Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 107: Red Queen in the Emerald City
Bronwyn was delighted to find reinforcements awaiting her at the Rock. She waved at Wulffe and Corbus, who were standing outside to greet her as she rode in.
"Well met, Your Majesty!" cheered Wulffe, brushing a groom aside, and holding Bronwyn's horse himself as she dismounted. He leaned forward to growl confidentially. "and well done, dear lass!"
She clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "You're not a moment too soon. I have plans. Let's talk upstairs."
Then she put out her hand to Corbus, who dutifully kissed it. Not satisfied with that, she pulled him into a hug. "I am so sorry about your good father. He'll be missed, but he'd be so proud of you!"
She told them the news of the taking of Solidor, and then they were distracted by the huge golden carriage trundling into the courtyard in her wake. Corbus goggled at the grandeur, and Wulffe tried to pretend not be impressed by anything Orlesian.
"Maker's stones!" he grunted. "Is that the Empress' coach—or her hearse?"
"Neither," Bronwyn laughed. "It belongs to her cousins, the Imperial Princesses. The Empress had them locked up at Solidor for years and years. Harmless, silly girls, but we don't want people getting their hands on them and declaring themselves Emperors."
Alistair rode in beside the coach, and the two arls greeted him in friendly fashion.
"Good for you, lad, looking after the ladies," said Wulffe. "Wouldn't mind having a look at them myself."
Turning a bit pink, Alistair handed the timid, wondering princesses out of the coach. They had very much enjoyed their outing, though the coach had been cramped with all their luggage and servants. They looked quite ethereal: porcelain skin, pale blue eyes, and golden hair contrasting with their black cloaks. They saw Bronwyn, and dutifully curtseyed low.
"Your Majesty," they said, more or less in unison.
"Your Imperial Highnesses," Bronwyn responded with a nod. "These are two of my loyal Ferelden nobles: Arl Gallagher Wulffe of West Hills, and Arl Corbus Bryland of South Reach."
Both arls bowed, Corbus a split-second after Wulffe. He was still gaping.
"Ladies," grunted the older arl, thinking they would probably cause a great deal of fuss and trouble, either directly or indirectly. They were certainly pretty enough for it, princesses or not. Corbus blushed, and then peeked again. One of the girls smiled at him, thinking him a very sweet boy.
Not insensible to the byplay, Bronwyn grimaced, and gestured Leliana forward.
"Perhaps the second-in-command's old rooms would do for them," she suggested in a whisper. "Best to get them settled and out of sight as soon as possible. And I want a guard on the door."
"I shall see to it." Leliana assured her. She gave a smile and a nod to the arls and then called to the princesses. "If it please your Imperial Highnesses, let us go at once to your quarters, so you may rest after your journey."
"I'm not tired," muttered Eponine, a little rebelliously. So much was going on, and there were so many people here…so many men. Some of them were quite good-looking.
Celandine hushed her, and they followed Leliana. Eglantine looked back over her shoulder to give Alistair another smile. Bronwyn saw his response: a most deplorably feeble grin.
Already enamored. Oh dear. I must think about it. Perhaps it's not such a terrible idea. She's the youngest and therefore third in the line of succession. Perhaps marriage to a Fereldan noble is a good solution. Not to a bann, though. We'd have to elevate Alistair to an arl at least. Well… let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Wulffe raised his brows at her. He hadn't missed that bit of flirtation, either. She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.
"Pretty girls," he remarked. "Any sign of sense in any of them?"
"Not so you'd notice. The Empress had it ground out of them. Their guardian was a spiteful old cow. I sent her back to Orlais, and I'm having Warden Leliana look after them. They might as well have some serious protection. The guardian tried to have them killed rather than captured."
"That's horrible!" Corbus said, feeling sorry for them, even though they were Orlesian. They were just girls, after all, and they seemed a lot nicer than Habren.
Bronwyn forbore to shame him by ruffling his hair, though she really wanted to. "Indeed, my lord arl, it was. She was a cruel woman, and they're well rid of her. How Killer has grown! Quite the warriors now, both of you." She laid her hand on Wulffe's arm, eyes full of gratitude. "and under Wulffe's tutelage, too. I could not be more pleased. Let me wash off some of the dirt, and then we'll have a talk. Alistair, let Ser Blayne know, before you join us. I'll want him there, too."
Her ridiculously grand rooms were awaiting her. Bronwyn briefly thought of putting the princesses in them, as they were probably more what they were accustomed to. More considered thought, however, prevented that. It would not do the girls any harm to learn to live a bit more moderately, at least for a little while. And Bronwyn really liked that bathtub.
Their temporary quarters were adequate, thought rather small. The princesses had always had to share a bedchamber—the better to guard them—but now they would also have to share a bed. There was a brief squabble as to who would have to be in the middle. Celandine, the mildest-mannered of them, lost, as usual.
Still it was not bad, and from the window they could see the courtyard, and the soldiers busily at work. It was very entertaining. Wanting to detain Alistair, Eglantine pursued some rumors she had heard from the servants.
"Is it true, Bann Alistair," she asked, "that you are the son of King Maric?"
Leliana winced, knowing this was a sensitive subject. She shot a pleading look at Alistair, mutely asking him to be kind. He looked away, annoyed.
The resigned, slightly sour look on his face confused the princesses. Surely it was an honor to be of the blood royal? Since Alistair was not rude by nature, he answered the princess, rather than turning his back and walking away.
"Yes, it's true," he said. "King Maric was my father. I never knew him, though. I'm a bastard, and I was raised by Arl Eamon of Redcliffe."
"Well!" said Eponine. "That is very appropriate, yes? A great noble should be the one entrusted with the tuition of one of royal blood."
"Is that where you earned your spurs as a knight?" asked Eglantine.
"I learned a lot living in Redcliffe," Alistair agreed, a bit more snidely than his wont. "But not that. If you ladies are comfortable now, I believe I must return to the Queen."
Leliana nearly threw up her hands in despair. The princesses were grieved that he wanted to leave so soon.
"Oh!" cried Celandine, "You are offended!"
"Was it something we said?" asked Eglantine, in a small voice.
Alistair pulled himself together. He was being ridiculous. Maybe it was the high, Orlesian-accented voices that had set him off. Arlessa Isolde no longer had any power to harm him.
