Varric had never realized how much he fucking hated Orlais.
There were the silly masks; the execrable fashions; the overly-fancy food and wine that made him long for the simpler fare and ale of The Hanged Man; the subtle, and some would say, stupid, intricacies of The Game; not to mention the soft, silibant, lisping syllables of the Orlesians accents that had him convinced he'd be wiping spittle out of his hair for a fortnight.
The only redeeming quality the Orlesians had was that, apparently, they loved his books. Loved. So at least they had fine taste in literature.
Before he knew it, he was surrounded by an admiring crowd of the finest flower of the Orlesian aristocracy. It should be said that this flower was perhaps not the most intelligent; centuries of inbreeding will do that. But there was something to be said for being liked—admired. And having people ask questions about your books, and hanging on every word of your answers. And hell, being the center of attention.
They laughed at his jokes. More than a few of the women were flirting with him. It made a nice change from the ride here, where his travelling companions had been the Seeker, Cullen, and Madame de Fer. He had spent the carriage ride wondering if one could literally be bored to death. (Answer: no, but it could certainly make death an appealing prospect.)
So, maybe during the ball he laughed a little bit more than usual, told his stories with greater exaggeration. What of it? The Inquisition was here to make friends, and he was doing it.
After one of his best stories, an entirely fictional account of how he and Hawke had outsmarted some pirates to discover a four country lyrium smuggling ring, the short, buxom blonde in the front row put her hand on his arm, tilted her head to him and said breathlessly, "My, aren't you brave, Mr. Tethras."
"Please," he chuckled. "Varric. Mr. Tethras is my father."
"Of course…Varric." She said it in a throaty purr that reminded him of the bedroom. And then she artfully snapped open a fan, and leaned back, fanning herself, murmuring something about the heat in the over-crowded ballroom.
And, in the process, pushed her…ahem…well-endowed chest inches from his face. He watched in fascination as the green fabric strained as she arched her back. He was convinced it would rip, and waited for the tell-tale sound, but seemingly in defiance of the laws of nature, and his fondest hopes, the fabric held.
She touched her tongue briefly to her lips and pitched her voice to his ears only. "I'd love to hear some private stories later, if you have the time."
It was all quite, quite obvious. But then the obvious was obvious for a reason, wasn't it? It worked.
"I'd love—" he started. Only to be jerked back by a hand on his shoulder, and before he could protest, a familiar, accented voice hissed in his ear from behind him.
"Sorry to take you away from your…" and there was a short pause. Now, it should be said about short pauses that they were usually indicative of people searching for the correct word. Or even an amusing turn of phrase. Not the Seeker, though. With him, she expended her wit, what little there was of it, for her insults.
"Your harem," she concluded, spitting the final word at him. "But we have trouble."
He turned around. "We have trouble?" He gestured around him. "We? I was told we were to be witty and charming, which I am. Whereas you, on the other hand, seem to be playing a strange game of charades where the only correct answers are 'statue', 'pillar', and 'bore'."
Fuck, he forgot how magnificent she could be when she was angry. Her hands balled into fists, and a flush crept up her face. A tiny vein near her temple began to throb, and a crease formed between two delicate eyebrows, while her eyes flashed at him.
She stepped toward him, looking at him as if she'd like nothing better than to choke him. He could've sworn he even saw one of her hands twitch toward his neck.
He wasn't worried. She wouldn't seriously consider harming him in the middle of Halamshiral, would she?
On second thought, he took a step back.
The Seeker took a deep breath, as if collecting herself, but she couldn't refrain from shooting him one more look of disgust. "The Inquisitor was supposed to be here ten minutes ago to dance with the Duchess. The others are looking for her, but in the meantime, her absence has been noticed. A few minutes would have been seen as fashionable, perhaps even a veiled attempt to remind the Duchess of the Inquisition's importance, but this…this is beginning to be seen as disrespectful."
Varric blinked. Now that Cassandra had said it, he could hear the rising tide of dissatisfied-sounding murmurs in the room that his admiring throng had masked. But still…
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, confused. "Find her?"
