And another romance and story I said I would never do that Inquisition has inspired! Just as an FYI, this will follow all the beats in the Iron Bull romance and will definitely earn the M rating. I will try to thoroughly mark all NSFW chapters as they come up, although we won't get there for a bit. This has been a really interesting challenge to write and I imagine will continue to be - I welcome constructive criticism, suggestions, and any other comments you may have. Enjoy!

The Iron Bull stood at the edge of the seashore, letting the waves lick his boots, and stared off across the Waking Sea into the distance. The smell was almost that of Seheron, if he closed his eyes, but the sound was entirely different. These waves crashed with violence onto the rocks, over and over, while the waves that lapped Seheron's shores were much gentler, more calming. Which he liked better was hard to say. Seheron was home, but the Storm Coast was more invigorating; it made him feel like fighting. And anything that made the Iron Bull feel like fighting was a good thing.

He opened up the parchment in his hand, his single eye scanning the lines, and sighed. He quite enjoyed running his own mercenary company ... sometimes enjoyed it enough to forget that his leash was held elsewhere. His handlers were reminding him of that right now, commanding him to take his Chargers and manage to get hired on with the new Inquisition that was forming in the south of Ferelden.

The Chargers had heard of the big hole in the sky that had opened when the Chantry Conclave was destroyed, but none of them were what you might call devout Andrastians, so no one had been overly concerned, not by the destruction of the Chantry. They'd looked on the hole in the sky with their typical healthy dose of skepticism. The massive Qunari spy ring, however, looked on the situation as a whole with curiosity and some concern, and wanted him to go and find out what was going on with the woman people were beginning to call "The Herald of Andraste." They discounted any possibility that a woman could accomplish much in a man's role, conveniently forgetting that the Hero of Ferelden who had stopped the last Blight had been a woman.

The Iron Bull had been away from Seheron and living among southerners long enough to have largely given up the idea that women were inferior in combat. He had quite a few amongst his Chargers, and they were as tough as any man; tougher, sometimes. And this Herald would need to do a lot of fighting. He understood from his handler's letter that she was standing up to rogue Templars and apostate mages as well as whatever demons were spilling forth from the Breach. The Iron Bull decided he had no objection whatsoever to swinging a blade in that service.

"Krem!" he shouted. "Get your worthless ass over here!"

His second-in-command came strolling over from the campsite. "You called, Chief? And so sweetly, too." He looked at the parchment. The Iron Bull hadn't made any secret of his work with the Ben-Hassrath, so Krem guessed immediately what he had been reading. "New orders?"

"Yeah. What've we got going right now?"

"Teyrn Cousland wants us to clear some bandits off the North Road."

"Hm." The Iron Bull frowned. "Can we skip it?"

Krem grimaced. "I'd rather not. Cousland's a good guy—he pays us well and takes care of his people, and I'd like to finish off the work for him, not burn that bridge." He raised his eyebrows. "The Inquisition, yeah?"

"You ought to be the spy."

"Not hard to figure out; it's the biggest thing going in the southern countries, and you're probably the closest agent the Ben-Hassrath have down here."

"Hard to say. They're not exactly open about who they've got where." The Iron Bull frowned at the parchment, weighing the options. He looked at Krem speculatively. "Tell you what, we'll finish off the bandits up here; you ride down and check out the Inquisition, tell this Herald of Andraste person the Chargers want to talk about joining up. Not like we need your lazy ass on this job, anyway."

Krem grinned. "You mean you'll probably get yourself killed without me, and I can take your share of the cut. Fine, then. I'll tell her to meet you here on the Coast, shall I?"

"Yeah. Sounds good." There was a pause as they both looked at each other, and the Iron Bull nodded. "You're right, we need a carrot. Something besides the Chargers to bring them out here. What've we got?"

Krem thought about that for a minute. "Gotta be something here on the Storm Coast."

"I've got it—those Vints who landed a few days ago. We were going to check them out anyway." The Iron Bull wondered if Krem knew that his use of the word "Vints" instead of Tevinters was as much a test of Krem, who had been born in the Imperium, as it was Qunari habit. The two races had been at war for a long, long time.

If Krem cared about that, he didn't show it. Never had, really, but that didn't stop the Iron Bull from testing him occasionally. "That's a good one, Chief. I think the Inquisition'll want to know that anyway."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

As his second-in-command hurried off, the Iron Bull turned back toward the ocean, shredding the parchment in his hands and letting the pieces fall into the water. He'd been getting too comfortable anyway, he told himself, and maybe this Inquisition would bring his men more opportunity to pick up some coin. They'd like that.

