The feast hall of the Iron Hills shook with celebration—deep drums, raised voices, golden lanterns swaying from iron chains. Tonight was Dáin’s night: five years of a strong reign, five years of prosperity carved back into stone and steel.

I sat at the high table, crown heavy, goblet full, enduring formalities with a patience hard-won. I can face armies without flinching, but diplomacy? It wears a different kind of armor.

Then the hall went quiet.

Not gradually—silence struck like a hammer on steel. Every dwarf stilled. Heads turned toward the great doors.

Dáin rose beside me.

“My honored guest arrives,” he announced. “Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers be welcome in my halls.”

My heartbeat faltered.

No. It could not be—

The doors opened.

And she stepped inside.

Her white hair fell loose down her back, shining like poured moonlight. The birch crown rested against her brow, silver branches laced with pale leaves. But it was her gown that stole the breath from every throat in the hall—ivory silk, fitted bodice of lace, the sleeves falling open like winter mist, and skirts trailing in soft, rippling folds.

She looked unreal. A vision shaped of starlight and snow standing in a hall of iron and stone.

I could not move.

Around me, the Company broke their silence in stunned whispers.

Bofur leaned forward, eyes wide. “That is the River-Queen?”

Dwalin choked on his ale, wiped his beard, and stared openly. “…I did not know she could dress up like that.”

Even Balin’s voice dropped to reverence. “She looks like a legend.”

She did not look their way. She did not look at me. Her gaze swept the hall with a sovereign’s calm, unshaken and distant, as though every stone recognized her.

Dáin left the dais to greet her personally. She inclined her head, graceful and regal, and allowed herself to be seated near the high table. The pale silk of her gown spilled over the dark stone bench like snow melting into moonlight.

Still, she did not look at me.

Fíli and Kíli exchanged glances. Kíli leaned forward, voice low:

“She wore white.”

Fíli frowned. “And?”

“White is for beginnings,” Kíli whispered. “Weddings. Oaths.” He swallowed. “Do you think she wore it on purpose?”

The words cut clean through me.

My hand tightened on the armrest. I felt every heartbeat in my ribs like a strike from the forges.

Bifur tapped his chest twice and motioned toward her in awe, as if she had walked in armored not in steel, but in winter’s grace. Nori smirked under his breath.

Nori leaned in, voice low and sharp with amusement:

“If I had to walk past a man who didn’t want me,” he muttered, “I’d remind him of what I’d never be to him… in white.”

My voice came out low and hard. “Say nothing.”

Because they all remembered. Because I did.

Across the hall, she smiled—soft, polite, untouched by old wounds—as she spoke with Dáin.

Not once did she look my way.

And that hurt worse than if she had.