A/N: I don't own Dragon Age.

It occurs to me as I write this that I've read a lot of fanfiction and I mean a lot. The problem with this is that I've sort of begun to confuse Dragon Age lore/story with fanfiction I've read, and I've read enough to not even remember where I might've got certain bits. If something here seems overtly similar to a story you've read or written, please know that this is not intentional. I'd be more than happy to change that part of my story or to give credit where it's due if you PM me.

5th of Firstfall, 9:28 Dragon

She hasn't bothered to leave her room for four days. Fergus, her mother, her father, and Oriana have rotated in and out at various times and Oriana had brought Oren last time; none of them save Oren had elicited so much as a half-smile. She's quite cozy curled up in her bed with Sarim behind her, his nose nudging her every so often, and it seems a shame to ruin the perfect state of numbness she's managed to shield herself with.

There's a part of her that knows very well that she's acting no better than Habren or one of the usual girls who hang around the young men during balls. A friend of Habren's had once proudly described her state after being rejected by Arl Wulff's son as "I couldn't get out of bed for a week!" She needs to buck up and figure out which of the other three she still has to look at. That's far more important than worrying about- worrying about- well, she can't think it. Thinking about it makes it worse.

While she doesn't understand the insult (she knows it's an insult) of offering up a younger son, one who isn't yet a man, who isn't even the heir to Amaranthine, she knows that she needs to get on with her duties as a Cousland. Even though her father had said she needed to consider her duty to herself too, she wonders how long her father will let her avoid her responsibilities to indulge in her current favorite past time of looking at her bedroom ceiling. A decision needs to be made so he can mail out responses, an agreement hammered out, a formal announcement put in for Wintersend so the Revered Mother can announce it at Chantry services in Highever, Denerim, and… what ever area she might choose.

She just wishes she had a clue why Rendon Howe had decided on Thomas rather than Nathaniel. It had always seemed a given that they would be together, probably ending up as some silly Highever ballad composed by her father's minstrel. It was a very Ferelden kind of romance; and despite his unpleasantness, Maris remembers Rendon Howe's surprisingly vast knowledge of Ferelden tales, especially the romantic ones. His hard gray eyes softened when he's called on to tell a tale and Maker can Rendon Howe spin a tale. In another life he'd have been a bard. He certainly had an appreciation for romance and tales of glory, nobility, and even intrigue. His normally oily voice became strong and confident, smooth and polished like a silverite dagger fresh from a Dwarven smith.

Of course, she remembers some of Nathaniel's letters. He hadn't cared about the terynir and had been perfectly happy to inherit his lot. Perhaps Rendon Howe, his eyes always wandering elsewhere, had known that, though Maris is sure Nathaniel never would have told him on his own. Howe would want an ambitious son- or a pliable one. One he could manipulate, and poor young Thomas was that, in his own way. Oh, it was certainly still insulting, but she could understand his reasoning, even if it made her want to ride to Amaranthine, rip his heart out of his chest, and stomp on it until it was a barely twitching mass of tissue.

In the middle of pulling some blankets over her head again, Maris pauses. Yes, she's quite angry. And some of that anger is rational, but most of it isn't. At Rendon Howe (rational, she tells herself), Nathaniel for allowing himself to be shipped off (not rational, as he was loyal to family and his father had demanded it), her father for not proposing betrothals himself (perhaps somewhat rational, but a Cousland did not need to ask for betrothals; they came to the Couslands), her mother for reasons she couldn't fathom (not rational), even Fergus and Oriana for their happy marriage (not rational). Oriana had always been Fergus's first choice and it was the second betrothal envelope he had opened. Now they had a son and happiness and inside jokes. They would take over the terynir, become Teryn and Teryna of Highever, and live to see Oren become a young knight before beginning to learn his duties.

