A/N: And things start to get interesting!

A BIG thank-you to my beta readers, 2.71828 and Canaria0, for their hard work and hundreds of sticky notes. Labor of love, people. Labor. Of. Love.


"Best t' displace him now, before he picks himself a capable wife."

Sebastian nodded his agreement, settling in the chair opposite Bann MacDougall's enormous desk. The study was as he remembered it as a child – cedarwood, a stone hearth, and detailed maps covering nearly every surface.

He also discovered, to some amusement, that the hidden liquor locations and hollow books were still well-stocked.

"Should he choose a wife from among the nobles," the prince said with some consideration, "the power struggles would only worsen. I'm determined to avoid bloodshed if at all possible."

"Good man."

"If I may ask," Sebastian said, leaning forward, "who seem to be the strongest candidates for his choice of bride?"

The Bann reclined in his chair, staring up at the painted ceiling as he thought aloud. "Harimann's daughter was a fighter, but she all but disappeared," he said. "Then there's rumors that Lord and Lady Ferren and Chancellor Gallach both put their girls forward, but..." He narrowed his eyes as his wandering mind bore fruit. "Only two I've seen him look twice at are Bann Loudain's daughter Cora and Lady Sutherland's daughter Marianne."

"I remember Loudain's daughter," the prince said thoughtfully. "Pretty, but unremarkable."

Chuckling, the Bann lifted a cup of steaming hot tea to his lips - or rather, moustache. "You remember everyone's daughters."

Sebastian only half-smiled, suppressing an urge to groan loudly. The Bann would never let him live down his younger days.

"I never set my sights on either of your girls," he said, "and now my memory serves us well. What more would you have?"

"Fair enough!" MacDougall stood, walking to the northward-facing windows and staring down into the outer yard. "Say, whelp," he called, motioning for the other man to join him. "Come look at this."

It was late enough in the morning that the rolling fog from the previous day's rain had dissipated, leaving the lush green surrounding the keep free and clear for the goings-about of everyday life. Washwomen carried baskets of laundry across the central paths, children ran squealing with the dogs, and the maids good-naturedly accosted the guardsmen as they passed.

What the Bann was pointing to, however, was a fenced-in, bare bit of land that was littered with propped-up planks of wood at various heights and large poles sticking out of the ground. There was a small raised platform at one side, and Hawke stood on it, crouched in anticipation. Gryphon ran by, Eoin running alongside him, guiding him to the edge.

They watched as Hawke leapt, managing to just nearly grab hold of the saddle's pommel, but still not enough to pull herself up onto it. She hit the ground rolling, shoving herself upright and dusting off her leathers. The blonde man explained something to her, handing her Gryphon's reins and heading up onto the platform himself. She ran the horse by, and Eoin gracefully caught hold and pulled himself to seated in one seamless, fluid motion.

Hawke threw her hands up in the air, yelling something that made the guardsman laugh, and the Bann leaned against the stone arch around the glass pane.

"Eoin was one of th' horsemasters of Tantervale," he explained, watching Hawke's repeated attempts at the moving mount technique. "Found him on th' borders half-dead a few years back. Took an oath t' me when he was well, and I was glad t' have him. Best rider I've ever seen. Couldn't just keep him in th' stables."

As they continued observing from their vantage point, Hawke wiped the dirt from her gloves for the umpteenth time and pulled down Gryphon's face by the bridle. She looked completely serious as she spoke to the horse, patting him on the neck before handing his reins back to her teacher. Up to the platform she went again, hands and legs at the ready.

This time, she caught herself well as Gryphon ran by, and managed to hoot a foot into one stirrup, pushing herself upward enough to swing the other leg over.

And there it was.

She cheered in triumph, and Sebastian saw a wide smile cross the Bann's face.

"I'll be damned," he said. "Fast learner, your Champion."

"Yes," the archer agreed, stifling a laugh. "And quite resilient, fortunately."

"She's getting along well with my guardsmen," the Bann continued. "Though th' headbutting is a touch off, they've taken t' it well."

Sebastian hid his smirk behind a hand over his mouth, staring out the window. "She spent a good deal of time around the Qunari," he explained. "She couldn't help but pick up a few of their habits here and there."

The other man whistled in appreciation. "Accounts for how she fights like a banshee."

