A/N: Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading, and to everyone who reads!

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It had always surprised Cassandra how a few quick words could ruin a perfectly good morning.

Inquisitor Pentaghast.

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise as soon as the thought crept into her mind. She had been the Divine's Right Hand, yes, but that hardly put her in line to inherit the whole of the Inquisition. Being the inquisitor was the last thing she needed.

And being mistaken for the inquisitor… She wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

However, with Finley off doing whatever it was she'd needed to do, people were trying to figure out who was in charge, who to bring problems to, and—by far the worst—who to suck up to.

With a grunt of frustration, she tugged on the rotted door that she'd been trying to take down, one of its hinges refusing to come out of the wall. Cassandra was working in what was to be the guest corridors, a place that overlooked the garden and had a long outside hall with dozens and dozens of doors leading into large chambers full of mostly decaying furniture. There'd been a few things to salvage, and they were moving intact beds and dressers to the rooms closer to the main hall for now, so that the nobles reportedly en route would have somewhere to stay.

Leliana's contacts in Amaranthine were sending lumber that would be arriving by the end of the week, and they planned on putting them to work as soon as they arrived. New doors were one of the first things that were going to be put in, wherever the foundation was stable enough. Josephine had contacted Orzammar and an Orlesian noble about sending stone for rebuilding, and they had heard favorably back from both, as well as from a few of Varric's sources. Better yet, Lady Cadash's carta had come through, and they'd seen their caravan enter into the valley early this morning. A few of the younger, more energetic soldiers had gone down to meet them and help things along—there had been cheering when one of the guards had spotted their approach—and the head architect with them was going to look over the castle and see what else would need to be done, as well, as per the letter that had preceded their arrival.

Future shipments might require more coin, but for now, it seemed that the cartas and Orzammar were more interested in forging an alliance than draining the Inquisition's coffers.

It was a good thing that no one knew most of their coffers had been buried with Haven. While they had discussed sending a team back to Haven to retrieve them—they couldn't pretend to have those missing coins forever—it had been decided that Skyhold would be the priority, at least for now.

Once Skyhold looked at least a little respectable, then they could worry about Haven.

The door wasn't going to budge. With a growl of growing frustration, Cassandra took a few steps back and then gave the door a hard kick.

With a loud bang, it finally flew off its rusted hinges and nearly sent someone walking past careening over the balcony.

"I'm so sorry, I—" Cassandra darted out into the hall and baulked when she found Ser Yorric rubbing at a few scratches on his swarthy bicep.

He looked up with a grin. "It's alright. I assume that door was in the wrong."

With a huff, she turned her gaze toward the offending piece of wood, trying to inspect it as though she might find something salvageable in all its rot. There was no saving it, of course. And even if there had been, the split it sported now would have made it useless for nigh everything, save perhaps an awkward table.

She sighed and turned to look at the mess inside—Josephine was dearly hoping they might find some decent drapes that could be refurbished into Inquisition banners. While the one that Finley and the others had draped from the highest tower when they'd come ahead of the main group to lay claim to the castle was something, it was also a tent. A tent that had had pieces of clothing sewn into it to make their symbol. While one couldn't tell from a distance, it was something they suspected nobles would pick out in a heartbeat upon entry to the castle.

Nobles who would likely be giddy to report back their hodgepodge means to anyone who would listen.

Sadly, this room held no miraculously intact drapery. It did have an old, hole-riddled banner hanging on the far wall, beside the small window, however.

Such a shame.

Cassandra had suggested that showing the nobles the dungeons first might be the better method for ensuring that they not act so prattish, but Josephine had merely frowned at her and then said something about making certain they felt welcome.

When she'd made her way to the war room this morning, she'd heard Josephine practicing what she might say about their new home, explaining the repairs in progress and what had already been done.

It had broken her heart a little that they even needed to offer such explanations. Too much had already been lost, and it felt like a slap in the face to think people would be so critical now.

To know that they would be.

Anyone who passed through the gate could see that repairs were underway, that every person in Skyhold was doing something to help make the place a home.

Dragging over an old nightstand, Cassandra tried to step up on it so that she could reach the top of the wall banner and simply pull it off its hooks—while the support rod would need to be replaced as well, it wasn't as noticeable as the mothball-riddled fabric, bearing some coat of arms that had long since become too faded to see and she figured they could leave that in place until someone better trained in construction could come along and tend to it.

As she put her second foot on the top of the nightstand, the top gave out, and she fell through, her boots saving her ankles from the sharp splinters of wood.

She barely noticed that, however, instead rather preoccupied with the strong, sturdy arms that had saved her from the floor.

