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Chapter Text

She was never going to join in on one of Varric's card games again.

Hawke was never a gambler. Sure, there was a lot of it in Lothering, but she'd been too busy to indulge in that sort of thing. That, and being around for the verbal lashing her mother had given Carver for the one night he'd gone out with the boys and lost his shirt in a dice game just reaffirmed her knowledge that her nimble fingers were meant for stabbing people, not holding cards.

Kirkwall was largely the same – scraping herself up from the bottom had been largely a feat of strategic criminality, and again she stayed away from the tables and races. Not that there wasn't plenty to be found, she just didn't have a taste for it.

But then. Then she had to go against her better judgement and stay longer than she should have at the Hanged Man. She'd been sitting with Varric in his suite, sharpening her blades while he told her tawdry stories with badly-disguised names. She just listened and smiled, happy to feign ignorance.

The waitstaff knew him well enough to keep his and his guest's drinks full, and whether it was the ale or the warmth of the fire, Hawke didn't want to move. So when he told her that some of their other companions were coming over for a game of cards, and that she was welcome to just stay and watch, she agreed.

She should've known better. Varric never let her stay out of trouble for long.

The game looked like fun. The four of them - Varric, the blonde mage, the tattooed elf, and the pirate queen – all seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, trading barbs with every hand and being none-too-gracious about each win. Isabela was the worst to gloat, though, and practically rubbed her face in the pile of coins each time she pulled it to her chest, once "accidentally" dropping a few silver into her cleavage and inviting any of the men at the table to reclaim them.

"If you can find them," she snickered, leaning back, "you can keep them."

Only Varric was so bold, and after a few seconds of laughter with his leather-clad hand down her shirt, Isabela shrieked and leapt up, swatting at her breasts angrily. A few frozen coins dropped out in addition to the ones she'd already dropped in, smoking coolly on the dirt floor.

Grinning, the dwarf slid a sovereign into Anders' pile. "Worth every penny, Blondie."

Anders smirked and waved an icy hand innocently, sending a few errant snowflakes onto the tabletop. "Sorry, captain," he said. "Magic has a mind of its own sometimes."

She didn't do it again, but Hawke definitely saw her slide a foot up the mage's robes under the table.

"Hawke," he called over in a slightly forced voice while staring at his cards, "I think your dog's snuck into the Hanged Man again. I don't know how many times I've told him to get his nose out of my crotch."

"Woof!" Isabela barked.

"Don't worry," Hawke said, lightly blowing on the whetstone, "He just wants attention. Pet him or something and he'll go away."

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards as the former warden reached a hand under the table. Isabela jerked backward seconds later, almost toppling over in her chair.

"Cold!"

Anders smiled as she glared, sliding two cards forward. "Good doggie."

"Careful, mage," Fenris warned as he added his own pair. "I would not put it past her to urinate on your shoes."

The game continued with other such incidents, and Hawke was happy to watch her comrades-in-arms enjoy themselves. She approved of anything that could get Anders and Fenris to put aside their differences and sit at the same table without bickering over the mages' conflict in every conversation.

So when Varric pulled out a second deck and suggested a new game, she didn't bat an eyelash. He had dozens of these games lying around.

It was a parody game based on the situation in Kirkwall, he said.

Lighten things up, he said.

Easy to learn, fun to play, he said.

Five players, he said.

When everyone turned to look at their leader sitting by the fire, Hawke froze.

"Oh no," she said, raising her hands. "I'm no good at these kinds of things."

Varric smiled reassuringly, patting the vacant chair next to him. "Come on, Hawke, you need to lighten up."

She crossed her arms and leaned back, smirking. "You calling me fat, Varric?"

"A gentleman would never!"

Her eyes swept the table. "Only gentleman here is Fenris. He holds doors for me."

As if on cue, the elf stood and pulled out the empty chair, gesturing to it grandly. "My lady."

Isabela fought down a snicker as Hawke stood and brushed herself off. "See? That's how you treat a woman of my standing."

"Standing," Anders pointed out. "Not sitting at the table with the rest of us."

"Yeah," added Varric, doing his best to look insulted. "What's this, too good for your friends?"

Fenris hid his smile behind a formal bow. "If her ladyship would honor us with her presence."

They stared up at her, and Hawke felt her resolve weakening. Zeroing in on that tiny chip, Varric spread his wide, gloved hands in an appeasing gesture and delivered the final blow.

