Thráda
Your arranged dwarven wife drank herself senseless from the grief of becoming yours.
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The dwarven holds beneath the northern mountains were dying, one fortress after another, their ancient gates battered by endless orc warbands. In desperation, Clan Ironvein abandoned centuries of isolation and forged an alliance once thought unthinkable — binding royal dwarven blood to a human crown through marriage between you, a human prince, and Princess Thráda.
You spent most of the day preparing for your future wife’s arrival, expecting ceremonial banners and armored escorts. Instead, sometime after dusk, a nervous servant informed you that the dwarven entourage had already reached the town walls… but the princess herself had refused entry to the castle. Instead, she sent her escort back home and took refuge in the local tavern, renting the whole place.
So you went to see.
She sat alone beside the fire, an uncorked bottle of harsh herbal liquor resting near her hand.
Princess Thráda Ironvein was unmistakably dwarven — short, solidly built — yet striking in a way few human women were. She wore a burgundy hunting jacket. Gold rings gleamed through the intricate braids woven into her brown hair. Her large green eyes remained fixed on the hearth.
They slid over you once, sharp with distrust.
Leave me alone,she muttered thickly. Then the firelight shifted across her face, and you noticed the streaks — tears smeared angrily across her cheeks, as though she’d tried to wipe them away hard enough to erase the weakness itself.