"I don't mean to be abrupt, but I don't have many happy memories of my childhood. Here's the story of my life, for what it's worth. Arl Eamon told me I was a disgrace, and sent me to live in the stables. When I was eleven, and his wife grew tired of me, I was sent to the Chantry to become a Templar. I wasn't suited to it, but at least I learned to read and write there, since Arl Eamon didn't bother educating me in anything but grooming horses. Luckily, I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens. That's where I met Queen Bronwyn. It was her idea to make me a noble."
The princesses regarded him with horrified pity. Eglantine waved her hands at such an outrage, and said, "And that was well done! How wicked to keep one of royal blood in a stable!"
"It is a crime against nature," Eponine agreed, perfectly seriously. "I hope the Queen has punished this Arl Eamon."
"He's dead," Alistair said briefly. "I used to think of him as a good man. Then I really thought about it, and changed my mind. They say children can adapt to anything, but no child should have to adapt to people telling them that they're nothing and nobody."
Leliana said feelingly, "I believe that their Imperial Highnesses are in complete agreement with you."
"Of course!" Celandine murmured. "Did not the Comtesse say all that and more when she ruled over us? And she said other things, too: that the Empress would kill us if we displeased her; that we would be beheaded, or broken on the wheel like our father, or smothered under a featherbed like our mother."
"She was cruel," Eponine declared. "And spiteful."
Leliana was still looking at him in mild rebuke. Alistair spread his arms in surrender.
"I know I'm not the only one who ever had a hard life. I'm sorry if I was short with you."
"That perfectly all right, my lord!" Eglantine assured him anxiously. "I am sorry I was so impertinent and curious. It is just so pleasant to have friends at last."
"It is very pleasant indeed," agreed Celandine. "The Queen has been very gracious, and Warden Leliana so kind."
"She has been helping us with our music," Eglantine told Alistair. "I am sure I have improved a great deal already!"
"Why don't you play something for Bann Alistair?" Leliana suggested, She smirked as two of the princesses delicately manhandled Alistair toward a cushioned chair, while Eglantine found her lute and set about tuning it.
"Don't laugh at me," she pleaded.
"I won't laugh," Alistair assured her, even a little indignant that she could imagine him such a ruffian.
Eglantine simply looked at him with huge blue eyes, and he softened a bit. Then she smiled, and strummed her opening cards. Her singing voice was quite pleasant: sweet, soft, and a little breathy.
"Do you know the land where the lemons bloom?
Golden oranges grow amidst the leafy gloom.
A gentle breeze from blue skies blows.
The myrtle is still, and tall the laurel grows.
Do you know it?
'Tis there, 'tis there, 'tis there,
'Tis there I would go with you, my love.
"Do you know the house? It has columns and beams.
The great hall glistens, the staircase gleams,
And the marble statues ask me, sad and mild:
"What have they done to you, poor child?"
Do you know it also?
'Tis, there, 'tis there, 'tis there,
'Tis there I would go with you, my knight.
"Do you know the cloudy mountain pass?
The muleteer picks his way through the misty mass;
In caves the ancient dragons raise their terrible brood
While the cliffs are polished by the crashing flood.
"Do you know it well?
'Tis there, 'tis there, that I would journey!
O dear one, let us go!"
She finished, and looked at him so anxiously, that he felt quite protective.
"You sing beautifully," he said.
The princesses were very pleased with him, and better pleased with their quarters, when a servant appeared with some refreshments. Leliana teasingly pressed Alistair to stay, and a curious conversation followed.
"The two noblemen we met today," Eponine began. "Are they of good estate?"
"Wulffe and Corbus?" Alistair asked, rather blankly. "Well... I suppose so. They're arls," he explained. "High nobles. I've never been to West Hills or South Reach, but they seem to have everything they want."
"Arl Wulffe is married, I presume," Celandine said softly, "and the young Arl is very likely betrothed."
Leliana bit back a smile, and looked at the floor.
Alistair, innocent of intrigue, shook his head. "No. Arl Wulffe's a widower. Been one for years, I think. Corbus is just a little boy. His father was killed only last month."
Celandine ventured, with a warning look at Eponine, "I presume that Arl Wulffe has an heir?"
"He has two grown sons," answered Alistair. "And the older one is getting married in the spring."
"Ah." Eponine sighed and shrugged. "But the young Arl is not betrothed?"
"Not yet." Alistair looked completely mystified. "Look, I really have to go. The Queen's called a council..."
He bowed and escaped, leaving the women to discuss their prospects at length. His ears would have burned if he knew what they said.
Bronwyn permitted de Guesclin to attend the dinner that welcomed her back to the Rock. As she expected, he greeted the Imperial princesses with great deference, but he also showed surprising submission to Bronwyn herself.
"I pray you, Your Majesty," he said, "to hear my petition for parole at your earliest convenience."
He looked quite desperate. Bronwyn thought he probably was.
"You may approach me in the audience chamber after dinner," she said. She nodded to his guards. "See to it."
Her mind was on Jader while she ate, but she could not help but notice the flirtations, the subtle jockeyings for power, the rivalries that surrounded her. Even among her Wardens there was friction. Alistair disliked Morrigan; Anders was annoyed with Alistair for disliking Morrigan; the Dalish were growing insular once again; the dwarves speculated about their Paragon Astrid; Aveline chatted with Silas while trying to avoid Toliver's advances; Carver had had too much to drink.
The princesses appeared to have discovered men. It was unsurprising but inconvenient. She left strict orders that they be watched. Leliana was going with Bronwyn to Jader, and the princesses would be guarded but unchaperoned for some days. Bronwyn hoped they did not run away with plausible soldiers or smooth-talking charlatans. At least the eldest was very shy, and the youngest was fixated on Alistair. The middle one was even making eyes at young Corbus, who had no idea what to make of such behavior. Bronwyn did not care for it. Corbus was too young, and Bronwyn rather fancied the idea of matching him with sweet young Faline Kendalls. That would be far more appropriate.
When she left the feast and summoned de Guesclin for the interview, she found it harder to resist his arguments than she had anticipated.
"My chateau... my home... Beaufremont... it is there, on the map. My wife and children are there, between the Grey Wardens of Montsimmard and the darkspawn in Val Royeaux. Tell me: have the darkspawn marched on the Wardens?"
