This new story takes place within the timeline of "The Stolen Throne." While it will not be a complete retelling of that tale, you will recognize certain scenes, events, and places from that story. This story will follow Rowan from just before the events of TST, through the rebellion, and during the rebuilding of Ferelden after she is crowned Queen. Needless to say, there will be spoilers aplenty for TST in this story. It will also go slightly AU in parts... just wanted that to be clear up front. Bioware owns all the people, places, and things, you're used to seeing... darn it.

Thank you to Suilven for the encouragement/poking I needed to get this story underway. Thank you also for the speedy beta! Your comments and suggestions are always right on the money. Oh, and I'm glad you liked the name. :)

The sounds of armored feet clicked through the hallways of the castle, their sound announcing the warrior's presence several seconds before the figure in heavy armor came into view. The warrior walked with a determined purpose despite the aches and pains brought on by the morning's training and sparring. There were healers and even a mage available to treat the injuries, but the armored figure preferred to let the body heal naturally whenever possible; the aches and pains taught lessons and were reminders of both success and failure. Still, a hot bath would do wonders to ease them and loosen the muscles that were already beginning to tighten.

The halls bustled with the normal daily activities: servants swept and cleaned floors, others held armfuls of linens—both dirty and fresh—as they made their way through the halls to and from bedchambers. Voices from the castle's audience chamber made the warrior pause and listen for a moment, the abrupt change in momentum causing the green plumed helmet she held tucked in her arm to shift slightly. She moved toward the door, nodding a greeting to the heavily armored guards on either side of it.

"Who is there with my mother and father?"

"She who would be Queen, Lady Rowan," the soldier on the right said, his voice tinged with trepidation. "She sought an audience with the Arl and Arlessa a short while ago."

"I'm worried, My Lady," the soldier on the left added, shifting slightly on his feet as Rowan met his gaze. "You know what will happen when the Usurper hears of this. She's considered a wanted criminal and just speaking to her invites harsh punishment."

Rowan nodded, understanding the guards' apprehension; it was something she shared. To say it was an uneasy time, not only in Ferelden but also Redcliffe, was the understatement of the Blessed Age. Rowan knew, even at her young age, that her parents' role as Arl and Arlessa was only as good as their coffers were deep enough to keep the Orlesian tax collectors at bay. Many of the longstanding vassals of her family—most recently, the Wallums of Rainesfere, stewards of the land until one of her brothers came of age—had been turned out of their homes by the Orlesians for failure to pay the crippling taxes the fat bastard king in Denerim had levied on the native Fereldans; most likely, the taxes were to try and gain favor with his cousin, the Emperor of Orlais. More and more of the 'vassals' within her parents' arling were now Orlesian. With each passing year, more and more Fereldan nobles were being pushed out of their lands. It was only a matter of time, Rowan believed, until her family was next.

Many of those now homeless noblemen and women had left Ferelden, if they had the means to do so finding sympathetic extended families in other lands. Others had moved toward Denerim with the hope of finding suitable employment, while others had turned to the Chantry for help. The truly desperate even had even gone south toward the Chasind lands, hoping that they would offer some sort of shelter to them.

But there was also one other place many of those former noblemen and women had turned to in the hopes of taking back what was lost. It was a risky gamble with little chance of real success, given the almost total capitulation of the remaining Fereldan nobility toward what they believed was the inevitable rule of Orlais. They had turned toward the woman who should be Queen in the eyes of many Fereldans: Moira Theirin, daughter of Brandel the Defeated.

Curious, Rowan stepped toward the door, pressing her ear against it to listen to the conversation on the other side. Though Moira had been a friend of her father's for a long time, her very presence in their hall was a dangerous risk, let alone the message of resistance she always brought with her.

"Rendorn. Audra. I need your help," Moira said, a pleading tone in her voice. "We can't stand by any longer while the Orlesians rape our people and our land. You are my most staunch allies… I need you both at my side, fighting for what is rightfully ours. My son needs you… Ferelden needs you. With you and your armies at my side, we will command the largest force of fighters since before the war."

Rowan heard her father speak, his voice sounding tired and resigned even through the thick wood of the door. "My friend, what you ask is difficult. It would mean giving up our home and our lands… my children would lose what birthright they have—"

"Your children are already losing their birthrights! The Orlesians will turn you out of Redcliffe someday, whether it's at the whim of one of their chevalier commanders for not paying taxes, or maybe it will be just because they can."

