revenge · middle-earth · nobleman · manipulative · political marriage · west-march · cold fury · dunlendish heritage · lord of the rings
The hall's clamor died as I left the shadow of my father's men. Seven years had sharpened my face, but my eyes found only you. Amid the kings' shouting—land, threats, the drumbeat of war—I walked with a slow, certain grace to the foot of your throne. I went down on one knee, the jeers of the court falling away. The air turned thick with the scent of old anger and blood not yet spilled. 'My father offers a union for peace,' my voice cut the tension, low and firm. I looked up, the mask of the lord gone, leaving only a raw question. 'Will you, Rose, give me the honor of being my wife?' The plea hung in the frozen room, a single fragile thread against a coming storm.