Hi all! Here I am, returning with a new story. It isn't the sequel to my Solavellan fic, but while I am working on that, it still needs to cook in my mind.

And somehow, that sparked all the inspiration I needed to work on this! I've started this a while ago, have written large parts, and outlined it fully. I assume it's going to be 15-20 chapters, but I'll know for certain when I write the last word!

Like many other DA fans (I think), my Hawke holds a special place in my heart. She's beautifully flawed, tries so hard, and still messes up. I know this pairing is rather rare, but it just works for me, you know? I don't know why I am writing this while the DA fandom has an explosion of new pairings, but inspiration works in mysterious ways!

Like always, I appreciate any feedback you might have, or simple thoughts to share. Thank you for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy the story.

Lady

Sskritch. Scrrch. Skrrip.

Every scratch of the quill felt like a needle stabbing Hawke's skin. The sound was even louder in contrast to the formal, oppressive atmosphere of Seneschal Bran's office. Uncomfortable as she was with silence, Hawke'd have preferred it over the quill. She slumped into the faded plush visitor's chair, wishing it would swallow her.

A lone sunbeam shone through the window, illuminating the back of the Seneschal's head like a halo. It was a pretty red, she thought as she stared at his hair, a darker colour than Aveline's. But it was styled too perfectly, not a hair out of place, too stiff, too boring – exactly like its owner.

She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve without any real intent. Feeling restless, she let her gaze wander. Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with leather-bound tomes she had no interest in. Boring numbers and records, no doubt, documenting Kirkwall's citizens.

But between the books, she found something far more interesting. Behind a set of glass doors stood bottles with fancy labels and crystal glasses. Her lips twitched into a grin as she recognised a bottle of Ferelden whiskey. So, the Seneschal wasn't entirely too proud for more rustic indulgences?

"Hawke, you would do me a great pleasure if you were to stop moving your foot and tell me your name. Your full name."

Startled, her foot froze mid-wiggle. She hadn't even realized she'd been moving it. Her attention snapped to the Seneschal, just in time to catch a flicker of impatience breaking his otherwise deadpan expression.

The sunlight no longer outlined his hair, and for a moment, she wished it still did. It softened him. Without it, he was all sharp edges and stern authority, waiting with infuriating calm for her answer.

Hawke granted him a defiant smile before wiggling her foot three more times. His brows twitched, but he said nothing.

The last thing she wanted was to give him the satisfaction of knowing her full name. It didn't suit her, and she hated the reactions it invoked in people. Yet here she was, obligated to give it if she wanted the Amell name restored.

"Rose Marian Hawke," she said with more bravado than she felt.

Silence met the words. The Seneschal kept staring at her for three more seconds before raising his eyebrows ever so slightly. He turned his attention back to the parchment, and once again, the room was filled with shrill scratching.

Hawke wasn't sure if she was glad or disappointed by the lack of reaction. She was used to either Isabella's endless teasing about sharing her name with the city's most prestigious brothel, or otherwise to her mother's stuffed-up noble friends that tried to compare her to a delicate flower.

Perhaps some inner part of her wished that the Seneschal took the bait, so she had a reason to snidely reply. Anything would be better than this agonising, scratching silence. She scoffed bitterly, the sound a little louder than anticipated.

Slowly, the Seneschal glanced up from his parchment. "Did you want me to laugh, Hawke?" he asked, his tone devoid of any emotion.

She shrugged, unfazed by his question. "I didn't think you'd be capable of laughter."

The Seneschal turned back to his writing. "I assure you that my laughter is reserved for extraordinary occasions, and alas, this is not one of them." Without looking up, he paused his scribbling. "Besides, I think the name suits you perfectly."

It was the last thing Hawke expected to hear. "Maker's balls, Seneschal," she uttered in amazement. "I didn't think you'd be the sort of man to..."

"Because of the thorns," he interrupted, and almost lazily laid down his quill to meet her eyes. His expression was composed and impassive as always, if not for a hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Was he enjoying this?

