Okay, I couldn't help myself. I loved writing "Lords and Ladies," and I dearly wanted to spend some more time with these characters while fleshing out a bit of what their life is like in this brave new world post-Smaug. This story will be longer than "L&L," and while I'll try to keep up a brisk updating pace I can make no promises. I've got the first three chapters written; when writer's block hits me it hits me HARD, so I'm trying to get as much of this out of my head as quickly as I can. I'll not beg for comments, but if you feel inclined to leave some words of encouragement I'd be appreciative. ^_^

This story falls approximately a year after "L&L," so Sigrid is 19 years old.

"Sigrid! Sigrid! Another suitor's coming!"

Sigrid, Lady of Dale, daughter of Bard the Bowman – Dragonslayer, Hero of Esgaroth and Lord of Dale – looked up from her embroidery as her sister came barreling through her chamber door and grumbled, "Bugger."

"That's naughty language," Tilda giggled. "And you'll give yourself lemon-face if you keep glowering like that."

"My dear Tilda," Sigrid sighed in frustration, "I have been beset by bloody suitors for the last six months. You may think it's grand and romantic, but I'll tell you the truth: it's boring!" She tossed aside her embroidery hoop and flopped onto her back, staring up at the lacy canopy above her bed.

Word traveled fast, even along the nascent trade routes that had just begun to re-form between the cities of Dale and Esgaroth and the rest of the world of Men, and it had quickly gotten about that the newly minted Lord of Dale had a marriageable daughter and that she was quite pretty. Their doorstep had been plagued with marriage proposals ever since. Every merchant, tradesmen, craftsmen and noble worth his salt had asked for her hand, or offered up their sons as fine husband material. Lords from as far away as Gondor, eager to have access to the fisheries of Esgaroth, the textiles and grains of Dale, and – above all else – the riches of the Dwarf kingdom Erebor, had made the long journey to Bard's simple yet stately manse to press their suit for her hand.

Tilda was still young enough to find the business exciting and romantic, convinced that Sigrid would be swept off her feet by a handsome prince and carried away on a snow white charger to live happily ever after in a castle made of spun sugar and silver filigree. Truth be told, in the beginning Sigrid had felt the same. It was the stuff of storybooks, but she was not so old yet that she didn't still harbor a few fantasies of true love and promises of forever. But as suitor after suitor came to their door, each one more disappointing than the last, she'd slowly begun to let go of such childish dreams. The last hopeful who'd come along had been old enough to be her uncle, wide enough to pull an oxcart, and smelled like stale pipe weed and sweat; and he was one of the BETTER options, because at least he could offer a generous dowry. Most who came to sue for her hand came bearing promises of future fortune but little else. She was, in short, their meal ticket.

In those situations, romance was in short supply.

Sigrid sighed and closed her eyes, raising a hand to rub her forehead in an effort to stave off her impending headache. It didn't help things one bit that she had ideas of her own about who she wanted to marry; ideas that neither her father nor her chosen's guardian would ever support.

She tilted her head and gazed through the gauzy curtains that hung over her window, fluttering in the light spring breeze. In the distance the Lonely Mountain speared into the bright blue April sky, its peak ringed in white clouds. Deep in its stone caverns the dwarves were busily mining their precious ores, melting them, forging them into brilliant works of art; the skillful craftsmanship of flame and anvil.

And somewhere in there, surrounded by treasure, walked a simple young dwarf with hair like spun gold … who just happened to be the Crown Prince of Erebor and heir of the King Under the Mountain.

It had been almost a year since their tryst at the lake. Since then she had seen Fili several times, here in town and out and about in the fields around Erebor, but that had been all. There was simply no time. Fili's uncle continued to place greater and greater responsibility on his heir's shoulders, and Sigrid herself found her time consumed with the day-to-day business of aiding her father in the governing and oversight of Dale, not to mention fending off all these damnable suitors.

But if she closed her eyes – and let her heartbeat drown out the hubbub of the busy city outside her window – she could remember the touch of his strong hands and the rasp of his beard against her tender flesh. Her fingers remembered the hot, heavy girth of his manhood, and her breasts tingled from the sense memory of rubbing against his bare chest, all covered in hair like gold.

How could she settle for a son of Men when just a taste of a son of Durin had left her so sated yet still hungry for more?

Oh, Fili. You don't know what you've done to me.

The bed tilted as Tilda knelt beside her on the quilted coverlet. "It's not really so bad, Sig, is it?" the younger girl asked. Sigrid turned her attention away from the window and out of her memories and found her sister watching her with worried eyes. "Everybody loves you."

Sigrid managed a wan smile. It hurt to see the confusion in her little sister's face. She didn't want to be the one who crushed the young girl's dreams of true love and courageous paupers-made-princes who pledged eternal devotion to their lady loves. Someday it would be Tilda's turn to face the endless parade of bland, unappealing suitors, but not today.

"It's not so bad," she lied, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of her sister's hair back behind the little girl's ear. "Some of them are quite nice."

"But you don't love any of them."

"No. That doesn't mean I wouldn't grow to love one of them, though," she assured the little girl. "Loves that blaze bright in the beginning may fade just as fast, but the love that builds over time will burn long and warm."

