"Look at this, Sis. So much pomp just for us."
"Yes," she stretched her cheeks wider as her foolhardy brother plopped into his chair. "It's almost as if you could predict such a thing occurring."
"Not me," he patted his chest, his fingers messing with a dozen golden buttons it must have taken him forever to knot on. Leaning closer over the table and the Teyrn, he whispered, "I'm not the detective in the family."
Rosie snorted at that. Of course, Myra caught on. Either she warned him or let it slip as if the fact was obvious. She could prove a very useful ally, when she was of the mind to help. Too bad her helping came at the whims of the breeze. She's young, her father would say, she'll assist when she's older and gets that head screwed on straight. Something told Rosie that that eventuality was as likely as a pride demon becoming Divine.
"Oh," Cailan interrupted her thoughts as he jabbed the Teyrn in the side, "I had an interesting discussion with your treasurer. At the rate of inflation, unless you stagger your tax increases, you're going to lose something around 10-12% of your population to starvation due to compounding grain prices."
"What?" Teyrn Cousland blinked, the man bowled over by this young upstart's cold calculations. "My Lord, I'm certain that what you've heard or declared is not a great concern for our teyrn."
"If you say so," Cailan shrugged, easily put off by the bluster of politicians. He didn't enjoy rocking a boat. "But," yanking a small tomato off of the roast goose platter, he popped it into his mouth, "don't come whining to me when you're facing a declining population and lack of hands for harvest."
"Shall we eat?" Rosie tried to talk over her brother who was no doubt making things harder for her. The Teyrn glared daggers at one of his advisors sat at the far end of the table, probably the treasurer who gave up too much to the seemingly amiable prince. There'd probably be a lot of words later, and -- if the man was smart -- he'd do whatever Cailan blathered on about.
The dinner was delicious, perhaps the first good thing to happen to her since they set foot into Highever. After the bandits attacking, the heat, and the shame that knotted her stomach into a ball, Rosie didn't realize that what she needed most of all in the world was a proper roast goose, boiled vegetables fresh from a garden, and watered down wine. The stewards were happy to keep the goblets full, Cailan taking advantage, but Rosamund couldn't afford to lose her wits. She'd already tipped over once in matters of diplomacy, another display could cost them greatly.
While the head table took its time carefully dissecting its food, savoring the flavors, and conversing on matters that inevitably turned political no matter how hard they tried to avoid it, the lower ones ripped apart their meal. Bread was hurled from one basket to the next, meeting with whatever hand was quick enough to snatch it from the air. A brawny man, but lacking in stature, snatched up an entire roast duck and began to rip it apart with his bare hands. He didn't horde it, but shared in the bounty to those who asked.
Finishing much faster, the lower tables all broke to dash out into the middle where a ring of dancing quickly happened. No doubt that was where the unwatered wine all went, or perhaps the mead itself. They were all braying in intoxication and swaying while arms stretched over shoulders in a great line. The dance was nothing of the intricate moves Rosamund had ever seen, but they all seemed to be having a great time. Pity she was trapped with the Teyrn who looked about to pass out into his peas.
"Welp," Cailan dipped his fingers into a bowl of water and worried them about a bit before staggering to his feet. "If you will excuse me, I do believe I see a beauty calling for me." He pointed towards a row of women who kept eyeing up the prince as if he should have been trussed up on a silver plater.
Maker's breath. Don't give him any ideas.
"Your Majesty," Cailan bowed deep, causing Rosie to roll her eyes. He laughed once and then dashed towards his next conquest, all three girls raising their hands in the air and trying to drag the prince to dance with them first.
Beside her, Rosamund heard the Teryn's son scoff at Cailan's enthusiasm. "Lord Devon," Rosie began, trying to strike up a conversation with the man. He was handsome in the fashion people always claimed men of a certain type were. The features fit with the face, he had a line of grey hair sprouting from his temples to make him more distinguished, and the skin gained a touch of cragginess over the years. All in all he was attractive in a portrait but forgettable in person.
