A/N: Hello again, all. Kitkit again. I seem to be on a let's-embarrass-Éomer spree here, and I have the feeling that it's going to get worse before it gets better. I'll allow myself a small evil laugh before getting into the meat of the story. Mwhahahaha.

Éomer followed his sister out of the tent with a scowl. As they wound their way towards the horse lines, Éomer found himself thinking of the princess. He dearly hoped that his relationship with the Princess Lothíriel had started on a low point and would only improve. He hadn't even met the woman face-to-face and she was already disconcerting him.

A ruckus on the lines shook Éomer out of his reverie. It seemed that one of the mares, a black, had escaped the lines and was being chased by a stallion. Éomer did not recognize the mare – though by the looks of her she was an excellent specimen – but the stallion …

Éowyn was looking interestedly at the ruckus. "Is that Firefoot chasing Lothiriel's mare?"

Éomer groaned. "That's the princess' mare?"

Éowyn nodded. "Indeed it is."

"Today just keeps getting worse and worse."

"Here comes the princess now, Éomer. Prepare to apologize." Éomer noted that Princess Lothíriel was accompanied by Eanulf, who had been put in charge of the horses for the trip to Mundburg.

Distracted as he was, Éomer noticed the princess' willowy grace, how she navigated the broken ground with ease. She was tall for a woman, with her eyes coming perhaps up to his nose. He was more surprised than he should have been by her looks. She strongly resembled her father and her cousin Faramir, with their Numénorean grey eyes and black hair, which surrounded her face in an aureole, barely contained by a band of silk. The headband matched her dress, a flowing mass of dark-blue silk with a pattern of silvery feathers. He turned to Eanulf, signalling for the man to report.

"Apologies, Sire. We weren't expecting the lady's mare to be such a handful and so didn't take as much care as we should have, and she managed to get herself of the line. The hand who took Firefoot was one of our newer people, and wasn't used to your horse's liveliness. He didn't bother tying him up properly, and so he managed to chase after milady's mare with ease." Noticing the formal outfits of the king and his sister, he continued, "We'll keep an eye on them while you are up at the city, my lord. Bring them in when they're done and take care of them."

Lothíriel turned to Eanulf, but posed her question to both the stable master and Éomer and Éowyn. "I am going to be joining the party leaving tomorrow for Rohan for the burial; would it be easier for me to come and pick up Nightsong then?"

Seeing Eanulf's nod – they both knew it might be some hours before the horses were done and recovered from their exploits – Éomer nodded. "That would probably be best, my lady."

"Good. I shall pick her up at the end of the first day's travel. I'll just have to ride one of my brothers' spares until then."

Éomer nodded. "Eanulf, if you'll have Wingfoot and Éowyn's mount -" he looked to her for the mare's name - "Silksheen," she supplied, "Silksheen, saddled, we will prepare to depart."

Éowyn, ever practical, found a problem. "But how are you going to get up to the city for the feast without Nightsong, Lothíriel? We would lend you a horse, but we don't have any sidesaddles and you can't ride astride in your skirts."

"That … may be a problem."

Finally, something I can do right. "I may have a solution, ladies. Éowyn, if you'll ride with me, then Lothíriel can use your palfrey."

Éowyn and Lothíriel shared a look. No, they shared a Look – a Look which did not bode well for Éomer's suggestion.

Lothíriel broke the silence. "That is an excellent suggestion, my lord," he straightened, thinking the matter resolved, "except for the fact that the palfrey that was loaned to your sister won't have anything to do with me. She was gifted to your sister by my cousin Faramir, and has taken an extraordinary shine to your sister. She now refuses to let anyone else ride her."

Éomer scowled at his sister. "Faramir had to get you a mount that matches you for stubbornness, didn't he?"

"I will train it out of her as soon as I can, brother. I just got her today."

"Why did he feel the need to give you a horse now? Couldn't he wait until the handfasting?"

"He wanted me to have a mount already trained for a sidesaddle, and now seemed as good a time as any. She's still a little wild; Faramir correctly assumed that I'd like to finish her training myself. It shouldn't take me long."

"I should hope not."

Lothíriel, who had been listening to the siblings argue with an amused expression, broke in to the conversation.