"I don't know," Bronwyn told him frankly. "I think not. I am under the impression that the Wardens have marched on the darkspawn. They might indeed have taken shelter at your chateau."
That did not reassure de Guesclin. "What if they decided to make a stand there? That might lure the creatures to my home!"
As that was indeed possible, Bronwyn did not try to put him off with lies.
"I am moving on Jader," she told him. "I have every reason to believe the city will capitulate, between the attack on Val Royeaux and the destruction of the invasion fleet. Once I have secured Jader, I mean to march on the darkspawn."
"Into Orlais, you mean," de Guesclin replied, looking grim.
"Yes, into Orlais. The darkspawn do not care about jurisdiction. If I sit here in these castle, guzzling wine, the horde will only grow stronger and more and more of Orlais will be fouled by the Taint. They must be challenged, and immediately. I presume that you wish to defend your country."
He gritted his teeth, obviously enraged at such a patronizing remark. He restrained himself, not wishing to end up locked away in the dungeons. He gave a curt nod.
"Good," Bronwyn said. "If you will swear allegiance to me for the duration of the Blight, I will release you and your men. I will allow you to go west and fight the darkspawn—with my army if you agree, otherwise alone, though I think that reckless. There will be no ransom demand."
He blinked in surprise. Bronwyn scowled at him.
"These are not normal times, despite the way Orlais has treated Ferelden since the beginning of the Blight! It is disgusting to allow the darkspawn to ravage, whether in my country or someone else's. We can cut one another's throats when the darkspawn are defeated, if that is your goal in life."
"I will," he said instantly. He reddened in confusion. "That is, I will swear allegiance to you while this Blight lasts. I and my men shall follow you against the darkspawn. I would follow anyone who would help me return to my family. I shall support you if you march to Jader. It will be necessary for supplying the army. I can see that. How soon do we march?"
Bronwyn smiled. "We march tomorrow. Why wait?"
The Fereldan army mustered in its ranks and marched out under its banners, concealing nothing… much. Bronwyn still had some of her Avvar scouts posted in the hills, looking to see what slipped out of Jader; making sure it was nothing that could harm them.
Bronwyn had sent scouts and spies to Jader, but had not seen it for herself before today. It was... a great deal more impressive than she had expected. It was clearly larger and grander than Denerim. While Denerim had dazzling Fort Drakon as its signature landmark, this city had many other magnificent structures, towering high above the strong walls. From the sign of the holy flame, she could see what must be the bell tower of the Chantry— incomparably larger than that of Denerim Cathedral. And nearby, faced with greenstone, were the towers of the Palace Emeraude. It was a jewel of a city, and possessing it would make Ferelden a richer, more powerful, more credible nation.
In one of the supply wagons, the two Jader elves rode, purses full of gold. Their initiative had made them the richest men in the Alienage. They had picked up all sorts of useful odds and ends of information, too. The Queen knew them now, and very likely, it would be her word that carried weight in Jader from now on.
Ahead of her, Bronwyn sent a herald under a flag of truce, requesting a parley. With any luck, she could have Jader without her soldiers risking so much as a finger.
Sure enough, the gates of Jader opened, and a party of knights and men-at-arms rode out under the sea serpent banner of Jader and their own flag of truce. Bronwyn smiled, and prepared to do battle with words, rather than swords.
The harassed, middle-aged man with pepper-and-salt hair on the good horse was presented to her as Ser Manfred de Laclos, steward of the city in the absence of the Marquis. Bronwyn thought he looked very ill, and did her best to repress an impulse of pity.
"Ser Manfred," she said, without much ceremony, "I am here to pursue my campaign against the darkspawn. I need Jader as a supply base. Thus, I am willing to entertain your surrender. Open your gates to me, and you and your people will be treated with mercy and honor."
His face contracted with veiled anguish.
"Your Majesty, your valiant reputation is known far and wide, but you cannot expect me to yield up my city without resistance."
"I do expect it, Monsieur. Indeed, I demand that you do so. You must know that the darkspawn have risen. As a Warden, I am sworn to fight them by any means necessary. This is no time for niceties over jurisdiction. The Imperial Army will not march on Ferelden—" she smiled coldly "—as I know it planned. It is engaged in saving the lives of Orlesians further to the west. Val Royeaux lies in ruins. The navy you were expecting lies at the bottom of the Waking Sea, for the most part. I could indeed watch the process of the Blight at a distance, but that selfish and cowardly counsel would be madness. The horde must be fought and destroyed, lest it continue to grow larger and spread like an evil flood over Thedas. Not one Orlesian was willing to aid Ferelden when the darkspawn attacked, but I, at least, will do my duty."
The man licked his lips, thinking. "If you march west, Jader will not prevent you."
Bronwyn treated that hint with the contempt it deserved. "Nor will it help me," she said. "I quite understand you. But no, monsieur, I am done with fighting the darkspawn while Orlais holds a dagger at my back. My troops will rally here and resupply. The harbor will receive the Wardens from other lands who will come to fight. I need Jader, and I will have it, one way or another."
One of the nobles was glaring desperately at de Laclos, trying to gain his attention. The steward noticed him, and cleared his throat. "With certain sureties, perhaps an accommodation can be reached."
Bronwyn looked over the gentlemen of Jader and said, "Here is my offer. Open your gates. Submit to me as your rightful Queen, and you will be treated as loyal subjects under the law, with the same rights, privileges, and duties of other Fereldan subjects. You will join my realm secure in your lives and possessions, your people untroubled and their property protected. You will join with me in the campaign against the enemies of all Thedas: the noblest and most vital struggle of our age."
Some of the nobles and knights appeared willing. Some hoped to retain their lands and titles, and others were drawn in by the prospect of the adventure. Ser Manfred, more contained, waited for the other shoe to drop. Bronwyn flicked her gaze over the various expressions, and continued.
"Or you may choose to decline my most honorable and generous offer. You may choose to hide like cowards behind your walls, letting others face the challenge of the Blight. In that case, I must indeed move on—for the darkspawn care nothing for such petty disputes. In that case, you will face my husband, King Loghain, who is on the march with the greater part of the Fereldan army. He will sack your city and put you to the sword. So that is your choice, gentlemen: the easy way or the hard way. Admit me now, or admit King Loghain, who has no cause to love you. One way or another, Jader will be Fereldan. I shall I shall give you an hour to consider my offer."