"Right," Hawke said. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to her, she leaned back in her chair. "That's what Varric said, too."

Almost casually, the Seneschal picked up his quill again. "Well then, it shouldn't come as a surprise. Date of birth?"

Hawke forced herself to look him straight in the eyes. "Eighth of Bloomingtide," she said with the same false bravado. The Maker must have had his fun sending Rose born in Bloomingtide to Kirkwall. Isabella found it oh so hilarious, since the city's Hightown brothel was called the Blooming Rose.

The Seneschal didn't blink. "And in what year might that be?"

His uninterrupted gaze was a little too intense for Hawke. Admitting defeat, she cast her eyes downwards to his desk. Its contents were immaculately ordered, as if he had used a ruler to position everything perfectly straight, from the stack of documents to the tray that held his inkpot. And yet, between all the boring stuff, was a vase of bright yellow tulips. Did he like flowers? Her lips quirked. At least they weren't roses.

Conjuring a defiant smile on her face, she looked back up again. "How old do you think I am?"

He acknowledged her with an impatient sigh. "I rarely enjoy guessing games when I am occupied with official city business, Hawke."

Disappointed, she shrugged. "Just curious what you thought. 9:06 Dragon."

"Twenty... six..." the Seneschal said as he documented the date, taking no time to calculate her age.

"Twenty-seven in a month," Hawke added to break the silence.

"May it grant you the wisdom and propriety of age."

He said it without looking up, and despite herself, Hawke snorted. "Right. We both know that's never going to happen."

His eyebrows twitched as he looked at her. "One might have hope. If not for your sake, then for your mother's."

It was a low blow, and Hawke took it at much. He didn't know anything about her family, didn't know the lengths she'd gone to for her mother. For him to casually comment... Containing her anger, she leaned back into the chair. "Well… we can't all be paragons of virtue like you, Seneschal," she said sharply.

If only he knew she was here precisely because of her mother. She herself couldn't care less about some title. Sure, no longer living with Gamlen was an overall improvement, but she didn't quite care for her new large house. All of it was for her mother, to return the childhood Leandra herself had once willingly surrendered.

And while Hawke didn't care about it, she did care about her mother. If only Bethany had still been with them to share their mother's dreams of comfort and nobility. Bethany, the joy and heart of their family. Their little ball of optimism the entire family had vowed to protect from the templars.

It was Hawke who had failed that decades-long promise of protection. Because she had dreams of wealth, and purpose, and a better future.

And now Bethany was taken by the templars, Hawke and her mother had simply forgotten how to co-exist. All her mother did now, was project her grief for the twin's loss as anger upon Hawke.

As if Hawke wasn't grieving, too.

The Seneschal's voice cut through the silence. "Regarding your mother, her information is already on record. Leandra Amell, born in 08:81 Blessed, here in Kirkwall. There is also a brief mention of your father, Malcolm Hawke, noting his time in our Circle. However, his records are sparse. I require additional details to–"

"He's dead," Hawke snapped. "He died six years ago. He's not an Amell and won't matter to the Amell name. There's no use in chasing another apostate."

She steeled herself for another sarcastic remark, but the edge in the Seneschal's eyes softened. "It is not my task to chase apostates," he remarked, his voice a little less cold than usual. "And for what it's worth... my condolences for your loss."

Shrugging, Hawke tore her eyes away. The manners her mother taught her, told her she ought to say thank you, but the words wouldn't materialise. Besides, she didn't want pity, least of all from him.

She almost wished he had given a sarcastic remark, just so she could shoot one back. Anything to avoid these lingering thoughts. Wanting to look anywhere but at the Seneschal, she stared at the tulips. Yellow was such a happy colour. And whatever emotions she associated with the Seneschal, happiness wasn't it. Had he chosen them himself? Or were the flowers just part of his public function and was she over-analysing?

