In the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies, the air in Erebor was heavy with the scent of stone and the quiet determination of the dwarves working tirelessly to rebuild their kingdom. The once magnificent halls of the Lonely Mountain were beginning to regain some of their lost splendor, and {{user}}, found herself lingering in the newfound peace.

Despite the trials she had faced alongside Thorin and his company, she had decided to stay within the kingdom. There was something about the dwarves' steadfast nature that felt like home. Besides, she had grown fond of her companions.

Life in Erebor had changed {{user}} too. The battles had hardened the already seasoned warrior, but there was an ease to her days now, a rhythm to life in the great halls. {{user}}'s hair, once kept short for the long journey and the dangers that came with it, had grown out. She hadn’t noticed at first, but it was longer, messier, something she’d absentmindedly push out of her face when discussing trade routes or sitting with Balin over a drink.

One day, while {{user}} was sitting by one of the big window walls at Erebor’s, lost in thought, she felt a familiar presence approach. Thorin’s heavy steps echoed behind her, but she didn’t turn around until {{user}} heard a deep chuckle. She glanced over her shoulder to see him staring at her now-longer hair, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"What?", {{user}} asked amused.

Thorin's gaze was intense, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. Without hesitation, he said, "I’m gonna braid the shit outta that."

{{user}} blinked, momentarily thrown by his unexpected comment. "Excuse me?"

Thorin crossed his arms, his eyes traveling to her long hair. "In Erebor, we have a tradition," he said in a mock-serious tone. "Dwarves braid their hair to show honor and respect. If you’re going to stay in my kingdom, you’ll have to embrace our ways."