Characters: Female Hawke/Varric; with minor appearances by Cullen, Josephine, Cassandra, Leliana, and an unspecified Inquisitor
Word Count: ~3,250
Author Notes: This story was written as part of the Hightown Funk 2015 Gift exchange for baker-and-fangirl, who gave me some truly AWESOME prompts! The one this story is based on is about Hawke bringing a dragon baby home to Skyhold, and the shenanigans that ensue. [Full prompt and custom Hawke details in the end notes.] Your Hawke was SUPER fun to work with, and I truly hope you feel I did her justice. (Beta-read by my husband, because he rocks.) I TRULY HOPE that you enjoy this, baker-and-fangirl, and thank you SO MUCH for the awesome prompts!
Hatchling
There's a dragon sitting on Varric's head when he wakes up.
No. Really.
It's only about the size of a housecat, but the elongated snout, and scaly hide in iridescent shades of red and purple are decidedly not cat-like. And while Varric has never had a housecat perch on his head, he assumes its claws would be a bit less...intimidating.
He could be wrong of course. He'll ask Anders the next time he writes him.
But for now, he's just going to have to deal with the fact that there is a dragon sitting on his head and looking entirely too content with the situation.
"Do you mind?"
The dragon cocks its head at Varric, a high-pitched trill his only response as the beast leans upside down over Varric's face and flicks its tongue at Varric's nose, before letting its head flop against Varric's cheek; a tiny rumble echoing from the creature's middle and through the top of Varric's skull. Its face close enough to Varric's that he can make out little black scales peppering the edges of the dragon's closed eyelids.
In other words: too close for comfort.
Varric nudges the warm pile of blanket-encased limbs curled into a ball by his side. "Hawke."
"Mmmrph?"
"Your pet just tasted me."
There's a grumble from the pile, and some loose shifting, accompanied by a series of nonsensical syllables and consonants, but fluent in Hawke-speak the way that he is, Varric is able to pull out something resembling a sentence. "Not a pet."
"Not the point right now, Hawke. It just licked my nose, and I think...yeah, it's definitely sniffing me now."
"Do you see teeth?"
"What?! No. It's just sort of...breathing on me."
"Any fire?"
"...No."
A limb emerges from the den of blankets, only to lift over Varric's head in a haphazard manner before settling on the dragon's back. The beast arches into the touch, but doesn't open its eyes. The rumbling gets louder, and Varric watches with more than an ounce of apprehension as the creature's claws flex outward before retracting to a more reasonable (and yet, still horrible) distance, only to end their excursion by curling into the hair at the top of Varric's head. "He likes you. Go back to sleep."
The same hand leaves the dragon's back and slides down the side of Varric's face in what can only be called a close approximation of a gentle caress, before it lands on Varric's chest. Blunt human nails scratch at the hair it finds there in a show of affection that would be more appreciated if it wasn't so damn similar to the action that the dragon on Varric's head is currently participating in. As is, Varric is starting to feel an uncomfortable kinship with a pincushion.
"I'm feeling less liked and more tenderized, Hawke."
The blankets shift some more, until one brilliant blue eye peeks out from the mess and narrows at Varric. "My son is not tenderizing you, Varric. Stop being such a baby." The eye flicks towards the shuttered window, where only the bravest rays of dawn are breaking through, before focusing on Varric once more. "But if you wake me up again for any reason other than an emergency for the next three hours? I will." The singular eye manages to glare at Varric until he acquiesces, inclining his head with only a small nod, as any movement causes the dragon to clench its claws just a bit too much
Varric sighs, defeated.
Only Hawke would bring home a baby dragon and call it a son.
Varric, Head of the Noble House Tethras, Deshyr of Kirkwall to the Dwarven Merchants Guild, the most famous storyteller in all of Thedas and successful deceiver of the Seekers of Truth, couldn't make this shit up if he tried.
In retrospect, Varric should have been expecting that one day Hawke would either figure out how to turn into a dragon - nevermind that she's not a mage - or bring one home with her. He should probably just be happy that she didn't show up with a full grown one on a leash.
After all, her…fondness for the creatures was far from a well-kept secret.
There had been a hoard of little carved dragon statuettes littered all over her estate in Hightown, and scattered around his rooms at the Hanged Man. Statuettes that were often left like bread crumbs across Kirkwall, dropped from random pockets and pouches as Hawke (and well, Varric too, if he's being honest) ran to and fro through the city caught up in the mischief and mayhem of the day. Statuettes that an exasperated Aveline was forever returning to Hawke whenever Hawke would try to claim that 'No! I absolutely was NOT by the docks yesterday when such-and-such illicit activity occurred, why would you think – OH! My dragon! You found it! Look at the details in the wings. Did you know I had to actually throw a game of Grace the other night to win this one?'
