Author’s Note: The great silver screen saga of our time is over…and like many (I imagine), I feel rather bereft. I’ve been watching the LOTR saga in theaters since I was about 16 years old. I can remember every theater I was in; who I saw each movie with. I remember where I was when I read the books, even, in my middle-school years; I remember who my favorite characters were – characters that have stayed favorites even in their Peter Jackson re-imaginings. I was devastated as young tween-something, when Kili, Fili, and Thorin died, the first time I read The Hobbit. Needless to say, my love of them has only grown as an adult viewer of The Hobbit trilogy and I sort of feel like I’ve lost first loves all over again, now that I’ve suffered through the inevitability of Battle of the Five Armies.

I have long thought about writing a Tolkien fanfiction – one in which at least one of Durin’s sons survives. I’ve finally gotten over my reservations and so…A Song For Heart and Soul is born. The title comes from Neil Finn’s amazing Song of the Lonely Mountain. The basic premise is that Kíli survives the Battle of the Five Armies and is unceremoniously thrust into a responsibility he never anticipated. The most immediate concern facing the dwarves of Erebor is the physical rebuilding of their kingdom under the mountain; the second is procuring a new heir apparent for Durin’s folk. Needless to say, a heart-broken Kíli is not excited by either expectation.

I’m introducing a “new” dwarven House here that isn’t really “new”, but isn’t ever mentioned in any of the cannon material (although, Tolkien mentions them in his notes and tertiary writings). Kíli’s counterpart in “A Song For Heart and Soul” is Kivi – the sole remaining heir of the Stiffbeards. The Stiffbeards are one of the Seven Houses of the dwarves and there is some knowledge of their culture/etc, but not much. I’ve taken liberties, aided by the Tolkien Gateway, the LOTR Wiki and the Middle Earth Role Playing Wiki.

Because my significant other is of strong Finnish descent, I was able to recognize how the Stiffbeards are straight-up based on the Finns in their expanded description in the MERP wiki. I’ve expanded that and woven in strong Finnish elements, to include words and other cultural references. So there’s no mind-stopping shock, I’ve made the Stiffbeards a matriarchal House. I have, however, done my best to make them as believable in the context of Middle Earth as I know how; given their strong Finnish and Scandinavian influence in more recent “expanded literature”, I don’t think that making them a matriarchal House is a completely unbelievable stretch of imagination. But, constructive criticisms are always welcome! New terms and some of the more obscure “canon” terms will be included in a reference at the end of each chapter.

And the story, my friends, goes from there…

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“Far over the Misty Mountains rise,
Leave us standing upon the height.”

“Song of the Lonely Mountain”
Neil Finn
[Source]: thorinoakenshield.net post: 05/12/12

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Ibriznurt ‘Afdush 8th, 2941 T.A.

(Sunday, November 10th)

Erebor

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Kíli stood in the middle of the wall-walk and gazed solemnly out beyond the parapets above Erebor’s vast entrance. He was tempted to lean against the ancient stones and shift some of the pressure of standing so tall off of his “compromised” leg. That was a term Balin had coined – Kíli had given the older dwarf a scowl at the suggestion, but it did sound better than “bad”, or “eternally damaged”, or “near-useless”. The excitement and movement from Lake Town, through Erebor, and through the Battle of the Five Armies had left little time for the leg that had been wounded escaping from the Greenwood to heal properly. The poison had surely been removed from his blood and body, but even Elvish healing couldn’t completely replace the need for skin and bone to knit back together on their own.

He would have a “compromised leg” for the rest of his life, Oin had told him reluctantly. During his youth, the leg would probably give him little trouble, although stress of battle and strenuous exertion would cause him to limp. So, it was not an immediate deterrent – a weakness that few ever needed to know about, Dwalin had insisted. The last thirty-one days of rest and mourning had helped what of his leg could be healed, but even so, standing straight with the heavy weight of a king’s robe made Kíli’s knee tremble ever-so slightly in the beginning stages of protest.

Or, perhaps, the weakness in his knee was just an illusion, conjured by his weary mind. Kíli stared forlornly out across the great, flat plain that stretched between Erebor’s gates and Dale. The earth was still torn from battle, the bottom edges of the mountain still singed, the sparse remaining trees still broken beneath the soft mantle of winter’s first snow. He refused to lift his eyes toward the frozen waterfall in the distance, or to the towering rock formations known as Ravenhill, where he had watched the three beings he loved the most fall forever beneath the cruel swords of Azog and Bolg.

