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#eomer x lothiriel
luthien · 6 months ago
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@oneringnet kings and queens event » eomer and lothiriel
In 3022 (or Fourth Age 1) he wedded Lothiriel daughter of Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and his reign over Rohan was long and blessed, and he was known as Eomer Eadig.
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essenceofarda · 3 years ago
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Though admittedly very handsome, his hair and beard were far too long to be considered fashionable in Gondor, and his manners bordering on ungenteel. But it was his passion that drew Princess Lothíriel to the young Marshal of the Riddermark.
- Eothiriel Regency AU (/◕ヮ◕)/
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kuweiyulbo · 2 years ago
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he was a warrior with a fighter's mind, and she was a battle he lost every time.
for @oneringnet event: favourite relationships — ÉOMER & LOTHÍRIEL
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jay345sal28 · 2 years ago
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Rohan continued to be ruled by the House of Eorl, and the people of Rohan called themselves the Eorlingas, or the Sons of Eorl. The Oath of Eorl was not forgotten. During the War of the Ring, King Théoden of Rohan honored his ancestor's Oath and came to Gondor's aid at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. The Oath of Eorl was renewed by Théoden's successor King Éomer, who pledged continued friendship to Aragorn, King Elessar, of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor.
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luthien · 2 years ago
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@oneringnet giveaway event – éomer & lothíriel for @kuweiyulbo ♥︎
I didn't see this comin', I admit it But if you think I'll buckle, forget it I told you that I'd be the one I'll be there in the life to come
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sloth-lady-s · 2 years ago
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Eomer x Lothiriel Yule Aesthetic
inspired by @theemightypen​ fanfic Too Wise to Peaceably Woo
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!
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theemightypen · 3 years ago
“Could you be happy, here, with me?” Éomer and Lothíriel, please? :3
Alternately titled “Let’s give them something to talk about”
Enjoy!
Eomer has never felt anything less than proud of the land he comes from, nor its people. Oh, he knows they are not as “cultured” as the Gondorians, nor as graceful and poised as the Elves–but there are so many other qualities that they do possess that he admires.
All his life, he has been proud of their traditions. Proud of their resilience, their bravery in the face of hardships, the bonds that have been built across generations through hard work and steadfastness. Proud of the vein of honesty, of uncomplicated speech, that seems to have passed all of the other Races by, except perhaps the Dwarves.
Until now.
He can only stifle a groan as yet another of his riders sweeps his betrothed onto the floor, hands too familiar and grasping at her waist. Dances in Gondor are much more sedate, with only the barest touches between a man and a woman.
He knows Lothiriel is not used to his riders’…exuberance, but her smile doesn’t falter. Neither do her feet–her grace is something he’s admired in her from the start. Not only in her motions, but also in what she says, and how she says it. Her ease of speech and manner is one of the reasons he’d agreed to an arranged marriage in the first place. Well, that coupled with her sweetness and beauty, but he’d been far from lovestruck, like Eowyn and Faramir, or envious of the easy intimacy between Aragorn and Arwen, so long together.
In direct contrast to Lothiriel’s palpable happiness are the disapproving looks his men are receiving from nearly every other Gondorian lady present. Lady Geldis, Elphir’s wife, looks near to fainting, especially when the rider–Grimbold, who is nearly double Lothiriel’s age–lifts the princess with ease.
His men’s familiarity should not bother him. It is a mark of how much they have come to like their soon-to-be Queen, a reflection of the hard work Lothiriel has put in to learning their customs. But as he looks out at the hall, wood-beamed and packed to the brim, the knowledge of how…rough it all must seem to the Gondorians is what stands out the most to him.
She has not said–she would never say, his polite, kind, bride-to-be–that she dislikes anything about Edoras, but the expressions on her country-women's’ faces say it all. How uncouth they find his people, how sparse the Golden Hall is in comparison to all of Minas Tirith’s finery–
“Bema, sire,” comes Eothain’s voice, “looking like that, you’d think you were preparing to clean out the stables tomorrow, not for your wedding.”
Eomer offers his marshal–and childhood friend–a fearsome scowl.
