A/N: Phew. Been a hell of a week, folks – but I AM UPDATING WOO.

Enjoy watching Hawke suffer a little this chapter. =)


They arrived in the city amid hundreds of brightly-colored banners fluttering in the wind on the city's ramparts. Colorful garlands were strung along the streets, and Hawke was struck first and foremost by how vibrant everything was. Where Kirkwall was dusty and brutal, Starkhaven was polished and inviting. It was surprising what a startling difference the lack of rusted metal spikes made in the atmosphere of a city.

A good part of her awe, she knew, came from first visiting during a celebration, but she still couldn't help but stare at the stone roads and flower garland-clad statues. She would occasionally pull her eyes away from the storefronts as they walked by, glancing at Sebastian to gauge how he was handling his surroundings. They were on foot through the main part of the city, leading their horses by the reins so as not to be a danger to the large crowds flooding the streets, and he gripped the leather straps a little tighter than necessary. As she watched, his expression would shift from worry to nostalgia to joy and back again, though she'd catch him observing her as well.

Of course he'd want to see her first reaction to his home, she thought. It would be hers, too, soon enough.

As that occurred to her, they stepped onto the royal throughway, the main road bisecting the center ring of the city. It was expansive and wide, immaculately paved and spotted with plaques and a few statues of its own. It was even more colorful than the the ones they'd traveled, pennants hanging between tall posts lining the streets, which themselves were covered in bushels of flowers from vendors and bolts of fabric in every jewel tone imaginable.

And there was no dried blood between the cobblestones.

She'd stopped to attempt to read one plaque on a statue of an impressive-looking horseman, and a tap on her shoulder brought her attention back.

"Hawke," Sebastian called, gesturing to his right. "Look. Arrow's Rest."

As she followed his line of sight, Hawke froze. At the end of the throughway, some distance yet, past hundreds upon hundreds of brilliant hanging streamers, sat the royal castle.

Hawke didn't care how she looked. She stood in place and gaped.

The structure stood bright against the skyline, whitewashed outer walls short in comparison to the high stone ramparts inside another concentric circle of walls. The main keep, solid and stone and equally immaculate, sat perfectly in the center, imposing as any she'd seen.

The lower parts of the castle were simple, but strong. Rows of wooden pillars formed arcades around what promised to be perfectly-manicured courtyards, and the parapets around the highest walls linked large viewing verandas that jutted out from the upper stories. They were lined with delicately-laid short walls, and the largest patio, easily the size of a ballroom, protruded from the keep itself.

No wonder Varric called this place stuffy, Hawke thought. It was far too clean and neat and scary as hell. She could only imagine the kind of nobility that looked at something like that and thought "yeah, seems about right."

"So," the archer prodded, "Have you seen its equal?"

"No," she replied, and she really was being entirely honest. She had never seen a castle that bright and well-built. "Why so many walls?"

"We learned better after th' Second Blight," the Bann explained, pointing them out. "Whole bloody thing was blasted t' rubble then."

"So it's fortified to keep the archdemon out?"

"No, t' keep it in." He continued after seeing Hawke's baffled look. "Y'forget, lass, that Starkhaven was built by men of th' Maker. Contain th' evil, save th' citizens. They built high points to attract th' dragon, and th' big main viewing platform there is a battlefield."

"Built from the roof tiles of the tower on which the Archdemon Zazikel was slain, if I remember correctly," Sebastian added thoughtfully.

Understanding spread across the champion's face as she took a second look at the architecture. "And the towers all over the place..."

"Hide ballistas," the prince confirmed. "And circles amplify purifying magic."

She studied it again, this time with a renewed appreciation for the design for more than its aesthetics. Pretty and covered in siege weapons.

They sure knew how to treat a princess here.

"I like it," she said finally, grinning sidelong at Sebastian. "As long as there's a small room in there somewhere that I can claim as my hideaway."

"I can't recall." He chuckled. "I suppose we could always commission builders to erect you a thatched hut in one of your rooms."

"Perfect."

He started to walk away, and Hawke stared after him as one particular phrase sank in.

"Wait," she said, "one of my rooms?"


The Bann's estate was like the man himself: big and sturdy.

The groomsmen took the horses as they entered, and a flurry of servants took their bags off to what Sebastian only guessed were their quarters. He'd rarely been to the Bann's city manor as a child, and as he was ushered into a bath, he managed to see two sets of belongings being unpacked in the room designated as his. It was something of a relief to know that Hawke would be beside him, even here, but it did little to ease the anxiety about the next day.

