Saerang (A Song of Ice and Fire/The Silmarillion)

[Azrubêl]

I don't remember what year we're in right now. Has Morgoth attempted to sway the Marachians and thus offended Amlach into siding with the Elves and specifically the Fëanorians already?

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Yep, that's a long time ago, and was explicitly referenced in Celegorm's last POV chapter:

It was Laegang who approached him from behind, whispering. "Lord," she said. "my Cáno, they're not lying. You trusted me with the rearguard, trust me once again."

Celegorm turned around to face her head-on. "These are lies. Not only lies, impossible lies." he said. There was nothing more that needed to be said. The only thing needed now was to get this over with. "Thingol wants a war. And he finally has a lie to excuse it."

"They believe that lie, enough to think it's true." she said. "If Tol Sirion is indeed under siege… then it must be someone who seeks to harm Fëanor's House. Do you remember Amlach, lord? Maitimo Cáno's vassal?"

Amlach. Celegorm dwelled on the name. It was one of the Edain who had dwelled in Estolad. He had gone over to Maedhros with a number of his people, and their descendants were still in Himring's ranks. Amlach claimed an agent of the Enemy had taken his guise, used it to sow discord. "You mean to say this is Morgoth's work?" he told Laegang.

He thought of the camps they'd found in the valley. Army camps. And that mewling Sinda spoke of Edain attacking Nargothrond…

"I am almost certain of it." the tuksahîr answered, her voice a low whisper. "Else there is no sense to this. Thingol has not dared attack for centuries, yet now he'd want war? And with a cause anyone with eyes could see is a lie?"

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If/when the story reaches Maedhros, then one might see the descendants of Amlach and his followers too.

 

[Solarion]

While I do think the Noldor ending up mistrustful of Ulfang and co is for the best in the long run, I can't help but wonder if it will affect the Union of Maedhros adversely.

TBH, under normal circumstances, I think Ulfang wouldn't have been trusted as much as he was. They'd probably still have given him a chance, but I think the reason he was embraced so relatively quickly was down to the fact that the Union was built with the realization that they needed to strike at Morgoth, and the strategy of waiting for him to come to them wasn't feasible in the long run.

But the Bralloch had cost them a great deal of their strength, so the Noldor wanted as many allies as they could get. Ulfang turned out to be a mistake, but Bor and his people were genuinely needed.

Granted, if Nargothrond retains good relations with the other Noldor kingdoms, the Union may not need hastily made allies. Here's hoping.

 

[Azrubêl]

Granted, if Nargothrond retains good relations with the other Noldor kingdoms, the Union may not need hastily made allies. Here's hoping.

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Well, consider this - Bor and Ulfang's people would be coming over the mountains regardless (though again, we're operating in big ifs and who knows what the situation ends up being like after all that time), and would have to be dealt with.

 

[Titania's Rose]

Oh neat! That's good.

I need to re-read the entirety of the fic. I'd completely forgotten about the events in Nargothrond.

Well, consider this - Bor and Ulfang's people would be coming over the mountains regardless (though again, we're operating in big ifs and who knows what the situation ends up being like after all that time), and would have to be dealt with.

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This is going to be interesting. They're more than likely going to come over the mountains nearer to Himring given that they swore themselves to Maedhros and Maglor. So it's possible that they could avoid Aegon and Company. But Maedhros' reaction could and likely will be changed as a result of Strange Edain shenanigans over yonder.

The loss of Nargothrond will affect both Gondolin's relations with the greater Union as well as Doriath. But hopefully it won't get to that point.

Also can I just say. I was re-reading the last stand at Tol Sirion and just. Sarad's devotion to Angrod is still one of the loveliest and saddest things I've ever read. He's combative and nigh-antagonistic to Orodreth (and I genuinely wonder what he thought of/how he felt about Finduilas as compared to her father but sadly we'll never see them properly interact). But Sarad was loyal to the memory of his lord.

And something that still strikes me. Flowers moniker for Turko. Great Rider, indeed. If any of Strickland's men survive and manage to return to the main force, that's likely the nickname that will return with them too. Ironic given that they have no idea about the Lords of the West and they'll whisper that name with all of unease that elves once did before Oromë brought them to westwards.

 

[Azrubêl]

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The Princess Beneath The Earth
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Nargothrond's entrance halls were lively with anticipation, bustling full of people, so many that even the colossal chamber leading deeper into the city was crowded. They'd gathered at the chamber's sides, around and beneath the monumental pillars that held it up, on balconies by the sides, and up high on the lofty bridges that crossed across the high parts of the cavern like branches across a forest canopy. Under the light of the great lamps, Finduilas could count tens of thousands with ease, and there were many more beyond her sight.

Finduilas had the entryway prepared for them, as the King had asked her to. The emerald banners of King Finrod had been hung from the canopy, alongside the standards of the House of Finarfin, silken sheets larger than a house chamber. There were silver and gold hangings, flowers and roses from the gates to the furthest end of the vast room. All across the great hall they'd placed the strongest-voiced heralds and singers, so that not even the youngest child could be confused.

We will need all the help we can find there, Finduilas thought to herself as she looked at the work of Nargothrond's people. She saw stars and red banners everywhere, from hastily-made standards like those used by soldiers to ones as small as handkerchiefs. Unlike the banners of the King and his House they did not hang from the pillars or the cavern ceiling, but in the hands of the people awaiting the arrival of those to whom those banners belonged. It seemed only a few short days ago when all Nargothrond was enraged at the 'New Kinslaying' as they'd called it. Grief, mingled with fury at another betrayal by the easterners, an even greater offense than all the rest.

Then more news came from the north. The Sons of Fëanor were no traitors, but were slandered by a deception of Angband. What more, they proved their worth on the field of battle. And for most, that was enough to wash away all dishonor, sufficient to welcome the Fëanorians as heroes. After all that happened, why not wish for a hero to wipe the tears away?

Father certainly would not approve of such heroes. He had little good to say about the House of Fëanor. He rarely brought them up in conversation, and seemed to live his life content with pretending they did not exist. He has his reasons. On this at least, if nothing else. Finduilas reminded herself. Reminded herself, as she had to do every so often now. They were kinslayers. On both her mother's side and her father's, she could claim kinship to the Teleri who had been slain at Alqualondë. Yet if not for them, would any of these people have lived to return here?

She did not know. These were old enmities, grudges born long before her, but they cast their shadow still.

Finduilas looked to the side, and saw Siniel, her son in her arms. The princess had invited her friends to be close by her side, in the balcony box reserved for Finarfin's House, highest and closest to where the King would be. Siniel had chosen to wear her red dress, and over it a long-sleeved overcoat, decorated with stars and altogether too much fur. In his small hand, her son held a tiny red cloth too. Siniel was far from the only one to dress herself like that - the 'eastern style', it had come to be called in Nargothrond, in honor of Fëanor's House. Daeron's choice was similar, though it involved more painted leathers, and a false sword worn at his waist (He would not have dared wear a real blade in Finduilas' presence).

Finduilas could not afford to indulge in such frivolities. On this day, she wore the colors of the King. A white silk dress, tied at the waist with a green sash. A light blue shawl over her left shoulder, decorated with amber carved in the shape of flower petals, like those at the heart of her great-grandfather's sigil. She and Eithoril were the only ones in the box not to wear red.

From the gates, the great trumpets rang. "They are coming!" Finduilas heard Siniel whisper, the anticipation in her voice clear. She was far from alone. Whispers carried easily across the hall, even underneath the cries of the heralds and the singers' hymns.

"O folk of Nargothrond! Into our city come the guardians against the North! Into our city welcome your sons and daughters! Hail to the valiant Prince Gwindor, son of Guilin, returned after many battles!" The first cry issued forth from the heralds. Swiftly after, another announcement followed. "Welcome our worthy eastern kin, who came to our aid unlooked for! Hail to the princes of Finwë's line! Hail to Celegorm and Curufin!" She was surprised there was no mention of her father, hard though it was to imagine him a great warrior in battle. That must have been why no one had said his name as of yet.
"The defenders of the north!" many cried reverently. "Glory to the heroes of our people."

They were not yet in sight, but people cheered for them all the same. "The champions of the Ñoldor!"

Then from far in the distance there came a roll on great drums, drowning out all other calls. Slow at first, then faster and faster. I did not arrange for these, Finduilas thought. They were followed by more voices crying out. "Á cenë ancénië!" they called. Finduilas could now see the players in the distance. They were arranged in bands, some mounted and others following at the side on foot. All wore brightly-colored robes and red-feathered caps, those at the forefront marked out by their tall horse-tail headdresses.

"Á cenë ancénië!" they sang again, calling out for all to hear. Now alongside the drums, she could hear many more instruments. Pipes and fiddles and reed trumpets joined with the approaching drums, their tune rising ever higher in intensity. It was a rhythm unlike those of Nargothrond, heavy, shrill, almost discordant. The drums kept banging at repetitive, short intervals. Trailing behind them was the sound of footfalls, marching feet and many hooves stamping against the stones of the floor in tune with the drums.

"What are they singing about?" Siniel asked absent-mindedly. "Can't say I understand all of it. Is it the Quenya of Valinor? They don't speak quite right."

"No," Finduilas answered her. In all truth, she had trouble understanding some parts of the hymn herself. She could make out Quenya words and phrases, but they were mixed with dialects of Sindarin - and she didn't know them all.

"Something of fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. It's your Quenya, mixed… carelessly with the dialects favored east of my home, and the proper speech of us in Doriath." Eithoril said. "Even though King Thingol is supposed to have outlawed kinslayers from speaking that tongue." she added.

Finally, the host came within sight, and the music reached a fever-pitch. There were many companies, and they marched in perfect order. First came the ones on foot, carrying the banners of Nargothrond. Some of those soldiers Finduilas could even recognize. They were greeted by the people with loud cheers, many rushing up close to embrace their loved ones, others watching close, hoping to see a familiar face. We don't even know all those we lost yet.

It was the first time in her life that Finduilas had seen so many soldiers gathered like this within Nargothrond's walls. It felt wrong, like something about life had changed, and she didn't know if things would ever be the same again.

After them came the squadrons of the easterners, arrayed in their elaborate formations. Above their ranks floated crimson banners and horse-tail standards. These eldar held themselves proudly, their bearing tall and straight as they trotted forward in orderly fashion. All of them had bows by their side, tucked into richly-embroidered quivers alongside their arrows.

None of the leathers that poor Daeron wore though, or half as much fur. Nevertheless, Finduilas noticed that her companion was whistling to the sound of the Fëanorian music. "I like it," he said, smiling casually. "Songs with brawn. About brave deeds, not… trees and blooming flowers."

For-ever valiant the Ñoldor folk have been.

Under stars renowned, your far-famed hosts are seen!
Under stars renowned, your far-famed hosts are seen!

Of course you do, Finduilas thought. In but a few days, Daeron had gone from decrying all things of Fëanor's House and listing their each and every treachery to this, as soon as different news came.

Though Finduilas had to admit the music had its appeal, for all its percussive harshness. The words had her shiver in excitement, and made her want to sweep into dance herself. Or to walk very intently, perhaps. Should I feel guilty for that?

Aiya Rúnavarrim, Aiya Rúnavarrim!
Never show fear! For kin and land you take the field!

Accursed foes you scatter to the wind!
Accursed foes you scatter to the wind!

"Just look at them!" Siniel marveled, pointing to the Fëanorian horsemen. "They're splendid." Indeed they were, with their embroidered cummerbunds, their feathers and their colored plumes, their bands and leaders, marching through the hall with a victor's swagger.

"Indeed they are." Finduilas agreed, and saw Eithoril's gaze darken that very instant. "Though the eagles flying over Aman's skies would have been truly magnificent, my father would say. Or something of that sort." she laughed. No doubt, she'd hear it from father himself soon enough.

"I heard the easterners call these riders 'Daeliyúmë', the Terror Host. They're the vanguard that heralds the advance of their riders. The orcs in the borderlands hate them especially, for they have no mercy and ever seek to torment them. I also heard that they must each gather a score of orc heads in battle and hand them to their lords before being accepted into the ranks." Daeron confided, as if sharing in on a secret.

"That sounds like the Sons of Fëanor." said Eithoril, her voice cold.

"These Sons of Feanor are why my son still has a father, and not a corpse." Siniel retorted. "Why should I care what they do to orcs?"

Finduilas could see an argument was brewing. Before she could stop it however, something else did. Where before there were only cheers, now gasps came from those watching the procession. The closely-ordered Fëanorian ranks had opened, to reveal more than two-score Men.

Bound hand and foot in heavy irons they were, and blindfolded. "Orc-work." Eithoril whispered faintly, and Finduilas doubted she was alone in thinking that. 'Why let them here?' she heard others whisper. 'Not into Nargothrond, not our city.', 'It's not meant to be done this way.' The Edain shambled forward, their heads hanging low. Their garments were strange - or at least so far as Finduilas could tell, ragged and caked in dirt as they were. Beneath the stains of sweat and filth, she could still see their clothes were yellow, that many of them had been well-made. In terms of shape… they were as Edain always were. Finduilas had not met many of their kind, but these did not seem unusual. Some tall, others short, bearded and beardless. At least one of them had that odd habit of Aftercomer men, where the hair on their heads would grow thin or fall off entirely, leaving them as bare as a rock under the sun. She'd once been told it was a sign of age, like how their hair would turn white.

"Our kin of Nargothrond," a man's voice cried out from among the Fëanorian following. Though he didn't seem especially remarkable in appearance, he was well-situated and dressed in finery, on his head a jeweled helm plumed with peacock feathers. "Word came that it was the Sons of Fëanor and their armies who betrayed you. But you were lied to, deceived by a foe who sought in vain to blacken our name and rupture the bond of kinship among the Ñoldor. Behold those who truly betrayed you, the Aftercomers that fell upon Minas Tirith at the North's bidding, who killed your sons and daughters!"

Finduilas could hear the murmurs among the crowd turn, and bubble up. Water bubbling in the river was air, seeking to be let out, she had once been told. This was resentment, seeking release.

"Traitors! Traitors!" A voice called out, and the flood began. Now, the world was flooded with cries, awash in the rising uproar.

"Murderers!" some said. "Justice! Justice!" others called for. "Accursed be the moment you were born!"

"Orcs in man-shape, get thee gone from here!"

All that and more the shackled Edain were showered with on their path and in front the man with the gilded helm kept on shouting his speeches. "With trickery they found passage to your land, in the name of their king. A boy who claims to be king of all the Edain, and seeks dominion of Beleriand."

Was this true? Finduilas wondered. A boy claiming to be king of all the Aftercomers. There hadn't ever been an Edain king, none that she heard of. Why would one be Nargothrond's enemy now?

But those thoughts were for others to have, and later. "That boy-king leads a Golden Host, Edain impostors one and all. He has made league with Gorthaur, whose armies march into your lands. They made captives of those they didn't murder. More would have fallen had we not arrived."

"This cannot be borne! It is unacceptable."

"Show them to us. Show them. Show us their faces!" the crowd demanded.

"As you wish, so the valiant sons of Feanor answer," the mounted man with the gilded helm answered. At his command, the Edain were placed upon the ground, their blindfolds roughly removed. "See wretches, the great city you sought in vain to conquer, the people you meant to humble and enslave!"

She could see the Edain glance about, their eyes flickering with awe and terror as they took in their surroundings. Could they have ever seen anything alike to Nargothrond in all their lives?

Three times a horn sounded, and now came the biggest banners yet seen. There were the emerald standards of Nargothrond and King Finrod. Close by yet standing apart were the Fëanorian flags, now-familiar with their silver stars on red, and the flame-wreathed device of Fëanor. Last was Gwindor's blue banner. Finduilas let her hand rest against the balcony's marble edge, and closed her eyes.

The rider with the gilded helm turned course, bowing his head deeply. These are his lords. The Sons of Feanor, at last. They were riding side by side, a large retinue of men and women clad in polished steel following behind. The one to the left bore a cluster of golden plates over his armor, shaped like roses. Above it he was wearing a two-toned heavy coat, red as blood outside and white within, long as a cloak, with its brim, the cuff of the sleeves and hem trimmed with fine fur, golden patterns swirling upwards at the back like flames. On his dark-haired head there was no helm - rather he wore a crown of crystal, and in hand held a steel rod, wielding it as a scepter. On his feet he had a pair of scarlet boots, made of supple-looking leather and velvet, edged in jeweled scrollwork and decorated with patterns of stars and tulips in gold and silver-corded thread. The horse he rode upon was no less splendid than the rider, with its bejeweled caparison and gem-encrusted bridle. This must be Curufin. He certainly knows how to dress. Finduilas thoughts passed to what she'd heard of the man. Word was that he was the most alike to Fëanor in appearance and character, the favorite among all his Sons. If so, was she looking at this man's father writ small?

Curufin returned the courteous bow of his vassal with a smile and raised his hand in acknowledgement before turning his head to look at the cheering crowds surrounding him - yet kept a distance, sitting tall and straight atop his mount. It was the brother beside him who received the greatest attention and the loudest acclaim instead.

Where Curufin's attire wedded palatial splendor with martial glory, no such considerations passed the mind of the rider to his right. There were no jewels on him that Finduilas could see, no softnesses nor precious fabrics. This man's appearance spoke of naught but war. He sat atop a snorting red horse, clad in the same steels he might wear on the battlefield. By his side he had a bow, and a young rider behind him carried a large spear reverently. Four other riders followed too, golden banners attached to the tails of their horses, trailing on the ground behind like prey caught at the end of a hunt. Already they'd gathered much dust and dirt. "Turko! Turko! Turko!" the riders behind him chanted enthusiastically. "Prince Celegorm! Hunter of beasts and traitors, feared by all the orcs!"

