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Josephine moved Duke Eichwald’s place card for the third time, sliding it across her desk as candlelit sconces flickered against the stone walls. Three noble houses held the balance of Orlesian support; she’d win them tonight or leave the Inquisition’s southern borders defenseless against the advances of Corypheus. The beginnings of a beautiful, sunny Frostback afternoon burned through the tall windows of her chambers, catching gold threads in the correspondence scattered across piles of other envelopes, place cards, and invitations. Josephine’s fingertips traced Madame de Fer’s letter, the parchment thick beneath her touch, before glancing back at the seating chart.
Vivienne’s neat script had warned her to flatter the Duke’s ego with proximity to the head table, but never grant him the seat of honor. It was useful advice too, considering that at court, the difference between courtesy and capitulation was a rumor’s length, and Orlais devoured rumor with greater appetite than bread.
And do have a care; he mistakes courtesy for weakness, the letter read. Indulge him, but do not yield. And as for Lord Dupont… he should be close enough to see the wine poured and far enough that he cannot pour an entire bottle down his own throat. He’s partial to reds and beautiful women.
Tonight’s feast would resolve whether Lord Dupont’s shipping routes remained open, whether Lady Crivelli’s coffers stayed closed, and whether Duke Eichwald’s men marched with them or against them. The weight of those decisions settled into her shoulders as she bent over the seating arrangement and moved Duke Eichwald’s place card… again.
“Milady?” A maid appeared at her door, boots wet from frost and running errands across Skyhold.
“Ah, yes, good afternoon, I’ve been expecting you. Tell me, has the wine come up from the cellars?”
“Yes, milady, it arrived an hour ago. An Antivan red, as you requested.”
Josephine nodded, set down her quill, and rose, smoothing her hands down the silk of her robe. Her fingers found the clasp at her throat and worked it loose. Today required armor of a different sort.
The gown waited across her bed, a decadent midnight blue velvet with seed pearls in starry constellations flanking carmine pomegranates embroidered on the bodice, several of them split open to reveal their precious garnet seeds. Val Royeaux’s finest seamstress had sewn each stitch as a small investment in tonight’s outcome.
After slipping out of her daywear, she lifted the resplendent gown from the bed in a froth of fabric. Josephine allowed herself a moment to just thumb the heavy velvet before beginning the complicated process of putting it on. The bodice required careful lacing to pull dainty eyelets and create the perfect silhouette, while the heavy skirts needed arranging so they would fall in elegant folds rather than unsightly bunches of fabric. Her hands traced the neckline, checking the drape. Not too demure, not too bold… certainly more than enough to draw appreciative eyes to assets other than her mind, which was also a useful weapon of diplomacy.
In Antiva, she might have chosen warmer colors, fabrics that spoke of home rather than strategy. Still, there was beauty in this too—and if beauty could serve peace, why shouldn’t it?
“Will there be anything else, milady?” The maid lingered at her doorway.
“Could you please inform the kitchens I will join them within the hour?”
Moving to her mirror, Josephine studied her reflection. Dark circles shadowed her eyes from too many nights spent poring over trade agreements and marriage contracts. She pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, willing the sting behind her eyes to fade before she faced a hall of watchful nobles, then reached for the small pot of kohl, darkening her lashes until her eyes held depth that candlelight would catch. Rouge brought warmth to skin that had grown markedly, frustratingly more pale from too many hours indoors.
The corridors of Skyhold echoed with her footsteps as she descended toward the kitchens. Stone walls gave way to timber beams blackened with smoke and the scent of roasting meat and rising bread thickened the air. The cook looked up from the great hearth, flour dusting her apron.
“Lady Josephine. Everything proceeds just as you asked. This will be quite the feast.”
“That is excellent to hear, but I beg you to humor me. Let us have a look together to double—and perhaps triple—check. I’ll not have a single thing out of place to embarrass the Inquisitor’s hospitality. Walk me through the courses, if you would.”