"As interesting as this is, my lord Éomer, Éowyn, this does not resolve the matter at hand. How do you two propose that we all get to the Merethrond in good time? What I can only assume to be the party accompanying you is gathering, and they look rather … antsy."

With a slight shake of her head, Lothíriel directed their attention to the direction of the assembling Rohírrim, who were indeed those who were to go to the feast.

Éomer sighed. "Let's go and meet up with the rest of the party; hopefully one of them has an idea."

It had been the ever-practical Elfhelm that had proposed the solution to the riding problem. The horse belonging to Éowyn's maid Astrud was a placid, elderly mare, though still showed the elegance of all Rohírric horses. Astrud had been quite willing to loan her mare to a princess once she understood the need. A stable hand had put Lothíriel's sidesaddle on the elderly mare, and after a few turns around the makeshift paddock the princess was ready to go. By this point, everyone else was long since ready.

Éomer gave a last, appraising eye-over of his people. Seeing everyone prepared, he raised an arm and cried out, "Eorlingas! We ride!" The party moved towards Minas Tirith, Éowyn and Lothíriel riding side by side. Éomer watched them, looking to see if they were as fast friends as they seemed. Despite his initial misgivings, Éomer admitted to himself that the princess knew how to handle a horse. She guided Astrud's mare with ease, despite the uncertainty associated with a new mount. He felt a grudging admiration for the princess. She was definitely resourceful, and didn't balk from a challenge. And like he'd told Éowyn – anyone who could stuff his sister into a fancy dress and onto a sidesaddle was a force of nature with an iron will. Maybe he'd been wrong about her. Pretty and delicate she may be, but definitely not as empty-headed as the typical Gondorian hot-house flower. Lost in his thoughts, he did not see the princess directing her mount towards him until she was next to him. He gave a start when her voice broke his train of thought.

"My lord Éomer, in all the fuss I believe that we have yet to be properly introduced."

"You are correct, my lady. I am sorry to have made your acquaintance under such poor circumstances."

Lothíriel gave a very unladylike snort. "You've met my brothers, my lord king. I am rather used to such events happening around them. You seem to fall prey to similar ill-chance; it is no wonder you get on as well as you do."

"Your family has spoken to you of me?"

"Often and eloquently, my lord. Amrothos especially sings your praises. I understand you saved his life on the Field of Cormallen?"

"It was the least I could do, my lady. Your lord father it was who discovered that Éowyn still lived during the battle of the Pellenor. I owe your family much."

"Well, my lord, I daresay we are even now – you saved my favorite brother's life and your sister is to wed my cousin."

"Indeed she is. Your cousin has made this official to at least the Rohírrim with his gift of a horse to Éowyn, though the official declaration will have to wait until after Uncle's funeral."

"The gift of a horse has some symbolic value for the Rohírrim, my lord?"

Éomer nodded. "A man will give a horse to a woman he wished to wed. If she takes it, they are betrothed. It is usually a bit more complicated for the upper classes, but it is the typical first step, done as a formal announcement of an intention to wed."

"Ah. So Faramir's gift to Éowyn – "

"Sends a clear message to the Rohírrim about his intentions. They will be expecting a handfasting soon, though not, of course, before the funeral."

"That is good to know, my lord. Now mind your head at the gate. You wouldn't want to get a concussion on top of everything else that's happened today."

They were entering the main gates of the city, which had been garlanded in flowers, some of which were low enough to impede a man on horseback as tall as Éomer. He bent to avoid a particularly low-hanging specimen, thanking the princess for her sharp eyes. As they made their way up to the first circle, Éomer turned to Lothíriel.

"I must apologize for Firefoot's behavior earlier today, my lady. This is comparatively unusual behavior for him."

"It is quite all right, my lord. I understood from your stable master that your mount is rather ill-tempered, so it is understandable that he might get away from the lines."

Éomer stiffened. He would take criticism to himself far easier that to his horse. "He is a warhorse, my lady. Firefoot's ill-temper has saved my life several times," he said, with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary.

Lothíriel noticed his vehemence. A dark eyebrow rose in response. "Perhaps his temperament matches his master's. I mean no disrespect, my lord – a good horse needs spirit."

