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Dragon 9:27, Winter

Vaughan wrung the little elf by the wrist, flinging her out of the hallway and into the darkness of the pantry. He slammed her into the wall, pinning her against it roughly and she let out a yelp. He silenced her, one hand on the mouth and the other choking her by the neck. "So, the whore has some spirit, does she?" He couldn't help but laugh when the only reply he received was a desperate glare. "We're going to have a lot of fun." He hit her with a backhand, sending her tumbling onto the ground. Another slap for good measure, this time on the other cheek, and then he went to the still partly open door to shut it close.

The door swung open widely, just barely missing Vaughan as he dodged backwards. It was a man, clearly a servant and somewhat familiar. His eyes darted from the nobleman to the panting elf on the ground, tears streaming down her reddening cheeks, and then back. "His Highness is asking for you, my lord," he said, his tone a poor imitation of nonchalance.

"The Prince is asking for me? Are you sure he did not ask for my father?" Vaughan asked, sceptic.

"I am certain."

"Well, whatever for? I've hardly had much to do with the ceremony tomorrow. What could he possibly want with me?"

"Of that I am not certain. All I was told was that His Highness wished to see you, that is all. Unless, of course, you are otherwise," a pause, as the servant's eyes directed themselves to the elf once more, "preoccupied, my lord."

"No, no." Vaughan waved his hand, exasperated. "The Prince will have his way." The servant bowed lightly, stepping aside to make way for him, and he passed the man by. Putting on his most charming expression and voice, he turned behind him. "Say, I believe I've seen you around before, but I'm afraid I do not know your name."

The servant straightened. "Oswick, my lord, Gentleman of the Bedchamber for Lord Aedan Cousland."

"Ah, yes, of course. Well, pleasure to make your acquaintance Oswick."

"Listen to me," Loghain said, frustrated. "It is the wrong way to go about it."

Stopping himself from shrinking back into the confines of his seat, Cailan straightened and puffed his chest. "It's the way forward, Loghain. Your distrust of the Empress is becoming tiring. She is a good woman."

"Please tell me you have not truly been deceived by her warm words and pretty smiles," Anora said coldly. "You are aware that Ferelden is widely considered to be the birthplace of Andraste? It would be all too easy for Celene to convince her people to retake the holy lands." She exhaled sharply, attempting to regain some composure. "Please, husband, have some sense."

Aedan could not help but note how shaken the soon to be queen was. "I understand your intentions, Cailan," he offered cautiously, "but would it really be so wise to allow Orlesian troops to pour freely into our lands? To endanger the women and children?"

Bryce gave a brief glance of approval toward his youngest son. "He's right. You must think of what you owe the people. They must always come first. Without them, we are nothing."

"I am thinking of them! We've made so much progress with Orlais. Trade routes, peace treaties, among other things." Cailan motioned to Aedan. "Preventing a crisis together would only solidify our alliance, which is exactly what we need going on into the future."

The room fell silent, the five of them deep in thought.

"Well, we don't even know for sure if a Blight will happen any time soon, if at all." Bryce looked as calm as ever. "But when, if, the time comes, I am sure that you will make the right decision." He looked to the young regent, who barely nodded in return.

The door to Cailan's office opened, the manservant announcing the newcomer into the room. "The Arl of Denerim, Your Highness."

Urien Kendells bowed politely as he entered. "Everything is set for tomorrow, Prince."

"Very good." The regent nodded, failing to smile. Anora placed a hand on her husband's, the iciness from just moments before all but gone. He curved his lips into something both strong and meek, managing to look at least somewhat regal. "You have done well, Kendells. I thank you for your service."

Urien lowered his head again, deeper than before. "And I am honoured to serve you, just as my father was when he organised His Majesty's coronation more than two decades ago. I can only hope that the tradition continues in times to come." The Arl's expression darkened and everyone knew why. Vaughn, the future of the Kendells family, was an infamously poor heir and an even worse man. "Not any time soon, of course, Maker willing," he added.

Cailan was looking grim faced too, presumably for another reason entirely. Each mention of his father seemed to take a toll on the young man. The King had been dead for at least a year by then in everyone's minds; even Loghain, the most loyal of Maric's subjects, had given up hope. But Cailan, the idealist, the optimist, clearly had not. And yet, the next day, he was properly ascending to the throne and taking up the kingship, setting in stone his beloved father's death, almost a symbolic patricide.

Anora intervened in the Prince's grief, mustering all the hospitality at her disposal. "Will you join us for dinner, Arl? Highever, his family and my father," she motioned to Bryce, Aedan and Loghain, "are all staying with us here at the palace tonight. You even said so yourself, the preparations have been taken care of. Why not spend the night here, take your mind off things for a while? Your son can stay with us too."