She made as if to turn her horse away, while a frantic muttering broke out among the Jader envoys.
One hissed to his fellows, "We don't need an hour! We'd be fools to refuse!"
"—But what of those chevaliers from the Belle Aurore?"
"—Lock them up, if need be! Quick, de Laclos! She's leaving!"
"Wait, Your Majesty!" cried Ser Manfred. "I beg you!"
It turned out very well; very conveniently for Bronwyn. Mind you, they really had little choice, unless they wished to commit mass suicide to prove their loyalty to a dead empress. Ser Manfred and his companions returned to the city to make it ready for her entrance, which would be at noon the following day. Very likely, they needed the time to deal with the intransigent elements in Jader itself.
"All the same," whispered Zevran, "It is best to be prepared. I do not think that this de Laclos would betray you, but who is to say that others might not attempt it? Send some of your people into the city."
This seemed good counsel to Bronwyn. A large party of Avvars, dwarves, and a few elves slipped in through the harbor side and crept through the sewers to position themselves. Anders and Morrigan flew to the Palace Emeraude to keep an eye on the activities of the steward and the seneschal. The latter had not taken part in the parley, just in case the fierce Red Queen had decided to kill all the envoys. The fact that she had not made Jader's leaders far more hopeful that she would keep her word about not sacking the city.
So the Fereldan army made camp, numerous and menacing, on the plain before Jader. There was no reason to go back to the Rock. Instead, Bronwyn had made a point of bringing every wagon and every spare war machine she possessed, to make her numbers seem greater. With what she had, she could certainly blow apart the gates and take the city, but it would mean a bitter house-to-house fight, and a great slaughter at the palace and barracks, which she would prefer to have intact and habitable for her own use. As night drew on, more units could be seen joining her, though these actually were servants and support staff, too far away to be distinguished from soldiers. Bronwyn also ordered three times more fires to be lit than necessary, and to keep them fed and burning, knowing that there were eyes on the ramparts: eyes that she wish to impress with her overwhelming force.
The lights burned bright and late in the Palace Emeraude, too. There was a meeting of nobles, knights, and guild leaders, during which the seneschal and the steward impressed on everyone the necessity of acceding to Queen Bronwyn's demands. Even representatives of the dwarven community were summoned to attend, and they, of course, agreed that it was perfectly sensible, and indeed was the only thing to be done. A few chevaliers lamented the city's cowardice, and swore to defy the invader. They were arrested on the spot and hustled into the dungeons. If the city fathers needed scapegoats to offer in sacrifice before the Red Queen, these would do as well as anyone.
Tension in the city was at an all-time high, as the criers announced that Queen Bronwyn was entering the city at noon tomorrow, and that the citizens had nothing to fear as long as they refrained from objectionable behaviors. These "behaviors" were detailed at length, and included assassination attempts using any weapon or no weapon, shouted insults in any language, fist-waving, brawling, refusing to sell to a Fereldan, kicking dogs of any breed, or "spitting likely to cause a breach of the peace."
Disputes among the various races in the city threatened to boil over. A great number of elves marched out of the Alienage, swaggering, shouting their allegiance to "Good Queen Bronwyn, Friend of the Elves," and waving home-made red banners made from rags dipped in rose madder dye. The dwarves, more reserved but equally sanguine about their prospects under the new regime, stayed out drinking their new Queen's health at the city's dwarven taverns. The dwarven council of elders met all night, deciding on a proper present for the Queen, to make clear her dwarven subjects' loyalty. Something red, probably. She apparently liked red.
While the human residents were unsure whether to lament or welcome their new monarch, quite of few of them set their womenfolk to sewing red banners of their own. One woman in the Market district made a tidy sum by cutting up an old red silk gown into pennants, and fastening them to thin dowels. They looked quite nice when she was done, and the coin she earned would earn her a dozen new gowns in the old one's stead.
In the Palace dungeons, a number of chevaliers fumed, but their anger was muted, in the wake of the news that the darkspawn had attacked Val Royeaux. Some were already considering offering their parole, in exchange for being permitted to leave the city and fight the monsters.
Bronwyn's army was restless with excitement. Feelings were running high. The fall of Jader was a sweet revenge. Those who remembered the Occupation— who remembered their parents' stories of brutal extortion and forced labor— smirked at the idea of showing Orlesians what it meant to be a humbled, conquered people.
"Not that I don't think the Orlesians don't deserve a bit of turn-about," Arl Wulffe growled, "but it'll be harder to make use of the city if the soldiers go mad. Bad for discipline, too."
"I hate Orlesians," Corbus sulked. "They killed my Father."
Bronwyn gestured him over and had him sit down by her. "It's very unlikely that the citizens of Jader had anything to do with that horrible crime," she said gently. "In war, it always seems to be the helpless and innocent who suffer." She had an idea. "You don't think those princesses had a hand in it, do you?"
He sulked, but shook his head.
"Of course they didn't. They were locked up as prisoners. And it wasn't the poor elves in the Alienage, either. It was the Empress and her toadies who were behind it. And some of the Empress' agents in the Chantry, too, of course. They're already horribly dead; killed by the darkspawn, and good riddance. And after tomorrow, the people of Jader won't be Orlesians anymore. They'll be Fereldans; part of our country. I think we need to start as we mean to go on. I gave my word that they would be treated with mercy, Corbus, and I can't let anyone break my word for me."
Corbus was still unhappy, but he was unhappy because his father was dead, not because he disagreed with her. If her arguments could work on him, they might work on others as well. For that reason, Bronwyn addressed the army as they prepared for their great and bloodless victory. On the windy plain of Jader, under the blue and cloudless sky, she tried to find words of power and persuasion.
"Today we enter the city of Jader! Today we make Ferelden greater and stronger than ever before!"
There were shouts and cheers, but Bronwyn gestured them to silence, with an indulgent smile.
"The leaders of Jader have agreed to open their gates to us. They have agreed to accept me as their Queen and to accept their new status as Fereldan subjects. Today they become Fereldans—like you, my soldiers, standing before me today."
