On the way to Antiva, Leah Cousland had spent three months at sea. She and Oren had slept in a rat-infested cargo hold that smelled of droppings and rotten fish. She'd spent the waking hours of every morning painfully binding her chest in stiff bandages to disguise her curves.
That experience now seemed like an Orlesian pleasure cruise in comparison to sharing a room with her cousin Habren, whose incessant nattering had now turned to how very lucky Leah was to have had such an exciting adventure.
"It's a shame about your hair, though. It used to be so long and pretty."
Leah clenched her teeth. She had long since tired of people commenting about her hair. Yes, it used to be long and thick and hang to the middle of her back. Yes, she had cut it. Yes, she had pretended to be a boy. No, it had not stopped sailors from trying to rape her. Yes, she did have to garote one of them and throw his body overboard after he'd discovered her secret. Yes, she'd had to do this in front of Oren. At this point in the story, people usually backed slowly away or become very interested in their drinks. Except Loghain Mac Tir, who had actually smiled and patted her on the back, and Jon Amell, who had frowned and said simply, "That's horrible," which was the most sensible thing anyone had to say on the matter.
Leah had learned over the years that refusal-to-engage was usually the best method for dealing with Habren; one-word answers, grunts, and shrugs eventually put her off.
"I saw you talking with the new Teyrn of Gwaren at dinner yesterday," Habren went on.
"Mmhmm."
"Teagan looked jealous," she giggled. "They say he wants to propose to you."
"Oh." People had been saying that for almost ten years. It was getting old.
"I wonder if Amell will propose to you."
Leah shrugged, even as she felt her heart flutter slightly.
"He's very handsome."
"Yes." It wasn't untrue.
"I bet you'd make a great Teyrna of Gwaren."
Leah hesitated; a compliment from Habren was usually a trap. "Probably."
"But would you want to be Teyrna of Gwaren?"
"Why not?"
"Well, yes, but would you want to be his teyrna?" Habren prodded.
"Sure."
"But he's a mage."
She shrugged. "No one's perfect."
"Well, if you married Amell, maybe I could be the Banna of Rainsfere. And really, being a banna is much easier than being a teyrna, don't you think?"
"I guess."
Leah prayed that would finally shut her up, but had no such luck.
"Rainsfere is really much prettier than Gwaren…." Habren rambled on. And on. And on.
What Jon had told Leah about being in the thick of things was not a lie. He'd never found it easy to hang back and wait. Which was why he had to really concentrate on not encasing Teagan in a slowly shrinking cage of magical energy and squeezing the life out of him. That sort of thing would probably be considered uncouth at a diplomatic reception, he thought.
So Jon merely sat glaring as Teagan introduced Leah to yet another ambassador and began extolling her many braveries and virtues. Leah, for her part, looked a little sheepish at the display. But neither did she move Teagan's possessive hand from her forearm. Jon felt his irritation rising, and had to remind himself that he had a secret weapon. Two, actually. He had finally settled on each one that afternoon, after much hemming and hawing and general trying of Gorim's patience.
The first was a fine and hefty dragonbone thing, with a wide hilt and a string of lyrium enchantments that made the weapon fairly hum with magical energy. The second was different, a blade gracefully curved in the elven style with intricate engravings of flowers and leaves on the pommel. He would give them to her at their planned practice session the next morning. If he could make it through the night without killing Teagan first.
"So, Your Grace" slurred a drunken voice, "are you going to ask Leah to marry you before Teagan does?"
Jon turned to find Habren Bryland wobbling at his side, mug of claret in hand.
"Excuse me?" he asked, trying to supress a smile, remembering her as the woman from the marketplace who had called Leliana a slut, and had been promptly robbed for her troubles.
"She'll say yes, you know. She told me so!" Habren gestured toward her cousin and a small swell of claret broke over the side of the mug, dribbling onto what had to be some very expensive silk gloves.
Jon wasn't paying attention to the claret, though. "Really? She said that?"
"Sure!" Habren cried. "She said that even though you're a mage and not really perfect, she'd overlook it because she'd make a great teyrna."
"Really," Jon said, his face falling, "she said that."
"Yup! So if you're going to ask her, could you please hurry up, because she also said that if she got you, then I could have Teagan! And Teagan is sooooo dreamy!"
"Excuse me, my lady," he said, getting up abruptly, "I think I need my own claret."
Jon parked himself in a corner of the reception hall, third mug of claret in hand, brooding. He had been a fool. Again. Why did he not see it sooner? Inquiring into Gwaren House and the teyrnir's financial records, peppering him with questions about his family. It was all so mercenary. Had he really thought that this highborn lady might be interested him? The Grey Warden? The mage? He cursed himself audibly.
"A word of advice, boy."
Jon looked up to find Loghain looming over him. "Don't you have a trip to Orlais to pack for?" the younger man taunted the older.
Undeterred, Loghain said, "Regret is a fool's way to begin a new life."
Jon met Loghain's piercing gaze straight on, trying to figure what the man was on about, but Loghain just stared right back. Stubbornly, Jon turned back to his angry sulking and took another swig of claret.
He heard an exasperated sigh behind him. "Also, I have it on good authority that Habren Bryland is a gossipy, drunken twit."
Startled, Jon, shot Loghain a gape-faced, befuddled look.
"What?" Loghain asked defensively. "I do have a daughter."
