Snow's Storage

Impression now

Safe to say my impression of Finduilas has evolved a lot. A lot of the conflict within her character stems from the tension between that outer image of herself as the perfect, idealised and idolised woman of nobility and who she is as a person, this vibrant, joyful, curious person who is eroded away as she attempts to live up to the role of first wife and then mother, all while succumbing to the growing terror of Sauron's increasing power and her own depression and sea-longing. She's grown from a formulaic tragic archetype of a dead wife to a living, suffering woman whose tragedy lies not only her death but in her lost potential; not only does she die, she dies an alien to the self that she once was, to the self she could have been. I think Finduilas' sense of self is very fractured by the end as she attempts to contort herself into roles which do not suit her or give her a sense of purpose or fulfilment, all while suffering from poor mental health worsened by the sense that she is failing as a wife and mother. I love her and I'm obsessed with her and she has me pacing round the room thinking about her on the reg.

Favourite moment

She doesn't really get a 'moment' given that she gets a fleeting reference in the text and only a brief summary of the Steward-related moments of her life. However these lines are very precious to me:

But it seemed to men that she withered in the guarded city, as a flower of the seaward vales set upon a barren rock. The shadow in the east filled her with horror, and she turned her eyes ever south to the sea that she missed.

I'm obsessed with everything about this. The vivid image of Finduilas as a flower with a very specific natural habitat. The fact that she is perceived through the eyes of 'men', a stylistic choice that I have unwittingly adopted in several fics and WIPs about her. But most importantly it was re-reading these lines that made a switch flip in my mind and start perceiving Finduilas as more than just 'a lady of great beauty and gentle heart' because they give insight into her mental state and the pressures on her: Sauron and the loss of the sea. The fact that these lines led to my first fic about her and have only gone on to inspire me more and expand upon her connection to the sea and her inner world makes them massively important to me.

Idea for a story

I've been compelled by the idea of Finduilas/Uinen for a while but I haven't had any actual story ideas for them. Recently I've been thinking about tying them into Finduilas' connection to the tale of Elwing and the possibility of transformation as an escape from her marriage and her growing depression. Also I need to write a fic where Finduilas just says screw it and chooses herself over everyone else.

Unpopular opinion

I don't think Finduilas was a natural mother. I think she loved her children and she tried and made an effort to treat them the way they deserved but I think it was a struggle and she felt disconnected from them more often than not, never mind that she was increasingly low on energy. She's not the kind of person who likes kids or enjoys spending time with them. I think she didn't really see the point of a baby, capable only of crying and demanding things that she didn't feel capable of giving, and didn't feel any sense of connection to her kids, which deeply distressed her given her mother's belief in maternal affection just coming naturally, meaning that Finduilas didn't even know how to ask for help for fear of revealing herself as fundamentally flawed and missing something that seemed to come naturally to all other women. In this way I think motherhood only further contributed to Finduilas' eroded sense of self, simultaneously being pushed into a role which was even more alien to her natural temperament and finding herself unable to peform that role properly. It all isn't helped by the fact that pregnancy itself is draining and fraught for her, due to experiencing miscarriages in the past, the growing confinement and sense of being stifled as everyone closes in around her and her issues around her body image being made even worse by pregnancy changing her body. (Btw if you want to see a fic about this, the asker @starsuncounted has written this absolutely wonderful fic about exactly that.) I think Finduilas is naturally the sort of person who values her alone time and has very few people who are 'low-effort' whom she can hang out with for extended periods of time without feeling drained. And her kids did not fit into that category simply by virtue of sharing her DNA.

