Guarded Love

CHAPTER ONE

Naming Day

Half of Ferelden must have shown up for this damn thing, a fascinating array of body odors floating through the crowds shoving near his ramshackle dais. Someone took the time to nail up a flag to cover over the hole behind him, but in their haste barely notched it in. Alistair couldn't stop fiddling with the nail head sticking out towards him, when he wasn't waving to his citizens or switching the bundle of blankets from one arm to the other.

The chair beside him loomed in emptiness, every third or fourth person having to comment on the lack of the Queen. He'd smile as best he could, then offer up some cheery joke about how ol' Bea was off walking orphans or something. A few were kind enough to smile at their silly King, but more than most would linger over the silent seat. Maker, how much longer was this going to take?

Stubby fingers tugged on Alistair's scabbard, causing his sword to pitch backwards until it jammed against the chair. He glanced down at the moon faced girl with eyes of emeralds. She began the day with her black hair braided tight and wrapped around her head like a lady should. Within an hour she had half of it down with weeds she considered flowers jammed in. I'm bored! she pronounced, folding her arms across her chest. I want to play.

Alistair had to bury a chuckle at his daughter's obstinance. He happened to agree with her, but this was tradition. Spud, he warned in what passed for his father voice which couldn't even discipline a fly for falling into his soup. For his efforts he got the slow eye roll of a two and three quarters year old. She insisted upon the three quarters even if she was nearing a full four quarters with every day.

Why don't you go curtsy to those men in shiny hats over there, he said pointing at a few of the city guards. Denerim was kind enough to loan out their crew for this little meet and greet. Their polished steel helmets poked through the crowd of coiffed men and women hoping to wave at the newest addition to the palace.

For her part, his daughter looked over at two of the guards standing in as much rapt attention people paid to do it could. He thought she'd take him up on it. Someone had been teaching the princess how to properly curtsy like a lady and Spud loved it, though her approach was to grab both sides of her dress, spin around in a circle, and then squat as far as her legs allowed. Sometimes she'd forget about the squatting part and spin and spin until nearly passing out. Being only two, this of course delighted the Arls and Banns who had to find everything the princess did absolutely adorable. This time, however, she pinched up her little nose and frowned.

Don't want to, she said, kicking her fancy shoe into the chair that was supposed to house her mother.

Alistair bit back a groan then reached down for her. Come up here, he said, tugging her up to the extra chair. Scrabbling with his help, Spud didn't sit down to watch the crowds still sliding in and out through the reception line. Instead, she stood up in it and reached for the banner behind.

Your Highness, a voice whispered from behind him where a bevy of nurses, handmaidens, and other busybodies waited in case he screwed something up, it isn't ladylike for a princess to stand on her chair.

Sighing, he whispered to Spud, Pst, you're not being a lady.

'S okay, I'm a dragon now, she insisted, before giving out her feral roar that might startle a kitten.

Your Majesty, the voice insisted, all but jabbing him in the back of the head.

He shrugged, Sorry, you can't tell dragons what to do. The woman groaned, used to dealing with Alistair's petulant ways, but another chuckled beside him. Glancing over, he spotted the smiling lips of a city guard. Dressed in the unitarian uniform that rendered all gender down to a faceless lump it was impossible for him to tell who was hiding inside that tin can, but by the giggle he'd guess a woman.

About to ask the guard if she was all right or if standing in so much metal all day baked her brains away, Alistair's focus was pulled to the lump in his arms transforming itself from a mass of blankets to a gaping maw demanding attention. It wasn't a cry at this point, more a wheeze, but the moment it broke all voices across the bustling square died. Everyone turned to look at the little prince giving his first speech to the masses. It was hard to make out the words, but the gist seemed to be I want something now! About on par with most royalty.

Well, good morning to you too, Alistair cooed at his son, running a finger across those chubby cheeks. Slowly, he rocked the bundle back and forth in his arms trying to calm the cries. For a moment they stuttered, just as they had when Spud was that tiny. Maker that felt like it was just a few days ago.

At her brother's sounds, she dropped to her knees on the chair and peered her eyes over the arm. She blinked a few times, watching the baby swaddled in the royal christening gown apparently all Theirin's wore since Calenhad. It was so ancient, Alistair wasn't certain which would get him in bigger trouble if he broke it, the gown or the baby wearing it.

Spud sat up and clapped her hands, I want to hold him.

Ah... He glanced over at his daughter and thought to the last time he let her hold an egg. She was very gentle with it for the first ten seconds before her toddler curiosity made her wonder if eggs could survive being dropped from a parapet. Turns out the answer is a resounding no. Next time, Spuddy, he said, trying to rock the prince back to sleep. The baby was having none of it, already on to Alistair's limited tricks.

Spud folded her arms up and stuck out her bottom lip. Maker, just what he needed, two kids screaming at the top of their lungs. Slipping the prince into the crook of his arm, Alistair snaked an arm around Spud's shoulders. Hauling her close, he planted a kiss on her forehead and mumbled, You don't want to hold him anyway. There's unholy demons coming out of the back end.

It was doubtful she understood half of what he said, but the wobbling bottom lip sucked back in and she smiled. The prince had only been in existence for a couple weeks and already he was proving to be a bigger handful than Spud ever was to both her parents. While Alistair and Spud bonded as he'd snatch her up every night to take her on a walking tour of the castle so she could drool over all his finery, the boy wanted nothing to do with either of them. And the toll he took on his mother was wearing everyone in the castle even thinner than expected.

Weighing the screams that were growing more urgent, he turned to the one woman behind him he recognized. I'm thinking someone's hungry. Marn, Alistair spoke to the wet nurse who had her own one year old clinging to her skirts for the ceremony, I hope the kitchen's open.

