Alistair—like a particularly well-behaved mabari, yes, or like a man who wasn't sleeping well even before he spent a few weeks sneaking across Thedas and sleeping sitting up with a sword in his hand—closes his eyes and lists sideways against Zevran's combing, though not enough to make continuing to drink the wine impractical. He stays that way for a bit, eyebrows pinching together at Blackwall but otherwise unresponsive until he finally pries his eyes back open and straightens his neck to frown thoughtfully at Zevran.

"There is a Blackwall," he says. "I've never met him, but Duncan—maybe there's some other—"

Explanation. No. There's not.

Alistair puts the glass down and says, wryly, "I hope he isn't using his name because he killed him. I'd have to do something about that."