Varric pulled the invitation from his coat pocket, peering at the crowded line that snaked towards the estate's entrance. Besides several guards, none other than the Viscount's seneschal himself guarded the gates, courteously greeting each guest.
"This is a remarkable party already," Hawke remarked in a hushed tone.
Varric glanced at her.
"And why is that?"
"If you have ever wondered whether a jackass could speak, wonder no more: behold!" She nodded towards Bran, who was looking especially smarmy that evening.
He grinned.
"Don't start… At least wait until we're inside."
At the sight of the duo approaching the gates, Bran's affected smiles dissolved.
"And what are you two doing here? Trying to slip in to see the Viscount so brazenly?"
Varric thrust the invitation at his face.
"We're guests of The Right Honorable," he bragged.
Bran examined the invitation.
"I really should double check these lists before the invitations are sent… to weed out certain dwarves and Fereldans," he sighed, handing the invitation back to Varric.
"Wait…I'm confused!" Varric feigned distress. "I'm not Fereldan."
"And I'm not a dwarf," Hawke remarked, nonplussed.
"I'm glad we cleared that up! Let's go," Varric ushered her past the very unimpressed seneschal.
"Do try to control yourselves," Bran muttered as they walked by.
Hawke flashed him a tart grin.
"We'll be counting the silverware afterwards," he provoked.
Right at the entrance, a uniformed servant offered them a tray filled with glasses of champagne. Hawke seized one and turned around to face the seneschal again.
"Oh, Bran!" she called out.
The man looked towards her with a look of exaggerated fatigue.
"We're here as guests!" she declared excitedly. "HA!" she yelled, lewdly licking her champagne glass.
Bran merely looked away disgustedly, shaking his head. She couldn't resist flipping him off behind his back when he wasn't looking anymore.
"That's right, Branny boy, work that doorway. 'Oh, my lady, don't tire your precious arms carrying that fur stole—please hang it here, up my ass! There's ample room!'" she huffed under her breath.
Varric burst out laughing, steering her by the elbow towards the ballroom.
"Aaaaand… the evening's off to a great start…"
"I really hate that guy. He represents everything that's wrong with nobles in Kirkwall," she complained.
"You don't say," he chuckled, surveying the loud, congested room.
"You don't have a low setting on Bianca, do you? We could shoot appetizers at him throughout the evening. Let's take bets seeing who can land the most mini toasts with caviar on his forehead!"
The mention of the name Bianca stung him a bit. It wasn't something he wanted to hear right then. Some of the afternoon's unpleasantness surfaced once again to needle him. Before he lost himself in his thoughts, though, Hawke surprised him by wrapping her hand around his arm again.
"Sweet Andraste!" she murmured in awe. "We have died and gone to heaven."
He looked ahead at the lavish tables set with elaborate arrangements of food, each one more artistically staged than the other. The Viscount stood in an adjacent salon, engaged in what appeared to be casual conversation with guests. Varric realized the perfect opportunity to slip in and request the meeting he and Hawke had been trying so unsuccessfully to secure via Bran had presented itself. He glanced back at Hawke and met her reverent, childlike fascination for the banquet set before them.
"Come on!" he encouraged her, deciding then that business with the Viscount would have to wait. "Let's just skip the cheese and head straight for the good stuff: there is Orlesian foie gras and—"
"Skip the—? What? Did you forget I'm Fereldan and wars have been started over less belligerent words?" she explained indignantly, letting him escort her towards the banquet.
"Do you think Marlowe's got what it takes to rule Kirkwall?" Hawke wondered, leaning against the balcony wall as she enjoyed her third flute of Royan champagne.
"Is he even ruling Kirkwall? I hadn't noticed!" Varric quipped, casting the Viscount a scornful glance past the open terrace doors before turning his attention back to the view of the bay below. "If you ask me, his predecessor was a much better leader than this sitting duck."
"So what happened to the other guy?"
"He actually tried to rule… Can you imagine? Too many chefs in one kitchen," he concluded, gazing at the sprawling sea. In the distance the fading lights of boats glimmered into the night as they sailed towards the open waters. He searched among the hundreds of pinpoints of light in the city below in an attempt to locate The Hanged Man.
"What did he do?" Hawke's brow furrowed.
