Chapter Text
It was past noon before Gwen realized just how much had been accomplished today. If she could keep this momentum going then it could only be a month before the keep was restored.
Varel, while concerned with her early rise into work, had been a pivotal player in navigating the perils of their current project. Restoration of Vigil’s Keep, while a task for safety and morale, would be beneficial to the survival and continued works across Amaranthine. WHile it might be wishful thinking, she intended to reach for such a goal.
Reports from knights, guards and citizens alight had pointed out the required repairs and assistance needed to recover from the attack and to fortify the Keep.
“If we can send word to Fergus Cousland before reaching out to Bhelen, we could get quarried stone from Orzammar,” Gwen noted, speaking to herself as her gaze jumped between maps and letters, scattered papers covered every inch of the desktop in her newly opened study.
It had been clear the room was not frequented with the amount of dust her handmaids and the Keep staff had to clear out.
“But we do have potential quarry sights above ground, but would we have the resources to establish a quarry? Maybe Voldrik might know,” her quill drank the last of her ink as she scribbled notes down, annotations dotted the map of Amaranthine the resident cartographer had provided.
A sudden sharp knock from her door broke her revere, the open door now occupied by Ser Varel. Barghest, once resting at her feet, sprung up to greet their guest, whimpering as he tugged at Varel.
Varel bowed lower once Barghest had calmed, “Begging your Pardon, my Lady, but we will need to prepare for the Fealty Ceremony.”
“Oh…right…” Gwen nodded; her focus broken from her previous thoughts. She fought to bring a moniker of order to her scattered desk before she had a thought. “How is it you’ve organised this so quickly again?” she asked, her focus remained on her papers, gathered and organised into neat piles.
“Your nobility were advised of your arrival upon your departure from Denerim, My Lady,” Varel explained, his own gaze roved the contents still disorganised along the desk. “They have had the week prior to your arrival to make the journey. I am only thankful the darkspawn were repelled before then.” His fingers brushed over one piece of parchment, scanning the contents of it as Gwen finally found a semblance of order. “My Lady, I must applaud your dedication but… you needn’t force yourself,” as the parchment was replaced, Varel turned Gwen’s attention away from her fussing. “We have plenty of time to make repairs. To ensure stability, you must address the nobility, to ensure their backing.”
Gwen heaved a sigh she didn’t realize she had held in, her shoulders sagged. “I know, but I just…I want…” she struggled to find the right words. Save for the adamant ‘Rebuild and Prosper’ drive that held a firm grasp of her thoughts. But Varel nodded along.
“You want to help,” Gwen turned from her stacks of parchment, looking up to Varel’s wizened eyes. “Your devotion is admirable, but you must also temper it with patience. Serving the Keep as Senechal has shown me many a time that blind devotion, without the forethought of time and patience, while a blessing can lead to future problems far greater than their forebears.” Measured steps brought the Senechal to stand before her, a hand offered with a wide understanding smile. “I am here to serve, but I can be a voice of reason if you wish it, My Lady.”
“But… I don’t want to be anyone’s burden,” Gwen stood, Varel’s hand left unclaimed, as she looked over her plans, her ideas and her methods. “For the past year, I’ve had to rely on others…and it’s caused the death of…” her lips tightened, worried between her teeth like many a time in an effort to hold back her tears. “I need to find my path, to meet adversity and keep myself standing… it’s not that I don’t want help, or advise, or even guidance. I need to know I can do this. That I am capable.”
A hearty chuckle broke the tension. Gwen looked back to a humored Varel, his head swayed in stunned disbelief.
“Your humility does you no justice, my Lady,” Varel said with a warm smile. The moment lingered between them, and despite herself, Gwen felt the corner of her lips curl upward. Varel's easy grin chipped away at her guarded demeanor, allowing the tension she'd been holding to dissolve. The shared laughter between them rolled through her like a soothing balm, lifting the weight from her shoulders and granting her a rare, unburdened breath.
