Fancy Meeting You Here
Chapter 1: I'm Glad You Asked
The two legs of Varric's chair hit the ground with a loud thud.
" . . . and then Hawke ripped the ogre's arms off, yada, yada, yada. . . the end."
He ignored the chorus of groans that erupted at the end of his story and hopped to his feet, heading toward the center of the room, never taking his eyes off the man and woman that had just entered through the front door of the Hanged Man. He heard his listeners disperse behind him, but ignored their unhappy rumblings.
"Hey, Pol!" he hissed at the neighborhood youth that ran errands for the residents of Lowtown. He reached out and grabbed the kid's arm, watching the couple as they hesitantly made their way to a table in the corner.
"Go to the Hawke estate in Hightown," he said, pressing a gold coin in the boy's hand. "Tell Hawke to get his ass over here."
He spared a glance toward the bar, noting the absence of the normally ever-present pirate.
"If Isabela's there, have her come too." He thought a moment and then added, "Check the elf's mansion if she's not at Hawke's. She'd kill me if she missed this."
The boy eyed the gold in his hand with a grin.
"Sure thing, boss! Anyone else you want me to fetch?"
Varric rubbed his chin as his gaze returned to the table in the corner. The pretty blonde was ordering from the barmaid, and from the looks of it, she was giving the poor gal an earful. Her partner, a big man with reddish-blonde hair and a stubble of beard, watched the whole thing with a look of bemused tolerance. He leaned back in his chair, and Varric narrowed his eyes. A glint of fine steel was visible when the man's cloak fell to the side, the unmistakable glow of enchantment peeking out from the humble looking scabbard at the man's hip.
"Yeah," he said, the grin on his face growing ever wider. "Go to Darktown—the clinic. Tell Anders to get down here." He looked the kid in the face. "I'll give you a coin for each of them if they actually show up."
He rubbed his hands together as he watched the boy run off.
"This, my friends, is going to be a night to remember," he said aloud, to no one in particular.
He just hoped everyone would show up. He could spin a convincing tale, but unless they came down here and saw it for themselves, his friends would never believe that the King of Ferelden (and his Grey Warden Commander bride) just popped by the Hanged Man for a drink.
"Are you sure about this?" Alistair leaned forward to look into his wife's pretty green eyes.
"Are you joking?" She didn't meet his gaze, choosing instead to glance delightedly around the room, apparently pleased at the portraiture of debauchery the Hanging Man had to offer. "This place is perfect!"
"Right, perfect," he said dryly, leaning back. "You know, we could be enjoying much finer spirits," he paused as a drunk patron careened by the table, almost running into it, "and a much nicer atmosphere back at the Estate."
She frowned at him.
"What's wrong with you? I thought you liked doing this sort of thing?" She gestured at their simple attire. ". . . going off in disguise, rubbing elbows with your fellow man—you used to drive Eamon crazy on your little jaunts."
"Like I have told you many times, I was a miserable wreck of a drunk back then."
She raised her eyebrows in mock curiosity, as if she'd never heard him say such a thing before.
"Oh you were? You poor thing. Whatever could have caused such heartbreak?" She twirled the end of her braid as she leaned in and listened with complete absorption.
He laughed, and it was his turn to lean forward, reaching a hand across the table to grab hers.
"I like to refer to it as the Dark Times." He squeezed her hand and gave her a loving look. "Back when I gained the crown but lost the love of my life."
His smile faltered, in spite of the joking tone they'd both been using. It was still painful to think about how close he'd come to losing her—
"I beg your pardon, milord and lady."
Alistair startled at the velvety voice. A dwarf—one lacking a beard but possessing instead a rather impressive display of chest hair—had appeared beside their table. He offered a wide, friendly smile.
"My name's Varric—Varric Tethras, and I'd like to welcome you to Kirkwall."
Alistair watched with fascination as the dwarf pulled up a chair, turned it around and sat down on it backwards.
"Oh barmaid," the dwarf called out, lifting one thick, tree trunk of an arm while keeping his eyes fixed on the two of them. "Get these two another round, on me."
Alistair saw Elissa sit back and cross her arms, giving the stranger an appraising, if somewhat bemused, look. He shrugged. If the stranger's presence was tolerated by the Queen, it was fine by him. He had learned to live by a simple creed a long time ago: happy wife, happy life.
The dwarf cleared his throat. "This might sound strange to the two of you, but . . ." he stopped as the barmaid came to the table and set down three more pints, only resuming after she had stalked off. ". . . I think we have some mutual friends."
Elissa's eyebrows shot up.
"That does indeed strike me as strange, Ser Varrus—"
"Varric"
"Apologies. Ser Varric—"
"No," the dwarf coughed apologetically. "Just . . .Varric."
"Right."
Elissa's disapproving tone was one Alistair immediately recognized. She'd used it on him back when they first met. He grinned at the memory of her appearing at his elbow at Ostagar, all angry glares and messy blonde hair.
"Varric . . . I would be most surprised to discover we have mutual friends considering you don't even know who we are."
In spite of his wife's haughty tone, Alistair could tell she was enjoying herself. When was the last time he'd even seen her insult someone new? The question mad him feel a pang of guilt.
The dwarf waved a hand dismissively at Elissa's protestation.
"I know who you are."
Elissa glanced at him, her face a question mark. Alistair could only shrug. It was very unlikely anyone from Kirkwall would recognize them. Without the pomp and circumstance of his position, and in normal street clothes, he had always blended in just fine when he escaped the castle for his "jaunts" of freedom, back before they were married—
"You're the King and Queen of Ferelden."
At that, Elissa and Alistair both sat up with a jolt. The dwarf raised both hands in a calming gesture.
"Don't worry," he said in a soothing tone. "I'm not going to tell anyone."
Elissa looked skeptical. "Really? Then what is it you want, dwarf?"
Alistair winced at Elissa's tone. But if the stranger took offense, he didn't show it.
"Hey, look . . ." The dwarf waved his hands at the two of them. "The King and Queen of Ferelden, the saviors of Orzammar, the Grey Warden Heroes of the Blight . . . and I don't know how many other titles you two have racked up . . . but you walk into the Hanged Man dressed undercover. For a man like me, that's an irresistible opportunity."
Now, it was Alistair's turn to frown. This sounded like the beginning of some kind of business venture pitch. Not what he had in mind when he promised Elissa a night of fun on the town. "An opportunity for what?" he said. "What's your business? What do you trade in?"
Varric rested his arms on the back of his chair and gave the king a cocky smile.
"I'm glad you asked."