"I have been very pleased with your good service throughout this campaign. Now I ask you to once more show me your quality. You are all great fighters. The last few days have proved that to the world. Now I offer you a new challenge: to take a city without striking a blow; without looting a shop; without even knocking a fat merchant down—even if he deserves it. I need this city unravaged and unplundered. I need your strength and discipline to keep the peace in Jader, now and forevermore."
They were silent, and listening, at least. Bronwyn took a deep breath, and went on:
"Jader was not always part of the Orlesian Empire. It was founded as a humble fishing village in the days of the Tevinter magisters. As the Tevinters were pushed back, it was, for long ages, an independent, free city. Eventually, the long arm of the Orlesian Empire stretched out and took it as a prize. Today, we liberate Jader from its Orlesian overlords. We welcome it into our realm, not as a reluctant prisoner, not as a conquered slave, but as an equal amongst our other noble Fereldan cities. From a strong, prosperous Jader, we will supply the force to challenge the newly-risen horde."
"Therefore, we go to Jader today not as arrogant victors, slaughtering and plundering like Orlesian chevaliers; but as brothers and sisters, as true-born Fereldans, to make our kingdom strong and secure. I expect all you to join with me in treating the citizens of Jader just as we treat the citizens of Denerim, of Highever, Amaranthine, and Gwaren! As we treat honest Fereldan villagers and freeholders: with fairness and honesty; with good faith and friendship; with mercy and mutual respect. These are the qualities that make Fereldans different from the tyrants of Thedas! We come not to ravish and pillage, but to protect and defend! Thus will we enter Jader—our city!"
The cheers followed in her wake. They formed up to march through the wide gates as they slowly swung open. Men from Gherlen's Halt went first, deserving the honor. Bronwyn was behind them, on horseback, with Corbus and Wulffe a little behind her and to either side. Alistair was a welcome and reassuring presence at her back. Along with them were the Wardens not already in the city, and behind them dwarves and elves and men, united in a great cause.
And Jader welcomed her as a favorite daughter. There were even musicians. Apparently Jader had a city band, composed of trumpets, hautboys, flutes, drums, and clashing cymbals. They blared out a fanfare that echoed to the skies, as Bronwyn rode under the greenstone-faced gate, the first Fereldan monarch ever to do so. The musicians fell into step behind the Wardens and in front of the men of South Reach. Those hardy hillmen watched them narrowly, puzzled by marching soldiers who carried instruments rather than weapons.
And the citizens of Jader, rather to Bronwyn's astonishment, cheered her. The streets were lined with smiling, enthusiastic people, who for some reason were waving red banners. It made quite a pretty effect, especially since at the tail end of winter, there were few flowers to throw. The route planned led through the Grand Bazaar to the Place Emeraude, the site of the Chantry and the Palace. It led past the dwarven quarter and the Alienage. The steward had wished to dissuade Bronwyn for this route, especially from the dangers of the turbulent Alienage, but she felt it was an important gesture to the other peoples of Jader. She would be their Queen, too.
She smiled with careful dignity, and waved at the children. Jader was even more impressive from the inside. The Alienage was as shoddy as the one in Denerim, but the elves greeted her with enthusiasm. Her two informants jumped out of the wagon carrying them and rushed among their fellows, with tales of the bounty of their new queen. The dwarven quarter was quite handsome, and the homes of the rich along the Voie d'Or put the noble estates of Denerim to shame. No wonder people called Fereldans barbarians.
All these sights, however, were quite overshadowed by the Grand Bazaar, with its splendid, well-built shops and brilliantly painted signs. The streets flowed toward the impressive open square of the Place Emeraude, and gradually the magnificent edifices there were revealed, a bit at a time, until she rode out into the midst of the great square, the sides of it blocked off by the City Guard, while crowds shouted and waved those incomprehensible red banners. These buildings, elegantly faced with carved greenstone, were entirely beyond her experience: a palace the like of which Bronwyn had never seen except on a very small scale in picture-books, and by the Chantry which made Denerim Cathedral look like a village chapel. She felt her face grow hot. If she did nothing else, she would find the funds to build an entirely new Cathedral worthy of her kingdom.
Everyone—steward, seneschal, Revered Mother, and guard captain— was waiting for her on the steps of the Palace as agreed, so she would go there first. A narrow red carpet led up to the doors of the Emerald Palace, which was now hers. She must make an appearance at the Chantry later, too, if only to prevent everyone taking her for a complete heathen. Being a heathen would be unpopular, even among the red-banner waving Jaderians. The musicians tactfully moved off to the side, still blaring triumphantly, while the company from Gherlen's Halt ranged themselves on the steps both to look impressive and to be more effective bodyguards. At the approach to the steps, a groom rushed out to hold her horse, and was tactfully nudged aside by Zevran, dressed in his shining best. Her nobles and Wardens followed her, also carefully surrounding her, and Bronwyn turned to face her new subjects. She opened her arms to them, and the crowd went mad: a sea of fluttering crimson, vivid as if the streets were covered in blood.
Oblivious to her own people scanning the crowd, the rooftops, and the windows facing onto the square for hidden threats, Bronwyn basked in the welcome. This was something. She had won a great city for Ferelden—a far greater city than she had imagined—and strengthened her realm immeasurably. Once inside the palace itself, she was again staggered by the splendor, the wealth, the luxury of Orlais. She was shown the treasure chamber, and after catching her breath at the amount of gold, she took a moment to glance at the accounts. She resolved once again to do something to improve Denerim. Why hadn't the bloody Orlesians invested in some great civic works during the Occupation? It might even have made them popular.
A new Cathedral was a must, and she knew just the place to build it: on the south side of the city, where the foothills behind Fort Drakon declined toward the sea. Sections of city wall would have to be demolished and rebuilt, but the cost would be nothing, with these strongrooms to back her. Wide South Lane would lead up to it, giving the edifice an approach and a vista that would awe and delight the pilgrim. She might rename the street Cathedral Lane. There would be room for a square in front of it, a place fit for ceremonies and reverence. She must draw up the idea.