“Thank you, Varel. I didn’t realize how much I needed that,” she admitted, her smile lingering. Varel gave a respectful bow in response, his eyes gleaming with quiet understanding.
Before he could reply, a soft knock interrupted the moment. The door creaked open, and Ilana stepped in, offering a graceful curtsey once Gwen acknowledged her presence.
“Pardon the intrusion, my Lady, but your guests have begun to arrive. We must prepare you to receive them,” Ilana said, her tone patient yet purposeful. She glanced between Gwen and Varel, poised to follow whatever course was decided next.
Varel straightened, offering Gwen a reassuring nod. “I’ll keep the guests entertained until you’re ready,” he said smoothly, already turning toward the door with practiced ease.
Gwen watched him go, feeling steadier than she had that morning. With a soft sigh, she turned back to Ilana, ready to face what the day would bring.
Once again draped in attire befitting her title, Gwen approached the entrance to the Great Hall. Memories of balls, galas, and lavish parties attended by her father flickered in her mind--her mother and herself poised with elegance among the monarchy. It stirred a long-buried sense of nostalgia. Despite the burdens and struggles that tainted those times, rare moments of genuine joy and conversation made the hardships feel almost trivial.
Yet, the weight of expectation, once cast aside in the solitude of her study, pressed upon her now. She had to secure her position, ensuring it remained unchallenged and unwavering. Her father's teachings creeped in and came back to her forefront like muscle memory; She could only hope it bore some resemblance to the British aristocracy she once knew.
“You’ll get used to it,” came a voice beside her.
Gwen startled, instinctively turning to see Julien standing with his usual quiet composure. She hadn't seen the Warden-Commander all day and hadn't been certain whether he'd involve himself in the evening's formalities.
“I didn't hear you approach,” she admitted, steadying herself.
Julien offered a small, knowing smile. “My apologies, Lady Guinevere. Though I doubt you'll find much enjoyment in these festivities. Lacking intrigue tends to dull these events.” His sharp gaze drifted into the hall, scanning the crowd with practiced ease.
Gwen followed his line of sight. “It’s not my first noble soiree,” she replied with a soft smile. Yet something in Julien’s tone unsettled her. “What do you mean by that?”
Julien didn’t look at her as he answered. “Orlesian gatherings are steeped in The Game--a constant dance of observation and manipulation.” He subtly gestured toward a woman standing alone near the edge of the room. “See her? Not too close, not too far. She positions herself perfectly to eavesdrop on three separate conversations. I’d wager she’s Orlesian, or at least trained by one.” His amusement softened his words. “And that couple over there--notice their dazzling attire? A bit too extravagant by Fereldan standards. Yet they avoid food, drink, and open flames. Curious, isn't it?”
Gwen studied them carefully. “And this is all part of The Game?” she asked skeptically. “These sound more like assumptions than facts.”
Julien chuckled softly, the sound barely more than a breath. He stepped back from the threshold, turning his attention fully to her.
“Observation isn't always about certainty. It's about recognizing patterns. Mastering it takes time, but it can be invaluable,” he explained. His expression turned serious. “You--you are a new element here. Some nobles likely preferred the previous Arl, and now they see an opportunity to mold a new Teyrna to their liking. Others may revere or even fear you for your role in the Blight and your ties to the Wardens. It is often safer to follow a legend than to stand against one.”
Gwen arched a brow, skepticism still lingering. “I doubt it’s that simple.”
Julien’s smirk was subtle but knowing. “It rarely is. But understanding the game being played is the first step in making sure you don’t become someone else’s pawn.”
His words draped over her like a heavy cloak--laden with the cold truth of her precarious position. Gwen hadn’t fully considered the hidden threats lurking beneath polite smiles and formal courtesies. The weight of it pressed on her, stirring a familiar anxiety. She understood danger, but this was different--like comparing a barking dog to a silent wolf.
Yet beneath that weight was an unexpected sense of protection. Julien’s sharp eyes caught the flicker of worry in her expression. Though it hadn’t been his intention, his warning had taken root, hardening into quiet resolve.
