Creators' Notes (optional): I disclaim any text that you recognise as Tolkien’s, from “The King of the Golden Hall.” I also disclaim descriptions from “Stirrings of Shadow”, my late Atto Fiondil’s story of Aragorn’s time amongst the Rohirrim, which I have adopted as part of my headcanon concerning Rohan and the Rohirrim. He gave me the right to play in his ‘verse; this story is done partially in tribute to him, and with love to his memory.

”Earntungol” is the Rohirric rendering of “Thorongil”, according to my Atto Fiondil’s fic Stirrings of Shadow. Cyneheard is the Rohirric name chosen by Aragorn’s maternal uncle Beren, and Baldric is as near to a Rohirric rendering of “Targon” as I could come. In my headcanon, Aragorn rode with two of his youngest uncles – one from each side of the family – on his travels South. Beren married a woman of Rohan, and Targon alone accompanied Aragorn to Ecthelion’s court.

Summary: Faramir and his companions reach Edoras, and are escorted into the hall of Theoden King.

Eventide of the fifteenth day saw them draw near to the gates of the great City of the Horse-Lords. Faramir’s eyes widened as the golden-red sunset glowed like fire above the great Golden Hall, and he snuggled into Targon’s chest, staring up at the marvelous sight. Targon put him to bed, though he had risen mere hours before, and said it would be best if they approached Edoras in the morning.

The morning was bright and clear about them, and birds were singing, when they came to the stream. It ran down swiftly into the plain, and beyond the feet of the hills turned across their path in a wide bend, flowing away east to feed the Entwash far off in its reed-choked beds. The land was green: in the wet meads and along the grassy borders of the stream grew many willow-trees. Already in this southern land they were blushing red at their fingertips, feeling the approach of spring. Over the stream there was a ford between low banks much trampled by the passage of horses. The waggon passed over and came upon a wide rutted track leading toward the uplands.

They passed the barrows of Théoden’s sires, blanketed in white evermind; following the winding way up the green shoulders of the hills, they came at last to Edoras, where many men clad in bright mail stayed their progress.
“Stay, strangers here unknown!” they cried in Rohirric, and Targon laughed, stepping forward into the light. 
“Am I then a stranger to you, Aldor of Aldburg, Aelfgifu’s brother?” he demanded. “New-come you must be to Edoras, if you would look upon kin so. I am known to the Rohirrim; Baldric I was called, who rode with your father’s éored thirty years past, with my kinsmen Earntungol and Cyneheard.” 

Aldor bowed. “Cyneheard I well recall, for it was I who placed my sister’s hand in his,” he acknowledged. “I remember you, lord, and Earntungol. I pray you will forgive an old man – thirty years is long to wait before a sight of one’s near-cousins. Who then are these?”

“I am Lord Orodben, kin to Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth,” Orodben said, in flawless Rohirric. Aldor’s eyebrows rose slightly. 

“A pleasure, I am sure, my lord. And the boy?”

“Faran son of Earntungol,” Faramir spoke for himself. “We wish to speak to Théoden King. Please.”
Aldor smiled slightly. “Remain here. Baldor will convey your words to the King.”

The younger Rider departed, and the body of warriors dispersed, except for Aldor, at the aging man’s word.
“Faran son of Earntungol, heh?” Aldor looked keenly at the child. “Then he is not Faramir, son of Denethor, I guess, although he matches the description the Lord Steward sent.”

“What would Théoden King do if I was?” Faramir asked, frowning.

“The Lord Steward wishes Lord Faramir, if or when he is found, to be summarily brought before the Steward’s Chair along with his captors, to undergo judgement,” Aldor said.

“But what would Théoden King do?” Faramir insisted.

“I guess you had better ask him that yourself, Master Faran,” Aldor said drily. Baldor returned mere moments later, and bowed to the Northern lords. 

“Théoden King will see you now. You must leave your weapons with Aldor,” he added. Targon and Orodben had expected that, and dutifully left their swords behind.

Faramir sucked his lip anxiously when the men weren’t looking, padding at Targon’s heels. Baldor led them across a portico, where there were pillars made of mighty trees hewn in the upland forests and carved with interlacing figures gilded and painted. The doors also were of wood, carven in the likeness of many beasts and birds with jeweled eyes and golden claws. Although the doors were closed, they were not barred and Baldor pushed one of them open enough for the men and child to enter before closing it behind them again.

Inside, it seemed dark at first and Faramir had only an impression of a vast space filled with people milling about. Gradually his eyes adjusted and he saw before him a long and wide hall with mighty pillars richly carved upholding its roof. Bright sunlight fell in shafts from the eastern windows high under the eaves. The floor was paved with stones of many hues. Tapestries adorned the walls and banners hung from the beams. Even on this warm day a clear wood fire burned on the long hearth in the midst of the hall. Beyond the hearth and facing north towards the doors was a dais with three steps and in the middle of the dais was a gilded chair, richly carved and painted. Above the throne hung a green banner with a running white horse — the sigil of the Rohirrim.

People stood between the pillars talking softly in small groups. Those nearest the doors had turned to see who had entered and were surprised to see those who appeared to be Stanlendings, but were allowed little time for speculation for at that moment an old man bearing a wood staff stepped in front of the dais and banged upon the floor three times.

"Westu, Théoden, hál!" he cried and the crowd echoed him even as the king of the Mark entered from the east side of the dais, followed by a noble lady and lord – Targon whispered to Faramir that these were the King’s youngest sister, Princess Théodwyn, and her husband, Lord Éomund. Between them walked the Crown Prince, Théodred Aetheling, who was just Boromir’s age, and the prince seated himself on a bench near his father’s throne, between his aunt and uncle. Faramir felt a pang of loneliness as he met the Aetheling’s eyes across the room. I miss Brom, he thought, and wondered if the prince would like him or not. He completely missed the last member of the royal party, so intent was he on Théodred.

Éomund rose, and moved to stand on the seated King’s left, cradling a naked sword with its hilt pointed toward Theoden. The court was called to order, and Faramir prepared himself to be bored, until a slim, feminine hand touched his shoulder.

“Wouldst thou like to sit with me, son of Mundburg?”

Faramir spun round, eyes wide. The woman who had spoken was tall, her grey eyes and dark hair, streaked with grey, speaking of her Southern heritage. She was gowned in dark green, laced with gold, and her hair was gathered in a netted snood studded with diamonds. “It would be my honour, little cousin. I am Morwen Cynige, Queen Mother of Rohan, once of Lossarnach.”

Faramir bit his lip. “Uncle, may I?”

Targon bowed to Morwen, then nodded to Faramir. “Far be it from me to refuse a Queen,” he said wryly. “Behave, now.” 

Slipping his hand into Queen Morwen’s, Faramir allowed her to lead him to Théodred’s bench. He found himself beside the Prince, sandwiched between the two leading ladies of Rohan – and so, Théoden’s court continued.