It wasn't just his own following who were cheering. By Finduilas' side, Siniel was waving with her free hand, and many others were shouting his name as well. Unlike Curufin, Celegorm led his horse closer to the crowd, letting children touch the fur of the enormous dog that walked alongside him. He laughed with his knights and talked to those who approached him, glorying in the adulation.

Finduilas turned her head to Daeron. Something about this was odd. "They seem to be more enthusiastic about Prince Celegorm than Prince Curufin." she said, careful to try and not phrase it as a question. She didn't like looking ignorant, much less having to ask for help.

"Well, there is plenty of reason for that, Princess Finduilas." Bless you Daeron, she thought, and your endless eagerness to share whatever you've heard. "They say in Valinor he was squire to Oromë himself, learned how to ride and hunt and shoot a bow at the Great Rider's feet. That hound? His name's Huan, Oromë's gift to a beloved companion. They hunted alongside King Finrod, Lady Aredhel and your own grandfather, the late Martial Prince. His bow can pierce through solid steel, run an orc through and still pin it to a tree after, from what I've heard."

Eithoril raised her eyebrow. "What he used to do in Valinor doesn't mean much for who he is today." she said. "Hunting beasts hardly makes great lords."

"I've heard many of the same things, Daeron." Finduilas added more diplomatically.

"Oh no, not just that!" he answered. "When Fëanor first landed in Nevrast, it was Prince Celegorm who led the southwards prong of the attack. His cavalry passed undetected and smashed an orc throng that outnumbered them more than three-to-one, lifting the siege of the Falas. After the fighting was over, he enters the city and presents Lord Cirdan with the head and arms of the commander of the host that had tormented his people, wrapped in his own banner, before speeding north again to join his father! And at the Aglareb, he led the eastern vanguard in the envelopment that broke the armies attacking Dorthonion. Since then, he's fought more than a hundred battles great and small. Hasn't lost a single one. His people claim he's the mightiest warrior in all the East, the 'Cáno worth Ten Thousand Spears'. Of the Sons of Fëanor, the reputations of Maedhros and Maglor alone match his."

"You can take a breath now," Finduilas smiled. "but thank you." As funny as Daeron's enthusiasm was, Finduilas was thankful for it all the same. She doubted her father would divulge that kind of information, and she had never much bothered with news of the war before.

As if on cue, some of the Fëanorian troops chanted - they had no music behind them, and their voices were low, rasping fast like a light tap on wood. "We're the Hunter's men, Prince Turko's faithful! Loyal, mighty, ever-victorious! From the waves of the Falas to Angband's iron gates, foemen get out of our way! To us, lords of the West, clans and kin listen!"

Daeron laughed. "I can answer more if you want!" he added.

"Maybe later," Finduilas replied, turning her head to face the trumpets. Below, riding by the Fëanorians she saw Gwindor. For a moment, their gazes met, but only for a moment.

"I have to leave," she said hastily. "I will see you afterwards."



Finduilas made her way down flights of stairs and through winding corridors, as quick as her feet could carry her before she finally reached her destination. Guilin was already there.

"Neither too late nor early, Princess Finduilas." he greeted her. Guilin was robed in white, his garment reaching down to his knees. His pants were a light shade of green, as were the layered folds of his robe. The scrollwork at his sleeves was yellow, the embroidery depicting the bare branches of some golden tree. Fine attire to represent both the colors of the King and the winter season. But there was blue there as well - splashes of it, in the gems that decorated Prince Guilin's lapels, and the silk ribbon that kept his dark hair tied into a knot. For Gwindor, no doubt. "Did you see my son?" he asked.

"Yes," Finduilas answered. "He was there beneath our king's banners. But I did not see my lord father with him." Speaking those words aloud, she found herself suddenly worried.

If Prince Guilin was surprised by her news, he did not show it. "Be at ease," he said gently. "Your father never was much for ceremony, and he likes the Sons of Feanor even less. He has his reasons."

Finduilas felt some relief at Guilin's words. Of course. Why would he be riding alongside the Fëanorians? What a foolish idea. "Of course. You're right, lord Guilin." She smiled. Yet for some reason, the pangs of worry did not fully go away. She felt them still, a wrongness churning inside her. She ignored the feeling. It was a chill, and nothing more.

"And what do you think of our king's guests, Princess Finduilas?" Guilin asked her.

What do I think of them? She was not certain how to reply - or what to reply with. While she wouldn't go so far as Siniel and Daeron's newfound adoration, they were impressive all the same. They were not what Finduilas had expected - different certainly, but not savages barely above orcs. Father wouldn't like to hear that, and she doubted Guilin would either.

"They're loud." was what she settled for. At least it was true. "And more… ostentatious than I imagined. They want to impress us, and like being seen as much as the people like seeing them."

Guilin nodded. "Indeed?" he observed, interest coloring his voice. "You have a keen eye, Princess Finduilas. Why do you think they do so?"

Finduilas paused. Once again, what was she meant to answer, beneath Guilin's gaze? "To demonstrate their valor. They want to impress us - everyone here, by showing their strength."

"You are correct," Guilin said. "yet still missing something." Finduilas froze, waiting for his next words. What did he think she'd gotten wrong? "They do want to impress us, yet it is not because of their strength but their weakness."

"What do you mean, lord Guilin?" Finduilas asked, politely as she could. What is he trying to say? "They look mighty to me."

"And that is exactly how they wish to appear. Mighty heroes, the triumphant conquerors come to deliver us. Their music, their splendid clothes and armors, the… indignities imposed upon their captives. Even if you were to look away, you could hardly ignore them. The purpose is to overawe the people of Nargothrond with spectacle. But what you must understand is this: such grand displays, such elaborate ceremonies are not born from certainty, but the lack of it. Power - true power - is a frightfully subtle thing. It is there, but has no need to make itself seen. Look beneath the image they show to us - see their numbers, and how few they are compared to our people. Ask yourself, Princess Finduilas; why are they here to begin with? It is because they abandoned their lands to the orcs."

She thought back to what Daeron said about Celegorm. How does a warrior who has never lost a battle end up forced to leave his home to the flames? But was what Guilin said the whole truth? "I did not think of it this way." Finduilas admitted. "Though I have to ask - if true power needs not be seen, then why do we bother with crowns?"

Guilin looked at her, a moment passing silently, or as silently as it could with what was happening close by. "A good question." he chuckled. "But I want you to forget about japes for a moment, and heed what I have to say next. All power rests on people and flows from them, even as it changes their lives. One can hold power over the life and death of another, yet remain blind to that fact. Someone with lesser strength can veil the eyes of all around him and appear far greater than he truly is. A mere handful can start a war, and one man may stir an entire people to madness. We might not yet know what the Sons of Fëanor truly want, or why they came here. But I can tell what they are doing now, and saw what they've done before. Do not trust them." Guilin warned, all humor vanishing from his voice. "The Sons of Feanor have aims of their own, and never let their words blind you to that."

Everyone does. Finduilas thought, but dared not speak. Was there someone in this place who had not a goal of his own, no matter how small? "Whatever their aims, I have faith in our King and trust his wisdom to see us through." she said, echoing Guilin's own words before the throne.

"As do I." Guilin answered. "As must we all." He stepped forward with grace, one foot in front of another and she followed. The procession was in front of them now.

With a pneumatic whirr, the doors began to open. On them, they bore many engravings, fashioned in a series of great circles, expanding from the center outwards. At the innermost one were wrought the Stars and Two Trees in gold and silver, while the outermost was set with the image of the Ekkaia, the Outer Ocean that circled the edge of Arda. Between them many more images were graven. Folk plowing their fields and hunters at the chase, miners delving for precious stones and craftsmen working their trade in forges of gold-wrought flame. Then in the deeper circle, amidst kinsmen hunting in a far-off land, a lone, golden-haired prince sat in repose by the river. Before him the Lord of Waters rose in glory. Following the Vala, he saw a place by the river Narog, deep beneath the earth, and hewed therein a city. By his side were arranged many more figures - eldar and naugrim alike, working side by side. Lastly at the circle's far-end, he sat enthroned and crowned. It was nothing less than the tale of Nargothrond's foundation - and a powerful depiction of its prosperity. More than that, it was a display of what made Nargothrond exceptional among the kingdoms of Beleriand - founded with the guidance of the Valar, the permission of Thingol, its halls hewed with the aid of the Dwarves. What other realm could boast of such concord by all Arda in its founding? The thought made Finduilas proud.

The Deep Gate, it was called, and led onto the throne chamber. From it emerged King Finrod, flanked by the Ehtërim Mahalma, their armor concealed beneath rich purple robes, bearing green plumes upon their gilded helms. The same mechanisms that had opened the gate now blew rose petals across the chamber, as if by a wind from the West. They scattered slowly down onto the polished floors as the lanterns that lit above the King and his entourage flickered brighter.

"Ever-lasting joy to thee! Ever-lasting joy to Nargothrond and its people!" came the acclamations from down below.

"Turmenatar! Turmenatar!", 'Realm-father' chanted the gathered throngs of the city's craftsmen and masons by the side. "Úlmo and Elbereth grant you foresight and wisdom, to guide our people. May the Powers preserve and steady our great realm."

"And may you who over prosperity have reigned four hundred years -" cried out the heralds.

"- in peace reign four thousand more!" answered all ranks of the Throne Guard, loudly enough that Finduilas wanted to cover her ears. Alone and set apart from all stood the figure of King Finrod, perfectly still and silent, serene amid the din. His hands were clasped before his waist, the lanternlight above setting his golden hair and the many gems of his silver crown aflame.

Soon the procession reached the foot of the steps and all fell silent. The forward columns of soldiers parted to the sides, letting their leaders through. Curufin and Gwindor were first to dismount. Celegorm was the last to do so, removing his red-plumed helm and handing it over to a scarred rider behind him before dismounting in a single swift move, striding up the steps with a weighty gait. It was Finduilas' first close look at Fëanor's thirdborn. He was tall, very tall and powerful in appearance, broad at the shoulders and around the waist. Silver hair fell loosely down his shoulders like a lion's mane and his eyes were dark grey, the Light of the Trees visible within them. His features were well-shaped, his skin tanned, though more weathered than that of Gwindor. Some call him Fair, either for the color of his hair or his looks. She would not deny that Prince Celegorm was a handsome man, but Finduilas could not find him attractive. There was something to him, a severity in his eyes even when restful, a tempestuousness to his expression that threatened to explode into violence at any moment. It scared her, as did the thought of this man with blade in hand.

The sound of steel-shod feet clanking on the marble steps echoed across the grand chamber. Those next to Finduilas and on the opposite row looked on solemnly, though a few stole sideways glances at the trio as it passed them by. Finduilas focused her eyes on Gwindor. Just as before, he did not turn his eyes towards her. Why? She asked silently.

When he was on the level below the King, Gwindor bowed his head and clasped his hands, before kneeling on one leg. Next to him, Curufin inclined his head in respect, but Celegorm stood still, his eyes meeting those of the King.

There was a moment, but a brief one where they studied the other. But then the King spoke. His voice was level, but by some art unknown to Finduilas, the spot upon which he stood carried his voice across the vast chamber, in a manner that would have been impossible even if he were shouting. "Welcome, Prince Celegorm, mighty lord and valiant hunter, famed in battle. Welcome, Prince Curufin, beloved son of the First House, for your cunning craft renowned. A long way have you ridden from your eastern homeland, but gladdened we are by your coming." Gwindor, he hailed after them. "Welcome, Prince Gwindor Guilin's son, child of our realm, fast friend of my House. All Nargothrond is joyous for your return."

"We accept the honor gladly, wise king." said Curufin. "And are thankful for the hospitality of your great realm."

"A fine welcome." Celegorm spoke. His voice was deeper than his brother's, resounding clear and loud across the hall. "But we're not here to beg for lodging, younger brother. We are princes of Finwë's line, not beggars at Nargothrond's door." he declared proudly. "We will win our place at the table with brave deeds."

The King's gaze went to the two brothers. "Then you already have, kinsmen." he said. "You and your host have done us a service that Nargothrond cannot forget." From there, the King turned to address the hall. "My people! I, Finrod son of Finwë Arafinwë, of Finwë's House greet Princes Celegorm and Curufin into our realm, as loved kin and fast friends. I give praise to their bravery, and the dangers they took in coming to our help in this hour. I ask you to honor them, to aid them here as I do, as you would our own."

'Yea! Praise be, praise be! Glory to Nargothrond, glory to our King! Honor to the heirs of Finwë!' the acclamations of a happy crowd resounded, loud as thunder.

The giving of gifts followed after that - silk garments, of the cut favored in Nargothrond for Celegorm, as well as a bow, an embroidered quiver full of arrows and jeweled thumb ring (Finduilas had to ask what the purpose of that was - apparently archery!), while his brother Curufin was gifted with a golden necklace and gem-encrusted belt. Gwindor was given a long blue velvet cloak, trimmed with white fur and decorated with silver thread, as well as a diadem, pearls hanging on strings from its back and sides. After them, the captains and officers received gifts also, of no small worth in their own right. So too were all soldiers of the host down to the lowliest awarded with bales of silk and strong wine. The Sons of Fëanor exchanged gifts of their own in turn - horses and panoplies, spoils of war taken from the ruin of the Golden Host. Prince Celegorm took great pleasure in revealing the contents of a large sack, slashing it open with his blade. Many golden arm rings spilled forth from within, worn, he said, by the warriors of the traitor Edain. She tried not to dwell too much on the fact that more than a few still were stained with blood.

After all that was done, the King took to introducing Nargothrond's notables to his cousins. Finduilas smiled watching him do so. It was the first time in months that she'd seen King Finrod be so energetic, as if all the ardor he'd lost was returned to him, overcoming his grief.

It was good to see, and made her feel safe, safer than before. Before she realized it, King Finrod and the Fëanorians stood before her.

"This is the fair lady Finduilas," he said to them. "daughter of my nephew Orodreth, and the youngest of my House."

"I am honored to meet you, my kin." Finduilas said politely, standing tall. Curufin smiled easily, as he had with all others who had greeted him. Celegorm's eyes on the other seemed to observe her more closely. It made her nervous and she had to look up slightly, but she met his gaze all the same.

"I remember Orodreth." Remember? She wondered, but had no time to dwell on it. "You do not look much like him."

"I've been told I resemble my grandsire most, great Prince." she answered. "I am glad for it however - if I took after my father or mother more, I'd have to turn my head much higher now, and you much lower." she added with a light laugh. Celegorm paused for a moment… before laughing out loud, the laughter convulsing his whole frame.

"You're bolder than he." Celegorm remarked. Finduilas was not sure what to feel. Should she be honored by a warrior like that calling her bold? Insulted, at the implication about Father?

"As am I." Curufin stepped in to say. "My apologies Lady Finduilas, my brother has his own way with words. I am certain my son would be happy to meet you also, when he arrives later."

A son? Of course, she had almost forgotten amid everything else. Curufin had a son of his own, Celebrimbor. She had not heard much about him, save that he was a skilled smith like his sire and grandsire. "I would be glad to talk to another of my kinsmen, and hope to see him soon. Finduilas answered. "But if I may ask, why is he not here with us already?"

Curufin's expression darkened at that. "My son was injured," he said flatly. "He is strong, and he'll recover. But it left him in little state to keep up with us."

"Injured? How?" she asked.

"An ambush." Celegorm rumbled. "By Thingol's men."

Suddenly, she felt embarrassed, left scrambling for words. Eithoril never said a word about that, she thought with horror. Could they really have done it? Attacked fellow Eldar? Before Finduilas could respond however, they had moved on. "No need to say anything, Lady Finduilas. My brother brokered peace between us once more - and discovered the true culprit, the Golden Host." Curufin told her. "It is in the past now, and there it will remain."

She was not sure what sounded more unbelievable. That the House of Fëanor and Thingol would keep a grudge to the past? Or that it was Prince Celegorm, with the reputation that accompanied him, who was responsible?

It seemed that the King thought much the same. "You have changed, cousin." he told Celegorm, surprise in his voice. He must have already known, of course.

"As have you." Celegorm answered, looking around. "I don't remember all this… ceremony, even if you always were one to appreciate treasure."

"It is part of being king, no less than my throne or crown." King Finrod said, with some wistfulness. "And for treasure, many esteem it on its own, but I never have. I do not value gold for its gleam, nor treasure for its worth. I value the friends it can be gifted to, the craftsman's skill who made it."

"If you have the ability, then why not display your creations?" Curufin agreed. "Though I have not had time to work the forge in far too long."

"A shame, cousin. I always admired your work. I can understand, being severed from what you would rather be doing." the King said, some sadness in his voice.

"Maybe you'll find the time here, Lord Curufin." Finduilas offered, to join the conversation. "Our city is home to many craftsmen, and they would be honored to find you a workplace."

"A generous offer, Princess." Curufin said with a smile. It was the kind of smile that made her uncertain whether he meant it, or was laughing at some joke only he was privy to. "I might take you up on it. We found many interesting devices in the possession of the traitors, and I'd like the chance to study them more closely."

"Is that so, cousin?" Finrod's voice grew more inquisitive. "I have heard much and more of this 'Golden Host' that attacked Minas Tirith. Enough, but how much of it true, I cannot tell. You fought these Edain and I want to hear all you know of them."

She'd wanted to hear more too. Questions had swirled in her mind ever since she first saw the captives, and heard the words of the Feänorian officer. Who were these people? She'd never heard of them before. Where did they come from? They called her great-uncle Finrod Edennil, Friend to Men. Why would a kindred of Edain turn against someone who had done so much for their people? Who was 'Aegon Targaryen', and what possessed him to make such bold claims? None of it made sense, and that more than anything itched at her, making her want to find the truth behind it all.

The King turned to face her. "Leave us, Finduilas." he said. Not harshly, but his intent was clear.

"My King, I-" Finduilas said, but she was cut off.