He sank into the tub with a sigh, slipping his head under quickly and running a hand through sopping wet hair. Even if they managed to not incite a riot or cause an uproar at the banquet, that was hardly the end of things. And it still required a large amount of work beforehand.

Discussions of key names and faces needed to be had, as well as being brought up to date on the changes in the court that had taken place in his absence. The Bann and Aeryn had spoken at length on it, however, there were still hours yet to go.

Then, of course, there was Hawke.

He wasn't sure how informed she already was, or how informed it was prudent for her to be. Though it might prove to be better to tell her nothing, as poor an idea as that sounded in his head. Hawke was fairly sharp at picking things up on her own, and may glean details that she'd miss otherwise.

"Hey," the object of his thoughts called from beyond the shut door, "you in the bath?"

He nearly jumped in his skin. "I, ah... Yes, Hawke." He cleared his throat, dusting suds off of the water's surface nervously. "Did you need something?"

"I was told to take a bath as well. Though..." Her voice trailed off, and he could hear the smirk in her voice. "They didn't specify if I was to wait until you finished yours or if I was to join you."

Sebastian hiccuped, quickly reaching for a washrag as warmth flooded his face. "I see."

"So?" she prompted, and he heard the door creak as she leaned against it. "Am I coming in or not?"

He stilled, unable to prevent the flood of images that filtered through his vision. Watching her shed her armor, piece by piece, laying it in the corner and slipping one leg into the other end of the copper basin. He'd run lathered hands up her thigh, over her hips, tongue dipping into her navel before tugging her into the freshly drawn hot water and smiling with satisfaction as the bath overran.

He draped the cloth over the side of the basin and leaned his head back, pressing his palms into his eyes in an effort to control the visions. He tried very hard not to think about taking her up on the offer she so freely gave.

Or the resulting erection he was now fighting.

"No," he said slowly, flinching at how strained his voice sounded. "I think it's best we wait until after the wedding to develop those particular... bathing habits."

A sigh came from beyond the wooden door. "So we're waiting, then."

The hint of a smirk peeked through his intense discomfort. "You sound disappointed."

"Not as disappointed as you should be," she replied smartly. "I can do creative things with soap."

Sebastian bit back a groan. The woman had to know that she was torturing him. His hard-on was trying to convince him to ask more about these soap tricks, but he kept his breathing slow, even, and deep.

"I intend to keep chaste until the Maker releases me from my vows as I enter into marriage," he said firmly, though shakily.

"You won't even let me wash your back?" she asked, making no effort to disguise the amusement in her tone. She was enjoying this far too much. After the wedding, the archer swore, there would be hell to pay in retribution. "I'll eventually see you naked anyway."

"Eventually," he agreed. "After we're married."

"Why not now, get it over with? Like ripping off a wound dressing all at once."

"Hawke!"

"Fine, fine. Don't be long; the Bann mentioned something about training at supper tonight. Let me know when you're out and decent."

He would never be decent again if she kept this up. He let out a long breath as her footsteps faded, trying to will his arousal into submission.

Andraste and the Maker had a wicked sense of humor, Sebastian mused as he scrubbed his arms roughly. They would release him from his vows, aye, but he would have to suffer a little first.


"So," Hawke asked as she sat at the dinner table, a valet pushing the chair in behind her. "What was this training you mentioned?"

Sebastian sat opposite her, the Bann beside them at the head of the table. Aeryn was to her left, and she surveyed the table's trappings.

"This is th' training," the Bann replied, gesturing to the space in front of her. "It'll be of use t' ye tomorrow eve at the banquet."

An impressive collection of flatware was arranged painstakingly in front of her, and she raised an eyebrow. Etiquette? He rushed her bath to lecture her on dining etiquette?

A single softboiled egg was served in a shallow oval-shaped dish, on a bed of finely-shredded greens. An identical one was placed in front of each person and she sighed and straightened her posture, rolling her shoulders back to nearly touch the upholstery. Somewhere in the heavens, at the Maker's side, her mother was laughing herself to tears.

Hawke never thought she'd have to do this again.

"Now," the Bann started, "eggs cleanse th' palette. Dandelions and whatnot are there for decoration, ye don't need t' suffer through those."

