Summary: The birth of Lady Sabia Hawke, complete with dashing prince and several crushed toes.

Hawke lurches through the front door, heedless of the puddles of water in her wake; Orana will have to clean them up, she knows, but she's too busy feeling sorry for herself to feel sorry for anyone else.

She hears a joyful bark as Barkspawn launches himself at her, further ruining her dress and licking mascara off her cheeks. "I'm going to have to marry you," she tells him as he cleans his muzzle on her. "No-one else will have me. Ugh!" She flops back down, hissing as her head cracks off the flags.

She doesn't notice the door opening until Varric's there, hauling Barkspawn off her. "The débutante, home at last!" He takes in her soaking gown. "Did you not take the carriage I sent?"

"Must have ran past it," Hawke mutters, pushing herself up off the floor. Her shoes slip under her as she rises, threatening to trip her up again. "Fuck!" She pulls them off hastily and hurls them into the main room, resulting in a distinctly high-pitched yelp. "Aw, shit. Merrill?"

"Hawke! Does this mean I can have these? They're so pretty..." Merrill absentmindedly rubs a red spot on her forehead as she coos over the slippers, made of cloth-of-gold and studded with tiny pearls.

Hawke stops in her tracks as she enters. Everybody is there, gawking at the lady of the manor; belatedly, she realises that her wet chiffon dress is see-through. Most of them respectfully avert their eyes, except for Isabela, who is staring at her in blatant admiration. "I want to rip that off you," she breathes. "So I can wear it." Anders chokes; Sandal thumps him helpfully on the back.

"You can have it," Hawke grouses. "Not like I'll be needing it anymore." It had been so beautiful, too; white and sleeveless, with a swingy skirt and a golden tree embroidered on it, birds pecking at its high neckline.

"Sabia!" Mother bustles into the room. "Did the party go..." She halts, noticing her daughter's mutinous glare.

"We're going to have to move back in with Gamlen," Hawke declares. "I've ruined any and all prospects we've ever had."

"Surely it wasn't that bad," Aveline says dubiously.

Accepting the shawl Bodahn drapes around her, Hawke grimaces. "Oh, but it was."

She recounts the events of the party from interrupting the announcer as he introduced her ("Hawke, not Amell!") to actually breaking some poor noble boy's foot during the courante to accidentally spilling Orlesian bloodwine down the host's dress, at which point she was politely ejected from the party. By the time she's finished Fenris is actually full-on laughing, snorting like a dragon, and Sebastian has his hand over his eyes, wincing with every word.

"So then I ran home in the rain, and… well, here I am." Hawke sits back, stretching her feet out towards the fire; Barkspawn helpfully slumps down onto them.

"Did you really point out Duchess di Mersé's wig?" Sebastian asks.

"I thought it was a fashion statement," Hawke says helplessly; the prince groans, and presses his forehead against the table. "Look, I never said I was a lady," Hawke protests. "Whose idea was this, anyway?"

Her mother shrinks back into her seat. "I thought it would be good to introduce you to the noblesse," she ventures. "After all, you can be so very charming..."

"A lot of my charm is killing people that other people want dead. The rest is sarcasm at inappropriate times." Hawke sighs. "I just... I was out of my depth. Bethany would..."

The sentence dies on her lips, because Bethany would; she would charm them effortlessly, without even thinking about it. Bethany was always the face, the heart; Carver was the broody muscle, and Hawke herself was... just there, clowning around and trying not to interfere too much.

"What Bethany would or would not is irrelevant," Varric tells her. "You're gonna have to brave that pit of vipers again, and sooner rather than later."

"What do you mean?"

"The Viscount's son's birthday is in two weeks," Aveline says grimly. "With all you've done for him, you're sure to get an invite."

Hawke is dumbstruck. "Do you think if I really piss Bran off, I'll be struck off the list? Like..." She thinks. "No, couldn't out Anders. Cullen was making inquiries about a healer in Darktown, last time I talked to him."

The mage in question looks like he's smelt something bad. "I did not need to be reminded of that odious man."

"I'd heard about Bran's… activities." Isabela nudges him. "Spill."

