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The arrival of Princess Dís was meant to be an affair of state, a somber, regal procession marking the restoration of the Line of Durin. Dís had spent years in the Blue Mountains maintaining the dignity of a royal house in exile, and she expected to find her brother, Thorin, surrounded by the high lords and wealthy merchants who had surely flocked to his side once the gold was reclaimed.
She knew the names of the "loyal few": Balin, Dwalin, and Gloin. She knew her sons, Fíli and Kíli, were safe. The rest, she assumed, were soldiers and nobility.
She was not prepared for the reality of Erebor.
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Dís stood on the balcony overlooking the refurbished throne room, her silver-threaded robes shimmering. Beside her, Balin was reviewing a scroll. Below, Thorin was attempting to inspect a newly carved pillar. However, in his haste to leave the royal quarters, the King Under the Mountain had managed to snag his heavy, fur-lined cloak on a protruding sconce, and as he tried to turn, he stumbled, his crown slipping lopsided over one eye.
Dís inhaled, ready to call out in concern or command the guards to assist. But before she could speak, a loud, wheezing laugh echoed through the hall.
A Dwarf in a floppy, fur-lined hat with earflaps, a Dwarf who looked more like a toy-maker than a lord, was leaning against the pillar, clutching his sides.
"Nice one, Thorin!" the Dwarf shouted, his voice bright with mockery. "The crown’s supposed to go on your head, not your nose! Are you trying to see if the gold tastes as good as it looks?"
Dís froze. She waited for the execution. She waited for Dwalin to tackle the insolent commoner. She waited for Thorin to roar in fury.
Instead, Thorin simply sighed. He adjusted his crown with a weary hand, looking at the laughing Dwarf with the expression of a man who had long ago run out of arguments. "It is a heavy crown, Bofur. My neck is tired."
"Excuses!" Bofur chirped, tossing a small apple into the air and catching it. "Maybe you just need a bigger head to hold it up."
Thorin grunted and kept walking. Dís turned to Balin, her eyes wide. "Balin... who was that? And why is he still breathing?"
Balin didn't even look up from his scroll. "That’s Bofur. He’s... well, he’s Bofur."
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Another incident occurred during the morning briefing. Thorin was seated upon the throne, looking every bit the King Under the Mountain, until Bilbo strolled in. The Hobbit wasn't even wearing a formal tunic; he was in his shirtsleeves, carrying a small plate of toast.
"Thorin, you’ve got a bit of fluff in your beard," Bilbo said casually, stepping right up onto the royal dais. Without waiting for permission, the Hobbit reached out and plucked a stray thread from the King’s legendary silver-streaked beard. "And your crown is sitting crooked again. Left side, dear. You’re tilting toward the treasure hoard."
Dís gasped, her hand flying to the dagger at her belt. "Master Baggins! You do not-"
Thorin didn't roar. He didn't even scold. He merely grunted, leaning his head toward Bilbo to make the adjustment easier. "Is it straight now?"
"Marginally," Bilbo sighed, taking a loud, crunching bite of toast. "Though it doesn't help that you’ve got jam on your thumb. You’re going to get the Arkenstone sticky."
From the base of the throne, bombur let out a loud snort. "Sticky stone for a sticky King! Maybe we should just glue the crown to his head, Bilbo. Save us all the trouble of watching him fumble with it."
"A capital idea, Bofur," Kili chimed in, leaning against a pillar. "Though I doubt his hair could handle the structural stress. It’s getting a bit thin on top, isn't it, Uncle?"
Thorin closed his eyes, his expression one of long-suffering patience. "I am not going bald, Kili."
"Of course not," Fili added with a grin. "It’s just... migrating. To your ears."
Dís looked at Balin, her eyes wide with horror. "Balin, why are they not in the dungeons? They are mocking the royal hairline!"
Balin merely adjusted his spectacles. "It’s been a long year, Dís. One grows accustomed to the... local color."
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As Dís moved through the mountain over the next few days, her confusion turned into a simmering, royal rage. She found the "Lords of the Mountain" to be a collection of the most irreverent, ragtag individuals she had ever encountered.
She walked into the council chamber to find a Dwarf with a massive, braided beard, Dori, fussing over Thorin’s robes as if the King were a toddler.