"Come on, Hawke," he said. "You're sharp; you'll pick it up in no time. And it's all in good fun."

He looked up at her with that honey-warm smile and those soft eyes, and her gaze fell on the deck in question.

She paused. "My uncle is one of the cards in there, isn't he?"

"Only one way to find out."

With a sigh, she slunk into the chair and leaned her chin on one hand. "Deal me in, dwarf."

As promised, the deck was hilariously entertaining. Cartoonishly inaccurate depictions of Viscount Dumar and some of the more notorious citizens peered up at her from the cards, and more than one jab was passed back and forth when their own likenesses turned up.

Hawke frowned down at her own portrait, with long, flowing hair and a halo of stars circling the crown of her head. "Champion," it read, just under the enormous shield adorned with a flaming heart. "Varric," she asked, considering the details carefully, "just whatnonsense have you been spreading?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

She flipped it to show him, and he snickered. "I know you're knew to this, but it's generally not a good idea to show the other players your cards."

"Doesn't matter," she said casually, studying it again, "because I'm pretty sure that this is Andraste."

Isabela leaned over to get a better look, shrugging. "Andraste had bigger tits."

"How would you know?" Anders asked. "If you ever set foot in the chantry, you'd burst into flames."

The rivaini leaned over the table to pinch his nose. "Are all apostates this cheeky?"

He smirked. "Just the devilishly handsome ones." And with that, he added his ante to the pile in the center.

The bets had started off innocently enough. A few coins here and there, a few rounds of watered-down beer, even an amulet or two. However, as the night went on and the drinking got heavier, the less any of them cared for money, and soon the order of the night was paper. Varric shredded parchment into slips, and IOUs took the place of coins in the betting pool. The small ones were simple – providing alibis, cleaning, various favors, sword polishing (Isabela had laughed particularly hard when that one was submitted) and other trivial tasks. It made for a lot of laughter and squabbled-over details, but that just added to the fun of it.

What also made it fun, for Hawke anyway, was that she was winning. So far, she had collected enough to keep her house clean for a month, lie to her mother about damn near every bloodstain on her clothes, and have Ogre well-groomed until the winter solstice. She didn't envy anyone who had to clip the Mabari's nails or brush his teeth, but at least it would keep her mother happy. If this was what all gambling was like, she mused, she'd wasted so much time.

She'd had a few bigger wins, too, like a pair of "well-loved and very comfortable leather shackles" from Isabela, who had parted with them only on a particularly egregious bluff.

Varric had frowned when she initially slid it into the pile. "Who would even want those?"

"I would," Hawke said, examining her hand. "Leather ones are hard to find, and a pain to break in."

The rest of the table turned to stare at her, and she looked up in surprise. "What?" she asked, placing a card facedown in front of her. "There's a reason I bought a bed with posts."

Isabela dissolved into peals of laughter, and the men at the table gaped as her meaning sank in.

"Interesting," Fenris said with a hint of a smile as he folded.

"That," Varric declared to himself as he took a long drink, "is getting written down somewhere."

When Hawke eventually won the cuffs, Isabela almost gleefully let them go. The slip of paper with the claim to them on it was added to a neat lineup that the Champion was keeping, next to "Varric teaches you to hide dungeon cell keys" and "One trip through the Coast on Piggyback" from Anders.

"You're a shark," Varric accused an hour later as her pile grew.

"Yes," Fenris agreed. "You, Hawke, have had the Saarebas card twice in a row now."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "You're sitting next to Isabela and accuse me of cheating?" She leaned back, sighing theatrically. "Fine, I'll just take my winnings and go-"

"Not a chance," Isabela interrupted, practically jumping at her throat. "Not until I get something I want out of you."

"Then I'll stay if you ask nicely."

The harshly-tanned pirate leaned over, placing her chin on Hawke's cleavage and staring up at her adoringly.

"Please," she mewled, tugging at the hem of Hawke's tunic. "I would enjoy it ever so much if you'd stay. I'll miss your pretty face if you go, and drown in a sea of my own tears."

"Well," their leader said, smug despite herself, "when you put it that way."

She should have left. Oh, Maker, should she have left.

It was that one hand that did her in. She'd been winning, and she'd been drinking, and she was having so much fun that it was irresistible. And when she looked down at the cards she'd been dealt, only her calm veneer kept her from bouncing in her seat.

