*ignoring the paper thrown at me by Tolkien's ghost as I post this* I think that the elf default of the Choice of the Peredhil is stupid and that Arwen (Elladan and Elrohir too, this post just isn't about them) continues to very slowly age up until she makes her final choice once and for all, so by the events of LotR she looks somewhere between late-20s to early-40s. She's gorgeous and elfly-ethereal and she has laugh lines and grey hairs and her neck hurts when she sleeps on it wrong. In this essay I will-

Dancing memories

(This fiction idea is like a continuation from the Imagine being there to witness everything and watching your beloved die headcanon, so you might wanna read that first before reading this. It also got so long that I divided it to two chapters. I will publish the second chapter later) Hope you enjoy! 

Contex: You have been living in Lindon for a while with your two foster sons. Everything was peaceful and it was almost time for a festival party, but then a stranger who calls himself the lord of gifts, arrives and insults your family. You decided to have a little chat about his future. 

Warnings: Angst, sass, dark sense of humor, thinking about ex lover, stranger danger, young Elrond gets insulted and that does not sit well with you. 

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Many years have passed since Elrond has seen the two feanorians and his brother. There wasn’t a day when he didn’t miss them. Despite all the crimes and the oath, Elrond loved them dearly and respected Elros’s choice to live as a human. It was hard to live on without his twin on his side, but luckily you were there to help and support him whenever he needed it. 

He was uncertain when you brought him to Lindon and introduced him to king Gill-galad. He expected to be hated because he didn’t hate the feanorians like others, but he was pleasantly surprised when the high king welcomed him and made him a herald. It was strange at first, but he managed to adapt. 

Life in Lindon was peaceful, and he had all the time in the world to master healing and making medicine while learning politics under Gil’galad’s guidance. He even managed to plan out the future realm he dreamed of making. 

However, Gill-galad tends to treat him like a younger brother of some sort. Elrond found it strange because the high king was much older than him and had a different background. Elrond didn’t dislike him because he was kind and generous, but his sense of humor was weird, and Elrond did not understand the special treatment. Maybe it was because you helped raising them. 

You were pretty close to a mother figure to them. You took them in when they lost their families and supported them throughout their lives. Gill-galad grew up in the safety of Cirdan, but Elrond could see how the high king kept you in high regard and fondly doesn’t mind when you speak casually with him. Elrond thought he couldn't relate with him in the beginning until you told him how Gil-galad was somewhere in his age when he lost his father to the war. You took care of him because he had no other relatives, and his father was one of your close friends.

Elrond learned to accept and like the brotherly love the high king shared with him. He respected you, so he showed some effort to get along with your former charge. 

Life was good to him, and he couldn't thank you enough for staying around when the feanorians left him and his brother. But it did pain him to see you stare into the nothing most of the time. Maedhros’s death had hurt you more than he could imagine. He despised the eldest feanorian for it because now you looked tired most of the time. 

Thousands of years of living had worn you down. You got left with a task you did not want to continue, and you most likely still blamed yourself for what happened to Maedhros. Elrond knew changing the pass of time was risky and could only bring worse results, so he did not blame you for not doing anything to change his fate. 

Elrond did wish to see life and happiness return to your eyes. He could feel your sorrow and detachment from reality like it was his own. No matter how much your enchanted earrings hid your identity, your fea has always been open to the world. That’s what made you so human than an elf. 

Your sorrow was deep, which is why Elrond tried hard to bring you happiness and a smile whenever you felt there was no light in the world. It wasn’t easy, but he managed. And today, Elrond just wanted to make you smile again. 

“These are well planned, Elrond,” Gil-galad stated as he viewed the papers. “Yes, but there are still a lot of things to do like ensuring everything goes on the schedule, the invitations received, and the refreshments and the food are a bit late, so we need to send someone to make sure they get in time,” Elrond explained as they walked through the hall. Gil-galad shook his head with an amused smile. “I think we will be fine. The festival is only two days ahead, so there’s no need to rush,” He explained. “I know, but I think it would be for the best that everything is in place beforehand,” Elrond said. “We don’t accidentally want to forget something,” He added as they stopped for a moment. 

Gil-galad chuckled. “Always so diligent,” He said, then glanced at the hall’s decorations. 

“You know, we always go for unusual colors and decor for this festival. Do you think we could do something new for exchange?” He questioned. “We could let someone else decide the theme for the feast,” He added, glancing at Elrond. “Well, I have an idea who we could pick for that job,” Elrond said. “Oh, and who is that I wonder?” Gil-galad asked with a smile. 

“The one who usually stares into the void with a book. (Name) has been in gloomy clouds again, so I thought we could include her in planning the looks for the party,” Elrond explained. “Oh, that is a lovely idea. I heard she used to love parties. She will be perfect for the job, and it will help keep her mind occupied,” Gil-galad enthusiastically said. “Yes, but I’m afraid she won’t accept at first, so we might have to do some persuasion,” Elrond said. “It’s a pity that all festivities have left her interest,” He added. “I’m afraid she will only get annoyed with us if we even bring it up,” Elrond said, making Gil-galad chuckle at the statement. 

“True, but perhaps that's why it will be good for her to get included than stand in the backgrounds like a wallflower,” Gil-galad said. Elrond nodded, humming in agreement. “But what do you suggest we do to have her at least hear what we have to say?” Gil-galad questioned. “There’s only one way that will make her hear us,” Elrond raised his finger. The older elf looked at him curiously. 

You gazed into the distance from the balcony. The wind from the sea gently blows against your face, whipping around strands of hair and filling your nose with a salty smell. 

The book lay in front of you on the table, untouched as you did nothing but hold the quill in your hands. Thoughts from a long distant past played within your mind like a never-ending movie. You remember screaming and fire, where the elf with crimson hair stood with a shining jewel in his hands. There was a lot of smoke then he was gone. 

You took a deep breath and tried to stop thinking about the incident. 

It has been thousands of years, and you still can’t stop thinking about him and the things you could have done to change his fate. You still can’t get over him. 

Elrond and Gil-galad glanced at you from the doorway to the balcony. You sat at the tiny table with a distant look the peredhel knew all too well. You were thinking about the past and him again, so this should be a welcomed distraction for you. 

“Good morning, (Name),” Gil-galad called out as the two approached you. You almost jumped with a startle but turned around to give them your attention. “I hope you’re doing well on this fine day, but may we have some of your time for a lovely discussion for future things to come?” He asked. You frowned at the question. “Why are you talking like that?” You asked. “If you wanna talk, just say so, don’t try to sound like a sugarcoating bard,” You explained, putting away your quill. “Of course,” Gil-galad chuckled. 

“So, what are you two up to; don’t you have a festival to plan out?” You questioned. “We were wondering if you could share some thoughts with us, and I sensed you might be here with an empty cup, so I brought you a new one,” Elrond replaced your empty cup of coffee with a new one. “Fresh, warm, and no sugar,” He said with a smile. You stared at the cup for a moment before taking it and looking at the boys. “Thank you, I guess,” You said, taking a sip. 

“You're welcome, but I wonder how you can like such a tasteless drink,” Gil-Galad stated as you gulped down. “I like it bitter like my life,” You said, making the two smile with awkwardness for a moment. 

“Alright, now I know you want something from me, which I most likely dislike, so what do you want?” You looked at them. “We were wondering if you would like to join in the festival planning and give a new look to the theme we decided this year?” Elrond started. You frowned at him with confusion. “You want me to decorate this place?” You questioned, scratching the back of your ear. “Well, even Cirdan mentioned you had parts in planning festivals and parties,” Gil-galad mentioned. “And those were ages ago when we didn’t need to worry about Morgoth and his orcs,” You explained.

“And besides, if I was younger, you would have made a mistake giving a task like this to me. I never really had control over the parties, and it most of the time ended up as a huge mess, thanks to your certain relatives,” You explained with a chuckle when you remembered those times with your beloved and his very wild family. Elrond and Gil-galad smiled. 

“Well, could you at least consider taking part in this year’s feast? We should celebrate these peaceful times while we can, and we both would be happy to have you included,” Gil-galad explained. “Oh, don’t give me that talk,” You shook your head. “Please, you don’t always have to stand in the background doing nothing,” Elrond held your hand. “And I brought you coffee, so give some considerations in return,” He smiled. You almost chuckled, pinching his cheek. “You cheeky little shit, you really here pressuring me with coffee,” You sighed. 

“Fine! If you so insist. What do you want me to look at?” You asked. 

Elrond and Gil-galad smiled at each other. 

“We have decided most of the festival, but you could take a look at the decor for the late party that will be held in the main hall,” Elrond explained. “Such as the flowers, tapestries, colors, you can even decide what kind of atmosphere you want to bring out,” He added. You nodded while taking a sip from your coffee. “You would have regretted picking me if I was still in my party years,” You stated, then checked out the plans Elrond had presented you on the table. 

“And you might regret it even now. How about we change the flowers? Not specific color or meaning, just a mix of everything to describe the absolute nonsense we call life,” You said. “(Name) - “ Elrond said, almost with a disappointed tone. “Just kidding, how about we add more than one type of tapestry to signify other people who will be there to signify unity and add more variety of colors to freshen the mood since it is a summer festival?” You questioned. “And maybe avoid too much alcohol on the menu and add more cool drinks and juice to honor our lady and mother earth Yavanna Kementari for her fruits and gifts of the earth,” You added. “That - doesn’t sound too bad since there will also be children,” Gil-galad stated. “ I almost forgot how careless of me,” He chuckled. 

“You are the king of this land, and you forgot children will also attend the feast?” You questioned him.  “Well, these are peaceful times. I guess my mind has yet to ease up since it was forbidden to marry and have children during my youth,” Gil-galad explained. “Well, true,” You shrugged your shoulders. 

“Talking about marriage. Elrond, how are you and Celebrian?” You asked, looking at the younger ellon. Elrond almost jumped with a startle. “Uhm… well-” He looked away, his face and ears slowly flushing. 

“My king, there is a stranger, who calls himself the lord of gifts, and lady Galadriel requests your attendance,” One of the guards suddenly came to the balcony. You all looked at each other with confusion. “Is that so? I will be there,” Gil-galad stated. The guard nodded and left. 

Your mind got occupied when you heard the guard mention the lord of gifts. It gave you a strange feeling and a sense of familiarity. Where have you heard that name before? 

“The lord of gifts? I have never heard of someone with such a title,” Elrond stated. “Neither have I, but if Galadriel asks for my presence, then it must be something important,” Gil-galad explained. Elrond got up from the table, then Gil-galad looked at you. “I’m sorry, but it looks like we have to go now. Do take your time on the decor and planning. I’m certain this won’t take long, whoever this stranger claims to be,” He explained, then he and Elrond left the balcony to meet this mysterious stranger. 

You thought about what you heard and tried to remember where you heard about this lord of the gifts. Where was it mentioned in the books? 

It clicked immediately. 