Gwen drew in a steadying breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward.
“Then I suppose it’s time I learned the rules.” Julien smiled, offering his arm.
“And teach your nobility who you are,” Gwen nodded, her grip light but firm as she took his offered arm.
Julien gave a subtle nod to Varel, his response inclined as he immediately stepped forward. Heavy boots echoed through the hall as he ascended the dais; his commanding presence bringing the bustling hall to a hush.
"Your attention, please!" His voice cut through the air like a blade, drawing every gaze. Silence settled to the breath of a pin drop as each member of the assembly awaited his announcement. "My Lords and Ladies, I present to you Teyrna Guinevere Locksley-Moore -- Teyrna of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden."
The titles lingered in the air as the large doors were pulled open, Gwen moved in step with Julien, each stride measured and deliberate.
Eyes forward, breath steady, Gwen focused on the dais ahead. The sea of nobility parted as they bowed low or dipped into graceful curtsies, a wave of deference rolling through the hall.
Off to the side, Gwen caught sight of Oghren nursing a tankard, raised lazily in salute. His shabby worn face flushed red from his heavy drink. Anders lingered nearby with his own glass in hand, smirking faintly as his sharp eyes scanned the gathering and youthful noblewomen nearest to him, though Gwen could sense his quiet watchfulness directed toward her.
"My Lady." A sudden movement pulled her from her thoughts. Gwen’s gaze dropped to an older man, kneeling with his balding head bowed. His weathered skin--bronzed by sun and labor--stood in stark contrast to the pale, polished faces surrounding him. The slight twitch of his form and resistance to meet her gaze showed his nerves. A chill crept down her spine. The gesture felt too heavy, too formal, tightening like a knot in her chest.
Julien’s glance met hers briefly, a silent reassurance, and Varel watched with calm expectation.
“Please, there is no need,” keeping her tone measured. “Our differences may be many, but our cause is one.” Many others nodded and murmured, some in agreement, others in question. The nobleman lifted his head, relief softening his lined face as he slowly rose, a small, grateful smile offered in response.
As Gwen was brought before the dais - Julien offered his own bow as he stepped aside - Varel’s voice rang out again, sharp and precise. "Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine."
A figure stepped forward--a woman draped in fine Fereldan linen and wool, each thread speaking of wealth and standing. Bann Esmerelle’s eyes were cold and assessing, the set of her jaw betraying years of privilege unchallenged. Gwen met her steely gaze, despite the great effort not to show herself flinching, holding her posture--spine straight, chin poised.
Varel noted the exchange, his stance squared as Esmerelle’s gaze turned to him. “As is tradition, my Lady, you have the honour of beginning.”
Esmerelle’s lip twitched, a ghost of disdain before she placed a hand over her chest and offered a stiff bow.
“I promise that I, Bann Esmerelle, will be faithful to the… Teyrna in matters of Life, Limb and Earthly Honour.” The pause before Gwen's title was brief but deliberate, and her voice, though even, trembled just enough to be noticed.
Gwen didn’t blink, but she caught the subtle shift in Julien’s stance beside her. He had heard it too.
“Never will I bear arms against her or her heirs. So I say in the sight of the Maker.” The words left Esmerelle’s lips like a bitter draught, dutiful yet hollow--spoken, lacking any conviction but as one placating watchful eyes.
This didn’t sit well for Gwen. Keeping her unease masked and face unreadable, she inclined her head in show of acceptance before Esmerelle stood aside for the next awaiting noble.
The procession, while slow, finalised with a brief prayer from the Revered Mother, a blessing placed on her brow before the festivities could return to conversations and chatter.
Varel approached Gwen as the Revered Mother excused herself. “You did well.”
“That has to have been the most harrowing exchange I’ve had to date,” Gwen whispered, she knew those close by strained to listen but kept their intrigue subtle.