I should be dead, too, he thought, his hands curling into fists of anger against the deep blue wool of his finely-woven robe.

He could have sworn that he been dead, too. His mind racing, Kíli reached up with one broad hand and rubbed that still-tender wound on his chest, beneath the weight of his royal finery. Only the joint efforts of Radagast and Gandalf had brought him back to the living lands; Radagast had said that the severity of the wound had indeed all but killed him by the time he was found, broken and bleeding, on the icy stones of Ravenhill.

Oin could handle what was left in the wake of the wizards’ healing and the jagged hole that Bolg’s orc-forged weapon had left just above his heart was all but scarred over now. Kíli didn’t think, though, that he would ever forget the cold that Bolg’s wicked steel had pierced into the very marrow of his bones. It seemed, too, that grief reawakened that fiery, blue-cold pain; every time he turned with a joke on the tip of his tongue, only to see that it was now Dwalin who stood beside him and not Fíli, Kíli could feel ice move beneath his scar tissue and freeze the blood straight into his heart.

It was no better if he thought of Thorin. It was, perhaps, not quite so painful to remember Tauriel – but the loss of Thorin and Fíli cut far past flesh and muscle, and straight into Kíli’s once-untarnished soul. It seemed – especially at moments like this, when he felt the weight of his uncle’s kingdom on his shoulders – that Bolg’s steel was still killing him slowly from the inside.

“Oh, there you are,” a familiar tenor voice jolted Kíli from his dark reverie and he dropped his hand back to his side as he turned slowly around to watch Bilbo huff-and-puff up the last of the stairs. “Balin and Dwalin are beside themselves…”

The little fellow stopped and rested his hands on his knees, so that he could take a moment to catch his breath. Kíli raised a thick black eyebrow – once a smile would have accompanied such a movement, but now his lips stayed firmly drawn in a neutral line. It was the best that he could manage these days – not quite his uncle’s infamous scowl, but not the easy, roguish grin of before. It was something in-between and nothing at all. Kíli – who, as any archer, had long ago learned to observe dispassionately from the background – now relied heavily on that aspect of his training, to help him tamper down the grief and harrowing pain that felt like it would ravage his soul straight to the grave.

“You look as if you’ve run the whole way from the mines,” Kíli pointed out with just the faintest note of alarm – the last thing he wanted was the dearly beloved hobbit to fall over from a failure of his heart.

“Oh, gracious, no,” Bilbo still leaned a hand against his right knee, but lifted his left and flapped it at Kíli in a gesture of dismissal. “Just from the kitchens, y’know? I ran into Nori while running an errand for Bombur and he said Dwalin was looking for you, but didn’t want to tell him that he’d seen you head this way. We both thought it best if I find you first.”

“Why didn’t Nori come and find me, then?” Kíli huffed in something remotely related to a laugh.

“Oh, well…” Bilbo finally seemed to have caught his breath and he stood up to his full height – which was about chest-high to the dwarf in front of him. “I think he was trying to chase a-erm,” the hobbit coughed uncomfortably, eyed Kíli warily, and then blurted out – “Well, one of the new dwarf-maids.”

Kíli just snorted and rolled his dark-brown eyes. The first wave of families from the Iron Hills had arrived just the other day and already half of his uncle’s company was chasing after skirts. Only he, Balin, Glóin, Bofur, and Bifur were – by all appearances – completely disinterested. Kíli was quite certain that he’d never be able to find himself attracted to a dwarf-maiden. Not after such longing for smooth, creamy skin, long, silky red hair, and slender limbs…

Unfortunately, the crown that was waiting for him in the throne room down below dictated by dwarven law that he at least find a dwarf-maiden attractive long enough to create an heir for Durin’s people. The thought made Kíli a little ill. Dwarven law also dictated quite a lot of other things about such a union, including that Kíli wed said dwarven-maid before creating said Durin’s heir.

Just what I’ve always wanted: a loveless marriage, he thought bitterly, as Bilbo (oblivious to the dwarf prince’s thoughts) pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped it across his perspiring forehead.

In all actuality, the entirety of the long existence ahead of him was filled with a veritable catalog of all the things he never wanted – the least of which, really, was producing an heir. That was probably one of the few, potentially titillating expectations on the agenda.