Always is, she said lifting the boy out of Alistair's arms. While Marn fished out the anatomy Alistair was lacking to make his son happy, he turned back to the crowd only to have thirty pounds of princess land in his lap. Dear Maker, he groaned, his thighs unprepared for such an attack, warn me next time.

Sorry, Daddy. For her part Spud only smiled at her father's pain, those emerald eyes sparkling with total sincerity. They never worked on her mother, but he melted to her whims at them.

Come here, he said, turning her around to sit properly on his chair that probably bore an indent from his ass. Just what it needed to get even flatter. Lifting up Spud's hand in his, Alistair waved with ferocity at the people who really didn't give a shit about meeting their king. They were all here for the prince, who he still had to officially name. Granted, that was the point of the day, gathering everyone in the square to tell the world that there was another little set of lungs screaming through the palace.

Did I have a name thing? Spud asked, kicking her heels haphazardly against the chair.

You know you did, he said. She'd asked the damn question a good thirty times since her nanny pulled out one of the fancier dresses and told her about today. Still, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair spotted the back of a contented baby's head suckling away. Pinning his daughter tight in a back hug, he chuckled, You were a handful and a half that day. Whenever anyone tried to hold you, you'd howl and howl until I'd pluck you away then boom, instant smile.

And Mummy was there! Spud announced.

Yes, your mother was there apologizing for your atrocious behavior. Quite unbecoming for a baby, he laughed into her hair. Beyond them stood the rest of the gentry, most crowded around the few snack tables someone set up. Isolde, the self appointed godmother, floated in and out through them while Eamon hung by her side. There were few Alistair cared about out there in the crowd, but they were all supposed to care about him.

Spud tipped her head back against his chest so those ornery eyes could beam up at him, Did I really wear the same dress as him?

Alistair reached over to run his fingers over the hemline of his son's dress, the ends drooping close to the ground as if the long dead sewer was daring him to mess it up. Yes, you did. You were so tiny you fit along my arm. Spud yanked up his forearm, her pudgy fingers darting across as if she was measuring it.

Nu-uh, she said, shaking her head and laughing at the absurdity of growth.

It's true, I swear.

Daddies shouldn't tell fibs, she said. Someone taught her that Princesses shouldn't do that and now Spud loved to run around insisting no one else should either. It was hard to tell her to knock it off when she was technically correct.

I'm not, Alistair said, done in by a two year old. Marn, you'll back me up on this.

His old adversary rolled an eye at him as she was currently busy fulfilling her hired role. Marn had little time for Alistair, and while she warmed up to letting the father near his children, it moved from the blood freezing breath of a frost dragon to the chill of being lost in the Frostbacks and thinking about eating your own toes. He hoped by the time his son was a year old he'd reach 'I might put you out if you're on fire, if I'm holding a bucket and it's not too much work.'

Speaking of, the demanding guest of honor detached himself of his own will and began to do that newborn baby wheeze at the indignity. Spud huffed in Alistair's lap at the cries, and he chuckled. She was going to have to get used to it, they all were again.

Your Majesty, a voice oozed from before him and Alistair turned from Marn trying to appease the demanding royal suckered to her tit to a demanding Bann suckered to the royal coffers.

Bann Cyrill, Alistair groaned, wishing he didn't have to know that name, or any of them come to think of it. He'd tried calling all the gentry Bob for a week once when Eamon was out of court. It made for a delightful game until there was talk of rebellion and bringing in chevaliers.

May I give blessings onto the new son of Ferelden?

I dunno, Alistair shrugged, may you?

Cyrill's weaselly face with the sunken in eyes darted around the dais hoping to find someone to come to his rescue. When none of the women either employed by the King or sworn to protect him offered a hand, the Bann chuckled, Yes, quite witty, your Highness.

He didn't seem to be in any mood to fade back in with the happy crowds, so Alistair turned to Marn and extended his hands. Here, give him to me. The nursemaid shot her legendary dagger eyes through him, but Alistair only shrugged and jerked his chin at the anchored Bann. He wanted to give over his son for the damn fealty swear as much as Marn did but there wasn't much choice.

Scooping the prince up into the crook of his arm, a limp cry echoed from those tiny lungs. Spud twisted around in his lap, her unimpressed eyes boring into the baby. She reached a finger towards him to try and touch a cheek when Alistair lifted the boy away. He spotted a pout burgeoning with her bottom lip, but there wasn't anything he could do. It was tradition.

Cyrill placed his thumb to his lips and then against the boy's forehead. I, and my lands, swear fealty to protect and honor this son of Ferelden, he said, his murky eyes glazing over. Have you announced the name, yet?

Alistair juggled from one arm to another the baby who was getting tired of people treating his head like a thumbprint cookie. Trying to get some insider information to win a bet? You know how this works.

I would never dare cheat, your Majesty, he mumbled, looking shocked that Alistair would dare demean him. As if all of Ferelden didn't remember who stood with Loghain during that fateful Landsmeet, nor would they ever let him forget. Betting on the winner was the way to succeed in both horse racing and politics, but getting it wrong with only one could end in your entire family being slaughtered.

Daddy.

In a minute, Alistair said. The baby began to cry, a more pressing one than before and as his hand drifted lower Alistair figured out why. Marn, tell me you brought another nappy.

That'd be the third this morning, she said, already dutifully whipping it out of her satchel for him.

Boy knows his feces at a few weeks old. He'll be a natural at politics.

Daddy! Spud insisted, tugging on his sleeve and throwing off his concentration of getting the damn dress off without soiling it.

He yanked his arm away from her and turned to glare at her, What is it?

Smoke burst through the crowds, rising maliciously as if the street suddenly caught on fire. Screams echoed all around as people began to beat feet back and forth, scrabbling to escape. In the chaos, he couldn't tell if they were screams of fear or pain. Forgetting the change of pants, Alistair rose off his seat. With one hand wrapped around his son, he reached over to pin tight to Spud's tiny fingers. The acrid fog rolled through the crowds, trying to reach towards the dais. It stung his eyes and sure enough, both of his children began to cry as well from the pain they couldn't escape.