Varel nodded, keeping his own tone low. “Unfortunately it won’t be the last,” he nodded, a soft groan muffled in Gwen’s throat before her gaze roamed over the crowd.
“Anyone I should approach first,” she asked, her thoughts already building a board of priority to keep herself focused.
Varel’s gaze roamed as Julien took his place beside them. “There’s really only two who can offer real support, my Lady,” Without drawing attention, Varel guided Gwen’s gaze to Bann Esmerelle, who commenced the oaths, and Lord Eddlebrek, the Lord who fell to his knees upon her procession. “Lord Eddelbrek, Master of the Feravel Plains, controls more farmland than anyone else. He’s powerful and popular. And Bann Esmerelle rules the city. Wealthiest in the room by far. She may not be well loved but she can’t be ignored.” Gwen nodded, but couldn’t help but notice how they both purposefully attempted to remain several steps away from one another; as if Eddelbrek and Esmerelle repelled one another like magnets. “Be wary, my Lady. Though some of these vessels bore no love for Rendon Howe, others had their prospects ruined with his demise. While it was the Grey Wardens who dealt the blow, they might…” his tone left the words in the air, unspoken, but it told Gwen all she needed to know.
Julien, close enough to grasp their exchange, slipped closer to nodded his head toward one in particular, a noble just out of earshort. “And I would recommend our little eavesdropper too. She is still on alert and might be insightful if not a valuable ally.”
Gwen nodded, not pleased with the idea of speaking with Esmerelle again but it was all to ensure nothing goes awry or derail their efforts.
Julien then pointed to an older woman at the far side of the room, a Grey Warden crest gleaming from her worn leather. “Mistress Woolsey of the Grey Wardens is a master of coin sent from Weissupht. She has forgotten more about trade agreements and revenue than any in the Order of the Grey. She is looking forward to discussing tactics with you.” Julien smiled before excusing himself for the festivities.
As both men moved on to their own devices, Gwen took a moment to take an offered goblet and moved to mingle. While many would have advised her to be wary of offered drinks, she had made sure Ilana had provided water instead for her. While she had no real preference for wine, she didn’t want any opportunities to catch her unaware, drinking can be for later.
The moment she stepped down from the dias, the eager and profound nobleman - Lord Eddelbrek Varel called him - called her over. Before she could step towards him, Lord Eddelbrek was already before her and bowing low, his calloused hand grasped her as a chaste kiss was placed on her knuckles. “An honour to meet you, Teyrna Guinevere. You come to us during desperate times.”
The nobleman beside him groaned, taking a drink from his goblet. “Not more about your precious farms, Eddelbrek.”
Eddelbrek shot a glare back at the man, his tone a low hiss of annoyance not unlike an angered snake. “Some in our Ar-I mean Teyrn- do not have the comfort of city walls.” Eddelbrek’s concern slipped back into place as he returned to Gwen. “On the plains, my Lady, the situation is dire.”
Gwen nodded, in full agreement. “I could only fathom with recent events. Please, speak your peace, Lord Eddelbrek.” She ignored the scoff from the indignified noble, goblet tipped to hide his dismay as Eddelbrak continued.
“As we feast, the peasantry on our lands are starving, or worse,” Gwen watched and listened as Eddelbrek spoke. She tried to recall the few lessons from Zevran and Leliana, as well as drawing on her own experiences, to discern his intent. But all she could hear in his words and feel from his tone was a man who indeed cared for his people. If not from a humanitarian sense but understanding the need to ensure the safety and health of his workers.
However, the noble beside them could only grumble, eyes rolled as he returned to the discussion. “The city’s defenses are more important, Eddlebrek,” he reasoned, however dismissive his tone seemed.
Eddelbrek, however, showed no amusement or concern for this noble's indignation. “There may be wheat in the silos now, Ser Timothy, but if the farmers die, where will you get your food?” His blunt question cut through the tension, silencing the knight. Ser Timothy's gaze darted to Gwen, as though expecting her to temper the dispute.
