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ma-sulevin · 7 years

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The Use in Being King

Day 2 of @alistairappreciationweek is all about Alistair as a king. In my self-indulgence AU, Alistair breaks up with Sophie Amell after the Battle of Denerim and ends up ruling Ferelden alone for a few years. Here he’s dealing with the pressure of being king, the stress of Teagan, and a still-mending heart.

He’s had lots of practice keeping a straight face when trying not to fall asleep in council sessions. The trick, he’s found, is not to blink too much. Blinking makes him want to keep his eyes closed, and he’s promised Teagan he won’t fall asleep in the middle of another meeting, not after the first time.

Another trick is to pretend to take notes and just doodle little mabari all over the paper instead. The scribe takes the real notes, and Teagan takes better ones than Alistair does even when he actually tries.

It doesn’t usually matter. The issues are almost always trivial, or ones he just needs to sign. He takes more of an interest when it comes to the Wardens, or to the alienage, and at least they listen when he puts his foot down. It took them a while to realize he was actually going to be the king and not just a puppet.

But sometimes… he wishes he was just a puppet.

He calls the meeting to an end when it’s clear no more work is going to get done, and the council files out with only minimal grumbling. Teagan remains behind, as is his way, waiting until they’re alone before he brings up the same thing he always does.

“Have you looked at the dossier I gave you?” His tone suggests he knows what the answer will be, but Alistair gives him his best unimpressed look and answers anyway.

“Haven’t found the time,” he says and grins when Teagan barely manages to suppress an eye-roll.

Teagan still sighs. “You--listen, it’s been long enough, Alistair. Ferelden needs a queen, it needs heirs, and you have to stop dragging your feet and be a man about this.”

Alistair’s grin vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by an ache behind his eyes. It always seems to come when talking to his uncle--especially about Ferelden’s need for a queen.

Just because Teagan is right doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

“Just look at it, please. The Cousland girl would be a very good match for you, we think, and she’s--”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Alistair demands, voice sharper than usual. It makes Teagan swallow whatever else he was going to say, eyes widening and cheeks turning pale. It’s Alistair’s king-voice, the one he rarely finds he has to use.

It lets everyone know he’s ready to be serious.

“Er--” Teagan hedges. “Myself, of course.” Another pause. Alistair grits his teeth together and feels his headache growing stronger. “Eamon. The rest of the council--”

Alistair rubs at his forehead for a moment before running his fingers through his hair. It makes the front stick up a bit, out of the style from that morning, and he ignores the way Teagan frowns at it. “I’ll look at it later, Uncle.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving Teagan -- and his notes -- behind. The door slams behind him, unintentional, but he can’t bring himself to feel bad. He lifts his chin and lengthens his stride, his shoulders square enough that even the boldest of nobles won’t stop him if they see him.

He’s tired of being king. So tired. This is nothing like the life he imagined for himself when Duncan recruited him to the Grey Wardens, nothing like the life he imagined for himself when he first fell in love. This life is nothing like the one he wants.

He’s nearly jogging by the time he makes it back to his room -- his chambers, too big to really just be called a room -- and those doors slam closed too. He shucks the fine clothes expected of him as king and slips into more comfortable, more simple, trousers and tunic. He laces up a pair of sturdy boots and leaves his rooms a mess behind him.

He keeps his head down this time, but he still walks quickly. He finds people are less likely to notice him when he dresses like a regular person, though it’s becoming less reliable the more times he tries it.

No one stops him as he leaves the main part of the castle, and he makes his way to the stables without interruptions.

He stops just inside the door and takes a deep breath. He lets it out with a smile and makes his way through the hall around to the back.

Here, away from stray breezes and curious strangers, is his favorite part of the whole city. He’s been working on breeding and training more mabari to add to the army, and though he hasn’t taken one for himself yet, he still loves to come watch the little ones play.

He picks up speed and then slides to a stop, dirt clouding around his feet, when he sees that he isn’t the only visitor to this place. A woman stands before him, her elbows resting on the half door that keeps the puppies in their stall, her chin in her hands. Her dark hair is long, spilling over her shoulder and blocking her face from him.

She doesn’t look up until he starts walking again, his footsteps echoing dully around the stable. She jumps and stares at him, eyes impossibly wide, and she hurries to stand straight. She fumbles into something that’s half curtsey, half bow, and Alistair struggles not to sigh.

Instead, he waves his hand dismissively. “None of that.” She freezes, head still bowed, and then she stands up straight and clasps her hands behind her back. “I see I’m not the only one who enjoys watching them play.”