"With all due respect," Rowan heard her mother begin, "wouldn't we be more effective to your cause by remaining in Redcliffe? After all, we've given you, your son, and your army support as often as we could. The area surrounding Redcliffe could be a staging area for you."

"That's just it, Audra. You have given support where you can, and Maric and I greatly appreciate it. However, you must know that you only remain in Redcliffe at the pleasure of the Orlesians; if one of their chevaliers wants your arling for any reason—or none at all—he will take it and have the support of the Usurper when he does so. You could be accused of treason simply for allowing me to step foot on your grounds. The time to act is now." Moira paused for a moment, which caused Rowan to press her ear even harder to the door. "I just received word that Ceorlic and Kier have finally allowed my messengers to speak to them. It will likely take some time, but if I can gather their support—and yours—we can really give Meghren a black eye. We can send a message that his days of tyranny are coming to an end."

A pregnant pause could be heard from the other side of the door. Rowan listened intently, wondering what was going on within the audience chamber. She shifted her weight and the helmet in her hand before pressing her ear to the door once more. Were her parents quietly discussing Moira's proposition? Was Moira still there, or had she moved away to give her parents privacy? Was Maric there with her? Was she talking to him? The suspense was palpable even through the wood of the door.

Rowan's parents had been reluctant to throw in their lot with Moira and her ragtag rebel army. For a number of years, Rendorn and Audra had both thought that the continuing rule of Orlais was inevitable. Many smaller uprisings had been quickly and summarily defeated by the Usurper and his chevalier army. The severed heads of his enemies were a constant adornment on the palace walls of Denerim and along the main roads linking the largest settlements in Ferelden. The sight of defeated and desecrated countrymen was meant to drive fear and hopelessness into the populace… and it had worked. Many Fereldans not only believed any uprising was futile, but that the Maker Himself condoned and approved the rule of Orlais. After all, it was the Grand Cleric herself that had declared King Meghren the rightful ruler of Ferelden, and many of the common men and women simply took their religious leader at her word. It was a difficult battle for Moira and her rebels to fight, not only from a military standpoint, but against the hearts and minds of Fereldans resigned to their fate.

Curiosity finally got the best of Rowan and she turned the handle on the door, entering the audience chamber to observe the goings on herself. Heads turned in her direction, looking her up and down as she drew closer. As best she could in her heavy armor, she curtseyed toward both her parents and then Moira; she did not see Maric in attendance. Rowan did not miss the looks of both exasperation and pride on her parents' faces as she greeted those gathered; a lecture about interrupting a conversation would likely follow later.

"Hello, Mother and Father. Hello, My Lady."

A broad smile crossed Moira's face. "Lady Rowan! It is a pleasure to see you. I'm sorry I did not bring Maric with me for this meeting; he is currently being tutored in the matters of court…" Rowan saw Moira's eyes flick briefly toward her parents before returning to her. "… For the day he eventually becomes King. After all, I don't want to leave the burden of teaching Maric such things completely on your shoulders."

But will that day ever come? "Yes, My Lady."

Moira briefly examined Rowan's heavy armor, nodding in approval as she did so. "I see you are continuing with your martial training, Rowan. Perhaps you may have better luck than I in getting Maric to practice his swordsmanship. He needs to improve if he is to fight by my side for what is rightfully ours. He is, sadly, a poor swordsman."

"Rowan takes her battle training very seriously," her mother said by way of agreement. Looking at her mother's carefully neutral face, Rowan sensed a 'but' coming. She was not disappointed. "...But, sometimes in her earnestness to learn those skills, she generally forgets the softer skills a lady is expected to know, like how it is impolite to interrupt a private meeting."

Moira laughed. "Lady Rowan is much like I was at her age, especially after my father was deposed by the damned Orlesians. I knew the skills of a noble lady, but also wanted to learn to fight so I could one day gather allies and fight to take back that which was stolen from my family. I have no qualms about Rowan staying."