She had both Grand Cleric Elthina and First Enchanter Orsino right off the bat. That in itself was enough to win a small hand, but if she could just get her hand one more boost, one thing to solidify her win, she could have enough from her friends to blackmail them into the next year.

She cleared her throat, scribbling on an ante paper and tossing it into the center. "One very girly gown. Custom tailored to the winner's specifications."

Isabela snorted.

"Okay, okay," Varric acknowledged when it came to him. "One night on my tab here."

The jump in value didn't go unnoticed. Or unmatched.

"One no-questions-asked treatment," Anders offered. "No. Questions. Asked."

Isabela practically snatched it from the table, but Fenris caught her hand. "You will have to win it, woman. Your bet, if I'm not mistaken."

She pouted, pulling her hand away. "Fine, fine." Pursing her lips, she crumpled up a scrap and threw it into the pile. "One night paid up at the Rose. Fenris?"

He paused, considering the prizes so far. "Whoever wins this pot wins the dress as well, correct?"

"You got it."

After a quick check of his cards, he gently slid a paper forward. "I will wear said dress to an event of your choice."

As the others laughed, Varric crossed his arms. "Confident, are we?"

"Perhaps."

The dwarf took everyone's two surrendered cards and dealt again, this time keeping an eye on the elf.

It took all of Hawke's self-control not to whoop in triumph. The cards she'd sent off had come back a circle mage and Sebastian. She had this locked in; that night on Varric's tab was going to Bodahn as an early birthday gift. And Fenris would make an excellent, if surly, tavern wench.

It came around to her turn again, and she smiled serenely as she placed her cards facedown in front of her. She wrote in silence, then read it aloud calmly as she offered her bet.

"One whore from the Blooming Rose dressed as Knight-Commander Meredith."

The room was filled with guffaws as the pirate and dwarf wiped away tears, Anders furiously scanning his cards ("Orsino's birthday is coming up, isn't it?") and Fenris considering the pile thoughtfully.

Still as straight-faced as ever, Varric didn't hesitate to add his own. "Choose your nickname."

"Damnit, Varric!" Isabela swore as she racked her brain. "I – quick sex! Anywhere in the city!"

"Rejected, Rivaini," Varric grinned, emphasizing the title. "Try again."

"I'll put on the damn dress and act like a proper lady for a week! Not a swear, not a misstep!"

"Better."

She wrote furiously, nearly slamming it into that pile. "I will have you call me Mistress."

"We'll see."

Anders folded his hand. "I'm out. To you, Fenris."

The elf chuckled. "One use of my abilities to reach through a wall or vault. No questions."

Isabela groaned and folded, letting out a string of fanciful expletives that only a sailor could know under her breath.

The final card was dealt out, and Fenris frowned, tossing his cards into the pile. "Nothing. Damn it."

Hawke couldn't keep the corners of her mouth from twitching. Another mage. She was golden.

"Just you and me, Hawke," Varric said, cracking his knuckles. "I'm in if you are."

"To see what you've got to offer? I wouldn't back down for the world."

Their eyes met, and their friends laughed as the two stood to shake hands over the table.

"Final bets!" Isabela called, handing each a fresh piece of parchment with a ceremonial flourish.

There was only a moment of thought before a wide grin spread from ear to ear on Hawke's face. She knew she would win. The bet was irrelevant. But what could she use to torment the dwarf? What would make him kick himself for the rest of his damn life for letting slip out of his grasp?

So she wrote down the most grandiose, ridiculous thing she could think of and slapped her hand down on top of it. "Done," she declared. "Show me what you got, Varric."

He lifted his up for everyone to see. "I, Varric Tethras, will court Hawke for six months to appease her mother, then orchestrate a dramatic and heart-wrenching breakup in the Hightown market."

It was met with polite applause and murmurs of appreciation before all eyes turned to Hawke. She held hers up as well, mimicking his little performance.

"I, Mairead Hawke, will sit in the Arishok's damn lap and kiss him on the mouth."

Utter silence. Awe.

The two stared each other down, both smug and unshakably confident. But Hawke knew in her gut that there was no way she could lose. And she could already envision the blessed silence in her home when her mother couldn't hound her about suitors and marriage. This is what winning a war must feel like, she imagined. Pure, unadulterated triumph.

Yes, Hawke thought, relishing the stunned reactions of her comrades. This was how victory felt.

Thirty seconds was more than Isabela could stand, apparently. "By Andraste's Holy Rack!" she exclaimed, pounding her fists on the table. "Show your cards show your cards show your cards!"

