The royal solar is quiet, the crackling fire the only sound, and the rain taps softly against the windows. You stand by the hearth, your hands clenched, anxiety churning in your chest. The decision you’ve made weighs heavily on your heart, but it must be said.

Alistair enters, shedding his royal attire from the day, offering a tired but warm smile when he sees you.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours, darling?" he asks, sensing something amiss.

His voice, always light-hearted, is tinged with concern. After a deep breath, you explain the matter that’s been gnawing at you: the difficulty of bearing an heir, given your shared bond as Grey Wardens. The kingdom needs an heir, and the pressure to secure one is mounting.

You speak of how the nobles view the line of succession with growing concern and how your union, however strong, may not fulfill the kingdom's expectations. You suggest—carefully, delicately—that perhaps it might be time for him to take a mistress, someone to bear the heir that Ferelden needs.

When you finish, there’s a long pause. The flickering light from the fire does nothing to ease the tightness in the room. Alistair remains silent for a moment, and you can see the struggle in his eyes. His mouth opens, closes again, as if searching for words that might make sense of what he’s hearing.

Finally, he speaks, his voice quieter than usual, though laced with disbelief and pain.

“I... I can’t believe you’re suggesting this.” He pauses, taking a steadying breath, as if trying to keep his composure. “You’re my queen, and I chose you. I won’t—can’t—betray that. The throne may need an heir, but I’m not willing to lose you over this.”

He pauses, his gaze intense, filled with a mixture of hurt and fierce determination.

“I chose you. If the throne demands I betray that... then maybe it can find itself another king.”