A/N: And here we meet the pretender Prince. There is dancing, plotting, Zevran – all the trappings of a good party.

"Your Highness, may I introduce Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall."

As the crown prince's private herald moved aside, Hawke pulled out her best Highborn-and-Only-Mildly-Interested smile. It was a practiced skill, and one that was being utilized to its fullest tonight.

Goran sat there in the seat of honor at the head table, and the Champion swept him with her eyes as she curtsied. He was at least a head shorter than Sebastian, pudgy, and soft brown curls peeked out from around his coronet. It was simple, an aged gold ring with a leaf-and-vine design cut from the center band, and it looked slightly big for him as he adjusted it awkwardly. His face, though bearing a few slight similarities to Sebastian's, was unremarkable. Hazel-brown irises peered out from wide-set eyes, and he scratched the flat, square tip of his nose and smiled a bit as Hawke straightened up.

"Champion," he said, and the nervousness in his voice did little to mask an unexpected gentleness that she found rather disarming. His accent, though obvious, was not nearly as thick as most of her company's. "I had no idea that you would be in attendance."

She laughed, smoothing the plaid that draped across her skirts. "It was something of a last-minute decision. But I'd heard all about Starkhaven from Sebastian and had to come see it for myself."

At the mention of his cousin's name, Goran's posture shifted up. "And Sebastian arrived with you, did he not?"

"I am here, cousin." The archer stepped forward, and Goran stood, smiling.

"Sebastian. It is good to see you." He extended a hand, and Sebastian clasped his wrist warmly.

"As you say," he said, blue eyes catching briefly on the royal circlet, and Hawke might've been the only one who noticed. "You've grown taller since we last met!"

Goran ducked his head sheepishly, and the Champion found herself with the sudden urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake the meekness out of him. Or strip him of his shirt to check and make sure that he did, in fact, possess a spine. This was the farthest thing from what she had been expecting, and his complete lack of presence was draining the steam from her theories.

"It has been over ten years, cousin," he replied, "since the hunt where, if I'm not mistaken, you had your bow taken from you?"

It took a moment, but Hawke watched as it dawned on Sebastian just which hunt he was referring to. "Ah," he smiled. "That it was. Mother was furious."

"What had you done?" she prodded, and he turned to her sporting a grin laced with wickedness.

"I attempted to disappear with the kennel-master's daughter," he said. "Unfortunately, when one spends the majority of their time with hunting dogs, said dogs come to know your scent quite well." Chuckling, he shook his head. "We were discovered within an hour."

Hawke stifled a laugh. "I can only imagine the scolding you both got."

"I was forbidden from joining the hunt for the rest of the week!" A glint graced his eyes at the memory. "I was terribly cross at the time. Felt it was quite the unjust punishment for the amount of dalliance one can commit in half an hour."

Snickering, she crossed her arms and grinned up at him. "You just don't know how to manage your time wisely, then."

"Oh?" That got his attention.

She turned from him then, back to Goran. "You must have some stories about this one! I would love to hear them, if you ever have the time."

The crown prince managed a weak smile and nodded obligingly. "I would be happy to, Champion–" he hesitated, quickly adding: "-if my schedule permits. I'm... afraid I find my days rather full of late. But I'll confer with my advisor and see if he can find a few spare moments."

"Your advisor?" She tilted her head, interest piqued. "I haven't met many of the court here yet."

"I suppose you will meet him, eventually. Though he may be a busy man." Suddenly, a flash of blue appeared at his elbow, and the rest of the man moved to join it.

"Speaking of me, I assume."

"Loudain. Yes."

Hawke knew that name, though the face that went along with it was new. Horace Loudain practically towered over Goran, the dark blue of his tartan over the black doublet making him resemble a plaid shadow. His face was square, dark eyes under thick eyebrows and an equally thick beard. He was handsome, no doubt, but looked far too severe to take advantage of his fortunate features.

And, she noted, he was very quick to attach himself to the crown prince's side when she and Sebastian were near.

Interesting.

"Loudain," her intended said, extending a hand. "Bann of Estonborough? You may not remember me, as I was a lad when last we met."

The Bann clasped his wrist after a moment's hesitation. "Sebastian, your father's youngest. How could I forget?" With a slight curve to tight lips, he added: "You name was often whispered among the women and castle staff."

"As I am well aware, though I assure you: those days are long behind me."

"Yes," the bearded man replied, studying him thoroughly and eyes alighting upon the sigil across the youngest prince's chest. "The Chantry, was it?"

