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He wasn’t doing this just because Elissa was here. He was doing this because…
Because…
Because he was king now, right?
And proving prowess in battle was something kings did occasionally. He thought. He was fairly sure. Maybe.
Besides, if Eamon expected him to sit by and watch a tourney melee take place, and not take up his own sword when he knew he was better than half of those competing, well then, he was insane.
It was not just because Elissa was here. Or rather, because Lady Cousland was here, in full regalia as the Arlessa of Amaranthine. She didn’t often come to court, mostly because it made hiding their relationship both more difficult and more painful, so when she did everyone took notice.
Including him.
And apparently Bann Seymour, who seemed to be sliding into the seat next to her, a charming smile plastered on his face that Alistair could see even from the lists.
Well, he did not like that.
Not that he doubted her, per se. He was fairly sure that after all they had been through, all they were risking to hold onto their love, after everything they had said and been to each other, she was not about to call off their arrangement for some random lord who smiled at her once.
But she could.
And it irked him.
Because yes, all right, he was mostly entering the tourney melee because Elissa was here to watch him.
Not that showing off for her made any more sense. They had spent an entire year fighting side by side; they had killed three dragons together; she, more than anyone, knew exactly the extent of his capabilities in battle.
And it wasn’t like he could openly compete for her favour; give her a token like the other noble competitors had done with their ladies.
But he could win, and he could look at her, and she would know that he wanted to.
It would have to be enough.
The trumpets blared, signalling that the melee was about to begin, and that competitors should take to the field. Competitors that included him. But, if there was one thing he had learned since becoming King, it was that everything he said, everything he did, meant something, could mean everything. He was always watched.
At least, that was how Eamon had put it. Only with a lot more words.
He had taken away the far simpler message that being King was a performance, and one he could not fail at.
Luckily, he had been performing for half his life.
So if he was doing this – and it seemed that he was indeed doing this – he would need to make it a show.
For everyone, not just Elissa.
So, he waited, keeping half an eye on the field as the others filed in. Holding back until most of the other competitors were on the field, striding out just before the trumpeters signalled the start.
There was a cheer that rose up as he strode out, golden armour that he hadn’t yet had time to replace catching the midday sun. He couldn’t help but play to the crowd, drawing his sword and flipping it in his fingers.
His fellow competitors, however, looked nervous. And not the kind of nervous they should be. Facing a Grey Warden was one thing, realising that you were likely going to lose was another, but wondering whether or not you were supposed to even try against the king was unacceptable in his opinion.
He stood in the centre of the space, gaze travelling over each and every one of them.
“A thousand sovereigns to the man who bests me,” he declared.
The looks changed instantly. Determination, relief, glee.
He had just made himself even more of a target, and he could not be more thrilled.
He flipped his sword once more, nodding in the direction of the trumpeters waiting to finally start the melee. In the split second before the trumpets sounded, his eyes turned to the stands, scanning them for a distinctive crop of curly red hair.
He couldn’t take her favour, couldn’t promise to win for her, but asking him to resist sending a cheeky wink in her direction before they began was asking too much.
The smile that spread across her face even as she tried to suppress it, tried to hide it behind her hair, was worth the outraged tirade that was no doubt headed his way from Eamon.
Then the trumpets sounded, and twelve of the best swordsmen in the kingdom swarmed towards him.
He laughed, ducking under blades and blocking strikes, until he had made his way to the fringes of the fray, setting several pairs fighting each other as he went.
The first man he truly stopped to cross blades with was a determined looking knight, bearing the crest of South Reach. After the money more than the bragging rights, if he had to guess.
He fought well.
But not well enough.
It wasn’t long before Alistair had knocked him to the ground, effectively eliminating him.
“Watch your left flank,” he said as he pulled the man to his feet. “You leave it too open when you’re pressing the attack.”
His former opponent nodded, but didn’t say anything else as he moved towards the healers’ tent. Interesting. Perhaps he would find the man later, see if he could find out why the money was so needed.
For now, his next opponent was approaching.
He bested the next three men who came at him with relative ease. He had always been – thanks to his roots in Templar training – rather more agile than the average shieldman, and since none of these men had ever seen him fight before, he was able to use said agility to great effect.
As he helped his most recent opponent to his feet – clapping him on the shoulder as he headed towards the healers’ tent – he couldn’t help turning his gaze towards the stands, to her.
When he did, it was to find that her eyes were not on him. They were not even on the melee. They were on Bann Seymour, who only leaned closer to her as she pulled away. One arm draped across the back of her chair.
Bastard.
