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"Lamedon had submitted the names of how many knights for the jousting lists?"

"Two and twenty."

"Are you certain? I had thought that was the number of chests of iron ore Erebor proposed to trade annually in exchange for two hundred bolts of un-dyed linen."

"Erm...I have it written here...No, it was two and twenty knights for the tournament from Anfalas, thirty from Lamedon, and fifteen barrels of fish oil from Dale to trade for...for...oh dear."

"My lord Steward! I have your order for the fifty new lances! Would you prefer them sent to the city stables, or the armory?"

A harried look not often seen on the face of Prince Faramir of Ithilien was beginning to make its presence known. Since Aragorn and the others had set out for Harad some weeks ago it seemed everyone within fifty leagues of Minas Tirith had demands on the Steward's time. Most days he rose before dawn, even before Éowyn, and stumbled face-first into bed long after the stars were hung across the sky. Governing in Aragorn's stead was something that Faramir had grown well-accustomed to over the years. However, this particular month it seemed, the king had chosen a fine time to go running off into the unknown.

With The Brown Lands bordering the southern tip of the Greenwood finally declared safe and open after hundreds of years of harbouring orcs, wargs, and other foul creatures spawned in the ruins of Dol Goldur, Dale and Erebor were at long last ready to open their doors to the south of Middle-Earth. Word had come on the leg of a raven sent from the Lonely Mountain, signed by both King Bard II of Dale and King Thorin III Stonehelm of Erebor. The two kings of the north expressed keen interest in opening trade with Gondor. Faramir of course had been quick to reply in the affirmative. To his surprise and quiet dismay, no less than a week later a reply had come in the form of a full trade manifesto. Ever since it had been a firestorm of meetings with various heads of the realm's commerce guilds, trying to compose a suitable counter-offer for both the human and dwarf realms' proposals.

All this would have been an enormous task to contend with in and of itself. However, Faramir had already been embroiled in a project of his own making before ever the first raven came. With that year marking the thirtieth anniversary of the end of the War of the Ring and Aragorn's coronation, plans were underway to host a tournament in honor of the occasion alongside the yearly harvest festival. Now, even with Elboron recruited as his assistant, Faramir was still completely and utterly swamped.

Signing whatever it was that a scribe was desperately trying to hold forward under his quill, Faramir called back to the carpenter as he walked "Have the lances sent to the armory, they'll just be underfoot in the stables. Is the Master of Coin expecting us for our meeting at one o'clock?"

"He sends his apologies, but must ask if we can accommodate him for a midday meeting instead?" said Elboron, hastily thumbing through a list of names and times.

Faramir sighed. "We will have to miss our lunch then...again. Elboron, send a page to tell him we will meet at noon as he requests."

"There is also the matter of choosing our own knights for the tournament, Father. One of the only lists not yet submitted is Ithilien's."

"Blast!" It was also not commonplace that Faramir fell to cursing, but the thought of another meal hastily eaten in stolen bites between meetings had put a damper on his spirits. "Is that a task I can entrust to you, Elboron?"

Picking knights for a tournament should have been a thoroughly enjoyable prospect for a young man, but when Elboron hesitated Faramir immediately chided himself. He had already piled more than enough work on his son's shoulders. When he had thought to have Elboron learn his future duties as Steward by shadowing him that summer, Faramir had not intended to put his son to work as his stand-in for all intents and purposes.

"No, do not answer that," said Faramir, stopping to lay a hand on Elboron's shoulder. "You are keeping me afloat as it is already. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your hard work at my side."

Tired as they both were, surrounded by a gaggle of officials, scribes and lordlings all urging them along to their next point of business, Faramir's heart brightened when Elboron smiled at him. On the morning Elboron was born, Faramir had sworn to himself that there would never come a day when he did not have time or presence of mind to spare his son a kind word. He wondered if Denethor would have thought well of his generous, warm-hearted grandson. He knew Boromir would have. No doubt Boromir would have delighted in Elboron and doted on his nephew to no end.

There still remained the unfinished matter of...well...everything. At this rate Ithilien would have no knights entered in their country's own tournament, the kings of Dale and Erebor would be growing grey and impatient by the time they ever received a response, and the harvest festival celebration itself would go off only half-planned. Looking at the pile of papers held in both his and Elboron's hands, Faramir wished he could be in two places at one time.

That was when the answer dawned on him, and he nearly cursed his own stupidity aloud. Instead he laughed, a sheepish chuckle that made both Elboron and their swarm of followers (harassers) look at him curiously.

"Gentlemen," said Faramir, addressing the others. "Please, if you could, continue on to the Tower of Ecthelion. We will meet you there presently, but first there is someone most important whom we must consult with."

Elboron's expression, at first confused, began to fill with comprehension and more than a little relief as the officials moved away across the Citadel yard. He even knew exactly which direction to turn without needing to follow Faramir's lead.

"Are we calling for a yield then, Father?" he asked, blonde curls bouncing on his brow as they made for the House of Kings.

Faramir huffed sheepishly. "Yes...we're going to find your mother."

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They found Éowyn in the solar, reading a book. Arwen sat nearby at an enormous wooden loom, working at her favorite hobby of tapestry weaving. The women looked up when Faramir and Elboron entered the room, and a triumphant grin turned Éowyn's face smug.

"Impressive; two days and one morning managed since that last letter from the kings in the north arrived. I had wagered on you lasting three days, but it seems I still best Arwen in this, who generously granted you four."

"You were wagering on our coming?" asked Faramir, incredulous but not entirely surprised.

"Why not? We had little else to do, what with my garden at Ithilien so far away and the girls at their studies."

