Making Ser Jory's kid Rook is the best OC I've ever made
(If you've seen me post relentlessly about her on bluesky or reddit no you haven't)
If you've EVER played Dragon Age: Origins, one of the most memorable moments takes place early in the game. Your character has just traveled to Ostagar, where you'll formally join the Grey Wardens. You meet two recruits, one is the rogueish cutpurse Daveth, while the other is the former knight Ser Jory, formerly of Redcliffe and now of Highever (remember that bit.)
Jory is responsible for the first major tone shift of the entire franchise, when the previously affable Duncan, billed in all six origins as an at least moderately heroic type, pulls out his blade and kills Ser Jory when the knight refuses to drink Darkspawn blood (seems sensible), having either been misinformed or otherwise woefully naive about what being a Warden means.
The entire thing is grim - and your player character can even tell Alistair and Duncan how fucked up that was after the fact. Most importantly for THIS story, however, is something that Jory mentions twice including right before he dies: He has a wife back in Highever, who is due to have a baby.
Highever. The same Highever that gets raided and sacked during the Human Noble origin by Arl Howe's forces. The same Highever that sees every family member of literally anyone even vaguely connected to Teyrn Cousland either killed or worse.
But presumably, there were at least some survivors, folks who were able to flee. Even in canon world states where they don't join the Wardens, both the younger Cousland sibling and their mother Eleanor cut a pretty wide swathe of damage through the castle before being overwhelmed. The carnage almost assuredly let people flee, we see it in the human noble origin!
Maybe, just maybe, one of those people...was Jory's wife Helena. Who winds up fleeing Highever aboard a cargo ship headed for Tevinter. A cargo ship that winds up getting run aground and attacked near the battlefields Ventus by the Qunari, right as Helena is due to give birth. Worth noting: Thie last part of that is not even fanciful headcanon, it's Shadow Dragon Rook's canonical biography. They mention it to Tarquin before the Act 1 Choice.
and by the time of game events, a certain Legatus Mercar is ready to talk with Maevaris, Dorian, and the Shadow Dragons and has begun expressing equalist sentiments, at least privately? How would they know what Legatus Mercar thinks privately? Well, in a Shadow Dragon run, for one thing because his child is standing right next to them.
Having Rook be Jory and Helena's kid, though, opens up so much storytelling potential. Like the time Rook refuses to go along with the commanding First Warden (also from Rivain like Duncan)'s orders and nearly draws her own weapon on him:
Seem familiar?
Now imagine a bit later, when Morrigan meets her and immediately realizes there's something haunting familiar about this woman leading the attack against the gods. She even reflexively questions Rook's intelligence for a moment.
Later still, at Weisshaupt, when Rook - in this case now already armed with the knowledge that there was a Warden at Ostagar who she looks uncannily like - finds the chalice, finds records from the Fifth Blight while they're escaping to the dragon trap through the library.
drama.
It's been such a fantastic story so far and I'm only at Act 2. There's even an inversion of Flemeth's "sadly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things" line with Morrigan as she reveals the Mythal fragment in the Crossroads. Framed with a shot of a building that has a vague resemblence to the Tower of Ishal in the background with more swamp-like elements in the Crossroads.
At the same time, growing up as a girl in Tevinter has meant multiple stark differences between her and her father. She's a Shadow Dragon, so clearly she's invested in the liberation of slaves and servants. She's interested in equality, and although human, has likely experienced at least two forms of prejudice herself (being a non-Mage in Tevinter, and yes, being a she from a Tevinter military family when we know the Tevinter military has a long history of excluding or diminishing women). While her biological father is noted for having rather...sheltered and inhibited beliefs on the capabilities and stations of elves, dwarves, and yes, women - there's none of that with her.
...to the point that in her world state, she's CLEARLY in love with an elf. And while Jory ran off to chase glory and danger with the Wardens leaving Helena behind, when trouble comes for Bellara, she squares up and stands to protect her - even when that trouble is Bellara's own brother (and the ancient elven wannabe-god manipulating him)
but ultimately, the apple didn't fall entirely away from the tree.
Listen to the thing about Helena that Jory says hooked him in:
and who is Rook smitten with?
You know good and damn well Rook melts into a puddle every single time Bellara looks at her. Her vallaslin is literally designed to accentuate her eyes. Rook might be Mercar's daughter, but in at least one specific way, she is definitely Jory's kid.
Anyway, I just think my OC's neat and felt like yapping about her on here.
—Majestic mountains, wonderful glens, rocky coastlines, and beautiful sandy beaches. Castles are placed dramatically near cliffs—the location of many dramatic and romantic novels—Fantasy Scotland at its finest.
—Damn best sailors outside Rivani and Antiva.
—Highever/Coastland Ancestors considered anything from the sea a gift. Sea glass, driftwood, fish, glass bottles—anything and everything was a gift, and one must always say a prayer of thanks to the sea.
—Do not come to Highever/the Coastlands with that fake sea glass shit. Everyone has been taught since birth to know what's fake and what's real. If a merchant comes flogging that stuff, nobody in Highever will be polite in telling said merchant where to shove it.
