A few things to note about this story: It was inspired by Faramir talking to Pippin about dreaming of slaying a dragon when he was a boy. I just keep thinking that Faramir could have been inspired by his own great grandfather being a dragonslayer. When I got the idea, I was just finishing up There is a Time, so I mentioned Prince Adrahil attending Thorin and Fili's double wedding at the end. Although I have a few references from that story, you do not have to read it in order to understand what is going on in this one. This is obviously a very rare pairing (it is literally the only story featuring Sigrid and Adrahil), and I honestly wasn't sure if it would be a better fit a Hobbit story, or LOTR. I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think :) I also wanted to give a shout out to Cowman42 being my beta on this story. I couldn't have done it without your help!

Chapter 1: No Blade Can Pierce Me

Snow had been on the ground for over a month when the rider from Gondor arrived, half-frozen to his horse. Sigrid did not wait to get his name. With the help of two stable boys, she managed to get him off his horse and to the fire in the King's House. She stripped off the frozen layers of armor and clothing, and wrapped him in as many blankets as she could find. A woman brought in a wash tub filled with fresh snow as Sigrid kneeled at his feet and removed his boots. With handfuls of snow, she rubbed his feet, ignoring his groans when the numbness in his toes was replaced by the sensation of sharp needles. Another servant came in carrying a bowl of hot stew, and Sigrid did not think twice about feeding the man like he was a child.

This is the story of how Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth first met Princess Sigrid of Dale, the dragonslayer's daughter.

October, T.A. 2944, Minas Tirith

The spoils of war were great indeed. Prince Adrahil could vouch for their glory as he reveled in the delights of a Southron wench, his face nestled between her golden thighs, the curses of Umbar pouring from her delighted lips as she moaned at his administrations. Had Steward Turgon not promised him his own harem if he so wished? Perhaps this was just the start of a victory tour. He would not stop until he had tasted a woman from every land in Arda.

The corsair fleet tormented Harondor's coast all summer long, but his father, Prince Angelimir, had been reluctant to engage the pirates before reinforcements could join them from Anfalas. A quarter of Dol Amroth's ships had been destroyed by an early hurricane that year, and another quarter had already gone to Harondor's aid. They were down by half, but Adrahil did not fear defeat. And when the first ship waving the black flag of Umbar came sailing into the Bay of Belfalas, Dol Amroth had no choice but to join the fight. Their losses were great, but their enemy's losses were greater as no ship in their fleet survived. A victory that sweet outweighed the cost of a few ships and men. Turgon had been particularly pleased with Adrahil's actions, and had promised him nearly all of the riches that Gondor could buy.

A harem wouldn't be half bad, he thought wryly, if all Umbarian whores were as good as this one.

The woman's moans shifted to a keening sound as she reached a climax, but Adrahil's thrill of the moment was cut short as the door banged open. Shrieking, the woman pulled away, pressing her back to the headboard. She yanked the blanket to cover her breasts, but in the process, she revealed Adrahil clad in nothing but his braies.

"Out!"

Adrahil groaned as he recognized his father's command. The woman did not speak Westron, but even she could understand the message he conveyed. Not that it mattered. Umbarians were famous for their love of coin, and this wench was proving no different. She did not budge, her dark eyes determined as she watch his father, challenging him. Adrahil would have to pay her to get her to leave.

"I said out, woman!" Prince Angelimir growled again, storming across the room to remove her bodily if necessary.

Leaning quickly across the bed, Adrahil fished a leather pouch out of the pocket of his trousers lying on the floor. He dumped a few coins into her waiting hand and waved to dismiss her. Such a shame his coin would go to waste, he thought as his eyes followed the smooth line of her back. Perhaps he could find her later to finish what he started.

