The next morning she was less angry with him. He'd managed (Maker knew how) not to promise to stay with her the entire time she was in the tower, but he had a feeling she had more up her sleeves as far as persuasive techniques were concerned that she hadn't tried yet. Remembering parts of last night, he couldn't help but wish she would.

They packed and arranged. He had been meaning to visit the tower for some time, to check how well the mages and templars were adapting to their new arrangements. The changes at the tower were gradual - the Chantry were still angry with him for interfering at all in their tight control over mages - but since his coronation he had managed to modify the templar presence at the tower. The mages had more freedom to come and go, parents were allowed to visit their children and it was a lot more difficult to make a mage tranquil.

He wasn't entirely satisfied, however. And he had come up against a surprising amount of resistance from the mages themselves. Leliana had offered some insight into it for him one evening. "When you live in a cage - if the cage is comfortable, why leave?"

Miranda spoke with Fergus and convinced him to stay in Denerim with the expedient excuse of appointing him Alistair's regent. Eamon usually filled that role, but with Isolde's illness he was finding it more and more difficult to leave Redcliffe. Fergus was pleased and flattered to be asked, and Maeve's eyes flashed with satisfaction.

The day passed swiftly without much time for either of them to speak. When finally they were alone together Miranda didn't allow him to enter into conversation about their trip, instead taking full advantage of their last night of privacy for what could be a very long time.

Being on the road as King and Queen was a very different experience to being on the road as grey wardens. They had a carriage. Their tents were actually pavilions in which it was actually possible to stand up somewhere other than exactly in the middle. Other people cooked for them (he was a little sad about that - no one else knew how to make a proper pea and lamb stew) and they were surrounded by guards.

But there was enough about it that was similar to make Alistair nostalgic.

About a week into the journey he woke in the middle of the night and, leaving Miranda sleeping, slipped outside to relieve himself. It was a clear, spring night with a hint of the brief warmth that summer would bring to Ferelden and he drank in the view of the stars in the quietness of the camp. Armoured figures stood here and there on vigilant watch, reminding him of Sten in their silence and their stiffness.

When he had finished his business he wandered to the campfire, which had burned down to ashes, and sat, unwilling to go to sleep again on such a beautiful night.

There was a whisper of fabric behind him and he turned to see Miranda, in her long nightgown and traveling cloak.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

He smiled at her, but shook his head. "Just admiring the night. I'll be back in a moment."

She didn't turn to go but instead took the place next to him on the log, leaning her head on his shoulder. He adjusted to put his arm around her and hold her close, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Why are you up?"

"I woke up and you weren't there," she said. "I thought perhaps you'd decided to sneak away before we got to the tower."

"I'm surprised you're not fully armed and armoured," he said. "If you were coming to track me down.."

She laughed softly, and reached into her cloak to bring out a dagger. It lay flat on her palm and glinted in the moonlight. "I would only have needed this," she said, smiling up at him.

He shook his head in wonderment. "Ritual dismemberment?" he said, then realised what he'd said and blanched. "Noo, wait, it's not Tuesday, is it?"

She slipped the dagger back into her cloak, still smiling.

"I meant what I said about not wanting you to leave me, Alistair," she said then. "I'll find a way to follow you if you do."

"Templars are very, very good at stopping people from leaving the Tower, my love."

"I'm very, very good at escaping."

He remembered, then. Fort Drakon. He hadn't thought of it in years. His anguish as she was chained to the table to be violated in front of him. The blood on his hands from bashing at the rusty bars of his cell. The feeling of utter helplessness and failure. And then, the miracle - as his love twisted out from under the monster who had her pinned, killed him with nothing but the chains that imprisoned her and freed him.

He had known, even before that, that he needed her. It wasn't until recently he realised that she needed him just as much - and in the same way.

He drew her closer and turned her to face him. "I said once that I would do anything to protect you," he said softly. "I meant it."

She didn't smile. "The one thing - the best thing that protects me is you," she said. "Please, don't take that away from me. Stay."

He kissed her.

They would be on the road for another week. Anders and Rowan managed to treat Miranda without arousing too much suspicion and she seemed to take to the trip well. She didn't mention him staying at the tower again - and he spent a good deal of time thinking of ways he could get around her demand. It didn't help that part of him desperately wanted to give in to her wishes. He knew how badly he would react to being locked up and he ached for her. But however capable Miranda was, she was not on her own any more, and he wouldn't put them both at risk, no more than was absolutely necessary.

The attack came when they were only two days out from the Tower. Alistair had been expecting it, to be honest. There was a reason he insisted that the two of them wear armour and were surrounded by a full contingent of Templars.

At first glance it could have been bandits, but they were too well equipped. Anders and Rowan quickly dispatched the dozen archers surrounding them, however and the templars made quick work of the equal number of swordsmen. Alistair and Miranda remained, safe in the carriage, or so he thought.

When the last swordsman fell and Zevran assured him there were no more, he left Miranda in the carriage and alighted to inspect the bodies.

"No markings," Zevran said, accompanying him. "These are mercenaries - hired killers."

"Not crows?"

Zevran shook his head. "No, my friend. Although it's possible the crows hired them. My former brothers did not always deign to do their own work if they think others would be better able to take the risk."

"But these weren't better able," Alistair said then, kneeling by one of the corpses. He frowned. "We dispatched them so easily..."

Zevran drew in a breath just as Alistair leapt to his feet again and the two men started running back towards the carriage.

His templar senses tingled. Someone was casting offensive magic. They were within sight of the carriage now and he could see the templars surrounding it were still, frozen, with bands of light around them - mass paralysis. A powerful mage. He gathered his stamina as he ran, readying cleanse, and released it as soon as he was in range. The Templars began moving again, but it was late... too late... a figure was reaching the door of the carriage.

Alistair roared and put on a final, desperate burst of speed, slamming into the slender figure before it could get into the carriage, barreling them both into the ground with stunning force. He hadn't even had time to draw his sword, instead he clawed for the attackers throat with his gauntleted fists. The figure was quick, however, and rocked out of his grasp, scrambling backwards and gaining its feet with remarkable agility that failed it suddenly as it came up against the door of the carriage. Alistair had time to get to his own feet, then, and drew his sword this time, advancing on the figure and swinging Maric's blade straight for its throat. There was a clash as his opponent managed to draw a blade and block his swing in one movement. They were close, then, face to face, and he had time to realise his opponent was a woman before he felt a piercing pain under his left arm. Her other hand had managed to draw a dagger and slide it in between the plates of his armour. He dismissed it for a moment - the pain was swallowed in his fury at Miranda's danger, but his sword was suddenly too heavy and his head spun.

"Alistair!" he heard his wife's voice - saw her behind his opponent, her capable hands grasping the woman's jaw and flipping violently to snap her neck in one efficient movement before clambering over her to catch him as he fell, the combined weight of his body and armour bearing them to the ground. His head was in her lap, then, and she was pulling his helm from him and fumbling with the straps of his armour.

"Really, my love," he tried to say. "This is hardly the time..." but his tongue was too thick and he couldn't form the words. He had a moment to think how beautiful she looked, with the sun shining on her hair and tears glistening in her eyes, before he sank into blackness.