Ball
Hawke lingered in the doorway, watching her mother fuss with her hair. Leandra sat on a small stool before a large vanity, admiring her reflection. She was dressed in a beautiful pale blue silk gown that matched her eyes. Silently, Hawke remained watching. Her mother looked so peaceful, content, happy, even quietly whistling a tune like she was reliving a memory.
This was why Hawke'd taken all that effort over the last few years, working hard and saving money. To see her family happy again, enjoying the pleasure left to them. Even if only her mother was left.
A year ago, Bethany had still been with them. Her little sister would have loved these kinds of things, dressing up with lace petticoats and fussing along with their mother. She had always been a beautiful girl fond of pretty things. Yet as a child, she hadn't minded getting her skirts dirty while following her sibling around.
But Carver... Two and a half years had passed since his death. And he would have hated this more than Hawke did. She missed him, from their sparring matches to the way he could push their buttons. He would have begrudgingly worn whatever their mother forced him to, but he would have deliberately buttoned it wrongly or worn the wrong shoes on purpose.
And four years before that, their father was still there. He would have doted on Bethany in a pretty dress, of course, but he would have had a different pride for Carver and her.
"Toss a coin if it's that hard to decide," Hawke joked as her mother contemplated which of two pairs of earrings she would wear. "Or, you know. Go for the blue."
Clearly startled, her mother almost dropped them, but managed to hold on and turned around. "Rose, dear, must you always sneak up on me like that?" she chastised. "I was debating which pair I would wear, but then I thought… Perhaps you can wear the blue ones. You inherited my eyes, after all, and they would look beautiful against your dark hair."
"I don't need jewellery," Hawke replied as she entered the room, revealing her full outfit.
Her mother sighed and cast her eyes downwards. "I wish you'd worn the blue dress, dear. Burgundy is not a spring colour. This doesn't fit the dress code. You'd look a lot more... soft and approachable in blue."
Hawke took two more steps. Around her legs rustled dark burgundy velvet. The quality of the fabric was superb, catching and absorbing light, even if the cut of the dress was simple. The only decoration was an applique of silver lace and buttons on the front of the bodice, that sported long and slim sleeves. Elegant, coherent, and without all the fuss Hawke despised.
"Soft and approachable do not describe me. Red has always been my colour, and I don't care about a dress code," Hawke said. If she had to join an event she had no personal interest in, the least she could do was stay true to herself. If she had to wear a dress, this one was alright, and suited her complexion just fine. And blue… The last time she wore blue was when she was an early teen.
Determined, she closed the distance to her mother, took the rejected golden pair of earrings out of her mother's hand and placed them back in the box. "Wear the blue ones," she added softly. "They are just as lovely on you."
Leandra shook her head disapprovingly, but didn't fight it. She clasped the blue earring in her ears and admired the sparkle as she moved her head. "Can I persuade you to wear one item, dear?"
"Possibly yes, possibly no. Can't tell before I know what," Hawke said sceptically and watched her mother opening a drawer of her jewellery box. From it, Leandra lifted a small silver something, her fingers trembling. She held up a comb decorated with mother of pearl fashioned like a rose cluster. Hawke recognised it. She and the twins had played with it once, when they were young. It was one of the rare times in her childhood that she remembered her mother yelling at them and almost crying that they couldn't break it. They had never touched it since.
The comb was given to Leandra by her grandmother when she fled Kirkwall with Malcolm. They had been pregnant with Hawke, and as her mother liked to tell, she was named after this specific comb. It was the only item they would never sell.
"My grandmother's comb," her mother said quietly. "I think your hair is just long enough for it."
It was true that Hawke was in need of a haircut, but she kept forgetting to ask Isabela. She hadn't cut it since before the expedition and it currently reached to her shoulders. Her intent to reject the comb died as she saw the hopeful look in her mother's eyes. "Alright," she agreed begrudgingly.
They switched seats. When Hawke saw the sparkle of joy in her mother's eyes, brushing her hair and pinning it, she thought that some sacrifices were worth it.
When she was done, her mother placed her hands on her shoulders and looked at their reflections. Two pairs of blue eyes stared back at them. "I'm so proud of you, Rose. My little girl, all grown up to be a lady." Slowly, her smile faded into mournfulness. "I wish Bethany was here."
Hawke was still looking at her own reflection, pondering how much unlike herself she looked with a dress and her hair up. Her reflection blurred in the glass, the sharp lines of her jaw and cheekbones softening until Bethany's round features remained.
