Title: It's Almost Easy

Rating: M

Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair

A/N: Thanks for Reading

Chapter 1

Hawke stared hard at herself in the mirror, from the split sleeves on her shoulders to the tapering waistline of her wedding dress. If she was completely honest, the dress was a masterpiece. Expensive Orlesian silk sewn onto soft cotton, it breathed marvelously against her skin. The gown was conservative, dipping low over her collarbone but came to a stop right above her breasts where her mother's locket gleamed in the firelight, seated against her bosom. She refused to take it off, even for the wedding. Especially not for the wedding, even though the maids at the castle urged her to select from the array of fine silver jewelry laid out before her on the armoire.

She'd grown out her hair for the occasion, and it fell in soft blond curls around her face. Sometimes, when she turned her head, a stray tendril would catch in the remaining rouge lipstick smeared across her mouth. Hawke had never worn much makeup before. With all the fighting she did, it seemed a waste of time. She wore it for the wedding, though. Her pale cheeks were rosy, her eyes outlined thinly in kohl. Most of the lipstick she had wiped off, much to the dismay of the servants, but she hated the color and preferred the natural pink tinge to her mouth.

A stranger stared at her from a gold-trimmed mirror. Hawke the mercenary would never have worn such an elegant dress or such expensive pins in her hair. She wouldn't paint her face like a prostitute and force herself to smile at the doting servants that were a little too short with their future queen. Hawke the mercenary had short hair, cut hastily with a dagger in the middle of the woods. She slept with a dog in the bed and didn't care that her shoes weren't the latest fashion from Orlais. She spent her days in the woods with a bow across her back, hunting for her food and telling stories by firelight. This creature, this beatific doll in the mirror was not her.

Pressing a hand to her face, she tore her gaze away. What would her mother think, selling herself out for an alliance? The woman who abandoned duty to marry an apostate? Would she be proud because her daughter was standing up for all mages, or would she be disgusted by how easily into politics her daughter had fallen? Hawke could scarcely believe it herself, how well-adapted she was at playing the game. Maker, what would her father think?

Actually, she smiled slightly, Father would be the one to understand. He'd be the one that took Mother's hand and forced her to calm down.

An hour ago, she'd sent the servants and fluttering attendants away, aggravated at their pushing and pinning and talking. Helpful though they were in some areas, she needed to be alone. Marrying a king had never been on her agenda, especially one she'd only met in passing. As Viscountess, she thought to marry a minor lord. Maybe Sebastian if she decided to give his proposal any thought. Times were hard, though. The Divine was on a mage-hunt if ever there was one, and Hawke had no time to think of her own desires. A union between Kirkwall and Ferelden—the only two safe-havens for mages besides Tevinter in all of Thedas—was paramount. The only way to urge the Chantry to loosen its hold on mages was to unite two lands under the Divine and hope for the best.

Sebastian popped into her mind, with his shy smile and kind heart. Religious she had never been, and a chaste marriage under the Maker didn't appeal to her very much. Times were difficult, true, but she still dreamed of children and grandchildren. Selfishly, perhaps, when her own sister was in hiding. Still, her sister would have wanted some happiness to come from even a political marriage. When she met Alistair years ago, even emasculated by Meredith, he had been amiable, his awkwardness charming, but she'd never thought of him that way. That was why the proposal came as such a shock.

It probably shouldn't have, given how aware Hawke was of events happening in Kirkwall. She had her pirate looking out for trouble on the sea and Varric keeping track of nearly everything else. The letter, when it arrived, was such an unassuming object. She tore it open without thought, sitting at her desk with the afternoon sun warming the back of her neck. As she got to the bottom of the letter, she'd nearly dropped it in surprise.

Too well-worded to be from Alistair and too formal to be from good Bann Teagan, she knew immediately that the Arl had arranged the entire affair. She couldn't blame him. He was getting older, and the Court often said that Eamon cared for Alistair as a child. Surely he wanted see grandchildren since Connor was not ready yet to provide them, and Eamon was not getting any younger. Besides, Alistair was the king. Someone had to continue Maric's line.

Hawke pressed a manicured hand to her belly. To think she would carry a king's child was more than she could fathom. To think that she would be queen was beyond her comprehension. She'd never thought to marry a man she'd only just met, but duty called. Even if she had been disagreeable, the king had right to any maiden in the kingdom. He could take her by force, if it were truly necessary. But that was not his intention. He didn't want her because she was the fairest in the land—far from it, actually. He probably didn't want her at all. The entire affair was probably orchestrated by Eamon and Teagan, and Alistair was no doubt pacing in front of his own armoire, frowning in his mirror, debating his future just like her.

