A/N: for notlaura.

She grabs his finger and giggles, and Oghren smiles, eyes twinkling. Barely even a year old and already so spirited. Beside him, Felsi chuckles, kissing her daughter's forehead before heading off to work, calling out a warning about bedtimes and tears, but her voice carries on the wind as he carries his little girl back inside, humming an old drinking song. He will never teach her the words in front of her mother, but the tune is harmless enough. She smiles up at him, all joy and red hair and bright eyes, and he rocks her tenderly, placing a delicate kiss on her forehead.

"Oh, my girl. When you're old enough to pick up a sword, I'll tell you about your namesake." His gruff voice is strangely soft whenever he talks to her. She gurgles in his arms, reaching up to tug on his beard. "Hehe. She liked my beard too. This one time, she unplaited it and brushed it right out. Wouldn't stop laughing for days." His smile is old, borne of nostalgia and loss. "She was a good egg, as ol' Wynne would've said. Had more smarts in her head than she let on." Thinking of Wynne still hurt, he realises. It had barely been a season ago, though, and her pains had been great, despite the brave face she had put on. Daft woman, he thinks fondly. "Think she'd have liked you," he adds, before looking down at the sleeping child. Chuckling softly, he pads through to the girl's bed, gently placing her beneath the blanket and stroking a stray tuft of hair, before kissing her and leaving the room.

He heads into the kitchen, pulling out a few bottles of good ale. He barely touches the stuff nowadays, save for special occasions. And today was a very special occasion. A light rap at the door is enough to wake the babe, who wails softly for warm arms. He places the bottles on the table, opening the front door and rushing back to pick up his now-awake daughter. Shuffling back into the main room, he eyes up the Grey Warden who removes his cloak and hangs it up. Turning, he smiles at the dwarf and his child, the lines around his eyes wrinkling.

"Old before your time, pike-twirler," grunts Oghren, smiling. The man barks a laugh, running a hand through hair that has flecks of grey already.

"Maybe." Behind him, the door goes again, and in walks the elven rogue, bowing before the little girl, who giggles and pulls at her fathers beard. They sit around the table, Alistair fetching glasses at Oghren's instructions. Zevran regales them with tales of the Crows, whilst the dwarf nods towards the door when the knocking starts up again, and before the close of the third tale, they have been joined by the bard and the hound. Leliana coos at the dwarven girl, who is far more interested in the dog's attentions. Alistair chuckles.

"Now that's familiar," he murmurs, and they all nod in companionable silence. Zevran pours the drinks – there is a moment when they realise that there is one glass too many, and Leliana starts crying as Alistair apologises, and Wynne's presence is sorely missed – and they each take a glass in hand. The Warden stands, face as stone.

"It's been five years. I still.." He swallows hard. "I miss her," he finishes simply, as Leliana stands next to him.

"The Maker brought us to her side, and the Maker took her away from us. Whatever His reasons, we have lost a dear friend."

"Our destinies have led us far and scattered us to the winds, but we still remember her," murmurs the Antivan, placing a glass down for the warhound. Oghren coughs slightly.

"She gave me everything, and asked nothin' in return. But she got my respect anyway." He stands, one hand cradling his precious daughter, the other nursing a glass of ale, raised to the sky. "To one hell of a Grey Warden." They all drink, then, nurturing their own memories of her. Alistair's face softens slightly as his gaze turns to the babe in the dwarf's arms.

"You know, I think she would have liked you," he murmurs, holding a finger out to the girl. She grasps it, giggling sleepily, and he cannot help but chuckle back.