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Bard dislikes being called King more than he dislikes being called Dragonslayer. At least he did something to earn the second title. But everyone from Dain Ironfoot to Gandalf the Grey seems insistent on it, and while he does not desire power, he does want to see his people through the winter, and knows that the Elven King is their best hope. Therefore, a friendly face (or at least, a known face) in negotiations is their best bet.
He also dislikes the fact that politics seem to come naturally to him. They discover it very quickly as daily meetings to draw up treaties and contracts begin. Sigrid, always at his side, who has been doing negotiations over bedtime and bathing and chores her whole life, finds it all incredibly amusing.
His choice to name Sigrid his heir was highly contested by almost all parties, including Sigrid herself. But Bard was adamant, and Bain was relieved, and eventually everyone agreed, if only so the dealmaking could continue. So Bain and Tilda spend their days amongst regiments of elves and dwarves, learning to fight and to heal and whatever else the elves see fit to teach them. Sigrid, meanwhile, gets to learn how absolutely difficult talking to royalty is.
Thorin isn’t even the problem most of the time. Once he’s recovered enough to join in their meetings, he brings the halfling along with him, and Bilbo Baggins is, in Bard’s opinion, one of the only other reasonable figures in the room. Thorin is clearly too enamored with him to refute his suggestions.
No, the problem most of the time is Thranduil. Not in the sense that he is tiresome, or unreasonable, or even particularly rageful. The problem is that he’s arrogant and uptight and passionate and attractive and it’s very difficult to stop looking at him.
Sigrid is thrilled when she figures it out. They’re taking a meal break, most choosing to remain with the nobility, but Bard and his daughter have wandered into town to check on things. He mentioned forgoing the meal to Thranduil as they parted, and to his surprise, there are two elven pastries waiting when he returns to the tents.
Thranduil says nothing, doesn’t even look at them other than a short nod of acknowledgement. Sigrid, however, takes one bite of the pastry, and then her eyes widen as she looks back and forth between the two of them. She’s not subtle about it.
Bard elbows her, a bit harder than he intended, and she swallows hard and clearly struggles not to gape at him.
“You-” she hisses.
“Later,” Bard replies warningly. She doesn’t wipe the smug look off her face the rest of the day.
“He’s courting you,” she says that night, after Tilda has gone to bed. She’s washing dishes, Bard drying them and putting them away. Bain, sitting at the kitchen table reading, slams his book shut and looks up, alarmed.
“Who’s courting Da?” he says, very worriedly, looking at Sigrid. He turns his gaze on Bard. Bard does not look away from his teenage son like he’s the one that’s just been caught. “Da. Is someone courting you?”
“No one is courting anyone,” Bard says firmly. Bain’s mouth drops and he looks back at Sigrid. Sigrid flushes and shakes her head quickly. “Sigrid? Someone’s courting you? Without permission-”
“No one’s courting me!” she yelps. She grabs the towel from Bard’s hands and begins to whack Bain with it. He shouts at her, half-laughter and half-apologies. Bard tries to break them up, and they turn on him.
“Who’s courting you, Da?” Bain asks again.
“Or are you courting him?” Sigrid asks, as if she’s just realized the possibility. “The emeralds, Girion’s emeralds- was that a courting gift?”
“You’re courting Thranduil?” Bain yells as soon as the words ‘Girion’s emeralds’ are out of Sigrid’s mouth.
“ King Thranduil,” Bard corrects automatically, and then curses at himself.
“Da,” Sigrid says seriously, emphatically, in that voice that her mother used to use when Bard was hiding something. It’s the reminder of his late wife that has him sighing.
“No,” he says. “We are not courting each other.”
“Someone ought to tell him that,” Sigrid huffs. Bain just looks thoughtful. Maybe a bit mischievous.
Bard should have seen it coming when, the next morning, Tilda has a delighted look on her face as she comes downstairs for breakfast. He should have seen it coming when Bain and Tilda request to be present at the meetings today. He should have seen it coming when they break for a meal, and Sigrid pulls him aside to discuss something with Bilbo, and when Bard turns around his two younger children are talking to Thranduil.
Thranduil looks amused, thankfully. Bard does not connect the dots to the previous night’s conversation, which really is his fault, though he figures he can hardly be blamed when Thorin’s heir approaches his eldest daughter and asks to talk to her. Bard realizes, then, how often Sigrid spends time with Fili, and that thought is enough to distract him from anything his children may be planning.
