The Breaking Point
The winter deepened.
The snow fell day after day, piling in drifts against the walls of the castle, burying the dead garden, covering the streets of the city. The refugees kept coming, thin and hollow-eyed, their faces etched with cold and grief. The great hall was crowded with bodies, huddled around fires, wrapped in thin blankets. The corridors were lined with sleeping children. The stables were filled with the old and the sick.
There was not enough food.
There was not enough medicine.
There was not enough hope.
Rhaena walked through the halls each night, carrying bread and water, speaking to the refugees, listening to their stories. She knew their names now. She knew their faces. She knew their pain.
She could not save them all.
She could not save any of them.
She could only try.
Corin found her in the chapel.
She was kneeling before the altar of the forgotten gods, her hands clasped, her head bowed. The crown was on her head, heavy and cold. The iron band pressed against her temples.
“Your Grace.”
She did not turn.
“The refugees are asking for you.”
“I know.”
“The children are crying for you.”
“I know.”
“The old are dying for you.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
She opened her eyes.
The altar was bare.
The gods were gone.
“Because I have nowhere else to go.”
Theron entered.
His burned hands were wrapped in fresh bandages, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood, his good eye fixed on her.
“Your Grace, the council is waiting.”
“The council can wait.”
“The people cannot.”
She stood.
Her knees ached.
“I am coming.”
The great hall was crowded with lords and ladies, their faces tight, their voices sharp.
Lord Arryn stood at the head of the table.
“Your Grace, the winter stores are almost empty. The grain will last two more weeks. The meat will last one. The medicine is gone.”
“What about the lords’ stores?”
“They are empty. We have given everything. There is nothing left.”
“Then we will find more.”
“Where? The roads are blocked. The passes are closed. The other kingdoms are suffering too.”
“Then we will dig.”
“Dig where?”
She looked at the floor.
At the stones.
At the bones.
“Beneath the castle.”
The room went silent.
Lord Arryn’s face went pale.
“Your Grace, the tunnels—”
“The tunnels are sealed. The doors are locked. The bones are buried.”
“And you want to open them?”
“I want to see what is there.”
“The grandmother said the tunnels are dangerous.”
“The grandmother is dead.”
“The grandmother is not dead. The grandmother is the throne. The throne is the hunger. The hunger is the Withering.”
“Then I will face the Withering myself.”
Theron stepped forward.
“Your Grace, I will go with you.”
“No.”
“I have walked the tunnels before. I know the way.”
“You have walked the tunnels to bury the dead. I will walk them to find the living.”
“The living are above ground. The living are in the castle. The living are in the city. The dead are below.”
“The dead are not dead. They are waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
She looked at him.
“For someone to remember them.”