"Aye, by the Maker's grace."

Irritated disbelief traveled briefly across the Bann's face, put away neatly when he turned to Hawke. "And your lady. A brother of the faith travels with such... illustrious company?"

"I begged to come," she told him, straight-faced and looking him right in the eye. "I so rarely get the opportunity to wear fancy gowns."

She didn't waiver in her eye contact as to her left, Sebastian's shoulders trembled with the effort of fighting down his laughter.

"You honor us with your presence, Champion," Loudain said dryly as he brought his lips to the back of her hand.

"The honor is mine," she returned, trying to keep the sarcastic simper from her voice. "Such a wonderful celebration brings joy to a heart saddled with the worries of an entire city."

"I am glad," the Bann said slowly, carefully considering his next words and regarding her with a cautious tone. "Though I hear there may be cause for some joy in your Kirkwall."

He glanced between her and Sebastian, and she understood his meaning. MacDougall had been entirely right - tell a handful of courtiers something discreetly, and it spreads faster than if you'd handed out leaflets.

Her intended had apparently caught the intonation and sought out her hand, taking it between his and kissing the tops of her fingertips meaningfully. Hawke approved of the gesture, as they both knew it would leave no doubts in their company's mind and likely spark even more whispers.

Sebastian might have had a better understanding of the rumor mill than she gave the man credit for. And, not for the first time, she wondered just how much gossip flew among the sheltered Chantry sisters behind closed doors.

"Aye," the archer murmured, "great joy. Though a recent development."

"Then you must accept my well-wishes."

Loudain's face didn't match his words in any way, shape, or form. He looked tense, Hawke thought, like he'd just eaten something unpleasant, and anything but congratulatory.

His expression read, she noted with some amusement, that this was a huge pain in his backside.

When she glanced to Goran, however, she got hit with an entirely different story. The crown prince looked utterly spent, and he appeared ten pounds thinner and half-starved while staring at the intersection of their hands. There was no anger or anxiety when presented with his cousin's betrothal, just... exhaustion, perhaps? Weariness?

It felt distinctly off to Hawke, and she did her best to focus on Sebastian's fingers while her analytical brain ran a mile a minute. She needed space to think, a moment away from the situation to get a better grip and tumble it around her skull in peace.

Thankfully, the musicians began the stirrings of a new set, and she leapt at the opportunity. "Not to be rude," she said with an embarrassed smile, pulling her hand free, "but could I steal Sebastian away? He promised to dance with me at least once tonight."

"Of course," Goran replied with an awkward wave of his hand. "Please, go."

"Yes," agreed Loudain. "Go."

Hawke beamed enthusiastically at the Bann, his words sharp in her ears.

Not on your life, she declared mentally as she pulled Sebastian to the dance floor.

As the syncopated Orlesian number began, Sebastian couldn't help but smile at Hawke's face. She had her less-than-pleased concentrating look on, and something was clearly frustrating his betrothed.

"What are your thoughts?" he prodded, the hand on her back sliding as he brought her a bit closer to avoid the other dancers. "Did you see something?"

"I might have." She frowned, deep in thought, and he noted with some amusement that her steps were perfectly in sync with his when she wasn't paying attention to them. Though if he pointed it out now, he was sure she would fuss at him. Which, all things told, was sorely tempting.

"Loudain didn't like us talking to Goran," she started, turning under his arm. "And the man didn't let him get two words in edgewise once he showed up. And we still don't have definite evidence to tie him to that incident at the village, and we can't exactly ask your cousin if he knows anything. Something tells me that Lord Stick-Up-His-Arse doesn't let Goran talk much, if he can help it."

"I agree." The prince nodded thoughtfully, deftly sidestepping the couple next to them. "Watches him as sharp as a falcon, guards him closely as well. It seems as though he's integrated himself like a weed's roots into the prince himself in addition to the court."

"And I'm sure that pairing his daughter to the crown prince would only make him nigh-invincible," she muttered. "I almost feel bad for your cousin. He looks utterly miserable."

Sebastian stiffened. The one person he did not need to hear second-guessing was Hawke. He had waded through enough self-doubt and hesitation to fill the span of six years with a waist-high river. "Hawke," he said firmly, "do not stay your hand out of sympathy. You cannot. He is a puppet, manipulated at the expense of the safety and happiness of thousands for one man's selfish designs." He couldn't keep the apologetic tone out of his voice as he continued. "This is not a matter of compassion, mo gràidh."

