The first letter from Alistair arrived far earlier than she'd expected. In fact, she hadn't really expected to hear from him at all, assuming that his request to talk to her more had been a bit of nicety on his part and not an actual request. It's not as if they ran in the same social circles, after all. But there it was on her desk, a thick sheaf of fine parchment with the royal seal of Ferelden imprinted in the wax seal.

…..

Hawke –

Our trip to Tantervale was largely uneventful with the usual requests and the usual posturing of their lord-regent. The Ferelden refugees there seem to be having a slightly easier time of things than those in Kirkwall, primarily because fewer of them made it this far north. I've already made use of Varric's amazing assortment of contacts and their information smoothed over several things that could have been incredibly uncomfortable to deal with had I not known about them beforehand. For instance, the fact that the lord-regent of Tantervale has a known proclivity toward very young men. His officiating chambers looked like something out of a very specific Orlesian pleasure-house with shirtless young men lounging about all over the place on display, quaffing drinks and chatting. Being prepared for that probably saved me a great deal of fervent blushing and averted eyes.

But my real reason for writing is two-fold.

First – what in Maker's name has happened to Starkhaven? I was lead to believe it was a very stable region and was counting on that fact to broker some deals that would bring their grain down the Minanter to Wycome where we could ship it back down to Amaranthine or Denerim. Ferelden is in dire need of new grain contracts and Starkhaven had looked like our most promising option based on reputation and the decades long stability given under the Vael family. When we arrived the castle itself was in complete disarray and despite being notified well in advance of our arrival, a steward greeted us and then shamefacedly told us that the Prince was "indisposed" and could not greet us himself. While I don't personally care much, on a political level, that's a disaster. I thought at first that we were being heavily snubbed, but after a few days here, it's apparent that this Goren Vael is simply a terrible Prince who is running the city-state into the ground. The contacts here have said much the same thing, but are scant on the details of exactly how this happened.

The stability of Starkhaven can't be our primary concern, but the farmers here are truly suffering. They've gotten no support from the Prince in the last year with trade agreements drying up. They had such a surplus of unsold grain that it was left to molder in silos before they could do anything with it. The farmers lost a great deal of revenue and their lords are furious at the state of affairs, having to dig deep into their own coffers to keep their people from suffering more. Every noble we've spoken to has had nothing but vicious anger toward the Prince and no one has been willing to confide in myself or Teagan what the change may have been. They seem scared to talk as if the same fate might befall them as well.

If there is anything at all you can tell me I would appreciate it. Even just knowing what the problem is may help us know how to attack the issue. Solona was something of a King Maker and while I won't claim that I helped greatly in either regard (one king was King Behlen, in Orzammar and one was, well, me) I was at least around for both of those processes and so some of it did rub off.

On another note entirely, I've been told I "talk funny" more than once. Apparently Ferelden accents are rare this far north and several of the farmers I spoke to threw their hands up in the air, giving up on understanding me at all. Could it be possible that I've been "talking funny" this whole time and it took a toothless Starkhaven farmer to point it out to me? Wait, don't answer that, I don't think I want to know. Our conversation in the Keep takes on an entirely new cast if I imagine that you didn't understand half of what I said and just placated me instead. Oh, and speaking of that conversation – I've wanted nothing more than another piece of that lovely bread but haven't found anything quite like it so far. The hearty food here in Starkhaven is far more to my liking than most of what I encountered so far in the Free Marches, but there's just something different about the bread that I can't place.

On to the second reason for writing to you: How have you been? Varric has been sending me steady updates. I thought it was odd at first, but I've come to appreciate them. The notes have been short enough that I think they're probably stripped down to the facts, but I have to wonder about some of them since they don't seem to make a lot of sense. According to Varric things have continued to degenerate with the Qunari and the Viscount. Someone named Petrice set up a Templar to kill a delegation? And the Viscount wanted to burn the bodies? How did the Arishok react to that? I have to admit that I'm more than a little worried about their ongoing presence there and your direct involvement. Not that I could imagine someone better suited to be involved, mind you, but from everything I've gathered, Qunari indoctrination is not a simple or smooth process and I fear the state Kirkwall will be in if the Arishok does decide to just raze the city.

I'm also now travelling from Starkhaven to Markham and then Ostwick, cutting off our leg of the journey that was to take us to Wycome since I now have nothing to bring them from Starkhaven. Because of that, I'm terribly bored on the road. Teagan is pleasant enough company and Donal, my Captain of the Guard is affable and easy to get along with, but neither of them laugh at my jokes. I find myself already growing wistful about our one short conversation. So even if you have nothing to share about any of the other topics I've brought up, I would appreciate anything to keep the boredom at bay.

