A/N: This is another Cheeky Monkey challenge. The challenge was to take a character from one of my stories and make them do something completely out of character. This will no doubt shock many of my readers but there's not a bit of smut to be had. Probably why it's shorter than most of my one-shots. Josslyn, Teagan and the gang are from my story With Noble Intent.

Dancing with the Enemy

"I'm really not sure about this," Teagan stated yet again, the barest hint of a frown marring his handsome features.

Joss smiled serenely at him. "Teagan, what could possibly go wrong?"

That was hardly reassuring, coming from the woman who tripped over her own feet more often than not. Or the woman who had managed to misplace a dead high dragon. Or the woman who had encased him in ice when her magic had flashed out of control. That wouldn't have been terrible had he not been nude at the time. Nor was it reassuring coming from the woman who had alienated an entire Dalish clan in a fit of pique over a lovelorn young man. Or the woman who wore gelatinous grey gravy on her face when she was trying to get rid of a case of hives. Teagan sighed. What could possibly go wrong indeed?

"You're thinking too much," Joss chided. She leaned up and kissed him softly. "This will be a breeze."

He cringed, remembering the time she and Wynne had come to verbal blows one night. Joss, her anger and magic flaring, had created a tempest over the entire camp, sending people scurrying for cover and blowing the tents from one end of Ferelden to the other. They never had found Jowan's tent.

"A piece of cake," she corrected with a glib smile, no doubt having seen the look of panic he was sure he wore.

Teagan groaned, recollecting the one time she had actually tried to bake a cake. In Orzammar. For the newly crowned King of Orzammar. The king had still pledged his troops to fight against the Blight but only after extracting a promise from Joss that she not return until all the repairs were made and never, under any circumstances, was she to visit the royal kitchens again. Ever.

"A stroll in the garden?" Joss asked hopefully.

Teagan winced as a memory of a certain rose garden escapade came to mind. He was still convinced a thorn was buried in his derriere although Joss had certainly searched exhaustively (and quite pleasantly) for it to no avail. And his brother blushed every time he saw Teagan or Joss.

"Trust me," she entreated softly, kissing him again.

"I do, my dear. I trust you with my life but I…" he began only to be cut off as she kissed him again, her tongue teasing his lips for entrance. The woman may not be able to cross a room without tripping twice, but she definitely knew how to kiss.

"Have faith," she whispered before turning to the golden haired elf beside her.

"Ready for bed, my handsome assassin?"

"Always, my lovely Warden."

Teagan watched them enter the bedchamber, wondering why he had agreed to her scheme and why they were using his bedchamber. He shook his head and went in search of a bottle of Antivan Brandy.

Loghain Mac Tir finished polishing his right greave and gave it a satisfied smirk of approval. His Chevalier armor gleamed like quicksilver in the early morning sun streaming through the windows of his quarters. The Warden was in for a surprise if she thought she would waltz into the Landsmeet and win over the nobles.

Without aid, Loghain began quickly and efficiently to don his armor, snapping each piece into place with the precision of long years. Not a dent, not a crease, not a speck of rust marred the pristine finish of the plate he'd worn for over thirty years. He stretched his shoulders, adjusting the pauldrons until they were perfectly square. That red-headed chit would not get the better of him. Better men had tried and failed.

Loghain carefully brushed and braided his hair, frowning. Was the left braid a bit bulkier than the right? It appeared that way. With deft fingers, he unwound the offending braid and rewove it. Perfectly even. He lifted his chin. For thirty years he had protected Ferelden from all enemies, foreign and domestic and he would continue to do so, despite the Warden's fool notion that only she could stop the Blight.

Next he unsheathed his sword, the edge glittering like diamonds as the sunlight caught the finely honed blade. He carefully plucked a hair from his head, careful to avoid his tidy – and even – braids. He tested his blade, another satisfied smirk on his lips as the hair split lengthwise against the cold hard edge of his sword. With a whispered 'snick' the blade was sheathed once more and he strapped the sword to his waist. A trim waist, a warrior's fit waist. His smile was both feral and smug. The poor woman hadn't a chance.

With long powerful strides, Loghain left his chamber and made his way down the corridors of the place, stopping briefly to chat with Cauthrien, who was everything a woman should be; tall, broad of shoulder and hip, and an uncompromising soldier.

"All is in ready, Sire," she assured with quiet authority.

"It's best you wait out here, Cauthrien. I don't want the nobles to feel intimidated. At least not by anyone other than myself," he added with a cool smile lighting his pale blue eyes.

"As you wish, Sire," she murmured, bowing slightly. He nodded his approval. Her armor gleamed every bit as brightly as his did, for all that it was mere dragonbone and a pale maroon in color. Still, they made a striking pair, he had to admit. It was a shame she couldn't enter at his side. The sight would surely send that mousy mage shimmying back to the infernal circle from whence she came.