"He went up against enemies he could not take on: blocked the passage to the Waking Sea, demanded higher tariffs from Orlesian ships. When they wouldn't pay, the Divine got involved and had the local Templars ruffle his feathers a bit…He tried to ruffle theirs back and attempted to show them the door. Things escalated, as they tend to do, he was imprisoned…Eventually assassinated…and that's how we've ended up with the delightful Knight-Commander. Marlowe here is pretty much the Order's puppet."
His eyes remained distant.
"Speaking of diarrhea in a teacup, where is our girl Meredith?" Hawke wondered, turning around to face the stunning view as well. "I don't see any Templards here tonight!"
"And you won't," Varric noted, glancing over his shoulder for a moment. "The Viscount is trying to curry favor among Kirkwall's nobility in an attempt to expand his sphere of lack of influence. This is a nobles-only affair."
Hawke balked.
"So…how come Bartrand got invited?"
Varric remained quiet.
"Varric!" Hawke cried out. "Just how fancy-pansy is your family?"
He shrugged.
"Not is: was."
"No, seriously!" she prodded.
He drew in a deep breath.
"Oh, Andraste's titties! It's a bigger deal than I thought! Come: what are we talking about here?" she beckoned him excitedly.
He pursed his lips fighting back a grin.
"Out with it!" she checked into him playfully.
"There were a few…" he hesitated, knowing fully well the impact of the impending revelation, "…kings," he admitted.
"Shit!" she whispered in awe. "Like…kings of Orzammar? REAL kings doing kingley things and all? Like, you'd read about them in history books?" she began giddily.
Maker, he snorted.
"Yeah… but that doesn't mean much here. Apparently, it didn't mean much in Orzammar, either," he added, a twinge of bitterness emerging.
He raised his flute to his lips, but before he could sip from it, Hawke clinked her glass against his.
"A toast," she suggested.
Varric raised his glass, waiting for her to proceed.
"Fuck Orzammar," she declared solemnly.
He nodded approvingly, smirking.
She tossed back the remaining champagne and set the flute down on the parapet.
"Anyway, I still think it's impressive."
He shrugged.
"It's interesting, but pretty useless. Not like I did anything personally to deserve any of the respect some people attribute to such titles."
It had only caused him trouble. He recalled a time when his refusal to honor rank cost him dearly among those who did.
"Well, your royaltude," she stated solemnly, curtseying before him, "I humbly pledge fealty."
He snorted and looked away, the whole scene suddenly uncomfortable.
"Please stop," he retorted in a tone far more strained than intended.
Hawke did not fail to notice.
"You aren't grasping the irony—" She remained positioned in her low curtsey. "I'm pledging fealty in a gown borrowed from The Blooming Rose, you see…" she added slyly.
That was bound to rile his curiosity, she knew.
He turned to her in surprise.
"Now this I need to hear!"
She grinned smugly.
"So… I was at The Blooming Rose earlier, enjoying my usual afternoon tryst with Jethann—who simply adores me and lets me spank him for free, by the way— and—"
"You most certainly were not!" he laughed. "This oughtta be good."
He was well aware the elf couldn't stand her. She had a knack for irritating him and one time Varric had been forced to stop a fight from breaking out between them when Jethann threatened to thrash her for imitating the languid, inflected manner in which he spoke.
"Go on," he encouraged her, waving over a servant carrying a tray laden with more champagne. "I can't wait to see where this is going."
"It's a great story because you'll never believe to whom the dress actually belongs…" she teased, taking the stem of her new glass between her fingers.
"Bran," he guessed.
"Fuck! Ok, ok, you may have guessed the main plot, but you will never guess the big twist…"
"Oh, after that disclosure, knowing you, I am sure the Arishok will be involved somehow…" he grinned.
Hawke stomped her foot in irritation.
"Damn you."
He laughed as she tried to bluff through an inane tale before eventually confessing her uncle had borrowed it for her.
"Gamlen? Now that I did not see coming!" he chuckled.
She tipped the glass back and took a large gulp.
"When did you say we have the audience with the Viscount?"
"In two days."
"Think he's good for it?"
"Seems like it: he alluded to having some business of his own he wants—"
He was interrupted by Hawke, who unexpectedly raised her hand and began to gently twirl her finger around his ponytail.
"—us to take a look at," he resumed, a bit flustered, staring ahead.
"You know what? I don't think I've ever seen you wear your hair down since I've known you," she stated pensively.