"No," she hissed. "The others are doing that. Create…" and her hands moved in circles, gesturing around the ballroom. "Create a distraction."
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he said, running his hands through his hair, thinking of the possibilities. "Juggle? Act like a lunatic? Pretend to have a fit?"
"I don't know," she said, wringing her hands. "Just nothing that will harm the Inquisition's reputation."
"So, make a distraction that grabs the attention of everyone in the ballroom, but also make sure it's nothing vulgar or upsetting?"
"Yes!" she exclaimed, nodding her head, a slightly relieved smile coming to her face.
He stared at her in disbelief. "Oh, well, now that you put it that way, it's so easy, why—"
And he stopped suddenly as a thought struck him, and a grin split his face. He couldn't.
But he could.
It was just what she asked for, wasn't it? A distraction that everyone would enjoy. Except for her.
He thought of the time when she held him hostage. The time when she tried to punch him and nearly succeeded. Every nasty thing she'd ever said to him.
Paybacks were hell.
"Come with me, Lady Cassandra," he said smoothly, taking her hand in his, and tugging her over to the top of the Grand Staircase. "And smile."
He half led her, half pulled her, and he almost took pity on her when she said, "Varric, please—" But then she spoiled it and demanded, in her haughtiest Seeker voice, "Unhand me!"
He just smiled even wider and gripped her hand tighter. "Now, now, Seeker. Don't make an unpleasant scene."
When they got to the top of the staircase, he drew in his breath. Fuck, he was going to enjoy this.
"Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention please?" he boomed.
He instantly felt the gaze of hundreds of eyes on him as the ballroom went silent.
Cassandra's hand, which had been limp under his fingers, suddenly clutched his tightly, her nails biting into his flesh. "Varric," she hissed. "What are you doing?"
"Smile, Seeker," he said between his teeth.
He continued his speech. "I 'm sorry for interrupting an affair of such great state importance for a personal matter, but I have an announcement to make, if you'll indulge me."
Every eye looked at him, and the white-faced woman standing next to him, with unfeigned curiosity. He had them, he knew it. If there was one thing the Orlesians loved more than their masks, and their Game, and their food, and even his books, it was gossip. And this would probably make the rounds for years.
He turned to the woman standing next to him, reaching to take her other hand in his, and stared up at her as if she was the only woman in the world. The lady herself probably ruined the effect by standing there with a look of dawning horror, but he reminded himself that a great actor can only work with what he has.
He curved his lips in what he hoped was a smile of complete and utter contentment.
And then he dropped his bombshell, making sure to pitch his voice to every corner of the room. "Lady Cassandra Pentaghast has just made me the happiest man alive, by doing me the great, great honor of agreeing to be my wife."
Cassandra's jaw dropped.
"No," he heard her whisper, desperately, shock and anger in her eyes. "You can't—"
The crowd began to clap. And cheer.
"You wanted a distraction?" he murmured, still smiling up at her. "You got one."
She huffed, angry, speechless, and he sensed she was about to work herself into a blistering tirade.
"Don't forget to smile for the crowd, my dear," he said softly, mockingly, reaching up to smooth out the angry wrinkle between her eyes, and then he daringly cupped her cheek, caressing her jaw with his thumb. He idly noticed that her skin was softer than he thought it would be.
And then he heard someone say, in the way of the Orlesians, cruel words clearly meant for their ears, "Lady Cassandra? With a dwarf? Whatever could the poor dear be thinking?"
He held his smile, though the words stung. They weren't sentiments he hadn't heard, in one form or another, over the years.
But Cassandra's face tightened, and her eyes flashed fire again, and the redness of her anger suffused her cheeks.
"How dare they?" she hissed, clearly furious.
He thought at first she was angry at the insult to her judgment.
He gave a minute shrug. "It's all just a show for tonight, Seeker," he said. "You can break off our…engagement…tomorrow." He winked at her.
But his response, if anything, seemed to make her more incensed. "How dare they? Just because you are a dwarf. If I knew who they were, I would kill them myself."
