"Diplomacy is the art of telling people to go to hell in such a way that they ask for directions."

- Winston Churchill

As he crossed from the squalid, dust-coated underworld of the Alienage to the comparatively polished underworld of ruling politics, Aedan tried to adapt his mind for the task. He was trading a council of servants and sycophants for a kind unencountered since his days at Highever. Queen Anora's court would consist of friends, rivals and unknowns, all of whom would need swiftly deciphering and steering to their various purposes.

"I hoped there would be time to give you a more thorough briefing," said Rooke as he and Aedan left the Gnawed Noble Tavern. The tunnels cleared by K and his men had openings all over the city, but they were best off playing it safe being spotted somewhere familiar. Rooke sounded sincere but far from apologetic, perhaps even a little accusatory.

"I have the bare bones at least," said Aedan. "You can't have covered that much without me. Didn't you say Langworth and Pate waste most of Anora's time squabbling over Loghain's vacant seat in Gwaren?"

Langworth. The name interested Aedan, it spoke of possibility. It was a chosen name, handpicked by a rather insecure man of low birth and acquired wealth. A businessman dressed in noble costume. Such men were admirable for their ambition, but still dangerous; monuments to the fragility and malleability of the most enduring class system. High risers lived to remind all around them of their lowly origins. Their actions were vulgar and memories very, very long.

"I suspect part of it was a stalling tactic," said Rooke. "Both men are obtuse and prone to pettiness, but powerful, and not unintelligent. They know Anora listens to you. It looks like your presence, once more, will be the only end to this deadlock. They'll try to figure out who is favoured and adjust their claims accordingly."

Lyrium plotting had dominated their recent days, leaving little time for the equally difficult and risky (though less blatantly illegal) tasks of conventional court intrigue. Their discussions on the duelling patriarchs had yielded no solid conclusions. With Langworth they would gain greater support from the working man; the guilds, the entrepreneurs, the common-blooded money maker – lacking the slime and snakelike traits of the average noble house but still untrustworthy in their own way; building power and influence that upended the status quo. Aedan could work with that: he was possibly Ferelden's strongest human advocate for elven and dwarven advancement. But all progress was give-and-take.

Pate was the safe highborn option. His reputation for brokering good marital alliances also provided them with superior overseas connections, having family speckled throughout the ruling houses of Thedas like any good noble should. Though the safer man to back by far, he carried the massive stain of suspicion: possible involvement in the downfall of Melwyn Rooke. The current Arl of Denerim's former descent into Shrunken Lord matched Pate's opinions on little lords with big plans. Even if he hadn't been involved, he surely would have approved, sending haughty letters to his kin overseas, cheering the scheme.

"We should also consider Anora's role in this: any side you take over the Gwaren succession will reveal some of your political leanings and intentions, she gains some ammunition by holding off the vote until you settle it. And the sooner Anora solves the question of Gwaren's next Teyrn - Maker knows we're all sick of it, the sooner she can move on to everything else. Be wary, the two of us will be tested from every side today."

"You'd think Anora would stomp out this kind of squabbling."

The Anora Aedan knew was nothing less than a firebrand. It just didn't suit her to allow such timewasting. Flawed, yes. And inferior to him, but a fearsome enemy of incompetence and laziness.

"Normally, she would," Rooke said. "But she needs Gwaren. And she needs to catch this fly with honey instead of vinegar."

"Sentimental reasons?" Gwaren had been her home and Loghain's seat, but 'sentimentality' was another concept he could never honestly wed to Anora.

"Gwaren is the last settlement with a lumber and crop surplus; almost untouched by the Blight. It's barely made a dent in the surrounding forests and quarries. It's still got an unspoiled keep, a strong garrison of elite soldiers and healthy citizens. Add to that bountiful fishing and shipping ports and you have a settlement so strong it could comfortably defy royal decree for a time without fearing serious reprisal. They took in a large number of Lothering's refugees, and from what I've heard, were able to relocate them successfully. Gwaren feel they're owed, and it's hard to argue. They have all the security of the City of Amaranthine, with hardly any of the residual darkspawn problems at the edges."

Aedan felt the twinge of planning fatigue, mere minutes out of his session with the outlaws and already realising his mind couldn't juggle everything. Rooke had told him about Gwaren's tactical necessity before, at least twice, but living a double life pushed some information out of one's head. Faced with no choice but to power through, he continued their recap.

"And we can expect Martyn Stott in today's session, can't we?"

Stott, Ferelden's oldest blackhaller, would likely be the strongest-willed figurehead in court not named Anora. Men as old and set in their ways as Stott offered Aedan nothing to fear except terminal boredom, and potential obstructionism in the face of reform.

"Firm but fair, for the most part."

"Is it true his great-niece is in love with me?"

"Chancellor, I wish you wouldn't ask questions you know the answers to. Every unmarried noble woman in Denerim is in love with you, sometimes I fear you force me to repeat this for the sake of your own ego."