Turning to his father, he sneered as he surveyed the man. "Really, father, did you just get here?" Angelimir's armor and dusty cloak certainly seemed to attest to that. It had been nearly a week since Adrahil brought the news of victory to Steward Turgon in Minas Tirith. He had not expected his father to get there quite so quickly. "You have never been so eager to see me before. Surely more valuable conversation can be found in the Steward's council chamber." He did not like the bitterness tinging his words, but he doubted his father could detect a difference between now and any other time they spoke. "Perhaps you are here to congratulate me on a job well done?"

"A job well done? Is that what you are calling it?" Angelimir's black hair may have long ago turned silver, and his waist might have widened over the years, but everything from his stance to his demeanor was that of a warrior. Adrahil learned to fear the man at a young age, though his father had never raised a hand to him. Instead he watched and scrutinized every move his son made, never finding a kind word to grant him.

Adrahil took the bait. He never could resist it. "Turgon seemed to think it was a job well done." Pulling his crumpled shirt over his head, he walked over to the sideboard and poured a cup of wine from the decanter. He should offer some to his father, but on a childish impulse, he decided against it. Wine would only add fuel to the fire that was sure to follow his reference to the Steward. Angelimir respected the man's title, but his respect carried no further than appearances' sake. Particularly when it came to plans involving his precious ships.

"Turgon will change his mind when he learns what your foolish attempts at glory cost him. Gondor has lost more than half of its fleet, and my sources tell me that Harondor has been attacked again just last week. And what about the harvest? Do you expect others to continue to carry the weight of your responsibilities? Too long have I indulged you. That ends now."

He could not be serious. Adrahil scoffed at his father's words, drowning his angry retort in a long draw from his cup. Too long he had indulged him? Prince Adrahil had never wanted for anything in his life, save for his father's approval, but he would hardly consider himself to have been indulged. He knew where his talents lay. He belonged on the sea, leading ships into battle, defending the coast from those who threatened all that Gondor held dear. He was no farmer. Would the harvest not be better managed by someone who understood the earth and its riches? There were many sitting in his father's council who could do the job just fine, so why did the prince demand that he be the one to oversee the harvest?

Angelimir had heard his son's arguments on the topic often enough to recognize them before they were uttered. "You seem to forget that the responsibilities I refer to are greater than our fleet or our food supply. Your country, your family…we are all counting on you alone to keep Dol Amroth prosperous. Had I other sons, you could continue throwing yourself headfirst into battle to your heart's content. But I don't have any others to replace you should you get yourself killed."

"So you will lock me in a tower to protect your precious line?" Adrahil snapped.

"Until you produce an heir, I might have to consider it."

It was not the only time that Angelimir mentioned an heir. The first conversation on the topic came after a drunken night on the water had resulted in a capsized sailboat. Adrahil was twenty-two at the time, far too young to worry about marriage. He and his companions were rescued by a fishing vessel after bobbing in the water for hours, but they were all safe in the end. It was hardly a brush with death, but it was enough to make Angelimir's paranoia find a new topic to explore. Without an heir, Dol Amroth would be lost. Never mind that the Steward would appoint a new prince. In Angelimir's mind, Gondor would fall if his line was not continued.

But Adrahil did not agree with his father's thoughts on the necessity of an heir, and for the five years that followed, he had managed to skirt the topic with relative ease. None of the ladies in the Steward's court could tempt him into matrimony. They were all as lovely as a portrait, but they had personalities of ice. He needed a wife that could stand up to the heat of his blood, a woman who could fight any battle she faced as fiercely as he did. There were plenty of women who fit this description, but most of them were found in the taverns of Belfalas. No woman of noble blood could have the spirit he needed, while also maintaining the decorum of Gondor's courts. It had been more than a year since Angelimir last spoke of marriage, but Adrahil could remember the conversation like it were yesterday. It was a joke, tinged with the sweet wine he had drank throughout the Harvest Feast in a desperate bid to escape the eager gazes of the visiting noblemen's daughters, but on that night, he declared that only the daughter of a dragonslayer would make a worthy wife.

Apparently his father had not forgotten those fateful words either.

