A/N: Time to enjoy the fancy party. Super. Fancy.

I posted an extra little oneshot this week! Just silly little bonus stuff, not connected to anything, but something I'd been sitting on for a while.

Anyway, enjoy this week's chapter! And keep an eye out for a certain elf's introduction. :)


The evening of the banquet was cool and clear, bright stars easily visible from the bustling city.

Hawke leaned over the balcony edge on the castle's main veranda, overlooking the beautiful lantern-lit main courtyard. Richly dressed ambassadors and courtiers walked about, admiring the decorations and making small talk, and their chatter floated up with the faint echoes of music trailing out of the doors behind her.

She tugged at her sleeves as a passing breeze caught one ribbon up in its path. The cream-colored leine had billowing sleeves, held with ribbons down the top of the arm that, when pulled and tied, created an attractive ruche and gave her more ease of her arms. She'd expressed delight upon discovering their function when dressing hours before, demonstrating to the dressing-maids how much easier it was to swing her arms around with the sleeves bound. The eldest maid had simply clucked her tongue and asked if the Lady Champion planned on doing a lot of fistfighting at Prince Goran's nameday banquet.

Maybe, Hawke had replied. She'd done stranger things and embarrassed more people.

The deep, vivid rust-red of her bodice and skirts were smooth and soft to the touch, and the yards and yards of a red-brown-gold tartan had been expertly tucked about her skirts and draped over one shoulder, then secured to the bodice strap beneath it.

Hawke craned her neck to admire the pin they'd used. It was a gold relief of a lioness rampant, claws and teeth delicately cast as sharp as they looked. From the top erupted a small bouquet of feathers in various browns, reds, and whites – pheasant, falcon, sparrow, amid others – that delicately curved with the fabric over the shoulder they adorned.

The gold Amell family crest pendant sat at her clavicle, and a pair of the Bann's wife's earrings hung in honey-colored teardrops from her earlobes. The dressing-maids had insisted on them as they pulled (wrangled, really) her hair into a neat tuck at the nape of her neck, fussing at stray curls as yet others fussed at Aeryn on the other side of the dressing screen.

The two women had bantered back and forth as they were shoved into their respective finery, calling one another every filthy name in the book and letting loose words that were so unfit for civilized society that they made some of the maids blush.

That, of course, only encouraged them. If they were going to suffer, they weren't going to suffer alone.

"This bodice is so tight," Aeryn complained through the screen, "that I could lick the tops of my tits, if I were so inclined."

"Lovely," Hawke replied coolly as she examined herself in the mirror. "My cock is so hard at the image. Please continue."

As the maids' cheeks colored, the Bann's daughter laughed. "Good sir, you flatter me with the attention of your magnificent manhood! My narrow, shapeless arse is all a-quiver."

"Mm," Hawke purred, tilting her head to put in the earrings, "means I'll just have to round it out with a good, solid spanking before I check to see whether all the hair on your body is that fiery red."

There were a few stealthy snickers among the maids as they laced and pulled, but they were expertly stifled.

"I would check for you, though I already know the answer," came the reply, throaty and theatrical as she poked her head around the screen. "Fiery it must be, for my eager woman's patch has set my knickers ablaze with desire for your enormous girth!"

"Ah, wanton harlot!" Hawke cried, pushing back from the mirror and turning to grin at Aeryn. "My loins ache to spill themselves onto your waiting face!"

At that moment, someone chose to delicately clear their throat at the door to alert the women to his presence. The room fell silent as Eoin walked in, holding a small basket overflowing with ribbons, feathers, and other trimmings.

"Ladies," he called, then paused and raised a blond eyebrow. "I think."

"Ser," one dressing-maid said as she took the basket, "please make them stop."

He raised his hands defensively. "I was merely sent here to deliver a package."

At the look on Hawke and Aeryn's faces, he immediately regretted his choice of words. "Maker," he cursed. "I meant–"

It was too late. He shook his head and left, unable to fight down a sigh as the women behind him dissolved into a fit of earnest, uncontrollable maker-sworn guffaws.

Hawke felt a grin spread across her face at the memory, one elbow resting on the stone of the railing as the crisp night air settled on her skin. She knew that there would be a lot of potential husbands here for her newfound friend, and she harbored no small hope that Aeryn would choose someone in the city, close to the castle. Where the Champion would live when she became princess.