Plenty of married ones too, Rooke.

"I'm just saying, we could use it as leverage. Stott's so dull, there's no dirt on him. That girl's like a granddaughter to him, and nothing moves powerful patriarchs like the whiff of a good political marriage, and the nagging of the spoiled bride-to-be."

With the Alienage and Pearl on their side, Aedan's inner circle would have every scandalous secret in the city pouring into their hands. Preliminary research into Stott had returned nothing except a smitten great-niece. Aedan's noble household dinner tour had bloodied his patience, but delivered them loyalty from most of the surviving aristocracy. It came through endless noble girls of marriageable age all but forced upon him after the second cup of wine. The rapping on guest bedroom doors at midnight had echoed throughout the city.

Aedan now had enough experience to know which advances he should spurn, which he should accept and which he should teasingly leave untaken with the promise of more later. Despite the widespread availability of suitors, he still found far more fun in the low-risk, high pleasure option of servants and ladies-in-waiting. His noble philandering came with the bonus of setting Denerim's houses against each other, preventing organised opposition, yet keeping them all under a single umbrella of loyalty to House Cousland.

Thank the Maker for reduced Warden fertility.

Rooke was still running through potential problems in court.

"It's Lady Merriweather we should concern ourselves with. We don't know how much Eamon's told her already. She's one of his best advisors; for all we know she proof-read those letters sent to Cailan about Celene."

Aedan would have been happier entering a pit of vipers: they all required the same approach. For all he knew, Anora's court would instead be a veritable zoo of political metaphor. And different animals needed differing methods of approach, of handling, of feeding. Some were so incompatible they couldn't be attempted in the presence of others.

"There's only one way to be sure," he sighed. There were always options when it came to undercutting potential enemies. "I take it you didn't find anything compromising on her either?"

"Not yet. But she's in the process of moving herself into Denerim. That will mean more servants arriving soon, which will mean elves coming from Redcliffe's Alienage to settle into ours."

"Which will mean we have to buy them too. And prevent subversion. Or just wait for them to sneak into the Pearl and gather more material for blackmail." Aedan exhaled heavily. "Politics never changes. You needn't worry too much about my preparation; I sat in on every court session my parents held from the age of twelve, save for a small intermission at about fifteen when I noticed the maids were starting to look at me differently."

What a curious thing it was, to know one's own mind. Aedan had the perceptiveness to detect overconfidence welling within long before it took over, yet still flirted with it. And who could blame him, riding on the victory of the other Chancery Council?

Rooke stopped for a moment, looking far from relieved or amused. "Chancellor, the game may not have changed, but the players have."

"Don't worry, Rooke. We can deal with Stott. He has the disadvantage of caring about playing by the rules. And why so jittery over Merriweather? I thought you described Anora's appointees as pragmatic and meritocratic."

"They are. That does not mean they don't have any tribalistic instincts, or personal interests to advance. Anora may have picked the best, but they came from the best pool of loyalists. They are also in better practice than you. For...conventional politics anyway. Anora's primary goal is the fortification of her own power; and more than one person in the royal court is disturbed by your sudden resurrection of the chancery. Neither of us are men who relish having to improvise, especially for matters as delicate as diplomacy, but I fear today we may need to."

"We just need to keep them off our backs and off our trail. As soon as we get serious money rolling in, they'll relax their micromanagement. Let them have their bureaucratic games and illusion of control. I told you I'd leave the broad brush-strokes of ruling to Anora and her lackeys, as long as we took control of the common and noble base. Who are the people going to love more, the paper-pushers tying themselves in knots over hundred-year-old torts and statutes, or the dashing hero bankrolling their food and housing?"

Aedan's tours of the common man's haunts between each new noble dinner party went down well, as had his brief foray into the miraculous with Theohild's healing. He had Ferelden's body on his side, he had its soul too. All that remained was the mind, the intelligentsia of a great queen's court.

But that came with risk. If Anora and her appointees succeeded in drawing him into the quagmire of politics-as-usual in Denerim, where everything moved at a snail's most slovenly pace, then he risked passing only half-successful reforms. It was a ghastly scenario to imagine: he'd be sharing the spotlight and credit for results robbed of their full potential.

Rooke permitted no more dallying. "Come. We're late."

The two men entered the Royal Palace in a silence strained by the absence of words. More than once, Aedan spotted the normally still, calm Rooke looking anything but in the corner of his eye; pale lips pursed and thick jaw aquiver, brilliant mind wrestling with the temptation to bombard him with last-minute advice – lists, tips, warnings?

Aedan found no relief from the tension at their destination. Anora had set her new council in a small room found through a passage to the right of the throne. No number of grand tapestries, cheerful hearthfires and mother-of-pearl archways could soften the heavy feeling first conjured by the irritability of Ferelden's most stoic lord.

They entered a room in which every other councillor (save Anora) was already present, seated and staring.