If not for the immense pressure to reproduce, Hawke might have been warmed by the idea of being courted by such a nice man. She'd always feared marrying someone who would try to control her—not that one ever could. Isabela had made marriage sound absolutely terrible, and Aveline fell back on it as the only stable aspect of her dangerous lifestyle. Marriage to Hawke—and it might have come from watching her loving parents for years—was supposed to be filled with kindness and affection. She wanted to have children tugging on her skirts the way her mother did while her husband kissed her cheek upon returning.

She was not, however, unaware of how unlikely that would be. Kissing would be a challenge. Consummating the marriage would probably be the most awkward moment of her life. Alistair didn't seem to be adept at handling social situations at all, let alone ones of that intimate a level. If she didn't know better, she might even think he had never had a relationship before. A blush painted her neck, and she started massaging her temples.

Maker, please don't make me spend my wedding night instructing a virgin.

Between choosing the color of absolutely every piece and scrap of fabric to be present at the wedding and making sure the tailor was finished with her dress, Hawke had barely had time to breathe, let alone visit with her betrothed. From the short twenty minutes she spent with him, she'd gleaned a few facts, though. He had no head for the game, that was for sure. Formality didn't seem an issue with him at all. In fact, he'd regarded her with something like friendship almost immediately instead of the more appropriate suspicion. He seemed clean where most men were not. Handsome and strong of build, he was attractive at least. Age-wise, he was probably a little older than she was.

Part of her decision to accept did rest on the fact that she was getting on in years. At thirty years old, she was still a rather handsome woman. Her bones were fine, her muscles solid. She had a thin waist and wide hips. Didn't most men chase after women like that? She was hardly ugly. Money was no object. She was adventurous, sweet, and had claim to a high position. Yet she found her bed bereft of anyone save for a few faceless lovers when times were lonely. The nobles that did clamor for her hand were few and mostly spoiled brats that had no real interest.

To land a king, well, it was something at least. She'd always felt a fondness for Teagan. Arl Eamon she had never met, but she heard good things about his leadership and solid loyalty. After all, he was the noble standing for the Grey Wardens when the hero Mahariel was trying to raise an army. That had to say something for his character if not for his nerve. Thanks to him, Loghain was not in power. Anora was locked up in a madhouse somewhere. Alistair was on the throne. Hawke had not kept as close an eye as she probably should have on her old country, but Ferelden was doing well given the mage rebellion.

Selfish reasons did rear their heads, though. Besides wanting children and a kind husband, she also wanted an alliance with Ferelden. She was native to the country. It would always be her home, and having a tie to it meant the world to her. That she would get to spend even a few months at a time in her homeland would be worth whatever terrible ordeal the marriage ahead was. More than that, if Kirkwall and Ferelden united as one, the mages wouldn't have to scurry and hide so much. Alistair and Hawke could protect them more easily under a united banner than separate ones.

Young Bethany sprung to her mind, with her easy smile and delicate physique. After years in the Circle, Hawke had finally sneaked in under Cullen's nose and set her free. Where she was hiding, not even the Viscountess knew. Cullen suspected, but he would never bring such an accusation to head. Not after she saved him and the rest of the Order from Meredith. Perhaps some mages needed to be locked away never to see daylight or feel the rain on their faces, but Bethany did not deserve such a punishment. Even without her position to protect her, she would have done it anyway.

Thankfully her other companions would be at her side. Varric, called in from Guild meetings, had managed to hitch a ride on Isabela's ship to Ferelden just in time. Aveline would never have missed it, though she did have to give up a few responsibilities. Donnic was in tow. Sebastian was a guest of the court. Surprisingly, Fenris had also agreed to attend.

Unfortunately, not everyone was in the castle. Merrill was a mage and so was in hiding. Hawke didn't know where she was, only that she and Bethany were safe under the protection of Mahariel, a moving piece in the rebellion. Rumors indicated that the hero was supposed to attend, but who knew? She was known for missing important events. Zevran, the hero's assassin lover, was at her side, naturally. Leliana had been missing since the rebellion in Kirkwall. Oghren might have been around—Hawke had no idea what he even looked like. Of course, Sten had gone home to Par Vollen. Morrigan had been missing since the end of the Blight. Hawke knew no more of Mahariel's companions or their relationships with Alistair.

