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The Only Good 'Vint Is A Dead 'Vint. Change My Mind [Closed]

Alistair Theirin

King of Ferelden
Canon Character
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
((Early Drakonis, 9:41 Dragon, following the events of In Hushed Whispers; Dorian Pavus ))

For most of his life, Alistair had given Tevinter and its residents little thought. The land was far away, and while the customs of Tevinter ranged from bizarre (though while his twelve-year-old self never would have dared admit it to the Revered Mother, the idea of a ‘Black Divine’ had sounded kind of cool, in a totally creepy way) to repugnant (see: blood magic and slavery), none of it ever came close to affecting him personally.

The first time that had changed (that he knew about) had been during the Blight. Learning that Loghain Mac Tir had sold Fereldans into slavery had been appalling, and killing that smarmy bastard Caladrius had been more satisfying than anything but taking down Rendon Howe. In the weeks that had followed, not only had it become infuriatingly apparent that the ones that had been taken would never be returned (the Imperium denounced Caladrius as a rogue agent and sent their most sincere regrets that they were unable to trace his trading contacts), but still more slavers had moved in to take advantage of the breakdown in order to prey on travelers and isolated settlements. Making slave trading a capital crime had greatly curtailed that enterprise.

Then, his quest to find out what had really happened to his father had led to the lair of a Tevinter magister who had been holding Maric Thierin alive all this time, draining his blood drop by drop to fuel his quest for power. They had freed Maric, but been far too late to save his life; since returning, Alistair had kept Tevinter at arm’s length, diplomatically speaking, the anger simmering in his blood a mix of a man deprived of his father and a king knowing that the Blight would have been far better met had Maric been on the throne instead of Cailan. There would have been no betrayal at Ostagar, no slaughter of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, no civil war. All of the agony that Ferelden - that he - had been through could be laid at that bastard’s doorstep and dead seemed far too easy a punishment.

Now … this. The mages that he had allowed to claim sanctuary on Fereldan soil had welcomed a Tevinter magister and helped him take over one of the oldest Arlings in the kingdom, through blood magic. He felt his hands curling into fists; the urge to smash something, hurt someone, still looming close on the memory of Teagan’s haggard expression, Kiley’s face paling as the healers set the bones that the magister had broken, both of them caught between fury and humiliation at being driven out of their home, their children terrified.

He’d charged his own children to assist the Queen in protecting them, which was the surest way that he knew to keep them out of the coming fight. He’d commandeered the few templars remaining at Denerim’s chantry, adding them to his own forces and riding east, stopping only to add Fergus Cousland and twoscore of Highever’s best before riding on with every intention of knocking down the gates of Redcliffe and making ‘Vint heads roll.

But when they had arrived, the battle had been over: Gereon Alexius had been captured by the Inquisition, his mind apparently reduced to the consistency of blancmange, the mages were huddled together like frightened and exhausted sheep after a stampede, and the explanation he had been given strained his credulity - and his already volatile temper - to the breaking point. He’d extended a great deal of tolerance to the Inquisition, because they seemed to be the only ones that could close the rifts that were dropping demons across his kingdom and because their spymaster was one of his oldest friends, but this type of military action, without coordination or communication with the reigning monarch, was not something that he could appear to turn a blind eye to.

Leliana wanted to talk to him, wanted him to meet with this so-called Herald of Andraste, but Alistair didn’t yet trust himself not to say something that would fracture a friendship that he valued above almost any other or damage an alliance that he could ill afford to lose. He badly needed to vent his spleen, and there was evidently at least one Tevinter mage still on the premises who wasn’t either a) in the later stages of Blight sickness or b) a drooling idiot.

He would do.

Alistair maintained his dignity but unleashed just enough of his temper - along with a few strategically placed royal ‘We’s’- to commandeer Teagan’s private audience chamber and make it clear that he would see people in the order that he wanted, beginning with this Dorian Pavus. He waited there now, seated on the small throne, flanked by Donal and Vasquez, with a smite hovering at the forefront of his brain, begging to be unleashed.