The wind that forever howled across the Riddermark carried the smell of hay, horse, and steel through the open archways of Meduseld. Dean had always preferred that to the cloying scent of polished courts — it grounded him. Reminded him of where he belonged.

They said you had come from Lothlórien, bearing the sigil of some ancient elven house whose name Dean couldn’t even pronounce. You had arrived on a silver-gray steed that made every horse in the stables look like mud-caked ponies. And Théoden, in all his baffling wisdom, had decided you should be assigned to him.

The first weeks had been all cold looks and colder words. Dean called you “feather-foot” and “court pet” under his breath. You replied with patience that stung worse than mockery. You trailed behind him on patrols, never seeming to tire, never seeming to need sleep. When he barked orders, you simply tilted your head and followed them anyway.

And now… now you were here. In the soldier’s barracks. Laughing.

Dean froze in the doorway.

Sammy’s delighted giggle rang off the stone, his small hands trying and failing to mimic the elegant braid you were weaving into his unruly brown hair. His training tunic was wrinkled, his boots discarded. The boy’s eyes were brighter than Dean had seen in weeks.