This is a story idea that it has taken me a long while to follow up on. It was fun to write, though, and I hope you all find it entertaining as well! Many thanks to my patient and supportive and talented beta, WellspringCD, and to Shakespira for her ideas and encouragement.

Tears stung at Alistair's eyes, nearly blinding him as he stumbled through the streets. How could she have done this to him? Loghain had been on his knees, he had surrendered, for the Maker's sake! One swipe of her sharp blades and the traitor, the murderer of Duncan and all their brother Wardens, would at last have paid for his crimes. But no. Riordan had stepped forward, offering salvation to that scum—offering to make Loghain a Grey Warden! And she had stopped, her blades raised to strike, and listened, her head cocked to the side. The pragmatic assassin who was always at her side had whispered his sibilant assurances in her ear; the Orlesian bard turned Chantry sister had prattled on about the greatness of mercy. And she had put the blades down, one sharp, decisive nod of her head pardoning all of Loghain's crimes.

Betrayed. By the one person he had trusted above all others. Maybe he should never have trusted her, or any of them. A casteless dwarf, an Antivan Crow, an Orlesian bard, a sneering witch, a drunkard, a Qunari—maybe all of them were part of some vast conspiracy to destroy Ferelden.

Alistair stopped, bracing his arm against the wall of a building he didn't recognize. Maybe he should turn around and go back. He was Maric's son, after all! He'd never wanted to be King, but if it meant Loghain got what was coming to him …

"I thought I'd find you here." A cloaked figure loomed out of the dark, and Alistair strained his eyes but could not see the face under the hood.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "And why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"All … scruffy."

"Ah. Well, we don't want to be recognized, now, do we?"

"We don't?"

"Not if we're going to go talk about how to rectify this mistake."

"You think it's a mistake?" Hope poured through Alistair. Maybe he'd have an ally.

"Of course. Now, quickly, put these on."

Alistair took the bundle of clothes. "But … my armor?"

"I'll take care of it. Your sword and shield, too."

"All right. I suppose." But he was used to taking orders without question, so he did, handing over armor and weapon without a murmur. It felt strange to be without his sword and shield—after so much time fighting, they were part of his body. "Where are we going?" he asked, following the cloaked figure through the alley.

"A place I know. Don't worry." And they were off, through Denerim's unfamiliar back alleys. Alistair thought he recognized some of them from coming through here with his fellow Warden, cleaning out all those mercenaries for Sergeant Kylon. But he couldn't have found his way through the warren by himself if he'd tried.

The person he followed stopped at the door of a dingy tavern, holding it open for Alistair and leading him to a table in a dim corner.

"I'm … not much of a drinker," Alistair said, remembering the few times Oghren had convinced him to try that stuff he called ale. He'd made a right fool of himself, nearly falling face-first into the fire once. How they had all laughed, he and his friends. He bit his lip, the bitter feeling of betrayal washing over him anew.

"Just a little to take the edge off." His companion signaled for a bottle and poured something clear out into a dirty mug. Alistair was used to drinking out of worse on the road, though, and he picked up the mug and drank without hesitation.

"What is that stuff?" he asked when he had his breath back. It had burned going down, but now he started to feel warm all over.

"Homemade. Good, isn't it?"

Holding out his mug for more, Alistair failed to notice that his companion was still nursing his drink.

Time seemed to skip around after that. Alistair drank and drank, telling his companion all about the road—how he'd thought he was in love with her, had given her a rose, only to find she preferred the company of the assassin to his. How he had pleaded with her not to make him be king. And over and over how she had betrayed them all by allowing Loghain to become a Warden. Through it all, his companion said little, moving only to refill Alistair's mug while barely touching his own.

At last, Alistair stood up. His eyes were having trouble focusing, and the room swayed around him. "I sh'd go."

"Of course."

It was suddenly very cold. Hadn't it been summer? He was shivering. It was hard to catch his breath. Alistair lurched across the room, nearly falling. His companion helped him stand straight, and they left the tavern. Dimly, Alistair thought perhaps they were moving through the alleys again. It was awfully dark. Hard to see. "Stop!" he gasped at last, groping for the wall. He leaned against it, gasping for breath. Suddenly he vomited, falling to the ground on his hands and knees. He was shaking uncontrollably now, his body wracked with pain, more vomit coming up. The thoughts were quieted at last, no room left even for betrayal as blackness closed in on him and he collapsed to the ground.

The cloaked figure watched as the man on the ground in the dirty clothes convulsed, listening to the faint gasps as the last Theirin choked to death on his own vomit. The face swelled as Alistair asphyxiated. It would be hard to recognize him now, especially not once his body had been food for Denerim's vermin.

Shortly thereafter there was a series of splashes along the docks, as piece by piece the armor, the sword, and the shield were dropped into the river, to be covered up once and for all by the thick silt of Denerim Harbor. The figure discarded the long cloak in a pile of bushes and strode briskly off into the night.