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Edoras came into view little by little—bright and sharp beneath the midday sun. The road climbed, and with every step more of it revealed itself: stout walls, gates, watchtowers—and above it all, like a golden crown, Meduseld. Its thatched roof still wore a thin crust of ice from the night, but by noon it was already thawing: sunlight skittered over the gold of the straw, meltwater chimed along the edges, and drops broke loose and fell, splashing against stone, as if the city wasn’t waking up at all, but had been alive for ages—loud, steady, sure of itself.
At the foot of the hill, merchants pressed in close. Not everyone was allowed into the city: Edoras was small, and on the eve of Deepwinter people streamed here from all around. The gates were opened only for those whose goods were needed by the court and townsfolk; the rest were turned away—not out of malice, but necessity. Some were given spots by the road, some near the crossing; some stayed outside the walls, trading with those who didn’t want to fight their way inside.
The smells hung thick—warm, mixed: smoked meat, fresh bread, hot sbiten, wet wool, horses, and campfire smoke. People talked and laughed and argued, shouting over one another—and that rumble rolled up the road in an unbroken wave, meeting travelers long before the gates.
Éodred, staring up at Meduseld’s roof, didn’t notice at first that Éowyn had drifted a little ahead and stopped on the narrow bridge over the river.
“Look,” Éowyn said softly, her eyes still on the water. “I wonder how long he’s been there.”
Éodred followed her gaze and made out, below by the very edge, the lone figure of a fisherman. He stood motionless, as if rooted into the bank, holding his rod over the dark, fast current. He was dressed so poorly it made you feel cold just looking at him: an old, frayed cloak—not his first year wearing it—hung heavy and wet, barely shielding his back from the wind. His boots looked rough and soaked through, and the icy spray that reached the stones surely struck them again and again. This wasn’t a merchant who’d come to the fair with full baskets. A man like this fished not for profit, but so there would be something to put on the table today.
Éodred shivered, imagining what it must be like to stand down there where the river wind was meaner and the cold from the water worked its way under clothing like into a crack. The thought that he might have come before dawn, when the frost was at its hardest, pricked unpleasantly.
“I don’t know…” she answered uncertainly, trying to remember if she’d seen him before. “Maybe… two hours?”
“I noticed him when we were walking to the woods,” Éowyn objected, frowning. “That was four hours ago. They say it bites better at sunrise,” she added almost businesslike, as if repeating someone else’s words she’d managed to remember.
Éodred nodded down at the empty little bucket by his feet.
“Only luck clearly walked right past him today,” she sighed. “All that time—and not a single fish.”
Something pinched inside her—one of those feelings the court usually trains out of you: pity that turns into the urge to interfere.
“We… we can help him, can’t we?” she asked her sister carefully, the way you ask about rules you don’t yet know.
“We…” Éowyn began, but didn’t get to finish.
“Éowyn! Éodred!” their nurse called. “Why are you frozen there? They’re waiting for us in the city—hurry along!”
The girls pulled away from the parapet and obediently walked after her. Éowyn, taking quick little steps at Éodred’s side, tried to say something—but the wind and the distance to the nurse swallowed her words.
Éodred immediately ducked a little, bending to Éowyn’s height and offering her ear.
“We could buy him fish at the fair,” Éowyn whispered. “Do you have any coins?”
“No… where would I get them?” Éodred said, surprised—and then frowned. “And why don’t you have any?”
Éowyn lowered her eyes, embarrassed.
“I bought cockerel lollipops…”
Éodred remembered how yesterday her sister had stood at a stall, spellbound by the bright lollipops on sticks, and only sighed—not disapproving, more resigned.
“Alright,” she said firmly, quickening her pace so the nurse wouldn’t start scolding. “We’ll think of something.”
And when they finally crossed the bridge and reached the gates, Edoras was already humming like a disturbed hive. The guards let people through quickly, barely looking—today order was kept not by strictness, but by the sheer flow. The moment the girls stepped inside, the fair crashed over them.
Deepwinter was approaching, and the city lived for it. Bundles of fir branches hung everywhere, tied with red and white ribbons; carved lanterns swayed on wooden posts; and between the stalls people stretched cloth banners embroidered with signs of luck and sun. The snow had been trampled down to earth, but it was generously strewn with straw so it wouldn’t be slippery—and it crunched underfoot.
The noise of the fair hit them like a warm avalanche. The nurse’s voice vanished in it instantly—a drop in a raging stream. Vendors’ cries, the clink of coins, children’s shrieks, sheep bleating, horses neighing, the crackle of fires and the smells—smoke, bread, spices, wet wool—everything blended into one living, festive cacophony.
Éodred froze for a moment by the fish row. Her heart thudded dull and uneven. There were no coins. Haggling was pointless. There was only one option left.
She looked around and almost at once spotted the king. He wasn’t hidden in the crowd: people stepped aside on their own, not by order—by habit. Théoden stood by the stalls, and beside him—Théodred, arms folded over his chest, wearing that particular expression that meant: I’m here because I have to be, but I’m still curious.
Éodred took one step forward. Then another.
“Your Majesty,” she said, dipping her head. “I need a fish.”
Théoden looked at her closely, without surprise and without sternness.
“You need one?” he repeated calmly.
“Yes,” Éodred answered shortly, and straightened.
Théodred raised an eyebrow and smirked at the corner of his mouth.
