Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T
Spoilers: Takes place ten years or more after the events of Dragon Age: Origins, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.
Chapter Three: A Cold Day in Denerim
Anora sat rocking and stitching peacefully in the nursery while Duncan drew pictures of warriors and dragons and Baby Anora played with her building blocks and occasionally threw them at her mother or brother in a fit of baby pique. Struck in the shin with one such lightly flung missile, Anora's response was a thin, slightly unwilling smile. Maker save the King, his daughter had the bellicose personality of her maternal grandfather.
Alistair poked his head around the doorjamb only a few minutes after she had that thought, and rather shyly requested entrance into the shrine of babydom. That in and of itself was unusual, for the King reveled in the nursery and did a good deal to increase pandemonium and mischief with his willingness to join in with his children's games, and took it as a matter of course that after a long, hard day ruling the country, which he hated having to do, he should be allowed an hour or two to have full swing with his little ones.
"Yes, you may enter, of course you may, do come in," Anora said, with that dry smile that said she was aware her husband was having her on in some as-yet unspecified leg-pull.
"Anora, do you recall, some years ago, when you asked me if there was a possibility that I would allow your father to return to court someday, and I said quite jokingly that it would be a 'cold day in Denerim,' and you threw rather a large book of Antivan political reforms at me?"
She stabbed her needle savagely into the pinafore she was embroidering, though she still smiled. "Yes, I remember."
Alistair shivered theatrically and stepped out of the doorway. "Brr. Chilly in here, isn't it?"
A huge dark figure stepped in to fill the space he'd vacated, and at first Anora could not credit her own eyes. It couldn't be…
"Hey, that's the man I met in the market," Duncan said.
Anora rose slowly to her feet, allowing her needlework to fall unheeded to the floor. "Hallo, dear," Loghain said. "Motherhood suits you, it seems. You look well."
"Father…" she said. She made a valiant effort to maintain proper decorum befitting a woman who'd been queen for more than a decade and a half, but halfway across the floor her resolve broke and she covered the last ten feet or so at an undignified pace that called to mind the little girl with blonde pigtails who'd run to greet her father after a long absence. She threw her arms around his neck and he hugged her tight.
When he put her down she stepped back and looked him over critically. "You've gone gray," she said.
"Ha! That started happening around about the time you were born, not that I'm suggesting there's a correlation."
She continued to stare fixedly at him, not at the iron that had crept into his black locks over the years or even at the new lines in his hatchet-carved face, but at his clothes - a simple sleeveless jerkin of the style worn by the common Ferelden man-at-arms, padded but not particularly protective, and a heavy leather coat. "What?" he asked.
"I'm just wondering when was the last time I saw you in anything other than plate armor."
His only response was a noncommittal grunt.
Duncan came forward then, a look of reproach on his face. "Ser…you're my grandfather?" he asked. It sounded like an accusation.
"I…yes, my prince, I am."
"Why didn't you tell me so before?"
Loghain squatted down so that he was eye-to-eye with the boy. "I didn't know how, or whether I had any right."
The boy considered that for a moment, then said decidedly, "I suppose I forgive you, then. But you still should have said something, rather than walk away and leave me." He ran to his sister and dragged her forward by one arm. "This is Anora. Say hello to grandfather, Annie."
The little girl's chubby angel face twisted up into something ugly and baleful. She took the block she was chewing out of her mouth and threw it into Loghain's face with a powerful, "No!" Loghain caught the block before it could strike him.
"Little spitfire, eh?" he said calmly. "Reminds me of someone else."
The little girl tore herself from her brother's grip and toddled as quick as her short little legs could take her straight for her father, who caught her up and held her tight. She hid her face in his chest and glared suspiciously at her grandfather with only one enormous blue eye visible.
"She's a trifle…willful," Anora the elder said with a note of apology in her voice.
"She's a daughter of Kings and Mac Tirs," Loghain said, standing up fairly easily considering the age of his knees. "In other words, my dear, you're doomed."
"I believe she's tired," Alistair said, though the triumphant note in his words indicated he was happy there was one other soul in the room who shared his mistrust of the former Teyrn. "I shall put her down for an N-A-P," he spelled, knowing his daughter's aversion to the n-word. Too bad for him, she had learned to spell that particular word. "Noooooooo!" she shrieked defiantly, the word trailing off only because she was borne away through corridors of thick stone walls that blocked the sound.