Éowyn's voice was chiding, but even so there was laughter on her lips as she beckoned Faramir and Elboron into the room. Arwen rose from her seat at the loom, un-tucking the long sleeves of her gown from where they had been pinned up out of her way. A scene of what looked a great deal like Oliphants fording a river peeked half-finished from among the twining threads. The queen settled herself on a high backed chair with an amused gleam in her grey eyes.

"You do yourself and the house of Stewards credit with your efforts, Faramir, you and Elboron both," she said "but I am glad you decided to seek us out. Now, perhaps you had better tell us everything that needs to be done, and we can settle how best to delegate from there?"

Faramir relief was palpable. He and Elboron compared notes briefly before he cleared his throat. "There is quite a bit I'm afraid, Your Gra-...Arwen. We've been trying to make a full catalogue of our potential trade offerings, comparing them to the lists of desired goods from Dale and Erebor, and weigh their value against the proposed exchanges. Erebor has a great deal of raw ore and other materials which we could certainly use, especially with plans in place for Osgiliath's final restoration phase. Dale also has access to some of the Greenwood's refined craft items, thanks to their elvish ambassador's ability to negotiate with wily old King Thranduil. Although Thranduil has shown no interest in direct trade with Gondor, King Bard implied that he was willing to act as something of a go-between, reselling Greenwood goods to us down the River Running...at a significant markup, that is."

As expected, the notion of even indirect trade with one of the last remaining elvish nations in Middle-Earth sparked immediate interest in Arwen. Although Legolas and his colony flourished in Ithilien, they were not a large settlement, with no means of providing for others beyond what they could furnish for themselves in their new home. The thought of elf-made breads, wines and other rarities brought a light to Arwen's eyes and a renewed lilt to her clear speech.

"At a significant markup, indeed? Perhaps we may be able to remind King Bard II that there are many goods which we, having access to the sea ports of Pelargir and Dol Amroth, can provide to Dale and Esgaroth which they are unlikely to find anywhere else east of the Misty Mountains. It may also help King Thorin III to find his generosity if it is pointed out that there mines of old in the Ered Nimrais which, if reopened, could render his own ore somewhat less of a precious commodity to the folk of Gondor."

"There are?" asked Elboron, surprised.

"Oh yes," said Arwen with a mischievous wink. "In the Dwimorberg."

Elboron blanched, the very name immediately turning him white. "The Dimholt Road?! But...Lady Arwen...surely we could never mine the Paths of the Dead...?"

Arwen smiled reassuringly, reaching out to take Elboron's hand. "Take ease, Faramirion, you know as much and so do I. The spirits of the dead have left the Dwimorberg at Aragorn's word, never to return. However, some places in this world are best left undisturbed, occupied or no."

"Even if we were to propose such a thing, I doubt we could ever convince any workers to actually stay in that place," said Faramir.

"Indeed. Dwarves do not trouble themselves with such trifles as spectres though when there is buried treasure to seek; Moria proved as much. It is a bluff, but hopefully one that King Thorin III will not see past as we press him to lower his price."

"Was there anything else which requires attention, husband?" asked Éowyn, prompting.

"Well, there was the matter of the harvest festival, and the tournament..."

"Which are no doubt far more commanding of yours and Elboron's interest than a game of written chess with dwarves and lakemen?" Éowyn teased.

Faramir raised an eyebrow, holding back the trade manifesto from Erebor and Dale. "I can bandy crooked words with the best of them, I will have you know. It just so happens that this tournament is also pressing business, requiring the utmost in careful planning and attention to detail. And I am a wise man, who knows how to delegate to the most capable hands."

"Go then, O wise Steward of Gondor!" laughed Arwen, rising and snatching the paper from Faramir's grasp. "Go and order our knights, our horses and lances, that we might finally humble Éomer and his Rohirrim when they meet us on the tourney field! We leave such matters in your capable hands."

Faramir and Elboron were just turning to leave when Éowyn called them back. The former Shieldmaiden produced a sheet of paper from between the pages of her books. Names were neatly ordered upon it in her methodical hand.

"Our knights for Ithilien's tournament lists. I took the liberty of entering you in both the joust and the melee this year, Elboron. If anyone is going to unhorse your cousin this year, I am going to selfishly hope that it might be you."

Elboron took the page from Éowyn with a good-natured grimace. "Thank you, Mother, but I suspect it might be Eldarion or Elfwine amongst the top challengers again. And if Legolas accepts your invite to fight the melee..."

The White Lady of Ithilien smiled innocently in the face of Faramir's raised eyebrows. "I am simply putting our best blades forward. After all, there are no rules written that bar an elf from competing, and his folk are for all point and purpose people of Ithilien."

"You are quite determined that Ithilien should claim a prize at this year's festival tourney, aren't you my love?" Faramir laughed, leaning in to kiss Éowyn's brow. "Even off the field of battle, you are more competitive by half than all the knights in Gondor combined!"

With that, the two camps broke to go about their respective work. Arwen and Éowyn departed for the Tower of Ecthelion, there to keep Faramir's meeting with the Master of Coin. Faramir and Elboron meanwhile, now free of further bankrolling and bookkeeping, made arrangements to oversee the renovation of Minas Tirith's tourney arena. But first, they had a far more pressing appointment to keep. For the first time in days, Faramir was able to sit down and enjoy a proper midday meal with his son. He and Elboron poured over the list of knights from Éowyn, happily debating the prospects of each in the melee or the joust. It was the sort of conversation Faramir would have given anything to have with his own father while growing up. The time for that was past now, but not lost. When Elboron playfully tossed a grape at him after Faramir downplayed the abilities of one of his favorite champions, Faramir relished Elboron's familiarity. He loved his son, and his son knew it. That above all else; trade deals and tournaments and even the line of the Stewards itself, was what was important.

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