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Leaning against the stone wall of a quiet corner turret, a lone feminine figure peered between the crenellated crests, surveying the sweeping mountain ridge stretching into the distance.
An odd place to find the spymaster, Josephine thought as she approached. The Orlesian woman tended to keep to shadows and difficult to reach nooks when she did her watching, a habit formed during her days as a bard, no doubt.
Though, perhaps it was not so strange after all, given the circumstances.
“I admit, I am surprised to find you on the ramparts, Layla,” the ambassador greeted in her rich Antivan accent, the nickname leftover from their time playing The Game. “What in Andraste’s name are you doing up here in the windy cold?”
That howling mountain air whipped around Josephine, tugging her dark hair from its pins and cutting through the fine fabrics of her fashionable dress. She tucked a curl behind her ear and wrapped puff-sleeved arms around her torso to block out the worst of the assault.
Leliana did not take her eyes from her quarry, but turned her delicate face just enough for her friend to see the soft smile curled on her lips. “The same thing as you, I’ll wager.”
Years of experience at court kept the blush from her face, but she at least had the good humor to dip her chin bashfully. With practiced grace, she stalked toward the Left Hand of the late Divine, leaning in close beside her to see through the gap in the stone, one hand balanced firmly on the icy sill.
A thrill ran through the ambassador as her eyes alighted on a pair of silhouettes cutting dark outlines against the blanket of snow on the ground below. One short and familiar, the other new and larger than life.
Josephine Montilyet was a social woman at heart, much as certain figureheads could wear on her. A social woman and a former bard, like Leliana, with a fondness for songs and stories and juicy bits of gossip. It was why she’d found their resident dwarven author so utterly charming, his tales - both the purely fictional and the ones purported to be based in truth - providing an endless source of delicious diversion.
But few tales were as captivating as that of the Champion of Kirkwall. Drama, intrigue, and a mage with a heart of gold often finding herself on the wrong side of the law - it had it all. A tragedy limned with untampable hope, a heroine constantly knocked down only to get back to her feet one final time, and then another. And, if Varric was to be believed, a font of colorful witticisms and romantic dalliances that put the Dowager herself to shame.
She’d read his book on the subject at least twice as many times as Cassandra had, the most lascivious passages lovingly dog-eared for ease of return ventures.
“Is that really…?” she began to ask, her voice pitching up slightly in excitement, somewhat unbecoming of a lady.
Leliana’s eyes twinkled with conspiratorial mirth, but her only reply was, “He likely wanted the opportunity to reunite away from prying eyes.”
Prying eyes like those belonging to a certain seeker, no doubt, one that was surely going to kill the Inquisition’s favorite story-teller for taking one too many liberties when spinning his yarns. Maker’s breath, the Champion of Kirkwall… Not only alive, but here in Skyhold.
Josephine made a note to arrange a private dinner with Lady Amell-Hawke for the Inquisitor and her cabinet of advisors. Perhaps Layla’s spies could divine whether the hero preferred braised mutton or roast quail.
Below them, the legend in question was perched on a fallen tree from the latest snowstorm, watching on as an agitated Varric paced the length of it in front of her. The ambassador had never seen the man so vexed in all their time serving the Inquisition. His large booted feet were wearing a deep trench through layers of fluffy white snow.
She opened her mouth to quiz the spymaster on everything her keen eyes had caught thus far, but it was another voice that sounded in place of hers.
“Lady Montilyet. Nightingale. I was just going over the provision reports for the troops and-”
The Knight-Commander drew up short as he realized both women were ignoring him entirely, preferring to stare through the assault slit in the wall as if he’d said nothing at all.
Leliana lifted one surreptitious finger and pointed at something outside the castle, her fellow advisor nodding and… Maker, was their fine, well-mannered ambassador giggling?
Cullen stepped closer, his towering height allowing him to see over the heads of the tittering women. At first, all he noticed was the merchant prince carving a path through the snow, his usual bright tunic standing out vividly against the white landscape like a blood spill. Then…
Andraste’s flaming sword.
That wasn’t a face the ex-templar had ever hoped to see again.
Of course, he’d known to expect her. Tethras had, after all, announced his plan to invite the Champion to join their cause. But holy Maker… He’d thought perhaps he’d be able to spend the next several weeks dodging the rebel mage by ducking down dark corridors or hiding in storage houses when she walked by.
It was a ridiculous thought. He was a decorated officer, and a leader amongst the Inquisition. He was better than hiding from a young woman like a cowering child.
And looking at her now, she seemed almost harmless, grinning at her friend with that signature telltale look of mischief…
She was going to burn all of Skyhold to the ground, wasn’t she?
Varric, uncharacteristically, looked inclined to agree.
Down below, the dwarf was gesticulating angrily, wagging a gloved finger in the Champion’s direction and balling his hands into fists before shaking his head and resuming his pacing.
Cullen stared, brow furrowed. “My understanding was that they were friends. Close friends. I don’t believe I ever saw one without the other when I was stationed in Kirkwall.”
Josephine nodded, glancing at Leliana, who remained smugly taciturn. “That was my understanding on the matter, yes. You do not think it the case now, Commander?”
“Look at them,” he answered, nonplussed. “He… Well, he looks like he wants to attack her. I daresay, he’s practically shaking with rage.”