Nearest to Aedan, clad in dignified green and silver was Lady Caroline Merriweather, still graceful well into her early fifties; greying brown hair pulled up into a tight bun; a long nose, long fingers, long neck and long list of academic credentials and accomplishments, including study at the University of Val Royeaux.

At her side, his kindly, rather boyish face worn by worries, was the recently promoted Captain Kylon. Then came Mother Perpetua, standing in as always for the deaf and increasingly infirmed Grand Cleric Elemena.

Three seats over, away from the 'little people' and closer to Anora's empty seat was Lord Garland Pate with his wiry frame, form-fitting black velvet tunic, wine-reddened face, vanishing copper hair and overcompensating beard; a squirrel's tail poking out of a weak chin. He was, unsurprisingly, sitting opposite Langworth.

Langworth's face had been reddened by baseborn beer, then moderately aged wine, then self-consciously expensive spirits, his complexion a ruddy cornucopia of blotches and broken veins; evidence of the rushed self-destruction for its own sake that late-blooming success wrought. He kept his hair lustrous and long, blonde fading into white, and his face shaven, filled with smiles. Where Pate was simple, he was ostentatious, wearing a billowing cloak of plum and cream sashed with gold. Rings bearing every known gemstone gleamed from all ten of his fingers. Pretence dropped, he gave Aedan a delighted grin and wave.

So many contradictory allegiances and causes, seated together like the Maker had upended a basket labelled 'Ferelden life' over the table. Far from a zookeeper tasked with caring for every kind of creature from insect to beast, Aedan now saw himself more in the mould of juggler given balls of varying sizes and weights, thrown before rabid spectators.

Next to Langworth was-

"Fergus?!" Aedan exclaimed upon spotting his brother, who showed much trepidation. "I thought you'd returned to Highever."

"Thought I'd argue your case, brother," he murmured rather absurdly, as though his words could carry over the table into only Aedan's ears.

"Argue my-"

"You are late," said an old, wheezy but still daunting voice. "Your father was never late for a royal function."

It was Martyn Stott, the most stubborn, dusty pillar left standing in Ferelden's corridors of power.

Aedan had mistaken the tiny bundle of black robe and wizened man for an outgrowth of shadow next to Langworth until it had spoken. His off-guard state emboldened the old fossil

"Nor your mother. The Couslands of old understood the prestige of their office. Pray tell me their goodness has not seeped down to only one son?"

Aedan silently cursed Anora. A queen's delays were always forgivable. He cursed her surrender of the spotlight. Was it on purpose? Maybe she waited somewhere out of sight but within earshot, gaging the council's opinion of him? It was the sort of thing she'd do. Maker, it was the sort of thing he'd do too.

Stott was far from finished. "So our sessions are finally important enough to warrant your presence, Lord Cousland– can I at least ask they be important enough to bring you in on time?"

You know damn well nothing official begins until the queen arrives, you old kiss-arse.

"In your absence," the old man blustered on, "you did not think to keep up correspondence with any one of us? Did not think to devolve your duties if your schedule was so overloaded you couldn't even walk across the city?"

Aedan could appreciate the need for candour in a man as old as Stott, but had less love for the habit of such ancient men to forsake tact thus.

"First of all," said Aedan softly, staring into Fergus to thank him for arguing such a 'strong' case, "you will call me Chancellor, Blackhaller Stott."

Stott's eyebrows shot up his face like grey and black-speckled caterpillars racing one another over the cracked caldera of volcanic rock. Aedan had given him exactly the excuse he sought to unload fully.

"It is the very designation of Chancellor that I must first contend with!" he cried. "Titles are not coins to be thrown out so frivolously nor requested so lightly!"

"Are you accusing our beloved queen of frivolity?"

"No, I am accusing you of taking advantage of our debt owed."

"Judge Stott..." (the old man bristled at the downgrade of his title, pleasing Aedan greatly) "I came to Denerim and found it an open, weeping wound. I took on any responsibility which would allow me to improve it."

"Commendable. But all those responsibilities must be filtered through three things: the law, the law, the law. Our only alternative is anarchy, perdition, degeneracy!"

And progress.

"You underestimate the goodness of our people, Blackhaller Stott," said Mother Perpetua gently. "Surely now is the time to have faith in them? We were not broken by our darkest hour, I'm sure we can handle this slight change."

"Chancellor Cousland has been nothing but a friend to law and order," Kylon added. "With…questionable means perhaps, but I always knew Denerim would be safer when he was done for the day."

Aedan didn't know what was more satisfying: their statements, or the mental image he was conjuring of Slim Couldry hitting Stott with a shovel. Maybe the latter.

"None of you understand what I'm dealing with!" Stott barked. "Every official decree issued in the last twelve months is under investigation and reconsideration in light of Loghain and Howe's bribery, intimidation and murder! The judiciary is almost overwhelmed, why would we overlook your shambolic proposals now? The mere assertion that we suspend the legal process, however lightly, is scandalous!"

"I don't like the taste of new words in my mouth."

