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From the first she had admired him, stern and in command, always in command. But his suspicion didn’t bite like Cassandra’s, and his curiosity, unlike Solas’ didn’t make her feel like a specimen to be studied. He didn’t entirely know what to make of her, but then again, she hardly knew what to make of herself anymore.
She fell in love with his voice first.
She couldn’t help it. She was a singer, and his voice was like liquid honey, golden and warm. She didn’t seek him out, exactly, but when she did encounter him, at the war table, by the training field, she found herself doing everything in her power to keep him talking - even when it meant that mortifying questions slipped out by accident. But then that perfect voice stuttered, tripped over itself, and if she did it again on purpose later, well, it was worth the mortification.
And then he sang.