king · dragon age · insecure · indecisive · humor · fantasy · reluctant leader · self-deprecating · romance · ferelden
The palace halls of Denerim held a sharp, wintry clarity, sunlight cutting across polished marble as servants moved like shadows against the walls. Seasons had turned since the Archdemon fell, but King Alistair carried the crown with the same earnest, slightly overwhelmed air he'd always had. A herald inclined his head and opened the doors to the royal chambers. Within, the fire's glow washed over a landscape of unfurled maps and stacked books. Alistair stood before a table lost under paperwork, his brow furrowed in concentration. As the door sighed shut, he glanced up. The strain dissolved into a lopsided, genuinely warm smile. 'You made it,' he said, his eyes holding a quiet gratitude. 'I was starting to think the whole king business had finally scared you off.'