"Honestly, Thorin, you’ve got a loose thread right on the hem! Do you want the Elven ambassadors to think we’re living in a cave? Oh, don't roll your eyes at me, I saw that!"
Thorin was sitting there, trapped in a chair, looking utterly defeated. "Dori, it is a single thread."
"It’s a disgrace is what it is!" another voice rang out. A Dwarf with star-shaped hair, Nori, was leaning against the King's actual throne, casually tossing a gold coin he had clearly just swiped from a nearby bowl. "The thread stays, Dori. It matches the frayed state of his temper."
"Out!" Dís snapped, stepping into the room. "All of you! How dare you speak to the King in such a manner?"
The Dwarves stopped. Nori looked at her, winked, and then pushed himself off the throne. "Right then. The Princess is here. Time to make ourselves scarce before she realizes I’ve got her silver hair-pins in my pocket."
"Nori!" Thorin warned, though there was no bite in it.
"Just joking, Your Majesty! Mostly!" Nori sauntered out, followed by a clucking Dori.
Dís turned to her brother, her face red. "Thorin! What is happening to your authority? These commoners... these miners and thieves... they treat you like a brother-in-law they don't particularly like!"
Thorin blinked at her, looking genuinely confused. ""He’s very particular about laundry, Dís, You should see him when Nori gets mud on the rugs. It’s a bloodbath."
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The next time it happened was in the royal gardens. Dís had arranged a formal tea to discuss the repopulation of the lower levels. She had invited the few "respectable" members of the court.
Suddenly, the massive Dwarf, Bombur, waddled into the garden carrying a tray of tarts. Following him was a Dwarf with an axe-blade literally embedded in his skull, Bifur, who was gesturing wildly and grunting in Khuzdul.
"Bifur says the King’s taste in tea is rubbish!" Bombur announced, setting the tray down and immediately grabbing a tart for himself. "He says it smells like wet hay and elven feet!"
Thorin, who was sitting across from Dís, actually laughed. "Tell Bifur that if he wants better tea, he should stop trying to brew it with rainwater from the gutters."
Bifur barked a string of Khuzdul that sounded suspiciously like a curse involving Thorin’s grandmother.
"Thorin!" Dís slammed her hand on the table. "This is intolerable! Who are these people? Why are they allowed in the royal quarters? And why is that one... holding an axe?"
"He’s not holding it, Dís, it’s in his head," Thorin said, as if that explained everything. "That’s Bifur. He’s very good at masonry."
"I don't care if he can carve the moon! He just insulted your lineage!"
She felt like yelling when thorin just shrugged
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Later that afternoon, Dís sat in on a "tactical meeting" regarding the winter stores. Balin and Dwalin were there, looking professional, but so were the multiple of the dwarfs
Thorin was pointing to a map of the lower cellars. "We shall store the grain here, near the secondary ventilation shafts."
"And the jam?" Bombur asked, leaning over the table with a hopeful expression.
"The jam will go in the cool-vaults, Bombur," Thorin said patiently.
Nori leaned back, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger that Dís recognized as a royal letter-opener. "Bad idea, Thorin. You put the jam there, and you’ll have a riot by Durin’s Day. You have to put it near the kitchens, or else you’ll be the one walking down six flights of stairs every time you want a snack."
"I do not 'snack' in the middle of the night," Thorin replied, his voice rising slightly.
"Oh, rubbish," Bofur piped up from the corner, where he was balancing a spoon on his nose. "I saw you in the larder at three in the morning last Tuesday. You were covered in crumbs and looking very guilty."
"I was inspecting the integrity of the biscuits!" Thorin roared, though his face was turning a suspicious shade of pink.
Dís watched in horror as the entire room, including Balin, erupted into chuckles. Even Dwalin, the fiercest warrior of the line, was smirking behind his hand.
"Silence!" Dís commanded. She turned to Thorin. "Thorin, you must exile these men at once. They are spreading rumors of your... midnight activities! It is a slur upon the crown!"
Thorin rubbed his temples. "Dís, they aren't rumors. Bofur caught me. He then proceeded to blackmail me for an extra week of vacation time in exchange for not telling the Hobbit."
"I heard everything anyway!" Bilbo’s voice drifted in from the hallway. "And I’ve already put you on a vegetable-only dinner for the next three nights, Thorin! No more biscuits!"