Eothain, the bastard, is unfazed, flopping ungracefully onto the bench beside him. “Come now, Eomer. What’s got your feathers ruffled?”
“Your meddling,” Eomer grumbles, not wanting to share the true reason for his suddenly foul mood.
“Tch,” the other man scoffs. “You have had years to grow accustomed to that. It is something else.”
Eomer takes a long sip from his mug, willing his friend to let the issue go. As if on cue, there is another burst of raucous laughter; Gimli has entered into yet another drinking contest against Legolas, and a group of Eorlingas are clearly enjoying the spectacle that is an inebriated Dwarf. A pair of Gondorian women are looking on as well, though their expressions are closer to horror than ones of amusement.
His scowl deepens. Eothain follows his gaze and gives an exasperated sigh. “Lothiriel is not like her country women, Eomer. You would not have agreed to marry her otherwise.”
Irritated that he’s been so easily read, he mutters, “She is not like them now, during her first few days in Edoras, but who is to say she will not grow tired of our rustic hall? Our uncouth manners, our boisterous celebrations–”
Of me, he thinks, but does not say.
Eothain pinches the bridge of his nose. “Eomer, son of Eomund, I have rarely had cause to say what I am about to say to you in our many years of friendship, but I say it to you now: you are a fool. I suspect I know the reason why, which makes it understandable, but Bema, Eomer! If you truly believed any of that, this betrothal would never have become anything more than a suggestion from Imrahil’s mouth. You do yourself a disservice and Lothiriel an insult, for thinking such a thing.”
Eomer bristles. Nervousness, insecurity–neither are emotions he is accustomed to feeling, and here is his marshal, his friend, ridiculing both things! “Do not mock me for being apprehensive–”
“I do not mock you for having a bridegroom’s jitters,” Eothain interrupts. “I am trying to make you see you are thinking like an utter blockhead–”
“Would you two care to explain,” comes Eowyn’s voice, sounding decidedly unamused, “why you look like you’re about to start brawling in the midst of a celebratory feast?”
Wincing, both men turn to face her. She and Lothiriel stand, arm in arm, both eyeing them closely. But where in Eowyn’s face Eomer can see exasperation, in Lothiriel’s he only sees concern.
“Because your brother is a stubborn fool,” Eothain mutters, earning a dark look from Eomer.
“Nothing new, then,” Eowyn answers succinctly, receiving a black look of her own. “You’ve been neglecting your guests, Eomer King.”
He hears the reproach there, and the warning. Eomer cares for neither of them.
“I will do as I see fit, Eowyn–”
“Then perhaps you would come with me to take some fresh air?” Lothiriel cuts in, likely knowing a brewing siblings’ spat when she sees one.
He can scarcely refuse her and finds that he does not want to, Fresh air might help him shake this uncomfortable feeling. He stands, pausing just long enough to let Lothiriel loop her arm through his, before they make their way to one of the side doors of Meduseld.
Elphir frowns at them, but Lothiriel shakes her head, managing to ward off her oldest and stuffiest brother with a stern look.
“Honestly,” she grumbles, “our wedding is tomorrow. I cannot imagine what harm they think it will do now, for us to have a moment alone.”
Eomer snorts a laugh, despite his ill-humor. To say that Lothiriel’s three older brothers were over-protective would be an understatement of the biggest sort. In their nearly year-long betrothal, he and Lothiriel have had to scrape and scheme for any sort of privacy. Not that they had ever truly needed it–they were not a love match, after all, and the privacy they sought was more to have conversations than exchange stolen kisses.
The slightly cool air of Edoras in summer is refreshing after the hall’s heat. Even in the dim light provided by the moon, the plains of the Mark stretch out before them, lush and green.
“It is very different than the sea,” Lothiriel says, abruptly, “but I think it lovely all the same.”
“You will not miss it?” He asks. Dol Amrothians love of the sea is one of their most well-known traits, and in this, Lothiriel is no exception.
“Of course I will,” she answers, turning her face towards his. “But its absence does not lessen Rohan’s beauty.”