It's this that lets her think about Nathaniel again. There had been a dream she'd had once and she had only ever shared it with Nathaniel, his lips curling upwards as she described it. It started with the two of us, Nate. We were riding along a trail on our horses- it was near Vigil's Keep, I know- and suddenly when I looked over I saw a little boy riding in front of you. When I asked you who he was, you seemed confused at my question and said, "our son." Then we showed him how to track deer, set up a camp, the right way to roast venison on an improvised spit. And Nathaniel had said, thoughtful and quite serious, "I've always liked your father's name. Bryce Howe is a good name."

She presses the blankets to her eyes as they warm up. She hasn't cried. She can't. Crying is some sort of admission. It means she's lost.

Sarim wiggles his head into the gap between her arm and the bed. She smells his hot breath as he sticks his tongue out to lick her and whine.

"I know you don't like hanging around here with me," she says, pressing a kiss to his muzzle. "Go play with Oren. I'm sure he'd be thrilled-"

Sarim makes a deep sound in his throat, not quite a growl, clearly displeased. She knows what he's thinking. Oren is a fine young human, but he's not mine.

"What if I commanded you to?"

There's a faint growl, not necessarily a warning. Dirty tricks.

"I would, you know. You don't have to suffer on my account. I know you want to go run out in the fields or after Fergus on his horse. Even trailing after Oren would be more exciting."

He blows air out of his nose, a lesser form of his earlier almost-growl. Do I look like the most disloyal mabari in the Coastlands? As though to declare the conversation over, he lies his head right next to her cheek.

"You're such a good boy," she whispers. "You can go if you like, but I want you here with me."

She feels his stubby tail hit her leg a few times as he agrees with her. Yes, I am a good boy. Poor fellow. Sarim longs to stretch his bandy legs and be with the rest of the pack, particularly the pup, she knows, but he won't ever leave her. Is it fair to stay stuffed up in here, putting him through this? And not just him, but her parents and brother as well? Eleanor has asked her four times a day, "have you eaten, Maris?" and always presses her lips together as Maris mutely shakes her head. She leaves and returns a few hours later. Her father has tried to talk to her, receiving nothing more than disinterested glances and the occasional shake of her head. Fergus tries to goad her into answering and Oriana natters on about duty and sacrifice "for the family" and other things Maris can't think of.

It's easy to think of duty and sacrifice as noble when it colludes so neatly with what one already has, Maris thinks. For Oriana there has never been a doubt because there's never been a conflict.

I could run off to Starkhaven today. Be there within a week. Married to Nathaniel by this time next week.

And she could. She knows that. A life in the Free Marches as a potentially disowned Cousland with an inevitably disowned Howe. She doubts her parents would truly disown her, but she certainly wouldn't inherit anything, not that it bothers her very much. She and Nathaniel could simply become mercenaries or adventurers, living an itinerant lifestyle. The thought is one of the most appealing things that's ever gone through her head. Old Tevinter and Alamarri ruins, bandits, traveling by sea to Orlais, the Anderfels, Seheron, further into the Free Marches. There's so much to see in Thedas and she has always wanted to see it all.

And one of the most utterly mad and impractical things as well. Even if she showed in Starkhaven, would Nathaniel marry her? He has a strong sense of duty for his family. He knows what is expected of him and she knows that separating him from his brother and sister would be abominably cruel. Their haughty mother had never done them any favors except give birth and though the Rendon Howe she remembers from childhood is gone, she remembers how Nathaniel worships his father, who had essentially raised his children alone with a handful of servants here and there. The Howe children had stuck together for a lack of anyone else. No, she couldn't ask that of Nathaniel for the sake of his siblings.

Not to mention her own family. The scandal would be gossip for years. Did you hear what they did? No! A Howe and Cousland! Well, I always knew there was something off about those two, always off in the woods together. And as the years worse on, Denerim gossip would remember them every few years. Oh, those two? They have children now? Commoners, now, I imagine, since he was disowned and she may as well be. They're in Sehereon? They never were proper Fereldans, after all, what with his running off to the Free Marches and Bryce Cousland's relations with Orlesians.

