Chapter Text
In Memoriam To Robin Sachs:
Seneschal Varel and Zaeed Massani live on, just as your memory does.
The landscape of Ferelden has changed in the years following the Blight; not just visually, but among the Banns, Arls, and Teyrns. The Teynirs of Highever and Gwaren are ruled by two Cousland brothers, Fergus and Oswald respectively.
Further west of Highever is the Arling of Jainen, which has been ruled by the house of Mac Lowen for generations. A few weeks prior, Arl Roland Mac Lowan was awarded the Arling of West Hill following death of his wife; that same wife was the Arlessa of West Hill and the Storm Coast. Jainen has almost doubled in size since this unexpected death, while the Teynir of Highever is left reeling at the loss of one of it's vassals. In both manpower and tithes. As expected, Teyrn Fergus Cousland seeks restitution in the coming Landsmeet due to the Arlessa's passing. King Alistair has already begun the process of negotiating a fair deal between the Teyrn who lost his vasssal and the Arl who lost his beloved.
Even further west, the dwarven Kingdom of Orzammar remains steadfast alongside the Kingdom of Ferelden. In the years following the Blight, the dwarves have expanded while the Darkspawn retreat into the darkness of the deep roads. Beneath Ferelden, King Bhelen expands into the thaigs once thought lost forever. While the Orlesian Chantry's threat of an Exalted March did not come to pass, the King has been swayed to allow the reopening of the Chantry located in Orzammar. Brother Burkel was named posthumously as 'Anointed' in his martyrdom years ago, solidifying the chant of light's presence in the world below.
The Circle Tower in the center of Lake Calenhad and Haven (which is just beyond the western side of the map) fall under the Grand Cleric of Ferelden, Oda of Lothering. She is the youngest Grand Cleric in Ferelden’s storied history, appointed by Divine Justinian V in 9:33 at the age of twenty-nine. Her short rule has been more positive than not, as the Temple of Sacred Ashes finished construction recently. The most pious followers of Andraste have begun pilgrimages to the site enmass, filling Chantry coffers along the way. The Grand Cleric spends most of her days in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, fated for it to be her tomb in the coming years.
In Ferelden’s central lowlands, the Bannorn align to no one but the King and Queen. The Banns' self rule in the castles and towns dotting central Ferelden keeps the grain flowing consistently back to Denerim. They align regionally, in two blocs split between the urbanized north and rural south. Even so, the Banns are at odds among themselves during the yearly Landsmeet. According to Queen Anora’s writings, the situation in the Bannorn remains ‘a mess of squabbling imbeciles… that might one day be a threat, should they ever centralize. Or form a coherent thought.’
To the south, the Arling of Redcliffe remains a powerful entity. While many of the lands the House of Guerrin ruled were stricken by the corruption of the Darkspawn, life has returned to the hinterlands. In the span of seven years, families that once thought normalcy would never return, are tending to crops on ancestral farms and properties again. Arl Teagan is the face of Ferelden's unhindered resolve. Since Arl Eamon's passing two years ago, Teagan has focused his reconstruction beyond just restoring the countryside. With the assistance of Teyrn Oswald and his Grey Wardens, Fort Ostagar has become a citadel so that the swamps of the Korcari wilds might one day be free from corrupting effects of the blight.
Finally to the southeast, several Arlings are dwarfed by the growing power of the Teynir of Gwaren. Formerly the seat of House Mac Tir, it was awarded to the Hero of Ferelden in the conclusion to the Fifth Blight. The castle-town of Gwaren is a gem surrounded by the untamed, verdant landscape of the Brecilian Forest. Nestled against the aptly named Cliffs of Gwaren, it processes the vast Brecilian lumber needed for Ferelden's reconstruction. The Hero of Ferelden calls the Arling of Amaranthine and Vigil's keep his capital and residence. These two realms are but linked by sea and through the King’s Highway. The Teyrn rules two out of the four most prosperous coastal cities in Ferelden. At least, while he still breathes. His heir, Kieran Cousland, is expected to inherit Gwaren following his passing, just as the next Warden-Commander would rule Amaranthine; loyal only to the Order of the Grey Wardens and the King of Ferelden.