As he spoke, Hawke waved over the valet, raising her hands off of her lap. Their place was immediately taken by a cloth napkin, fluttered nicely over her thighs and knees. She proceeded to pick up a heavy-set, short spoon and trace a circle in the top portion of the shell of her egg, popping it off smoothly. She then laid the spoon upside-down on the charger beneath the dish, abandoning it in favor of a thin, slightly-curved implement with a flattened scoop on the bottom. As she emptied out the fleshy innards gracefully in tiny bites, she could feel the stares of the table's other occupants.

That spoon, too, was laid aside artfully on the charger, and she removed her hands to her lap, clearing her throat pointedly. The finished appetizer was immediately removed, and she looked to her fellow diners, all of whom were watching her with great interest.

"What?" she asked, prickling defensively just a tiny bit. "Ladies don't touch plates. Servants touch plates."

The Bann laughed. "Said like a true noblewoman!" He leaned his elbows on the table, folding his hands in front of him.

"Yes," she said dryly. "I have proven that I can, in fact, eat an egg. Shall we get on with it?"

A wide grin crossed the Bann's face from ear to ear, and he gestured politely to the setting in front of her. Please demonstrate, that said.

She sighed, but maintained her mother's well-trained "aloof but vaguely interested" expression and straight spine. As she spoke, she indicated the utensil she named.

"Bone knife. Carving fork. Entree fork." She made her way from one end of the intricate spread of cutlery and dishware, labeling as she went. It seemed to take far too much time, but Hawke was used to scrutiny. "... sugar spoon, lower saucer. Ceramic for hot wines and ciders. Wine goblet. Second goblet, for toasts only." Her hands moved of their own accord as she started to list table manners, trying to recall the mnemonic device she and Bethany had devised as children.

"Dishes are served on the left, removed on the right," she started, "sample before seasoning, and never ask fellow guests to pass anything; there are servants for a reason. Hold goblets from stems only, spoons never touch the cup when stirring, cushion drinks with your fifth finger when placing them on the table in order to prevent noise." The champion turned to the MacDougall, brow furrowed. "Do I have to continue?"

He shook his head, massive beard still failing to hide his smile. "No, no, consider me convinced."

"I'm impressed, Hawke," Sebastian added as his own egg was cleared. "I'd no idea you'd been schooled in etiquette."

She snickered. "When would I have had need to use it in Kirkwall? Can you see me asking for more than one fork at the Hanged man? It's like curtseying to an ogre."

That mental image earned her a quick grin, and he nodded. "Very apt. And entirely true."

"But," Aeryn interjected, "you said you were born in the middle of nowhere, in a mud-soaked village. Where did you find a tutor in that place?"

"Summers in Highever?" Sebastian ventured, and Hawke confirmed it.

"That," she said, "and my mother was from a very highborn family in Kirkwall before she eloped. She made sure that my siblings and I learned courtly graces, whether we wanted to or not." The memories of hours upon hours of walking lessons and endless repetitions every week throughout her childhood made her shudder almost imperceptibly. "But it made her happy."

"Where is she now," the Bann's daughter asked, before Sebastian could discreetly gesture for her to please not continue, "shouldn't she be moved to Starkhaven, with you?"

Hawke did her best to steel herself against the bucket of emotional icewater that was thrown at her. She'd never had anyone ask that before; everyone she knew in Kirkwall was already well-informed.

She was incredibly grateful when the prince cleared his throat gently and spoke for her. "Hawke's parents are at the Maker's side," he said, "and no longer with us."

Aeryn's face fell, and it reassured the Champion to see someone highborn who still wore their emotions so plainly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She forced a smile, and turned to the conversation to a brighter memory. "She still had plenty of time to torture us with lessons. Even in Highever, she dragged poor Fergus and Cadhla into it." A smile curved her lips just a bit as she remembered the looks of despair on her friends' faces as they were also forced to come along in the mornings. "If we were going to stay at the keep, she told us, we were going to act like children and not wild dogs."

"This saves a lot of time," the Bann said appreciatively. "Though when ye say 'courtly graces,' what does that include?"

"Introductions," Hawke said, "how to make polite conversation–" she glared when Sebastian caught his lips between his teeth to keep from smirking at that, "dances, that kind of thing."

"Dances!" exclaimed the bear-man. "That's fortunate; Starkhaven banquets are known for dancing until ye can barely stand!"

"If the one you threw is any indication," the Champion laughed, "then I'll need a week to recover!"

The Bann muttered an agreement as he scratched his beard. "Expect ye might need it. Especially since there'll be a lot of clamoring t' dance with th' infamous Champion of Kirkwall."

"Infamous, huh?" She leaned back. "That's all well and good, but there might be one small problem."

