When I was very small, too small yet to do anything else, I used to go down to the stables to watch the horses. No one minded me being there, or there were no grumblings that I heard. (There were advantages to being the King's niece.) In the mid-afternoon, the sun would pour in great, wide shafts through the high windows. They seemed so tall then! I had to crane my neck to see the arches, as powerful and graceful as the neck-crests of the meara. At that time of day, most of the meara were gone with their riders, but the coats of those left shone like the burnished bronze on Uncle's throne. When a fly would land on one of their backs, all of the muscles would shift ponderously, slower, then faster, like an earthquake rumbling—but a small movement, still, and the light would change and dance off of their coats. The light through the windows was soft and I could see the dust motes playing in it. Papa once told me about then that the stables of Rohan could rival in beauty the hallowed halls of the Kings of Gondor, and in those moments, I could well believe him…