Even though the thought of running off to Starkhaven is appealing, Maris knows she can't. There's always duty. Isn't that what marriage is truly about, especially in Thedas? She pulls the blanket off of her head and looks at the letters still on her desk. The three she knows she must think about are sitting there innocently; their contents would be a thrill to any other young noblewoman in Ferelden, the mark of a fortuitous alliance and beginning for her married life.

Teagan Guerrin, third in line to the Arling of Redcliffe, with a prosperous bann of his own in the beautiful Rainesfere. The green hills and blue waters are legendary for their looks and resources. It certainly doesn't hurt that Teagan is one of the best-looking noblemen along with his impeccable manners and self-discipline. Then there's Eamon Guerrin and his awful Orlesian wife, Isolde, with her nasally accented Ferelden. The mere thought of dinners with those possible in-laws is enough to give her a headache. Eamon would try to tell Teagan how to run his estate, bann, politics, and perhaps even his wild wife from the Coastlands, probably all while Isolde scolded her for wearing her trousers to dinner. Isolde might even try to paint her face up like an Orlesian noble, which is a sickening thought. Ferelden women don't need to bother with such frivolities, but Isolde seems to believe she still lives in an off-shoot of Orlais (which probably isn't all that inaccurate from what she does believe, Maris thinks with a scowl).

And then Oswyn, the affable epitome of Ferelden nobility? He's not a bad sort, really. He likes hunts, drinking, and a bit of rough-housing, like any proper Fereldan man. His father, Bann Sighard, is a fine bann and she has only ever heard her father speak positively of him, except for one time when he made a disparaging remark about Rendon Howe. Though Bryce had chided him, Maris realizes she's looking kindly on him precisely because of his remark, which is both satisfying and puerile. Rendon Howe makes vipers seem personable.

Oswyn wouldn't be terrible, she thinks. Perhaps she could persuade him to let her go on hunts with him. Eventually she thinks she could be happy with him, once the hurt of Nathaniel lessens, even if she's not sure that's ever going to happen.

Come to think of it, though, she wonders how much independence she'd have with him. He was a proper Ferelden sort and that went beyond hunts; his mother is a meek woman, used to letting her husband and son speak for her. Maris chews her bottom lip unthinkingly. Would she be expected to follow such things? Not, she thinks, that Oswyn of Dragon's Peak could control a Cousland. He would know better than to try, but still…

"What do you think, Sarim?" she asks. "Oswyn of Dragon's Peak?"

He opens one eye from where he's napping and gives no indication as he looks at her and closes it again.

"Fat lot of help you are," she says, huffing. Her eyes trail to the letters again and her gut twists unpleasantly.

Loghain Mac Tir. The Hero of River Dane, the man who had orchestrated the strategies that had secured Ferelden's freedom from Orlais. Nathaniel had been perfectly happy to pretend to be Loghain Mac Tir to her King Maric. She and Fergus had been raised with legends of Loghain Mac Tir, taught to revere him at their father's knee, regardless of his origins. And now he's written about her for a marriage betrothal? It would be a powerful alliance between the only two terynirs left in Ferelden; once the teryns allied it would be far easier to force certain arls and banns into some semblance of political unity. They were independent, but once particular liege-lords allied it was much easier to get them to fall into line. Maris knows the political ramifications are largely beyond her, but they must be good for Highever if her father had given her Loghain Mac Tir's letter. These were some of the things he'd have considered before giving them to her.

How would Habren react if she married Loghain Mac Tir? Habren had always had something of a hero worship for him, fueled in part by some fixation on his eyes, which if Habren were to be believed were a beautiful light blue. All Maris remembers from her dance with him is how much larger he is than her, how the top of her head had come up to just his chin and that his forearms were massive and she'd been terrified the whole time while one of his hands was in the proper place just above her hip and the other had the other, encompassing it. She'd never been so relieved to be returned to Fergus's clumsy dancing, even if his feet stepped on hers a few times.