“I suppose I should go and get on with it then,” Kíli spoke as if to himself as he turned his head back toward the battlements and squinted resentfully at the wan, but cheerful, winter midday sun.

“Hm, not quite yet. King Thranduil wishes to speak to you,” Bilbo twisted his waist around and peered behind him toward the long flight of stairs below them.

Kíli leaned a bit to the side as well and raised another eyebrow as he watched the Silvan king lift the edge of his long, silvery robes and start the steep ascent to where the soon-to-be dwarven king stood. His lips threatened to turn down into a scowl that was eerily reminiscent of his uncle’s.

“What in Mahal’s name does he want to speak to me about?” he glanced over at Bilbo, as if the hobbit was expected to know.

The smaller, tousle-headed man just shrugged his shoulders.

“Who’s to say?”

“Well…best you go find Balin and tell him I’ll be on my way. If he grumbles about me being late, blame it on the Elf.”

Bilbo smiled, but it was a fragile thing. Kíli had never been, in his experience, a secretive or evasive dwarf. Rather, the youngest prince of Erebor had been quite well known for his reckless youth and fervent passions; he wore his heart on his sleeve as apparently as his brother had worn the dignity of his royal fate. But, things had now changed…the heir and the heir apparent to the Lonely Mountain were now buried in its depths, both slain by Azog. The youngest prince of Durin – the one who had never expected to rule the dwarrow of Middle Earth – would bear the crown of the King Under the Mountain within the hour. And when he had come to that realization within moments of seeing his felled brother and uncle, Kíli had drawn deep within himself.

Bilbo wasn’t the only one who feared that such a change was ultimately irrevocable.

“Certainly,” the hobbit bowed his head slightly and scampered off past Kíli toward the flight of stairs on the opposite side of the wall-walk.

Kíli watched until the hobbit’s sandy-blond head had disappeared into the deeper shadows of the keep. Only then did he turn his eyes forward, to see the tall spires of Thranduil’s crown arise majestically one step at a time. Within moments, the elf stepped onto the wall-walk, his movements as straight-backed, elegant, and carefully calculated as always.

“Prince Kíli,” Thranduil greeted Kíli in his strange, precise, otherworldly way.

“King Thranduil,” Kíli rumbled back; the two inclined their heads politely toward one another. “Master Baggins tells me that you wish to speak to me?” the dwarf’s sharp brown eyes met the elf’s ethereal blues.

“Yes,” Thranduil tucked his hands slowly into the voluminous folds of his silver overcoat; Kíli wondered if the woodland king was purposefully looking down at his nose at him, or if it was just a habit so ingrained into Thranduil’s being that he didn’t even notice it anymore. “As the eldest ruler gathered here today for your coronation, I thought I might offer counsel before taking on the responsibilities of your crown.”

My uncle’s crown, Kíli stubbornly corrected Thranduil, but didn’t dare speak it out loud; his insistence that he should not be given the weight of his forefathers’ legacy had been soundly rejected at every turn so far.

He was learning to keep his resentment to himself.

I’m going to turn into Uncle, he added to himself, before realizing that Thranduil’s mouth was moving again and maybe it was best if he at least pretended to give a damn.

“…Prince Kíli?”

Kíli focused just soon enough to hear Thranduil prompt him with the full force of his gracious condescension. The young dwarf rolled his shoulders and ground his teeth, but met the elder elf’s gaze and nodded tersely.

“Please forgive me, I have been given quite a lot of advice to consider these past few days. My head feels rather…full.”

“Indubitably,” Thranduil placidly agreed.

Kíli wondered what in Mahal “indubitably” even meant.

“I will wager, however, that the advice from one king to another is quite different from subjects to their ruler,” Thranduil moved as fluidly as water, as he took the few steps to stand next to Kíli, who grudgingly turned as well to follow the elf’s gaze over the battlements.

There was a delicate pause and Kíli shifted uncomfortably in his boots. Was he supposed to say something back? By Durin’s beard, this was excruciatingly awkward.

“You have honored my people, Prince Kíli, with the return of our gems,” Thranduil paused, as if considering his next words; Kíli continued to fidget. “You also honored us in your devotion to my Captain of the Guard.”