Favourite relationship

Her and Ivriniel. I do think that each of them is in conversation with the other, despite the fact that I have never gotten round to writing a fic in which they actually interact. They both love each other so much and yet it isn't simple. Ivriniel has looked after her and protected her ever since they were children. They spend time together, they do their hobbies together, they go swimming together. And yet they envy each other looks, behaviours, friendships, parental favour. They both feel discomforted by the role of a woman, wife, mother in the society that they are growing up in but they react completely differently to that sense of discomfort. Ivriniel's choice to sleep around and ruin her reputation frustrates and annoys Finduilas because it displays a level of disregard for social convention that she envies but refuses to admire. Finduilas' choice to marry and conform frustrates and annoys Ivriniel because it reminds her of the duties she should have taken on as the oldest sibling. And each of them hates the other's men because they see them as competition for time, love and affection that they are owed from their sister. They need each other and yet they refuse to confront each other honestly because that would involve confronting themselves and the lies and failures that they have left unaddressed within themselves.

Favourite headcanon

Oh, so many that I can't even pick. I'll go with a classic I have definitely mentioned before and a newer one I've been considering. For the classic one, I am very wedded to the idea of Finduilas, with her love of the sea and her subconscious desire to escape the confines that come wtih being a woman, has always identified more with historical figures like Eärendil, Aldarion, Tuor and Voronwë than with the women in their stories. That woman definitely fantasised about pulling an Althea Vestrit move (anyone here read Liveship Traders? no?) and dressing up as a boy to go live as a sailor when she was a kid.

For a newer one that I've not spoken about as much, Finduilas loved dogs. Not small ones that ladies would get as pets, but big massive wolfhounds and sheepdogs. I like to headcanon that when she and Ivriniel were young and went out on the cliffs of Dol Amroth to hang out and, in Ivriniel's case, scout for flowers, they would both end up gravitating toward this one shepherd. Ivriniel got to flirt with the shepherd, Finduilas got to befriend his dog, everyone wins. Also, tying into my let's-torture-ourselves headcanon that Théoden used to correspond with the House of Dol Amroth sometimes (begun as an inititative by his mother to help keep political channels open), she was so obviously jealous of the hounds that Théoden had that he at one point offered to have one of the puppies sent to her. Finduilas, at this point married and already beginning to fade in Minas Tirith, said no, reasoning that she would not be able to give it the care and attention it deserved, which is quite something coming from a woman who was also not getting the care and attention she deserved. Give her a dog! (this is a demand to me as well as to everyone else, I need to give her a dog)

He remembered under the whisper of darkness, two little boys, and a promise made. That one day Aerion would be a dragon, big and strong and the world would be his. Daeron had said so, that he had seen it in a dream, he would be a white dragon covered in green flames, and the world would rightly tremble in awe and fear. He looks away, and realizes there is a hand around his brother’s wrists, tight enough that it will leave bruises in its wake.

Daeron never lied when they were little. Daeron lied later, when he learned he needed to lie, and he lied so much. But he stopped lying now, and he did so because someone else made him want to be better.

It should have been me.

But the way his brother looks so shaken by that, by the claim, and cannot meet his eyes, he thinks he has found another soft spot. Soft, foolish Daeron, who gave away his weakness like a greenboy. So he will poke and prod and make Daeron tell him the truth.

“A white dragon, who had green flames, and I was a terror, you said that.”

Daeron, who will not look at him. “You do not wish to know.”

But he does.

His grip tightens.

“Aerion.”

“Tell me or I will break your wrist."

He should have slit the puppeteer's throat instead of breaking her fingers. He should have gutted the hedge knight before Aegon’s very eyes.

He should have ran his blade through Alysanne’s belly and left her to bleed out before her precious weirwood tree.

“A white dragon, drowning in wild green flames, only ash and bone remains,” his brother whispers, his dreamer prophesies, and he sees the far away look in this one’s eyes. “And you will be free from your madness and chasing impossibilities."

Dragons do not burn. Fire made flesh, and not even green fire can take their lives.

He’d never been more of a believer than when the Seven rewarded him with you; a woman of a smaller house who’d certainly benefit from an alliance with House Targaryen but had equally proved themselves as increasingly loyal ever since the Rebellion. What you had in terms of resources was humble, but after the visit to your home Valarr had returned to King’s Landing with a swelling sense of pride, knowing you had the richest singing voice one could ever hear, paired with a genuine, if not a charming, somewhat ungraceful disposition.