"I have to say as soon as I saw what you were doing, I knew it would be a bad idea."

"Yet you did not try to stop me?"

Ser Yorric grinned, still holding her around the waist, her back flush against his chest, as she managed to wriggle her feet free from their wooden prison. "Would you be angry if I told you I was hoping this might happen?"

"Hoping for what?" Cassandra quipped, planting her feet on the ground. He let go of her before she could awkwardly ask him to. "For me to nearly kill myself in so banal a manner?"

"I was more thinking of having a lovely lady falling into my arms." His breath tickled her ear as he replied, and she was certain her cheeks were several shades redder than usual. Maker, help her. Even as she floundered for what to say, he stepped around her and peered up at the banner. "Well, either it stays there or we just yank it down." When she didn't immediately respond, he glanced over at her and then grinned. "Did I embarrass you?"

With a disgusted noise, she shook her head, reaching out and gripping the old banner. "Do not be ridiculous."

"Good. That wasn't my intent." He flashed her another smile as he reached out and gripped the fabric, the muscles in his arms moving fluidly beneath his skin as he did so. "It'll go faster with two."

Cassandra snapped her gaze back toward the banner. She could almost make out part of an animal in the crest. Taking a moment, she swallowed and then nodded. "On three…"

It only took them two tugs to get the damned thing down, and once it was, Ser Yorric took it from her and started toward the hall. "We can just leave the useless bits out in the hall for Jensen to handle."

"My thanks for that," an annoyed voice called to them, and Cassandra couldn't help a slight smile herself when she glanced back to see the younger Trevelyan disappearing from sight with the broken door.

"He has my sympathies," Cassandra offered, attempting a joking tone, though it fell flat, like her jokes usually did.

As Ser Yorric returned to the room, she gripped that useless nightstand and hauled it over to the door, pleased to see that her helper was content to let her handle her own work, without automatically trying to take over. As he brought a few broken pieces of the bed out, he glanced down the hall, as though expecting his brother to already be back, and shook his head. "None of that, dear lady. It's what younger siblings are for. And he has a lot to make up for, anyway."

As he launched into a story about a time when he and Ser Jensen had gotten into trouble as children, before they'd been sent off to be templars—and debatably why they'd been sent off to be templars, assuming Ser Yorric wasn't embellishing horribly—Cassandra couldn't help a small smile. Were Anthony to have lived, she could imagine him telling similar stories, pestering her with the authority given to him simply because he'd been born first.

It made her heart hurt to think of what could have been, and her smile slipped.

"I…it wasn't that bad," Ser Yorric amended his tale, abruptly ceasing with the details of how their local Chantry's stained glass windows had never been the same since. "I promise. We had it all fixed by the end of the week. And we were eleven and seven, so it's not like we'll do something like that here."

"…What? Oh," Cassandra felt a bit of heat creeping into her cheeks for the second time since he'd shown up. "I apologize. I was distracted."

Walking back with him, she inspected the bed to see if it might be salvaged. It was half buried under a pile of debris that had caved in from the ceiling. Rather than the sky, they could simply see up into a higher room. More work.

They continued on for a while in silence before Cassandra realized it. Shouldering a few pieces of wood awkwardly, she glanced at him. "I apologize. I am not the best at idle banter."

"Better not to be idle, anyway," Ser Yorric offered, hauling a broken beam over his shoulder and starting toward the door. "Besides, you probably have a lot on your mind, anyway. Running the Inquisition can't be easy."

Cassandra stopped in the middle of the room, eyes widening slightly as someone assumed she was Inquisitor for the second time that day. "You think I run it?"

"Well, you do, don't you?" Ser Yorric dropped the old beam onto the slowly amassing pile in front of the doorway.

"Hardly." Cassandra tossed her burden onto the pile as well and then brushed her hands off. Her muscles ached dully, but it was a good feeling. Though, she would have preferred it to be from swinging a sword.

"Who in the void runs this place then?" Ser Yorric asked, hopping up to stand on the unstable pile of debris to look around for signs that his brother was coming to pick up more of it. Or anyone really, she supposed.

After a moment, he hopped back down, coming to stand in front of her, a single brow quirked. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"If you're not the one in charge, who is?"

"Herald Finley is to be the Inquisitor," Cassandra admitted before glancing toward the door, as though expecting to see a dozen onlookers with mouths agape. "There will be a ceremony when she returns."

"And that will be…?"

"I do not know," she replied before she could stop herself. With a quiet curse to herself, she wondered why she was so readily able to tell this man everything. "I would rather you not repeat that to anyone. She will be back sooner than later."

