Duel
Hawke clenched a piece of her sleeve between her teeth, wrestling with the cuff button one-handedly. The shirt was new and the buttonholes were still stiff and unyielding, but with a frustrated grunt and a little force, it finally slipped through.
Satisfied, she grabbed for a brass amulet. It wasn't particularly shiny, and her mother would likely want her to wear anything more ornamental, but Hawke liked it. She'd found it in Kirkwall's strangest shop, hidden between relics of dubious origin. The weight around her neck felt solid, grounding. The subtle enchantment probably helped with that.
Besides, it was hardly the first thing her mother would disapprove of. Instead of a gown, Hawke had chosen a pair of sleek dark breeches and a billowy shirt, held together by an embroidered sash around her waist. It was fancier than her normal practical clothes, but not so that it felt suffocating. And when she caught her reflection, she didn't hate what she saw. Her hair was finally short again and the circles under her eyes were less dark. Summer had done her well.
It wasn't as if she were attending a ball, where skirts were necessary. It was just a dinner party, hosted by some old friend of her mother's, visiting from Ansburg. Leandra had insisted Hawke come along. She had made peace with attending, but not with dressing up like a doll. This was her compromise.
Besides, she had a point to prove. None of her friends believed she could sit through the entire evening without causing a scene. If nothing else, spite was an excellent motivator.
A knock on her door interrupted her thought.
"Are you ready, Rose?"
Bracing herself for inevitable critique, she opened the door. It was as she expected, her mother dressed in a beautiful lilac gown, eyeing her once over. But to her surprise, no scorn followed.
"You do look lovely," Leandra said after a pause. "It's not what I expected, but I can see you made an effort."
Hawke's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. Is that praise?"
Leandra sighed and averted her eyes. "Perhaps it is acceptance," she said in a resigned tone. "I know it's not what you want, but once, just once, I'd like to see you in that blue dress I got you. You'd be stunning."
Hawke strode past her, lamenting that she couldn't hide more than a small knife in her clothes. "Mother. I know you try to play matchmaker for me, but that dress and I? We aren't meant to be. It will never happen. Just let it go."
Leandra accepted defeat, and they made their way towards the party. It wasn't far and they preferred the short walk over any other form of transportation.
The house was grand, beautifully lit with lanterns that glowed in early dusk. If anything, dusk was the perfect moment to appreciate Kirkwall, when the sun's golden beams cast a warmth over the city that it lacked by daylight.
Inside wasn't a different story, with a pleasant enough drawing room with large windows that allowed the golden glow to enter. Hawke was quick to accept a glass of wine, and let her mother introduce her to her dear old friend. Remembering her own friends' bet, Hawke graciously accepted the compliments and even offered some in return.
Before long, her mother and friend were so deep in conversation, that they hardly noticed her presence. Considering it a pleasant change, Hawke took it as a sign to retreat. And when she positioned herself beside a large potted plant, no longer being the centre of attention, she thought she could actually do this. How hard was it to sit through an evening without making a scene?
She liked to observe people. Thinking they weren't seen, an elderly couple shared a kiss. One of the women adjusted her bodice, displaying her assets to a better advantage. A group of men discussed the upcoming hunting season.
Mundane life, with mundane troubles.
Pleased, Hawke sipped from her wine. It wasn't her usual drink of choice, but damn, she had to admit this red one might win her over. She looked up as a man broke away from the group to walk in her general direction. Hawke registered who the red hair belonged to just as their gaze locked.
He froze mid-step, his eyebrows twitching in faint surprise. He hadn't seen her before passing the potted plant.
"Seneschal," she greeted, keeping her voice dry.
"Hawke," he replied, equally flat.
One of their last infuriating conversations was still sharp in her mind, and her first thought was to mock his outfit. But there wasn't much she could critique about it. He wore a dark, muted green suit jacket that was tailored to perfection. It didn't have many decorations aside from some goldwork embroidery of leaves.
The best thing she could say about it was that it suited him. The worst was how entirely boring it was.
Neither was worth saying.
Just as she had done, his gaze drifted over her figure in brief, silent judgment. But he didn't say anything either.
Hawke released a quiet chuckle. "Oh, come on. Don't hold back. I could use some honesty after forced compliments."