Urien considered the offer, if only for a token moment. "If it would not be too great an imposition."

The young Mac Tir shook her head with grace. "Of course not."

The manservant opened the door once more, a young man rushing in toward Cailan before even being announced. "Lord Vaughan Kendells, Your Highness."

"I gather you wanted to see me, Prince."

The other six of them in the room stared at Vaughan questioningly, then looked to each other. A brief silence.

"I am afraid I do not remember asking for you, Lord Vaughan. From whom did you receive this message?"

Flustered, the Arl's son clenched a fist. "Oswick, Lord Aedan's servant." He glared down at the young Cousland. "It seems there has been a misunderstanding," he growled.

"Never mind that," Anora said, clearly feeling that something was off. "I was just inviting you and your father to stay with us here at the palace tonight."

"What?" Vaughan blurted, confused and taken off guard. "But shouldn't Oswick be-"

"We would be delighted," Urien interjected, he and his son sharing a look before he turned back to the regent's wife. "Thank you, Lady Anora."

Aedan found himself next to Anora at the dinner table. He was dressed in a dark navy tunic, the only real option for a nobleman during dinner, and she in a modest and typically Fereldan dress made of velvet in a deep maroon. All other members around the table were having their own conversations, mostly in pairs as was customary. "Earlier, when Cailan mentioned the Empress of Orlais." Anora reacted rigidly, her knife and fork held still, but she did not scowl, nor did she glare at him, which meant he could proceed but only with caution. "You don't approve of her?"

"It's not that I disapprove of her." Anora hesitated. "As a ruler, Empress Celene is admirable, worthy of being both respected and feared. As an ally, a true ally, she would be invaluable, but as anything even slightly different…" She turned her eyes toward her husband. "Cailan is an honourable man, but he can be short sighted and easily," a pause, "convinced."

Aedan could not quite put his finger on what it was, but somehow his friend looked very delicate then, which, despite his reservations, beckoned him to press on. If something were troubling a ruler of his nation, it was very much his concern. Maker knew that Fergus would certainly not bother to make it his. "I don't quite understand. Will you not be there to guide him, to offer a helping hand? Surely your father will continue to mentor him too."

"Of course," Anora said curtly, and raised her knife and fork again to return to her meal, but stopped resolutely. "I'm twenty-five years old, you know, and it's not as if we haven't been trying all these years," she said bluntly.

It was then that Aedan finally understood, and he couldn't help but feel warm at the cheeks. If Anora failed to produce an heir, things could get very problematic, very quickly, for her. Common sense said that the young lady would have around five more years until she was not so young anymore and Cailan would have to make a choice; sire a child through other means or end Calenhad's royal bloodline for good this time. If it really came to that, a meddling Celene could prove to be a complication indeed. "I see," he managed.

"Do you, now?" Anora replied sternly.

"I do." Aedan looked to his friend in the eyes and was surprised to see them softening.

The regent's wife allowed herself a quiet sigh and Aedan caught a glimpse of the woman behind the mask. "I'm sorry. I've let our conversation become rather serious, especially for dinner." Seemingly reenergised, she smiled in earnest. "Let us speak no more of this."

And that was that.

"I'm afraid we haven't had many chances to talk, you and me. Not since that hunt we once went on, way back when," Cailan said. "How have you been? I trust the Couslands have been treating you well?"

"They have, very well," Cateline replied, smiling fondly at the memory of her first hunt and that one lucky fox. "I am undeserving of their kindness and generosity."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. You are family to them, you know, which practically makes us family too." The Prince took a hearty swig of wine. "And besides, you're the eldest child of a duke yourself. I would hardly say that a person that is to one day take on a dukedom is undeserving of any kind of proper treatment."

"The eldest daughter," Cateline said. "He is my younger by four years, but it is my brother who will be inheriting the title and everything that comes along with it."

"Oh, yes. Your Empress Celene has been telling me all about the matter. Forgive me for having it slip my mind, but it's just so strange. Women really don't inherit titles of any kind in Orlais?"

"No, I am afraid we don't. Not by general custom, anyhow. In reality, it all depends on how one plays the Game."

"Hm. I don't mean to speak ill of your country, but that does sound rather unfair. Our women would certainly have a thing or two to say about it, I bet." A very specific woman came to Cailan's mind and he glanced at Eleanor, afraid to even imagine how she would react if those Orlesian customs were imposed upon her very Fereldan character. "Do you not mind at all? To me it feels as if you are being robbed of your birthright in a way."

"There are many among us who feel the same way about it as you do, although few would say so openly. As for myself, it fills me with relief to know that I will not have to hold myself accountable for governing a duchy someday. I couldn't bear to take on such a responsibility."

