[It works perfectly. Fenris' guard is dropped, the deception utterly believed, and it takes him so much longer than it should to realize what's happening. There's a flurry of motion and cool fingers aganist the back of his neck, and by the time his drunken mind manages to catch up—

He's caught.

Astarion's knife no less deadly a threat for being sheathed (and Fenris feels such a giddying little thrill as it digs into his skin, no matter that the tip is blunted and dulled by leather), and not one he can escape from. Not by normal means, anyway.

And if this were a proper fight, he'd use his lyrium. Hell, if they were sparring properly, he'd use his lyrium— but there's a difference between teaching and showing off, and of the two of them, Fenris needs the victory the least. Besides: he's proud of Astarion, he realizes. A grin that matches Astarion's own creeps over his face, his amusement and pride growing as he realizes just how well the other elf had sold his wound.]

Clever.

[Breathed out as he tips his head back, offering his throat in blatant submission. You win.]

You will not fool me like that so easily next time— but I suspect you will manage to fool many like that. Clever, [he says again, because it was.] Far more important in a fight than brute strength is the ability to use what you can, whenever you can.

Now tell me what you wish to hear first, and I will give you your reward.