You stood up from the table and left the balcony. If the stranger was him, then the peaceful times are ending soon. You need to see this to confirm your suspicion. 

Elrond stood firmly with his arms crossed, observing the stranger who spoke to his king with sweet words and standing like a friend. His appearance was fair, but there was something strange about him. It was an ill-gutting feeling like there wasn’t something right about him.

Even Galadriel, who usually holds a calm appearance, was frowning with suspicion. She maintained her distance from the stranger with Celeborn, who looked uneasy.  

Elrond also didn’t feel comfortable with how this Annatar glanced at him from time to time like he knew something. It was unsettling, and Elrond wanted to leave. However, he couldn't leave his king’s side, so he tried to tolerate the uneasy feeling. 

You joined among the observers, and Elrond noticed your presence immediately. 

He felt comfort seeing you but then felt suspicious about the whole situation. If something like this caught your attention, it meant something important was happening. Your look toward the stranger only amplified his suspicion. It had to signify this Annatar was not who he claimed to be. You once said the peace of the second age would one day end. Was this it? 

Elrond thought about all possible outcomes the encounter might bring until his mind was brought back to reality by Gil-galad’s voice. 

“You are welcome to stay for a while. It is almost the festival’s eve, and everyone is welcome to attend,” Gil-galad stated. Elrond sensed the tone behind the older elf’s voice. It almost sounded forced, and he could feel the mistrust in the posture Gil-galad carried like he would have instead sent this stranger away than invited him to the city. 

“I’m grateful, my lord,” Annatar spoke with a bow and a smile. Gil-galad and his people then began leaving the main hall. You decided to join Elrond as he looked troubled. 

“Elrond, are you alright?” You questioned. He looked at you after glancing at Annatar. “I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me,” He said. You almost frowned because he didn’t sound convincing. “You sure? You tend to flicker your eyes around and find an exit to avoid the situation. It usually means you’re nervous or trying to hide something,” You explained. 

Elrond took a deep breath before leaning toward you. “Is it time?” He asked almost in a whisper. You hummed in confusion for a moment. “The end of the peace?” He asked again, clarifying what he meant.

You remained quiet, thinking about how to answer his question. You almost regret telling him one day, the peaceful times of the second age will eventually end because someone decided to come out of the shadows and follow in his master’s footsteps. And that someone was in the same main hall as you and Elrond. 

You almost stepped in front of Elrond when Annatar decided to make his presence known to you. You felt a rush of protectiveness over Elrond as you looked straight in the eye of this lord of gifts. His appearance was fair, and he had a face like no other. You would have fallen into a false sense of security too: If you did not already know his true identity. 

“Greetings, my lady, my lord,” Annatar said pleasantly with a bow. “Greetings. Is there something we can do for you, my lord?” You asked, trying to appear polite and pleasing like how he just pretended to be. 

He almost raised a brow when you held eye contact with him.

“Just an exchange of words if you may. Lindon is a lovely city, and I am eager to interact with its people after a long journey,” Annatar explained. You hummed with a pretend smile. “Well, I hope you will enjoy your stay here, but be warned. Some elves would rather keep it to themselves than talk to an unusual visitor. I’m afraid the effects of the rough times of the first age are still affecting them,” You said. He smiled. “I keep that in mind, lady…-” He trailed off, indicating your name. 

“No one important, “ You said with a smile. “Just a mere bystander and I doubt we will be seeing each other often,” You added, turning toward Elrond. “Shall we go, Elrond? I believe we have some work to do for the feast,” You questioned. “Yes…” Elrond nodded, then shared a glance toward Annatar. 

“If you face troubles, you can always ask for assistance. I’m sure we will be glad to help you whatever seems to trouble you,” Elrond said. “Yes, I’m sure any elf will be willing to assist me, Peredhel,” Annatar said respectfully with a smile. 

At that moment, you frowned because you sensed hidden malice behind that voice. This pretender was insulting Elrond. No one, and you mean no one, referred to Elrond as Peredhel. 

You didn’t say much, but you did pull Elrond along to leave the main hall and the pretender. 

“There is something wrong about him,” Elrond said when you two got clear. “No shit, how did he even know you’re a half-elf without ever meeting you?” You questioned. “ Do you think?!” Elrond stopped. “No, I might be jumping the conclusions,” He said with an uncertain look. 

You looked at him, suspecting what he was trying to say. He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I cannot think straight,” He said. You brought your hand to meet his face. “Hey, are you affected by what he said?” You asked, but he didn’t immediately answer. It was enough to tell you everything. 

“I’m fine. I’m sorry for worrying you,” Elrond said as you removed your hand. “It’s fine, do not apologize,” You said. “For some reason, I can’t get rid of this terrible feeling about him, and I do not think it would be wise to let him stay here,” He said. You nodded, deciding what to do about the situation. 

“Let me handle this,” You said. Elrond looked at you with curiosity. “What are you going to do?” He asked. “I’m just going to have a little chat with him,” You smiled before making your way through the hallway.

Elrond thought for a moment what you meant and only looked in your way. 

You looked determined as you began planning the confrontation. You have ensured Elrond and his brother lived well without being criticized for being half-elves and for their grim history with the feanorians. However, there was always someone prejudiced who liked to share their uncivilized opinion, and you can’t tolerate anyone who dares to insult Elrond for simply being different. Not even the great deceiver.

Headcannon that Celebrimbor and Thranduil were childhood Frenemies because I don't like how the Mirkwood Elves were left out of everything that happened so pls enjoy this fliclet

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Once the Feanorians touched down in Hithlum, Thingol sent his younger brother's brother in law Oropher to be his ambassador. Oropher, of course, brings his son Thranduil along because this is a great chance for diplomatic training

Maedhros, this is during the time Morgoth is sending his own persistent ambassadors, thinks it would also be a great time to start Celebrimbor on diplomatic training, because before this he was just in the forge with Curufin and Feanor. And it doesn't look like the rest of the Sons of Feanor are going to have kids so he'll be inheriting the crown one day.

So Celebrimbor and Thranduil are pushed together on children "play dates"

They hate it, they always fight with each other and have competitions and as soon as they see each other they will throw down and scream new insults they learned since the last time they met. Sometimes they spent entire visits only speaking to each other in their own native tounges and mock the other for not properly understanding what they are saying. This particular game didn't last long, but Tyelpe did become the first of the Noldor to speak Sindarin fluently with no accent and Thranduil enjoys the annoyed tick in Galadriel's typical serene expression when she hears him speak flawless Quenya with a Feanorian lisp

Oropher is concerned, being the youngest of 4 he never had an antagonistic relationship with any of them. But Maglor (the new depressed Noldor High King) just gives a small smile and shrugs. He grew up with 6 brothers and even more half cousins. Little Tyelpe and Thrandy are just playing like boys and future best friends do

And they keep up this frenenimes relationship even after Curufin moves them to Himland. When it gets sacked during Dagor Bragollach and Curufin, Celegorm, and Celebrimbor all flee south to their cousins home, Thranduil sends them some relief supplies. When Celebrimbor disown his father, Thranduil comes to visit and generally be annoying until Celebrimbor can stop feeling like shit

When Thranduil, his parents, and their people leave eastward after Thingol's death but before the second Kinslaying (for Oropher is older then the Sun and Moon, he is not about to be led by a boy not even in his 30th year, Maiar blood or not, and many Sindar agree with him) Celebrimbor travels with them and secures them safe passage through the Blue Mountains.

They both grieve when they hear of the Second Kinslaying, then the Third, and then when the East sinks under the waves. Not many in Lindon support Celebrimbor wearing the eight pointed star again, but Thranduil just rolls his eyes and tells him red looks dreadful with his complexion

During the Second Age when Thranduil gets married, Celebrimbor is invited to the wedding and vis versa when Celebrimbor marries Narvi

(Both marriages involve lots of teasing over their partners of choice. Thranduil laughs over the fact that of course a Noldor would marry a Dwarf, they are basically the same, what with their love of rocks and metal work. Celebrimbor rolls his eyes and snorts that he's surprised Thranduil didn't end up marrying an Ent, what with his love of trees, but he supposes that marrying a lady named "tree maid" is close enough. What next? Will he name his children "sapling" or "twig" or "leaf"? Thranduil shoves him off his chair, spilling wine all over the table and floor and growls that at least his children will have original names, and not share a name with two of his forefathers like Men)

They visit each other a lot during the second age, and Thranduil tries to help him as best he can during the fallout of Narvi's death, and when Celebrimbor is designing his rings of Power with that suspicious Maiar of his (who Celebrimbor SWEARS is helping him craft to work through the grief he has no other intentions) he had Thranduil (or Oropher) in mind when he created Vilya

When Thranduil heard about what happened to his friend and his land during the War of Elves and Sauron he grieved deeply. The only thing he had to remember his friend by was some forgotten blueprints of unfinished jewelry, an Age worth of letters (mostly written in Quenya, he of course had replied in proper Sindarin), a clumsy eight pointed star he laughingly embroidered onto the breast of Thranduil's favourite robe, a set of Sindarin long knives overly embellished with Noldorian swirls, and a box of white gems Celebrimbor hand crafted and left with a promise to come back once he finished his rings and use them to make a matching crown set for Thranduil and his wife to wear whenever he inherited the crown

("There may be even enough left over for a third crown. For your 'little leaf' to grow into whenever you two get around making one." Thranduil's wife laughed with Celebrimbor and sent her husband a leer that set his ears ablaze and Tyelpe's laughter began anew)

And enough regrets to haunt him for Ages. It seemed like bad things always came in three. Celebrimbor, his father, his new homeland. Thranduil led his people north, away from everything he had loved, and kept what remained close to his chest. After his wife was slain shortly after the birth of his son, he refused to lose anyone else. Greenwood the Great began to mirror his grief and became Mirkwood

It was almost another another Age before he decided to commission the Dwarves of Erebor to turn those precious white gems into the crowns Celebrimbor intended. Not for him and his now dead wife, but maybe for Legolas and his future partner. (His little leaf, he could hear Celebrimbor's laughter every time Legolas calls himself "Legolas Greenleaf" with that cheeky grin of his) And if Celebrimbor couldn't make them himself, he would be happy to let his Dwarven friends do the job for him

Thranduil almost burned down the mountain himself when they withheld those gems and one of the last pieces of his dear friend from him

Under the bone deep fear of watching a dragon from his nightmares sack the kingdom, he was a little pleased. Jewel thieves get their due

(He knows that Celebrimbor never swore his grandfather's Oath, but sometimes late at night he wonders if he still carried the curse of it. If that Oath and the Curse of Feanor are the reason his dearest friend died that awful way he did)

It was the beginning of a forth age when those sparking white gems were finally turned into the crowns they were destined to be. And Thranduil could almost hear Celebrimbor's delighted laughter as he watched his only son and heir, his little leaf, marry a dwarf.