They moved between the long tables where kitchen staff worked; hands kneading dough, knives chopping herbs, spoons stirring sauces that sent steam curling toward the rafters. Josephine paused in each place, tasting, adjusting. The soup needed more thyme. The lamb required another turn. The cream sauce, despite being delicious already, was too thin to meet Lady Crivelli’s preference.
It all had to be just so. In Antiva, food was always a show of diplomacy and a perfectly prepared meal could often accomplish what armies could not. Josephine wasn’t in her beloved Antiva anymore, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t turn any table into a one-sided war of her own conquest.
Satisfied with the kitchen preparations, she made her way through Skyhold’s corridors toward the great hall. The empty space waited in silence with afternoon light slanting through the high windows. Josephine walked the length of it, envisioning the transformation to come. The head table would face the room, giving her a clear view of every guest, every expression, every subtle shift in posture that might signal opportunity or threat. Here, a lowered goblet could mean simple boredom or simpler blitheness and a too-quick laugh could be a sign of growing discomfort or even an attempt to mask derision.
And Josephine was a master at knowing the difference.
Using her palm, she followed the edge of the long table and found nothing that might imperil noble sleeves. The oak had been worn smooth by countless meals and countless negotiations. Tonight it would bear white linen, silver candlesticks, and flowers cut fresh from the gardens to create an atmosphere of abundance without tripping gracelessly into ostentation.
Orlesian nobles were notoriously easy to offend with displays that outshone their own.
A few servants quickly draped the table in crisp white linen that pooled elegantly at the corners, while another approached Jospehine directly, her arms full of white roses and trailing ivy. “The flowers, milady?”
“Along the center, if you please, but low enough that I may see across the table.” Josephine lifted one of the flowers, inhaling its perfume and appreciating the silk of its petals beneath her thumb. “And scatter rose petals between the place settings.”
The afternoon dissolved into motion. Servants hung tapestries she’d selected, polished the silver she chose, and arranged cushions on the chairs by her design and gentle direction. Josephine moved among them, rearranging, approving, her hands never still. She folded napkins into perfect triangles, aligned goblets until they caught light at identical angles, and tested chairs to ensure no guest would wobble through the evening.
The wine needed breathing. She walked down to the cellars where bottles lined the walls in neat rows with labels marking vintages and origins. That Antivan red sat open on the tasting table, the cool air carrying its scent. She poured a measure into a goblet, swirling it before lifting a sip to her lips.
Perfect. Rich enough to impress, smooth enough to encourage loose tongues.
By the third glass, even the most guarded Orlesian would begin revealing their true positions.
Back in the great hall, the work of servants brought candles flickering to life one by one. The transformation was nearly complete—stone and timber were already softening into gold and shadow, every harsh line blurring into curves of light. Josephine stood at the head table, watching the abundance she had imagined now breathing in the space around her in the creation of the most lavish of battlegrounds.
A commotion at the door announced the first arrivals. Lord Dupont entered with his usual swagger, doublet cut from cloth-of-gold that caught every candle flame. Behind him came Lady Crivelli, elegant in gray silk that made her silver hair shine like starlight. Duke Eichwald brought up the rear, his scarred hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the room with a soldier’s eye.
“My Lords, My Lady.” Josephine stepped forward, her smile warm and welcoming. “Welcome to Skyhold. The Inquisition is honored to receive you.”
Inside the dining chamber, she poured for Lord Dupont first, the stem of the goblet steady in her hand as she eased it toward him with a smile. Lady Crivelli accepted hers with a nod and Josephine set a guiding palm toward the chair that would show her to best advantage. Duke Eichwald resisted direction, his scarred gaze sweeping the hall once more before he chose a seat; Josephine inclined her head as if it had always been his decision. She asked after the mountain roads and remarked on the clear skies, giving each comment the shape of an invitation to speak. When Dupont’s laugh loosened and Crivelli’s shoulders softened, she held those signs as carefully as she held her own composure.