"No," the prince replied firmly, "she has always been that terrifying."

Oblivious to being described as 'terrifying,' Hawke dismounted, ran to Eoin and flung her arms around his neck, laughing. He clapped her on the back proudly, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek before calling for Gryphon, who trotted over obligingly. In her typical fashion, it seemed time to practice ad nauseam now that she'd succeeded the once.

MacDougall made a noise of approval as he kept watch over their interactions. "They get on well," he said pointedly. "And Eoin's a good man. One of th'best. Popular with the women of th'keep, too. He's – what do they call it..." He crinkled his round nose. "Man-pretty."

Sebastian wasn't sure he wanted to know where this was heading. "Bann?"

"She'd be a good match for him," he continued, "and it'd give her a reason to stay in Starkhaven."

His chest suddenly tight, the prince looked back down as Hawke grew faster and more coordinated at her newly-learned skill. He would be lying if he said that the idea of her staying in his home country wasn't tempting, but there was something about the proposition that just felt wrong. He couldn't pinpoint it, but he knew that she was still recovering from the loss of an intense, volatile kind of love that had ended poorly enough to leave deep scars. Ones that were not yet even close to healed.

"Unfortunately for Eoin," he said softly, "I am afraid that her heart lies elsewhere."

The Bann stared at him then, a keenly interested look behind his eyes. It was a while before he spoke, and when he did, it was with a strange tone that Sebastian didn't recognize.

"That so?"

"I'm quite sure."

"Hrm." The giant turned away from the window, a smile beaming out from under his fiery beard. "There's t' be a banquet tonight in th' keep to welcome th' two of ye," he announced. "Make sure your lady scrubs off at least most of th' mud."


Hawke's calves complained as she walked down the stone corridors of the keep, and her legs burned as if on fire.

But it had been worth it, she thought with a heady glow. The feel of the horse's muscles beneath her and the wind on her face as she led him to gallop were things she'd never want to give up.

The training had left her ravenous, though, and she ducked down the hall to the kitchens, hoping to pilfer something from the preparations for lunch. At the doors ahead she saw the Bann speaking with two of the cooks, who were arguing over dishes.

"Make something," the Bann ordered gruffly. "And a lot of it. Since Cendre's left, I can't be arsed t' make these kinds of decisions. Now go, th' both of ye." He shooed them back into the kitchen with a sigh, turning to walk away.

"Bann MacDougall," Hawke called, jogging to meet him despite her body's protests. He turned, and his irritated face broke into a broad smile.

"Champion," he greeted. "Just the lass I wanted t' see."

"Just 'Mairead' or 'Hawke' is fine," she said, "what did you need?"

"Th' keep's having a bit of a welcome banquet for you and th' prince," he declared proudly, "and so tonight, we announce his bid t' my men and fellows."

Her face lit up, and her screaming calves momentarily silenced. "Then your talk this morning was a success?"

"Th' boy has a good head on his shoulders," the Bann said warmly, "and a good woman at his side. In my mind, those're th' two most important things a man could have."

She simply grinned up at him in response, and he cleared his throat purposefully.

"So how d'ye enjoy Starkhaven so far?"

"I like all of your men," she said, "the sheep are much friendlier here, and I haven't seen a dragon since I arrived. I can't wait to come back."

The Bann let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "I suppose that's th' prince's influence, then."

"He is the reason I'm here in the first place," she admitted, "but I get the feeling that I'll come to like it here independent of whether or not Sebastian's dragging me around for any particular purpose."

"You intend t' return, then?"

"If Sebastian accepts the crown. Otherwise, we return to Kirkwall."

Nodding, the Bann scratched his jaw. "Th' two of you are a formidable alliance," he said. "I doubt he'll face many objections."

Hawke laughed, briefly toying with the idea of showing up to Goram's name day banquet in full armor and covered in blood. Formidable indeed.

"Clean yourself up well," MacDougall said, gesturing to the rust-brown layer of dirt that coated every inch of her. "And don't worry," he added with a wink, "I'll break th' bad news t' Eoin beforehand, poor lad."

As he walked off, Hawke stood in place, puzzled. It took her a moment to remember why she'd come this way, and after stealing a roll from a conveniently unguarded breadbasket, she started the trek up to her room to soak the grime and ache out of her body.