His eyes shot back to hers, but he kept his expression neutral. "Antivan linen, if I'm not mistaken."
It earned him a grin.
"Guessed that right," she replied. "The colour is corvid black. Antivans really do like their Crows, don't they?"
"I wonder if they appreciate the humour of a Fereldan dressed in that colour."
It was common knowledge that one of the Crows ran off with the Hero of Ferelden, and Hawke chuckled. "I don't think I've added enough feathers to offend them." She ran her fingers over the sleeves. "It's very soft, though. Seems you were right."
"How very refreshing to hear."
Hawke wanted to scowl, but before she could say anything, a burst of laughter drew her attention to the other side of the room. One of the men had clearly made a joke, to the amusement of the others.
She turned back to the Seneschal, forgetting to scowl. "So, are you here on business or pleasure?" she asked instead.
"I am acquainted with the host," the Seneschal replied, with a tone to suggest it was neither. "I grew up in the same street."
"Small world," Hawke noted. "I'm here because my mother is childhood friends with the hostess."
The Seneschal followed her gesture towards Leandra, who was talking to the hostess. Both of their wine glasses were already near-empty.
"I see she is wearing her prized comb," he noted, his voice just a little too dry.
Hawke narrowed her eyes. To this day, her mother remained oblivious to its adventure. "I already thanked you for that once. Do you really need to hear it another time?"
Technically, she had. After the Seneschal had returned the comb to her months ago, Hawke had been debating whether she ought to acknowledge it. In the end, she had decided to purchase a specific brand of Ferelden whiskey and sent it to him with a note. This one is more mellow than most Fereldans.
The Seneschal observed her curiously. "I seem to recall that thank you lacking any actual words of gratitude."
Hawke scoffed. "Really? You need it spelled out? I didn't take you for the sentimental type."
The corner of his mouth twitched, but Hawke couldn't tell if it was smugness or amusement. "I am not. You merely assumed I did, or you wouldn't have sent the whiskey."
Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut again. "Well... next time, I'll send some vinegar."
"Please don't," the Seneschal replied lazily. "The whiskey was quite enjoyable. Like you wrote, certainly a lot more delicate than most Fereldans."
Hawke grinned. "You know, I take that as a compliment."
Before either could say more, a blonde man approached them with an arm raised, his broad grin revealing perfectly straight teeth and an air of arrogance. He strode up to the Seneschal, and before he could do so much as step back, slung an around his shoulders.
"Bran the man!" the blonde man called out, either oblivious or disinterested to the way the Seneschal's shoulders stiffened at the contact.
Hawke wished she could say she enjoyed his discomfort, but she could admit to feeling sympathy.
The Seneschal, for his part, did not laugh. "Ian. What a pleasant surprise," he said curtly as he stepped away from this touch.
"It's been years," Ian continued. "How's Kirkwall treating you?"
Hawke took this moment of distraction as an opportunity to slip away, but Ian was quick to draw attention to her. "Introduce me to your lovely companion," he continued.
Hawke stopped mid-turn. Resisting the urge to sigh, she turned back, defiantly avoiding the Seneschal's gaze. The last thing she needed was his reaction to being called lovely.
And before the Seneschal could introduce her with whatever name took his fancy, she looked up to Ian and forced a smile. The man was around the same age as the Seneschal, blessed with a good physique, good bone structure, and thick blonde hair. He might have been handsome, if only his air of arrogance hadn't spoiled the effect.
"Hawke," she said simply.
The man blinked. "Hawke?"
Hawke stared at him, waiting. "Yes. My name. You asked."
He was quick to recover. "Of course, Lady Hawke. I do apologise. I had hoped you were Rose, actually. She's sitting next to me, and I was hoping to make her acquaintance."
Her stomach dropped. There was something about this man, his irreverent air, something dismissive or careless in the tone of his voice, that got under her skin. She did not desire an evening in his company.
"We have a seating arrangement?" she asked, already dreading the answer. "We can't just sit wherever we want?"
Ian released a patronizing laugh. "Of course, there is a seating arrangement, sweetheart. What, is this your first dinner party? You're not from around here, are you?" He paused to release another chuckle.