Thorin let out a groan that sounded like a dying forge
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Dís was standing in the Hall of Kings, attempting to discuss the logistics of the coal shipments with Balin. Thorin was seated at a smaller stone table nearby, poring over architectural blueprints. The scene looked almost professional until Nori sauntered by.
With the grace of a shadow, Nori reached out and plucked the Raven Crown right off Thorin’s head as he walked past.
"Bit heavy for a Tuesday, isn't it?" Nori remarked, casually spinning the priceless artifact on his finger. "I think the silver one suits your complexion better. This one makes you look a bit... craggy."
Thorin didn't even look up from his map. He simply held out a hand, palm up. "Nori. Give it back."
"Come and get it, Your Majesty!" Nori chirped, suddenly bolting toward the great pillars.
To Dís’s absolute shock, Thorin didn't call the guards. He let out a frustrated growl, shoved his chair back with a loud screech against the stone, and actually chased him.
"Nori! I have a meeting with the Iron Hills delegation in ten minutes!" Thorin roared, his heavy boots thundering as he rounded a pillar.
"Then you'd better move faster, Uncle Gold-Lust!" Nori laughed, ducking behind a statue.
Dís watched as the King of Erebor played a game of tag around the royal monuments. "Balin," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He is running. Why is he running?"
"Cardio," Balin replied simply, ticking a box on his scroll. "Nori says Thorin’s been sitting too much. It’s for his health, really.
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Days later, they were in the Royal Solar. Thorin was attempting to go over tax records while Bilbo sat in a nearby chair, nursing a cup of tea.
"This chair is too small," Thorin grumbled, shifting his weight. "It creaks every time I move. I shall have the carpenters build a sturdier one."
Bilbo didn't even look up from his book. "It’s not the chair that’s the problem, Thorin. It’s the amount of honey-cake you had at tea. You’re becoming a bit of a structural hazard yourself."
Dís dropped her embroidery. "Master Baggins! You are speaking to the King! You cannot imply that he is... he is..."
"A bit thick around the middle?" Bilbo finished helpfully, finally looking over his spectacles. "Oh, please. He’s been complaining about the furniture since we were in Beorn’s house. It’s a hobby for him. He likes to pretend he’s made of granite when he’s actually mostly made of stubbornness and gravy."
Thorin picked up a small decorative cushion and chucked it at Bilbo’s head. Bilbo ducked with practiced ease, the cushion hitting a suit of armor with a dull clank.
"Gravy?" Thorin countered, a smirk playing on his lips. "I’ll have you know, Master Hobbit, that this 'gravy' is what allowed me to survive the Goblin caves."
"No," Bilbo retorted, "your lack of a sense of direction is what got us there. The gravy is just why you’re currently stuck in that chair."
Thorin let out a booming laugh, throwing his head back. Dís looked at Balin, who was sitting in the corner.
"Balin, please tell me I’m dreaming," Dís whispered. "Tell me my brother hasn't been replaced by a common jester who enjoys being insulted by a Halfling."
Balin just chuckled softly.
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One night at dinner Dís sat at the head of the table, hoping for a quiet, royal meal. Instead, she was surrounded by the Company.
Bofur was currently trying to see how many bread rolls he could balance on Bombur's sleeping head. Fili and Kili were using spoons to catapult peas at Dwalin, who was successfully catching them in his mouth with terrifying precision.
"Thorin," Dís said, trying to maintain her composure. "We must discuss the trade agreements with Dale."
"Yes, yes," Thorin said, reaching for his soup. He took a large spoonful, swallowed, and then his entire face contorted. His eyes watered, and he began to cough violently.
"Gloin!" Thorin gasped, pointing at the red-bearded Dwarf across from him. "What... what did you put in my bowl?"
Gloin grinned, his eyes twinkling. "A bit of crushed mountain-pepper, Thorin. You said the kitchen’s food was getting bland. I thought I’d give your royal palate a wake-up call."
"It’s a wake-up call for my ancestors!" Thorin choked out, grabbing a pitcher of water and draining it in one go.
"You should see your face," Dori cackled, wiping a tear from his eye. "You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!"
"I’ll show you a ghost," Thorin threatened, his voice returning to its usual rumble. He reached over and surreptitiously dumped a handful of salt into Gloin’s ale while the Dwarf was distracted by Bofur’s bread-roll tower.