The Bann's last sentence played over and over again in her mind. What in Thedas was the bear-man talking about? She replayed the conversation in her mind as she stuffed the rest of the thick bread into her mouth, shedding her mud-caked leathers on the floor of the room and indicating to one of the servants that she desperately needed a bath.

Nonsense, she thought at the first scenario of assumptions. What did the Bann have it in his head to think?

It took a while to arrive at it. When things clicked into place, Hawke regretted finishing the bread in one bite, as she nearly choked on a mouthful. Sputtering, her eyes went wide.

Alliance.

Oh, Maker. He thought she and Sebastian were engaged.

The time it took for her bath to fill felt like an eternity, and she couldn't get into the steaming hot water fast enough. Her skin stung at the lack of slow adjustment, but she closed her eyes and tried to think calmly.

No wonder the Bann was so focused on her part in all this. He thought she intended to stick around to rule.

The thought of being a princess made Hawke snicker. Sitting prettily through bureaucracy was impossible. Warrior princess, on the other hand, she could do. Fairly well, even.

But this was all moot, she reminded herself as she reached for a washcloth. She would simply go to the Bann after her bath and tell him that she couldn't marry Sebastian, then list all of the perfectly good reasons why.

Except, she realized with a frown, scrubbing one arm, that she could only think of one.

She wasn't in love with him.

Then again, where had love gotten her before? Would it not be better to base commitment on mutual respect and common goals?

The rest of her bath was spent trying to filter all of the thoughts that ran through her head, each bringing life to another in its wake. And by the time she stepped out of the tub to towel herself off, the title of Princess of Starkhaven wasn't nearly as revolting as it had first seemed.

As she pulled on her dressing gown, she sent for Sebastian.

They needed to talk.


"I'm sorry, the Bann is under the impression that we are what?"

Sebastian stared at the woman sitting on the bed, toweling off her hair. "I only realized right before my bath," she explained, "and even then, it was the first he'd mentioned anything like that. Did he say something at your strategy meeting this morning?"

Sebastian ransacked his memory, pacing. They had spoken of Goram's marriage prospects, that he remembered clearly. And then Eoin, and then–

Her heart lies elsewhere.

His eyes widened a bit, and he stopped in place. "No," he said quietly. "But I might have."

She raised an eyebrow, smirking at him. "So this is your fault?"

He turned to her, embarrassed and apologetic beyond belief. "It was entirely unintentional, I assure you." He sighed, a hand clapped over his eyes, trying to think of how to explain this to the Bann. It would not go over well.

"I am so sorry, Hawke," he said. "Please forgive me. This is entirely my fault. I will go immediately to MacDougall and clear the misunderstanding."

"Actually," she interrupted, "that's what I wanted to talk to you about." He looked over to her, and he was surprised to see an odd expression crossing her face.

"Hawke?"

"MacDougall knows that having me as a bride will lend you a lot of power in your attempts," she said plainly. "Being the man to bring the Champion of Kirkwall to Starkhaven will bring you an extraordinary amount of support." There was no boasting in her voice, just a simple statement of fact. "It might intimidate some of those who would stand against you into stepping down peacefully."

"Aye," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes a bit, "it may, but you know how I feel about lying. It is a sin, and one I cannot condone simply to further my own ends."

He wondered how in Andraste's name she could have thought that he would agree to committing such fraud, even if her intentions were for his sake. "I appreciate the thought, but–"

"What if it wasn't a lie?"

His heart leapt to his throat. "What?"

"You heard me." She tilted her head, leaning back on her hands. "Why don't I marry you?"

His knees threatened to buckle, and he was tempted to reach out to one of the bedposts to steady himself. "Hawke," he forced out, voice strained, "this is no place for one of your farces."

"I wouldn't," she said, eyes locked on his. "Not about something like this."

"But you cannot be serious."

Her face stilled, snorting as she looked away. "If you're that against it, then we'll drop the whole -"

"No, you misunderstand." He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her as he tried to make sense of the rush of emotions churning through his body. "I had never... You had never, to me... We haven't..."

This, of all times in his life, would be an excellent moment to form a coherent sentence.

"Why?" he managed.

"I've been thinking since my talk with the Bann," she said, "and it actually seems to make a lot of sense." She gestured with her hands as she spoke, and it was a comfort to see her doing something so much like herself during such a surreal conversation.