The ambassador studied them more closely, sighing softly in quiet disappointment. “Goodness, you’re right. I wonder if they’ve had a row, and about what. I cannot fathom how our information could have been so incorrect if that is not the case.”
It was the bard-turned-hand-turned-spymaster who spoke, a wry smile pulling at her lips. “They are lovers.”
Her fellow advisors turned to gawp, jaws slack.
Leliana’s grin widened.
“Surely, that cannot be,” Josephine protested, hand held to her throat. “His stories… They involved the Tevinter elf or the Rivaini privateer. Even the heretic apostate on occasion. Never himself!”
“Yes, because Varric Tethras has never been known to fabricate the truth,” Leliana shot back, sharp humor in her tone.
Doubt glittered in her once-fellow bard’s dark eyes.
“That’s impossible,” Cullen scoffed with a shake of his head. “The dwarf loves few things more than to boast of his better qualities. If he had such an… intimate attachment to someone like the Champion, everyone in Thedas would know of it.”
“If that were true, Commander,” the Orlesian purred in a voice like silk, “then, given his proclivity for lying, should he not have given himself a larger role in his own tale? Made himself the protagonist and the Champion a sparkling footnote to boost his reputation and credibility? Yet, he neglects his own interests in favor of writing and speaking of her with glowing accolades that would make Empress Celene envious. The Tale of the Champion isn’t merely an attempt to set the record straight about a falsely accused enemy of the Chant. It is a love letter.”
Cullen opened his mouth to argue, but could think of no fitting rebuttal.
Josephine’s dubious expression had shifted to something more akin to ravenous glee, giving away her hope that the truth might, in fact, be more romantic than they could have suspected. The heroic Champion, falling for the author who penned her legend into well-established fact. The artist and his muse. Andraste’s pyre, it was simply too delectable to be true.
Sighing in frustration at their continued cynicism, Leliana nodded to the pair conducting their secret reunion beyond the walls of the keep. “See the way she smirks timidly, like she’s playing the part of a chastised harlot. The way she reaches out to straighten his collar or smooth an errant lock of hair, and the way he, in turn, closes his eyes for just the briefest of moments before stepping away, admonishing her. See, now, how she tucks her hands beneath her thighs to keep the offending members obediently in place.”
As if on cue, Hawke leaned languidly forward to rest her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists, grinning wickedly, saying something none of them could hear.
Varric took half a step toward her, practically lunging, before jerking to a stop and glowering at her, his exposed chest heaving.
Josephine gasped delightedly, clasping her hands to her heart, nearly vibrating with exhilarated gratification. “Perhaps we should… avert our gazes before he pins her to the ground and ravages her amidst the open mountain vistas,” she trilled, proceeding to do no such thing.
Beside her, the Knight-Commander sputtered. “Andraste's holy… There were so many rumors about Hawke's dalliances in Kirkwall that I just dismissed out of hand for their contradictions and outrageous nature. I… might need to reconsider some of those now.”
Without looking up, the spymaster said, “I want a report of every rumor you've heard on my desk by tomorrow.”
“A… report… of the Champion’s dalliances? Really, Leliana, I hardly think that's necessary…”
“Mine as well,” the Antivan chimed, still watching the couple. When Cullen began questioning again, she insisted, “We need to know everything we can about our allies if we're to be prepared for every outcome.”
The flame-haired woman nodded next to her.
Cullen sighed.
With a smirk and an almost pitying edge to her voice, Leliana exclaimed, “Cassandra is going to punish herself thoroughly for missing this.”
“Yes, but if she were here, we would not get to watch such a scene unfold,” Josephine countered, trying desperately to read the players’ lips like she were watching a silent theater performance. “And I, for one, think they deserve their quiet moment alone.”
Well, as alone as goldfish in a bowl.
For the first time, Cullen snorted a laugh. “Before the Seeker beats the poor man to death, you mean. Fair enough.”
They all chuckled. Then, in unison, they each glanced over their shoulder to ensure the Right Hand was nowhere in sight.
“Should we even be watching this?” Cullen finally asked. His face burned scarlet as Varric took up a seat on the log next to Hawke, leaning in close to whisper something in her ear. It could have been a friendly gesture… but the way she reached across to toy with the buttons on his tunic was decidedly not. The dwarf caught her hand and pulled it away from his chest, but did not let it drop.
Leliana shrugged. “If they're going to do such things where anyone might see, then we can hardly be blamed for spectating.”
Her conscience getting the better of her penchant for gossip, Josephine said, “They went to all the trouble to stay outside the walls of the keep. They clearly wished to be alone.”
A tinkling laugh sang from the Orlesian. “Josie dear, the dwarf runs a spy network of his own and pens crime serials. He's quite aware that my eyes and ears are everywhere, I assure you. Why do you think he chastises her so?”
Josephine's smile was wide and unburdened as she leaned onto the sill to get a better view.
Varric leaned in as well, the tip of his nose brushing Hawke's, their grinning lips almost touching. Then, abruptly, he forced her hand into her own lap and flicked her nose. Her jaw dropped in an inaudible gasp, and she shoved him off of the tree and into the cold, wet fluff. He propped himself onto his elbows and glared at her, shaking clumps of snow from his red-blonde hair… then tipped his head back and roared with laughter even the clustered trio of advisors could make out.
Josephine sighed contentedly. “This is even better than one of his romance novels.”
“Perhaps,” Leliana said roguishly, “this is why his novels are so titillating.”