“Nor do my people’s lack of refinement highlight the opposite in yours, I suppose,” he says, earlier irritation returning. She is not the right target for his displeasure, but he cannot help himself. His temper has always been one of the worst things about him, rising rapidly and choking out logical thought when truly stoked.
Lothiriel’s brows draw together in obvious confusion for a moment before something like realization dawns on her face. “Is that what you fear? That I will forever be comparing Rohan to Gondor?”
As soon as she says it, he hears how ridiculous the thought truly is. Lothiriel has been nothing but accepting of the differences in their cultures, of the traditions she has seen thus far before their wedding. “No. It is only…” He falters, feeling exceedingly foolish and not wanting to hurt her. Bema, he does not think he could forgive himself, were he to hurt her. She has been kind, and understanding, and–
Oh, Bema, he realizes, the true reason for his irrational anxiety dawning on him. I love her.
“Your life here will not be what it would have been, if you remained in Gondor,” he says, trying to keep his revelation from his voice. “We are more involved with labor, with nature, with–”
“Eomer,” she interrupts, gently, “I know all of this. And I have consented to being your wife and queen, with all of the roles that will entail.” She bites her lip, looking suddenly shy. “Have I done something to make you doubt me?”
“No!” Eomer says, reaching to take her hands in his. “Bema, Lothiriel, I am making a mess of this. I only–I had never thought to ask, if you were prepared, if you knew, if–”
Her brow furrows again and he’s struck, not for the first time, but certainly for the first time that he will admit it to himself, how beautiful she is. How precious.
“I should have asked you this, your first day in the Mark,” Eomer murmurs, trying to ignore the sudden spike in his pulse when she threads her fingers through his. “Could you be happy, here? With…with me?”
Lothiriel’s expression shifts from confusion to realization to exasperation rapidly, though Eomer is fairly certain he’s not mistaken in the tinge of fondness on her face as well.
“Eothain was right,” she says, “you are a fool.”
Eomer frowns. “I am trying to–”
She silences him with a finger to his lips. “You are a fool because you needn’t ask such a thing, Eomer! I would be happy in a midden, in a barren wasteland, in Mordor, of all places, as long as you were with me. And Rohan is certainly a step up from any of those.”
It is his turn to be confused. “I–I do not understand.”
Lothiriel huffs, beautiful even in her irritation. “Then let me put it in simple terms: I love you. If I had my way I would never be parted from you again. There is nothing anyone could offer me in Gondor that could change that.”
Eomer swallows. Words feel beyond him, but he thinks he may manage a hoarse, “What?”
Her face crumples, all earlier bravado gone. In a tiny voice, she says, “Even if you do not feel the same, I need you to know that I am honest in this–”
Oh, Bema, there are tears in her eyes and it aches, to see her so hurt.
“Eothain may be right,” he says, squeezing her hands until she lifts her head to meet his eyes, “that I am a fool. But I am not so much a fool as to not love you, Lothiriel.”
Her eyes widen. “You–you–”
“Love you,” he finishes, leaning down to press his forehead to hers, “and perhaps your brothers were right to worry, this time, for now I intend to kiss you.”
Lothiriel gives a tiny laugh, pressing upwards on her tiptoes and winding her arms around his neck. “I think you had better, Eomer King.”
(There are furious whispers amongst the Gondorian contingent the next day, of the King and now-Queen of Rohan being caught kissing like teenagers in one of Medusled’s gardens the night before.
“Young love,” Gandalf chuckles.
“Absolutely disgraceful,” murmurs Lady Adrahil, who was, should the truth be known, still rather miffed that Rohan’s King had not chosen her daughter as a bride.
“Thank Bema,” mutters Eowyn, smiling in spite of herself as a grumbling Eothain slides Faramir a stack of coins across the table.
“Another reason to prefer Rohan to Gondor,” Lothiriel whispers, teasing, her breath ghosting warmly over Eomer’s ear. “This would be a scandal for months there, rather than a cause for celebration.”
“Hm,” Eomer hums, grinning widely when she shivers against his side, “how bad would it be if I were to kiss you here and now?”
Lothiriel smiles. “Shall we find out?”
The gossip about the King and Queen of Rohan’s wedding lasts for three years, two months, and eight days after the fact in Gondor.
