The Heart of a Dragon (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

His Infernal Rightness

On her way to the tavern after a long day of training and impressing the visiting nobility, Ren passed by two of the washerwomen whispering to one another. She couldn't help hearing the words "Iron Bull," followed by a giggle, and although she despised herself for it, she paused, ostensibly plucking some elfroot leaves, to listen.

"What?" said one of the washerwomen. "I just went to his tent last night, to ... thank him. He's had his healer assisting with the sick and injured, and they've helped a lot of people. So ... I thanked him."

"Is that why you're walking funny?" said the other one.

"Well, I thanked him a few times, and then he thanked me back. There was all sorts of gratitude going on." They both giggled, and Ren plucked the plant convulsively out of the ground by the root. Since it wasn't actually elfroot, she felt no compunction about tossing it aside, berating herself for stopping at all.

What had she hoped to gain by listening to that? She knew how many women—and some men—followed him with their eyes, and she certainly didn't blame him for taking advantage of the opportunities literally being thrown his way. She didn't even disagree with the basic premise of not sleeping with someone you were supposed to trust to be watching your back in combat rather than ogling it. But she was in the middle of the longest dry spell of her life, and she couldn't seem to quash her growing attraction to the Iron Bull, and it was all highly frustrating.

And yet, when she entered the tavern and found him there at the back table, and he lifted his mug and shouted, "Pull up a chair, boss!", did Ren turn around and leave, the way a sensible woman would have? She did not. She accepted a mug, pulled up a chair, and did her level best to pretend she wasn't lonely and frustrated and wishing for things she couldn't have.

If she had only known it, the Iron Bull was none too comfortable in his own mind about the situation. He'd enjoyed the fruits of his flirtation with the washerwoman ... up until the moment he'd closed his eye and found himself imagining she was the Herald of Andraste. He'd come pretty damn hard under the influence of that particular unexpected fantasy, but that didn't make it a good idea. That wasn't the Qunari way, to bring personal feelings into the sex act; sex was more like a mutual contract of fulfillment than anything else, and the washerwoman should have been enough.

And even if his training had allowed for a more personal experience during sex, Ren had enough on her plate without rumors going around that she was sleeping with a Qunari, and he knew perfectly well that they didn't have to actually exchange any bodily fluids for such a rumor to start. If he knew what was good for both of them, and the Inquisition—and he did—he would be keeping his distance.

So why was he calling her over to his table? It had been a moment of weakness, and one he ought to regret more than he did. But there was no question he liked being around her, and surely with Krem and Varric and Dorian all at the table, as well, they couldn't give rise to any rumors.

Ren thought the same thing. When Krem and Dorian left with Varric to get a sneak peek at the next chapter of Swords & Shields, she told herself it was her cue to head out, too ... and she might have done so if it hadn't been for the serving girl, who had been flirting with the Iron Bull all night. And while Ren could accept that she wasn't going to be going anywhere with him, or with anyone, it was more than she could humanly put up with to get up and leave the table and let the serving girl have her way with him.

Instead, she called for another round, leaned her elbows on the table, and said the first thing that came to her mind. "Tell me about growing up Qunari."