"You're right to be curious." the King stated. "But I rule Nargothrond. I must hear, and judge with caution ere any rash words are spoken, or actions made that cannot be unmade."

And I'm your kinswoman, but I can't be trusted to hear any of it? Finduilas thought ruefully. "As my King wishes." she said.

"Fret not." Finrod said, a slight smile on his face. "I will tell you later. But I think that for now, you would do well to speak to Gwindor. Surely, you must miss him."

"My King is wise." Finduilas said, bowing her head in respect, before turning back around. Whatever passed between them, she didn't know.



Her footsteps came to a freezing halt when she found Gwindor.

It was the first time she'd seen him in a year. A year alone, and it has turned the world entire. Gelmir was by his side then, smiling and teasing Gwindor for his seriousness. Looking forward to fighting alongside the King and his 'big brother'. There were many friends with them, valiant knights eager for war. Finduilas knew their names, called them friends too. Now Gwindor stood alone.

"Prince Gwindor." Finduilas said, trepidation in her voice.

Gwindor looked back at her, looking surprised. "Princess Finduilas…" he answered, after a long silence. His eyes peered into her own as she approached him. "Faelivrin." Gwindor said finally. It was his name for her. Hearing it again from his lips after so long… it made Finduilas feel warm within, it made her remember how much she missed being called that.

"I've missed you." she told him. "I was worried about you ever since.." she paused, regretting what she was about to say. "Ever since you left."

Gwindor looked at her silently. In his grey eyes, Finduilas saw exhaustion. No, not just exhaustion. There was anger there too and determination, no less than in Celegorm's. "I'm so sorry, Gwindor." She raised her hand, and brought it to his face. There was a scar there, by the side of his chin. It was new.

Before she could touch it, she felt her hand being moved aside, gently. Yet no amount of gentleness could change the feeling of a warrior's gauntlet. Gwindor held her hands in his own, just like he used to. But now, she only felt cold steel, pressing against her skin.

"It will heal. It's just a scratch." he reassured her.

"Remove those things," Finduilas commanded, pointing to his gauntlets. "I don't like them touching me."

"I'm sorry, Faelivrin. I forgot." Gwindor said softly. There was another pause. "I… I didn't want to return like this. I promised…"

What was she supposed to say that would make the loss easier? How could she even hope to comfort him? "But you came back. I know about Gelmir. He was my friend, and I knew him since we were both children. Do you think I don't miss him too? I lost my grandfather - so many died then. It's not your fault he's gone." She felt like her father. Seeing sorrow, and offering only platitudes.

"Gelmir isn't dead." Gwindor said, as confident as if he were looking at his brother instead of Finduilas. "I looked. Many times. Among the dead, when it was clear no one had seen him. I hoped to find Gelmir among them." He sounded disgusted with his own words. "I wish he was dead. I could grieve for him like all the others if he was. I know he's alive, and if I were anywhere but here…"

"What would you do then?" she asked. "Keep fighting? You've been fighting for a year now."

"Be of use." Gwindor answered. "What good am I here, Faelivrin? Who am I helping by sitting idle? There is work to be done, and I would rather help than brood on broken promises."

"Broken promises? You also promised me something, Gwindor." Finduilas told him. "You said that you'd return here. You kept that promise, but now you want to leave again? Is your word to me worth less than those?"

"You don't understand, Faelivrin." Gwindor tried to explain. He sounds like he's hiding something, Finduilas thought.

"Tell me then, so I might understand. Do you think me incapable?" she pressed him.

Gwindor's gaze hardened in response to her words. She met it head-on. "You've never fought. I pray you never have to, Faelivrin. You never had to make decisions, knowing lives would be lost whatever you chose! You've not had to watch your friends die in front of your eyes, to lie to them as life went out of them, so they'd pass thinking something was accomplished by their dying! I learned to bear it. To live with myself, with everything. I had to. I did." he said, sounding more as though he wanted to convince himself. "But not here! They have me… They act as though we won a great victory. Some victory. We- we didn't. We won nothing!"

"I have the strength." Gwindor said. Finduilas wasn't sure if it was to her, or himself. It was the first time she had heard his voice fraying like this. "Out there, I can lead. I can fight. Here, I'm useless! They have me stand tall, and smile and be cheered at and given gifts. Like some toy to wave about. Do you think I deserve this crown?" he clenched his hand into a tight fist. "All those damnable cheers? Any of it? The only thing I heard when they cheered was those damned Men laughing as they rode my friends down! But I kept silent. I learned how to keep it all quiet, so nobody would be afraid and all they'd see from me was certainty. I'm tired, Faelivrin. Tired of seeing us lose. And this… this farce earlier where we pretend we won. That made it all come back." Gwindor said, trembling with grief and rage. It broke her heart seeing him like this. Gwindor was supposed to be strong, he was a brave knight like no other. He wasn't meant to be near sobbing.

"You're brave." Finduilas tried to console him. "You're strong, and there is nobody here worthier of honor than you. All of Nargothrond loves you. I…"

"You still don't understand, do you?" Gwindor spat out. "I don't care for honor, glory, anything they give me. I want to lose no one else. I will punish those monsters for everything they did. To my brother, to Gonodor and my friends, your father-" he stopped suddenly there. Those words, those words fell like a hammerblow. Finduilas took a step back, as if she'd been struck. That same sensation she had felt when talking with Guilin returned, stronger than before.

"What?" she asked. No, she hadn't asked. Her voice was torn and hoarse. She must have shouted it. "My.. my father? What are you talking about? Guilin said- your father told me he would be here soon, that he's well."

Gwindor looked at her. "Is that what my father told you? He lied. For some… wise reason, as always."

"What happened then?" Finduilas demanded. "Tell me!"

He turned his head down, ashamed. "I lost him." he began after a long pause. "In the escape from the isle, the traitors chased us. My men and I were split from Prince Orodreth. I never saw your father again after that. I don't know what happened, if he's alive or dead. I- I shouldn't have listened. He wanted to leave the tower. If we stayed put…"

A familiar, stern voice interrupted them. "Gwindor, my son. You have said enough." Prince Guilin pronounced. At the sound of his father's voice, Gwindor froze. For a moment, he looked at Finduilas, but turned his eyes away. Silently, he went over to his father. Their eyes met, and Gwindor inclined his head in respect. Without saying a word, Guilin embraced his son.

"Go now, your mother has missed you." he instructed, and Gwindor obeyed. Before parting, he gave Finduilas a final look. None of the sorrow and anger had vanished from his eyes. Instead, they were frozen, silenced around his father. Left to fester.

Finduilas turned towards Prince Guilin. She tried to collect herself, to appear unfrayed. "Why did you come here?" she asked once Gwindor was out of earshot.

"To find my son." Guilin answered emotionlessly, his face unmoving. "I apologize for his rash words - he has suffered much, but that does not mean he should have spoken as he did."

She had no patience for this. She couldn't. "You lied to me." Finduilas told him, fighting to keep her composure. "And now you talk about Gwindor? Do you have no shame, lord?"

"I kept the truth from you, yes." Guilin said. "But not out of ill-will, Princess Finduilas."

She found herself laughing at that. "You wished to spare my feelings, Prince Guilin? Would I be happier thinking my father was about to return home?"

"You are shaken." he said firmly, but gently. "Do you think I was not, when news first came of it? I have been friends with your father since before either you or my sons were born. And the King? His nephew disappearing, so soon after he lost his brothers? But we are older, and know how to control ourselves."

Finduilas merely glared at him, feeling a lump in her throat, her eyes itching. "I have no time for these- these excuses." she said, trying to hold back a sob. Father. I- I didn't want this, I don't want something to happen to you. Mother... She thought of Mother too, she wanted her here. She wanted someone she could talk to, anyone.

"You would have been told - eventually." Guilin continued. "I want you to understand, Princess Finduilas. This is a difficult time and we can ill-afford panic to spread, to do the Enemy's work for him. Look at yourself now. Had I told you before, would you have kept your composure? Or would you have acted as now, where all Nargothrond could see you?"

"You lied to me because you did not want to be embarrassed?" she snapped. "You talked about the Sons of Fëanor and their displays, but don't act much different, do you?"

He seemed unfazed by her words, almost as though she had said nothing. She wished for him to be angry, that might at least mean he heard her. "It is precisely because of them that I was worried." Guilin answered. "I told you as much before. No matter what they say, the Sons of Fëanor are no friends of your House. Their eyes look for any weakness. If they saw the heir of Finarfin's House weeping, gripped by fright, how do you think they would perceive it?"

Finduilas stopped what she was about to say. "The heir of Finarfin's House?" In the midst of all else, she had failed to think of that.

"Indeed." Guilin confirmed it, his voice grave. "Until we find the truth of what happened to Prince Orodreth, then you are the last of the King's House left in Nargothrond save King Finrod himself. It is… a heavy burden, to be thrust upon you so suddenly, I know. One even the strongest would be bowed by. Much less to receive it alongside the news of your father."

She struggled to think of something to say. She could not.

"I would suggest you take your time. Rest. Clear your thoughts, try to be calm. Ask that your father be safe, as I shall. Whatever the truth may be, neither you nor your father will benefit from weeping ere it is known. And think on the future. Whether you want to or not… things will change now. For you, and all of us. And as the King's Heir, then you have to change also. Your life cannot be as it was before, whether you desire it or not." Guilin said, letting the words sink in slowly. "The King has decreed there will be a gathering later today. Much will be decided there. We will await your arrival, Finharyë."
Guilin left, with farewells that sounded faint to her, leaving Finduilas standing alone, his last words still ringing loudly.

Finharyë. King's Heir. Sometimes Finduilas had dreamt of being called that. She had wanted to be seen, for her voice to be heard. Now you have it.

But at what cost?

She had never wanted Father to be hurt. She wanted him to listen, to pay attention to her for once and not mourn some home he'd left long ago, not to disappear like this. You brought this, it's your fault, some part of her screamed. You wished, but never knew what it was you really wanted, what it meant. Now you have it. Enjoy it.

You've never led anyone in your life. She told herself. I've never made an actual decision, one that matters. How can I be trusted to lead the kingdom? How could she even learn to lead? Who would she turn to, if there even was anyone?

She had never felt so alone in her life. "Father." she said, her voice choked, sobbing and her eyes wet with tears. "Why? Why did this happen?" she whispered, afraid someone might hear her. Why me?

When she was alone again, Finduilas wept, as she had never wept before.



Eventually her eyes dried, having no more tears left to give. Sleep would not come to Finduilas, no matter how much she wished for it - part of her hoping that if she slept, things would be back to ordinary again.

And she had no will or mood to go to the gathering that Guilin had told her about. But Finduilas was now the King's heir. And if the King expected her to attend, then she had no other choice.

Finduilas washed her face, before applying a powder to whiten it and painting her eyes, hoping it would hide the raw redness around them, alongside the swelling. For the second time that day, she took to combing her hair, tangled as it had gotten, the rote movements helping distract her mind. Her clothes she changed too. She chose a blue dress, its shade dark at the heart but lighter towards the edges. Over it, a rose-colored overcoat speckled with white and golden patterns. Finduilas tossed the clothes she'd worn before to the side. She didn't want to think of them, or touch them now. She couldn't stop thinking of… what she was told. It drained the joy from everything she was doing. I have not eaten anything all day, Finduilas realized. She felt no hunger, nor any desire for food. Just a hollowness, eating her from the inside, making her fingers tremble and her feet shake.

Reluctantly, she looked into the mirror. The raw and swollen skin had been concealed, but the redness inside her eyes could not be painted over. Finduilas chose earrings with blue gems, and a high silver diadem set with diamonds to hold her hair in place. She hoped they would draw attention away from her eyes.

Is this what King Finrod feels like? She wondered. That sometimes, he'd rather not be king at all?

Finally, she was ready. But before she could step outside, Finduilas heard her bronze bird chirp and flap its wings. Someone's at the door. Eithoril, or one of the others probably. She had no mood for visitors, not now, not even them. Tell them to go away and be off. Weary, she opened the door.

Standing on the doorstep, Finduilas saw King Finrod. He was not wearing his crown, though the Nauglamring still gleamed bright on his neck. "I hope you are ready, Finduilas. I would like to have you accompany me." he said.

Jolted to awareness, Finduilas bowed her head in respect. "My king!" she hurried to speak.

King Finrod waved his hand, as if to tell her off. "None of this," he told her. "You are my blood, Finduilas. And now my heir. If I meet an ill-fate, then Nargothrond passes onto you. I will not have these formalities separate us. Call me by name when we are alone. The one I was given."

"Yes, my k- Finrod." Finduilas corrected herself. The king smiled slightly. She took a deep breath, and then the plunge. "I… want to ask you a question. About that. And other things too." she said to him.

"I know," he answered softly. "The news you received were dark. And the manner you were informed no less. It displeased me to hear of it. No doubt you have many questions, and I want nothing but truth between us. Ask, and I will answer."

She nodded, and asked.. "Why me? I haven't done… I have no deeds to my name. I've never led anyone in all my years. I'm young. I have never fought, and none have ever called me wise. You could marry. Sire children of your own. Why choose me instead?" Thoughts of her father, of Guilin and Gwindor's words raced through Finduilas' mind. Of being trapped and alone. Not knowing who to trust, whether her choices were for good or ill.

"Never called wise?" Finrod mused. "Let me be first, then. You have some wisdom in you, Finduilas Faelivrin. Else you would not be able to see your own faults and admit to them."

Finduilas looked down. "I asked you a question, but you're making light of me." she said mirthlessly.

Not so, not at all. I meant every word." he paused. "But you did ask me, yes. Many years ago, I held love for a woman, and she loved me in turn. We were to be married, not unlike you and young Guilinion. But events came between us. She remained in Valinor, and I left it behind. We were not the only ones. Others found love anew, but I could not forget. Further, I had two brothers, a sister and a nephew who could take my place. Things were secure and there was no need, or so I thought." "

"And now you have me left." Finduilas commented. "Not what you hoped for, I think."

"I did not expect it to go this way. I hoped - we all hoped that there would be no need to place this burden upon you. But I will teach you, Finduilas, so you can learn how to bear it if need be." Finduilas looked into his eyes, and heard the sincerity in his voice. "And I'll aid you on every step of the road. No less than if you were my own child."

This also was unexpected. Her own father had never offered to teach her like this. Nobody had. Father. She felt guilty, thinking of him.

"I… thank you." Finduilas said finally. "But I have more questions. What is this gathering for?" she took another pause. Did she want to say this aloud? The King asked for honesty. "I ask because I have little wish to attend." she admitted. "The news about my father has left me unwell. I would prefer to stay here."

"I know, Finduilas. More than you realize." The King said, his voice gentle. "If it were anything else, I would let you do as you wish. But as I told Guilin earlier, I'll tell you now. Much will be decided today."

"What is it even for?" Finduilas asked behind her teeth. The ill-mood had slipped into her tone, making her sound far more snappish than she expected.

"My kinsmen requested the right to speak before Nargothrond's people." he said, unperturbed by Finduilas' tone. I suppose hearing me whine is no great challenge for a king. "They have many things to suggest, regarding the future, our foes and our defense."

"You've heard what they have to say, then?

Finrod nodded. "Of course."

"Then why not decide on it yourself?" Finduilas pointed out. "You're the King."

King Finrod looked at her, his blue-grey eyes twinkling with curiosity. Did I say something wrong? She couldn't think of anything. "Indeed I am. But being King does not simply mean dictating that my will be done. If a decision is to be made, then the people must know first. It is their futures that will be affected as much as ours, if not more so."

"They followed you when you founded Nargothrond." she said. "And to Beleriand. They call you Turmenatar. I think they'd follow you still, no matter what you decreed."

"It might be so." Finrod admitted. His tone turned cautious. "That they'd follow my commands unto death. But that's a dangerous path for any lord to take. Nargothrond is not my possession, and neither are its people. Being King, to be a descendant of Finwë does not grant me power over the minds of others - though my uncles would have certainly liked it to be so!"

Despite herself, Finduilas let out a ragged chuckle at that. Her throat still felt raw from earlier. "I did not imagine them like that. Fëanor perhaps, but Fingolfin?"

"My uncles were similar to each other in many ways, though they would never admit it. Both willful, prideful men. They saw the world and wished to shape it according to their vision. Yet a king cannot know all things, nor prosper without advice. The greater your certainty in your course, the more you need someone close to offer dissent. That is why I keep Guilin by my side, as I kept my brothers and your father. Once you are better learned, I expect you to play the same part."

"And the Sons of Fëanor? Guilin says they're ambitious, that they have plans of their own." said Finduilas.

"Guilin is not I, nor does he speak with my voice unless I so will it." Finrod declared. "It is inevitable that my kinsmen want a seat at the table. They know well that we would have suffered worse if not for their valor - and they had no obligation to ride to our aid. I would gladly grant them a place, so long as they take part in Nargothrond's defense." After saying this however, Finrod paused and looked at Finduilas. "What do you think, then? How would you handle this matter?" He appeared genuinely curious.

"What do I think?" Finduilas was surprised, but part of her felt giddy. Nobody had asked her a question like this before. She took a pause, to clear her thoughts. "I agree with you," she said finally, taking on a more formal tone, like she'd heard from others before the King's throne. "Prince Guilin is correct in that we do not know the motives of the Sons of Fëanor, we cannot turn down an ally out of fear, not when the Enemy is at our doorstep."

"You might yet make a fine advisor." King Finrod smiled. "And yes, all that is true. I also freely admit that of war, Celegorm knows more than I. That skilI I would see used for the good of Nargothrond."

"Do you think they will be willing?" Finduilas asked.

"That we shall see." The king answered. Despite the confidence in his voice, Finduilas could see the concern in Finrod Felagund's eyes, the sorrow that had not gone away.

"I am ready," she said. "and I will follow, if you let me."