Instead, she could only nod. “You make a valid point, Lord Eddelbrek. Agriculture and wellbeing are essential for building from these attacks - and for recovering from the Blight's devastation.”
Ser Timothy bristled, unwilling to yield. “My Lady, surely you see that his motives are far from altruistic. He simply can't defend his own lands, so he asks for you to save him." While Eddelbrek's anger seethed and glare hardened towards Ser Timothy, his resolve curbed the rising tension to turn an earnest glance to Gwen.
Eddelbrek’s eyes flashed with irritation, but he took a calming breath and steadied his posture. His tone softened, but his words remained firm. "I admit, my lands are ravaged and fortunes diminished, my Lady, but it's my grain that fills Amaranthine's belly." He glanced at Gwen, his expression earnest, though not without pride. She could see his desperation—a man clinging to his livelihood, not out of selfishness, but a fierce need to safeguard what he had built.
Before she could respond, a chill prickled her spine, heralding an unwelcome presence. Bann Esmerelle approached, her steps deliberate, her gaze fixed on Gwen. Ser Timothy, sensing an opportunity to escape the escalating tension, bowed slightly and slipped away.
Esmerelle’s voice was smooth but sharp, her words laced with derision. "I see Lord Eddelbrek wastes no time in canvassing you for soldiers to defend his farms, My Lady." She raised a goblet with thin, spindle-like fingers, swirling its contents as though savoring her own cleverness. "Do not be deceived, Guinevere. His livelihood is all he cares about. Amaranthine is the jewel of the Teyrn. And she must be protected." Her tone was clipped, her disdain evident. To Gwen, the woman’s presence was suffocating, like standing before the High Dragon she had faced on the mountaintop. A part of her wished for that beast instead.
Gwen straightened, forcing calm into her voice. "I understand, Bann Esmerelle, that there may be more than one reason for Lord Eddelbrek's request. But he’s not wrong in wanting to protect the farmlands. Without them, we all suffer," Gwen pressed back, pressing one foot into her toes to keep herself grounded.
Esmerelle scoffed, her laughter light but dismissive. "Pragmatism," she took a sip from her goblet. "A farming hovel can be built with straw and mud. Amaranthine, however, was built over generations. If she falls, then this great Teyrn will be diminished." Her icy stare turned to Eddelbrek, cutting him off before he could respond.
Then, before Gwen could stop herself, the words escaped her lips, clear and unbidden. "What is a city without its people?" The question hung in the air, silencing Esmerelle’s next retort and drawing the attention of nearby listeners. Even Ser Timothy paused mid-sip, his head turning toward her in astonishment.
"I—I mean..." Gwen stammered, caught off guard by her own words. Her thoughts raced as she scrambled to recover. "What I mean is, if a city cannot be sustained without the work done by those who live beyond its walls, how can it endure? Amaranthine may be a jewel, Bann Esmerelle, but ... even the finest jewels are worthless without anyone left to behold them."
Esmerelle’s sneer deepened, her fingers tightening around her goblet. Eddelbrek stared, stunned, while murmurs rippled through the room. Gwen pressed her toes into the floor to steady herself, resisting the weight of so many eyes on her. For a fleeting moment, the silence was deafening.
And then, the faint clink of a goblet being set down broke the spell. Eddelbrek’s gaze brightened, “Lady Guinevere is right. The grandeur of the city cannot be sustained without the resources harvested by our countrymen. Should they be lost…” Bann Esmerelle raised her hand; the action alone silenced Eddelbrek.
“I would not be so vulgar as to violate the decorum of this event, Eddelbrek,” Esmerelle said, her tone precise and chilling. Her eyes darted between them, her presence as icy and unyielding as the Frostback Mountains. Gwen could almost feel the frost radiating from her, an aura that seemed to chill the very air. And yet, Esmerelle’s well-crafted mask never slipped. Her features softened with an unsettling, almost predatory grace as she turned her focus back to Gwen.
