The Heart of the Throne
The light did not burn. It did not blind. It did not consume. It welcomed her.
Rhaena floated in the warmth, weightless and timeless, her body no longer her own, her thoughts no longer her own, her soul no longer her own. She was part of the flame now. Part of the heart. Part of the throne. Part of the hunger. Part of the hope.
She could feel everything.
The castle above her, cold and dark, its stones soaked with centuries of blood and tears. The city around her, buried in snow, its people huddled in their homes, praying for dawn. The kingdom beyond, fractured and bleeding, its fields fallow, its wells dry, its children starving.
She could feel the Withering.
Not as a monster. Not as an enemy. As a wound. A wound in the world. A wound in the heart. A wound in the soul.
It had been bleeding for a thousand years.
It would bleed for a thousand more.
She could feel the throne.
The golden monster was gone, melted down, repurposed. But its shadow remained, etched into the stone, carved into the memory. The throne was not a thing. It was an idea. An idea that had been poisoning the kingdom for generations.
She could feel the people.
The refugees in the great hall, thin and hollow-eyed, their faces etched with cold and grief. The soldiers on the walls, their hands numb on their swords, their eyes fixed on the horizon. The lords in their chambers, plotting and scheming, waiting for her to fail.
She could feel the hope.
Small and fragile, like a candle in a storm. But burning. Still burning.
Rhaena, a voice said.
She turned.
The grandmother stood beside her.
Her white hair floated in a wind that did not exist, her silver eyes were bright, her gray silk dress shimmered.
“You are the heart.”
“I am the heart.”
“The heart of the throne.”
“The heart of the hunger.”
“The heart of the hope.”
“What does that mean?”
The grandmother looked at the flame.
At the light.
At the warmth.
“It means you are the cage. The Withering will feed on you instead of the world. The hunger will sleep beneath your skin instead of beneath the earth.”
“That will kill me.”
“Yes.”
“You are asking me to die.”
“I am asking you to live. Forever. In the throne. In the hunger. In the hope.”
“There is no hope in that.”
“There is always hope. The people will remember you. The kingdom will remember you. The world will remember you. You will not be forgotten.”
Rhaena looked at the flame.
At the light.
At the warmth.
She thought of her father. Of his crown. Of his last words.
Live, he had said. Live, and remember.
She had lived.
She had remembered.
Now she had to choose.
“How much time?”
The grandmother’s silver eyes dimmed.
“Years. Decades. Centuries. The throne is breaking. The hunger is waking. The Withering is spreading. But you can slow it. You can hold it. You can hope.”
“Will I see my people again?”
“Every time you dream. Every time you hope. Every time you love.”
Rhaena reached for the flame.
Her hand passed through.
The warmth spread through her veins, her bones, her heart.
She closed her eyes.
She let go.
She opened her eyes.
She was standing in the great hall.
The throne was gone.
The crown was on her head.
The people were watching.
Corin knelt before her.
“Your Grace.”
“Rise, Ser Corin.”
He rose.
His gray eyes were wet.
“You were gone for hours.”
“It felt like minutes.”
“What happened?”
She looked at the simple chair of oak and iron.
“I became the heart.”