And he turns to his companion, who has been standing motionless at his side this whole time.
"Did you miss me, brother?" asks Stalas. His eyes glow faintly silver-white.
"Clearly not," he says. "So. When last we spoke, if memory serves, I believe I offered to support you if you wanted to become Father's heir." Pause. "Actually, no. When last we spoke, I called you a traitorous sack of shit and told you to go fall into the sky. The offer of support came earlier."
"Your appetite for drama continues to puzzle and concern me," says Caridin.
"I spent two and a half months in the Deep Roads living on lyrium fumes and indignation. Let me have my fun."
"I haven't slept since my fourth night in the Deep Roads. I agree that it's very unfair," says Stalas. "Now, I have only one question for you: How did Father die?"
"See, that's where you're wrong," says Stalas. "Either I will take the Paragon of Paragons and go down the street to Pyral's estate and very openly and honestly destroy any chance you possess of becoming king of Orzammar, or I will keep my original promise and support your candidacy. The difference turns on whether or not I feel I can trust you not to fucking assassinate anyone, because while I will take you over Harrowmont on every question of policy I've seen raised, I won't have Orzammar ruled by a murderous despot. So. What'll it be? Convince me."
"I didn't kill father. I don't know what did, but I'd sooner throw myself to the darkspawn than believe 'natural causes.' Might have been suicide, might have been the Carta, might have been someone trying to sow chaos and take advantage, but I didn't do it. It would be idiotic. Believe it or not, I don't want this kingdom in disarray, I'd wanted a, a, time for Orzammar to calm down, get used to the idea of me being heir, so that when Father did die, it'd be neat and clean and not - this mess."
"Yeah, this clusterfuck isn't your style," Stalas agrees. "Of course, three months ago I wouldn't have thought kinslaying was your style either, and yet here we are. The Trian incident had you all over it, though. Father's death does not. If I'd come back and found Father dead and the whole kingdom solidly united behind you, then I would have taken this straight to the Proving arena."
Stalas sighs.
"Caridin, could you give us a few minutes? I think this will go better without you."
"Of course," says Caridin. He steps out into the hall. Stalas shrugs out of his golem-suit - literally shrugs, and the pieces drop away in a silvery-white haze and pile themselves neatly on the floor, leaving him dressed in slightly ill-fitting clothes borrowed from House Ortan. Without the suit, he is unarmed.
The door shuts behind Caridin, and Stalas asks, "Why do you think I'm here?"
He pauses.
"...I do admit that the urge to gloat was not wholly absent from the decisionmaking process, but I've had my dramatic entrance, I'm done playing now. I need you to understand where I'm coming from."
"Why the fuck would I? Ancestors save me from politics! Put me on the throne and I spend the rest of my life constantly chained to my overactive sense of responsibility. I'd much rather let you do the work while I go punch an ogre, provided I can trust you not to try to fucking kill me."
"Only to the extent that I don't want what you do to involve assassination. I think that's a pretty reasonable request."
"Yes, I fucking do! But you're not going to exile all the casteless into the Deep Roads! If I didn't think you could make a perfectly good king without my active intervention, I would currently be speaking to Pyral Harrowmont, who probably can't but at least definitely won't have anyone assassinated while he's at it!"