A surge of hot anger shot through her body. The only reason Bethany wasn't with them now, was because of her magic. She had rarely felt more sympathetic to Anders' plight than now. Bethany's magic wasn't any more dangerous than a sword handed by the wrong person, and there were enough of those roaming the streets of Kirkwall.
With another blink of her eyes, her face squared into Carver's. While Bethany had inherited their father's hazel eyes, Carver, like Hawke herself, received their mother's blue ones. Hawke's bone structure had always been the perfect merge between the twins.
Andraste's tits. She didn't need more reminders of her failure.
Her nails bit into her palms, and she fought the urge to lash out – at her reflection, at injustice, at the feeling of being powerless. But the anger won and she shot to her feet, the stool clattering to the floor in her rough movement.
"Rose..." her mother soothed.
Hawke halted in the door opening, took a deep breath, and conjured a smile on her face. "You are a lady again, mother. Are you ready to stick it to those nobles who have denounced us for these years? They'll try to kiss our ass now that we have regained social standing and reclaimed your old house. Such a profound story, right?"
A frown of displeasure grew on her mother's face. "Please promise me to keep your tongue in check, dear. And I will have to remind you... you did promise me you'd dance at least once. Some of my distant friends have handsome, unmarried sons."
"Then why are they unmarried? Because of their prized personality?" Hawke taunted, before she bit her tongue. She didn't want to antagonise her mother too much on this evening she had looked forward to for a month.
She glanced back, remorseful of her reaction and ashamed of how she'd knocked the little stool over. "Alright," Hawke sighed. "One dance. But if I step on someone's toes, don't say I didn't warn you."
The walk from the Amell manor to the Keep wasn't long. The sun had already set, but it was even darker than normal due to a thick layer of clouds looming overhead. It was dry, but the air had a fresh quality about it, foreshadowing rain. But instead of drops, the last blossom petals rained down upon them, pulled free from the branches by a strong breeze.
Hawke and her mother were far from the only nobles making their way to the Keep. Most of them were dressed in colours that matched the spring flowers in the gardens, but with the pressing darkness, Hawke was rather pleased with her burgundy gown.
The Keep itself was just as prissed up as the nobles, brightly lit by candles and magical illumination. Vases of pastel-coloured tulips, bright daffodils and deep irises decorated the rooms.
"A donation from the Selbrech's private gardens," Leandra whispered to Hawke.
But as they entered the ballroom, Hawke started to regret the choice of her dress. From here, you would never tell that it was dark and overcast outside. Most nobles donned colours that matched the flowers, and while she wasn't the only one to shun pastels, she stood out like a sore thumb.
Hawke had thought that she wouldn't be able to bear her own reflection dressed in one of these pastel confections, but right now, she had every desire to blend in and not turn heads. She would never admit to it, however, so she raised her chin high.
"Don't you wish you'd worn that blue dress now, Rose?" Leandra whispered with an awkward giggle as she greeted some lady.
These were the consequences of Hawke's own action, and she'd bear it with pride. "I'm perfectly happy," she lied, straightening her back to feign confidence. It was easy, faking like she was untouchable to the world.
"Leandra?" came a shrill voice next to them, and they were whisked away by one of Leandra's childhood friends. What followed was a quarter of an hour of exchanging so-called pleasantries, while the gaggle of nobles around Leandra only grew. Hawke only needed a few minutes to understand that no matter her attire, she would have felt out of place. She wasn't raised in this wealth and wished she could be back in the Hanged Man playing games with Varric.
Her last hope was finding Aveline. As Guard Captain, she was of sufficient standing and importance to attend events like these. And she'd despise them just as much as Hawke did, but carry herself better. Aveline had said she'd attend for a little while.
Hawke was shaken from her search for redheads when the son of one of Leandra's friends tapped her shoulders. She spun around to find a brown-haired lad in his mid-twenties. "Lady Rose… Would you do me the honour of joining me in your first-ever official dance?"
The man was dressed in a pale orange jacket that turned his skin sickly pale. A dark tone would have suited him much better, Hawke reasoned, but no matter what he was dressed in, the thought of dancing with him made her feel ill.
Her mother caught her eye and silently urged her to accept.
"Oh," Hawke tried, wondering how on earth she could graciously talk herself out of this. It took her all effort to try and keep her tongue in check for her mother's sake. "Thank you…" Shit. She had already forgotten his name. "But, I must decline. Urgent matters of, well, nature's call. Perhaps later."
