't sure what to say to that so she sips the whiskey. It's smoky with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon, reminding her of the bonfires during summer festivals, which makes her think of Summerdays spent with the Howes and other noble families, how she would run off with the noble boys, on hot days trailing behind Fergus and Nathaniel and eventually being allowed to walk with them, encouraged even as her sharp eyes could track prey well. Cool nights spent at her father's side, how he had let her fall asleep on his shoulder and he'd insisted on carrying her to her bedroom until she was twelve and too big for it. She remembers the summer bonfires and wishes he did not have those letters sitting on his desk.

The whiskey still burns her lips and throat, even when she sips it again.

"Your mother and I were betrothed when we were seventeen," Bryce says. "It was- well, I can't say a good year since we joined the Rebellion a few weeks later- but it's a year that stands out."

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop from saying something. She just looks at him, from his furrowed brows to his frown to the hand that is on top of the letters. This is how she'll know whether or not it's a good year for her. If one of them has the seal of Amaranthine on it.

"You just came for these and not to spend time together? I'm wounded, Pup."

He pushes them towards her. Her hands slip around the smooth parchment and under on hand she feels the wax seal of some family.

"After supper tonight," he says, putting a hand on hers, "let me know which ones you prefer. We can talk about them and consider which ones would bring you the best future-"

"And the family," she says quietly, aware that her role is not just for herself, but what could strengthen the Couslands and Highever. A strong alliance with Amaranthine would do that, but she has thought a bit beyond Amaranthine. There are other marriages that would benefit them even if she hasn't brought herself to think about particulars for those beyond a smoky room in some disrepaired manor while she forces herself to kiss a faceless nobleman's cheek. She nearly shudders right there, remembering the recurring nightmare that had echoed that fear.

"Maris," Bryce says quietly, seeing her stiffened back, "that's important. We Couslands do our duty, but duty isn't just about family and country. You have a duty to yourself too."

She looks at him with surprise. He squeezes her hand under his and then sits back down, tossing back the rest of his Gwaren whiskey. She turns and feels her heart thudding as she and Sarim make their way back to her room. Fergus is standing there with a grin.

"Mother kindly let me come sit with you while she attends to the little terror," he says.

"Just what I wanted," Maris says, letting herself into her room, "the worst singer in all of Ferelden to sing me love songs while I sort through possible betrothals."

Fergus flings himself on her bed without a care, kicking off his boots while she sits at her desk. He's distracted by petting Sarim while she initially lays down all the letters by spreading them over the surface of her desk, face up, while she looks at "To the Teryn of Highever, Bryce Cousland" on the front of each. There are eight total and she begins to flip them over to look at the seals, distinguishing them easily even though her father has already broken them.

The first is from Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak with his moon and stars, probably for his son, Oswyn, a likable and nearly cliché Ferelden nobleman. Her lip curls upward without her thinking about it as she sees the seal of the Arl of Denerim- whether for Vaughan Kendells or Arl Urien it's an unpleasant idea. Urien may be a decent fellow, but the mere thought of being related to Vaughan is repulsive. And the third down is easily Ceorlic's griffin. That might be worse than Urien- even if Ceorlic wasn't associated with the Orlesians, his father's treason leaves something to be desired.

At the top of the second row is Teagan Guerrin's seal for Rainesfere, a wolf in contrast to the normal Guerrin seal. That's something, she thinks, chewing on her lower lip. That Teagan would intentionally use his bannorn's seal and not the grander and more well-known seal of the Guerrin family says something. Her father is not a huge fan of Eamon Guerrin, but he's cordial with Teagan and is polite about him at home, which is more than she can say for Eamon. Maybe Teagan is attempting to distance himself from his brother, finally. Her eyes linger on that particular seal before she moves on.

The next two are ones she doesn't recognize. They are more ornate than any Ferelden seals and she knows they must be from another country in Thedas, probably Orlesian for as pretentious as they are. While the thought is somewhat intriguing, she knows that she'd rather marry Teagan Guerrin or even Oswyn than leave Ferelden. Besides, she's sure that a non-Fereldan husband wouldn't understand why Sarim needs to sleep near her, if not in the same bed.

Those two are laid off to the side without a thought. No. She's not leaving Ferelden. The thought is appalling, no matter how it might benefit the family and Highever. You have a duty to yourself too. It's likely that the reason her father mentioned it was because of those letters. She knows he would be unhappy for her to be out of Ferelden, for her sake if not her mother's or his own.

