The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Crowning a King

The great hall of Meduseld was alive with golden light and jubilant voices as Visenya stood among the gathered crowd, her hands clasped before her. Every inch of the hall spoke of celebration: garlands of greenery adorned the wooden beams, and the air hummed with the faint aroma of mead and the faint smokiness of the hearths. But none of it held her attention. Her eyes were fixed solely on Éomer.

He stood at the center of the hall, his presence commanding even among his closest advisors and kin. Clad in ceremonial robes of deep crimson and gold, with his golden hair catching the torchlight like a crown of its own, he looked every bit the king he was about to become. Visenya's breath caught as she watched him—a mix of awe, pride, and something far deeper swelling in her chest.

The ceremony unfolded with an almost dreamlike quality, each word of the oath Éomer recited ringing clear and resolute. His voice was strong, steady, the voice of a leader who would carry the weight of his people's hopes and struggles with unshakable determination. When he knelt before the High Marshal of the Riddermark to receive the crown, Visenya felt her heart tighten. The sight of him, bowing his head only to rise a moment later with the golden circlet resting upon his brow, was almost too much to bear.

She studied his every move as he turned to address his people. His voice carried across the hall, powerful yet warm, reaching not just their ears but their hearts. Visenya could see the way the crowd hung on his words, their eyes alight with renewed hope. Éomer had always been a warrior, a leader of men, but now, standing before them as their king, he seemed transformed. The mantle of kingship suited him, and the realization sent a ripple of warmth through her.

And yet, beneath that warmth, there was a stirring of something else—something that felt like fear.

Visenya's thoughts drifted as Éomer's speech continued, the echoes of his voice becoming a backdrop to the whirlwind in her mind. For a moment, she wasn't in Meduseld but back in Winterfell, standing beside Cregan in the great hall of the North. She could almost feel the weight of her heavy northern furs and hear the crackling of the massive hearth fire.

She had been princess once, and then a queen of sorts too, though not in title. She had stood at Cregan's side as his wife, as the Lady of Winterfell, and had been deeply entwined with the lives of the people there. Memories of her children flooded her mind—Rickon with his boldness, Lyanna with her boundless curiosity, Brandon with his quiet strength, and sweet Alys, who had her father's sharp eyes and her mother's fierce heart.

The weight of those memories bore down on her as she thought of Éomer. What would it mean to take that step again? To love a man as she had loved Cregan, to bear children once more, to stand at another's side as a partner and equal?

The idea warmed her, almost painfully so. She could picture it with startling clarity: children with Éomer's golden hair and her stormy silver eyes, running barefoot through the meadows of Rohan, their laughter filling the air. She could imagine sitting beside him in the evenings, the firelight playing on his face as he recounted the day's events. She could imagine growing old with him, their lives intertwined in a bond as unbreakable as steel.

But then the warmth turned cold.

Could she truly have that without feeling as though she were replacing the family she had lost? The thought unsettled her, casting shadows over the vision she had allowed herself to entertain. Her children from Westeros—her husband—what would they think of her if they could see her now, standing in a hall so far removed from Winterfell, watching another man take up a mantle of leadership? Would they feel betrayed, forgotten?

Her chest ached at the thought, a deep, gnawing guilt that she could not shake. It was as if a part of her was still tethered to that life, unwilling to fully let go and embrace the possibility of something new. She loved Éomer; of that, she had no doubt. But love alone could not banish the ghosts that lingered.