Kíli froze and couldn’t stop blinking up at the taller, pale-haired elf in sheer amazement. He really didn’t know what to say now, but at least he had enough royal comportment drilled into him by Balin by now not to gape like a young dwarfling at Thranduil’s startling proclamation.

“I witnessed your mourning on the battlefield,” Thranduil did not return the dwarf’s gaze; the elf stood as still as the stones around him, his icy gaze fixed firmly at Dale sprawling out before them. “And I pray your forgiveness of my intrusion in such a private moment. But, I speak of it only to tell you that I have witnessed such a scene long before and though I thought it impossible, I must admit that you have moved me to honor what was real.” [Source: The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies]

Only then, did Thranduil turn his head and meet Kíli’s stunned gaze. The elven king’s face was as dispassionate as ever, as serene and unreadable as always. But, there was an unexpected compassion in his eyes that puzzled Kíli as much as it surprised him.

“When you take Thrór’s crown as your own, Prince of Durin, you may wish to consider that your people are scattered. But, perhaps, there are many that would still be loyal among those who may still yet wander, or have once already given your people aid from the East.”

Both of Kíli’s eyebrows rose as the meaning of Thranduil’s words began to sink in.

“I do not deign to know nor understand the ways of dwarves, but the ruling of a kingdom is not so different, I wager, between our kind. The exile of your people will have changed many things, Prince Kíli,” Thranduil turned his head gracefully to consider the parapets in front of him and he even reached out a hand to run his slender fingers meaningfully over a jagged crack that ran from the top of one merlon, down to the very floor at their feet. “You will find that more than just these stones may have been broken.”

Those cold, strange eyes captured Kíli’s gaze for a final time.

“Learn from your history, Prince Kíli. And,” the Elf paused delicately, his next words spoken slowly, as if they cost him. “And, also from mine. Do not rule solely from within your lonely halls. If you wish to honor your people and the memory of my Captain, then rebuild more than just what lays inside these ancient stones,” Thranduil finally broke his gaze with Kíli and wordlessly invited him to turn and consider the halls and hallows yawning open beneath them. “You must ever be a king, with your vision both behind you and before you.”

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Adadnurt, ‘Afgargablâ 1st, 2942 T.A.

(Wednesday, April 30th)

Dol Amroth, Gondor

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“No, no, no, I will not,” Kivi Journeyman stomped resolutely around the corner base of Dol Amroth’s seawall; her heavy-toed boots kicked up chips of stone and mortar that littered the grassy knoll hugging the inside of the tall stone defense.

“But, Äiti -” [“Mother“]

“No ‘buts’!” Kivi didn’t even bother glancing over her shoulder at her determined companion.

She threw up her right hand and shook her head; her thick, shoulder-length hair glinted a coppery blonde in the setting sun. She stopped next to one of the many scaffolds that towered over the knoll and bore silent testimony to the extent of the reconstruction that was being done to one of Dol Amroth’s most assaulted walls. She peered up toward the saffron-streaked sky and pursed her lips in irritation.

“The seawall will be reinforced in a matter of weeks,” her companion – an unusually tall, unusually slender dwarf – crossed his bulging arms over his equally bulging chest and dug his heels stubbornly into the spring-softened earth beneath his boots. “And then what will you do? You’ve all but single-handedly turned Dol Amroth into the most fortified and structurally stable fortress in Middle Earth!”

“Work always comes, Seppä,” Kivi finally graced her fellow dwarf with a dour, side-long glance.

“Work has come now,” Seppä insisted, his voice starting to heat ever so slightly in anger.

“No,” Kivi’s frost-blue eyes turned quickly away, but Seppä saw the calculated look that flashed briefly across her broad, but winsomely proportional face.

The black-haired smith took a deep, steadying breath.

She’s as stubborn as her mother ever was, he thought, but after a moment, his rueful musing turned hopeful. But, she has just as much of her father’s common sense.

“Äiti,” Seppä addressed Kivi again and this time, his tone was level and persuasive. “It is a great honor that is being offered. You heard the King’s messenger – there are few true master masons among Durin’s sons. There are not enough to rebuild Erebor, nor is there one skilled enough to lead such a noble endeavor.”

“I have only been at my craft for ten years,” Kivi remained seemingly unmoved, but Seppä could see enough of her profile to notice the way her eyes narrowed, as she was wont to do when turning over the angles of a blueprint in her mind.