Whatever reservations she's had during this whole thing are gone in the next moment as she flips the second to last letter over and sees the bear seal of the Howes and Amaranthine. She stops herself from squealing (which is a horrible sound reserved for the likes of Habren Bryland) and doesn't bother to be decorous as she snatches up the letter and pulls it out, but as she reads her face falls, along with something inside her. It falls and tumbles, hitting every vital organ in her body as it does so before it shatters somewhere in her stomach, the shards impaling her heart because they have to be because what else would make her chest hurt like this?

No, no, no, no. What in the name of the Maker is Rendon Howe thinking? Had he not paid attention to the last four years, all the letters, all the visits, the knowing smiles Bryce and Eleanor gave to Maris when she and Nathaniel would wander off for hours in the woods? Had Rendon Howe not seen when his son taught her archery, his hands lingering just a few seconds more than necessary, but not long enough to be inappropriate or their childhood spent in a mutual rivalry about the silliest things or when he'd pull on her braid?

Did Howe think she had some sort of weird preference for little boys like an Orlesian lord or some templars she's heard of?

The playful growling from behind her stops. She imagines Fergus has stopped pulling on an old piece of leather for Sarim. Her mabari pads over and lays his head in her lap, whining softly and nudging her hand with his nose. She scratches his ears automatically. Fergus's hand is on her shoulder.

"What's wrong, Rissy?"

She shakes her head, sure if she speaks she'll just burst into tears and what's the point in that? What good is that going to do except show her just as weak as Habren, who threw a fit when she couldn't get Nathaniel to so much as glance at her during the very last ball for King Maric? Though in her muddled thoughts Maris thinks this is rather more a big deal. Fergus takes the letter from her fingers gently. She doesn't see the crease of his eyebrows as he reads.

"This is- it's a joke. I mean- Thomas wet the bed until last year, for Maker's sake! He's ten-"

"Eleven, Froggy," Maris says, remembering the letter Nathaniel had sent her in Justinian, angry he'd been sent away a few weeks before his brother's nameday.

"Ten- eleven? Who cares? It's insulting that he'd send us a betrothal inquiry for his second son. You could be the teryna of Highever (Maker forbid, but you're third in line) and he thinks you'll settle for Thomas, who isn't even his heir?"

"Thomas is very sweet," she says. And it's true. Thomas Howe is a small, slight boy with overlarge gray eyes (just like Nathaniel's, she thinks dully). His clothes are always rumpled and he's always so eager to please, to spend the day trailing behind his beloved older brother. He's charming in a shy way as he blushes when addressed by anyone with the slightest bit of authority. But he's eleven years old and Maris can remember the days when he'd shrilly declared to she and Nathaniel as they teased him, I'm going to tell Papa!

"Oh please. Tell me you're not considering it just to be close to-"

"Of course not," she says sharply, feeling something in her recoil when Fergus says that. He takes a deep breath as he realizes what he's said.

"Sorry," he says lowly. "I just-"

"I'd be wiping his nose on our wedding night," Maris says through numb lips and for some reason she has to stifle a giggle.

"But Arl Howe has kindly given you six years, until Thomas is seventeen. Isn't that thoughtful?"

Maris smiles weakly. She's surprised Rendon Howe hadn't insisted that Thomas could be married off at fifteen or sixteen, as sometimes happened.

"What's this last one, Rissy?" Fergus asks, leaning over her. "You've got one more-"

She takes the letter, grateful to Fergus for trying to distract her from this awful hole that's starting to form inside her, and furrows her brows at the seal. A wyvern. She knows this is a Ferelden herald, but it escapes her where it belongs. There's something right on the edge of her thoughts, as though she knows she won't be surprised on seeing the name of the man who had made this offer.

"Do you know the seal, Frog?" she asks. He says nothing, only crosses his arms over his chest. This is a gesture she knows well; he's trying to hide his discomfort with something. Nathaniel does- she tears her mind away from that thought, clutching this unknown letter with one hand as she closes her eyes.

She can't think about that. Not now. She has a duty to finish.

Fishing the letter from the envelope, Maris is even more nonplussed by the tight, slanted print writing. All noblemen knew script and spent plenty of time practicing penmanship. She could remember hours at the table next to Fergus as she practiced script while he worked on his lessons. It was rather easier on the eyes though, she thinks as she glances at the letter, which is short and curt. Her eyes trail to the bottom to see the signature.

