A/N: This is a companion story to go along with my other AU fanfic called The Migration. It was originally going to be part of the Migration story, but then I realized that it was cluttering up the situation with the main characters for both plots and could be placed separate from it. I was always dissatisfied with the way Fergus and the situation in Highever was treated in the game. That is to say, it was almost non-existent. Laid up with the Chasind for almost 2 years? Sorry, that doesn't fly with me. So I'm taking my out frustrations with it in this story. Very much a work in progress, very much AU with who I have survive. Comments very welcome. Good, bad, questions?

P.S. This story is also the reason why my next chapter to The Migration has taken so long to get out. I know, excuses, excuses.

(4/1/2010) Found out through some sources that Ser Gilmore is fully known as Ser Roland "Rory" Gilmore. Just changed the first section to reflect that.

(4/16/2010) Last section changed. I was under the assumption that Byron Howe was Rendon's father. I was mistaken. Byron was his Uncle.

(5/13/2010) Small spelling corrections, corrected one father/uncle change, and changed one word for proper terminology (it's "Teyrnir" not "Teyrnship").

Friends of the Hawk

Part 1: By a Sliver

Ser Roland Gilmore's world was a haze of pain and sound. It felt like someone was trying to choke him with the collar of his own armor. His ears were ringing and when he tried to open his eyes he couldn't focus. Roland coughed, groaned, then gasped as his back dropped to the ground. Then something rough and wet started to streak across his face over and over. Through the ringing he heard this piteous whine and his blurred vision was blocked by something large and brown.

Trying to focus on what was in front of him, he roughly croaked out the only thing it could possibly be.

"Angus . . .?"

The whining got louder and the warhound licked his face even more. Roland coughed and laughed at the same time as he was certain that he shouldn't be alive. Memories of what happened in the hall once Arl Howe's men broke through was nothing but a blur of violence. By the Maker's blessing Lord Aedan's Mabari Warhound made it there and was trying to help him out.

Things were beginning to get clearer and Ser Gilmore reached up to push Angus's muzzle away to be able to try and sit up. He inhaled sharply through his teeth when he put pressure on his hand and almost fell right back down onto his back. Clutching it to his chest he could feel that his right hand around his last two knuckles were enflamed and a tentative touch told him his fingers were swollen in the glove. His right eye was refusing to open, and the fact his hand felt numb was worrying, but he had no time to ponder it.

Glancing around with one good eye he saw that Angus must have drug him out to the farthest corridor from the great hall. Giving silent thanks that Mabari were as big and strong as they were, he gave second silent thanks that Angus liked him enough to do this. The corridor was peppered with bodies along the way and the castle was burning. If the Teyrn, Teyrna, or Lord Aedan hadn't made it out by now then they were very likely dead. He knew he had to get out and not let Angus's efforts go to waste.

Angus backed up a little as Roland struggled a bit to get to his feet. He wobbled some as his lightly blurred vision and spinning head took its effect on him. Pushing himself, he shook his head to try and clear it, and then started walking. The warhound whined again and lingered at his side. Roland saw that the end of the corridor was blocked by burning debris.

"How do we get out of here?" he uttered, then coughed as smoke wafted everywhere.

Angus gave an excited bark and trotted a little bit down the hall behind Roland. Barking again, the Warhound was obviously trying to get him to follow. Roland went along, following Angus as fast as he was able.

They turned a corner and the warhound bounded up the steps leading to the battlements. It didn't make sense to him to head up into a burning structure, but he trusted that Angus knew of some way out. Roland got up the steps, able to focus a little better.

From the battlements he could see that a whole outer wall of the castle had collapsed. The fire and debris from it made it impossible to pass on the ground. Angus got to the very edge where the wall collapsed. He looked back, barking again at Roland. For a second he thought that perhaps the dog wasn't as bright as he assumed and had lead him to a dead end for no reason. However, when Roland got close Angus turned and leapt down off the wall. He rushed over to look, his eye wide, half expecting to see a dead dog sprawled on burning rubble below. It wasn't the case.

Angus, now outside the castle walls on the ground below, looked up at him. The debris has all fallen at one angle, leaving something of a clear space on the grass outside the wall. It was a bit of a drop, at least 25 feet or more. The warhound apparently didn't have any difficulty making the drop down. Barking up at him again, Angus bounded around in a circle.

Roland took a last glance around, a bit uncertain. Most of the castle was aflame and there were no ways out that wouldn't lead right back to more of Howe's men and certain death. Just then an audible "whoosh" erupted from somewhere in the castle. The wall under him shook and he heard horrid and panicked screams. It was enough to give Ser Gilmore the grit he needed. Giving himself to the count of three, he leapt down towards the grass, feet first.

