Chapter 3: Holding Court
The scent of lavender and sex had been replaced by the sharp, clean odors of lemon oil and old parchment. Anora sat at the head of the long council table, the morning sun slicing through the stained-glass ancestors of Orlais and painting fractured jewels of light across the polished oak. She held herself with a stillness that seemed to absorb the room’s lingering tension. To her right, the throne of Ferelden stood empty, a silent reminder of the dual authority now vested in the two of them. Kerr occupied a simpler, yet equally imposing, chair beside it. He was a mountain of relaxed muscle, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, but his eyes, usually alight with mischief, were sober, tracking every face in the room.
Arl Eamon stood at a tactful distance by the window, his presence a pillar of calm authority. The other assembled nobles—a mix of weathered veterans from the war and a few younger, untested faces who had inherited titles too soon—shifted in their seats. The ghost of Loghain Mac Tir, Anora’s own father, seemed to linger in the corner where he had fallen, a dark stain on the marble that no scrubbing could fully erase.
“The first order of business,” Anora began, her voice cool and clear, “is the restoration of Highever.” She let her gaze sweep the table, landing on no one and everyone. “The treachery of Rendon Howe robbed Ferelden of one of its strongest pillars. It is not enough to simply condemn his memory. We must actively rebuild what he destroyed.” She slid a parchment toward the center of the table. “I propose a significant allocation from the royal treasury, supplemented by a levy of men and materials from the southern Bannorns, to aid Teyrn Fergus Cousland in reclaiming his birthright. His castle is a ruin. His people are scattered. Our strength is demonstrated not in further conquest, but in the care of our own.”
A low murmur traveled around the table. Bann Alfstanna, a practical woman with steel-grey hair, gave a slow nod. “A sound investment. The Couslands have always been loyal. Their strength in the north secures our entire flank.”
“A sentiment I share, Bann,” said a younger lord from the far end. Lord Bannswick, whose lands bordered Amaranthine, leaned forward, his hands steepled. He had the eager, flush-faced look of a man still unaccustomed to his seat. “But such a levy will strain the southern harvests. Why should our people bear the cost of northern troubles? Let the Grey Wardens assist. They are already up there, aren’t they? Swimming in the gratitude of the realm.”
Kerr’s boot settled softly on the floor. He didn’t speak, but the subtle shift in his posture, the way his focus narrowed on Bannswick, was like a cloud passing over the sun.
Anora’s smile was a thin, patient curve. “The Grey Wardens are few, Lord Bannswick. Their mandate is the darkspawn, not reconstruction. And gratitude,” she continued, her tone frosting slightly, “is a poor foundation for a kingdom. Duty is. We are all Ferelden. The wound in the north bleeds on all our maps.”
“It seems a great deal of effort for one man,” Bannswick persisted, a note of daring in his voice. He looked to his left and right, seeking support. “Perhaps a more… democratic consideration is needed. The throne has seen much turmoil. New perspectives should be heard.”
The air in the room grew still. Arl Eamon cleared his throat softly, a warning sound.
Anora’s expression did not change. “My perspective,” she said, each word precise as a surgeon’s blade, “is informed by having ruled this kingdom alone while its king played at war. The ‘turmoil’ was ended by my husband’s blade and the sacrifices of many in this room.” She paused, letting the reference to her first marriage and Cailan’s failures hang. “But you raise a point of administration. To that end, I also decree that the city of Amaranthine, and its keep, are hereby relinquished from the royal demesne and granted in perpetuity to the Order of the Grey Wardens.”
This brought a true silence. The grant of a major city and its fortress was unprecedented.
“Repayment for Howe’s treachery,” Anora explained, her voice cutting the quiet. “He sought to use those lands as a base for his ambition. Let them now be a bastion for the order that helped root that ambition out. A permanent foothold for the Wardens in Ferelden, to ensure such a blight never finds fertile ground again.”
Bannswick’s face flushed a deeper red. This was a direct blow to his regional influence. “You grant away a city? Just like that? Without consultation?” His voice rose, losing its polished edge. “This is precisely the overreach I mean! You sit there, having swapped one husband for another, and think you can dispose of Ferelden’s assets like a tavern wench handing out ale!”
The insult landed, crude and echoing in the formal chamber. Several lords winced. Arl Eamon took a sharp step forward. “You will mind your tongue, Lord Bannswick.”
But it was Kerr who moved. He didn’t stand abruptly; he unfolded himself from his chair with a slow, inevitable grace. He walked around the head of the table, his steps silent on the marble. He stopped directly in front of Bannswick, who had to crane his neck to look up the considerable length of the king’s body. The difference was absurd—the young lord, petulant and pink-faced, and Kerr, a tower of quiet, contained force.
“Let’s be clear,” Kerr said, his voice calm, almost conversational, but it carried to every corner of the room. “Anora was Cailan’s queen. Her right derives from that lineage. I am her husband. My right comes from there. It’s simple. She has been exceedingly polite, given the times we’ve weathered.”
Bannswick, emboldened by fear or stupidity, scoffed. The sound was a dry, derisive rattle in his throat. He opened his mouth, perhaps to protest his right to speak, to appeal to the others.
He never got a word out.
Kerr’s right hand, thick and scarred from years of gripping a sword hilt, moved with a speed that belied its size. It wasn’t a wild swing. It was a short, brutal piston-strike straight from the shoulder. His clenched fist connected with the center of Bannswick’s face with a wet, crunching snap that echoed off the stone walls.
The lord’s head snapped back. He spun halfway around, blood already arcing from his shattered nose in a vivid spray before he crumpled to the floor. He lay there, twitching, a gurgling sound escaping his ruined mouth. White shards of teeth were visible in the crimson mess.
Kerr stood over him, his breathing even. He flexed his hand once, shaking off a few drops of blood. He looked down at the writhing lord, then lifted his gaze to the horrified, frozen faces of the other nobles.
No one spoke. No one moved. The only sounds were Bannswick’s wet, pained whimpers and the distant cry of a hawk outside the window.
Anora, who had not moved from her seat, finally spoke. Her voice was ice over steel. “Guards. Remove Lord Bannswick and see to his… injuries. The discussion is concluded.” She looked at the remaining lords, her eyes cold and regal. “The levies for Highever will proceed. Amaranthine is granted to the Grey Wardens. This council is adjourned.”
As the guards dragged the bleeding, broken man away, the nobles filed out in stunned silence. Arl Eamon lingered, his expression unreadable. He gave a slow, shallow bow to Anora, a deeper one to Kerr, and departed without a word.
When the great doors thudded shut, the chamber was silent but for the crackle of the fireplace. Kerr walked back to his chair, retrieved a clean linen napkin from the table, and meticulously wiped the blood from his knuckles.
Anora watched him, her heart a hammer against her ribs. It had been brutal. Uncivilized. Potentially disastrous. And yet, a fierce, primal heat uncoiled in her belly, seeing him defend her so definitively.
He caught her looking. He tossed the stained linen onto the table. “Too much?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.
She considered the empty room, the lingering scent of violence undercutting the lemon oil. She thought of the swift, terrible message sent. She stood, her skirts whispering around her. She walked to him, reached up, and traced a spot of blood he’d missed on his jaw.
“No,” she said, her voice low and certain. “It was exactly enough.”