I loved all the little cameos in Inquisition but was a little disappointed that there was no mention of what happens to Alistair if you exile him at the Landsmeet and he becomes a drunk in Kirkwall. So this story is my attempt to rectify that oversight and give exile-Alistair a satisfying story arc.

The story focuses on Alistair and an OC of mine but will eventually feature a lot of the cast from DA:I.

A few heads turn when she enters the tavern, casting wary glances her way before returning their attention to their drinks. The tavern is busier than she had expected for such a remote location. Perhaps it is the rain, she muses, driving travellers from the road in search of shelter and a warming meal. It doesn't matter, of course, Bron's always been rather fond of crowds; they make it easier to pass unnoticed.

She stomps her boots against the flagstones to kick off the mud clinging stubbornly to the soles and gives her sodden cloak a shake before stepping toward the bar with long, confident strides.

Leaning against the rough, pocked surface of the bar, she gestures toward the bar-maid for a drink before taking a careful survey of the room. A group of miners crowd a central table, loudly discussing their displeasure with their working conditions. There's a man by the door shoveling food into his mouth with unparalleled gusto. His back is bent, likely from a heavy pack, and he has the twitchy disposition of someone who is travelling according to a strict schedule. A merchant then, most likely, with a delivery deadline to meet.

An elderly man sitting near the fire at the far end of the room gives her a slight nod and cracks a smile, an unexpected gesture of warmth in this dank corner of Ferelden, and Bron finds herself reciprocating with her own, far more cautious, smile. It's been a long time since she left Haven, nearly a month on the road on her own, and though she normally enjoys solitude, she finds this little gesture of camaraderie somewhat uplifting.

Further down the bar sits a young man, broad and firm, with a mop of sandy hair obscuring his eyes. She's immediately struck with recognition, though she's never seen the man before; Leliana's mission briefing had been thorough and her description of the target detailed. He's not as tall as Bron had expected but then it's hard to tell from the way he curls around his drink as if protecting it from prying eyes.

Bron watches him a moment, eyes peering over the rim of her flagon as she pretends to be preoccupied with her beer. He drinks slowly, thoughtfully, his tankard cradled gently between large, scarred hands. He smiles at the bar-maid when she refills his drink and though his expression is guarded, there's genuine warmth there, and the bar-maid smiles back at him broadly. Her smile breaks into a hearty bark of laughter for a fleeting moment – he must have told a joke – before she turns her attention toward one of the other patrons and leaves him to drink in peace once more.

As she watches him, posture hunched and motions slow, Bron find that she's a little… disappointed. There are many who consider this man a hero; in a different life he may have been a King. But even with his impressive physical presence, there's a smallness to him that Bron did not expect. He sits as if trying to take up as little space as possible, as if his very existence is an unwanted imposition on the world.

She finishes her drink quickly, knocking it back in a few long gulps. It tastes vile, warm and oddly papery, but then she's been drinking shit beer for several weeks now and she's almost got used to it.

Pushing back from the bar, she takes one last survey of the room before moving toward the stairs that lead to the guest rooms upstairs. No one takes any notice of her as she winds through the higgledy-piggledy scattering of chairs and tables, just one more cloaked traveller in need of a place to rest and dry off.

He'll follow soon, when he's had his full of beer and sleep compels him to his room, and then her mission begins in earnest.

Alistair is tired.

His latest job had not gone as smoothly as planned and his whole body now heaves with the consequences. It was supposed to be easy – just accompany the merchant and his merchandise to the port until they were met by the buyer – but then the buyer had refused to pay the promised price and then tried to claim the merchandise by force and, well, Alistair can't remember the last time things were easy. At least he'd been paid, and paid well.

Of course the pay had to be good to get him to Fereldan. As much as he loved his homeland – and he did love Fereldan, with her perpetually overcast skies and pleasantly musty aroma – Anora had been very clear what would happen to him should he return home, and he preferred to keep his head where it was, thank you very much. He'd made the occasional, fleeting visit during his ten years of exile, but only when the pay had been too good to refuse or the client too desperate to disappoint.

It was unlikely that anyone would recognise him anyway. There were so few who had known his face even before he'd left. And what did the merchants and dock workers of Northern Fereldan care about the political wranglings of the nobility or the misfortune of a royal bastard?

Still – he wanted to get back across the Waking Sea as soon as possible and would have booked passage immediately had the fighting between the mages and Templars not left so many of the Free Marches' city ports in disarray.

With a sound that is partially a sigh but mostly a groan, Alistair takes a quick swig of the last dregs of his beer and gives the bar-maid one final wave before leaving the bar and heading upstairs to the guest quarters.

