The Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim

All Middle-Earth knows the tale

of the War of the Ring.

But there are older tales.

Tales told around warm fires

on cold winter nights.

Tales passed down from the old to the young.

Tales that light a path through the dark.

Almost 200 years before the ring

ever came to Bilbo Baggins,

there lived a girl.

Her name was Héra.

Only daughter of Helm ...

...King of Rohan.

Born under a harvest moon,

her mother did not live to see the dawn.

Raised alongside two brothers by a warrior king...

the girl could ride a horse before she could walk.

"Wild," some called her.

"Headstrong," railed her father.

Though, in truth,

he was so proud of his tearaway child.

Whoa. Whoa.

By her hand, many great deeds were done.

But do not look for tales of her in the old songs.

There are none.

Milady!

There she is!

Lady Héra!

Héra!

You should have seen it, Háma.

The fledgling took the lure.

Haleth said it wouldn't work.

He said, "It would tear you limb from limb."

Wait, Héra...

Did you know that the Great Eagles speak a language...

...all of their own

but only to wizards?

Will you listen to me?

Wait. Whose horses are those?

That's what I've been trying to tell you.

Messengers arrived from the West-march.

From Lord Freca? Why?

He has called for a Witan.

I thought only the king could summon the lords to council.

That is the custom, not the law.

Olwyn!

It's also the custom to tell your lady's maid

if you're gonna run off

and make a snack of yourself for some great flying beast!

Oh, you...

Come on, you need to change.

What's wrong with what I'm wearing?

Hopeless.

Lord Freca hasn't been to court in years.

Why would he show up now?

You don't think he means to challenge father, do you?

I'd like to see him try.

Haleth.

Brother.

I doubt Freca even remembers how to swing a sword.

He's sat idle in the West-march too long,

stuffing his face, and his pocket.

Fat and prosperous

are when men are at their most dangerous, Lord Haleth.

It fills them with false courage,

and false courage breeds discontent.

Which means what?

It means Lord Freca has had a long time

to think about all the things he doesn't have.

Freca has only what we allow. Nothing more.

Lief, you're calling the banners tonight?

My Lord Fréaláf.

Yes. I am.

It's my first council.

I... I thought I'd learned all the sigils.

Hmm.

But I... I don't recognize that one.

The banner of the Shieldmaidens.

My Lady Héra!

Cousin?

Oh...

Look at you. No mud,

no twigs in your hair...

One could almost mistake you

for a princess of Rohan.

The Shieldmaidens were women of The Borderlands.

When all the men were slain, they took up arms and fought.

They defended Rohan when no one else could.

Those were darker days.

I've long thought it time to retire that banner.

And I doubt there are any of them left.

They're all gone?

Not all of them.

Helm. Son of Gram,

Lord of the Eorlingas. Ninth...

Yes, yes. They know their king when they see him.

You all look like you're at a funeral!

Fear not, faint hearts.

We'll be done with this business soon enough.

I see you have started without me.

Freca, Lord of the West-march.

Lord Wulf, son of Freca.

General Targg of Dunland.

Lord Freca! It has been a while.

You've missed many a council,

though it seems very few meals.

Freca, the King jests.

I see age has not improved your manners, my liege.

Am I not welcome in this great hall?

All loyal men are welcome here.

Ah, but loyal to whom? Hmm?

To Rohan?

Or to Gondor?

A rumor has reached my ears that a Gondorian princeling...

has made an offer for your daughter's hand.

Do you deny it?

It's none of your business whom my daughter marries!

I say it is.

I say it is all of our business.

I come before this council

with an offer to strengthen, not weaken Rohan.

For too long our houses have squabbled

while Gondor usurps our greatness.

They would respect us, nay, fear us,

were we truly united.

It is past time for Rohan to stop being Gondor's lapdog.

Consider instead a son of the West-march.

Hmm.

I, Wulf, son of Freca,

come before you, Héra, daughter of Helm...

Wulf, don't.

...to seek your hand in marriage.

Well, girl?

What do you say, hmm?

Enough!

You speak of uniting our people,

when it is I who has faced down death, famine, war

to hold these lands together.

I know why you have come, Freca, son of Dunland.

You do not seek an alliance, you seek a throne.

Old kings that refuse a proffered staff

may fall on their knees.

You do not command the loyalty you think you do.

Sire, this is not the place.

My nephew speaks true.

A king does not brawl in his own house.

But men are freer outside.

Wouldn't you agree?

Is this wise, Uncle?

I know Freca.

He hasn't a noble bone in his body.

Mark my word,

he would not be satisfied with marriage to Héra.

He would see his son on my throne

and my boys in a grave.

Time to remind him of his place.

The line of Helm is not so easily broken.

Come away, child. Leave them be.

You did not give an answer.

We should go.

Would it be so bad?

We were inseparable once.

We were children.

Is she with him?

Aye.

Well, I did not think so much had changed.

Wulf, please.

I care about you.

But...

you'd rather marry a stranger from Gondor?

I have no thoughts of marriage at all.

Our fathers speak as if I were not even in the room.

This should be my decision to make.

It should be yours, too.

And what if I told you this is what I want?

What I've always wanted.

- I love you. - No.

I do not want to marry you.

I do not want to marry any man.

You asked for my answer, you have it.

Héra!

Come, sister, or we'll miss all the fun.

Now, Dunlending,

you have only Helm to deal with.

Just you and me. Unarmed.

You will live to regret this, old man.

Dress the girl however you like.

Can't you stop this?

Your daughter's no lady.

No wonder she's wild. Raised by a brute like you.

"Feral" they call her.

Right at home in the rough country.

But, no, she's "too good" for my son.

Hmm.

Your daughter will come crawling on her knees,

begging my son to marry her before the end.

Father!

Get up, Freca!

Get up and fight!

Father?