Also – I'm sending this message through one of Varric's runners. They're easily twice as fast as the King's messengers and Varric has assured me in multiple notes that they're far more secure since no one would think to slaughter one of his messengers due to the lack of royal livery.

I hate acting like petulant royalty and commanding you to entertain me, but Maker, am I in sore need of entertainment.

Alistair

P.S. : Varric also mentioned that you were forced into some sort of nobleman's son's matchmaking gathering by your mother. Do tell!

…..

Hawke grinned to herself through the last half of the letter. Alistair had actually written to her and had asked after her in a non-official capacity. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, it was somewhat exciting. It felt like it had felt when Fenris agreed to continue to help her after they'd cleared out Danarius's mansion. Or how it felt to have Isabela say she'd tag along for a while. It was that sense of a having a whole vista of possibilities open up before her, there for her to shape in her own small way.

Hawke's mother had been hovering the whole time she read the letter and finally spoke up "Is the letter that interesting dear? You've reread it several times now." Leandra tried to keep her tone neutral but Hawke knew better.

"The king is asking for information about Starkhaven and asks that I help him alleviate his travel boredom by writing him back. "

"So it's a personal correspondence from the king?" Hawke didn't like the edge that Leandra applied to the word "Personal".

"Yes, I suppose you could say that. Here, read it yourself." Hawke passed the letter to her mother, who did her best "oh alright if I must" face and then tucked into it greedily while Hawke gathered some writing materials to take to her desk in her room where she could be assured of privacy while she responded.

"This letter is quite lovely, dear. Are you sure that you didn't leave anything out about your meeting with the king?"

"Why would you say that, mother?"

"Well, he signed it with just his first name. That's incredibly informal. And some of the things he says are rather, well, inappropriate in a correspondence between a lady and nobility."

Hawke sighed, "Mother, I am sure even kings have friendly correspondence sometimes. It's nothing improper, he's just being honest. I thought you'd be happy about this. Your wayward, boyish daughter is getting letters from royalty that don't involve recriminations or summons to explain her actions."

Leandra put down the letter and took her daughter's shoulders between her hands. "Of course I'm pleased, Marian. And I've never thought of you as either boyish or wayward. You've been an amazing daughter and you've taken such good care of all of us for so long. I'm only concerned about your happiness and ensuring that everyone treats you the way you should be treated."

Hawke smiled "And how exactly should I be treated mother?"

Leandra was beaming at her "You should be treated like the wonderful, strong, beautiful woman you are. King or no, I don't want anyone taking advantage of you or behaving in anything less than a completely proper manner toward you. And if he thinks that he can simply because you aren't in Ferelden or seeing him at court, I'll have his eyes."

Hawke was honestly shocked "Mother! You've gone from concerned to feral in a manner of minutes. What's gotten into you?"

Leandra suddenly pulled Hawke into a tight hug "I'm just starting to realize that you've spent so long protecting all of us and well, I'm not sure that I've ever really thanked you. Your father isn't here to intimidate your suitors so it falls to me. You are my daughter and I love you more than words could ever say."

Hawke hugged her back just as fiercely, feeling unexpected tears forming in her eyes. "I… I love you too, mother. But… Alistair isn't a suitor. He might be a friend or maybe just a fond acquaintance. Besides, you can't fear too much from a man as enamored of cheese as he is. Just wave a hunk of it at him and he'll be open to any of your suggestions."

Leandra laughed at that and released her daughter, cupping Hawke's cheek with one hand. "I'm incredibly proud of you, you know. You've grown into a remarkable woman. Any man would be a fool for not seeing it. But… enough… I've reached my limit of hassling you for the evening. I'm off to meet Gamlen and I will see you later this evening." Leandra placed a quick kiss on her daughter's cheek before pulling away.

"Have a good time, mother – as much as you can with Uncle anyway. If it's dark when you're heading back please stop in at the Hanged Man and ask Varric to escort you. I know you hate it there, but you'll hate it more when I berate you for letting thugs rob you."

Leandra sighed, "Yes dear, I will do that."

