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The majority of the allied army that assembled in Redcliffe thought that the Darkspawn would head straight for them. Redcliffe was after all the closest settlement to Ostagar and the raids, or rather the attempted raids, had been persistent for months. That assumption was shattered as soon as Warden Riordan returned from his scouting mission. After a hurried council of war the orders went out; march to Denerim.

The road to the capital was soon filled with soldiers. Human contingents made up the bulk of army. Some were lifelong military men; more than a few had survived Ostagar and were eager to avenge their defeat. Others were farmers and labourers, pressed into service by their liege lords, drilled and trained as quickly as possible to face the crisis, and suppress their fears. Their leaders were far more aware of the greater threat and were accordingly more nervous; some had horses and ships prepared for them if the worst happened, though none dared say such things openly.

The Dwarven army was resolute. They had after all been fighting the Darkspawn all their lives, most of them were more concerned with fighting on the surface. Open sky, vast empty space and strange plant life, the comfort of the Stone seemed distant indeed. But, the Warrior Caste reasoned, if a Casteless exile could survive up here then so would they.

Both the Human and Dwarf armies moved slowly along the road, hampered by their baggage train. Their progress might have been far more sluggish had it not been for the fact that they were screened by hundreds of Dalish scouts. Their arrows and daggers kept the roads clear and the army moving. Their eyes were watching constantly, wary of any ambushes or traps.

And between all of these groups stood the mages, with their Templar escort, both were totally unused to the rigours of warfare or, indeed the countryside. The human forces were curious and fearful, the Dwarfs quickly assessed the value of both groups and discreet offers of future employment were made. As for the Dalish their Keepers were kept away from the Templars while Eleven Mages were told they could be helped to escape their chains. Still they proved their worth, those that were wounded in the running skirmishes were healed by magic, while Darkspawn mages found themselves crippled by Templar's skills.

For all the differences and clashes of culture the army marched on. It would take three days for them to reach the capital.

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Arl Eamon was riding amongst the nobility, headed by the King and Queen, well guarded by Maric's Shield. He smiled to himself; overall things had gone well. Alistair was on the throne and, despite his earlier protests, was learning his role quickly.

Loghain had overreached himself and was finally in the political wilderness, with any luck he would die in battle. Unfortunately his daughter had managed to cling on to power by marrying Alistair. It had reconciled most of Loghain's supporters to the new regime, which could have been a serious problem but it also resurrected another issue. Anora had not produced any children and was rapidly approaching her thirties. Of course, if he was being completely honest with himself, that might not have been her problem. Calian had had no shortage of dalliances outside of the marriage bed but none of them had produced any offspring either. Still he could be patient, if Anora produced an heir and, preferably, several spares he'd be content to leave her be. If not… well he'd advised Calian and would advise Alistair, which would be all the more simple since he had been made Chancellor. Isolde would certainly be pleased to be away from Redcliffe and Teagan had proven to be a capable ruler during his illness, though his brother would need to marry soon as well. As for Connor… well there was no escaping the Chantry but he would have a talk with Knight Commander and see what allowances could be made for mages of noble blood. Perhaps if the Circle did well in battle their shackles might be loosened farther.

He turned to look at the Royal Couple; they did seem to be talking in a rather awkward fashion. Yes, Alistair's hatred of Loghain would stand between them. Their division would keep his influence strong. As long as the Blight was defeated the future was looking bright indeed.

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Alistair rode on a black stallion presented to him at Redcliffe. He was fairly sure that it was the one that was born a few days before he was sent off to the Chantry, funny that. The last few days had been the most frantic he ever remember, from a fugitive Grey Warden to being the centre of attention, with everyone he met bowing and calling him 'your Majesty'. As strange as it sounded fighting Darkspawn would almost be a relief; at least that was familiar.

He found that between all the meetings and all the knowledge he suddenly had to memorise that he missed the camp. He missed the smell of the fire, Leliana's music, Wynne's fussing, sparing with Odin, Sten and Cohen. He was even feeling nostalgic about Morrigan, that couldn't be a good sign. That was gone now, he couldn't enjoy going back with that treacherous bastard…

"Alistair"

He jumped, slightly. It was his… betrothed he supposed, she looked quite good in armour, even if it was obviously ceremonial. There were…. on the breastplate… he should probably stop looking there.

"Are you well?"

He blushed.

"Sorry," he stammered, "I was just thinking… about the battle."

That seemed to be a sensible answer.

She nodded, "As was I," there was a long pause.

"I must admit I never really any aptitude for warfare, or fighting of any kind."

Alistair was surprised by that.

"Didn't you have arms training when you were younger?"

"Oh yes, my archery was passable but swordplay was beyond me, and I haven't practiced either for years. As for a Blight well, that was something I did not anticipate ever facing."

"Darkspawn are vicious but none of them are master swordsmen and they die like any other creature."