Maris gets out of bed, retrieving the letters and looking them over again. They all the say the same thing, though Loghain Mac Tir's is to the point and barebones; she is surprised it had not been a single sentence of "I want to marry your only daughter and you know this will benefit both of our terynirs so agree, Cousland" rather than the faintly polite two paragraphs it is. She sits back down next to Sarim. She holds the three letters near him.

"Which one?" she asks. "I need your advice. You're such a smart boy, Sarim. You're fierce, smart, and loyal, the standard to which all mabari should be held."

He opens his eyes and blows air out of his nose. She recognizes his attitude. Yes, I know. Don't overdo it, though, or I won't be able to believe you. He sticks his nose to each parchment, breathing in deeply. He gives Teagan Guerrin's a few more thoughtful sniffs, wagging his tail slowly. When his nose hits the paper from Loghain Mac Tir, he only takes one more and his tail wags quickly as he gives a low, agreeable bark. Maris looks down uncertainly at that letter. She trusts Sarim's judge of characters quite a bit more than any person's, except her father's. Sarim's approval means something to her, even if she has no idea what she's doing now. She lies back on her bed, the letters lying on her stomach.

Loghain Mac Tir would give her independence. She knows this from her very brief acquaintance with Queen Anora, who had been raised with no disadvantage to her male peers. Her tutors had been the same as King Cailan's for history, geography, logic, some mathematics, languages, rhetoric. The queen is a strong woman and queen and much more of a ruler than the king. Maris knows better than to think such things aloud, though she knows her father finds Cailan charming, but vapid and inefficient, concerned more with where he might be going for drinks that night than trade issues. Once Bryce had approached the queen regarding some Highever trade issues they had been resolved in mere weeks, the same amount of time it had taken to even get Cailan's interest.

Well, perhaps Anora wasn't the best comparison. Maris remembers old court gossip about his first wife, a commoner named Celia. She had been largely left alone at his estate in Gwaren. Maybe for another woman that might be a problem, but for her it was nearly ideal. The time she'd have to spend at court would be minimal, if she wanted it that way. She had been raised to run a terynir, even if Fergus is the heir. Bryce is cautious, after all. With all the time Loghain spent in Denerim, she might not even have to see him very much.

She tries not to think of how marrying Loghain Mac Tir would gloriously feel like she's thumbing Rendon Howe in the eye. She tries not to think of who Loghain Mac Tir is not because she's acutely aware of that. She knows he is his own man with habits, prejudices, and paranoia engrained in him. He doesn't (or can't, maybe) write in script like other noblemen. She knows her father would disapprove of her thought, but she tries not to remember he hadn't even a family name until King Maric bestowed one on the man declared to be "Maric's Butcher."

Mostly as she pulls herself up and out of bed, disinterestedly getting dressed in a shirt and trousers, Maris tries not to think of how Nathaniel had always been the Loghain Mac Tir to her King Maric when they had played as children.

A few hours later as Maris stands outside of her father's study, she begins having second thoughts. She should think about this more, shouldn't she? Isn't this madness, getting married to someone she doesn't know (she doesn't know any of them, she reminds herself, except for Thomas)? But it's not really madness. Her father would have carefully screened letters and given her the best ones, thinking them over himself and with her mother. She trusts her parents implicitly, even if she doesn't always get along with her mother. Who would she trust aside from her parents and brother? She's just sixteen-

Just sixteen, she thinks to herself and presses the palm of her hand over her mouth to stop from giggling. It had seemed like such a mature age on her name day, a year of planning and considering the rest of her life, but she hadn't bothered. And now she's paying for that lapse. She remembers once when she had been very young, chattering to Nan about Fergus's lessons with blunted short swords, and how she would love to end up in the army, fighting and defending Ferelden. Nan had looked at her and smiled like she hurt, saying chidingly, life doesn't always turn out like you plan, sweets.