She wasn't sure if it was that last thought or a passing chill that sent a shiver down her of Sebastian, she reminded herself. He would be perfect for Starkhaven. An excellent prince, and an excellent man of the faith.

And she had an inkling that someday, he'd also be an excellent father. The idea of red-haired, gray-eyed toddlers tackling him in the courtyard below, safely surrounded by high walls and full guard force made the price seem much more tolerable.

Not 'price,' she chided herself mentally. 'Adventure.' That's what she was going with. Positive words, like 'future' and 'purpose' and 'stabbing.'

Unsurprisingly, 'Kirkwall' failed to register on her list of inspiring phrases. She looked back down at the colorful guests, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces.

"Hawke?"

She turned, lifting her head. "Our turn yet?"

"Nearly." Sebastian adjusted one of the dozen accessories across his traditional Starkhaven men's finery. She'd noted aloud earlier that he had on more accoutrements than she did, from the sporran, which in itself was decorated with silver and toggles and feathers, to the flashes of decoration matching the ones at the tops of his boots. He'd pinned his kilt as well, and flashes of that same arrow engraving appeared on the cap-sleeved jerkin that he'd buttoned to his neck, rough silk sleeves cuffing at the wrist with arrows of their own.

The colors he wore matched hers, in tartan as well. A sash of it lay crosswise from his shoulder to waist, alongside a wide leather strap that buckled just below his collarbone. It was emblazoned with the chantry's sigil which, in Hawke's opinion, was a vast improvement over the usual poorly-placed relief of Andraste's unfortunate face.

He also had several daggers and knives on him in various places, which gave Hawke pause. He was a master archer well enough, but he was absolutely useless with knives. Though even if they were entirely ornamental, at least she knew where to find some if she needed them.

Then she saw that all of the men were so decoratively armed, and it occurred to her that perhaps this was why Starkhaven had a reputation for being so peaceful.

Damned if it all didn't look far too perfect on him. Even as he simply stood, glancing toward the door or waiting for the Bann, he exuded a kind of quiet nobility that was humble, yet impossibly strong. She had no doubt that the guests tonight would take one look at him and immediately understand who – and what – they were looking at.

As she took in the royal sight before her, a memory flashed in the front of her mind. The two of them, Varric, and Fenris coming back from Sundermount after a rainstorm, a few rocks coming loose from a cliff above them and letting loose a flood of mud and muck and debris to absolutely cover the group. She couldn't contain her laughter as Sebastian looked down disdainfully at the filth covering his bright white armor, and as they all acknowledged that they couldn't get any more disgusting, fistfuls of mud were flung about among them until they found a nearby stream.

She wondered if he'd ever look that truly relaxed and happy again after he became ruler of this place, and the thought wound itself around her heart with a good squeeze.

"We've a few moments' wait," he continued, leaning back against the balcony next to her. "There are several sets of minor nobles to be introduced first." His brow crinkled in a slight frown. "And Lord MacLeigh brought all five of his daughters."

"I can't tell if that's impressive or desperate." She laughed a little, nudging him with her shoulder in an attempt to ease some of the tension radiating from the archer. "Come on," she said playfully, "we've gone through worse, and this time, at least we're better dressed."

He chuckled, easing a bit. "True." His eyes swept her form for what had to be the tenth time since she'd first joined the others in the foyer at the Bann's city manor. The unrestrained smile on his face at the sight of her in the finery of his homeland had damn near melted her heart with its brilliance and warmth.

"I've had the good fortune to see you in dresses on more than one occasion in the last four days," he said with a glint in his eye, "which may exceed the last ten years of your life combined."

"Entirely possible. And again, not by choice." She planted her hands on her hips. "Remember, I wanted to wear my armor tonight."

"So you reminded us. Repeatedly." He straightened up as the Bann motioned from the far end of the veranda. "It seems our introduction approaches."

The two walked to the enormous doors where MacDougall stood with Aeryn beside him. "Our names're already on th' list," he said, thumbing to the short line of nobles on the carpet at the end of the hall, and the herald's voice echoed faintly. "Remember your marks, th' ones we talked about, and try not t' punch anyone."

He stared pointedly at Hawke as he added that last bit, then to Aeryn, and both smiled innocently.

"A lady would never," the champion replied.

"Yes, father, never."

He raised one eyebrow, but said nothing as he offered his hand for his daughter to take. They made their way to the end of the line, and Hawke felt Sebastian's hand seek hers. She took a steadying breath, her other hand on her abdomen to calm the flutterings that had suddenly sprung to life.

