With The Back Against The Wall
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting fleeting shadows across the chamber walls. Around the war table, the weight of Ferelden's plight hung heavily in the air, like a storm cloud ready to break.
Loghain stood at the head of the table, his hands braced against its edge. His eyes swept over the map before him, marked with troop movements and key locations. Beside him, Anora sat straight-backed in her chair, her expression as composed as ever. Across the table, Rendon Howe lounged with an air of ease, his sharp features betraying none of the strain the Crown now faced.
For days, Loghain had been carefully orchestrating his plans. His spies, discreet and loyal, had been tracking Howe's movements, unraveling the web of treachery he suspected. Cauthrien alone had been brought into his confidence, the knowledge of his uneasy pact with the New Nightelves shared only with her. She stood by the chamber door now, silent but vigilant, her eyes rarely leaving Howe.
The meeting began with a review of the kingdom's current position—though it was more a grim reminder of their vulnerabilities than a strategy session.
Anora broke the silence, her voice calm but firm. "Redcliffe remains a stronghold for Eamon's forces. His declaration of the Landsmeet has rallied a significant number of banns to his cause."
Howe leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "A bold move on Eamon's part, though hardly unexpected. He's always been a thorn in the Crown's side. Now he sees an opportunity to turn that thorn into a blade."
Loghain's gaze snapped to Howe, cold and assessing. "And he wields Alistair as that blade. A puppet with Maric's blood, dangled before the Bannorn to sow discontent."
Anora inclined her head, her sharp eyes fixed on the map. "Maric's bastard or not, Eamon knows how to appeal to the Bannorn. He offers them a familiar name, the promise of stability, and a challenge to the throne—all under the guise of righteousness."
Howe chuckled lightly. "And let us not forget our ever-vigilant Grey Wardens. Their influence grows with each passing day. Harrowmont's troops now answer to them, not the Crown. Orzammar is lost to us."
"And the Templars," Anora added, her voice tight. "Word from the Circle confirms that they've aligned themselves with the Wardens. Their numbers are small, but their symbolism is significant. Redcliffe, Orzammar, and now the Templars. The Wardens are forging an alliance that grows more dangerous by the day."
Loghain's grip on the table tightened. The thought of Duran Aeducan—the exiled prince turned Warden—gnawed at him.
How does one Warden accomplish so much?
He had dismissed the Wardens as relics, an outdated order clinging to their tales of Archdemons and Blights. But now, they were rallying Ferelden's key allies to their cause, wielding the Blight as both a warning and a weapon.
Anora's voice broke his thoughts. "We must confront the reality of our situation. The Bannorn is fracturing. Orzammar has turned away from the Crown. And Eamon's influence continues to grow. If we cannot rally the remaining banns to our side before the Landsmeet, the Crown's authority will be irrevocably weakened. There are even rumors that Alistair is rallying the dalish clans behind the banner oft he wardens."
Loghain's jaw tightened as Anora's words settled over the room. He knew the truth of it—felt the weight of it in his very bones. Eamon's Landsmeet was not just a challenge to Anora's reign; it was a direct threat to everything he had fought to preserve.
The Bannorn had always been a fickle, fractious group. Their loyalty shifted with the winds of convenience and ambition. And now, with the Wardens stirring the pot and Eamon seizing the moment, Loghain could see the precariousness of their position.
The Bannorn are not loyal to a crown; they are loyal to their own power. If Eamon convinces them that Alistair can restore stability, they'll flock to him without hesitation.
The thought of Alistair—Maric's bastard—taking the throne was almost unbearable. A boy raised in obscurity, untrained, untested, unworthy of the title. And yet, that boy now posed a very real threat to Anora's rule.
His thoughts turned to the other Warden. He had already achieved what many thought impossible: uniting Orzammar behind Harrowmont, rallying the Circle of Magi (or what is left of it) and securing the Templars.
Howe's voice cut through the silence, smooth and deliberate. "The situation isn't without hope, of course. The Bannorn may be fracturing, but they're not united against us. Many remain undecided, wary of Eamon's intentions."
