here there be dragons (maybe)

the set-up is that in 7:5 storm, the fereldan throne is left without an heir. two ppl had a strong claim to the title: arland theirin and sophia dryden, who were cousins. ultimately arland was chosen as king bc he was young and seemed malleable to the ambitious nobles who wanted to take advantage of him.

but it turns out he wasn't so easily controlled after all. arland is described as a tyrant! avernus says that he pitted the nobles against each other, killed indiscriminately, and had no problem eliminating opposition thru 'fear and poison.'

you can find a letter from bank mathuin wulff that says:

Sophia, Arl Ruahn and his entire family have been slaughtered, even the children. The Ruahn line is no more and the arling belongs to the crown, for now. Arland believed Ruahn was plotting against him. Ruahn criticized the king's spending on Wintersend--that is all. It was an idle word, spoken out of turn. The king goes too far. His brain is filled with madness and he clings to the crown like a drowning man clutches at a straw.  Sophia, I beg you, help us. If nothing is done, more will suffer. Your humble servant, —Wulff.

similarly, several members of the cousland family in the storm age, a family the game wants you to associate with honor and righteousness, formed a conspiracy against arland and allied with the wardens.

Arland also executed many Couslands, including the Teyrn himself, for plotting against him, being allied to Sophia, and to teach the survivors their place.

so you're like okay, case closed, arland was a paranoid and evil ruler who unjustly kicked the wardens out of ferelden bc warden-commander dryden rallied the wardens against a tyrant who killed whole families for the crime of questioning his spending habits — and moreover, she did it explicitly at the behest of the desperate nobility who had to come crawling on their knees to plead for help from the woman they rejected as ruler specifically bc she wasn't biddable enough.

but then you start reading dryden's journals.

21 Eluviesta:  It is done. The nobles have thrown their lot in with Arland--Arland the snot-nosed man-child, Arland who did not walk till he was in his fifth year, Arland who had to be pried off his nursemaid's breast not two years ago. Or so it is whispered. The teyrns and the arls believe him to be a simpleton, and easily led, but I have seen something in the boy's eye, and it terrifies me. 10 Moriolis:  I watched the Summerday processions from a room high in Fort Drakon. The regent has me for treason, when my only guilt is of being true to my country and my heart. My guard's tongue was easily loosened with a gift of a ruby ring, and I am told that the banns are fighting against my sentence. I shall pray, but not hope that it will be anything but the gallows for me. 2 Ferventis:  The draught was like bitter fire, but I survived. Weep for me, for I survived. Would that they had made a clean end for me. I should have died a lady, the greatest of the Drydens, not lived to become this nothing--this monstrous nothing! 19 Matrinalis:  Enough. I shall waste no more time with wretched, womanish lamentation. Death would have been easy, but fate saw fit to spare me and I will seize upon this chance. The Grey Wardens are an army, and the old commander is weak--a wisp of a man. I will inspire the Wardens, and Arland will rue the day he spared my life.

i think it's interesting that sophia frames being sent to the wardens as arland 'spar[ing] her life.'

so now it's not so clear. was sophia deserving but bypassed bc she couldn't be manipulated the way the nobility thought arland could be? or was she kind of ruthless and paranoid herself? a woman who despises weakness who clearly had zero intentions of letting arland's claim to the throne go unchallenged?

her rebellion threw ferelden into chaos. personally i don't think that turning to demonic powers/blood magic is like. The Bombshell the game thinks it is. but the game considers that to be a signifier of a leader willing to feed their subordinates into the machine to get eaten the fuck up. this is in line w everything we know abt the wardens — they're more than accustomed to resorting to things other ppl find distasteful at best.

but this wasn't in service to ending a blight. this was an entirely political gambit. at least one other commander at soldier's peak believed sophia's actions were going to destroy both the fereldan army and the wardens. a lot of wardens felt 'disgraced' by her actions specifically bc they were politically motivated, and those wardens deserted, which feels LOADED for grey wardens.

and then it turns out that we don't actually have the full picture of the aftermath or even what led up to the rebellion (tho wot2 notes that the rebellion was founded by sophia):

Little is known of what followed Arland's rule, as a civil war for the throne occurred soon after his death. The war lasted a decade and wiped away most records of his reign.

does this mean arland was a kid in over his head and sophia was a comically evil snake who saw an opportunity and took it? i don't think that's the answer either tbh i think that the truth is both a) somewhere in a vast and ambiguous middle and b) impossible to know.

but we have a pseudo-idea of how the dryden family's reputation suffered as a result of her rebellion, bc they had to book it out of the country. everyone involved the rebellion was crushed. all lands and holdings that had belonged to the drydens were seized by the crown, and even as late as 9:43 dragon in trespasser, teagan as ambassador of ferelden brings up the rebellion as an example of why ferelden in particular is right to be concerned abt the inquisition's presence in ferelden, citing the inquisition capturing caer bronach and using it as a base specifically.