Seeing this out of the corner of his eye, the prince squeezed her hand in his. "You perfectly look the part, Hawke. And my people will love you."

She smiled weakly. "Fancy parties aren't really my thing. I'd prefer a pack of darkspawn any day of the week."

He chuckled as he began leading her down the hall toward the entrance. After a few steps, Hawke's feet stopped them both, and she turned up to her companion.

"Hey," she said, tugging lightly on his sleeve, "a kiss for courage?"

He blinked in surprise at the request, apparently taken aback at such an uncharacteristic display of femininity from the fearsome warrior in finery beside him. After a moment, however, he reached his free hand to tilt her chin.

Hawke's stomach knotted as he planted a warm, lingering kiss on her cheek, forehead brushing against her face almost feather-light as he pulled back.

On the cheek, she groused, the unresolved tension coiled in her belly still present as he offered his arm and she slipped her hand around it. That kiss had been affectionate, but pure. Just like the man himself.

She wondered when that purity had become painful for her to endure as they closed the distance to the herald.


"Lord and Lady Deòir."

Sebastian watched as the velvet-clad pair descended the short steps into the Great Hall. The balustrades were wound with garlands of flowers and swathes of gold and red textiles, matching the spirals that crept up the columns and crossbeams. Banners hung from every surface, and there wasn't a square foot that wasn't decorated with either bright florals or waves of vibrant cloth.

Yes, he thought to himself as he surveyed the room. This was exactly as he knew the Great Hall should be. Overflowing with color and music and food and life.

How he had missed this.

"Lord Alonso Barocci Messina of Antiva and daughter Silvana."

The man's capelet practically fluttered as he walked his daughter down the steps, Sebastian noted. Starkhaven and Antiva had always had close ties in one way or another due to their sheer proximity, so it was no surprise that there were a number of Antivan nobles present. Their flashy fashion contrasted against the crowd, all scalloped edges and tassels and embroidery. Only the few Orlesians below held a candle to the fearsome gaudiness that Antiva City's finery boasted.

Though there was no way the Starkhaven nobility would allow Goran to take a foreign bride with so much at stake within the court, he knew. The ambassadors and dignitaries attended merely as a formality. As did he and Hawke, if anyone were to ask.

"Guinn MacDougall, Bann of Shallervale, and daughter Aeryn."

His enormous friend strode ahead, wasting no time in greeting those he knew. "Iain, you great ass!" he bellowed, clapping a shorter man on the shoulder. "How's th' wife?"

A shudder from his right vibrated up his arm, and he saw Hawke stifling a snicker in his peripheral vision. She visibly relaxed, and he thanked the Maker that he counted a man such as the Bann as an ally. He – and Hawke – would greatly need it.

They stepped forward, and the herald ran his eyes over the names on his list. With a start, the pudgy, stout man looked up at them, then back down at the list.

Yes, Sebastian said to himself, you read that right.

To his credit, the herald simply cleared his throat before announcing them without any indication of his surprise.

"Sebastian Vael of the Kirkwall Chantry," he called, "and Mairead Hawke of the Kirkwall Amells, Champion of Kirkwall."

The room quieted noticeably, hundreds of heads turning to catch a glimpse of the two as they descended the stairs arm-in-arm. He expected this; one of the most talked-about women in the Free Marches had come to Starkhaven with the long-absent youngest prince. It was a wonder that the hall wasn't silent entirely.

The best way to break the sudden spotlight was to blend into conversation, he thought, but found himself unsure where to start. The feel of so many eyes on him was heavy, and while he was accustomed to it, he had a feeling that Hawke would appreciate the novelty being over as quickly as possible.

"Sebastian!" a voice called to his left, and he turned to see a familiar face pushing through the crowd. "You useless git, how've you been?!"

The archer laughed and clasped the man's hand. "Sean," he said warmly, happy to see one of his childhood friends. The first son of one of his father's advisors, Sean Lachlan was his age, and the two were often left to their own devices during meetings of state. He couldn't count the number of times they'd been scolded together, always in vain. "It's good to see you, old friend."

"And you," he nodded, "though I'd happily join you in Kirkwall if it meant finding a companion as lovely as yours." He turned to Hawke with a dazzling smile, one that had gotten him into (and out of) a lot of trouble as a youth. Sebastian saw a knowing smirk cross her pretty face, and she slid her hand out from his arm as Sean reached for it.

