[2018/03/25: I'm planning to delete my ffnet profile sometime this year. If you like this fic and want to keep it, please download.]

A/N: In this story, the "official" report about how Duncan recruited Alistair (google it, apparently I can't add a link here) is just post-coronation Chantry propaganda. Here's what Alistair might say about it in my AU:

"Before we killed the Archdemon and saved their hides, Fereldens thought that we serve Orlais, and who did most of the hatemongering? The Chantry. Why would they have helped Duncan to find a conscript from among the templars? They despised him and the Wardens. The Grand Cleric would have disbanded us if she could. A tournament with Duncan in it would probably have involved tying him up and throwing him to rabid wolves in front of an audience. And the Grand Cleric would have been passing the popped corn."

When winter still held the Frostback Mountains tight in its grip, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden came to Redcliffe during his travels, seeking for recruits.

It was the time of the annual winter fair, and the town was packed with people. Hoping that the hubbub would lessen the interest in his presence, the Warden-Commander arrived in Redcliffe unannounced, only to find that his reputation had preceeded him, and that many doors had been closed before he came. King Maric had reinstated the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, but most folks still held the age-old suspicions. Their commander being a foreigner did not help; where people knew his background, they treated him as an Orlesian spy, and where they did not, they went by his dark looks and thought he worked for Rivain. As usual, the Warden-Commander found himself approaching the lower reaches of humanity first - prisons, alienages, back alleys.

After scouring Redcliffe for potential, Duncan visited his friend Arl Eamon, whose household had only its hospitality to offer to his cause. Next day he took to the road again and came to the local monastery, which was famous for its templar training, and where the Master of Arms was a known Warden sympathizer. Unfortunately the Revered Mother was no friend to the Wardens. But she could not deny the Master of Arms from entertaining a guest if he so pleased.

Early the next morning after his night-time arrival, Duncan was already at the chantry's training grounds, seeking for talent to add to his still pitifully small force of elite warriors.

Wrapped in a thick fur cloak against the chilly air, Duncan climbed the stairs to a wooden platform at the yard's edge. He exchanged greetings with the Master of Arms, who was overseeing the templar novices' daily martial training. The yard was full of young men yelling as they charged against each other, sword clashing into shield, mail clinking and steel-clad feet scuffling on hardened, frosty dirt. The familiar stink of sweat, leather and male ego greeted the Warden-Commander like an old friend.

In the middle of a sentence Duncan heard a reverberating crash of laminated wood against metal and turned to look at a heavily armored novice, who had just slammed his shield into an unlucky opponent and sent him to the ground. Without pause the novice wheeled around and blocked a clumsy swing from another trainee, who lost his grip on the blunted training sword and backed away cursing and holding his hand.

The man was strong. And fast. The Master of Arms was setting him up against two opponents at a time, and he made quick work of them, either knocking them down or disarming them with as few moves as possible.

Duncan's seasoned eye caught many mistakes. The novice relied far too much on knowing his opponents, and his own fighting style was too clean. His bold stance and textbook swordplay would get him killed within seconds against a couple of hurlocks. But Duncan also saw that the man would learn out of his bad habits fast. Maybe even in one real fight. He had the makings of a great warrior in him.

"Ah, the tall fellow?" the Master of Arms said when Duncan asked, and scratched his jaw. "Name's Alistair, my lord. And nothing more. Eamon's bastard son, or so they say, and who am I to doubt it? He's obviously some nobleman's whelp, and it was the Arl of Redcliffe who sent him here, over ten years ago."

Eamon's son? The arl was one of the men Duncan counted among his friends in Ferelden, yet the Warden-Commander had never heard him speak of an illegitimate child.

Duncan crossed his arms and stroked his beard while he thought. He noticed how, after striking his partner to the ground, the novice always reached his gauntleted hand to help them up, even when said partner looked more likely to spit on his hand than take it. Before a match, he greeted his opponents with a bow and a thud of his sword against his shield. His polite manner seemed almost quaint compared to his training companions, who barely bothered to nod before charging at each other. Duncan knew that many templars came from among the younger sons of landed gentry, and they were infamous for their bad manners.

"Is he on lyrium yet?"

"What? No, my lord. He's older than most novices, but hasn't taken his vows yet. Senior novices practice taking tiny amounts, but not enough to addict. Not before initiation."

The after-effects of a lyrium addiction were not the most advantageous quality in a man who was going to have to live with the group mind.

"He's a good lad. You want a word with him, my lord?"

"Yes."

The Master of Arms whistled. "Hey! Alistair! Come over for a moment."

The novice disengaged from the fray and walked toward them, sheathing his sword and slinging the shield on his back with practiced ease as he climbed the wooden stairs to the platform. He walked like a warrior, not like a common soldier. As he came closer, Duncan saw that he was almost a palm's width taller than Duncan himself.

The Master of Arms made the introductions, and the novice bowed. "My lord." His voice was slightly out of breath and muffled by the great helm which completely hid his face. Under the plate armor, his chest was still heaving from the exertion.

"Alistair, is it?"

"At your service, my lord. Oh, blight it." The young man reached for the buckles of his helm and removed it. Sweat was running down his temples and dripping from the tip of his nose. He literally steamed in the winter cold. The Master of Arms handed him a linen rag and a bucket of water and he wiped his face and took a swig from the bucket before turning back to Duncan. "Ahh, that's better."

The man was extraordinarily handsome. His short hair, apparently a reddish blonde color, was now dark with sweat and sticking any which way. His face was still flushed from the exercise. He had hazel brown eyes, a short stubble of a beard and strong, clear features which, Duncan had to admit, seemed to confirm the rumors of his noble paternity. But try as he might, Duncan could not recognize any resemblance to the Arl of Redcliffe.

"My lord..?"

Duncan realised he had been lost in his thoughts for a moment too long.

"The Warden-Commander seeks recruits for the Grey Wardens," the Master of Arms said.

Alistair straightened up. His whole countenance brightened. It was not a reaction Duncan was accustomed to when the Grey Wardens were mentioned. He was more used to blank, alarmed or suspicious stares, or outright hostility.

"You will make a fine templar one day, Alistair," Duncan said, and saw light disappear from the hazel eyes.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Have you been long in training?"

"Eleven years, my lord. From when I was ten."

"And when will you be initiated?"

"Well, the Grand Cleric says it must happen soon, my lord."

"Have you seen real battle?"

"Not yet, my lord."

What was wrong with this man? His face carried no expression whatsoever. It was like his soul had been sucked out. Duncan was almost starting to doubt his instinct. A very particular strength of character was necessary for anyone to survive the Joining. It was the reason why Duncan couldn't just conscript any decent fighter he encountered; most men - or women - would never survive the Joining. Did this man have what it would take, after all?

But that look of hope he had seen in those eyes for a moment... He would have to think about this.

"I shouldn't have interrupted. I will leave you to your training, now."

"Yes, my lord."

Alistair turned to put his helm back on. Before Duncan turned away, he thought he saw an expression come and go on the young warrior's face. It was gone too fast to be certain, but for a moment he was sure it had been despair.