Dís watched the exchange, her knuckles white as she gripped her fork. To her, this wasn't camaraderie; it was a breakdown of the social order. She saw a group of poor, rowdy Dwarves and a cheeky Hobbit treating her royal brother like a tavern-mate.
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Dís found herself in the training courts a few weeks after when she first got to erebor, expecting to see a disciplined display of Dwarven phalanx maneuvers. Instead, she found a dusty circle of Dwarves cheering as Thorin and Dwalin rolled around on the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and braided beards.
They weren't sparring with axes. They were wrestling, grunt-filled, undignified, and very loud wrestling.
"I have you now!" Dwalin barked, pinning Thorin’s shoulders into the dirt. "Yield, you over-mighty pebble!"
Thorin’s face was beet-red, his hair a bird's nest of tangles. He let out a strained laugh, bucking his hips to throw Dwalin off. "In your dreams, Dwalin! I’ve been throwing you into the mud since we were in the Ered Luin, and I’m not stopping now!"
"Thorin!" Dís cried, stepping to the edge of the pit. "What in the name of the Ancestors are you doing? You have dirt in your beard!"
Thorin looked up, still holding Dwalin in a headlock. "It’s a traditional exercise, Dís! Keeps the reflexes sharp!"
"Reflexes?" she gasped. "You look like two bear cubs fighting over a beehive!"
Bofur, who was sitting on the sidelines eating a turnip, nudged Dís with his elbow. "Five gold says Thorin ends up with his face in the trough."
"I am the Princess!" Dís snapped.
"Ten gold, then?" Bofur offered with a wink.
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Dís stood in the hallway of the royal wing, her posture like a marble statue. She was observing Thorin through the open doors of the Solar. The King Under the Mountain was sitting at a desk piled high with ledgers, his heavy crown pushed back so far on his head it looked like it was about to fall off.
Bilbo Baggins was standing over him, leaning on the desk with a half-eaten scone in one hand.
"Thorin," Bilbo said, his voice dripping with faux-disappointment. "You’ve got ink on your nose again. Honestly, for a King, you’re remarkably messy with a quill."
Thorin didn't look up, but his hand went to his face, smearing the ink further. "It is a complex trade agreement, Master Baggins. I have no time for facial aesthetics."
"You look like a badger that’s tried to write a poem," Bilbo chirped. He reached out and—to Dís’s absolute horror, flicked the tip of Thorin’s nose. "Fix it before the council meeting, or I’ll tell everyone you were playing with the chimney soot."
Thorin finally looked up, a slow, dangerous smirk spreading across his face. "If I look like a badger, at least I don't have the feet of a rabbit. I believe I saw you trip over your own toes in the marketplace yesterday, Bilbo. Very 'graceful' for a Burglar."
"I was startled by a very aggressive cabbage!" Bilbo retorted, his ears doing a sharp, offended flick.
Dís clutched her silks, her knuckles white. The King is being flicked. By a Halfling. And he is joking about cabbages.
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the moment Dís felt her sanity slipping, occurred in the Royal Kitchens. She had gone there to find a servant, only to find the King of Erebor standing in front of a cooling rack, looking remarkably pathetic.
Bilbo was guarding a tray of lemon-curd cakes with a wooden spoon.
"Bilbo," Thorin rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, pleading register. "Just one. I have been in meetings for six hours. My spirit is withered."
"No," Bilbo said firmly. "These are for the feast tonight. You had two at lunch, and I saw you sneak a third when you thought I wasn't looking."
"I am the King Under the Mountain," Thorin insisted, stepping closer. "I can declare these cakes a matter of national security."
"And I am the one who makes them," Bilbo countered, waving the spoon. "I can declare your access to the kitchen revoked. Go away, you great lump. You’re hovering."
"Bilbo... please," Thorin actually pouted. It was a small, subtle movement of the lip, but to Dís, it was a tectonic shift. "I’ll sign that decree about the garden expansion. The one you’ve been pestering me about for weeks."
"Are you bribing me with public policy for sugar?" Bilbo asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
"Is it working?"
"Yes," Bilbo sighed, picking up a cake. "But if you get crumbs on the throne again, I’m telling Dwalin you’re the one who broke his favorite whetstone."
Thorin snatched the cake with a triumphant grin, looking like a child who had successfully swindled a gold coin.
