Many thanks to you, my lovelies, for taking this journey with me: I appreciate each and every one of you. And much gratitude to AnnaLucia for beta-ing

It was well past morning prayers when Fenris and Sebastian woke. Sebastian dragged himself out of bed, still feeling exhausted. Yesterday's events felt like a nightmare, foggy in his recollection. But the pain surging down his arm while dressing immediately brought the terrifying attack back to his mind.

"We should have a physician look at that wound," Fenris said, burning Sebastian's bloody clothes from the night previous. "I did my best, but there's only so much I could do on the side of the road."

"After our escort returns, we'll find someone discreet; we cannae risk a court physician finding the truth—"

"His Lordship the Teyrn awaits ye in the throne room," the porter announced from the antechamber. Sebastian scrambled to his feet, smoothing his only shirt and hoping he looked somewhat presentable. It had ridden to Ostwick in the bottom of his valise, after all. They hurried down the corridor to find the Teyrn standing near his throne.

"Greetings, Yer Lordship," Sebastian said, "We hope ye're well—"

"So it's true," the Teyrn replied, eyebrow raised. "I hardly believed me steward when he told me, this morning. Ye arrived and never came to greet me?"

Sebastian shot a look to Fenris. "We arrived late last night, Yer Lordship, we didnae wish to wake ye. It would've been discourteous—"

"As is a breach of court etiquette, Vael." He sighed. "No matter, ye're here now, safe. Your trip was uneventful, I take it? What of yer attire, where is yer luggage?"

Sebastian shifted on his feet. "We, erm, had an accident on the way here, Yer Lordship. Our luggage is still in Atteby... along with yer tribute. Me apologies."

The Teyrn frowned, turning on his heel. "Finish getting settled, then; I must attend the Privy Council."

Sebastian pursued him. "But that's not for another hour, yet—" The Teyrn ignored his protests and departed, a train of attendants trailing after him.

Sebastian huffed. "Well. Seems he'll be in a snit until I rectify this. I require the steward in me quarters, be quick about it," he instructed the porter in the antechamber. The man bowed and ran off.

"What do you intend?" Fenris asked. "He seemed upset after you mentioned the tribute."

"Last time I was here, he arranged a hunt in me honor. Never have I seen such fine falcons or hunting bows. Gifting him a hunting hound wouldn't go amiss..."

"He would already have a pack of hounds, if he's an avid hunter."

"Aye, but not a mabari; and it would serve as a reminder of our alliance, since it's a war dog." He addressed the newly-arrived steward. "Our luggage is delayed, and me tribute to yer lord is missing."

"I can arrange a suitable gift on yer behalf, me lord," the steward replied, "a fine Nevarran palfrey, perhaps."

"No, not another horse. I want a mabari."

The steward blinked. "M-Mabari are rare in Ostwick, me lord; I fear we will have to send for one in Ferelden. Would take weeks—"

"Surely there must be a litter somewhere, man. Go; I expect good news by nightfall." Perhaps it was unkind of him to saddle the steward with such an impossible task—the man paled at the order before hurrying away. Sebastian had made arrangements to borrow suitable clothes and had written two letters home by the time the steward returned with news.

"Speak," he said, "ye have good news?"

"The Trevelyans, me lord. They have a litter of mabari pups at their estate outside the city. Just weaned, they are; not all are spoken for," the steward replied.

The Trevelyans? Sebastian hid his distaste behind a smile. "Notify them of our arrival, and ask His Lordship the Teyrn to meet us at the Trevelyan estate. Come, Fenris, we'll prepare to leave."

"Hmmm," Fenris said once they were alone, "it's those damn Trevelyans again. You know, we can always give the Teyrn something else..."

"Starkhaven was behind Alain, not his family, Varric told us so. It's good business to keep them close so we can monitor them," Sebastian explained. He tied on his cloak with a wince and they departed. "We just need one mabari pup to choose the Teyrn."

