For the first decade of his life, Alistair lived in Redcliffe under the care of Arl Eamon. Some people found it a bit odd that the bastard child of a dead servant should receive so much attention from Redcliffe’s ruler, but Alistair himself didn’t give it a lot of thought until Eamon's wife insisted Alistair be sent to a monastery.

(Oh, she had nothing to fear on that score. Alistair wasn't Eamon's bastard son, but the son of a servant girl and the sodding king of Ferelden. And if that meant he had enough royal blood to give him a claim to the throne if he really wanted it...oh my goodness is that an enormous darkspawn headed straight for us WHOOPS GOTTA GO STAB THINGS TALK LATER BYE.)

For most of his second decade, he trained as a templar under the auspices of the Chantry. The weapons work and combat training were great. The actual Chant part of the whole business? Not so much. He chafed under the religious order and delayed taking his vows for as long as he could.

Which, lucky him, made it much easier for Duncan -- then-leader of the Grey Wardens -- to see his potential as a warrior and bring him into the fold. In the Wardens, he found the family he'd always longed to have, a father figure in Duncan, and a cause he was proud to give his life for: defending the whole world from the oncoming Blight.

Unfortunately, now that the Blight's passed and the archdemon slain, there's another cause to undertake: keep everything from falling into a slightly more mundane chaos. No more front-line battles for him; just figuring out how to ensure a bunch of humans, elves, dwarves, and mages don't tear each others' throats out too often.

From his new position as the King of Ferelden.

Ugh.