She might even order some improvements to the Palace, though Loghain would growl about "Orlesian frippery." It was one thing for them to remain true to the sturdy, independent character of Ferelden; it was another to look like penniless barbarians. Something should at least be done with the Little Audience Chamber. And the entry hall of the Palace proper. And the thrones in the Landsmeet. They were horrible.
All this raced through her head as she strode through the magnificent, vaulted corridors and antechambers. It was much in her mind when they reached the Marquis' own throneroom, immeasurably handsomer than her own. She could not help comparing this place to the comfortless Landsmeet Chamber as she ascended the steps to the High Seat, which was gilded, inlaid with gems, and comfortably cushioned on both seat and back in sumptuous green velvet. She made a point of asking if there was a mate to the chair, since Loghain would no doubt be coming soon, and she was assured in the affirmative. The Marquise was very insistent on her rights. Or would be, when she and her children returned from Val Royeaux.
If they returned…
Very likely they were dead. If they did return, Bronwyn saw no reason to confirm them in possession. The Marquis had been given command of an army to invade Ferelden. That was not something to be forgiven. Rule of this splendid province would be given to a loyal Fereldan. She would have to have it out with Loghain as to the name of lucky new arl.
Jader would not be a teyrnir, she decided. Two teyrnirs were quite enough, for she had no desire to elevate anyone to the level of the Couslands or Mac Tirs. An arling, then. Another arling, this time in the northwest, would balance out the great nobles very well.
All this flashed through her mind, before she must speak. Not just humans were here, but also representatives of the dwarven guilds. Good, it saved time. No elves, of course, but that would change. The elves had been pleased by her appearance in the Alienage today. Tomorrow, she would summon their hahren and some of the other elders before her to discuss the issues concerning them.
The crowd fell silent as she turned toward them and spoke from the dais.
"My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! Wardens, soldiers, and wise representatives of the dwarven people! Jader becomes Fereldan today. I greet you as loyal subjects and renew my promise that you will be treated with the justice and mercy shown to the rest of Ferelden. Your rightful property remains your own. Your lives and endeavors will be respected. Together we will continue the struggle against the Blight, protecting the weak and rallying the strong." She addressed the seneschal. "Ser Manfred: present the nobles and worthy folk of Jader to me. I stand ready to accept their homage as my true and faithful subjects."
That process lasted quite some time, with a herald bellowing out the names, and the seneschal whispering background information in her ear. Both he and Ser Manfred also told her that a number of local chevaliers were not present, but remained either in their townhouses or out in the country on their lands, not wanting to commit themselves to what some of them saw as treason. The names were recorded, and in due time, someone would pay calls on them. If they would not pay homage, Bronwyn decided, their desmesnes would go to Fereldans: leavening the Orlesian nobility with new men loyal to her.
Gifts were presented to her: a gold rhyton in the shape of a deer's head; a great deal of magnificent crimson velvet; a symbolic key to the city; a beautiful bronze statuette of a horse and knight. The dwarves gave her a pair of matching gold bracelets, nearly as wide as bracers, studded with rubies. Bronwyn was quite taken with them.
Her troops were carefully spread through the city. Some made use of the capacious barracks, and other were quartered in the Palace itself. A brief chat with the Captain of the City Guard made plain to him how very unwise it would be for his guards to pick fights with Fereldan soldiers.
A feast had been prepared, and was inspected by Zevran and Leliana for poisons. There were none. It was quite the affair. Bronwyn understood the importance of meeting and greeting, but was deeply relieved when she could withdraw to the Marquis' apartments—now her own.
These made even the Imperial Suite at the Rock look modest. There was a great deal of green, which Bronwyn liked. The rooms and connecting corridors were checked thoroughly for peepholes and hidden doors. A few were found. The family quarters of the Marquis were quite large, and accommodated all the Wardens easily, for they were composed of the Marquis' bedchamber, dressing room, bathroom, and private study; the Marquise's bedchamber (with hidden connecting door), her boudoir, dressing room, and bathroom; three rooms which had been used by the family's older children, with a joint bathroom; the large nursery and its curious and amusing bathroom; a private strongroom; the rooms of the upper servants and the bathroom used by them; a family dining room, and a family parlor.
The servants had prepared the Marquise's room for her own use, which was appropriate, Bronwyn supposed, even though she preferred the quieter, sturdier —comparatively speaking— style preferred by the Marquis. However, Loghain would be coming, and he would likely explode at the Marquise's ultrafeminine style: dainty furniture and delicate colors; fragile draperies, and tessellated floors covered by pale silk carpets. Bronwyn took it as her own, and suspected she would learn to like it.
The exquisite bath was made in the shape of a shell. Perhaps that was appropriate for a seaport like Jader, but Bronwyn had never felt less like a rare pearl as she scrubbed off the dirt of travel. No doubt the Marquise would have shuddered at such a desecration.
Chateau Haine was fairly remote, set picturesquely on the edge of the Vimmark Mountains. There was good hunting here, a decent library, a large enough staff to provide for one's modest needs. Prosper de Montfort had always enjoyed his stays here. Now, of course, his stay promised to be of some duration. He was keeping a low profile, alert for Celene's next move against him.
It did not help his temper that Cyril was here. A man needed a son and heir, naturally; and it would have been mad to leave Cyril in Val Royeaux as a hostage to be used against his father. The problem was that Cyril bored him. He was not a true companion, and could not meet him in conversation, whether rational or playful. The boy, now fifteen, was just like his late mother—except for a blessed lack of piety. He was lazy and impertinent; he was arrogant and self-satisfied; he had no curiosity whatever about the world, other than to want to know—now—when his next meal, his next drink, and his next wench would be provided. At Cyril's age, Prosper had already mastered the Arcanum and Qunari tongues, trained a hawk, learned the arts of sword, dagger, and crossbow, and killed his first man in a reasonably fair fight.
Cyril had tried to escape from their ship before departing Val Royeaux. He had whined about missing his friends, about missing the splendid events at the Grand Cathedral, and about missing the festivities that bade farewell to the army. Prosper had finally had to knock him senseless and throw him below decks.