what he says is:

'invading under pretext of restoring order is exactly what the grey wardens did to us centuries ago and we exiled them!'

his position is the accepted ferelden position amongst its nobility.

i rly like this theory that the guerrins took arland's side during the rebellion, and maybe given that teagan's sister was ferelden's queen until she died, he feels like the guerrin-theirin alliance needs to be emphasized regardless of which way the guerrins went — sophia might have been part of a branch of the theirin family, but she didn't use the name. teagan has a line and he's sticking to it! i prefer to think he's just as politically motivated as anybody else at the exalted council.

but i think it's also worth noting that teagan's opinion is the opinion of fereldan's populace, tho the citation for this being how the ppl of ferelden feel abt the rebellion is teagan's dialogue in trespasser lol

Most modern Fereldans believe that Sophia Dryden's rebellion was a Grey Warden invasion under the pretext of restoring order and that their exile was deserved. The Grey Warden Order retained a villainous reputation in Ferelden for 200 years, until King Maric Theirin permitted the Wardens back into his nation.

but tbh.............................i don't think it's all that weird that regular fereldans would consider the rebellion to have been reason enough to distrust the wardens as an institution. i just don't think that it precludes ppl from thinking that arland was a bad king, too.

for one thing, the succession crisis was essentially a bunch of nobles squabbling over who would rule. the drydens are a branch of the theirin family; arland is presumably part of the main theirin line, bc he uses the name. the theirin family, in spite of all this, remained the ruling family of ferelden from calenhad on w the major exception of when ferelden was occupied by orlais.

for another, sophia dryden never relinquished her claim to the throne even after she was imprisoned and sent to the wardens — her journal entry deciding to take control of the wardens and make arland 'rue the day he spared [her] life' was before, if the reports are true and unexaggerated, arland went full tyrant, certainly long before bann wulff's plea for help.

she then leveraged her noble connections to shore up warden power in ferelden, including 'rapidly increas[ing] their numbers', and then used the warden army NOT to protect ferelden against the blight (which is why soldier's peak was built in the first place) but to pursue her own political goals. teagan bringing up caer bronach as his line in the sand makes sense in this context.

and it doesn't help, i think, that there had been rumors swirling around abt what exactly the wardens were up to in soldier's peak even before arland and sophia go head to head.

a fun tangent is the antiva connection here, which is minimal but deeply meaningful to meeee:

Toben Dryden, Sophia's brother and guardian of her young son, had no choice but to flee Ferelden. Toben bought passage to Antiva on a merchant vessel and traveled under the name Derocher. Once in Antiva, Toben set about building a new, quiet life for himself and his nephew. He started a small business and eventually made a name for himself as a trader.

and of course this also introduces the element of sophia's son, who would have inherited the throne after her had she succeeded in becoming queen.

winding this down by saying that the imminent fereldan succession crisis part 2: electric boogaloo is right around the corner given that by 9:41 there's still no heir to the fereldan throne as far as i can tell and tbh wouldn't someone have mentioned it in trespasser if somebody had either had a baby or named their successor?? maybe the drydens have successfully played the long game and levi and his brother mikhael and whatever potential children they might have had between awakening and trespasser as living descendants of the theirin line are abt to get v v important.

That following morning they realized what had occurred.

The vhenadahl at the center of the alienage had been struck by lightning, and a portion had fallen upon the little ramshackle apartments near the courtyard. Black scorch marks stretched upwards along what remained of the great tree. It was, the hahren said, a bad omen.

Garahel had joined the repair efforts, asking for nothing in return, save what the people could spare. He was resolute in this. Even now, on this weary, hungry night.

At his side he carried a sack of flour—payment for the day’s work—which he gingerly set upon the table, beside a half-penned letter.

Isseya, the letter read.

Repairs are underway since the storm swept through our home. Believe it or not, shemlen visited yesterday, offering work. The pay is low, but regretfully I am considering the offer. A man cannot get by on goodwill and flour alone.

We ’ve heard tell that the Circle is sending mages to help in the shemlen cities that were affected. I understand the knight-commanders’ priorities. But we could use all the help we can get in the alienage.

And it would be agreeable to see you once more, sister.

The writing stopped there.

He never quite knew what to do with sentiment, and with the way he missed Isseya, even now. She was all the family he had. They were orphans, both abandoned to the streets, where they had lived and survived together—until Isseya’s magic manifested, and she, too, was swept away.

Briefly, Garahel considered finishing the letter. But his eyelids felt heavy.