"People of Nargothrond, sons and daughters of the Ñoldor. Hear my words!" Rumbled the voice of Celegorm. "Five centuries have passed since we chose to leave Aman and reach Beleriand. To avenge the murder of my grandsire, our King. Because we saw Taniquetil's silence as evil reigned across the sea, and did not want to idly stand."

"For some of us, to seek our own lands and freedom, as we had not before. For others, they sought to safeguard the peoples of Endorë from Angband's cruel tyranny. All reasons good and valid." Curufin added. Outside, the sun must have set. But within Nargothrond, night and day were irrelevant.

"As my grandsire made his decision, so did we. Because of our choices, we Ñoldor have taken a path apart. No others went to Valinor and chose to renounce it. None carved with steel and skill realms as ours, braved dread and danger to win the victories we have."

Curufin continued from his brother. "Look around you and see the results of the choice we made back then. The fruits of your labor, the splendor of your city. Who else in Arda has wealth in such plenty as we own, holds might as we possess? What we left behind, we've made back a hundredfold. Our sages are the envy of all, our laws bring even justice so that others want their own to be alike, and our people have the greatest freedom in all the world. We do not imitate our neighbors - instead we set them an example to follow. The road was hard but the end fair, as promised long ago." However, it was then that Celegorm cut in.

"I have not braved fire and war to speak about yesterday's glories," he said. "but the danger of today. Last year, the siege of Angband was shattered, and the peace which we upheld for four centuries with it. I shall not recount for you the losses - you know them well. I will only say that we suffered the same, forced to leave our homes. Everywhere, our land and law is in retreat, crumbling in the face of the renewed Enemy. New leaguers are being raised across the length of Beleriand every day, and where but a year ago we had Angband fenced in, now it is we who are besieged. And it is not our land and law alone that are threatened, but our very existence - there shall be no end to this, not in Dorthonion, not in the Sirion, not until the hosts of the North crush us all beneath their feet and hear the ocean's waves roar before them."

Finduilas was left surprised. Never had she imagined that Prince Celegorm would have spoken like this. Blunt and hard, a man of few words and no orator. She was wrong.

"And it's not orcs alone and that we have to contend with." Curufin continued from him. "We know their ilk - and from where we came, we don't call you a warrior until you've killed at least one. Morgoth has spent the years besieged productively, turning his malice and will towards the sole purpose of overthrowing our hegemony. We laughed at the Worm of Angband when Fingon of Hithlum drove him home, overlarge tail between his legs, but things are different now. Glaurung has grown to be a weapon of terrible potency, and whispers come of his spawn appearing on the field of battle. New weapons are forged beneath Thangorodrim, every day fresh terrors come forth from its pits, brands to be put in the hands of the Black Foe's lieutenants and used against us. You have already heard of the newest one."

"A golden host and its silver king." proclaimed Celegorm. "They wrested Tol Sirion from your hands. Those Edain are disciplined and hardy, skilled in the ways of war. They won't stop at Tol Sirion either. Prince Gwindor and his men can testify to that - their king, Aegon Targaryen has declared himself lord of all Edain and demands your submission."

Murmurs rose in a flurry across the chamber. "He entered Tol Sirion atop a white horse, as blood flowed through the isle like rainwater after a sudden storm!" declared Curufin. "By his side? None other than Sauron. Their deceptions stained our honor, making us appear as traitors. When we rushed to your aid, the men of Thingol ambushed us, wounding my son." Recounting that, Curufin's voice turned from indignation to anger. "You, fathers and mothers in this city, I know what it is like, to see your child in pain, how it hurts to sit by your son's side, not knowing if he will make it through the day. It was luck alone then, that prevented him from dying of the wounds inflicted on him. Fortune and my brother's wisdom. That prevented a war between Doriath and the House of Fëanor."

She'd heard part of this tale now. Upon being asked, Eithoril had told her Beleg Cúthalion was the one who'd let the Fëanorians pass to avert a war - and was rewarded for that with ten years of exile at Elu Thingol's decree. The lady of Doriath had tried hard to hide her embarrassment.

'What can we do?' some wondered aloud. 'Where did they come from?'

'Elu Thingol cannot have given such an order.' others whispered. Finduilas looked over to Eithoril, and wondered what must have been passing through her mind.

'Enough about Doriath - this Aegon Targaryen calls himself king of all Edain. What about the other Edain? The ones on our side. What if he turns them against us?'

'Why? What wrong have we done to them?'

"Every kindred has its wretches." Celegorm answered simply.

"My brother is not wrong," Curufin acknowledged. "But your questions are fair. Where did they come from? We don't know. We only know that we found their tracks, the traces of their camps amid Nan Dungortheb, and that they then encountered the folk of Brethil. That and their intent is all we know for now."

'An army of elite mannish troops, for countless orcs to rally around?'

'How many of them are there?' Those and more questions flooded in. 'What else is there that we don't know?'

'What if they train the Dark Lord's hosts? What if we see more Edain turned, made to take the Enemy's side against us? Dorthonion's loss repeated, over and over again!'

Celegorm parted his cloak to the side, revealing a blade. Though Finduilas did not know much about swords, she could tell it was from Nargothrond. She'd seen the maker's mark in other blades before. The light shone upon its golden gravings, of flowers and prancing beasts. "Behold!" he shouted. "Before fear takes you. This blade belonged to a warrior of your realm. The Golden Host took it as a prize, and we reclaimed it when I beat them in battle. Arodfeir, my brother's man, led his Echad Bauglar and freed many the enemy kept chained in their camps. Our enemy is strong. Our enemy is determined. But not beyond our strength."

"Wait!" A voice called out. It was hurried, strained. A man running up the steps, ignoring the spears of the Throne-Guard. "I know that sword!" The voice and man was Avorn, one of the city's many high men. "It is my son's. But he is not here. Where- where is he?"

Celegorm bade to let him closer. "Your son died a warrior's death, and not in vain." he said, the prince's voice becoming lower, almost gentle. "He fell fighting, for family, for his home. I've known such loss too, when my own father fell in battle against the Enemy. We're alike that way, man of Nargothrond."

Finduilas could see Avorn struggling - how he was barely keeping his composure in the face of what he just heard. Celegorm sheathed the blade, and offered it to him. "I avenged your son." he pronounced. "We avenged all sons and daughters of Nargothrond who fell to the Golden Host's treachery."

Avorn took a step back, and bowed his head in respect. "I cannot be glad, lord," he said, voice heavy. Finduilas struggled to imagine how he must be keeping himself together. "but I am grateful for what you did." Avorn took the sword and clutched it close as if it were his living son.

'Worthy! Worthy!' the people shouted their approval.

"Kin keeps kin," said Celegorm. "The worthy man guards his kin from danger, protects them from dishonor." There was cheering at his words. "You welcomed us here, and so I swear that my spear and bow will defend your realm for as long as I stand."

"As do I and all our host." Curufin added.

Once again there was applause, but also questions. 'What happens next?'

'You are mighty, Prince Celegorm, but even you cannot turn the tide of war alone!'

"What now, you ask?" said Celegorm. "The choices that make victory or defeat. I'd heard word of Nargothrond's fortified plains. Yet what did I see when riding here? Less and nothing. Fortifications made decrepit, watch-hills and passes barely manned. Even the saintost by Tol Sirion had been left free to grow fat and lazy. You are not ready for this war."

The reception to these words was far more mixed. Though some seemed to agree, others were left uneasy - and a few were outright incensed. "You have no right," said Feiror of the Moors. "No right to accuse us of unreadiness or to insult us, Prince. The warriors of Dorthonion guarded the North with their lives. We've given of our blood no less than the East."

'Yea!' the most vocal below said in agreement. Finduilas saw a smile cross Guilin's face for a moment.

"My brother meant no offense, friend." Curufin interceded. "Nor did he mean to diminish the sacrifices Nargothrond has made. But what he means to say is that errors have been made."

Celegorm on the other did not seem to care for Feiror's words overmuch. "Dorthonion is gone. The banners of the Golden Host fly over Tol Sirion. This war will be fought here, not your old borders."

"If we'd heeded Princes Angrod and Aegnor, we wouldn't have been in this predicament!" sighed Dammor of the smiths, and was joined by others in agreement.

Finduilas remembered what they spoke, though faintly. She had been much younger then. Her grandfather and great-uncle had come to Nargothrond, bringing with them a command from Barad Eithel and the High King himself. For Nargothrond to marshal its hosts and join him in storming Angband. Grandfather and Aegnor argued fiercely in favor, said that there would be no better chance and that if left unchecked, Morgoth would overthrow the leaguer around his walls. The King was more skeptical, and so was her father, citing the unwillingness of the East. Guilin had joined his voice to Father's, saying that it was beyond the Ñoldor to defeat one of the Powers of Arda, especially in its own domain, and that it was not just for the High King to deliver demands to the kings of the Ñoldor as Fëanor had. In the end, it fell through - and her grandfather returned to the borderlands once more, with empty hands. Hithlum would not commit its forces alone, and the Siege continued. She never thought of the incident since, not until now.

"The suggestion to storm Angband's walls?" Celegorm said. "I remember. I urged for it too. My brothers thought otherwise. Ease and victory made them soft, wore down their resolve better than any enemy. They went pale at the losses they feared they'd incur, blind to the defeat their inaction was sowing for us on the morrow."

Curufin seemed downbeat in response to what his brother said. "All of us have made mistakes," he admitted. "But what do we do now? How do we learn from them?"

"To survive, Nargothrond needs to awaken and find new strength. First, you must fortify your land once more. Rebuild the fastnesses you have torn down, man those that you abandoned." Celegorm declared. "Build watchtowers, and have trustworthy troops guard them. Tol Sirion was deceived, and that deception allowed the traitor Edain to take it. That cannot happen again. No corner must be left in shadow, no eye allowed to remain blind. Any enemy that steps foot into your land, you must know of him. Your forges, and your craftsmen." he motioned towards the smiths. "You have many. Light the fires for war, and work the anvils. Not a day must pass where you do not make new armaments. They will be needed. You must raise new strength to replace what you have lost, twice and thrice, and five times over."

Murmurs started up in the hall again, many wondering where so many willing and knowing how to fight would be found. Finduilas thought so too. "There can be no idle hands." Celegorm said, cutting through the whispers. "Not in the defense of your homes. Call up all who can serve. If not as warriors, then as laborers for the hosts that must be raised. If you will not bear a spear, you can still carry supplies, build, cook and craft armaments for those who shall. If one is still able but not willing to serve, then he must pay enough to feed, clothe and arm his replacement. Those who work the land or keep beasts must provide greater tithes to the King - enough to supply the new hosts and fill storehouses for the defense of all. Everywhere, there are those who have broken the realm's laws. Rather than punishment, give them the choice to seek forgiveness in battle."

It did little to calm the tumult, but more people were now voicing their approval. These are hard laws, Finduilas thought, but not bad ones. She'd heard stories of similar things in the northern frontier, though she never expected to see such things here.

"A moment, honored Prince!" Sirionnen objected. "Your counsel is wise, but all these things you speak of need time to bear fruit. Months, maybe years. Where do we find that time?"

Celegorm looked at the nodostrad, and crossed his arms about his chest. "Your domains are large. Trade land for time. If a place is too exposed to the enemy, leave it with what you can carry, retreat somewhere that can be safely held."

Sirionnen's face went pale at what he heard, and Finduilas could hardly blame him. He made to speak, but Celegorm interrupted him before he had the chance. "I am not finished." the Fëanorian said. "Your crops can feed the invader. They can still find rest in an abandoned home. Let them choke on ashes and squat in ruins. Be prepared to destroy your homes before you hand them over to the enemy."

Finduilas tried to picture it in her mind. She thought of her home, her rooms, all her and mother's belongings in it. Could she bring herself to burn it all, because someone demanded it? Even if it was 'wise'? I don't know. And if she didn't know about her own, then how about hundreds, thousands of other homes? How could we even demand something like that of them, if we won't dare do it ourselves?

Looking around, she was far from alone in being disturbed by Celegorm's words. There were demands to explain, shouts of disagreement. 'We cannot abandon our lands and people!', 'Would you do that to your own?'

"We could, we did." said Celegorm. "Do Nargothrond's folk esteem land and possessions higher than lives and freedom? Much has changed since the Aglareb." At those words, many were chastened, but they made some among the incensed even moreso.

Finduilas looked towards Gwindor, to see what he thought. To her surprise, he had not joined his voice to those questioning Prince Celegorm - if anything, his expression seemed displeased with what was happening. "Prince Celegorm has the right of it." Gwindor raised his voice.

"Speak, Prince Gwindor!" spoke Curufin. "Son of Guilin, in war your prowess is beyond question, and in council you excel all who are of your years. None among the Ñoldor can make light of what you speak, nor with ease gainsay it."

With a nod, Gwindor took his turn. "If you don't want to hear it from him, then I ask you to heed me. We cannot fight without loss, only try to lessen it. For over four hundred years, our defenses have rested upon four strong places - the leaguer around Angband, Dorthonion, our friends in Barad Eithel and Tol Sirion. Even if the Enemy's minions passed through the first, they could not break through the three strongholds that held our line together. Things have changed. Our enemies have changed. How we fight must change too. We cannot keep as we had done before. Not now that we've lost Dorthonion and Tol Sirion." Finduilas had not heard Gwindor argue for something in public before. But his certainty, the confidence in his voice impressed her now. He couldn't have sounded more different to how he was when they had talked. "I want to return to battle to defend our people as soon as possible," he said. "and for that to happen, we must make a choice swiftly, else we'll weep for our inaction."

Hearing Gwindor speak, the remaining calls against the Fëanorians died down. Prince Celegorm turned to face Gwindor and from where she stood, Finduilas could not see the expression on his face. But she could see the shift in Guilin's stance well enough, and the shadow that passed over his gaze. "Well spoken, my son!" he said finally. "But does lord Celegorm have anything left to add?" Given his words to her before, Finduilas wondered why he was not speaking against the sons of Fëanor now, especially when others raised their voices openly. She had often seen him turn others to his way of mind before. Is he afraid? Or does he see something the others don't?

"Yes. My brother is not yet done." Curufin commented, giving Guilin a side-glance. Celegorm's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he began to speak again.

"I spoke of levying new troops. But you can raise a host tens of thousands strong, and still have a rabble, not an army. You need able men to lead your hosts. Hardened warriors, who have seen war and know it well."

Curufin then spoke in turn. "I have more to say. My brother's words and yours friends, the talk of the mistakes we made in the years before, convinced me. Had we been of one mind, one purpose, then half our current woes would be averted. Thus I say; and suggest that there needs to be one who commands these captains in turn. One answerable to the King alone, with authority over matters of war that none can question."

Curufin's words invited surprise, but also curiosity. 'Why not the King?' came the question. 'Why can't he lead our armies directly as before?' Some turned to King Finrod himself, though he remained silent.

To Finduilas' surprise, it was Guilin who rose to answer. "Permit me, friends, to observe. We all have duties. Our King's is to rule. And indeed, in our tradition he must also command in battle. But last year, we would have mourned his loss alongside the Princes of Dorthonion - if not for his foresighted wisdom in settling Bëor's folk in Ladros. The turns of fortune cannot be foretold, and even the wise cannot see all ends. How are we to know the peril of tomorrow's battle-lines before they're drawn, or fate's unkindness? If our lord were to fall in battle, Nargothrond would be left leaderless, his life's work unfinished!" Finduilas tried not to wince at that. "Thus," Guilin said as he turned to face the King, inclining his head in respect. "I concur with what Prince Curufin says - and humbly propose that there be chosen and appointed from our people a high commander of all the realm's hosts, to lead Nargothrond's valiant captains into battle as Princes Angrod and Aegnor did. I implore you so, and would be forever grateful if you were to heed my advice."

Curufin smirked. "I'd say it deserves consideration if we're all in such agreement, then!"

Now eyes were turning, from all across the chamber, gazing upon the best-renowned warriors - no doubt wondering who among them would be chosen. 'Prince Gwindor! Our valiant son of Nargothrond! Choose him, wise king!' a number said aloud.

Prince Celegorm ignored them, stepping past his brother and forward again to address the crowd. "People of Nargothrond!" he declared. "I have some last few words, if you'll sit still and hear me. I've spoken today of peril beyond any we've faced before, and new dangers gathering, sharpening their blades. Aye, these are dark times. But I see the way you received my host and I, and beheld how you heard my words, even when they weren't to your liking. So I will also tell you this: four centuries ago, when Nargothrond and the East fought as one, we dealt the Enemy a defeat as none had dealt him before. Who do you think I see standing before me? The same people who triumphed at the Aglareb and their offspring. Tell me, fathers of Nargothrond. Do you still have the same courage you had then? Speak aloud, sons and daughters of the Ñoldor. Do you want to match the deeds of your forebears?"

'Yea, hear him, hear him!' The crowd was turning decisively for Celegorm, new voices joining in as the Prince's words grew ever more intense. 'We remember!' said the fathers. 'We will!' said the sons.

"Then the time is now! Forget fear and hesitation! Do not take heed of hardship, leave behind the ease and comfort of idle days. Let us forget our quarrels. Let us join forces and sharpen our swords, remember the hurts our enemies have dealt our people, the fate Morgoth and his pawns plan for us all! Let us remember, lest we ever forget, that we are Ñoldor. When others sing, it is our deeds they praise. Every trial thrown at us, together we shall overcome. One day, every foe we face shall be destroyed, and the hour come that our wounds will be avenged. Until it does, by our blood and blades must the Ñoldor endure. Now comes the greatest battle of all, a war like no other. And we shall be victorious."

At his words, the chamber went silent for a moment. Then it erupted into applause, louder than any they'd given before. 'Turko, command! Turko, command! Turko, command!' resounded the cries that flooded the hall. Curufin smiled, and Guilin's eyes darkened, King Finrod watching from up high.

