Despite the destruction and devastation the war has left behind, it is a wounderful day. Half of the city's houses are burnt down and the streets littered with debris and still, Denerim glitters like a diamond. A dirty diamond, admittedly, but a proud one none the less. The people of the city have been working hard to clear away the worst for her grand day.

Her coronation.

As the dinner draws to an end, the last golden sunbeams bathe the huge hall in warm light. Everything has been arranged to emphasize and flutter her presence today. Looking at her now, her subjects percieve their queen bathed in rays of golden light.

But most of the time, the eyes of the guests invited for the celebration do not linger on their queen, but on their saviour instead. The Hero of Ferelden, as they call her now. Anora has liked the young woman at first, has even regretted the circumstances under which they have met. Even now, after Eowyn has executed her father, she still respects her and for some part – though grudingly – accepts that today, fame has to be shared between the two of them.

The tables have been creaking under the weight of the food the kitchens have prepared for the guests. In all the mess the war has left behind, her staff has managed to procure some of the most delicious meats, fishes, fresh vegetables, bread and other goods. And of course, the people out in the streets have not been forgotten. Free bread and potatoes have been given away to the crowds earlier the day. Not as when Cailan has been crowned king, but there had been peace then.

Now, four servants enter the hall, carrying a heavy tray on which a huge cake is set. The confectioner has outdone himself with that one, inventing a special cake for the grand day. It is thickly iced with sugar coating and topped with real red roses. Exclamaitions echoing through the hall let her know how deeply impressed her guests are.

As it has been agreed on before, the servants set the tray down in front of the table reserved for herself and the most noble guests. It is not by mere coincidence that the red roses on the dessert match the ones embroided on her dress as well as the tiny ones weaved into her hair. Her wardrobe has been designed with the same alacrity and everything has been arranged according to her outfit. It should have been the most exquisite of all, more beautiful than anything else the other women are wearing today. Her seamstresses did their best to invent a new cut that flatters her form, used the best silk that can be bought for money and adjusted it perfectly to her figure. But who would have guessed that the Warden, usually clothed in those filthy and revealing Tevinter mages' robes and baked in dirt and blood, almost steals her show?

Yet there she sits, next to her companions in battle, looking so very beautiful and innocent. None of the pepole who have not been in the city while the war had still lasted believed that this was the very same young girl who had ended the Blight. But today, even she and her warriors have managed to change into respectable clothes. The young Warden has already drawn many admiring and appraising glances in the red dress she is wearing today. But it is obvious for everyone to see that any admirer's time would be wasted on her. She has been holding her lover's hand throughout the whole grand event. And just after the coronation ceremony, they had snuck away into one of the darker corners for a few kisses. Oh, how happy they looked! Some of the nobles who had noticed expressed shock and judged it ill behaviour, but Anora does not mind. She knows what she is sure almost none of the other nobles do: that their source of happiness is at the same time the sole reason that today, they are celebrating her coronation and not his. For that thing alone, she is in a mind to let them do whatever they want as long as it is discrete.

When Anora had withdrawn to her room at Eamon's estate the evening after the Landsmeet, she had been trembling with rage. Hours before, she had had to stand by and watch as the two Wardens had executed her father! She had loved him even though in her heart she had known that he had been responsible for Cailan's death. And watching him die there like a dog had ripped open new wounds after the ones inflicted by her beloved husband's death had finally started to heal.

That evening, Eowyn had come to visit her. Anora still rememberd how terrible the young mage had looked that night—weary, exhausted and worn out, as if she had been crying. At first, she had tried to fence the woman off, but Eowyn had been firm. She had forced her to listen. She had had much to say and eventually, the whole truth about her motives at the Landsmeet had seeped through. At first, Anora had not known whether to laugh at the irony of it all or strangle the young thing. Later on, she had realized just what she had been told. After two miscarriages, Anora had had some knowledge on the matter of threats for the growing child forced upon her. And she had been deeply impressed at the young woman's resolve to see the whole thing through.