Hawke flipped hers over, fanning them out prettily. "Orsino, two Circle mages, Elthina... and Sebastian. Chantry flush." She leaned in, batting her eyelashes in Varric's direction. "Bring roses, dwarf. A lot of them."

Anders whistled, and Isabela clapped her on the shoulder. "Oh, I would pay to see the look on Leandra's face when the merchant prince of Kirkwall gets down on one knee to ask permission to date her precious baby girl."

"I would not get too ahead of yourselves," Fenris warned them, his voice cooling their excitement like an icy wind. "It is not certain that she has won."

"Are you blind?" Isabela asked, frowning. "There's no-"

The elf held up a hand to silence her, his stare focused intently on the dwarf, whose expression hadn't so much as twitched when Hawke had shown her hand.

"Varric?"

The other player obliged as slowly and theatrically as possible, flipping his cards one by one.

Templar. Lieutenant. Knight-Captain Cullen. Knight-Commander Meredith.

"Shit," muttered the pirate.

That didn't even come close to the feeling that knotted itself up in Hawke's stomach. All the dwarf needed to win was one more high card. She had completely forgotten about the Order suit. But there were only five high cards in the game, and three of them were out on the table already. The chances that he had one of the remaining two were -

He flipped the last card before she had a chance to finish calculating the odds, and her victorious high collapsed around her.

A monstrous, fire-breathing, scale-covered, winged and unmistakable High Dragon stared up from the worn wooden surface.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he purred in a low, smooth voice, "but I don't think I'm your man."

Quietly, Hawke drank the remainder of every tankard on the table, to which no one objected.

"Well," she said, reaching for a bottle of wine that Isabela had won, "maybe he can come talk to Mother."

Chapter Text

She couldn't quite recall why she was standing in front of the Qunari compound.

Or rather, she did, but she couldn't bring herself to remember what had possessed her to slap her hand down on that infernal betting slip.

Sit in the Arishok's lap, she'd written.

Kiss him on the mouth, she'd written.

The last twelve hours had been spent trying to find a loophole. Her and her big, stupid ego. Stupid overconfidence. Stupid ale. Stupid card game.

Stupid Varric.

The object of her thoughts seemed to sense the tension radiating off of her shoulders and pointing in his general direction.

"Listen, Hawke -"

She held a hand up to silence him. "I've killed a high dragon."

"Right, but you didn't have to kiss it."

She stared up at the big, open gates and the guards eying her. She'd paid the Arishok visits before. They'd had long conversations about the Qun, military strategy, and the stupidity of the criminal element here in Kirkwall. She'd even asked him about Seheron on occasion, and that resulted in the closest thing to flowery language she'd ever gotten from him. She was honest with him about all of her dealings with the Qunari and the Viscount, and went out of her way to respect his beliefs and fighting prowess. And he, in turn, did not crush her like an insect.

He was a reasonable man, she told herself. A reasonable man from a completely different culture with a giant axe strapped to his back and courtyard full of well-trained soldiers. Which she was about to step into.

To kiss him on the mouth.

Her knees suddenly threatened to buckle, and she pinched herself. Hard. She didn't know why Isabela had declined to come along on this, what promised to be the most hilarious catastrophe in the history of the Free Marches, but she knew that the story would get back to her in spades. However this turned out.

She looked to her fellows. There was no way Varric would have missed this. Anders was there in case the Arishok tore her to shreds for her audacity, and Fenris had generously volunteered to cover anything potentially lost in translation.

Or at least, that's what they had told her. She was quite sure that they, like the dwarf, were highly entertained by the predicament she found herself in.

For someone who was potentially about to watch a friend get pummeled into oblivion for her insolence, Anders was remarkably jovial.

"This," he said. "This is so very worth every ounce of harassment from Isabela that I had to endure to sit at that table."

It seemed like such a long way to the stone entryway. So she took a step. And then another, each time silently swearing to herself to never gamble again.

"Fenris," Hawke said, not turning to face him. "Any last-minute tips?"

He stood by her side, arms folded calmly in front of him. "None at all."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Immensely."

Cursing herself for the last time, she steeled herself and strode onward, with purpose. The guards let her pass, used to seeing her come and go with some frequency.

She marched past the tents, past the armory, around the corner...

And there he was, intimidating as ever. Although being at the top of a giant staircase didn't hurt the already-impressive Qunari behemoth. He sat lazily on his dais, flanked by guards and resting his chin on one hand. His eyes followed her like a falcon's, sharp and dark and twisting her stomach into knots in a way she thought she'd never get used to.

