Note:

Here's a flashback to fill in some of what happened between Alistair's exile and his meeting with Bron. There'll be a few more flashbacks throughout the fic but I'll keep them to a minimum to avoid confusion.

Seven years earlier – Kirkwall

Alistair had been in his fair of shitty taverns over the years, had stomached some astonishingly vile beer while surrounded by the most despicable, most heinous criminal scum ever to be found throughout Thedas. And yet somehow, miraculously, The Hanged Man manages to surpass them all as truly the most wretched tavern Alistair has ever had the misfortune to drink in. The air smells foul – the tavern's patrons even fouler – and Alistair is trying very hard not to think about how the floor managed to get so bloody sticky.

There is only one way to make sitting in this shit-hole bearable and that is to drink more – drink a lot more.

Alistair finishes the last dregs of his beer, feels the rank, sharp liquid burn down the back of his throat, then bangs his tankard against the scored surface of the bar.

"Another!" he cries to no one in particular, trusting that someone behind the bar will hear his plea and happily take his money in exchange for this fetid, diluted slop. His trust appears well-founded when a new, full tankard appears before him and Alistair throws a handful of coins onto the bar before taking his first, hurried mouthfuls of beer. He guzzles his drink quickly, taking long desperate gulps like a man drinking his first cup of water after wandering the desert for days.

The beer falls in rivulets down his chin then sploshes in thick droplets onto his already badly stained shirt. He knows he looks a mess, hair sticking in clumps to his clammy temples and clothes in dire need of a wash, but here, among the most desperate and deranged of Kirkwall, he's finding it hard to care.

Alistair had never been a particularly vain man but he had liked to look… presentable. His time with the Templars had taught him discipline, the importance of well-maintained armour and good posture, and his time with the wardens had taught him pride, pride in wearing the royal blue uniform that showed that he belonged. But his pride had been stripped from him the moment Elissa had conscripted Loghain into the wardens and he could feel his discipline slip away more and more with every drink.

Fuck Loghain.

And fuck Elissa for rewarding his betrayal with a place among the honoured wardens.

He slams his now empty tankard onto the bar with more force than is strictly necessary. His movements are clumsy, his body buzzing with the copious amounts of alcohol he has consumed, and he knocks over several drinks when his arm flails a little wide.

"Watch it!" comes a disgruntled shout from his side. "Look what you've done! You have to pay for those now!"

Alistair blinks at the man standing beside him. Is he talking to me?

The man is angry, mouth twisted in an almost feral snarl, and his face is turning an increasingly alarming shade of puce. He paws at his waistcoat with hands shaking with fury, wiping at the spilled beer in a vain attempt to protect his clothes from staining.

"I said, you have to pay for my beers!" the man repeats, this time far louder.

Deciding that this is a delicate situation requiring diplomacy and grace, Alistair leans forward and spits out a curt, "fuck off."

If the man was angry before, he is livid now, pulling himself to his full height and puffing his chest out in a display of intimidation that is largely lost on Alistair.

"You spilled my beers," the man explains as if speaking to a child, "now you have to pay for them or…" The man tapers off as Alistair rises from his barstool – clearly a lot taller than he had been expecting.

"Or what?" snarls Alistair with a coldness that would have been uncharacteristic before his exile.

To Alistair's surprise, the man doesn't back away but leans forward, head tilting slightly back to peer straight at Alistair's face with beady, rage-filled eyes.

"Or me and my mates teach you a lesson about manners," the man says with a sharp jab to Alistair's chest, "you Fereldan dog."

It is only now that Alistair notices the other men in his vicinity. There must be about four of them (his head is swimming too much for him to really pin down the exact number), all reasonably well-built and all sharing a similarly angry expression.

For a moment Alistair thinks about how he can best diffuse the escalating situation, to retreat as quickly and safely as possible. But then that moment passes, slipping away from a mind too drunk for sensible thoughts, and instead Alistair thinks about how he can best piss off his new acquaintances.

"You call me a dog? You're – you're the dog!" he shouts back, smiling smugly when his drunken brain congratulates him on having delivered such a devastatingly witty retort.

"Now, fuck off!" he continues, "I'm the fucking Prince of Fereldan and I demand that you treat me with respect!"

The angry man bursts into laughter that ripples to the nearby patrons. Clearly none are particularly convinced by Alistair's declaration of royal heritage.

"I am the Prince of Fereldan!" he repeats again, and he's a little embarrassed when he realises how young, how whiney, his voice sounds as he shouts.

"Yeah, well, if you're the Prince of Fereldan, you can afford to pay for my drinks," the man says as he steps forward, reaching toward the leather pouch on Alistair's belt as if he can just take the coin that he's demanding.

Alarmed by this sudden invasion of his space, Alistair attempts to punch the man with limbs made heavy from drink but instead merely clumsily shoves him aside. The man stumbles a little from the force but as soon as he's righted himself, he throws his own punch which, unlike Alistair's earlier attempt, makes swift, sharp contact with Alistair's jaw.

Andraste's arse, that hurts.