When it came time to sail, Thranduil stayed with his people, he has coveted them for so long he now refused to leave unless he was forced too. Legolas, who had somehow made a small boat that could barely withhold the waves of the Western Sea, was greeted with a welcoming and joyful embrace by the Elf he only heard stories about

"Hail Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, Crafter of the Rings Of Power, Husband of Narvi son of Vilarvi of Durin's Folk, and most importantly, the dearest friend of my father!" Legolas greeted in flawless Quenya with a very noticeable Feanorian lisp. The gathered crowd twitched a little and Elrond (who was hoping of news of his sons) gave a sigh. "I have much to say, and so does my husband Gimli, but first I must give you my father's message!"

Legolas cleared his throat, and then with mock superior expression, one that made him look just like Thranduil, he said: "Celebrimbor you Spider Spawn of the Shadow, if you worked on my crown instead of those thrice damned Rings like you said, my son would never have married a Dwarf. Once I am reborn you better start running because I am going to burry you in my forest and chop down the tree you become with my anger alone!"

There was a startled gasp of silence on the shores of Valinor, before Celebrimbor burst into peels of joyful laughter. Legolas smiled at his honorary uncle and laughed with him

"As you can see, father missed you very much"

c i c a t r i z e (aragorn x reader) pt. ii

cicatrize (v.) to find healing by the process of forming scars. Pronouns: She/Her 

 A/N: Welcome to part two! I’ve been working on this part for three days and it was getting a little long, so I saved Weathertop for chapter three. This chapter is 2.7k (or more) words. I hope you enjoy! Warnings: Some swearing, alcohol consumption, Nazgûl, the usual. Summary: Y/n is Aragorn’s childhood best friend. However, when they got older, Y/n’s feelings towards her long time friend changed, but he is infatuated with the Evenstar. Out of heartbreak, she leaves Rivendell and sets off on her own, leaving her love and all she ever knew. When Elrond’s Council takes place, Y/n is forced back to her home and everything she ever knew.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙  Present Time Y/n POV Ale dribbled down my chin as I gulped down what seemed to be my hundredth Pint. In truth, I lost count after my... sixth? Seventh? I needed to drink away my sorrows after the day I had. I received a letter from Gandalf the Grey when the sun was at it’s peak, babbling on about the One Ring, how it was in the hands of a Hobbit named Baggins, and how I needed to make my way to the Prancing Pony in Bree as soon as possible. And, of course, that I needed to keep a look out for the Hobbit in the Prancing Pony, and bring him to Rivendell. What a way to start the day, I had only awoken not an hour prior!

Gods, I needed a drink. After the initial shock of knowing that the One Ring had indeed been found, I, not so happily, packed my few possessions into a warn out bag and went on my merry way.  After leaving Rivendell almost seven decades ago, I had travelled all across Middle Earth, never staying in one place for too long. Though it’s been sixty-seven years since I left my entire life behind (in more than one way), I was still frightened- or was it ashamed? Ashamed. Yes, that was it. I was ashamed of how I left, why I left. Just leaving everything I’ve ever known because I was jealous and heartbroken. Over a guy! Only, he wasn’t just any guy. Yes, he is. I am and have been over him. Are you absolutely positive? No. Exactly.  Fine, I admit! But how could I get over someone I’ve known since I learned how to walk? Not so easily, it seems. Perhaps that was why I was sulking in the Prancing Pony, downing ale after ale, trying to ignore the pure dread of having to see him again. Maybe he won’t be there? Maybe his adventures led him elsewh- My “what if’s” and “maybe’s” were cut short by a large shadow looming over me. Peering up at the owner of said shadow with the mug raised to my lips, I nearly choke at the sight. There he is, the man who has haunted my dreams for sixty-seven years. And, oh Valar, he aged like the finest Mirkwood wine. Sobering up immediately, I quickly placing the mug on the table and wipe my mouth with my sleeve, I greet him with a quiet “Hello?” Though, it sounds more like a question.

He doesn’t greet me in return, much to my pleasure. He just gestures to the seat next to me. “May I?” I numbly nod, though my eyes don’t leave him. Once he is seated, I glance down at my hands and take a deep breath. “What are you doing here, Aragorn?” My tone takes him off guard, it’s cold, hostile. As if I was talking to a stranger, which, in a way, he was. His face holds nothing but shock, with traces of hurt within the grey depths of his eyes. “Business from Gandalf,” Aragorn mumbles as he waves down a waitress. I look at him again, but this time I notice everything that’s changed about him. His hood is up, covering his eyes for all but me. His face is more defined, and there is a trace of stubble along his sharp jaw. He’s buffer, too. His muscles are prominent even under his many layers of clothing. I would be a liar if I said he didn’t look good. However, he also looked... nostalgic. Memories upon memories rushed to the front of my brain as I relived what we used to be.  Oh, Mandos, I think I’m catching feelings. Again. “It’s been a while, Y/n.” I blink, looking away from him with a blush. You foolish woman, Y/n! He most definitely knows you were checking him out.  Clearing my throat, I simply say “Yeah,” and look around for the Hobbit I’m supposed to be watching for. I could his gaze burning into the side of my head, watching my intently.  “You left without saying goodbye,” he mentions with an edge to his tone. I sigh and close my eyes, I really didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Or ever. Never would be good.  “Didn’t think you’d care.” I said, shrugging. Good going, Y/n. Is that really the only intelligent thing you could come up with in that tiny head of yours? In my peripheral vision I see him tense, and his eyes widen considerably. What did he expect me to say? That I was sorry for leaving all those years ago? That I was so desperately in love with him that the sight of him embracing Arwen Undómiel was too much to bear? No, my pride could never admit that, especially not now. “You didn’t think I would care? Y/n, are you ins-” Aragorn starts with what sounds like a hiss.  I hold my finger up to shush him as four Hobbits walk into the Inn, soaked to the bone. The leader, a tall-ish Hobbit with curly black hair, approaches the bar and I can practically feel the evil radiating off of him in waves. I knew he was the one I was looking out for, he was Baggins.  Aragorn gives me a ‘we will talk about this later’ look, yet still follows my gaze. His body language changes drastically when he spots the small men and I instantly know we were sent here for the same reason. “Gandalf sent us on the same quest, it seems.” I mumble as my eyes follow the Hobbit’s every move. Something was... off about them, ignoring the presence of the Ring. They seemed nervous, as though they were waiting for someone. Baggins, or Underhill, as he was called, looked exhausted. The true weight of the Ring was finally making itself known.  As the four sat down at a table in the middle of the room, my eyes wandered over Underhill’s companions. The blonde next to him was on the bigger side, he had unruly curls as all Hobbits do, and he seemed the to the more cautious one out of his companions. The two across from him carried a carefree and youthful energy, both with almost golden hair.  The blonde one looked around the room with distrust before his eyes landed on Aragorn and I. We were watching them carefully, Aragorn had his pipe in his mouth, and I held my mug snuggly within my fingers. I suppose our watchful gazes set off alarms in the small Hobbit’s head. He elbowed Underhill and whispered something to him, nodding his head towards the two of us. Underhill eyed us, I could see the suspicion and fear growing within him as he took in our appearances. Suddenly, he gestured to Butterbur as he passed by, and over the loudness of the Inn, I barely heard him ask, “The two in the corner, who are they?” Butterbur glanced at us warily before replying, “They’re two of them Rangers; dangerous folk they are, wandering the wilds. What their right names are, I’ve never heard, but round here they’re known as Strider and Randir.” Underhill looked at us again, “Strider and Randir,” he seemed to whisper as he nervously played with something under the table. Time seemed to slow as the younger one of the golden haired Hobbits seemed to yell for all the world to hear, “Baggins? Sure I know a Baggins!” Every pair of eyes flew to the young Hobbit, but he seemed oblivious for he kept speaking.  “He’s over there, Frodo Baggins!” He pointed to Underhill, “He’s my second cousin, once removed, on his mother’s side and my third cousin, twice removed on his father’s side... if you follow me.” I sighed deeply and watched as Frodo raced to the golden haired boy, gripping his arm and shouting, “Pippin!” “Steady on, Frodo!” Pippin says, then pushes Frodo away. Frodo stumbled back, losing his balance on one of the many pairs of feet crowded around him. He falls, the Ring flying out of his pocket as gravity takes control. Aragorn and I watch with steady eyes, we could not let anyone near the small, childlike creatures. You never know who may be a spy, waiting, like a jaguar, for the precise moment to pounce. A small hand reaches out to grab the evil jewel, but it just slips through his fingers a moment too late. I wince as Frodo hits the ground, a loud “oomph!” leaving his mouth at impact. Though, my eyes never leave the jewel that seems to be calling my name, tugging at my heartstrings, as it made it’s graceful down a child sized finger.  The owner of said finger was none other than Frodo, and the entire Inn gasped in horror as he vanished from sight. There is complete silence for a moment, and Aragorn and I jolt up, preparing ourselves for the chaos that is to come. And chaos it is. Excited, and slightly horrified, chatter explodes throughout the Prancing Pony. I look to each of the Hobbits once more. The blonde hobbit is as pale as a ghost, looking deathly ill with panic. Pippin, who seemed to realize his folly quickly, sobers up quickly. The unnamed one seems to be a mix of the two, a look of complete and utter bewilderment clear as day on his features. Aragorn and I spot Frodo as he reappears in a dark corner, shaking like a leaf and as pale as the wraiths that hunt him. Hidden in the shadows, we stride over to him, unseen by all in the Inn. The man reaches him first, however, and grabs Frodo by the cloak and drags him up the stairs to a dark room. “You draw far too much attention to yourself.. Mr. Underhill.” Aragorn hisses. I roll my eyes at his actions. “You could have been a little kinder to the poor boy, look at him! He looks like he’s seen Sauron himself.” I point out with a small grin, but it vanishes in a second with the look Frodo gives me. It was wide eyed, portraying the terrifying truth in my words. He had, indeed, seen Sauron himself. Aragorn ignores my statement and draws the attention back to himself as he looms over Frodo. “What do you want?” The quiver in the Hobbit’s voice is prominent when he asks this. Estel turns away for a moment to put out the bright and blazing candles. “A little more caution from you, that is no trinket you carry.” He replies.  “I carry nothing,” Frodo lies. I watch the situation with interest, though I say nothing. The terror of the Ring was clearly effecting him, and having Aragorn and I practically kidnap him was likely not helping. “Indeed?” The taller man hums. “I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely? That is a rare gift.” He states as he finally reveals his face and the mess that is his hair. I gape at him as I take in his aged features, this time I really inspect him. His grey eyes, his lips, his hair...  He was seemingly flawless. Stop it, you stupid girl! You have a task at hand! Shaking my head to clear those impeccably true thoughts, I barely hear Frodo whisper, “Who are you?” “Are you frightened?” This time, it was I who spoke, bringing the attention of both males to me. I say those words with a slight edge to my tone, and it could sound like mockery if we weren’t currently in a dire situation.  Frodo looks me dead in the eyes. “Yes,” he says honestly, I almost laugh. “Not nearly frightened enough,” I uttered lowly, and narrowed my eyes. “We know what hunts you.” Aragorn adds, making me grimace. The Nazgûl were nasty, terrible creatures who should have stayed dead and rotting in their tombs. A noise from the corridor bursts our eerie bubble, and the three of us jump towards the door.  In come three determined Hobbits carrying a chair, a candlestick and fists as weapons. I had to admit, their bravery was to be commended. The blonde one bellowed, “Let him go or I’ll have you, Longshanks!” I couldn’t help it, but I burst into laughter, giggles spewing from my mouth as I recounted what just happened. Maybe it was the ale, or maybe the fact that I haven’t spent more than thirty minutes in another persons presence in sixty-seven years, but that comment was the funniest shit I’ve heard in a long time. Everyone in the room turned towards me with bewilderment and confusion written all over them, making me laugh even harder. I had tears rolling down my face and my cheeks and stomach hurt from my sudden chortling.  After a few moments, my hysterics died down a bit, demoting themselves to light chuckles every so often. “I- I’m sorry,” I babbled. “Please, go on,” I smiled and waved my hand in a dismissive manner. The five men looked utterly disturbed and puzzled, but it was Aragorn who finally said something, though it was quite dark and ominous. “You have a stout heart, little Hobbit, but that alone won’t save you.” He turned to Frodo, “You can no longer wait for the Wizard, Frodo. They are coming.” After that we quickly devised a plan, and quietly made our way to the Hobbits room and stuffed pillows under the sheets to make it look like little people sleeping. Then, we grabbed all of their packs and brought them to Aragorn’s room, and we waited for the inevitable.  It had to have been two hours of silence before a single word was said by any of us. The Hobbits had already gone to bed, snuggled side by side on the large mattress. Aragorn and I sat across from each other by the window, watching for any sign of the dark servants.  I was playing with my dagger, twirling it between my fingers and stabbing it into the wood of the window sill, lost in my many degrading thoughts.  “Why did you leave?” Aragorn finally asked. I looked up to see him watching me intently. I stilled, dumbfounded. Out of all the things he could have said, he asked that? Gracious me, we are supposed to be watching out for the Black Riders, not sharing sob stories!  Trying to think of a semi-intelligent, semi-vague answer, I finally came up with “My heart led me elsewhere.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth. Before he could respond, however, I spot four Nazgûl riding into Bree. “Aragorn,” I call out and point to them as they make their way inside. The air thickens as heavy footsteps come up the stairs. I hold my breath, as does Aragorn, even the Hobbits seemed to stop breathing. Please, Valar, let us go unnoticed. It seems fate was feeling generous, the Ringwraiths strut right into the trap. And they stab. Over and over again, right into the pillows we set up just for them. I wince when I realize that it have very well been the Hobbits in place of those pillows if we hadn’t done something. Suddenly a deadly screech fills the air, followed by three others. No doubt they discovered the trap, and were positively pissed. I listen intently as they fled the Inn, and as they mounted their black steeds and left Bree, I hear multiple identical screams in the distance. My shoulders drop and I instantly breathe a sigh of relief. It worked. Our plan worked.  “What are they?” Frodo’s quiet voice questions from behind me. I look back to see him wide awake and seated on the edge of the bed. “They were once Men. Great Kings of Men. Then Sauron the deceiver gave to them Nine Rings of Power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question, one by one falling into darkness. Now they are slaves to his will.” Aragorn answers grimly. Sensing that he wasn’t going to say any more, I add on to his statement. “They are the Nazgûl, Ringwraiths, neither living or dead. At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the one...” I trailed off. Our two voices fill the air in unison as we conclude,  “They will never stop hunting you.” ⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ TAGLIST @entishramblings (please tell me using my ask box if you want to be tagged in future chapters)