"My queen," one of her ladies–in–waiting interrupts her thoughts, "Will you allow the cake to be cut?"

Anora nods and waves the woman away.

After the dessert, a bard begins his play. He is a lanky man, handsome enough with his green doublet, the little cap with the huge feather pinned to it and the almost elven look. According to her ladies–in–waiting, he is one of the best bards in Ferelden, if not even the best. Anora has to admit that they are not exaggerating. She is pleased to see he knows court manners too, as he first greets her with a flourished bow before adressing the rest of the guests. And he proves himself a wise man as well as he stays away from recitals that might imply political disstresses. Instead, he entertains her guests with a beautiful tale of a woman who was born a princess, raised as a warrior, trained as a mage and her ill fate.

While she is listening to the bard's tale, the young queen lets her gaze sweep over the assembled guests. When she finds the two Wardens at the back of the crowd, her eyes are pulled to a stop. Before the last battle, there had only been a few rumours about an unsuitable love affair. But since the Archdemon has been slain, it is obvious for even the blind and deaf. Anora has spent some time wondering if such a union would be allowed in the ranks of the Grey Wardens. During her days spent at Eamon's estate, she has had enough time to ponder the issue and study the three Wardens. From what she could observe she had been uncertain at first. The two young ones had tried to stay away from the senior Warden and treat him with as much respect as the Arl and herself. But one evening, she and Riordian had come back from a stroll through the gardens and had found the whole party in agitation. The witch of the wilds had looked more sour than ever, the old mage had all of a sudden become sappy, the bard had been all smiles and laughters and the dwarf had been even more drunk than usual and shouted for celebrations. Even the elf was tipsy and tormented Alistair with whatever lewd sexual innuendos he could think of. Alistair's face was as red as the dress Eowyn is wearing today and still he was glowing, radiating joy. Only Eowyn herself had looked exhausted and had tried to hide the fact that she had been crying. Later, Anora had understood what had transpired that day. And so must have Riordian. Before his death, he had dispatched a message to Weisshaupt. Anora's secret informants had secured a transcript of the letter. In it, the senior Warden had informed his superiours of an affair between the two Wardens and in firm words had written about a child. A child seemingly conceived from two tainted parents. While he did not say so explicitly, Anora knew how to read between the lines. He certainly did not approve of it. And once reinforcements from Weisshaupt will reach the city, there will be harsh words, ill feelings and possibly more.

Both of the Wardens are now sitting next to each other on one of the benches that have been pulled up around the bard. Eowyn is curled up in Alistair's arms. With her thoughts still bent on Riordian's letter, anger starts to fill Anora. How could the old Warden condemn an innocent life? If the rumors about the Wardens' lack of fertility have proven untrue, shouldn't they be overly excited? Her anger threatens to bring memories of her own ill fate to the surface. Oh, how hard she had tried to produce an heir for Cailan! And all those old fools could think of was how to punish these young people for their happyness!

"My lady?" one of the Arls adresses her, interrupting her thoughts.

Anora forces her hands to unclench and smile at him.

"It is a most pleasant evening, my queen. It is true what they say about the bard—he really is the best of them all."

"Indeed." another one of the guests of high honour interjects. "It is a pity he has not yet written about the battle and the slaying of the Archdemon."

Anora forces her features to remain smooth. Just for once, it would be a blessing not to have the Wardens brought up in every single idle conversation! But fate, it seems, does not grant her that wish. Anora forces herself to reply "This is no big surprise, my lords. We all know next to nothing about our heroes."

"But you, my queen—is it true that you have spent some time with them at Arl Eamon's estate?"

"It is indeed. But I have not spent much time with the warriors." Her tone should have told them that she does not wish to talk about the Wardens, but the fool does not understand.