A tentative knock at the door startled her so severely she nearly toppled over in her chair. Patting down her hair, which had come slightly out of the bun, she checked herself in the mirror and said, "Come in."

"I—I, um, I can't," said a nervous voice on the other side, and she immediately recognized it as Alistair's. Hawke perked up considerably and went to the door, prepared to let him in. She pulled on the knob, but it wouldn't budge. He must have been holding it from the other side.

"Alist—I mean, your majesty," she fumbled, unsure how to address him, "I'm decent, I assure you."

Not that that'll matter in a few hours, she thought wryly.

"N-no, it's not that," he replied. "Bad luck and all."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I just," he paused for a breath, "I just wanted to talk. You know, before we did this."

Hawke smiled slightly to herself, feeling a sudden rush of tenderness for him. He was just as nervous as she was, just as unaware of what would come after. Pressing her delicate fingertips to the door, she said, "We could talk through the door. I mean…if you want."

He didn't answer straight away. "I'm not sure what to say," he confessed, and she laughed. "I noticed you sent your maids away. Did…um, did you not like them?"

"I just…prefer to get ready by myself. I wanted time to think." She smacked a hand over her mouth. That made it sound like she was doing this by force.

"Sorry about that. There were a lot of them, I felt. Eamon insisted that you would need help."

"Teagan probably thought so, as well, but you'll find I'm quite independent."

"So I've heard." He laughed suddenly, nervously. "I wish we didn't have to talk through a door."

"Me, too," she said a bit wistfully. "Are you ready?"

"Maker, no," he blurted out then quickly backtracked. "Not that I don't want to…it's just…I…You're….Maker's breath, I sound like a fool."

She wanted to put him at ease but wasn't sure how. "Your majesty?"

"Um, yes?"

"I'm glad we're doing this," she said to the door, staring at the wood with something akin to affection. "Even if…no matter what this means for us, as two people, it means the world to hundreds of others. And I'm…glad you chose me."

The silence that followed was tense. She wondered faintly if she had frightened him off and scolded herself. Fluffy confessions would not win his heart. However good-natured he seemed, it was a political marriage. Hawke had never been very good at speeches. Just as she was about to turn the handle and check if he was still there, his voice drifted from the other side. He sounded more relaxed.

"Thanks, and I'm…uh, glad I chose you, too."

She couldn't help the smile that came to her lips or the blush that colored her cheeks. She put a hand at her throat, feeling the heat gather at the hollow. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a terrible ordeal. If he could make her blush like a schoolgirl from behind a door at her age, perhaps they had already accomplished something. She sensed the potential for a great friendship if nothing else.

"Not that I don't like chatting with you," she said to the door, feeling quite flustered, "but the ceremony will be starting soon."

"Oh! Right! I'll, um, see you at the altar?"

It sounded like a question. "You will see me there."

"Okay…Hawke." He must have been wearing armor, because she heard the heavy metal as he walked away. When he finally left, she blew out a breath she hadn't known she was holding and slid back into her chair, trying to calm the ferocious tempo of her beating heart.

That he could quicken her so was good, wasn't it? She regarded herself in the mirror, taking in the pink tinge to her cheeks and throat. Her eyes were wide with excitement, dilated and framed by thick lashes. Anticipation sat in her stomach. She was glad they talked, and she hoped that he was comforted by it as well.

Not long after he had come to visit did the maids and servants she'd sent away before descend. They clicked their tongues at her hair, sharp fingers pinning it back up and dangling a stray tendril or two in front of her face. They wiped at the remaining swipe of rouge on her lips, and then Varric sauntered in dressed in his fine tunic, looking just as suave as ever.

"Ready, Beautiful?" he asked her.

"Oh, Maker, Varric, my stomach just dropped into my shoes," she groaned.

"Now, Hawke, you know you can do this. I've seen you fight down dragons, rip the horns of an ogre, and grapple with the Arishok. Marrying a king is cake in comparison, right?"

"Let's go find a high dragon, okay?" She started to collapse against the armoire, to press her powdered cheek against her arm in a gesture of total exhaustion, but one of the catty servants hissed and lifted her head up before she could. Hawke glared at the dark-skinned elf.