"You really don't need to know," Anders says with finality; Isabela opens her mouth to argue, but swiftly reconsiders, given the haunted look on Anders' face.

"You're going to have to go, chick," Leandra says gently. "All you can do is prepare, and I know if you really try, you'll have them all wrapped around your little finger."

Hawke groans. "Prepare? How so? Learn their silly dances, talk with a dumb Hightown accent?" She adopts an overly exaggerated tone, accompanied by fluttery hand gestures. "Ooh, serah, I do apologise fah bahmpeeng eento you! I was fah too busee lookeeng dahn my nose at you!"

"Good, but my Hightown fop impression is better," Isabela comments.

"Not now, Isabela! ...It is very, good, though," Aveline concedes. "Hawke, all you really need to know is the etiquette… and perhaps a few dances."

"Ooh!" Merrill perks up. "Dancing! I'm very good at that. Sandal and I have been practicing, we can teach you."

"Swingy dance fun!" Sandal concurs. "Teach Hawke like chandelier."

"So that was where the marks came from! See, Mother, I told you it wasn't drunk me!" Hawke fixes her mother with a triumphant grin.

"Drunk you already broke my chandelier," Fenris mutters.

"I wanted to try Bianca out, and it was shiny. Drunk me likes shiny just as much as sober me."

"It's very shiny!" Sandal nods.

"See? Sandal gets it." Hawke slings an arm around him and gives him a squeeze; Sandal happily hugs her back.

Fenris isn't done. "Broken crystal everywhere. I don't wear shoes, Hawke. Do you know how painful that was?"

"Then get shoes!" Sandal's grip is slowly getting tighter, and Hawke is finding it hard to breathe.

Bodahn notices when Hawke begins to go blue. "Sandal, boy, let go of Messere Hawke!"

After they've been disentangled, Aveline takes charge. "Are we going to sit here talking until Saemus's next birthday or what? Sebastian?"

"Hmm?" Sebastian looks up from Barkspawn, who, sensing Hawke's preoccupation, had sidled over to check if the nice incense-y man had any food.

"You're… well, more than a noble, actually, but you should know all of this, right?" Aveline inquires

"Yes, I do. I was… never very good at it, though." He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed.

"Hmm?" Isabela arches a brow. "Our beloved Chantry brother, turning out to be less than perfect?"

Sebastian stops to think. "Oh, you should know this one," he eventually says. "Do you remember the Marchesa Apulia? She was the one who had that strange obsession with feathers."

"Was… was that you?" Isabela seems staggered. "Seduced them out from right under her nose, eh? Oh, I'm jealous. That Borello lady was easily the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen. Did she really have her…"

"Pierced? Unfortunately, yes. I would not recommend it."

Hawke pats him tiredly, as Isabela appraises him with new eyes. "Please teach me, Master Prince Brother... How many titles do you have?"

Sebastian looks at her thoughtfully. "Seven, perhaps? Counting that army one."

"You're hired," Varric announces, clapping Sebastian's back, or what of it he can reach. "Let's start tomorrow, shall we? Hawke's going to freeze unless we get some brandy into her."

They start the morning the invite arrives with basic elocution, standing on the upper balcony of the Hawke estate. Her mother is sitting downstairs, eavesdropping as she sews.

"The Prince and I, Hawke, not me and the Prince."

Hawke scrunches her nose up. "I've been trying that one since I was four. No go. My father used to tease me about it… that, and I couldn't pronounce 'th'."

"I noticed that. You say de, not the. It's rather…"

She watches as Sebastian struggles to find the correct adjective. "Backwards. Embarrassing. Fereldan."

"I was thinking more… authentic, really. You should not try to hide your heritage, Hawke. I do not."

"Och, aye." Hawke squints for effect. Sebastian chuckles. "You called a child a bairn the other day. Merrill spent about five minutes searching for cows before Isabela deigned to enlighten her."

"Is that not a thing-? You're very good at changing the subject, Hawke." He glowers at her.

She huffs. "Thought you wouldn't notice. Okay, so. What else is wrong with me?"