Her father's study seems less important now. She holds her hand up to knock and pulls it back down. Nan is surely a short walk away in the kitchens and Maris makes the walk, her breathing just a bit easier as she thinks of Nan's honest and warm scolding. When she steps through the threshold, Nan's assistants look at her with surprise. Nan herself is muttering about how you can't trust an elf in the kitchen, for Maker's sake. They'll just burn everything. Maris clears her throat and Nan looks up.

"Good to see you back among us," she says briskly, going over and ushering Maris to the bench of a table. "Salem, get Maris some light ale, the Lothering cheese, bread, and some of that boar."

There's a split second where Nan's old calloused hand is on her cheek, caressing it lovingly, and then it's gone.

"Nothing from your Nathaniel then?" she asks in an undertone. Maris just shakes her head. "Well then Rendon Howe is a fool, my girl. You'll be an asset wherever you and your parents decide- get out, get out! Maris, your hound-"

"Sarim," Maris says, grinning at the sight of Sarim lurking just inside the doorway. He looks at her pleadingly. "Sarim, you heard her. Wait for me just outside."

"Great bloody dog," Nan mutters, all tenderness gone. "A horse, more like."

"He's my handsome horse though," Maris says, falling into a familiar argument with Nan.

"And lucky that," Nan says. "Any hound but that of the lord's child would have met his end with some particular roots long ago-"

Sarim gives a plaintive whine from his spot just outside the door. Salem smiles tentatively at Maris and sets down a plate of food and a tankard in front of her.

"Thanks," Maris says. "Nan, look, you've hurt his feelings-"

"I am not apologizing to that brute. Not again."

As Maris eats the familiar banter with Nan makes something in her feel right again, centered and back to where it should be, mostly. It still feels a bit off-kilter, but she feels like she can face her father now. The letters tucked into her waistband are poking her in the fleshy part of her stomach. When her plate is empty, Maris looks hopefully at Nan.

"We don't have any of those odd Antivan fruits from Oriana's family left, do we?"

"Those round orange ones?"

"Yes, those-"

"They're in the bottom drawer, but if you insist. My old bones can just get on and off the floor with naught a care-" Nan tosses it to her and Maris pulls her hunting knife from her boot, cutting a line into it before beginning to peel it. The low chatter from Salem and her sister in the hall dies down and Maris is picking apart the orange into its slices as her mother walks in.

"I'm glad to see you up and about," Eleanor says.

"A Cousland does their duty," Maris says, shrugging and looking down, intent on her orange. It's a fascinating fruit- well, perhaps not, but it seems fascinating right now.

"Your father's back in his study," Eleanor says. "We should go and see him now."

Maris wants to argue, but the tone in her mother's voice is like well-forged steel. She stands and looks briefly at Nan, who is busy berating Salem again, then she follows Eleanor out, snapping her fingers for Sarim. Bryce is bent over a ledger in his study, his fingers ink stained and pressed against his temples. When Maris walks in, he looks up and smiles. Whether it's relief or something else Maris can't tell, but seeing her father smile helps her nervousness.

"Have you a decision?" he asks, gesturing for her to sit in one of his chairs.

"I think," she says, pulling the letters out. "These four-" the two foreign ones, one from Arl Urien, and the other from Bann Ceorlic were thrown to her father's desk- "no. There wasn't much contemplation there, duty or not, Father. I- I'm not leaving Ferelden. My duty is to Ferelden. Vaughan Kendells is a repellent man- did you hear what he tried to do to Arl Wulff's oldest daughter? I'm surprised Geoffrey didn't run him through for his sister's sake. Bann Ceorlic- I can't be married to a man with no backbone or morals and that's what he is; he sides with Teryn Loghain on everything because he's frightened to cross him."

Bryce picks up the letters and looks at them. Though his face is stoic, Maris can't help but think he's trying not to look relieved or to smile.

