Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Avvar!AU because I am completely obsessed with Avvar!Alistair. Trigger warnings for implied violence and fantastic racism.

…

The Ruins of Ostagar

Alistair Ar Fiona O Ramhold looked about the ruins of Ostagar curiously as he and Duncan, both dusty and weary from long travel across the southern edges of the Hinterlands, trudged along a path better paved than the beaten-earth tracks and game trails he knew in the Frostbacks. Built by the Tevinter mages to hold back the Chasind and their misty bogs, the shattered fragments of a former Empire were impressive but only reinforced the one truth Avvar understood: impermanence was the only certainty. An eye experienced in defence examined the fortifications of sharpened stakes as he shook his head; where were the runes cast upon stone and wood to sear and freeze darkspawn if they neared and why was the Tower of Ishal, easily the most defensible part of the ruins, guarded by a single man? Rumour painted the Teyrn Loghain, Chief Thane of the Alamarri, as a competent warleader – yet Alistair saw a half-dozen weaknesses that the endless tide known as the Blight could exploit, with or without an archdemon at its head.

"I've seen better defences against the darkspawn at Rathold," Alistair muttered to Duncan, naming a notoriously shabby and poorly defended hold known for its sneaking inhabitants, at least half of whom were outcast Chasind.

The Warden-Commander flashed him a warning glance. "Teyrn Loghain has done his best," the dark-skinned man said pointedly. "He was master of his craft when you were a twinkle in your father's eye."

"Darkspawn don't think as men do. The hurlocks will throw themselves on those spikes and make of their flesh a bridge for their brethren to cross," Alistair reminded him, just as pointedly. "Ogres will punch through those stakes like a wyvern through a wicker fence. Why haven't the shaman-born set up runes to break up the horde's advance?"

For a man skilled at killing darkspawn, Duncan was terrible at reading the lines of a battlefield, which made his reliance on Teyrn Loghain concerning. Alistair saw no reason why the Chief Thane should be bothered by taking advice from someone who had lived through three darkspawn sieges in the Frostbacks before Duncan came to make of him a Grey Warden.

"I will relay your suggestions to Teyrn Loghain when appropriate," Duncan said flatly as a tall man in heavy armour approached.

"Don't worry, I'll tell him myself. No offence, Duncan, but for a man who can read the trail of a genlock and figure out what he ate for breakfast, you're shit at planning how to kill them."

"And I suppose you are a master of strategy?" asked the tall man in armour harshly, black braids swinging around a pale, stern face.

"I've survived three sieges of the horde in three years," Alistair responded calmly, meeting the man's sword-sharp gaze. The steel-grey eyes, flecked with blue-grey, widened for some reason. "I'm no great warrior, not like the Hands of Korth, but I know how to survive a darkspawn siege."

The man's lips thinned. For a man who looked Alamarri, his armour was very Ciriane, though scraped bare of the bright enamel and feathers they preferred. "How would you order the defences?"

Alistair repeated the comments he'd made about the stakes and how the horde would pile themselves upon it, adding the suggestion about scattering magical runes across them to break up the darkspawn. The warrior, obviously a warleader of some sort, nodded thoughtfully, that sword-sharp gaze assessing Alistair like a potential weapon.

"Those are practical suggestions. I suppose you're here to join the Wardens?" he finally asked. For some reason, Duncan had been struck mute and looked worried.

"Duncan brought me to the Avvar when I was a child, so that Korth and Hakkon Wintersbreath could forge me into a sword against the darkspawn," Alistair admitted calmly. "My mother was a shaman of the Wardens, I was told, and my father a mighty warrior who could not raise me for he had a son who stood heir to his Hold and would not see that threatened."

The warleader's lips thinned again. "I see." Those sword-sharp eyes shifted to Duncan. "I will speak to you in my tent later, Warden-Commander. Your wife brought back disturbing information from the Wilds."

He turned around and stalked away without a farewell, leaving Duncan visibly fuming at the rudeness, which Alistair couldn't fault him for. However, the cuff over the ear that left him dazed – delivered by an iron fist in a silverite gauntlet – was completely uncalled for.

"If I tell you to shut up, you will shut up!" Duncan hissed. "The Grey Wardens are on thin ice as it is with Teyrn Loghain, who you just met, and one misstep could see us thrown out of Ostagar and leave the army vulnerable to the darkspawn!"

"But he listened to me," Alistair complained, rubbing his ear with a wince.

"Only because you offered halfway intelligent suggestions!" Duncan clenched his fists and released an explosive breath. "And your family background was none of the Teyrn's concern!"

"Why should he care?" Alistair asked confusedly.

Duncan looked around, saw people watching, and gestured angrily to the gates. "Go directly to the Warden camp and do nothing but ask for directions. Once there, report to Warden-Constable Gregor and he will assign you a tent."