“You first picked up your mother’s mason’s mallet when you were but 51 years old. You’re a young and thriving lass of 83 now. Remove your three years in captivity and you have been at your craft for 29 years.”

“My mother was Kivi-Mestari and it took her 45 years to claim that title.” [“Stone-Master“]

“And you have your mother’s skill. Better, even, I would say.”

“Flattery does not become you, Seppä,” Kivi finally lowered her gaze from the dying sun sinking below the crenelations above them and turned to stalk across the knoll toward the garrison door forty or so paces away.

“‘Tis mere fact, Äiti, and you know it,” Seppä followed with dogged patience.

“You shouldn’t call me Äiti,” Kivi had fought with Seppä about her hereditary title for ten whole years, so the argument was well-worn and she knew by now she wasn’t going to win it.

That didn’t stop her from reminding her dwarven elder ever so often that she was still uncomfortable with the fate her mother had left to her.

“Your mother did not Twice-Name you for the idle satisfaction of her own hopes and fears,” the sturdy smith followed his red-blonde chieftain across the newly growing grass. “The line of Kivi Torni survives in you, Päällikkö. You are Äiti if you wish it or not.” [“Stone Tower“] [“Chieftain“]

“Are you done nagging me, you gray-bearded hag?” Kivi pushed the heavy oak door in front of them open; her expression was sour, and Seppä was still insisting that she was his superior, but she still held the door open dutifully for the older blacksmith.

“As a matter of point, no I am not,” Seppä smiled winningly at her as he passed her by; slight for a dwarf the smith might have been, but he still had wider shoulders than most of Gondor’s men and he had to turn to the side slightly in order to fit through the width of the door frame.

Kivi followed with far greater ease.

“You cannot lie to me and say that you do not long for Kivi Torni, or for justice,” Seppä continued as he waited for Kivi to pass him; the two then made their way up a steep flight of stairs. “To rebuild Erebor would forge an alliance between the lines of Durin and Thulin that would be near unbreakable. Their new king now holds the allegiance of the dwarves in the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains – such a force could easily help you reclaim Kivi Torni.”

“And what would this new King Under the Mountain want in exchange for such a campaign, I wonder?” Kivi retorted dryly; Seppä saw her eyes flash in the light of a passing torch and he suddenly realized that he had lost his argument.

There was a long, expectant pause, before the smithy replied reluctantly:

“He would probably ask for your hand in marriage. An alliance by marriage between Durin and Thulin would triple the wealth of both houses and the numbers of their sons to our daughters would make our two houses strong for generations.”

“I can hear it in your voice, Seppä – all of this sounds quite wonderful. A dwarf-maiden’s dream and a pragmatic solution to the ills of Thulin’s House,” Kivi stopped briefly on a landing and turned her body squarely toward Seppä. “But you forget – the sons of Durin know nothing of our culture or our ways. They may treasure their women, but not like the sons of Thulin do ours. If I were to create an allegiance to the King Under the Mountain through service or marriage, I would never truly rule Kivi Torni as my mothers before me. I would either be voiceless as his queen, locked safely away in Erebor, or I would be his regent, powerless to rule the Frost Dwarves as my own, except through acts of blatant rebellion.”

Seppä’s old heart broke a little at the look of fear, defiance, and horror that flickered across Kivi’s face like the flames on the wall beside them.

“I will not free my people from the grasp of one greedy old dwarf, to place it in the hands of another.”

“The Longbeards are an honorable folk, though -” Seppä tried to rally his last final hope, but Kivi dismissed it with a contemptuous snort.

“That’s what was said about the Stonefoots, too,” her blue eyes flashed as cold as a northern glacier, before she whirled on the heel of her boot and stormed angrily up the next flight of stairs. “And they made orphans of my nephew and niece.”

Seppä sighed heavily – there was no reasoning with Kivi when she was like this. His heart sank at the thought that the best chance his conquered people had was slowly burning to ash in the fire of their last chief’s bitterness. The two traveled in silence up the winding stairwell, through a maze-like stretch of empty hallways, and up into the warmer, more populated levels of Dol Amroth.

This had been Seppä’s home for ten years – it was here that Kivi had finally settled, in the hopes of making a stable life for the twin dwarflings left in her care. Ten years, Seppä had worked hard at establishing a reputation as a master smith, which wasn’t hard, since he had been such long before his exile from the wild Northern Wastes. But, he had been ever restless, ever hopeful that Kivi could heal her desecrated soul.

