It hasn't snowed this far north yet, but the nights are still cold enough that Alistair sets aside his usual display of native-Ferelden masculinity and winds up sitting close to the fire, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A blanket. He's getting weak in his old age.

He's also staring into the flame with a hollow, empty-eyed gaze that goes beyond being simply tired. The others' quiet murmurs elsewhere in the camp aren't distracting enough to keep him from listening to the song instead, feeling watched from the inside and not fighting it for a moment, before movement at the edge of his vision snaps his attention away from the fire.

He has to blink twice before he looks fully present again, but then he smiles.