The Assembly in Session
The Assembly Hall was a storm of chaos and tension. Deshyrs shouted over one another, their voices rising in sharp waves that crashed against the cold stone walls. The future of Orzammar teetered on a precipice, and the division between Harrowmont's supporters and Behlen's faction was palpable.
At the center of the chamber, Harrowmont stood calmly, his weathered face resolute despite the tension. Across from him, Behlen prowled like a predator, his sharp eyes scanning the room as he barked orders to his allies, rallying their support with calculated, biting words.
The arguments ground to a halt as the heavy doors of the chamber swung open with a resounding crash. The hall fell silent, all eyes turning to the source of the interruption.
There stood Duran Aeducan, clad in the armor of a Grey Warden, his presence commanding. In his hands, he held a golden crown, radiant and otherworldly, catching the light of the chamber's torches. Behind him, his companions—Gorim, Adela, Oghren—filed in, each bearing the marks of a hard-fought journey through the Deep Roads.
Gasps rippled through the Assembly, whispers breaking out like a wave among the Deshyrs.
Nerav Helmi stepped forward from her seat, her expression a mixture of astonishment and joy. "By the Stone… Duran. You've returned."
Duran nodded gravely, his voice steady as he stepped into the center of the chamber. "I have. And I bring more than just my return. I bring a decision that will shape Orzammar's future."
The Tale of Branka and the Anvil
Duran raised the crown high, its exquisite craftsmanship silencing even the faintest murmurs. The light danced along its intricate surface, the design unmistakably dwarven but unlike anything Orzammar had ever seen.
"This crown," Duran began, his voice carrying across the hall, "was forged by Branka, Paragon of Orzammar. We found her deep in the Deep Roads, guarding the Anvil of the Void."
The words hit the room like a hammer strike. Gasps and exclamations filled the chamber, Deshyrs exchanging incredulous glances.
Bandelor, the steward of the Assembly, stepped forward, his expression skeptical but curious. "You claim to have found the Anvil? And that Branka lives? These are extraordinary claims, Duran Aeducan. Do you have proof?"
Oghren stepped forward, his voice booming with confidence. "Damn right he does! I saw it myself. Branka's alive, alright—mad as the Stone, but alive. She made that crown with her own hands and told Duran to bring it back to the one worthy to wear it."
Bandelor studied Oghren for a moment before nodding slowly. "If this is true, then your journey has accomplished more than any Deshyr here could hope for. But that still leaves the question… who will bear this crown?"
A Decision to Shape a Kingdom
The hall grew quiet as Bandelor's words settled over the Assembly. Every gaze turned to Duran, the weight of expectation pressing heavily on his shoulders.
Harrowmont met his eyes, his expression calm but searching. Behlen, by contrast, glared at him, his features twisted with barely contained fury. Gorim stood close to Duran's side, his hand resting reassuringly on his shoulder.
"You've got this," Gorim whispered. "This is your moment, my lord."
Nerav gave him an encouraging nod, and even Adela, her usual sharp tongue subdued, watched him with quiet confidence.
Duran took a deep breath and stepped forward. "This crown is more than a symbol—it is a responsibility. Branka entrusted me with it because she understood the stakes. Orzammar is at a crossroads, and we cannot afford to choose poorly."
He turned to face the Assembly, his voice growing stronger. "We need a leader who values honor, wisdom, and the lives of all who call the Stone home. A leader who can guide Orzammar into an uncertain future with strength and fairness. That is why I name Lord Harrowmont as the next King of Orzammar."
The hall erupted into murmurs and hushed conversations. Some Deshyrs looked relieved, others outraged, their whispered debates filling the air like a rising tide.
Behlen's Rebellion
Bandelor stepped forward, holding his hands up to quiet the Assembly. "The decision has been made. Lord Harrowmont, step forward and accept the crown."
Harrowmont began to descend the stairs toward Duran, his steps measured and deliberate. The air was thick with anticipation as the crowd held its breath.
But the silence was shattered as Behlen's voice rang out, sharp and venomous. "No! This is a farce!"
All eyes turned to Behlen, whose face was twisted with rage. He drew his weapon, its blade glinting in the torchlight. "I will not stand by while my birthright is stolen by cowards and relics! Harrowmont will never be my king!"
His supporters surged forward, their weapons drawn. The hall descended into chaos as Deshyrs scrambled for cover, and Assembly guards rushed to protect them.
"Get Harrowmont out of here!" Duran shouted to Nerav.
Nerav grabbed Harrowmont's arm, pulling him toward the safety of the royal chambers. "Stay close, my lord. We'll see this through!"
Brother Against Brother
Amidst the chaos, Duran found himself face-to-face with Behlen. Their weapons clashed with a deafening crash, sparks flying as the siblings battled with the fury of years of betrayal and anger.
"You always thought you were better than me!" Behlen snarled, his strikes heavy and relentless. "But you were weak. Father saw it, and so did Trian!"
Duran blocked a blow with his shield—the shield of House Aeducan—and countered with a swift strike. "Weak? You're the one who betrayed us! You killed Trian, manipulated Father, and exiled me! You tore our house apart!"
The battle raged, their words cutting as deeply as their blades.
"I did what had to be done!" Behlen roared. "Orzammar needs strength, not honor!"
"And look where your 'strength' has brought us," Duran spat, landing a heavy blow that sent Behlen staggering.
Finally, Duran saw his opening. With a surge of strength, he raised the Aeducan shield and brought it down on Behlen's head. The impact sent his brother to the ground, his weapon clattering away.
Behlen looked up at him, blood trickling from his temple. "You'll regret this," he rasped, his voice fading. "You… were never worthy…"
With those final words, Behlen's head slumped to the side, his lifeless eyes staring into the void.
The Coronation of Harrowmont
As the dust settled, the surviving guards subdued the last of Behlen's supporters. The hall grew quiet once more, the weight of what had transpired pressing down on all who remained.
Bandelor stepped forward, his voice steady but solemn. "Let it be known that by the will of the Assembly and the Stone, Lord Harrowmont is King of Orzammar."
Harrowmont, now safe, approached the center of the hall. He knelt before Duran, bowing his head as Bandelor placed the golden crown upon him.
"Rise, King Harrowmont," Bandelor declared.
Harrowmont stood, his gaze meeting Duran's. "You have given Orzammar more than I can ever repay," he said quietly. "Thank you, my friend."
A New Future
As the group left the Assembly, the halls still buzzing with whispers, Gorim clapped a hand on Duran's shoulder. "You've done it. Orzammar owes you everything."
Adela smirked, her voice tinged with both pride and caution. "Let's hope Harrowmont knows what to do with the crown."
Oghren remained silent, his expression somber as he processed the loss of Branka and the chaos that had unfolded.
Duran nodded, his thoughts heavy but resolute. "Harrowmont is the right choice. Orzammar has a chance now. That's all I wanted."
The Stone seemed to hum in approval as they prepared to leave, a reminder that while their journey in Orzammar had ended, the fight against the Blight was just beginning.