But before he could get too distracted by his rage, before he could even consider whether he wanted to, or should, do anything about it, a spear appeared in his periphery, and he only just managed to raise his shield to block it.
The man who threw it was eliminated three moves later.
This time when he turned back to the stands, she was watching, and he raised an eyebrow at her, his eyes deliberately sliding to her left and back, asking without words in a way he knew she would understand, whether she wanted him to intervene.
She shook her head before jerking her chin over his shoulder, a teasing smile spreading over those kissable lips.
He couldn’t help grinning back at her before he turned to face this new opponent. Refocusing on the fight because ultimately, he did want to win. In her name, even if he couldn’t declare it, and despite the fact that she could easily have won this herself.
When he next had a moment to breathe, he cast his gaze around the arena instead of the stands. There were still several challengers left, but all seemed to be embroiled in their own duels at the moment.
In his immediate vicinity, a woman with sun-kissed blonde locks faced off against a man he recognised as Martyn’s son.
Why not take on both of them at once?
He launched himself into the fray with glee. A melee was not a battlefield. The skill required was slightly different, given that the intent was not to kill, or even to injure, really, if it could be helped. But it was not so different from battle that he could not excel and it was easier, providing you had control.
Which he did.
Enough to slide under the woman’s blade, shifting his shield to his back to catch the man’s strike then flipping his sword into his off hand as he came up to face them. He was showing off as they fought and he knew it, using a number of flashy tricks that his former instructors would have despaired of him using.
When he eventually bested them both in a single move that used their momentum against them, he couldn’t resist glancing towards the stands to see if Elissa had been watching.
The smirk and knowing look on her face suggested, that yes, she had seen him showboating, and yes, she knew that he’d been showboating for her benefit.
Good.
With those two dealt with – and another warrior across the field slinking towards the healers’ tent – the field was almost clear.
There was, in fact, only one opponent left.
“Those sovereigns are mine, your majesty,” Fergus said as he crossed the arena.
He grinned. This was a delightful turn of events.
“We’ll see about that, Teyrn Cousland,” he called back, unable to prevent his gaze from drifting behind the approaching warrior to seek his sister’s eyes.
She was watching intently now. Sitting forward in her seat as the two of them moved into position. At first, he was pleased to see it. But then, invariably, his gaze shifted to her left, where Seymour was still trying to get her attention despite her clear disinterest in speaking to him.
Rage rippled through him. Not the ideal emotion for a fight that required control, but he had no chance to leash it as Fergus struck. He blocked, struck back. Fergus parried. He feinted left, but Fergus didn’t take the bait and he was forced to pivot into a new fighting stance.
Another parry, another strike.
But his attention was not on Fergus. It was on Bann Seymour and how he still didn’t seem to be taking the hint.
He parried again on instinct, which he shouldn’t, because Fergus was a talented warrior that did merit at least half of his focus yet, even as he repositioned, he found his gaze drifting back to the stands.
Warden Elissa – the Elissa he remembered from those first few campfires during the blight, before all the politicking – would have punched Seymour by this point.
Then he’d have certainly taken the hint.
But it was not Warden Elissa who sat in the stands, clad in a tastefully demure sapphire blue dress. It was Arlessa Cousland and she was being far too polite, far too sensible.
If she were Queen – as she should be – she’d have the power, the authority to just punch him. But then if she were Queen, everyone here would know she was spoken for, and who spoke for her, and he’d be able to win this while this wearing her favour.
Or, more likely, they could win it together. Then duel for the ultimate title.
He’d enjoy that.
He stepped out of the way of Fergus’ next strike, wishing that it was Elissa’s blade he was dodging. Wishing there was more similarity in their styles. That would make the pretence even easier. But it was a shield that his next strike glanced off, not a dagger, and Fergus certainly didn’t have the grace of movement his sister did.
He feinted again, this time to the right, and the motion put him in the perfect position to see the moment Seymour grabbed her arm, forcing her to face him.
He was half a step toward her before he could think, duel completely forgotten. Which was a mistake, because Fergus certainly hadn’t forgotten. As the next strike landed, he hastened to raise his shield, but the angle was all wrong and Fergus’ blade glanced off the metal, sliding beneath his arm and twisting sharply enough that a loud ‘crack’ echoed across the arena.
Pain exploded behind his eyeballs, and he dropped to his knees, shield slipping from his grasp.
There was a tremendous commotion. Fergus was staring wide-eyed as about four healers surrounded him, prising off his pauldron, poking him, before someone hoisted him up, leading him in the direction of the tents.
But all he could see was Elissa, on her feet, a hand pressed to her mouth, concern etched on her lovely features.
And Seymour nowhere near her.
Good.