"My lips are sealed." He hoisted a half rotted nightstand up—likely from the room above—and carted it toward the door. "Though I would like to point out that you've done a fine job so far."

"And just what have I done?" She paused before adding, "Aside from 'recruiting the templars'."

With a laugh, Ser Yorric paused to wipe some sweat from his brow. His long dark hair clung to the nape of his neck, where his ponytail was tied off and he did look quite…handsome. Cassandra forced her eyes to wander so that she wouldn't look like a swooning idiot. "Remember when Commander Rutherford was off saving the Herald, and we found out that that merchant had the foresight to bring twelve tents with him? And he was trying to charge people to use them?"

Cassandra scoffed. She remembered it well. The bastard had tried to insist that he didn't have to give up on making a profit just because they'd all nearly been slaughtered. They were 'his' wares to do with as he pleased. One of the recruits had insisted at least one of the tents he had belonged to her fallen brother, and the outcry that he would rob the dead like that had threatened to start a riot.

While Cassandra had stepped in and settled the matter with a swift implication that she would gladly let the good people take the tents however they felt they ought to, anyone could have done that. Leliana would have likely interceded before things got too out of control, had she reached the merchant before Cassandra.

As it was, Cassandra had just been closer.

"And who was it going around and helping pitch tents every evening while we were in the mountains? Helping gather firewood, working with Commander Rutherford to organize hunting parties and the like?" Ser Yorric hesitated, fingers drumming against his chin as he tried to think of more examples. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're the one person who the commander occasionally defers to. You're the one person who Sister Nightingale discusses problems with. I've even seen Lady Montilyet ask you a few questions about nobles you've interacted with."

She couldn't stop the disgusted noise that caught in her throat.

"I…"

"For what it's worth, I'd follow you anywhere." When she looked at him, his expression was earnest. With a shrug, he turned to finish cleaning out the room. "You've always done what's best for the Inquisition. If you feel someone else in charge is for the best, then I'll follow them, too, but it will be because I trust your judgment, not necessarily theirs."

"You…" Cassandra felt the flush settle in her cheeks. Maker, but this man could push her off balance with a word, couldn't he? Shaking her head, she moved to help him tug an armoire away from the wall. Perhaps she'd been working too hard. It certainly felt like the heat was getting to her. "What of Herald Finley? She's already the face of the Inquisition."

"A mascot does not make a leader," Ser Yorric grinned when Cassandra inspected him, searching for some twist or joke. "I'm sure Jensen would be all for that, but I'd like someone who doesn't look like she's about to have a heart attack whenever a templar looks her way."

Frowning, Cassandra eased her grip on the armoire, and Ser Yorric followed suit. "Finley has been doing much better with her fears."

"Around you, maybe." Ser Yorric glanced toward the door as he crossed his arms, watching as Ser Jensen finally returned with a few others to start carting things off. He waited until they were gone before continuing. "When Ser…ah, who was it? Ser Connell? He caught her trying to leave camp, shortly after she woke up."

"I recall hearing about it."

"According to him, she was acting highly suspicious. When Jensen and I got there, she was ready to fight to get away. Maybe she had the right to, but that's not how a lot of people saw it. They saw a rogue mage—who was supposed to be some savior—acting erratically. There's been talk since."

"What kind of talk?"

Ser Yorric shrugged. "More than a few templars don't trust her. They find it a little too convenient that a no name apostate was the only survivor of the Conclave. They wonder about the tale of the darkspawn magister, as only she and the Tevinter fellow could name him, and we only heard her story after he'd helped her."

"People think Ser Pavus coached the Herald on what to say?"

"Not many, but enough that it might ruffle feathers were she to ascend to power." He hesitated and then added, "And people have noticed that the strongest voices against our dear Herald have all been sent away on missions of some sort, leaving the castle rather peaceful. A few are wondering if they'll ever be seen again."

Cassandra's lips dipped down into one of her usual frowns. Surely Leliana already knew of this—especially if the more problematic individuals were being sent off on trite tasks. However, even knowing that Leliana was most efficient, she had to fight the urge to sprint through the halls until she found her and reported this problem.

For it could be nothing else.

Finally, however, she decided that she would wait until they'd finished with this room, so as to not look too panicked. After all, more people were watching her than she'd expected, and she didn't want that sort of fear spreading so soon after they'd found their new home.

Appraising Ser Yorric, she motioned toward him. "What do you think? Of our Herald?"

