The War Council
The dawn came cold and gray, the sun hidden behind a veil of clouds that promised rain before midday. Rhaena stood at the window of her chamber, looking out at the courtyard below. Soldiers moved through the mud in steady streams, carrying supplies, sharpening weapons, tending to the horses. The children had been gathered into a small schoolroom at the far end of the fortress, their laughter faint but audible.
She had not slept.
She had tried. She had lain on the narrow bed, her eyes closed, her hands folded on her chest, her mind spinning. But sleep would not come. The throne would not let it. The grandmother’s words echoed in her head, over and over, like a prayer, like a curse, like a promise.
You become the cage.
You become the hunger.
You become the hope.
A knock on the door.
Rhaegar’s voice.
“Your Grace, the council is assembled.”
She turned from the window.
“Give me a moment.”
She looked at herself in the small mirror that hung on the wall. Her hair was tangled, her eyes were red, her face was pale. She looked like a servant who had stolen a queen’s clothes.
She splashed water on her face from the basin on the table. She ran her fingers through her hair. She straightened her borrowed dress — gray wool, simple and warm, a gift from one of the soldier’s wives.
She opened the door.
Rhaegar stood in the corridor, his red hair bright against the dark stone.
“You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“You need to eat.”
“I need to plan.”
The war council was gathered in a small chamber off the great hall.
The room was round, its walls lined with maps and charts and lists of names. A fire burned in the hearth, casting shadows on the faces of the men and women who sat around the long oak table.
Corin was there. Theron was there. Elara — the healer from the temple — had somehow arrived before them, her red hair bright, her green eyes steady.
There were others. Soldiers with scarred faces and missing fingers. Farmers with calloused hands and desperate eyes. A woman with gray hair and a sharp voice who claimed to be a spymaster.
They all looked at Rhaena when she entered.
They all stood.
They all knelt.
“Rise,” she said. “I am not a queen yet. I am just a woman who wants to save her people.”
Rhaegar gestured to the map on the wall.
It showed the kingdom of Eldoria — the capital city of Kingsfall in the south, the northern mountains where Ironhold stood, the eastern plains, the western forests. Malrik’s forces were marked in black. Theirs were marked in silver.
“Malrik has twenty thousand soldiers in the capital,” Rhaegar said. “We have five thousand.”
“Five thousand against twenty thousand,” Corin said. “Those are not good odds.”
“We are not going to fight twenty thousand soldiers. We are going to fight Malrik.”
“The king?”
“The usurper. If he falls, his army falls with him.”
“How do we reach him?”
Rhaegar pointed at the map.
“Through the tunnels.”
The room went silent.
Elara leaned forward.
“What tunnels?”
“Tunnels beneath the castle. The old kings built them to escape sieges. They were sealed when Malrik took the throne, but they can be opened.”
“How do you know?”
Rhaegar looked at Theron.
“He knows.”
Theron’s scarred face was pale.
“The tunnels are not safe. They are old. They are dark. They are filled with the bones of those who tried to use them.”
“Have you used them?”
“I have walked them. Twenty years ago, when I buried your father. The tunnels brought me to the crypt. The crypt brought me to the castle. The castle brought me to the throne room.”
“And Malrik?”
“He was not there. The throne was empty. The crown was gone. He was in the great hall, celebrating his victory with his generals.”
Rhaena walked to the map.
She traced the tunnels with her finger.
“How many men can we fit through?”
“Twenty. Maybe thirty. The tunnels are narrow, and they are fragile. Too many bodies, and they will collapse.”
“Twenty against twenty thousand.”
“We are not fighting twenty thousand. We are fighting Malrik. One man. One sword. One throne.”
Theron stood.
His good eye was fixed on Rhaena.
“You cannot be the one to kill him.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are the queen. If you die, the hope dies with you.”
“Then I will not die.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can promise to try.”
The council argued for hours.
Rhaegar wanted to lead the strike himself. Corin wanted to wait for reinforcements from the east. Elara wanted to negotiate with Malrik’s generals, to turn them against their king.
Theron wanted Rhaena to stay in Ironhold.
She refused.
“I have spent twenty years hiding. I will not spend another day in the shadows. If I am to be queen, I will earn it.”
Rhaegar’s gray eyes were wet.
“Your father said the same thing. Before the war. Before the siege. Before the fire.”
“And he died.”
“He died a king. He died with a sword in his hand and his people’s names on his lips.”
“I cannot promise to be him.”
“I do not want you to be him. I want you to be you.”
The council ended at midday.
The soldiers returned to their duties. The farmers returned to their fields. The spymaster returned to her shadows.
Rhaena stood alone in the chamber, staring at the map.
Theron remained.
“Your Grace.”
“Theron.”
“The tunnels are dangerous. The bones are real. I have seen them. I have heard them. They whisper.”
“What do they whisper?”
“The names of those who died in the dark. The names of those who will die in the dark. The names of those who are still waiting.”
“Are they waiting for me?”
“They are waiting for someone. Anyone. Someone who will remember them.”