Finduilas looked all around her, men and women raising their hands and voices to shout as one. 'For Nargothrond! For the King! For our people and the realm's defense!'

War had finally come to Nargothrond.

 

[MadFrog]

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QuoKNZjr8_U

 

[Magus Explorator]

Nice to see this back , Good silmarilion fics are very rare and precious

But now thinking about the "deep" impacts the golden company could make to the men of arda even if they don't win
Stuff like using dyes to dye your hair like they do , the concept of knighthood,organized religion if the septas and septons start popping up ( with a miss mash of valars and Westeros 7 being fused ) etc

If the elf's want them gone and that they don't influence the men of arda they will need to stackwipe them , if they just scatter and let the company disintegrate they will just fuze with the "primitive humans " civs

 

[Azrubêl]

------------------------
The Soaring Griffin
------------------------

They rode into the island through the causeway bridge, the raucous cheers of the sellswords thundering behind them. Jon Connington sat atop his white courser, Aegon his black destrier. Through the gates they rode, the bodies of the slain around them, their red blood mingling with autumn's fallen leaves. An entrance worthy of a king, of a conqueror. One Aegon's forefathers would be proud of.

The foe had given no cause for complaint. Once more, they fought well. Their resistance was stiff, every inch of ground dearly paid for. Jon was thankful for the presence of Mairon's soldiery, revolting as they were. Had it not been for them, the losses would have been far worse. "I could kiss these orcs, if they weren't so gods-damned ugly." Tristan Rivers laughed. For his part, Jon Connington found something unsettling about the 'uruks'. The way they fought, heedless of their losses so long as their snarling captains drove them. The savagery with which they treated their fellows. The vile spectacles they made of their victims. Jon was no stranger to war, nor the cruelties which it could stir in men's hearts but the eagerness of the uruks, the glee with which they carried out their deeds... he wanted to think it was beneath Men. As long as they die in place of the sellswords, then they are of use to Aegon, he thought. And if they were of use, then they could be tolerated, whether he liked them or not. What was one more compromise, after so many?

Those were his thoughts as he saw the golden banners of the Company hanging from the battlements of Minas Tirith where the grapnels had left their mark. Higher still, the red dragon of House Targaryen greeted them from the tower, fluttering in the morning breeze as though it was to take flight of its own on wings of woven cloth.

At the foot of the Tower, men were busying themselves moving the wounded and gathering the fallen into heaps. Here was the greatest count of dead from among the sellswords' number. Out the splintered doors strode Lord Laswell Peake in his plate and golden cloak, a bloody grin on his face and a sword in hand. Upon seeing the King, he smiled even wider. "A great victory, your Grace, worthy of mine ancestors and yours!" he announced. "The castle's ours!"

Proud as ever, Jon thought. He ought to be humbler when addressing the king. Aegon did not seem to mind. "I can see that, Lord Peake!" the king answered the 'Lord' of Starpike. Peake motioned to his squire - a pudgy-faced boy of six-and-ten with short-cropped sandy blond hair and a nose that clearly had been broken more than once.

"Show His Grace the spoils our valor's won, boy!" Peake thundered. The squire nodded, and bent the knee before Aegon. In his hands he held a white cloth, stained red. Wrapped within it was a blade, long and light, of their enemy's make. A long, white inlay ran down the fuller of the blade towards the tip. The hilt was golden wood, wrapped in purple silk and many tiny gems were set at the pommel. "The Peakes' gift, alongside the Tower." Laswell said.

"Gifts are seldom given without expectation of reward in turn. Remember that." Jon whispered to the King. Aegon did not say anything, but his gaze took that telltale petulance Griff had seen many times before. The look of a youth wanting to say 'I know this already!'. You might know, Griff oft answered back but you should remember all the same.

"A splendid blade, Lord Peake." Aegon remarked, taking the sword in hand, examining it for himself. "Who did it belong to?"

"A great knight of the elves," Peake answered. "of that I have no doubt. Fought like a demon, and took down many good men with this very sword. If we hadn't seen that weak-chinned princeling brought to us at dawn, I'd have thought this man to be the foe's leader. If a man with nerve were in command, the foe might have yet carried the day."

"Some say Torrhen Stark was wisest of all the kings in my ancestor's time, for by bending the knee he spared his kingdom the fury of dragons. I will not complain if my enemies lay down arms of their own free will." Aegon said. "But still - what happened to this knight?"

"They found him up the stairwell, covered in blood. Half a score of men claim to have struck the killing blow. Others still say he slit his own throat. I can't say I know which it was." Ser Laswell told them. "Gods. I hate to admire it, but these were men, and that was a fight for the songs. They died to the last. None asked for quarter, nor gave us any."

Aegon made to speak, but fell silent. The King turned to him. He looked astounded. Brave men indeed, Jon Connington thought, to have fought to the last. As Mairon said after all. It was rare to see such. Most would sooner flee and save themselves, or lay down arms and try to yield. Had things been right, if they'd landed in the Stormlands and attacked his old castle of Griffin's Roost, would the men guarding it have fought so fiercely for his cousin and the Usurper's brood? Jon doubted it. Would they have fought so for him? So many had melted away at Stoney Sept, no matter how hard he tried to rally them.

"Remarkable. Mairon tells me these elves live forever if not slain. To be immortal, yet choose to die for their realm all the same?" Aegon said finally, awe in his voice. "Such valor! How worthy of song and praise! These warriors were like heroes of old!" Then, he turned to the Halfmaester. "Haldon," he said. "I want you to make a note of this, when you record the taking of the Tower. Lord Peake, I thank you once more for your gift. I'll see that you're rewarded for it."

So, the king wishes to be the gallant victor. Jon would not begrudge Aegon his glory, though he did not see much use in this. It would be better to get it over with quickly, there was much more that needed to be done. Yet, Prince Rhaegar would have also acknowledged a valiant foe. Should his son be different?

"And the rest of you -" Aegon started. "Men of the Golden Company!" he called out to the sellswords. "You've followed your king faithfully in unknown lands, faced monsters, terrors and trials that none have seen before. Your resolve has never wavered for all this time, and you have remained steadfast as ever. Do not grow envious when I praise the fallen foe - if these enemies were brave, what of those who defeated them? Does it not add to your own glory? And unlike them, far more than glory awaits you. Wealth, lands, honor, the fitting rewards of loyal men! This tower is only the first victory. Many more await us!"

Once again, the men of the Golden Company cheered Aegon's name. "Aegon King! The Dragon! The Dragon's leading us to victory!"

Well said. Fighting men were greedy for praise, and sellswords even moreso. The heirs of Bittersteel were no exception. Like boys, they wanted it all. The wealth that came with being a sellsword, but the regard given to sworn men also. His old friend had shown that all too well.



Franklyn Flowers. Jon Connington looked at the ruin of a man who had once been his friend. The Bastard of Cider Hall's remains were recognized by his brown plate. He'd been unhorsed but died with sword in hand, defiance in his face. He was far from alone - they'd found Laswell Peake's brothers too among the dead, as well as Vyrr and many more.

Jon said nothing. He thought of that last talk he shared with Flowers, how bitterly they'd parted. Jon did not expect to feel the sorrow he felt now, looking at what had become of his old friend, nor the silent pain tightening within his chest.

Gods be good. Jon Connington thought as he shifted his eyes from Flowers to the battlefield around him.

It was a raid on the Golden Company's camps that had roused them, and Harry's long delay in returning that led them to search for him in force. Now, they'd found what had happened.

Corpses were strewn everywhere - men and horses, knights and footmen, lying in the grass. As for the Captain-General himself, they'd found no trace of Harry, not even in the camp they'd made close by, itself in ruins. Perhaps he fled and was ridden down far from this place. Maybe he was captured, or the enemy had taken his corpse as a trophy. Or he lay somewhere on the battlefield, mangled beyond recognition. Jon did not know which, only that the Golden Company was now without its Captain-General.

Worse yet, Strickland had taken with him the swiftest part of the sellswords' strength and led them to a massacre. Jon clenched his grip tight around the hilt of his sword. The victory at the Tower tasted bitter now. Homeless Harry's bungle had turned it to ashes in their mouths. Damn him, Stranger take that fool, if he hasn't already! This was not like him, Connington thought. Always Harry stood back, fearful of taking action he didn't know was safe. The man was not suited for battle, that much was clear. Even this disaster, it had started with chasing the retreating elves. That was why he'd taken half the Golden Company's knights with him to begin with. Had he rushed ahead to an ambush thoughtlessly? What drove him to do such a foolish thing? Dreams of glory, whispers of envy, they can light a fire in a man's belly like nothing else. He knew that the Captain-General was fearful, thinking Jon had designs on his position - Harry had made no secret of it, nor his reluctance to follow Aegon's cause from the Valley onward. Perhaps the Old Maid thought that by winning some victory of his own, he'd not be overshadowed by the taking of Minas Tirith. Damnable fool.

But yet… had glory been Harry's motive in spite of his usual caution, there were many other officers by his side, ones Jon trusted more on the battlefield. Whatever Flowers' flaws are - were - Jon corrected himself, Franklyn was a veteran of many battles, seasoned and canny. He wouldn't have fallen for an obvious trap. Old Mudd was with them too, commanding the outriders. The man had led outriders for decades. Surely they'd have given warning. And if there were more foes lying in ambush, why had they not made their presence known before? Why wait for the island to be abandoned? And they knew of the Golden Company's camps - a force had attacked them too, though they were driven back, with little loss except a number of captives.

No, this was something else. Reinforcements, but from where? Perhaps those Men of the Birchwood they'd left behind and their Lord Halmir had struck… but from what Connington saw of them, they seemed hardly equipped to take on the picked men of the Golden Company's vanguard.

And then there was the attack on the camps. They bore no banners with them,

"Come over, m'lord!" one of the sellswords shouted to Jon. He stood next to a dead man, holding something in his hand. It was one of the gilded skulls on the Company's standard. It must have been hidden well, for the enemy to not take notice of it. Jon Connington had never in his life met an army that would miss the chance to loot.

Before he had the chance to speak however, the man on the ground stirred with a dry groan, struggling to move. Frightened, the sellsword dropped the gilded skull to the ground and stumbled back, hand on his axe.

"The man is alive, you fool." Jon said. He recognized the man on the ground, bloodied though he was. It was Jaqho, Flowers' pet Dothraki. "Call a healer, be quick about it."

The Halfmaester quickly joined them, with the healers following behind. As the field was searched for other survivors, they started trying to treat the Dothraki's wounds. It would be hours until he had wits enough to speak - and the first thing he did was demand a knife. "I'm not letting you slit your throat until you tell us what happened here first, Dothraki." Said Marq Mandrake, the hole in his cheek moving as he spoke.

Jaqho breathed out and moved himself higher, glaring at Mandrake. "I'm not taking my life. Years riding with you, and you still don't know? Now give me the blade, Andal."

"Do it, and be done with this." Jon told Mandrake. Grudgingly, the knight took a knife from his belt and handed it to Jaqho. First with a shaking hand but then more firmly, the Dothraki gripped the hilt. Moving it to the back of his head, Jaqho cut his hair. Jon grimaced when he heard the bells braided in them jingle one last time as they fell to the ground.

"The Mother of Mountains is the root of we Dothraki. The Womb of the World is the root of we Dothraki." He whispered to himself.

"What happened here?" Jon asked. "Flowers is dead, and near the entire force that followed Strickland with him."

Jaqho shot him a heavy-lidded stare. One eye was swollen black, and fresh stitching from the forehead down to the brow marked the healers' work. "Our hunt was done, we had caught the running elves. Then they came from the east. A khalasar of riders, carrying red banners."

"Red banners?" Mandrake pressed. "What sigil did they bear?"

"A star." Jaqho answered. "Like the ones the bird-guide had us make."

"Seven Hells take it all." Tristan Rivers cursed. Jon buried any complaints he might have had - they could hardly change the situation.

"How many did you see? How did they fight?" He chose to ask instead. "Khalasar?" That last word was most perplexing of all.

Despite the haze that milk of the poppy had put in his eyes, Jaqho met Jon's gaze "Hooves raise dust. I could swear by the Womb of the World that more than a thousand faced us, but I know no more. They didn't want us to. My people know this trick, using the horses to hide our true strength."

Blackheart had said as much to Jon once. The horselords of the Great Grass Sea were far less numerous than anyone thought. But the great number of mounts each warrior kept, the haphazard nature of their camps, the swiftness of their advances, all these made a khalasar seem larger than it truly was. "In the deserter's eyes, ten thousand can easily become forty, and forty a hundred. From there come the tales of vast hordes roaming the Dothraki Sea, ready to trample the world of civilized men if roused. In truth these imagined khalasars are far in excess of the number that ever dwelled in Vaes Dothrak. But the Dothraki nations themselves are pleased by such tales being repeated, as it well-suits their purposes." Bittersteel wrote many years ago.

"Hmph. With what we've been through, it would scarcely surprise me if they really were Dothraki." Jon heard one of the serjeants mutter. He glared at him, and the sellsword promptly fell silent.

"They fought patiently, with cunning and skill. But they're not my people. That's how they broke the little Peake's men. Tricked him into thinking he had them on the run, forced him to pursue until he couldn't retreat? Yes, my people know this well. But once he kept chasing, their lines parted. Armored horsemen came out to fight and smashed your knights."

"They have heavy horse of their own?" Jon asked. "How do they fight? What are they armed with?"

"Aye." The Dothraki answered. "Armored, both horse and man. They'll shoot on the approach, then put their bows aside for lances. And I've never seen a warrior like the one leading them." Jaqho's gaze hardened. "A giant - no, this was a demon made of steel, sat upon a red horse. He slaughtered the best of your Andal knights like lambs. Everywhere he rode, our lines broke."

The captains present fell silent, as did Jon. It was Tristan Rivers who eventually broke the silence. "How did you survive?" he asked. "And what about the Captain-General? Do you know what happened to him?"

"He took off his armor and cloaked himself, before the foot broke. I crossed blades with one of their riders. My horse was killed, and I fell down with him. I don't know what happened next." said Jaqho.

The Halfmaester glanced at Jon. "Lord Hand," he said cautiously. "Perhaps it would be best to seek answers with Lord Mairon. He'd know best who - and what - we are dealing with here."

As if there is anyone else who would. Jon thought ruefully. "His Grace must be told too." He said. And most of all, he needed to decide what would happen now.



He sent for the crown and the sword.

Jon remembered seeing Aerys Targaryen in his youth. Twice he'd been summoned before the Iron Throne, first to lead the King's host, then a second time to be exiled for his failure. Rhaegar's father wore Aegon the Unworthy's crown, a heavy thing of red gold, carved dragons and gleaming gemstones. Where it now lay, he did not know. Perhaps the Usurper had it thrown in some dusty vault, or sold it to pay for his debaucheries. Whatever the truth, it's a world away from us all.

The boy had instead asked for a crown like the Conqueror's and the sellswords' smiths obliged. But Aegon the First's crown was Valyrian steel, and they had none in hand. In its place, they gathered and melted the swords of the fallen elves. The circlet that Jon now held was a steely grey, a smoky pattern rippling across the metal's surface. Close enough to Valyrian steel, but not right. It was encrusted with square-cut rubies, the light dancing on their edges. It felt light in his hands, far lighter than he'd expected a King's crown to weigh. Once again, Jon's mind returned to Aerys. Aegon the Fourth's crown was overlarge for him, sitting heavily on the king's brow.

Perhaps the boy was right with his choice, a conqueror had no need of such baubles. Merely for his subjects to know him, and his foes to fear him.

Jon Connington turned his eyes away from the crown, coolly regarding the marble-clad hallways of Minas Tirith. The camp followers had been put to work alongside some of the more pliant captives, cleaning the keep from the blood and ruin of battle.

They were beautiful, in their own way. Not as sumptuous as the Red Keep had been when Jon last saw it, but they had been built well, sturdy yet elegant. The floor was lined with polished tiles, and carved stone reliefs adorned many of the walls. He did not know what they depicted, though Jon recognized the figures of known beasts, and others less familiar. Others had trees in their bloom, some showed marching warriors. He moved past their silent ranks, and up the winding stairs. They were similar to those of Griffin's Roost, narrow and difficult to climb, made that way so a single man could hold off a multitude if necessary. It was a queer thing to think about, but this was the first time Jon had been in a castle for many years. It was different to those of Westeros. The castles of his home were not merely forts, but the proud dwellings of noble houses over many generations, where a lord could rule and live out his days. Minas Tirith instead seemed a place built purely for defence - it had no true hall for a lord to hold an audience, nor chambers for men to feast and dance. Yet despite these differences, it was alike them in many ways.

Aegon had taken residence in what Jon guessed must have been the former Warden's quarters. Duckfield stood outside, still in the white cloak the boy had given him. Thankfully, he'd taken care of his appearance for the day, shaving that ill-kept beard he'd grown in the last month and putting a helm on his head. With the polished scale coat he'd been gifted, he almost looked the part of a Kingsguard, if not much of a Lord-Commander.

Inside, Aegon was waiting with Lemore. He had chosen to wear a black brocade coat, fastened with golden buttons, and a jeweled girdle tied at his waist, adorned with the seven-pointed star of the Faith. Lemore placed a rich cloak on the king's shoulders, long enough that it reached down to his shoes. It was woven with the red dragon of the Targaryens, coiled within many circles all along the mantle's length. With a gloved hand, Aegon wound part of it around his arm like a septon's maniple. With a clasp in the shape of a golden star, Lemore pinned it securely to his other shoulder.

"How do I look?" he asked.

Jon let himself smile. "Like a king," he said. "your father would be proud."

Aegon gave a nod. "Haldon and I were reading how the old kings were crowned. I had them make clothes like theirs." He looked to Jon's hands. "Is my crown ready?" he asked.

