[Amanaduial the archer]

Looking down out of the dust-covered window of the room which she had rented, but whose rent the disused Inn had long since failed to collect, Aman watched the gates of Minas Tirith almost disinterestedly, her head leaning against the window frame as if she was dozing off, motionless as she was: why, she could have been there forever, a forgotten rag doll in the attic. But as the sounds of laughter, then of cheers, began to waft up from the streets, the woman's green eyes brightened somewhat and, as the cheers grew in volume and confidence, the young woman slowly raised her head from where it had rested. Finally, in the streets below, she saw the procession draw up and, as the first of two men drew into sight behind a dwarf she did not recognise, Aman's face cracked slowly into a wide smile. Like that rag-doll puppet now come alive, she leapt from the window seat, running out of the door and pounding down the corridor to the stairs, dust flying up in her wake.

"Cheers!"

As Fordim took a pull of his drink and uttered that single word, Aman gave a delighted laugh from the balcony above, and swept an overdone, elegant bow down at him. "Long have we waited for you to enter these doors, Fordim! Welcome Snaveling, Hearpwine, Haerin, Grash, Ambarturion and..." she trailed off slightly, eyeing the shadow-cloaked witch-king suspiciously, a figure whom she had come into conflict with more than once. Then she shrugged. "Welcome all, to the Seventh Star, and to Gondor!"