The afternoon sun filtered through the tall arched windows of Vigil's Keep, casting elongated shadows across the stone floor of the Warden-Commander’s quarters. Morrigan sat cross-legged on a woven rug, her golden eyes tracking the deliberate movements of small hands. Their son, Kieran, stacked wooden blocks into an increasingly precarious tower. The witch's raven-black hair spilled over one shoulder, no longer untamed as it had been living in the Kocari Wilds, but braided with practical efficiency. Ultimately, it was a concession to motherhood she would never openly acknowledge.
Seven years had transformed Ferelden from a kingdom on the brink of annihilation into a realm cautiously rebuilding. The Blight's scars still marked the land—blackened earth where darkspawn had marched, towns rebuilt from ash—yet life persisted with stubborn resilience. Amaranthine, once nearly consumed by the darkspawn threat, now thrived under Oswald's governance from Vigil's Keep. Trade routes reopened. Refugees returned. The Grey Wardens' presence provided security that allowed merchants to travel roads previously deemed too dangerous.
Morrigan's fingers absently traced the leather binding of a tome resting beside her. The worn book a recent acquisition from a Tevinter merchant who hadn't realized what he possessed. Ancient magic, preservation spells, wards against entropy itself. Knowledge she hoarded not for power's sake anymore, but for protection. For him. For their son. For this inexplicable life she'd somehow allowed herself to build.
"Mama, see!" Kieran's voice rang with childish pride as he placed another block atop his creation. "It's tall!"
The witch's lips quirked. Not quite a grin, but close enough that seven years ago would have seemed impossible. "'Tis indeed impressive, little man. Though I suspect it needs some structural support on the bottom."
As if summoned by her words, the tower leans precariously. The swaying tower of blocks conjured unbidden memories in Morrigan's mind: the Circle Tower at Lake Calenhad, its stone spire rising like an accusatory finger toward the sky. A prison dressed as a sanctuary, where mages lived under Templar scrutiny, their magic leashed and controlled. She had visited it once during the Blight, seen the abominations that resulted when desperation met demonic temptation. The tower had swayed then too, metaphorically, teetering between order and chaos.
Her jaw tightened. Kieran would never know such confinement. The magic already beginning to manifest in his small hands. In the way candles flickered when he laughs, how frost patterns appeared on windows during his tantrums. Kieran would be nurtured, not shackled. She had fought too hard, sacrificed too much of her existence, to allow the Chantry's doctrine to cage her child. Just as she was possessive of her own freedom from the order and monotony of Circle life, she too would imprint those beliefs on her son. Even if Oswald teaches Kieran to pray the Chant of Light, that noble fool of a husband.
Meanwhile, in Vigil's Keep's main hall, that same ‘noble fool’, Teyrn Oswald Cousland, stood before a massive oak table scattered with correspondence, maps, and reports. The Warden-Commander's auburn hair caught the torchlight as he leaned over a particular letter, its seal bearing the Howe crest. The parchment trembled slightly in his grip—not from weakness, but from the controlled fury of a warrior who recognized the brewing catastrophe.
"Tensions escalate daily between mages and Templars," Nathaniel Howe's cramped handwriting detailed. "Knight-Commander Meredith grows increasingly paranoid. Mages disappear into the Gallows, emerge broken or not at all. The Viscount lacks authority to intervene. The Champion of Kirkwall attempts mediation with little success, but I fear we approach a precipice from which there can be no return. My investigation into Deep Roads passages has revealed disturbing rumors. Red lyrium sightings, Carta movements suggesting they've discovered something they shouldn't have. Recommend increased Warden presence. The situation deteriorates."
Oswald's green eyes lifted from Nathaniel's letter to meet the steady gaze of Varel, the grizzled seneschal who had served Vigil's Keep through its darkest hours and its cautious restoration. Despite being nearly killed during the Darkspawn attack on the keep six years ago, it took little time for the seneschal to return. A fact Watch Captain Garavel was relieved of. The older man stood with grizzled wisdom from his time as a Man-at-Arms, despite his administrative role. Just as before, Varel's gray threading through his beard was like silver wire through iron. And much to his recent annoyance at the mendicant, the seneschal was almost hairless atop his head.
"Kirkwall festers like an untreated wound," Oswald said, his voice carrying the weight of command yet tempered by genuine concern. He tapped the parchment with one calloused finger. "Nathaniel writes of red lyrium in the Deep Roads. That's no ordinary corruption."
