Like a branch from a forgetful tree by Himring  

In late spring that year, a merchant came from the South, a stranger all the way from Gondor. It was rare that one of those strayed so far from the Anduin. The landholders who farmed at the foot of Erebor eyed him warily at first, but he turned out to be well-spoken, indeed unusually so, and did not ask extortionate prices, although the quality of his wares was very fine. So, they welcomed him into their houses while trade negotiations were going on and were free with helpful advice.

One of their daughters was named Helga. She made friends with the stranger. And if at first it was just curiosity that attracted her to him and his uncommon looks—taller and darker of hair than she was used to—who can blame her?  But as they fell to talking, in the yard and the marketplace, it quickly became more than that, and she was perhaps the only one to divine that it was not only a readiness to try new routes and a love of the wide lands that had brought him out of the usual way, although both of those were genuine enough. He was eager to listen and to learn, and that was endearing.

Padrandir was advised to try his luck in Esgaroth, also, and before he went, it was quietly agreed between him and Helga that he would return and they would speak again, although with nothing else promised on either side, and indeed whatever else either of those two might be thinking, nothing had been put into words at all.

Things went well in Esgaroth, and Padrandir returned confident that he had made connections there that were promising for the future.  A couple of days after his return he and Helga went for an evening walk together along the River Running. That path was quiet and a little sheltered but with a fine view towards the Lonely Mountain.

It was one of those evenings when the horizon briefly takes on an intense shade of turquoise. A thrush sang among the rocks. From farther away, there came the cawing of a lone raven.

Padrandir took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

‘I feel I can breathe more freely here than anywhere else,’ he said.

‘Then why not stay?’ asked Helga.

Then she blushed, because that practically amounted to a proposal, did it not? And although she believed her family would not disapprove of such a match, she felt self-conscious.

‘Would anyone come looking for you here, if you did?’ she asked quickly.

Padrandir thought of his remaining family in Gondor. He thought of the smidgen of royal blood in his veins—too distant a relationship to make him a serious candidate for the throne and yet, in a Gondor still haunted by all too recent memories of the Kinstrife, enough for ambitious relatives to endanger him with their political plots and for a wary king to contemplate arranging some kind of comfortable imprisonment to keep him out of mischief. He had not wanted to be cooped up like that in the midst of luxury; he had not wanted any of all that, anymore.

‘Not here,’ he said, ‘not so far from the reach of Gondor. And especially not if we should get married,’ he added hopefully, with a hint of a question in his voice.

That marriage would certainly completely disqualify him in the eyes of any Gondorian schemers, although as far as he was concerned, that was a welcome but coincidental benefit.

‘I would like that,’ admitted Helga sedately.

Observing his mixture of delight and abashed confusion at her consent, she added: ‘But let’s not rush things. We can be betrothed for a decent while first—and you can trust me to see off anybody who tries to take you away from my side!’

That last was said very firmly. Padrandir imagined Helga—his Helga now—telling the king of Gondor to get lost. He did not doubt in the least that she would, and fiercely, too. He was still glad that the occasion would not arise.

They kissed there, the two of them by the River Running, sealing their betrothal.

In time, those two would become the ancestors of the line of Girion of Dale, although by then in Minas Tirith the very name of Padrandir and any kinship was long forgotten.

Chapter End Notes

Relevant Birthday Bash prompts:

Word: displaced

Poem:

Yesterday I lost a country. 
I was in a hurry, 
and didn't notice when it fell from me 
like a broken branch from a forgetful tree. 
I Was in a Hurry by Dunya Mikhail, translated by Elizabeth Winslow

The name of Girion sounds Sindarin, so he might have been of Numenorean descent. But I'm not at all suggesting that Bard needs to be a descendant of Elros to achieve what he does!

Canonically, some potential heirs of the royal house of Gondor did flee the country or renounce their heritage and choose a non-Numenorean spouse to escape suspicion. But none is described as escaping northward like this.

The name Padrandir is from Chestnut's excellent Elvish name list, with thanks, and means: track-wanderer.

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