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[ He doesn't sit; rather, he folds his long lean frame over, resting his elbow on the back of her seat and dangling his hand off its side. His lips sit decently close to her ear. And he explains: ]

It's a difficult game, my dear. Terribly difficult. The dealer spins the wheel and tosses a ball. Wherever the ball lands - that's the winning spot. If you bet on it, you win.

( it's an excellent angle of—well, not bosom, gwenaëlle hardly has that to speak of, but the clawmarks of the rage demon that had brought her originally to skyhold begin where a more generous bosom would be, dragging down her sternum and beneath fabric. necklines that might be indecent on a more voluptuous frame than hers are merely moderately daring. )

It's as likely to land in any of them, isn't it?

'Tis indeed. So the question is: does the Maker smile upon you today?

[ His finger traces a circle, iconically recreating the spinning of the wheel. ]

A low-risk bet involves a fifty-fifty split. You can select red or black, even or odd. And if you call that, then you'll get a modest return. But a daring woman might select a single number, and if she wins that bet, then she'll make herself a wealthy lady indeed. The odds are against her, but the rewards are grand.

Black,

( decisively, )

sixteen.

( it is entirely possible that he's going to leave her with whatever insane gambling debt this produces. she can't rule that out; he's penniless and untrustworthy and she'd be a fool to think this was anything but a terrible idea.

but maybe if her grandfather is busy being exasperated over paying her newly acquired gambling debts, the small matter of her wedding venue won't be a singular source of ire and she'll be able to slide the whole past him more neatly—

all right, that might be a stretch. still. he's paid for more frivolous things. )

[ He laughs, very pleased by her boldness. A silver thrown down (if he were a man of any real means, he'd flashily be tossing in a gold coin; indeed, if he were a little more reckless than he is, he might be doing it; but Ferelden intelligence does not pay well, and the purse they've given him for this mission is far from weighty) on the spot in question. A spin; a pleasing clack-clack-clack of wheel and ball, and then -

she loses. No surprise there.

As the dealer collects Byerly's money - ]

Another go. I feel our fortunes changing. The next time, the next time shall be ours.

Will it?

( a merry question, but not an optimistic one. still: )

Black, twelve.

( she is a mess of fears and contradictory bravado, and this is such a little thing to be brave about. spoiled, still; fallen from grace only to land in the lap of luxury, still cosseted by a grandfather unwilling to give up his favourite simply because she isn't his blood. she worries and fusses and plans, but she's never yet truly gone without. it's easy, still, to reason away those anxieties—to rationalize doing what she wants to do, which is pure impulse. )

Oh, yes. Without a doubt. Here it comes - Oh.

[ His mock-bravado melts away a moment in sheer surprise as - she wins. How in Andraste's name did - But yes, there it is, the little ball come to rest on black, twelve. In a way, he's actually rather disappointed: he was looking forward to an evening of merrily dragging her from defeat to defeat, showing her how joy could be found even when you're low and debased, even when you have no regard from anyone. Or, failing that, a string of defeats culminating in a victory. The didacticism is utterly spoiled by a quick and easy win early on.

The others around the table cheer for Gwen as she wins a hundred silvers for the three he'd thrown down. ]

( her own shock mirrors his—until she catches it, and it turns the corner of her mouth sly with a smile. )

Bless you, Asher, and your fucking sense of humor, ( beneath her breath, basking in the entirely unearned praise of her new acquaintances as if it's no more than her ladyship's due.

it would not be wrong to say she almost certainly enjoys byerly's astonishment more than the win itself. )

Yes. Well.

[ He strokes his mustache, pushing it back into place, then takes a breath and centers himself once more. Fixes his normal ironic smile back into place and says - ]

Well done. Shall we take your winnings to another table, or is this your game of choice for the evening?

( as much as she doesn't really want to move—that's more a matter of her aches than her preferences, and if she gives him a bit more of her weight to support than is entirely mannerly when she takes his arm to rise again, then

he is absolutely capable of being rude about it, but it's still necessary and bickering about how much he'd like getting a smack might provide a tolerable diversion. )

By all means, don't limit yourself on my account.

[ An attendant transfers her silver into a purse and hands it to her. And he takes her weight - and doesn't complain for a moment; instead, he just makes a mental note that they ought to stay longer at the next table. He oughtn't be making her rise and sit. Foolish of him. ]

Have you ever played wicked grace? That's a game of skill more than fortune.

Didn't I tell you I'd gambled before?

( so prim, considering what she'd told him she gambled for. )

I know the rules. I haven't the face for it, though. Araceli will want me to learn that.

( if she understood what she exposed, she might have a care—but, then, it's just as she says. she hasn't the face for it. a little mirror, reflecting back the things she wishes to please the people who gaze upon her. striving to please, convinced of her own inability to do so.

she doesn't see it so clearly. clever, insightful, but her own largest blindspot. )

Haven't you?

[ He smiles over at her, lashes slightly lowered in blatant flirtatiousness. ]

At once wicked and also full of grace. You seem perfect to me.

Maker, I want to believe it took cleverer lines than that to get underneath Lexie's smalls, ( reflectively.

but she's slept with lexie's current shoulders and, being acquainted with his dubious charms, suspects not. )

Dear lady!

[ He turns to her in mock-horror. ]

I'm flattered by your fancies, but you're a wedded woman. I could never, no matter how much you desired it.

[ More normally, less facetiously - ]

Besides which, back then, she was the hunter and I the prey. Not the other way around.

She's better at that sort of thing than I am.