For himself, he was good. It wouldn't be by the ocean, and he would miss the sound of the waves and the smell of the sea, but as long as they had some ale, some meat, and some hot women, it wouldn't be such a bad change.

With that thought, he turned away from the sea, bellowing for his Chargers to assemble. They had some bandits to kill.

In the Inquisition camp at Haven, Ren Trevelyan, whom increasing numbers of people were beginning to call the "Herald of Andraste", was on her knees picking a lock. She listened carefully to the tumblers; it had been a while since the last lock she picked.

Something about that ... picking a lock ... it teased at her memory. But thinking on it too long was going to give her a headache, she had learned that by now, so she let the nagging thought go and put all her focus on the lock.

Soon enough, it gave, and she slipped inside the hut, looking around. The mage Solas was an enigma, and Ren had never been someone who liked waiting for an explanation to an enigma, not when she could force one by a little clandestine work. Sadly, other than the fact that the hut was mostly bare and almost painfully clean and held absolutely no personal ornaments or memorabilia at all, there appeared to be little in the way of answers to be found.

She let herself out the way she had come, clicking the lock into place behind her.

"Chuckles would not approve," said a voice off to her right, and she jumped about a foot in the air.

"Varric, was that necessary?"

"No, but entertaining, definitely." The dwarf grinned at her. "You find anything interesting in there?"

"Not a thing. And I mean that literally. Nothing. Who travels with nothing personal?"

"Someone who's been dropped out of the sky?"

Ren frowned at him. True enough, she had nothing of her own here in Haven—all her belongings had been destroyed in the explosion at the Conclave other than what she was wearing at the time. She should really send for the rest of her things at some point, but that would mean letting her family know where she was, which she wasn't at all anxious to do. One of the nice things about being taken on with the Inquisition meant no more family oversight. She followed Varric's train of thought, catching back up with the conversation. "So ... you're saying Solas fell from the sky?"

Varric shrugged. "He might have, for all we know." He grinned at her. "My tent's this way, if you want to go through my things."

"I did that last week."

"I know. But I've written another chapter since then, and I figured you might want to read it."

Ren chuckled. "I might just take you up on that."

"Where does a Marcher noble learn to pick locks and sneak around going through other people's stuff?"

"What else is there to do when you're bored at parties?"

Varric eyed her thoughtfully. "I get the feeling there's more to it than that."

"Possibly. Ask me again some other time, maybe I'll tell you. I suppose you could get me drunk ..."

"I've seen you drink, and I don't think I have that much coin."

They both laughed.

In her brief time in Haven with the forces that now formed the Inquisition, the dwarf was the closest thing to a friend Ren had made. She couldn't call him a real friend because there was something in him that was closed off, something he deflected people away from with a constant string of jokes and patter. Not that she didn't have her secrets, as well, her private thoughts, so she didn't blame him, but it would have been nice to have someone around she could truly relax with.

Solas, the apostate elf who somehow seemed to know so much about the Fade, was too serious, and the way he looked at Ren made her vaguely uncomfortable—like a bug being studied. The other mage who had joined the party, Vivienne, reminded Ren of one of her older sisters. She was nice enough, but always out for what was best for her agenda. Ren couldn't imagine Vivienne ever putting someone before herself. Although she fought well—generous with her magic and not sparing herself in the combat, which said good things about her.

The elf Sera was entertaining to drink with, but a bit too odd to trust fully. And Cassandra, the former Seeker who had called the Inquisition into being, was as straight-laced as they came, and still not entirely over her early suspicions of Ren. It was hard to blame her—falling out of a massive explosion unharmed and with an unexplainable green glowing mark on her hand was, if not necessarily the most suspicious thing Ren had ever done, well up there. Of course, there was past history there as well—five years ago Ren had been promised to marry one of Cassandra's distant relatives, a middle-aged member of the sprawling Pentaghast clan, and only Ren's last-minute disappearance had prevented such a fate. While Cassandra claimed not to care much about her family—something they had in common—running out on an obligation wasn't a move calculated to impress her.