"She's got lungs, hasn't she?" Loghain observed.
"Alistair envisions a future for her as a proud shield maiden, terrifying her enemies with her powerful battle cry. He does get a bit out of sorts, however, when I make mention of the fact that that would be following in her grandfather's footsteps. He seems to think his own war cry as intimidating as yours, and I haven't the heart to tell him that his screams are a bit on the anemic side," Anora said.
"And what of this young man?" Loghain said, turning to Duncan. "Warrior or politician?"
"A bit of both, though I think his aspirations may include becoming a great artist as well," Anora said, and stroked her son's blond hair.
"Very ambitious. Do you draw, young prince, or paint, or what?"
"I should like to try my hand at sculpture, but mother says I mayn't do more than clay modeling until I'm older. I have some drawings - would you like to see them?" the boy said eagerly.
"I should like that very much, my prince."
The boy ran for the stack of papers he'd been working on with the boundless energy and enthusiasm of youth, causing his crusty grandfather, who'd lost his youth early and in a particularly difficult and dramatic fashion, to smile. The boy came skipping back again and, suddenly shy, showed his charcoal drawings of warriors and dragons.
"I've not an eye for art myself," Loghain admitted, "and I don't suppose I can tell good from bad, but these seem very well done to me. Your dragons in particular look terrifically fierce. I wonder that any warrior would have the courage to face them."
"Have you ever seen a real dragon, grandfather?" Duncan asked.
"Yes, I have."
"Did you slay it?"
"Not myself alone." But he had struck the killing blow, against both the shapeshifter Flemeth and the High Dragon worshipped by the cult of Andraste.
"Did it frighten you?"
"Dragons are frightening creatures, my prince."
"Mother, was that a proper answer?" Duncan asked.
"No, my son, but my father doesn't like to admit that he is human enough to feel fear."
Loghain's mouth twisted up into a reluctant grin. "Very well, since you require a proper answer that only a mortal man could give - yes, I was very afraid."
"And still you faced the dragon?"
"You do what you have to do, my prince."
Duncan pondered deeply for a moment, face drawn into a quizzical knot. "Grandfather…are you a Hero? I have read some histories that say you are, but I have read others that say you are not."
"No, my prince. I am no Hero. There was a time when I was seen as such, but I successfully proved history wrong."
"We will talk about this when you are older, Duncan," Anora said quickly. Her eyes telegraphed "shut up" at her father.
"I know - it was what happened during the Blight," Duncan said. "Because you abandoned the field at the Battle of Ostagar, and because the Banns stood against you, and because you stood against the Warden until she defeated you in single combat at the Landsmeet."
"Yes, my prince. That is exactly correct."
"But what I don't understand is why that happened."
"I wish I had a good explanation for you, my prince, but unfortunately the only reason I have is that I was afraid."
"Of Orlais?"
"Yes."
"I'm afraid of Orlais, too."
"Duncan, whatever for?" Anora said.
The boy looked uncomfortable. "I know that you and papa don't want me to hear you when you speak of such things, mother, but sometimes I can't help it. I've heard you talking with your advisors about how some of the nobles in Orlais want the Empress to go to war against us." He drew himself up to his full four feet of height and looked as directly as possible at his tall grandfather. "If it happens, Ser, you will help father fight them off, won't you?"
"My boy, I don't know that he would welcome my assistance, or even that I should offer it. But your father is a great warrior in his own right - you needn't fear that he requires the help of an old man like me. With the troubles the Chantry is having with the templars and mages fighting, I don't think it likely that anyone is really seriously contemplating going to war right now anyway. They're all too worried about losing the Maker's favor."
He sent the boy back to his drawing, saying that he'd like a chance to speak to Duncan's mother. "You were in Orlais, father," Anora said quietly when they were alone. "Do you really think they won't attack?"
He sighed. "I left some months ago, you understand, but there was a growing voice amongst the ruling classes that called for invasion. Ferelden's defenses are still weak, the unblighted lands not fertile enough to keep our armies fed through an extended siege, and that with our own difficulties between templar and mage they expect us to be distracted enough to be easy pickings. They want our port cities back, and to erase the embarrassment of the Rebellion from the histories, and it seems they don't find Alistair nearly as willing to capitulate for peace as they evidently expected Cailan to be. They might have satisfied themselves with some sort of accord with him, but Alistair they'd prefer to crush."