Of course everything she did here, every word spoken to these nobles, was carefully chosen and calculated with a goal in mind. However, the warmth in her eyes, and in her heart, was always genuine.
Sometimes she wondered… was she becoming too skilled at this dance? Would her grandmother recognize the girl who once gave away her lunch to hungry cats behind the Montilyet kitchens in the woman she was now? Trading deals and playing policymaker with princes? To her, it was not so different to smuggling scraps of fish to strays and the impulse remained the same: to nurture, to provide, to build splendid bridges where others saw stormy, impassable seas. Those cats kept the storerooms pest-free and these nobles would protect the south. But these lords and this lady were more to her than pieces on a board and she was aware that their smiles and frowns belonged to lives beyond this table—all were fully realized people with fears and desires… dreams… families they loved and missed. Just as she did her own.
She could win their hearts, and their support for the Inquisition, by offering her heart first.
The soup course arrived first, a delicate consommé with perfectly diced little green herbs floating like emeralds on its surface. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine and Josephine guided it with subtle touches. A question about Lord Dupont’s eldest daughter, studying in Val Royeaux. A compliment on Lady Crivelli’s recent donation to the Chantry orphanage. An inquiry into Duke Eichwald’s thoughts on the best route through the Frostbacks.
By the time the lamb arrived—immaculately pink at the center and tender, crusted with fragrant rosemary and garlic—she had learned that Dupont’s shipping contracts were being threatened by Venatori raiders. That Lady Crivelli’s younger son had joined the templars and hadn’t written home in months. That Duke Eichwald’s lands had suffered three poor harvests and his people were growing restless.
She noted revelations as they slipped free beneath the wine, marking them in her mind like beads on a string. Pretty and sparkling like jewels, these little truths were as valuable as rubies or diamonds ten times over, and Josephine was quick to find them a proper setting. Dupont needed protection for his ships—she could arrange Inquisition patrols along his routes. Lady Crivelli needed news of her son—Cullen could make inquiries through templar channels. Duke Eichwald needed grain—she had contacts in Antiva who would sell at favorable terms.
“The Inquisition understands the burdens you bear,” she said as servants cleared the plates. “And we seek a partnership that advances your prosperity and ours.”
The duke leaned back in his chair, wine and the excellent meal laying a flush over his weathered face. “Pretty words, Lady Montilyet. But words don’t fill granaries.”
“No,” Josephine conceded respectfully. “But ships full of Antivan wheat do. I can arrange for three hundred tons to reach your ports before winter’s end, priced at cost.”
Lady Crivelli’s goblet met the tablecloth with a sharp click. “That’s quite generous of you.”
Josephine only smiled, recognizing both the test and how it would best be passed just the same. Few recognized the power of nurturing an ally at face value, but she knew—and she knew the Lady knew—that to feed, clothe, prepare, and provide for others was its own gentle dominion. “Not at all, Lady Crivelli,” she said. “The Inquisition would do no less for its friends.”
The Lady’s lips only pursed, a tight line of consideration on her face. “That may be so, but what assurance do we have? The Inquisition has enemies. What happens to our commitments if you fall? And what do you expect in return?”
“These are fair concerns, which is precisely why the Inquisition seeks partners, not subjects. Your house’s strength becomes our strength; we ask that, when Corypheus advances, you answer our call for your strength in the field and your access to the ports; and when doubt spreads, we will be most appreciative of your public support,” Josephine said as she lifted her goblet, meeting her gaze over the rim. “And… though I assure you all this will not come to pass, should the Inquisition falter, you retain all trade agreements and territorial concessions we’ve discussed. We succeed together or you lose nothing by trying.”
The older woman’s eyes narrowed; then, she nodded slowly. “Cleverly said.”