The nobles were waiting impatiently for the proceedings to begin. Eamon, that pathetic, fat old man, was stuffed into armor that was entirely too snug for him. Loghain's smirk grew. What a fool to align himself with the wench from Kinloch Hold. Loghain's smirk turned to a contemptuous laugh.

He cleared his throat and began his prepared and memorized speech. Never let them see you sweat, his father had told him. Loghain did not believe in sweating. He stood cool and collected.

"Lords and Ladies! I bring to your attention the matter of the Blight. Let us stand together and defeat the Archdemon just as we stood together and defeated those Orlesian bastards!"

A murmur rustled and shifted through the Landsmeet Chamber. Loghain continued, "We don't need the Grey Warden spies to defeat it, we need only the same grit and determination we are famous for, have always been famous for. Might will win it. Brute force will beat back this scourge."

He had them in the palm of his hand. He took the time to look each noble in the eye. The bunch of weak-willed, parsimonious, pusillanimous, pathetic, pretentious panderers. It was amazing that they'd actually defeated the Orlesians to begin with. The nobles were nodding and waving their puny fists in the air.

The door to the chamber swung open and the Warden tart strutted in, accompanied by the bastard princeling and the womanizing Teagan Guerrin and…Maker's balls, was that the elf he'd hired to assassinate her? Loghain clapped at their grand entrance, putting as much sarcasm into his smile as was humanly possible. Her lips twisted into a smile. Brazen woman.

"Well, well. Warden Jester," Loghain commented, imbuing each word with contempt.

"Good afternoon, Loghain. You're looking well. You must have slept very deeply last night."

Loghain gawped at the girl. Woman, he corrected himself. No girl, she. And what kind of strategy was that? Compliment the enemy and talk of mundane matters? This really was going to be much too easy. His jaws snapped shut.

"Warden, how kind of you to join us. Tell us, with all your wisdom and insight, why we should follow your lead?"

The woman smiled very prettily at him and curtseyed. "I won't be leading, Loghain. I believe you will be," she said with a tinkling laugh.

He blinked. Was she mad? Or crafty? His eyes narrowed as he studied her. She was wearing a gown, for the Maker's sake. How could she possibly be prepared to defend her position in a gown? What kind of a warrior wore a silk gown?

"Indeed, Madam. Then why have we been fighting these past ten months or more?" he demanded coldly.

"A question I have pondered many a night, Loghain. Perhaps because you haven't a clue how to fight a Blight?"

A gasp ran through the assemblage. Loghain straightened to his full height, shoulders square and mouth turned down. "How dare you impugn my reputation!" he roared. Wait, he was losing control and he had promised himself he'd remain aloof and icy.

"Oh my, have I stepped on your toes?" the Warden asked apologetically. "I am so sorry, I'm not familiar with the steps of this particular dance."

Loghain moved closer to her, so close he saw the mossy green and gold of her eyes as they widened. "Then let me rectify that right now," he growled.

Another audible gasp rose from the spectators as he took another step closer to the woman, who was not nearly as plain as he had first imagined. He smirked smugly at the woman. She winked. Winked? What was she playing at?

"Choose your weapon, Loghain."

There was a pregnant pause as every eye in the chamber focused on the tableau before them. Loghain shifted slightly and leaned close. "The Remigold," he snarled.

With a nod from the Warden a small orchestra, hiding in the dim corner at the back of the room, began to play the opening strains of the Remigold. She held her hands out and he took them in his, bowing over them before sliding to the left. She hopped and dipped and swayed as he strutted them down an invisible line. A hop later they were going in the opposite direction. When they were back to their original starting point, he bowed over her hands once more before sliding to the right and doing a half kick-step. Turning on his heel he skip-stepped down the line to the far wall, her crossed hands held in front of him. He remembered to point his toe with each skip-step.

She was a good dancer, he gave her that.

Alistair was still snickering three hours later. Josslyn, bruised feet resting on a pillow, shook her head. "I very nearly lost. One more boot-smash to my poor feet and I'd have conceded defeat."

"Still, it was pretty funny to see the Hero of River Dane mincing around the Landsmeet chamber dancing the Remigold. How did you manage that?"

"Someone was walking around in the Fade," Teagan said, handing a glass of much needed Antivan brandy to Josslyn.

"Maker's breath, Josslyn! You're a Fade Walker?" Alistair gulped. "You haven't been in my dreams, have you?" he squeaked nervously.

"Well not yet, but after that reaction, you can bet I will visit them soon," Joss replied with a teasing grin. "Zevran has proven quite good at watching over me while I walk the Fade. I haven't the heart to ask Teagan to do it, just in case I turn into one of those pesky abominations you hear so much about."

"And thankful I am, my dear. However, next time, perhaps you'd consider using another room?" Teagan asked, refilling her glass.

"So now that Loghain's troops are pledged to us and the civil war is over, and you didn't make me king - thank you, thank you, thank you - what are we going to do next?"

"Next we end the Blight. And no, I'm not going to dance the Remigold with the Archdemon."

Fin