Which left Ren's advisors, the three people responsible for the day-to-day running of the Inquisition. Sister Leliana, the spymaster, deep in her own head at all times. Ren liked her, but Leliana kept barriers up between herself and those around her. Josephine Montilyet, the ambassador, who seemed to know more about Ren's activities in the last five years than Ren would have liked, and didn't appear to approve. And Cullen, the commander of the forces, who looked as though he'd have a fine sense of humor if he didn't keep it locked up somewhere. Ren supposed that came from his years as a Templar. All three of them were really too busy for fun, anyway.

And everyone else in the Inquisition appeared too awed by the whole Herald of Andraste thing to be able to talk to Ren like she was a person, in large part. Which was ironic, because Ren didn't even believe in Andraste. Or the Maker, for that matter.

All of which left Ren spending most of her evenings in the tavern, talking to Flissa the barkeep or playing Wicked Grace with Varric or trying to drink enough to understand what in the Void Sera was getting at.

What they needed, Ren thought, were more people in Haven who weren't so bloody serious all the time. Not just for her, but for everyone—this level of intensity would be hard to maintain if they didn't take a break once in a while.

"Trying to decide how to liven up the place?" Varric asked. He had an uncanny way of following her thought processes.

"Something like that. Got any suggestions?"

"I'd suggest large amounts of alcohol, but I think right now that would just make everyone want to cry, which would defeat the purpose."

"Just a little," Ren agreed. She was restless—it felt like about time to go see what she could do outside of Haven to help build the Inquisition's reputation. She could use a good fight.

They were approaching the Chantry now, and Ren noticed a man in some really nice armor standing by the doors. He was talking to anyone who went by, but getting no luck in being listened to.

"Anything I can help with?" Ren asked him.

"I hope so. I've got a message for the Inquisition, but I'm having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me."

She sighed. "We've got to work on our infrastructure a bit. What's your message?"

"We've got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. In northern Ferelden," he clarified, when Ren looked at him blankly. "My company commander, the Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge."

Ren exchanged glances with Varric. "The Iron Bull"? There was a pretentious name if ever she'd heard one.

"I see you haven't heard of us. I'm Cremisius Aclassi, second in command," the man in the fine armor said. "You can ask around in Val Royeaux; we've got references. We're loyal, we're tough, and we don't break contracts."

"The 'Iron Bull'," she said. "What's he like as a commander?"

Cremisius Aclassi, second in command, didn't miss the ironic stressing of the nickname, and didn't like it much. "It's not as odd a name as it sounds," he said. "He's one of those Qunari—you know, the big guys, with the horns."

Varric coughed next to her, and Ren glanced at him, wondering what the trouble was with the Qunari, before she remembered having read about what the Qunari had done to Kirkwall.

Aclassi noticed, too, but he kept going. He seemed proud of his commander, and Ren respected him for that—and respected the commander a bit more, as well. It took some doing to gain the respect of your people. "Look," Aclassi said, "he leads from the front, he pays us well, and he's a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for. And he's professional; we accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer. This is the first time I've seen him pick a side." Something flickered across his face for a moment, some type of unease that left Ren wondering if there was more to it than picking a side. "The Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you're doing good work, and he thinks we can help." He looked around the camp. "I think we can, too."

Ren thought rapidly. There was more to this than there seemed, yes, and having a Qunari around could be tricky ... but they needed more people; if this Aclassi fellow could be believed, the Chargers would be hard workers; and it couldn't hurt to follow up on the information about the Tevinters. She nodded crisply. "I'll look into your references. If they check out, I look forward to meeting your 'Iron Bull'."

"We're the best you'll find," Aclassi said. "Come to the Storm Coast and see us in action." He handed her a map with their location marked on it, bowed, and made his way out of camp.

"I don't like it," Varric said.

"You were quiet."

"Smelling a rat. Or a trap. Or cheese."

"You're just saying that because the leader is Qunari."

Varric sighed. "Possibly."

"Maybe he's Qunari just like you're a dwarf." Varric frowned at her, and Ren grinned. "A prince among your kind, elevated far above the teeming masses of your fellow dwarva." She nudged him. "Get it? 'Elevated far above'? Because surface dwarf?"

"Oh, I got it. And your point. Not sure I like it, though."

Ren's eyes turned in the direction Aclassi had gone. "Any merc company rich enough to afford that armor can't suck too badly. I'll have Josephine look into their references—can't hurt to check them out. And if it's a trap, we'll just kill them all. Won't that be better?"

Varric shook his head. "You're scary sometimes."

"I do my best."