The completely subconscious use of the endearment softened his words, though he was unsure of the effect they'd had on his dance partner. Judging from her expression, they had completely interrupted her thoughts.

"What was that last bit?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "You, ah, seem confused."

She shook her head. "Not confused, just..." She smiled up at him, and the hand squeezing his sent a warm shudder tracing down the muscles of his chest.

"Impressed," she finished, rapping one fist against his chest lightly. "You sounded like a different man just now."

"And that pleases you?"

"In a way." She smirked, reaching around his shoulder and pressing a few fingers into the back of his neck, pinpointing his vertebrae. "Just proved that when it comes to your homelands, you have a spine. It will make you a fine leader."

Her encouragement heartened his pride, and his doubts were eased somewhat. "Glad I am, then, to have your confidence."

"You know you do." With a snicker, she ducked her head and muttered under her breath. "Now, if only you would prove that you had a cock–"

Sebastian tripped.

Hawke's eyes widened, hands flying to cover her mouth.

"Oh, Maker," she hissed through her fingers. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

Before he could answer, she took a step back. The song had only just ended, and as the strings of the next began, she pulled a glass of wine from the nearest server and downed it in one long swallow.

"I think I need some air," she managed, pressing her hands to her neck as she made for one of the verandas.

The prince leaned against a pillar as he watched her go, and he couldn't help but chuckle in equal parts disbelief and amusement. That had been enlightening. "Willing to produce an heir" and "actively interested in taking a tumble" were two very different entities altogether. He'd thought she'd merely been teasing him in the bath; she did like to make him writhe.

Well, at least he wasn't writhing alone.

He wasn't sure if the newfound knowledge that Hawke was quite so interested would make his decision to remain abstinent until they exchanged vows that much easier or that much worse. On the one hand, it was easier to endure if one wasn't suffering alone, but on the other, knowing that all it took was being a bit authoritative and she had...

Authoritative. Which leant itself well to a whole host of things. The image of Hawke thrown across his lap with her hands bound suddenly presented itself to him, and he could almost feel the stinging of his palms as he brought them down hard across her bared backside.

As his imagination grabbed hold and his blood started to rise, he stood from the pillar and cleared his throat, beelining for an open door to the night sky.

It seemed he needed some air, too.

It was nearly an hour of being bombarded with greetings and introductions before Hawke found enjoyable conversation again, this time with men all wearing emerald green tunics that bore the signature running stallions of Tantervale's horsemasters. She was all too eager to speak fondly of her own horse, and they seemed completely entertained by her enthusiasm.

"...and then, after about the tenth try, I finally hooked my foot into the stirrup and got a good enough grip to pull myself over!"

"Gryphon," Sebastian half-asked, half-stated over her shoulder.

"Of course!" she exclaimed brightly, greeting him as he walked up. "I was just telling them about the other day when Eoin taught me the running mount."

"I see." He turned to the four men, a slightly exasperated smile on his face. "I apologize for my companion," he said. "She is... very attached to her mount, and is happy to talk about him. At length."

The first of them laughed, waving it off. "No, not at all. We appreciate those who care as much about their horses as the Champion does."

"In Tantervale," the fourth added, "there is a saying that a horsemaster's first horse is oft more boasted about than his first child."

"You're all horsemasters, then?" the prince asked, turning to each of them. "Quite a journey."

"Two days as the crow flies," one said as he adjusted his belt, "though we stay for a week at a time. See the local breeding stock, perhaps bring back new blood, things like that."

Hawke wondered if Eoin knew these men, though she doubted all those from a certain city-state were acquainted. "Is Starkhaven known for its horses?"

"Not in particular," came the reply, "but some of the lords here pride themselves on breeding foreign bloodlines as a particular hobby."

"I see."

Suddenly, the two horses she'd brought back to MacDougall's second-in-command sprang to mind. Expensive, Eoin had said. But noble-breeding-expensive?

"If I wanted to learn more about horses while I was here," she asked slowly, carefully, "who would I ask? Other than you, obviously."

The men chuckled, looking at each other as they tossed names around.

"...MacNeill, a bit, though it's been a few years..."

"...but this spring, Lord Perth produced a beautiful..."

"...as for stables, I recall Loudain had the..."

"...doesn't Lady Nevain breed..."

"Excuse me," she interrupted. "Did you mention Bann Loudain? We've just met him."

"Yes," a blonde man confirmed as he scratched at the stubble across his chin. "He's one of the more prolific breeders in these parts. And very committed – if I remember right, he has three or four stables for his own private use."

