Chapter Text
It had been a year since their final stand in Minrathous, a year since the fall of the remaining Evanuris, when the Dread Wolf had finally been persuaded to stand down from his crusade and take responsibility for his mistakes. Without the shadow of his duty to Mythal hanging over his head, he had reconciled with the Inquisitor, Blodwyn Lavellan, and they had disappeared into the Fade together. For the woman known to the world as “Rook”, the peace had been hard-won, and in a way, almost terrifying. As the world slowly began to knit itself back together and life once again became routine – or at least as routine as the life of a Crow could be – a small whisper in the back of her mind still waited for the next storm to break. Of course, she had not expected that storm to come in the form of a marriage proposal. Viago had scowled at the news, ever the protective, critical older brother, until she’d threatened to singe his perfectly curled goatee if he hadn’t let up. To his chagrin, Teia had found the whole situation highly amusing.
Lucanis Dellamorte’s wedding to the savior of Thedas proved, perhaps unsurprisingly, to be the social event of the season. Anyone who was anyone in Treviso had been invited, and the common folk held their own celebrations in the markets and along the canals, honoring their local heroes with lively dancing, songs, and copious amounts of alcohol. It was weeks before the waterways were free of flowers and other bits of decoration. In truth, Rhiannon had found the festivities to be a bit stifling. She understood the necessity of the occasion – she was a Crow herself, after all – but she had always been much more comfortable when skirting around the edges of a crowd’s attention, rather than at the center of it. Afterward, when they had retired for the evening, in the calm serenity of their room, she had fallen asleep in her husband’s embrace. Snuggled into his warmth, she had truly felt safe and at peace for the first time she could remember, and when morning broke over the city, she’d woken to a light hand tucking her curls behind her pointed ear and gentle kisses at her temple.
In the weeks that followed, the heavy responsibility of her position as the First Talon’s wife settled about her like a fine woolen cloak, and for the most part, she wore it well. Caterina’s pride would never have allowed her to admit it directly, but she’d found a grim satisfaction in Rhiannon’s stubborn refusal to break under the weight of her expectations. The family matriarch was by necessity a woman of iron, having raised Lucanis and Illario with a cold and unyielding brand of love which had, at times, been indistinguishable from a taskmaster’s whip. She had brought that same uncompromising mentorship to bear with Rhiannon, treating her granddaughter-in-law with the relentless testing one might give a new blade. During those first few months, Caterina had been a constant and exacting shadow – a silent monolith at Rhiannon’s side, never outright criticizing her in public, but as time went on, she became keenly aware of the tiny shifts in Caterina’s expression when she’d made a slight mistake. A minute narrowing of the eyes during a trade negotiation, or the nearly imperceptible tightening of her jaw when Rhiannon’s tone lacked sufficient authority. In the moment, these served as her only compass, but once the doors of Villa Dellamorte swung shut, the air would sharpen.
“Your hesitation with the Balazar representative was shameful, Rhiannon,” Caterina had scolded her one afternoon, the old woman’s eyes dark and sharp as flint while she poured herself a glass of brandy. “You allowed him to speak for far too long before countering. In our world, silence is not politeness – it is acquiescence. Do not let it happen again.”
Rhiannon had met that relentless, private scrutiny with her own immutable determination. She did not bristle, she analyzed. She treated Caterina’s never-ending critiques as a masterclass in survival, internalizing the lessons of Antivan statecraft with the same fierce focus she would have used to plan a contract. Slowly, gradually, the smallest nods of approval became more frequent, always sharp and barely noticed by anyone else. Caterina was honing a stiletto, to be hidden between folds of silk, and she ultimately was satisfied to find that Rhiannon was made of the right sort of steel. Her transition from “Rook” to “Lady Dellamorte” had been successful and seamless, as far as the public was concerned, and life settled into a routine of reviewing ledgers, attending social engagements, and negotiating agreements over supper.
And then, one morning, Rhiannon found that she could not stomach the taste of her favorite tea – a strong, dark blend from Seheron, flavored with vanilla and currants – and the humid Treviso air felt suddenly heavy and oppressive. Though she recovered quickly from her dizzy spell, Lucanis had insisted upon her being looked over by the family’s physician. She’d begrudgingly indulged his worry only for them to receive warm congratulations following the examination. They were both stunned at first, the silence eventually being broken by Lucanis’s joyful laughter. For her part, Rhiannon was still in a daze, elation and terror warring for dominance, but she’d pushed that conflict to the farthest corner of her mind, not yet able to face those particular scars. It was then that Caterina arrived, the usual sharp, predatory edge to her stride tempered by a rare, observant calm. As she’d entered the room, her gaze swept over the physician’s professional smile, her grandson’s unbridled, radiant joy, and his wife’s expression, clouded with uncertainty. For the briefest moment, the matriarch’s mask slipped just enough to reveal a genuine softness in the lines of her weathered face.
Surprisingly, she didn’t initiate a lecture on tactical complications or legacy. Instead, Caterina crossed the room to lay a firm, steady hand on Rhiannon’s shoulder. The grip grounded her – it was a silent, tactile reminder of the strength required of a Dellamorte – but as Caterina leaned in, lifting Rhiannon’s chin with her other hand, her voice momentarily lost its dry, aged grit.
“We will have an heir,” she murmured, her eyes glancing to Lucanis with quiet pride before returning to hold Rhiannon’s gaze. “Wipe that daze from your face, child. You are the savior of Thedas and lady of this house; do not let a morning’s nausea be the thing that casts you adrift. Out there, we must remain a fortress, as always, but here….” She paused, gently running her thumb over Rhiannon’s cheek – a strange, unfamiliar gesture which seemed akin to an outpouring of affection by Caterina’s standards. She continued, “Here, within these walls, let yourself breathe. This is a victory, Rhiannon. Enjoy it, but see that you keep a keen edge. As a mother, your mettle will be tested far more than it ever was as an assassin.”