"Sean Lachlan," he introduced himself, pressing a kiss to the backs of her fingers. "The rumors do you no justice, my lady Champion."

"Please," she said with a smile. "Any friend of Sebastian's may call me Hawke. And I suspect the rumors also describe me as eight feet tall and with swords for arms?"

He laughed, and as they fell into easy conversation, Sebastian noticed the crowd slowly returning to their own goings-on, the tension in the room replaced by occasional curious glances and hushed whispers.

It was some time later, after Sean had excused himself to see to his brothers and a dozen other guests had come up to greet them, that MacDougall came over to casually check on their progress.

"Well," he said, grinning, "Ye weren't challenged on sight, that's a good sign."

Sebastian smiled, nodding to a courtier who waved as she passed by. "I confess to being quite surprised by the warm welcome. I had thought there would be too much..." He struggled for the right word. "Hesitation? Resentment? Suspicion, perhaps?"

"Or," Hawke said, grinning up at him, "maybe you were more well-liked here than you realize."

Her words and smile were like a ray of sun, and the warmth blossomed outward, down to his fingertips as they itched to take her hand.

"Still," the Bann said, "give it a bit and I'm sure you'll be th' center of attention in no time at all. Once this lot gets over themselves."

"For him, maybe," the champion frowned. "Other than a few, most people seem to be avoiding me."

"Ye're a dragonslayer," Guinn laughed, patting her on the head patronizingly. "Reputation for cutting down anyone who looks at ye the wrong way. Got t' show them you're friendly and approachable."

She crossed her arms. "You're saying that they're afraid of me?"

"Aye."

She began to protest, but a voice from behind the Bann interrupted her before she even began.

"Alas, such a shame," came a honeyed Antivan accent. "They deprive themselves of such charming company."

The Bann raised an eyebrow and stepped aside, revealing a slender blond elf in Antivan finery, two river-like tattoos running down the side of his handsome face and amber-gold eyes regarding Hawke fondly.

Sebastian saw the spark of recognition in her eyes, and the resulting brightness that it brought to her face gave him pause.

"Zevran," she sighed, "what a sight for sore eyes."

The elf threw his head back and laughed, an infectious, charismatic sound. As he took her hands in his and kissed each cheek, he smirked from ear to ear. "Is Kirkwall really so dismal?" She began to speak, but he waved one hand. "No, do not answer. I do not wish to recall the smell."

She snickered, and the Bann cleared his throat. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I didn't even- ! Let me introduce you." She stepped back, gesturing to each person as she spoke. "This is Zevran Arainai, a... friend of a friend I helped out of a scuffle some time back, though now I like to think of him as a friend of mine in his own right."

The elf feigned surprise, but there was a light in his eyes. "Oh, truly? I am touched."

She ignored him as she continued. "Zevran, this is Bann MacDougall of Shallervale, his daughter Aeryn, and Sebastian Vael, a companion of mine from Kirkwall."

Zevran bowed curtly to the first two, but lingered on Sebastian. His eyes, once warm and inviting, were abruptly sharp and calculating as they latched onto his face.

The prince suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that there was much more to this man than met the eye.

And just as it was there, the danger was gone. His smooth elven features relaxed into a smirk, and he tapped a finger to his lips. "Ah, the rumored prodigal son. Why am I entirely unsurprised to find him in your company, my dear champion?"

"What can I say?" she shrugged. "I attract interesting people."

"I should say so," he purred in response. He nodded politely as the Bann and Aeryn were pulled away by a tall, thin man and his tiny wife. "I had heard that Starkhaven was prized for its sheep," he said after they were out of earshot, "but not a word about the bears!"

Laughing, Hawke pinched the elf's nose playfully. Seeing the familiar gesture applied to this easy-mannered stranger settled a stone of unease in Sebastian's gut.

"You are Antivan, then," he asked, "on a pleasure visit?"

Zevran sighed, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, no. I find myself in your delightful city on a matter of business. Of a... delicate nature."

Hawke tilted her head. "Crows, then."

"My dear lady, it is Antiva." He smirked as he leaned in a bit closer, inclining his head slightly. "Though we do get around a surprising amount."

The prince's blood ran cold. An Antivan Crow. He'd never before met one, but he'd heard the stories throughout his childhood and well into his adult years: deadly, ruthless, and unsurpassed in the art of murder. They never moved without a purpose.