"What's that? Thought ye said ye knew the dances."

"Right, Bethany and I used to dance all the time, except..." She bit her lip. "I led."

Aeryn snickered, and MacDougall didn't seem at all surprised. "Seems th' lessons are still in order, then."

"Shouldn't be long," Hawke mused, "I just have to flip everything as though in a mirror, right?" She looked from Sebastian to Aeryn and back again.

"How hard can it be?"


"...and turn and spin, hands and bow..."

Hawke bowed at the waist, and Aeryn clucked her tongue.

"Ladies curtsey, Hawke!" she called from the sofa, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Not bow!"

The Champion groaned for the umpteenth time, slipping her hand over Sebastian's as he stepped into the promenade.

"...Step step point, step step point..."

The Bann's manservant tapped out the rhythm with a spoon and dish his master had pilfered from the table, and the Bann himself called out the steps from the sidelines.

"...Turn t' th' left, turn t' the right, under his arm and big smile switch!"

The prince stepped back as MacDougall stood where the other partner in the line would be, and Hawke did her best to smile graciously without grimacing as she curtsied.

Sebastian covered his mouth to mask his entertainment. She looked like she was going to murder someone.

"In and hands," the Bann continued, lifting his arm to turn Hawke under it, "under and turn, switch th' feet and try not t' glare."

She re-plastered the smile across her face, and a laugh escaped from between the archer's fingers, which he immediately smothered.

"Hawke," he called plaintively, "try to look happy. Otherwise the entire court of guests will think you want them dead."

"I might," she forced between teeth clenched into a tight smile. "I don't have a good history with nobles." Her feet stuttered as she skipped ahead a measure, but caught herself quickly.

"Toes and toes, spin t' th' right, hand on mine and dance like a lady." As the Bann slipped that last bit in, Hawke pulled her shoulders back.

"I'm getting the steps right, aren't I?"

"Mostly," he conceded, bringing her into promenade.

"Mostly right, then. So what else do you want?"

"Dainty fingertips," Aeryn advised sagely, sipping her tea smugly from a safe distance. "Quiet footsteps, effortless grace."

"Oh," Hawke replied, deadpan. "I have to dance like I'm burglarizing a house. I can do that."

Ignoring his daughter's laughter, the Bann continued his steps. "Turn and spin, hands and curtsey – good! – face your partner and–"

"Stab him in the foot?" she offered.

Sebastian quickly took the place to the Bann's left, and offered his hand at the switch. Hawke slipped her hand into his smoothly, blowing a kiss at her bearded former partner over her shoulder.

As they followed the chime of the spoon and the called steps, the archer marveled at how easily the motions came back to him. He hadn't danced in years, but he had danced quite often as a young man. Knowing the steps well, spirited music and brushing hands just so was an amazing pull on women of every age. He couldn't count the number of times the steps had led from the dance floor to a nearby bedroom or secluded alcove.

Though judging from the last hour, Hawke would never be counted among them.

"You laugh," she muttered under her breath, "and Maker help me, I will step on your foot on purpose."

"I would never," he insisted as she took a few steps in a tiny clockwise circle opposite him, "and you're doing very well."

"You're lucky I like you." A moment later, and her hand was in his again.

As they finished the last few measures and it came time to switch partners, Hawke made a point of reaching into thin air. "Is someone supposed to be here," she called pointedly, "or did I kill all of them?"

"Done with that one," the Bann declared simply. "Ye've got the steps well enough. Besides," he added, "Get th' feeling that if I make ye dance one more round, ye'll lop off my beard and stitch it t' my arse."

"Time to move on," she agreed.

The mental image of the giant lord of Shallervale with a fiery orange arse-beard was enough to elicit a chuckle from Sebastian, and as Hawke smirked up at him, he knew she'd been picturing the same.

"You and the Bann both have a way with words," he told her.

No sooner had the words passed his lips than the champion's foot caught in her skirts, and she stumbled a bit hopping to extract one slipper from the folds of fabric while letting loose a colorful-sounding chain of curses in Qunari.

"This skirt–!"

"Get used to it," the Bann called, turning to give the valet-turned-metronome instruction. "That's th' one ye'll be wearing and dancing in tomorrow."

She gestured to the petticoat he'd had her put on over her trousers for practice. "I don't think this one likes me. Got any others?"

A frown knotted his brow as the prince realized something. "Speaking of which," he asked the Bann, "we haven't bought Hawke a gown for the occasion."