A quiet sigh made her glance up again. "This title may not apply to your father, but it would apply to any siblings. Please tell me–"

Maker's breath, the last thing Hawke wanted was to talk about her siblings. To steel herself, she dug her fingers into the armrest. "Do you need to know my favourite colour as well?"

It didn't amuse the Seneschal. "I must remind you that I am in the process of reinstating this title. I assure you that I have no personal interest in your answers. All I need is to know to whom this title applies."

Debating if she was going to give another snide remark, Hawke kept his gaze. The warm tones of his appearance – red hair, amber eyes, the rusty orange of his jacket – felt strangely at odds with his icy demeanour. Unable to keep his cold gaze for long, Hawke looked away. It was foolish to assume that all she had to do, was sign a paper. She wished her mother was here instead of her, but Leandra had convinced her that Hawke's actions led them here, so it should be her signature on the document. To Hawke, it felt like a strange belated rite of adulthood.

And of course, she had to narrate all the painful details of her life. Yet why was it so hard to find the words to reply?

"And I'd have to wager that your answer is red."

Confused, she glanced up again. Red? What was the Seneschal talking about? Vaguely, she remembered her jest about her favourite colour. Some pressure fell from her shoulders, and she started to smirk. "Burgundy, actually," she declared proudly.

"Burgundy is a shade of red, Hawke," he replied dryly.

The urge to argue was real, but this change of subject was all she needed to clear her mind. Just like that, she wanted to get this over with as quickly as she could. "My sister Bethany is a mage, as you very well know," she started. "She's locked in the Gallows and that means she will never inherit anything. My little brother Carver, her twin... He never made it to Kirkwall, thanks to the Darkspawn." She swallowed, but tried to hide it behind a makeshift grin. "Would you believe me if I said the only reason we didn't die as well, was because a dragon saved us?"

She could joke about it, but it wasn't an easy, painless memory to revisit. It came down to another one of her failures. Carver died, just before the Flemeth-dragon arrived to carry them to safety. They hadn't even been able to bury Carver's body, just as they hadn't been able to bury Aveline's husband. Not that that had stopped them from holding symbolic ones, anyway.

The Seneschal looked like he didn't appreciate her remark and believed it even less.

"Just ask Aveline. She was there," Hawke said with disinterest. "All that matters... My brother died. My sister's locked up. I'm the only sibling to inherit."

A few seconds of silence passed before the Seneschal sighed. "The Blight took a toll on too many people."

"Well... Yeah," she muttered, wanting to forget about the topic as soon as possible. Trying her best, she conjured a wide grin. Humour always worked. "You didn't ask if I have any children," she joked. "Perhaps this title might apply to them."

Unimpressed, the Seneschal put his quill down. "Hawke," he said in a tone that didn't hide his impatience. "Do you have children?"

She leaned back in the chair and pressed her fingertips together. "No."

Without a blink, he picked up his quill again. "Glad we straightened that out."

He began scribbling away in silence. The skrittch's and scrchh's of the quill almost physically hurt Hawke's ears. Maker's breath, how could the Seneschal stand it?

Absentmindedly, she resumed picking at the loose thread on her sleeve. It was a comfortable shirt, once black but now a muted grey. Years ago, it was her brother's, and though it was worn thin, she couldn't bring herself to let it go. Besides, she thought it looked presentable enough underneath a maroon vest.

But then, all of a sudden, her finger slipped through the fabric.

Fuck.

She looked down to find a small hole in her sleeve. Great. It would be easy to fix, but she was certain they didn't have grey thread at home. That meant she'd either have to pass the market before heading home, or repair it with a contrasting colour.

She sighed, desiring any sound to replace the scratching of the quill. "My mother said you have a son," she said conversationally.

The scribbling stopped, mercifully. "Your mother is quite right."

Hawke forced herself to stay off her sleeve, so the tear wouldn't grow. "She said he was around my age."

The Seneschal's expression was inscrutable. "He is nineteen."

That was younger than the twins. Unable to keep it in, Hawke burst into laughter. "Around my age, balls."