Next, Sebastian teaches her manners. Not like please and thank you and you're welcome, because Hawke (mostly) has those down, but when to bow and how to bow and how low to bow, and how to say "no, fuck off" politely ("Thank, you, serah, but I am afraid I am otherwise engaged...") and what to take for granted (a servant appearing at your elbow to take your coat) and what not to expect, which includes honesty, gratitude, and decent jokes. Sebastian delineates the noble structure of Kirkwall, and when she complains that it's too complicated he starts trying to explain the Orlesian one, which looks nice and simple to begin with with but turns out to be more twisted than the Deep Roads, so she takes a break, jumps off the balcony and dunks her head in the fountain, because why. Why her? She's no use at this, she's about as dainty as a carcass and as polite as a beer-fuelled belch. (Her record is 5 seconds, Varric's is 7 and Merrill puts them all to shame.)

But one day, before they've even begun, she pulls off a perfect, perfect bow, addresses Sebastian using all of his titles (and in the right order!), asks all the right questions and gives all the right compliments; Sebastian plays along, all noble-like. This goes on for half an hour as he imitates various personages, but when she makes her excuses to the Viscount (after a suitable length of time, of course, and with a deep, low bow) he whoops and scoops her up into a hug (and Sebastian does good hugs, leaving her feet dangling above the ground as she squawks with his arms warm round her, tight but not too tight so she still has breath to laugh), because they've done it! She's done it! She's a proper lady, with genteel mannerisms and a bell-like laugh-

So he lowers to the ground and whirls her in a spin, and she stumbles straight over her feet and slams head first into the marble floor.

They have to call Anders; he spends five minutes laughing at the sight of her, nose crooked and her blood all over herself and Sebastian, who is apologising repeatedly.

"Well, there's our next area of concern," he sighs, as Anders yanks her nose into place.

Hawke spits a glob of blood onto the floor. "Can't dance without my daggers," she says resignedly; Anders pinches her lips shut.

"It's true," her mother adds, hovering worriedly. "When the twins were young they decided to go climbing trees… Sabia climbed up after them, but she fell off straight away." She pauses, and adds; "From two feet up. The twins got down themselves." Her mother's expression softens. "It was the first time Bethany ever used her magic."

Hawke remembers; she was rolling around on the ground, because there was a stone in her knee and it hurt, and little Beth clambered over and kissed her knee better, lips glowing with magic, and the pain went away with the stone and the blood and her mother's smile, as she rushed out and hauled Bethany inside until their father came home.

Carver and Sabia waited outside like the not-so-good kids they were until Father came out of their little house looking pale and old, and he told them that Bethany was like him, that she was magical and they couldn't tell a soul, not the cows grazing in the corner pasture (because Carver used to unload his grievances to them, having realised no-one else was willing to listen) or the wild garlic that tasted nice when you sucked the sap out or even old Miss Errell, the nice lady who hobbled by sometimes and always asked the same three questions.

Hawke, impressed by the gravity of the situation, never did tell anyone. She kept that stone all the way to Ostagar, evidence that her sister was special and no-one could ever know but them. She lost it in the confusion; it fell out of the hilt of her dagger as she used it to cave a hurlock's skull in.

"There." Anders steps back to admire his handiwork. "Can she wear a helmet to this thing? Because if she's not actively stabbing something, Hawke moves like a farmer who made too much moonshine."

"Have you been watching?" Sebastian says, more than a little acridly; Anders scowls at him.

Sensing an argument (not that she doesn't like arguments, but Anders drags the Chantry into everything and Sebastian never reacts well to criticism of his beloved religion), Hawke intervenes. "Can you two get the ruler out some other time? Because I need to learn how to dance the remigold, possibly in a dress, in four days or I'm going to have to actually wear a helmet to this stupid ball. Can anyone here play anything? I think there's a lute around somewhere."

Anders beats a hasty retreat after that as her mother clucks over her and Sebastian goes in search of said lute.

Suddenly, Orana is beside them; Hawke almost falls out of her chair when she speaks. "Mistress Hawke?"

"Just Hawke, if you please, Orana."

She nods. "I… I can play the lute, if you would like me to."

