The Orlesian nobles laugh at him behind paper fans and porcelain smiles. Dog lord, they say. And not even that anymore. He ignores them, words that lost their edge years ago.
Lord Inquisitor Nathaniel Howe, the herald announces him. Former Warden-Constable of Ferelden.
Former noble, but they have the grace not to say that. Former heir to the Arling of Amaranthine, but they don't say that, either. Former Warden, because Wardens don't get involved in politics, except when they do, but they definitely don't lead Inquisitions.
He's not a Warden anymore, except when he is, but he has no time for nightmares when the world is on the brink of a waking one already. He has a job to do, no matter the cost.
Perhaps he's still a Warden after all.
He walks with his shoulders back, head held high. Josephine should be proud. Just because he hasn't been a noble in over a decade doesn't mean he's forgotten how to act like one. Anyone can be noble if they try; pride is not reserved for the privileged.
Behind him, the others make their own entrances. He crosses the room, even-paced, unhurried, to stand next to Gaspard as if they have all the time in the world and he doesn't want to just stick an arrow in someone's eye and leave.
"Welcome," Celene intones, regal and gracious as any empress ever was. She goes through motions he recognizes from Josephine's insistent overview of Orlesian court etiquette, intricate gestures of fingers, hands, elbows and head all carefully orchestrated in calculated politesse. Her mask does not obscure her gaze entirely, and if he meets her eye-to-unrelenting-eye, he is only a dog lord, after all. What does he know of political intricacies and unspoken challenges?
He bows when she addresses him, because it's polite to acknowledge your host. He bows to Florianne, though not quite as deeply. Josephine would have his head if he caused a scandal so early in the night, and he has no desire to draw more attention than they already have in arriving.
The Court has taken his measure already, he is sure, and he would not be so rude as to disappoint them. The Game is deadly, but he dances with darkspawn in his veins and dares them to do their worst. He has sprinted over finer lines than these.
A drabble-thing poking at an idea I'm considering for a longer fic, exploring the what-if of Nathaniel as the Inquisitor. Because, you know. Reasons. Cross-posted from AO3.