Sebastian bit his tongue to hide his discomfort when mounting up. Thankfully, the stablemaster had given him a palfrey with a very smooth gait; he urged the horse into an amble and they left for the Trevelyans with several guardsmen. Fenris remained silent as his watchful eyes scanned the surroundings and guarded Sebastian attentively all the way there, hand ever on his sword pommel. His defensive stance did not lessen at the Trevelyan estate.

"Welcome, Yer Highness," Lord Trevelyan cried, bowing deeply. "Ye honor us with yer presence. Come in, have refreshments while we wait for the Teyrn."

The Trevelyan estate was a lovely country manor, well kept and manicured even now in winter. Groomed rose bushes lined the walk all the way to the giant stone house, expensive beeswax candles gleaming in the leaded windows encased in oak. They had money, and were proud to show it. Sebastian felt self-conscious in his borrowed robes and cotton shirt. He wondered if Fenris felt the same, with his spare leggings wrapped round his head instead of a proper turban...

"Me steward said ye seek a mabari pup for the Teyrn?" Lord Trevelyan asked, once they were settled before the fire. "Me house is honored to serve ye."

"I'm grateful, and shan't forget yer kindness," Sebastian replied, taking out his coin purse. "Six sovereigns?"

"That'll do nicely." It was also the going rate for thoroughbred war horses, Sebastian thought as he handed over the coin, annoyed. Hopefully, one of the pups would imprint on his future father-in-law, the Teyrn, and make it all worthwhile...

The sound of guard dogs barking announced the Teyrn's arrival before the porter did. "His Lordship the Teyrn approaches," the porter cried. They bowed in greeting.

"I will say I'm surprised," the Teyrn said, expression inscrutable. "I'm not sure why we gathered here; what's the reason for this… meeting?"

"I asked ye here today to pick yer tribute gift, Yer Lordship," Sebastian said. "And to thank ye for all that ye've done." The Teyrn raised his eyebrow, too polite to counter him in front of Lord Trevelyan.

"If ye please, me lords, follow me," Lord Trevelyan said, leading the way to the kennels. Sebastian noted the spark of interest lighting in the Teyrn's otherwise stern face. He gave Fenris a smile behind the Teyrn's back.

"Here we are," Lord Trevelyan announced, "there's a good girl, Anora, hmm? She's direct from the Fereldan royal court, Yer Lordship: sired from the queen's own war hound, she is. A fiercer protector was never seen."

The giant hound got to her feet, chuffing in greeting. Her stub of a tail wagged tentatively as she inspected her visitors. Her puppies, however, were not as cautious; the balls of caramel-colored fluff bounded over each other just to get a better look. The Teyrn turned to Sebastian.

"Ye… wish to give me a mabari?" he asked. "I've never had a hound such as this."

"They say mabari are a mark of nobility in Ferelden: they choose only the most honorable of men as their allies and partners," Sebastian replied. "They echoed me sentiment exactly."

Even he was proud of himself for that little speech. The Teyrn's frown melted away at those words, stepping into the pen. The pups swarmed him in a fuzzy, tawny wave. Sebastian bit back the laugh.

"Leave them be, Yer Lordship," Lord Trevelyan advised, "the pups will decide among themselves who will accompany ye."

"That was inspired," Fenris whispered, "look at him: he's a completely changed man." The Teyrn chuckled, hands clasped behind his back as puppies sniffed his boots and tugged at his laces.

"He reminds me of ye, actually," Sebastian replied, "all hard shell with a soft center."

"What am I, a nougat candy or your commander?" They couldn't help laughing at that. The others were too caught up in the puppies to mind them. Eventually, a mabari 'adopted' the Teyrn as his new father, and they set out for the palace.

"Vael," the Teyrn called from his carriage. "Come, ride with me. We have much to discuss." Sebastian looked to Fenris as they boarded. Seemed they would have their audience with the Teyrn, after all…

"Ye did well today," the Teyrn said as they set out, "I'm pleased by yer efforts. I'm certain yer… thoughtfulness extends to all yer other endeavors?"

"Aye, Fenris and I have worked tirelessly on the campaign, Yer Lordship. I can show ye the paperwork when we return."