"You are in luck," Angelimir's gray eyes were sharp as he spoke with a look that garnered no argument. "Your impossible standards have not been in vain. My sources have told me that such a lady exists. Princess Sigrid of Dale is the daughter of King Bard, the dragonslayer. It has been three years since the event took place, but I have heard that the princess has grown to be a fine young lady, and her marriageable prospects are few in the north."

"You want me to marry some girl from Dale?" Adrahil could not believe his ears. For so long, Dol Amroth had been a proud house of Númenórean ancestry. His choices were few within Gondor, and although his cousin, Morwen, had recently married Prince Thengal of Rohan, he was expected to continue the tradition of marrying a daughter of Númenórean lineage.

Angelimir did not answer immediately, his expression growing rigid like the wave-battered cliffs of Belfalas. Fear in the prince grew with each passing year, and paranoia governed more of his decisions than the Dol Amroth council cared to admit. Adrahil could see it, the gulf between them growing wider as his father imagined armies along their borders and monsters lurking beneath the coastlines. Although Angelimir looked every inch the warrior he had been in his youth, Adrahil saw a shadow of the man hiding behind a stony mask.

"A darkness is falling over the land. It is slow in its descent – I cannot say where it comes from. I just feel it in my very bones. Ecthelion sees it as well in Minas Tirith's crumbling economy, though his fool of a father ignores it. The evils in this world grow, and I fear it won't be long before we will be fighting for our very lives. Now is the time to make friends. We have alliances with our neighbors, but what do we have in the north? The east? Dale is allied with the Iron Hills, Erebor, and even the Woodland Realm. I wouldn't expect their armies to march to Gondor to protect our southern coastlines, but if trouble should arise in the east, I want their sympathies to lie with the House of Dol Amroth and Gondor."

"Do you think a marriage between our houses would be enough if it comes to war?" Adrahil was skeptical that his father's plans would succeed. If there was some truth to his fears, and if such an arrangement could be agreed upon, Adrahil could not imagine that a kingdom so far removed from Gondor would be willing to provide them aid with no promises of retribution.

Angelimir hesitated before answering, his eyes not quite meeting Adrahil's as he spoke. "Never underestimate the lengths a man would go to protect his kin. If you had a son of your own, you would understand this."

"I wish you would change your mind about this." Ecthelion had made this very statement many times over the course of the morning, but each utterance seemed to have the opposite effect. Adrahil was determined to see this plan through, his way, and no one could talk him out of it. At least Ecthelion seemed to be picking up on that fact as his fretting had shifted from commanding Adrahil to reconsider to simply sighing his concerns in defeat.

Ecthelion, the eldest son of Steward Turgon, was Adrahil's closest friend despite the thirty-some years between them. It had not always been that way. Adrahil was closer in age to the man's daughters, and until Denethor had been born, Ecthelion treated Adrahil more like a naughty son than a comrade. In some ways, Adrahil found Ecthelion to be more like a father than his own. He certainly showed more affection that Angelimir ever did.

It was not entirely surprising then that Adrahil decided to confide in Ecthelion on the matter of his potential betrothal. However, he had not expected his friend to take his father's side on it.

Adrahil was surprised at how easily he convinced his father to allow him to make the trip to Dale himself. In any other situation, a courier would be used to deliver the message. If the King of Dale accepted Adrahil's suit, then he would make the journey once winter was over, travelling with a large escort of Swan Knights. But when Adrahil presented an alternative option, that he would make the journey and speak with the king in person, Angelimir accepted with little deliberation.

"As long as you return with a wife, it matters not who carries the damn letter," he said.

However, that was never Adrahil's intent.