Sebastian caught on quickly, feigning interest. "Three or four! Does he import many breeds?"

"No, just the one." The man to Sebastian's left shrugged. "He's the Marches' foremost expert on Tevinter Highwatches."

"Impressive name," Hawke said. "What are they known for?"

"Silence, mostly." The blonde again. "They're very quiet. And prized for being true black, almost blue, all over. A speck of white and they're worthless, so the bloodlines are pretty meticulously restricted."

"And they're worth quite a bit, I presume."

"A small fortune, to anyone worth half their salt."

Hawke shot Sebastian a meaningful look.

"You don't say."

It looked like their concrete tie to the Bann of Estonborough had hooves.

"Black horses. That's what ye've got."

The Bann of Shallervale raised an eyebrow down at Hawke as she proudly shared her discovery.

"Not just any black horses," she said, "true black. And a specific breed!"

"That he sells t' other nobles?"

"Still." She crossed her arms as the giant appeared unconvinced. "What, do you have something better?"

"Might." He thumbed toward the far side of the hall, where there stood a set of massive doors that opened to the rest of the castle. "Spoke t' th' steward. Apparently Loudain's set himself up in th' palace proper. Has a set of rooms and all."

"Really," Sebastian marveled, "as well as his city estate?"

Hawke frowned. "Is that normal?"

"Not by far," the archer explained, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Apartments in Arrow's Rest are reserved for temporary guests or relatives – only those that the royal family have need to see on a near-daily basis."

"I see," she murmured, craning her neck to see Loudain lean in to catch Goran's ear while a few ornately-dressed young women chattered away in front of him. "So by installing himself in the palace, he's basically broadcasting his hold on the prince."

"Exactly."

"Wow," she breathed, "he's not even trying to hide it, is he?"

"Smug bastard." The Bann kept an eye on Aeryn, who stood conversing with her peers well within her father's line of sight. "He must be confident, then. Maker, it's almost like walking around with th' crown on his own head."

"And no one opposes him?" she asked, incredulous. "You would think -"

"He's already deep in it," Guinn interrupted. "Harimann left a big hole when she disappeared. He swooped in and gathered up all th' work she'd done and turned it t' himself." Sighing, he glanced around the room. "Now with Cora aiming for the princess' seat, it's only a matter of time before th' Bann of Estonborough makes himself royalty by law, and then no one can touch him."

"No wonder he's twitchy. He's still got a chink in his armor until the wedding happens." The Champion thought back to the night she'd let the messengers – which she was now all but convinced were Loudain's – return to their lord. "And he knows Sebastian's here. If he's our man, he's known for days now. Hard to imagine he's just planning on waiting patiently until we leave."

"My thoughts exactly," MacDougall agreed. "So I did a bit of snooping 'round."

The mental image of the enormous bearded man tiptoeing around the parapets rose up a snicker that Hawke shushed down.

"Seems Loudain spends a lot of time in th' map room of th' royal library," he continued, "using it as his own private office. Ducks in and out all th' time. And wouldn't ye know it, it's two corridors over."

He practically beamed as he said the last words meaningfully, staring down smugly at Hawke, who sighed.

"Damnit," Hawke muttered. "Yours was better than mine."

"They've changed the tapestries," Sebastian noted as they stepped out into one of the curved hallways. He heard the door click behind him, and Hawke dusted her skirts off roughly.

"You used the servants' entrances a lot, I take it."

He smiled, inclining his head as he took in the new décor. "They had many uses beyond moving food and laundry back and forth. Especially when discretion was an absolute necessity."

"So not surprised." She tugged on his sleeve, prompting him to come along. "I expect a tour of them later."

He turned to walk beside her, quickening his pace to lead the way. He knew these rooms like the back of his hand - he had spent a lot of time in the library as a young man, first to read, but later to make use of the small, oft-vacant Archivist's office beneath one set of stairs. It was a bit cramped for two, though personal space was never the issue. No, the main problem was that archival fluid burned like the Maker's wrath when it spilled on your–

He shuddered, ending that memory right there.

Gently, he pushed open the double doors and was immediately swept with a wave of an all-too-familiar smell: musty pages and ink.

They stepped in, and his chest tightened at the sight of the same multi-level ladders, balconies, and cabinets that had been there since his boyhood. Books stretched up to the ceiling high above, and enormous dual-story windows spilled moonlight onto the tables in the middle of it all.

He used to sleep under those tables, he remembered, both as a boy when he exhausted himself reading and as a young man when he was hung over and wished to be left alone.

Hawke's voice snapped him back to the present.

