The Heart of a Dragon (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Just Like Old Times

The journey to the Storm Coast went by quickly. As far as the Iron Bull was concerned, it was both too fast and not fast enough. He was still nervous about what waited for them, but he wanted to get it over with, too.

At least he had the Chargers with him. The familiarity of traveling with his own people was a relief. Especially since Ren spent most of her time riding with Dorian, whom the Iron Bull was slowly coming to trust but was still a Vint, after all; or with Blackwall, who looked at the Inquisitor with a certain unguarded wistfulness that was ... unsettling. Not that she had ever looked twice at Blackwall, at least, not that the Iron Bull knew of, and she would never take advantage of a tenderness she didn't feel in return ... but still. In the Iron Bull's mind, she belonged with him, and the reminder that all of that was only in his head—and had to stay there—was an unnecessary torment on this particular trip.

Once they'd arrived and made camp, he led them to the appointed rendezvous spot. He had been in correspondence with his handler on the road to set up the initial meet, thanks to a raven borrowed from Leliana.

The Chargers hung back as they arrived at the rendezvous, prepping their weapons and armor, except for Krem, who would be in command of the Chargers during the attack when it happened and whose opinions the Iron Bull had come to count on over the years.

Ren stood next to the Iron Bull, watching him, as they waited. He was still uncomfortable about all of this, she could tell, but there was little outward sign of it. "Is your contact somewhere around?"

"He is." Out of the underbrush came a thin, wiry elf who looked up at the Iron Bull with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good to see you again, Hissrad."

The Iron Bull grinned at him, glad to see the familiar face. "Gatt! Last I heard you were still in Seheron."

"They finally decided I'd calmed down enough to go back out into the world."

"Boss, this is Gatt. We worked together in Seheron. Gatt, the Inquisitor."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Gatt said courteously. "Hissrad's reports say you're doing good work."

"The Iron Bull's name is Hissrad?" Ren frowned. She thought he'd said his name was just a string of numbers.

Gatt shook his head. "Under the Qun, we use titles, not names."

"My title was Hissrad because I was assigned secret work. You can translate it as 'keeper of illusions', or—"

"Liar. It means liar," Gatt broke in. There was a message in the look he gave the Iron Bull, and it brought home to Ren just how far the Iron Bull had come from his roots. Clearly the Qunari were far less given to floweriness than the Iron Bull's definitions would suggest, and Gatt was having none of the Iron Bull's self-delusions. Ren took an immediate dislike to the Qunari elf.

"Well, you don't have to say it like that," the Iron Bull snapped. He hadn't missed the message, either, and the reminder didn't sit well with him.

Ren pasted a smile on her face. "It's so nice to hear that friends say nice things about me in their secret spy reports."

"He does ... but they're not really secret, are they?" Gatt said, radiating disapproval. Ren wondered if he disapproved of her in general, of her calling the Iron Bull a friend, or of the Iron Bull's openness about his work with the Ben-Hassrath.

The Iron Bull watched the two of them, aware of the instant dislike that had sprung up between them. It wasn't really a surprise; Gatt was a true believer, one who would not approve of the Iron Bull's rather whole-hearted embrace of his role as a southern merc commander, and Ren had little patience for zealotry of any kind. It made her a good choice for Inquisitor, because it kept the Inquisition from descending into such an extreme of Andrastianism that it would turn off nonbelievers, but it didn't help in this case. Ren's flippancy wasn't about to win her any friends among the Qunari. "Look, Gatt—" he began, but the elf cut him off with an upraised hand.