He leaned forward slightly, his smirk widening. "We can sway them. Remind them of their place, their duty to the Crown. A little incentive—perhaps a reminder of the chaos that would follow a change in leadership—would go a long way."
Loghain's eyes narrowed, his mind churning. Howe's words were slippery, crafted to sound loyal but laced with ambition. Every suggestion felt like an attempt to manipulate the situation for his own gain.
"Persuasion," Loghain said coldly, "can take many forms, Howe. Some more dangerous than others."
Howe chuckled lightly, unbothered by the pointed remark. "Dangerous times require bold measures, Teyrn. Surely you see that."
Loghain said nothing, but his thoughts darkened. Howe was playing his own game; of that, Loghain was certain. The ledger, the note, the mercenaries—it all pointed to something deeper, something he was determined to uncover.
Anora stood, her gaze sweeping over the room. "The Crown's position is tenuous, but not beyond repair. We must act decisively. Rally the undecided banns, reinforce our alliances, and undermine Eamon's narrative before the Landsmeet."
She turned to her father, her expression unreadable. "What do you think, Father?"
Loghain straightened, his voice measured but firm. "The Bannorn respect strength and certainty. We must show them both. Eamon's gambit relies on momentum—if we disrupt it, his plans will falter."
He glanced briefly at Howe before continuing. "But we must also tread carefully. Missteps now could tip the balance against us."
Anora nodded. "Then let us proceed. Time is not on our side."
As the meeting concluded, Howe gave a low bow and left the chamber, his smirk firmly in place. Cauthrien stepped closer to Loghain, her voice low. "He's hiding something. I can feel it."
Loghain exhaled slowly. "Let him. Every move he makes is another step closer to revealing the truth."
The fire in Loghain's chamber burned low, its embers casting faint orange light on the walls. The day's meeting had left him with more questions than answers, his mind a storm of doubt and calculation. The voices of Anora, Howe, and even Cauthrien still rang in his ears, each carrying their own weight of expectation and mistrust.
He leaned against the edge of his desk, staring at the missives and reports strewn across its surface. Redcliffe. Orzammar. The Circle. The Templars. Even the Dalish. Piece by piece, the Wardens had gathered allies, forging a coalition that now overshadowed the Crown itself.
And then there was Eamon.
Loghain's fist clenched at the thought of the Arl's audacity. A Landsmeet, called under the guise of tradition and stability, but in truth, it was a coup. Eamon had carefully set the stage, using Alistair—a boy who barely understood the weight of his lineage—as a symbol to rally the Bannorn.
But there was something deeper at play.
Loghain paced the length of the room, his boots echoing against the stone floor. His thoughts churned, circling back to the same conclusion again and again.
Eamon doesn't want to simply replace Anora.
No, the Arl's ambitions were far grander. Alistair was not just a convenient figurehead; he was a tool, a means to an end. Maric's bloodline carried with it a powerful symbol—a connection to Ferelden's past. But what Eamon sought was not a restoration of Ferelden's glory. It was a bridge.
To Orlais.
The thought made his stomach turn. Ferelden had bled too much, sacrificed too many lives to free itself from Orlais' grasp. Now, Eamon sought to undo all of it, cloaking his intentions in the guise of stability. Alistair, untrained and naive, would be the perfect king for Eamon to manipulate.
And Eamon would not stop with Ferelden.
Loghain could see it clearly now: an alliance with Orlais, one forged in marriages, treaties, and promises of unity. The Bannorn would be placated with wealth and influence, the Grey Wardens would present their Blight as justification, and Ferelden would once again bow to foreign rule.
Over my dead body.
He stopped at the window, gazing out over Denerim. The city was restless, its people caught between hope and fear. The alienage simmered with discontent, the nobles plotted, and the shadow of Orlais loomed larger than ever.
For a moment, he saw flames reflected in the glass.
Flemeth's voice echoed in his mind: "The Landsmeet will not save you, Loghain. It will destroy you. A room of vipers, each eager to sink their fangs into your flesh. You'll wear their wounds until nothing of you remains."