Hawke took a slow, deliberate breath. She had a point to prove to her friends, and dealing with condescending people was part of that. "I'm from Ferelden. And yes, I suppose this is my first dinner party here."
Ian took a step closer. Hawke sidestepped to maintain their distance. "Ah, that explains the accent. Charming, really," he said carelessly. "Well then, allow me to educate you. At a proper dinner party, married guests are seated together at one side of the dinner table, while the unmarried guests are on the other. It's an opportunity to mingle."
"What if there's an uneven balance between married and unmarried guests?" Hawke commented, trying to keep her inner sarcasm out of her voice.
Ian blinked again, as if her ability of independent thought threw him off balance. "Well. Then one side simply spills over to the other, of course."
Hawke was all toothy smile. "Of course. How thoughtful."
"So," Ian concluded. "Now that you know… Does either of you know Rose?"
Hawke's gaze drifted towards the Seneschal, wondering if he was going to out her. But he only reacted with a small raise of his eyebrows. Well... She supposed Ian would figure it out sooner or later anyway.
"That would be me," she said. "Lady Rose Hawke. But please, just Hawke will do."
"Rose!" Ian continued jovially, ignoring what she said. "Such a delight to meet the lovely lady behind such a lovely name. Well, I expect we will get to know each other a lot better by the end of the night. Pleasure, Rose. Bran."
He gave a nod of the head and turned to retreat to a different room. His walk was deliberate, his athletic figure clear to see in tight-fitting dark blue. And Maker's breath, Hawke hated everything about him.
She took a slow breath, counting to ten in her head. Patience.
When she glanced sideways, she noticed the Seneschal hadn't moved at all.
"I'm positively swooning," she noted, nodding toward Ian's last visible location. "Are all your childhood friends that interesting?"
"Acquaintance," the Seneschal corrected.
Curious, she turned to him. His expression was carefully neutral, but she caught the tightness at the corners of his mouth. Oh, he didn't like Ian at all, Hawke thought. Interesting.
She forced the most demure smile she could muster. "And I get to sit next to him. Lucky me."
Without waiting for a reaction, she turned on her heels, searching for a refill of her wine.
And it seemed it wasn't the last she saw of the Seneschal that evening. She cast a wistful glance at her mother further down the table, as she let herself be guided to her own seat.
Ian was already seated, his manufactured smile in place. And as she sat down, the Seneschal took his seat at her other side.
Wonderful.
Determined to annoy him, she turned towards Ian with feigned interest, ignoring him completely.
It proved a test of mental fortitude. With a vapid smile firmly on her lips, she picked at the dishes in front of her while Ian rambled on. He was all talk, no question. It was almost admirable, but at least he barely noticed that her responses were little more than polite nods and empty affirmations.
"Of course," Ian was saying. "Most people just don't have the foresight for investments. But my motto has always been, if you don't take risks, you don't win."
"Yes," Hawke said offhandedly. "Very wise."
Ian laughed in a self-satisfied way. "Exactly! Finally, someone who understands."
Just before she tuned him out entirely, he switched topics. Did she know he won the fencing competition three out of the five years he competed? And the last time, it was against Wycome's long-reigning champion.
"You will never guess the move that made me win the duel!" Ian said, grinning.
And for the first time, Hawke cut in before he could continue. "A feint to the left? A deceptive lunge? Did you wait for the attack and counter on the riposte?"
Ian scoffed. "Please, nothing so complicated. I just kept countering until he couldn't hold his stance. The moment he stumbled, I hit him right in the chest! It's all about endurance. Wear them down, outlast them, and the win is yours."
Hawke tilted her head to the side. "I thought taking risks was the way to win?" she asked sweetly.
He looked at her for a confused moment, before releasing a laugh. "That's for investments, sweetheart. Duelling and investing are two entirely different sports."
Hawke forced a demure laugh. "Of course. Silly me."
Ian granted her a smouldering smile. "Don't worry your pretty head about it, sweetheart. Leave the fighting to the men who know how to handle it."
At her other side, she was almost certain she heard a stifled cough.
Just because she could, Hawke decided to double down. "I'd love to see you duel one day, Lord Ian."