Far from being offended that Stott had guessed the truth: overload bureaucrats with chaotic, unending tasks, siphon their power as they collapse under the weight – as advised by Rooke – Aedan disliked hearing it phrased so crudely.

"If the blackhallers are overwhelmed, revising edicts that go back a year, they'll be no help in our current situation. We need a new way of doing things."

There was a murmur of agreement at the table. Merriweather did not partake.

"There will be no 'new way' until you explain what's going on right now!" Stott snapped. "Endless hours spent in the Alienage without a proper royal escort, a temporary seizure of Warden assets by the crown, unsanctioned appointments without the authority of Warden-Commander-"

"I can look after myself. And I believe the Wardens are recognised as a separate entity, outside of your authority Judge Stott," though Aedan knew the futility of this line of reasoning before Stott's heated retort came shooting back.

"You jeopardised that neutrality when you seized Soldier's Peak in the name of the state!"

Shit, please tell me he doesn't know about Solveig's visit. Siccing Stott and the other blackhallers onto Aedan over Grey Warden business would be an ideal stalling tactic for the High Constable and First Warden. He felt tempted to point out that Anora giving the Wardens Amaranthine was far more partisan than his reclamation of Soldier's Peak, but Stott didn't press the issue further, moving quickly onto older prejudices.

"But most importantly of all," Stott huffed, now red in the face, "we need to go over these galling pardons you proposed to the Queen! An unchecked Orlesian bard!"

"Checked thoroughly by me," said Aedan with smallest of winks to Fergus, who turned a laugh into an unconvincing cough.

"An Antivan assassin!"

"One of the best."

"A soldier of the qunari vanguard and clear spy, guilty of butchery!"

"He makes wonderful tea."

"And a maleficar!"

"She was checked most thoroughly of all."

Fergus, desperate to avert eye contact, was suddenly quite taken with one of the stained-glass windows. Kylon's mouth was sagging open (just how many crimes had he overlooked?) and Mother Perpetua would have followed in his stunned example had she not been so eagerly filled to burst with questions about Theohild's miracle. Langworth looked as jovial as Fergus, relaxing in his chair, rolling his eyes like the reluctantly proud uncle of a precocious rascal. Pate remained neutral, and the bookish Merriweather was scribbling away with a hawk tail quill.

Stott, oblivious of their captive audience, thundered on.

"And it seems I'm supposed to just forget that our new Chancellor undertook a contract from the Antivan Crows!"

As did our new arl. Stott's onslaught was so fearsome, Aedan had momentarily forgotten Rooke's presence at his side. Had the Arl of Denerim held back en-route to throw him into the deep end? Was he doing the same now, ensuring Aedan never shrugged help off so casually again?

"I undertook several contracts, Judge Stott. Do keep up. And I am well aware of who I was travelling with; I'll not soon forget the people who fought with me, supped with me, bled with me, risked everything with me, dug latrines in the freezing winter ground with their bare hands and shat in the earth with me."

Fergus ran a hand over his beard in a graceless hurry, just managing to conceal the grin.

Stott was less amused. "Young man, vulgarity is no substitute for wit."

Aedan took his seat, and Rooke with him. Stott's permission would never come at this rate.

"I was lead to believe Queen Anora had signed these pardons already."

Aedan thanked his good sense for coming up with the idea: they were his only legal shield right now. Just as strong was the desperate hope Alistair had gotten over his Anora-phobia and seen her sign the damned things.

"A pardon is no absolute, ser. We're a feudal monarchy, not an autocracy. Reasonable limits are to be expected. You couldn't just cut my head off at this very table and expect a queen's pardon on the spot."

Keep lecturing me, I'll test that theory.

Aedan looked to his brother. "I think I can enjoy the endorsement of a teyrn, Judge Stott."

Fergus nodded, glad to be of help. "I have no objection to the proposed pardons, ser. The Chancellor speaks with my authority."

Aedan looked between Langworth and Pate, not focusing on either, getting the attention of both. "And I'm sure I'll enjoy the endorsement of our other teyrn, whoever that may be."

Aedan might as well have snapped his fingers and thrown them a dog treat. Gwaren's would-be teyrns leapt on this opportunity to curry favour. Pate spoke first.

"Blackhaller Stott, that was unworthy of you. The Chancellor has proved every doubter wrong, we would be fools to belittle his capabilities now. So young, so very accomplished. He will need our support to prosper, not our misplaced anger and distrust."

"Indeed, Stott!" boomed the flamboyant Langworth. "I'm sure there's room for a Chancellor in this city. The first for generations, how fun! What is Ferelden, but a place of opportunity? If this council can accept my presence it can accept the resurgence of old offices. So many firsts are made possible today."

Only toadying could unite Langworth and Pate. Aedan slouched in his seat.

Oh Maker give me strength, it begins. Who gets to sit on Daddy Chancellor's knee, cup of milk in hand, bedtime story guaranteed?

