Their first meeting hadn't been a happy one.
It had been so long ago, but she could remember his face, stern and agitated, the hard line of his jaw set with tension. While his ire had certainly not been directed at her, ire was all on his mind that day.
Successive contact had come via the ravens, requesting aid in peace talks with Orlais and corruption in his own forces. The Inquisitor had helped readily where she could as she had always done, perhaps slightly more motivated for Cullen's sake. While he was wholly dedicated to the Inquisition and it's own sovereign nation that had sprung up around it, a small part of his heart would always belong to Fereldan, his home.
Cullen. The feelings she harbored for him had been kept a closely guarded secret, unwilling to complicate matters until Corypheus had been dealt with. Now that he had, she had been holding onto her feelings for so long that she wasn't entirely certain whether she could cross back across the expanse of friendship.
But this moment was not about Cullen, it was about their royal guest, Alistair.
From the moment he arrived, he'd been nothing but charming and engaging, an attractive force of good humor in the midst of the very serious forces of the Inquisition. He wielded his power with a flair, and made it look so easy. At the very least, he certainly seemed sure of himself. He'd cast a spell over the enthralled Inquisitor.
The first day it had been pomp and ceremony, feasting and the showy courtesy of Josephine's Antivan politics. The King handled himself well, if showing a low tolerance for the Game. She found it to be refreshing. Orlesians so ground on her nerves.
Their first genuine conversation would come in the wee hours of the morning in the gardens. She had excused herself after a night of drinking and merriment, finally growing bored when her last comrade disappeared from the event. The King had excused himself hours before, complaining of weariness from travel, so it was entirely unexpected to find him lying on a bench.
At first, she did not recognize him, head abuzz with drink in the cool night air and seeing as how he was dressed like a commoner. She thought it might have been some sauced party guest, and thus commented accordingly. "Well, now, you can't be one of mine. We hold our liquor better than that here," she teased, the slightest of slur between her words.
When he lowered his arm and sat up, she felt scarlet in her cheeks. She might have chosen a slightly different comment had she known she was speaking to royalty.
Alistair leaned back as he sat up, a jovial grin offered in response. "Is that how you had the guts to stand up to Corypheus? Sauced all the way? It must have been majestic."
With a sheepish laugh, she rubbed at the back of her neck, unable to meet his gaze. "Apologies, your Majesty. I didn't know it was you."
Inclining his head, he seemed pleased by this. "That was rather the point. I was hoping to not be recognized. Do you know how hard it is to find a moment of peace when everyone has their nose up your arse?" His eyes, jovial as they were, seemed a touch weary. "Besides, I couldn't sleep."
"Are your accommodations insufficient?" she asked politely, donning the mantle of Inquisitor for the sake of propriety.
His nose wrinkled in distaste. "I heard you a minute ago, you saucy rogue. Don't go all polite on me now. Or are you going to make me play that infernal Game?"
The Inquisitor considered him for several moments, shifting her weight uncomfortably. The alcohol swimming in her head, thrumming her body like a harp, she cast off propriety with her good posture, sinking onto the bench beside him. "Alright, then. Monarch to Inquisitor, we'll just treat one another like normal people. As much as I can manage, anyhow. Recent events have skewed my perception of normal."
Amused, he smirked in her direction. "What, you mean all that rot and Maker knows what with the ancient darkspawn Magister wasn't just what happens on a Tuesday? I suppose that's good news. I was dreading what Wednesday had in store."
Sneaking a flask from her boot, she took a swig before offering it to him. He accepted, downing the burning liquid like a man dying of thirst. "The only thing Wednesday ought to have in store is that flask."
"I'll drink to that!" Alistair laughed, taking another quick pull before passing it back. Briefly, he winced, pressing a fist to his chest. "Maker's breath. You weren't joking about the drink. That stuff is wicked strong."
"I get it from the Qunari," she beamed, proud of her acquisition. "what did Bull say? Ah yes, that it would 'put some chest on my chest.' It was right after we downed a dragon."
His brows lofted, clearly impressed. They sat in silence for a while, passing the flask back and forth until they both swayed under the heavy hand of intoxication.
"This is wonderful," he sighed, sinking lower on the bench, eyes falling shut. "May it-it never be said the Inquisition didn't offer the finest hospitality."
"Oh, it's been said. Mostly by Orlesians, I believe," she snorted.
They shared a hearty laugh, full-bellied and carefree. Dizzied by the alcohol and shaking in his laughter, he tipped over and into the Inquisitor, a hand reflexively reaching out to steady himself. The hand settled upon her breast, lingering there several moments before he realized where it was.
Their laughter died instantly, each turning crimson in mortification. The Inquisitor folded her arms over her chest protectively, clearing her throat and finding sudden interest in the royal elfroot beside the bench.
Alistair swore immediately, "Maker, I'm-I'm so sorry. It was completely by...oh, Maker," he groaned, face falling into his hands.
Glancing at him, she caught her lip between her teeth, eyes catching the moonlight on his hair before she looked away once more. "C-completely an accident, think nothing of it." In an attempt to lighten the mood, she quipped, "I'm certain many a fair maiden dreams of being groped by royalty."
At that he looked up, lips quirked upward, unsure whether to laugh, and entirely embarrassed. "Maybe, but I would never grope you." As soon as the words left his mouth, he became panicked. "Maker, that makes it sound like…" Like she was repulsive. "I mean, you're lovely, and I would certainly grope you if you wanted…" he trailed off, terrified at the words falling from his mouth without thought. "Maker, Alistair, shut it."
While awkward a moment before, the Inquisitor suddenly became entirely amused as he flailed helplessly, trying to right the situation and failing miserably. A knuckle pressed to her lips as she did her best to stifle her giggling. She thought she ought to say something to save the poor man, but all she said when she opened her mouth was, "I might like it if it were done on purpose."
She flushed as she said it, a tinge of regret coloring the emboldened excitement she felt at having said it. After all, she found him hopelessly charming and handsome, and alcohol made it so much easier to say things that might put her in an early grave in the morning light of clarity.
Alistair blushed clear through to his ears, his mortification muddied by amusement. "Ah. I er...I see. That's very…" Swallowing hard, he stood slowly, inclining his head to her politely. "Well, I suppose I've made a big enough fool of myself for one night. I do believe it's time to find a nice, quiet hole to crawl into. Goodnight, Inquisitor."
As he all but fled from her, she pressed a hand to her temple. Stupid. It was a stupid thing to say. What was she thinking, flirting so shamelessly with the King of Fereldan? Chalking up the night as a loss, she marched herself off to bed to sleep off the intoxication that was clearly clouding her better judgement.