And the truth was, she looked like she would do it, too.
He was oddly touched that she was so enraged on his behalf.
"It's fine, Seeker. Nothing I'm not—" he started.
And stopped when she took a step toward him, closing the distance between them, bent down, and pressed her lips to his.
His eyes widened in shock, but he swallowed his surprise after the first second and leaned back in to her, curving one hand around her waist, resting on her hips, and putting the other on her hard, muscular shoulder.
After that, he had no idea what to do. He held his breath, afraid to do anything, wondering if he had suddenly gone mad. But the warm, chapped lips pressing against his were real enough, as were the hands balled in his jacket, pulling him closer.
Was she improvising this as part of the show? Or was she trying to turn the tables on him? Or—
Her lips parted slightly against his, her tongue lightly tracing the seam of his lips.
He tightened his hand around her waist. Fuck the questions. He was going to enjoy this.
He opened his mouth to her, throwing any remaining caution to the wind.
If it was one of his books, he would've said she tasted like wine, smelled like flowers or spices, maybe that their tongues teased each other.
But none of that happened. She smelled like Cassandra, like leather, and metal, and self-righteousness.
And she didn't taste like wine, but like cool, fresh water to a man parched, and it was far, far better than any wine could be.
And their tongues didn't tease so much as assault, for Cassandra, if she does a thing, does it forcefully, and with her whole heart, and so she kissed him with the passion of a lover sending her sweetheart to war, with urgency and desperation and force, and he, Maker help him, he went with it, and kissed her back the same way, lips bruising and tongues clashing.
And even though he was standing at the top of a staircase with hundreds of eyes on him, he forgot about anyone but her, just her, and he was kissing her as if he had wanted to do it for ages—and had he?—and Maker, it was intoxicating. He had been on the receiving end of numerous artful, teasing kisses before, but her kiss was honest, and held nothing back, and he couldn't get enough. And somehow, during all this, his hand had somehow gone under her tunic and was clutching the warm flesh of her back, and her hand had crept under his collar to press firmly against his chest, and all he was thinking about was how to get even closer to her, when he heard it.
Someone's throat clearing.
Cassandra was the first to break away, her cheeks flushed, whether with embarrassment or passion, or both, it was impossible to tell.
Lavellan, standing behind them, her cheeks slightly pink herself, cleared her throat again. In a quiet tone, she said, "Thank you for the…" and she trailed off. "For the distraction?" her voice pitched it as a question. "Or should I be congratulating you, or…" her voice trailed off again. "I'm not sure what just happened here."
"A distraction. It was only a distraction. What else could it be?" The Seeker's words were short, clipped, flustered. He would've found it amusing if he didn't feel the same way.
Finally, the Seeker settled on, "It was all Varric's idea."
Lavellan raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Of course. All Varric's idea. I could see that."
"I—" the Seeker said in a strangled voice. And if she was pink before, she was crimson now.
"You will both never mention this again!" she ground out between her teeth, then turned on her heel and stalked across the ballroom, making for the garden.
"You're going after her, right?" Lavellan motioned to the door as Varric stared after the retreating Seeker.
"You think I should?" Varric said, dubious. "I think she'll probably rip my head off. If I'm lucky."
"She might," Lavellan agreed. "But I think it'll be worth your while afterwards. If…you take my meaning." She smiled at him, then clasped her hands and sighed. "Gods, what I'd have given to have been here to see the whole thing."
"I don't know," he said doubtfully.
"Trust me," Lavellan said. "From what I saw, she wants you to go after her. Even if she doesn't know it yet." She grinned at him. "Good thing you're so good at convincing people."
When he still made no move, she shooed him. "Go, go! I have to dance with the Duchess," she said regretfully. "But I want a full report tomorrow."
Finally galvanized into action, Varric smiled in return, and followed in the Seeker's footsteps out to the garden.
Later that night, or, to be more accurate, the next morning, Varric lay contented, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, Cassandra snoring softly beside him.
Did he ever mention how much he fucking loved Orlais? Because he did.