Their initial flattery said much about both men. Pate wanted Aedan to feel appreciated but in need of his guidance. Langworth wanted Aedan to feel kinship with him as an outsider.

Pate kept his voice gentle and words strong, turning his attention to the one other man in the room capable of uniting them in loathing. Melwyn Rooke.

"If there is any untrustworthy opportunist sat here, it is not the new Chancellor."

"Many of us are still wondering what happened to Vaughan Kendells, Rooke. A no-name, disgraced lord like you becoming Arl of Denerim in a matter of days?"

Another prediction proved right. To mentor Aedan, Pate would need to remove the closest thing he had right now.

Rooke checked his fingernails for dirt, finding it a task worthier of his attention. "Take it up with the Chancellor," he said. "And the only teyrn sitting at this table. If you want to beg for scraps at their feet, better stay on my good side."

"Arl Rooke has been helping me re-establish the office of the Chancery," said Aedan, returning them to a move reconciliatory, diplomatic tone. "And Vaughan Kendells died of Blight disease. His body was a plague hazard, we had to burn it."

Stott's cobwebbed face was in his hands. "In our three hundred years," he moaned, "it has never been in the Chancellor's power to appoint an Arl of Denerim. Even if I approved, why was there no swearing-in ceremony? No oaths of fealty received or given?"

"If you want to waste more of our meagre funds on banquets and bluster, be my guest," said Aedan. "Arl Rooke was too busy getting this city back on its feet. He was Urien's greatest advisor and mentored Vaughan Kendells for some years. He is a fine choice."

Stott was making this too easy. If the blackhallers would tie themselves in knots and trip over their feet from slights as simple as skipping a ceremony, they would be no match for Aedan when he escalated, increased their burden, gave they had no choice but to recognise the pre-eminence of Chancery authority.

He recalled Rooke's advice again, in greater detail: "Where a bureaucrat tries to spin a web, throw a flaming torch. Where they outmanoeuvre you, knock over the chess board and choke them with the pieces."

Aedan had far too much on his platter with the lyrium trade, he refused to be pulled into Stott's slow-moving sludge of political process. Vulgar, shocking displays of power were the only things men like him had no defence against.

It was like Stott read his mind. "You will be fast-tracking elves and dwarves to this council next," he huffed.

Aedan treated him to a sick, simpering grin.

What a marvellous idea. All in good time.

He'd promised to make Shianni a bann, and he would. The same went for ensuring Gorim became the most powerful surface dwarf in Ferelden. Part of him wanted to reveal the plan prematurely, if only to see the old man's heart finally give out. It was all too tempting to throw out one's best assaults up front. But he'd just sealed an alliance with the aristocracy and couldn't afford to jeopardise it yet, plus he'd hate to think all that sex was for nothing.

"Ridiculous as that sounds," Stott grumbled, "it would at least be clear; at least then you'd have some policy proposals or defined role."

"I beg your pardon?"

Stott narrowed his eyes, obscuring the watery little things entirely. "You have described your goals vaguely, Chancellor," he said. "Do not assume I don't know what that means."

"Why don't you tell the council, as you're dying to let it out anyway?"

"It means you are either too inexperienced to appreciate the gravity of your office, too incompetent to define your goals clearly, or you assume this royal council will sleepwalk into tyranny, allowing the Chancery to abstain from defining its authority in order to better abuse it."

Funny thing about politics, Stott. You can make all the accurate predictions in the world, doesn't mean you can prevent what's coming; it just means you'll know the full extent of your helplessness for longer.

The others were now watching in awe, but the showdown was shortened by Anora's arrival. She glided to her seat, looking resplendent as always in periwinkle. She gave Aedan the smallest of smiles, a so-you've-finally-had-to-deal-with-Stott acknowledgment. He felt like he'd passed an initiation.

"Forgive my lateness everyone," she sounded earnest in apology, but did not offer a reason.

Subtlety surrendered and all dignity forgotten, Langworth and Pate's eyes were shooting from her to Aedan, as if their combined presence were the final ingredients in some magical ritual which would put the Gwaren situation to rest. Aedan would grant them no such thing, he had his own reasons for being here.

Anora addressed Aedan first, glad the last piece of her courtly puzzle had fallen into place.

"I am sure, in your absence Chancellor Cousland, that the Chancery Council have been fully devoted to their primary task of finding a way to refill the treasury?"

Aedan met her beautiful, penetrating gaze. "We have."

"And yet not one communication has passed between yourselves and the treasury?" said Stott tartly. He may have been playing second fiddle with Anora in the room, but still couldn't resist.

"The Chancellor was not made aware of Lady Merriweather's appointment until very recently," Rooke said. "I am to blame for that."

Stott was unmoveable, bunkered down into his hostility. "The Treasury Office has been lacking a leader, though still staffed for weeks. It is easily found in this district, perhaps I could offer you a map? If you ever find time out of your busy schedule of frolicking in the Alienage, or Pearl or wherever else you keep sneaking off to."