Or never.
She spun away before he could respond, but not before catching the flicker of disappointment on her mother's face. You've promised one dance, Rose dear, it silently communicated. A pang of guilt gnawed at her, but it wasn't strong enough to stop her retreat.
A few steps later, Hawke could already tell that her feet wouldn't like these shoes. A few steps more, and the dress was becoming a lot less comfortable as well. Unsure where she was going, she passed the crowd to enter a side room. As it turned out, the party spread over multiple rooms, each with its own theme of decoration. The chances of finding Aveline dwindled. Next time, she should arrange something.
If there ever was a next time.
But the next room hosted a large table with refreshments, and all Hawke's discomfort was temporarily forgotten. Silver platters displayed bite-sized foods like jellied meats, miniature pies, and small cakes. She chose a devilled egg topped with salmon and stuffed it in her mouth in a single bite. It was a little spicy and utterly delicious, and she quickly took another one. At least the canapés were more palatable than the nobles.
And she could do with a drink, anything to try and improve this evening. The only drink she found was a pale pink punch in tall, fluted glasses, so she took one. This room was a little quieter than the previous one, since it was further away from the dance floor and orchestra. Here in a dark corner, she could mingle in the shadow and observe rather than be observed.
A man took his fifth miniature cake. Two young women quickly downed a glass of punch and took a second one to go, giggling together. On the other side, a woman was flirting with a young man. He was very much into her.
Almost at ease, she wanted to take a sip just as she spotted a head of ginger hair approaching the table.
She stepped into the light, eager for the chance that it was Aveline. But the shade was too dark, and rather than her friend the Seneschal appeared. It was almost strange to see him moving, instead of sitting at his desk. He walked with practised confidence and purpose, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit of sunset orange that teetered on the edge of being considered pastel. The shade complemented him perfectly and as he moved closer, Hawke could see golden embroidery of daffodils shimmering in the light. It matched the theme of the evening perfectly, but Hawke thought it was surprisingly frivolous for a man so stuck up and pragmatic.
He chose the same salmon-topped devilled egg to eat and grabbed a glass of punch. In searching for a place to go, his eye fell on her. He slowly scanned her up and down. "Hawke," he acknowledged with the smallest raise of his eyebrows.
"Seneschal," she replied, almost glad to see him. Out of everyone here, at least he wouldn't try to kiss her ass. And she could take his comments. "I told you I am blessed with remarkable constitution," she added when she remembered that the last time he'd seen her, she'd been blue and bloodied.
His eyes snapped back to hers after scanning her face. "One would say it's almost magical."
Shit, she thought. He mustn't know about Anders. She conjured a laugh, a little too loudly to be genuine. "What can I say? I am an enchanting person." Searching for anything to change to topic to prevent him from further probing, her eyes fell on the embroidery on his chest. "Daffodils, for a spring-themed ball? Groundbreaking."
The corner of his lip curled. "It is customary to follow the dress code for an event like this, Hawke. Appearances matter, did you forget? Though I have to say you are wearing exactly what I had expected."
"Ouch," she called out, raising her hand in front of her mouth in mock hurt. "Calling me predictable is worse than insulting my sense of fashion. Let me guess..." Pausing, she let her eyes dart over his perfect clothes. "There is a Mrs. Seneschal here somewhere, dressed to match you, to the last daffodil. It was all her idea."
It made her wonder what kind of woman it would be. She couldn't imagine the Seneschal attached to one of the many meek-minded doozies that danced around. The image of an elegant woman, well-dressed but with her own boring opinions, entered her mind.
But barely noticeable, the Seneschal pressed his lips together. "I am not a married man," he said shortly.
"Oh," she replied, a little dumbfounded. "I will rightfully attribute the daffodils to you, then. But... Don't you have a son?"
"Hawke," he snapped. "Please don't tell me I have to explain the process of making children to you. Marriage is not a requirement."
Hawke released another laugh, trying to hide her growing embarrassment. "Well... Excuse me for assuming." Wanting to think of something smart to say, she took a large gulp from her drink. It was a fruity punch laced with alcohol, but the added sugar made it cloyingly sweet. "Maker's breath, this is revolting," she cursed, barely keeping herself from gagging.