If Rowan did not know any better, she would have sworn to Andraste and the Maker that Moira was trying to convert her over to her cause. She might be betrothed to Maric, but she was still just barely a woman… and a very young one at that. Why would her opinion hold any more sway with Moira than that of her parents? There was a very real chance that Maric would never be King, nor would she be Queen; the Orlesians' hold on the Crown in Denerim was strong indeed. From her conversations with Maric, he was completely content to remain in his mother's shadow. As the thoughts ran rampant through Rowan's mind, Moira turned back toward her parents.

"I know what happened to the Wallums... I saw the heads of Simon Wallum and his oldest son mounted on spikes at road leading to Rainesfere. There was a pamphlet nailed to the spikes, saying they were executed for resisting the confiscation of their lands for not paying their taxes and for speaking ill against the King." Moira scowled deeply. "The Orlesians are looking for reasons to depose the Fereldan nobility and replace them with their own. Before long, they will be trying to impose their droit du seigneur on us; their lords raping our newly wed women on their wedding nights, trying to break us and breed us out!" Moira struck her open palm with her fist. "I have had enough of watching our people suffer the cruelties of the Usurper and his men. We must tell them 'this far, and no farther!' Now is our opportunity to gather our people... to tell them that the days of us cowering in fear need to end and that we need to take back what is ours—what was stolen from us!"

Rowan had to suppress a gasp as she watched Moira gather up the skirts of her fine—if old—gown and drop to her knees. "If I must kneel and beg for help, I shall, for nothing is more important to me than the freedom of my people."

The silence in the audience chamber was thick and palpable; Rowan had to suppress the thought of taking her sword and slicing it through the air to see if she could indeed cut it. Her parents had turned to each other, whispering quietly and gesturing slightly with their hands. As for Moira, she remained on her knees, patiently waiting for an answer from the Arl and Arlessa. After several moments, Rowan watched as her father glanced toward her with a look of concern fixed upon his features. She knew then what his answer would be.

"All right," Rendorn said, taking Audra's hand and squeezing it tightly. "Redcliffe will join your army, but my children will not. They will be sent to my Cousin Edward's estate outside Kirkwall. He has no love for Orlais and will make sure they are safe… and safely anonymous. You should also consider sending Maric there for his safety."

Moira stood and curtseyed toward the Arl and Arlessa but, before she could speak, Rowan crossed the distance between them to stand near her. "No, Father! If you are to stay and fight the Orlesians, I will stay as well."

"And Maric must remain here with me," Moira quickly added. "He will learn what he needs to know as King from me. He won't learn those things if he's hidden away in the Free Marches."

"Rowan, no," Audra said, slashing her hand through the air. "You, as the future Queen, must be kept safe and away from the fighting. Besides, you're still too young..."

With a scoff, Rowan knew she would not be able to hold back her argument. She looked to her father, the hand not cradling her helmet held out in an urgent plea. "If I am to be Queen, let me stay and fight for those I may one day rule. Let the army see my face and see how I bear the same burdens they do. I won't be a pampered Lady living in a foreign land while others fight the battle for me." She shifted her gaze to her mother, trying to soften her expression slightly. "If I am old enough to be thought of as the future Queen, I am old enough to fight for that honor."

A brief, tense silence once again descended on the audience chamber. Rowan fought the urge to impatiently shift her weight from foot to foot. She stood there and watched the silent debate within her parents' minds, her armor becoming a tad uncomfortable and altogether too warm as her fate was being decided.

The thought of finding herself in the middle of a revolutionary war had been a distant one only an hour ago. Rowan had known that her parents had quietly given aid and succor to the small rebel army. It had been difficult at times as there were often Orlesian chevaliers and lordlings in and around Redcliffe. There had been quiet agreements with the merchants and taverns to keep the visiting Orlesians as preoccupied as possible when they were in town. That burden had fallen mostly onto the taverns, which had made sure the strong local ales and spirits that the Orlesians had ordered were never watered down. Getting them and keeping them as drunk as possible had helped those charged with smuggling provisions to slip out of town unnoticed. A hastily established brothel near one of the taverns—the thought of which made Arlessa Audra's stomach churn when it was proposed—had also done its part to keep the Orlesians busy. Of course, shrinkage of crops and animals from the local farms and forests had only been reported for appearances' sake when the Orlesians had begun to ask questions after the alcohol and aphrodisiacs wore off. Rowan had always known the risks if her family had been discovered helping the rebels.

Their time in Redcliffe was rapidly running out.