"Oh, Orana, you're a life-saver! Would you please? The last time I used that lute was to kill a spider." Seeing Orana quail in alarm, she adds; "Don't worry, I cleaned it off after."

Orana bows jerkily, and runs off to find Sebastian.

Slowly but surely, Sebastian teaches her every single dance he knows, which turns out to be rather a lot. Some of them she knows, like the Fereldan step-dances which involve a lot of swing holds, at which Hawke is an undisputed champion. Others, however, are totally unfamiliar to her, like the rigid, regimented Orlesian dances, or the strange dances of Starkhaven, which, despite being soft-footed, demand an awful lot of jumping and, apparently, used to include swords. Hawke petitions (unsuccessfully) for their re-involvement. Most of their time is spent on the dances of Kirkwall, marching back and forth in waltz time, complete with graceful exchanges. Isabela is roped in to teach her Antivan dance, which doesn't go very well; apparently, garters are a common thing in Antiva, and men make a contest of collecting as many as they can in a night. The dances are designed to cater to this; by the time Isabela's done with her, Hawke is wearing a lot less clothing than she'd like.

"You could have told me!" Hawke grouses as she pulls her shirt back on.

"You know those Antivans; everything's about sex with them. What's your record, Prince?"

"Twenty-two," Sebastian responds easily. Isabela actually staggers back.

"Why didn't I meet you before you found the Maker?" She actually stamps her foot. "We would have been legendary!"

"There but for His grace go I."

Isabela makes a face at him. Sebastian only smiles.

The night before the big event, Hawke is a ball of nerves, pacing around the house nervously as she mutters, "Step, one-two-three, then… the pastry fork has a wide left tine…"

Her mother follows after her. "Chick, you'll be fine."

"No," Hawke mutters. "I'm going to screw up, because that's all I ever do."

"No, you won't." Her mother grabs her face and pulls her down. "Sabia Hawke, you are perfect. I should know; I raised you. Now, stop being foolish and go see your friends."

Hawke nods, throat suddenly tight. "Mother, I…"

"Go on!" Her mother pushes her towards the door. "They're all waiting for you in the Hanged Man, and I made Varric promise to get it cleaned beforehand."

The patrons cheer as she enters half an hour later, as per usual; the remnant of night that she, apparently, bought thirty rounds for everyone. Her friends are in residence, arranged around the central table; even Sebastian is there, seated between Anders and Fenris, who are too busy exchanging heated glares to acknowledge this slight.

"Three cheers for the débutante!" Varric raises his mug; the motion is copied around the bar. Hawke curtsies as gracefully as she can.

Isabela claps sharply, and suddenly several musicians slink out of the shadows. "What?" Hawke manages. "Music? In the Hanged Man? Will wonders ever cease?"

"We're practicing with you!" Merrill trills, popping up beside her. "Come on!"

In a matter of seconds everyone in the pub has paired off, and Hawke finds herself being passed around. Merrill makes her frolic and jump, hopping over tables and onto innocent drinkers; she and Varric shuffle around each other in dizzying circles, and she even has to gall to lift him straight up off the ground at one point. Isabela does dance with her, but is rather too busy trying out her Antivan dances on a sullen Fenris to do too much; instead, she is passed onto Aveline, who turns out to be far more coordinated than her for someone wearing armour. Anders is eventually cajoled onto the floor, but spends most of his time trying to make as little physical contact as humanly (and spiritually) possible; strangely, when he gets stuck with her during the slower songs, he doesn't seem to mind swaying with her.

By the time Sebastian grabs her, it's late and she's only barely upright. "My lady Hawke." He bows. "May I have this dance?"

"Of course you may." She takes his proffered hand, and they launch off together; she notices that he's wearing steel reinforced boots.

"A precaution," he whispers; she snorts.

The floor clears as Sebastian leads her up and down, parting and reuniting in complex patterns that Hawke finally understands. Fenris and Isabela have disappeared off somewhere, Merrill seems to have no notion of disengaging her arms from Varric, and Anders is watching with a odd half-smile.

They conclude with a dramatic dip, Hawke's hair brushing off the ground. She pokes Sebastian's chest, and he hauls her back up; their companions applaud them.