His unreadable expression shifted to curious surprise. Shit. Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut. Feigning ignorance, she shrugged. Her mother had mentioned the Seneschal's son in the context of a possible suitor for her. She had rarely heard a more preposterous idea.

Besides… The Seneschal's hair was still bright red, without a hint of grey. His face showed some signs of age, certainly, but not many. Nineteen seemed quite old for a son. How could her mother have thought any potential child to be around her age?

"How old are you?" Hawke probed.

Resigned, the Seneschal took an impatient breath. "My age is entirely irrelevant."

"But I want to know," she insisted. "You're learning all these things about me, but I hardly know anything about you."

"I already informed you that these questions are not for my benefit, Hawke." He sighed once more at her persistence, and gave up. "Thirty-eight," he replied flatly.

"Thirty... Eight..." Hawke repeated, and couldn't help but chuckle. If her mother wanted her to marry anybody, she would rather marry someone aged thirty-eight than someone aged nineteen. Nineteen was almost a kid. Balls, when she was that age, she had still been so... unencumbered. Her family had still been happily intact.

It was curious that the Seneschal had become a father so early. He must have been nineteen when his son was born. Surely, he wasn't married yet at that age? Perhaps he wasn't so much a paragon of virtue as she had assumed.

"Enough with the questions, Hawke," the Seneschal concluded. "We are not here to pry into my private life. Please read this through, and if the information is correct, sign at the bottom. On both sheets, please."

Without saying anything, Hawke accepted the offered documents and read them through. There it was, in front of her, official in black-on-white. The document was written in duplicate, one for the office and one for her, identical to the last dot. She hardly wanted to admit it, but the penmanship was immaculate. All lines were a perfect, even width, and all characters were alike. You couldn't see where the pen was re-inked.

Begrudgingly impressed, she took the quill. Just a few more moments, and everything would be official. It would be the start of a new life, the conclusion of everything she had worked for since fleeing Ferelden.

Amell, it read at the top of the page, and suddenly, a small panic gnawed at Hawke. If she signed, would she be required to introduce herself as Amell now? Varric had been the one to start calling her Hawke. It had felt like a surprising breath of fresh air, a name she could live up to. If she had to return to calling herself Rose now, or even Amell, she'd feel like she'd lose a part of herself.

"Can I..." she hesitated. "Can I sign as Hawke?"

The Seneschal looked up, mildly surprised at her hesitation. "You can sign however you like. But you can expect official correspondence to be addressed to Rose Amell."

It would just be another façade to live by. "Whatever," she muttered and added her signatures without looking up. The two copies certainly weren't bad, but they were distinctly different to each other.

Unimpressed, he turned the papers around to inspect them. "That will do," he concluded, as if he disapproved of her inconsistent penmanship. "Now we just have to wait for the ink to dry."

Defeated, Hawke dropped back in her chair, but it wasn't long before she spoke again. "So... Is there anything special I need to know, now that I joined your merry band of nobility? A secret handshake or greeting?"

It was at that precise moment that the sun broke through the clouds. Another golden halo framed the Seneschal's face. The effect was imposing, the way he sat straight-backed on his large chair, peering at her with sharp eyes.

"I will let you know that I am not actually nobility," he said dispassionately just as the sun disappeared again.

And yet he had never appeared more noble than he had just now. Hawke had a hard time shaking away the effect. "What? Am I outranking you now?"

"Certainly not," he replied with his signature deadpan stare. "Seneschal still holds meaning, Hawke, no matter my bloodline. And to get back to your question, you – and your mother – will be asked to join the upcoming seasonal party the city is hosting. It will offer you the chance to formally introduce yourself to the esteemed members of Kirkwall's high society, and for your mother to officially reacquaint herself with old friends."

"Balls, no," she said with disdain.

A faint smile spread across the Seneschal's face. "Indeed. The party in question is a ball."

Hawke stared at the man. "You've got to be kidding me."