"The map room," she asked. "Which way?"

Sebastian nodded, walking purposefully past a few large shelves and to the left. The door, though shut, swung open with ease, and his companion edged past him quietly to scope out the room before taking a few tentative steps toward the center.

The walls, lined with maps and tapestries and shallow cubbies, curved into an arch overhead, much lower than the main library's vaulted ceiling. The windows here, though small, were enough to provide illumination in streaks across the faded rugs and tables.

"Can you see well enough?" she asked quietly as she ran her fingertips along the cubbies. "Darkness is my specialty, but you..."

"Not to the level you can," he replied. "Though I can keep myself from walking into things."

"Good enough."

He watched her move from space to space, fascinated. Between her lighting-fast fingers and sharp eyes, not an inch of space went unchecked.

"What are we looking for?"

"Something new," she explained. "A lot of these are covered in dust. We want papers he's moved recently."

"Understood."

He didn't know where to start. There had to be hundreds of organized scrolls and leaflets against each wall. To the untrained eye, they all seemed to be old, abandoned, and useless. None of them had likely seen the light of day in –

His other thoughts ceased as it hit him. Light. If he couldn't read these in the dark, then it was logical to assume that whoever spent time in here couldn't either. And that required a light source.

Eyes flicking to every horizontal surface, Sebastian quickly hit paydirt. "Hawke," he called in a whisper, "there."

He motioned for her to join him in a direct diagonal from where he was standing, indicating the buildup of wax drips spilling from the waist-high shelf down alongside the edge. "Someone spends a great deal of time here."

"Well done," she offered, punching him in the arm lightly. "You learn quickly!"

"I have a sneaking suspicion I picked up my attention to detail from playing cards with Isabela and Varric," he said with a smile as he leaned over to inspect the nearby documents. "One needs to keep an eye on three sets of hands at all times if one wishes for even the pretense of an honest game."

"They were training you like a mother cat teaches her kittens," Hawke said, doing the same on her side of the river of hardened wax. "For your own good."

"If you insist."

They worked in silence for a few moments before his partner whistled for him to look at something.

"Now why," she said slowly, "would you put a brand-new map in with musty old outdated ones, covered in an inch of dust?"

"If you didn't want anyone looking for it, I suppose," he answered, catching her meaning.

He helped her to spread out the small map across the top of the shelf, and as his gaze traveled across it, he found himself feeling more than a little self-conscious at discovering nothing amiss.

"The map is unremarkable," he said, tracing one hillside with his fingers. "It is Starkhaven as I know it; I see no odd marks."

Hawke grunted what he assumed was some kind of assent, and an instant later, her eyes lit up with discovery.

"That's because we weren't meant to," she said, and instead of explaining, she pulled the parchment from the table and held it up to the light. To Sebastian's surprise, four tiny holes glittered brightly with the moonlight behind them, and a separate trail of them traced up from Kirkwall to the Shallervale keep, then up to the city proper.

Along the exact path he and Hawke had taken.

"Pins," Hawke said aloud. "Though I'd rather..." She looked around. "Is there a wider reference we could use somewhere?"

"We passed one." He brought her to the circular table in the middle of the room, the top of which was painstakingly painted with a map of Starkhaven's lands, Arrow's Rest dead center.

"I've seen this before," she declared, brows knotting. "Where?"

"The Bann's city manor." The prince laid a hand on the polished surface. "There are seven in the set, each commissioned to be identical and given to the Banns of their respective lands. My great-grandfather– "

"Lovely." She thrust the parchment into his hands. "Here, hold this."

He did so, holding it spread facing her so that she could look back and forth between the two. With a bit of searching, she procured an inkwell and quill and moved to mark the wood. As he started to protest the vandalism of the historical strategy table, she sighed.

"All right, all right. I'll use something that can be cleaned." Without any hesitation whatsoever, she pulled one of the ornamental daggers from his accoutrements and pricked her fingertip, squeezing until a bright red drop welled atop the skin.

He abruptly snapped his mouth shut, observing as she marked the four separate pinholes at their relative location on the table. The tiny puddles glinted as she took a step back and stuck her bleeding finger in her mouth.

"Mean anything to you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "If we could bring a copy of this to the Bann somehow, we might be able to make something of it, but I'm sure they would notice if it went missing or–"

Footsteps and voices echoing in the library cut him short, and he felt a chill run down his spine.

"How can we explain – "

"Leave it to me," Hawke whispered, reaching for the clasps at her waist and shoulder. "Just put that back where it was!"