"I find it unusual that a maiden of Gondor believes that, Lady Lothíriel. Many of your compatriots seem to prefer placid mounts."

"Only because they do not know better. To be truthful, I would rather ride astride, but it is impractical in full skirts."

"If you say so, my lady. I wouldn't know."

Again the eyebrow went up. Éomer kicked himself for putting his foot in his mouth. A period of silence followed as Éomer attempted to think of a way to resolve the tension between himself and the lady, but he could think of none but an apology. Fortunately he was saved from the indignity of apologizing to the princess – again! – by their arrival at the stables of the first circle. Imrahil and Faramir were there to meet them. Éomer noticed Éowyn cutting off her conversation with Elfhelm to dismount. Faramir went to her, and they stood next to Silksheen, evidently discussing the horse's finer points.

Imrahil came over to Éomer and Lothíriel. Éomer dismounted, and the two men exchanged greetings. Lothíriel dismounted more slowly, and stood petting her mount, thanking it for letting her ride.

Imrahil turned to his daughter, noticing her mount. "Lothíriel, I am sure you accompanied Éowyn on Nightsong. Where is she?"

"Nightsong is back at the Rohírric camp, Father. Ask Éomer King for more details, as my mare is staying there on his hospitality." Éomer wondered if he needed his ears checked – did he detect amusement in her voice?

Imrahil turned back to Éomer with a raised eyebrow that was strongly reminiscent of his daughter's.

"Dare I ask?"

This was going to be an enjoyable explanation.

Éomer leaned back in chair, content with life. Good food and good company, with no immediate threat hanging over him. Life was good. He had reacquainted himself with many of the friends he had made on his last trip to Gondor (the unpleasant reason for them all being there notwithstanding). Éomer also had had a chance to meet some elves of renown, kin to Aragorn's bride. Very conscious of the honor, he had been on his best behavior in their presence. The Lady Galadriel had especially disconcerted him; her great grey eyes seemed to look into his very soul. After the introductions had been made, he had resolved – at least in the short term – his argument with Gimli about the Lady of the Golden Wood. Éomer found that he preferred Queen Arwen's quiet grace to Galadriel's fey presence. He had always preferred dealing with people – women and men alike – who were grounded in the real world. The Lady of the Golden Wood seemed … not entirely there, like a part of her was still with her kin across the Great Sea.

He and Éowyn had sat next to Imrahil's family during the dinner, including Faramir, and they had spent a good deal of the meal catching up. Éomer had become fast friends with the Amrothians during the march to the Black Gates, though he found Elphir rather stuffy most of the time, and Amrothos rather too rambunctious. Erchirion was more balanced, as apparently was Lothíriel. He found himself enjoying the presence of the princess more than he would have expected; she did not chatter needlessly as did so many young women when confronted by royalty, but rather talked cogently and with discretion about a variety of relevant topics. He was getting the distinct feeling that he should not have been so quick to assume the worst of her; Imrahil's family seemed to defy all expectations of them.

Éomer thought back to his first meeting with Faramir. He had thought the Steward rather ineffective, being put upon to remain bedridden in the Houses of Healing while others went and fought at the Black Gates. But seeing his sister and Meriadoc Holdwine – both doughty and fearless – kept ill and uncertain by the self-same thing that kept Faramir abed, the Black Breath, Éomer had been forced to admit that Faramir's weakness was unfeigned, and not put upon to avoid battle. He had long heard of the deeds of Faramir's brother Boromir from Théodred, for the two had been fast friends, but had been under the impression that Faramir had been less favored due to some shortcoming in his character. After spending time in his company, Éomer knew that while Faramir was cautious and grave to the point of dourness, he did not shirk from his duty and loved Éowyn deeply. Éomer just hoped that it would be enough to keep his sister happy in Ithilien, far from her native soil. Yet seeing the loving looks that Éowyn and Faramir had exchanged over dinner, Éomer was less worried that he had been before sitting down to eat.