If his head wasn't swimming enough before, it certainly is now and it takes a few moments for Alistair's eyes to come into focus again. When they do, he notices that several of the man's friends have pulled out a number of weapons, small daggers mainly but a few larger blades as well.

This is about to escalate very quickly and very badly.

Alistair raises his fists in an attempt to adopt a more intimidating stance but he can tell from the tittering of laughter nearby that he looks more the drunken fool than the seasoned fighter.

The man pulls his fist back again and Alistair braces himself for another blow but instead a hand unexpectedly grabs the man's forearm. The man is suddenly wrenched back and before Alistair can really figure out what's happening, a woman has stepped between himself and his assailant.

"Come now, gentleman," she coos, voice soft and only a touch exasperated, "let's put an end to this before we all do something that we regret."

The woman is tall and well-muscled, with a mop of dark hair that's only just long enough to be pulled into a messy ponytail at the nape of her neck. She smiles as she surveys the assembled group of men, expression warm and open, but there's a sharpness in her eyes that suggests she's not to be messed with. She's unarmed, looks relatively harmless, but there's something about her, something unassumingly dangerous. Alistair can feel an odd sensation, a curious whispering at the back of his head that he is sure has nothing to do with the drink.

And then it hits him.

Mage.

Now this is interesting. An apostate, running free through the City of Chains.

"How about I just pay for these drinks," she says as she claps the angry man companionably on the shoulders, "and then we can all go about enjoying this fine evening."

"I don't want your coin, I want his," the man says with an aggressive nod in Alistair's direction.

The woman's smile falters, clearly irritated with his lack of cooperation. "Ok, fine," she starts, the sweetness in her voice now sounding a little more forced than before, but then she smirks crookedly and her voice is dripping with honey when she says, "well how about you get no coin? How about you bugger off and, in exchange, my friend here doesn't arrest you for brawling?"

Alistair only now notices the woman's companions, one of whom is a formidably-built, red-headed woman who gives a coy little wave at the men. He doesn't know who the woman is but the men certainly do, visibly quailing under her gaze.

The men make no further objections, no more threats or insults, merely slink away from the bar and toward the door into Lowtown. The woman nods her face, clearly satisfied, and although Alistair is grateful for her assistance, his throbbing jaw wonders why she couldn't have turned up earlier.

Alistair is just about to articulate some sort of thanks when he finds himself lurching to the side, his legs clearly deciding that he's been standing just a little bit too long. The woman catches him before he hits the floor and he's surprised, not only that she's able to hold his considerable weight but that she bothered to catch him at all.

"Woah, there!" she says as she wraps her arms around his torso, "let's just set you down somewhere."

She carries him, back bowed and gait erratic from the effort of supporting him, toward a small semi-circle of armchairs around the fireplace.

"I'm the Prince of Fereldan, you know," he slurs as he stumbles gracelessly in step with her.

"Yeah, I heard, congratulations," she replies, voice tinged with obvious scepticism, "I'm Hawke."

Hawke settles him down into one of the chairs and when she's sure that he's sufficiently propped up and not about to flop onto the floor, she turns to talk to her companions.

"Actually, I think he might be telling the truth, Hawke," says one of her companions, a tall, sandy-haired man, and though Alistair can't hear Hawke's response, it's clear from their hushed tones and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck that they're talking about him.

After a brief moment of murmured conversation, Hawke's companions give her a nod and a smile before heading to the back of the tavern and disappearing up a flight of stairs.

He expects her to follow but instead she just stands in the halo of the fireplace and watches him where he sprawls in the armchair. Does she want something from him? Was she expecting some sort of payment for helping him? He gropes ineffectually at the pouch on his belt, stiff fingers failing to work the knot that holds it closed, and wonders whether he actually has anything to give.

Finally, Hawke pulls one of the armchairs closer to him and sits down.

"So you're the Prince of Fereldan?" she asks, and though some of the scepticism remains in her voice, there's none of the cruelty that he would expect from such a question.

He nods.

"Well nobility clearly doesn't agree with you," she says, "because I've seen you around here for some time and, honestly, you're a fucking mess."

He laughs, though there's no humour in it.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asks.

"Oh, you know, the usual," he says with a shrug, "betrayed by the one person I thought I could trust, sent into exile from my home, threatened with death should I ever return."

"Exile, huh?" She nods thoughtfully, slender finger tapping on her chin as she observes him. "My friend says he knows you, says that you're a warden, says that you were a hero once."

Alistair scoffs. "That was… I'm not… fuck…" He runs his hands through his hair then rubs his eyes with his fists. A kaleidoscope of colours burst behind his eyelids and he can feel the first twinges of a headache coming along.

"If you can't go back to Fereldan – fine – find somewhere else to go. Find something to do. Because this," she gestures at his slumped form, his stained clothes and flushed, blotched face, "is a waste."

Her words needle unexpectedly. A waste? He agrees with her, if he's completely honest with himself. He'd always thought he was a waste – an unnecessary addition to the Maker's creation, unwanted wherever he went – but it prickles under his skin to hear her say it. Alistair finds himself surging with a flurry of sudden anger.