He did so with cautious steps, hearing the clink of armor steadily approaching. When he turned back to the table, he saw Hawke tugging her bodice free, the fastenings along her back undone. The long swatch of tartan that had been draped across her shoulder now pooled onto the floor, and she positioned herself at the table's edge.

"Hawke," he choked out in a forced whisper, "what in Andraste's name are you –"

She motioned him closer. "Play along," she whispered back, "and we'll get out no problem." As she leveled her eyes with his, Hawke reached out her hand.

"Trust me on this."

And damn him to the Deep Roads if he didn't take it. In an instant, he found himself pulled up against her, and he was keenly aware of how different her body felt when neither of them had the impediment of armor. Then she reached up to tangle her hands in his hair and yanked him down into a fierce, heated kiss that stole the breath out of his lungs.

"Pin me to my back," she issued against his ear.

He bit back a groan. "Hawke, I –"

"Just do it." And when she bit at his earlobe to drive the command home, he found his flesh more than willing to oblige.

Her shoulders hit the old oak hard, and his weight pressed down on her despite his efforts to prop himself up on one elbow. He attempted a murmured apology, but was cut off when she caught his mouth again soundly, fingernails digging into the nape of his neck and the other arm snaking around to catch the table's edge and brace herself enough to wrap her legs around his thighs. Instinctively, his hips rolled into hers, and his hands buried themselves in fistfuls of plaid fabric tightly as a moan escaped her chest.

Sebastian's rational mind completely surrendered, and his long-repressed reflexes took over.

One hand grabbed her knee, yanking it up higher and expertly digging beneath layers of material to slide a hand up her skirts, running his palm along one taut thigh up to her hip. His fingers found the silk of her smalls, wrapping themselves in the the thin fabric and twisting, pulling them tight against what they covered. As she gasped and arched her back, he muffled a groan against the crook of her neck. His other hand moved to her chest, palming the curve of one breast roughly as he lavished attention on the expanse of warm skin on her throat. Tongue chasing her pulse, the prince acutely heard every reaction that passed her lips and brought tremors beneath him. He ground his hips against hers again, which earned him a few breathy phrases in Qunari spoken like a prayer.

He was never going to be able to look at the Kossith the same way again.

As he dug his fingers into the skin of her hip, Sebastian prayed for something, anything to pull this to a halt, because by the Maker, he couldn't stop himself. And not two seconds later, he was saved by the clink of armor and someone distinctly clearing his throat.

Startled, he turned to find two of the patrol guards standing at the door. One looked irritated, the other entertained.

"You must be Sebastian Vael," the latter said as the prince stood and Hawke sat upright. "Wife works in the kitchens." He grinned, looking rather validated. "When she heard you was here, she, ah, warned me I might find you like this."

Sebastian sighed, and he wasn't sure if it was out of relief or exasperation. "I see."

"Sorry to interrupt," the other guard said stiffly, shifting uncomfortably, "but we'll have to escort you back to the hall. Under orders, you understand."

"Of course," Hawke said, and Sebastian raised an eyebrow as she did her best to look embarrassed. "We'll go back, but..." She smiled sheepishly, gesturing to her disheveled clothing. "Could you turn around while I...?"

"Of course, my lady," came the reply, and the guards obligingly waited in the doorway, facing out toward the library.

"Sebastian," she called as she slid off the table's edge to her feet, "could you give me a hand?"

He'd had enough experience undressing (and subsequently re-dressing) women's clothing to know what to do, and as she slid her arms through the bodice straps, he walked around to her back and took both sides in his hands.

He froze as he saw the back of her blouse. Four blood spots, pressed neatly into the cotton.

The last three minutes immediately made much more sense.

He chuckled as his fingers hooked the fastenings. "I fear that I may have just been used," he said, pulling the sash back over her shoulder.

She turned to smirk at him, patting his cheek patronizingly. "Think of it as a cooperative effort," she told him. "And a testament to how clever I am."

"That may not be the word I'd choose," he murmured, fully prepared for the light smack she gave him as she moved away to adjust her dress. She smoothed the feathers and adjusted the pin they were attached to before finally looking satisfied.

As they were walked back to the banquet, Sebastian caught the attention of the married guardsman. "Excuse me," he began slowly, "but I would appreciate your... discretion in this."

The guardsman laughed, glancing sidelong to the prince. "Got fifty silver?"

Sebastian blinked. So little? "Why?"

"Because," the man replied, "it's how much I lost in the bet with my wife."