He did not outright reject the notion of taking the princess to wife. He could see the sense of his father's argument, and there was a certain intrigue that this foreign princess carried – what kind of woman would the dragonslayer's daughter be? He would travel alone, not as a prince, but as the messenger. His father's letter would be delivered, but he would also be delivering letters of his own: one to the king thanking him for his consideration, and one to the princess asking that she communicate freely her thoughts on the arrangement. If Princess Sigrid was anything like the ladies in Gondor's courts, she would simply regurgitate the words of her father – that the proposal of courtship was an honor and she gladly accepted. But if she was of her own mind, the princess would have the freedom to tell him directly without fear of retribution from anyone.

Ecthelion was opposed to the plan from the start. He hovered nearby while Adrahil packed his bags, haphazardly throwing out argument after argument against the journey, hoping one of them would make the prince stop and think about his decision.

"It is not safe to travel that far without protection. Take your guard with you. You are going to need them."

Adrahil shook his head. Taking guards would only announce his title, defeating the entire purpose of the secretive mission. "It is not such an unreasonable journey that I cannot make it alone. If a courier was expected to do so without protection, then I see no reason why I should take knights with me."

It was true that none from Dol Amroth had ever traveled so far north, and the only councilor from Minas Tirith to make the trip was currently out of the city, but Adrahil did not think that it would be too difficult to prepare for the journey. More than a thousand miles lay between the kingdoms, but with a swift horse and a light pack, he could make the trip in less than four weeks.

But Ecthelion was worried about more than the distance. "Orcs have been spotted along our borders, and Rohan has been battling them for the past year. Just three years ago, thousands of them gathered in Dale. I am sure that many stragglers remain."

"I am travelling light, not unarmed," Adrahil said, gesturing toward his armor hanging on the stand in the corner. The weight of it would slow him down, but it would be a necessary sacrifice since he chose to travel without the guards.

"And what of the weather?" Ecthelion challenged. "It is cold in the north, and snow will soon fall. You have never even seen snow, much less traveled in it."

Adrahil rolled his eyes. This was another thing he had considered when he made his plans. It was true that he had never even seen snow, but he had a pretty good idea of what to expect. He packed woolen clothes, thick boots, and an oilskin cloak. It may not be enough, but he was sure he could find better provisions on the road if necessary.

"I am prepared for the weather. What else have you got? I am determined to make this journey. Not even my father has traveled across all of Middle Earth. So what other reason should I give up my quest?"

Ecthelion narrowed his eyes as he glared. "What does it matter how far your father has traveled? When the King of Dale learns that you lied to him, I can guarantee that he will reject any offers you bring him. Your father is not going to give you any more chances if you fail this one. I hope you remember that when you are lying through your teeth."

Adrahil did not respond, his head bent over the buckle he was fastening. Ecthelion had voiced this same concern when he first learned of the plan the night before, and Adrahil knew that there was validity to it. He gave little thought to his father's displeasure. It would be present no matter the outcome. But Ecthelion's concerns about the King of Dale echoed his own. What man would grant his daughter's hand after learning he was deceived? But then again, he seriously doubted that an agreement would even be made. A marriage between neighboring kingdoms would give Dale the greater advantage, even if it was to a dwarf prince. If King Bard had any sense about him, he would pass up on Dol Amroth's offer in favor of one that would bless his kingdom with riches beyond measure.

Adrahil looked up, his irritation rising when he saw the way Ecthelion's expression softened to something resembling pity. Adrahil's strained relationship with his father was no secret in the courts of Gondor. But nothing was worse than seeing how plainly people assumed that his every action was an attempt to please Angelimir. They couldn't possibly know that he had given up trying to please the man years ago, but he did not like how freely the opinion was shared.

A grin slowly formed on Adrahil's face, falling into place like a mask. "Don't worry," he said, "If the princess wishes us to be wed, her wish will be granted. Even if I have to steal her away in the night."

"You are a bloody idiot," Ecthelion growled. "Mark my words – You are going to regret this foolhardy plan before you even reach Dale."