Griff gave him a nod. "It is, Your Grace. All is ready, they are waiting for you below."

Aegon's gaze shifted away from Jon momentarily, first looking towards the window, then the floor beneath. "It's such an odd thing," he muttered to himself. "to be so close. It feels like a dream, and I'll be awake soon."

Jon did not know what to tell the boy. He felt the same way. "It's no dream of mine, if so." Aegon continued. "But it will have to do." Another pause followed, before Aegon turned to Jon again. "Will Mairon be here?" he asked.

Mairon departed, soon after Jon had found the ruin of Strickland's men. He said little, save that he needed to give word to his king of what had transpired. Since then, his army kept even further away from the Golden Company's camps. It raised Jon's suspicions. Could they be plotting to turn against Aegon? It was unlikely, yet he'd taken care to strengthen their camps, and move both Aegon and as many men as possible inside the island. Whatever else, it would be best not to have another sudden raid from the elves.

Jon Connington said none of this aloud. "Mairon promised he would return on time for the coronation." he answered.

"Hmph. I wonder what's taking him so long." Aegon muttered. "I'd grown… used to his presence, while he was with us. Things feel less safe now that he's away."

Despite his suspicions, Jon could only agree. Mairon had helped them since the beginning. If not for him, they would have never made it this far. His grip on the metal tightened as he saw the expression in Lemore's eyes. "Is something the matter, Lady Lemore?" Jon asked pointedly. He knew what she thought of their guide. As well as what she knew of other matters. Matters settled. For good and all.

"I don't think it's right to expect so much of this man." she said. "And we have relied far too much on him already."

"We had no other choice. Would you rather we be stranded in that Valley, left as prey for the spiders?" Jon retorted.

"No. He led us out of that place. It was good of him to do. But we then followed him to war. Nothing obliged us to fight for Amarfion, Mairon, whichever his name may be this time. And now, every day that passes we want him more."

Jon knew well thoughts like this. He'd debated them with himself, many times over. And there was one answer. The only one the gods had given him. "The road was made for us when we were taken from Volantis. I will rather have it end with Aegon crowned, ruling as his fathers did. And so it has."

"So you've chosen, my lord." spoke Lemore. "I want to see Aeg- His Grace crowned too. But not like this, not fighting someone else's war, someone we can't trust. But it's too late now to turn back."

Jon pursed his lips, and narrowed his gaze. "So it is." he answered.

"Are the two of you finished with this?" Aegon declared, annoyed. "This is the day of my crowning. I won't have my Hand quarrel with the Most Devout by my side."

That took Jon by surprise. "Most Devout?" he asked, slowly. Looking at Lemore, she seemed equally taken aback. He has not told her either, he realized.

Aegon nodded. "Aye. You'll put the crown on my head, Lemore will give me the gods' blessing."

"Your Grace, I-" Lemore made to say, but Aegon cut her off.

"You've been by my side for years, Lemore. Everything I know of the Faith and gods, I was taught by you." he said. "Who else should I have now? Some old sot from the sellswords' ranks?"

"I urge you to reconsider this, Your Grace." Jon said carefully. "This is not how the Most Devout are chosen."

"Do you see many septons among us, Griff?" Aegon asked. "I thought not. Women have served in the ranks of the Most Devout before, or so Lemore has told me. Who will complain about my choice? Is the High Septon here, that I might ask what he thinks of it?"

"I am king. I decide." Aegon said after a silence. "And that's the end of it. I will hear no more questions. Now follow me."

 

[MadFrog]

Thank you very much for continuing! I've been waiting for a very long time, hope you will continue soon.

 

[RichardWhereat]

So Finrod is dead.

 

[Azrubêl]

So Finrod is dead.

Click to shrink...

... What? Where did that come from?

 

[RichardWhereat]

... What? Where did that come from?

Click to shrink...

Well, he was the lord of Minas Tirith, and he was a powerful knight who died taking down a lot of middle men. So, best guess?

 

[all fictions]

Really loved what you did with the Dothraki here, too many fics either take GRRM's memetic description of them or make them even worse out of dislike for easy dunking. Here the Dothraki character has his people taken seriously, and is allowed to make a sound comparison between them and the Ñoldor.

Which, speaking of, I've thought this for a while now, but with the Fëanorians, Nargothrond, and Doriath now on the same side due to the knowledge of the treachery, it really feels like the Golden Company is in even dire straits. Without Morgoth's forces, they are probably really outnumbered, and the deceit trick can not be used another time, so after this one victory at Minas Tirith, I foresee a lot of defeats in their future. Really curious how you're going to get them out (or not) of their predicament.

Well, he was the lord of Minas Tirith, and he was a powerful knight who died taking down a lot of middle men. So, best guess?

Click to shrink...

Finrod left Minas Tirith to Orodreth, both in canon and in this story. Also, we know where Finrod is, he is in Nargothrond, literally the chapter before this one featured him heavily. I know it's been months since the last update, but still, the man has been a fixture of Finduilas' POV chapters since the start.

The powerful knight who died taking out a lot of men is very likely Sarad.

 

[Azrubêl]

Well, he was the lord of Minas Tirith, and he was a powerful knight who died taking down a lot of middle men. So, best guess?

Click to shrink...

... We literally see Finrod in the previous chapter, he was alive and well and talking to Finduilas.

 

[RichardWhereat]

... We literally see Finrod in the previous chapter, he was alive and well and talking to Finduilas.

Click to shrink...

Remind me how long ago the last chapter was?

 

[Amv2]

In Shibboleth and Quenta Silmarillion it says:
1) "Tielkormo and Kurufinwe will come to the aid of Artaresto with their horsemen and other forces that they managed to gather."
2) "in the year 456, Moringotto sent a great army to the valley of Sirion; the army was led by Sauron, and with him were many Valaraukar."

From a major battle with fire demons and magic, the author made the capture of the fortress an ordinary medieval battle.

 

[Azrubêl]

In Shibboleth and Quenta Silmarillion it says:
1) "Tielkormo and Kurufinwe will come to the aid of Artaresto with their horsemen and other forces that they managed to gather."
2) "in the year 456, Moringotto sent a great army to the valley of Sirion; the army was led by Sauron, and with him were many Valaraukar."

From a major battle with fire demons and magic, the author made the capture of the fortress an ordinary medieval battle.

Click to shrink...

That depends on the version you look at. There are versions of the engagement around Tol Sirion that do not involve Balrogs, and in fact with later versions of the setting, 'many Valaraukar' is an oxymoron as they went from entities that there were many of to only a few.

 

[Amv2]

In the Transfigured Myths, it is said that one of the reasons for Morgoth's weakening was that he gave orcs, balrogs, and his other creatures the power of restoration and reproduction; since balrogs did not reproduce, only the term "restoration" can refer to them. This may explain the fact that with a small number of Valaraukar and frequent mentions of their extermination in the First Epoch, they appear again and again, and later there is only one who hides in the depths of the earth: there is no more Morgoth who could "restore" him and others.

 

[Widowmaker]

Okay so I've finally caught up and read the big chonker Princess Beneath the Earth.

That was a good chapter, I quite enjoyed it, and all the little references to things I understand and talked to you about. Very cool.

 

[Azrubêl]

------------------------
The Soaring Griffin
------------------------


It was done. Aegon rose to his feet, and rose a king. The crown was on his head and the smoky steel of Blackfyre's blade shimmered in his hand, the first Targaryen to bear the blade in many years. "All hail Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Shield of His People, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, as all his ancestors before him!" Jon proclaimed.

It was like this in his good dreams. These were the words he had wanted to speak for so long.

"Lord of the lands of Sirion, King of the Edain, and all lands of Beleriand that have yet to come under his rule! Long may he reign!" He added the new words after them. Yet despite how unfamiliar they still were to his tongue, Jon Connington smiled with his king.

"Hail! Hail! Hail King Aegon!" came the cheers from below, acclaiming Prince Rhaegar's son. They were arrayed in the castle's courtyard, as many as they could have fit.

It was enough to banish all worries from Jon's heart.

"Lemore, holiness of the Most Devout." Aegon pronounced. "Lead us into a hymn." As the King bade, Lemore led the Faithful into song. As a cold wind blew from the North, Jon Connington drew his cloak closer about him and closed his eyes, listening to the words in silence. It brought back those memories of standing vigil in the sept at Griffin's Roost, waiting to be anointed as a knight. Sore knees and a plain white tunic, his arms piled at the Warrior's feet. Now he stood. A knight, then a lord, then exile, and now a lord once more.

The service continued. Some of the captains looked discomfited, Edoryen and Maar especially. Lorn, the boy Aegon insisted on having as his page showed little reverence, and far in the corner Orodreth, that elven prince they captured watched in befuddlement. Jon ignored them.

"Many years, o gods, grant to our most pious King Aegon! Gods preserve him! Gods preserve him! Gods preserve him!" The king's choice to name Lemore to the Most Devout was not one that Jon approved of. Yet watching her, the woman had taken to her new role well.

"Unto many years!" Jon proclaimed with the others, joining his voice to the acclamation.

A white palfrey, magnificently bridled, caparisoned in the Targaryen red and black was brought forth by Lorn, and Aegon elegantly mounted himself atop the saddle, pushing his mantle aside. With him ambling at the head, the king led a procession into the Tower itself. Jon followed on foot, as did Rolly, Lemore and all the others who were to follow them within.

It was a welcome reprieve from the cold winds that blew outside, growing increasingly bitter. The gates had been repaired, and a throne prepared in the largest chamber they could find for Aegon to be seated in. A tall chair of oak wood, finely carved but hardly equal to the Iron Throne. It would do, until a more suitable seat is made. The floors had been polished to a clear sheen, places set to hold a good-sized crowd and hearths blazed warmly, filling the chamber with light and heat. Once Aegon sat on the throne, Jon took his place by his side.

"His Grace shall now hold court, and hear all petitioners." Jon Connington declared.

Many presented themselves. Mercenaries who desired favors from the King, or arbitration in their disputes. Others wanted to claim the wealth left behind by the men who fell in battle. Laswell Peake came forth with a black-haired girl of six and ten, dressed in an orange dress of the Volantene style. A wide smile came on her face as she looked upon Aegon. She was accompanied by an older woman, a golden diadem set with small emerald stones on her head, a veil covering her hair. Her neck was long, her skin ruddy. Jon did not miss the long, jeweled knife she carried. A Tyroshi custom. "Myrielle. The natural daughter of my brother, Ser Torman, who bravely fell fighting for His Grace." he said, gesturing to the girl. "And my lady wife, wedded lawfully in sight of all the Gods."

"Meralyn." the woman added tersely. "My Lord husband. There is no need for more. This is the King's day, not ours." Jon Connington had not met Laswell Peake's wife before, but was not entirely surprised that he had one. Followers attached themselves to an army's camp like flies to oxen, and the Golden Company was no exception.

"I did not know you were wed, Lord Peake." Aegon smiled graciously. "And what would you have of me on this day?" he asked.

"I have been leal and steadfast in my service, your Grace." Laswell spoke, but Jon could not forget his words when the truth about their new world was revealed. "And both my brothers fell fighting your foes. I would ask you to honor them." Yes, Ser Torman served the King straight into the jaws of a trap, dragging however many knights along with him to the grave, Jon thought to himself, remembering Jaqho's words. Was that worthy of reward?

"So I would." Aegon agreed. "And what would you suggest, Lord Peake?" It was not hard to guess, and neither did Laswell take effort in concealing it.

"My niece Myrielle," he began, his freshly-oiled beard glinting in the light. "She is studious and pious. In all save birth, a true daughter, worthy of House Peake. For memory of my brothers, I would ask you to legitimize her. Make her a Peake in name too, just as her father was."

Aegon studied both Peake and the women that accompanied him silently, before he raised his voice. "And what do you think of this, Myrielle?" he asked. "Do you want this?"

The girl was surprised by Aegon's question. "It would be a great honor to continue my father's bloodline." she answered, her confidence returning once again.

Aegon moved slightly in his throne. Jon could only wonder what was in his mind, but he knew the boy well, and had his suspicions.

"Did you know your father well?" Aegon asked.

"My father was gallant." Myrielle answered, her eyes never leaving the king, her voice as steady as before. "And worthy." Momentarily, there was disappointment in Aegon's expression, to be replaced by a bright smile.

"Well, such a worthy man does deserve to have his line continued," Aegon said. "Myrielle - may I be the first to call you Myrielle Peake. I would like to see you again in my court." At that, Myrielle Peake smiled back and curtsied gracefully - giving their thanks to the king, the Peakes departed.

After the Peakes, it was Black Balaq who next appeared before the King. The aged Summer Islander wore the feather cloak customary to his people, his muscular arms glinting with the many golden torcs he had earned. He was accompanied by several others from the Golden Company's contingent of Islanders, wearing colorful plumage as well - though over warmer clothes. With them, they carried a fine longbow of goldenheart carved in that peculiar Summer Islander manner, the grip closer to one nock than the other - which they gifted to Aegon. It had been Balaq's men who captured Orodreth, the elven prince leading their foes. The king in turn, rewarded them with gifts.

"Black Balaq. For years you have led the archers of the Golden Company with distinction, and have done so once more. Would that we had heralds to tell of all your heroic deeds!" Aegon smiled. "I look forward to fighting by your side again. But until that time, it is fitting that you be rewarded. I name you Lord Balaq. Henceforth, you shall be counted among the lords of my kingdom. And when we have conquered all this realm, you will have your pick of land for you and your heirs to rule over as long as your line lasts."

The old sellsword knew to show his gratitude, and bent the knee before Aegon. "I thank Your Grace for his generosity." he said. "May your reign be long and prosperous, King Aegon."

Balaq was not the only one to be rewarded so. Mercenaries that had distinguished themselves in the fighting were given knighthoods. A man who called himself Two Swords was rewarded with a black courser and a new blade for his display of valor at the gates, where he had dragged off several wounded mercenaries to safety. (Aegon asked if he should start calling himself Three Swords upon presenting him with said gift, to the amusement of many in the hall)

Many gifts, and lavish. Too lavish for Jon Connington's liking. Men with a knighthood would demand land. And lords even more. What territories they'd conquered thus far wouldn't be remotely enough to sate their appetite. "Your Grace, a king ought to be generous," he whispered to Aegon, in the lull between petitioners. "But if you are too free with gifts, you'll find yourself with empty hands."

Aegon did not turn to look at Jon, but Connington recognized the familiar way the boy tensed, even sitting on his throne. "What else am I to do, Jon?" he asked. "I am king. I need lords in my service, and new knights to fight in my name."

"A mere title does not make a knight ready for war." Jon said firmly.

"It doesn't," Aegon agreed. "but Strickland left us with meager pickings and little choice." the king needed not mention anything else.

The disaster of the pursuit was a matter they had tried hard to avoid today. It couldn't last forever, and Jon knew full well that the men in the hall had it well in mind. But what concerned Jon above all was the bloodying of the Golden Company's ranks. So many knights and officers lay dead on the field, and the Company was left without a Captain-General. Strickland could be difficult to deal with, but with him gone, Connington now had many captains to talk to, each with his own notions of what ought to be done. "Do you understand why the captains are all presenting you with gifts?" Jon whispered to Aegon tersely.

"I imagined it was to do with my crowning." Aegon said in a voice far too droll for Jon's liking. "My name-day is still some months away, after all."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "This is no laughing matter, Your Grace." he said coldly.

Aegon raised his hand, bidding the petitioners to stop for now. "My friends, you'll need to wait," he said. "For I need to confer with my Lord Hand. There is drink and food ready, I will soon hear out the rest of you!" Once things were at a pause and the chamber busied with other matters, he turned to Jon. "Explain then, my Lord Hand." Aegon said, stressing those last three words with some irritation.

"With Strickland gone, a successor must be chosen." Jon Connington began. "And he left us no clear choice behind, damn him." As he said that, Jon could not help but wonder - what was Blackheart's succession like? Less disastrous, no doubt. Before his departure, many men had thought Jon to be the best choice to succeed Myles Toyne. But what made them choose Strickland? There was no man less alike to Blackheart than Homeless Harry. "Each one of these captains would think himself best-suited for Captain-General. And they know the importance of winning your favor. You are king now. Your every word, even the slightest gesture, men will discuss it among themselves. And they will seek to win your approval."

"You make it sound as though I were a maid and these sellswords suitors trying to win my hand." Aegon said, lying back against his throne, his fingers fiddling with the gems on Blackfyre's pommel. Jon was still in awe at that. The Sword of Kings, thought lost for long, now borne by Rhaegar's son.

"A king's favor is a powerful thing," Jon told Aegon. "and whichever Captain-General is chosen in the end, he will want to be in your good graces."

"And which man do you think is likeliest to win?" Aegon asked Jon, his voice more serious now. Good, Jon thought to himself.

Jon paused. "Black Balaq has the experience for it." he said cautiously. "He's a fine commander and has led the Company's archers for longer than most sellswords have been alive. But he is old. If this were ten years ago maybe, but now? I do not know."

"Who else? Laswell Peake, I suppose. The man has been sniffing at my heels like a dog that's smelled a slice of bacon." Aegon asked.

Jon responded with a nod. "Yes, Peake would be one to watch for, and he knows it well. The Peakes are like the Stricklands, men who fought for the Black Dragon and rode with Bittersteel. They're turned to a better cause now, but that pride has not left them. He did well, taking the Tower… but Torman's recklessness hangs heavy on him too. I don't know which one will win out in the minds of the men." Jon admitted.

"Who else?" Aegon asked. "And which man do you think is best suited?"

If Franklyn Flowers were still alive, we wouldn't have such troubles, the thought passed in Jon's mind, tinged with a sadness that surprised him once again. But he said no such thing. It would do them little good. "Tristan Rivers would not be a bad candidate," he said. "Though he's made no noises about it, or tried to win support. Gorys Edoryen is another one we should watch closely. He's the company's treasurer, as Strickland was before him. Perhaps that could convince men to his side."

