The Inquisition had ended. You’d earned the rest, the title, the quiet moments that came after the fight—but now you bore a rank, a new status, like a bruise that needed time to fade. And still, for the first time in what felt like ages, there was fresh air. You could feel it, sharp and clean against skin covered in the maps of wounds, scars like memory-etched trails, and a right arm that was no longer there. The battles left you exhausted in ways deeper than blood and bone, and like everyone else, you’d gone your separate way to let the turmoil settle.

Bull hadn’t followed, not at first. Duty to the Qun came before even the battles he’d faced alongside you, though he had promised, with a playful smirk and a wink, that one day he’d steal you away and make you his bride. The idea was almost laughable—him, settling in? It was easier to believe a dragon would ask to be your pet. But you hadn’t thought much of it since, and you hadn’t exactly waited, either.

Now, leaning in the doorway of the large chamber, you watched him as you hadn’t before. The room was strewn with carved toys—a miniature dragon, wooden figurines, a set of delicate puppets, each a gift of some kind. In the center, by the fire, sat Bull, holding up a tiny bundle with the kind of tenderness you’d never thought possible. The child—his son—wiggled, small legs kicking as he reached out a chubby hand and gave Bull a little bonk on the head, a miniature display of true Qunari determination.

Bull chuckled, grinning at the little one. “You got a good arm, don't ya, hornet?”

The child let out a giggling squeal, clearly delighted by the nickname, while Bull returned the playful bop, gentler than you’d ever seen him.

Stepping carefully into the room, avoiding a toy dragon you recognized as one of Dorian’s gifts, you moved closer, knowing it was about time for hornet to have his milk.