In Rohan, no one bats an eye. The King and Queen have been caught at worse, now, after all.
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jay345sal28 · 2 years ago
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In T.A. 3021 he wedded Princess Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, whom he had met during his stay in Gondor and she bore him a son Elfwine the Fair
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sloth-lady-s · 2 years ago
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Éomer and Lothíriel
Inspired by Too wise to peaceably woo by @theemightypen​ - amazing LOTR fanficion that I cannot recommend enough X’3
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joyfullynervouscreator · 3 years ago
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Winter’s chill
For the Anon who drabble-requested: Imagine on cold nights in erebor you put your cold hands and feet on thorins warm skin and he hates it." But instead of Thorin; Eomer? (I believe you guys said its okay to do that). :D With some fluff too, please?
@imaginexhobbit
Winter in Rohan was cold. Having lived your whole life in the warm temperate climate of Dol Amroth, you had never seen snow before you came to Rohan to marry its young king. Éomer had ordered extra blankets made, of course, but once the cold really seeped into your body, extra blankets only made you feel more cold. Feeling the bed dip, hours after you had retired, with the weight of Éomer’s weary body, you saw your chance. With a sleepy murmur – he probably knew it was fake – you rolled over, wrapping yourself around him… and snuck your icy fingers underneath the linen shirt he slept in, feeling the siren call of his warm flesh. Éomer cursed, shuddering violently.
“Cold, min swéte?” he whispered, one hand trailing idly through your dark hair, so different from his own tawny locks. Wrapping that arm around your shoulders, he pulled you closer still, his other easily catching both your chilled appendages in his large grip. You nodded, realising how cold your nose was only when your face made contact with his warm chest. Éomer pulled the extra blanket back around your shoulders. “Perhaps I should show you how Rohirrim keep their Gondorian wives warm,” he mused, the hand that hand been playing with your hair travelling down the length of your spine to wrap hotly around your buttock. He squeezed. You murmured sleepily, already more than half asleep and Éomer chuckled. Bringing your hands to his face, he pressed a slightly bristly kiss to one of your knuckles. One of your legs wrapped around his, inserting your icy foot between Éomer’s thighs. “Béma’s balls!” he cursed, flinching away from you. Putting your now slightly warmer hands back on his chest, he grasped your poor foot, carefully moving it away from its new home. You frowned and murmured a protest, but sighed happily when he began rubbing the heat back into your frozen toes. “My little Ice-Queen,” he laughed, pinching your arse. You swatted ineffectually at him, which only made him laugh and kiss your hair. When your foot was beginning to feel less like a block of ice, he rolled you onto your back, snuggling his head against your breasts and covering as much of your body with his own as he could while still allowing you space to breathe.
 In the morning, you woke to the tickling feeling of Éomer’s beard scratching against your flesh. His slow even breaths told you he was still asleep, and you felt almost too warm with both him and the added blankets to warm you. Except for one foot, which had somehow escaped the cocoon of King and blankets, you suddenly realised with a shiver. A wicked idea crossed your mind. Drawing the cold foot underneath the blankets would have been more than enough to warm it, you knew, but instead you twisted lightly, touching the cold flesh to Éomer’s thigh once more.
“I believe you promised to show me how Rohirrim keep their Gondorian wives warm,” you whispered cheekily when he jolted awake with another loud expletive. Éomer’s booming laugh filled your bedroom before he set to his task with determination. You did not feel the cold for the rest of the day.
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usuallysublimepenguin · 2 years ago
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Lothíriel and Eomer!
These were done as illustrations to a sweet story -learning to make fire - by @levade, and part of the @tolkienrsb 2018! (Masterpost, the main picture promt)
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xxthewolvenstormxx · 2 years ago
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Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel Characters: Lothíriel (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig, Éowyn (Tolkien), Imrahil (Tolkien), Elphir (Tolkien), Amrothos (Tolkien), Faramir (Son of Denethor II) Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Arranged Marriage, Romance, Adventure, Strangers to Lovers, Smut, Post War of the Ring Summary:
Father always said she was more nereid than girl. That she had saltwater in her veins instead of blood. That she belonged to Ulmo and the fish and the sea. Not for much longer.