Hawke watched her mother gather her things to leave and then gathered her own parcel of items and headed to the Library to write her return letter. Where the sudden burst of emotion had come from, she couldn't be sure, but Leandra had been more open in general lately. Maybe she was finally coming to terms with their life and the loss of Carver and Bethanny. Whatever the reason Hawke was secretly moved by it. She and her mother were not exactly rivals, but she'd always felt somewhat apart from the rest of her family. Mother doted on Bethanny and Bethanny was sweet, girly, giggly and everything a mother like Leandra could want for a daughter. Marian, on the other hand, was often crass, sarcastic, caustic, and wore armor and carried daggers more often than she ever put on a dress or worried about how her hair looked. Where Bethanny had been a joyous person to her core, Marian's humor was typically a shield or a weapon in its own right, keeping at bay anything that would get too close to her overly serious and sometimes downright dour inner workings.

Pushing aside those thoughts, Hawke settled at her desk and began writing out the more serious parts of her letter, determined to give Alistair plenty of entertainment after that.

Alistair was in his tent going over the last pieces of his correspondence when the messenger arrived with a letter and parcel from Kirkwall. The letter was nearly a package in and of itself, far longer than the letter he'd sent out and he couldn't suppress a smile. He'd asked for entertainment and he hoped that that's exactly what this would contain. Directing the messenger to where he could find food and a place to rest, Alistair weighed the parcels in his hands before setting them both down on the desk to be savored later. They would be his treat after dealing with the rest of the information he had to put down and send out tonight.

Sitting in a comfortable chair before a moderately sized camp desk, Alistair realized he would never stop finding it silly that he had a tent this large and actual furniture and that this was considered "camping". He'd spent a year during the blight sleeping in tiny tents when possible and outdoors under lean-tos and beside fires otherwise. A thin bedroll and a decent amount of dry wood were as far as comforts went for the vast majority of that year. So much so that, when they stayed in Redcliffe for a time before heading to Orzammar he hadn't been able to get any rest at all while sleeping in the bed and had finally just pulled a blanket to the floor.

He'd gotten used to beds again, of course, and he wouldn't forgo their comfort if he could help it, but the entire concept of making camp that required rugs and chairs and goblets was something he'd never become accustomed to.

Getting through the last of his correspondence was a self-made torture. His eyes kept sliding toward the letter and package from Hawke, speculating about what they said or contained. He had distracted himself from his long, very boring trip on more than one occasion thinking about seeing her off at the gates. She looked very much the same as she had the day at the keep with the notable exception of that dress. It was just a dress – a very simple, standard dress like a million others he'd seen in Ferelden. He didn't think she'd worn it to be enticing but that's exactly the effect it had had. The bodice of the dress clung to every curve and hugged her chest and rib cage down to her waist, flaring out just slightly at the swell of her hips and falling nearly to her toes where the tips of her boots peaked out. She wore her hair loose without any adornment or braid. Not a spot of cosmetics on her face. A woman in armor could be very attractive. But a woman in a simple dress that defined her figure was… something else. She'd been… beautiful. There really wasn't another word for it. And he was sure that she had absolutely no idea of just how stunning she'd looked.

Even the bruise marring her shoulder hadn't detracted from it in any way. It even seemed… natural… that it was there. Ferelden women, even noblewomen, were expected to be fighters in their own right. Strong, fierce, capable of picking up arms and defending their families and lands. The contrast between Ferelden women and women from other countries had never been more striking than it was as Hawke stood there at the gates to the city, unselfconscious and smiling with curious Kirkwall families lurking in the background, feigning disinterest in the departure of the King, but clearly having casual dressed up for the occasion of ignoring him.

Finally, getting done with the letters and passing them off to a courier who would see they were delivered, Alistair poured himself some wine and pulled the packages toward him like a starving man would grasp for roast meat. The seal on the letter wasn't pressed with a signet but instead a simple crest had been drawn in the hot wax with a quill. It was a stylized Amell crest, sketched out with a few simple strokes.

Cracking open the letter, he glanced over the sheets inside and noted her neat, economical hand writing. He suddenly thought that he might ration himself, read only parts of it and keep the rest for later. But then realized how foolish that was and that, besides, he'd never actually show that kind of restraint.

…..

Alistair, his royal Kingy –

Your letter was a surprise. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. "Kingy" is what Varric has taken to calling you and I'm afraid once he chooses a nickname, he ensures that it sticks. I will attempt to entertain as well as inform in this letter as best I can. So on to the Information…

Sebastian Vael is the rightful ruler of Starkhaven. I have no doubt out of it, and neither does just about anyone else who knows him in Kirkwall. The problem is that Sebastian has many misgivings about his rightful place as ruler of Starkhaven.