 ‘It is to be expected’, his father had said to him over a private talk in his study, ‘she has the best intentions, it seems. Once she arrives the septas will acquaint her with our customs. You will treat her with patience; I have no doubt.’ 

Valarr had made sure everything had been perfect in time for your arrival. The kitchens were to prepare the kind of jam you liked, no shrub in the gardens were to be out of line, and your harp was to reach the Red Keep the day before your landing so that you wouldn’t go a day without it.  

The day of your homecoming could only be described as tender, insular, like the business of the courts didn’t exist around you.

Under strict instructions not to be disturbed, he’d given you a lengthy tour of the castle, a dinner with his father and grandparents, and escorted you to your chambers at nightfall. 

Perhaps you were naive, but you could only be thankful that you were betrothed to someone who looked at you as if flowers bloomed underneath your footsteps. 

From that day the bustle resumed. Everybody was eager to have the wedding moved on as swiftly, but precisely, and you saw Valarr less as you both found yourself tied up in your respective duties. 

He’d made a habit of breaking your fast together each morning, or if it weren’t an option, then you’d quickly noticed that he particularly enjoyed it when you watched him on the training grounds, his posture exquisite and his moves sharp before looking to you for approval; mismatched eyes gleaming as he brushed his hair from his face, clinging to his forehead with sweat. 

Or, you’d have supper together, and sometimes the night would end with tea in the gardens, or Valarr visiting your chambers, interactions never beyond anything but modest. Still, with the eve of your wedding drawing closer, you’d found that his visits to your chamber had become more frequent, longer; all the while his touches lingered and the unspoken grew heavier.  

He adores you, everyone gushed. 

He’s primed for your wedding night, one of the ladies had joked. 

The comments were flattering but weighed on you. Valarr was cherished by everyone; the perfect prince, and you’d be damned should you be anything but the complimentary wife. Thus, you did all you could to make him- his family- proud, including spending a lengthy morning buried under books with a septa in the library.   

She’d been teaching you Valyrian when there was a gentle knock on the door. 

Lowering the book to your lap, you perked your head up as the septa disappeared and Valarr walked in, sword clanging quietly within its sheath. Hiding your confusion, you flashed him a small smile, noting that his brows were slightly furrowed. For a moment he didn’t speak. 

“Is everything alright, my Prince?” you spoke from your seated position. With an inhale he smiled, but it was somewhat strained. 

“I didn’t see you on the grounds today,” he spoke softly, voice dragging enough for you to know that it was rather a question than an observation.  

“I was pulled into a talk with the Queen about garlands,” you replied assuredly, remembering how the taste of oats and honey had not yet settled before you spent what felt like forever choosing colours of everything but your wedding dress. “They want everything to be perfect.” 

It was supposed to have been your decision but had really been somewhere between your mothers’ and the Queen’s. You accepted it; being in a foreign land in a structure as big and imposing as the Red Keep was enough to make you feel like a child again, discovering the world for the first time. Except you were a young woman about to be married into the most powerful House in the Kingdom, away from the life you knew and into a life that would be. There were knew customs and faces and names for you to learn and it was all becoming a bit scary—so if you needed someone to tell you what colour the garlands should be you’d let them. One day you’d be Queen, and then you’d be ready to make decisions yourself.  

Across from you, Valarr loosened his jaw and walked towards you.  

“It shall be. To wed you is enough a gift from the gods,” he said earnestly, placing a kiss to your hairline that made your cheeks warm and your stomach churn. As he pulled away, he eyed you intently. “Might you accompany me for a stroll?” 

You bit your lip, his request hard to deny when his eyes were so beautiful.  

“In due time, my prince – I must finish my studies. High Valyrian doesn’t come easy to me. Perhaps after dinner?” 

You gestured to the book on your lap, one of many that you’d accustomed yourself with since your arrival. You’d gotten so tongue-tied learning it that sometimes it was impossible to speak, but today you’d felt you had made a breakthrough of sorts — surely Valarr had other things to attend to?  

