A Terrible Human Being (but only sort of)
"Don't stay hidden behind these walls!" Guard Captain Aveline Vallen stood in the Viscount's office in full armor. She leaned over the desk, which he supposed was still technically Dumar's desk, even though Dumar had been dead for three years by now. Her face was smudged with ash and her eyes were hard. "We're awaiting your orders!"
"If you mean you want me to go out and fight with you, no." Aveline threw her hands in the air in frustration. "And don't say that Dumar would have done differently," Bran pointed out quickly. "He wouldn't have. That's what got him killed."
"Inaction got him killed!"
Bran sighed. "The mages and templars are not the Qunari. They've been tearing this city apart for years. Sorry if I'm content to let them destroy one another so maybe we can finally have some true order."
Aveline glared at him. "So you are a coward then."
He nearly laughed in her face. "If by coward you mean I like being alive? Sure. If by coward you mean I'd like to see Kirkwall have some chance at survival? Absolutely. Do what you must, Guard Captain." He smiled and stood behind the desk, arms crossed over his chest. She stared at him for a long while; they could both hear the muffled shouts in the streets below. "Run along," he added, shooing her out with a wave of his hand.
The Guard Captain huffed and sauntered out of the office, and once she was gone Bran settled into the comfortable chair, the one thing in this office he wouldn't change. He knew Dumar's office needed a good redecorating, but the city was so bent on remaining stagnant. Bran thought there was a small chance he was a terrible human being. But only a small chance. Because he'd actually breathed a sigh of relief when the Qunari came tearing through the city.
And now he was actually hoping someone: Hawke, Anders, Aveline, anyone would just stick a sword in Knight-Commander Meredith and call it done. And if they could take out Orsino, too, he wouldn't mind. For years, even long before the Qunari arrived, the two of them had made it impossible for anyone to govern Kirkwall. Marlowe Dumar was just the latest in a long line of impotent, simpering "rulers".
If Aveline wanted a coward, she only had to look to the portrait of Marlowe Dumar hanging in the foyer of the Viscount's Keep. Or anyone who'd come before him.
Now if Bran could be the Viscount…
He turned to look out the window to the streets below. People were screaming; spells were flying. Hightown was burning. Again. The night sky was aglow with the flames of the Chantry explosion. He supposed he should feel bad about the Grand Cleric and the Chantry. People would expect a Viscount to at least uphold the place of the Chantry in Kirkwall. Maybe that would be his first decree when this was all over. Rebuild the Chantry. Have the Divine bless the new site. Bow his head humbly and swear to uphold Elthina's memory. Maybe make an alliance with Starkhaven to help strengthen Kirkwall while they were rebuilding.
All of this was assuming Hawke got the job done, of course. Then again, she'd been particularly effective over the last several years. An unapologetic apostate, yes, but in a city bent on stagnating to death, Hawke got things done. Perhaps he'd ask her to be his Seneschal.
A horrifying thought crossed his mind. Hawke was the Champion of Kirkwall. The people adored her, though he hardly knew why. Yes, she'd beaten the Arishok in combat and driven off the Qunari. Bravo and all. But she was angry and temperamental. She'd also come in as a Fereldan refugee and probably didn't know the first thing about ruling a city, let alone rebuilding one as broken as Kirkwall. If the people demanded that she become their Viscount, what of him?
Another decade or more of obsequious brown nosing?
No, Bran decided. He'd waited too long to get his chance. He'd practically run the Viscount's Keep when Marlowe Dumar shrank from his responsibilities. He'd definitely run it since Dumar's death. And he could run it if the templars were out of the way. He'd just have to convince Hawke to either remain Champion, or allow him to do his job. Better yet, maybe Hawke would decide Kirkwall wasn't worth staying in when this was all done. Maybe she'd be killed in this battle and he wouldn't have to worry about anything more than writing her a nice eulogy. Maybe a plaque at the rebuilt Chantry.
He was going to have to start making a to-do list.
No, he wasn't a terrible person; he was practical. Kirkwall deserved practicality after all these years of idealists tearing it apart. Viscount Bran Cavin: the Rebuilder. The Reformer. Both titles had nice rings to them.
He settled in and called for a cup of tea from a nervous servant. It was going to be a long night, and he wanted to be ready for the glorious new morning.