There are many facets to the story, but the briefest is this… he was sent to the Chantry for education as his older brothers had the succession of the city-state well in hand. Sebastian wasn't raised with the expectation that he'd be a ruler some day and, as a result, was left to run wild to some extent. He certainly had a reputation as something of a rake when he was sent off to the Chantry. But the teachings stuck and he was a lay brother, considering taking his vows when word came that his family and most of the castle's servants and staff had been slaughtered. Since Sebastian was considered committed to the Chantry, Goran was put into place as the monarch, being next in the family line of succession.

How we met isn't important – I believe he feels some regret now over his need for revenge – but over time we've become friends despite our wildly differing opinions on the Chantry. We've also discovered together that it was a rival (but outwardly friendly and allied vassal) of the Vael family who orchestrated the murders. She was here in Kirkwall and she's… well, she is no longer a threat to him.

Aveline and I have been tirelessly arguing with him to take back his country for quite awhile now, but he's an incredibly stubborn man.

I haven't been able to convince him that he can serve the Maker as Prince, but what you've sent of your experiences may help. Thankfully, the Grand Cleric refuses to allow him to renew his vows until she feels he truly wants it. Sebastian is a kind, thoughtful, and compassionate person. His time in the Chantry has made a man of him and I believe that he is letting his people down by refusing to even try to take back his land.

Even with the unrest, it will take raising an army and gathering support for him to truly retake Starkhaven. The Viscount has been less than helpful in that regard – he ever sits and wrings his hands and does little to actually govern in my experience – but he's gained support from several long-time vassals and lords. I'm working on him as often as possible. It may break our friendship eventually, but I can't sit and watch him squander his life in this way. He was meant for more and your letter has done nothing but convince me to redouble my efforts to get him to see that. I've never asked Sebastian for anything, not even assistance. He's always come along of his own accord. Perhaps if I ask him to think about this again as a personal favor and a favor for the needs of Ferelden and its people I may be able to convince him to take me seriously.

So that's what's going on in Starkhaven. I have a feeling that some of the nobles there were at least aware of Lady Harrimann's plots and allowed them to happen, either because they were directly bribed or because they saw the potential vacuum of power as advantageous to their own schemes. However, the Vaels were well liked, even beloved, by the people. They would welcome Sebastian back, I am sure of that.

As for entertainment, well, I'm not sure what would suffice, but I'll do what I can. I've included in the package that should have come with this letter several of Varric's published works. "Hard in Hightown" is his fictional account of the life of Aveline. She was extremely displeased with it and actually refused to speak to him for a period of time once it was published. Primarily because it caused her guards to speculate about the main character and wonder amongst themselves just how accurate the stories were. It's one of Varric's most popular stories.

I've also included "The Hawke Flies North", Varric's account of my family's flight from Lothering. That one is oddly accurate as far as the actual events go. The descriptions are rather… embellished. While Bethanny was never lacking in the assets department, "Heaving globes" are not words I would have ever wanted associated with my little sister's chest. Varric usually referred to Bethanny as "Buttercup" and she adored him.

There is also an untitled account of our trip clearing out the Bone Pit. There were dragonlings infesting the whole thing. They'd killed most of the workers and a smallish, but older dragon was there as well. Varric has wildly exaggerated the number and sizes of the drakes we encountered. But it allowed him to add "Dragon Slayer" to my ever growing list of honorifics so he is more than happy to ignore the pitiful size of the things.

I'm going to give you a slightly more accurate idea of who all these people are in the stories. I'll try to brief, but people are complicated so this might take a bit.

In these various stories you'll see more about Varric, though he rarely goes into detail about himself. He doesn't see himself as the main character in any of his stories, despite the fact that he's often right at the center of orchestrating them. I met him while attempting to get into a Deep Roads expedition immediately after being released from a year of indentured work. That was the only way we were allowed in to Kirkwall – a lot of bribe money and being chained to a smuggler for whatever she wanted us to do for a year. Needing stability and to get my mother and sister out of our Lowtown hovel with my uncle, Bethanny pushed for us to join the expedition as it promised wealth – or at least a good step in that direction. Varric devised a scheme for me to gain enough money (50 soverign, which was utterly exorbitant at the time as I had just a few silver to my name that wasn't already spoken for) to become a partner with his brother Bartrand, the leader of the expedition. It worked, obviously, but only after months of Varric and I hunting down every lead on every job we could find from the lowest theft and mercenary work to keeping the nobles' dirty secrets hidden from them. It was quite an introduction to the sort of machinations at work in Kirkwall across every social stratum.