( gwenaëlle could singlehandedly destroy orlais's reputation for producing seductresses, that is just a fact. she seems for a moment like she might push that a little further—curious about the connection—but she lets it go, instead, )

But now I do have that massive husband to hide behind. I could seduce you if I wanted to, probably, I can say, who can prove otherwise?

( like, basic observation of her temperament could prove otherwise, but by the glimmer of humor, that is indeed the joke. )

[ His smile, for just a moment, turns opaque. And for a moment, there's something more in his voice, a little something that's not anger and not grief and not humor and not dryness and not anything that can be translated. ]

And with my reputation, who would doubt you?

[ It evaporates quick as it came. He returns at once to his normal silliness. ]

So not wicked grace. Then perhaps the dice?

No, ( at once, gaze lingering (remembering—it isn't something she can see but it isn't nothing, either, a hundred little pieces of nothing form a picture if you're only patient), ) I want to play cards.

( at least she'll lose all her money to pirates having given it her very best effort to practise first. )

As you will, my lady.

[ He lowers his head in a little bow. His facade is once again perfect - smooth as the surface of a funhouse mirror. Purposeful and controlled in his distortions and exaggerations. ]

Shall I counsel you on how best to play, or shall I serve as your opponent?

Well, you can counsel me better once you've beaten me, don't you think?

( a little wry. she thinks: probably he won't, though. she might not want to genuflect to the world that doesn't want her any more, but the lessons are harder to shed than she likes to admit, or to be called on—and it's not paranoia if she's usually right, if she can never go without second-guessing.

she'd hated that, how calmly and reasonably adalia had explained what she expected of her, how conniving it had sounded and how antithetical to her own self-perception. she'd hated it more because it was so fucking familiar. always assume the worst.

what's the alternative, getting screwed? she might still, but at least she can say she wasn't tricked. maybe. probably. )

[ And he murmurs: ]

A recapitulation of your current life philosophy, my lady?

[ But he doesn't linger long enough to let the barb sink in. Instead, he ushers her to a table of players. Five of them at the table right now. First, a couple out for a bit of sin, the two of them sitting side-by-side and making moon eyes at each other. They'll lose often, he suspects, but while making small bets. Here to have a good time, not to win. Clockwise from that pair is a swaying "drunk" who telegraphs his "intoxication" far too broadly. No doubt sober as the day is long. Far from being intimidated by the man's charade, Byerly decides that he'll be the one to wring the most money out of: you can get more out of someone who's here to win than someone who's here to have fun, and his ruse marks him as overconfident. Clockwise from him: a soldier, stiff and serious and cautious; the most significant threat. And beside him, a criminal more interested in lifting others' winnings than earning some of his own, if By doesn't miss the way his eyes track the other tables.

Byerly's people. He feels like he's home.

He slides into a chair, his posture easy and casual. Smiles at the others at the table. ]

Room for two more, dear friends? My lovely companion here wanted to learn the game a bit. She'll be facing down some truly fierce players soon - your help will be much appreciated.

[ The giggly couple smiles at Gwen; no one else does. ]

( there are so many things she doesn't like about that, and she would like to tell him at least seven of them, but he doesn't leave her the time and she's still frowning at him when they sit down. she musters up something that resembles good humor at a glance for the pair of tarts at the other end of the table, assessing the rest—

the drunk is trying too hard and hasn't spent enough time around actual drunks to carry it off, she decides immediately, but she smiles at the soldier. it is a thoroughly untrustworthy smile, and entirely instinctive, too; there is something about a certain flavor of stoicism that has always made her want to press her nails. it's the same impulse that had her batting norrington between her claws at the winter palace, and pressing her thumb into bellamy's injuries when he was being terribly manly about the whole thing.

she isn't predatory in the same way that lexie might be, but certainly she identifies prey quickly. trouble has always been a friend. )

I just hope not to lose all of By's money, ( very lightly. she can hear the edge, her mood turning on his remark and staying turned. they can probably hear the edge, too. the only place gwenaëlle has ever known how to hide is in plain sight. it looks like a weakness to exploit; the trick is actually managing for it not to be.

that will be the tricky part, because he really does get under her skin. )

[ His smile in return is sweet. She wanted an opponent; he's simply acquiescing to her request. In every way. Though she's not such a slouch herself, is she - the cutpurse to Gwen's right is now eyeing Byerly like he might have something worth pickpocketing. Which - now By does have to keep him in mind, which is a little bit of a distraction.

Not overmuch of one, though. By knows this game, and he loves this game. At the table, he plays garrulous and cheery, chatting away on any number of things. Today his chosen topic is Ferelden wines; after he gets two glasses, one for himself and one for Gwenaelle, he begins holding forth (obnoxiously) on the superiority of Ferelden wines to Orlesian ones. The Free Marchers clearly have no interest in this topic, but his voice is pitched as such that it's just about impossible to shut out: the giggly couple are too wrapped up in each other to pay him any mind, but the three more serious players clearly are having their nerves frayed by the foolish chatter.

This strategy could, at times, backfire. Except that Byerly is also playing very, very badly. Not in obvious ways, but enough that he's bleeding a steady stream of silver into the pockets of the other players. Enough that they're willing to stick around (no matter how distracted and annoyed) so that they can land this fish.

Periodically, he explains to Gwen rules of the game - simply, broadly, guilelessly, and often incorrectly. The gallant male of the pair of lovebirds corrects him when he's quite incorrect, smiling in a besotted fashion to his paramour after every gallant correction. Even the pickpocket periodically makes dissatisfied noises and shakes his head at Gwen to communicate - he's wrong, don't trust him. The soldier, meanwhile, twitches like he's being bit by fleas at every piece of bad advice. ]

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