"What business," he asked slowly, carefully, "would a Crow have here?"

Gold eyes snapped to his, and a cold smile wound its way onto well-practiced lips. "Former Crow," the elf clarified. Again, that chill was replaced frighteningly fast with charisma and a theatrical sigh. "A wise career move, if I do say so myself. All of the skill and connections, none of the commitment!"

"Skills relevant," Sebastian repeated, "to the business you have here?"

"Ah, no, not of that particular sort." He gracefully plucked a glass of wine from a servant's tray, lifting it to his lips. "I am merely here to observe."

"Then, if you would indulge me."

The elf raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of his drink, then glanced to Hawke. "I must admit," he chuckled, "your royal friend is as interesting as he is dashingly handsome."

"He doesn't like to be anything but straightforward," she explained with an apologetic smile. "You get used to it."

That elicited another sharp laugh from the assassin, who gave Sebastian a short nod of approval. "Very well," he said, tapping one polished fingernail against the glass. "My task is innocent enough, and if it would put you at ease..." As he spoke, he leaned back against a heavily-decorated pillar. "I am here in place of one Lord Pietro Lorenze of Rialto, an ambassador to your fair city. The man has made a few unfortunately well-connected enemies and thus finds himself rather unwilling to leave his comfortably guarded estate." His eyes swept a young Orlesian woman appreciatively as she walked by. "Fortunately, I happened to avail myself to his service for a very reasonable price."

"So you're going to report the machinations of his rivals while they're here?" Hawke asked.

"Precisely." He smirked, deftly swiping another glass of wine from a passing tray and handing it to the Champion. "Beauty, intelligence, and formidable battle prowess. Perhaps I should take to following dragons in my spare time in hopes of meeting more such women?"

"Speaking of Cadhla," the Champion interrupted, "have you seen her recently? We'd been exchanging letters, but lately..."

He shook his head, flaxen strands drifting artfully into his face. "On and off, I suppose. Our paths have not had reason to cross of late. She has, quite understandably, had her hands rather full since wedding and taking up the mantle of Commander. Though I find the idea of either equally torturous. And yet..." He picked up her left hand, waving it a little. "You are still delightfully untethered, I see! Such injustice must be a crime somewhere in Thedas."

"One that will be rectified shortly," Sebastian interjected, catching the elf's wrist. Their eyes met, and Zevran seemed to delight in the prickling he'd caused.

"Oh ho," the Antivan chuckled, releasing her hand obligingly. "Is that how it is?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Hawke said with a smug grin, "but think of it this way: here, I'll be that much closer to Antiva."

He laughed, finishing his wine and handing the empty glass off to a server. "Ah, how you love to torture me, my dear champion. I had forgotten."

"Did you also forget that I told you to call me Hawke?"

"And address a future princess by name?" He clucked his tongue. "It would cause a scandal, dear lady." Something in the distance caught his eye. "Ah, you see! It seems your presence is required elsewhere." He pointing to Aeryn's motions for Hawke to join her. "Please, go. I do not mind in the least."

"All right," she said as she turned, "but swear you'll find me again later."

"Darkspawn could not keep me away," he promised, crossing his heart, and she disappeared into the crowd, leaving the elf and Sebastian alone in an uncomfortable silence.

Zevran motioned for a servant to bring over a platter of wineglasses, taking two and silently handing one to the prince.

"I – thank you," Sebastian said, sipping delicately.

They observed the rest of the guests quietly for a few long moments, and the archer found himself wondering just what kind of situation had landed his future bride an acquaintance with what promised to be a very dangerous Antivan assassin.

Said assassin spoke first, turning slightly to regard him, glass in hand. "I have heard stories of you, you know."

Sebastian sighed despite himself. "I can only imagine."

That brought a smirk to Zevran's face, and he continued. "It seems you were a consummate whorehound before your stint in the Chantry." He moved to face him fully, curious now. "I wonder how I could not have seen you at the brothels in this area at least once – I thought myself a connoisseur of such comforts."

"Even if you had," the prince said, taking a larger sip than may have been necessary, "it has been some years. You may well have forgotten." Thank the Maker.

"No," the elf chuckled, low and sultry, "I would have remembered a face such as yours."

At that, Sebastian coughed quietly into one fist, shifting his feet. He had to have been mistaken. There was no way the assassin was hitting on him, especially so publicly.