Oooh... if these are still a thing, 20, 31, 60?

Here you are! A couple of notes: First this is set in an AU where Maglor managed to convince Maedhros to surrender to the Valar, and they’re now sailing as prisoners to Valinor. Secondly, this Earendil is a lot angrier than the Earendil I usually write, but he’s also closer to the mess and farther from a solution to the Earendil I usually write, so I thought that seemed appropriate.

“You’re making the guards uneasy,” Earendil said, even as the door swung shut behind him.

Maglor looked up from his place on the edge of the room’s one bed, but he didn’t answer. Earendil hadn’t expected him to. The mightiest singer of the Noldor might still be able to hum through his gag, with enough power to make elves drowsy and enough volume to trouble the guards, but even he couldn’t talk through it.

Maedhros didn’t even look up. He was asleep even though it was the middle of the day, though admittedly, they probably didn’t know that, locked in the lowest part of the ship as they were with only the lanterns for light. And with Maedhros’s one whole arm chained to the bed, resting was probably the easiest thing to do.

He started shifting, though, the moment that Maglor stopped humming. Maglor immediately started up again, and it occurred to Earendil that despite the guards’ fears, it probably wasn’t them the song had been aimed at.

It was a reasonable thought.

Standing in front of the two men that had sacked his city, nearly killed his wife, and stolen his children, he didn’t particularly want to be reasonable.

“Stop it,” he ordered. Maglor glanced between him and his brother before the notes slowly, reluctantly, trailed away. Maedhros immediately began to twist in the bed once again, but that wasn’t Earendil’s problem. He had come to talk, and for this one kinslayer was as good as the other. He untied the thick strips of cloth from Maglor’s gag, as his kinslaying cousin could not with his chained hands.

Maglor exhaled a bit in relief and said, “He won’t rest long without the music. Not unless you’re willing to sacrifice a truly unfortunate amount of wine, and even that won’t work as well.”

“He’s rested long enough,” Earendil said. If the kinslayer was troubled by dark dreams, than he wasn’t inclined to stop it. Maybe there was some fragment of a conscience left in there after all.

Maglor’s eyes flicked to his brother - no, to his brother’s wrist, he realized. The one that still had a hand attached. “He needs to rest,” Maglor said quietly, and -

Oh.

The chained wrist was a mess of blood from where the chain had cut into it, dangerously deep. The chain itself couldn’t be that tight, though, surely, but if . . . And as Maedhros’s thrashings became more violent and more blood welled up, he saw he was right. Only when Maedhros struggled did it cut so deeply.

“If he was awake, he wouldn’t irritate it.”

Maglor’s eyes were dark. “If he was awake,” he said, “it would be much, much worse.”

Earendil wanted to shake him. Wanted to beat him black and blue with his bare hands and demand answers. Wanted the hot anger that was still waiting, fresh and dangerous in his mind.

He did not want to feel sorry for either of the gaunt, scarred elves on the thin bed, but he couldn’t quite help it.

“Why don’t you sing me a story then?” he suggested. “That way we can both get what we want.”

Maglor seemed a bit relieved. “I’m always willing to sing for an audience,” he agreed. “What song would you like? I doubt you want the one I was attempting for him.”

It was an irrelevant point, but Earendil asked anyway. “What song was that? I didn’t recognize it at all.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over the kinslayer’s face. “You wouldn’t. It’s fairly new as these things go. Only a few decades old. ‘The Return of the Mariner,’ I think I called it. Maedhros always hated it, but it has an inordinate amount of verses, and it’s a lullaby, so it served well enough.” Maedhros’s thrashings grew almost violent, and Maglor quickly took up a few of those verses. Maedhros stilled almost immediately.

Earendil grabbed his arm. “Enough,” he said, and not just because he was beginning to feel drowsy himself. 

Maglor stopped.

“I was in that song. And Elwing.” He hadn’t realized it at first, the bold adventures in it so unlike the hard press through the storms he knew his real journey to have been, but they’d been in it.

“Of course. They wanted to know where their parents were. And I - “ Maglor shrugged, shoulders tight, mouth turned unhappily. “I truly thought you would come at first, that Elwing would find you and lead you back, but after years of nothing, I thought you both most likely dead. Wrecked on your way home, perhaps, or wrecked on your way to Valinor, what difference did it make? But I could hardly tell them that. Your continuing adventures served well enough, first on the seas, and then, after the star showed up, in the skies. I still thought you were dead,” he added after a moment. “But it was easier to tell them that you were getting a little bit closer every day. I sang them a new verse each night until - “ He looked away.

“Until?” Earendil prompted.

“Elros was very angry when he reached a certain age,” Maglor said quietly. “He said everyone knew you’d gotten safely to Valinor and left the rest of us to face Morgoth, and it was no use spinning fairytales otherwise.”

News about his sons was what he had come from, but it still didn’t soften the blow. “And Elrond?”

Maglor’s mouth twisted even more unhappily. “Elrond eventually convinced him you had died. I don’t know - I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“We thought they were dead,” Earendil said numbly. “If we’d known - If we’d had any idea - “

“If any of us had known even a little more, a great many things might have been different,” Maglor said tiredly. “I once made a very similar mistake,” and this time he looked at where his brother’s other hand should have been. The abbreviated arm was already starting to twist once more. “They’re older now. They’ll understand, once they make the voyage. You can explain.”

“Elros has chosen Men,” Earendil said, and he still couldn’t quite accept it. That his son, still living though he was, was still forever out of his reach. “He will not sail.”

Maglor flinched as if he had been struck. 

“Tell me of them, kinslayer. Tell me of all the moments I should have had.”

“Alright,” Maglor said one he had recovered his voice. “Alright. This song, at least, will not send you to sleep.”

It was not a heroic song, nor, spun as it was on the moment, probably one of the singer’s best.

Earendil clung to every golden note.

When it was done, and the singer slumped exhausted and grieved, Earendil stood and considered the cloth gag in his hand. 

Then he wrapped it as carefully as he could around Maedhros’s wrist to stem the bleeding and pad the chain. 

He looked at Maglor. “The guards asked me to remind you that singing is forbidden,” he told him. “Though with the door as thick as it is and with how much the next shift likes to talk, I don’t know they’d know know if you were doing it.”

He turned away before he had to look too long at the gratitude in the kinslayer’s eyes. 

Someday, maybe he could forgive him for the sake of the mercy he had shown.

Not yet.

But he heard the fruits of his own mercy as the sound of Maedhros’s thrashings once again eased to the sound of the bard’s tired voice, quiet as the drizzling of the very softest spring rains. It was the same golden tune he was committing to memory, desperately impressing every word of two dark haired twins.

It stopped for a moment when he opened the door, and no sound could be heard over the new guards’ chattering when he closed it.

Just the mariner’s own voice, quietly humming the tune.

Eowyn

Because it’s me and one thing leads to another, that post about the movie version Helm’s Deep has gotten me thinking about Eowyn.