The Seneschal eyed her with faint amusement and took a sip from his own drink without flinching. Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Hawke looked away into the crowd. It was a mass of mostly pastels, here and there interspersed with brighter colours. Her eye landed on the shade of blue that her mother wished that she had worn. Examining the wearer, she noticed that the person had similar pale skin and black hair to her, and...
"Say, isn't that Saemus?" she asked in surprise.
The figure dressed in blue looked around a little uncomfortably, flanked by a tall man dressed in sage green, no doubt some kind of chaperone. Hawke didn't know him that well, but she had spent several hours on the road with him, escorting him back to the city. She sympathised with the way he felt out of place in Kirkwall's high society. And now that she supposedly belonged to that group, her compassion only increased.
An unexpected whiff of something earthy and woody entered her nose and Hawke realised that the Seneschal had leaned closer to see through the throng of people. "Yes," he replied reluctantly. "The Viscount likes his son to mingle with peers."
"Good," Hawke declared. Wanting to get rid of her barely touched glass of punch, she placed it on the ledge of a pillar next to her. She just wanted to start making her way towards Saemus, when the Seneschal's sharp voice made her halt.
"Do not harass the boy, Hawke," he commanded.
Defensively, she spun around. The Seneschal's amber eyes were closer than she had expected. He was only two inches taller than her, but his frame held a much more impressive width. That, together with his straight-backed posture made for an intimidating demeanour, but Hawke was never one to shy away from a confrontation. In fact, she thrived in them.
"Why do you assume the worst of me?" she challenged, pushing her discomfort aside to keep staring straight into his cold, intense eyes. "I like Saemus. I'm not going to harass him. And after all… I rescued him last year, didn't I?"
The Seneschal pressed his lips together. "I am merely being cautious. The importance of this event might be above your grasp, but that does not make it less so. It is my duty to ensure that this ball runs smoothly."
His unjust words stung. "And what would you do? Drag me out of here? I will scream."
"Your reaction demonstrates my caution wonderfully."
Hawke refused to be the first to look away. Balls, why was everyone so intent on seeing her as the bad guy? "You started this by accusing me, Seneschal. I am a Lady now, and I have every right to be here. If you value a smooth running ball, I will show you that I am capable of civilised dancing."
If her mother wanted her to dance with someone, she might as well see if she could convince Saemus. Instead of a stranger, she could consider him at least an acquaintance.
The Seneschal had no reply. Knowing that he could hardly physically prevent her from going to Saemus, she made an overly theatrical curtsy. He met it with nothing more than a contemptuous stare. It was nothing Hawke didn't expect. Satisfied, she spun around, letting her skirts fan out and brush against his legs.
Bran's eyes remained locked on Hawke's back, intent on following her at an acceptable pace. The idea of her approaching Saemus didn't appeal to him in the slightest, but he could hardly grab her arm and prevent her going. Besides, if she somehow offended Saemus, the boy's chaperone would remove her without hesitation.
Her dress made it easy to follow her through the crowd. Bran wondered if the dress code had been red, she would have worm something pastel just in spite. But... he couldn't deny that the burgundy velvet suited her.
A cloying cloud of sickly sweet perfume distracted him and he lost sight of Hawke as a group of teenagers passed him. He took a sip of his drink to collect himself. The flavour didn't quite match his palette, but it was the kind of drink expected to be served at a spring-themed ball.
This week, several ambassadors from Ostwick visited Kirkwall. As a collection of city states, the cities in the Free Marches had the freedom to govern however they wanted, with the downsides of having only free access to the resources in their direct environment. Mutual trade was of high importance between the cities, but that didn't mean the cities tried to make the deal as favourable for their own side. Kirkwall was rich in ores while being unsuitable for animal rearing, while Ostwick's pastures excelled at that. Extended trade licenses would benefit both.
It was imperative, therefore, to keep the ambassadors happy, and so far, everything was going well.
At the other side of the room, Hawke was apparently making polite conversation with Saemus. Bran knew that the teenager was shy, and did not enjoy festivities like this at all. It was the opposite of how he himself had been at that age. And yet, Seamus smiled at something Hawke said, and a few minutes later, they started to move to the dancefloor.
"Seneschal, I do so love this drink."
A melodic voice behind him made him tear his eyes off the dancing pair. Bran turned around to find the elderly Lady Cartier, one of the Ostwick ambassadors. "Fresh strawberries from Ansburg, am I right?" she continued.
He wished it had been anyone but her. The lady was Orlesian by birth and still dressed to that fashion, her ample bosom spilling out over the top of her bodice. Her floral perfume was sweeter even than that of the teenagers, but he wouldn't have cared for her company even if she had a more pleasant smell.