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The final straw came during the evening feast. The long table was laden with food, and Thorin was attempting to give a formal toast to the future of Erebor.
"We stand at the precipice of a new era," Thorin began, his voice deep and resonant. "A time where the line of Durin shall-"
"Thorin, sit down, your soup is getting cold," Bilbo interrupted, tugging at the King’s sleeve. "And you’ve got a piece of parsley stuck between your front teeth. It’s very distracting. You look like you’re growing a garden in your mouth."
The table erupted. Bombur let out a belly-shaking laugh that sent a pea flying across the room. Bifur began grunting and gesturing wildly with his spoon, making "chattering" motions with his hands to mock Thorin’s long speech.
"Parsley King!" Gloin shouted, red-faced with mirth. "Long may he... sprout!"
Dís snapped. She slammed her goblet onto the table with a crack that silenced the room or so she thought. She stood up, her eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand forges.
"ENOUGH!" she shrieked. "I have watched this mockery for days! You…you bunch of ragged, disrespectful, insolent curs! How dare you! This is the King Under the Mountain! He faced the dragon! He reclaimed our heritage! And you treat him like a jester at a midsummer fair!"
She turned her fury on Bilbo. "And you! Master Baggins! You are a guest! A small, insignificant creature from a land of grass and dirt! You have no right to touch the King’s beard! You have no right to comment on his teeth! You were not there when our people suffered! You did not bleed for this stone!"
Dís was breathing hard, her chest heaving, waiting for the shamed silence.
Instead, the silence lasted for exactly three seconds before Bofur let out a tiny, high-pitched giggle. Then Kili started to snicker. Within moments, the entire Company, Dwalin, Balin, the Ri brothers, the Ur brothers, everyone was howling. They were doubled over, slapping the table, tears streaming down their faces.
Dís stood there, trembling with rage. "Why are you laughing?! I am defending your King!"
Thorin sat in his chair, looking at his sister with a look of utter, profound confusion. "Dís... why are you upset? They’re just being... themselves."
Bilbo was laughing so hard he had to lean on Thorin’s shoulder for support. He wiped a tear from his eye and looked up at the fuming Princess.
"Oh, Princess," Bilbo wheezed, trying to catch his breath. "You... you really don't know, do you?"
"Know what?!"
Bilbo stood up, straightening his waistcoat, though his shoulders were still shaking. "You say I wasn't there to bleed? Dís, my dear, I was the one who dragged your brother out of the burning pine trees when the Pale Orc was about to take his head. I was the one who talked to the dragon while these 'respectable' Dwarves were hiding in the secret tunnel. And Bofur over there? He’s the reason we didn't freeze to death in the Misty Mountains."
Dís looked at the Dwarves, her anger flickering into confusion.
"They are the Company, Dís," Thorin said softly, his voice cutting through the laughter. "Every one of them. Dori, Nori, Ori. Oin and Gloin. Bifur, Bofur, Bombur. They aren't 'lords' I hired after the victory. They are the ones who walked through the fire with me when I was a King with nothing but a wooden shield and a map."
The laughter died down into a warm, comfortable hum. The Dwarves looked at Dís, not with malice, but with a sort of weary, amused pride.
"We’ve seen the King in his small-clothes, Princess," Dwalin grunted, his eyes twinkling. "We’ve seen him cry over a dropped crust of bread and argue with a goat. If we don't tease him, his head will get so big he won't be able to fit through the front gates. We’re doing the kingdom a service."
Bilbo patted Dís’s hand gently. "In the Shire, we say that you only tease the ones you truly love. And believe me, your brother is very, very loved. Even if he is a bit of a stubborn old goat who can't hang a tapestry to save his life."
Thorin sighed, but he reached out and took a piece of toast from Bilbo’s plate. "I am not a goat, Bilbo."
"Whatever you say, Parsley King," Bilbo chirped.
Dís sat down slowly, her royal dignity feeling very small indeed. She looked at the ragtag group, the toy-maker, the thief, the cook, and the Hobbit, and then at her brother, who looked more at peace than he ever had in the Blue Mountains.
"I see," Dís whispered. She looked at her soup, then back at Thorin. "Thorin?"
"Yes, Dís?"
"You... you really do have parsley in your teeth."
The Hall erupted once more, and for the first time in an age, the Princess of the House of Durin joined the laughter.