"Aside from my name, and the support that comes with it," she began, "I'm noble-born and wealthy in my own right, so my lineage isn't a problem. And taking a bride from among the Starkhaven nobility would have caused tension, something avoided entirely by marrying an outsider." She smirked a little. "Besides, from what I've seen of Starkhaven so far, a woman who can hold her own in a battle is worth her weight in gold and works as an excellent deterrent to would-be invaders. If you think about it," she finished, leaning back, "I'm the correct choice."

"Correct choice," he repeated, his tongue stumbling over the syllables in something between disbelief and awe. Still, something about all of this felt distinctly off – other than the fact that he and Hawke were sitting here, discussing their potential marriage of alliance. He was nearly numb, unable to process any of what he was feeling, save for a gnawing at the back of his thoughts. And when he narrowed down that unnamed emotion, the words came surprisingly easily.

"That may be so," he said. "And I have no doubt that you would bring me nothing but success in my campaign. However..." He took a steadying breath since, as the words escaped his mouth, it was the only time he had to truly consider them. "I would want a wife, Hawke. Not a political tool. And I have far too much respect for you to use you as such."

She was silent then, and he took the opportunity to continue. "I cannot take advantage of you. And as it is, you have not yet said what I could give you in return as a husband."

"People would have to curtsey and call me 'Princess,'" Hawke offered, straight-faced.

Sebastian felt himself irritated by her deflection, and there was a small part of him that wondered if the day would ever come when she would lower that wall around him.

"Please be serious," he pleaded. "And think more about your feelings on all of this."

"But -"

"You're proposing a sacrifice," he interrupted. "Not a partnership."

As he hoped his words would sink in, Hawke sat back against the headboard, drawing her knees up and locking her fingers together around them.

"I suppose I was only thinking of your situation," she agreed after a while. "I apologize."

His chest tightened, and he moved close enough to touch her, but hesitated in doing so.

"I am honored that you would think so much of me," he said, true as it was, "but I cannot have you devaluing yourself to do so." He laid a hand over the intersection of her fingers, offering her a small smile. "You are an incredible woman, and one that any man would be proud to call wife. The Champion of Kirkwall should not be so easily won!"

She laughed, and the sound sent warmth through his gut, out to the fingertips wrapped around hers.

"Amell women are notoriously difficult to con into political marriages," she said thoughtfully. "Historically, I should be dragged to the Chantry kicking and screaming."

He chuckled, running his thumb across her knuckles. "There's the Hawke I know."

"If we do agree to do this," she added, "I might have you sling me over one shoulder and carry me away, just for the sake of tradition."

"Our well-wishers would likely be disappointed if you did not put up a fuss," he replied, and the mental image of the chantry steps amid a flurry of colored flower petals and the laughter of their friends stirred something in him long since banished.

There was a moment of quiet, and Hawke sneezed. It was then that Sebastian realized that she was still damp and only in her dressing gown. She shivered to the touch, and guilt for not noticing sent him into a panic. That, and he swallowed hard when it hit him that that was all she had on.

He had forgotten how drafty castles could feel so warm.

"I'm sorry," he said, standing stiffly and encouraging her to do the same, "you must be freezing."

"I'm fine, I just need to put something warmer on." She disappeared behind a changing partition, and the prince felt telltale color creeping up his neck. He cleared his throat over the rustle of fabric, using an awful lot of willpower to avert his eyes.

"I'll, ah, take my leave, then." He turned to exit, but Hawke peered out from around the divider and called to him.

"Sebastian?"

He stopped with his hand on the door latch. "Yes?"

"I'm going to give it some more thought." She paused. "You should do the same."

"Aye."

And he couldn't get out of there fast enough. The numbness was fading, and the dam had burst.

He rounded the stairs down to the first floor, and strode across the courtyard to where he knew the keep's chapel was. The grass underfoot, the mist on his face and the air in his lungs did well for his chaotic mind – he had missed Starkhaven's borderlands in spring. Cold and dismal and wet and perfect.

The chapel was blessedly empty, and he fell into one of the central pews, kneeling on the raised cushion attached to the backboard. He attempted to clasp his hands in prayer but ended up clinging to the wood instead, leaning his forehead roughly against the back of the pew in front of him, eyes closed and breath laboriously slow.