Then there had been Hawke's investigation and subsequence purchase of the Bone Pit, spurred on – rather than repulsed - by the rumors of a High Dragon at its heart.
Not to mention the many random excursions into the Free Marches she'd drug them all to under the guise of searching for 'missing persons' or 'buried treasure' that were just thinly veiled excuses to go dragon hunting.
And if those hadn't been telling enough clues, then the half-sleeve likeness of a High Dragon Hawke had drilled into her flesh with dozens of little needles five years into their acquaintance was.
That's not the sort of thing one does if they are not utterly devoted.
Still, Varric thinks he might have preferred her learning the art of shapeshifting as opposed to her smuggling an egg in under her cloak, squirreling it away in his rooms and taking over his hearth until it hatched. At least then maybe his rooms wouldn't have been freezing for several weeks. ('Low level fires only, Varric! I have to keep the egg warm, but I don't want to cook it!')
Sure, curling up with a dragon-shaped Hawke at night might have been difficult, but at least he'd have been warm.
And also, less worried about being turned into a tasty morsel ripe for the picking come morning.
He's not so certain about her…son. Not that the little critter could possibly eat Varric at the beast's present size and age.
But dragons had to grow up at some point, right?
Varric shudders at the thought.
But only a smidge, as the movement causes the dragon to open a disdainful eye to peer into Varric's with as obvious a 'do you mind' look that Varric has ever seen.
Varric settles back on the pillows behind his head, stiff as a corpse, counting the seconds until the sun is up enough for Hawke to deem waking appropriate.
Which will hopefully be before it is half-rose in the sky. Varric's not certain if his nerves can hold out much longer than that.
A low-pitched, muffled snore struggles free of the mess of blankets by his side, one muscled leg breaking free of the hold to drape over Varric's knees and tug its owner closer. Varric feels his tense muscles relax against his will.
Even with a dragon perched on his head, he can't help but be happy that Hawke is here after so long apart.
Damn lovable woman and her damn dragon obsession.
~~~\/~~~
Unsurprisingly, the dragon living in Skyhold doesn't go unnoticed for long.
In part, because Hawke – in typical Hawke fashion – flounces around the Hold with the thing wrapped around her neck, its long tail swishing back and forth over her shoulder, the golden spiked tip blending with the ink of the dragon tattoo curving up Hawke's exposed arm, like some three-dimensional piece of art.
That happens to breathe fire when it coughs.
Not intimidating at all.
And of course the citizens of the Hold are…less than comforted by the thing's presence. The lingering whispers of surprise at the Champion of Kirkwall's unanticipated appearance at Skyhold giving way to a blend of incredulity and terror at what she's brought with her.
"Is that the Champion? I heard that Master Tethras had called in a favor to help our Inquisitor, but I never suspected-"
"Nevermind that! Is that a...a DRAGON on her shoulder?!"
"What?! No!?"
"Certainly looks like a dragon."
"But it's so…so small!"
"Perhaps it's a special breed?"
"Is THAT what's in vogue in the Free Marches these days?"
"Did she just KISS it?!"
"Ugh! They are even more uncivilized than I thought."
"I hear she's calling it her, child, if you can believe it."
"Maker's breath! She can't possibly-"
"Shh! She's coming this way. Act natural."
"Hey there. I'll take…hmm…what's good here?"
"…Uh…the uh, the mutton is our specialty, Cha-Champion."
"Ohh! Nice! I'll take two mutton chops then, please. Hah! 'Mutton chops!' One for each cheek, yeah?"
"Pardon, Champion?"
"You know. 'Mutton…chops?'" Hawke gestures to the sides of her face to the bewilderment of the masked vendors, before sighing and turning towards the now snoozing dragon. "Why doesn't anybody ever get my jokes, Ignis?"
The dragon on her shoulder rolls his head up and nuzzles his head against Hawke's cheek, a questioning 'Mrrr?' his only response.
That exchange might have ended well, if only Hawke hadn't opted to have Ignis breathe on a mutton chop as they walked away, and then shared the cooked result with the beast. As is, Varric had gotten a hell of a scolding from both Cassandra and Mother Giselle for Hawke's 'irresponsible' behavior when the one vendor was admitted to the infirmary for head trauma after having fainted.