We need to... was as far as Alistair got when he spotted the darkness moving through the crowd. Shadows blacker than night shifted through the fog. One of them approached past the scrambles of nobles trampling each other for freedom, his head held high and a set of daggers glinting in his hands.

Shit! Alistair cursed, earning a glare from his daughter. Spud, he tugged her hand to the hem of his shirt, hold onto this tight and don't let go for anything. She nodded her head, her eyes wide despite the smoke biting into them.

Glancing down at the scabbard on his hip, Alistair shifted his son to his left hand and unsheathed his sword. Maker, I hope this thing isn't just for show. It glinted like gold in the sunlight, those damn jewels jammed into the hilt instantly nipping into his hands. Stupid, stupid, the whole thing was bloody stupid! The shadow glared up at him and slowly the cloak's hood tipped back to reveal a man with a bronzed tan and the makings of a tattoo across his face. Of course it was a fucking Antivan Crow. Why not?

What am I doing today? Oh just sword fighting with a fancy pants golden back scratcher while holding my infant son and daughter. Perfectly normal, why are you asking? he babbled to himself while eyeing up the man advancing. How was he going to do this? How could he possibly fight while holding a baby? They never covered that in training!

The assassin's lips cracked open, revealing a silver tooth glittering in his wicked smile. For a bit of flare, he rotated his daggers around his palms before letting loose a feral scream and ramming towards the dais. Alistair braced himself by knocking Spud back and trying to put his babyless shoulder in the way, when a guard leaped off the wooden platform. She heaved her sword through the air and with the help of the fall, cleaved it into the man's shoulder.

Screaming at the agony of iron slicing apart his meat, the assassin scrabbled to stab at her sword arm, but she already yanked out her blade. Deflecting one dagger, the guard swung her arm wide and moved to slice through the air where the assassin's head was. Ah shit! Alistair turned fully around, blocking Spud's view of the decapitation to save their lives. He pinned her head tight to his leg, but they all heard the head splat into the ground and bounce three times before coming to a rest in the gutter.

Carefully, Alistair tried to catch his daughter's eye, It's okay, Tater Tot. I'm here. It'll be okay.

Her eyes were open wide enough they looked white, but she bobbed her head at his words, her fingers clinging so tight to his leg they pinched flesh below. Alistair wrapped his armed hand around the back of her head and placed a kiss to the top of her head. Turning back he began to thank the guard for her bravery, when they moved out of the smoke -- a good dozen or so assassins all wearing the same black cloak and brandishing a variety of weapons.

Sire! The guard who protected them slunk back at the advancement until she butted up against the dais. He was out of ideas, barely had any to begin with and this. How in the void could they stop this?

The assassins came prepared, but so was the Ferelden guard. Knocking through the useless and panicking nobles came the uniforms that normally stood around in Denerim protecting it from pickpockets. Blades met with blades, the enemies falling to chaos as the good guys took on the bad ones.

Sire, the woman repeated again. He blinked against the smoke to find her sheathing her sword and extending a hand to him. We should get you to safety.

Nodding, Alistair tried to work Spud around to the guard, but his daughter shrieked and pinched even tighter. Spud, I need you to...Sod it! He didn't want to hand her off until she was safe anymore than she wanted to be. Dipping to a knee, Alistair tossed his useless sword to the ground and struggled to scoop up his daughter. Get on! he ordered. Her tiny fingers scrabbled up, trying to traverse the finery not built for climbing. As she reached his shoulders, her hands formed a garrote against his throat.

Let's not choke Daddy, okay, he tugged her hands forward before securing the baby and then leaping off the platform. As his boots hit the ground he mumbled to himself, Your mother's going to kill me later, anyway. The second guard was rounding up all the handmaidens, trying to shoo them towards some building but that wasn't who the assassins were after.

Nodding once at his life saver, Alistair jerked his head towards her. This is your show, he said. Barely stumbling at that, the woman turned on a copper and sped off down an alley. With a baby in his arms and a two year old clinging to his back, Alistair followed the woman through narrow passages, over drunks woken from their stupor, and down another five turns until coming to stop in a part of Denerim he'd never seen before.

The guard kicked in a door without a thought, ricocheting the boarded up wood and nails through the air. She shoved her body in the way of any shrapnel and waved them inside. Quickly, get in.

Musty with age and lack of use, the room loomed with unspoken words and barely cremated ghosts. He felt Spud trembling on his shoulders and he had to drop down to a knee. She clung tighter to him, not wanting to let off, but Alistair needed to breathe. Slowly, his daughter slunk down until she stood on her feet, but he didn't rise up. Sliding around on his knees, he wiped a finger over her cheek. Are you okay? Her massive eyes darted over his shoulder to the guard, then back down to her father. Nodding once, she trapped her tongue between her teeth.

Thank the Maker, he gasped, tugging his daughter to him for a hug. That makes one of us. His son demanded attention as well, giving out a wail against all this ill treatment. Yes, I know, life isn't fair. Welcome to it, he sighed, placing a kiss to the soft forehead.

Sire... the guard flattened back into the doorframe, her eyes hunting around the edges. Alistair turned away from his children to watch her. I fear someone may have followed us.

Maker's breath, he groaned, wishing the damn fat ass in the fancy chair in the sky would see fit for one thing in his life to go right. Staggering to his feet, he nodded his head at the guard. Right, of course they did. Why blighted wouldn't they? Probably brought a pack of wyverns with them as well. I'm going to need your sword.

Your Majesty? she drug her words out, terrified to disobey but also unwilling to let him do something stupid.

Alistair passed her the baby, which she scooped into surprisingly relaxed arms, and then snatched up her sword. If they're after anyone, it's me.