Winter, T.A. 2944, Rhovanian

Adrahil wondered, when at last he reached the southern edge of the Mirkwood, if Ecthelion knew how true his words were. Travelling by boat up the Anduin, rowing from Minas Tirith to the borders of Ithilien, had been the only part of the journey that he could truly call enjoyable. Trees lined the banks of the river, their leaves all changed to the warm colors of autumn. The waters of the Anduin were peaceful and dark, and there was little resistance as they moved upstream. In North Ithilien he took rest at the last inn he would see for weeks. The beds were warm enough and the company was welcoming. He could only imagine the next morning, as he rode out on the fine horse he had just bought, how great the rest of this adventure would be if it was anything like the start.

He was not far from Emyn Muil when the first orc attack came. His horse that had somehow survived the marshes of Nindalf, was shot out from under him by the vile creatures. He barely escaped that attack, but it gave him some comfort to think that even alone, he had managed to leave none of them alive. He traveled by foot for days after that, carrying what possessions he could, leaving behind any nonessential items.

Adrahil quickly learned that every campfire he made to thaw his frozen hands attracted the orcs lingering in the shadows like moths to a flame. It was regrettable that his only source of warmth had to be abandoned, but the sacrifice would be worth it if it kept him alive.

At the confluence of the Gladden and the Anduin, he encountered a small village. It was the closest thing to civilization he had seen since he first got off of the boat. All along the way there had been the remains of towns and villages that had been thoroughly pillaged by orcs and burned to the ground. His father's words about an evil falling over the land seemed to be unnervingly accurate. Adrahil could not fathom what this would mean for Dol Amroth, but he hoped that it would not be discovered in this lifetime or the next.

The people of the village had little to offer Adrahil, but he was fed and had the opportunity to get warm by a fire. His hosts had never heard of Dol Amroth, or Gondor for that matter. They knew little of Dale, but the Mirkwood forest they knew well. Adrahil's map showed The Old Forest Road cutting through the Greenwood Forest, as it had once been called. It was about 200 miles long and none had traveled it for an age. No matter how he studied the map, it would take more than double the time to go around the forest. He had to take the Old Forest Road. But the men he spoke with were adamant that he avoid it.

"Those who enter never leave," his host said with thickly accented Westron. "There is darkness in the Mirkwood. A man cannot keep his mind in those woods."

Adrahil appreciated the warning, but did not take it to heart. These were the words of a man who had never seen battle. Adrahil was a warrior and was trained against the evils of the world. He could not imagine a foe he could not face.

The next morning he left again, but not without purchasing a horse. Any money he carried at the start of the trip was lost, but the man accepted the silver swan ring Adrahil wore as payment.

It was nearly a week's journey to the road and the horse was not bred for speed. But Adrahil tried to enjoy the ride as he stared in wonder at the world dressed in white. The silence of the snow was so different than the constant roar of the sea. It haunted him deep inside his bones, dulling his senses in the most beautiful and terrifying way. Only the Mirkwood tree line to his right allowed him to keep his sanity.

When at last he reached the Old Forest Road, he stopped at the edge and peered into the trees. Even though it was winter and all the leaves had fallen, the limbs to the trees were crowded together making the forest dark as night. The air felt stagnant and Adrahil wondered briefly if this evil was truly as great as the men had said. His horse was reluctant to make the first steps onto the path, but Adrahil would not allow it to turn back.

He would never know how many days, weeks, were lost in the forest. Though the path was straight, he could not see his next step forward. Doubts filled his mind as he continued moving, never daring to stop longer than an hour or two to rest. By the time he reached the far edge of the forest, he could not even remember his own name. And years later, when he looked back on that time, he could not help but to wonder that if he had taken the path by foot, if he did not have the horse to guide the way, would he have ever made it out alive?

The trip to Esgaroth was about four day's ride, but Adrahil was weak. It had been days since his last meal, and his faithful horse did not fare much better as it stumbled along the path that followed the River Running.