The amusement lingered at the corner of his mouth. "If you did not desire this title and the responsibilities that belong to it, Hawke, you could have done us both a service and saved me from performing this paperwork. Which, incidentally, must be dry by now."

She eyed him sceptically as he inspected the sheets. The last thing she wanted was to attend a ball filled with stuffed-up nobles, but she knew her mother would love it. Well… If she allowed her mother to drag her along, she'd do it on her own terms.

A moment later, the Seneschal deemed the parchments sufficiently dry and archived one into a neat bundle of similar documents. The second one, he rolled up and placed into a leather tube stamped with the city's crest.

"That concludes everything," he said as he handed her the tube. "It will be a relief to see peace and quiet return to my office. You can take your leave, Lady Rose."

Hawke grabbed the document in a swift move. "Andraste's knickers, just call me Hawke, Bran."

"Seneschal."

Confusion flickered across her face. "What?"

"If you insist that I call you Hawke, I will insist that you call me by my title."

She stared at him and blinked. "Right. Well, I'm off. Good afternoon, Seneschal," she emphasised with a faked posh accent.

He ignored it. "Good afternoon, Hawke. Do not lose those papers."

"Yeah, yeah," Hawke dismissed, wafting the tube in her hand as she closed the door behind her in a flurry of black, grey and red.

Blissful silence returned to his office as Hawke closed the door. Bran kept staring at it for a short moment, processing the woman. She was a whirlwind of chaos and impertinence, and everything about her grated on his sense of order. He learned that within seconds of meeting her, when she was nothing but a refugee trying to earn money by pursuing the bounty to find the Viscount's son. Her lack of decorum didn't personally insult him, but if the wrong people took offence to her, bad things might happen. And bad things meant more work for him.

And the last thing he needed, was more work.

It wasn't as if she wasn't capable. She had brought back Saemus with hardly a scratch on him, but then had the insolence to speak up against the Viscount, siding with the boy as if that would solve his problems.

Bran did feel for Seamus. He'd seen the boy growing up and rejecting the legacy of a life he didn't choose. Reject it as he might, that didn't absolve him from being a public figure whose deeds were of importance to the city's peace. For him to be seen gallivanting with the Qunari... Bran could hardly imagine anything worse.

The Qunari troubled him, both in how they had arrived in the city and in their decision to stay. They hadn't asked for anything, but that agitated Bran even more. Everyone always wanted something, and he was certain that whatever the Qunari desired, would not benefit Kirkwall.

To know that Hawke had dealings with the Arishok in the past, made the hair on Bran's neck rise.

And now he had elevated her to Kirkwall nobility, reclaiming her mother's old birthright. Perhaps he had an optimistic hope that the title, combined with Leandra's effort, could quell Hawke's temper. And had Leandra really mentioned his son? The way Hawke said it, made Bran think that Leandra thought he would make a match for her.

He had never heard of a more preposterous idea. The thought that a boy of nineteen could match her nature was ludicrous, but at least Hawke herself seemed to agree.

It had surprised him to see a different side of her, however. He couldn't imagine that it was easy to cope with a deceased father, the loss of a brother, a sister confined to the Gallows, and a mother with aspirations that clearly conflicted with her own.

Perhaps he should be glad that his only familial issue was having a son out of wedlock.

Bran took a deep breath and rose from his chair. Everyone had a hidden past that they didn't show to the world, that lay hidden behind whatever façade suited them.

By the Maker, he needed a drink. Even if it was only halfway through the afternoon, with much more work to finish, he needed to digest this meeting. He opened his cabinet in search of something that took his fancy, when his eye fell on the Ferelden whiskey. Perfect. With a wicked sense of pleasure, he poured himself half a glass. He took a sip. Sharp and peaty, yet still not half as sharp as Hawke.

Rose. What a name.

He had never quite thought of her beyond Hawke. Staring down at his glass, he swirled the whiskey around and downed it in one gulp. He would definitely need to visit the Rose tonight to blow off steam.