Join us, Brother

Duncan pulled the blade out from Ser Jory's corpse. A coward. He had seen many. Killed many.

The elf shivered as he handed her the chalice.

'From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.'

She drank.

Convulsed.

And lived.

Silence. BANG!

White light. Impossibly bright. Heat. Fire. Screaming.

A man lay upon the floor, armor smoking from the intense heat. A fearsome helm, in the shape of a snarling Mabari, or perhaps a mastiff, was yanked off and thrown aside as the man bellowed out a command.

'WINE!' he shouted, over and over, in a ruined voice.

Had the Maker sent him? Or magic? Duncan had no answers. Only a half empty chalice. Jory did not drink. There was enough for one last Joining.

'Here, Ser. Drink this' he said, tilting the chalice to the man's lips. Up close, he could see the terrible burns that left his face a ruin, a parody of a man.

The Maker had not sent this man.

'Fuck your Sers' he growled out, downing the contents. 'I'm not a knight'

There was a pause, a dreadful long pause as he swallowed the bile, before his eyes rolled back, and he lived.

'From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.'

He turned at last to look upon Alistair. The boy radiated confusion, but assisted in dragging away the corpses. The elf looked positively tiny next to this giant of a man. Even without horns, he would have stood level with the Qunari. Possibly even larger. His armor was well made, yet poorly kept. Rusted, bloodied, dented and nicked. His swords, for he carried both a longsword that many might use for a greatsword, and a greatsword that many more could not swing, let alone weild.

'MAGE!' came the cry as Templars rushed up the hill.

Ah, shit.

-oOo-

Sandor Clegane was not a happy bunny, no siree.

He was probably dead, he thought. The dreams of a bloated, diseased dragon gave way to two men, one past his prime and another only just coming into his. He could see no problem in taking them out. There was a girl there, too. Fragile little thing, he could have broken her in half without much effort.

Funny shaped ears too.

Huh.

'So which of the Seven Hells is this shite-heap?' he asked with typical grace.

'This is the fortress of Ostagar, in the south of the Kingdom of Ferelden' the older warrior replied. 'My name is Duncan, this is Alistair, and the young woman yet to awaken is-'

'Spare me your fucking life story' he growled 'and just tell me what the fuck is happening.'

If Duncan was taken aback at his brutal face, his ruined snarl and his worse temper, he gave no outward sign. Alistair, however, was a tad greener. The boy struggled to hold his gaze, and made no effort to hide his anger.

-oOo-

So began a lengthy conversation that covered just enough for him to learn where he was, who the Grey Wardens were, and why darkspawn are such utter bastards in dire need of genocide. You've heard it all before, and this narrator is too lazy to go through it all in detail, so assume they just shoved the entire fucking wiki down his throat. Still with us? Good!

-oOo-

'So we're outnumbered, I fell from the sky and you didn't see a problem in conscripting me?' the Hound asked.

'Pweddy muck' said Alistair from behind a broken nose and a (now) crimson hankie. He had been too free with that smart mouth of his, and Sandor was not a patient man. Nor was he a good man, nor a nice man, really.

'The King has asked for the new recruit to accompany me to the meeting. I believe he meant the elf' he said, gesturing to the five-foot nothing girl with the really messed up ears. She was still out.

Some warrior that one . . .

'But as the nightmares still hold her, and as you bear this nations emblem proudly' he said, gesturing to the helmet that gave him his name 'I will ask if you would take her place, and meet the king. Teyrn Loghain will also be in attendance, along with a representative from the Chantry. Please make no comment to the mages, circumstances of your . . . arrival have already gained suspicion and I would not have you add to that.'

He didn't really see the point, but he's been listening to Joffrey for too long to believe meeting royalty was in any way a good thing.

Still, so long as their king wasn't some blond, arrogant, self-important little shit with no idea how life really worked, it shouldn't be too bad.

Right?

-oOo-

Well, fuck me.