It wasn't long before she regretted indulging him. The more dishes came and went, the thinner her patience wore. Ian was insufferable in all ways she could imagine, and trying to stay polite proved harder and harder. He could show her Ansburg. Oh, what a generous offer. He could take her to the Club, if she was so interested. Show her how real men fought. She said she'd love nothing more.
By the time the guinea fowl was cleared, she was ready to renew her faith just to pray for deliverance.
And the Maker, in his mercy, provided.
Or perhaps it was the host, calling for a break before dessert.
I should cuss less and pray more, Hawke thought as she excused herself, seizing the opportunity to slip away while the guests drifted into smaller groups. She walked in no particular direction and only stopped when she reached an inner garden.
As if mocking her, it was filled with roses.
But it was mercifully quiet. Cool air soothed her skin, carrying the soft fragrance of flowers.
She exhaled slowly and tilted her head back. The night sky overhead was surprisingly clear, Satina and the stars shining bright.
Peace. Quiet.
It did not last a minute.
Footsteps approached, measured and deliberate. Too controlled for Ian's gait. Not a servant shooing her out of the garden either, or they would have spoken by now. Hawke closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose. Perhaps if she ignored them, they'd go away.
They didn't.
"Hawke."
Her eyes fluttered open. Only one person here would call her that.
She turned just enough to grant him a flat look. "Seneschal," she replied dryly. At least around him, she didn't have to pretend to be polite. "If you want peace and quiet like me, the garden's big enough." She waved a hand vaguely towards the far side. "Somewhere over there."
But the Seneschal didn't move. His posture was straight-backed as always, his mouth a straight, tense line. "I came to warn you," he said, his tone strangely formal. "Ian is not the sort of man you want to encourage."
For a moment, she thought she must have misheard him.
"Excuse me?"
The Seneschal remained serious. "I felt it was my duty," he continued. "Ian has a reputation."
She kept staring at him, her mind shifting between bewilderment and disbelief. "A reputation," she repeated carefully, like she was tasting the words for deceit. "You're warning me. About Ian. Because you felt it was your duty. Because Ian has a reputation."
His brows twitched, a sign of growing annoyance. "Yes, Hawke. A reputation. Do you need me to spell out what I mean by that?"
"Please do," she replied without pause. "Clearly, I need a wise man's advice to understand the world."
A smile curled around his lips, but it wasn't out of pleasure. "You can take it or leave it if you do not appreciate–"
"Oh no, let's savour this moment," she cut in. "You, the guardian of my virtue. Clearly, you must think so very highly of me to assume anything needs guarding."
The Seneschal's lips were back to his straight, tense line. "Do you always react this way to well-meaning advice?"
"When it's this insultingly ignorant, yes," she shot back. "Because you being here means you actually thought I was serious with him."
His frown deepened, and he took a moment to answer. "You cannot blame me when your behaviour was this uncharacteristic."
And finally, Hawke's patience snapped. She took a step forward, her voice rising. "See? I cannot win! I try to be the perfect dinner guest. I finally play by your rules, and what do I get for it? You talk to me like I'm some naïve girl!"
The Seneschal didn't flinch. "You lost because I offered well-meaning advice?"
She took another step, jabbing a finger in the air just short of his chest. "No, I lost because you, of all people, thought I needed it!"
Silence fell between them.
For a moment, the Seneschal brow twitched, as if her words warranted deep contemplation. But no response came. No argument, no justification, just silence. He stood there motionless, still as a statue. Looking at her with cold, calm eyes. Amber, bright but unreadable.
And how could his eyes be cold when it was so hot?
Unbelievably hot.
Had she missed a shift in the weather? When had the cool night air turned stiflingly balmy? Heat burned beneath her skin, creeping up to her throat, flushing her cheeks.
It had to be the anger. The injustice.
If she had just acted her normal self, Bran here would have found fault with that too. Too insolent, too direct. Couldn't she act more like the lady she was supposed to be?
The thought reignited her frustration. She took a breath, ready to fire back, to scold him further, to berate him, and –
Nothing.
No words came to her. Was it even true? Her mother always berated her. The Seneschal always reacted in kind.
And without anything to say, she simply exhaled.
Bran stirred. Only belatedly did Hawke realise she stood close enough for her breath to mist against his skin. Hurriedly, she leaned back.