Varric refers to himself as my official biographer and has written and disseminated a great many stories about me. The vast majority of which are so riddled with falsehoods that I often wonder why he even bothers trying to connect them to real events. If the stories are to be believed I've the influential power of Andraste, the dramatic flair of the Black Fox, and the sort of woebegone tragic soul you'd expect to be depicted in the soppiest of Orlesian romance literature. Varric however may just be the most powerful man in Kirkwall – information is a commodity that he excels in trading and there is never a lack of demand more.

Aveline and I met along the lines in the story I sent you. She entered the Kirkwall guard just after our servitude period was up and has climbed the ranks ever since, becoming Guard Captain within the year. Thankfully, she's never been put in the position to arrest me or have any of her guardsmen come down on me personally. Isabela is a different story, but Aveline, bless her, doesn't count me responsible for Isabela. I've often been able to assist her, in fact, when going through the proper channels gets her nowhere. We don't see eye to eye on everything – not by a long shot. But she's been like family to me since we washed up in Kirkwall and may just be my only true test of moral rightness in this place. If I'm unsure of something, I need only run it past her to determine if it's right, wrong, or simply not right in the eyes of the law.

Fenris is my closest friend here. I've no idea how it happened, but it did. Varric calls him "Broody" most of the time though I feel it's a little unfair. Fenris is certainly dour and taciturn but I believe he's earned it. We crossed paths several years ago while I was still hunting up coin for the Deep Roads. He was being hunted by Slavers from Tevinter - he'd been a slave to a powerful Magister there and he'd managed to escape. Unfortunately, the Magister had made him some sort of… experiment. His tattoos, which you may have seen as they are difficult to ignore, are made of Lyrium that has been branded into his skin. It should have killed him – but it didn't. But he did lose all his memories, either as part of the ritual or because Denarious chose to remove them. His memories start as a young man with no past and knowing only what it is to be a slave to cruel and powerful people.

Fenris stayed around for a while out of a sense of obligation for helping him. But I'd like to think now that he's remained because he has friends. Any one of us would shield him from harm just as he would shield us. It's taken quite a long time, but he's begun to open up. I've convinced him to let me teach him read, he's become something of a dangerous Wicked Grace player, and he's finally started jabbing back when Varric or Isabela decides to play with him. He still thinks of himself as someone hunted, as not truly free and I find that incredibly frustrating – but I also don't hold it against him. Somehow we understand each other though our backgrounds couldn't be more different.

On a lighter note, he's making me a better fighter. We spar at least once a week, most of which is spent with me getting pummeled into the ground with that ridiculous sword of his and then him correcting everything I did wrong. But yesterday I managed to get in 3 different shots to him, any one of which would have been a crippling blow. It's only taken years, but I'm figuring out his weaknesses! Thank the Maker he's on my side. I'd hate to have to go against him in a real fight.

Merrill is a Dalish elf who was… well I don't know how to put it. She was "given" to us by Marethari, the keeper of the tribe at Sundermount. In the story about our family ending up in Kirkwall you'll see that Flemeth, a witch? A dragon? I don't know what she is… met us on the road just outside the Kokari Wilds as we fled Lothering. In exchange for helping us get to a port to catch a ship to Kirkwall, I agreed to take an amulet to the Keeper. Having little other choice and deciding eventually that I should probably not go back on my word to a woman who can become a dragon at will, I delivered the amulet to Marethari and we were asked to ascend to the graveyard at the top of the mountain and go through a Dalish ritual for the dead along with the help of the Keeper's "First", Merrill. We did as requested, discovering along the way that Merrill was more than happy to whip out her knife and slice her hands for things like opening a passageway blocked by magic. That didn't exactly endear herself to me. I have no problem with apostates. I have a big problem with blood magic and it didn't help that Fenris had accompanied me. I don't think Merrill will ever appreciate just how close she came to having her heart crushed in her chest that day. Flemeth arouse from the amulet once the ritual was completed. I'd been toting a Witch around for a year without knowing it. I was more than a little surprised, but Flemeth just seem vaguely amused that I'd actually kept my end of the bargain. She had some words for Merrill and for Fenris and for me. I got the sense that she knows far more than she should. A sense that I'd also gotten when she'd agreed to help us get to Kirkwall in the first place.

When we returned to the Keeper, Marethari asked that, as part of the bargain, we take Merrill with us to Kirkwall. I didn't really have a choice in the matter. I wasn't going to annoy Flemeth and I didn't want to make an enemy of the Keeper either. So we took Merrill with us to Kirkwall and got her set up in a house in the alienage. She looked so sad and lost that I promised I'd come to see her and I have continued to do so. She is "Daisy" to Varric and incredibly sweet while also being incredibly misguided and oddly stubborn about it. She needs a ball of twine to get from her own house to anywhere else in Lowtown and even then frequently becomes lost. The shopkeepers have become accustomed to having their stalls wrapped in twine as she tries to make her way from her house to the Hanged Man.