Varric burst out laughing. "All right, girls, she's got enough powder on her. She looks like she fell into a milk barrel." Without another word, he shooed all three of them out and shut the door. When he glanced back at her, he shook his head. "Look at them trying to hide all your natural beauty, the fools." He put a hand under her chin and used some water to wash her face. She allowed it.

"Are you sure you're all right with walking me down the aisle?" she asked a bit shyly.

He shrugged. "I agreed, and I'll do it. Unless you've changed your mind…"

"I just feel the fool," she admitted, staring into his honey eyes. "I wish Father was here to do it, and I feel as though I've insulted you. You're young, not even close to my father's age." Yet he had served as guardian of her since she was a reckless refugee hiding in Lowtown. Under his direction, she gathered enough coins to go on an expedition that changed her life. He was the one to hold her hand after the Arishok's death as she struggled with broken limbs. He told her stories to quell the pain. Something her father used to do when she was ill.

Varric was as much a watchful protector as her father ever had been, and in a moment of drunken sentiment, it had seemed such a perfect picture. Let the Viscountess be escorted down the aisle by a dwarf. Eat that, you rotten, stuffy nobles.

"Always the best man, never the groom," grumbled Varric playfully, turning her head toward the mirror. Hawke examined her face and nodded. She looked much better.

"Want to run for Orlais? We can be married by nightfall," she winked.

He grimaced. "If I ever get the inclination to marry a woman I consider to be my sister, you'll be the first to know, Beautiful. Now, let's go."

Events swept her away quite quickly, and she was suddenly glad she'd spent so much time moping in front of the mirror. She didn't have any time at the ceremony. The moment she was herded outside her room, a bouquet of white lilies shoved in her arms, veil drawn down, the music began to play. A harpsichord sang in soft soprano as she walked down the aisle of the coronation room. Isabela shot her a grin from the gathered crowd. Varric's hand was like a brand on her lower back, and she could feel herself sweat under the hot lights.

Though the wedding was taking place in the middle of a bright day in the spring, torches lined the hall. Gold and red tapestries with the royal seal hung from the balconies packed full with sniffling and gossiping nobles. Flowers were placed in fine-woven baskets. Ribbons streamed from the rafters. The entire room smelled wonderful, fresh air and cinnamon and candle wax. Ahead of her, in gleaming golden armor that reminded her too much of dear King Cailan at the battle of Ostagar, stood her future husband. On a pillow just beside the chantry mother that would pronounce them husband and wife was a sparkling crown engraved with the same royal crest. Hawke's heart nearly skipped a beat.

Varric's fingers tightened against her spine, pressing her forward.

At the altar, Alistair lifted her veil from her face and tried to hide his shock. He had never seen her outside her armor or probably with any vestige of makeup on her face at all. Whether he thought her beautiful or atrocious, she had no time to ponder. The mother was announcing to all the gathered men and women what was to take place. Hawke could scarcely control the shaking in her hands as she watched Varric's retreating form.

Oh, Maker, don't leave me up here by myself.

She finally tore her gaze away and stared into Alistair's eyes, deep brown. Reprimanding herself didn't help. She spent so much time trying not to flee the dais that she tilted her head curiously when Alistair offered to put the ring on her finger. When he held her hand, she reveled in the rough callouses. A warrior like herself. He was watching the mother, though, not her.

Finally it was done, and she leaned in to kiss an unskilled mouth. The kiss was chaste—as chaste as humanly possible, a quick peck on the corner of her mouth—and the mother lifted their hands up in celebration. Hawke thought she would burst into hysterics as the crowd erupted into a shouting mass of excited guests. Ribbons were tossed into the air. Cut paper and confetti flew at them, thrown by children. The mother reached for the small crown and fixed it firmly atop Hawke's head—only a formality, the coronation would come much later. Hawke looked to her husband who was smiling almost sheepishly at the crowd.

Isabela was whooping with joy, a bottle in her hand. Varric was laughing and clapping loudly. Aveline nodded respectfully, mouth fixed in a thin line. Donnic smiled, his arm around his wife's waist. Fenris was a wraith in the crowd, barely visible. Sebastian gave a sweeping bow.

At least her companions were happy for her.

The banquet was much kinder to her nerves. Between congratulations from her friends and the various nobles already pledging allegiance though she wasn't even queen yet, she didn't have time to fret about what the wedding night would bring. During dinner, she sat at Alistair's right hand, Eamon on the left. They spoke niceties and talked politics: who would replace Arl Kramier, how the wheat yield had faired, the gruesome murder in Denerim a few weeks ago, rumblings of trouble with Orlais. She tried to pay as much attention as possible, but the topics bored her.

