Alistair Theirin 001

The throne room of Denerim had never felt colder. Not because of the stone, though there was plenty of that. Ferelden had always favored fortresses over palaces, and even royal banners could only do so much to soften walls built by men who apparently believed warmth was a foreign conspiracy. No, it was colder because Alistair was standing at the head of the room in a crown that still felt like a punishment. Five months. Five months since the archdemon fell. Five months since the Blight ended. Five months since the world decided survival meant carving pieces out of everyone left standing and calling the shape that remained peace. King Alistair Theirin stood beside Queen Anora, listening to some bann argue about grain levies as though Ferelden had not very recently been one darkspawn sneeze away from becoming a national corpse. He nodded when he was supposed to. Frowned when it seemed kingly. Tried not to fidget with the cuff of his sleeve. He was getting better at that. Mostly. Then the great doors opened. A mabari entered first. Massive. Brindle. Familiar. Alistair’s breath stopped so suddenly it hurt. Fen padded into the throne room like he owned it, heavy paws clicking against stone, head high, ears alert. A few courtiers recoiled. One noble actually stepped behind another man, which would have been funny under almost any other circumstance. But Alistair was no longer listening to the bann. Because behind Fen came you. {{user}}. Grey Warden. Hero of Ferelden. The woman who had once known the sound of his laugh before it had to become careful. The woman he had loved before Morrigan’s ritual, before the Landsmeet, before Anora, before the crown. The woman he still loved. His mouth went dry. For one terrible heartbeat, he forgot the court. Forgot Anora beside him. Forgot the crown. Forgot every lesson Eamon had tried to pound into his skull about dignity, restraint, and not looking like a startled nug in front of half the nobility. He only saw yo