“Very well,” he hummed after a long pause. “I think we shall visit the stables.” 

You smiled. Valarr knew you had a liking for animals of all shapes and sizes. 

“I would love to,” you nodded, running your fingers across the page absentmindedly before glancing up at him. “…Perhaps you might know when your cousins are due to arrive?” 

It was an innocent question. For better or worse, Maekar’s offspring had a profound way of drawing attention, and you were somewhat desperate for eyes to be off you for a moment. 

But, you didn’t see Valarr recoil, nor the way he’d clenched his teeth. Instead, he cocked his head, lacing his discomfort with a half-hearted chuckle. What was so important about his cousins at a time like this? 

“I am sure they’re due any day know. My uncle would not miss the chance to spend more time with my father...Perhaps you should speak with him on my uncle’s whereabouts?” 

You pursed your lips, feeling somewhat dejected. Regardless of how kind Baelor was to you, you didn’t wish to bother him with such things.  

“There is no need for that. I think the surprise will be more amusing.” 

A smile tugged at his lips before he planted another kiss to your forehead. 

“I look forward to our time together,” he spoke, less wistfully and with more permanence than before. “Perhaps you could play your harp for me? It is most pleasing. You always sound lovely.” 

Shyly, you bit your lip. You’d been playing since you were young and hadn’t stopped. In fact, you considered it one of only the things you were perfect at. Your harp sat under the window in your chambers, often swathed in moonlight and soon to be replaced by a cradle no doubt. Of course, you were happy to sing for him, but it meant another night that would not be your own.  

For a boy saddled with duty, Valarr looks at you with all the glow of a boy in love. I was once a young man in his position once. As a father it warms me to see, Baelor had noted once, with a telling nod from the Queen. 

Your good-fathers' pride was etched in your mind as you nodded. 

“Of course, my love.” 

His cousins and uncle had arrived a day later, and you’d  witnessed something horrible. All it had taken was a wander through the stone walls to stumble upon the sound of a grumbling voice and the crack of a whip – and out staggered a weary looking Daeron. He was soon to be family, and you didn’t see the harm in conversing with him. ‘I’m alright’, he slurred with a wink, ‘if my dreams are anything to go by, I’m well equipped to handle pain’. You’d been surprised when he gave in to your insistence on showing his scars, red and raw across his pale feet.

It was an image you didn’t think would ever leave your mind, and all you could offer was a tear and your honest sympathies. 

Later that night, Valarr had found you staring blankly out of your window, watching the skies grow dark. There were no books or embroidery scattered on your dresser, and your harp and stool were untouched, simply sat next to you under the moonlight. It was unlike you to be so unhappy. 

“My love, I couldn’t hear you from outside. I was worried.” 

Valarr’s words pulled you from your thoughts, but you didn’t turn to face him. He was getting rather familiar with entering your chambers. It wouldn’t matter anyway, as his footsteps were slow as he made his way over to you — like any good husband would. 

“I apologise,” you mumbled. “I’m tired, that’s all.” 

Your excuse was weak and Valarr saw through it.

“Speak to me,” he began, voice firm. Perhaps Aerion had gotten under your skin? “Whoever hurt you will have to answer to me.” 

Sighing, you slumped your shoulders as you felt the brunette etch closer, eventually placing a chaste kiss to your collarbone, goosebumps peppering your skin in the moment. He was oh-so gentle, attentive in a way that had you already been married, you would’ve wanted him to bed you there and then.  

Fluttering your eyes shut, you were unaware of the fact that Valarr could smell you; how strongly the familiar scent of Dornish red clung to you, so much so that he swore he could taste the drink on your skin. It lingered behind your ear and the crook of you neck, even in the roots of your hair. 

You smelt of him; not of the slithering Aerion but of his unassuming older brother. 

With a clenched jaw Valarr snaked his hand around you forearm, not tight enough to hurt you, but enough to compel you to finally face him. 

