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"Say that again."
"My sister, Lothíriel, the princess famous for her beauty, grace, and odd-duckishness across all Gondor, is pregnant. With your child. With your illegitimate child, to boot, since when pushed she admitted that you two aren't, as such, married."
Éomer gaped. Éothain, sensing a potential crisis of gossip, motioned for the guards to wait outside the study, assuming that the princes of Dol Amroth had worked off most of their physical anger in their initial assault. After shooing them out and closing the door firmly, he spoke.
"Apparently your trip to Dol Amroth after your sister's wedding was more exciting than you mentioned, Sire."
Three pairs of angry eyes – one brown, two grey – focused on Éothain, who wilted slightly under the pressure. He quickly backed off, moving away from his king and his (apparent) guests.
"Pregnant? When … when did this happen?"
Amrothos spoke, quietly but firmly.
"As your captain of the guard mentioned, you accompanied Father and I home to Dol Amroth after the Lady Éowyn's wedding to our cousin Faramir five months ago. At this point, you made the acquaintance of our sister, Lothíriel, who had been unable to attend the wedding due to the need for her to remain with our brother Elphir's wife, who was at the time quite ill."
Enchirion then caught up the tale.
"It can only be assumed that you and our sister struck up a whirlwind romance, for when you left our city two months after you had arrived you had … seduced … Lothíriel at least once and succeeded in impregnating her. Father is simply livid."
"As are we," added Amrothos. "We considered whether it would be feasible for Dol Amroth to declare was on the Rohírrim without consulting King Ellessar, but …"
"Father decided that that would be impolitic and so sent us instead," finished Enchirion.
"Beating me up doesn't count as … impolitic?" snorted Éomer.
"That was our own touch. Father will likely disapprove, and who knows what Lothíriel will do."
"To true, Am. She's been moody as all get out since you knocked her up, Éomer."
Éomer sighed, collapsing into the chair behind his desk. "I suppose it's too much to ask that you are merely toying with me to get a reaction, Amrothos."
"Would I joke about something like this?"
"… No. So what do you two propose I do about this?"
"Well, first we have a few letters to deliver. One from Father, one from Lothíriel, and one from Elphir."
"Don't forget the one from King Ellessar, Enchirion," added Amrothos.
"I was getting there, Am," muttered Enchirion. He took a sheaf of documents out of his tunic, handing it to Éomer. "Father told us in no uncertain terms to let you read the documents in peace and privacy. Do you have somewhere we can put up our feet while we wait?"
Éomer thought for a moment, then reached a decision. "Éothain, see the princes and their men to the Hall for a meal – I'll wager they haven't eaten proper food in a while. While they eat see that their horses are stabled. Settle the men in the barracks and have Brytwyn make up rooms for the princes in Meduseld. And when she asks, I don't know how long they'll be staying."
Éothain nodded, motioning for Amrothos and Enchirion to follow him. Éomer thanked Béma once again for his captain's wife – she had taken up the position of housekeeper of Meduseld admirably after Théoden's chief housekeeper, Eadmod, had expressed a wish to retire after the Ring War. Éomer wriggled in his chair, seeking a position that would minimize the pain from what he knew would become fierce bruises.
He pulled the packet of letters towards him. Noticing they were numbered, he searched for the one with a clear, bold "1" on the front, noticing that it came from Imrahil. "Well," he thought, "there's no time like the present." He broke the seal on the letter and began to read.