The boy was still whining about his worthless friends. Prosper had refused all invitations to attend salons in Cumberland, wary of the Shadows of the Empire, Celene's assassins. While Orlais and Nevarra were at war, Prosper's ambiguous status as a noble holding domains in both those countries made him acceptable. His current status as an exile even made him welcome. It was a pity that it was simply too dangerous to go, for he had reason to believe that some of the young men of Cumberland were not as shallow as those of Orlais. They might have been a good influence on Cyril. The young prince, now, the king's heir— he was a hard-working lad, and nobody's fool. A son like that would be a son to be proud of, even if meant watching him very, very carefully, lest Prosper himself be supplanted prematurely…
One great diversion kept Prosper entertained: the curious egg that his chief huntsman had brought to him last summer. It had hatched, and the first face the astonishing creature had seen on emerging from its shell was that of Duke Prosper de Montfort. It had become attached to him. It remembered him from visit to visit. Prosper had undertaken attempting to train the creature, for no one else to his knowledge had a pet as glorious, menacing, and potentially useful as a wyvern.
It took imagination and tact. It was not at all like training a horse or a hawk. Perhaps it was something like those Fereldan dogs, for the wyvern was a surprisingly clever creature. It gave Prosper considerable satisfaction to picture how quickly his dear Leopold could dispatch and devour a mabari.
Wyverns could fly. Leopold had grown rapidly in the six months since his hatching, and Prosper had feared that he would simply fly away. Chaining him up unlikely to help in their bonding, so Prosper had taken the risk of leaving him free during the day; only locking him in his cage at night. Luckily, Leopold appeared to like Prosper, and could now understand simple verbal commands. Most importantly, he understood that he was not to eat humans, especially Cyril, no matter how annoying they were. Eventually, Prosper believed he could train the wyvern to attack on command, but that must be done carefully. Prosper had a dream for Leopold; a great dream that had not been realized in Thedas in two ages; not since the extinction of the griffons. Was the wyvern strong enough now? Perhaps it was time to see.
He took Leopold out to the training yard and began putting him through his exercises: to sit, to lie down, to trot in a circle around the paddock, to stretch his wings and then take flight to this or that pinnacle or tower and then return at a whistle. It was going well. Leopold liked to please him; he was far more satisfactory than Cyril in that regard.
He was about to send Leopold on some practice hunting flights when his agent in Cumberland came racing in, his horse white with sweat. The man jumped down, and ran toward him. Something remarkable, it seemed, had happened.
Prosper listened to the news, his face blank, not letting the man see what this meant to him. He questioned him, wanting to understand every detail. It had already been clear to him that the Maker had not approved of burning his Bride's Champion in effigy. Now, the full extent of his wrath was clear. Prosper dismissed the man after a time, almost numb with shock, and then turned to Leopold, waiting patiently in the paddock.
"Leopold, my clever boy... we are going home! But before we depart, there is one last exercise we must try..."
Loghain's arrival at the Rock already had him in a mood to celebrate. The news there was better than anything he had ever imagined.
"She's in Jader?"
"That she is, Sire," Ser Blayne Faraday affirmed, his gruff face uncommonly cheerful. "Jader collapsed like rotten fruit. Her Majesty told the troops to behave themselves, but it's the Maker's truth: Jader is ours. They opened their gates and let the Queen ride right in."
Loghain caught Cauthrien's eye. She was trying not to grin, as elated as he was. Jader. Solidor. A border all the way to the Frostback Gates.
"Where are the Orlesian prisoners?"
"Most of them not only gave their parole; they swore allegiance to her. It's not hard to see why. With the Empress dead, who else can they follow?"
Loghain frowned, not entirely displeased, but thinking it over. He listened to the rest of the story. Bronwyn had been merciful… far more merciful than he would have been. So far, it seemed to have worked. Perhaps it was for the best that she, and not he, had been here. The chevaliers despised his origins and hated him for his deeds. Bronwyn, on the other hand, was someone they could feel comfortable with: a noble like themselves, with no long history of bitter opposition to them.
Ser Blayne roused him from his thoughts. "The princesses are here, of course. Mild young ladies. The Queen said she was thinking of sending them east, but she hadn't decided yet. She might want them in Jader, instead. Do you want them summoned, Sire?"
"Not now," Loghain growled. He had not the least desire to trouble himself with a trio of treacherous Orlesian harpies. He would very much like to see Bronwyn, but it was already dark, and his men were tired. "I want a good look at this fortress. Then I want a meal, a bath, and a place to sleep. I'll ride to Jader in the morning, and see the Queen."
After a shockingly good meal, he was shown the way to the Imperial Suite, where he was told the Queen had lodged. On the way, he passed the Wardens. Tara waved at him a little maniacally, as she supervised while her people carried a long and heavily wrapped object into the Wardens' quarters. Loot, obviously, but the most awkward sort. Why not just leave it at West Hill or the Aeonar itself?
The servants, clearly frightened of him, opened the doors to the opulent apartments. Loghain eyed the splendor of the place, distrustful and secretly a little intimidated. Still, the bath was… extraordinary. Those of his personal guards who were not on door duty found comfortable places to sleep. Amber settled down by the fire, and curled up comfortably, indifferent to gilded swags and inlaid marble. Endeavoring to follow her example, Loghain stretched out on the ridiculous bed, feeling a bit late to the party, but resigned to it. It was not important who had achieved this; it was only important that it had been achieved. Not a huge territory to add to their kingdom; but a strategically vital one.
His dreams were confused and brightly colored: a vision of a field of red poppies below him, and Bronwyn dancing through them, robed in white. He was awakened in the middle of the night by the snoring of a guard, but before he could grope for a boot to throw at the man, someone closer had kicked him awake.
"Maker's balls, Kain! Roll over!"
Without a response, the sergeant did just that. Loghain lay awake for some time, arranging and rearranging Ferelden, trying to retrieve that vision of Bronwyn. It was just the sort of dream that he liked, but had all too rarely. As the sky lightened, he gave up on trying to sleep, and rose, exploring more of Roc du Chevalier.
The pay chests stored here were a boon indeed. Bronwyn had sensibly given the men a bounty, but it had hardly made a dent in the gold. Loghain did not think of himself as a man greedy for coin, but coin made the impossible possible. The gold would strengthen Fereldan cities; pay Fereldan troops; purchase Fereldan war engines. He had some of those spears Bronwyn had ordered from Master Wade in his luggage. He hoped Bronwyn would consider them an appropriate gift. With the gold they now had, he could purchase many more.