Isabela is a Rivaini pirate who Varric, in an uncharacteristically non-inventive turn, calls "Rivaini". Isabela also claims she met you once, before you were king, in Denerim at a place called The Pearl. So – do tell, Alistair. I didn't picture you as the whore house type!

Isabela is often scantily clad, often lewd, and nearly always a good person to have in a fight. I'm extremely fond of her despite the fact that I'm cannot trust her in the least. She's been searching for a lost relic the whole time I've known her and I ended up meeting her totally by accident. From the moment I've met Isabela she has managed to embroil me in a million plots, schemes, and crackpot plans for any number of things – from ways to get a new ship to interesting ways to annoy Aveline.

Let's see, I've already told you about Sebastian and that leaves just Anders. I don't know if you would have met him or known of him already – I'm not really sure how all that works with the Grey Wardens. Anders escaped or fled the Wardens – he's never really been clear on that point. I met him because I needed maps into the deep roads and Varric figured a Grey Warden would be a good bet for that. I have something of a… contentious… relationship with Anders. He's a brilliant healer. He's quite literally saved my life on multiple occasions. There are moments when I see his humor and his charm and I feel like I could be a real friend to him. And then his other side comes out and ruins it all.

Anders himself has been extremely sketchy on the details, but Varric and I have been able to piece together some of it. Apparently Anders was conscripted while he was being taken back to the circle after another escape attempt. He served with the Wardens in Amaranthine for a period of time but then suddenly… left. We haven't found out what the circumstances were. He lives in Darktown and runs a clinic there. He's extremely troubled – I won't go into details – but he's tried to do good things for those who are often forgotten about in the dregs of society here. He rails on about freedom for mages and the injustices of the Chantry. I agree with him to some extent – my father was an Apostate, after all, but his extremism worries me.

Varric calls him "Blondie" but he might as well call him "Broody". He and Fenris are often angry and screaming at each other when allowed to mingle. I find the concept of choosing one or the other difficult. But I doubt Fenris will self-destruct and I'm sure that Anders will.

Bah – thinking about Anders is not entertaining. It's depressing. So let me move on to Noodle. Noodle is my mabari and you asked about his name before. I don't think even Varric knows this one.

When I was 16 we were moving through villages near Denerim. But we were in sore need of supplies and my father decided that he would risk heading into the city to pick up what we needed. My brother Carver stayed back in the nearest village with Bethanny and my mother. I was the oldest and the best scout among us so I went along with my father. Denerim was the biggest city I'd ever been in but instead of enjoying it I just saw danger everywhere. Too many people to watch, too many exits to cover, a Chantry sat immediately beside the main gates as we came in.

It was only after a great deal of pointedly relaxed and unworried coaxing from my father that I was able to really take it all in. It was a big sloppy mess of people and things and commerce and goals and rather appealing – a place to get lost in.

We got most of our supplies quickly but while we moved from one portion of the market to another, we spotted a Mabari breeder and a pen of very young puppies. They were amazing, all different patterns and colors, a squealing, yelping mass of beasts playing and falling and running. My father talked to the breeder while I played with the dogs a bit and one in particular caught my attention. He was tawny colored all over except for a small patch on his chest of a deeper russet brown and black and much smaller than the rest. The breeder explained he was the runt and would probably be good for very little once he was fully grown. It was foolish to have gotten into the pen with them at all because I was sure there was no way that I'd be allowed to take him with us even if we could afford him.

My father had finished talking to the breeder as I reluctantly broke away from the pup who had been boring holes into me with his eyes. With a straight face by father asked me where the dog was. I thought he was just being cruel for no good reason. I pointed back at the pen without looking back. My father laughed then, which was a surprise, and said "well go get him, girl, before he loses his mind." I just stared at my father and he kept smiling and laughing, pulling me back over toward the dog who was wiggling around wildly, his hind quarters whipping back and forth in joy so fervent that he was nearly pulling himself off his own feet. My father squatted in front of the dog and said "He's like a noodle in a pot!"

And that's why he's named Noodle. It was a ridiculous name for a Mabari when I was 16 and it's a ridiculous name now. We tried to give him a different proper name, but nothing stuck – he would only answer to Noodle. He was the last name day present my father gave me before he took ill and I secretly think that the entire purpose of the trim to Denerim was to get me a mabari. I didn't see any money change hands – my father had been working as a mercenary for years. I assume that he'd taken his payment in the form of a puppy for me.

