The Weight of the Crown
The days that followed were the hardest of Rhaena’s life.
She woke before dawn, as she had done for twenty years, but instead of bread and flour, she found reports and petitions and letters. The lords wanted favors. The merchants wanted contracts. The priests wanted temples. The people wanted food.
She gave what she could.
She could not give enough.
The treasury was empty. The granaries were bare. The fields were fallow. Malrik had bled the kingdom dry, and there was nothing left to bleed.
Corin stood at the window of her chambers, watching the sun set over the city.
“Your Grace, the people are growing restless.”
“I know.”
“The soldiers have not been paid.”
“I know.”
“The lords are whispering.”
“I know.”
“What will you do?”
She looked at the crown on her head.
It was still too big.
Still too heavy.
Still too cold.
“I will do what my father did. I will give them hope.”
Theron entered without knocking.
His burned face was hidden in shadow, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace, there is a visitor in the courtyard. She says she knows you.”
“She?”
“Elara. The healer from the temple.”
Rhaena rose.
“Bring her in.”
Elara was different.
Her red hair was dull, her green eyes were dim, her face was pale. She carried a satchel over her shoulder, and her hands were stained with soil and blood.
“Your Grace.”
“Elara. What has happened?”
“The famine has spread to the northern provinces. The crops have failed. The cattle are dying. The people are starving.”
“How many?”
“Hundreds. Thousands. I cannot count them all. There are too many.”
“Where are they?”
“On the roads. Heading south. Heading toward the city.”
Rhaena’s blood went cold.
“How long?”
“A week. Maybe less. They are walking. They are weak. They are desperate.”
“What do they need?”
“Food. Shelter. Medicine. Hope.”
“Can you give them those things?”
“I can try. But I need resources. I need gold. I need grain. I need hands.”
“You will have them.”
Theron stepped forward.
“Your Grace, the treasury—”
“The treasury is empty. I know. We will find another way.”
“How?”
She looked at him.
“The lords have gold. The merchants have grain. The priests have hands. They will give. Or I will take.”
The council meeting that evening was tense.
The lords sat in their silks and velvets, their faces tight, their eyes wary. They had given their jewels. They did not want to give more.
Lord Arryn stood.
“Your Grace, the famine is a tragedy. But we cannot solve it alone. We need help from the other kingdoms. We need to send ambassadors.”
“To whom? The other kingdoms are suffering too. The Withering does not respect borders.”
“Then what would you have us do?”
“Feed our people. Heal our land. Rebuild our kingdom.”
“With what?”
She looked at him.
His eyes were hard.
“With everything we have.”
The meeting ended in silence.
The lords left.
Theron remained.
“Your Grace.”
“Theron.”
“You are asking them to give until it hurts.”
“I am asking them to give until it helps.”
“There is a difference.”
“There is. But they will not see it until it is too late.”
She walked to the window.
The city was dark.
The stars were hidden behind clouds.
“The grandmother said the throne is a cage. The first queen said the throne is a seed. The last god said the throne is a harvest. I did not understand then. I am beginning to understand now.”
“Which is it?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“All of them. None of them. The throne is what I make it. And I will make it a garden.”