The man shifted in his seat and collapsed his hands together to face down Rosamund and she continued, "I find myself curious where your sister is. She's always been tightly involved taking the reins of the...reign here." While the younger son was your average looking guy, Sonya was striking. Auburn hair that turned to fire by the sun, and eyes always scrunched up in a curious gaze. She bore a sweetheart face that Rosie remembered coveting when she was a girl. When younger, she'd try to pinch her chin and jaw in her palm, thinking she could make it more pointed. But no, she was forever saddled with the same round features of her mother.
Devon tapped the end of his fork against the table, savoring the sound a moment before speaking, "She's in the south, visiting with the dwarven towns they established outside of the disaster area."
"Oh?" Rosie sat up higher in her seat. She'd never seen the infamous sinkholes, the area a complete waste after the surface collapsed into the deep roads, but she'd heard tales of them. Apparently her father went once, which was when darkspawn sprung from the ground. Since then the land was left to the dwarves who created the problem in the first place, their people on their own to make a new home.
"Is there going to be talk of a treaty with the misplaced families?" She didn't fully understand the dwarven caste system. The concept, certainly, but their bullheaded stubbornness to cling to it confused her. When most of Orzamaar was covered in rubble, a lot of the high caste families were left with no choice but to venture to the surface. Somehow they maintained their elite system, while a few remained in the deep. The cavern dwellers consider themselves the only true dwarves and the ones on the surface were all branded. Meanwhile, the surface dwarves had decided they are unlike all the other surface dwarves by refusing any overtures from the crown or other politicians. It's a nightmare.
Devon turned to glance over at Rosamund, when his eyes landed upon his father. His slack lips closed up a moment before he shook his head, "No, no I don't believe so."
"It is a touch of reconnaissance, nothing more," Fergus inserted himself.
So Highever was trying to prod into the dwarven matters. Everyone wanted a cut of the lyrium trade, and with the dwarves in even dire straights than before it seemed the perfect time to renegotiate. With the mage college established so near Highever it was no surprise the Teyrn would be prodding into that quagmire on their behalf. Or...was it without the college aware? Technically it answered to no one politically, so Ferelden wouldn't be seen as the country harboring all mages. But in practice, their council often came to her father for certain issues beyond them. Did he know of this?
"So I should tell the King that..." Rosamund began when the Teyrn bolted out of his chair. His movement caused her thought to trail off, Fergus leaning closer.
"Her Majesty should go and enjoy the festivities," he said, waving a hand towards the hopping dance floor.
Rosie screwed up her eyes and turned in her chair, "Her Majesty would rather..." At that moment a man she thought she left behind in Denerim appeared from the lesser end of the table. "Lord Eldon," she sighed, her memory quickly dredging up the man's file. Five or so years older than her, only son of a Bann that was growing sickly, but who every voice seemed to point to giving his arling over to his younger sister. Which would then put the line of succession upon her family and leave the son nowhere near it. Eldon was cursed with being power mad and having no skills to achieve it.
"Dear princess," he bowed his wispy head deep before reaching over and picking up her hand, "would you do me the honor of the first dance?"
With the distraction, the Teyrn a
nd his son both began to bolt out of the room. No doubt the Teyrn was going to berate him over letting such a vital piece of information slip, which was what she needed to overhear about. There could be more. "I need..." she rose to her feet, planning to pursue, when that damn Bann's son locked his grip in tighter.
It took little for him to tug Rosamund with, her slick soles offering no resistance against the polished floor. She could tug back hard, trying to slide her fingers free, but to every eye in the palace she'd look like a weary child not wanting to go to bed. Giving in, she trailed after the man while trying to eye up any potential excuse. It wasn't as if it was the first time she was forced to dance with a person she couldn't stand. That was practically broken into her on the first day of tutoring. Lots of people you will hate will touch your hand, kiss your cheek, or dance with you. And, it is your curse to have to pretend you enjoy it at all times.