She began to wend her fingers through his hair gingerly.
"You have a lot of hair," she remarked.
"It hangs over my face, so I prefer to wear it back," he replied, blinking slowly, enjoying her touch.
"It's not fair," she pouted. "It's much nicer than mine," she murmured admiringly.
"I like your hair," he told her, turning his head slightly.
He raised his eyes to hers and she was taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. She delicately brushed her fingertips over his temple, down over his cheek, as if brushing away non-existent strands of loose hair from his face.
She paused, uncertain whether or not what she was doing to him was welcome.
"Don't stop," he asked her in a low voice. "That feels nice."
She continued the caress, tracing his strong jawline up to his ear, back and forth.
"You shaved," she noticed, his face smooth and warm against her skin.
"No good?" he wondered, her touch so tantalizing.
"Either is nice," she offered, almost shyly.
He closed his eyes, the initial tenderness that had overwhelmed him moments earlier gradually giving way to a raw yearning—thoughts of pulling her to him, kissing her…tugging that dress off…
This is dangerous territory. There's a fine line I'm afraid we're about to cross if we aren't careful, he warned himself.
"Hawke," he said abruptly.
At the sound of his voice, she withdrew her hand. He was struck with immediate regret.
"What do you say we start heading back to Lowtown?" he suggested. "Seems like the guests are starting to dwindle."
A flash of disappointment crossed her face, weakening his resolve further.
"Yeah…It's getting late. I'd rather not ruin this dress fighting the usual gang of neighborhood misfits if I can avoid it," she agreed.
Hawke drew the grey shawl around her shoulders snugly as they crossed the festively lit courtyard. A chill settled in the air and thick fog rolled into the city from the shore. Bran had resumed his post at the door and was bidding departing guests a good night. At the sight of them, his expression clouded.
"Great shindig, Bran," Hawke stated coolly, depositing a crumpled up napkin and half-eaten crostini in his hand.
Bran grimaced, plunking the items down onto a nearby tray and wiping his hands discreetly over the side of his trousers.
"See you in a couple days!" Varric waved cheerfully.
"Yes: Varric here was able to secure an audience with the Viscount! If you ever need help scheduling one, let us know! In less than ten minutes he was able to do what you weren't able to do over several months!" Hawke taunted.
The two snickered, complicit, as they emerged onto the street. They mocked Bran some more, cackled a few times at the seneschal's crestfallen expression as they'd departed, and then settled into casual conversation as they took on their descent towards Lowtown.
At one point towards the end, Hawke stopped and stepped out of her borrowed black shoes.
"Maker, my feet are killing me! This isn't footwear; this is torture!" she groaned, wiggling her aching toes. "I'd go barefoot if I could be assured I wouldn't contract the plague or something as nasty."
Varric looked down at her feet and then peered out at the quiet streets below. One more set of stairs and they would be at the edge of Lowtown. From there, The Hanged Man was a few blocks up the street. So many nights before he had issued the invitation without a greater thought…but that night was pointedly different.
He hadn't felt…how?— Excited? In a haze? –in a very long time, he acknowledged, watching Hawke grudgingly slip on her constricting shoes as she cursed softly under her breath.
"Do you want to just come back home with me?" he asked, hoping he sounded as casual as he always had.
She raised her head.
"Yes, please," she replied immediately. "I don't think my poor feet will make it much further," she laughed nervously, staring down.
"All right," he inhaled decisively.
He noticed Hawke had begun limping; he approached her, and taking her hand, propped it firmly on his shoulder.
"Here, put some weight on me," he suggested.
She leaned into him and he slipped his arm around her waist to offer her more support. At least, that's how he justified the maneuver to himself.
His hand rested just over her hip. In her blue velvet dress, without her armor, she seemed slighter to him—thankfully no longer as scrawny as she'd been when he'd first met her. Her grip on his shoulder tightened as they walked.
"I'm never wearing heels again in my life," she mumbled.
"Well, perhaps not borrowed ones in the wrong size," he remarked. "Especially when you know you have to climb all the stairs to Hightown…"
"It was worth it," she stated defiantly even as she winced from the pain. "We stuck it to Bran, we got our audience without any problems, and we stuffed our faces with the finest food and beverages…Did I mention we stuck it to Bran? It was the best evening! No—glorious, even!" she cheered.
And it isn't over yet, he surprised himself thinking.