Hawke snickered and handed him a full sovereign.

The guardsmen excused themselves to continue the patrol after depositing the wayward guests back in the banquet hall.

"We should let the Bann know what we found," Hawke said, finding him in the crowd easily. "But not too obviously, or someone might get a little suspicious."

"That implies that you've done something suspicious, my dear Champion." She turned to see Zevran behind her, one eyebrow delicately arched as he smiled languidly. She smiled back, as innocently as she could manage.

"I have no idea what you mean," she simpered. "I'm only here to wish the crown prince a happy name day and refrain from parting anyone from their teeth with my fist."

"A noble goal, to be sure." The elf's deft fingers caught hers, and he tugged firmly. "Excuse me," he said to Sebastian, "but allow me to steal your lovely companion for a dance. I've promised her at least one, you see."

The prince opened his mouth, but Zevran was already pulling her away. Hawke made sure to kiss Sebastian firmly on the cheek before allowing the blonde assassin to lead her to the dance floor.

As he tucked a well-practiced hand around her lower back, Zevran whirled her into a turn, pulling them into the line of dance. "Your inamorata is quite popular," he told her, raising her other hand with his. "Though there are some who find his presence less novel than others."

"So I'd imagine."

"Of course. You would be a fool not to. And you, my friend, are no fool." His eyes glinted with his next words. "Which leads me to wonder more and more about your charming princeling. When is the ceremony, so that I may storm it passionately and attempt to steal you from the altar?"

"No official date," she said casually, "but it will be sometime after he takes the crown, I suspect."

"A-ha!" He smirked, chasing her feet with his across the polished floor. "I had thought as much, you marvelously devious jewel."

"His plan. I'm just helping."

"If you insist." His tone implied that he wasn't entirely convinced, and Hawke couldn't blame him one bit. "Though I am not alone in my suspicions – tell me, have you met a fellow by the name of Loudain?"

Hawke groaned, and Zevran chuckled. "I see," he said. "Then you know of his horsemen?"

She blinked at that, frowning. "No. Horsemen?"

"It appears," he continued, lowering his voice somewhat, "that the Bann dispatched a quartet of units this very afternoon."

Smiling, Hawke patted his cheek affectionately. "Why Zevran," she purred, "have you been looking out for my bride for me?"

His lips twitched into a broad grin at the word 'bride,' and he shrugged nonchalantly. "I was looking into the man to begin with. He is apparently set against establishing Antivan trading routes, and I simply happened to find a particularly chatty stablehand with the loveliest eyes this side of the river. He was more than eager to... discuss his duties over a bit of wine and fresh pile of hay. I thought it only chivalrous to inform you of my findings."

"Hay," she snickered in disbelief. "You, Ser Silk and Satin Only?"

"Do not remind me," he sighed theatrically, his accent coloring even his petulant tone. "I was picking it out of my hair and trousers for some time."

"So," she said, "four units."

"Yes, though he did not know their orders. I tried to get it out of him, I swear to you. For hours."

"I'll bet you did." She sighed a little. "Well, I think we know where they're going, but not why."

"Oh, do you?" He turned her under one arm, letting one hand get a bit too friendly as her backside passed by. "I assume you did not come by this information by... befriending a member of his staff, as I did?"

Hawke grinned.

"Well," she began, "did you hear about how Loudain is living in the palace nowadays?"

Sebastian watched them from the railings at the top of the stairs, more troubled by it than he'd like to admit. Hawke didn't think twice about taking the Antivan's hand. Right in front of him, no less. Watching them talk and laugh made every muscle in his body a bit tense, and the way the assassin danced with her struck a nerve.

How could he touch her so easily?

The man was an unabashed flirt, that much was abundantly clear. But Sebastian also recognized a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface; men like Zevran never did anything without calculation. Yet there the elf was, casually twirling one of the most formidable women of the age around like it was the most comfortable thing in the world. Completely at ease. As was she.

Envy was a sin, Sebastian reminded himself. Even the Maker himself had had to watch his beloved Andraste with her human husband from afar during her mortal life.

Then again, Andraste hadn't been married to Zevran.

A loud, sharp laugh caught his attention, and he saw Hawke desperately trying to stifle her dance partner's delighted guffaws while fighting down laughter herself. The elf dabbed at his eyes, saying something that dissolved them both in mirth.

Sebastian's jaw clenched. Here he had worried that Hawke wouldn't have anyone here to talk to. Watching her now, he saw that his energy had obviously been utterly wasted.