The healers led him back to his own tent, which he was grateful for, since there he would be the lone patient. He wasn’t able to convince the gaggle of healers that fluttered around him that only one – or, at the most, two – of them were required, and was forced to endure their prodding and poking as they fussed over what was likely nothing more than a shoulder fracture.
During the blight, Wynne would have healed him as much as magic could, he’d have had a sling or perhaps a splint for a night, Elissa would have fussed all evening and he’d have been back swinging his blade in the morning, no lasting harm done.
But he didn’t say that because, firstly, he suspected that it would probably horrify the castle healers and, secondly, if he insisted that he was fit and well, then he’d be expected to return to the tourney grounds, present the awards, generally play to the crowd. Not sit quietly in his tent ‘resting’.
And waiting.
Because when the healers were done? When he was left alone to recover? She would find a way to sneak in. He knew it. There was no way that she would be able to resist checking his injury for herself, berating him for even entering the melee in the first place.
He had not expected to have even a moment alone with her. Not in such a public setting. He wasn’t going to risk the chance that they could.
So he endured the ridiculous amount of fussing over something so minor. Internally lambasting the fact that his status, his importance, warranted this level of concern, until eventually, finally, he was left alone. ‘Resting’ in his cot.
It was all of about three minutes before the flap of his tent was yanked back and a recognisable yet mysteriously hooded figure swept in.
He grinned.
“Alistair?” she bustled, concern etched on her features as she beheld the sling currently holding his injured arm to his chest.
“It’s fine. I’m all right,” he said, and he meant it because she was here and they were alone and he couldn’t help grinning. “I knew you’d come.”
She only rolled her eyes at him, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, peering behind the bandages, checking the splint that had been applied despite the fact that she had no real healing experience.
“So, I was wondering,” he said, after several moments of enjoying her undivided attention, “who were you rooting for out there? Was it me or Fergus?”
“Shut up and let me see,” she said, poking gently at the healing poultice they had unnecessarily applied to ease the bruising.
“It was me, right?”
“Shut up.”
“It was me.”
“You shouldn’t have even been in the melee. Why didn’t Eamon stop you? You could have been hurt far worse than this.”
“It’s not so bad,” he said, tilting his head as he watched her fuss over him in a way he really rather enjoyed. “You could always kiss it better.”
“What?” she spluttered, though her cheeks tinged pink and her lips curved. “Are you serious?”
“Go on,” he pleaded. “Give me a kiss. One kiss.”
She hesitated. But she wanted to, he was sure she wanted to. She’d come to him despite the risk of being caught. Despite the number of nobles wandering around the field who could easily recognise either of them, she had come to him.
He did not intend to let her leave without at least a kiss. More, if he could get away with it.
“Come on,” he breathed. “One kiss. I’m injured, I could be dying, I could-“
But he didn’t finish the sentence because she was kissing him, sweet and soft, the taste of her lips better than the finest nectar after all the weeks apart. Her scent washed over him, comfortable and delicious in its familiarity and he couldn’t help reaching out with his good arm to pull her closer, kiss her deeper.
“Are you in there, your majesty?” a familiar voice called from outside the tent. They broke apart instantly. “The healers said you were well enough?”
It wasn’t funny. He shouldn’t be laughing. But at the sound of that particular voice, he couldn’t help but chuckle. The rising panic on her face somehow just made it even funnier.
“Shit.”
“Holy Andraste, is that Fergus?” he snorted.
“Shit. Shit. I need to hide. What do I do?”
A quick glance around the tent revealed that there were precious few places that could conceal her. No furniture to speak of and the cot he lay upon wasn’t tall enough for her to hide under. He supposed they could try to play it off as if she were just a concerned subject and friend checking on the king, but realistically neither of them were good enough actors to pull that off. Not to her brother, at least. Not when he could still taste her on his lips.
“You’ll have to hide under the blanket,” he said, gesturing at the furs that covered him.
“Are you serious?”
“Alistair?” Fergus called, his silhouette taking a distinctive step closer.
“Oh, sweet Maker,” Elissa hissed, before throwing herself onto the bed, nestling against his chest as they both hastily pulled the blanket around her.
“Yup- Yes, er… come on in, Fergus.”
It was hard to look regal while injured, while reclined on a cot and while hiding the Teyrn’s sister under the furs, feeling every inch of her body pressing against his own.
(People didn’t appreciate how hard being King was sometimes.)
“That looks… bad,” Fergus said, his face going slightly pale.
He shrugged, glancing down at his shoulder.
“Don’t worry. I’ve had worse, and I’m told I should be fighting fit in no time.”
