Chapter Text
Dain's daughter was not present when last he went to the Iron Hills, and he has not seen her since she was hiding in her mother's skirts. So when the match is proposed to him Thorin almost recoils in horror.
Marriages to cement alliances are not unheard of, nor do dwarves find them distasteful if neither party is forced into it. But the girl is younger than his nephews - 70 perhaps, no older. Thorin knows that even after he has reclaimed Erebor he is no easy man to live with. Dis has said so often enough, but at least his sister has the experience and fortitude to stand up to him and tell him off when he is brooding. What on Mahal's sweet earth would he do with a wife so young she could be his child.. grandchild almost? He will not marry one he knows will be made miserable by the arrangement.
He has already written the letter suggesting that Frera marry Fili instead. It's a much better match to his mind. His nephew is courting a young lady freshly arrived from Edhel Luin, but no promises have been made, and Fili understands duty. He will suffer this, if asked.
Then another letter arrives from the Iron Hills, to say that Dain is coming to visit, and brings his daughter with him.
Perhaps he can put Fili next to her at the dinner table and they will make a match of it themselves. Surely Dain will see the wisdom of this.
He is in his forge when a messenger arrives from the gate - Dain's party has arrived. Greeting such an important friend and ally in his stained smithy clothes is not what he'd intended for such an significant meeting, but neither is letting them wait, so he makes haste, wiping his hands on a cloth as he goes.
Dain has left his elder two sons in charge of his keep, and his wife does not travel. When they have greeted each other, he makes a gesture, and somebody steps forward from his party.
"My daughter, Frera."
She is dressed for travel, and her deep brown hair is caught up in simple braids. Soft, silky looking whisps of hair frame her jaw, and she is sturdy like a dwarf ought to be. He bows over her hand, small in his and calloused. They exchange greetings that feel very formal for all that he is dressed in an old shirt with half the sleeves ripped off, his arms stained with sweat and soot. And oh, she is lovely, and so very young.
She is also regarding him with a frankly sceptical look that tickles him a little. He knows he can be imposing, but she does not look cowed. That is good, whether she marries Fili or him. Timidness serves nobody marrying into the line of Durin, let alone a royal household ran by Dis.
Dain is greeting Balin as they walk into the halls that lead toward guest quarters. Thorin walks with Frera, feeling like he ought to be saying something but unable to decide what, so they are silent. He's never been good at small talk.
"What are you making?"
He glances at her, sees genuine interest, and almost smiles.
"I am working on a different sort of join in the shoulderplates of my armour," he explains. "To improve the range of movement."
"Is not your armour similar to what my father wears?"
"It is, but your father wields a different weapon. My new sword requires more range of motion."
"Ah." she nods. After a minute he realises that she is looking down to the floor as they walk. He kicks himself, because she was talking to him freely and he's not sure how, but apparently he's made her stop.
"What do you make?" he says finally. That she has at least one craft is a given - there isn't a Dwarf who does not - but she does not have the hands of one who writes music.
"Oh!" she blinks her attention back to him, perhaps worried she has been the one who was impolite. "I-I cast metal," she subconsciously touches her cloak pin, an intricate design that has clearly taken some skill, "and I am learning to blow glass."
"There is a glassblower in Dale, but his work is crude," he replies, telling her about the level of workmanship he has seen.
They arrive at the visitor's quarters then, and Thorin takes his leave with another bow over her hand. She blushes a little.
"I look forward to seeing you at dinner," he says, and to his surprise, he means it.