She arched an eyebrow, "And the Archdemon?"

Alistair frowned, that wound was still fresh.

The Wardens have that covered."

"DARKSPAWN! ON THE LEFT! TO ARMS!"

Alistair's training kicked in automatically. He leapt off his saddle, sword and shield drawn. Others joined him in the charge. Ah, the clash of arms, his mind was clear of all worries and frustrations. One down, then another and another, he knew all of their tricks. There were only a handful of them so the fight was over quickly, almost too quickly really.

Once the last of them fell he looked around and wiped his sword clean on a patch of grass. No one seemed to be dead but why was everyone looking him? Then he noticed one of men nearby had an arrow in his shoulder.

"C'mon" he said as he approached the man, propping him up for good measure, "let's find a good healer."

The man looked at him like he'd grown a second head, but then blurted out his gratitude.

"T-thank you your majesty, you truly honour me!"

"Please, just call me Alistair."

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Anora had watched the skirmish and was forced to once again reassess her opinion of her future husband. The reports she had first got of him was that he was a capable enough Warden and Soldier but no leader, Warden Brosca had been the mastermind and everyone could see it. Once she met him her opinion developed, and not for the better. Admittedly his close resemblance to Calian had been rather unnerving, though in fairness that was hardly his fault. His blind vengeance towards her father however was as vicious and it was foolish. She was hardly blind to her father's mistakes in the last year but summarily executing him in cold blood was no solution, on any practical, legal or moral grounds. Of course by that point she had been forced into an arranged match with him to preserve her throne, something which didn't help her view. Nor, indeed did the Landsmeet. Alistair's frankly childish outburst at her father's survival had been an embarrassment to an otherwise brilliantly executed political manoeuvre.

Afterwards the glum thought crossed her mind that she had only two consolations with her new husband. The first was that he appeared to be completely uninterested in ruling, (another similarity to his half brother) which would be very convenient. The second was that he had no mistress or any other woman in his life. The possibility of having to deal with an up-jumped female rival fighting for influence would have been thoroughly vexing. But no; all the possible candidates within his group… well former group were clear. The Dark haired witch was with Brosca, and didn't get on with Alistair at all. The Circle mage was too old, although there did seem to be some motherly affection between the two of them. As for the Red headed Bard she seemed to treat him like a younger brother than any sort of potential paramour.

Many years ago her father told her that the best time to get to know someone was on the march, it was only now that she was starting to understand the wisdom of that statement. With Alistair separated from his group (his own fault in her mind) he had started in earnest to be a King, and her husband. The unease between the two of them was still there but that was starting to fade. Alistair seemed to be somewhat nervous around her, why she couldn't fathom, and had attempted to dodge that with humour, not very well. Still he was trying to be civil, which was something. He was also asking questions about ruling, which was a surprise, perhaps he would actually try to rule, which of course could be good or bad. But the fact that he was asking her not, for instance, Eamon was more gratifying than she cared to admit. Then there were the looks. Despite being several years younger than her he seemed to…admire her, followed by shyness and immediate denial, as had just happened when she caught him looking at her chest. That was useful and, she acknowledged to herself, rather flattering.

But it was the fight that truly changed her expectations. When the warning was sounded all that shyness and hesitation disappeared. Alistair swept into the battle ahead of his bodyguards and killed a dozen of the creatures without any assistance. She had felt paralysing fear from this unexpected assault; others had looked in panic when they saw their King charge headlong into battle. Eamon in particular, his schemes in mortal jeopardy, looked like he was about to have a heart attack. But that fear turned to amassment at his skill and the ease at which the Darkspawn died at Alistair's hands. Even more remarkable rather than rejoin the nobles he instead helped a wounded soldier find a healer.

A kind King who is a fine warrior

That was how Warden Brosca once described Alistair. She could play the Warrior Queen but being one was beyond her. Ultimately it had been beyond Calian as well but Alistair… even the men of Maric's shield, her father' most loyal supporters looked impressed. The aid to the soldier meanwhile… there was no pretence behind that; he just wanted to help the man. The common touch, contrary to the snide insinuations by some members of the nobility, was not something that came from having humble ancestors. Anora could handle the nobility well enough, but ordinary Feraldans, while they seem to like her, were people she really had nothing in common with. Alistair it seemed did and he knew how to relate to them. That was invaluable.

The Queen turned to Ser Cautherin, naturally she had just fought and witnessed the King's prowess. There was a grudging look of respect on her face.

"Ser Cautherin, do make sure the King survives this Blight."

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Far away the Gods of both worlds watched as an army and a horde converged on a city. Conversations were speculative as were the bets. Two gods however were still locked in concentration; their pieces were almost in place.

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Hello people, just a quick note to say this section was going to be a two-parter but it has grown somewhat and will probably be three before we hit the war. Enjoy, we're nearly there!

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