He and Fenris launched into the speech they'd written on the way to Ostwick, highlighting their comprehensive plans and campaign. Every detail they'd discussed, every rehearsed turn of phrase was carefully calculated to maximize the campaign's appeal. It came off flawlessly; Sebastian was immensely proud of Fenris's delivery of war strategies. Gone were the days of the stammering elf too frightened to lift his eyes—Fenris met the Teyrn's gaze head-on, speaking with the assuredness of a seasoned general.

"I arranged in secret for 500 soldiers to infiltrate every military organization in Starkhaven, Your Lordship," Fenris was saying, "I only need say the word, and we can walk into the city unharmed."

Sebastian stared at him in stunned silence. This was the first time he'd heard that detail. Were there other things Fenris was keeping from him? What was he capable of, if he'd managed such a feat while barely literate and slowly dying from lyrium poisoning? His admiration chilled considerably at those sobering, disturbing thoughts…

"Could it be that yer left hand knows not what yer right does, Vael?" the Teyrn smirked, noticing his surprise. "How do ye reckon 500 men could take on an army?"

Sebastian's face went hot. "I—"

"The Starkhaveners have no standing army, Your Lordship," Fenris answered. "They rely solely on the city garrison, the royal guard, and whatever private soldiers the nobles can offer. According to my men's reports, they have no more than 1,500 men. Our mercenary army, excluding your forces, consists of 1000 infantrymen, 500 bowmen, and the 500 I dispatched previously. Numbers aren't the problem, it's the funding."

The Teyrn, Sebastian learned that afternoon, was a man of numbers. His eyes lit up and the mention of war budgets and supply trains; it was clear he'd been merely polite before, during their rehearsed material. Now he sat forward, asking impossibly obscure questions that Sebastian could never know; questions that, of course, Fenris answered quickly and concisely. It irked Sebastian to no end, rubbing him like chafing armor. Or perhaps it was the searing pain from his wound, but his displeasure only grew as the ride went on. By the time they'd arrived at the palace, the Teyrn had completely cut him from the conversation, speaking solely to Fenris.

"I'll send for ye, to present this to the Privy Council," the Teyrn said. "I want to see yer records, as well."

"As you wish, Your Lordship," Fenris replied with a bow. And not just any sort of bow, of course, Sebastian noted: it was torn straight from a manual on court etiquette, so perfect it was.

"I can feel your scowl all the way across the room," Fenris said, once they returned to their quarters. "What is it?"

"Do ye truly not ken?" Sebastian snapped.

Fenris raised his eyebrow. "Speak plainly, Sebastian; I'm not in the mood for pettiness."

"'Pettiness?' Ye undermined me power before the Teyrn, Fenris, with yer secrets and going behind me back. Made me look like a right fool."

He folded his arms across his chest. "I have no secrets; I have been forthcoming in every aspect—"

"Yer plants!" Sebastian paced. "Why was this the first time I ever heard of them? We had two weeks in the carriage, man, why did ye not tell me of yer fecking plants?"

Fenris scoffed in disbelief. "Do you know how much we had to adjust on the way here? We altered almost that entire campaign, Sebastian: had you only listened to me months ago and not relied so heavily on the Harimanns, we wouldn't have had to rework so many of these details."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. "Dinnae push this onto me; if not for me dealing with Ruxton Harimann, we'd be penniless."

"If not for me, you'd have no throne… Or your life, for that matter." The magic and emotion visibly stirred under his calm veneer, peeking through his eyes like a turbulent sea.

Sharpness formed on Sebastian's tongue, "Aye, I owe ye me life and me throne both, Prince-Maker. Is that what this is about; are ye trying to usurp me?"

"What are you saying? No!"

"Ye've taken Starkhaven single-handedly, Fen: an entire country lies at yer feet, and ye mean to tell me ye dinnae want it?"

"No. I don't want it; I have never wanted it, nor will I ever."

"Then why keep that from me?"

