Chapter Text
The visit to Skyhold was entirely off the books.
When she arrived, it was without fanfare – in fact, no one technically knew she was arriving, which of course was perfect, because it was exceedingly difficult to surprise your people when they were spymasters, army commanders, oracular mages, and whatever. She knew that there was almost no possible way that she had gotten by without Leliana’s notice despite her best efforts, but then Leliana was kind enough to indulge her and let her pretend she’d gotten past the Inquisition’s vast spy network.
That thought made Raina grin as she went into the tavern. Carver had gone to Skyhold’s markets to acquire supplies and mounts for the next leg of their journey, and she was meant to collect gossip and a drink at the tavern before beginning the visit in earnest.
Which was backward, really. They both should be going immediately to Leliana then being presented properly to the Inquisitor and her Council, but really how was she supposed to do that without a drink? Besides, there was always the chance that Varric might be at the tavern and seeing him first could give her some insight about the gossip at the keep, whereas Leliana dealt more in intelligence these days. The difference was distinct.
She’d just pulled up a stool and hadn’t even caught the bartender’s attention before an absolutely enormous Qunari sidled up next to her and in a deep rumble, told the barkeep,
“Ale for me, honeyed peach mead for the lady,” he said.
She leaned back to look at him with a grin.
“Now I might call you presumptuous if you weren’t such a good guesser,” she told him.
“No you wouldn’t,” he said with a reciprocal grin.
Broad span of horns, roguish eye patch, scars, facial hair, a twinkle in his remaining eye. No shirt, just armor that left his chest and one arm bare. It was ridiculous how large he was, and broad, too, even for a Qunari. She was going to get a crick in her neck.
She laughed.
“Cheeky! I might like you,” she told him.
“You probably will,” he said, still grinning. “Name’s The Iron Bull. And you are…?”
“Raina,” she said, canting her head to one side. “I think you might be the friendliest Qunari I’ve ever met!”
He arched a brow.
“And how many of us have you met?”
“Just a few,” she said. “But they left an impression.”
He laughed.
“Let me guess: stoic, humorless, judgy.”
Her laughter followed his.
“That’s not very nice!” she exclaimed.
“But is it wrong?” he asked with a grin.
“Some more judgy than others,” she said with a laugh. “But overall, they did not lead me to expect you.”
“Everyone has their role,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Considering you’re alive to tell the tales, I’m assuming you’re not a ‘Vint.”
She feigned an appalled look.
“Eugh, I should hope not,” she said.
“True, if you were, you’d probably be a slave.”
She blinked up at him, and he grinned at her. The twinkle in his eye looked a little less benign. She smiled up at him.
“True,” she agreed. “So, The Iron Bull? Tal Vashoth, then?”
The look she leveled at him was measuring now, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
He smiled back at her.
“Clever girl,” he said.
She canted her head to one side, and her eyes narrowed a little, though her smile didn’t fade.
Then she laughed.
“Liar,” she said.
“I haven’t lied to you yet,” he said, his smile broadening into a grin again.
“'Yet' being the key word in that sentence,” she said.
“Nah,” he said. “You’ll catch a lie. Selective truths are the way to go with you.”
Her brows rose.
“My word, are you pretending to give away your game to disarm me now by appealing to my ego, or are you just that overconfident?” she asked.
He laughed then.
“Nah, I’ve got you pegged. But if you’re who I think you are, and you’re definitely who I think you are, then there’s no reason to run too much game.”
She gave him a narrow look, though she was still smiling.
“And who do you think I am?”
He put his hand on the back of her stool, then leaned in close, his breath feathering on her ear, “I know a Hero when I see one.” She pulled just enough to turn and look at him. Their faces couldn’t have been more than an inch apart. She put her hand on his bare chest.
“Are you taking my measure, The Iron Bull?” she said with a grin, her voice low.
“Might be,” he replied. Neither of them pulled back.
“Well,” she told him, finger tracing the pattern of the tattoo on his chest. “I will tell you this. I’m a shameless flirt, and am intimidated by neither size nor sex, but you are currently a bit closer than is appropriate for someone I don’t know, so I’ll ask you to please relax and drink your ale, since as far as I know, your employer is no darkspawn, and so has nothing to fear from me.”
He grinned then stepped back and laughed, head thrown back. The sound resonated through the bar, and he clapped her on the back, and she noted that though he could have easily sent her face first into the oak bar, the measure of force he used was exactly right for a friendly gesture of camaraderie without posturing or making a show of his physical superiority.
That made her look up at him sidelong with a genuine grin.
“And, The Iron Bull, if you don’t mind my asking, just what do you do for our lady Inquisitor?”
He grinned back at her.
“Me? I’m just hired muscle.”
At that, a bright peal of laughter burst from her.
“Of course! And I’m just a traveling elf on a pilgrimage, stopping along the way.”
“Tell you what,” he said, “once you’ve let the boss know you’re here officially, we’ll swap stories of muscle and pilgrimage over a few more drinks.”
She lifted her tankard of mead, which the barkeep had put in front of them along with The Iron Bull’s ale during their pissing contest.
“That sounds delightful, The Iron Bull,” she told him, tapping her drink to his. “I look forward to it.”
“I bet you do,” he said with a wink.