The world around was silent save for the sound of his breathing. Just him, his thoughts, and Andraste, the prayer votives at her feet flickering and filling his lungs with the familiar comfort of smoky wax.

He hung there, pressed against the lacquered pine, until his breathing evened and the desperation ebbed from his thoughts. It may have been a minute or an hour, for all he knew, before he slowly stood and tended the candles with silent motions long since engraved into his fingers and hands.

More time yet found him sitting in the frontmost pew, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his forehead against folded hands.

Hawke had just offered to become his wife.

The idea, once too absurd to accept as reality, now sat plainly in the forefront of his mind, clear as day. There was a part of him that was touched, in a way he never had been, that the unbelievable woman had such confidence in him, such devotion that she would do so. Another part of him clamored to go back to her chambers and demand more answers if for no other reason than to end his suffering.

And another part still called for him to know his place. This was the Champion of Kirkwall, who had avenged his family, found love outside her own culture and language, accepted comrades of all races and credos, and saved an entire city from annihilation. He belonged at her feet, not at her side.

He raised his eyes to the statue of Andraste and wondered if perhaps Hawke's involvement was the divine hand at work. There had been a time, on the earlier side of their acquaintance, where he'd harbored an admiration for the Champion. It hadn't been for her reputation or glorious feats, but rather for her humor and flaws and the woman behind the rumors - an infatuation, hot-burning and short-lived. She made him remember the warmth of a woman's skin and the way a lover's voice sounded when his face was half-buried between their throat and the bedsheets, and brought old longings he'd thought conquered to the light of day. He'd spent many nights in prayer, banishing his dreams and hopes and thoughts into the darkness and silence, made easier by his position in the Chantry.

The memory of seeing her in the dressing gown, damp hair clinging to her skin and thin fabric flush against her curves, caused him to shiver. Humbling, how easily those yearnings could resurface.

Hawke, with all her political might, may have been sent as a sign that the Maker wished for him to guide the people of Starkhaven. She could also be a temptation, an offering meant to lure him away from the Chantry in exchange for the arms of a woman for whom he once burned. Or perhaps this was some form of punishment – a marriage to the woman who brought him the throne, but may never love him.

As he fidgeted with his hands, his gaze fell to the prayer wall, scraps of parchment in various sorts of scrawl tacked to the surface. Most were in Starkhaven's native language, but one near the top caught his eye. It was written in the common tongue, and the penmanship was as familiar to him as his own. Curious, he stood and approached it, straining to see what Hawke had written. Any guilt he may have felt at reading something whose author intended to be anonymous was erased as his eyes traced the words.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," it read. "Feel free to help out."

He ran his fingertips over the crinkled surface, noting that it must have been written in haste. Probably, he thought with a smile, because she didn't want to get caught.

Resolute, he walked over to the statue of Andraste. He laid a hand over his heart, bowed deeply, and the clack of his armor filled the small structure as he quietly excused himself.

"My lady."


The din in the great hall of the Shallervale Keep rivaled that of the Hanged Man on its noisiest nights, and Hawke had to admit that this particular spot of Starkhaven knew how to celebrate.

The enormous smile plastered across her face was completely genuine, and she'd sat at nearly every table, laughing and yelling and punching and being, for the first time in a long time, carefree and merry.

She'd competed in arm-wrestling and drinking contests, done her best to sing along with the drinking songs in Starkhaven's tongue, broken herself into guffaws as she attempted to garble the complex vowels and instead just let herself get swept into the dancing that went along with it. She resisted at first, but Eoin insisted, and his men protested until she set foot on the dance floor. She quickly learned the steps, linking arms and spinning and skipping and whatever else was being done, laughing and carrying on with the guardsmen and residents of the keep, and as the world flooded with color around her, she could have been asked about Kirkwall and answered "Kirkwall who?"

After a particularly rousing song, Hawke disentangled herself from her partner, snickering a bit as she staggered toward the nearest wooden pillar, leaning her head back and smiling up at the beams that criss-crossed the vaulted ceiling.

"Hawke!" a booming voice called over the din, and she turned, still smiling.

"Bann!" she walked over, narrowly avoiding some of the crowd. "I'm sorry I haven't greeted you! I was quickly kidnapped."