On the third day, marauders appeared from the trees, five men that had been well concealed in the dark of the forest. They were an odd group. None of them seemed to hail from the same land. Two were fair and tall like the Northmen, but three of the men were dark-headed and small with weapons he had never seen before. Adrahil's sword was swift as he fought against the men, and his horse mustered enough energy to join the fight with a terrible cry, its hooves crashing down upon one of the Northmen.

The second Northman came from Adrahil's left swinging a great mace, while one of the smaller men engaged him with a slim, curved blade. Adrahil's eyes were drawn to a mark on the man's arm, a coiled dragon burned into his skin, providing just enough distraction for the Northman's mace to collide with Adrahil's left side. The prince was nearly knocked from his horse as searing pain ripped across his chest. A hit like that could shatter ribs, even with armor as impenetrable as his own. Gritting his teeth, he managed to cling to his mount, turning the horse to cut down the Northman.

His height gave him the advantage, and soon two more of the men were felled by his sword. The last man had long been disarmed, but without Adrahil seeing, he managed to procure a slim blade. As Adrahil brought down his fatal blow, the man made his last stand, his slim blade slipping between the prince's vambrace and mail shirt, slicing through to his forearm. Compared to his other injuries, the cut felt like little more than scratch from his mother's roses in the gardens of Dol Amroth. But Adrahil knew how easily a scratch could become something more. Fever could take hold in a matter of days, or the blade could have been laced with poisons favored by the Haradim. But there was little he could do on the side of the road.

Adrahil fled, galloping along the water's edge for several miles until he was sure he was not being followed. Although he could see the gates of Lake Town in the distance, rising from the water in the shadow of Lonely Mountain, he knew that he must make camp. Binding his wound the best he could with shaking hands, he hunted for crayfish along the water's edge on the patches of river where the current was too strong to freeze. He was hoping for a little sustenance to make it through the night. But it was far too cold for the creatures to be out, and he wondered as he did every night, why he was foolish enough to make this journey in winter.

The next day he reached the southwestern edge of Long Lake, where he encountered another dilemma. He had expected the final stretch of his journey to be by boat, but thick ice covered the surface of the lake. Riding along the lake shore doubled the length of his trip, but he knew of no other option.

At the mouth of the Forest River, Adrahil met marshy landscape where the water cut through the land like fingers to reach Long Lake. The mellow current of the river, unlike the River Running, allowed it to freeze, its great slab of ice merging smoothly with the frozen lake. Deep cracks covered the surface of the ice, but no water seeped through. He suspected that the ice was very thick, but only after he discovered a trail of thin parallel lines across the frozen water did he consider walking over the ice. Tentatively, he took his first step, making his horse wait on the shore until he felt comfortable with their combined weights on the ice. He felt like a fool taking tiny steps to keep from falling, but slowly he crossed the river, only daring to breathe once he reached the far shore.

Adrahil longed to stop for the night, but knowing just how close he was to his destination renewed him. He would ride to Dale, even if he had only moonlight to guide him. And that was nearly the case as the sun slipped lower in the western sky. It was dusk when he reached the King's House, and he could barely move. The pain in his side had spread, and every breath felt like a knife cutting through him. He could not feel his feet or his hands, and his eyes wanted so desperately to close.

She came to him like a dream, lifting him from his horse and half carrying him into the King's House. His consciousness was fading and he remembered little of that initial meeting. But one constant remained – she was there, working frantically to revive him. He wondered which of the Ainur had come to save him. Was it Nienna showing him mercy as she fed him like a child? Was it Estë blessing him with her healing hand? Or was it Varda, the lady of the stars, her light and beauty warming him from the inside out?

When she told him that a bath had been drawn for him, he nearly kissed her. She extended her hand to help him stand, and Adrahil was amazed that this little woman could bring his great bulk to his feet. But she did, and he realized that he still did not know his savior's name.

"Pray, my lady," he said, his voice hoarse from the cold. "Tell me your name."

The lady tilted her head as she studied him with curious eyes. "I am Sigrid. Princess of Dale."