Feeling his ankle roll on him as he landed, he tumbled hard to the ground. Roland gave a strangled cry as he accidentally lay on his right hand. He curled a bit around himself as the pain in the worst of his injuries fully hit him. Hearing Angus's whine and feeling him lick the side of his face helped him get passed the pain. Gritting his teeth he planted his good hand on the ground and forcefully pushed himself up.

Putting pressure on his ankle caused pain to coarse up his leg and he limped heavily. He knew that he had to at least get to the tree line if he was to have any chance of escape. Howe's men would eventually get to searching the surrounding forest for survivors, so Roland had to get away and get away now.

Angus got his head under Roland's good hand. Without asking he leaned on the dog like a cane, taking pressure off his ankle and making it easier to walk. The warhound bore up with it, walking slowly to match his pace. Roland glanced back just as they got to the tree line. He saw no one pursuing and didn't see a single one of Arl Howe's men. They were likely on the other side of the castle, slaying any unfortunate soul who tried to come out the main gates.

That was well and fine. For every death they had wrought and would cause, Ser Gilmore was going to pay them back tenfold. For this betrayal he would skewer Arl Howe himself. First, however, he had to live. That decided, he limped on deeper into the wood with Lord Aedan's warhound by his side.

Dairren clutched to the burlap sack in his arms, his back flat against the tree. His eyes were wide open and he shook lightly where he stood.

He hadn't intended to come back from Highever so late. The new set of sturdy boots the Teyrn had sent him out to get was easy enough to retrieve. The rather cute, well formed, and very willing merchant lass who had them, however, turned out to be too much of an opportunity to pass up. True, he had aims for the elven Grey Warden recruit, Kallian, but as Aedan would have told him always go for the apple in the cart rather than the apple in the tree. You get a sure bite from the cart, but may just break your neck trying to reach for the one in the tree.

So he took from the cart and stayed longer than he thought he would. Not wanting to risk not being there if Arl Howe's men showed up at the castle in the morning he had to sneak out of the leather merchant's humble little home, feeling a little guilty for leaving while she slumbered. It wouldn't have been the greatest impression if one of the first things he did as the Teyrn's squire was to show up late, looking like the cat drug him in. Risking the short travel alone at night he figured there wouldn't be any trouble along the way and that he could convince the gate guards to let him back in with a conspiratorial wink and nudge.

But it seemed his worries were for naught.

There was a faint whiff of smoke in the air first. Then there was the clank and rattle of armored men that came down the road, hidden behind the bend of trees. Thinking at first to maybe wait and see who it was he changed his mind and decided to hide. If they were bandits he would certainly have been outnumbered. All he had with him was his father's blade and no armor. He felt a bit ashamed and a little cowardly, but he was no Cousland. He wasn't even much of a soldier. Dairren knew how to use a blade, but he really wasn't that good at it.

The decision turned out to be the right one, much to his horror. The contingency of men stopped on the road, one of them barking an order for four of them to remain there. Then he heard the man's words loud and clear and Dairren's world came falling apart.

"Any strangers you see, tell them the castle has burned and the Couslands are dead. Any survivors from the castle, slay on the spot. Arl Howe will reward five silver for every head you bring him. Five sovereign for a Cousland!"

Dairren's mind was whirring in a panic. Part of him wanted to scream and run, but another part knew that would be the death of him. The four men left behind on the road were not far from him and they most certainly would have seen him. Heart pounding and knees shaking he was sure that they would hear him any second.

He knew he had to leave his hiding spot eventually, especially if they started to search the forests. Perhaps if he had moved slow enough, stealthy enough, and kept the trees between he and they then maybe --

A ruckus of noise erupted from the other side of the road, causing Dairren's heart to crawl up into his throat. Arl Howe's men began shouting. Taking a chance he peeked out from behind his tree. The four were facing away from him and were quickly trotting into the forest away from him. There were more shouts and screams, the sounds spurring his fear. Dairren ran.

Running into the darkness of the forest, unsure of which way he fled, he kept the sounds behind him and didn't look back. It wasn't until his lungs began to burn that he stopped. He leaned against a tree, gasping for air, one hand still clutched to the burlap sack. There were no sounds behind him and he guessed that they hadn't detected him.

His mind was still in a panic, feeling death at the back of his neck. Choking back a coughing sob, he felt utterly helpless. Mother was dead, the Teyrn was dead, and even if they weren't they soon would be. Arl Howe had betrayed them, betrayed them all. What was he to do?