"That's your right," is all he says, tucking the letters into his desk drawer to write graceful rejections later. Maris doesn't mistake her mother's soft sigh as anything but relief, especially when Eleanor's hand on her knee squeezes.

"Bryce, I've told you that Vaughan Kendells' actions aren't merely those of a rambunctious boy," she says quietly. "They are serious indiscretions and indecent."

Bryce only frowns before motioning to Maris to continue. She still has four letters. She pulls out Bann Sighard's and shakes her head, genuinely regretful about this one. Oswyn really wouldn't be terrible. She could grow to enjoy his company, perhaps even be an equal partner with enough persuasion and time, but given the political and economic ramifications of her two choices she knows as the teryn's daughter she has a duty to choose one of the others.

"I really like Oswyn," she says, "and Bann Sighard is wonderful and fair, if a bit strict, but he's- Oswyn simply isn't my best option. Politically and economically, it would be sound enough, but- I have someone better."

It does hurt a bit as her father takes that letter. He knows to write a genuinely regretful rejection for Bann Sighard to soothe over any bad feelings. Sighard is canny enough to understand it when her betrothal is officially announced.

"And this one," Maris says, pulling out the hateful one from Rendon Howe, unable to stop herself from pulling a face, "I don't- I can't even understand the insult, Father. For Thomas? Thomas-" Eleanor's hand moves to her forearm and gives her what's meant to be a reassuring squeeze- "I can't- I know he's your best friend, but Thomas is far too young. He's not even inheriting Amaranthine. He'll be given some land and commissioned somewhere. Nathaniel told me that a few years ago."

Bryce frowns and says nothing as he takes the letter. Maris thinks he looks confused, but she has to press her own emotions down and can't focus on her father right now. This is one of those things she knows she's going to have to do better at once she's around court. Suppress your own emotions and listen to everyone around you, Pup, she hears her father saying. You'll learn a lot that way.

The hand her mother has on her arm is nearly painful now and Maris shakes it off. Eleanor places it on her knee again and Maris doesn't bother to displace it.

"Bann Teagan wouldn't be so bad," Maris says. "I like him and- if it were the two of us in Rainesfere I think- we could be happy. He's certainly a good man. I know such an alliance would prove valuable; Tea- Bann Teagan is very popular amongst his brother's vassals, enough so that with your additional support you might have nearly unanimous southern support in the Landsmeet, if necessary. Economically, we- Highever would benefit from our proximity to Rainesfere. As one of the close ports, we'd be able to do a lot more exporting and importing with such an alliance."

"There's a but here," Eleanor says, sounding resigned. Bryce seems to miss the resignation in Eleanor's voice, but Maris is bolstered by the smile on his face.

"Arl Eamon," Maris says. She presses her lips together as she gathers her thoughts. "If I may speak plainly about him, Father?-" Bryce gives a short nod- "I know he's fairly popular and generally he isn't too awful, but I know you have a dislike for him. He's scheming and not in a Ferelden way. It's almost Orlesian, underhanded and in the shadows. It's very like he plays a persona as a good Fereldan nobleman, but it feels flimsy. It makes me uneasy. And Bann Teagan, for all his good and noble actions and thoughts, is not only susceptible to his brother's influence, but is Eamon's vassal and subject to him. It's- disconcerting and not a tenable position."

"You have thought about this," Bryce says, taking the letter. "I think I can write Teagan a letter both saying and not saying all of those things."

"And the thought of Isolde as my sister-in-law is more than I can possibly bear," Maris says, grimacing.

"I won't mention that part," Bryce says dryly. "Though I'm sure she'll be devastated as well."

Maris snorts and takes a deep breath, setting the final letter down. The wyvern is staring at her, she is sure. Criticizing, evaluating, and finding her lacking. Well, too bad. A betrothal was generally not withdrawn except in dire circumstances and nearly impossible once both parties agreed. Helped keep threats down to a minimum, for one.