Sire, I can't let you... she began.

Yes you can, because, he swallowed down the bramble building in his throat, we've already got the backups in here that need to be kept safe. Got it?

She looked like she wanted to argue with him, but nodded, As you say, Sire. Ah, you should... Shifting the baby to the crook of her arm, she yanked her helmet off. Alistair wasn't certain what surprised him more, the steepled points to her ears, the lush gold blonde hair she knotted into a bun, or the whisper of a smile on her lips from his idiotic move.

His fingers glanced across the helmet, that deeply stupid section of his brain falling dumbstruck by an unexpected beauty appearing out of nowhere. Shaking it away, Alistair sighed, I'm afraid that's not going to fit me. Tapping his forehead, he confessed, Fat head and all. She struggled to bite down a smile at his self deprecation.

Here, Alistair picked up his son out of her arms and dropped him into the helmet. The baby sat inside of it, his blue eyes opening wide at this strange, new angle on the world. Watching in concern, the guard eyed up the King as if he was mad. Baby armor, he explained before passing his son back to her. And Maker is his mother going to murder me ten times over when she finds out about this.

Daddy... A little hand tugged on his sleeve and he turned to find Spud with her thumb jammed tight inside her mouth. Oh Maker. I'm scared.

I know, Tater Tot. But, you've got to be a big girl, a big sister for your brother here. He's going to need someone to sing him songs, and...no, singing's probably not smart. To make funny faces. Can you do that?

Her eyes rolled up to her brother who was still gazing at this new world in shock. She sneered at the idea, wanting no part of his orders. Please, Spuddy, you stay here with your new friend... Alistair glanced over at the guard and faltered.

Reiss, she said, bouncing the helmet and baby in her arms.

Ser Reiss. She'll keep you safe, and maybe let you braid her hair. That last part got Spud's attention, her eyes lighting up as she no doubt took into account Reiss' mounds of golden waves.

M'kay, Spud muttered before popping her thumb back in place. Alistair needed strength to leave them both, to abandon his children in order to drag away the ones coming to kill his family, and there was only one place he knew to find it.

Wrapping his arms around his daughter, he tugged her tight to him and whispered, Through fire and ice, lightning and dragons, I'll come back for you. Always.

She smiled at the line from the book they always read together, her hands patting against him. His two year old daughter didn't care about the dangers ahead, the possibility of getting her chubby fingers on fresh hair to braid chased away any fear. Alistair released her and snatched up the sword. It was well balanced, the hilt firm, and a guard that would actually protect his damn hand without jabbing back into his side. He ran a pinkie down his still nameless son's cheek before turning to leave.

Sire, Reiss' hand snagged onto his and he stared into her hauntingly yellow-green eyes. Are you certain this is wise?

Of course not, he snickered, extending his hand out and slapping on his armor of bravado, it's my idea. Alistair slid out to face down the assassins come for him on his own terms. They'd know that the King of Ferelden was not such an easy target after all. Oh... he jogged back and stuck his head in, don't actually let Spud braid your hair. She just ties knots in it until it all has to be cut out. It's very bad. Bye!

CHAPTER TWO

The Pieces

Alistair barely got his blade wet before the real professionals swooped in to finish off the assassins. Smoke drifted through the Denerim square, permeating up tipped over tables leaving vittles and other puffed pastries to rot on the ground. Is everyone okay? Alistair shouted, trying to waft away the fog with his armed hand. People ignored the King, their focus all on either panicking, -- understandable -- or bossing everyone around for not bending to their noble whims. The latter Alistair shoved aside with his shoulder, earning him a deadly glower and a Well, I never until the Bann got a good look at the face.

Sire? Thank the Maker you're all right, a voice called out through the haze. Alistair'd know his not-uncle anywhere and he paused waiting for Teagan to catch up. Time had been less than kind to the gentle Arl, walloping him good over the years as if every stressful moment from his life landed in one go. But that didn't stop Teagan from throwing up a gentle smile to all who crossed his path.

A woman clung tight to his arm, her fingers worrying over the Arl's no longer white finery. Alistair didn't recognize her, but he barely bothered to look at her face. He was too busy trying to pierce the fog for answers. Yep, I'm just great. Really spiced up the party to have these stabby clowns added at the last minute. In fact, I'd love to sit down and have a long conversation with whoever thought to invite Maker damn Crows.

Teagan tried to shake off the woman, but she wasn't about to let up, her talons dug in tight. Instead, he sighed and patted her clutching arm before grabbing onto Alistair's hand and tugging him closer, Sire...where are the children?

They're--

Milord, a bombastic voice echoed above the roiling din of cries, its bass deep enough to cut through solid rock and roll up Alistair's legs. Turning away from Teagan, Alistair spotted the cocksure walk of the man partially responsible for all of this.

Commander Cade, he greeted him, unable to stop sneering, I hope you've got a great explanation for what in the void happened here.

We should get you to safety, Cade continued over top the king's words. He wasn't an ugly man, not by any means. If you were to take a side of beef and by some demon wish turn it human you'd have an approximation of the Commander of the royal guards. Everything about him was meaty, from forearms thicker than ribeyes to a nose broken and reset so many times it nearly fell flush against his juicy cheeks. Whenever Alistair met with the man he felt an instant craving for roast pork.

Funny, I'd have thought my own damn city would be plenty safe. Well, aside from the shopping rush before Satinalia. Then you're just asking to have your kidneys perforated by an old lady bearing a hat pin, Alistair babbled to himself while surveying the bodies being carted towards the dais where he sat with his children what felt only a minute ago. He ran into a few assassins on his way back to the square but nothing worthy of being called a Crow. Maker, even Zev had better moves than the two that all but leaped onto his blade. One had his eyepatch slip to the other side, causing him to run headfirst into the wall. Alistair meant to knock him out for questioning, but then the man tumbled face first over the retaining wall and then another twenty feet to his squishy demise. Maybe a soothsayer could make out something in his entrails decorating a laundry line.

