The Winter of Hunger
The first snow fell on the morning after the council.
It came softly, drifting down from a sky the color of iron, covering the dead garden in a blanket of white. The people watched from their windows, their breath fogging the glass, their hands pressed against the cold.
They had seen snow before. They had survived snow before.
But this winter felt different.
This winter felt hungry.
Rhaena stood at the window of her father’s chambers, watching the snow fall.
Corin stood behind her.
“The lords have opened their stores. The grain is being distributed. The people will not starve.”
“They will not starve this month. What about next month? What about the month after?”
“We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“We are already on the bridge. And it is burning.”
Theron entered without knocking.
His burned hands were wrapped in fur, his scarred face hidden beneath a hood, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace, there is trouble at the south gate.”
“Trouble?”
“The refugees have arrived. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. They are cold. They are hungry. They are desperate.”
“How did they get past the patrols?”
“The patrols let them through. They could not turn them away. They are women. They are children. They are old.”
Rhaena turned from the window.
“Bring them to the castle. Put them in the great hall. Give them blankets. Give them food. Give them warmth.”
“Your Grace, the great hall is already full.”
“Then put them in the corridors. Put them in the chambers. Put them in the stables. I do not care where. Just put them somewhere warm.”
The refugees came in waves.
They were thin, their faces hollow, their eyes empty. They had walked for weeks, through snow and ice and wind, carrying what little they had left. Some had lost their shoes. Some had lost their children. Some had lost their hope.
Elara moved among them, her hands gentle, her voice soft, her eyes weary.
“How many?” Rhaena asked.
“Hundreds. Maybe more. They are still coming.”
“Where are they from?”
“The northern provinces. The villages near the mountains. The Withering has consumed their fields. Their wells have run dry. Their livestock have died.”
“The Withering?”
“It is spreading again. The cracks in the throne are growing. The hunger is waking.”
Rhaena found Theron in the courtyard.
He was standing in the snow, his hands bare, his face turned toward the sky.
“Theron.”
“Your Grace.”
“The Withering is spreading.”
“I know.”
“The cracks are growing.”
“I know.”
“The hunger is waking.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
He looked at her.
His good eye was wet.
“Because I can feel it. In my bones. In my blood. In my dreams.”
That night, Rhaena dreamed.
She was standing in the hall of bones again. The throne was before her, cracked and crumbling, its silver light flickering like a dying candle. The grandmother stood beside her, her white hair floating, her silver eyes dim.
“The cracks are spreading,” the grandmother said.
“I know.”
“The hunger is waking.”
“I know.”
“The throne is breaking.”
“I know.”
“What will you do?”
Rhaena looked at the throne.
At the cracks.
At the light.
At the hunger.
“I will break it.”