"I can polish my armor nicely and wear that," she suggested hopefully.

Sebastian ignored her. "Do we need to take a trip to the market?"

"Gown's upstairs," MacDougall replied. "Pressed and waiting."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "You just happen to have formal dresses lying around?"

He was quiet for a moment, then scratched his beard as he stared off into nothingness fondly.

"Was my wife's," he said finally.

Hawke paled. "'Was.' Is she...?"

The Bann grinned. "No, she yet lives, but she's had four kits since. Just too big round th' middle for those nowadays." Hawke let out a half-sigh, half-groan as he continued. "Too big round th' arse, too. Bosoms'd pop out like they were escaping a Tevinter prison."

Grinning, Sebastian shook his head. "Beatrice is going to thrash you soundly when she hears that."

"Then I'm glad no one plans t' tell her," snorted the Bann, "else we'd all suffer. She's off visiting her cousin in Val Royeaux," his thick accent mangled the name of the Orlesian city, "which always makes her come back unseasonably irritable."

"Orlais does that to you," Hawke snickered, and the Bann agreed.

"Speaking of which," he said, nudging his servant, "We've still got more dances ye need t' be competent in. Orlesian's next on th' list."

When the chiming started again, syncopated this time, Sebastian watched as Hawke glared at the Bann like a petulant child.

"I thought you liked dancing," he said, inclining his head a bit.

"Not when I'm forced to do it backwards," she sulked.

"If you can use your feet to pick a man's pocket while hanging from a beam above him," Sebastian encouraged as he reached for her, "you can follow a dance."

Her face brightened at the memory, and he was rewarded with a reluctant hand on his upper arm as he slid it across her back to rest his hand below her shoulderblade. The other hand lifted into the air, and she brought her palm against his, fingers curling lightly around.

"I usually start with my left," she said, "so now I start with the right?"

"Exactly," he replied, and as the tinging rhythm reached its proper place, he began to move.

The first few steps were stiff as he could practically read the "left, right – damn" on his partner's face. Though entertaining, he knew her frustration had already been tested and would likely run dry quickly if she spent so much energy on reversing everything she knew.

He dipped his head, leaning in close to her ear. "I'd like you to try something," he said. "How is it that when you engage someone in a skirmish, you are able to predict where they go?"

She pulled back and blinked up at him in confusion. "What does that have to do with–"

"Just trust me."

She frowned as she fought to put it into words. "His intention. When he starts to step, because he knows where he's going, his whole body shows signs. Shoulders, chest, legs..."

"Can those same principles not apply here?"

It took a moment, but understanding dawned on her face and she laughed in disbelief. "I..." she started, but trailed off and shook her head, still smiling. "All right. Worth a shot."

He stepped in time again, and he felt her hands tighten their grip, feeling his muscles moving under her fingers in order to anticipate his movements. Sure enough, her steps mirrored his perfectly in depth and direction, and she relaxed against him as she became more and more confident.

Too confident.

"Hawke?" he called as she turned under his arm.

"Yes?"

The corners of his mouth curved upward. "You're backleading."

"Shut up!" She brought the hand on his arm up to his face to pinch his nose. "There's only one way to go under an arm!"

"Your way?"

"Are you trying to start a fight?"

"No," he chuckled. "I am merely trying to dance, but it seems that I cannot do so without irritating you in some way."

She laughed, replacing her hand on his arm. "You couldn't bother me so much if you weren't already under my skin."

His chest tightened at those words, and he wondered if Hawke understood what it meant to say something like that so freely.

"Nevertheless," he said, clearing his throat, "as my intended, you will be expected to tolerate me for at least one song at the banquet."

She smirked, mouth open and ready to retort, but instead snapped it shut thoughtfully. "Are we announcing the alliance, then?"

"That's a good question." One he hadn't thought of. They stopped dancing and turned to the Bann. "MacDougall," he asked, "your thoughts?"

"Best not t' make a scene," the Bann replied. "Big formal announcements are trying too hard." He considered it for a moment before speaking. "Mention it if someone asks, but don't offer it up on your own. Don't offer any information on your own, come t' think of it." He winked at them both. "Guarantee it'll spread like wildfire that way."

"And it won't draw too much attention," Hawke concurred. "It'll make people come talk to us to confirm it if they hear from a second or third source. Popularity by manipulation."

"Exactly."

"Politics is all about using a middleman," she murmured appreciatively, smirking. "In that case, maybe we should install Varric in the court."