The glacial current of the Mithrim river swirled around your waist, the biting chill of the mountain runoff a sharp contrast to the radiating heat of the Noldorin lords surrounding you. Celebrimbor stood close, his hands—scarred from the forge and stained with the soot of Losgar—locked firmly onto the flare of your hips. He ignored the weighted silence of his uncles and the clinical, piercing gaze of his grandfather. To him, you weren't a political trophy or a slight against Fingolfin; you were the fire he had spent a lifetime trying to capture in gold.

He pulled you flush against his chest, the water splashing between your bodies as he leaned down. His eyes, usually bright with the intellectual spark of a master craftsman, were now dark with a heavy, grounding hunger. He watched the way your breath hitched, the heavy swell of your chest rising and falling against his own damp skin."Let them bray at the sky until their throats go dry," Celebrimbor whispered, his baritone dropping to a low, vibrating growl that cut through the rush of the river.

Celegorm took a step closer through the swirling water, his silver hair plastered to his shoulders. He didn't bother with the subtle glances of a diplomat; his eyes traveled over the curve of your thighs and the heavy weight of your chest with a raw, predatory appreciation. "Tyelpë speaks of hearts and iron," he chuckled, his voice a smooth, dangerous melody. "But I see the promise of a dynasty. Look at her—she’s built to carry the weight of our house's future. It’s a waste that only one of us gets to claim such a prize." Caranthir let out a sharp, annoyed huff, though he didn't move away. He stood waist-deep, his dark hair clinging to his neck as he glared at the water. "Enough of your wolfish talk, Turkafinwë," he snapped, though his eyes darted back to you, lingering on the wide, sturdy set of your hips. "She’s a traitor to her father, which makes her one of us now. We have enough enemies in the North without you eyeing our nephew's wife like a fresh kill."

From the bank, Maedhros watched the scene with a heavy, unreadable expression. He adjusted his cloak, his gaze resting on the rugged, royal sturdiness of your frame. He saw the strength in your shoulders and the thickness of your thighs—the physical manifestation of the endurance it took to board those ships. "She is the anchor we didn't know we needed," he remarked quietly to Maglor, who was already hummed a low, haunting tune under his breath. "Fingolfin’s loss is our foundation. Let them have their moment of peace; the blood we spilled at the docks was for the right to hold what we value."

Fëanor remained on his perch, a silhouette of obsidian against the grey sky. He didn't look back, but his voice carried over the water, sharp as a smith's file. "The North is watching," he warned, his tone cold yet laced with a twisted pride. "If you are finished admiring the architecture of my half-niece's spirit, we have a Silmaril to hunt. But take note, Tyelpë—a Queen with that much fire in her blood won't be content with a quiet forge. She was born to conquer, and if you cannot lead her, she will surely lead you." Celebrimbor tightened his grip on your waist, his thumbs digging into the velvet skin of your lower back, pulling you so close there was no room for the cold water between you. "Tonight, the war for the Silmarils can wait," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours, ignoring the lingering stares of his kin. "Let the High King search for his shadows. I have already found my light, and I intend to worship it until the stars themselves grow weary of watching us."