It only happens once, that Bastien is alongside Benedict in the chamber. He stands beside him with his arms folded behind his back, looking very much like he's been here before, respectfully attentive but not especially impressed.

Only the attentive part is true.

The present topic of debate and discussion is not directly relevant to them. If it were—if it were yesterday's squirming about the continued presence of rifts in Ferelden's wilderness areas, or tomorrow's updates on the completion of repairs to the bridge and other targets of Tevinter sabotage during the invasion of the Free Marches—Byerly would be here, not Bastien. Today it's taxes. Relevant to defense, certainly, but in the dullest, least-Riftwatch's-business sort of way.

Bastien's fascinated anyway, for the most part. He's never seen a monarch openly negotiate with her subjects. But during some bann's particularly long speech on what percentage of their wheat yield they can spare to sell, he leans over to murmur to Benedict, "He looks like our dog." Droopy and sad-eyed.