"Shanedan, Hawke."

"Arishok. I hope today finds you well."

"As well as it can."

She paused, frantically trying to think of a natural way to work up to the very public display of intimately invading his personal space. Unsurprisingly, nothing came to her, and she stood in the quiet, buried deep in thought. It briefly occurred to her that she might have wanted to brainstorm before storming into his compound.

"Silence?" The Arishok seemed almost entertained. "I had not thought your kind capable."

"You know me," she let out a sigh, "always full of surprises."

You really have no idea.

She tried to be as truthful as possible. "As of last night, I found myself with business here."

Varric snorted, and she resisted the urge to kick him in the groin.

With a frown, the Arishok leaned forward. "I have heard no reports, nor are any of my men missing."

"I'm not here about any of your men. Or mine."

"What, then?"

"Just one... small thing, and I promise I'll be done bothering you for the day."

He tapped his clawed fingernails along the stone of his dais in mild annoyance. "You are never done bothering me, Hawke."

"I will, I promise. The whole day."

"Meaning that you will leave only to return tomorrow with something else inane to bring to my attention?"

"Once we're done, I'll leave you alone for a week."

That got his attention. He visibly hesitated, and a glimmer of hope shone in Hawke's vision. She was sure that a week free of the humans' petty troubles and badgering was worth its weight in diamonds to the collective of bas-weary giants.

"A week?"

"On my honor."

He scoffed at the phrase, but the appeal of her offer was undeniable. Leaning back, he gave her a short affirmative nod. "Very well. I am curious to hear what it is that is worth a week of peace."

Hawke scratched the back of her neck, almost sheepishly. "It's not something you can hear, exactly."

"Clarify."

As he and everyone else watched, she walked up to one of the guards at the base of the steps and handed him the daggers from her hips. He took them, but didn't question. She figured she wouldn't make it within ten feet of the Arishok armed, after all. And she wouldn't be needing them for what she intended to do. She was pretty sure.

It had been a while.

She made it to the stairs before his men reached for their weapons, but the Arishok held up a hand to stop them. He followed her intently, eyes never leaving hers as she placed one knee on either side of his legs. She could feel the muscles beneath her shift, but not tense, as she settled her thighs on top of his.

She tried to think of a way to explain this. There were so many things she could say, so many lies she could tell. He'd see through the lies, and something in her couldn't stomach the thought of this man losing one ounce of whatever hard-earned respect he had for her. No lies, she decided. And no mentioning the gambling. Trouble was, that left her with neither lies nor the truth, that was to say... nothing. Absolutely nothing she could say to excuse what she came here to do.

He was still watching her, his head resting lazily on one propped-up arm. The claws tucked under his jawline, though out of sight, were not forgotten. And he had not moved to dislodge her.

"Talk is cheap," she declared.

"Yes," he agreed.

And before she could think about it enough to stop, she took his massive, bronze-hued face in her hands and covered his mouth with hers.

His skin was warm against her palms, leather-like and smooth with the occasional raised scar under her fingertips. She was only vaguely aware of hushed voices around them, mostly speaking in a tongue not her own but very clearly Qunari for "What."

She tilted her head slightly, pressing against him and inhaling deeply, breathing in the smell of incense and leather. It burned her nose and throat, and she couldn't tell if the dizziness that followed was a symptom or a high.

It could also have been a direct result of the unparalleled adrenaline rush that she was experiencing. She could feel her pulse pounding even in her ears, and she was sure that the Arishok could, too.

But having a heartbeat meant that she was still alive. Which was more than she expected; she didn't know much about the Qun, but she assumed that displaying such audacity toward a high-ranking leader wasn't exactly met with a parade.

And, Hawke realized with a start, she hadn't planned an exit strategy. Panic started to creep into her lungs, and she started to draw back very, very slowly.

A broad hand on her lower back stayed her. And, to her complete and utter surprise, a second hand wrapped itself around the back of her neck, pulling her back to exactly where she was.

He was kissing her back, that bastard. This had not been part of the plan.

Not that she'd had one. But this wouldn't have been part of it.

Then the Arishok's tongue was at her lips, and she yielded easily. The panic dissipated, giving way to a blissful lack of any thought whatsoever. He tasted like the spiced teas she had been given on her visits, and as he tilted her forward in his lap, her fingers fumbled over his ears and buried her blunt nails in his scalp. A low growl resonated in his chest, and the vibrations stirred up something long-neglected in her blood.