"Edoryen is a capable man," Aegon commented. "but I never saw him as much of a leader. But then, you could say the same for Strickland." he admitted.

An instinct he proved correct in the end, Jon thought. "And who do you believe should become Captain-General, Your Grace?" he asked Aegon, wanting to see the king's response.

Aegon sat quietly, cupping his mouth with his palm. "How about you?" he proposed. "I could suggest you as my candidate. You marched with the Golden Company in your friend Toyne's day. I've heard it said that you might have been chosen instead of Strickland, if you hadn't left."

"I never said that, your Grace." Jon said cooly. Not in all his years watching over Rhaegar's son had he mentioned it, and never spoke much of his time with the Golden Company at all.

"You didn't, no." Aegon admitted. "Franklyn Flowers did, though."

Damn Franklyn, wherever the gods chose to put him, Jon thought to himself. "It's been years since I served with the sellswords." he told Aegon. "I doubt they would accept someone who's not one of their own."

"You'd be my candidate." Aegon said. "I need someone I can trust to lead my armies. You've said it yourself, many times over."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Your Grace, I am Hand of the King. I will lead your armies to war."

"Aye, that you are, Griff." Aegon agreed. "And you'll be my Captain-General too. The Golden Company is the only army I have. That would bind them closer to me, wouldn't it?"

"Or anger their captains and unite them against you." Jon countered. "It would be best to keep them occupied with each other, as they are now."

"We can find other ways to mollify them." Aegon waved his hand. "Why lose this opportunity? It's been in my thoughts lately, you know. What will happen to them once we're done? When Bittersteel forged an army out of the exiles that fled with him across the water, they were lords and sons of lords. They wanted what they'd lost in the rebellion against my forefathers. It kept them fighting for years, until grandsons and great-grandsons took their place. But we don't have Westeros to give them."

"You have been generous with titles today." Jon pointed out. "Is this why, then? You mean to entice them with land and knighthoods?"

"That's what we meant to do, isn't it? But like I said, what we have is a sliver of land. Even if I gave up every last hide of it, there would still not be enough for all these men. We need more land, or…" he paused again. "I don't know."

"It's good to be wary of these men. But for now, we can trust that they will not abandon us. They have no other way left." he told Aegon. We have Mairon's trickery to thank for that, Jon thought. It may have earned the hatred of the Elves, but it sealed the Golden Company to them also. There would be no defecting to the enemy, not after that first contact, and certainly not after Strickland's defeat.

Aegon smiled slightly. "I do miss Mairon," he said. "It's a shame he isn't here with us." His smile shifted into a small frown. "Anyway, them abandoning us for the enemy is not what concerns me. It's that they might decide we're no longer needed. You've warned me about that a lot, after all."

Jon nodded. "I am glad you listened," he said.

"So, what is the problem then?" Aegon asked him. "Why do you hector me so ceaselessly, Lord Hand?" the king said, as if laughing at a private joke. The words reminded Jon of something he'd once read, though he couldn't quite remember what.

"When you chose for me to be your Hand, it was so I could aid you with my counsel." Jon told Aegon in a serious voice. "But first you elevate Lemore to the Most Devout. Now you name men lords and knights as you wish, and say you want to nominate me as Captain-General. How can I counsel your choices if you keep them secret from me?"

Aegon scoffed. "I told you about wanting to nominate you just now," he said. "But no matter what I say, you mutter and shake your head like an old fishwife. You taught me to be king. So why protest when I act the part?"

"Wise kings listen to the men around them. They do not act on their whims." Jon told Aegon sternly.

"And a king is meant to rule, not be ruled." Aegon countered. "Enough of this," he said. "I will nominate you for Captain-General. That is my command."

Jon frowned. He had misspoken, and stung Aegon's pride. It was a mistake. For now, he saw no way of changing the boy's mind. "I gave you my advice, Your Grace. Whether you heed it is your choice." he said.

Aegon's expression softened. "Let it be on my head then, Griff." he said.

I would never let it come to that, Jon thought to himself. Even if it cost me my own.

"It is odd, all this. I can simply order something, and see it done." Aegon mused. "Everywhere I look, I think of what I could be doing. What I should be doing." Aegon paused, taking a moment to think. "I think of other kings too, what they maybe should have done. Or whether what I am doing is all wrong. Perhaps I was wrong about the Golden Company too, trying to make them happy with land. Even if I named every single man a lord and had enough land to give them, would they know what to do with it? But they know war, and getting coin for fighting. So why not let them be my sellswords? A host that answers only to me. No other lord."

"You want to make the Golden Company your army?" Jon asked.

"They already are that, aren't they?" Aegon asked, with a slight laugh. "But that's not quite what I mean. I mean to say that… my sons will need men to fight for them too. So why not keep the Golden Company as it is? Make it the host of my kingdom?"

Now Jon understood what the boy meant to say. "You mean like the Free Cities keep." he said, and Aegon nodded.

"Exactly. Why should the Triarchs of Volantis have proper soldiers while House Targaryen is content with calling on crofters and potters to fight in its name? I have the best army in the world with me, right here. Why waste it? Why should I make new lords so I can beg them to come to my aid? Didn't lords rebel against my father and grandfather?" Aegon told him. These were a young man's words, spoken with a young man's fire.

"And many lords remained true." Jon pointed out. "The Free Cities also have coin. Coin which we lack, Your Grace."

"We can find coin." Aegon said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'll have to start cutting my own anyhow. There must be gold somewhere, or silver at least." The king was not wrong on that count, they would need to start minting their own coin. But mints needed men, men who could be trusted. But they had no such men. There is much work to do, Jon thought. So much that he struggled to think of what should come first.

"Even so," Jon said. "There are weightier matters to worry about. Every man we lose is one we cannot replace, even if we had all the coin we need. We have no maesters besides Haldon, for that matter. No one who knows the language of the natives besides Mairon, no guides to help us."

"Perhaps you're right." Aegon acknowledged reluctantly. "As for new men… there are Mairon's uruks," he offered, with some reluctance in his voice. "Maybe we could ask him to lend us some?"

"Would you trust those creatures, Your Grace?" Jon asked pointedly.

"No." Aegon swiftly admitted. "I don't think so. And the same could be said for our captives, right?"

Jon nodded back. "Forcing a man to wield a sword in your name might give you a man, but it does not give you a soldier." he said. "And I doubt the elves would accept. We both saw how they answered your peace offers. If they do not accept surrender, how would they accept to fight for you?"

"Prince Orodreth surrendered." Aegon pointed out. His eyes searched the room, looking for their foe's erstwhile leader. Orodreth stood in silence, as he had all this while. Jon Connington could not help but wonder what kind of man they'd taken captive. He showed little defiance, instead seeming resigned to his fate. It was hard to think a prince would behave so. Prince Rhaegar certainly would not have. "Though I have not had a chance to talk to him, with Mairon gone" the king added. "Shame. I want to know more about his people. The more I hear about elves, the more questions I have. They're so… strange. They look so much like us, but yet when I see them, I can tell they're not us. They're beautiful, but the difference lies deeper. I can't place it."

Jon let him go on. He had his own thoughts on the elves, but such things were distractions, and not suited for now. "It's the eyes, I think," said Aegon. "When I tried talking to Orodreth, I saw this light within his eyes. I've never seen anything like it before. And then I understood that I wasn't looking at a Man. How many years have those eyes seen flow by?"

Among all the things Mairon spoke of, the one Jon Connington found hardest to believe was that the elves were immortal. What would it be like, life everlasting? Jon was a young man no longer, and every passing day reminded him of that. His joints ached, he could feel the strength of his limbs ebbing with the years. He would not live forever. Even the greyscale being cured meant that the day would come later.

With age comes wisdom, all agreed. But these elves, they could have both youth and the experience that only years could give a man. Nothing could last forever, the septons taught. Even the mighty dragons withered at the last.

But yet the elves could. What mistakes would Jon have not made, if he had no need to worry about age or sickness? If he had both the strength of his younger days preserved, and the knowledge he held now? He thought of Prince Rhaegar once again. Why was a man like him not blessed with the immortality the gods of this world gave so freely to the race of elves? Surely, he could have done more good with it than them.

Jon shook his head. It was pointless to ponder over such things. "Your Grace," he said sternly. "I don't think we were discussing the elves."

"Still, I will be ruling over them too, once my conquest is done." Aegon said. "I ought to know more about them, else I make a mess of it."

His conquest, Jon mulled over the words. That was what they wanted, after all.

A shrill and piercing wind blew outside the walls. Like the tide it roared and rolled, passing over the tower, sending the windows to rattle. Lysono Maar approached the King on his throne, brightly-colored velvets trailing behind him like a peacock's tail, the pearls on his ears jangling as he moved. "Your Grace," the Lyseni creature started. "Our friend Mairon is outside the bridge. A large party of riders is by his side. They are unarmed."

Aegon's eyes flickered with excitement at Maar's words. "Well, what are we waiting for? Open the gates for him!" he said. This was the end of their private council then, Jon thought to himself. And what did we accomplish with it?

It was not long before Mairon arrived, the doors to their hall opening for him. The man had not changed much since they last saw him - save for his clothes. Now he was dressed in warmer hues, yellow and gold and orange. As before, these clothes were well-made and of fine fabrics, but simple and unadorned compared to the riotous color of the sellswords. But the way they billowed around him as he walked, it almost made Mairon look like a living flame.

"You're late, Mairon." Aegon declared as the emissary entered the hall, standing firm and straight before the King.

"Neither late nor early, Your Grace," Mairon answered with a warm smile. "I arrive precisely when I mean to."

"Late or early, you are always welcome in my hall!" Aegon said. "It has been some time since you last were with us."

"I was on urgent business in the north," Mairon told him. "and much of it to do with you. There has been much…discussion at my own king's court of our alliance."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "What kind of discussion?" he interjected.

"The better - for the most part, Lord Connington." Mairon said. "What should please you is that my king's heart was gladdened by the news of the victory won here, and that he approves of the pact we have made."

"You said for the most part. Was there something else?" Jon pressed.

"Nothing of importance. A mere trifle." Mairon answered. "Rivalries exist in any court, and biting voices also. Some spoke against our alliance, out of enmity towards me. But we need not pay heed to the petty and the envious - none can argue what was accomplished."

Jon made sure to remember these words. If Mairon had his own rivals, then they might seek to move against Aegon. Another danger to watch for. Those seemed to be breeding ever since they'd left the Shy Maid behind.

"If your king approves," Aegon smiled. "then the voice that matters is on our side. I would much like to see the ruler of my allies one day, meet with him, king with king, as equals."

"I fear that is not possible," Mairon said, more firmly than Jon expected. "My king was badly injured in battle last year, and has been unable to travel since." he added at the end, his voice tinged with sorrow. "Even great victories sometimes carry a cost of their own."

"True words, Mairon." Aegon agreed, more somber than before. "And I wish your king a swift recovery, if the gods will it. I shall pray for his good health."

"I am most grateful for your goodwill, as I know my king would be if he were with us." Mairon smiled a slight smile. "But this is a merry hour, my friends. We should discuss more pleasant matters! I have brought my own gift for your coronation." Mairon called on his escort, and they entered the hall - a dozen men and women, clad in black robes, red at the sleeves and hem, embroidered with the red dragon of House Targaryen at the breast. All among their number were comely, with long hair and shining eyes.

"Elves", Jon realized, and Aegon muttered in surprise next to him. Prince Orodreth rose to his feet, letting out a cry in his own language, shouting at them.

"Make the prince be quiet." Jon ordered cooly, and Orodreth was dragged away from the hall. He struggled more now than he had when they first brought him before Aegon.

If he was perturbed by the display, it did not show in Mairon's features. The emissary stood before the King and spoke. "You seek to forge a new kingdom," he said to them. "but realms are not made by warriors alone. I have aided you until now, yet I cannot be everywhere at once, my friends. These elves are well-learned in letters, they know the laws and lore of this land, and the customs of its people. They can serve you well in any task you ask of them."

Ser Marq Mandrake stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. "We Westerosi do not deal in slaves." he said, pointing to the scar on his face, the remnant of a Volantene slave tattoo. "Unlike others who could be named."

"Ser Marq is right," Aegon affirmed, turning his eyes to Mairon. "Slavery is, and forever shall be illegal in the lands under my rule. It is an abomination in the eyes of the gods and a stain on the hearts of men."

"That would be a grievous insult, Aran Aegon!" came the voice of a woman from among Mairon's escort. "If it were not spoken in error." she said in perfect Common, with only the hint of a high, lilting accent. "We are not slaves. To come here was our own choice, made freely."

"Step forward," Aegon said, his voice curious. "And name yourself, whoever spoke." Jon clenched his jaw. He had half a mind to eject them from the hall, no matter why they came. This was not how a king was addressed.

The woman stepped forward, Mairon moving aside for her. She was tall, taller than Mairon, perhaps standing at six feet or more by Jon's measure, straight as a young tree. Her hair was dark, parted at the middle and flowing loose down to her neck, where it was tied in a small bun. "I am Nelphae," she said confidently. "I'm of the eldar, and a friend to your friend Mairon. Thus also, a friend to you, Aran."

"Aran." Aegon mouthed the words, looking at the elf woman, his gaze lingering too long for Jon's liking. "It's twice now that you've said that word, Nelphae. What does it mean?"

She smiled before she answered. "It means 'king' in the Sindar language, which shall be among the things I teach you."

"You sound certain of yourself," Aegon remarked. "How are you so sure I will agree?"

"Because Lord Mairon did not speak of a fool when he talked about you, Aran Aegon." Nelphae said. Jon glared at her.

"You will address His Grace with respect, woman." he said coldly. "Or not at all. In a king's hall, you speak to your host with courtesy."

"I am sure Nelphae meant no disrespect, Lord Connington." Aegon said to him. "And she's right. We need to learn the language spoken here. Mairon can't possibly be around all the time to translate for us." He sat in thought for a moment, pointing to a stone tablet lying at the base of one of the great pillars. On it were inscribed words in the letters of the elves. "Mairon taught me a few words, but not the letters." Aegon said. "What does that say? Consider it my test."

Nelphae smiled confidently. "If Aran Aegon wishes it so. The script is tengwar, in the mode of Valinor. The tongue is the Quenya of that same place." she answered. "It writes: 'In the sixtieth year of the Sun, Findaráto the King, Son of Arafinwë, the Son of Finwë the Ñoldo laid the stones of Tiristemindon, fortress over the Túrsírë Land.' It then names the craftsmen and builders, but I doubt these names hold much interest for you."

Perhaps next there ought to be a harder test than translating her mother tongue, Jon thought to himself. Aegon however, only smiled in approval. "Very good!" he said. "The names are interesting. I've never heard these before, save that of Finwë. Why doesn't it mention Minas Tirith or the Sirion? I thought that's what your people called this place."

"This is Quenya," Nelphae answered. "the speech the Ñoldor brought with them from the West. When this stone was inscribed, it was used more widely. The names you know are all Sindarin, the tongue of the eldar of Beleriand."

"And Nargothrond?" Aegon asked. "I thought that was the realm we conquered this castle from."

"Nargothrond the realm takes its name from the city, and the city did not yet exist when this was written. And it takes its name not from the Quenya, but the dwarven tongue." she clarified.

"Dwarves?" Aegon said testily. "What do you mean, Dwarves?"

"We call them the Naugrim," Nelphae said, glancing at Mairon momentarily. "they're a stunted, bearded folk who dwell in the mountains to the East, though some among their number venture westward, be it for trade or war." Jon thought of 'Yollo' on the Shy Maid. If nothing else, being rid of that damnable creature was a blessing.

"I knew a dwarf once," Aegon muttered. "but yours don't sound much like him. He was a Man like the rest of us, stunted by birth."

"It would be hard for him to be like them," Nelphae said. "The Dwarven folk are a kindred of their own, apart from Elves and Men. They're renowned craftsmen, trading armaments and panoplies to any who can pay the price their skill commands. Their miners delve the earth for ore, and carve mansions deep into the mountains."

"They live inside the mountains?" Aegon wondered. "I know of a place like that in Westeros - Casterly Rock, where the dwarf I knew came from." At that, the king let out a loud laugh. "The gods must love their ironies."

Jon stepped in to intervene. There was important business for them, and if he let this go on any longer, the day would pass and the king would still be talking about dwarves and whatever else caught his fancy. "Your Grace," he reminded Aegon. "These matters can be discussed later, unless those dwarves can give us weapons on the morrow."

"Well, Nelphae?" Aegon said, turning back to the elf. "My Hand asked a question. What's the answer?"

"I doubt it." she said. "The dwarf holds to the East are well behind the territory of your enemies."

"I have another question then," Jon pressed, his tone even, looking at both Mairon and his elves. "The elven realms are our enemies. Why are you siding with King Aegon, and against your people?"

Mairon glanced towards another of the elves, who stepped forward. He looked like a comely man in the prime of life, with dark brown hair in curls and green eyes. Gods know how old he is in truth. "I am Paelion. Allow me to answer, lord." he said, both to Mairon and Jon. Jon gave a curt nod. "No people exist who are all alike in mind. Some of us were defeated in the strife among the Ñoldor princes, forced into exile. My family lost its lands when they first came from the West, and we sought refuge north. And a few defected of our own will, seeing the errors of our people."

More exiles, turncloaks and failures, Jon thought to himself. It seemed even in another world, the Golden Company attracted those sorts. But even he could not deny their use. Nor did the sellswords seem blind to it either.