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't tell you before, not while Harimann was still with us. You know how spiteful he is: he would've withdrawn support, had he found out. Not to mention how loose-tongued he is… he leaks information like a sieve."

"And on the way here?"

"We were being watched at every inn we stopped at; we nearly lost our lives just getting here. You almost died on the side of the road, Seb!" Fenris took a deep breath to calm himself. "Those troops are at the ready if and when we need them. It's a solid military move; I'm doing my job, Seb, that's all. I also have my family to support now; I can't endanger their well-being, under any circumstance. If that earns me your scorn, then so be it, but I'd do it a thousand times for you and them, if given a choice."

Sebastian met his searching gaze, fire slowly going out of him. He couldn't fault Fenris for doing the exact same thing he would've done, given the circumstances. "I understand," he said after a pause. "But I am yer Prince, Fen: I cannae rule if I dinnae have all the information. Look at us: we've been at court all but a day, and we're already arguing. If we want any chance of surviving this, we cannae keep matters to ourselves."

"Then we make a pact, here and now." Fenris crossed the room to him, looking at Sebastian squarely in his eyes and extended his hand. "I, Fenris Leto El-Khoury, do solemnly swear to make known all information about the campaign and sovereignty to my sworn friend and brother, Sebastian. I swear to share what lies heavy in my heart and thoughts, and will hear whatever he has to say with respect and patience. May a dragon swoop from the clouds and eat me if I break my vow."

Sebastian laughed and nodded. He stood in front of his friend and repeated every word.
The two men shook hands and smiled. "And now we've sealed our vow."

"We can also do this…" Fenris said while hooking his little finger around Sebastian's.

"What was that, what ye did with yer finger?" Sebastian asked.

"A Pinky-Promise; Rana told me of it. It's for the most solemn of promises."

Sebastian blinked. "Oh! Then I'm glad ye showed me; I must use it for the Teyrn, next time we see him." He paused before patting Fenris's shoulder. "I shouldnae have been angry and truly apologize. I'm proud of ye, Fen. So much has changed; I'm glad I have ye with me to face it, Fen."

Fenris returned the smile, pulling Sebastian into a hug. "And I'm glad I have you, brother. Very, very glad."

Rana perched on the edge of the library desk, smile creeping across her face as she inspected the letter before her. 'Jaanu,' it said on the outside, in Fenris's unmistakable script. 'My life.' No matter how many times she heard (or read) Fenris call her such, it still made her heart flutter. Rana opened it in anticipation, like one did a box of sweets.

"'My beloved Marian,'" she read aloud. Her eyes widened. "W-What? Marian?!"

"What does he say?" Varania asked as she entered, Leto not far behind. "Have they arrived in Ostwick?"

"I—" Rana stared at her sister-in-law, unsure what to say. "I-I don't understand this."

"What? Read it to me."

"'M-My beloved Marian,

'I write to you with fevered mind and heart, burning with desire—'"

"Go and play, Leto," Varania interrupted, noticeably pale as her voice went sharp. "Leave us."

"But I want to hear Maamaji's letter," he protested.

"We will call you if he's written something for you. Go find Tavvie and Tommy." She herded the boy out and shut the door. "…What is that?"

"I swear to God, Varania, I don't know." Her sister-in-law nodded to her to continue.

"'You haunt my waking thoughts, and dreams, Marian. I can't stop thinking of the afternoons we spent entangled in each other's arms before I left; I crave you and your touch. It physically pains me to be parted from you; every hour away from you twists the knife in deeper, love. I'll go mad without you, I know it.'"

It was like watching a train wreck; Rana couldn't tear her eyes away. The words shook her to her very core, like thunder and lightning. 'I crave you.' 'It physically pains me to be parted from you.' 'Entangled in each other's arms.' Her trembling fingers dented the paper. Rana refused to believe this; it was impossible… yet it read so much like the private correspondence he'd sent her. She recognized entire damned phrases from previous letters he'd written her—nausea settled in the pit of her stomach, and she actually pinched herself to see if it was all just a bad dream…

Varania read from over her shoulder, skipping ahead. "'…I beseech you again, love: come with me to Starkhaven. Not only would you bear the title of my mistress, but I would ensure you would have everything you could possibly desire. I want you and only you, now and always.