"Well, I thought it couldn't be done," Varric admits. "But… you did it."

"Do you think blood mages are susceptible to dancing?" Hawke wonders.

"We'll consider it," Anders says gravely.

The lights suddenly extinguish, and before they know it they'll all been turfed out onto the street; Anders slinks off back to Darktown, and after walking a slightly tipsy Merrill back to the Alienage, Hawke accompanies Sebastian back to Hightown in companionable silence.

"Thank you," she says suddenly. "I never… I never thought I'd be capable of all this. Mother… I didn't want to disappoint her."

"You haven't. She loves you, Hawke." The moon leaches Sebastian's eyes of their colour, fading them to a mournful grey. "She is so very proud of you, do you know? She tells everyone all the stories; Varric has them written down."

Hawke groans. "Oh, no. Really?"

"I quite liked the one where you stopped all the cattle from stampeding into the Chantry. Rather brave, when I think about it, facing down all those angered bovine stares."

She stops dead in the middle of the road. Sebastian never does this. "Are you quite alright? I think we should get Anders to check you out." Sebastian grumbles incoherently. "Oh, he's not so bad."

"I rather think he is." The words are cold, but not unfeeling. "That is to say, I…" He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Hawke, I owe you this, as a friend. That man is dangerous. He may not look it, but… there is something broken inside him, and I am afraid you cannot fix it."

"Or perhaps I can." She starts walking again.

"Hawke." His voice is pleading.

"Not tonight, Sebastian. Please."

After a long moment of heavy silence, she hears him clank towards her.

When they reach the Chantry, they part wordlessly.

Her mother takes charge of the preparations for the actual event; Hawke is forcibly bathed with smelly floral oils, and her hair is fashioned into some semblance of respectability with the aid of copious hairpins. Her mother even gets some make-up on her, kohl and lipstain and rouge. Hawke makes faces at herself in the mirror and tries not to smear it all.

Finally, just before they're due to leave, Hawke emerges, doing her best to navigate the flight of stairs down to the hall where Sebastian awaits. Resplendent in a red suit trimmed with white, he is rendered speechless.

The dress is pure white, and at first glance looks modest enough; it is high-necked, with a floor-length skirt and tails of wing-like fabric that drape back over the shoulders. It does, however, lack any sort of back, exposing dark freckled skin cleaved with scars. Her mother loans her a necklace, and Hawke puts it on backwards; she does it accidentally at first, but decides to leave it like that after seeing the tiny prismatic patterns the diamonds cast on her spine when they catch the firelight. Two daggers have been strapped discreetly to her thighs, with her puzzle piece necklace looped around one of them; two barely-visible slits have been added to her skirt to allow her access, should she need them.

"I look like an idiot," Hawke says regretfully. "I feel like an idiot. I mean-" she flaps her arms wildly, making the drapes flow out behind her; "Look at that! What am I, a bird?"

"I think that's the idea, Hawke." Sebastian offers her his arm. "Shall we?"

Her entrance is greeted with considerable interest; few know the short woman on the Prince of Starkhaven's arm with the awkward smile and scarred hands. As the Viscount and his son greet her personally, Saemus shaking her hand with considerable enthusiasm, Hawke hears the whispering rise in volume.

"They're talking about me," Hawke mutters out of the corner of her mouth.

"They're nobles," Sebastian says, somehow managing to keep his lips perfectly still as he nods graciously at some dowager. "That's what they do."

As it turns out, he is correct; gliding through the room, Hawke picks up snippets of information that would be worth their weight in gold to the right person. She has very little to do, luckily enough; Sebastian is an expert at the whole meeting and greeting thing, making innocuous conversation and leaving gaps for her to fill with witty remarks, which she has no problem with.

The smiles grow steadily less fake as they make their way around, and Hawke feels a flare of satisfaction; if anyone here witnessed the bloodwine incident, it has been wiped from their memory. She spots Aveline at one point, mediating a dispute over the punch bowl; she slips her a quick grin.