He laughed, nodding emphatically. "Of course! Enjoy yourself, it's what th' night is for!" He gestured to the young woman beside him. "This is my youngest, Aeryn, same age as ye. Aeryn, this is th' Champion of Kirkwall." He nudged her. "Say your introductions properly."

Aeryn had the same fiery hair as her father, pulled over her shoulder in a long, thick braid, and a field of freckles across her nose, cheeks, and shoulders, showing through the low sleeves of her gown.

She stepped forward and curtsied stiffly, and Hawke was entertained to see her as ill at ease with courtly formalities as she was.

"Aeryn MacDougall of Shallervale, your ladyship. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Mairead Hawke of the Kirkwall Amells," Hawke said, a smirk curling her lips. "Your father tells me that you can castrate sheep with your teeth."

Surprised, Aeryn looked up at Hawke, then to her father, and back to Hawke with a wide, tentative smile. "Your ladyship?"

"And," Hawke continued, crossing her arms, "I kind of thought you'd have a beard."

Aeryn laughed - a sharp, musical laugh that warmed Hawke's ears.

"Mairead," Hawke repeated, this time offering her hand.

Aeryn clasped her wrist firmly. "Aeryn," she said. "I think we'll get on just fine."

"As do I."

"If I may intrude," a voice called from behind her, and she felt a hand rest on her waist. "I'd like to steal the lady away for a moment."

"Highness," the Bann acknowledged with a nod. "Go on. Take her. We've got all night."

As MacDougall led his daughter away, Hawke turned – and tried not to gape.

Sebastian was dressed like the other men, in shirt and kilt and leather boots. It suited him far too well.

"Look at you," she exclaimed. "I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen you without your armor when you didn't have wounds to treat!"

"And you," he replied, smirking and crossing his arms, "in a dress."

True enough, she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse under a light cotton bodice and full skirt, in the same hunter green as Aeryn had worn.

"No blood was shed," she said politely, "if that's what you're asking."

"You fit in perfectly," he said, and she knew he meant the compliment. He offered his hand, and she let herself be led to an unoccupied window, sitting on the low, wide stone sill next to him and enjoying the relief the cool breeze brought.

"I've been thinking," he started, but she held up a hand to silence him.

"A family," she said.

He paused. Clearly, this had not been the answer he was expecting. "What?"

"That's what I would want from you," she explained, hands in her lap. "I've also thought about it, and it's the thing I've wanted most and never let myself admit to anyone." She twisted her fingers into the fabric of her skirts, forcing herself through her own honesty like cheese through an emotional grater. "My father died young and on the run. I've lost my mother and brother to the grave and my sister to the circle, and both of my parents were essentially disowned by their parents. I watched the only home I knew fall in darkspawn and flames, and the one I tried to start anew is in a city on the brink of collapse."

He slid one hand into hers, and she noticed with a start how warm it was.

"I want a family," she said firmly. "More than anything. Stable and happy and I want the power to protect them in more ways than bloodshed." She looked up at him, tightening her grip on his fingers. "As a prince," she said, "you'll be able to make these lands a place where children will never have to worry whether their parents or siblings will come home at night. And you'll be in a position to keep us and ours safe, and build a place that I can return to. I already love it here. I can easily come to see myself with Starkhaven as my home, and when that happens, I'll protect it with everything I have." She smiled, tilting her head so that it rested against the window frame. "You are one of the people in this world I respect most," she said. "If I could do this with anyone, it would be you. And we could both do a lot worse than marrying one of our best friends."

Sebastian, for his part, seemed stunned into silence. She waited for him patiently, occasionally catching glimpses of goings-on in the hall out of the corner of her eye.

When he did finally speak, Hawke couldn't tell if his accent obscured his words or if it was emotion clouding his voice.

"That," he said slowly, carefully, "is something that I would be happy to do all in my power to give you."

He met her eyes, and the intensity with which he looked at her gave her goosebumps. It melted somewhat, though, when she squeezed his hand lightly.

"You surprise me, Hawke," he chuckled. "As always. And yet..." He smiled warmly. "And yet, I am not at all surprised." Suddenly, the smile faded, and concern took its place. "Though..." He hesitated, then leaned in a bit closer. "I will need an heir," he said meaningfully, almost apologetic.