Fergus had had enough. "As an authority on my brother's personal life, it constitutes no threat to security, Blackhaller Stott."

Stott straightened in his seat, adding very little height to his wizened frame. His response was to Aedan.

"Your wild, unpredictable style served you well in the wilderness, with two wars raging within our borders, Chancellor, but these times call for a more temperate approach."

"And what better time for the new Chancellor to prove the maturity of his style than by allowing this session to commence," said Anora firmly, bringing them to heel at last.

Now a teyrn and childless widower with nothing waiting for him in Highever Castle, Fergus appeared to have fully devoted himself to politics. He opened their official session with the expected grim news.

"Statements from across the Ferelden have been collected. All the major houses, freeholders, land owners and guilds want their war debts to the crown cancelled. It's hard to argue the point. Loghain and Howe – when they weren't taking hostages and burning farms, raided their funds, or just withdrew protection from the darkspawn and left opponents to die."

"And assuming we do cancel all debts owed?" Anora asked wearily.

"They'll know they have the upper hand. And we can rule out your proposed tax to every noble, one hundred sovereigns apiece, your Majesty."

"And why is that?" Anora said, as if this rebellious development began and ended with him.

"Because if they refuse, we won't have the manpower to change anyone's minds. They also refuse to cancel debts owed to one another."

Aedan caught Langworth and Pate exchange hateful glances.

"What else?"

"We're running low on home-grown collateral; lumber, ore, grain and livestock are...abysmal. The largest mage and templar mobilisation for a generation has drained existing lyrium."

"Which could result in a black market almost overnight," said Aedan casually.

Rooke nodded. "Quite."

Merriweather cleared her throat, and offered her first thought of the day. Aedan heard a brisk, clipped Redcliffe accent, tinged with an Orlesian flutter, a carryover from her days at the university.

"It will take some time to fully account for assets passing into the crown's possession. Rendon Howe had untold amounts stashed away in various illegal accounts and other hiding places, and he burned the paper trail thoroughly."

"There's enough treasure in the Arl of Denerim's estate to assist with infrastructural projects," Rooke said to her. "I have no qualms with sharing it."

Perfect! Their first cover for some of the lyrium trade's gold, at least for a year or so. Plus it would allow them to hold on to Howe's actual treasures.

Merriweather eyed Aedan and Rooke in careful anticipation of their reaction to her next statement. "And Denerim has a very, very generous donation coming in from Arl Eamon. Far more than is customary, even for a post-war restoration."

"My brother's irresistible charm, no doubt," said Fergus.

Something like that.

Kylon sighed gratefully. "That'll be welcome. The Chancellor's insistence on keeping his own security force is his right, but I could really use those Black Hounds. Still, a donation to the City Guard will be just as good."

Merriweather hadn't listened to either of them. "I was hoping the Chancellor or Arl could fill me in on the details," she said.

"I have no more knowledge than you, Treasurer," said Rooke.

"Perhaps Teagan chipped in on Rainesfere's behalf," Aedan added. "Speaking of the Guerrin brothers, why is Bann Tegan not at this meeting? Why is there no representative from the Bannorn here at all?"

"I can answer that," said Rooke, completing an expert move of steering the conversation away from the dangerous waters of Eamon's extortion and into the warm shores of undercutting the Bannorn.

"We won't need a representative of the Bannorn here, at least for today. Once the Chancellor had awakened Eamon and obtained the first signature for the Warden Treaties, it became clear to me that Loghain and Howe's days were numbered. I began to discreetly reach out to the Bannorn for peacetime arrangements; refugee redistribution, infrastructural projects and so forth. I hadn't counted on the continued presence of the darkspawn throughout the Coastlands, but I did receive the written consent of numerous banns to act as a representative in their stead."

Just like you did for the Denerim nobility ahead of the Landsmeet. Well played Rooke.

"Preposterous!" Pate spat. "Why would they trust anything to you?"

"It's possible they assumed I had no chance of surviving," said Rooke, still not looking at him. "And so felt they had nothing to lose."

"That doesn't quite answer his question Arl Rooke," said Anora. "Forgive me, but your rise has been meteoric, you had no senior authority until very recently."

"Begging your pardon my queen," said Rooke delicately, "but of all the people gathered at this table, I am the most qualified in all matters of state."

Stott's caterpillar-like eyebrows unfurled and his dry mouth opened.

"I speak not of experience," the arl added, raising a white hand, "but of recent circumstance. Majesty, you have been undercut, lied to, sabotaged and imprisoned by your regent and his right-hand man. Lady Merriweather was trapped in Redcliffe. Langworth and Pate have been hiding in Gwaren, Blackhaller Stott has been under house arrest, and the Chancellor was leading a band of outlaws all over the country."

"Your circumstances were hardly any better!" Pate snapped.

Langworth and Pate looked less offended at being called cowards than they did by the thought that they had exhibited cowardice together as one.

