Sera's down by the water, chucking pebbles in one by one. Each one has a pretty impressive wind-up that telegraphs exactly how she feels about being left out of the proceedings. She doesn't look at Alistair when he takes a seat a few feet away, but she does pause mid-throw, and the pebble doesn't make quite as big a splash when she sends it winging.

Heard your bells last night. He keeps it casual. Congratulations.

Sera slants a glance over; her mouth quirks, small but real. Got her name and everything now, she says, chucking another pebble in. All official-like. Then the lopsided smile vanishes: Don't have her, not yet. Not like I want to run around in those mirrors anyway, but I want her.

Isn't that a familiar tune. Alistair's turn to smile halfheartedly, crooked with sympathy. Yes, he agrees. It'd be an awful honeymoon...but still.

Sera's next pebble hits the water with a plunk so loud it echoes off the wall. Alistair watches the ripples spread. He glances to the pile of stones next to Sera; on closer inspection, they look much smoother than ordinary gravel. Like she yanked little marble bits out of the walls of Halamshiral herself.

Alistair wouldn't be surprised if she did.

Want to take those -- he gestures to the pebbles, -- hide in the rafters of that fancy heated pool, and see how many Orlesians we can splash before anyone notices?

This time, Sera turns her full attention to him...and her smile spreads across her face, sweetly wicked.





The answer to that question: twenty-seven.

Maybe Alistair has a career as a Red Jenny if that whole relaxing-life-in-the-Fereldan-countryside thing doesn't pan out.





When Cullen returns, Alistair's curled up in their bed, dozing -- and there's a full tray of food waiting on the bedside table.

(If Cullen managed to eat anything today, Alistair will eat his hat. Or maybe one of Teagan's hats.)