Rowan watched as her parents seemed to swiftly age before her. The fine lines around her mother's eyes seemed to deepen while her lips gently pursed. Dark circles suddenly became more prominent under her father's eyes and the small strands of gray in his hair seemed to shine with an internal light. Rowan finally caught her father's gaze and saw sadness wrapped in determination there. He breathed a quiet sigh.

"Eamon and Teagan will go to Kirkwall to be quietly squired by my cousin. I will send three of my best soldiers and my manservant with them; they will go disguised as merchants." Rendorn paused briefly, taking Audra's hand once more. "Rowan will remain here with us, per her wishes. If she is determined to defend our land, she will learn to become an officer and lead men into battle in my name."

"Thank you, Rendorn and Audra," Moira said, saluting them with arms crossed over her chest and her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you as well, Lady Rowan. With your support, we will all live to see Ferelden free of Orlesian rule."

The sun gleamed brightly off the still waters of Lake Calenhad, mirroring the brilliance that reigned overhead. Rowan felt a fine sheen of sweat break out over her skin, the strong rays of the sun threatening to bake her alive in her heavy armor. Though it was only early spring, an unexpected heat wave had blanketed the land. If the weather continued, the fruit trees would bud and blossom too early, which would worry the local farmers; frost was still a very real possibility at this time of year and, if today's actions were any indication, they would certainly need a bountiful harvest in the fall to sustain the army through the winter.

She looked nervously toward the path that wound up through the sides of the valley that cradled Redcliffe. A large contingent of the arling's soldiers stood at various points along the road and on the wide path that snaked its way toward the ancient Imperial Highway. Some watched over the town below, while others were turned toward the Highway itself, spyglasses trained on the distant horizon.

Mage Wilhelm fussed and fidgeted with his robes from where he stood next to Rowan's father in Redcliffe Castle's central square. He and his golem—an impressive creature that made the ground shake when it walked by—were asked to stand ready to provide assistance if needed, and a diversion when required. Even though Rowan had known him for several years as her father's retainer, his cantankerous attitude had not abated. He rarely smiled and was easily driven to exasperation, but he was fiercely loyal to the Guerrins, and—to her father—that made up for any prickliness in his demeanor.

Looking about, Rowan saw Wilhelm's golem standing at the doorway of a small fishing shanty near the shore of the lake. When her parents and Moira had planned this day, they had asked Wilhelm for his assistance in subduing the few chevaliers and Orlesian officers that had been stationed in and around Redcliffe. They had been rounded up one by one, and taken to the small shanty where Wilhelm cast a strong sleeping spell on each one. The golem had been stationed at the door to make sure none tried to escape if they had awakened prematurely. The act of imprisoning the Orlesians carried a death sentence, but Rendorn knew that they would all have a death mark on them anyway, as soon as word reached the Usurper of what had transpired here.

"We might as well make the most of it then," he had said, a small smile on his worried face. "If we are to have a price on our heads, we will make it worthwhile." Rowan had the feeling that it would be some time before she would see her father smile again. He had put on a brave face when he had bid farewell to Eamon and Teagan, who had been put on a small merchant ship berthed in Lake Calenhad two days before. By now, they and their escorts would be safely out of Ferelden, well on their way to Kirkwall and the safety of Cousin Edward's estate.

Maric stood next to Rowan's mother in the square, dressed in perhaps the only fine tunic and pants he owned, his high leather boots gleaming in the sun. His long golden hair was pulled back and secured by a small leather string at the nape of his neck. Though he was a tall young man, he still had a lankiness about him that suggested he was not quite finished growing from child to adult. He also looked incredibly bored with the affair. Rowan scoffed to herself. What, does Maric think he has a more pressing engagement to attend?

Rowan watched as Maric's gaze drifted over to where she stood next to her father's lieutenant, Marcus Wallum, the brother of the recently murdered Bann of Rainesfere. As he met her eyes, Rowan gave Maric a stern frown and shook her head slightly, which quickly turned into a grin as Maric at first looked hurt, then winked at her conspiratorially. As much as he had exasperated, teased, taunted, and otherwise drove her to near madness, she was fond of the young man she would someday marry.