Soon she will belong to someone else. Belong to landlocked grasslands. Belong to horses and horselords. Belong to Eomer Eadig.
Far away from the sea.
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theemightypen · 8 months ago
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Too Wise to Peaceably Woo Chapter 31
“Well,” Andrethon says, clapping a hand to Eothred’s shoulder, “then at least three good things will have come out of this mess, should Lady Merthwyn accept your suit.” 
“And the other two?”
“Erchirion and Lisswyn’s marriage, of course. And my dear niece’s growth into the sort of woman who would not only be well-suited to being a Queen, but excel at it.”
“Uncle,” Lothiriel complains, covering her cheeks with her hands, “please, you are too kind!”
“If he is, then so am I,” adds Eothred, tugging on her sleeve until she uncovers one side of her face, “for I must confess I agree with him, lass.” 
She tugs her cloak a little tighter around her, too touched to speak. That these great men think so highly of her, believe in her...Lothiriel of a year ago would not have believed it possible.
But Lothiriel of a year ago knew little of her own self. And little of Rohan, or of friends made family, or of love…
Well. She knows all those things now. And can only hope to learn more in the future--whatever it may bring. With one hand twisted around Theodwyn’s necklace and the other running idly over the fur of her cloak, she offers both men a soft smile. “It will gratify Eomer to know he is not the only insufferable man in my life...but thank you both.”
Read on AO3 | Read on FF.net
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cosmonauthill · a year ago
Eomer/Lothiriel, 16) things you said with no space between us
[A little teaser :) ) ) )]
“Stay down, I say!”
Lothíriel has little choice but to stay down with this mountain atop her, but she obeys nonetheless. Dol Amroth has echoed with the shriek of fell beasts and their riders more than once in these recent dark days. Lothíriel would know to keep down, keep still, keep silent in this terrible shadow even without her training. 
The man hiding her from the Shadow of the East in his own shadow is huge, smells of leather and soap and strongly of horse, and his hair is spilling forward over his shoulders so far that it tickles the ground near her face. It’s very fair, and also smells of soap and of horse.
“I am sorry for the rough handling,” he says, his voice a harsh rasp, tight with the effort of resisting the panic the shrieking of the Dark Rider sets in the hearts of even the bravest men. “But these things-”
“I have watched my father and my brothers fight them, my lord,” she says. She would have fought them herself, fought alongside Ada and her brothers, but there is no space for her in any of the Mahtari. Guilty though she feels for it, irresponsible and dangerous though the very thought of it is, because to hope for it is to hope for the war to go on... she hopes to someday ride into battle.
Her guardian shifts above her. His armour grates on hers a little. She hopes it does not grate on her bow.
“You are the Princess, then,” he says, rising to his feet as the Nightmare passes. She rolls, and is surprised by the hand he offers her.
Rohir. Important Rohir, by the beautiful quality of his armour. Engraved and enamelled, almost as though he rides not only one of their fine horses, but-
“Éomer King,” she guesses, and by his chagrined blush, she guesses right. “Well met, sire.”
“And you, Your Highness,” he says, smiling a little when she reaches up to take his hand. “Your father and brothers have become friends to me, at Pellenor and since.”
“I had heard of your loss, sire,” she says, genuine sympathy warming her - she cannot imagine losing any of her family, even without the added burden of authority that he must bear alongside his grief-
His hand is very warm. His hand is huge, and very warm, and he is wearing no gauntlets.
The heat travels up the length of Lothíriel’s arm, a shock of connection that makes her jump.
Éomer King, scion of the House of Éorl, is gaping at her like a fish.
“I hope,” she says, before she can stop herself, “that you do not expect me to change my armour, sire.”
They are due to ride out to the Black Gate on the morrow. Perhaps Lothíriel will have her chance to ride to war in a Mahtar after all.
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jay345sal28 · a year ago
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The line of Dol Amroth was linked by marriage both to the Stewards of Gondor and to the Kings of Rohan: Imrahil was uncle to Boromir and Faramir; a kinsman of Morwen Steelheen, mother of Théoden; and the father of Éomer's wife Lothíriel.