“My Lady,” she said, inclining her head in a carefully measured bow, her voice hollow. Without another word, she glided away, her movements seamless and calculated, leaving only the faint scent of her perfume lingering behind.
Eddelbrek hesitated for a beat before following suit; he deeply bowed to Gwen. “My Lady,” he murmured, his tone tinged with a mix of gratitude and concern, before retreating toward another cluster of nobles.
The reprieve couldn’t have come soon enough. Gwen let out a shallow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her fingers trembling as she tightened her grip on her goblet. She stared into the water it held, the liquid trembling faintly as if mirroring her own disquiet.
What had just happened? Why had she spoken like that? She hadn’t even thought—it was as though the words had simply burst forth on their own. A wave of panic washed over her, her thoughts racing too fast to grasp.
She raised the goblet to her lips and drank, letting the cool water coat her parched throat. She focused on the sensation as she moved to the side of the great hall. She grounded herself in the here and now—the soft hum of conversations around her, the gentle clink of glassware, and the subtle weight of the cup in her hand. She took a moment to blink, to reorientate herself and look over the proceedings once again. Varel had remained at his post, but his eyes were locked on her. His motion subtle, his eyes conveying his request to take action, but a swift shake of her head was enough to placate him. She could feel more eyes on her, but what came as a surprise was how many of them weren’t of disdain or pity. Some of the nobles closest to her looked… surprised, impressed and perhaps respectful. A few others could be called cautious and weary, especially those flocked toward Esmerelle.
Unexpectedly, a voice pulled her from her thoughts. “I must say, your reputation precedes you, my Lady,” Gwen turned towards the voice, a familiar woman slid beside her with goblet in hand. The same woman Julien had pointed out.
Gwen smiled, fingers fidgeting over the markings carved into her goblet. “I certainly hope it's not exaggerated.” The woman only smiled, a soft chuckle lightened the tension left in the wake.
“We’ve all heard so much about you,” she smiled, taking a sip of her drink. “So many good things, unbelievable things,” Gwen listened but couldn’t stop the edge of caution left behind from Esmerelle. “But… many of your deeds, the Grey Wardens' deeds, cost people here a chance at great advancement.” And there it was. Gwen masked her sigh, turning to the woman. “So many fortunes were deeply intertwined with the old Arl.”
“And because I’m the only member present here,” Gwen led, glancing at the woman. Her gaze spoke volumes without uttering a word. She nodded, a goblet brought up to mask her lips.
“Some nobles here seek to end your dominion in its infancy,” she whispered. Gwen had known it would be likely, but the truth seldom came easy.
“I see,” Gwen pursed her lips, sorting her words. “That much I’ve gathered from my recent interaction.”
She shook her head, “Perhaps, but you may not know the full extent of their determination, My Lady,” while downtrodden, there was still a hope in her words. “I’ve had… on occasion to intercept some of their missives. They are cryptic things.” Gwen nodded, understanding the warning. It wasn’t an obstacle she had wanted to encounter here, but Rendon Howe was clearly an influential and ambitious man. “Any individual message is unintelligible. But together form a pattern.”
“A Vignère Cipher,” Gwen mused. The woman looked up, perplexed but Gwen waved off her concern.
“A deadly coalition all the same,” she nodded, her eyes kept watch over the mingling nobles around them.
Gwen nodded, but the news itself did little to stave off the growing concern and unsure nerves. It shouldn’t surprise her the lengths of selfishness Nobility can grasp. “Is it possible to get these missives?”
“Given a few days, I can retrieve the messages,” She nodded, turning to Gwen fully. “I would’ve brought them tonight. But… I didn’t know if warning you would be wise. I’ve much to lose and precious little to gain.” That perked Gwen’s interest and an idea form.
“In all of this, I have yet to know your name,” both women blinked, both realising neither had offered introductions.
“My apologies, my Lady. My name is Tamra,” she bowed, keeping her movement slow.