Fleeing was the only option that came to mind, so he kept going. Tripping and stumbling through the wood like some startled creature, fearing every noise. He needed to get where it was safe, needed to get where he could tell someone what happened.

His father!

He was certain his father would know what to do. Dairren had to get to him to tell him and warn him, but he wasn't set for travel. There was coin in his pouch, his sword, his cloak, and the Teyrn's new boots. Everything else he had was back in the castle. No food. No water. No armor if he was to be attacked. Dairren didn't even know how to survive in the wood as he was never shown how. Learning under the Couslands as a squire was supposed to handle that.

Highever was where he had to go first. The risk had to be taken if he was to survive the trip. With his father in mind he did his best to try and find his way to town.

A field of fire burned before him. In it he could see a stone structure of some kind, but it also burned and crumbled as he watched.

Then from his left Oriana came. She held their son's hand and smiled at him. He felt so glad to see them, but when he tried to move towards them and speak, his body refused to move and his mouth would not utter the words. Oriana picked up Oren and stayed where she stood, nearing no closer. They were saying something to him and to one another, but his ears heard nothing but the crackle of the fire behind them. Oren waved his hand at him and he could read his lips.

Goodbye, goodbye, he was saying.

It was hard to understand. Why say goodbye when they had only just arrived. Then from his right two others appeared. It was his mother and father. Oriana smiled at them as they approached and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. His father ruffled Oren's hair.

They all turned their gazes upon him. Oriana's gaze was a familiar loving one. Oren continued to wave at him, still saying goodbye. His mother and father looked at him proudly. However, there was a tinge of sadness in all their eyes and he began to feel a sense of dread.

As one, they all turned and started walking right into the fire. He tried to shout out to them, tried to run after them to stop their course, but again he could neither move nor speak. Only able to watch in horror as the flames consumed them, his very soul screamed. Yet even as they walked in fire, their clothes, hair, and flesh turning black, they reacted not. Pain didn't touch them and they continued into the inferno as if it were an afternoon stroll.

The structure, he now recognized, was their castle. Stone shifted on its own like it was alive. Then all the stone and fire joined together to form some massive four legged creature. It looked to him like some bear. The thing roared, spitting fire from its maw. At its stone feet blood pooled and spread in every thickening layers. Screams of dying men and women came from the pools of dark red liquid.

The monstrosity then turned its fire-eyed gaze at him. Railing against the prison that was his own body, he knew he couldn't run, but kept trying to will it so. Somehow he knew that though his family hadn't felt pain, he would. Inside his heart pounded with both fear and rage.

It bore down on him in a hale of fire and stone, and then . . . Fergus Cousland woke up.

He had sat up in his cot with half a scream stuck in his throat. Cold sweat covered him and his blanket was tousled and tangled up in his legs. It took a full score of seconds for him to realize where he was.

They had made good headway on the roads despite the muddied grounds. Currently camped all along the side of the road, he and Ser Jace shared the large tent that would eventually be the one he and his father would share at the camp in Ostagar. Fergus wasn't so high brow to think that no one but a Cousland could use the tent so their Knight Captain shared the tent with him. Ser Jace slept soundly, Fergus's noise apparently not waking him.

Untangling his legs from the blankets, he swung them over the side. Slowly wiping a hand down his face, he tried to block out the dream from his mind and calm the heart thumping in his chest like a blacksmith's hammer. The lingering images were hard to strike out and the heat of the fire had felt so real he was certain that his skin should have been scorched in places.

Knowing he wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon he quietly got his boots on, draped the blanket over his bare shoulders, and walked out of the tent to get some air. The man on watch glanced up from his stoking of the campfire, then stood up fully when he saw it was Fergus.

"Something amiss, my lord?" The man asked.

Fergus paused at that, then shook his head, "No, everything's fine. Just getting a bit of air." He quickly added a small lie, "That and a bit of nature's calling."

He motioned in the direction of the freshly dug latrines.

"Ah," the soldier nodded in understanding and smiled. "I'll just carry on then."

With that he stooped back down to prod at the fire again, paying Fergus no further mind. He seemed to be in good spirits. As Fergus walked down the line of the other campfires and sleeping soldiers he thought to himself that all his men were in a generally positive mood. They were certainly nervous of the battles waiting for them when they reached their destination, but that nervousness was kept in check by slipping into the daily routine of travel. Breaking camp, making camp, fixing meals, doing assigned duties. It all helped the men get their minds focused and calm.