Trying to bury the snarl deep in her heart, Rosie lifted up her hands and folded them above her head. Eldon matched in kind, the man standing up taller as he led the princess into the dance steps spilling around them. It was a simple one where, at the end of twenty hops forward, the woman would spin in place before joining up with the man's hands forming a bridge above her. So on and so forth until the cursed music ended. Around her, a gap widened, people terrified to imagine trodding upon their princess' toes.
Rosie managed the first turn without incident, her muddied skirts flaring from the twist. When she returned to Eldon's greedy mitts, he stared down at her. She'd never been more grateful for the modest neckline she needed to keep from burning to a cinder while outside. All he got was a view of brown flowers stitched upon an olive green field. In terms of her dresses, Rosamund looked like a dead fish rotting on the shore after the spring thaw while wearing it, but it was exceedingly comfortable. She'd take that over beauty while working. Attempting to work.
"My Lady," Eldon tried to dip his taller head down towards her, but Rosie hopped further to the side. "You move with such elegance."
"Years of being trained to do just that have paid off. I'll be certain to give my tutors your compliment," she said, barely hiding her contempt.
The damn man chuckled as if she made a joke instead of trying to brush him off. "May I also share that your skin looks divine under candlelight."
"Maker's breath," Rosie gasped, "that sounds like something a murderer says before he pulls out the mother's corpse he had stuffed and mounted." The fingers holding onto her gripped tighter, Rosamund glancing over in surprise to find Eldon's face turning a brighter red. Oh no.
No, this... He was not!
Damn it, mother. She must have arranged this, sent all the boys Rosamund was cruel enough to ignore ahead. Had them set up shop at the first stop to try and woo her away. By the void, Rosie had work to do here. She didn't have time to waste it frivolously flirting with random young men.
The man whose ambition could reach over a bruised ego forced a laugh up his throat. "Your mind is a fascinating specimen," he sputtered. This time Rosamund bit back on her snide comments though she added another tic mark to the serial killer box. "But your body is a true gift of the Maker."
She stiffened in his arms, feeling his fetid breath curl down the back of her neck. With a twist of her ankle, Rosie spun fast away. Maker, how she prayed it would be fully out the door, but Eldon was quick to catch his prey. "Is that so, Lord Eldon?" Rosie's eyes darted to the ground, her brain uncertain what to say. What did one do in such matters? She could speak of his father's land. It wasn't impressive by any means, though it did have a large iron deposit in the northern acreage which contributed greatly to its wealth.
Because that's what normal girls think about when it comes to boys, iron and acreages. Sweet Andraste, why couldn't she simply head to bed? Sleeping was far easier than this mess.
"Your eyes sparkle like two emeralds," the boy whispered again, his head dipping so close Rosie could bean him with hers if she thought she could get away with it. Trying to not roll her eyes, she muttered in her head 'as if I've never heard that one before.' "Your lips are like a cherry, juicy and tempting for a taste."
Rosie had to cough loudly to hide the retching sound riding in her throat, and the tremble of revulsion. Oh Maker, what if he read that differently? Did people tremble in lust? She'd heard of it but considered it an embellishment of writers. Needing a breath of air and to try and clear her mind of the twisted thoughts, Rosamund spun out early. Eldon was either not counting or didn't care as he gave up easily.
In her turning, her eye drew across the back wall. Another gap emerged in the crowded gentry. It wasn't due to a high noble in their midst but a dark assassin leaning just into the light. With her arms crossed over her chest and foot planted back against the stones, Anjali looked as if she was waiting for a better party to arise. Her eyes were hunting over the proceedings, her full lips quirked up in a smile as if she was watching a herd of druffalo foundering in a stream.
When they turned away from a man attempting to lift a girl above his head (no doubt both besotted beyond belief) Anjali's burned into Rosamund's. The fire struck her so hard, Rosie's feet slowed, her arms held at an angle as if she was a music box dancer that had the magic run out. Their assassin was dressed differently; someone must have feared the Teyrn or others wondering about her as they got Anjali into a doublet and fetching tan trousers. The pants were made of silk, and ballooned around her legs to mimic a skirt. For the doublet -- a striking ivory that made her skin glow -- she undid the first three buttons revealing a hint of her cleavage. It was tastefully elegant while also distracting, like a flute of champagne with a strawberry placed upon the lip.
