Chapter Text
It was good to be a Warden.
Or at least it seemed like that on the better days, Dunk thought. From the very moment he'd abandoned the slums of some dismal city, long-forgotten – nothing keeping him there any longer – and started trudging after an old, seasoned Grey Warden. At first, Ser Arlan tried to shake him off as if he were a huge, annoying flea, but with time got used to the lad's presence, still occasionally grumbling about "this life not being suited for a child".
They'd journeyed side by side for Maker knows how many years together, their travels taking them from the shores of the Amaranthine Ocean in the east, over the Frostback Mountains, to the grand palaces of Halamshiral in the west. From the bogs of the Korcari Wilds, all the way up to the docks in Highever. They'd never crossed the Waking Sea, but Ser Arlan would regale him with enough stories from his younger years. If Dunk had stayed where he was, he'd never seen Thedas like that. It was fun to be a Warden.
It took some convincing, but eventually the old man agreed to teach him proper combat. Dunk didn't know his exact age, but one day Ser Arlan deemed him old enough to wield a real steel sword and shield. He liked training with the old Warden, learning maneuvers and how to properly taunt a foe – he liked having a structure to his fighting. Even as a child, Dunk was the biggest and the strongest in the alienage where he'd oft spend time; he could easily best all the other children, even those years older than him, but there was never any rhyme or reason to any of it. As he gained more battle prowess, he matured and grew into a young man quite skilled at arms. Ser Arlan also gave him some pieces of advice, which Dunk thought were rather useless since there hadn't been a Blight in over 400 years – and that might have been just so, if they hadn't happened upon a small horde one day.
He was ordered to stay back, but the words fell on deaf ears as Dunk noticed one of the darkspawn break off from the group, trying to flank the old man. He charged forward, getting an up-close view of the black bile oozing from the hollow eyes and distorted jaws. Dunk had half a mind to heed some advice –"When fighting spawn, keep your mouth shut, lad. If any of the spittle gets inside, you're as good as dead" – and clenched his teeth tight as he drove his blade into the creature's side. It shrieked and writhed and finally went still.
The yelling and the following clout in the ear he received did little to diminish the adrenaline rush permeating Dunk's entire core after slaying his very first darkspawn. Later on, once he'd calmed down, Ser Arlan even praised his skill but told him to never, ever do that again, for it wasn't his job as he was not a Grey Warden. But whenever Dunk would ask if he could become one, the old man stayed quiet, either his old ears being no good anymore or, most like, pretending not to hear him. Frustrated, Dunk thought, if it was all there was to being a Warden, he might as well be considered one now.
But then there were nightmares. He'd jolt awake in the middle of the night from hoarse wailing and screaming. Later on, the old man would refuse to elaborate aside from a chilling rendition of, "It will be my time soon enough" – the way he said it, with that haunted expression on his face, wasn't as frightening to Dunk as the thought of being left all alone. He didn't know what Ser Arlan meant exactly, but he knew it was nothing good. Perhaps there was more to being a Warden after all.
It was 9:30 Dragon when Dunk buried Ser Arlan in the marshes of Fallow Mire, under the never-ceasing rain. He knew the year because a couple of months later the Fifth Blight broke out.
It was ironic, for the last few years of the old Warden's life he was plagued by terrible visions, complaining about hearing voices and whispers – all heralding what was to come – only for a festering wound he'd received in the fight with some bandits to get him in the end.
Dunk wiped his tears, mixed with water and dirt, and picked up the shield – silver chalice with griffon wings on it – and swore against the thunderous downpour that even if he was never made a proper Warden, he wouldn't bring shame to Ser Arlan's name and shield.
The year Blight ravaged southern Ferelden might've been the longest year of Dunk's life. There was ruin and devastation wherever he went, people desperate and fleeing and dying, and Dunk fought against the onslaught the best he could, having no time to properly mourn, and a good sword arm was always needed. When people saw the insignia on his shield and assumed he was a Warden (he didn't have time or heart to correct them), he was the first one to be volunteered, and he gladly went and fought enough darkspawn to last him a lifetime.
The sentiments up north were different, as some didn't believe there was a Blight at all. He later found out that apparently the Teyrn of Gwaren, the new regent, declared the Order traitors and enemies of the crown.
It wasn't so good to seem a Warden anymore.
Dunk understood that bright and clear when an innkeep near Denerim spat on him and refused him bed and board upon seeing the griffon wings. Dunk didn't have the heart to sell the shield, so he just hid it, wrapped up in a dirty cloak, later on fighting one-handed and feeling deeply ashamed.
But then, a year later, the Fifth Blight ended, and the Hero of Ferelden – a Warden, no less – saved the realm, sadly perishing in the process. It was very good to be a Warden again, only now Dunk didn't feel like taking laurels from actual heroes who'd saved the kingdom in what had come to be known as the shortest Blight in history.
The land was recovering, albeit slowly, and there was no shortage of work to be done. Dunk could easily find a job working the docks or hauling sacks – but fighting was still what he was best at.
One time, he'd forgotten himself and unthinkingly brought his late ser's shield with him. Dunk had tried explaining that he wasn't a Warden, but somehow it had gotten worse.
One evening in a tavern near New Crestwood, a bard he was chatting with had asked him if, perchance, Dunk stood for Duncan. Dunk was stupid enough to nod, and the man was stupid enough – or just drunk enough – to start shouting loud for the whole place to hear, proclaiming him "the most 'wardeny' of Wardens to ever exist", and how he was mad to deny it.
As it turned out, Dunk was apparently namesake with the Duncan of the legends – the renowned Warden-Commander who fell during the battle at Ostagar, fighting side by side with the late king. He'd heard some stories from Ser Arlan, but never put two and two together, maybe because he always went by Dunk and that was that.
He panicked when, a day later, a rose-cheeked, stocky woman had approached him and asked if he was really a Warden. He stammered, and before Dunk could reply, there was a pouch in his hand as the woman pleaded with him to help her – there were creatures stealing her sheep and mutilating her cows at night. The next day, he returned and tried giving the coin back – what the farm woman had thought to be darkspawn were just regular wolves. Still, since he'd dealt with the problem all the same, he was treated to a warm meal and lodgings at least, which he gladly accepted.
And then more people caught wind of there being a Warden in the area, and the requests poured in, all of a similar fashion: only very rarely was it actual spawn, still lingering here and there; but most like it were bandits or wolves again, or someone's crop was failing due to neglect. One time he encountered an actual demon which had possessed a ram – they had an enlightening conversation before it tried devouring him, and Dunk was forced to slay the creature and its poor host.
With time, Dunk felt at peace taking coin for the services rendered, even bringing the shield with him as it was what he was taught to fight with and it suited him best anyways. And if it brought in more jobs, he pushed the guilt down and accepted the work even if sometimes they couldn't pay at all, because it felt good to be useful, to help people.
It was good to be a "Warden".