Well, perhaps the scolding was more in response to the quantity of such incidents being reported, as opposed to just the one vendor with a bump on his noggin. And while Varric could – sort of – see their point (Ignis IS unnerving when you first meet him), he was starting to agree with Hawke that if so many of the people working for and supporting the Inquisition didn't have the stomach for one teeny tiny dragon living in their midst, then perhaps they should find somewhere else to take up residence, and make space for folks built of sterner stuff.
It is just a baby dragon after all.
Of course, that sort of logic only goes so far, and so it isn't long before the Inquisition Advisors call Hawke (and by extension, Varric) into a meeting to discuss the situation.
Discuss. Demand. Cajole. Beg.
All of the above.
In short: whatever would get the dragon out of their Hold while keeping Hawke around until her Warden contact shows their face.
"Hawke - We're not saying that you can't have a companion-"
"Ignis, isn't a companion, Cullen. He's a baby. Barkspawn is my companion. And Varric, of course." Hawke's mouth tilts up in a half-smirk as she slides her gaze towards her partner in crime, who can't help but to puff up his chest at the declaration, nevermind the weird comparison to her hound. He knows what she means.
"And we don't have any issue with your bringing Barkspawn here, Champion. He's always been well behaved-"
"Varric's another matter."
"Aww, Seeker. I'm fond of you, too."
Hawke barrels right over the two as if neither had spoken, gaze still locked on Cullen's. "Well of course you don't. Barkspawn's more intelligent than half the Orlesians squawking around your great hall. Excluding your lovely, Spymaster, of course." Hawke winks at Leliana, the action eliciting a bark of laughter from Varric and an angled head of acknowledgement from said Orlesian.
Cullen rubs his forehead, pinching the skin between his forefingers. The gesture seeming to Varric to be code for Josephine to take the reins of the discussion, as she glides a step closure to do just that.
"Barkspawn is quite an impressive mabari, Champion. He's received high praise from both of Cullen's lieutenants – they've called his assistance during training 'invaluable,' and the healers are quite fond of him as well. They report that he's been good for the morale of their patients. You're…Ignis…however, is another matter."
Hawke cocks an eyebrow as she leans back on one heel, and crosses her arms over her chest. An action that looks nonchalant, yet which Varric knows from experience that Hawke adopts when she wants to subtly shift her weight closer to the sword perpetually strapped to her hip. A quiet line of defense when she feels attacked. "What's he done that's so terrible?"
"The list of complaints is quite long, Champion." The Ambassador consults her clipboard, an action Varric suspects is just for show, before continuing. "Yesterday for example, it was reported that he…'dive-bombed' Lionel de Loire's fine silks and garments stall, setting fire to approximately 500 gold pieces worth of stock."
"I offered to pay for that."
"And the day prior, several complaints were filed by the kitchen staff. They claim that he broke into their stores, and burnt several bushels of potatoes to a crisp."
"He's young and experimenting. How else is he supposed to learn what's edible if he doesn't try new things?"
"Be that as it may, it does not explain why he has been harassing poor Ser Morris. The quartermaster reports that the dragon keeps leaving dead, burnt rodents on his logbook."
"Ignis likes the quartermaster! He's just trying to show affection!"
"With all due respect, Champion-"
And that right there was the wrong thing to say, as Hawke's good humor drains away, only to be replaced by the sort of mirthful smile Varric knows is more a warning than even a war cry would be – assuming one bothers to look.
"You ever notice how someone only says 'with all due respect' before they say something disrespectful? What say we just skip that part, hmm? Let's pretend that you're done detailing Ignis' supposed crimes, that I've listened as you've explained all your unreasonable 'reasons' for why I should abandon my son, so that I can move right onto ignoring your 'requests,' and we can all get back to defeating the big bad of the week? Last I'd heard he'd torn a giant hole in the sky and murdered some big, important religious figure, all while wearing a pair of hideous tights? Goes by the name of Corypheface or something? Ring any bells?"
"Champion-"
"Tell you what, if the Inquisition has such a problem with my son being in Skyhold, have the Inquisitor tell me themself. Until then, we're done here."
Hawke stomps from the war table, the over-sized doors slamming open and shut in quick succession as she exits the room. Cassandra and the Advisors turn towards Varric, their faces conveying a mixture of exasperation, confusion, and consideration.
"Varric, in truth, what is the likelihood of Hawke hearing reason if presented to her by the Inquisitor?"
"Honestly, Nightingale? I think she'll pack her bags, grab Ignis, and seek out more accommodating pastures by sunrise. And I can tell you, those won't be within easy riding distance, or anywhere your birds will know to look. Hawke is...protective over what she considers hers."