The rest of the afternoon progresses smoothly. Tilda presents a few valid points that none of them have thought to consider. Thranduil especially seems to take her counsel very seriously. As the evening draws in, Fili once again approaches Sigrid, and Bard trails behind the two with Bain and Tilda as the dwarf walks her home.
“This is what you meant, isn’t it?” Bard asks Bain. “He wants to court her.”
“It would be beneficial for both Dale and Erebor,” Bain says, as if he had his points prepared ahead of time, ready to defend his sister. “A union between dwarves and men is not well heard of, but there’s nothing wrong with it. Having solid ties to the mountain–”
“Does she want him to court her?” Bard interrupts.
“Yes,” Tilda says, gripping Bard’s arm and tugging on it. “Yes, she really does. Please let him?”
Bard sighs. When Fili asks, very respectfully, if he could have a private word with Bard, and Tilda and Bain both send him desperate looks and Sigrid’s own expression says do not ruin this for me , Bard agrees. His children go upstairs, and the dwarf remains in his kitchen.
“I have already received permission from my uncle, King Thorin,” Fili starts, as if Bard could possibly need a reminder of what family this dwarf belongs to. “But, of course, I would like to receive permission from you, and hopefully your blessing. Should you allow it, it would be my great honor to be allowed to court Princess Sigrid.”
Bard wasn’t sure how he would take it, when boys began asking for permission to court his eldest daughter. He was less sure how he would take it when she became Princess of Dale. But this is hardly a boy before him, and Sigrid has been smiling wider than she has since her mother’s death, and it seems that his younger children are both pleased by the prospect.
“I give you my full permission and blessing to court Princess Sigrid,” Bard says, a bit stiff and formal. Fili smiles, clearly relieved, and before they can exchange further words there’s a knock at the door. Bard sighs. “Excuse me,” he says, and he’s entirely surprised to find Thranduil on the other side.
“Dragonslayer,” Thranduil says warmly, inclining his head. Then he spots Fili and his mouth curls downward. Fili, for his part, schools his expression into something respectful.
“King Thranduil,” Fili says.
“Prince of the Mountain,” Thranduil says, slowly, a bit distastefully. Bard sighs again.
“I was just leaving,” Fili says. He nods to Bard and says, “My thanks, again,” and then he departs. Thranduil steps aside to let him pass through the doorway, and then steps inside without waiting for Bard’s permission. He gives a questioning look that Bard deciphers as wondering at the prince’s presence.
“He asked to court Sigrid,” Bard says.
“You allowed it?” Thranduil asks, raising an eyebrow and sitting down at Bard’s kitchen table. He hums thoughtfully. “A strong alliance. A wise political decision.”
“And something my daughter wants,” Bard says. “Which matters more to me than anything else.”
“And what about what you want?” Thranduil asks. Bard’s pretty sure his heart is in his throat, and he gets a sudden and very vivid image of Bain and Tilda talking to Thranduil, the looks they exchanged before they went up to bed.
“I want my children to be happy,” Bard says, swallowing thickly. “I want my people to prosper. A marriage alliance with Erebor will help see to both those things.”
Thranduil hums thoughtfully. Then he stands and approaches Bard. Bard doesn’t back down, but his heart flutters, a bit.
“Your children seem quite insistent that a courtship between us would be wise,” Thranduil says. “As well as wanted. Do they speak the truth?” His eyes flick down to Bard’s lips. Bard thinks this is more terrifying than Smaug.
“They do,” Bard says.
“Excellent,” Thranduil says. “I agree.” He pauses, then, “The emeralds.”
“Were a gift,” Bard finishes, trying not to grit his teeth. He can hear his children cackling in the back of his mind.
“A courting gift?” Thranduil asks. Bard decides he’s already killed a dragon– what’s facing down an elven king?
“If you’d like it to be,” he says, and he has no warning when Thranduil leans forward to brush their lips together. Gentle but firm, hands resting at Bard’s hips, and it takes a moment for Bard to respond. Thranduil pulls back after a long moment and smiles.
“Goodnight, Dragonslayer,” Thranduil says, slipping out the door and into the night, and Bard thinks that perhaps he doesn’t mind the title so much when it’s coming from Thranduil’s lips.