It was why Fergus knew that he had to shake this nightmare off. His father taught him long ago that to be a leader of men you had to appear calm and confident. Even when you harbored fears and doubts, you didn't let the men see it. "The Allowable Lie" his father called it. Allowable in that it keeps your men confident in battle and, thus, could mean the difference between life and death for them on the field.

The nightmare had him worried. Fergus knew that dreams could sometimes be prolific, but he knew they could be horribly false as well. Dreams would sometimes prey on a person when times were dire or stressful, and these were certainly stressful times. As the air and the walk calmed him further he switched his focus onto the real nightmares in front of him. The darkspawn.

They were evil made real. Creatures that brought nothing but death and destruction where ever they appeared. The darkspawn were an enemy worth eradicating and he hoped that he and his men would be a force the King could depend on for that very thing. He wasn't about to let a silly dream shake him when so many lives were riding on his shoulders.

That in mind he started to work his way back to the tent. It wouldn't do well for this many men to see their fearless leader looking tired only three days out from Highever. He would get some sleep and start the day anew.

"Burn it!" he shouted. "Burn it all to the ground! Leave no evidence!"

"But, Milord, we still have men in there!"

"I don't care! I want every single body in there to be nothing but ash and the metal turned to slag, do you hear me?" He grabbed the man by the front of his armor and snarled. "This will not be left unfinished or I swear I'll throw you in the fire myself."

Staring at him in wide eyed fear, he nodded shakily, "Y-yes, my lord!"

Pushing the man away, Rendon Howe sniffed in satisfaction as the man started hollering orders to get more wood and turn the already burning castle into a raging inferno.

This was it. This was finally it. The Cousland name would be history. No more would the Howe family be second to what amounted to a bunch of upstarts. Highever rightfully belonged to them and he was going to take it back. After the Orlesians were defeated it should have been he and his family that took the Teyrnir, but Maric thrust Bryce Cousland's father, an old old man, into that position instead. As if his own uncle hadn't lost his life secretly aiding the Rebel Prince. As if his family had sacrificed nothing towards the cause.

Rendon's lip curled in remembrance. After Uncle Byron had passed away his family was shaken. The man was like a second father to Rendon, guiding him after the Grey Wardens recruited his father and took him away from the family forever. They didn't want to loose more in a war that could mean the end of all of them. Then Bryce, damn the man, invoked his uncle's name to convince them all otherwise. Saying that it would be dishonoring all Arl Byron Howe had done and would dishonor his wishes.

Damn the man! Damn them all! None of them realized how long the Howe's had to suffer under Orlesian occupation. None of them realized the charade they had to keep up with to make it appear they were on Orlais side. They survived and succeeded because of it, they suffered because of it. In the end, their reward was to have to bow to a man who dared to say he knew what his uncle's thoughts were. One who was only put there because of "hereditary right". A false hereditary right.

They would suffer no more. He would suffer no more. Rendon knew it would come to this when he heard of Bryce's trips to Orlais. Orlais! Sailing there to pay visit to the Empress. Not to barter any merchant deals or find suppliers of goods, but to pay his respects to the leader of their previous oppressors. The gall! Like the foppish wench deserved any more from Ferelden than spitting on the ground at the mention of her name. His uncle would have been disgusted.

No more. This was it.

He would see to it that word of the Couslands dying in a fire would stretch far and wide. Only Fergus Cousland would stand in his way and one man, shocked and grieving, would make for an easy target. The sailing trade his family had built over the years gave him contacts as far away as Tevinter. It would be the Antivan Crows that could help him best in dealing with Bryce's eldest. Once that would be done then the Teyrnir would be his and his family would be elevated to the status they truly deserved.

There was only one selfish thing that Rendon had wished for and that was to see the look on Bryce Cousland's face when he realized he'd been had by his betters. To see that look of fear and despair would have made this night complete. He was going to have to settle for turning Cousland Castle into a pile of ash for his men to piss on later.

Rendon would have to move fast if he was to gather support of the Banns and get word to the King about this "tragedy". He'd have to go to Denerim himself to speak to King Cailan once the silly darkspawn nonsense was done. Provided Maric's son survived the situation.

Provided.

Suddenly, Rendon's mind was filled with a much greater possibility. Much greater. An assassinated King with no heirs left the door wide open. What amounted to a commoner Queen with a commoner Teyrn father would hold little right to retaining the throne. The Landsmeet would have to turn to him for claim! He could see to it that they agreed . . . he'd force them to agree. He had ways. He could do it!

Rendon Howe gazed at the fire and destruction before him and could only see the brightness of his own future.