"I believe Teryn Loghain's offer is the best for our family," she says, trying to make herself sound as confident as she had felt in the few minutes where it had seemed like the best possible outcome for her. "A marriage would be a statement of political unity between the Mac Tirs and Couslands at a time when the banns and arls are getting complacent- and using their more numerous votes to stall laws and issues. While I don't expect you and Teryn Loghain to agree on everything, I think this would help alleviate some of the- concerns circulating, allowing for peaceful compromise."

And by "concerns circulating," Maris politely means the rabble-rousing caused by Arl Eamon, who seems to believe his noble blood entitles him to something more than his arling, even if he'd been a bloody coward and stayed away during the Rebellion. Plenty held him in contempt for that and his marriage, but he still held just enough sway to keep the banns squabbling among themselves rather than seeing the larger picture.

She sees her father nod briefly, his expression very business-like.

"What of the economic benefits?" he asks politely, as though she's presenting her lessons with Aldous to him to make sure she's keeping up properly.

"Gwaren's mining and lumber industries would be a boon to Highever," Maris says, knowing she's playing it by ear, not having even thought about economic concerns. "We have some mining and lumber, but not nearly what they have. In return, imports from other countries in Thedas would flow easier to Gwaren if they had an agreement with us rather than their current one with Amaranthine."

"Certainly," Bryce murmurs, looking down and tracing the wyvern seal with his fingers. Then he looks up and smiles. "You certainly did quite well making that last bit up, though I supposed if you'd really needed to consider such things you would have been able to do more thorough research and consideration."

His eyes fall back to the letter and his smile falters.

"Teryn Loghain then, Pup?" he asks. "Are you sure? Once he receives the letter, it'll be difficult to get out of and once the contract is signed it'll be impossible-"

"I don't have much choice," she says, not looking him in the eyes. "I know that whatever political and economic ramifications it would bring are good for Highever- you wouldn't have given me that letter otherwise. I- I think he's the most likely to offer me some level of independence and it would let me be a teryna. I can run things while he's gone to Denerim (and he usually is, you know). I like him well enough and I'm sure I'd find- I'd find some contentment, at least."

Bryce stares at her for a moment and then lets the letter stay on his desk.

"Alright," he says quietly. "I'll write to him this afternoon so the letter can be with the courier to Amaranthine in the evening."

Maris stops herself from shuddering as Bryce picks up the letter and places it in a separate drawer from the others.

"Do you need me for anything else, Father?"

"Not for now," Bryce says. "Why don't you go find Fergus and Oren? He mentioned something about showing Oren some sword stances."

Sarim's ears perk up at the mention of Oren and he's to the door before Maris even gets up. Eleanor removes her hand and stays seated; Maris can see that her mother is biting her lip to stop herself from speaking. Spending the afternoon with Fergus and Oren sounds like the best distraction she could have hoped for and she quickly leaves her father's study, first going to her room for a few more minutes to herself. She closes the door and wishes she could bolt it, but presses her back to the door and slides down, taking a few deep breaths. She can hear Sarim outside the door, scratching and whining to be let in.

"That wasn't so bad," she whispers to herself as she covers her face with her hands, pressing the heels into her eyes so all she sees is colorful blasts. "It could have gone worse. At least Father didn't press me about Thomas or the others. I made my case for Teryn Loghain and I didn't say I wanted to marry any of them. He didn't interfere or insist otherwise."

She looks at her desk and unsteadily gets up, sitting down and pulling a piece of parchment to her. She inks her quill and presses down, looping his familiar name together quickly.

Nathaniel

I'm sorry

But what is she supposed to say? Despite all their promises to one another, she's nearly betrothed to another man, pending banns and the negotiation of the betrothal contract. She's done so with just a few days of moping around and strong reminders about Cousland duty. No matter how many nights they had spent together, whispering in the pantry or running through the woods and fields around the castle, she's thrown it all away for Cousland duty. Nathaniel had given up his father's pride and consideration for her, many times over, and had probably even been banished to the Free Marches for his father's derision of "Bryce's little spitfire," essentially abandoning Thomas and Delilah. Her strong personality and Nathaniel's headstrong attitude weren't what Rendon Howe had imagined when he had introduced them as small children. Maris knows he had wanted them to marry, but not like this, not with love and determination to do what they desired.