' I must end my letter; the carriage will depart soon. I will await your answer eagerly.

'Written by the hand that is yours forever, Fenris.'"

Silence settled on the room, scorching the air and leaving it hard to breathe. Rana stared ahead, magic collecting under her skin. The anger and confusion burned so hot, she felt numb.

"I can't believe it," she whispered. "I won't."

"It doesn't even make sense; he barely notices other women," Varania said. "He would never have a mistress."

Memories of Marian coming to the house flooded her mind's eye, Fenris laughing and smiling with her while they completely ignored Rana. She frowned. "He didn't get over her for years, ya Varania: there were times when I wondered if I was merely a replacement. I... never thought I could be right."

Varania scoffed. "If you were a replacement, why would he buy you such an extraordinary, expensive ring? Why go through with the wedding, if he was in love with someone else?"

"I—I don't know. Perhaps he feels obligated, like it's his duty towards me."

"Vishante kaffas, Rana, think: would a man fulfilling his 'duty' write half a novel in letters home? Would he look at you like you'd hung the stars in the sky?"

"No, he wouldn't." Rana left and crossed the atrium. "I want the truth about this."

"Wait! I'm coming with you," Varania cried, following after her. "Leto, put on your cloak; you're visiting Auntie Merrill again."

Rana tied on her cloak, shooed the dogs away from the door, and strode out into the winter day, letter in hand. "He wouldn't do this to me," she said to herself in Lebanese, "after all we've been through, he wouldn't be so cruel…"

Then she remembered that horrific two-hour walk the night he nearly took her to the Gallows, and she couldn't help but weep.

Marian lay on Isabela's bed, feet dangling off the edge. She didn't need to stay to see if Rana had received her letter; the fool was predictable, too naive to think the situation through. She'd read it, take it verbatim, and request Varric look into it for her. Marian grinned when Rana stormed in, with the letter in hand. Marian eagerly peered through the peepholes in the wall to watch.

"Ya Varric," Rana cried in thickly accented Common. "Ya Varric, I'm so sorry, but I need your eyes, I—I think something happened with Fen." She pushed the letter across the desk to him. Marian couldn't see Varric's expression clearly, but from the way he stiffened in his chair, she knew he was annoyed.

"Songbird, just… I'm in the middle of a crisis, here: can't this wait?" he asked.

"No, it can't! He doesn't sound like himself—"

Varric swore. "I just lost the entire Starkhaven branch of my spy network, and you're worried because the Elf sounds 'off' in his latest letter? Songbird, please."

"We think someone is forging his letters, Varric; this isn't him; it can't be."

He raised his eyebrow and took up the letter, adjusting his reading spectacles. "Shit," he said, "that's… and he sent this to you?"

"It was waiting for me when I came back home. Can you tell if it's his?"

Marian tensed at those words, even if she'd known they would come next. This was the moment of truth: Varric was an expert in forgeries—the City Guard occasionally used him as a consultant on cases. A part of her worried that he would see through her work, but Marian knew better. She'd learned from the best, after all: now it was time to see if the student could outwit the teacher…

"Well? Is it a forgery?" Rana's companion asked in a Tevinter accent. Her eyes were the same impossible, beautiful green as Fenris's, Marian noted. It merely made her miss him more.

"I… can't tell," Varric replied after studying the paper. "I'm sorry. I—if this is a forgery, it's a damn good one."

The disappointment was palpable, even through the wall. Marian stifled a laugh as Rana paled, grasping the elf's hand for support. They eventually departed, leaving Varric to his mess and Marian to gloat. She would've poured herself a celebratory drink, had the Chantry bells not rang in the distance. Marian sighed; she didn't have much time to reach Hightown before the sun set.