The floorboards creak in protest as he walks down the corridor toward his room and he finds himself sympathizing with their plight. Every joint in his body is creaking, every muscle numb, and even though he had the sense to change out of his splint-mail before settling at the bar, he can feel the phantom weight of his armour resting heavily on his shoulders.

Blackness greets him when he enters the room and Alistair's not sure whether it's worth trying to light a candle and change from his leathers into a night-shirt or whether he should just collapse onto the mattress and call it a night. Deciding that the latter is by far the easiest course of action, he's only taken a few steps into the room when he abruptly stills, struck with a sudden yet unmistakable feeling of wrongness.

Alistair is not alone.

He moves his hand to the small dagger hanging from his belt and wonders how many steps it would take for him to reach his long-sword leaning against the foot of the bed. In the cramped confines of his room, the dagger is probably the more useful weapon but Alistair has always been more skilled at the long-sword and he's annoyed that it's not close at hand now that he wants it.

"Now, now," comes a voice from the darkness, surprisingly friendly and maybe even a little… amused? "The dagger's really not necessary."

A shape shifts in the darkness and then suddenly there's a pop of light as the candle on the bedside table is lit. The little candle cannot fully banish the room's darkness but in its meek, orange glow he can just about make out the blurry outline of his intruder's form.

"Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll hold onto it for a while," he says, voice light but hopefully with enough sharpness to keep her on her guard. "Funnily enough, I tend not to trust the words of those who have broken into my room late at night." He pulls the dagger from its scabbard, holds it at his side to avoid looking too threatening. There's no need to become overtly aggressive too soon but he wants to be prepared just in case.

"Suit yourself," she replies with a shrug, and even though the room is still dark, Alistair can make out a small smile on her face and he's a little annoyed that she seems so thoroughly at ease.

She carries the small candle across the room and uses it to methodically light the other candles dotted atop the furniture. With the room now bathed in light she finally comes into sharp focus and she's… well… she looks thoroughly harmless. She's small and slight, with long, black hair pulled into a tight braid down her back. Her leathers are simple but finely-made, clearly tailored specifically for her, and if she's carrying a weapon, it is masterfully concealed.

Once she's lit the last candle she turns to face him, smiling in a way that is probably meant to be disarming but is a little too forced to be genuinely friendly.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Alistair Theirin," she says, head nodding in greeting "you have been very difficult to track down"

It's not the introduction he was expecting, although to be honest he wasn't really expecting any introduction. Assassins tended to forego introductions and get straight down to the stabbing. For a moment he just stares at her, baffled as to her identity, mildly alarmed that she seems to know his, and if she feels uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she hides it well.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he asks at last, hoping that some straightforward questions will elicit straightforward answers.

"My name is Bron," she replies, still as cordial as before, "I was sent here by a friend of yours"

"I don't have any friends."

"Well clearly someone likes you well enough to send me to track you down. Maker knows I didn't come to the arse-end of nowhere by my own volition"

He pauses for a moment in thought. "Arl Teagan sent you." It's as good a guess as any.

Teagan had tried to track him down a number of times during his exile, had even managed to find him once. Alistair had told him in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to see him again – Fereldan was not his home anymore, and Teagan was no longer his family – but still, the Arl was persistent, and every few months he would hear that Teagan's men were asking after him.

Her face pinches, brows slanted in consternation as if he's just said something phenomenally stupid. It's an expression that Alistair has grown very accustomed to over the years.

"Leliana sent me."

Now that's unexpected.

"Leliana?"

He had heard no word of her since the Landsmeet. And he can't for the life of him imagine what she could possibly want with him now.

"Yes. She wants me to bring you back to Haven. She has… important things she wishes to discuss with you."

"Well then I'm afraid she's going to be sorely disappointed; I'm not going anywhere."

Bron narrows her eyes, as if facing the protestations of a particularly cantankerous child.

"Why not?" she asks, some of the civility slipping from her tone to make room for sharp irritation, "Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine and founder of the Inquisition, has requested an audience with you and you'd rather… languish here in the armpit of Thedas? Aren't you even a little bit curious to know what she wants with you?"

The Inquisition? That's what this is about? He's heard of them of course – seen their proclamations on Chantry doors across the Free Marches – but their influence is minimal, especially outside of Fereldan. What could the Inquisition possibly want with a disgraced former Warden?

He clucks his tongue against his teeth as he shakes his head. "No, actually, not in the least bit curious."

It's a lie, of course, he is curious. But he'd wanted to come and go from Fereldan while attracting as little attention as possible, and sauntering into Inquisition headquarters to meet with a senior member of the Chantry didn't seem like a particularly good way to keep a low profile.