Shaking away his thoughts, Alistair jabbed the bloodied sword at the piles of bodies, Did you catch any alive?

Afraid not, Sire, Cade shook his beefy head back and forth. Pink etched along his cheeks, breaking up the marbling of his skin. The man had been exerting himself.

Who were they? Teagan asked.

Assassins, Alistair sneered, as a group. One out of two guesses whose. While the House of Repose was always a good guess, they'd been on okay terms with Celene and her little love in elf with the Inquisition's help. It seemed unlikely she'd let her in house assassins off the lead that easily. There wasn't an official reason for Antiva to come after him, but Antivans never went in for proper politics. Treaties and diplomacy got in the way of all the best stabbings.

Sire, Cade spoke up, rocking on his tiny feet. Perhaps it would be best if you...

Alistair ignored the concern dripping from people paid to keep him alive. Dropping to a knee, he ran his hands along one of the dead bodies. Lacerations to the throat and...ah, it was a thigh wound that got him in the end. Nasty way to go, better than a gut one at least. He rifled through the pockets but they all turned out empty almost as if they were ordered to remove all identification before leaping onto a guard's blade.

Welp, I'm out of ideas, he said, slapping his hand to his knee and staggering up.

It might be in your best interest if you leave it to the professionals, Teagan said, those sparkling blue eyes darting over the Cade.

Aye, Sire, we will do all we can to get to the bottom of this disaster. You have my word.

Alistair nodded, his eyes darting over the bodies. There were a good half dozen, but he couldn't find the one that elven guard decapitated. Hm... Shaking off the thought, he turned to his Commander, How many were hurt?

We're not certain yet, Cade hemmed.

Some of the nobles were trampled in trying to escape, Teagan spoke up.

By other nobles who nobly ran right over top each other, Alistair groaned, well aware that when it came to the gentry it was every man and woman for themselves. Probably while you threw a gallon of pitch and lit a match behind you to slow the others down.

Please, Your Majesty, this is a matter for the guards to handle, Cade said. And we're gonna drag it out of someone, believe me.

Alistair tipped his head, accepting that he was in no position to go running around Denerim solving mysteries. For starters he looked like a right pillock with a pipe and hat. Is the area secure, Commander Cade? he asked, looking over the destruction of what was supposed to be the introduction of his son. So much for chiseling out his name now.

Yes, Sire. We've made certain of it.

Good, Alistair sagged before turning to Teagan, Spud and the baby are holed up in the abandoned house at the end of the northern street. Blue chipped paint, rotted, Spud's probably ripping some poor guard's hair out. Take Marn and get them back to the castle.

Of course, he said, tipping his head and almost causing his stupid hat to fall off.

Spud can have whatever cake she wants. I assume Marn can handle the baby and... he shook off the pain burrowing at the back of his head trying to chisel away his kingly stance. Alistair wrestled away the idea that he almost lost them both and knotted it away for later. Way later in the emptiness of his room where no one would see.

Patting Alistair once more, Teagan yanked back on the stricken woman clinging to him. He glanced over at Marn who shouldered through the flock of stricken handmaidens. Despite being in the thick of it with her own little one at her side, Marn was steady as a rock, with a face that could make a Qunari shit his little loincloth. Somedays Alistair wished she had been around for the blight. She'd probably have ripped an ogre in half with her bare hands.

Ah, Alistair shouted, causing Teagan to turn back. Rolling the sword in his hands, he presented the grip to his uncle. Can you return this to the guard I borrowed it from? Thanks.

Nodding that he understood, while also eyeing up the bloodied blade with a wary look, Teagan and Marn set off to find his children. Alistair wished he could go with, that he'd be the one to scoop up Spud, press a dozen stupid kisses to his son's forehead, and then load them both up with all the sugar in the palace, but he had king shit to do, and sometimes that took priority.

Commander Cade, gather up the dignitaries from Antiva and Orlais. I think it's time we had a little chat.

***

Sire?

Maker's breath he was tired of hearing that. Day in and day out, sire this, sire that. As if all of Ferelden couldn't stop thinking about his, er...uh. Andraste, don't let them be imagining the royal scepter. He glanced up from his stance, arms folded tight into his armpits as if he was about to draw two daggers from behind him.

It was the Orlesian ambassador who spoke first, her dark eyes darting around the room as she somehow settled in while standing at attention. While the rest of Ferelden preferred to keep themselves dressed simply in the event they'd have to get work done, she was always swooping through the corridors with the extended hips of her outfit trying to knock down any end tables in the way. He heard that the scaffolding under her dress used to be wider until she wedged herself into a tighter hallway and someone had to cut her free. Lady Cherie was of noble blood about the same as him, a bit less bastard but there was some second wife in there or something. He ignored most of the dossier figuring it didn't matter. In the fifteen years since sidling near the throne they'd been through seventeen Orlesian ambassadors. There was a point when two arrived, couldn't decide who should stay or go and, after dealing with Alistair for a month, both abandoned ship back to snail land.

But Lady Cherie stuck it out. He suspected whatever she had waiting for her back in Orlais was less gilded than the Denerim palace, but she sure wasn't going to slip off her high horse and admit it. Smoothing down her silks with the palm of a bejeweled hand, Cherie tipped her mounds of black velvet curls at him. Do you intend to inform us as to why we've been summoned?

No, I just invited you all here for a game of hide and seek. First one to find me gets the crown!

Alistair shook his smart ass thought away. He wanted to retreat back from what happened, but he threw on the cold anger that rarely came to him. I'm wondering what you two were up to today, you know, when assassins dropped out of the sky and then tried to murder me.