She relaxes immediately, a wide smile springing to her face. Alistair’s eyes drop to her dimples, then -- against his will -- to trace down her body. She’s dressed in riding clothes, in men’s riding clothes actually, that look rather fetching on her. He tears his gaze away, but she’s already turned back to looking at the pups.

He moves to stand next to her, a respectful distance away, and mimics her posture. He props his elbows on the door, leaning down, and rests one foot behind him on the toes of his boot. The mabari mother glances up at them with tired interest, but dismisses them as harmless and lays her head back down. One of the puppies pounces at her, landing across her neck, and she heaves a great sigh that makes the woman giggle.

Alistair glances over at her again, smiling when he sees the soft expression on her face as she watches the pups play.

She doesn’t look familiar to him. The Denerim citizens aren’t supposed to be able to just wander into the castle, especially not this late in the day, but he didn’t get word that they were going to have any visitors -- did he?

He forgets to look away from her as he’s searching his memories, and she glances over at him with her lips twisting into a small smirk.

“I used to have a mabari,” she offers finally, giving him that bit of information instead of her name or anything that would help him identify her. She looks back down. “Oliver. We sort of grew up together, and he…” Her voice catches, and she clears her throat before trying again. “He died during the Blight.”

She’s frowning now, and Alistair’s heart seizes in his chest.

“Oh--I’m, I’m so sorry,” he stammers. She looks back at him, eyes wet but cheeks dry. “I didn’t, uhh…”

She smiles again, and he relaxes somewhat. “It’s okay,” she says, softly. She extends one hand as though to comfort him, but quickly pulls it back as her cheeks turn a lovely shade of rose. “It’s been a few years, but I still miss him.”

Silence falls again. Alistair stares down at the pups, still so young. One is sleeping on his back, snoring, little paws up in the air where he fell in the middle of wrestling with his brothers.

An idea springs, not quite fully formed, into Alistair’s mind. These are too young, but…

“Here, look.” He grabs for the woman’s elbow but releases it before he has time to get embarrassed. She follows him easily enough, deeper and to a different stall, where six older mabari pups rest without their mother. They’re in a little pile, all snores and big ears and wagging tails, and they don’t perk up until Alistair starts to speak again. “These are old enough to be imprinted.”

The woman freezes. She stops breathing even, just for a moment, then she turns her whole body to face him. “No.” The objection leaves her lips in a gasp even as her eyes begin to shine. “I -- you can’t.”

Alistair fights back a laugh and presses a hand to the center of his chest. “I can’t? No one else has told me that.” She bites her lip, wavering, so he pushes a little more. “What’s the use in being king if I can’t give away mabari to beautiful women?”

She turns even pinker at that, but he seems to have won her over because she nods rapidly.

“I can’t guarantee anything, but…” he steps back and opens the stall door, pulling it back enough so that she can slip inside. He closes the door behind her, trapping her with the puppies, and she immediately drops to her knees and extends her arms.

The pups erupt into activity, scrabbling all over each other to reach the new human. They’re all a pretty uniform brown color, black noses and inquisitive brown eyes, little stumps of wagging tails all ready to be petted.

She scoops them up and coos to them, kissing their little faces when she can pull them close enough. One is trying desperately to get her attention, little yips leaving its mouth, its front paws up on her shoulder. She scoops it up as soon as she sees it, holding it like a baby and rubbing her face against it.

Alistair leans against the door and smiles, chin resting on his hand, watching her cooing over the pup. Drawn by the noise of voices and little barks, the kennel master emerges from wherever he spends his nights. He nods a greeting at Alistair and comes to stand next to him, looking down at the strange woman.

She gazes up at them with bright eyes, a question on her face as plain as the hope that tints her cheeks pink and makes her lips twist up at the corners.

The kennel master grunts at her. “Looks like she’s chosen ye,” he mutters. If Alistair hadn’t spent so much time here, he’d think the man annoyed. The woman blinks at him, her eyebrows starting to draw together. “Ye’ll have to take her with ye now or there’ll be no comforting her.”

The woman stands up, the other puppies scattering from her sudden movements, the one in her hands still licking at every inch of skin she can reach. She clutches the puppy a little closer, letting her front paws rest against her shoulder, and turns to Alistair.

“Thank you,” she breathes, voice serious.

He opens his mouth to brush away her thanks, but the kennel master interrupts by shoving a bag of supplies at the woman.

“Collar, food, bone,” he says, voice gruff to hide the sadness that comes from saying goodbye to one of his mabari. The woman takes the bag and slings it over her shoulder, mumbling thanks and praise as Alistair steps away and lets her out of the stall.