“It was not a person, but a sight. It was awful,” you finally spoke, lip wobbling. “The lashings. He could hardly walk…” 

Valarr could not understand why you would feel so much concern for that of his cousin. He himself felt for Daeron, but ultimately he was not cut out to be a prince the way he was, and, arguably undeserving of a bride like you. Contemplating; his grip on your arm tightened. A lesser man would’ve flown into rage. 

“It was not a pleasing sight, I imagine. You should not have been there.” He spoke softly, but chiding, choosing to clasp your wrist instead and giving it a squeeze. “I would’ve been with you if I was not at a council meeting.” 

The statement brought little comfort. You did not reply, but offered a slight smile. Valarr brought your hand to his lips, gaze intense as he kissed your knuckles. Dropping your wrist, he ran his tongue over his lips, opening and closing his mouth before he spoke. Your demeanour hadn’t seemed to change. 

“I will have a maid bring you some tea.” 

Valarr had been distant. It was expected, you weren’t to see eachother in the immediate days leading up to your wedding, but this felt different. The halls burst with people, and yet you felt cold and alone, increasingly like you were walking into the unknown.  

You missed the breakfasts, the strolls, the unexplained check ins.

Had he stopped loving you? 

You’d tried your best not collapse completely when your maids had pulled on your dress, the milky white fabric you’d previously adorned suddenly feeling too tight. The Prince had gone silent, and now you were to speak the vows to become man and wife. 

Nobody would’ve known. You looked a portrait; the declarations rolled off his tongue with ease, and when he cut your lip his eyes glimmered with apologies for the momentary pain. His touch was just as soft as it had been the day you’d first met, and when you kissed to solidify your union it was as enchanting as you imagined. 

The thing about Valarr was that he slipped into the role of the precious grandson and heir so easily that you didn’t know what was real; so much so that his merriment had carried over to the festivities, smiling and thanking guests whilst he blushed over the compliments about his new wife.  

You’d even caught him staring at you from across the room – perhaps he was over whatever troubles had nipped at him? 

You’d thought so, at least until you’d found yourself waiting amongst the sheets that night, sheer nightgown providing little warmth. The celebrations were over and your maids had done everything to prepare you, bathing, dressing, rubbing your skin in rosy oils to not only make you smell nice, but to keep your muscles relaxed whilst the inevitable happened. It was a scary thing, but you didn’t find yourself quite dreading it as others did. 

You were partially ashamed to find yourself so desperate when Valarr arrived, handsomer and more boyish in the warm glow of candles and a soft cotton shirt. He entered silently, eyes roaming over your half-nude figure before glancing cooly at the wall. 

“Valarr – my prince, please talk to me.” 

“We do not have to consummate tonight,” was all he replied, making your stomach twist. The courts would talk.  

“Will you speak to me if we don’t? I never wished for our life to begin like this.” 

“I didn’t either,” he murmured as he shuffled around the room, before eventually placing himself at the end of the bed, his back towards you.  

“Then let us converse, please,” you begged, mind racing to find the words to pacify him, “if it’s because you are nervous, then —“ 

“I wonder if my cousin would make you happier?” he said flatly, angling his head that you could note his frown, jaw defined as he clenched. His stare was cold. “We can tell my grandsire to revoke this misalliance.” 

You blinked. 

“Why would you speak of such a thing?” 

“You shed a tear for him, but never me. Your husband. Your King. Do you know how much it hurts me that my mother was not here to see me through this?” 

Your heart sunk. You knew how strong the love had been between Jena and her husband and son, much more how callous it looked to prioritise his cousin’s feelings over his. They’d both lost their mothers, but Valarr was your husband. The night you’d spoke to Daeron had been a mistake. It was improper, and had someone with lesser intentions seen you the wedding could’ve been called off entirely.  

With a sigh, you draped your arms around his torso, pressing your chest against his back and laying your head in the crook of his neck to embrace him. He didn’t flinch, not even when you nipped at the side of his face. 