Finally, he spoke. "I am twelve years your senior."
She blinked. That was not what she expected to hear.
What? Was he claiming age as superiority now? That she ought to listen to him on the merit of maturity?
She scoffed, and shook her head. "No, no, no. Bran–" She stopped, unsure where the slip-up had come from. "Seneschal, please," she corrected, nearly begging in disbelief. "We both know age doesn't equate to common sense."
And immediately, she paused again. Bran? Why did she even care about his name?
Bran… the Seneschal… the man in front of her, kept his silence.
But he did frown.
Hawke realised with an unpleasant jolt in her stomach, that he hadn't mentioned his age to assert authority. No, of course not. He knew she wouldn't react well to that. He said it for some strange, outlandish reason.
One that might have had to do with the sudden heat.
Anger, she told herself. It was anger that quickened her pulse. He wanted to calm her down.
Anything was better than awkward silence, and she opened her mouth to speak, only to be immediately interrupted.
"Maker's breath, it's humid out here!"
Hawke startled, and even the Seneschal flinched. But in that single moment, whatever hung between them shattered like glass. Immediately, she took a step back from the Seneschal. A calculated retreat, perhaps. Distance would be wise.
But she already knew who the voice belonged to before she turned.
Ian stood at the centre of the garden, posed with one hand on his hip. If not for his arrogance, she might have acknowledged that his athletic build made for a fine image.
Instead, she felt an instant urge to punch him.
"There you are, sweetheart," he drawled, flashing his teeth. "Dessert is starting, and I must simply insist you join me."
A new rush of heat spread to her body. Pure, unfiltered anger, this time Hawke was certain of it.
Remember the wager. In a desperate attempt not to lose all her progress of the evening, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. She could do this.
She reached three before Ian spoke again.
"Bran? You too?" He released a short laugh. "Didn't take you for the person to steal another man's company."
Hawke's nostrils flared. Before either man could speak, she turned, opened her eyes, and glared at the Seneschal. "You really warned me about him? As if he wasn't blatantly obvious?"
A flicker of amusement crossed the Seneschal's face. "Consider it noted for the future."
Ian took an angry step forward. "Excuse me?" he challenged.
Hawke snapped her attention back to him. "Oh, you're not excused. If I have to hear you go on about your duelling one more time–"
"Why? I really am that good, it's not a boast," Ian interrupted, grinning wide. "Just ask Bran. But allow me to warn you. Age has made him incredibly dull. He used to be entertaining, you know. Before he impregnated some girl."
The Seneschal took a step forward, the movement almost a warning. "You go too far."
Several fresh waves of heat flared to Hawke's body. Ignoring the Seneschal, she took a step closer to Ian. "Well, I killed a dragon. Several demons. Darkspawn. What didn't I kill, really? You won some duelling show? Well, colour me impressed!"
The man stared at her for a heartbeat. The next moment he threw his head back and laughed. "You do have a vivid imagination, sweetheart. Tell me Bran, is she for real?"
Even if Hawke didn't look at him, she could hear him gritting his teeth. "I have no reason to disbelieve her," he replied.
Ian laughed again, and reached for her arm. With lightning-quick reflexes, she pulled back. To the Fade with her friends' wager. "Would you like a demonstration?"
Ian's grin widened. "I'd love to."
"Hawke," the Seneschal cut in, stepping forward. "He isn't lying. He did win those duels."
Hawke looked at him, then back at Ian. A slow grin curled around her lips. "Yeah," she mused. "And I really fought a dragon. I propose a duel, if you think you're up for it."
Ian's grin widened. "Well, who am I to deny a lady? Just give me a moment. I'm certain my brother can provide some training weapons. I wouldn't want to harm you, after all."
Hawke had to admit that she didn't share the sentiment, but she figured out that bloody murder might not be the best way to end the evening.
She had almost forgotten the Seneschal until he spoke. "You are aware that you have nothing to prove to him."
She glanced aside. His expression had returned to neutral, just perhaps a tad more sour. "And you are aware that this has nothing to do with him?" she countered. "I have everything to prove to myself."
The Seneschal sighed, but said nothing. And before either of them could speak again, the garden flooded with the remainder of the guests. And among them, was Leandra.