Loghain Mac Tir

If she weren't already sitting, Maris would have ended up on the floor. She leans back in her wooden chair and closes her eyes again.

The bloody sodding Hero of River Dane wants to marry her? With her shirt and trousers and hunting, her entirely unladylike habits embarrassing her mother at salons and parties, a distinct lack of delicacy in her movements that aren't related to the outdoors. And Loghain Mac Tir has decided to remarry (which would be juicy enough gossip on its own) and it's that girl who plays the man in Highever?

"Is it who- oh, yep," Fergus says, leaning over to peer at the signature. "I thought the wyvern was his seal. Maric let him take it as his own once he was made noble."

Maris looks at the letters on her desk. Four (the two foreigners, Ceorlic, and Arl Urien) were simply not happening. She'd as soon abandon Highever as take one of those. And poor, sweet Thomas was certainly not happening. She really would end up wiping his nose on their wedding night because he'd probably cry. He did tend to cry easily.

My choices are Teagan Guerrin, Oswyn, and Loghain Mac Tir. Not Nathaniel, not the boy I've been best friends with since I can remember, the one who used to let me be King Maric when we'd reenact the Rebellion, even though I'm a girl, and he'd be Loghain Mac Tir. Not the man I've been in love with for four years, who taught me how to pick locks so we could meet in the pantry at midnight to talk until five in the morning when Nan would show to begin breakfast.

Maris remembers one morning when Nan had caught Nathaniel coming back for his cloak, which they'd been laying on as they talked all night. Nan'd thought he was some sort of thief or bandit and had beat him around the head with a broom, screaming until her father's squire, Rory, burst in with just his trousers on to defend her with nothing but a spare brick.

How her father had laughed at breakfast, seeing Nathaniel's scratched face and hands, howling with laughter as Nan acerbically described the scene of Rory managing to knock himself out with the brick rather than the "intruder." Yet Nathaniel hadn't once even indicated he would tell her parents the real reason he'd been in the pantry, pretending instead that he was hunting rats. Even now Bryce would sometimes mutter "hunting rats" and his eyes would mist over with laughter.

"Rissy-"

"Don't, Fergus," she says, wincing at how her voice sounds. Flat. Quiet. Nothing there.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"Yes, please," she murmurs, turning back to look at the letters. She hears her door close. She can't be near these letters, not now, so she gathers them and shoves them towards the wall. Sarim whines.

"Not now," Maris says. "I can't. Later, but not now. You know, it's funny, boy-" he cocks his head at her, intently listening- "I- it never mattered what might have been. I kept thinking abstractly about 'what ifs' that didn't- didn't involve Na- him, but I never took them seriously. It was like imagining if I were queen or something; a daydream and nothing more. And you don't make your life plans based on what you dream, right? Because I never really thought I wouldn't end up with him and now-" her eyes burn and she feels tears forming, but she can't, what's the point because it won't change anything. Sarim licks her hand tentatively and nudges her with his head. She smiles at him, watching him trot away.

Imagining her life without Nathaniel is like imagining it without Sarim, who's been with her for five years, yet it seems so long. She has no idea what she would do without Sarim and she realizes that part of what she's feeling isn't just the loss of marrying Nathaniel, but what husband in his right mind would permit such a friendship to continue without a huge fight? She'll have to lose his friendship too and then there's Nathaniel himself; how would he feel shunted off to the side when he wasn't convenient enough for the Couslands? She knows her parents could still let her marry him, but it wasn't convenient and what would such a marriage bring to them in any case?

Would she want to keep that sort of friendship anyway? Would she be able to be a proper wife to a man when all it would take was a letter to Nathaniel to ruin it all? Would she rather have him piecemeal, permitted just to some parts of him, or not at all? The temptation would be an awful lot. And she's a Cousland, no matter what. There are some things she has to do. Like be a proper wife. Bear little heirs for some Maker-be-damned Ferelden nobleman. Do her duty to her family and country. None of those things fit into an old friendship with someone who might be a rival noble.

She takes a deep breath as she remembers that. There are some things she has to do. Whether or not she wants to is irrelevant. She's the daughter of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, groomed for something else, born to something more than what she wants, more than childhood love and friendships.

Sarim hops onto her bed and looks at her expectantly. That look is familiar and commanding as he believes he knows what will cure his mistress. Maybe he's right, for all she knows. Her mabari has never led her wrong before. Maris lies down beside him, burying her face in his furry neck, relishing that this essential part of her life is steady and unchanged.