"That you are, Lady Cartier," he replied stoically with a friendly nod of the head.
The woman downed the last half of her drink in one gulp. "That just about warmed me up for some exercise. Show me a real Kirkwaller dance, would you, Seneschal?" The woman giggled, clearly inebriated, and held out a gloved hand to him.
For a split second, Bran weighed his options. Situations like these were why he usually disliked formal balls, and why he avoided being near the dance floor. If it hadn't been obligatory for him to show his face, he would have rather remained behind, but he had to admit they were important for maintaining good relations between cities. And right now, he understood that Lady Cartier would take his refusal as a great offence.
Seeing no other option, he joined his own empty glass with hers, and took the woman's hand. They navigated their way through a mass of pastel-coloured skirts towards the dancefloor just as the previous song ended. The dancefloor jittered with the energy of couples arranging themselves for the start of the new dance.
He heard a familiar laugh and he turned his head to see Saemus and Hawke close by. "Thanks, Saemus," he heard Hawke say. "You've helped me stay true to the promise I made to my mother."
"Likewise," Saemus agreed. "My father cannot fault my lack of participation now. And it was good to see you again. A good influence, I think."
Bran was close enough to see them giving each other a friendly nod of the head. Saemus' chaperone quickly caught up with them, leading the boy away towards the exit. Bran could only think that neither the Viscount nor Leandra would be happy with their children's interpretation of participation. Both would have liked their children to find a potential suitor, while Hawke and Saemus clearly considered this a friendly dance. Besides being only eighteen, Bran wasn't sure if Saemus had a type, and if he did, it certainly wasn't Hawke.
And Hawke? He had no idea what her type would be. Perhaps her white-haired elf friend?
Before she could leave the dancefloor, a brown-haired man of around her own age stopped her. He should have chosen a darker orange for his suit like Bran had, since he looked sickly in the pale colour. "Lady Rose... Are you available to dance now?" Bran recognized the man, the second son of an affluent family, and clearly the type Leandra would love to see dancing with her daughter.
But Hawke stared at his hand like it was a foreign object. "Well..." she started, addressing the hand. "I have just performed all the dancing I can possibly partake in for one evening, you see. True medical condition. I will collapse in agony otherwise. But thanks for your offer. Again."
Bran recognised her sarcastic tone, but it was clear that the man didn't know what to make of it. Hawke hadn't even looked the man in the eye before she spun around to leave. As she walked away, her eye fell on Bran. She paused for a second as her gaze travelled up to his face, and shifted to the woman standing next to him. Looking back at him, she raised her eyebrows in a silent question and flashed him a deprecating grin.
"Enjoy your dance, Seneschal," she said with a fake sweet tone, and added a curtsy that felt more like an insult. "Try not to harass anyone."
"What a rude woman," Lady Cartier commented with disdain as Hawke spun around and left the dancefloor. "And what is she wearing? Pay her no mind."
Perhaps Bran should have taken offence at Hawke's sneer, but he could only think he might have deserved it.
It took him fifteen minutes to shake away Lady Cartier. At that time, he considered it late enough for him to leave. Based on his conversation with the ambassador, he could note some tweaks for tomorrow's events that his staff could follow up on in the morning. He himself wasn't required until noon.
He used the gallery to quickly make his way back to his office. The place was cast in the shade from the arches surrounding it, as lighting was prioritised for the dancefloor. This left the gallery as a quick way to navigate from room to room, while at the same time, making it the perfect dark corners for couples to retreat to.
Bran took no mind of the people he passed, until a dry remark made him pause. "Enjoyed your dance partner, Seneschal?"
Turning to the side, he saw Hawke casually leaning against the wall, grinning at him. Because of the dim light, he hadn't noticed the colour of her dress standing out from the other guests.
"That was an esteemed member of the Ostwick Council of Ambassadors," he replied.
Hawke laughed and leaned around the pillar to look into the crowd beyond. Lady Cartier was holding another glass of punch and her high-pitched giggle rang through the room. If the woman would continue like that, Bran would need to make a backup plan for the next day.
"Her dress is ridiculous," Hawke commented.
Silently, Bran agreed with her. "Curious. She said the same thing about yours."
It made Hawke laugh out loud. "Really? Her delicate sensibilities couldn't handle red?"
"Burgundy," Bran corrected.
