Marta asked for a Dwarf for her birthday. Or failling that something with Denethor.
"Then I believe we have an agreement."
Glóin stroked his beard, raising a bushy eyebrow at the intense young man across from him. And he hid a smile. Gondor and the Lonely Mountain had their strange kinship—mayhap not writ in stone, but founded on it, on the metal that flowed from it. There were those who found both cold places, yet a Dwarf knew otherwise, and to judge by the latest Steward's Heir, there was still passion aplenty in Gondor's people.
But it is a good treaty, despite youthful haste. "My lord Denethor," Glóin said gravely, "we do indeed."