Hey Varric, tell us the story about the Champion and Meredith...You know that one time...

Oh, that story. You've heard the rumors, huh? I'm not surprised—it's one of those tales that floats around Kirkwall like a bad song. Some people swear it never happened, that no one could possibly be reckless—or stupid—enough to flirt with Knight-Commander Meredith. And those people clearly never met Hawke. So, yeah, it happened. And it went exactly as badly as you think. But let me tell you, it was one hell of a thing to witness.

"It started like most disasters do: with Hawke being Hawke. It was one of those tense meetings in the Gallows, you know the type. Meredith pacing like an angry wolf, slamming her gauntleted fist down on the table every five minutes, her templars standing around like statues made of pure judgment. I don't even remember what the argument was about—mages, freedom, apostates, blah blah blah. Same fight, different day. Meredith was halfway through one of her 'mages are dangerous' speeches, practically frothing at the mouth, when he did it.

Hawke leaned forward, that lopsided grin plastered on his face, and said, 'You know, Meredith, all this anger—it's not healthy. Maybe what you need is a strong drink. Or a strong man. Either way, I'm available.'

Yeah. He said that. To Meredith. The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. The woman who probably used people like Hawke as target practice in her spare time. The room went dead silent. I swear, you could've heard a nug sneeze from a mile away."

Varric pauses, chuckling to himself, clearly enjoying the memory.

"Now, let me paint you a picture. Meredith's face? Stone cold. Didn't flinch, didn't blush, didn't even blink. She just stared at him like she was trying to decide whether to throw him in the dungeon or toss him off the side of the Gallows. Hawke, meanwhile, looked completely unfazed. He just leaned back, crossed his arms, and waited. Because that was Hawke for you—always doubling down, even when doubling down was the worst possible idea.

I'll admit, for a second there, I thought she was going to kill him. Or at least shove a sword through his face. But instead, she leaned forward—real slow, like a predator sizing up its prey—and said, 'I would rather die than entertain your… ridiculous notions, mage.'

And Hawke? Oh, Hawke didn't stop. He just grinned wider and said, 'Well, I hope it doesn't come to that, Meredith. You're far too pretty to die angry.'"

Varric bursts out laughing, slapping the table.

"Maker's breath, I thought Fenris was going to have a stroke. He actually grabbed his sword, like he was bracing for the inevitable bloodbath. Aveline looked like she was trying to will herself into the Fade just to escape the awkwardness. And me? I was just sitting there, trying not to laugh so hard I fell out of my chair.

Meredith, though—she didn't move. Didn't say a word. She just stared at him with those cold, dead eyes of hers, and I swear, the temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees. Eventually, she stood up, adjusted her armor, and said something like, 'If you're done wasting my time, Champion, get out of my sight before I forget why I tolerate you.' And Hawke? He winked at her. Actually winked. Then he turned around and walked out like he'd just won the Grand Tourney."

Varric shakes his head, still grinning.

"Now, I don't know what Hawke thought he was doing. Maybe he was trying to throw her off balance, or maybe he just couldn't resist the challenge. Knowing him, it was probably both. But here's the best part: Meredith never mentioned it again. Not once. Oh, she still hated him, don't get me wrong—she probably started sharpening her sword the moment he left the room—but she never brought it up. And I think that's because, deep down, in some tiny, hidden part of her soul, she wasn't entirely immune to Hawke's charms.

Now, before you say it: no, I don't think she secretly liked him or anything ridiculous like that. Meredith wasn't exactly the dating type. But Hawke had this way of getting under people's skin, you know? He made you laugh when you didn't want to, made you notice him even when you tried not to. And for all her bluster and iron will, Meredith wasn't an exception."

Varric leans back, folding his arms over his chest as his grin turns sly.

"So, yeah. That's the story of the one time Hawke flirted with Knight-Commander Meredith. Was it stupid? Absolutely. Was it reckless? Without a doubt. Was it hilarious? Oh, Maker, yes. It was one of those moments you never forget, no matter how much you want to. And you know what the craziest part is? I think he actually enjoyed it. I think, in some twisted way, he wanted to see if he could make her crack. He didn't, of course—Meredith was about as crackable as granite—but that didn't stop him from trying.

And that's just who Hawke was. The guy who could face down death itself with a joke on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. The guy who made even the most impossible situations feel just a little bit lighter. And the guy who, somehow, made even Meredith look human for half a second.

To Hawke," Varric says, raising his tankard with a grin. "The man who flirted with death—and lived to tell the tale."