The vision she had shown him still haunted his nights. A hall filled with shouting nobles, their accusations ringing out like thunder. Eamon's voice rising above the din, and Alistair standing tall beside him. Howe's whispering treachery slithering through the air, unseen but felt.
In that vision, he had seen himself fall.
But Flemeth had also told him something else: "The future is not set. A king can bend the world to his will, but only if he is willing to bear the weight of it."
Loghain exhaled sharply. He had never feared bearing the weight of his decisions, but now, doubt clawed at the edges of his resolve.
Loghain turned away from the window, the ghostly image of flames lingering in his mind's eye. His thoughts shifted to Maric—his friend, his king, his brother-in-arms.
Maric, who had led them through rebellion with a laugh on his lips and a blade in his hand. Maric, who had been a rallying point for Ferelden's battered pride, a figure who embodied hope even in the darkest days.
He pulled a chair to the fire and sat, his eyes fixed on the smoldering embers. It had been years since Maric had disappeared, but his shadow remained, cast over every decision Loghain made.
Maric could make them believe, Loghain thought. He could look a man in the eye, no matter his station, and convince him to fight, to sacrifice, to follow him into the unknown. People didn't just serve Maric—they adored him.
The memory of Maric's easy confidence, the way he carried the weight of kingship as though it were a gift rather than a burden, stung in its sharp contrast to Loghain's own methods. Where Maric had inspired loyalty, Loghain demanded it. Where Maric had drawn allies to his side with charm and warmth, Loghain relied on fear and pragmatism.
And yet, Maric had never shied away from hard choices.
Loghain closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He saw Maric standing on a hill, overlooking the battlefield at West Hill, his sword gleaming in the morning light. The army they had rallied from farmers, laborers, and castoffs had been battered and weary, but Maric had walked among them, his voice ringing clear and strong.
"We fight not for ourselves, but for each other. For our children. For Ferelden."
And they had fought. Fought with a ferocity that had broken the Orlesians' lines and turned the tide of the rebellion.
Could I lead like that? Loghain wondered. Could I set aside the cold calculus, the brutal efficiency, and show them something to believe in?
His hand tightened on the armrest of the chair. He had built his reputation on pragmatism, on doing whatever was necessary to preserve Ferelden's freedom. But now, that reputation had become a weight around his neck, dragging him into darker and darker waters.
Maric had shown him another way—a path of leadership that inspired, rather than coerced. It wasn't a method Loghain was comfortable with, but comfort was a luxury Ferelden could no longer afford.
Perhaps there's still time to change, to balance what was lost… he thought.
He would never be Maric. He lacked the easy charm, the natural charisma, the spark that made others flock to his side. But he could lead by example, as Maric had. He could fight for Ferelden with every fiber of his being, and perhaps—just perhaps—others would see his conviction and follow.
His thoughts returned to the Landsmeet, and his resolve hardened. Eamon would not win. Loghain would not allow Ferelden to fall into the hands of Orlais, no matter how cleverly the Arl cloaked his ambitions.
The Bannorn would need to see strength. They would need to see that Ferelden's future lay not with a naive boy like Alistair, but with leaders who understood the weight of sacrifice.
And yet, he would have to temper that strength with something more. He would have to show them that his vision for Ferelden was not born of desperation, but of hope.
Loghain leaned forward, the firelight flickering in his sharp eyes.
I will not fall to Eamon. I will not let his lies and manipulations undo everything Maric and I fought for. The Bannorn must believe in something greater than a name. They must believe in Ferelden. I will make them see.
A plan was already forming in his mind, its pieces scattered like the embers before him. It would not be easy for him—nothing worth fighting for ever was. But if he could balance Maric's ideals with the harsh realities of the present, he might yet turn the tide.
He rose from the chair, his expression resolute. The days ahead would be fraught with danger, betrayal, and sacrifice, but he would face them head-on.
Ferelden's survival demanded no less.
The fire crackled softly as he moved to the desk, pulling a blank sheet of parchment toward him. With a steady hand, he began to write, shaping the first steps of a gambit that would define the kingdom's future.
The Landsmeet will not destroy me. I will master it. Just as Maric would have.