Carver was beside himself with jealousy when we got back to the village. He'd been coveting every Mabari we'd seen and he desperately wanted one to choose him but none ever had. Noodle has been with me ever since and Carver continued to build on that early resentment for years. The breeder swore he'd always be small, but Noodle quickly grew to full size and then some. He still wiggles like a noodle in a pot when he's excited, which is often.

Of course Varric would mention the dinner to you. Of course he would. My mother has been on me about finding a "suitable match" for a while now. Nevermind that half the noblemen in the city are completely frightened by me and would never allow their sons to marry "a barbarian" in the first place, my mother still has to try. She held a dinner party here at the house and invited a huge number of the nobility and their eligible children, both male and female, to give them additional incentive to show up in case they were already put off by me. Mother was thoroughly in her element and I was… not. I think I did well enough for most of the night. I had suffered under mother's hair and cosmetic assaults and agreed to wear the ridiculous pointy little Orlesian foot-torture shoes and the flouncy dress with the billowing skirt that just made me feel like I would topple over at any moment. And the corsetry! No wonder noble women in other countries are often said to rarely speak. They probably can't get enough air to do so. It never occurred to me that my waist was so ungainly that I should cinch it in under boning and layers of silk and then lash it all down. I felt like I looked ridiculous, but mother was breathless with excitement. The dress itself was a very pretty color, a very pale blue. But the bodice didn't come up far enough for my taste and in combination with the corset I spent the whole night trying to surreptitiously pull the whole thing up. There were no sleeves on the dress at all, just a little ruff of fabric that left my shoulders completely bare and encircled the tops of my arms. Then the skirt with the ruffles and the crinoline and the under support – not to sound like a fool but there was something in my mind screaming at me about how impractical it was. Where would I hide a dagger? What if I needed to run? How long would it take for me to trip on the many layers of scratchy fabric around my legs and fall face first into a ridiculously arranged plate of finger foods?

Apparently I didn't do too badly. I had a full dance card and was unfortunately put through the paces. All of the dances were slow, stately type dances. Nothing too elaborate, thankfully, but all very… close. I thought I'd have to burn the dress after the number of sweaty, pasty nobleman's hands that had been on it all night. Only one of them got too familiar for me to take but the top of the dress meant that there was far more talking directly into my chest than there was talking to my face. I felt more like something on display and less like a person.

Seamus was something of a relief, as I hadn't expected to see anyone there I actually knew. He rescued me from more than one stifling conversation and of course my mother was thrilled with that development. She didn't so much see Seamus, adorable boy obsessed with the Qunari, she saw Viscount's Son, eligible bachelor. Seamus is certainly an attractive young man and very nice. I appreciated his assistance and went out of my way on a few occasions to stay a little closer to him than absolutely necessary to ward off some of the others in attendance, especially Seneschal Brann's son. For someone who hates me as much as he does, Brann has managed to produce a son who has something of an unhealthy attraction toward me. Maybe it's just to upset his father. Either way, I don't want to end up anywhere alone with him any time soon. Seamus seemed to understand and whenever Brann's offspring started sidling over, Seamus would casually place a discrete arm around my waist. Nothing too familiar, but just enough to signal possessiveness. For all I know they have some sort of rivalry and I was being used as a pawn the whole night in some game.

It doesn't really matter – I got out of it unscathed and it made mother very happy that I even allowed her to dress me up. Bethanny would have been more than game for the whole affair, of course. I don't mind looking feminine, not at all. But I do mind the idea that I have some noble lineage and therefore should be put on display like a bolt of silk, haggled over. I don't think I have anything to offer any of these men except headaches and inappropriate jokes. And even though it would make mother very happy, I can't force myself to court and marry someone I don't even like. If that means I end up a spinster, then so be it.

Also this week I helped Aveline court someone. It's nice to see her express an interest in someone even though she is hopeless at expressing her romantic feelings. She actually babbled at him about blades for something approaching an hour. It was painful. But worth it to see her glowing face the next day.

I think I've run out of entertainment, Kingy. I'm sorry I haven't had much in the way to share this week. I have spent a great deal of my time in the Qunari compound , trying to broker some sort of understanding with the Arishok. He's continued to listen to what I have to say, but I can't change his mind. He seems frustrated that I don't leave Kirkwall, especially now that I could. He's seen my rise within the city, has noticed my titles, better equipment, and so forth. He can't understand why I don't take my mother and leave. When I tried to explain that, while Kirkwall was indeed a pit of vipers, there were few places in Thedas that were truly better, he took that as a sign of how correct the Qun was and how twisted humanity is.