The second in that two was their Antivan ambassador, Baronet Donato. He wasn't a hundred percent certain what a baronet was, and on occasion Alistair asked if it meant the man was once part of an orchestra. Older than what one would expect in an ambassador, normally it was a young one's game, he bore that striking debonair look that could only be pulled off from the age of forty to about sixty five. A tasteful streaking of grey about the temples and slight baggage around his eyes were all that hinted at the bronzed man's age, as well as some interesting history on him and his involvement in Antivan politics.

Your Highness, Donato bowed, his thick accent slipping in, what occurred in the square was a travesty.

Really? You don't end most naming ceremonies with Crows? Here I'd assumed that was tradition in Antiva.

Ah... Donato blanched, those steel eyes darting over to the woman a decade or more younger as if she had all the answers. You are certain they were Crows?

Certain, no? What I'm certain of in this world you could jam through the eye of a needle. Which is why you two are here to answer a few questions, he began to pace around before his throne. The room was mostly cleared as his guards ran around handling the clean up in the square. There'd been no fatalities reported so far, which seemed highly unlikely. A pack of assassins and the only one killed were the trained killers? Maybe the Maker was smiling down on them that day.

Are we on trial? Cherie spoke up, her raspberry red lips puckering at the end of her sentence.

He blinked at it before shaking his head, Depends.

On what? Donato asked.

Alistair's pacing paused right before his throne. He didn't sit in it but the sword of Ferelden did. Oh, of course someone made certain to snatch that thing up and protect it with their life. Wouldn't want the golden backscratcher to get lost. He knew it was practically useless, but the two ambassadors whose only experience on the battlefield involved reading reports long after the dead were burned kept shooting fearful looks towards it.

Stretching his arms wide and letting one dangle near the hilt, Alistair glared from one ambassador to the other, If you had anything to do with it.

Sire, Cherie scoffed. How did Orlesians manage to make laughing sound like they were putting on powder? Every grating chuckle was another dab of the lung choking dust into the air. I understand you are...distraught and perhaps being overly emotional.

Could be, he tipped his head back and forth, his lopsided grin sliding into place, man can go a bit funny when his children are threatened right in front of him. Hard to not want to find whatever bastard was behind it and...see if they enjoy the multiple amenities of a dungeon suite.

Donato and Cherie didn't gulp, didn't shoot worried glances at each other, or scream 'you'll never catch me, mwhahahaha' while hurling down a smoke bomb and rushing out the door. They folded back into their damn safety ambassador bubble. He knew it wouldn't work to threaten them. She had that damn game, and it was doubtful Donato could show more than one, perhaps two emotions period. Alistair shot a quick glance over at Commander Cade who'd personally escorted both to his throne room.

Sire, please, there's no need to bring threats into this matter. I'm certain the Empress...

Will fully side with Ferelden in this matter. Believe me, for all of Celene's fanciful metaphors hiding behind chevaliers, siccing the house of repose upon the children of a crown will turn her allies against her. Don't think the Free Marches isn't just looking for an excuse to knock about Orlais.

Cherie sneered below her mask. She wore it so often he stopped thinking of it as a mask and considered it her real face. It fit her personality better, all sharp lines and exaggerated features. I do not know what low-brow Marcher politics you think you have control over, but I shall not be treated in such a fashion. She lifted up the ends of her dress about to spin in place when Cade's kindly hand thudded onto her arm.

My Lady, you may wish to remain for the moment, Cade whispered, the man of meat towering far above her wispy frame.

She blanched below her piles of rouge, locking her arms back around her stomach to wait. Jerking his head, Alistair motioned the Commander away from the two ambassadors so they could whisper alone.

Milord, if you don't have anything concrete to challenge them with I'm afraid we can't keep them hostage, Cade explained as if Alistair wasn't aware. Diplomatic immunity was a giant pain in his ass on a good day, and this was not a good day.

This would be easy if those damn assassins had thought to keep an, I don't know, royal on them or... Blighted hell, what do they even use in Antiva? Cade looked about to answer, but Alistair waved him away. He didn't care. And where's our damn spymaster in all this?

The answer to his second question charged through the door, knocking it open so fast it swung back at him and nearly bashed into his nose. Sorry, sorry, got all caught up in...there were some, um...what'd I miss? He skidded to a halt beside the two ambassadors and tried to stand at attention. Ghaleb was exactly what you didn't expect to find in a spymaster. While most were terrifying shadows come to life, he was an oil painting someone picked up and shook before it dried. His face didn't just drip, it all but sagged off his skull. As he was a good five years younger than Alistair it was all downhill from here. There were times the king wanted to grab onto both of Ghaleb's cheeks and lift them back up into their proper place.

Instead of a hood, Ghaleb always wore a turban knotted around his head. At the moment it was trailing along behind him, the ends coated in dirt. He followed his King's eye and then panicked at his mess before yanking the end up and trying to stuff it all back around his head.

I'm guessing you heard about what happened in the square, Alistair said to his spymaster.

Yes, yes, Ghaleb nodded before crinkling his ruddy nose. Er, what happened precisely?

For the love of the Maker... Alistair jabbed a thumb at Cade. Fill the man in, and you, he pointed at Ghaleb, get out there and find the culprits.

Yes Sire! Ghaleb saluted and turned on his heel about to run out the door. He paused before Alistair had to shout for him to get back here and sheepishly returned.

As his comically awkward spymaster listened to the full list from Cade, Alistair rounded back on Cherie and Donato. I assume you both have alibis during the actual attack, he sighed. Anyone with any skill would have arranged all of this with themselves present to make it look good. He may not have paid much attention to Leliana and her bardic ways, but he at least got that part figured out.

Cherie nodded her head crisply; knowing that woman there were a dozen men clustered around and fanning her while popping grapes into her mouth. It was Donato who paused, his steel eyes drifting back towards Ghaleb as the spymaster kept bouncing a finger against his goatee and gasping. Your Majesty, if you have intentions to place us under arrest...