Hawke desperately fought the urge to laugh. He looked so worried.

"I can tell you right now, Sebastian," she replied with a wicked grin, shortening the distance between them even further, "that I will have no qualms whatsoever about the steps of that process."

He shot backward at that, hitting his head on the stone behind him, and Hawke couldn't keep from dissolving into a fit of laughter.

"Just warning you," she said as he rubbed the back of his skull, "twins run in my family. We may end up with more than we bargained for."

"I can think of no reason to object," he said, laughing a little at himself. He smiled at her, that warm, open, infectious, honest-to-goodness-light-of-Andraste smile of his, and she couldn't help but ease into him just a tiny bit more.

"I still can't believe we're thinking of doing this," Hawke said under her breath.

"The Bann is the only other person who has any idea," Sebastian reassured her. "We can take a bit more time."

A clamor from the center of the hall caught their attention, and one of the servants pressed goblets of mulled wine into their hands. A short distance away, the Bann had climbed up onto a small dais and was banging an ornamental shield to quiet the room.

"Ah," Sebastian explained. "Toasts."

Hawke nodded and turned her attention toward their host. Any tradition that involved drinking was one that she supported wholeheartedly.

"Attention, all," the bear-man called, holding his tankard aloft. "Shallervale folk, kinsmen and guests!" The crowd fell largely silent, and he took a sip of ale before he began. "Glad as I am t' see each face in this room, we've two who've traveled a long way and we are glad t' welcome into our midst."

He gestured to Sebastian, who stood.

"Th' first: son of our late ruler, Maker keep him, and man of th' faith, keeping in tradition with th' founding of our fair lands. He's come back t' take his rightful place and save us from that cretin Goran–" laughter bubbled up from the crowd, "and he'll have me right there behind him every step of th' way." He raised his tankard, and the room did the same. "To Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven! Welcome home!"

"Hear, hear!" echoed the crowd among cheering, and Sebastian gave an acknowledging bow, drinking along with them.

Hawke smiled as she lifted her wine to her lips. The look on her friend's face as he was welcomed home by his countrymen was a memory she would cherish as long as she drew breath.

"And the second," continued the Bann, "ye may know by reputation, but it doesn't hold a candle t'the woman here before ye. Were we both free," he said, grinning, "I'd ask for her hand myself!"

Hawke sighed. "Bann," she called over as she stood, "Impressive as I am, my lady parts couldn't handle birthing bear cubs for sons."

The men burst into raucous laughter, the Bann cartoonishly pretending to shush them angrily.

"To Hawke," he said, raising his ale again, "Lady of the Amell family, Champion of Kirkwall, and Sebastian's future bride!"

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Sebastian paled. "Oh, Maker help us."

"Welcome home!"

If possible, the cheering was even louder this time, and Hawke turned to Sebastian with a smirk. "So," she said, "when you said we still had a bit more time..."

"We had far less than I thought."

Cheering quickly filled the hall, calls of approval in both the common and Starkhaven tongues rushing to greet the announcement.

"Go on then, lad," the Bann laughed. "Kiss your woman, for Maker's sake!"

The two looked at each other, unsteady smiles on their faces.

Decision time, Hawke's face read.

Sebastian looked the same, and they laughed a tentatively slid his free arm around her waist, waiting for resistance, as an offer. This was her chance to back away, to call it off like the ridiculousness it was.

But she didn't.

She brought a hand up to rest at his nape and stood on her toes, and when he gently brought his lips to hers, she smiled against him.

The resulting uproar of applause and yelling blew past their ears, largely unnoticed. Feeling the thunderous pounding of his pulse under her fingers, Hawke tugged him closer, tasting the sweetness of the wine and more than a hint of nervousness on his mouth as he turned to accommodate their position and height difference. And though it would have been considered chaste by some, there was more meaning in that simple kiss than the most detailed of conversations.

This was an agreement, the acceptance of a compact that would change the both of their lives dramatically. Though the words weren't spoken aloud, the room full of their fellows and future countrymen bore witness with cheers and joy, toasting more than they knew.

Hawke pulled back first, unable to fight down a snicker. When Sebastian raised an eyebrow in question, she shook her head, still grinning.

"Varric's going to piss himself."