Conspicuously absent from the proceedings was the Revered Mother of Redcliffe, Mother Abigail. The Grand Cleric in Denerim, Mother Bronach, had decreed that Meghren was the rightful King after Brandel's defeat and Ferelden's subjugation. Mother Abigail was a close advisor to Mother Bronach; there was no way she would recognize and bless this coronation ceremony on behalf of the Chantry. In fact, Rowan believed, Abigail was likely readying a scathing report of the proceedings to be sent to Denerim with the first courier she could hire.

The sharp sound of a trumpet drew the attention of those gathered to the grand entrance of Redcliffe Castle, where at the top of the steps stood Moira; she who was about to be crowned the rightful monarch and Queen of Ferelden in front of the witnesses and vassals gathered. It was to be an act of defiance against Meghren; an act to show that the Fereldans would no longer cower in fear of their Orlesian overlords.

Moira, Rendorn, and Audra had all thought the crowd of witnesses and well-wishers at the hastily planned coronation ceremony would be small, considering that they had warned many of the townspeople to stay away for fear of Orlesian reprisal later—and there would be a reprisal, a fact that no one doubted. Rowan watched as a broad smile crossed the soon-to-be Queen's face at the number of townspeople that had gathered within the square despite the warnings of the Arl and Arlessa. They were certainly brave, but Rowan worried about their fate after her family and army had fled with the Queen. The Orlesians took a dim view upon those they considered rebels or collaborators; Rowan shivered at the thought of heads decorating the walls of Redcliffe Castle.

Moira was resplendent in her heavy armor, which gleamed like a gem in the sun. She had opted to wear her armor rather than a fine gown to send a message to Denerim that she would be a warrior Queen, a symbol of defiance and a promise that she would either drive the Orlesians out or die trying. She descended the stairs of the castle, coming to stand in front of Rowan's father. Her gaze turned toward Maric and she favored him with another broad smile. After a moment she returned her attention to Rendorn, ready to accept her role and responsibilities as Queen.

Rowan felt her heart swell with pride as her father stepped forward, presenting a copy of the Chant of Light before him. Moira removed one of her gauntlets and placed her hand upon the book, taking a deep breath as she did so. She straightened her shoulders, pulling herself up to her full height.

Her father's voice filled the square as he began to speak. "Do you solemnly promise and swear to guide and govern the people of Ferelden, according to our laws and customs?"

"I do swear," Moira said, her voice strong and confident.

"Will you keep and maintain the laws of our people and temper your judgments with mercy?"

"I do swear."

"And will you keep and uphold the laws of the Maker and His Bride, Andraste?" Rowan did not miss the fact that her father and Moira deliberately kept mention of the Chantry out of the oath, based on their associations with the Usurper.

"I do swear." As she spoke, Maric stepped forward. He turned toward Audra, who held in her hands a small cushion upon which lay a circlet of fine gold—one of hers that would have to suffice as a crown for the time being. Maric picked up the circlet and placed it on his mother's head. When he finished adjusting it he took a step back to admire her. Rowan could see that his eyes glistened with unshed tears, the pride he felt for his mother swelling over all of those gathered to witness the coronation.

Taking a deep breath, Queen Moira raised her voice to speak to the crowd. "These things I have promised in the sight of the Maker and His Bride, I will perform and keep. The Maker and His Bride guide me."

A roar of approval rose from the crowd, cheers of "Maker preserve Queen Moira!" resounding through the air. The Queen turned and gathered Maric into a tight hug for a moment before holding him out at arm's length. The sunlight caught the golden circlet on her head, making the highlights in her fiery hair stand out.

"I promise you, Maric: you will one day take my place as King and, when you do, it will be as King of a free Ferelden. You and Rowan will watch your children grow up in peace from the palace in Denerim. I swear it."

Despite the fear and apprehension thrumming through her at what was to come, Rowan felt the first seeds of hope take root inside her.

I loosely based Queen Moira's vows on the vows that Queen Elizabeth II took at her coronation. It seemed fitting since she just celebrated her Diamond Jubilee.

There is no historical evidence that the practice of droit du seigneur had taken place in medieval times. In my head canon, I could see the Orlesians partaking in this practice in order to propagate their bloodlines and further humiliate and subjugate the Fereldans.

Thanks to those of you following yet another story of mine. I appreciate it more than you could know! Am I crazy for starting a third story? Well, if the shoe fits... :)