"Came to the right place then, didn't you?"

"Inquisition’s got three advisors at the top-top," He motions one hand over the other. "And we’re somewhere down here."

One hands droops dismally, waving like a windblown leaf towards the floor.

"Of course that's just the way it goes, ain't it? Ferelden’s got a queen — that’s where we are. Ferelden." Close towards the border, really, but if Orlais wants to duke it out for this frozen shitheap, he wishes them only the best of luck dying in the snow. "And if you spit you’ll hit a lord of this swamp or that."

That’s generalizing. Probably some Fereldens are also lords of bogs, or soggy, rain-filled ditches. It’s a diverse nation.