On one hand, I love that she’s a badass who ends up killing the Witch King in a Birnam Wood moment. She does that while also bringing Merry along, because she understands not wanting to be left behind. And she’s basically the only traditional hero we girls get. Galadriel’s nice, but she’s more a hostess/wise-woman/gift-giver than a hero, and we only see Arwen a couple minutes in Imladris, and then at the end when she shows up to get married and give Frodo her place on the ship. Aside from Ioreth, and a handful of hobbit ladies back in the Shire, that’s pretty much it for women in LotR. (Unless we’re counting Shelob, but we’re not, right?)

On the other hand, can we talk about how Eowyn was 100% in the wrong to run away to battle? Yes, it worked out, but in the fine glow of victory, it never gets addressed that she went AWOL because she didn’t like the duty assigned to her. (She’d appealed for permission to ride to battle multiple times, both to her uncle and to Aragorn. Theoden denied her permission; Aragorn had no standing to give or withhold permission and told her so.)

And she absolutely did have a duty. Take a look at the text:

“Behold! I go forth, and it seems like to be my last riding," said Theoden. "I have no child. Theodred my son is slain. I name Eomer my sister-son to be my heir. If neither of us return, then choose a new lord as you will. But to some one I must now entrust my people that I leave behind, to rule them in my place. Which of you will stay?" No man spoke. "Is there none whom you would name? In whom do my people trust?" "In the House of Eorl," answered Hama. "But Eomer I cannot spare, nor would he stay," said the king, "and he is the last of that House." "I said not Eomer," answered Hama. "And he is not the last. There is Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone." "It shall be so," said Theoden. "Let the heralds announce to the folk that the Lady Eowyn will lead them!"

Then the king sat upon a seat before his doors, and Eowyn knelt before him and received from him a sword and a fair corslet.

-The Two Towers, Chapter 6 “The King of the Golden Hall”

With her uncle the king and her older brother the heir to the king both riding to war in Gondor, Eowyn was the ranking member - indeed, the only member - of the House of Eorl left in Rohan. She was the person the people had expressed their trust in as a leader, and her uncle charged her to rule in his absence. She was responsible for the care and defense of the Rohirrim. And she ran out on them, with no mention of having made any arrangement for who would be in charge in her absence.

Far from being given ‘women’s work’ as she complained to Aragorn, Eowyn was in fact being accorded an honor in being named her uncle’s regent - when Theoden looked around for a lord to leave in charge, he was told it was not a man, but Eowyn who the people trusted. As ignoble as her role might have seemed to her up to that point, the Rohirrim recognized her worth.

If Eowyn had a younger sister to deputize, or had her mother still been living, her decision to sneak out to the war would not have been so problematic. (At least, not from an objective point of view- I imagine her brother and likely her uncle would have strongly objected. She also would still have been going for dubious reasons, either glory-seeking or death-seeking.) In fact, had Eowyn’s mother Theodwyn been alive, she arguably might have been the more appropriate choice to act in Theoden’s place in his absence by virtue of her age/experience, so Eowyn wouldn’t have needed to desert her post in the first place.

This seems like an odd choice or oversight on Tolkien’s part. Eowyn would still have ridden to war had there been someone else of the House of Eorl, be it a mother or a sister to take her place in Rohan, but her action would not have been wrong in and of itself. And given how many dead or absent mothers* there are in Lord of the Rings, it would have been nice to see one living and contributing more than just her offspring to events. (Even Galadriel gets reduced to little more than the fruit of her womb - when thanking her for her parting gifts, Aragorn can think of no higher praise than to describe her as being she ‘of whom were sprung Celebrian and Arwen Evenstar.’)

It’s even odder that we never see this aspect of Eowyn’s actions mentioned in the story, particularly when Beregond’s far more minor dereliction of duty with the express purpose of saving a life is addressed publicly. Was Eomer so happy his sister survived that he never got around to chewing her out for dereliction of duty? Did he assume that she somehow talked their uncle into allowing her to ride with them? Did he wait and address it ‘off-screen’, maybe at some point once Theoden had been buried in Rohan? Or did he decide that the best thing to do under the circumstances was to let it slide?

*Major characters whose mothers are known to be dead/departed to the West: Frodo, Arwen & Elladan & Elrohir, Aragorn, Boromir & Faramir, Theodred, Eomer & Eowyn, Elrond

Major characters whose mother is never mentioned at all, not even a name: Legolas, Gimli

Major characters whose mother is only a name in the Appendices: Sam, Pippin, Merry.

I omitted any character whose mother might reasonably be expected to be dead of old age in the normal course of events, such as Bilbo. (I’m also omitting Galadriel, since she’s an exile by her own choice, so it seems unfair to add Eärwen to the dead/absent mothers list.)

In Rivendell

Third installment of Mori(you)/Thorin drabble that began with Cuddles & On the Road Again. (If you’d prefer Dwalin/Mori, read Crushes as part 3 instead)

Originally for @lady-kaaesien from an imagine on @imaginexhobbit

“I want a bath,” you said quietly, pleased when Nori nodded at once and stood, ready to show you the way. You were not surprised that your shifty brother already knew where to find the bathhouses; after all, you’d been surrounded by the oddly flimsy elven architecture for more than a day already. If Nori hadn’t already cased the place, and found himself in more than one place the Elves would prefer he not go, you’d eat your sock. Which – as you had but the one pair and they were in a state of griminess so severe you wondered if they would stand on their own when removed – was not something you wished to attempt.

“Where are you going, Mori?” Thorin barked, which made you scowl at him. This overprotective lark he was playing at was both insulting and annoying.

“Back off, Thori-umph!” you snarled, ending in a high-pitched shriek when someone tumbled into your back, making your fall into Thorin’s chest with a whump.

“Kíli!” Thorin growled above your head, as you pushed away from the arms that had instinctually wrapped around you.

“Sorry, Uncle, I tripped,” the young archer said guilelessly. Your eyes narrowed at him, not believing a word.

“C’mon, Mo,” Nori called, his peaks showing clear against the night sky as his head popped up over the window frame. You didn’t look back when Thorin grabbed half-hearted at your forearm, nor when he called your name as you swung yourself out of the window, joining Nori on the verdant grass of the garden.

“Honestly, I wish our esteemed leader would get over himself. I’m not fragile. I tell you, No, I wish Dís had come along. Maybe Thorin would worry about someone else then!” you groused.

“Thorin knows that, sis, he’s just grumpy about the Elves or something. Now, may I tempt m’Lady with a lovely bath?” He tugged on one of your braids, tickling your cheek with the end playfully.

“Let’s go, nadad. Show me the wonders of Rivendell,” you smirked, making your brother laugh.

“The Terror Twins take on Rivendell in an epic whirlwind adventure!” he crowed, using Dwalin’s old nickname for the two of you. He was only a few months older than you, after all – your adad’s mistress was his amad, while your own had died giving birth to you – which made you almost twins. Most people who didn’t know actually believed you to be twins. You smiled.

Nori left you outside the bathhouse, probably standing guard somewhere he could see you and no one could see him as was his wont. It didn’t bother you. Unlike Dori’s sometimes smothering need to protect his siblings, Nori’s style of guarding was unobtrusive. The fact that you were more than capable of defending yourself – working as a sellsword for nearly six decades had given you a lot of experience in the art of survival – also meant Dori didn’t worry so much for you as he did Ori. Ori was… soft. Not just because of all the knitwear, but Ori had never had to worry about his next meal, even though his birth had stolen your Amad, he’d had three older siblings ready to take care of him. Dori provided home and hearth, and the bulk of the income for your small family, Nori was a gifted thief, of course, and you had found it easy to be hired as a caravan guard even when you were still too young for the job.

The bathhouse was everything a girl could want.

“That’s the ladies’ area, Master Dwarf,” an Elf said. You looked up, winking.

“How lucky for me to be a lady, then, Master Elf,” you smirked. The Elf’s eyes widened noticeably.

“Err… in that case, go right ahead,” he murmured sheepishly. “I’ll see if we can’t find you a robe while your clothes are washed.” Honestly, you hadn’t expected your hosts to care about laundry – you had intended to wash what you still had while you bathed anyway – but it would be nice not to have to resort to your cloak while your clothes dried.

“Le fêl[1], Master Elf,” you nodded politely. It always paid to be polite in foreign lands, something Thorin seemed to forget when it came to Elves – he’d been reasonably polite to the few farmers you’d traded with on the road, bartering for permission to bed down in barns and such or buying eggs if the hunting was bad. The Elf was now staring at you as though you were a particularly interesting flower.

“I did not think the Dwarrow learned our tongue?” he wondered.

“Most do not, it is true, for most of us do not have dealings with your kind,” you averred. “I was raised as a playmate of a Princess, however, and perforce learned some phrases. Travelling in Gondor and the south has taught me a few more,” you winked at him, pleased that you’d managed to make him blush. Well, you assumed his face was doing what passed for blushing to Elves, a slight glow appearing in his ears.

“I-I will find you something to wear, Mistress,” he babbled. It was oddly endearing how flustered he was. Maybe you were the first Dwarf he had met? “Leave your laundry outside the door, someone will return it to you when it is clean.” Deciding to take pity on the hapless Elf, you simply nodded and went off to seek out your bath.

The elf had been better than his word. You were now wearing a dress – it was several centuries out of fashion, but perhaps Elves didn’t know that – but it fit properly. You twirled. The Elf had even found you some shoes, which went with the dress – a deep topaz colour that went well with your hair, bringing out the different shades of red and brown. If you were perfectly honest, you’d missed feeling pretty since you left Ered Luin – even if you were used to dressing ‘male’ while guarding caravans and travelling, you almost exclusively wore dresses while at home, enjoying the freedom of being yourself.

“It suits you,” the Elf said, sounding slightly relieved. You twirled again, making him laugh joyously with the size of your smile.

“I love it!” you promised. “How in the name of Durin did you find a real Dwarf dress in Rivendell?” you wondered.

“I asked my Lord Elrond. He said it belonged to the wife of an old friend, someone called Nauma?” he didn’t see the way you stroked your fingers over the dress. Nauma… could he mean Queen Nauma of the Grey Mountains? “He said that you may keep it, it has been in our storage rooms for centuries, my Lady.”

“Móeidr,” you heard yourself say, still awed by the ancient garment. “My name is Móeidr, Master Elf.”

“You may call me Nengeldir,” he smiled.

 Nori whistled appreciatively when he saw your new dress, making you smack his arm, though you couldn’t keep the smile from returning to your face.

“Pretty,” he said, studying you seriously. “Dori will have a fit.” You shared a cheeky smile at that. Dori might trust you to protect yourself… but that was when you were dressed as a male, seeing you like this was bound to send him into near-hysterics.

“It would have been impolite to decline, nadad,” you said loftily, copying Dori’s most supercilious tone easily. “After all, my Lord Elrond is our host, and the dress once belonged to a Queen of our folk.”

“Really?” Nori asked, grinning back when your face split in another smile.