Hurt and confused, finding the livid, slightly wild-eyed man in front of him a far cry from the kind, albeit firm warrior who had chosen him for the Grey Wardens, Alistair rubbed his ear once more and obeyed, wondering what in the name of Korth he'd done wrong. Duncan had mentioned two more recruits – he hoped they weren't cryptic and confusing as the Warden-Commander had suddenly become.

Within a few minutes he was hopelessly lost, standing near where the lowlander shaman-born were stationed with their templar watchdogs. A slender woman, aged and in fine silks that were slightly rumpled, approached him and asked if he needed help. Alistair admitted to being a Warden-Recruit and she smiled, turning a still-lovely face into something warm and motherly.

"I'll take you there because I need to go check on a couple wounded Wardens. Warden-Constable Brytta ran into an Ogre out there and two members of her patrol – both recruits – were sorely injured."

The shaman-born turned out to be a healer named Wynne, something called a Senior Enchanter, and she explained how the lowlanders believed darkspawn came to be as they walked to the Wardens' camp. Alistair politely listened, not wanting to correct such a lovely old lady, and soon found himself surrounded by blue and grey tents that were much-mended.

A red-haired daughter of Korth, curvaceous and muscular as her kind were, was trying to tell off a sly-faced man with the look of a Chasind about him but both were sniggering too much for it to have any effect. Wynne sighed, muttered something about birds of a feather, and approached the dwarven woman, who wore armour similar to Duncan's. "Brytta, I've found Duncan's Avvar recruit."

For the second time today, Alistair found himself assessed by a sharp, cool gaze, though Brytta's eyes were the colour of malachite and hard as the Stone that she sprung from. On her cheek was the brand of the casteless children of Korth, bisected by wicked scars, but Alistair would bet she could take on half the darkspawn horde and win. "How'd you get smacked over the ear?" she asked bluntly.

"Duncan thought I should be silent without actually telling me to do so," Alistair complained, just a little. "All because I gave the Teyrn Loghain some advice on darkspawn sieges – I've lived through three – and told him my family background."

Wynne's eyes narrowed, then widened, and she sighed. "Oh dear," she murmured.

Brytta simply rolled her eyes. "So you're that Avvar. Ancestors help us all, we need to bring your Joining forward or we'll have a political shitstorm on our hands. Without breaking confidence, all I can tell you is that you're what happens when a Warden-Mage screws a very prominent Fereldan nobleman and has a kid when she shouldn't be able to. Sending you to the Avvar was the only thing Duncan could do short of sending you to the Chantry, which would have been even more fucking awkward in the long run."

"Was it Teyrn Loghain?" Alistair asked softly. Maybe that's why the man was so surprised, because he probably looked like his mother.

"No, and please don't fish for answers in the camp or we'll all be booted out to fight the darkspawn alone," Brytta ordered – firmly but not unkindly. She even seemed a little sympathetic. "Stay here or wear a full helmet until we get your Joining done. There's trouble in the North and half the fucking nobility would kill to cause more of it."

"I'll keep my counsel," Wynne promised softly. "Where's the wounded?"

"In the third tent from the left. I think Tel's gonna lose the leg and if that happens, we'll either need to cut his throat or dump him in a catapult to launch him at the darkspawn," Brytta answered dryly.

The healer nodded and walked off, leaving Alistair with the Wardens. The dwarf rubbed her brow and sighed.

"I need to go rescue my darling husband from Teyrn Loghain. Daveth, you'll be bunking with Alistair. Please don't pick his pockets or let him leave the camp without wearing full armour, including the helmet."

Daveth, the half-Chasind man, lifted his chin in offended pride. "I would never rob an Avvar," he announced.

"Because you had a sudden spurt of lawfulness or because he's six inches taller than you and probably weighs twice as much in pure muscle?" Brytta asked dryly.

"'Cause he's from Ramhold an' Otter Clan is in alliance with them," Daveth answered huffily. "Now if he was from Underhold…"

Alistair grinned at the Otter clansman. "I hold Movran the Under by the ankles and you paint his manhood with goat's blood," he suggested.

"Only way he'd get blood on his weapon," Daveth agreed with a smirk.

"Is he the guy who threw a dead goat at me two years ago after I killed one of his moronic offspring?" Brytta asked, eyes narrowed.

"Big, dumb and wears a goat-horn headdress?" Daveth asked.

"Yeah."

"Then that's him."

"Huh, thanks for reminding me of him. I need to kill him." Brytta waved cheerfully and turned to trot off, no doubt to save Duncan from the Teyrn.

"If not for the Blight, Movran the Under would be dining with the gods," Daveth smirked. "Pissing off Brytta Brosca's a good way to die."

Alistair could well believe it. "So, I am told there's another recruit?" he asked, trying to find a subject that didn't revolve around his father's identity, which was apparently very dangerous.