At that, he blinked. "I think that I owe her everything for saving my brother. He'd have likely ended up ingesting that red lyrium or dying in some pointless squabble if not for her. She can close the rifts, and I have every intention of helping her do so, in whatever way I can, be it marching with her or making sure that the homestead is safe." He paused, uncrossing his arms. "And I know you frown on insubordination, but do consider that if I hadn't defected to look for him, I'd likely be a red templar."

"With the way you follow orders? Doubtful."

He grinned. "I've followed all of yours, haven't I?" Even as she let out a bark of a laugh at that, he shrugged again, resuming their earlier work. "If you feel the Herald would make a good leader, then so be it. Just…there will be resistance to that. I'm sure you could handle that quiet well, though."

"I suppose I could," Cassandra agreed, oddly set at ease by his faith in her. She moved back to the armoire as well, getting a firm grip upon it. "I was the Right Hand of the Divine for a reason."

With another of his characteristic wide grins, Ser Yorric braced himself against the heavy wood and looked at her. "On three again?"

They'd just gotten the armoire out of the room—after a lot of cursing and nearly toppling the damned thing onto themselves—when Ser Jensen was back. He was alone, and his countenance spoke volumes to why.

"Inqui—"

"Just Lady Pentaghast," Ser Yorric interrupted a bit too quickly, though his brother had already spoke enough syllables of the damned title that one of Cassandra's more pronounced frowns was well in place. Exactly how many people had decided she was the Inquisitor already?

Ser Jensen glared at his brother before as though to say 'I told you so' before addressing Cassandra. "Lady Pentaghast, there's reports of more templars en route to Skyhold."

Her frown lessened. "I am not surprised."

She hadn't heard of any larger groups coming to join the cause, but they were receiving smaller sets of travelers every day, templars included. Even a few solitary mages had made their way to the Inquisition already.

"People are trying to keep it quiet from you and the others in charge," Ser Jensen explained, glancing from her to his brother and back. "They're being led by Ostwick's knight-commander."

"The knight-commander's dead," Ser Yorric retorted, looking most annoyed with his younger sibling. "He was at the Conclave."

"Funny how succession works," Ser Jensen muttered, before trying to salvage a somewhat professional air as he turned back to Cassandra.

However, before he could explain, Ser Yorric had gripped him by the shoulder. "Maeville? He's leading them?"

"He was the knight-captain," Ser Jensen muttered, clearly annoyed that it even needed to be stated.

Cassandra looked from Trevelyan to Trevelyan. "This Knight-Commander Maeville is not someone we want here, I take it?"

"Ostwick's Circle was fairly lenient toward mages," Ser Yorric explained slowly, rolling one of his shoulders as though the work with the armoire had taxed his strength. "Which made it all the more bizarre when they lashed out so violently during the rebellion, but I digress. Compared to Kirkwall and Starkhaven, mages seemed happy to get transferred to our Circle. And to stay there."

"Still digressing," Ser Jensen muttered.

After giving him a look, Ser Yorric turned back to Cassandra. "Anyway, our knight-commander believed in leniency, in trying to not make the Circle feel too much like a prison, as it's so often compared."

"We are getting to the point of this soon, I hope," Cassandra interjected.

Flashing her another grin, Ser Yorric nodded. "I was promoted to knight-captain, and then someone somehow noticed that Jensen is my brother. Apparently we hadn't been brotherly enough before then, but it was felt I would be lenient on him as his superior, so I was…traded off. Sent to Cumberland's Circle while their knight-captain came to Ostwick."

"Our father was not pleased," Ser Jensen muttered. "He acted like it was my fault you were gone and harassed me to 'fix' the situation, like I could."

"Now who's digressing," Ser Yorric retorted.

Ser Jensen looked ready to protest at first, though a sharp look from both Cassandra and Ser Yorric made him change his mind. He gathered himself and shook his head. "Maeville was a terror. Our knight-commander was constantly having problems with him because he would try to punish the mages for simple things that weren't even actually problems. Always said they 'needed to know their place'."

"I never met him," Ser Yorric added, "but the stories I heard…Maker, but he was about as far from Andraste's teachings as you can get. Didn't help that the knight-commander in Cumberland was much the same. He tried to get me demoted because I wouldn't manhandle the mages when he wanted me to."

"Maeville wanted to make some of the mages tranquil, after they'd already passed their Harrowings," Ser Jensen murmured. "Said they were doing it in Kirkwall without repercussion, so why not do it in Ostwick."

"And he was not demoted?" Cassandra asked, feeling a ball of bile forming in her throat. The Seekers were rarely called in to deal with just one individual, so it wasn't a surprise that she hadn't heard of this man, but it was somewhat of a surprise that he could have been allowed to keep his power. She liked to think the system hadn't been completely broken.