“Nauma, Nengeldir said, though I don’t think Elrond told him who Nauma was,” you laughed. “Think of what Thorin will say when he hears I’m wearing his great-grandmother’s dress!” you chuckled, letting Nori drag you off to the courtyard camp.

 Thorin stared. He was somewhat concealed by remaining in a convenient doorway, but staying hidden was the last thing on his mind, staring at Mori who was showing off her new dress to the appreciative eyes of the Company. Jealousy ate at him; he wanted to be able to stare at her freely, to know she desired the feel of his eyes on her. She was always beautiful, to his mind, but tonight she was gorgeous. The dress, the way her eyes shone in the torchlight, whirling around in an impromptu dance with Nori. Thorin wanted to kiss her. As often before, he ruthlessly squashed any impulse in that direction, knowing that he was destined to pine for her until the end of days. Her words of a few days before rang in his mind ‘you’ll drive me barmy!’… could she not see that he needed to protect her, keep her safe? How could she not realise how bleak and empty his life would be without her in it? Thorin knew she thought him akin to a brother, and he supposed he had reinforced that, treating her much like he had Dís when she was growing up… but that was decades ago. His sister’s best friend, despite a thirty-year age-gap, someone the lads considered an aunt… and the first time he’d heard little Fíli call her Auntie, Thorin had known that he wanted it to be her true title. He had tried, over the years, doing his best to flirt with her – even though he had to admit that his skills at flirting were pretty dismal – but to no avail. She was friendly with Dwalin, often found sparring with him and for a long time Thorin had wondered if that was where her eyes lay. Dwalin said no, of course, and Thorin knew that he wasn’t lying, though he did not appreciate the way Dwalin would laugh whenever Mori accused Thorin of being a pseudo-brother. It hurt. Not the mockery, he was used to Dwalin mocking him for something or other, and took great pleasure in returning the mockery at any given opportunity, but the idea that Mori had placed him so firmly in the brother category was a painful realisation. For a few years after he had first realised – greatly helped by the fact that Mori had gone out with the caravans and he’d been gone a lot too – he had tried to stamp out every little ember of the flame he carried for her, to no avail. As soon as he had caught sight of her auburn locks, close to Dís’ dark as they spoke quietly to each other in the kitchen, the embers had burst back into bright flames, licking at his passionate heart. When she had smiled, grey eyes sparkling, and given him a hug in welcome, he’d nearly had to excuse himself to conceal his body’s reaction to the feel and smell of her.

“A bonny lass,” Dwalin rumbled quietly, startling Thorin out of his contemplations. He scowled at his friend.

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed. Dwalin chuckled.

“How long are you going to keep pretending that your heart doesn’t beat faster around her?” Dwalin asked, solemnly stuffing his pipe. Bofur had taken Nori’s place, and Thorin was busy glaring death at the miner. “Mahal, I thought you were going to skewer Bilbo that night,” Dwalin chuckled. A deeply buried dark part of Thorin had been more than tempted to bury Deathless in the Hobbit’s small body. A larger part had been seething with jealousy, but the largest part of him had crowed at being the centre of her attention, enjoying the spark of fire in her usually cool grey eyes as she stood up to him – challenged him – like a queen should. His Queen. Tonight, she looked the part, even if he would have added sapphires around her neck, and diamonds in her hair, sparkling jewels in her ears and maybe a ruby in her nose. He was so lost in staring at her, imagining all the things he’d love to see her wear – and not wear – that he never felt Dwalin shift behind him, the big palm pushing him forwards at the opportune moment.

 When Thorin stumbled into your hold, his hands automatically catching yours in position for dancing, you couldn’t help laughing at the startled look in his blue eyes. Over his shoulder, Dwalin winked at you. Well, you thought, if a dance might help cheer him up, who were you to decline? Thorin was an excellent dancer – he’d been forced by their amad to help Dís learn, and in turn Dís had made him teach you – and you relaxed into his confident lead.

“You look pretty,” he blurted, scowling. You weren’t quite sure how to take that. Did he not approve of you looking pretty?

“The Elves gave it to me,” you explained. His frown deepened. That was not your goal! “They took my clothes away for laundering,” you continued, though that didn’t seem to fill him with the same joy as it had you. Truth be told, he could probably have done with a proper bath; you had noticed that he’d snuck out to wash his tunic and undershirt in a fountain of all places. “Nengeldir was kind enough to ask Lord Elrond if they had anything suitable for a dwarrowdam to wear while my own clothes dried.” The turns of dancing were almost automatic between you.

“Móeidr,” Thorin began. You shivered lightly. He rarely said your full name, but you’d have to be deaf not to appreciate the sound of it in his mouth. “Are you cold?” he asked, frowning again. You almost laughed. As if you could be cold! You had spent an hour dancing already and Thorin gave off heat like a bloody forge! You didn’t think you’d feel cold dancing with him even in the darkest night of winter.

“No,” you whispered. “A bit peckish, actually, I wonder if Nori managed to scrounge up some food yet.”

At that moment, Lord Elrond appeared, making Bifur’s quiet fluting peter out rapidly. You looked up, scowling at Thorin’s back. The big lump had unceremoniously pushed you behind him, bristling at the interrupting elf, no doubt.

“Dinner is ready,” he said, gesturing behind him. Pinching Thorin’s side, you stepped out from his shadow, ignoring the scowl on his face entirely.

“Le fêl, Elrond, hîr Imladris,” you said, curtseying the best Amad had taught you. “I hamp bain.”

The Elf laughed, a delighted sound. “Nengeldir spoke truly of you, my Lady,” he bowed. “Will you do me the honour of having your enchanting company for the meal?” He offered you his arm, though the difference in height made it slightly awkward to take. Still, you made an attempt, ignoring Dori’s gasp behind you and the dark scowl Thorin was probably aiming at your back this very minute. Clearly, you’d have to apologise to Dwalin later for ruining his plans to cheer up Thorin, you thought, with a slight sigh of regret.

 The ELF had stolen Mori! Thorin seethed, following the happily chatting elf lord. Right from his arms! And where had she picked up their silly tongue?! Stomping down the corridor, Thorin barely heard the rest of the company following, all his attention fixed on the dwarrowdam in front of him, glaring holes in the back of Elrond’s head.

“Your King is not happy with me,” Elrond chuckled quietly. He had slowed his walk slightly, you could tell, allowing you to keep up easily. It was… courteous, you thought, deciding that you rather liked the Elf Lord.

“Thorin likes to think it’s his duty to protect me. I like to remind him I can take care of myself fine,” you replied sharply. “I don’t need a fourth brother.”

“I did not think your people commonly had so many children,” Elrond mused. You flushed slightly.

“Dori, Nori, and Ori are my brothers,” you explained. “They have the same mother, the dam who adopted me when my mother died in childbed. My father and Nori’s father are the same, however, and I’ve always been raised as their sister,” you shrugged. Elrond simply hummed thoughtfully, steering you with a light touch to the shoulder.

 “Your king’s heart was stolen a long time ago,” Elrond said, coming to a stop next to Balin, “by someone who doesn’t even know she holds it.” The diplomat did not reply, simply puffing on his pipe, staring into the distance. “It is obvious to me,” Elrond continued, “and I think you should make her aware of it sooner, rather than later. A heart grounded in love is far more difficult to corrupt.” Elrond did not know if love would be enough to save Thorin Oakenshield from his grandfather’s fate, but it might still help. Mithrandir was adamant that Thorin would not fall, but Elrond was not so certain. The wizard trusted in Thorin’s stubbornness, he thought, but stubbornness might not be enough to ward off what Elrond feared lay await in the Lonely Mountain.

  [1] Thank you(you were generous)

brienne may be the YMB woman in the prophecy. a queen wasnt mentioned

Briennes sobriquet seems directly inspired by Arwen from Tolkiens the Lord of the Rings. Arwen was the Evenstar long before Brienne. Stars and beauty were important themes to Tolkien, with Elbereth being the star queen. Luthien the most beautiful woman to have ever lived was the morning star, and great great grandmother to Arwen. As well as being beautiful, Arwen heralded the twilight of her people. Arwen gave hope and motivated Aragorn to fight and to claim his throne, which he did in large part simply as a dowry.

Unlike Brienne, Arwen isn't a fighter (I'm talking the books here, not the badly adapted movies in this respect) and she's not ungainly, huge, strong and ugly, like Shrek. They do seem to share the same sort of fighting spirit however. In JRRs works beauty and grace are less often impediments to noble spirits, unlike some of GRRMs. With JRR beautiful spirits tend to express or garb themselves with beautiful bodies, a bit like clothing, and vice versa, though there are some notable exceptions.

That was barely a sketch, it goes deeper. I probably don't do it justice, but he's a little more.

In Feast, we found out Lord Selwyn had tried to marry off his daughter for quite some time, no doubt concerned for their future, with at least three suitors, despite how disadvantageous her appearance and aptitudes were for a good match. Brienne fought off the last suitor herself. On it's own that's subverting the notion of an overprotective father restraining a more than willing daughter (think farmers daughters). Selwyn seems like he would wed her to anyone who would have her and make his daughter a respectable wife and give him grandchildren. She is the last of his line, a not uncommom theme in Martin. Brienne herself was mostly innocent and naive, a child of summer, probably up until the death of Renly, again a not uncommon uniting thread.

Arwen is much older, but unlike the fashion of her people did not marry young but remained unwed. In her case it's also possible there were no good matches to be made to one of her line. Kingdoms had been in decline for two ages of the world and few remained who could woo a lady of her stature, but she might also simply have been selective as well not unlike Brienne, though for different reasons. Her fathers says to a suitor

She is too far above you.

and

You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it.

While for masculine Brienne, cursed with ugliness, it's about the opposite. Those who wooed her, do it largely despite her, and for virtually everything except her (dowry, lands and title, children), considering her unworthy and far below them.

They both have siblings though Brienne loses all hers young.

Arwens father, who also lost his wife like Selwyn, is perhaps the opposite of Selwyn and ultraprotective, but it's complicated. Arwen is a princess with an enemy who would stop at nothing to see her and all she loves either dead or enslaved. Brienne has no such dread nemesis, not even Stannis, though what George has in mind for R'hollor might surprise us.

For Elrond... all chances of the war of the ring were fraught with sorrow.

a sentiment Selwyn may share concerning the war of the five kings and then queens.

Arwens suitors mother says

... Your aim is high, even for the descendant of many kings. This lady is the noblest and fairest that now walks the earth.

while for most of Westeros, saying the same of Brienne would be a great jest, though it's at least half true.

Brienne tasted bitterness and sorrow early, most strongly with Renly, and later with Catelyn and her story isn't finished yet (I hope), while Arwens hopes were realized, and she enjoyed a full life of mortal happiness, though the last days of her doom were bitter, grey and hard. Arwens family had its share of sorrow, but we know few details of her early life.