"They seem quite useful, Lord Connington." Lysono Maar said in a silky voice. His purple-nailed fingers were toying with one of his many rings as he spoke. "And I would be most thankful if some were put under my command, if they prove their loyalty." Both Paelion and Nelphae turned to look at the Lyseni - the former looked shocked by Maar's appearance. I suppose even an ageless elf can be surprised, Jon thought.

Maar swept a strand of his hair aside, an inquisitive smile crossing his plump, painted lips as he introduced himself to Mairon's entourage. "I am spymaster of the Golden Company. But as none of my spies can speak the local language, they've taken the excuse to grow fat and lazy. A sad state, we can all agree, being without eyes or ears."

Haldon was next to speak up. "There are scrolls and books in the tower. The elves' ledgers, I would bet. They'll be of use to us, but I cannot read them."

"Ledgers?" Edoryen, the paymaster rose to his feet and joined with Maar, stroking his black beard. "I want to take a look for myself. You gave promises of land, we need to assess what it is worth first. Meager as it is."

"It's good land," Jon assured the sellswords. "We all saw it passing by. They had villages, fields, and good land for raising cattle. And there is more to be won by the sword."

He saw the way some appeared appeased by his words, yet Edoryen seemed unconvinced. Jon prepared himself to answer to the paymaster's inevitable questions. It was then that Mairon stepped in, and all eyes turned on him.

"If land is your concern my friends, I have a proposition to make," he began. "To the northeast from here lies the land of Dorthonion. Until last year, it was a march of the realm of Nargothrond, ruled over by the brothers of King Finrod. Though both are dead, resistance persists, led by a man claiming to be Barahir, lord of Ladros. He and his bandits have been waylaying my master's armies and raiding the countryside."

"And you want us to deal with these bandits, I would presume?" Edoryen asked.

Mairon nodded. "Just so. It would be to the advantage of us both," he said, looking to Aegon and Jon Connington. "Dorthonion is crucial. It would secure the flank of Minas Tirith for you, and for my king, it would mean the armies currently occupied in that region would be free. We have not been able to support you to our full strength - most of it is committed in Dorthonion, in an occupation that has yet to end."

"These bandits seem to be giving you much trouble, friend Mairon." Lysono Maar drawled. "Why so? I saw how many soldiers your great king can muster when they fought with us. If that is but a portion of his strength, then how come such a marvelous array is troubled by a handful of outlaws?"

"Dorthonion is a rough land, with many hills and peaks. Its highlands contain rivers, uncounted lakes and forests in which to seek refuge. The best entrances are through narrow passes, where even a small party could vanquish a large force if they know the land. All of you are fighting men of long experience." he said. "You can imagine why it is so troublesome. What forts were not destroyed we occupied, yet controlling anything outside them is difficult. "

"Sounds like a right pain in the arse to fight in." Marq Mandrake growled in a low voice.

"Indeed it is." Mairon chuckled in agreement. "Do you know any remedies for such a pain, Ser?"

"There are only two," Jon said firmly. He had learned that from bitter experience. "One is to win the people of the land over. Without support, the bandits will wither away." That was what Arthur Dayne had done to destroy the Kingswood Brotherhood. And what I tried at Stoney Sept, in my arrogance.

He thought to Blackheart's words. "The other is to burn them out. Destroy the land, leave nothing for them but ash and bones." he said.

Mairon nodded. "You are correct, Lord Connington." he said. "And that is what will happen. If resistance persists, Dorthonion will be subjugated, whether in ten years or twenty."

Jon remembered the tales of Daeron the Young Dragon's war. He'd lost ten thousand men taking Dorne, and forty more trying to hold it. "That would take thousands - tens of thousands! Disciplined troops, hard and skilled!" Marq Mandrake said. No doubt the same thoughts passed his head.

"So it will." Mairon agreed. "More, even. It is a price my master is willing to pay to put the matter of Dorthonion to rest and he has crueler lieutenants than I." His voice was cold, colder than Jon ever heard him before. "Villages and towns will be burned, their people slaughtered or resettled. If the land is empty of all life by the end, such lords will still count it a victory."

"Who lives in Dorthonion?" Aegon asked. He seemed concerned by this. He is king. It will not be the last he hears something that disturbs him, Jon thought.

"The elves? Dead or gone. Some of them you have encountered - and vanquished - here. Now, Dorthonion chiefly consists of Men, who the king of Nargothrond settled in the highlands many years ago." Mairon answered. "Barahir is the descendant of the lords they placed to rule them, a House sworn to Nargothrond by oath and friendship for long years."

If Aegon seemed concerned before, distress now openly showed on his face. "They're Men like us," he muttered. "and you're just going to let them all die?"

"It is not my choice, what lands must be brought to order," Mairon answered coolly. "Nor how it is done. Only that it happens, distasteful though it may be."

"There has to be some other way." Aegon said to himself, in a lower voice. Then, he stood up. "You were not here for it Mairon," he started. "but when I was crowned, it was also as King of the Edain - the Men of this land, as I understand it. By rights, the people of Dorthonion are subjects to my crown."

"It would be so, yes." Mairon agreed.

"And as my subjects," Aegon continued. "It would displease me to see them destroyed."

"What do you suggest then, King Aegon?" Mairon asked him, his voice curious.

Aegon placed his hand on the pommel of Blackfyre, hanging from his belt, and looked straight at Mairon. "To hunt down this brigand, pacify Dorthonion, and bring its people under the protection of my realm." He said confidently, before turning to the sellsword officers. "And of course, new lordships will be made, to rule and guard these people." he added at the end.

Many of the sellswords muttered in approval, but Jon could only voice his worry. "We have a war to fight here, and losses that we need to replace," he said. "a campaign in Dorthonion will gain us little, and draw resources we cannot spare. Give it time, a few years maybe..."

"A few more years and there will be nothing left there," Aegon interrupted. "I will not sit idly by as innocents are slaughtered."

"They are not your subjects, your Grace." Jon narrowed his gaze. "They don't even know your name."

"Not yet, maybe." Aegon answered. "But we said we need men, and my good captains would like land, not some scraps of earth. Like Queen Visenya won the Clawmen, I will win Dorthonion."

"We were promised lands," 'Lord' Laswell reminded them all. "I'll gladly follow our king to claim what we're owed by right. And of course, to save these good people from a bleak fate, to be sure."

"Aye!" many officers officers voiced their agreement. Seven Hells, Jon thought. The boy had said the damned fool words now, and there would be no stopping them.

"Think of our fellow Men, under the unjust rule of elves!" Peake continued, encouraged by that response. "Would it not be gallant to liberate them?"

If Peake believes a word of that nonsense, I am an immortal elf myself.

"Well said!" Aegon agreed. "I shall lead a force into Dorthonion myself, and bring peace to that land and its people." he declared.

"Winter is fast-approaching," Jon warned. "We don't know how many years it will last."

Mairon raised his voice again, this time sounding somewhat surprised. "Years, my friend? Why would winter last for years?"

"Surely you're old enough to have lived through a winter, emissary." Jon told him. He had no patience for this.

"I see one every year!" Mairon chuckled, scratching his beard in thought. "Perhaps the seasons pass differently where you came from? Nelphae, explain to our friends."

The elf-woman nodded her head. "Winter is reckoned to last seventy-two days, following the Fading season, which will soon reach its end." she said. "Though some years, the cold may be bitter well into Stirring."

Winters that came every year, but lasted scarce more than two turns of the Moon? Jon pressed his mouth shut. That was unnatural, wrong. There are more things wrong in this land than there are right.

Aegon seemed as surprised by what he heard, and many of the sellswords seemed deep in thought also. "If that much is true," Jon began. "Then it changes everything." He had been counting on the winter to give them a respite from the enemy, long enough that they could recover their strength. But the Gods had no such plans for them.

It was Aegon who spoke first. "I have decided," he announced."We shall set out for Dorthonion alongside fifteen hundred men, and establish my rule in the land. Lord Hand," he said, turning to Jon. "I wish to nominate you for Captain-General of the Golden Company. You shall command here, and defend what we've won against our foes."

"Furthermore," Aegon started. "I declare that from this day, this castle shall be known not as Minas Tirith, but as Griffin's Roost. I name you its lord and task you with keeping it in my name, from this day, to your last day."

 

[RichardWhereat]

I forget the date, but it's too early for Turin to smash the shit out of Aegon isn't it..

 

[Azrubêl]

I forget the date, but it's too early for Turin to smash the shit out of Aegon isn't it..

Click to shrink...

Turin's dad is barely a teenager at this point in time.

 

[Ultimatum]

Great to see this back!

 

[Azrubêl]

After the feast was over and the toasts to the prosperity of all Ingolondë had died down and Finduilas felt well full, the king wordlessly beckoned her to follow him. And so she did, leaving the great hall and all its great din behind.

King Finrod led the way silently, his bright silken garment trailing behind. Finduilas followed him, past the hall of the throne, and into his quarters. There, he took off his kingly crown and put it aside. "Why did you call me, Finrod?" It still felt strange for her to address the king by name. And by the way his lips parted in a slight smile, he must have felt it too.

"Do not be upset at my folly, Finduilas." he said kindly. In place of his heavy crown, Finrod now took up a bright white diadem, set with green and blue stones, and placed it on his brow. "I had little time to talk to you earlier in the day. But you did well."

I was right, then, Finduilas thought. "You said little." she told him. "But you were listening to my every word, as I suspected." She wondered if he would judge her more harshly, knowing that she was choosing her words carefully.

"You are astute, Finduilas," the king nodded. "I was expecting you to notice." he smiled again. "Do not fear, I will not judge you. You were merely careful, not deceptive."

"I am not sure the same can be said for all our guests." Finduilas noted.

Finrod shook his head. "I will not insult the honor of any of them," he said. "Though you are not wrong. But you asked why I summoned you. It will be made clear soon." as the king spoke, he turned to a corner of the chamber. Finduilas heard a slight noise - and when she turned her head to face Finrod again, she saw him standing next to a small, dim doorway. She could scarcely see what lay beyond, save that it led down.

It was narrow inside, and Finduilas had to watch her footing as she went down the steps. She lowered her head, and placed her hand against one of the walls, holding her dress up with the other. As she did so, her fingers brushed against the stone of the walls, feeling something quite like a shape carved upon it. Finduilas turned her head, and saw many more of these shapes, chiseled against the rock. They looked like letters, but if they were letters, they were no letters she knew. Perhaps the Naugrim? She thought to herself. They had helped in the building of the city. Perhaps they had made this tunnel also. But she had seen dwarf-letters inscribed elsewhere and these were nothing alike. Finduilas touched them with her hand, feeling the shape of the letters, and the cold, gritty rock against her skin. A chill ran down her spine. What if there was something older than they, lurking beneath the city?

"Finduilas." The king's voice asked softly, echoing from further down the tunnel, at a door that led to a lit room. But it did not come from his lips. It was a different man who stood at the threshold, slighter in build, with dark hair and an unremarkable face, the sort that was easily forgotten. His clothes were just as unremarkable, a long, dark grey tunic with a blue hem. Had she seen this man at any other time, she would scarcely have noticed his presence.

Now, it made Finduilas take a step back. "Where is the king?" she asked tersely. Silently, she wondered how fast she could run upstairs.

"Be calm, Finduilas." the man told her, in Finrod's voice again. "Your king stands right before you." When he spoke those words, it was as though a veil was lifted from his face. The man's hair turned gold again, his visage transforming into that of the king. "Perhaps I should have warned you."

Cautiously, Finduilas picked up her step as she made her way down the stairs. Never in her life had she thought she would want to strike her king, but now she was sorely tempted. "Yes, next time you change your shape, my king, I beg that you warn me first." she said flatly.

"I did not change my hröa, much as it may have appeared that way to you." Finrod said, his eyes twinkling with the hint of a smile. "Only the ainur can do that."

"What did you do, then?" she asked.

"I merely fooled your eyes. It is an art, which can be taught." Finrod said, leading Finduilas to an elevator. There were similar machines elsewhere in the city, meant for the transport of goods and material, but this was larger, enclosed with glass and brass. "I could teach you too, if you are willing to learn."

Did this mean the king could do that on a whim? If so, perhaps he could watch over anyone in Nargothrond if he wanted, and none would be the wiser. The notion made her feel uncomfortable, she realized, as Finrod pulled on a lever and the machine they were in began to descend. Lower and lower it went, as they passed deeper into the caves beneath the city, until she could only see darkness outside the glass. "Thank you, but I think I have enough studies to occupy me as it is." Finduilas answered curtly. She did not much like the idea of changing her appearance either. "But why do this?"

"I have been watching over our Edain captives in this guise, when I have had the time." Finrod explained calmly, as his appearance shifted into that of the unassuming man once more. "They see me as merely a kindly guard, who brings them food and drink. In turn, I have listened to them, and sought to learn their speech." At that, the king smiled faintly, as one might who has relived a fond old memory. "By now, I can talk to them freely. They trust me - at least enough to bring me complaints, or ask for favors. In that regard at least, it is not too different from ruling our people."

She knew the stories. King Finrod had been the first to encounter the Edain, many years ago. He came to know them, made them into allies of Ingolondë. Perhaps if there was anyone who could uncover the truth behind these traitors, it would be him.

"And why have you brought me here? Do you want me to see these Aftercomers with you?" Finduilas asked, as the elevator reached its destination, its machinery coming to a halt. This was a place Finduilas had never seen before. She looked up the way they came, and saw only darkness. The only light was forward, leading to bare stone corridors. The manner of their carving was different from what was above - heavier, grim and unadorned. Finduilas did not like this place.

Finrod led her forward, past the men standing watch. They were few, compared to the halls above. The men inclined their heads as Finduilas passed by, hailing her, but ignored the king, disguised as he was. She wondered if he had told them. Even if he has, would they tell you? She doubted it. "No," Finrod whispered, breaking the silence once they left the guards behind them. "I want you to talk to them. I shall translate."

Finduilas narrowed her eyes in surprise. "Talk to them?" she asked. "You know them better than I do! What if I make a mistake?" she protested. She tried to imagine herself interrogating those Aftercomers. "I have never done anything like this before - I don't even know what I am supposed to do! You could have asked Guilin, or Gwindor, or even Prince Celegorm with you instead. They would know what to ask them, I don't!" They would know not to make fools of themselves, at least.

The king smiled. "You are my heir, Finduilas." he told her, but there was now a firmness in his voice that was not there before. "I chose you to accompany me. Not Guilin, not Gwindor, and thankfully not Turko. I know what they would do, if I took them to this place. But I want to know how you act. One day, you might sit before the people of Nargothrond. They will ask you to judge their disputes, to pass down justice. What if you are called to lead them to war?" he asked, and for a moment, the dark eyes of the man he was disguised as turned back into the King's, and they looked straight at Finduilas. "What then? Will you waver? Hesitate before all Ingolondë?"

Finduilas bit her lip, hesitating. "It's not the same." she said, trying to hide her annoyance. "They are my people. These Aftercomers aren't. I don't know anything about them."

Finrod looked at her. "Then it is time for you to learn. Remember what I told you. We of Finwë's House reign. But kingship is a trust given by our people."

"And that which is given can be taken away." Finduilas answered.

The king gave a nod. "It is so. If facing these Men is too sore a trial, how will you stand before Ingolondë, Finduilas?"

The memory of Celegorm riding into the halls to the sound of deafening acclaim, parading the same Aftercomers in chains flashed in her mind, the cheers as terribly clear as they had been that very day. Was there any way she could contend with such a man? "You are right," she acknowledged. "Let me speak to these Edain then, and be done with it."

"Good." Finrod said approvingly. "I am glad you understand." He held her gaze for a few moments, his eyes shifting to sympathy. It was strange, hearing his voice as another man's eyes looked back at her. "I know you struggle with your new duties. I take no joy in seeing you unhappy, Finduilas." he spoke, his voice softer. "And I would not ask any of this from you if it were not needed."

Finduilas narrowed her gaze."I take my duties as they are given." she answered firmly. He cannot doubt me. For years, she wanted more, wanted this. She would have leapt at the thought of being asked by the king to aid him. He must never doubt me.

"As must we all." Finrod acknowledged. "But that is an answer I expect from Guilin. Not you." he paused once more, before speaking again. "I know what you feel, Finduilas, better than you think. Better perhaps, than any in Nargothrond."

There were many things Finduilas wanted to say. "It is… difficult for me to see how we are alike." was the answer she gave. "You built this city. What have I done all these years?"

"No cities were carved by my hands when I had your years." Finrod told her bluntly. "Nor had I expected that one day I would be king. Those were the days when Fëanáro worked his craft and the Noontide had not yet passed. How could I expect to be their match? Then once I became king and led my people, do you think I began knowing what to do?"

"I suppose not." Finduilas answered, though it felt wrong to speak the words. All her life, she knew that the king was wise, and good, and best knew all ends. She laughed a little, and Finrod smiled back.

"Good. Before we face them, I will tell you this. Do not worry about finding your words. I suspect that by the end, it will be more trouble to stop talking." There was that knowing glint in the king's eyes again, the kind that made Finduilas wonder if there was a secret he would not let on. "Let us find these Edain then. Long years have passed since I last spoke to an unknown folk, though the times and people then were better. Perhaps they shall be again, little as might be thought."

She did not know what to doubt more: the king's confidence for the future, or in her. Perhaps they are the same thing, and the same doubt.

 

[all fictions]

Shorter than previous updates, but always happy when this story shows up on my feed again!

"Be calm, Finduilas." the man told her, in Finrod's voice again. "Your king stands right before you." When he spoke those words, it was as though a veil was lifted from his face. The man's hair turned gold again, his visage transforming into that of the king.

Click to shrink...

The resemblance with ASOIAF's glamor is uncanny.

Be careful what you wish for and all that, but tbf, I don't think Finduilas had a world shaking crisis in mind when she wished for a larger role in Nargothrond. But I'm curious about the letters, if they aren't dwarven, I'm not sure what else they could be...