"Rose!" she exclaimed, stepping closer. "Don't tell me it's true. Are you really going to duel?"
Hawke shot her a glare. "Yeah. It's true."
Their hostess approached with a soothing smile. "Leandra, fret not. It's just a friendly duel. It's not uncommon. The worst they can do is bruise each other."
Leandra looked as though she wanted to argue. But perhaps she realised that protesting would make a greater scene than the one already taking shape.
It wasn't long before Hawke was handed two reinforced wooden daggers. She tested their weight. It was better than expected. Certainly an improvement over the actual training daggers she'd used as a child.
She glanced up at Ian. He had removed his jacket and tried his daggers, and she had to admit, he didn't look like a novice. But it was when she realised her own outfit wasn't exactly battle-ready. Her breeches were fine, immeasurably better than skirts, but her loose shirt… Wasn't ideal. The neckline didn't button up, and ended rather low. Her cleavage was mostly hidden in the voluminous folds, but if she moved…
She looked up, scanning the ring of guests around the garden centre. Among them, she spotted the Seneschal, and stepped closer to him.
"Give me your cravat," she demanded, already holding out a hand.
His gaze shifted to her outstretched palm. "For what purpose?"
She scowled, and bent forward in a slight bow. The fabric of her shirt gaped open just a bit. She didn't miss the way his eyes drew downwards.
"Because I don't want to show my tits to the world, that's why." She was beyond caring if she sounded rude.
"Rose!" her mother hissed.
"Don't give it to her!" Ian jeered from across the lawn.
But the Seneschal was already untying his cravat with practised ease. Hawke accepted it and let the fabric run through her fingers. "Antivan linen," she concluded before tying it around her neck, keeping the collar closed.
"They call this colour parchment," the Seneschal offered offhandedly.
Hawke grinned. "Of course."
Determined, she turned towards Ian, comfortable with the daggers in her hand. The amulet around her neck hummed quietly, as if it was eager to see her fight.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Ready," Ian confirmed.
And the cheers of the crows faded into the night. Only Ian existed, and the wooden daggers in his hand. The shift of his foot in the gravel, grounding him. The rustle of his shirt as he positioned his arms.
All that mattered in a fight, was wit. Every split-second decision counted. Knowing your opponent could make all the difference. And Ian had handed her that knowledge herself. He was straightforward, and to the point. Relying on endurance.
Hawke was quick. Nimble. A flicker of movement, a breath between steps. She had no idea how duelling worked in a club, and she didn't care.
Ian readied the daggers. A defensive stance, just as she expected.
Hawke moved. Let him think she'd lunge left.
A feint only worked if the body believed it. The intent of those who hesitated, was obvious. But she moved with conviction.
She shifted to the left. Planted her foot, bounced back.
She rolled to the right, and pivoted. Used the momentum to spring up.
By the time Ian registered the shift, her daggers were already at the back of his neck.
"Bet that club of yours forgot to teach humility," she whispered in his ear.
He stiffened beneath her daggers. For a moment, he said nothing. Just breathed through his nose, his shoulders tense. After a short pause, he released a forced chuckle.
"You're cocky, aren't you?" he said over his shoulders, before turning to face her.
Hawke grinned. "Only when I'm right."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He exhaled sharply and stepped back, gesturing towards the crowd. Hawke had nearly forgotten they were there. They didn't matter.
"A round of applause for Lady Rose!" his voice carried, light and theatrical. "A practise round, of course. I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't allow her to display skill. But now, the real duel!"
"You know I won," Hawke muttered under her breath.
Ian's smirk deepened. "Then prove to me it wasn't luck."
She cocked her head, locking her eyes on his. They were dark, a bit like the night sky above them. The crowd was nothing but background noise. She knew he wouldn't go easy on her.
"Gladly."
He bowed, and she returned it mockingly, gripping the daggers comfortably in her hands. Tight, but not too right. An extension of her arms.
She prepared for the worst, and rightfully so. Ian hadn't lied, he was a good duellist. And his endurance wasn't an exaggeration.
A real fight, at least the ones that Hawke knew, was chaotic. There was often more than one opponent, and it was loud and quiet at the same time. Anders' magic humming around her. The whistle of an arrow Varric just released from Bianca. Fenris' low grunts.
