The Harvest of Hope
The summer came golden and warm.
The garden was vast now — stretching from the castle walls to the river, from the river to the hills, from the hills to the horizon. The vegetables were heavy and ripe, their colors bright, their stems thick. The people worked from dawn to dusk, their hands in the soil, their faces to the sun.
The hunger was over.
The winter was over.
The Withering was sleeping.
Rhaena walked through the rows of green, her boots dusty, her dress stained, her hair tangled. The crown was on her head, but she had forgotten its weight. She was too busy. Too tired. Too hopeful.
Corin walked beside her.
“Your Grace, the lords are asking for an audience.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“What do they want?”
“The same thing they always want. Land. Power. Privilege.”
“And what do the people want?”
“The people want to live.”
She stopped.
She looked at him.
“Then let them live.”
The great hall was crowded.
The lords sat in their silks and velvets, their faces tight, their eyes wary. They had watched the queen transform the kingdom. They had watched her feed the hungry, heal the sick, shelter the cold. They had watched her become something they did not understand.
Something they could not control.
Lord Arryn stood.
“Your Grace, we have come to ask for a boon.”
“A boon?”
“The people are grateful. The kingdom is healing. The winter is over. But we are concerned.”
“Concerned about what?”
“About the future. About the throne. About the succession.”
“The succession?”
“You have no heir. You have no husband. You have no family. If something happens to you, the kingdom will fall into chaos.”
Rhaena looked at him.
Her eyes were silver.
“Nothing will happen to me.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can hope.”
The room went silent.
Lord Arryn’s face was pale.
“Your Grace, with respect, hope is not enough.”
“Hope is all we have. Hope is all we have ever had. Hope is the only thing that kept this kingdom alive through the winter. Hope is the only thing that fed the hungry. Hope is the only thing that healed the sick. Hope is the only thing that will carry us into the future.”
Arryn bowed his head.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The council ended.
The lords left.
Rhaena sat alone in the simple chair of oak and iron.
The crown was on her head.
The weight was heavy.
But she did not feel alone.
Theron emerged from the shadows.
“Your Grace.”
“Theron.”
“The lords are not wrong.”
“About what?”
“About the succession. About the heir. About the future.”
“I have time.”
“Do you?”
She touched the crown.
The iron was warm.
“I have hope.”