The sweetmeats arrived as the negotiations deepened, leaving the table overflowing in feast. Lord Dupont’s ships would carry Inquisition messages in exchange for protection. Candied fruits and honey cakes, delicate pastries filled with cream and studded with pistachios. Lady Crivelli’s coffers would open in exchange for news of her son and promises of safe passage through Inquisition lands.
“I am not yet convinced,” Duke Eichwald said, leaning back and studying her, though his fingers lingered over the honey cakes and Josephine noted how his stern expression softened with each bite. “You offer much for untested loyalty. It is naive. What if I simply took your grain and kept my men at home?”
The hall fell silent. Josephine’s pulse quickened, but her smile never wavered. “Then you’d be the fool who chose short-term gain over long-term prosperity. The Inquisition will remember its friends, my dear Duke—and its enemies. But more importantly, your people would know their leader chose to let Thedas burn rather than stand against the darkness.” She leaned forward, lowering her goblet so the candlelight flecked off the jewels of her eyes, the still-rouged cupid’s bow of her mouth. “Besides, I know you better than that. A man doesn’t earn his soldiers’ loyalty by abandoning allies.”
Something shifted in his wine-warmed face. “You’d gamble everything on reading my character?”
“I’d gamble everything on your honor. And I’m rarely wrong in my bets. Should you like, I will have cards brought to the table for a game where we might test my aptitude for such things? I’m told you, too, enjoy a game of Wicked Grace.”
“Certainly not,” he laughed. “I enjoy the game well enough to know not to bluff against an Antivan. But very well, Lady Montilyet, you have made your point… and I respect your gamble. My men will march with the Inquisition.”
“And that,” Josephine said, “seems the perfect reason to call for another few honey cakes to celebrate, don’t you think?”
By evening’s end, all three houses had pledged their support through the recognition that their needs and the Inquisition’s goals could intertwine like lovers’ fingers, each strengthening the other. It was midnight when Skyhold’s esteemed guests departed, with Josephine walking them to the great hall’s doors, offering final courtesies and promises to send the discussed correspondence within the fortnight. And then… she was alone in the great hall.
Candle wax pooled on the tables and rose petals lay scattered across white linen. Servants began to move through the shadows, clearing plates and gathering silver, their voices hushed in the aftermath of success while Josephine, finally apart from the onslaught of decorum demands for a moment, stretched until her shoulders and spine popped out tension—
Her own battles, while usually bloodless, were no less arduous than the ones fought afield.
Back in her quarters, Josephine slipped the pearls from her throat and set them in their velvet case. Firelight from her little hearth in the corner painted the loosened strands of her dark hair with molten aurum as she unpinned them one by one and glinted off the dress where it hung in her open wardrobe. She glanced out the latticed windows, appreciating the moon’s work in painting all the stones of Skyhold’s courtyard silver.
The cool glass of the window soothed her tired palm and the linen of her sleeping shift shushed over her skin. Today had been a victory, and though she was no Inquisitor—nor would she ever wish to be!—Josephine was, in her own way, the empress of that small candlelit battlefield turned garden of possibility. Battle after battle. Bloom after bloom. Tonight had planted seeds that would blossom into the Inquisition’s salvation, lush with abundance nourished by generosity, strength cultivated through understanding that would in time bear fruit.
It was easy to think of it all in flowery words, really, especially after her success. But Josephine loved flowers as much as she loved the thorns and roots beneath. Lord Dupont’s ships would carry messages. Lady Crivelli’s coffers would open. Duke Eichwald’s men would march.
And yes, there would only be more battles to come until the war for all of Thedas ended. Tomorrow would bring new correspondence, new negotiations, new threads to weave into the complex web of alliances she ruled over, and maybe even new place cards. But tonight was over, so she allowed herself to fall into bed, groaning when her back sank into soft sheets that waited to provide the sovereign’s rest she’d earned.
In a few hours it would be morning and she would reach for the stack of parchment at her bedside to write to her family about the delicate balance of every detail at the feast. But first, she would sleep, as content and completely full as the moon herself.