The hand on her neck moved up to grasp a fistful of hair roughly, winding his thick fingers into it and tightening his control over her head. She could feel him smirk faintly against her lips as she moaned, and he took advantage of the heightened sensation to gently press his canines against her mouth in a feral reminder of who exactly she was dealing with.

That did it. Hawke crushed herself against him and pulled away slowly, catching his bottom lip between her teeth as she did so. She firmly sank them into his flesh once before releasing him, his warm breath brushing the heated skin of her face as she waited for him to do the same with the hand wrapped in her hair.

He studied her for a long moment, not granting her an inch of distance. She met his stare, unwavering, dragging her fingers back along his neck and chest to slowly rejoin the rest of her body.

"Hawke."

"Arishok."

His smirk returned briefly as a flicker across his face and disappeared just as soon as it was there. Her whole body felt heavy with lead as he slowly and deliberately pulled his hand free, releasing her from his hold.

After extracting herself from his limbs while struggling to maintain any sense of dignity or balance, Hawke straightened her armor as he watched, visibly amused. One steadying breath later, she was on her way down the stairs to the guard who held her blades. She slid them back into place, feeling a large chunk of her rational mind return to her as they clicked home.

His voice nearly shrank her back down to nothing again.

"One week, Serah Hawke."

A shiver went down her spine, and she tightened her chest-piece for the familiar comfort.

"A week," she confirmed as she turned and walked toward the gates. "I am a woman of my word."

"Yes," Varric said under his breath, tearing up her wager slip as he followed. "Yes, you certainly are."

Once outside the compound, he and Anders were beside themselves, animatedly blathering at each other and neither really listening.

"- ready to jump in with a barrier the whole time -"

"- could've pissed myself when she -"

"- and the way he didn't even -"

"- did you see when his hand -"

"- dear Maker, the claws alone -"

As they chattered, Fenris quickened to walk beside her.

"You yet live," he congratulated her.

"I do," she said, smiling despite herself. "Debt-free and with an interesting story to tell."

"I would think that 'interesting' fails to cover the half of it."

"You're telling me," exclaimed Varric, rejoining the conversation. "What was it like, swapping saliva with the Lord of the Angry Giants? Details, so that I can blow the whole thing way out of proportion later."

She laughed at his honesty, and was considering how much of her body's reaction to omit in the retelling when Anders pointed out the red drops that were blossoming on her mouth.

Hawke ran her tongue over her bottom lip, tasting the copper tang of blood.

"Must've been from when he bit me," she mused out loud.

"Bit you?"

Fenris seemed unsurprised. "Qunari do that," he explained. "Sharp teeth are a natural advantage."

"I suppose, but..." The healer trailed off, either unable or unwilling to complete that thought. "Didn't that frighten you?"

"No." She kept walking, not missing a beat. "I bit him back."

Hawke took no small satisfaction in the way her answer caused the dwarf stop dead in his tracks, utterly dumbfounded. After a moment, he scurried to catch up to her, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Hey, Hawke?"

"What?"

He chuckled. "You're kind of my hero."

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for the story to spread throughout Kirkwall, and, for all Hawke knew, the rest of the damn continent. She was used to getting stared at and whispered about, but this was a new level of uncomfortable. Especially -

"Fenris!"

Hawke stormed over to the usual table in the Hanged Man, seeing her favorite dwarf sitting by the fire with the very person she'd been looking for.

"Hawke," he greeted, hands folded delicately over crossed legs. "Something you need?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "You spent a lot of time with the Qunari in Seheron. Notice anything different about these ones lately? In how they treat me?"

"Ah, so you noticed." He smirked and leaned back. "I thought you might."

"It's eerie."

"Okay," Varric said, putting down his ledger, "what did I miss?"

Hawke resisted the urge to comment on her disbelief that the dwarf was actually doing work and instead tried to articulate the source of her irritation.

"Compared to the one-word grunts that they call answers I got before, the Kithshok are practically chatty nowadays. And the ones that wouldn't so much as look me in the eye before," Hawke frowned as she explained, "now they give me this kind of... nod. Like they approve all of a sudden."

"They do." Fenris fought down a chuckle, and Hawke wanted to deck him a little for being so smug. "I took the opportunity to speak to a Sten earlier. It seems your... stunt was seen as offering yourself to the Arishok as a breeding female."

