Alistair Theirin001

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 sn