Casting his eyes over the dancing, Éomer noticed Faramir dancing with Lothíriel. Now she wasn't what he was expecting, either. Pretty, yes, graceful, yes, and with a fine sense of propriety and decorum, but so much more. A woman able to giggle with Éowyn over his faux pas, with an excellent taste in horseflesh. More practical than he had thought possible for a noble maiden of Gondor. Very intriguing. Very confusing. Éomer mentally kicked himself; we are not going to get distracted by a noble girl. Especially Imrahil's daughter! The dance ended; after a short period of discussion, Lothíriel and Faramir walked over to the rest area set out near the refreshments. Taking a glass each of punch, they found seats near Éomer's. Éomer exchanged polite nods of greeting with them before resuming his review of the dancing.

The cousins sat in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks. After they had finished, they handed their empty cups to one of the waiting servants and came and sat next to Éomer.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Éomer King?" asked Faramir.

"Indeed I am, my lord Steward."

He wasn't feeling overly talkative tonight. If the Steward didn't like it, let him stew. Faramir, however, seemed amenable to a few moments of relative peace, as few people would dare bother three such high-ranking people gathered together without a very good reason, even if they were silent. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, watching the dancing. Eventually Éowyn came looking for her brother and her soon-to-be-betrothed, and, catching sight of them, came marching determinately towards them.

"Faramir, come and dance with me."

"Of course, Éowyn." Turning to Éomer and Lothíriel, he said, "I think that the next dance is a cotillion – will you two join us?"

Éomer rose. He knew that if he refused his sister would never let him hear the end of it, so he'd better make the best of a poor situation. "How can I refuse the chance to dance with a beautiful lady?" he asked, extending his arm to Lothíriel. She took it with murmured thanks, and the two couples made their way to the dance floor. Aragorn saw which way they were headed, and evidently know what musical style was upcoming, as he spoke quickly and quietly to his wife and her grandparents before all four came to join their set.

As they neared the dance floor, Lothíriel spoke, quietly enough that only he could hear. "How familiar are you with Gondorian court dances, my lord?"

"Éowyn and I had to practice them in our youth – grudgingly – but I have not had much time to practice in recent years. So not very good, I'm afraid."

"Wartime does tend to drive out ancillary concerns, such as learning foreign dances. Follow my lead as much as you can. One of the more useful things I've learned is how to lead dancing while making it look like I am following." The princess' face was straight and dignified, but he caught a glimmer of contained humor in the twinkling of her eyes. They took their places in the initial formation, Éomer watching Aragorn and Faramir closely to see what they did.

"Are you insinuating that I am a poor dancer, my lady?" he asked, feigning affront. She wriggled slightly, enough that his hand moved slightly across her back to what he realized was the appropriate position to begin the dance.

As the music began, she replied, "Only with dances you are unfamiliar with, my lord. If it helps, I am sure that you are a quick study." Then, as the first chords were struck, their conversation ended as they concentrated on the dance. The princess was indeed an excellent dancer, and was adept at making it seem like he did, in fact, know what he was doing. She caught him glancing at the other dancers out of the corners of his eyes to see what they were doing and winked at him.

"Do not worry overmuch, my lord. You are doing well for someone unfamiliar with the steps. And one of the benefits of being royalty is that very few people will call you out on any mistakes you make."

He crooked an eyebrow. "They might not be laughing and pointing as such, my lady, but I know that many Gondorians look down on my people as northern barbarians, to be called upon at need and then forgotten. Many of them are likely enjoying the sight of the Dol Amrothian princess attempting to not get her feet stomped on by the brutish Rohírric king."

An uncharacteristic scowl appeared on Lothíriel's face. "You should not debase yourself so, my lord, not even in mockery. Your people may not have a long a history as Gondor, but it is as rich as ours. And those who demean your folk are fools to have forgotten what we owe you. Gondor – and all Middle-Earth – would not exist in anything like its current form if the Rohírrim were not a people of valor. Please remember that some of us in Gondor, at least, remember what we owe." Her words were low and heated, and clearly heartfelt.

"Thank you, my lady. It is good to be reminded of that."

The Princess Lothíriel was indeed full of surprises.

A/N: I'm really piling it on here, a note at the beginning and the end. Please remember to review or drop me a line. I like to know how I'm doing – tell me if you like the story, don't like it, find a typo/error, want me to update faster, etc. More reviews/comments will likely mean faster updates, though, so you have all been warned. ;) kitkit.