Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age nor the poem Zevran recites.

A/N: I had to write Zevran sometime. I hope I did him justice. Some of the dialogues are from the game.

Of Bosoms, Assassins and Dwarves

It was night time when Zevran arrived. They'd been in the gardens when the elf had seemed to appear out of the shadows, surprising the soldiers standing guard and Greagoir. The King, the Warden and her group didn't react at all at his appearance. Leliana continued entertaining everyone with a ballad from Orlais. Wynne kept on reading a book Greagoir had gifted her. The King and Leilani continued playing fetch with her mabari. Sten was the only one that tensed at his arrival, but the qunari dismissed him as soon as he realized who it was. Greagoir decided to do as the others, and went back to polishing his shield. Zevran didn't seem to care and, in a matter of seconds, it looked as if the elf had been with them all along. Greagoir had almost forgotten the elf was there at all, until his heavily accented voice reminded him.

"My darling Wynne," the elf said and Greagoir was surprised to see that everyone stopped what they were doing to watch what he was going to say. Even the qunari seemed interested in whatever the elf was going to say.

For his part, Greagoir didn't like the way he addressed Wynne, but what he really detested was the way he was staring at her. It was as if he could look straight through her robes.

"I am not your 'darling' Zevran," Wynne answered, eyes riveted on her book. Her actions seemed forced but the elf seemed completely oblivious to it.

"I have a poem for you, my beautiful Wynne."

She sighed heavily, closing the book and looking at him with her most stern face. Greagoir was reminded of that one time one her apprentices accidentally set fire to the dinner table.

"I am not your anything, Zevran. And you didn't have to bother. Really…"

The elf smiled, eyes moving slowly up and down her body and making Greagoir wish he hadn't left his sword in his quarters.

"I would in that sweet bosom be. O sweet it is and fair it is! Where no rude wind might visit me because of sad austerities. I would in that sweet bosom be."

Alistair was the first to chuckle, though he tried to hide it. The Grey Warden was hiding her face in her hands, shoulders shaking in amusement. Leliana was rolling her eyes, though Greagoir knew she wasn't laughing only because she was a better actress. Wynne looked murderous though. The air around her turned hot and Greagoir remembered that, while specializing as a healer, Wynne had an affinity for fire spells. Training made him tense up, but the others around him seemed more amused by the increase in temperature than worried.

"Could you please stop talking about my bosom?" Wynne enunciated slowly. The frost in her voice contrasting with the hot aura that surrounded her.

The elf gave her an exaggerated wounded look, "Didn't you like the poem? It is a marvelous bosom. I have seen women half your age who have not held up half so well. It deserves to be immortalized in a poem. Perhaps it is a magical bosom?"

Alistair couldn't hold his laughter anymore. There was a very unlady-like snort beside him before the Warden gave up trying to hide her laughter.

"We are not having this conversation," Wynne said, calmly opening her book and continuing reading.

She might've fooled them, except the air around them was still crackling with energy and the faint odor of smoke. Still, no one seemed worried and Greagoir had to admit that, if it were Leliana or the Warden having this conversation he'd be laughing too. Maybe he should be doing something, but he was still getting used to not be standing around for hours on end. Being Knight Commander didn't lessen his responsibilities, but added to them. While it's been a while since he stood still guarding a room full of mages, he stood still alongside a chosen templar recruit in each and every Harrowing. He was more used to watch others around him than interacting and maybe he was too old to learn something different.

"Alas, I have been rejected again. I feel like I might cry. May I lay my head in your bosom?"

Greagoir stood up, ready to take on the elf with his bare hands if he dared touch Wynne. Everyone's attention seemed to shift from amusement to tension.

Wynne only stood up, looking very much like a noble, and giving Zevran a scathing look said, "I am going to walk away now. Calmly. This is to save you the pain of having your brain forcibly removed through your ears."

She walked past him and, like they'd been doing for years, Greagoir quickly followed one step behind her. Everyone was quiet and even Zevran looked contrite now that she was leaving. He might have even apologized to the old mage, but before Wynne could finally leave the garden, Oghren arrived.

The dwarf smelled like a brewery and he swayed slightly when he walked. He squinted his eyes at Wynne before shouting at the top of his lungs and pointing at her, "YOU!"

"Listen, dwarf. I am not interested in your innuendos, your propositions or your bodily emanations."

Oghren looked confused, bleary eyes squinting, "But…"

"Quiet!"

"Eh, fine," Oghren said, shrugging his shoulders and moving out of the way as Wynne stalked out of the room with Greagoir in tow.

There was silence for a few minutes, until Oghren belched loudly and said, "And here I came to tell her there was a templar looking for her and the old man."

The sight of the group simultaneously bolting out of the gardens and into the palace made the approaching golem stare. She glanced at the sky suspiciously. The only way she'd run that fast were if birds were approaching. Seeing the sky clear, the golem shrugged and joined the only one that had not left the garden. Sten didn't even glance at her, deciding to do his nightly meditation in the garden now that it was quiet and empty.