Here, there was only Ian.
This time, he didn't hesitate. He kept his defence steady and countered her advances with seeming ease. Knowing he would rely on his strength and endurance, she waited. She didn't give it her all, not yet. All she needed was to watch him fight long enough to understand his tells.
He parried her attack. Riposte, forcing her to block. The impact numbed her arm.
She twisted away from the next move, forcing distance, forcing him to chase. A parry from her, a follow-up riposte. Time passed in a back-and-forth dance, and the longer it lasted, the more Hawke learned. The way he favoured his right foot ever so slightly. His recovery after a side-step was just half a second too long.
The first opening she saw, she didn't take. She was a little too far away, and wasn't sure if she could have made it. And if she showed Ian her intent, he would adapt and counter it the next time she tried.
So she waited.
She baited him. A quick jab, making him pivot. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, exactly what she needed. A fraction too slow.
Her foot was already poised. She ricocheted.
A fleeting trace of something earthy and woody. The Seneschal's cravat, she realised. But it wasn't a distraction. Besides, she already knew she won.
The blunted tip of her dagger made contact. A swift, clean strike to his ribs.
He grunted, but before he could recover, she hooked her foot behind his knee, sweeping his leg out from under him.
Ian hit the ground hard. The daggers slipped from his grasp.
Hawke grinned as she leaned over him. "Told you."
She revelled in the pained look on his face.
"You cheated," he accused, dragging himself up.
Hawke let out a breathless laugh. Of course.
"Sore loser, aren't you?" she said.
"You didn't play by the rules," he countered, brushing dust and gravel from his clothes.
And just like that, something inside her cracked.
The whole evening she'd tried to be on her best. Tip-toed, trying to play by rules that fit a world not meant for her. It had been such a long, suffocating act. And now, now, when she finally won, Ian had the gall to tell her she hadn't done it right?
She tightened the grip on her daggers. They weren't a threat, but she had to keep her hands from shaking. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet. Strangely steady.
"We never established any rules."
"Rules are implicit," Ian snapped. "A fight always has–"
"No, it doesn't." Her words cut sharper than any blade. "There are no rules in the Deep Roads, when the darkspawn come in waves and don't stop until you're choking on your own blood. They are no rules when you fight a demon, with lies so sweet you almost want to believe them. And a dragon doesn't care if you're playing by the rules before it burns you to cinders."
The crowd had gone utterly silent.
She exhaled, slowly. It didn't matter if they understood her. Some never would.
"I fight to win," she finished, her voice quiet again. "That's the only rule that's ever kept me alive."
Ian looked at her. For a second, something glimmered in his gaze. Hawke wondered if he understood. That he was the one playing pretend, with his club and his made-up rules.
Their host approached the centre of the garden, trying to turn the tense atmosphere. "Well, dear guests!" he exclaimed. "Lady Rose won fair and square! Isn't that poetic? Victory in a rose garden! I think she really had the benefit there, little brother!"
A collective sigh spread through the crowd. They were allowed to breathe again.
Ian lowered his head. Almost spitefully, he turned, plucked a nearby red rose from a bush, and presented it to Hawke.
"To the victor, the spoils," he declared, between mocking and resenting.
Hawke stared at the rose, and took it. A thorn bit in her finger. She wasn't certain if that was poetic or ironic.
She turned on her heels, locking eyes with the Seneschal. His frown was rather pensive. She walked in a straight line towards him, untying his cravat one-handedly. She offered both the cravat and the rose, careless of the blood staining the linen.
He took both. His eyes briefly flickered towards the drops of blood, but despite his apprehension, he kept his expression neutral.
"Don't underestimate me, Seneschal," she stated.
He glanced at her. "I was certain of your victory, Hawke."
She tilted her head to the side. Curious. Did he really? It wasn't like him to lie.
"That's not what I meant," she replied.
He kept his silence as she turned away and caught her mother shuffling uncertainly next to her.
"Oh, Rose…" was all she said.
Hawke supposed she really had lost her friends' wager.
Note: Wow, I didn't realise this chapter would end up this long. I really needed to make Bran witness Hawke's abilities, and I thought this would be fun to explore!
Next's chapter is called "Dice".