The pup starts to squirm as soon as the woman starts to walk, and she struggles to contain her for a moment before smiling apologetically. “I need to get her settled in,” she says. She looks from the kennel master to Alistair and back again. “Thank you.” She dips another little half-curtsey half-bow, the dog gives a little yip, and then they disappear together.

Alistair watches her go, then turns to the kennel master. “Who was that?”

The older man starts, then frowns. “Why would I know?” He shakes his head and turns away from Alistair, shuffling back to wherever he’d appeared from in the first place.

Alone, again, Alistair runs his hands through his hair and pulls lightly on the strands. He should probably just… go to bed.

---

“Did you read that dossier last night?”

Alistair’s right eye twitches at Teagan’s words, both because of the irritating reminder and at the answer he knows he’s going to get in trouble for: “...no?”

Teagan sighs and rubs his temples where his hair is already graying, but he doesn’t look surprised at all. Just… resigned. Tired, with lines around his eyes when he looks back up to meet Alistair’s bland expression. “Well, it’s too late for that now,” he grumbles, and Alistair’s eyebrows shoot up.

Has Teagan given up? Has Ferelden accepted that he’s going to die on the throne -- sooner rather than later, thanks to the taint -- alone?

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat, trying to distract that train of thought before it makes him want to forget whatever Teagan has planned for him and climb right back into bed.

He almost misses the rest of Teagan’s explanation: “...she’s here now, waiting to meet you.”

“No.” Alistair doesn’t hesitate. He knows he isn’t interested.”

Teagan stands a little straighter. “You don’t have to marry her today, Alistair,” he says, voice sharpening. “You just need to meet her and Teyrn Cousland, eat breakfast, and then we can send them right back to Highever if you want.”

Alistair resists the childish urge to whine. If he’d been asked before if he wanted to meet the teyrn, he would have given an unequivocal no. But since they’re already here, it would be rude to ignore them. It might even cause some sort of political scandal that would involve apologies and gifts and a lot more work than a simple breakfast.

Teagan sees the moment Alistair gives in and claps his hands together. “Excellent. They’re already waiting.” He grins, an annoying little expression that Alistair wants to wipe away.

He doesn’t.

He just follows behind Teagan through the hallway to the lovely hall with the large fireplaces that they use for smaller dinners -- and, apparently, breakfasts. Two soldiers stand guard on either side of the door, and they both bow low before opening the double doors to allow Alistair and Teagan to pass through.

A conversation is already taking place, hushed tones between siblings that Alistair can still clearly hear.

“You shouldn’t have brought her.” The man, Teyrn Cousland -- Fergus? -- hisses, annoyance and exasperation clear in his tone.

“I couldn’t very well leave her with the maid,” the woman says, sounding more amused than Fergus, and Alistair actually freezes mid-stride at the sound of her voice. Teagan bumps into his back and makes a little huffing sound at the interruption. “And, anyway,” she continues after a pause, “he gave her to me.”

Teagan pushes at him again and Alistair finally starts moving, aiming for the head of the table but keeping his eyes on that woman from the night before. She and Fergus stand quickly, and as Alistair moves to be able to see their faces, he sees the mabari pup sitting at attention in one of the chairs.

His face breaks into a wide smile, and when he looks up he sees Fergus and the woman both bowing to him.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, your majesty,” Fergus says, and stands straight. He glances at Teagan, then back to Alistair. “May I present my sister, Ophelia Cousland?”

Ophelia. Ophelia. Oh fee lee ah.

She shoots her brother a dirty look, not at all concerned with propriety in front of the king who waved off her curtsey the evening before. She’s wearing a dress today, a fine one from what he can tell, but he finds he prefers her riding clothes from their last meeting. The dress looks wrong somehow, and when she smooths her fingers over the corset and smiles back at him, he realizes it’s because she’s uncomfortable.

“Lia is fine,” she corrects, still smiling. Teagan stiffens a little and clears his throat at Alistair’s side, but Alistair ignores him.

“Lia,” he echoes, and her smile grows, showing him her dimples once more. He looks down at her mabari who perks up a little under his attention, cocking her head to the side and letting out a tiny bark. Even Teagan has to smile at that. “It’s nice to see both of you again. Does she have a name yet?”

Lia’s face turns that lovely shade of pink again, but she doesn’t look away as she answers: “Princess.”

Alistair can’t help the little chuckle that burbles out from the center of his chest. “A fine name,” he says, still smiling, and he can’t help but think that maybe -- just maybe -- this isn’t the worst plan Teagan has come up with after all.

[Ophelia/Alistair masterpost]

#alistair appreciation week #alistair theirin #self indulgence au #my writing #2017 writing

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