Nowhere in the Chant did it say that being bitter was a sin against the Maker.

He took a deep, calming breath. His exhale came out as more of a sigh, and he shook his head. What in Andraste's name was he doing, watching Hawke like a petulant teenager? She was a grown woman, capable and with a purpose, simply taking a moment from her eventful night to dance with an old friend.

Although, he thought smugly, said old friend wasn't the one with a hand up her skirts not twenty minutes ago.

The thought cheered him considerably, and he scanned the crowd with an absentminded pace. He'd greeted and conversed with old friends and familiar faces as well as each person that MacDougall had recommended. They would debrief in a few hours, after the banquet's end, and proceed with the knowledge he and Hawke had gleaned throughout the evening. Which, even if the rest of the event was largely uneventful, was more than they had expected.

A smile made its way across his face as he saw his future bride pull Aeryn onto the dance floor, Zevran bowing politely and making a comment that brought a smirk to his face and a groan from both women. The Antivan stood at the sidelines and watched as Hawke led the Bann's daughter through a promenade missing their cue entirely and having to dash for it in order to keep even. As they paused to catch their breath and laugh at one another, an interesting scene on the far side of the room pulled his attention away.

Marianne Sutherland and Cora Loudain sat with their mothers at one of the tables, having what appeared to be (granted, from a distance) cordial polite conversation. The former, the Bann's daughter, was exactly as he remembered her: plain, thin, and nearly as tall as her father. Seeing her next to Marianne's natural beauty caused Sebastian to wonder how, if by some other means than her father's machinations, Cora had even made it this far in her bid for the princess' title.

He also wondered if she herself had any interest in marrying his cousin or if she, like so many other daughters present that night, was simply subject to her parents' insistence and innocent of the goings-on that surrounded her.

As she spoke, she reached into her bag and produced a powder tin, removing the puff and dabbing her face and neck delicately. With a few more gestures, Sebastian understood the gist of the conversation. Comparing cosmetics was yet another way to judge the measure of a highborn woman, from the distance they'd been imported to the cost and color. They were doing exactly what he had suspected: competing, albeit in a very subtle way.

Cora held the tin and puff in front of her, miming dabbing motions in what appeared to be an offer to share with Marianne, a rather loaded proposition. To her credit, Marianne chose wisely and pulled her hair away from her face, leaning forward graciously. Cora lifted the powder, patting it a few times with the puff...

...and then sneezed delicately across the tin, plastering its contents across Marianne's face.

Sebastian would have thought it an honest accident if he hadn't seen the flicker of a smirk across Cora's waxy face.

Innocent, Andraste's perfect arse, he mused. At least that answered one question.

Marianne stood, wiping her eyes and waving off Cora's melodramatic apologies and feigned mortification. She blindly reached around for a napkin, instead sending a wineglass tumbling down the other girl's dress. Cora shrieked, startling Marianne into stumbling backward.

Trouble was, Goran had come over to greet them and stood directly behind the chairs. As he attempted to catch the visionless girl, his hands caught her waist and (quite unfortunately and unintentionally) the side of one breast, and she rounded him on quickly with an indignant shout.

And slapped him soundly across the face, knocking the royal circlet clear to the ground.

Sebastian winced in sympathy, as did many of the men watching the spectacle. It was both for his cousin's face and the enormity of what she had just done.

The area surrounding them fell silent, and as Marianne angrily wiped her eyes with her sleeve, she looked to see the man who had groped her – only to gape in horror. Her hands flew to her mouth and tears welled up in her eyes as she stammered desperate apologies, Cora silently picking up the crown and wiping it with her skirts.

As the mortified girl fled in tears, followed quickly by her mother, Loudain's daughter handed the crown back to Goran, who awkwardly replaced it with what seemed like an eternity of adjustments.

And in one of the oldest moves in the book, she started dabbing at the wine over her meager cleavage delicately. The prince's eyes, naturally, were pinned like arrows to the neckline of her gown, and Cora had herself a captive audience, Marianne entirely forgotten.

Goran, Sebastian cursed, you simpleton.

Hawke looked up at the archer over the crowd, and their eyes met. He nodded at her solemn expression, knowing that she'd come to the same realization he had.

That settles it, he thought as he leaned against the balcony. Cora Loudain had officially eliminated the last of her rivals. Nothing stood between her and the prince (and the crown) now. Except for Sebastian, of course, which he had a strong feeling her father knew.

And the rightful prince could take a good deal more than a slap to the face, he thought as he watched Bann Loudain lean down to whisper in Goran's ear.