It was easy enough to avoid Rana and her friend—they stayed on the main thoroughfares, unused to the shortcuts and alleys endemic to Kirkwall's Lowtown. Marian quickly cut through the slums and crossed the bazaar, hidden in the shadows. She could take this route with her eyes closed, she'd travelled it so many times. Eventually she crossed the bridge into Hightown and made her way to her destination. She'd have to hurry, before the Chantry was shut for the day. Hopefully, she wasn't too late.

In happier times, Marian used to love the first day of Haring: it was her younger siblings' birthday, after all, but now it merely served as a reminder of how utterly alone she was. Marian Alessa Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, had had every member of her family torn away from her one by one, until she was the last that remained… she steeled herself from the painful memories as she walked up the Chantry steps.

Marian had arrived during the crowded evening prayer service. She found a place near the wall, not bothering with her specially designated pew upstairs. She bowed her head, singing along to the Chant as best she could despite her throat aching from unshed tears. Maker, it was still so difficult to come here, year after year; she blinked hard, eyes wandering away to distract herself.

To her left, Marian heard the scrape of something large and heavy on the stone floor, muffled by the congregation's singing. She sidled to the storage room door, leaning her head on the wood. Shadows danced under the door, from what looked like a lone, guttering candle.

"I'm going as fast as I can," she heard a voice mutter.

Marian narrowed her eyes. She took her lockpick set from her belt pouch and silently knelt in the shadows. Several minutes later, the lock clicked open; Marian quietly unsheathed her sword and waited for the shadows to recede from the door. She slipped in, pressing herself against the wood. Her target had entered from the tunnel he'd no doubt dug, noticing the mud on the floor and the carefully set aside flagstone tiles.

The cloaked figure didn't hear her come in, so involved he was in dragging several kegs in place. This, she realized, was no burglary; she couldn't possibly imagine those refined hands used to such manual labor. Those were the hands of a scholar or physician, suited to book pages or quills or scalpels.

Cold dread immediately settled in her gut; Marian knew those hands, had held them countless times over the years. She'd seen them take life as well as preserve it, pen countless passionate words of revolution and freedom. It was impossible , for she'd left him for dead on the Wounded Coast months ago; there was no way he could've survived that injury or the intentionally malicious blood magic...

He never saw her pommel coming: Marian struck him on the back of the head, the man crumbled onto the kegs before him. She seized his shoulder and flipped him over, heart pounding and hands shaking.

Anders stared up at her with seemingly lifeless eyes, as she strangled her terrified scream.

Fact: Palfreys are a type of light-weight horse prized for their unique, smooth gait known as an amble. They were considered the horse of choice for long-distance riding, favored among the nobility, knights, and noblewomen… and were the most expensive types of horses in the Middle Ages, aside from destrier war horses.

Palfreys aren't a specific breed of horses, as we know them today. The amble they're famous for is known by many names, including 'single-foot,' 'the stepping pace,' 'the tolt,' and 'the fox trot.' There are many ambling horse breeds, or gaited horses, such as the Missouri Fox Trotter, the Tennessee Walking Horse, and the Icelandic horse. The Paso Fino and the Peruvian Paso are thought to be the closest modern descendants to the medieval palfrey horses.

Fact II: Despite the candy being enjoyed for centuries, no one is certain where nougat originates from. Some trace it to the 1st century Roman epicure, Apicius, while others state it's from the Middle East (which is more likely). Most of the Middle Eastern recipes call for nuts, sugar, or honey, but not the egg whites that give nougat that trademark soft, chewy texture. There is one recipe, written in the 14th century cookbook by Ibn al-Mabrad. Through trade, these recipes made their way west to Europe and Cremona, Italy, where the famous torrone nougat was born. It was served at a noble's wedding, and was wildly popular… and continues to be enjoyed to this day.

Fact III: A chuff is like a little huff or a puff of air; it's a breathy sort of sound that dogs (and other animals, including big cats like tigers) use during play, excitement, surprise, stress, annoyance, or as a tentative greeting.

Fact IV: One can, indeed, make a headwrap or turban out of a pair of leggings, according to Ser Google and Youtube. Drawstring leggings are ideal, to customize to the wearer's head.