“And that’s the whole explanation?” he drawled. “‘I need’?”
Éodred didn’t look away.
“Yes.”
For a moment, silence hung between them—so complete the fair’s roar seemed to step back, lingering somewhere behind their shoulders.
“Éodred,” Théodred said quietly, but so that every word carried, “that’s not how you speak to the king. First ‘may I,’ then the reason, then—”
He didn’t finish. Théoden lifted a hand just slightly—a short, habitual gesture. Théodred stopped at once and fell silent, lowering his head and accepting the interruption without protest.
The king watched Éodred for a long time. Not like a subject. And not like a child. More like a person who genuinely intrigued him.
“Very well,” he said at last.
He turned to the fishmonger.
“Will you sell my girls a fish?”
The man straightened so abruptly it was as if someone had called him from a pulpit.
“I… I would gladly give it as a gift, Your Majesty!”
“Generous,” Théoden nodded. “But winter is ahead. I don’t think your purse should suffer because of their… persistence.”
He gestured toward the tub.
“That carp there—they may accept as a gift.”
The fishmonger frowned—not boldly, but bewildered—and fished out a tiny little fish, smaller than a hand. It trembled in his fingers, its tail flicking weakly, as if it didn’t understand why it had been lifted from the water. He looked up at the king questioningly, like a man still hoping this was a joke.
But Théoden only gave a brief nod, took the fish from his hands, and without another word passed it to Éowyn.
Éowyn took the little fish in both palms and curled her fingers a touch tighter than she should have—carefully, but childishly too tight, as if she feared it might slip away or vanish.
“Run along,” Théoden added, and a barely-there smile flickered in his voice. “I’m sure you have many more important matters planned today.”
Éodred nodded—not deep, not showy. Just nodded.
Éodred and Éowyn ran through the streets of Edoras, weaving around merchants and gawkers. The fish in Éowyn’s hands flopped more weakly with each moment, and she pressed it to her chest, trying not to drop it.
As they ran, more and more questions crowded Éodred’s mind. How would they get down to the river? How would they give such a tiny fish? And most importantly—how would she not die of embarrassment?
“Why didn’t you tell Uncle what we actually needed it for?” Éowyn asked, breathless.
“I don’t know,” Éodred admitted honestly.
“How are we going to give it to him now?”
“We’ll just throw it from above?”
“Hm. That’s an idea.”
But when they reached the bridge, Éowyn suddenly hated that idea. She looked down and backed away.
“What’s wrong?” Éodred asked, surprised.
“It’s rude…”
“It’s food.”
“Exactly! And throwing food is bad.”
Éodred didn’t even argue. She shot out a hand and snatched the fish so fast Éowyn didn’t have time to blink.
“Oh—give it here,” she only breathed.
In one long stride, Éodred was at the parapet. Without thinking, without aiming—like she feared that if she paused for even a second she’d chicken out—she leaned over and tossed the carp down to where the fisherman stood. The rush could ruin everything: the fish could fly sideways, slap onto the stones, land anywhere except where it ought to. Éodred only managed to think that at least it should land somewhere nearby—
But it didn’t land “nearby.”
It traced a short, awkward arc and, with a wet, distinct smack, hit the fisherman right in the shoulder.
In that instant, Éodred understood exactly what had happened.
She dropped out of sight in a blur—fell to her knees and hid behind the parapet so fast it was as if someone were chasing her. Éowyn, stunned, froze for a heartbeat—and then crouched beside her at once, pressing close to her sister.
Whether her imagination filled it in, or whether Éodred truly saw it, she wasn’t sure. But she felt certain she knew: the man had gasped, flinched all over, and started looking around, craning his head up. And, by habit, nervously rubbing his shoulder, he tried to wipe away the damp left by the fish—as if knowing it hadn’t been a miracle from the sky, but someone’s foolish prank.
The girls sat hidden behind the bridge parapet, trying not to breathe. Éodred’s heart hammered so loudly she was sure it could be heard down below.
“Do you think he saw us?” Éowyn whispered, not daring to peek.
“I want to believe he didn’t,” Éodred answered, pressing her back to the parapet.
“And what do you think he’s thinking? That fish fall from the sky?”
“Let him think that.”
“I hope he won’t take it as mockery…” Éowyn fell silent, then turned to her sister. “Why were you so confident asking Uncle for fish?”
Éodred sighed.
“At the last fair, a month ago, I was with the king. He told me to choose what I wanted—lollipops or rings of bread… And I felt sorry for those silly fish, so I asked His Majesty”—she still couldn’t call him father—“to buy me a couple. Said I wanted to cook…”
“You can cook?”
“A little. But not fish. And apparently not only you doubted that… Anyway, he said he’d buy me fish only if I told the truth.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. He bought me a whole barrel. And helped me release them. Though he said it was foolish and they’d be caught anyway… It’s strange…”
“Why?”
“He’s a king…”
“So what?” Éowyn shrugged. “Kings are people too. And Uncle is kind.”
Éodred didn’t answer. It still felt unfamiliar to think of Théoden as someone close, even though he had accepted her.
“Alright. Come on—maybe we can break off some icicles from the shed now.”
Éowyn nodded, and the girls stood, brushing straw and snow from their skirts. Down below, the fisherman was still looking around, but the sisters were already hurrying away, trying not to laugh.