Cailan was a bit like Tommen, actually. Sweet, naïve, and painfully fucking stupid, which is somewhat endearing in a child, less so in a grown man. Teyrn Loghain was a right miserable prick, who reminded him somewhat of Lord Tywin. If the two should ever meet, he didn't doubt they'd either conquer the world, or try and murder each other on the spot. There was also a guy in robes, and the ugliest, most withered looking old woman he'd ever seen here for the Faith, Chantry, whatever.

And now the little gold plated prick was trying to keep him out of the fight. Guarding the beacon, my ass he thought. Guarding your bastard brother, more like.

Sandor was many things. At the moment, he was horribly confused, tired, and worst of all, sober. He wanted a good fight to clear his head. And, if he squinted, Cailan sort of looked like Joffrey, in bad light. Which was really all the excuse he needed to tell the little shit what he'd been longing for.

'Fuck the beacon'

They fell speechless, not used to hearing such coarse language. Duncan cringed, a little.

'Fuck the Wardens'

Cailan looked fit to draw steel and challenge him to an honour duel. Loghain barely repressed a snort.

'Fuck the King'

The argument that followed has been lost to history, but survivors of Ostagar reported it was half as fierce as the battle itself. All we know for sure is that thirteen brave Templars lost their lives, The Grey Wardens were almost exiled from Ferelden on the eve of battle, and the Grand Cleric learnt a new word at the age of 72.

That word started with a C, and sounded a lot like runt.

-oOo-

The girl was finally up. The shouting probably had something to do with that. She would be going with Alistair up the tower to light the beacon. He'd be fighting with the king.

Like a good dog.

The horde was coming through the trees now. A few of the men looked a little green, in pallor and in skill. A growl from his fearsome helmet terrified them into obedience. Sandor was having a good afterlife so far. It was like the events of his life summed up into one night. Idiot kings, shit soldiers and now, to represent Gregor (and himself if he was honest) the monsters were coming. He was even pleasantly plastered. Cailan had been against his participation, towards the end, but had been overruled by the Teyrn. After all, few were expected to survive the meat-grinder. Joffrey's dog snorted. Valar Morghulis and all that crap.

Arrows were coming down now. One volley . . . no second volley. Dogs are charging, making a lot of noise but the spawn hack them down without breaking stride. Now we're charging past the defensive lines, grossly over extending, the poor imitation of King Robert waving his blade like a knight in some painting while the army is cut to shreds.

Somewhere, Tywin Lannister is pissing himself laughing.

-oOo-

He can't remember how long he's been fighting. These monsters look like the true souls of human killers. The little bird would have spouted some pretty line like that.

Concentrate.

Big ugly thing with horns that would have towered over Gregor approaches. King Idiot takes a swing. Misses. Dies. Bit of a crap way to go.

Now Duncan is stabbing it. Again. And again.

The horned thing is down. Still no beacon. The bastard and the elf have managed to fail their task. Duncan gets bisected by an axe wielding man-sized . . . thing. Darkspawn, whatever.

No point in staying. The army has broken. The Teyrn isn't coming. Time to flee the field.

The beacon lights up, two hours too late. That bastard has far too many teeth, Sandor thought as he tucked tail and ran. If ever I see him again, I'll correct that.

Other deserters ran alongside him. The slow ones in front caught his blade.

Running.

One thing was now abundantly clear to him. He wasn't dead. This was not one of the Seven Hells. He was in some strange new world, with no way back to Westeros. He would never kill his brother, never see Joffrey toppled in some inevitable uprising, never see her again. The little bird. Some small part of his blackened heart hoped she survived long enough to grow up. Now he was a Grey Warden, whatever that meant, had managed to wind up every one of importance in Ferelden and fought a horde of grumpkins. And lost. One sentiment rang true, no matter where he was.

'Fuck the Gods.'

Sorry about the long delay, but I don't keep to a schedule. The chapters come when they come.