The Council of Despair
The great hall was dark.
The torches burned low, casting long shadows on the stone walls. The lords sat in their silks and velvets, their faces tight, their eyes wary. They had heard the news. The Withering was spreading. The children were dying. The fire was fading.
Lord Arryn stood.
“Your Grace, the situation is dire.”
“I know.”
“The northern provinces are lost. The villages are empty. The people are gone.”
“I know.”
“The Withering is advancing faster than we can retreat.”
“I know.”
“Then what would you have us do?”
She looked at him.
Her eyes were silver.
“Fight.”
The room went silent.
Arryn’s face was pale.
“Fight? With what? Our soldiers are tired. Our weapons are dull. Our hope is gone.”
“Your hope is not gone. Your hope is sleeping. Wake it.”
“Your Grace—”
“The Withering is not the enemy. The hunger is not the enemy. The cold is not the enemy. Fear is the enemy. Despair is the enemy. Hopelessness is the enemy.”
“And what is the weapon?”
She touched her chest.
Above her heart.
“Love.”
The council ended in silence.
The lords left.
Rhaena sat alone in the simple chair of oak and iron.
The crown was on her head.
The weight was heavy.
Theron emerged from the shadows.
“Your Grace.”
“Theron.”
“The lords are not wrong.”
“About what?”
“About the soldiers. About the weapons. About the hope.”
“I have hope.”
“Do you?”
She touched the crown.
The iron was cold.
“I have to.”