“Still, I wanted to apologise,” Fergus said, his eyes darting around the tent, resting on anything but his injury and seemingly missing the oddly shaped, overly large bundle of furs.
“Nothing to apologise for. I was distracted and you took advantage. It was a good hit.”
Which was true. He only hoped that Fergus did not now ask him what he had been distracted by. Somehow, he did not think the truth of ‘some lord was flirting with your sister’ would be easily accepted or explained away.
“All the same, you have my apology and, of course, I would not hold you to the thousand sovereigns.”
He snorted. “No. Those you will have. Let it not be said that I am not a man of my word.”
“I really have no need of…”
“Then donate them to the Chantry. But you will have them all the same.”
“Very well.” Fergus smiled “If it’s any consolation, I’m under no illusions as to which of us is the better warrior here – even if I do intend to brag about my victory today.”
He laughed, which only caused Elissa to press more tightly against him.
“As is your right,” he said, curling an arm around her to keep her still. “In any case, the apology is unnecessary.”
He cast his gaze at the tent flap, hoping Fergus would take the hint and leave. Having Elissa pressed against him was proving ever more distracting, his mind filling with all the other things they could be doing if only her accursed brother would leave.
Sadly, Fergus did not take the hint.
“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Anything I can get you to aid your recovery?”
“No, but thank you. I, er…” He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but the thought had occurred him now and he couldn’t not. “I have all I need to recover already.” And then he peeled back the blanket, just enough to reveal Elissa’s leg as his arms encircled her body, making her shape beneath the blanket clear.
“Oh!” Fergus said, somehow appearing to be both embarrassed and impressed. “Oh, of course. Where did you even…? Not my business. I’ll just… go, then.”
“Yes,” he said, really having to focus in order not to laugh at this point. “And if you could make sure that I’m not disturbed for let’s say ten – twenty-” he amended quickly, as Elissa dug her fingernails into his thigh “-minutes that would be great.”
“Absolutely,” Fergus said, still looking faintly horrified and faintly impressed. “Whatever you need.”
After sketching a hasty bow, he beat a hasty retreat, and, somehow, Alistair managed to suppress his laugher until the tent flap had fallen closed once more.
The moment his laughter broke free, Elissa hurled the blanket back, landing a far too hard but perfectly placed punch to his uninjured arm.
“OW!”
“Are you crazy?” she hissed. “That was way too close!”
“If you’re asking me to regret securing us twenty minutes of complete solitude, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he murmured, drawing close enough to her lips that, if either of them moved the barest inch, they would be kissing again.
“I am not,” she breathed, “going to fuck you on a cot, in the middle of a tourney camp, while you’re injured.”
Her uncharacteristic crassness made him smirk. He had not anticipated such a delightfully amusing tete-a-tete when he had foolishly and recklessly entered the melee, but he couldn’t say he was disappointed at the turn of events.
“Why not?” he asked. “We’ve definitely fucked in worse places.”
She couldn’t refute that argument and he knew it, but he also knew that he couldn’t refute the argument that pleasuring each other in a tent surrounded by all the nobility of Ferelden when everyone knew that this was where he had been taken was a recipe for disaster.
Especially given their track record in remaining quiet.
Yet, despite the risk, he was not about to sacrifice the twenty minutes he had just bought them.
Neither, apparently, was she.
“I suppose,” she said, taking a chaste kiss from his lips. “If you stay, very, very quiet.” She punctuated each descriptor with another sweet kiss. “We can work something out.”
Before he could ask her what she meant, she was sliding down his body, removing the furs as her hand trailed down his bared chest, blunted nails scraping his skin in a way that made his breathing hitch.
Then she was kneeling between his legs, nimble fingers working the laces to his breeches.
“Liss,” he breathed not sure – not entirely – if he would be able to take the pleasurable torture she no doubt intended to wreak upon his body.
But he was not stupid enough to ask her to stop.
Not when one slim hand reached beneath his waist, wrapping around his length and pulling him free in one long stroke.
His hips thrust with the sensation, her palm so distressingly soft against his hardness. He barely had time to become accustomed to the sensation before – pausing only long enough to take a small breath – she sealed her mouth around him.
“Fuck, Liss,” he groaned. Struggling to not thrust further into her mouth because, Maker, the feel of her tongue, of her lips was perfectly indescribable.
Instead, he nearly ripped apart the linen sheet beneath him.
She raised her head, lips sliding along his length in a way that had him gasping for air.
“Hush,” she whispered, warm breath brushing against him, making him shiver.
She was going to be the death of him. Right here. Right now.
He couldn’t think of a better way to go.
Her glittering green eyes met his, her mouth mere inches from the tip of his cock, and the sight of that alone was nearly enough to undo him.