She prickled. "As a-!"

"And," the elf continued, "as the Arishok is the strongest and most accomplished male, the Qunari find your actions a display of good judgment. Consequently, you have risen quite a bit in their estimation."

Varric was nearly howling with laughter as Hawke's legs gave way and she collapsed onto the bench.

"For as long as I live," she sighed, chin in hand, "I will never understand the Qunari."

"Cheer up, Hawke," Varric said, hiccuping a little and dabbing at his eyes. "So what if the Arishok thinks you want to bear his scary, enormous babies?"

She glared. You're not helping, that look said.

"Tell you what." He leaned over and patted her hand. "If it makes you feel better, I'll send someone to your house tomorrow after lunch to quiet down your mother. Like the bet I promised."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is it a male whore?"

He paused, and Hawke knew she'd hit the nail on the head. "Well, if you're going to be picky, then no. I'll find someone nice and upstanding-looking to pay you and Leandra a visit."

"I appreciate it." She stood to leave, and Varric stopped her, reaching into his satchel.

"Hawke, wait." He handed her a slip of paper, and at first she was confused to recognize her own handwriting. Until she saw what it read.

One very girly gown. Custom tailored to the winner's specifications.

"Wear something nice," he said.

She could feel Fenris' smile on her back as she stormed out to the nearest seamstress.

Hawke stopped by the hallway mirror for the upteenth time, turning her head left and right to inspect the job Orana had done on her hair. The elf had been all too happy to pull the unruly reddish curls into braided submission, and Hawke had all but fled when her maid mentioned how nice some little white flowers from the garden would look woven in just here and if her mistress would only let her -

As she tugged her dress (now bringing the grand total she owned to two, which was two more than she ever thought possible) into place, her mother stopped behind her with a knowing smile. "Mairead, you've fixed that thing so much in the last hour. If you keep it up, you'll wear holes in the skirts." She brushed a few stray dog hairs off of the blue silk, her smile only broadening. "Expecting someone?"

Hawke froze. "No." A pause. "Maybe."

"Mhmm."

She sighed, blowing a few loose curls out of her face. "Look, if someone comes to the door, just let me get it."

"Whatever you say." Leandra took a few steps toward the library before looking back to take in the rare sight of her savage daughter – in a new dress, of all things – primping in the mirror. "Introduce him to me sometime."

"Mother."

"All right, I'm going, I'm going."

As soon as she was out of sight, Hawke let out a breath of relief. Damn it all if Varric's plan wasn't working. Her mother was in a better mood than ever, and hadn't shown her any portraits of eligible bachelors since the heart attack she'd nearly had when her daughter's gown had been delivered this morning. If this kept her mother quiet for even a week, she swore she'd keep this guy Varric sent over on retainer.

As she took a long last look in the glass, she felt a tiny swell of feminine pride bubble up in her chest. She straightened, admiring her reflection with a turn or two. She still adamantly preferred her leathers, but there was no denying the aesthetic appeal of the dress on her curves. It made her look... softer. Gentler. And the sea-colored fabric brought out the bluer tints in her eyes.

The Arishok would pitch a fit to see her dressed like a woman, she thought to herself with a chuckle, but choked on it before it could escape her throat.

Where had that come from?

She splayed a hand over her stomach, calming the fluttering in her abdomen. Sharp yellow eyes rose to the forefront of her mind, and a tingle of searing heat ran through her hands where they had touched him.

Red and gold and bronze and warm.

"Hawke."

She spun as she heard her name called in his voice, heart pounding. Instead, she looked down slightly to see her manservant standing at the entryway.

"Didn't mean to startle you messere," Bodahn said, raising his hands apologetically. "Should've announced m'self earlier, I suppose."

"Ah, Bodahn. It was nothing." She cleared her throat. "You need something?"

"Someone at the door for you," he said, not getting to finish before Hawke bolted for the front hall and paused to smooth out her bodice, opening the door with a ladylike smile to greet -

...white armor?

She stared up in disbelief. "Sebastian?"

"Hawke." He blinked in surprise at the yards of skirt billowing around her legs. "You look lovely! What's the occasion?"

"I own a dress now. What brings you here?"

"I was sent here, actually." He tilted his head as he paused, a curious spark behind his eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips. "Varric mentioned your sudden interest in joining the Chantry."

Nice. Upstanding.

Hawke was going to strangle that dwarf.