Finally, if the blood of giants runs in Briennes veins, she also shares a noble inhumane heritage, like Arwen daughter of Elrond half elven, and she too may live to see the rest her kind fade from the world. What we don't know is if Brienne will end like Conan, wearing a crown on a troubled brow, and whether she'll have children (if Lollys can...), what mixed draught of sweet happiness and bitter sorrow she'll drink like Arwen.

I don't think it's a coincidence that she's called 'The Beauty' and it would be typically twisty of a prophecy for it not to be a literal physical beauty.

A bit of a stretch maybe, but in Cersei's mind at least, I also think she could also come to blame Brienne for losing Joff and Tommen to the clutches of the Tyrells. Brienne was there at Renly's death and failed to save him, thus freeing up Marg to marry. In the whole self-fulfilling vein, I don't think it matters that Brienne hasn't actually done anything to Cersei only that Cersei may come to view her as the source of all her woes. 

asoiaf . westeros . org/index.php?/topic/146921-its-brienne/

Recall how we are introduced to Brienne...

The blue knight pulled a long dirk free and flicked open Tyrell's visor. The roar of the crowd was too loud for Catelyn to hear what Ser Loras said, but she saw the word form on his split, bloody lips. Yield.

The blue knight climbed unsteady to his feet, and raised his dirk in the direction of Renly Baratheon, the salute of a champion to his king. ...

"Approach," King Renly called to the champion.

... A few voices hailed him with cries of "Tarth!" and, oddly, "A Beauty! A Beauty!" but most were silent. ...

The press had begun to open up. "Ser Colen," Catelyn said to her escort, "who is this man, and why do they mislike him so?"

Ser Colen frowned. "Because he is no man, my lady. That's Brienne of Tarth, daughter to Lord Selwyn the Evenstar."

Catelyn II, Clash 22

In an appendix to the Lord of the Rings, Tolkein told the tale of Aragorn and Arwen. Arwen was called "Evenstar" since she was the most beautiful of the remaining High Elves. Evenstar, of course, was a term for the "evening star" of classical astronomy, the planet Venus. Venus, of course, was the goddess of love and beauty.

Brienne’s only beautiful physical feature was her eyes...

The Beauty raised her eyes, the only part of her that was truly beautiful.

Catelyn V, Clash 39

Brienne looked at her with those blue and beautiful eyes.

Catelyn VI, Clash 45

Jaime watched her eyes. Pretty eyes, he thought, and calm.

Jaime I, Storm 1

But the eyes are not only a physical feature; they are windows into the soul...

Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,

Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array

He cheers the morn, and all the earth relieveth;

And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,

So is her face illumin'd with her eye.

Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare

And Jaime falls right through Brienne’s windows...

Harrenhal's bathhouse was a dim, steamy, low-ceilinged room filled with great stone tubs. When they led Jaime in, they found Brienne seated in one of them, scrubbing her arm almost angrily.

She jerked to her feet as if he'd struck her, sending a wash of hot water across the tub. Jaime caught a glimpse of the thick blonde bush at the juncture of her thighs as she climbed out. She was much hairier than his sister. Absurdly, he felt his cock stir beneath the bathwater. Now I know I have been too long away from Cersei. He averted his eyes, troubled by his body's response.

Jaime V, Storm 37

"A sword," Brienne begged, and there it was, scabbard, belt, and all. She buckled it around her thick waist. The light was so dim that Jaime could scarcely see her, though they stood a scant few feet apart. In this light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she could almost be a knight. Brienne's sword took flame as well, burning silvery blue. The darkness retreated a little more.

...

"Ser Jaime?" Even in soiled pink satin and torn lace, Brienne looked more like a man in a gown than a proper woman. "I am grateful, but . . . you were well away. Why come back?"

A dozen quips came to mind, each crueler than the one before, but Jaime only shrugged. "I dreamed of you," he said.

Jaime VI, Storm 44

The last of the northmen had dismounted, Jaime saw, and now Loras Tyrell had seen Brienne.

... Ser Loras drew his longsword.

...

"You have no honor. Draw your sword. I won't have it said that I slew you while your hand was empty."

Jaime stepped between them. "Put the sword away, ser."

SerLoras edged around him. "Are you a craven as well as a killer, Brienne? Is that why you ran, with his blood on your hands? Draw your sword, woman!"

"Best hope she doesn't." Jaime blocked his path again. "Or it's like to be your corpse we carry out. The wench is as strong as Gregor Clegane, though not so pretty."

"This is no concern of yours." Ser Loras shoved him aside.

Jaime grabbed the boy with his good hand and yanked him around. "I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you arrogant pup. Your commander, so long as you wear that white cloak. Now sheathe your bloody sword, or I'll take it from you and shove it up some place even Renly never found."

...

"For what it's worth," said Jaime, "the wench does have honor. More than I have seen from you. And it may even be she's telling it true. I'll grant you, she's not what you'd call clever, but even my horse could come up with a better lie, if it was a lie she meant to tell. As you insist, however . . . Ser Balon, escort Lady Brienne to a tower cell and hold her there under guard. And find some suitable quarters for Steelshanks and his men, until such time as my father can see them."

"Yes, my lord."

Brienne's big blue eyes were full of hurt as Balon Swann and a dozen gold cloaks led her away. You ought to be blowing me kisses, wench, he wanted to tell her. Why must they misunderstand every bloody thing he did? Aerys. It all grows from Aerys. Jaime turned his back on the wench and strode across the yard.

Jaime VII, Storm 62

"Blue is a good color on you, my lady," Jaime observed. "It goes well with your eyes." She does have astonishing eyes.

Brienne glanced down at herself, flustered. "Septa Donyse padded out the bodice, to give it that shape. She said you sent her to me."

Jaime IX, Storm 72

"Ser Ronnet," he called, "have you lost your way? It is a large castle, I know."

Red Ronnet raised his lantern. "I wished to see where the bear danced with the maiden not-so-fair." His beard shone in the light as if it were afire. Jaime could smell wine on his breath. "Is it true the wench fought naked?"

"Naked? No." He wondered how that wrinkle had been added to the story. "The Mummers put her in a pink silk gown and shoved a tourney sword into her hand. The Goat wanted her death to be amuthing. Elsewise . . ."

". . . the sight of Brienne naked might have made the bear flee in terror." Connington laughed.

Jaime did not. "You speak as if you know the lady."

"I was betrothed to her."

That took him by surprise. Brienne had never mentioned a betrothal. "Her father made a match for her . . ."

"Thrice," said Connington. "I was the second. My father's notion. I had heard the wench was ugly, and I told him so, but he said all women were the same once you blew the candle out."

...

Ser Ronnet was a landed knight, no more. For any such, the Maid of Tarth would have been a sweet plum indeed. "How is it that you did not wed?" Jaime asked him.

"Why, I went to Tarth and saw her. I had six years on her, yet the wench could look me in the eye. She was a sow in silk, though most sows have bigger teats. When she tried to talk she almost choked on her own tongue. I gave her a rose and told her it was all that she would ever have from me." Connington glanced into the pit. "The bear was less hairy than that freak, I'll—"

Jaime's golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went stumbling down the steps. His lantern fell and smashed, and the oil spread out, burning. "You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne."

Connington edged away from the spreading flames on his hands and knees. "Brienne. If it please my lord." He spat a glob of blood at Jaime's foot. "Brienne the Beauty."

Jaime III, Feast 27

He was grateful when the bath was deep enough to conceal his arousal. As he lowered himself into the steaming water, he recalled another bath, the one he'd shared with Brienne. He had been feverish and weak from loss of blood, and the heat had made him so dizzy he found himself saying things better left unsaid. This time he had no such excuse.

Jaime IV, Feast 30

Now, consider the prophecy...

"What a disappointment," Lady Olenna complained loudly. "I was hoping for ‘The Rains of Castamere.'"

Whenever Cersei looked at the old crone, the face of Maggy the Frog seemed to float before her eyes, wrinkled and terrible and wise. All old women look alike, she tried to tell herself, that's all it is. In truth, the bent-back sorceress had looked nothing like the Queen of Thorns, yet somehow the sight of Lady Olenna's nasty little smile was enough to put her back in Maggy's tent again. She could still remember the smell of it, redolent with queer eastern spices, and the softness of Maggy's gums as she sucked the blood from Cersei's finger. Queen you shall be, the old woman had promised, with her lips still wet and red and glistening, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.

Cersei glanced past Tommen, to where Margaery sat laughing with her father. She is pretty enough, she had to admit, but most of that is youth. Even peasant girls are pretty at a certain age, when they are still fresh and innocent and unspoiled, and most of them have the same brown hair and brown eyes as she does. Only a fool would ever claim she was more beautiful than I.

Cersei III, Feast 12

Cersei thinks the prophecy refers to Margaery, but this is an in-universe red herring. Margaery is beautiful, but is she more beautiful than Cersei? The point is too debatable to be determinative. As the author tells the reader several times, Daenerys is the most beautiful woman in the world of ASOIAF, and she is coming, eventually, for the Iron Throne. But Daenerys is the red herring for the reader.

"I will be queen, though?" asked the younger her.

"Aye." Malice gleamed in Maggy's yellow eyes. "Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."

Anger flashed across the child's face. "If she tries I will have my brother kill her."

...

It is just . . . the maegi knew how many children I would have, and she knew of Robert's bastards. Years before he'd sired even the first of them, she knew. She promised me I should be queen, but said another queen would come . . ." Younger and more beautiful, she said. ". . . another queen, who would take from me all I loved."

"And you wish to forestall this prophecy?"

More than anything, she thought. "Can it be forestalled?"

"Oh, yes. Never doubt that."

"How?"

"I think Your Grace knows how."

She did. I knew it all along, she thought. Even in the tent. "If she tries I will have my brother kill her."

Knowing what needed to be done was one thing, though; knowing how to do it was another. Jaime could no longer be relied on.

Cersei VIII, Feast 36

It was a pity that Maggy the Frog was dead. Piss on your prophecy, old woman. The little queen may be younger than I, but she has never been more beautiful, and soon she will be dead.

Cersei IX, Feast 39

Here, then, are the elements... “’Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.’” Many readers assume that the prophecy refers to another queen, but I do not see how that is an element. And although the prophecy could be gender neutral, the term beautiful suggests that it refers to a woman. So, I submit that the first element is a younger, more beautiful woman. We could line up all of the hottest women in ASOIAF, and we could argue about which description is more pleasing to our mind’s eye. As suggested above, from what the author tells us, only Daenerys could be found to be objectively more beautiful than Cersei. So, I submit that the George is misleading the reader just a bit to produce a surprise. The younger and more beautiful woman will be more beautiful on the inside, like Brienne.

While it is easy to see how Margaery or Daenerys might fit the remainder of the prophecy, since Margaery is embroiled in a power struggle with Cersei in King’s Landing, and Daenerys will eventually come to claim the throne, Brienne appears to be more of a square peg. She must cast Cersei down and take all that Cersei holds dear. Well, what does Cersei hold dear? Cersei loves her children, but she is a terrible mother, and it seems to me that what she really loves is the power she derives from her children. And then there is Jaime, whom she loves as much as, if not more than, her children. And Cersei needs Jaime...

