They are camped for the evening en route to Orzammar. The Qunari eyes the ground ahead suspiciously. The terrain is changing the farther north they travel, and the chill in the air gives him pause. He is not used to the cold. He hails from Seheron, an island nation north of the Imperium. The Warden's hound frolics gaily through the blanket of white, and Sten expects the ground to swallow the Mabari whole.
"Strange," he says. "The trail ahead looks unstable, yet the hound does not fall."
The Warden's face twitches into a smile.
"Sten, have you never seen snow?" she asks, bemused.
"No."
Her eyes grow wide, and her face lights up with a grin. She is plotting something, that much he can tell. It has been months since she freed him from the cage in Lothering, and still he does not fully understand her. But when she is plotting something, he knows.
She runs off and he hears her whispering. Laughter sails through the air. She returns with Alistair. The Qunari regards them cautiously and swears their eyes are shining mischievously in the moonlight. Maybe it's his imagination.
"Come on, Sten, better get used to the snow," she says lightly. "We'll be traveling through it tomorrow."
Sten steps forward tentatively, testing the ground. The snow crunches beneath his boots and he frowns. Slowly, he sits back on his haunches and places a hand in the white.
"It is cold," he says. "And wet. It is just like everything else in Ferelden. I am hardly surprised."
The Qunari begins to stand, but the Wardens tackle him from behind. He lands face first in the blanket of snow, thrashing wildly. The Wardens roll away from his great form and laugh. Sten pushes himself up, brushing the white mess from his armor.
And in the moonlight, the Wardens see the Qunari crack a faint smile before he turns and walks back to the campfire.