"I imagine that the famous husky Starkhaven brogue was especially effective," Zevran continued calmly. "Such an enviable asset!"

The prince felt the corners of his lips tug upwards into a ever-so-small smirk. "You imply that your own is any less profitable," he said. "I know many who would beg to differ."

"This may be true," the elf replied, a glint in his eye, "but Antiva is, naturally, filled with such tongues. Lovely as it is, there are times when silk is dismissed in favor of something... rougher, no? Like leather..." he drew out the last words meaningfully. "Strong and thick."

Sebastian swallowed hard. His eyes swept the room quickly, looking for signs of his escort. Andraste's grace, where was Hawke when he needed her?

As the shorter man stepped toward him, he felt himself involuntarily take a tiny step back. Those amber-gold eyes were perilously focused, and he felt warmth creeping up his neck.

"I–" he began to protest, "Maker, I'm... I'm not –"

Zevran grinned, waving it off with one hand. "Do not look so frightened, my friend! Like you, I simply prefer being straightforward. And if I may continue our mutual trend..." He tilted his head, studying the prince curiously. "I assume your inamorata knows of your, shall we say, indulgent past?"

That slapped the awkwardness out of Sebastian like an open palm.

"I make no effort to hide it," he told the blond elf staring intently up at him. "Years in the Chantry have given me time to reflect on my behavior and come to accept the various consequences it brings. I find myself able to talk of it freely now, and Hawke has not once voiced an objection."

"Mm," Zevran murmured, and the prince wasn't quite able to place the look in his eyes that didn't exactly match the smile below. After a moment of thought, the elf nodded an assent and stepped back. "But that is neither here nor there. It is a smart match indeed," he said, "and remarkably advantageous, I might add. You are a fortunate man, my friend."

At that, Sebastian relaxed a bit into an earnest smile. "I know."

"Then again," the Antivan continued with a broad, unabashed smirk, "she may be as fortunate herself, if some of the more... colorful stories about you hold delicious morsels of truth." He winked warmly, and politely inclined his head as he made his seamless disappearance into the crowd.

Colorful stories. Sebastian arched one eyebrow and sipped his wine as he wondered just who, exactly, the suspiciously well-informed elf had been talking to.


"There you are," Aeryn said as she sought out Hawke's arm. "There's someone here I want you to meet."

She was smiling too stiffly and squeezing too hard. Clearly, this was not an 'I like this person so very much' introduction, Hawke realized.

"This," the Bann's daughter said, gesturing to her arm-locked social prisoner, "is Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. Lady Champion, this is Lady Sutherland and her daughter, Marianne."

That pulled up a flag in Mairead's memory, the section where she stored the points the Bann had drilled into her skull. Sutherland. Sutherland, Sutherland...

"Marianne and I used to play together as children when I accompanied my father to the city," Aeryn continued, drawing out her words meaningfully. "We are the same age."

Ah, there it was. Marianne Sutherland, one of the two top contenders for Goran's bride. Hawke forced her well-practiced placid smile and inclined her head politely. "A pleasure to meet you both," she said. "Any friend of Aeryn's is a friend of mine."

"The Champion of Kirkwall, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Sutherland. "We had no idea that such a guest would be attending our modest little party."

Such a guest. Modest little party.

Maker, Hawke thought as she listened to the woman prattle on. She hoped that laying it on so obviously thick wasn't her strategy for wooing Goran.

She took the sudden lack of need for her part in the conversation to get a better look at her marks. The Lady herself was middle-aged, wearing the hair wrappings of a widow over gray-tinted black hair. Just a touch too much makeup, too. Her daughter, on the other hand, was impeccable. Marianne had thick, straight-as-silk black hair woven into a gold-draped plait over one shoulder. Her skin was fair, making her dark eyes even more piercing, and as she sighed quietly at her mother's endless chatter, Hawke understood clearly why she stood ahead of the others.

Getting back into the conversation was like playing skipping-rope. With eight ropes. Luckily, Hawke was a practiced acrobat.

"Have you greeted Goran yet tonight?" she queried, indicating the head table. "I have not yet been able to properly introduce myself and congratulate him on his celebration."

The lady's mouth snapped shut like a goat's, eyes suddenly narrow and calculating. Ah, Hawke thought, filing each tiny micro-reaction away to analyze later. Let's start playing, shall we?

"We have not," the widow said slowly, "though it is of utmost priority. He and Marianne are very close, after all."