No, Alistair waved his hand, accepting defeat. For all his bluster there was nothing in his hand. He'd been chucking a few joker cards at them hoping they'd fold if he caused a bad paper cut. Not unless we find anything.

So we are to be watched? Delightful, Cherie said and she sounded as if she meant it. Spinning on her heels, which she clicked together for no discernible reason, the Lady Ambassador clip-clopped across the throne room for the door. Baronet Donato bowed deep before sliding back to follow. Before exiting he cast another glance over at Ghaleb who was now jabbing his finger in the air as if he could see something no one else could.

When both ambassadors exited, Alistair yanked up his sword and collapsed into the throne. He hated the damn thing; it pinched his lower back, flattened his ass, and whenever he sat in it a bundle of nerves at the back of his brain blared as if someone blasted a horn at him. But right then and there he needed to sit and people'd probably frown on their king collapsing to the floor like a toddler. A cookie, juice, and a nap sounded delightful.

Your Highness, Ghaleb shouted, his tenor voice echoing against every stone. While most other spymasters whispered he tended to scream as if afraid everyone would overlook him. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibilities, at barely five and a half feet and skinny enough to slide through the bars in the dungeon, he tended to blend in with everything. That, however, wasn't what made him their spymaster.

Please tell me you've come up with something, Alistair said.

Ah, perhaps. I'll have to run a few...and, no, maybe the left one is, but then again...I, uh. He gulped a few times, reining that galloping mind back in, I'll go get to work right now, Sire.

Good, Alistair waved his hand, dismissed, get to it. Do that thing you do. He didn't watch Ghaleb scamper away, though it had to be entertaining, he was too busy crumpling up into his lap trying to not scream at the world. After a good decade of every damn noble in Ferelden hinting rather loudly that there should be a screaming mouth or five in the palace by now, they finally had not one but two. It wasn't exactly his doing, and while Alistair thought he'd keep himself apart from all that sire rearing, he didn't count on falling deep under the spell first of his daughter and then son.

Spud, not her real name obviously -- even he wasn't that cruel -- was beyond what he'd ever expected or hoped for. Alistair thought he'd let that side of him die, the selfish part that could get attached to things he wanted. Maker knew he certainly tried to bludgeon it to death after giving up Lanny post getting saddled with the shiny hat. He snickered at that thought, she was the only one dead certain that he'd bond with his daughter. Maker, how was that woman always right?

Milord, Cade's rumbling broke Alistair from his maudlin turn and he flexed his face at the Commander. I think it's time we consider security.

Yes, someone should keep tabs on both of the ambassadors to make certain they don't, I don't know, take to hiding barrels of explosives around. Maker, that was fun.

No, Cade interrupted. He was one of the rare ones to call Alistair on his bullshit without flinching and, funny enough, the King liked that about him. I mean security for you. After whistling, the door was thrown open and a bear stepped into the throne room.

Alistair skidded off his seat, fingers fumbling for the useless sword, when he realized that below the mounds of black fur sprouting a foot off the chin and up over the head was a human face. He had to tip his head back even further to try and catch the eyes, the man approaching seven feet tall.

How does he fit through the halls? Alistair whispered to the Commander, eyeing up the man who could easily be two men and still have enough room for another half.

This is Ser Brunt, Cade said, tapping his man on the back.

Brunt? Alistair stuttered. Is that a family name? Did you have a grandfather named Phineous Brunt? Great aunt perhaps? For his part, Brunt only grunted at that, the forced laugh shaking his beard.

Milord, Cade continued, trying to snap Alistair's attention away. The king felt an urge to hand over a honey pot to Brunt just to see what would happen. After the attack today it is obvious you shall require protection and this man is the best soldier under my command.

Alistair shook away his thoughts of seeing Brunt riding around on a pony while wearing a fez. What? No, it's fine.

Narrowing his meaty lips, Cade shook his head. Sire, as head of your security I demand that you have a bodyguard on your person at all times. Alistair turned to argue, when Cade added, At least until we solve who sent those assassins.

That did him in. He had a pretty good excuse, it wasn't as if he was without fighting skills and a few of the ol' templar ones if he focused really hard. But this was different. They nearly got to him. They nearly got to...

Ser Brunt will guard my children, Alistair pronounced in such a Kingly fashion even Cade took a moment to interrupt.

Sire?

You said it yourself, he's the best, right? And what I want protecting them from whatever's out to get us is that. The best. All seven feet of it.

Brunt turned down to look at his boss, confusion clouding his massive brow. Swallowing down what sounded like a dozen objections, all of which Alistair could easily deflect when it came to his kids, Cade licked his lips. And what of you Sire? You still require a bodyguard.

It's not a problem, Commander.

Milord?

Alistair picked up the golden sword and slipped it back into its underused sheathe, I've already got someone in mind.

CHAPTER THREE

Reiss

As an elbow came hurtling for her nose, Reiss found herself regretting two things. One, that she'd chucked her helmet with the nose guard aside and two, what she was about to do to her friend. Lashing a foot forward, Reiss knocked into Lunet's thigh, throwing off her stance and sending her sparring partner scattering back out of the ring. Okay, ring was generous for the circle they drew in the mud behind their guardhouse. Some of the nicer sections of the city had real ropes and everything, but people working their beat near the tanning district made due. At least they had real swords. They said the fools stuck patrolling through the outskirts were armed with butterknives.

Lunet twisted around, her balance out of whack as her taped hands fell to the ground. Pausing, Reiss dropped her guard to try and offer aid, which was when Lunet struck. Barreling through, her narrow shoulder bit into Reiss' open midsection, driving them both backwards towards the wall. Lunet released something of a chuckle roar, obviously meant to be serious at first, it broke down into a continuous spray of giggles as she flattened Reiss' body to the ground.