The Prince's shoulders sagged and he took to his wine once more. "I know that feeling. A little too well, I'm afraid." He straightened. "What about your brother, then? Is he prepared for his future?"

"Not yet, but he will be. Alphi's always been the bright one," Cateline replied, her voice hopeful. "You may have a point about our customs, Prince, but in my case at least I believe it has all worked out for the best."

"That speaks well for Aedan, I hope. He's a good man, you know, even if he is a little …" Cailan trailed off, searching for the right words and failing. He looked on to his friend in question, the words thin and fragile jumping out at him. The boy was cunning and smart, but he wasn't going to be winning any tourneys anytime soon. "Well if you haven't already, one thing you'll learn about Fereldan women is that they have a way of snapping us men into shape when we're out of it. Perhaps some of that will rub off on you," Cailan joked, an attempt to save his near blunder.

Cateline simply giggled, smiling with affection. "Oh, I think that may be something that we, women, share universally," she returned, far more truthfully than the young Prince could possibly know.

Fergus made his way through the palace hallways, filled constantly by candlelight unlike most other estates; the seat of royal power was busy day and night, the servants hard at work to keep the house of kings and queens in tip top shape. He received a curt bow from the twentieth servant he passed by from his bedchamber on the way to his destination, and then at last, he finally arrived.

He opened the chapel doors and stepped inside, only to be surprised by the presence of another so late into the night. It was his sister, sitting at one of the front seats, staring into the eyes of Andraste's stained-glass image. She noticed him instantly, him being heavy footed, and smiled as he took the seat beside her. "You're up pretty late, sister. Mother will be cross if she catches you."

"She's fast asleep, like everybody else. Besides, what will she do? Scold me for praying and meditating upon the teachings of the Chantry?"

"Oh, that's what you are doing, is it? I don't recall you ever having much of an interest."

"It's newfound, thank you very much. It's never too late, you know, or so they say." Adriani shifted, stretching her shoulders and neck. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Still haunted by thoughts of a possible Blight, Fergus had come to the chapel after some reprieve. "Whatever do you mean? I visit the chapel every night. I'm very devout, you know."

"I'd wager Mother Mallol would say otherwise."

They shared a moment in silence, the both of them looking upon the Maker's spiritual wife in contemplation.

"It's those dreams, isn't it?" Fergus asked with dread. Adriani nodded, her head sinking lower by the moment. He sighed. "We really ought to-"

"No! We cannot!" Her voice was almost manic, grabbing at Fergus with trembling hands. "You mustn't give me away, brother, you mustn't. You're the only one standing between me and a life trapped in the Circle Tower."

Fergus pried his sister's hands off himself and held them tightly in his. "It will be alright," he whispered, almost more to himself than to her. "Everything will be alright. I am here for you, and I will never abandon you or give you away, not ever. Even I have learned to hold my tongue." Adriani's breathing slowed to something less unnerving. "And tell those Fade things that they'll have me, the future Teyrn of Highever, to deal with if they ever mistreat you," he joked. It earned him a laugh from his sister, despite her watery eyes.

Vaughan stalked through the servant's halls below ground, eager for the quenching of his desires he was so deprived of earlier in the day. She had been so young, so vulnerable; just as he liked them. He continued down the hallway, much darker than the well-lit floors upstairs reserved for use by real people, making his way toward his prey's quarters. She was obviously a scullery maid and their beds were right around the corner.

He heard a voice. Voices. Two men, whispering right behind him. Quickly he dodged to the side, pressing himself into the gap between the wall and a pillar, putting him out of sight. It was not as if he were not allowed to be there, but it was best not to tempt fate. He focused his ears, tuning into the conversation between the two voices.

"We have to stop this, for both our sakes." Vaughan didn't recognise the voice. "What if we're found out?"

"They won't." He recognised this one, however, very well, and it made his blood boil just to hear it. It was Aedan's servant. "And even if they do, so what?"

"What do you mean 'so what'?"

Oswick groaned. "I'm so tired of hiding all the time. I love you, Darek, and I'm not afraid to tell the world."

"What? How could-" A sickening silence, seemingly lasting an eternity in Vaughan's mind. "You're insane, you know that?"

"Ah. Your words say one thing and yet your tongue tells another story entirely."

Vaughan dared to peek around the corner of the pillar and there they were, the two abominations holding each other in a revolting embrace. He felt his dinner surging up his throat, forcing him to cover his mouth instinctively. The lord supressed a gag, his earlier appetite all but gone. He could hear them no longer as they continued to whisper to each other, until eventually, thank the Maker, he heard the opening and closing of a nearby door and the shuffling of feet as they took to going into a more private room.