"I've been trying to get into trouble all evening," Alistair says, "and no one seems to care. I'm starting to think I've lost the touch. Honestly, you'd be doing me a favor." And surely no one would actually duel or kill him. Not here. Maybe later, deeper in Orlesian territory, but he'd cross that bridge when it came. Hypothetically.

Right now, though, his expression flattens into something a little put-upon. He knows her by reputation; he's heard a few scant stories, light on details and probably half false, focused on Maric's decision to allow the Wardens to return to Ferelden more than anything else—but it's enough for him to make a prediction. A sullen one.

"Let me guess," he says, but that's all. The guess should be obvious.