"Yeah. Ser Jory of Redcliffe." Daveth's nose-wrinkle said it all.

Alistair's eyes lit up. "I have longed to test my skills against a Knight of Redcliffe!"

"Pfft, don't waste your energy. He won the grand melee in the tourney at Highever, mostly 'cause most of the best knights were already down here," Daveth observed scornfully. "He showed up here, sparred with Milady Cousland – who's probably only about two inches taller'n Brytta and not that great a fighter – and wound up flat on his arse."

"Lady Cousland tripped me!" complained a plump-faced man with close-cropped auburn hair.

"Darkspawn will trip you and eat your face off," Alistair said gravely.

"What d'you know, Ser Knight might be better-looking after that," Daveth smirked. Alistair got the feeling he liked to needle people, which was unfair to a man who was going to join them in the Wardens.

"I am honoured to meet you, Ser Knight," Alistair said, nodding to his fellow warrior. "I am Alistair Ar Fiona O Ramhold."

Jory stared at him with the funny expression that Alistair was already sick of. "Maker's Breath, but you look like-"

"Shaddup or Bryt'll have your guts for garters," Daveth said quickly.

"But-" Jory took one look at Daveth's face, flinched at what he saw there, and fell silent.

"I am told we will become Wardens soon," Alistair observed, changing the subject again. He felt like he was walking through a battlefield strewn with magical runes and sharpened stakes.

"Yes. Something called the Joining." Jory's expression was confused. "I didn't think Wardens had so many damned tests."

"We're off to the Wilds," Daveth added. "Alistair, you know anything about this Joining?"

"Not a lot, only that it is dangerous and is what makes the Wardens immune to the Blight," Alistair informed them both. "They become stronger, harder and faster but devour food like a fire does a summer-dry forest."

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "Guess Duncan told you more'n me."

Alistair shook his head. "I was born to be a Warden, my mother was one, and Duncan took me to the Avvar to be honed as a weapon by Korth's stone and Hakkon's cold steel. The shaman of Ramhold would not see me go ignorant to the Wardens, so he taught me all of the Grey's lore he knew."

"Huh." Daveth scratched his scruffy chin. "I was Conscripted 'cause I managed to pick Duncan's pocket in Denerim. Old bastard runs way too fast for someone with that much grey in his hair. Next thing you know, I'm about to be strung up because Sergeant Kylon dislikes cutpurses for some reason and Bryt rocks up, chews Duncan out, and Conscripts me on the spot. Then I found out she knew I could skin-walk and set the whole thing up!"

Skin-walkers could touch the minds of animals and share their senses. Alistair could see how such a talent could be useful to the Wardens. "Warden-Constable Brytta seems very… pragmatic," he finally said.

"Her and Duncan are two peas in a pod 'cept he handles nobs better than she, unless they're dwarven," Daveth agreed. "Don't let the brand fool you – she's Warden-Constable of Orzammar and Prince Bhelen Aeducan's sister-in-law."

Alistair nodded wisely. It explained why she told him to stay in the camp and keep to himself. His father must have been very high lowlander nobility.

Jory sniffed. "She fights without honour," he grumbled.

"So do darkspawn," Alistair informed the knight with an edge to his voice. He was beginning to see why Daveth couldn't stand the man.

"I dunno. Reckon the archdemon would take one look at Bryt and Duncan fighting together, shit itself and die," Daveth said cheerfully. "Those two are fuckin' scary when they're working together."

"We live in hope," Alistair said quietly, though he already knew the Warden who killed the archdemon inevitably died, according to the old songs.

The sound of armoured boots gave them both warning as three warriors, two men and a woman, entered the camp quietly talking. The taller of the men, almost Alistair's height, was dark-haired and brown-eyed with lines of grief etched in a face too young for it, his silverite armour battered and scarred by darkspawn blood. The ash-blonde woman was much shorter, almost as tall as a male elf though her ears were round, and wore light leather and chainmail of royal blue worked with gilded laurel leaves that had seen hard battle – but no taint-scarring.

But it was the third man, shorter than the dark-haired warrior but heavier in the shoulders, who caught Alistair's eye. Fair-haired and blue-eyed with a boyishly handsome face, he wore armour as golden as any Ciriane's and a greatsword that glowed from the runes enchanted into it. The cheeks were rounder, his skin fairer than Alistair's sun-browned complexion, but the slightly overlarge nose and shape of the eyes were as familiar to the Warden-recruit as his own.

All three fell silent, the dark-haired warrior's jaw dropping and the ash-blonde woman (who he now realised shared the former's nose, though finer) blinking twice, as they saw him. Alistair drew himself up proudly, met the eyes of the man who had to be the brother who stood heir to his father's Hold, and stepped forward.

"Aww shit," Daveth muttered under his breath. "Looks like that political shitstorm's about to break."