“Surely you must know how much I adore you?” you pleaded, certain he could feel your heartbeat against his rib cage. “I cried not for Daeron, but of our children. Should they have his affliction I do not wish for them to be beaten.” 

Shifting in his position, Valarr spoke through gritted teeth.  

“I am not my uncle.” 

“I know. I’m foolish to think so. For what it’s worth I would’ve loved to meet your mother, I am sure she is most proud…Perhaps, if we have a girl, we should name her in the lady’s honour?” you lulled, watching as Valarr silently gnawed on the inside of his lip. You brushed your fingers along his messy fringe, and up to the beautiful silver streak in his locks.  

“…Will you forgive me, husband?” 

He paused, face flickering with contemplation before he relaxed, angling his head to press a kiss to your wrist. 

“Such a word sounds beautiful from your mouth, my sweet,” he hummed, turning to face you. He finally wore a smile; glowing, secured. His fingers brushed the side of your face; down to the fresh scar on your lips, tracing it with his thumb, his eyes cloudy and voice worshipful. “Such a joy it is to have you as my wife. I prayed for you..” 

Breath hitched in your throat. 

“Will you still have me tonight?” 

“I want nothing more.” 

It was easy for Valarr to disarm you. The robe slid off with ease. He peeled off his shirt to bear his torso, smooth and toned from his years of practice. He kissed you as he lay you back amongst the pillows, hands caressing the curve of your back before sneaking up your sides, to your hips and thighs before they reached your breasts, lips finding the valley between them. His privates were hot and pressed against your legs, no doubt aching to be freed. 

You reached to lend him pleasure, but he stopped you. 

“Not tonight,” he whispered, voice ragged. “I want to be the one to make love to you. I must drink from you, please —“  

You weren’t prepared for a sea of brown and white to nestle between your legs, lapping at your folds like a man dying of thirst. The intrusion of his tongue was strange at first, but soon found a rhythm where his mouth moved in tandem with his fingers, making you squirm. For your first time, whatever he was doing felt exceptionally good. 

Your body ran hot, but nowhere was hotter than the burning in your loins. Something in your stomach bubbled, and Valarr seemed to sense this, pulling away. His fringe clung to his forehead and his face was shiny. 

“You taste like the finest peach, but I wish to be inside you.” 

He carefully removed his underwear, fully nude and as exposed as you. His length was hard and a flesh coloured pink, and now it dawned on you that it was supposed to go inside you. With a steady hand on himself, Valarr kissed your throat, lining up against your entrance. With parted lips, he ran the tip along the nectar accumulated, teasing you with what was to come. He glanced down at where the both of you were conjoined before back at your face, with a sloppy kiss to your chin. 

It stung when he stretched you, enough to evoke the same tears he had complained about not long ago. You were overcome; exhausted from the long days together to the complete silence, and now to the marital bed.    

“I do not mean to hurt you, love,” he said gently. You’d taken half of him, and he lay still to accustom you to his manhood. “It will go away.” 

He continued to slide into you, hands on either side of your head once he bottomed out, shivering. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he began to pump in and out of you, the sensation new but pleasurable to him also. Instinctively, you grasped his forearm. 

“It’s better when you move…” you sighed, a moan escaping your lips. “Oh, Valarr…” 

He continued at a steady pace, buttocks clenching with every thrust, angling himself so that he were closer to you, breasts pressed against his chest; heart to heart.

Once he felt secure, he wrapped a hand around one of your thighs, bending your leg so that you could take more of him. He moaned and grunted, weeks of emotions bubbled inside of him. He kissed your necklace, the very one he’d gifted you on the visit he’d proposed a betrothal. The symbol that you had his heart, perfect to the ring on your finger that meant you had his name.  

“My love. My heart. My Queen. I love you,” he spoke earnestly, almost breathless before glancing briefly to the sky. “I would wed you all over again for this moment…Gods, you are great…” 

You were a perfect fit in all the ways that mattered. Politically. Emotionally. Carnally. Gasping, you clung to his torso like someone desperate not to fall, even if you’d only fall into his arms again. 

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