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themoonlily · 2 days ago
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It’s interesting to think of what kind of an impact Lothíriel has for the whole of Rohirric culture, considering there actually hasn’t been a queen in the land in decades. Théoden was married to a woman named Elfhild, who died around the time Théodred was born, but this happened before Théoden became king. He ruled alone for 40 years, and an entire generation grew without knowing a queen. 
So along comes Éomer, a young new king, and the royal line is all but spent, so he’d have a pretty high pressure on him to get married and have children. From this standpoint alone Lothíriel’s arrival would be significant, but I’m even more interested to think of how she adjusted to this role that’s been unfulfilled for so long that not many people even remember what it’s supposed to mean. It’s interesting to think how she’d learn to navigate it, and what she’d do to reinvent it. I would think Éomer would be very supportive of her and he’d want her to succeed, because he understands what it’s like to learn to fulfill a role you didn’t expect to have. Maybe he even thinks that she has a lot to give and that she can help him more than anyone, because I can’t imagine her growing up as Imrahil’s child and not learning a thing or two of ruling and politics. 
In some ways, this long absence of a queen could also make it easier for Lothíriel to take her new place: she’s still a foreigner, but when most people have no idea of what to expect, she can well decide who and what she wants to be. 
There’s also what she means to the women of Rohan. Do they feel like she’s their voice, which they didn’t have for a long time? How do they approach her, and do they go to her with their own concerns and petitions, hoping that she might speak favourably to her husband the King? Does she take interest in the many women who would have lost their husbands and sons and brothers in the War of the Ring? What kind of opportunities does Lothíriel give to the women she meets and might she even act as a patron for some of them?
Altogether, how do the young women see their new queen, who is near to their age? I can picture her being something of a ‘fashion icon’, bringing new modes of dress and hairstyles among Rohirric women. She herself may make a point of fusing Amrothian/Gondorian styles with Rohirric style into something new. She probably has to experiment with materials, as I’d imagine Rohan’s clime is not as mild as in Dol Amroth. A lot of what works on lighter fabrics is not for wools and brocades, and especially not for leather and furs. 
On the other hand, there is negotiating the culture of her birthland with Rohan’s, and adjusting to a marriage where parties come from fairly different backgrounds. I would think a clash or two is inevitable, but on the other hand, I also like to imagine that they support and complement one another better than anybody expected. She is more patient and cautious than him, he knows how to take action and how to lead. It may take some effort, but in the end, they find a way to bring the best of both worlds into their union, starting a new and very different era in the society and culture of Rohan. It’s not easily done, because there are always people who want things done as they always have been, and are suspicious of Lothíriel, even expecting her to turn the court life in Meduseld into some version of her father’s, or even King Elessar’s Gondorian court. Still, she and Éomer are popular enough that they can do things freely and invent their own version of society in Edoras (though it’s partly because there was no society to speak of during the war, and Wormtongue’s influence had all but snuffed out anything that resembled culture and freedom and community). So there are subtle touches here and there, customs and traditions Lothíriel has known since childhood, that are celebrated alongside the Rohirric ways. It’s possible because she also shows respect for her new people, learns their tongue and doesn’t try to push anything forcibly; when the situation calls for a more Rohirric approach, she will readily consult with Éomer or her Rohirric maids and friends on what is the proper conduct. Similarly, he will find out from her about Gondorian court protocol and even the more obscure customs; he won’t admit even to her that it’s not just because of wanting to learn, but also because he enjoys occasionally surprising the Gondorian society with his knowledge of some antique tradition that is partially forgotten even in Gondor.   
Old days are gone, but eventually even the most stubborn realise they’re not coming back - the world has changed too much, and there’s so much traffic between the free kingdoms anyway that influences travel between Edoras, Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth and even Dale in the North in ways not seen before. This time sees something of a renaissance for all the Mannish cultures when they’re finally able to direct more of their energy and resources to intellectual and cultural endeavors, and of course the War of the Ring provides them all with a huge boost for mythos, legend, song and all manner of creation as they try to understand this cataclysmic event that essentially changed their world. 
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