Eldon's fingers grabbed onto Rosamund shattering her focus as the man yanked her away from the assassin. A flush rose upon Rosie's cheeks at having been caught gawking so. He had to notice she was staring at...someone else. Would he say anything? Surely, he'd be annoyed at least.
But no, the damn man was so far up his own ass he continued to parade Rosie around as if she was already his pet. She lifted her hands higher, trying to stretch them away, when Eldon's hand suddenly broke and wrapped around her waist. Maker's breath! Rosamund moved to slap him away, when he whispered into her ear, "Your breasts are two milky-white pillows I would cherish laying my head upon."
She wanted to scream at him to stop, to step back, but her body froze. The well trained part to always be cordial and polite was insisting that she was being watched by a lot of people who had to suffer her mishap earlier. But they didn't just have their chests and other body parts spoken of in such a manner.
"Lord Eldon," Rosie began, trying to find any way to let him down as nicely but definitively as possible, when the music faded to a single string humming through the air. "It appears our dance is finished." She couldn't hide the grin of relief at being rescued in such a manner.
"My Lady," he tried to trap her, but Rosie moved fast, sliding away from the man's rapacious hands.
"I believe I am owed dances by a number of people tonight. Please, enjoy the party..." Which I had nothing to do with. Maker's breath, it was automatic for her now. Eldon's mouth slipped up to a sneer, the boy mad she wasn't swooning from his paltry attempts at flirting.
"Princess Rosamund, there is a matter..." Eldon began, waving his hand at her while she used her waning height to slide into the crowds. They were quickly becoming too drunk to notice the princess part which Rosie preferred.
Waving a final dismissive hand, she called to him with the royal equivalent of fuck off, "We shall have a chance to speak again later." Freed of the man's lecherous gaze, Rosamund took in a proper breath. She caught what looked like her sister grabbing onto an elven woman's hands and the two of them swinging together. It wasn't a dance, but they seemed to be having a lot of fun.
Was that what she was missing out on? Behaving like an idiot because she was free to? Then again, if Myra wasn't their father's child she'd be corralled into a different collar, one of servitude and obedience. Somehow she
gained all the freedom of the crown and none of the drawbacks. Lucky girl.
Rosie wandered through the crowds, terrified of stopping too long because someone might recognize and drag her back out onto the dance floor. By pure coincidence, when she turned away from eyeing up a traveling keg, she found herself standing before the back wall Anjali was propping up. The assassin woman only glanced over at her a moment before resuming her gaze at the assembly.
"Princess," she bowed her head and Rosie's cheeks lit up like wildfire.
"You don't need to call me that," Rosamund insisted as if the two of them were fast friends.
At the foolish gift, Anjali turned to fully stare at Rosie. "Do you prefer Your Highness or Your Majesty?"
"Rosie seems as if it'd be easier, but...do as you wish," she folded her arms across her chest and faded against the wall beside the assassin.
"Okay," Anjali tipped her head down, her voice dropping lower. Barely a breath passed while she whispered, "As you wish." The hunger in the words drew a shiver up Rosie's spine, her tongue absently lapping against her lips.
"I see you're without your guards," Rosie commented, trying to bury the fact she reacted at all.
"Not really," Anjali jabbed a finger towards Ser Daryan who stood towards the head of the table looking like a nanny forced to chaperone a dozen children to the pond. Then she turned to Gavin, who seemed to be surrounded by a pile of women. The poor boy looked as happy about it as Rosamund felt in Eldon's grip. "But they let me have a little bit of leash, at least."
"Your outfit is..."
"One of yours, funny enough. I got myself into a princess' trousers," Anjali ran her hands down her stomach before skirting over the hips, Rosie's eyes trailing her movements. Suddenly, the assassin grew deadly serious and she whipped over to her, "I hope that's okay. They said I shouldn't be dressed like death and that I could take something..."
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