He could not imagine – nor did he want to – what she had endured at the greedy hands of Synkkä, lord of the treacherous Ironfist dwarrow. Yet, it was in times like this, when he tried to reason with her and tried to persuade her to see the necessity of forging an alliance with the sons of Durin (the strongest and largest house of dwarves in the West), that he secretly feared the grace of spirit that she had inherited from her Umli father had been forever erased by Synkkä’s lust.

All Kivi ever heard when Seppä tried to talk of an alliance, was that any such thing would destroy her hopes of freedom. Seppä knew that for all the time that had passed, for all of Katrikki’s Elven healing, Kivi deeply feared dwarven men and the power they could wield over her, simply because of the differences in their cultures.

And she was right – an alliance with the King Under the Mountain, with any son of the Khazâd, would only result in the subservience of her ancestral authority. The eastern dwarven houses the of Orocarni, or “the Red Mountains”, had been left largely forgotten by their Western cousins. Only the Ironfists had made a name for themselves long ago, by waging a foolish and ill-attempted war against the “Longbeards”.

The Stonefoots, the Blacklocks and Thulin’s House, the “Stiffbeards“, had answered the call of Thrór during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs after the fall of Erebor. But, all of Thulin’s unmarried sons and daughters who went to war for the displaced King Under the Mountain never came back home to Kivi Torni. Any chance that Durin’s sons had of knowing more about their northern kin had died on the plain of Azanulbizar.

Those remaining in the far northern regions of the Red Mountains, in Kivi Torni and the surrounding Wastes, honored the memory of Thrór and Thráin. Kivi’s mother had remained ever loyal to the aid of Durin’s sons. But, Seppä remembered Äiti Taavi’s solemn explanation for why they did not do more to help their exiled kin – her reasoning was the same as Kivi’s.

No daughter of Thulin wished to give up her birthright. They were the rarest of dwarven kind – members of the only house where daughters were born in plenty. As a result, they enjoyed the freedoms of a matriarchal culture built on the strength of their numbers in contrast to the scarcity of their sons.

Seppä had been born and raised to respect the power and privilege of all Stiffbeard women. Theirs was a peaceful society, a quiet house of carefully understated wealth; unlike other houses, there was little inequality between the expectations of man and women. Seppä was proud of his people, proud to call himself Thulin’s Son, proud to swear fealty to his bright-haired Äiti, even as young as she was.

But, he was beginning to wonder if the world was changing too rapidly for the Stiffbeards to survive as they had for centuries. What sacrifices would Kivi have to face, in order to save her people from the utter subjugation of the invading Ironfists? And how long would they all have to wait, wander, and wonder before she finally swallowed her dwarven pride and allied herself with Kíli Thorinkin, King Under the Mountain?

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Kivi – means “stone”. This is a hereditary/ceremonial title, taken on by the Stiffbeard’s chieftain when she assumes head of the House.

Äiti – means “mother”. The more informal, affectionate title for the Stiffbeard chieftain.

Kivi Torni – means “stone tower”. The Stiffbeard’s name for their ancestral mountain home.

Päällikkö – means “chieftain”. Official title of the Stiffbeard chieftain.

Thulin – the father of the Stiffbeards; one of the Seven Fathers of the dwarrow.

Longbeards – another name for Durin’s House/kin/folk/sons; the most famous Dwarven House in Middle-Earth.

Stonefoots – the third eastern House of dwarves, in the center-south of the massive Orocarni range in the kingdom of Rhun.

Ironfists – the second eastern House of dwarves, in the center-north of the Orocarni range, closest to the Stiffbeards.

Umli – “half-dwarves” of the Northern Wastes.

Khazâd – the dwarrow word for their own race.

Blacklocks – the fourth eastern House of dwarves, in the far south of the Orocarni range, the farthest flung of any of the Seven Houses.

Stiffbeards – the first eastern House of dwarves, in the far north of the Orocarni range, closest to the Iron Hills. The only matriarchal House and the only eastern House that truly recognizes the sovereignty of Durin’s Sons (though they do not swear fealty). Often called “Frost Dwarves” and/or “Thulin’s folk/kin/sons/daughters”.