Into the quagmire they went. The next six and a half hours were a test of everyone's abilities, ideas and insults cascading everywhere, bouncing off everyone but the queen. Aedan's instincts about the others were proved mostly right; Perpetua's contributions were always idealistically charitable or little more than pleas for charity. Pate levied a firm conservatism into his every utterance, the more pragmatic Langworth talked of money and little else, social convention forgotten. And everyone could rely on Kylon's realism to crush whatever house of cards their optimism built; he would swoop in with reminders of thin manpower and general scarcity. If Kylon was bruising reality, Stott was the cloying clang of law, always eager to remind then of the shackled straightjacket he and the other relics had wrought. Rooke only spoke to offer solutions when all problems (and the problems with everyone else's solutions) had been voiced. Fergus, true to Aedan's predictions, laid out every idea he had failed to pass through the filter of their mother and father (to limited success; Anora had, after all, been somewhat mentored by Eleanor Cousland during their time together).

They covered the ramifications of Loghain closing the border and choking out trade deals, they speculated grimly on the implications of Bhelen's coming reign, Aedan and Rooke urging Anora that he couldn't be trusted to rebuild Denerim's walls. They decided on harsher penalties for merchants over-charging the destitute for basic supplies, they approved a crackdown on private security force use by said merchants.

Aedan was reminded several times of the dire-soundinng hypotheticals his father would spring on him at random all hours of the day and night at Highever Castle. Some had been horrible, exercises in choosing the least bad option ("A local village in your care has been hit by a lycanthrope plague, do you allow some possibly-infected villagers out before burning it to the ground, or contain them, nullifying the risk?")

Always harsh, always necessary. Never once had he stopped reminding Aedan of the realities of leadership.

And so the council collectively ducked, bobbed and woved around disaster, always on the defensive, always prolonging further disaster, buying more time, never able to see their immediate future as anything other than treading water. The Good Ship Ferelden was adrift in a storm-tossed sea, beset on all sides by malevolent waves, persistent lightning strikes and ravenous monsters. Only one councillor at a time could seize the rudder and choose its path, and none could do so without earning the ire of others. It was always the possible lesser of multiple evils; Pate suggested a "soft conscription, a neo-militarisation" in the southern lands as a way to revitalise a mass movement of manual labour spurred on by a renewed patriotism, but Merriweather informed him the people were sick of conscription; Perpetua wanted to increase templar presence across the land to distribute aid, provide security and fortify faith, even if it meant letting them in en-masse from Orlais, but Fergus said the influence of Loghain's paranoia had set in amongst too many (a pity to Aedan, it would have put them on the road to the coveted registry).

Did they feed soldiers in the Coastlands, fighting a directionless series of skirmishes with disorganised darkspawn? Or did they feed the starving South? Relocate refugees or help them settle into their new lands, leaving their old homes drained and deserted?

A man overboard traded for an intact hull, a snapped oar offered in place of a kraken chewing at the mast. And always the assurance from Langworth and Pate that Gwaren's lumber and manpower would only move united under a teyrn. Perpetua's insufferable habit of throwing them off topic to ask Aedan about Theohild's miracle (he could only, with convincing incredulity, claim he didn't know the mind of the Maker) lead to her insisting on bringing in investigators appointed by the Divine herself. It was another potential crack in his armour, another boulder to juggle. His head began to swell at the seams from its overcrowding of truths and lies. They would need the lyrium money, it would solve so many problems. If only he could find a way to pull the whole thing off without their wretched interference!

Merriweather proved the most measured councillor of the day, always waiting for every other person's input before offering her lone, insightful comment, most of them drawing attention to the lack of specifics to Aedan and Rooke's money-making schemes. Aedan knew how it felt when someone was getting the measure of him. It was uncomfortable. She was so muted and restrained he had little to work with; no obvious counterattack where there was no obvious attack. This must have been how people felt dealing with Rooke.

But where they felt safe, Aedan and Rooke slipped in anything which would ease the growth and maintenance of their lyrium business. They began with talks of revitalising Ferelden's cracked, weathered and bandit-covered roads, which would need protecting if their cargo were to travel untroubled. Aedan, now Ferelden's most accomplished collector of relics and artefacts, offered to fund exhibitions which would revitalise ruins, and build his number of potential brewing sites and stash-houses. Rooke brought up plans to attract trade ships to Denerim via the River Drakon, which would, in reality, allow them to buy and sell lyrium far and wide.

Eventually, fatigue forced Anora to end the session and excuse herself with uncharacteristic quickness. Aedan would have pursued the clues of her suspicious behavior but his head was throbbing, he sweated under his doublet, he could only live a double life so well, and hoped in the future he wouldn't have to fight two such essential battles in one day.

He threw out one last curveball, taking advantage of Langworth and Pate's exhaustion before he could succumb to his own. He told them he would cast the final, deciding vote for Gwaren's next teyrn, provided both men made time to plead their case privately and not use it as a bargaining chip over every council decision. They reluctantly agreed. Merriweather and Rooke agreed to a regular correspondance over their money woes and Aedan knew he had to work on developing fronts for their trade fast.