"Of course, my lady. Of course. The best of my men have been present at the gates of the city the day the young Warden held his speech and—"

Anora stops listening. Instead, she finds herself remembering her first days at the estate. Back then, they had tried to keep their affair well hidden from the others. Eowyn and Eamon had even talked about marrying Alistair and Anora as if none of them had been present in the room! She shivers as she remembers their scheming. Sure, the boy is good–looking enough, but Anora despises him for reminding her of her beloved Cailan with every word he says, every move of his body, every look on his face. Even now, he still reminds her of him. And it hurts and at the same time confuses her. Is she to hate him for killing her father? Is she to love him for avenging her husband? Is she to— Oh, it does not matter now. All that does matter is that thanks to a tiny spark of life, she has been spared the fate of marrying him. That one fateful day, when everything had changed. Eamon had suffered a heart attack while the rest of the house had been transferred into a beehive. That night just after the Landsmeet, when all of a sudden everything had started to make sense.

Anora feels her face starting to twist into a grimace unsiutable for the newly–crowned queen. But—a child! She is not exactly sure of what she feels, but she knows part of it is envy. Envy at their happiness, their love, their child, their family. And underneath her envy, there is sorrow, strange as that seems. Sorrow at what she knows lies in wait for them. The mages will spit bile and venom once they understand that there will be a child. Anora knows that since the Tower has been built, every single child who has been ill–fated enough to be born to a mage has been taken away from it's parents. As far as she knows, the mages are still unaware of the current developments, but time will soon tell them. And they will certainly not be as gentle with the young mage as the Wardens.

When the bard has finished his play, the benches and tables are pulled to the sides of the hall to make space for the dancing. As the bard cannot be persuaded to take up his harp once again, two musicians take over. They start with a happy tune and it does not take long for the first couples to form and step in to the music.

Among those not joining in the dance is the Revered Mother, an old lady with a frail body but a mind sharper than any blade. As Anora watches her, she shares some words with the young Chantry priestess in her tow. Following their gazes, Anora is not surprised at the objects of their surveillance. The Wardens again. They have stepped to one side of the hall when the dancing has started. Even from her place at the far end of the table, she can feel the joy and elation seeping from them. And so must the Revered Mother. Does she know?, Anora wonders.

"My queen," the young Teryn of Highever adresses her. "May I ask you for a dance?"

And glad for the interruption, Anora willingly accepts. Following the complicated steps of an Orlesian quadrille, she lets herself be sweeped away from her thoughts by the Teryn and the dance.

Later in the evening, the Teryn of Highever reclaims her from the Arl of Denerim and after two dances, escorts her to one of the benches along the walls of the hall. As they catch their breaths, a servant offers them wine.

"Here's to you, my queen," the Teryn toasts her.

Anora nods her head before taking a sip. "My Lord."

While engaging in some polite small–talk, Anora lets her gaze wander. When it comes across the Revered Mother sitting in her chair by the fire, her good spirits sink. The old Mother's face is even sterner than ususal and her gaze is cold, icy. The lines that cross her wrinkled face are so hard it makes her shiver. Taking a sip from her wine, she notices that the young Chantry sister has left the place next to her. Anora searches the hall for the distinct gown that marks her, but she knows she won't be able to find her. Her heart clenches in sorrow and she can feel sadness welling up inside her. So her spies were right, as usual.

This morning, a secret note has reached her informing her of the message the Chantry sisters are planning to deliver to the Divine in Orlais. Anora sighs. She knows what they are going to tell the Divine. A child, conceived from the union of a mage and a Grey Warden. The Chantry won't let that happen if there is any way to prevent it.

"My Queen?" the young Teryn interrupts her thoughts. "Is everything alright?"

The concern she can see in his eyes is real and she forces a smile on her lips.

"Yes, my lord." She gives him her best smile and raises her glass. "Let us drink to all those who fell to save us."

The young Teryn nods his head.

And here's to you, tiny spark of life, Anora silently continues. Already am I indebted to you though you're not even born yet. May you live, little one. May you live to see that world your parents saved for all of us.

But as the months pass by and spring once again returns to the land, Anora vainly tries to gather news about the two Wardens, the Heroes of Ferelden.