"What do you know about my life, huh?" he spits, words quiet but forceful. "I tried to do the right thing, the honourable thing – listen to the Arlessa, obey the Chantry, fight and die for your warden brothers – but what did it get me? Exile, that's what. I tried to save Fereldan, tried to help people, and in return I was betrayed and abandoned by everyone I ever ca-ever trusted. You know nothing about my life, nothing." He stops to take a short, raggedy breath. He can feel his anger ebbing, coursing away as quickly as it came. "I don't need your help, and I don't need your advice; I just want to be left alone."

Hawke's expression is not easy to read, lips pulled into a thin, straight line and eyebrows slightly slanted, but there is neither sympathy nor pity in her eyes and Alistair finds himself grateful for that.

She pauses for a long moment and Alistair suspects that she's going to walk away, another hopeless cause in a city full of lost souls, but instead she leans forward and holds his gaze with so much fire in her dark eyes that he finds himself unable to look away.

"Well boo-fucking-hoo!" she drawls sarcastically, "So the Maker gave you a shit-deal in life – join the fucking family! I'm a Fereldan refugee living in the fucking arse-end of Kirkwall, do you think my life is just a constant party? Life sucks. People die, and those who don't just live long enough to stab you in the back. And you can either sit here and become another pitiful drunk in the Hanged Man, or you can sort your shit out and go do something useful."

Alistair is a little taken aback by her outburst and he finds himself squirming uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze. He's trying to lean away from her but the armchair hems him in, trapping him.

"I can't… I'm not…" he stutters, grasping at words that don't quite come into focus. "I'm not a warden anymore. I can't go back to the wardens."

Hawke shrugs. "Then don't."

"Then…" he tapers off, too exasperated and drunk for coherence, let alone eloquence.

Alistair had never, not once, decided on the course of his life. From the household of Arl Eamon, to the Chantry, and then finally the wardens, Alistair had simply stood idly by as other people had used him for their purposes. He'd been happy to leave the Chantry for the wardens, of course, but it hadn't exactly been his decision; just a fortuitous twist of fate. Even when his fellow wardens were slaughtered at Ostagar, Alistair still hadn't reclaimed control, choosing instead to place his trust in Elissa Cousland and let her dictate where his path would lead. It was embarrassing, really, to think that he'd let himself be controlled his entire life, and as soon as he'd been given responsibility over his own destiny, he'd become a pathetic, wandering drunk.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks finally, voice small and wavering.

Hawke's face softens a little, though her eyes still hold that piercing sharpness that Alistair suspects is always there, and she sits back a bit, giving him a little more space.

"You're a big, strapping young man," she says with a playful lilt of her eyebrows, "and there's always work available in Kirkwall for someone who's good with a sword."

"A mercenary?" he asks, and his contempt is clear from his voice.

"Beggars can't be choosers," she scolds gently, "and it's a good way to earn some coin while you sort your shit out.

When Hawke suddenly stands from her chair, Alistair is surprised at how anxious he feels at the prospect of losing her. Though her words are abrupt and unpleasantly pointed, she's the only person to show any interest or concern for him since he left Fereldan. "I'll put you in touch with someone," she says as she tugs her shirt down and tucks it sloppily into her trousers, "as long as you work hard, he'll do you right."

"Why are you doing this?" Alistair asks with genuine curiosity. What could she possibly get out of helping him?

"I don't know," she answers honestly, "maybe it's because you seem like a decent man who's had some bad luck. Maybe it's because I know what it's like to be forced out of Fereldan with nowhere to go." She pauses for a moment then chuckles wryly, "or maybe it's because Varric's stories make me out to be a hero and I don't want to disappoint him."

Alistair has no idea who this Varric is but there's no chance to ask Hawke any more questions as she turns and walks to the back of the tavern, disappearing up the same flight of stairs where her friends had gone earlier in the evening.

When she's gone, Alistair bends forward in his armchair, elbows resting on his knees as he cradles his now pounding head in his hands. This was not what he had expected, this offering of kindness from a relative stranger. He still wasn't sure what Hawke hoped to gain out of helping him but perhaps that wasn't important right now. Perhaps Hawke was right; perhaps he could try to find some dignity in this lonely, small existence.

Duncan had once told Alistair that he was destined for great things. Alistair hadn't believed him at the time, his self-esteem too meager after years of scolding from the Chantry sisters and Eamon's Arlessa. But he'd treasured those words nonetheless, kept them safely tucked away in the hope that one day he might, against all odds, manage to live up to them anyway.

Duncan had seen greatness where Alistair had seen only a burden, an unwanted orphan boy fit only for living in the stables with the dogs.

He was unlikely to achieve greatness now, exiled and abandoned as he was. But, perhaps, with some help from Hawke, he might regain some semblance of honour. He owed Duncan that at least.

End note: I hope you liked this little intro to my Hawke. She'll be back later in the fic in a more substantive role. I just realised that this is the second time in only three chapters that Alistair got yelled at by a formidable woman in a tavern.