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Weisshaupt has selected the new Warden-Commander of Ferelden. As a courtesy -- whether to the crown, or to the former Warden on the throne -- a hefty bundle of records arrived at the palace several hours ago.

Nika Kader seems quite qualified on paper, he has to admit. Surface dwarf ten years Alistair's senior; enlisted in the Orlesian Army as soon as she could; left to join the Wardens seven years ago and swiftly climbed through its ranks as a consummate soldier. She's been wielding her sword almost as long as Alistair's been alive -- and hopefully, the recent Blight won't mean Ferelden will only have her for a couple years before she leaves for her Calling.

He can't find it in his heart to be pleased, but Alistair can, at least, find it in his heart to appreciate the choice.

He's definitely getting a beer as he finishes poring over the file, though. Maybe more than one.

(He also has his T-minus handheld close by; quondamGryphon is online.)

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"Do you see her much nowadays?"

He's only asking because he's curious about the differences between their Thedases. No other reason. Yes.

"She left, back in my Ferelden, so I didn't know if..."

"More often than she says she'd like, certainly."

Ysalwen's grin is quick and just this side of sharp.

"But I don't believe her. Um."

Some of that sharpness -- and the grin -- fades after a moment.

"He calls me Auntie Ysa."

He? he wonders for a split second, and then --

"Oh."

It's very soft.

(A son, then. Oh.)

Alistair draws a deep breath. "He's..." He. A son. Something churns in his chest that he can't quite put name to. "He's well, then?"

"He's bright and curious," she says, the smile coming back a little, but softly. "Sometimes he rides Liranan like a pony. Neither of them have any temper to speak of, which helps that along enormously."

Here she laughs, bright and quiet, looking down and away for a moment as if to hide the affection plain on her face. And then --

"I would offer to give you a picture, but -- Flemeth comes here and -- "

Well.

"I don't want to be the reason she finds them. Or even knows he exists."

Edited 2016-06-16 18:05 (UTC)

He nods. ~~Millitime, ever-convenient, does a quick loop so he's already talked to Karkat by now.~~

"Of course." He folds his arms secure against his chest, as if to still that tumult. After a moment, he even manages the smallest of smiles. "What's his name?"

A beat.

He can only push it to half a joke: "And no horns, no fangs, all his fingers and toes?"

"Kieran," Ysalwen says, trying very hard to say it anything but gently.

"He's three and a half."

She bites her lip, thinking something over for a few moments.

Then --

"I can sketch him for you, if you like. If you go home straight after. Or burn it when I'm done. I -- "

"Kieran," he echoes.

There's a knot in his throat, growing larger with each passing moment. It briefly chokes off what Alistair wants to say; all he does is nod.

It's not really...it's different. This child isn't truly his son. He knows that. But it may be the closest he'll ever get to seeing him, now that he's king -- and with Morrigan Maker-knows-where.

(Another bastard Theirin somewhere in the wilderness. Andraste's ass, what a legacy.)

"You don't mind?"

"I don't offer things I mind giving away," Ysalwen says, mouth quirking at one corner.

"And I'd be glad to do this. It -- well. I need all the practice in drawing that I can get."

(She's not history's greatest artist, but her linework is serviceable and her affection translates to the image of Kieran riding on Liranan. His face, in particular, is very clear.)

He looks --

Completely normal, Alistair thinks. Like any happy, untroubled three-year-old. And he also looks a bit more like his mother than his father, though maybe that's just because of the dark hair.

As long as Kieran's all right, he tells himself, that's all he needs to know.

But when Ysa hands him the picture, he spends a little too long studying it for that to be strictly true.

Edited 2016-06-16 18:37 (UTC)

Ysa says nothing about it. Though --

"I don't know if every Morrigan will be looked for, let alone allow herself to be found. But it -- I think it's good for him. To learn a little of the rest of the world, even while he's so young."

A breath.

"How many mabari puppies do you think I can foist off on them? Three?"

"Oh, easily."

He gets his voice close enough to breezy for it to count. Alistair looks up, smiling, as he folds the picture into neat quarters and tucks it away.

"Why stop there? I say go for five."

Maybe I could contribute a few, he almost says, and stops himself at the last moment.

"I don't know if Morrigan is the kennel-master type."

She huffs out a breath of laughter.

"Can you imagine?"

Alistair quirks a grin.

"She'd probably turn them all into something she finds more pleasant. Like spiders. Or toads."

Ysalwen snorts.

"She still can't do that, I'll have you know. Rest easy."

As he narrows his eyes in mock-skepticism, "Iiiii remain unconvinced."

And then he huffs out a small breath, settling a hand on the spot where he tucked away the drawing.

"Right. I don't want to burn such exquisite art after you worked so hard on it, so I suppose I'd better head home." A touch more serious: "I'll lock it away somewhere safe. I promise."

Her smile is a touch sweet this time.

"I know you will. Thank you."

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