Okay, okay, Reiss gasped, I give.

Damn straight you do, Rabbit, Lunet smiled, extending a hand to the only other female elf in the city guards. There was a single male one elsewhere who was deathly serious all the time and never spoke to his own kind.

I got you last time, Rat, Reiss said while trying to suck in a breath. A sound broke from the open windows of the guardhouse, and from the sides of her eyes she caught the shadow of heads bobbing on the opposite wall. Don't look now, but the shems are watching us again.

Course they are, Lunet stretched her arms above her head elongating her already graceful body to its full elven stretch. She was what you had in mind when you thought of someone dark and mysterious; hooded cinnamon eyes framed by lashes thick enough to paint a masterpiece and hair blacker than the night. With an Orlesian name, Antivan coloring, and the most braying Ferelden accent one could find Lunet was a constant study in contradictions.

Batting at her bun, and extracting out the knitting needle she dislodged in the fight, Lunet began to wind it all back up while casting a look back at the humans watching them. Reiss was less than impressed with the constant attention, What do they want?

I bet, she finished wrapping up her hair and smoothed away the finer escapees, they're just waiting for me to throw you onto the ground, squat over your supple body and then...start sucking face.

Reiss laughed at Lunet's eyebrow waggle. You sure you're the only one who can do the body tossing?

She parted her hands, It comes with the territory. Have sex with a woman and suddenly you gain the power of ten ogres.

Hm, Reiss scratched her chin, I may have to try that after all. It'd make standing around in that armor all day more bearable. Glancing back at where she tossed her regulation greaves that slipped off her hips, the chest plates that could rotate around her, and gauntlets in danger of slipping off if she swung her arm, Reiss sighed. Lunet's hand landed upon her shoulder, drawing her attention. One more go?

All right, Reiss nodded, sliding into place. She kept her hands in a position unlike the rest of the city guards - most of whom couldn't be bothered to spend their free time sparring. They were fortunate, humans almost always had an upper body strength advantage over elves, as well as height. Reiss lucked out in comparison to her fellow knife-ears and somehow came out at nearly average human size, but she wound up with the thin kind of body most would sweetly call reedy while swinging their voluptuous hips around. Even Lunet who was a good head a half below Reiss was blessed with better curvy bits, which she put to good use, of course.

Okay, Reiss dodged Lunet's swing, taking both to her forearms. Let's hear about her.

Hear about who? Lunet asked, her voice skipping around as she widened her stance.

Your latest conquest, I know there's got to be one. There's always one when we haven't seen each other in a fortnight. Despite being in the same guardhouse, they tended to keep their only elves on separate rotations almost as if the humans feared one day they'd go mad with power and try to take over. Their only time together was on Lunet's day off and the lag time as Reiss adjusted to night patrol. It wasn't the worst fate, they had a lot more to talk about that way.

Lunet smiled smugly, swinging a knee toward's Reiss' stomach, but she was prepared this time. Sucking in her gut, she slapped a hand onto Lunet's thigh, knocking the woman back. Come now, how many beautiful elven woman do you think there are in Denerim for me to--

Take advantage of?

I was going to say romance, but...that taking advantage part is fun too.

Mothers lock up your daughters, Reiss sighed.

Lunet laughed for a moment before shaking her head, If you must know in your obstinately prying way, there is someone and she's...different. Special.

Maker's breath, Reiss' stance faded as she stood dumbstruck, Do not tell me the lusty Lunet has gone and fallen in love.

Psh, she tried to wave it away, but a cherry flush burst along her bronzed cheeks. Turning the tables back on Reiss, Lunet lashed a punch out and asked, What about you? We never talk abut your love life.

Pretty pointless to talk about nothing, Reiss said, deflecting the punch slower than she should have. Oh look, that nothing's still sitting there doing nothing. Good for it.

You wander by the alienage every now and again, Lunet pointed out. While she only dipped in when on business or necessary, Reiss preferred to spend her downtime amongst her own. There was a small two chairs/one table restaurant that served the most amazing dumplings in all of Ferelden, and best of all there were no shems to watch. Tell me one of the strapping young men there caught your eye.

Reiss growled, punching through the air as if it personally spat on her. Lunet dodged but barely, as Reiss felt thick air skimming above her knuckles. She liked Lunet because the woman could talk to fill every silence Reiss left wide open, happily tossing in bon mots or observations about life and every piece of shit that came with it. But when Lunet turned her fiery focus on Reiss she wanted to cower away and wave it off on someone else.

What about the King?

The wha...? Reiss' need to disembowel the air vanished to shock, her fists hanging free as she stared at her friend.

Lunet lifted her shoulder in a shrug, "Did he catch your eye?"

For the Maker's sake! I was a bit busy what with the assassins and then, you know, his kids right there. I don't know, Reiss shouted, throwing her arms up in the air and obliterating her entire stance. He's fine for a shem, I guess.

Very well, I'll stop picking. Doubtful you'll be seeing him or anyone else royal ever again, Lunet said, dropping her own hands.

Reiss snorted at that truth. She was only tossed up onto the stage beside him and the rest of his entourage because Davis fell ill, Matchkins got his damn head stuck in the floorboard again, and Oless refused to go anywhere near the King thinking she'd accidentally behead him or something. The elf wasn't really trusted enough to be let near nobility, but everyone figured it'd be an easy job standing around in the hot sun watching nobles stuff themselves until their silks burst. Maker, if she hadn't reacted without thinking who knows what would have happened.

A mewling drew her attention away from Lunet and as Reiss turned, she spotted a grey shadow moving through the shrubbery sprouting over the wall. Smiling, Reiss reached into her pocket to find something that remained from a dinner. Armed with a piece of cheese, she lifted up the branches to reveal a set