—A lot of Highever/Coastland heirlooms passed down from generations were handcrafted. A lot of nobles wear their handcrafted jewellery proudly.
—Crafting gifts is pretty much the universal display of affection in the Coastlands. Even if someone isn't good with their hands, just the effort they put into collecting/buying the items to create something somebody is going to love is appreciated. How do you think Bryce managed to convince Eleanor to marry him it certainly wasn't his singing lol.
—Speaking of singing, nobody in Highever is a quiet singer. From tavern singing to sailing songs to the Chantry hymns, Coastlanders are loud and damn proud of it. Also because it can sometimes be fucking wimdy and you need to be real loud to be heard over it.
—I refuse to believe the people of Highever weren’t pissed when Arl Howe betrayed the Couslands and took over. There were riots. Rebellions. Howe’s soldiers were constantly on edge as they walked the streets, all too aware that the Coastlanders had inherited the sea’s wrath, and it was all aimed at them.
—The Highever Alienage is decent compared to the others. Small, yes, but decent enough. Most of the elves are involved with the docks.
—Most mages from the Coastlands/Highever tend to lean towards water/lightning magic as a reminder of their origins, and smell of sea salt and ozone.
—There’s a wing in Cousland Castle dedicated to Haelia Cousland and the werewolves. Hardened pelts and journals behind glass cabinets, snarling wolf heads on the wall, fangs and claws in jars. It’s the creepiest thing to see in the night. A young Bryce snuck down there once on a dare, and had nightmares for two weeks. This would be repeated by his two children—nightmares included.
—Sea burials are a thing. They were a thing before the Chantry, they are thing now, and will always be a thing. Not even the small Chantry in Highever can change it (not that they tried. You’d have more luck of changing the weather than a Coastlander’s mind).
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Characters: Duncan (Dragon Age), Male Cousland (Dragon Age), Bryce Cousland, Eleanor Cousland, Oriana Cousland, Oren Cousland, Original Characters, Alistair (Dragon Age) (brief appearance)
Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Suicidal Thoughts, lore dump, Child death (mentioned), Animal Death (Fish), Highever (Dragon Age)
Summary:
My telling of Duncan's brief's stay in Highever, and the bloody events that unfolded there.
“As a general rule, Duncan seldom allowed himself the complacency of optimism. Too much of it, life had taught him, often proved counterproductive: not unlike a healing salve, optimism had a tendency to dull the senses against incoming dangers. It lulled the unsuspecting mind into illusions of security, which in turn could fester into over-confidence - and over-confidence, in his line of work, had always proved to be risky business.
In Highever's great stone hall, however, bathed in the warmth of a dozen fires, with a full cup of wine in his hand as he stood watching three young couples’ hands be joined in marriage, Duncan searched his heart for at least a sliver of the perilous sentiment. On the eve of battle, he had decided, a morsel of hope was the most fitting gift he could think of offering the newlyweds.”
(Read more)
I finally lore dumped about the Couslands and life in Highever right before, uh, you know what.
Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins
Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland
Chapter: 3/?
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.
Read it on AO3
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Cloudreach, 9:29 Dragon
The Couslands ate breakfast together every morning, by tradition. Compared to the dinners in the great hall it was an informal event taken in the library, at a round, walnut table draped with embroidered linen, with the morning light streaming through windows that looked north over the sea. After setting the places, the servants retreated to have their own meal, and, left to the privacy of each other’s company, the family helped each other to platters of eggs, cooked meat, and fruit. The dogs – Bryce’s Mallard and Rosslyn’s Cuno, still with the gangliness of puppyhood – also had their place, tucking into their own breakfasts on leather mats laid out to save the priceless Rivaini carpets from the ravages of slobber and grease.
If not for their grand surroundings, the Laurel motifs decorating the furniture and the rich weave of their clothes, they might have been any ordinary family, with ordinary squabbles. The battle on this particular morning raged around Oren, who had inherited the strong Cousland jaw and his mother’s onyx-dark eyes. He sat high in his cushioned chair, digging through his bowl of porridge for the dried apple slices hidden in its depths and ignoring the entreaties from both his parents to behave.
“I’m three-and-a-half,” he insisted, when Oriana dipped her own spoon into the bowl to try and coax at least one proper mouthful.
Across the table, Eleanor levelled a disapproving stare at her grandson. “When your father was three-and-a-half he knew the benefit of eating everything on his plate,” she told him. “How do you think he got to be so tall?”
Oren’s eyes went wide, turning on his mother. “Is it true?”
“Yes, pequeño,” Oriana replied, ever-patient. “We want you to grow big and strong.”
“And Aunt Rosslyn too?”
Rosslyn glanced up from her book. She had taken to bringing one to breakfast in recent months to keep her own company while the rest of the family got on with their business – there was no one else to talk to, after all, and if she kept herself occupied with such volumes as The Travels of Ebullient Ser Claremore of Stannis it distracted her from the reason why misery gnawed at her like a mouse, stopped her dwelling on the fact that it was her own bloody fault no letters had come from Denerim since the Landsmeet.