He promptly climbed into his cot and fell into a deep sleep.

.

He and five others answered the call for work the next day. They made their way to the alienage gates, where a brief discussion with the guards granted them access to the city.

Ansburg had fared no better in the storm. People everywhere were industriously mending fences, patching roofs, or clearing debris. Most paid them no mind, though there were a few startled looks of suspicion.

The disparity never ceased to amaze him.

These streets were familiar to him, but he was a stranger to them no matter how many times he’d walked them. He’d lived his whole life less than a stone’s throw away, but it may as well have been another world. There was a rule of behavior that was expected here: eyes down, voice quiet.

Still, Garahel kept a trace of a smile for himself.

Their work brought them to a warehouse on the river, where the waters still ran muddy with the storm’s residue.

“Good, you lot are here,” the foreman called gruffly. He scanned their faces, his mouth twisting. “Only six? Never let it be said the elves of Ansburg are known for their work ethic.”

Garahel bit his tongue as they were led into the warehouse.

“River overflowed during the storm,” the foreman explained. “Damaged some merchandise. Your job is to sort the ruined crates from the undamaged ones—do not open anything or you’ll be losing more than just this job. Undamaged merchandise gets loaded onto the bulker. We need to reestablish supply lines; we’ve more shipments coming. You’ll be supervised, so no funny business.” The man paused to spit a piece of tobacco on the floor. “You’ll do ten hours today. Five coppers.”

“Five!”

The foreman’s eyes snapped to Garahel.

Anger, hot and startling, filled the elf for a moment. They had been promised ten. But he could feel his fellow workers tense up at his side. Some had families to provide for. They needed this.

“Apologies,” Garahel said tersely. He lowered his eyes and the moment passed.

The foreman nodded, satisfied, and the elves got to work.

It was bitter work. The crates were covered in splinters, with old nails that were beginning to rust. The ground was muddy and slick. Worst of all, the boarding platform was just a few paces wide.

But they stuck with it. The ship slowly filled with boxes of salvaged merchandise.

As the shadows grew short, then lengthened again, Garahel felt a deep weariness settle over him. It wasn’t the ache in his hands that bothered him. It wasn’t the mud that caked his trousers to the knee or the hunger he felt. It was the shemlen dockworkers, who viewed him and the others as beasts of labor, no more.

It was clear in the way they talked about them, the way they kept their distance—they may have been poor but at least they weren’t elves.

And it was clear in the way they laughed when the youngest among Garahel’s group slipped upon the platform and hit his head against the corner of a crate.

Garahel set down his load at once, and rushed to help. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, steadying him upon the platform, which threatened to overturn.

One of the crates landed in the river with a splash. Thankfully that was all they lost.

“You’re alright,” Garahel said gruffly as he got the boy back onto shore.

“What’s this?”

The chorus of laughter from the human workers settled into silence at the foreman’s approach.

“He’s injured,” Garahel said. “If we could have some gauze—”

“Not him,” the foreman clarified. “The crate full of wine that is currently floating downriver! Who is responsible for destroying my merchandise?”

“Ser,” Garahel tried again.

“Quiet!” he hissed. “Get that bleeding oaf taken care of, and when you both return, you may begin working to pay off the losses!”

Garahel shut his mouth.

Part of him wanted to slam his fist into the foreman’s face. Another part wanted to jump into the rushing river and let it take him—maybe taste some of that watered-down wine, since it was apparently worth so much more than elven blood. He did neither. Instead, there came upon him a stark clarity, something past the anger and hunger he’d felt all day.

“Well?” the foreman pressed, as Garahel silently bandaged the boy’s wound with strips torn from his own tunic.

“He needs to rest,” Garahel said curtly. “I will take him back to the alienage. But first, pay him his day’s wages.”

“What?”

“I take responsibility for the wine. But you need to pay him.”

The foreman stared, mouth ajar and still full of chewing tobacco. “Maker damn you,” he said slowly. “I’ll show you what happens to thieving elves, you shite-”

“Someone here, serah.”

Garahel blinked.

He had been so caught up in his numb rage, he hadn’t noticed anything else. He was now startled by an unusual sight: blue banners with a silver griffin, and a group of armored warriors to match. But most unusual of all was the sight of elves and dwarves among them. Of these impressive figures, a tall blond woman with icy blue eyes stood out.

“I am Senior Warden Senaste.” She spoke in a clear, commanding tone, cutting through the mud with assurance. “Our carriages were damaged in the storm. We require transport along the river. Who is the person in charge?”

“Harbourmaster’s that direction,” the foreman grunted.

“Thank you.” Senaste turned her blue gaze upon Garahel. “Your man is injured.”