Tilda's eyes widened. "Cor, that was pretty, Sig. Did you read that in one of Ma's books?"

Sigrid laughed softly. "No. The Lady Tauriel shared it with me when last she was here."

"I like Tauriel," Tilda said, sprawling out on her stomach next to Sigrid and playing with her sister's abandoned embroidery. "She's pretty and strong and uses a bow almost as good as Da. Plus she's got Kili, and Kili's fun."

"That's Prince Kili, Tilda. He's a very important Dwarf. You must mind your manners."

"He doesn't like it when I call him a prince though," Tilda said, wrinkling her nose. "I was gonna marry him when I got older, but I think I'll let him marry Tauriel instead."

"Oh you will? That's very magnanimous of you."

"What's that word mean? Magnamininnyous?"

"Magnanimous. It means you're being very generous."

"Oh. Well Kili always gives me piggyback rides when he comes to visit, and I don't even need to ask, so I want to be generous to him, too." Sigrid wondered what Tauriel would say if she found out that Tilda considered the she-elf's deep affections for the younger dwarf prince to be equivalent in value to a few playful piggyback rides. She suspected it would make the willowy elf Captain smile.

With a sigh Sigrid pulled herself back into a sitting position. "Okay, enough chit-chat. You came up here because another suitor has come to try and whisk me away."

"Ooh, yes!" Tilda's eyes sparkled. "He should be just about here by now. I don't know who it is, but the people outside were saying he was riding through town on a horse black as midnight, wearing clothes of gold and emerald! Hurry up!"

Sigrid's lips twitched in a wry smile. "So rich as that, eh? I'll believe it when I see it. Gossip travels faster than truth."

She let her sister drag her out of her room and down the stairs, very nearly running headfirst into their father.

"Ah, Sigrid. I was just about to come fetch you." Bard gave her a tired smile. "It appears we've another suitor come to ask for your hand."

"Yes, Tilda was telling me. Da, can't we put up a sign that says I've been eaten by orcs? Or come down with some awful wasting disease? "

The bowman chuckled and laid a hand on her hair. "My poor Sigrid. Come along, let's see if we can't chase this one off faster than the others."

She smiled and linked her arm through his as Tilda took his other hand. "Da, is it true he came riding a horse black as midnight, and him all dressed in clothes of gold and emerald?" the little girl asked, breathless with anticipation.

"I've no idea. I haven't met him yet. I thought it best to fetch Sigrid first before she climbed out her window and ran away so as not to have to face him."

"Da, I'd never do that!" Sigrid lightly smacked her father's shoulder. "I'd hide in my closet."

"Ah, of course. I shall remember that."

Back in Lake-town, when Bard had been a simple bargeman, their home had been small with every nook and cranny put to practical use. In comparison, the manse of the Lord of Dale had more space than Sigrid quite knew what to do with. It even had a whole room just for holding audiences with visitors. It seemed an awful waste of space to her, but the petitioners who came to ask her father for advice or judgment seemed to like it. It housed a long table for holding meetings, and had a wide open floor for larger gatherings. What Sigrid liked best about it were the windows. They were made of delicate stained glass – a gift from Erebor – and depicted the death of Smaug. She didn't know how they'd managed it, but the dwarves had captured her father perfectly as he stood atop the Master's house and fired the wind lance.

Bard gestured for one of the house servants – Sigrid still couldn't believe they had servants, but even she didn't want to try to do all the dusting herself – to show in the latest petitioner for her hand. "If he's old and fat, try coughing a few times," Bard said to her out of the corner of his mouth. "If we can convince him you're sickly we might be able to drive him off."

"How is that different from my idea of putting up a sign that says I'm dying of a horrible wasting disease?"

"Father knows best."

"Hmph. Fine. But it was my idea first."

She was trying to decide if she should start playing up the frailty quickly or let it drag out a little when the door to the audience chamber opened and her suitor walked in.

Sigrid's eyes widened in shock.

Tilda squealed with delight. "KILI!"

The Dwarf prince came to a stop several feet from the little group and made a sweeping bow. It was no wonder no one had recognized him as he rode through the streets on his horse (which was indeed black as midnight, and large enough for the dwarf and a certain she-elf to ride together), for he was wearing garb such as Sigrid had never seen before. Silks in bottle green. A cape lined with cloth of gold. Even his boots, made of finest leather, were decorated with gold buckles. His hair had been tied back with green ribbons and gold beads.

In short, he looked nothing like himself. Had Sigrid not been so familiar with his face and that familiar, bubbly smile she'd never have recognized the man in front of her.

Though she supposed the fact that the top of his head barely reached her chin would have clued her in eventually.

"Prince Kili, to what do we owe this honor?" Sigrid thanked the Valar for her father as he greeted the dwarf, since she was still trying to find her voice.

"Please, milord Bard, call me Kili." The dwarrow's infectious smile lit up his face. "And I come bearing happy tidings."

"Oh? Please share."

Sigrid blushed as she found Kili's twinkling gaze turned fully on her. "I have come to ask for the Lady Sigrid's hand in marriage."