More and more, however, it was obvious that the Order had fallen far from grace.

"Funny story. Our knight-commander moved to get him kicked from the Order the same time Cumberland's was moving to have me kicked from the Order, and so it was decided that there was clearly a difference in our training, and our knight-commanders both came under scrutiny," Ser Yorric explained. "Then they were both decided to be fit, and that Cumberland 'needed to be stricter' because they had more blood mages than Ostwick."

"We didn't have a blood mage problem," Ser Jensen said, his voice took on a bitter tone as he added, "Didn't think we had any problems until the rebellion hit, and the mages started smiting people. Suddenly Maeville's words about leniency seemed to have a bit of truth to them." His gaze had dropped, though his expression spoke volumes to what he wasn't saying. "Regardless, Maeville is going to make things difficult if he gets here. The Herald is a good woman, and he'll likely take one look at her and ask how no one has figured out that she's an abomination."

"And if the stories are true, he'll make sure to make the accusations as publicly as he can," Ser Yorric added. His earlier humor was gone now, glancing down the hallway without really looking at anything in particular. "And he won't settle for some quiet discussion."

"That's the least dramatic thing he'll do," Ser Jensen muttered. "It will be a nightmare if he gets to Skyhold."

"You are certain he is coming here?" Cassandra asked, gaze darting from one to the other.

"Well, people don't exactly come to us with discontent," Ser Yorric admitted, turning toward his brother as though prompting an explanation.

"Cadwin has a countenance that…well, it makes her seem less pleased with situations than she usually is," Ser Jensen explained. "A few people have approached her a couple times about…ideas. She lets them keep thinking she doesn't like the current situation so that they keep coming to her."

"People assume she's with our group because she's with Jensen," Ser Yorric added. "They don't realize Jensen's a man's man, and she's a lady's lady." Ser Yorric gave his brother a disapproving frown at that, even as Jensen was rolling his eyes. "You're never going to find someone if they think you're not interested in—"

"I'm not here to find romance, Yorric."

The two brothers glared at one another a moment, faces changing with minute expressions that only they could read, a silent argument battling out before Cassandra's eyes.

Again she was reminded of Anthony.

Rather than letting herself get drawn into memories, however, she took in a deep breath and pointed toward the room. "Will you finish here? I need to find Leliana."

Both of the men stopped their little war, Ser Jensen standing at attention quicker and longer than his brother. "Yes, Lady Pentaghast."

Despite the urgency in her steps, as Cassandra passed through the main hall—her course took her right past where Varric had set up his own little table for writing to his own contacts—she came to a stop.

Varric was innocently scribbling away on a piece of parchment, and looked up to see her, that annoying, crooked smile of his tugging at his lips as he addressed her. "Seeker! Here to make sure I'm not fleeing for my life?"

With a disgusted noise, she began to walk again, glancing toward the main door. She could have sworn she'd seen someone slip around the wall that created the small alcove just before the main hall. That anyone would be hiding here was…

"Were you just talking to someone?"

"Me?" Varric gave her an innocent look that said he was anything but. "Seeker, I think maybe you need more rest. You're seeing things."

Gaze narrowed, she started to take a few steps toward where she'd seen someone disappear, but stopped herself. If it had been someone who was a threat to the Inquisition, Varric wouldn't be playing games. He might be an unbearable ass, but he believed in the cause.

She could deal with him later.

First, she needed to talk with Leliana.

"Oh, Seeker." Varric's voice interrupted her as she resumed her earlier pace. When she stalled herself, glancing back at him, not bothering to hide her annoyance, he motioned over his shoulder. "The horses have come in. I was thinking that I might take some out to meet Stardust, give her a faster ride back to the castle."

Cassandra hesitated. "That would be…helpful."

With a grin and a shrug, he laughed. "I'm not all talk, you know."

"You will need a few people to come with you, to make sure you can bring enough—"

"Seeker, Seeker, Seeker," Varric wagged a finger at her. "I've got this. Sparkler is getting a little stir crazy, so he and another mage or two are gonna come with me."

"It would be wise to bring a few warriors with you as well, just in case you encounter red templars or bandits."

"I've got this," he repeated. "I just wanted to let you know, so that you wouldn't send the guard after me for stealing horses."

Rolling her eyes, she put a hand on her hip, meeting his gaze with a tired one. "Yes, well. Thank you for that." With a nod, Varric began to shuffle through his papers, and Cassandra turned away. Just as she stopped to wonder if Varric had heard anything about the templars coming or the like, she glanced back and saw that he was already gone.

She was tempted to go after him, but decided against it. Leliana would likely know more, anyway.