What she wanted, more than anything, was a good pair of riding chaps, a bow to sling across her back, a horse, and a target to aim at. Her dress breathed, but it was confining. She envied the men with their tunics and simple breeches. How clueless they were of their good fortune. Twice she nearly stumbled in her unfortunate shoes. The first was descending from the dais, so dazed by how quickly the entire marriage was over that she nearly fell. If not for Alistair's steadying grip on her hand, she would have hit the floor.

The second was during the first dance. Alistair had rights, of course, though Bann Teagan dropped several hints that he wanted a turn as well. She made it to the dance floor well enough, his hand on her waist, her naked arms around his neck. She was careful with the gold bangles on her wrist, not wanting to catch them in his hair or press the cold metal to his skin. In fact, she was very careful not to make him nervous in any way as they twirled pleasantly in endless circles.

"You're a fine dancer," she complimented him with some surprise. "I didn't expect as much."

He perked up. "I took lessons when I was crowned. And you?"

"Oh, I learned recently. From refugee to Viscountess means quick lessons. I suspect I'm terrible, but I can learn later, I suppose."

"No, no!" he said as he twirled her in a half-circle. "I don't dance a lot, but you're…pretty good, actually."

She smiled at him, sliding her hand down from his shoulder to his chest. Just as his mouth turned up at the corner, Isabela crashed into her from behind, and she fell into his arms with a sharp huff of breath. If not for her heels, she might have caught herself. Cold metal pressed against her cheek, and she whipped around at the familiar giggle with fire burning in her eyes. "Look at the pretty couple making puppy eyes at each other, Sebastian," she said to the prince.

"I think you've made her angry," he noted in reply, though the possibility didn't spoil his Cheshire grin at all.

Hawke disentangled herself from Alistair's arms and frowned ferociously at Isabela, arms crossed. "Rivaini, I suggest you sod off right now before I strangle you." A few nobles dancing around them glanced sharply at the new queen. Hawke knew she was making a scene. She didn't care. What Alistair and her needed was peace, time to talk, not foul tricks and skullduggery from intrusive rogues.

"Right, right," the pirate rolled her eyes, taking Sebastian's hand and dancing away. When she turned around, Alistair was holding out her crown. When had it fallen off her head?

She replaced it hastily and held out her hand. "Sorry."

"Hey, I get it."

"Arranged marriages, right?" she rolled her eyes, falling back into the dance gracefully.

He laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I know. Crazy, isn't it?"

"Well, Isabela's been trying to drag Sebastian into bed for Maker knows how long. Maybe he'll keep her busy for the rest of the night."

"We can only hope."

Throughout the procession, Hawke was passed around like an Antivan whore. For hours she danced until her feet were sore, her ankles swollen from the weight of the heels. When she finally sat down to rub at the painful limbs, the day was breaking into night. Guards opened the doors and let in the cool air, sweetened by green grass and dew on the wind. Hawke left the heat of the court behind and breathed deep the fresh air, glad to be away from the perfume and oily food.

She stared up at the night sky almost pleadingly, as if asking it to swallow her up. Though she was glad the party was winding down, it meant she would have to spend the night with Alistair. Alone. Some nights, when she was desperate and lonely, she took strangers to her bed. They were of her guard or hardened mercenaries who would blindfold her and take her without speaking. That was what she liked when there was no affection involved.

Don' tshower me with kisses, stranger, simply finish it and leave me to my regrets.

Often it was like that. The men were gone in the morning, or she was. She'd bathe to rid herself of the smell of shame yet secretly relish the ache between her legs as she sat down to write her letters and sign her papers. She was a busy woman with no time for romance. Once she thought it'd sparked between her and Anders…but she was glad it hadn't. His death was an unfortunate weight on her mind. If they had been in a relationship, Maker help her, the decision would have been even harder. It was damn near impossible from the beginning.

Sweat made her dress cling in all the wrong places, and she was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable and rather tired. If it was at all possible, she wanted to skip consummating their marriage and go straight to sleep. Hawke hadn't been held by a man in bed for a long time, and she wouldn't mind feeling Alistair's strong arms wrapped around her, intentions pure.

Interested? If no one is, I'll simply delete it. I have enough projects to deal with currently, but I just keep starting new ones. Thanks for reading. Review please.