“You are going to have to be quiet,” she said, each word breathed over his length, sending sensation rippling through his body. Dumbly he nodded, all else beyond him. “I will have my mouth full,” she added.
And before he could process that, her mouth was on him again, her tongue bathing him even as her hand drew him into a sure steady rhythm that soon made it difficult to obey her order to remain quiet.
But he tried, even as her nails scraped across his thigh, moving higher and higher in time with the steady rhythm and the slow, tortuously delicious exploration of her tongue.
His heartbeat was thundering in his chest. His every muscle taut as he struggled for breath. His head thrown back against the pillows because the sight and the sensation was just too much.
Then she increased her rhythm, took him deeper into her mouth, warm and wet and so pleasurable he was sure his heart would burst.
He couldn’t help sliding his hand into her curls, fingers scraping her scalp in a way that made her hum pleasantly in the back of her throat. The sensation of that on his cock sent liquid fire shooting through him and it took all his control not to thrust into her mouth.
Instead, he simply tightened his fingers in her hair.
Not guiding her motions, not forcing anything. The sensuality of this particular act was all in him being at her mercy and he did not wish to change that. But he needed to touch her, to feel her, however he could.
She smiled against him, moving with ever-increasing speed until he was on the verge of begging, of giving her anything, everything she wanted. Until she owned him completely in all things and he exploded, utterly unable to repress his shout of pleasure as she swallowed all he had to give.
It was several moments before he came back to himself, and when he did, it was to find that she was sat there, a look of smug satisfaction on her face.
“Wow,” he breathed. “That was…”
But there weren’t words for what that was, and even if there were, he wasn’t currently capable of finding them. However, her raised eyebrow suggested that she didn’t need him to tell her. She could see the result for herself.
If they had been in any other place, at any other time, if he were not injured, he would not hesitate to grasp her upper arms, throw her onto the cot beneath him and set immediately to thoroughly returning the favour.
But they were not in another place, another time, and he was injured.
“I should leave,” she said after a moment, the look of smug satisfaction fading into a melancholy expression that, to his great regret, he knew all too well.
It was the one she wore every time they parted.
He did not want to agree with her statement, but he couldn’t disagree with it either.
So instead, he simply surged forward, fingers once again tangling in her hair as he brought her lips to his. She still tasted of him, just a little bit salty and tangy, but he didn’t care as he tried to pour all of his gratitude, all of his love, and everything he would have given her if they only had time, into his kiss.
She was smiling when they broke apart, which really was the only acceptable outcome.
“I love you,” he rasped, pressing his forehead against hers.
“I love you too,” she answered, her fingers curling around his where they rested on her jaw. “And now I really have to go.”
He nodded and released her while trying not feel the way his heart broke within his ribcage.
“Elissa, wait,” he called, halting her just as she lifted the tent flap.
She turned back, the golden light of the sun framing her silhouette, making her appear more ethereal than ever. Maker, he was indeed a lucky, lucky bastard.
“When can I see you again?”
The smile she gave him was tight, pleased, yet tinged with the tragedy of their circumstances.
“Perhaps in a few weeks? After Summerday?”
He nodded. Summerday was not too far in the future. He could just about live with that.
“I’ll figure something out,” he promised, because he would. This was definitely one of those times where seeing her, laying with her properly, was more important than the needs of the kingdom.
She grinned.
“Enjoy your rest, your majesty,” she teased.
Then she was gone, and even though being apart from her still tore at his soul, he couldn’t help grinning, both at her final parting blow and what had come before it.
It was not often that he got to simply rest, especially in the middle of the day. It would be rude not to take advantage, so he let himself fall back onto the cot, cushioning his head on his uninjured arm as he enjoyed replaying the last few minutes in his head and making plans for Summerday.
Eventually, of course, he was disturbed again. This time by the far less pleasant arrival of one of the older, more experienced healers.
“How are you feeling sire?” the healer asked.
He grinned.
“I can honestly say I feel fantastic,” he said, throwing back the furs and moving to stand.
He was somewhat surprised that his legs would, in fact, support him.
Which was good, considering there was still a tourney to attend to. He couldn’t wait to hand Fergus the prize for the melee, while grinning inwardly at both the cause of his win and how his sister had taken away the sting of defeat. Perhaps, if he were lucky, she would be perfectly positioned so that he could meet her eyes behind Fergus’ back, and they could bask in how successfully they had avoided detection.
There was a lot that he didn’t like about the fact that he had to hide what she meant to him, that she could not take up her place by his side where she belonged.
But he couldn’t deny that sometimes the secret was thrilling.