"Burgundy is a shade of red, Seneschal."
And before he could hold it back, Bran released a short, low chuckle. Hawke stared at him, looking like she wondered if he'd gone mad. "Wait. You said this to me once, didn't you?" she asked.
"Yes," he confirmed, forcing his voice back to be impassive. "Burgundy. Your very predictable favourite colour."
Hawke leaned against a pillar, relaxed now, but grinning. "Aww. You're making me feel all special for remembering, Seneschal." And she actually laughed softly. She appeared a lot more comfortable here in the semi-darkness than she had been in the brightly lit rooms. "You know, I enjoy watching these people a lot more than I enjoy being among them," she continued. "It's quite entertaining to see so many oblivious to their own actions, or just not caring. Those two there?" She turned to her side and gestured at the couple Bran just passed. "He just had his hand up her skirt while she was moaning. And before that, I saw two married people kissing. And they weren't married to each other. Is this Kirkwall's esteemed high society?"
Curiously, Bran observed her. What had she thought happened at events like these? She looked out over the crowd, absentmindedly fidgeting with the waistline of her gown. It gave away her discomfort, and Bran could tell why. The gown was made from Nevarran velvet, high quality but rather heavy. Judging from the shape of her bodice, she wasn't wearing any supportive garments. Without it, the weight of the skirt wasn't distributed over her torso, and must be digging into her skin.
But he knew better than to tell her that.
Bran had always appreciated fashion, from the way the right clothing could complement one's physique, to the confidence it could grant. The right clothing for the right job. Appearances mattered. And while he appreciated the cut and colour of Hawke's gown, it wasn't the right clothing for this event.
As, of course, had been her intention.
"What did you expect from events like these?" he asked instead. "This is a party. Change the decor and costumes, and I assume it's not so different to parties in the establishments you frequent."
He certainly frequented many rowdy parties in his university days, but then again, Rivain was quite different to the Free Marches.
Her eyes snapped back to his, her brows shooting up. "Excuse me? The Hanged Man is better in almost all aspects. Besides, I don't quite like forced parties. In the Hanged man, the only rule is that there are no rules."
"Then why did you come here?"
It might be a rude question to ask, but Hawke's own impertinence made him indifferent. He was simply morbidly curious why Hawke of all people would be here since she so clearly despised everything about it.
And instead of answering, Hawke just gawked at him. "I don't know," she scoffed. "Because it was really important to my mother, perhaps. Don't you ever do something for someone else?"
And if they had summoned her, Leandra approached with a group of women and stopped at the other side of the pillar, in the lit part of the room. "Yes, Rose is around somewhere," she said. "Though... I can't seem to find her. Perhaps she has already left."
Hawke's expression turned to dread, and she silently backed away, a finger pressed against her lips to command silence. This clearly wasn't his affair and Bran wanted to walk away without saying anything, but curiosity made him stay.
"You might have seen her," Leandra continued. "She – ah – she was the only one dressed in red."
A small snicker sounded behind the pillar, and Leandra sighed dejectedly. "I swear, she does these things just to vex me."
All colour drained from Hawke's face, and yet she stared at Bran as if she was unable to look away.
"Come on, Leandra," came the reply. "As if you've never done anything to vex your parents. You ran off with an apostate mage!"
"But that was out of love," Leandra argued. "Rose has nothing to gain from her current behaviour. She is twenty-seven, already! Now, if Bethany was here... My darling young girl would have loved this."
Bran glanced at the group of women, debating whether he should reveal himself or if he should leave. But when he glanced back at Hawke, he found that she was gone. Looking ahead, he caught a glimpse of shadowed burgundy exiting the room.
"But I heard you only managed to buy back your house and title because of that expedition Rose went on," one of the women said. "Aren't you proud of her?"
"Of course I'm proud of her!" Leandra exclaimed.
"I heard whisper that she danced with the Viscount's son," another woman said. "That'll increase her chances of finding a good match."
"Besides," one of the others whispered conspiratorially. "I saw her before. That red gown suited her beautifully."
Bran had heard all he desired to hear, and wanted nothing more than to leave. Leaving the women behind him, he continued his way to his office. Sometimes, he was glad that his own mother lived cities away, divided by mountains and the Minanter River. There, she couldn't scrutinise him, and he couldn't disappoint her.
He almost sympathised with Hawke, if just a little.
Note: Next chapter is called Rain. We get a little angsty, but also get some duo time for Hawke and Bran.