"Celene is still treating with us," Anora said.
"And hopefully she has the strength to keep her wolves at bay," Loghain said, but his tone suggested he doubted it. "There are few in the Orlesian court that seem to agree with her diplomatic policies with regards to Ferelden. I know I shattered any illusion that I am capable of being objective with regards to the subject of Orlais, but I would be very surprised if they didn't move against us within the next few years. Perhaps sooner even than that."
"Alistair…is a fine warrior…" Anora said, with a crease of worry between her brows, "but he's bollocks as a tactician."
"Then it is fortunate that he has you."
"You taught me, father, but I've never been tested."
He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled reassuringly, or at least it was meant that way. "Don't go buying trouble, my dear. I'm a bloody-minded old man and I've always been paranoid, particularly about the Chevaliers, so put the thought from your mind for now. There'll be warning enough if it ever comes to pass, and if worse really comes to worst I have faith in your brains, my girl. If I have any claim to intelligence at all you're a thousand times smarter than I."
"I will be sanguine, father, if I have your assurance that if they do invade you will help in any way you can - even if we cannot let Alistair know you're helping."
Loghain's smile became pained. "If I am able, Anora, I promise you, I will help."
That night, as she prepared for bed, Anora surprised Alistair with a rare unsolicited kiss. "Thank you, husband," she said. "I know this cannot be easy for you, and I am grateful. For the first time in years I feel as if the world was finally coming back around to something that feels like normal. I know you think my father must always have been a traitorous bastard, and I'll admit he's hardly the sweetest turd in the shithouse, but - "
Alistair laughed out loud. "'The sweetest turd in the shithouse?' Your majesty, that was a decidedly crass thing for such a fine queen as yourself to say."
Anora smiled. "I was taught the wiles of diplomacy by your father, but my father taught me how to fight and, if inadvertantly, how to curse." She picked up her brush and began smoothing out her long hair, though normally she would wait for her handmaiden Erlina to assist her with that. "In any event, what I was trying to say is, he's my father, and even if he isn't gentle I love him. I still can't quite wrap my mind entirely around what happened with the Couslands, and Arl Eamon, and the Alienage, and Ostagar...part of me thinks it must all have been Howe's doing, and my father just another victim of the man's poison."
"Your father never exactly denied any of the charges against him, except for sending the blood mage Jowan to poison Arl Eamon."
"But you see, husband, it doesn't surprise me in the least that my father would accept blame for things he had no knowledge of provided he could see they'd happened. He would consider Howe under his charge, even if not his control, and my father always taught me that you are responsible for the actions of those under your command."
"Jowan said your father hired him personally. He recognized him from portraits."
"Which has always puzzled me greatly. My father considered sitting for portraits a waste of time and treasury money, and I've never seen a depiction of him that looks anything like him. Our son didn't recognize him from his portraiture - could you?"
"They do seem...rather misinformed about certain features," Alistair admitted reluctantly. "Like the fact that he isn't a dragon or a mabari hound, though in my opinion he could as easily be either."
"The portraitist King Maric hired to paint father took rather a dislike to him, for some unaccountable reason," Anora said, with a wry smile. "He went out of his way to make him as bestial as possible."
Alistair sighed. "So perhaps Jowan lied about who hired him, or perhaps he was mistaken. Mages don't get much political training, I know, even Templars are pretty well cut off from the goings-on of the outside world, so perhaps he was even hired by Howe and only assumed in some way that it was Loghain, though the man wasn't a shadow of your father."
Anora put down her brush and squared off before her husband. "I would never ask you to trust my father, Alistair, not after what he did. Regardless of whether or not he was personally guilty of every atrocity committed during the Blight he was certainly guilty enough, and even I cannot entirely forgive him for it. But he is a man of honor. He damaged that honor horribly by doing what he thought was necessary, but I can't believe he destroyed it utterly. Don't trust him, husband, but don't discard him. He could be a tremendous aid to us if...something untoward were to happen."
"An Orlesian invasion," Alistair said bluntly.
"There are other helps he could give us, husband, but yes. That is the worst-case scenario I believe it wise to plan for."
Alistair's mouth twisted into a moue of revulsion, but he said grimly, "I'll take it under advisement, my dear. Maker knows I'm no tactician, but somehow I find it difficult to place myself and my country in the hands of a man who betrayed my brother to his death."