His appraisal of the session was brief but optimistic. Rooke as strong and loyal as ever, Langworth and Pate lowered in everyone's eyes indecisively dependent; Fergus following his lead; Perpetua nosy in her inquiries but still wedded to him through miracles, Kylon in his debt for the promotion; Stott so bombarded his old heart was about to give out. One official council session done and Anora was already becoming somewhat isolated from her supporters. Everyone played Aedan's game eventually.

The only outlier was Merriweather, and there was plenty of time to fix that. If Eamon and Teagan wanted to slink away to lick their wounds, so be it, but they had no right to fret over a how very vulnerable Queen Anora was becoming already.

Far from biased or overtly hostile, Aedan, once his anger had abated, merely judged Stott to have estimated him with accuracy. He had plenty to hide, and perceptive men had plenty of reasons to fear him. Aedan just wished it hadn't come out so soon.

Everything was speeding up, escalating. Only that morning, when finishing up with his secret council, Aedan had chosen to recuse himself from cloak-and-dagger exploits for the next few weeks, but with Stott gnawing at his heels and Merriweather's keen brain already alight with suspicion on their gold trail, he could be forced into taking drastic measures. Just when he thought he'd be out for a little while, they pulled him back in.

"It was a mistake to let Stott go on that rampage," said Rooke when they were back in his chambers, safe from sensitive ears and keen eyes.

Rooke was agitated again, pacing up and down.

Aedan reclined on a pouf. "Then we take him down before he regains his footing."

"You can't afford to keep making enemies on every new front, Chancellor. Weisshaupt, Redcliffe, Orzammar, West Hill, Amaranthine, Denerim, Val Royeaux, now Gwaren too? The common enemies of Loghain and Urthemiel are vanquished. Forget arrested, you'll end up dead."

"Half of those fronts are yours, Arl Rooke," said Aedan testily. "And all of them will bend the knee when we're done."

"I don't doubt your ability, only your pacing."

"When I say take him down, I'm not referring to violence. If the courtiers get in our way, we always have Sanga and the elves to leak their secrets for us."

Rooke wasn't convinced, wasn't listening. "The royal council respect you Chancellor, albeit reluctantly. Your youth will be a barrier where these old lords are concerned."

Aedan grunted. Hearing it from Rooke's mouth didn't soften the blow.

Rooke folded his arms. "I'm more worried about my own reputation dragging you down." A shadow seemed to fall behind his visage, deep within. Aedan saw a level of self-consciousness, of introspection and boiling inner rage he hadn't seen since the night they met.

Rooke was speaking aloud, but more to himself than to Aedan. "They know what I'm capable of accomplishing but they'll never work with me to help bring it about. I couldn't pitch myself, couldn't sell the ideas."

"You're the Arl of Denerim. Remind them of that."

Rooke frowned. "I have been doing that since my ascension. No other arl would have the city this far along to recovery so quickly. But that isn't enough even for Anora. To her I'm a clever but friendless lord riding your coat tails, weaving my webs. To Langworth and Pate I'm the thing they have to throw aside to get to you. Kylon, Perpetua and your brother are all old enough to know me solely for the sex scandal."

"Fergus is reasonable, he can be persuaded. As can Kylon. Perpetua-"

"Is part of the church. Churches attract gossips like flies to shit. She can't influence all of them. Same goes for Kylon. The loyalty of a captain and all his men means little if I turn them against you."

His pacing sped up. Aedan had never seen such defeatism from the man, self-pity disguised as humbleness. "I cannot afford to keep tarnishing your image like this, Chancellor not for long."

"I mean a different kind of statement. Something...unsubtle."

"Not every slight requires a response."

"I didn't mean at our 'allies.' I meant..."

The solution was staring them in the face.

Aedan lovingly caressed Starfang's hilt. His other arm tingled with longing, mourned Maric's Blade. All over, his muscles twitched, pulsing against his clothing, sensitive to the air. He had felt incomplete, exposed for a while now. The time had come to don his mail, plate and swords again, if only for a single night. Just enough to kill the craving, reaffirm to the royal court, and Denerim at large, just who they were dealing with.

He marched across the room, opened the door to the veranda, and, high above the city, searched the grand estates of its elite, soon spotting the domain of Franderel, the false Bann of West Hill, thief of Andraste's tears.

The fool still hadn't moved out of Denerim. Maybe he thought that would look too suspicious? Maybe he was plotting his own revenge with great patience? Maybe he thought that Aedan, by not revealing the man he'd stolen the Tears from, would keep it a secret in exchange for silence and compliance?

Either way he was too late.

"Get Gorim. Tell him to rally the Black Hounds. We're going to make a statement."

Another monstrous chapter, hope I balanced the introduction and reintroduction of new and existing characters well.

I've been looking forward to the next part of this story for some time. Full blown action at last!