“All Couslands eat their porridge,” she replied mildly. “Haelia and Mather started the tradition when they drove the werewolves out of the North.”
A white lie, but the renowned twins, heroes even among the famed and fabled ranks of Cousland ancestors, had held Oren’s imagination like little else could since he heard the story, the illuminations in the family book weaving him tales of wild chases through the forest and daring battles waged against fang and claw.
“I wish you wouldn’t read at the table,” her mother chided, as if she had only just noticed.
“Aldous wants me to broaden my horizons.”
Her father’s eyebrow lifted, amused. “I doubt Aldous meant for your studies to get in the way of your table manners, Pup.”
“It’s not like anyone’s here,” Rosslyn pointed out. “And besides –”
The door to the library opened, cutting off the rest of her protest to admit a human page in a woollen surcoat of deep Laurel blue.
“Calmett?” Bryce turned at the intrusion.
Calmett bowed. “Forgive me, Your Lordship, but a letter just arrived by courier. I thought you’d want to read it.” He offered over a square envelope of thick, cream-coloured paper on a silver tray and Rosslyn saw the flash of a scarlet seal on the back when her father took it.
“‘To His Lordship, Bryce Cousland’,” he read.
Fergus, who was closer, peered at the direction. “That’s rather formal for Alistair.”
The air squeezed from her lungs. She did not miss the curious glance her brother sent her across the table, nor how Oriana’s brow furrowed; it would be one thing for the king to write to the teyrn himself, formal and aloof, but Alistair knew them as well as family and had long since grown out of the shrinking need to call his foster-father by his title.
Cheeks warming, she dropped her gaze to her plate of half-eaten jam toast, though not quite fast enough to avoid catching her mother’s eye. It was a steady look, a shared confidence; it reminded her of the noble’s mask she had been taught, the blank face required to stare down your worst enemy and make them flinch first. She straightened her shoulders. As her father read the letter she watched with a face of mild, polite interest, taking in the downward pull of his brows as he went on, the way the corner of his mouth flattened into the greying edges of his beard.
“Well? What does it say?” Fergus asked.
Startled, Bryce looked up. “He’s being sent to Starkhaven. From Denerim. King Cailan wishes him to be an aide to the ambassador.”
Fergus clicked his tongue. “Surely Cailan would have allowed him to travel from Highever if he had asked.”
“It isn’t for you to second-guess the king,” Bryce chided, his voice unusually severe. “There might be any number of reasons why the ship left berth at Denerim.”
For a moment, the table stewed in the tension chafing between the teyrn and his eldest child, until Fergus turned his head away with a nod and a sigh and picked up his spoon again. Unnoticed by either of them, Rosslyn frowned at the paper in her father’s hands, the guilt that churned in her stomach for driving Alistair away aclash with a growing anger at his lack of loyalty, his cowardice. Ever since he had first gone to Denerim, no correspondence had ever come back to Highever without at least a small note addressed to her. Did he think no one would notice the change? Did he fear her so much, or put such value on his injured pride that he would shield himself behind the king’s will to neglect his duty to her family?
“May I see the letter?” she asked.
Her father gave her a long look, but passed it to her all the same, as gently as if the paper itself might bite. Curbing her annoyance, she unfolded it and scanned the lines. The unmistakeable scrawl that Aldous had tried so hard to smooth out in their lessons was unchanged, the words short, signed at the bottom with a formality out of place for the person she knew. Despite this, glimmers of humour shone through the stiff, careful style, pulling a traitorous twitch from her lips as she read:
Your Lordship –
I hope you’ll forgive me for bringing you this news in a letter instead of coming to tell you in person. King Cailan has requested that I go to Starkhaven to assist the ambassador there, and since he requires no delay, I’ll be sailing from Denerim as soon as the ship is loaded and the tide is with us. It’s likely I’ll pass by Highever at the same time this letter reaches you – just in case, I’ll wave from my cabin and keep my eyes towards the castle.
If all goes well and I don’t make a complete fool of myself stepping off the ship at journey’s end, it may be some time before I can return to Ferelden, and so this is – for now – a farewell. This is a great opportunity for me to ‘cut my diplomatic teeth’, as my brother keeps on telling me, but I could not leave without at least writing to thank you for everything you have done for me. Without your kindness I don’t know where I would have been by now, but it certainly wouldn’t be here, and I will be forever grateful for that. I hope in return I’ll be able to do you proud.
In my own hand,
Alistair Theirin
It took two days for a courier to take a message from Denerim along the coast, maybe less if the relay used good horses, but half a day less still to cover the distance by water. He would be out on the open sea by now, with Ferelden a smudge of green on a distant horizon.
Starkhaven. It was a place she knew by reputation and court gossip more than anything else. Nate had spoken of it well enough since leaving to become a squire to one of the knights there, and in his own quiet way had painted a picture of exotic markets and gilded palaces merry with the splash of fountains. At least he would be a familiar face to help Alistair orient himself, such a long way away from home.