Even in her exhausted, frightened state, the queen knew she dare not trust her fate to a court of sparrows. Nor could she count on Ser Kevan to intervene, after the words that had passed between them at their last meeting. It will have to be a trial by battle. There is no other way. "Qyburn, for the love you bear me, I beg you, send a message for me. A raven if you can. A rider, if not. You must send to Riverrun, to my brother. Tell him what has happened, and write . . . write . . ."

"Yes, Your Grace?"

She licked her lips, shivering. "Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once."

"As you command. ‘I love you' thrice?"

"Thrice." She had to reach him. "He will come. I know he will. He must. Jaime is my only hope."

"My queen," said Qyburn, "have you . . . forgotten? Ser Jaime has no sword hand. If he should champion you and lose . . ."

We will leave this world together, as we once came into it. "He will not lose. Not Jaime. Not with my life at stake."

Cersei X, Feast 43

But Brienne takes Jaime from Cersei...

There was a rap upon his door. "See who that is, Peck."

It was Riverrun's old maester, with a message clutched in his lined and wrinkled hand. Vyman's face was as pale as the new-fallen snow. "I know," Jaime said, "there has been a white raven from the Citadel. Winter has come."

"No, my lord. The bird was from King's Landing. I took the liberty . . . I did not know . . ." He held the letter out.

Jaime read it in the window seat, bathed in the light of that cold white morning. Qyburn's words were terse and to the point, Cersei's fevered and fervent. Come at once, she said. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

Vyman was hovering by the door, waiting, and Jaime sensed that Peck was watching too. "Does my lord wish to answer?" the maester asked, after a long silence.

A snowflake landed on the letter. As it melted, the ink began to blur. Jaime rolled the parchment up again, as tight as one hand would allow, and handed it to Peck. "No," he said. "Put this in the fire."

Jaime VII, Feast 44

He posted sentries to see that no one left the confines of the village. He sent out scouts as well, to make certain no enemy took them unawares. It was near midnight when two came riding back with a woman they had taken captive. "She rode up bold as you please, m'lord, demanding words with you."

Jaime scrambled to his feet. "My lady. I had not thought to see you again so soon." Gods be good, she looks ten years older than when I saw her last. And what' s happened to her face? "That bandage … you've been wounded …"

"A bite." She touched the hilt of her sword, the sword that he had given her. Oathkeeper. "My lord, you gave me a quest."

"The girl. Have you found her?"

"I have," said Brienne, Maid of Tarth. "Where is she?"

"A day's ride. I can take you to her, ser … but you will need to come alone. Elsewise, the Hound will kill her."

Jaime, Dance 48

"Jaime, then? Is it Jaime?"

"No. Jaime is still in the riverlands, somewhere."

"Somewhere?" She did not like the sound of that. "He took Raventree and accepted Lord Blackwood's surrender," said her uncle, "but on his way back to Riverrun he left his tail and went off with a woman."

"A woman?" Cersei stared at him, uncomprehending. "What woman? Why? Where did they go?"

"No one knows. We've had no further word of him. The woman may have been the Evenstar's daughter, Lady Brienne."

Her. The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man's mail. Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature. My raven never reached him, elsewise he would have come.

Cersei I, Dance 54

And Cersei is cast down...

"No harm will come to me today," Cersei said when the day's first light brushed her window. "Only my pride will suffer." The words rang hollow in her ears. Jaime may yet come. She pictured him riding through the morning mists, his golden armor bright in the light of the rising sun. Jaime, if you ever loved me …

...

Then it was the soap again, the warm water, and the razor. The hair beneath her arms went next, then her legs, and last of all the fine golden down that covered her mound. When the silent sister crept between her legs with the razor, Cersei found herself remembering all the times that Jaime had knelt where she was kneeling now, planting kisses on the inside of her thighs, making her wet. His kisses were always warm. The razor was ice-cold.

...

Part of her still yearned for Jaime to appear and rescue her from this humiliation, but her twin was nowhere to be seen.

...

Cersei had been a year old when her grandfather died. The first thing her father had done on his ascension was to expel his own father's grasping, lowborn mistress from Casterly Rock. The silks and velvets Lord Tytos had lavished on her and the jewelry she had taken for herself had been stripped from her, and she had been sent forth naked to walk through the streets of Lannisport, so the west could see her for what she was.

Though she had been too young to witness the spectacle herself, Cersei had heard the stories growing up from the mouths of washerwomen and guardsmen who had been there. They spoke of how the woman had wept and begged, of the desperate way she clung to her garments when she was commanded to disrobe, of her futile efforts to cover her breasts and her sex with her hands as she hobbled barefoot and naked through the streets to exile. "Vain and proud she was, before," she remembered one guard saying, "so haughty you'd think she'd forgot she come from dirt. Once we got her clothes off her, though, she was just another whore."

If Ser Kevan and the High Sparrow thought that it would be the same with her, they were very much mistaken. Lord Tywin's blood was in her. I am a lioness. I will not cringe for them.

...

I am beautiful, she reminded himself. How many times had Jaime told her that?

...

"Your Grace." The captain of her escort stepped up beside her. Cersei had forgotten his name. "You must continue. The crowd is growing unruly."

Yes, she thought. Unruly. "I am not afraid—"

"You should be." He yanked at her arm, pulling her along beside him. She staggered down the hill—downward, ever downward—wincing with every step, letting him support her. It should be Jaime beside me. He would draw his golden sword and slash a path right through the mob, carving the eyes out of the head of every man who dared to look at her.

...

I am beautiful, the most beautiful woman in all Westeros, Jaime says so, Jaime would never lie to me. ... I should not have done this. I was their queen, but now they' ve seen, they' ve seen, they've seen. I should never have let them see. Gowned and crowned, she was a queen. Naked, bloody, limping, she was only a woman, not so very different from their wives, more like their mothers than their pretty little maiden daughters. What have I done?

Cersei II, Dance 65

And then, at that precise moment, she recalls (actually, the author reminds the reader of) the prophecy...

There was something in her eyes, stinging, blurring her sight. She could not cry, she would not cry, the worms must never see her weep. Cersei rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. A gust of cold wind made her shiver violently.

And suddenly the hag was there, standing in the crowd with her pendulous teats and her warty greenish skin, leering with the rest, with malice shining from her crusty yellow eyes. "Queen you shall be, " she hissed, "until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold most dear. "

And then there was no stopping the tears. They burned down the queen's cheeks like acid. Cersei gave a sharp cry, covered her nipples with one arm, slid her other hand down to hide her slit, and began to run, shoving her way past the line of Poor Fellows, crouching as she scrambled crab-legged up the hill. Partway up she stumbled and fell, rose, then fell again ten yards farther on. The next thing she knew she was crawling, scrambling uphill on all fours like a dog as the good folks of King's Landing made way for her, laughing and jeering and applauding her.

Cersei II, Dance 65

ETA

Around the middle of Game, we learned that Tyrion’s true love, Tysha, sang a song to him...

"Do you know this song?" he asked.

"You hear it here and there, in inns and whorehouses."

"Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.' Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I've never been able to put it out of my head."

Tyrion VI, Game 42

As Tyrion lied near death after the Battle of the Blackwater, we learned a line from the song...

They would kiss for hours, and spend whole days doing no more than lolling in bed, listening to the waves, and touching each other. Her body was a wonder to him, and she seemed to find delight in his. Sometimes she would sing to him. I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. "I love you, Tyrion," she would whisper before they went to sleep at night. "I love your lips. I love your voice, and the words you say to me, and how you treat me gentle. I love your face."

Tyrion XV, Clash 67

This was reiterated early in Storm...

"No. If I've given offense, forgive me. I had my own love once, and we had a song as well." I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair.

Tyrion II, Storm 12

And we recalled Lancel singing the song to Cersei...

Through the door came the soft sound of the high harp, mingled with a trilling of pipes. The singer's voice was muffled by the thick walls, yet Tyrion knew the verse. I loved a maid as fair as summer, he remembered, with sunlight in her hair . . .

Tyrion VI, Clash 25

Interestingly, Tyrion wonders whether Jaime thinks of Cersei with this first verse in mind...

Is this the Cersei that Jaime sees? When she smiled, you saw how beautiful she was, truly. I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair.

Tyrion VI, Clash 25

We also recalled that he learned what must be the third line of the song...

Shae stood in the door behind him, dressed in the silvery robe he'd given her. I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair.

Tyrion X, Clash 44

Since winter is opposite to summer, Shae is opposite to Tysha. While that caught my eye, it was the second line that made my head turn...

After a time the candle guttered and went out. Moonlight slanted between the slats of the shutters, laying pale silvery bars across her father's face. She could hear the soft whisper of his labored breathing, the endless rush of waters, the faint chords of some love song drifting up from the yard, so sad and sweet. "I loved a maid as red as autumn," Rymund sang, "with sunset in her hair."

Catelyn VII, Clash 55

This was right before Catelyn played matchmaker with Jaime and Brienne the Beauty. So, we have Tyrion and Tysha followed by Tyrion and Shae, and we have Jaime and Cersei followed by Jaime and Brienne.

We can associate Brienne and Sansa to the maiden fair

https://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php?/topic/143267-the-maiden-fair-and-the-fair-maid-heigh-ho-hey-nonny-hey-sigh-no-more-ladies/ (I wont put it on the page because its too long

. What about the fair maid?

...

"I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho."

...

"I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho." The song swelled louder with every word.

Arya II, Storm 13

This sure sounds like a murder ballad. So, who gets whacked? Brienne, Sansa, or Arya?

The first time we hear about Off to Gulltown, is at the very beginning of The Hedge Knight...

Quote QuoteThe spring rains had softened the ground, so Dunk had no trouble digging the grave. He chose a spot on the western slope of a low hill, for the old man had always loved to watch the sunset. “Another day done,” he would sigh, “and who knows what the morrow will bring us, eh, Dunk?” Well, one morrow had brought rains that soaked them to the bones, and the one after had brought wet gusty winds, and the next a chill. By the fourth day the old man was too weak to ride. And now he was gone. Only a few days past, he had been singing as they rode, the old song about going to Gulltownto see a fair maid, but instead of Gulltown he’d sung of Ashford. Off to Ashford to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, Dunk thought miserably as he dug.

When Ser Duncan the Tall arrived at Ashford, "it seemed as though every lordly house of the west and south had sent a knight or three to Ashford to see the fair maid and brave the lists in her honor." She was "a short girl with yellow hair and a round pink face." She did not seem so fair to Dunk, though. "The puppet girl was prettier."

Now, here's what I am digging...

The fair maid reigned as Queen of Love and Beauty. (imagine jaime crowning her as queen of love and beauty

A Beauty! A Beauty!