He wasn't completely certain what had happened. In fact, he was sitting there, stunned, on the confounded side of baffled, with a smattering of bewildered for good measure. How had he gotten here from not five minutes ago being on the receiving end of that smile, the one with the crinkled eye and the bitten bottom lip that made his knees go weak and his belly grow warm?
He felt like he'd just been punched in the gut, like he'd just noisily passed wind in front of the Revered Mother, like he'd hurt her.
He hadn't meant—he really didn't understand what had happened. Didn't understand why what he'd thought was a brilliant compliment, one he'd really truly meant as well, was met with shocking cold silence. Then a harsh, muttered withdrawal and she was gone, slamming the flap of her tent as much as such a thing could be slammed.
He got his answer much later, and no he hadn't forgotten, and yes it still bothered him but he was smart enough not to ask. Especially since they'd grown closer. Especially since she'd remembered about his mother's pendant and had the nerve to actually ask Bann Teagan about it, since he'd broken down a little bit and couldn't have stopped himself from kissing her if the Archdemon itself had been napping by their camp on the way to Haven. Especially since he'd realised that yes, this is was it feels like to love someone, to love a woman, and she'd let him touch her and undress her, and Maker, she'd encouraged him to explore her and worship her and all those lovely, wonderful, perfect things.
After they'd fought side-by-side in the Dwarven arena, after they'd explored the home she'd been exiled from and he had to watch her pain grow and grow silently behind her eyes and in the tightness of her jaw, then he finally understood.
When they wandered into Dust Town, a slum of corruption and suffering and forgotten lives rivalled only in his experience by a brief visit to an Elven Alienage once with Duncan, he began to realise his blunder. Then when they ventured into the Deep Roads and found the Legion of the Dead, forgotten defenders of the very people who abandoned them, he understood.
He had meant no offence, and she'd probably realised that at the time. Probably why he hadn't been eating his own teeth after he'd said it.
He'd mentioned, briefly, how the blue-grey geometric designs of her tattoo were so lovely, and he'd meant to say how they brought out her eyes, the delicate lines of her cheekbones, but he'd never had the chance. He hadn't realised how fresh those marks had been when he'd first met her—just over a week old, finished healing with the help of Dwarven herbs. Her brother had wanted them healed before she entered the Deep Roads, on the slim chance she'd find some path to the surface, perhaps find a kindly mage to remove them. Bhelen hadn't wanted to risk underestimating her, so he marked her as casteless and sent her to die. He'd guaranteed that any Dwarves from below ground would treat her like something less than dirt, even if they had no idea who she was.
When Alistair finally figured out what he'd said, why it had upset her, the faint, niggling feelings of confusion and guilt dissipated. Then, standing in the Dwarven Assembly, watching Harrowmont move to accept the crown that they'd fought so brutally to receive, he'd looked Bhelen in the eye for the first time, and was nearly as furious as he'd been after Ostagar.
He'd waited, seeing the same determination in her brother's face that he loved in her own, but her brother was not tempered by humility or kindness. Bhelen was determined and fierce, but in his heart he was nothing better than a snake, and when the thrice-damned serpent had attacked them moments later, Alistair had not been surprised. He'd been a little joyous, especially as he hacked his was through the rebel deshyrs and engaged Bhelen himself, focusing all the strength he'd built over months of battling darkspawn and undead and vicious creatures against a single foe, a Dwarven prince with hands that looked just slightly too soft to hold his sword.
He'd known she was near, even as all his attention was spent fighting off dwarves who got too close and hammering Bhelen's defences, and when he saw the flash of her dagger out of the corner of his eye he'd grinned, nearly laughed out loud, at the startled expression on Bhelen's face when razor sharp red steel slipped through a gap in his plate armour, piercing what Alistair could only assume was something vital. He didn't really give it too much thought, however, as the dagger was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and then Alistair swung out with his shield, the Aeducan Shield she had given him with pride and love in her eyes and a heartbreaking story on her lips.
There was a grim satisfaction to watching Bhelen's mouth and nose explode into a mess of blood and broken teeth when the metal edge of that shield connected, hard. It was a feeling Alistair knew he could not examine for long, but there was nothing shameful in avenging those you love. There should be no guilt felt when justice is meted out, and he truly believed justice had been done that day. Just as he believed, later, that Loghain's blood was justly spilled on the floor of the Landsmeet chamber.