From what Fenris has told me, it's extremely rare for the Arishok to spend any time at all explaining himself – let alone to a "bas". Some of the other ranks are more willing to discuss things and I've actually encountered a few Ashaad who have been downright chatty for Qunari. But they're… rare. If I come across a talkative Kossith they're typically Tal'Vashoth and most of what they have to say are things yelled at me as they try to run me through with spears. The personal interest the Arishok has seemed to take hasn't been lost on Fenris and he's warned me again and again to be careful. The Arishok just doesn't behave the way he has with me and it puts Fenris on edge.

Being stuck between the Qunari and the Chantry's fringe elements is the last place I want to be but I don't see any other choice. The Qunari don't need protection – but they do need a buffer. They've lasted here for years without yet causing a single death that wasn't provoked or in self-defense. The Tal'Vashoth are another story entirely and unfortunately most people do not draw a distinction between them and the Qunari – they see horns and assume they're all the same.

Public opinion has already painted me a "Horn head sympathizer" along with all manner of rumors as to what exactly the Arishok and I talk about – I'll leave you to imagine that yourself.

If I think of anything funny that I've left out here I'll send off another runner. Varric has employed nearly half the Undercity at this point, the vast majority of them Fereldens. In the meantime, enjoy the books and let me know if there is anything else I can do for you. While things remain tense in the city, I'm hoping that I can still convince the Viscount that he needs to take a harder line against the Chantry in this matter and get Elthina involved. We'll see how that goes.

Until then

Hawke

….

Alistair folded up the letter, conflicted. While that had certainly not been boring, he now just felt… troubled. He was more worried now than ever about the Qunari in Kirkwall. He also had visions that wavered from pleasant (Hawke at a fancy party), to very pleasant (Hawke's description of her dress). Also, the idea of Seamus playing rescuer was not one he was very fond of, but he was sure Hawke could take care of herself.

The mentions of her family had him intrigued. Her father had obviously died, but she also talked about Bethanny and Carver – her siblings? – in a way that made it sound as if they too were no longer with her. How much had she lost since she left Ferelden? It occurred to Alistair that he actually knew very little about her background outside of the fact that she had at one point fled Lothering and done well for herself once she landed in Kirkwall. While he was incredibly curious he also didn't want to cause her pain by bringing up unpleasant memories. It occurred to him that he could ask Varric, but that that might look as if he was spying on her indirectly and he certainly didn't want to give that impression.

He was also curious, despite himself, to know more about her Amell background. She was interesting and strong in a way that was very real and familiar to him. She didn't remind him of Solona at all. Solona was sweet and naïve in many ways and her grounding in the realities of the world came at a huge price. Watching her innocence torn away through conflict after conflict during the blight had been difficult and by the end, she was truly not the same woman. Solona was also slight, quiet, preferring to speak as little as possible and make each word truly count. Hawke seemed to spend words like she'd never run out, cajoled, charmed, flirted, and verbally danced in a way that he immediately felt drawn to. It reminded him of his own deflections and use of humor as a shield. Hawke was also bold in a way that felt… honest. Like she wouldn't lie to you even if you wanted her to. His life was completely absent of that kind of honesty. Maybe she wouldn't mind telling him about her family and what she'd been through. Maybe she would approach it with the same humor she approached everything else.

He took the book about the Hawke family's flight from Lothering with him to his cot and began to read. Varric's depiction of what Hawke looked like wasn't as far off as Hawke would have had him believe. True, some of the similes were a little heavy – "Cutting through grim-faced Hurlocks like a beautiful scythe through corrupted wheat stalks", for instance – but he could clearly picture her through this description. He had yet to see her engage in any kind of fight, but the way it was described seemed to fit her easy grace.

When he got to the part about Carver he felt his heart clench for her. The only thing he could relate it to was Duncan and Solona and they had at least been Grey Wardens. They had known that they were there to fight darkspawn, not some untested man, barely out of boyhood. But Bethanny made it to Kirkwall with them so… what had happened to her? Did it involve the Templars? And poor Aveline, to lose her husband to the taint in that way. The witch had been right about that at least – killing him was a mercy. Alistair had seen enough of the taint to know that no one should have to suffer through that kind of death.

He read far further into the night then he had meant to and was exhausted when he finally put aside his reading material and slept. All night he had dreams about fighting darkspawn and throwing himself in front of Hawke, shielding her from damage even as she continued to launch herself into the fight.