She opens her mouth to protest but he waves her away with a brusque swipe of his hand. "Look," he starts, stern and decided, "I've heard what the Inquisition are doing and I support anyone who's trying to put an end to this war between the mages and Templars. But, honestly, I don't want any part of it. "

"The Inquisition needs your help and you're just going to… walk away?!" she snaps, more than a little disdain colouring her words. He gets the distinct impression that he's a great disappointment to her but is struggling to find the ability to care.

"I tried playing the hero before," he snaps back, "and it didn't work out too great for me. So excuse me if I'm going to give it a pass this time."

He re-sheathes his dagger and steps toward the door. He's heard enough already; it's time for him to show her out and get some bloody sleep.

"What if I told you it concerns the Wardens?"

He stops, hand poised just above the doorknob.

It doesn't change anything, it doesn't. He's not a warden any more; he left behind that title the day that Loghain took the joining. But he can't help but wonder what exactly she knows.

"What about the wardens?"

"They've gone missing – we're hoping you can help us find them."

He shrugs with forced nonchalance. "I don't care."

"I find that hard to believe – you are a warden."

"I was a warden; I left."

"I got the impression that one does not simply… leave the wardens."

"What can I say? I'm a special snowflake."

She arches one eyebrow sharply and he can tell that his flippancy annoys her. He gives her a shit-eating grin, just to really piss her off.

He expects her to snap at him again. Instead he's a little unnerved when her calm façade from earlier slips back into place. When she holds his gaze, there's a steely determination in her eyes that suggests she's used to getting her own way.

"Look – you can play the part of the angry, embittered warden-in-exile if you want, and carry on sitting in shitty taverns, drinking shitty beer between shitty mercenary jobs. Or you can come with me, and help the Inquisition find the wardens. Because I know you care, no matter how much you protest to the contrary, so you might as well drop the bullshit and come with me back to Leliana."

He smiles, no longer in mockery, but with genuine mirth. There's something reassuringly honest about her little outburst.

"And what makes you so certain that I still care about the wardens?"

She walks to the long, narrow desk that lines the back wall of the room and picks up a handful of papers, holding the documents up for him to see. There are maps, marred with his scrawling script, and notes written on loose scraps, rumours hastily recorded before he had the chance to forget them.

"You've been tracking the wardens, trying to record their movements, find out what they're up to. Why would you do all this if you didn't care?"

He steps forward quickly, takes the papers from her hands and starts to shuffle them with the papers still on the desk.

"You know it's rude to go through people's things."

"It's also rude to break into someone's room late at night but…" her smile stretches wide and wicked as she shrugs, "here I am anyway."

His laugh comes unexpectedly, loud and sharp. But then there's something about her glib honesty and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation that seems inexplicably comical. After a beat or two, she joins in, a rich chuckling that shakes through her small frame.

He can feel the tension between them finally dissipating, see her stance relax, and although he's still annoyed by her intrusion, he has to admit that her offer is supremely tempting. He's been tracking the wardens for months now, ever since he first started hearing rumours of their disappearance, ever since he first started hearing the unmistakable dull hum of the Calling.

It's too soon, too soon, and while Alistair had only been with the Fereldan wardens for a short time before the massacre at Ostagar, he had gleaned enough warden lore to know that something was very, very wrong.

The destruction of the Conclave, the breach that yawned above the Frostbacks, the disappearance of the wardens – Alistair found it hard to believe that all these things happening at once was mere coincidence. If the Inquisition had the resources to help him, to find some truth among all the chaos, well then perhaps it was worth risking Anora's wrath and staying in Fereldan.

"Ok, fine, you win," he concedes with a wave of his hand, "I have been tracking the wardens… and keeping note of all the rumours I hear… and, and… writing to, well, anyone I can think of."

"And what have you found?"

"Honestly?" he lets out a dry bark of laughter, "not much."

Bron reaches out to the documents scattered across the table, lets her fingers wander over the paper, tracing the lines he's drawn across each map. Her brows are knit in concentration and he's curious as to what she's thinking, whether she thinks his notes are just pointless rambling or whether she sees the merit in his work.

"What do you think?" he ventures at last. "If I join this Inquisition of yours, will I be given the resources I need to find the wardens?"

"Honestly?" she replies, eyes still downcast as she reads the papers spread below her fingertips, "I don't know."

He nods. Of course she can't promise him anything. She is, after all, merely a messenger. But whatever help the Inquisition can give him will surely be better than nothing.

He reaches a hand out to push against her shoulder, turning her to face him so that he can look her straight in the eye.

"If the Inquisition wants my help to find the wardens… then… I guess they've got it. I'll come with you to see Leliana."

She smiles with obvious relief then holds her hand to him expectantly. He takes it, surprised by the strength in her small hand as she shakes his vigorously.

"Then may I be the first to welcome you to the Inquisition."