“Tamra… in bringing this conspiracy to my attention, I would like to offer you something for your time and efforts,” Gwen nodded, a small gesture towards the far side of the room. Tamra followed, her gaze remained fixed as Gwen placed her goblet down. “Without mincing words, and given everything that has happened, I need someone who can exercise subtlety and assist in more delicate matters,” Tamra raised her goblet again, covering her lips. Her eyes remained watchful on Gwen, a layer of caution as Gwen turned back to her. “I offer you board within the keep, and protection, in exchange for your assistance in this conspiracy. If it can be quashed and dealt with, I promise you a reward of your choice, within reason.”
Tamra mulled the offer, taking the last sip of her wine before placing the goblet on the same table Gwen had. “An ostentatious offer, my Lady… I was right to surmise you hold no prejudice to Orlesians unlike many within this hall. For that I thank you for the opportunity.” She took a moment to roll her thoughts, to weigh the pros and cons of the offer. “And you can assure that I won’t be put in danger for assisting?”
“You have my word,” Gwen nodded. She kept her gaze fixed on Tamra, watching the woman consider her position and what she could gain or lose from this alliance. After a few moments, Tamra smiled and nodded, offering a bow to excuse herself from the festivities.
Gwen smiled, pleased with the alliance she had formed in the wake of such a blunt encounter. Returning to the other nobles; some who had lingered close until Tamra excused herself, they quickly flock to her in the hopes of making their own partitions and conversations. Gwen remained stalwart, even as the petitions began to border on the incredulous and impractical.
It was well into the evening before Gwen could grasp Varel’s attention. He had remained at his post by the dias but with each attempt she had made only swept her back into the sea of nobility and dragging conversations. By chance or by luck, Varel had turned to her just as yet another noble had attempted to discuss possible favours or reparations from some previous dealings that had been lost. Relieved, Gwen shot Varel a silent plea, her eyes conveying the need to leave and end the festivities.
Once again, with sheer presence, Varel silences the chatter and movements of the hall. “Attention all!” All fell silent as all eyes turned to his place upon the dias. Gwen took her chance to approach him. “Our Teyrna had deemed the Oaths of Fealty complete. You are free to return to your lodgings for the evening.” Bows and farewells replaced the previously animated discussions; many sharing looks of intrigue, curiosity, silent seething and indistinguishable emotions. Gwen watched and attended to each before the hall was finally silent again. Julien, Anders and Oghren bring the only members remaining. Or rather, Oghren was passed out on the floor while Anders took to stabilising himself with a chair.
“Finally,” Gwen groaned, the breath finally released its grip on her lungs. “That was one of the most harrowing things I’ve done this past year, and I fought the Archdemon.”
“But you did well,” Julien smirked, his firm grip on her shoulder reassuring. “I could pick up a number of them quickly turning heel to your side. Seems standing up to that vieille sorcière pourrie étouffante Esmerelle,” Gwen blinked, looking back at him. She could only assume from the accents that Orlesians were quite similar to frenchman back home, but hearing Julien speak french - while familiar is not her strongest language - was oddly soothing if a little jarring. “But I see our little Orlesian bloom reached out to you too.”
“And had evidence of a coup,” Gwen sighed, loosening her collar. “Varel, we will need to prepare lodgings for Ser Tamra. She will be assisting in this potential threat.”
“Of course, My Lady. But please, she is a sly one, Ser Tamra. But indeed knowledgeable," Varel nodded. “Better to be a touch paranoid than turning up face down in a ditch.” Gwen could tell his intent wasn’t to frighten her, but she couldn’t help the sudden spike of adrenaline to bring her heart into palpitations.
“And if it’s who I think at the helm, I need to gather all the proof I can,” with a short wave, Gwen excused herself from the hall, ready to end the night at long last. Varel, on the other hand, reached out to one of his subordinates. Silent orders to assure Gwen’s budding plans were protected and completed without interference. There was a chance to help Amaranthine, and his gut instincts were banking on Gwen to succeed, just as the King believed.