“He hit his head!” Garahel said hurriedly. “Nearly fell in the river.”

“We’ve a healer who can see to him,” she said, signalling to the others.

“Hang on-”

The Senior Warden snapped a glance at the foreman, who visibly shrank under her look.

“The elves,” he explained. “They damaged some merchandise. They must pay.”

“What exactly was damaged?”

“A crate of wine. Very fine bottles-”

He paused gain, visibly blanching as a mage Warden, staff in hand, healed the injured worker. In a moment the cut was gone as if it had never happened. With a mumbled thanks, the young elf rushed off.

“Wine,” Senaste repeated. “How very dire. Well, I trust the use of my healer more than compensates for the loss. Good day.”

As the Wardens turned away, Garahel stood rooted to the spot.

He’d heard of the Grey Wardens, of course—had grown up with stories of their heroism like most children. As the foreman stood in mute shock, Garahel felt his legs moving of their own accord.

“Warden Senaste,” he called.

He followed the Wardens away from the muddy job site. Away from his five coppers, the leering dockworkers, and the abusive foreman.

He almost thought she was ignoring him, but then she said over her shoulder: “Speak. I’m in a hurry.”

“I wish to be a Grey Warden!”

The words came out in a rush. He hadn’t even realized he was thinking them until he said them—but now they were out, and to his own surprise, they were honest.

The Senior Warden slowed, then glanced back at him to regard him properly. Garahel had the impression that he was being assessed. She cleared her throat.

“It’s a death sentence,” she told him.

“Life is a death sentence,” Garahel countered. Senaste laughed. Seeing an opportunity, he pled his case. “I am hungry. Haven’t eaten nothing but hardtack in days. My family’s gone. I have nothing keeping me here.”

“Ser,” the mage Warden from before said. “Harbormaster has passage for us tomorrow on a vessel transporting materials to the Circle.”

“Thank you.” The Senior Warden then glanced at Garahel and said, “Go home, young man.”

“But-”

“Go home, and think on it. A Warden’s life isn’t easy. It’s full of sacrifice and toil. You’d be leaving everything behind. You may not even survive the process. But if tomorrow you feel the same… come find me.”

With those words, she was gone.

.

That night, Garahel returned home for the final time. He didn’t bother packing his precious few belongings. His letter to Isseya sat unfinished. He didn’t sleep, didn’t write, and was still awake when a knock came upon his door.

“Hahren,” Garahel said when he answered it. “What’s wrong?”

“Do not join the Wardens, da’len.”

“So you heard.” Garahel sighed. “I know, it is a life of hardship. I might die before I even join—”

“More than that.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll be missed.”

Garahel’s brow furrowed. “I will miss you too,” he said softly. “All of you. As I miss Isseya, every day. And my parents, though I never met them. I think life must be like this; gathering more people to miss with each passing year. But, hahren, I can do more for our people this way. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going. Here-”

He passed a few coins into the hahren’s wizened hands.

“The money I made today. Thank you for everything.”

For some reason, those coins were still on his mind when the Joining chalice met his lips.

The fire that poured into him was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. But it was too late to renege. Among the Wardens, he took into himself a corruption beyond language, beyond thought.

It was the storm. The river. The vhenadahl burning. The Templars dragging Isseya away. The chewing tobacco in the foreman’s mouth. Every sorrow and terror in the world condensed into a cup.

Then, Garahel was lost to the fire.

.

He was on a ship when he awoke—he could tell that much—gently rocked by the current.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I’m dreaming.”

“No, you reckless fool,” Isseya said. “You’re finally awake.”

It made no sense. Isseya was in the Circle; she couldn’t be here, wherever here was. He frowned at her, confused, and this earned him a roll of Isseya’s eyes. But when she embraced him, he knew she spoke true.

“What-?”

“I boarded this ship on an aid mission for the Circle. Didn’t expect to share travel arrangements with Grey Wardens, and I certainly didn’t expect to find my own brother among them. How do you think I felt when they told me? Really, Garahel!”

Stunned, Garahel laughed. She was certainly right to be angry. He couldn’t begrudge her that; he was simply happy to see her, amazed by how she’d changed so much yet stayed exactly the same. Then the door to the cabin opened.

“Warden Garahel,” Senaste said. “I’m relieved you’re well… and in good spirits. I have something for you.”

“What is it?” Isseya asked.

She handed over a large item, wrapped in brown paper.

“Unsure. It was waiting for us at the Circle,” Senaste said. “When you are ready, come see me. We have much to discuss.”

He opened the parcel. “Now I surely must be dreaming.”

Within was a beautiful hand-carved bow. There were tell-tale marks upon it that hinted at its parent tree.

Garahel would carry it with him thereafter: the bow the hahren had sent to him.