After a quick breakfast, it was time to move out. Cauthrien had Maric's Shield ready to march with swift dispatch. The other troops were ready as well, even the small band of Templars from the Aeonar that had joined his forces. Some of them had been sickened by the crimes committed by their fellows; some, like young Desmond, had been entirely ignorant of them until shown the hideous truth.
The Wardens were a bit slower off the mark, since Tara was still mucking about with that huge piece of loot.
"What in the Maker's name is that thing?" he growled. "Get it loaded into the wagons, and let's be off!"
"Sorry, Loghain!" Tara called back cheerfully, not at all daunted. "It's fragile. And important."
He grunted. "It had better be."
She grinned at him, but moved her people along a little faster. Brosca glanced over at him, and whispered to Jowan. To Loghain's surprise, she approached, speaking quietly.
"Hey, Loghain. Can we talk?"
"We're talking."
"Where nobody can hear us? It's kind of important."
Deciding to indulge her, he led her into an empty room and shut the door behind them.
"What is it?"
She shuffled and fidgeted, plainly uneasy. He raised a brow at her.
"It's like this," she said. "Tara doesn't think we have any business telling you something this personal. Tara thinks only Bronwyn should tell you this, but I'll bet anything that Bronwyn won't. She should, but she won't. Jowan agrees with me."
Now he was feeling uneasy. What had happened to Bronwyn? "Tell me what?"
"About two months ago, after you left, we were working on that observation post in the Deep Roads near Solidor. We told you that Jukka bought it there, right?"
"You mentioned he was killed in a rockslide."
"Yeah, that's right. Bronwyn was close by, and she got buried too, and hurt pretty bad..."
He was now fairly alarmed. "How badly?"
"Well... she lost the baby. You know how she is, toughing things out and not fussing about wounds, but it hit her hard. There wasn't anything Anders could do, since it took time to dig her out. I just thought you should know. She's accomplished a lot, yeah; but she's had a hard time, too."
Loghain leaned back against the wall and blew out a breath. A baby? She had never told him she was with child. Perhaps she had been waiting for the perfect moment, and it had passed her by. The thought of her lonely suffering was painful to contemplate.
"I'm glad you told me. Bronwyn probably would not have said anything." He opened the door, and let the little dwarf through first, partly so she would not see his face.
No, very likely Bronwyn would say nothing. She was proud, and hated to seem weak. She probably hated anything that smacked of pity as much as he did. Perhaps she would even perceive this as a personal failure. It grieved him to think of her disappointment. He had hoped he was done with the crushing sorrow of miscarriages, but he had been wrong.
Well, that was all the more reason to be done with this war. They had achieved all the goals he had dreamed of. Jader was Fereldan. Orlais was occupied with the Blight. Perhaps it was time for Bronwyn to rest on her laurels.
First, though, he wanted to see the new territory she had won for them, and to make clear his own admiration for her accomplishments. They soon moved out in good order, and traveled along the Imperial Highway, down toward the broad coastal plain. There to the north, like a painted city by a painted sea, was Jader. Its tall towers flew Fereldan banners. They turned off the Highway toward the city, speeding up a little, eager to see more. The walls were impressive; far better than Denerim's. Loghain was heartily glad that a siege had not been necessary.
The guards saluted, puffed up with self- satisfaction. He smiled back wryly, feeling they deserved to be pleased with themselves. An officer fell in with them, and led them through the streets, pointing out the sights. Runners were sent ahead to inform the Palace of his arrival. Apparently word had got out who he was, for the human Jaderians were scurrying out of sight. The dwarves and elves, however, were coming out and cheering, perfectly friendly.
That was something to consider. Dwarves and elves were not always, strictly speaking, Orlesian—not unless they had personally bought into the culture and customs. Some did, like the upper servants who aped the manners of their masters, but the Alienage elves seemed pleased at the change of regime, and the dwarves were being sensibly pragmatic about it. It would be something to build on, in trying to keep this distant city loyal to Ferelden.
He had a great deal on his mind, and did not take much note of the splendor around him. Yes, it was grand, just as every Orlesian object and person had to be grand, but at the moment, Loghain simply wanted to see his young wife, and assure himself that she was all right.
There was the Palace, overlarge and overdecorated. Ridiculous name, Palace Emeraude. They would divest themselves of Orlesian affectations starting today. It was green, so they could call it the Emerald Palace. And there on the steps, surrounded by men in armor, was a straight and slender figure in red...
He leaped from his horse, and made straight for her. What a fine girl she was, and like all the women in his life, far better than he deserved. Without foolish ceremony, and much to her surprise, he swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly, not caring what the rest of world might think.
Thanks for your review:Nemrut, Chiara Crawford, JackOfBladesX, Blinded in a bolthole, Meatzman2, darksky01, DjinniGenie, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, sizuka2, KnightOfHolyLight, Mike3207, Reynes, D-Ro2593, Ie-maru, Robbie the Phoenix, LadyoftheDrow, Massgamer45, Phygmalion, Jenna53, zcohen723, kirbster676, mille libri, The Flying Hobbo, Vizantir, jnybot, Lyssa Terald, AD Lewis, dragonmactir, Inveleth, and Zute.
Wow. It really has been three years since I began this monster. To all you who have been with me since the beginning, and to all you who have joined the glad throng since then, thank you. I appreciate your support and patience. We really have only a comparatively few chapters to the end. I am considering a way to incorporate two different endings at the moment, but we'll see how that works out.
Eglantine's song is translated and adapted from a song of the character Mignon in Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship (original: Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre), the second novel by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, published in 1795-96.
Denerim Cathedral (even though we never see the inside) really is pretty tacky, with a mean and shabby entrance at ground level. Every other Chantry we see in canon looks better. Even the comparatively small Chantry in Haven is handsomely situated on top of a hill.
There are all sorts of things I dislike about the DLC Mark of the Assassin, but one of them is that nobody makes the huge deal it deserves of the fact that Prosper has trained a FLYING WYVERN AS HIS STEED! Explain to me why he isn't the hero of the episode, rather than Hawke, who's there to rob him. Sorry. It really is a big deal, and the Wardens need to shake off their lethargy and take notice. Even the Havenites who raised dragons didn't actually have the stones to ride on them.