Cousland duty. The phrase interrupts her thoughts and causes her to hold the quill tightly. She feels it snap under her fingers and she drops it on the parchment with Nathaniel's name, ink spattering all over it. She looks at it listlessly. Maybe that was symbolic somehow. What is she supposed to be sorry for? She suspect they've both broken promises made to each other, even if this is probably the worst, and she knows he'll understand, which is somehow the worst part. That Nathaniel will understand and know why they could not be together.

"Fuck Cousland duty," she says under her breath. Maris looks up quickly, chewing her bottom lip out of nervous habit, but why in the Maker's name would her parents be standing there? It's a childish, ridiculous thought.

"Fuck Cousland duty," she says again, more confidently and she likes how it rolls off of her tongue, even if she knows there's no point. Her words are different from her actions; she has done her duty anyway.

She can say what she likes in her bedroom. No matter how puerile it is, she can and why should she care? No one had cared about what she had wanted, not really, only what she could do to further the family. She had been lucky that her father had even let her consider among the betrothal inquiries and hadn't just told her she was to be married on this date at this time and in this Chantry. She knows it happens occasionally, though it's generally frowned on and considered vulgar.

"Maris?" she hears Fergus ask. There's a hesitance in his voice even as his knock is strong.

"Auntie?" she hears Oren chirp. "Auntie, Papa's going to show me sword stances! Will you come-"

"Oren, she might be talking to Granddad still," Fergus says.

"But why's Sarim's out here then?"

"I'm in here," Maris says, getting up and opening the door. Fergus sees the parchment on her desk and raises an eyebrow.

"Getting to know your betrothed already?"

"Are you betrothed, Auntie?" Oren demands to know. He's sitting on the floor, patting Sarim's muzzle as Sarim closes his eyes in contentment.

"Not officially, sweet," Maris says.

"But when?"

"It depends on what Granddad does. He's the one arranging it-"

"But I want cousins now!"

Maris opens her mouth to respond, but puts a hand over her face instead. Deterred for a few minutes by the lack of an immediate response, Oren turns back to Sarim.

"Oh, Maker," she says faintly.

"Who did you-" Fergus starts to say.

"Teryn Loghain," she says in the same faint voice.

"Oh."

"Frog," she says, "I- I'll have to- to do that with him. He's- he's old and Maker Anora is older than I am- and he's twice my size-" she stops, not wanting to think of any more.

"Auntie, what's 'that' and who's 'him'?" Oren asks. Maris looks at Fergus, whose mouth is open in horror. Whether at her sudden realization, Oren's question, or a combination of both, she doesn't know and looks back to Oren.

"Never you mind," she says firmly, taking one of his hands and pulling him up. She grabs him under his arms and hoists him over her head so he sits on her shoulders, where he squeals with delight.

"The training room, Auntie! Papa's still going to show me sword stances!"

Fergus follows her as she begins to walk down the corridor, Oren reveling in his sudden height increase. Fergus takes her elbow and slips his arm through hers. He leans over and whispers to her, "Gwaren is 324 miles from Amaranthine, you know."

She raises an eyebrow at him.

"I looked it up while you were with Father."

"You couldn't have known I would choose him," she murmurs so Oren won't hear.

"I looked up Rainesfere too," he says. "Gwaren is actually two miles further away from Amaranthine than Rainesfere."

324 miles. That's as far as I can get from Rendon Howe and Amaranthine without declaring myself Avvar and running off to the Frostbacks or joining the Chasind in the Korcari Wilds.

"You're brilliant, Frog," Maris says, grinning at him for the first time in days.