Cassandra makes a disgusted sound, "Something you have in common, then."
"Something I think we all have in common here, Seeker. Or else, why the hell would any of us be bothering? Hawke just takes things further than most. Pretty sure that's why she's a Champion."
Josephine's mouth turns down, uncertainty seeping through at the edges. "Does she truly consider a dragon to be her son?"
Varric shrugs, "It's not like she thinks she gave birth to it or anything. But she rescued the egg from a ransacked nest with a dead mother nearby. Managed to keep the thing safe and warm the whole trek here. Cared for it, hatched it, and has done a damn sight better looking after him than some so-called parents do with their kids.
"And he adores her. I know you might not think that dragons have much by way of a personality. What with all the raining fire and brimstone and destruction they're known for. But that baby has one. He likes mutton but hates chicken. Likes to sit up in the rafters of Herald's Rest and listen to the bard sing. Plays chase with Barkspawn, but seems to be afraid of the local cats. And he looks at Hawke like she is the end all be all of existence. You wanna know if I think Hawke would leave if you make her choose? My answer is: in a heartbeat."
Cassandra presses both hands against the war table, bringing her gaze closer to Varric's. "But you could speak with her. Get her to see reason! She listens to you. Respects you! ...cares for you."
A chuckle breaks free of Varric's throat at the notion that anyone could get Hawke to do something she doesn't want to do. Though, he is self-aware enough to admit that if someone could, it would be him. "You're assuming I agree with you. I don't. Ignis...is a dragon. Sure. And I get it. Dragons are scary. And maybe one day he could be a threat. But right now?" Varric shakes his head and steps back from the table, readying himself for his own exit from this farce of a meeting. "He's just a baby, and the most he's a threat to is the local mouse population. No. If Hawke chooses to leave, I might not go with her, but I'm not going to stop her either."
"I can't believe that Hawke could just walk from the threat that Thedas is facing."
"There are a lot of threats to Thedas, Curly. If Hawke doesn't think she and hers are wanted here, there are plenty of places where she can go and be a hero, no questions asked. Trust me.
"So you better ask yourself, are some burnt potatoes really worth it?"
~~~\/~~~
The Inquisitor never brings any concerns about Ignis to Hawke, despite all the interaction the two have during the following weeks. In fact, the only word Varric catches from them about the dragon is well after they've located Stroud and the lot of them are preparing for their trek to the Western Approach.
And that word is naught but a calm suggestion that they leave Ignis in Scout Harding's care when it comes time for the siege at Adamant, as its 'no place for a child' and 'Lace has grown quite fond of your son.'
To say that the Inquisitor gains Hawke's loyalty tenfold for the recommendation is an understatement.
In fact, if Varric were a more insecure man, he might be worried by how much attention Hawke showers on the Inquisitor over the following days.
But besides, even if he were more insecure, it's his blankets Hawke steals every night in their shared tent, so he has little doubt as to where her true affection lies.
And if their tent has become just that bit more crowded with the growing Ignis stretched out between them? His spiked tail curled around Hawke's forearm, the tip of it tickling Varric's fingers where they curl around Hawke's, and his head draped over Varric's chest, with his tongue lolling out the side? The soft patter of the dragon's breath against Varric's chin a comfort rather than a concern, so that Varric finds it as difficult to fall asleep without as Hawke's gentle snore?
Well, Varric's told stranger tales.
~End
End Notes: baker-and-fangirl's full request was for: "Fluff, Humor, Inquisition-Era (DA:I), Post-Canon, Romance; Hawke's love of dragons leads her to raising a dragon egg, which imprints on her. She takes it with her everywhere, treating it exactly like a baby ("look at my child" "holy shit Hawke thats -" "LOOK AT MY PERFECT BEAUTIFUL CHILD") and everyone is certain that she is even more unhinged then before. Varric tries to do damage control but finds himself becoming attached it as well." Using their custom biromantic-asexual purple warrior Marian Hawke, default in appearance, with an EPIC love of dragons (she collects dragon statues and has a dragon tattoo), who laughs easily and likes 'kid' jokes, and is very cuddly and physically affectionate (and whose mabari is named 'Barkspawn'.)
I named Hawke's dragon-son 'Ignis' which simply means 'fire' in latin. It seemed like the kind of name this Hawke might bestow upon a dragon-son. Also, I know that the dragon eggs and dragonlings we see in-game are bigger than what I describe Ignis as being. Let's just pretend that the Orlesians in the story were on the right track, and this is a very special breed of dragon that starts super small, shall we?