Sebastian elbows her discreetly as she discusses the condition of the shipping lanes on the Wounded Coast with an unusually skinny merchant. "The Knight-Commander! She's heading towards- oh no, towards us... I'll handle this. Knight-Commander." Sebastian pastes a courteous smile onto his face and kisses Meredith's gauntleted fingers. "I heard you have been ill, lately. I do hope you are feeling better."

Meredith's lip twists, just for a second, before she presses her mouth into a tight line. "Thank you for your concern, your highness, but I am fine. There was a small problem with the lyrium supply, but it has since been resolved. And your companion... Serah Hawke, I assume."

"You are correct, Knight-Commander." Hawke bows, and attempts a charming smile.

"I thank you for your assistance in that... incident involving Ser Keran. Knight-Captain Cullen spoke highly of you." The look on Meredith's face implies that he possibly said more.

"Speaking of the Knight-Captain... I thought he would attend with you, Knight-Commander. Is he well? One does hear rumours..." Sebastian peers around ostentatiously, but Cullen is conspicuously absent.

"He was right beside me... Where has that man gone?" Meredith almost snarls.

"I think that might be him." Hawke indicates a knot of cooing women in the centre of the room; sure enough, after a few seconds, poor Cullen pops up in their midst, curly hair disordered and face flaming red. A triumphant lady waves a black Templar sash.

Meredith sighs as the bell rings. "I shall see you again, serah Hawke. Your highness." She turns on her heel after a curt salute to go rescue her subordinate, and Sebastian and Hawke answer the bell's call to dinner.

The food is ridiculously good, and she resolves to slip into the kitchens at some point to interrogate the cook. Sebastian watches her devour the food with amusement.

"You eat like you haven't in days," he remarks, pushing his plate away as Hawke digs into her third serving of dessert, a confection of coffee and chocolate and cake.

"I haven't," she responds, swallowing as delicately as she can, which isn't very delicately at all. "I was worried about fitting into this damned dress." The bell rings before Sebastian can respond, calling people to the ball room.

"Finish your cake- no, don't bring it with you!" He removes it from her with an exasperated sigh. "Don't you want to show off the fruits of your efforts?"

"Dancing. Oh." She clings to the chair like a man drowning. "Perhaps not." Sebastian, hands on hips, gives her a reproving glare. "Oh, fine. We're sitting the tourdion out, though."

He does not deign to respond as he leads her out onto the floor, settling into position as the first strains of the music begin.

Hawke remains with Sebastian for no more than two dances, as is proper; she does not lack for partners thereafter. Man after man passes through her white-knuckled grip, including the Viscount and his son, Seneschal Bran, Hubert, Ghyslain de Carrac (apparently on the hunt for another wife), Brett Harimann and far more scions than she can even begin to list. She's too busy concentrating on not tripping over herself to notice the time pass until suddenly the final dance is called, and Sebastian is leading her again.

"Well? How did I do?" she queries.

"A magnificent performance, my lady. Your poor mother will be positively swimming in proposals for her lovely daughter."

"Good! We won't have to buy firewood this month."

Sebastian shakes his head with a fond grin. "You are something else, Hawke." He pauses, steps stuttering as they weave back and forwards, fingers barely touching. "I... I owe you an apology."

"For what? I know you accidentally shot me instead of that Qunari the other day, but I already have a scar there, so it's fine."

"No! Well, I apologise for that too, but… what I said last night. It was... rude, and unthinking. Anders is..." He struggles silently for a few seconds. "No truly evil man would heal the entire Undercity for nothing. Even though he is an apostate, he is, technically, abiding by the Chant. I just... I worry."

"Of course you do. So do I. Anders is... You were correct in your concern." She gives him a sad smile. "All we can do is our best, and that was all you were trying to do. It's fine."

He gives her a wry look. "Have you ever considered joining the Chantry? We could use you in the confession box."

"Only if they let Barkspawn join too."

"He might be less dogmatic than Mother Petrine," he mutters.

Hawke lets out an undignified guffaw. "Dogmatic. Varric would be proud."

"Your ability to make a joke out of everything will never fail to astound me."

She spins away from him and bows as the dance concludes, the ballroom bursting into applause.

(Sure enough, the proposals begin to arrive the very next day; her mother saves a few, but Hawke uses the rest for target practice.)