Varel's expression darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening. "The Carta dabbles in substances they cannot comprehend? Typical dwarven shortsightedness when profit blinds wisdom." He moved closer to the table, studying the map of the Free Marches spread across its surface. “Perhaps the Grey Wardens in Starkhaven should bother following up this lead.”
Oswald and Varel meet each other's gaze, in a silent stare lasting seconds. Oswald is the first to break, snorting. Varel follows shortly after with his hands on his hips and looking down to hide a wry smirk. Even with the looming threat of societal unrest, the two men can’t help themselves. The Warden-Commander scratches his chin while speaking, restoring his serious gaze. “Expecting the Wardens of the Free Marches… to deal with their own problems? Maker above, it’s like asking for Andraste’s intercession.”
The Commander of the Grey's trusted advisor exhales an uneasy and heavy sigh, peering at the map sprawled across the table. The city of Kirkwall was circled in black ink and laid beneath the letter from Warden-Constable Howe. The smirk he had prior was replaced by the pursed lips of a Seneschal with years of experience, "Knight-Commander Meredith's reputation reaches even our borders, Commander. They say she sees blood mages in every shadow, demon possession in every sneeze."
"Nothing more than paranoia born from genuine threat," Oswald countered, though his tone suggested skepticism. "The Circle Tower showed us what happens when mages lose control. But– crushing them beneath Templar boots until they break..." He trailed off, jaw working as he considered implications that hit uncomfortably close to home.
Varel caught the hesitation, just as understanding flickers across weathered features. "Sir, with Lady Morrigan being a mage—.”
"The Chantry believes what serves their narrative," Oswald interrupted, a slight smirk crossing his freckled features. "They believe Morrigan took the Joining during the Blight. That she's a Grey Warden bound by our sacred oaths. Even if we both know none of that is true– It grants her... immunity from their typical scrutiny." His fingers drummed against the table's edge, a habit when contemplating alongside Varel. "The Hero of Ferelden's wife, mother to his heir, defender against the darkspawn... these titles shield her better than any fortress wall."
Varel's eyebrow arched knowingly. "A convenient fiction, Commander. One that protects your family while allowing the Chantry to claim all mages can be controlled through proper channels." The seneschal's pragmatism showed through decades of navigating politics and war. "Though I wonder how long such arrangements hold when situations like Kirkwall spiral toward violence."
"Long enough," Oswald replied with certainty born from seven years of carefully maintained balance. He rolled up Nathaniel's letter, with an exhausted sigh. "The question isn't whether Morrigan faces danger here in Amaranthine. She doesn't. The question is whether Kirkwall's powder keg explodes and sends shrapnel across Thedas." His jaw set with determination. "Now, as for Nathaniel... The Warden-Constable needs support, resources to investigate these Deep Roads discoveries before the Carta weaponizes whatever they've found."
Varel glanced at the letter, letting out an exhale that tumbled out into a chuckle. “Commander, before anything else, we should deliver this report up the chain. The First Warden should be notified. I’d recommend we send Senior Warden Velanna to Weisshaupt.”
Oswald turned his head abruptly. His lips parted, eyeing the seneschal. It took the Warden-Commander a moment to put his thoughts to words. “Maker above, she’d kill us both if she knew Nathaniel was in need of aid. She’d rather be the one to carve a path and save his behind.”
Varel rested his hands behind his back, ready to explain himself, “Of course, Commander. But I’d rather not let love blind her to doing something stupid. Not when it comes to the Deep Roads.” His hands returned to the table, grasping the letter and rolling it. “I’ll reseal it, and send her off. We could send Senior Warden Baillol and Warden Barton instead to join the Warden-Constable.”
Oswald let out a sigh in equal measure, adding one more name to assist in this mission, “Maybe send Warden Hawke for good measure. Something tells me she’s needed back at Kirkwall.”
The seneschal replies with a reluctant nod. “Very well, Commander."
Oswald eyed the rolled up parchment the Seneschal sealed. That seal was the red dyed visage of a Griffon. The Commander of the Grey glances to the door for a moment, before looking back to his trusted advisor. “I think I’ll make my exit, unless anything else requires my attention. Lady Morrigan and Kieran demand my attention.” As Oswald moves from the oak table to the door, his grizzled seneschal asks abruptly, just as the door squeaks ajar:
"Sir, if the situation between Templars and mages erupts into open conflict? What then?"
"Maker help us all.”