"Is that so?" The Champion feigned surprise. "She must be a very accomplished young lady, then."

"I should say so!" Sutherland scoffed. "She sings, speaks three languages, and has never lifted a hand in anger, much less touched a weapon!"

Ignoring what was clearly meant to be a sting, instead encouraged by the defensive tone, Hawke pressed onward. "I should like to meet the prince even more now," she mused aloud, "if you have deemed him worthy of your exceptional daughter."

"Yes, of course you would." There was practically a sneer across the older woman's face, and Mairead was nearly giddy. How could she have not known that women's fighting could be this fun?

"And how should we introduce you, then?" She looked Hawke up and down distastefully. "Dragonslayer," she suggested, voice dripping with poison, "Champion of that chaotic mess, pulverizer of vagrants?"

"Cousin, I should think," said pulverizer offered politely, "seeing as I am betrothed to Sebastian Vael, his Highness' own blood."

Lady Sutherland's expression changed, then, and Hawke reined in the smugness that threatened to creep onto her face. Yes, she pleaded internally, engaged to the man who could take the throne. Who you could have paid to be kidnapped, put your precious potential royal connection in jeopardy – feel free to try something. Right. Now.

To her surprise, the other woman instead relaxed visibly, a warm smile crossing thin lips. "You don't say!"

Hawke blinked. Wait, hearing Sebastian's name made this woman happy? Had she missed something?

"Congratulations are in order, then!" She nudged Marianne, who murmured a polite string of halfhearted felicitations. Her mother either didn't care or didn't notice. "A man who has spent time in the Chantry will make a fine, gentle husband!" she exclaimed. "You must invite us to the wedding!"

"Only if you will invite us to Marianne's," Aeryn said with a wide, knowing smile. "We shall keep an eye out for a notice."

Lady Sutherland laughed coyly behind one hand, letting loose a flurry of "Oh, you really think so"s and "I shan't say a word"s and the occasional giggle.

Puzzled, Hawke only managed to smile and nod as she tried to figure out what in Andraste's Holy Bosoms had just happened. She looked to Marianne, who kept an eye on Goran's table, subtly tapping her mother's arm when the prince was unoccupied.

Realization washed over Hawke with that small gesture. The lady was reassured because she had thought that the Champion of Kirkwall had come here with designs on Goran. But if she was marrying Sebastian, she was one less competitor she had to deal with, and no threat at all.

As Marianne and her mother excused themselves to the high table, Hawke schooled her features. Scratch that one off the list. She turned to look for her intended...

...and instead found herself looking into a sea of black velvet, topped with an enormous carrot-red beard.

How such a big man as the Bann managed to be so stealthy, she would never understand.

"So?" he asked. "What do ye read off th' Sutherlands?"

Hawke shook her head. "She's not our culprit. She was ecstatic to hear that I wasn't competing with Marianne for Goran. Couldn't give two thoughts to Sebastian." She scanned the crowd. "Where does that leave us?"

"Bann Loudain," came the gruff reply, the giant man waving someone over. "Remember what I told ye?"

"Horace Loudain," the Champion repeated. "Bann of Estonborough. Wife Elewynn. Daughter Cora, neck-to-neck with Marianne if we were the betting sort."

"Aye." He adjusted one of his half-dozen brooches and snorted. "Man's been elbow-deep buried in greeting nobles. Haven't had a chance t' talk to him or his yet."

Sebastian came up beside him, having seen the beckon. "You've news?"

"It's not Sutherland," Hawke explained. She frowned, looking behind the archer. "Where's Zevran?"

He cleared his throat. "He, ah, had other matters to attend to."

A grin spread across her cheeks as she saw the look on Sebastian's face when she mentioned the elf. Oh, Zevran.

Still smiling, she stood on her tiptoes to peer over at the head table. "There's someone else I haven't yet met tonight. Is he there?"

"Ye mean Goran?" The Bann scratched his beard. "He's there, all right." A deep, rumbling chuckle reverberated from his chest. "And th' poor sod looks petrified. Always was the nervous sort."

"Aye," Sebastian agreed. "Even Cendre didn't have it in her to bully the lad."

The crowd parted enough for them to glimpse the seat of honor, its occupant flocked by important-looking dignitaries and daughters, the tops of their breasts bobbing like jellyfish in a sea of cleavage.

Determinedly, Hawke clapped her hands. "All right," she said. "Let's go make some introductions."