Wind stirs the candle flame -- and sends a few snowflakes spiraling onto the latest letter Alistair's struggling to write. He blinks, stupidly, as they melt, then looks up. Another one lands on his face.

"Oh, for Andraste's sake," he mutters, and scrubs away the water droplet. It's only when he stands up that he realizes how cold he's gotten. Cullen's -- Cullen's probably used to this sort of thing, right? If Alistair stays down here a bit longer, surely he won't come to any harm.

...maybe he should get a blanket, though. After giving his arms a brisk rub, Alistair starts up the ladder.

Alternately, upon seeing Cullen huddled under a blanket that'd barely fend off a cold night in Seheron, let alone a mountain fortress: he'll sigh, very quietly, and rummage up a fur for the commander instead. With care, he drapes it over Cullen, gently tucking it into place.