The Queen’s Choice
The winter came earlier than expected.
The leaves turned brown and fell from the trees. The wind grew cold and sharp, biting through cloaks and coats. The ground froze, hard as iron, and the garden died. The vegetables, small and misshapen as they were, shriveled and blackened. The people watched in silence.
Rhaena stood at the edge of the dead garden, her hands in her pockets, her breath fogging in the cold air. The crown was on her head, heavy and cold. The iron band pressed against her temples.
“We should have harvested more,” Corin said.
“We harvested everything we could.”
“It was not enough.”
“It never is.”
Elara approached, her red hair hidden beneath a woolen cap, her green eyes red from the cold.
“The winter stores are low. The grain will last two months, maybe three. The meat will last less. The children are already showing signs of hunger.”
“What signs?”
“Lethargy. Irritability. Thinness. The same signs I have seen a hundred times. The same signs that precede death.”
Rhaena’s throat tightened.
“What do you need?”
“More food. More medicine. More warmth.”
“Where can we get them?”
Elara was silent for a long moment.
“The lords have stores. The merchants have warehouses. The temples have cellars. They are hoarding. They are waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For the price to go up. For the people to grow desperate. For the queen to beg.”
Rhaena turned from the garden.
“Call the council.”
The lords gathered in the great hall.
Their silks and velvets were bright against the gray stone, their jewels glittered in the torchlight, their faces were smooth and well-fed. They had not gone hungry. They would not go hungry.
Rhaena stood before them.
“The winter stores are low. The people are starving. The children are dying. You have food. You have medicine. You have warmth. You will share.”
Lord Arryn stepped forward.
“Your Grace, we have already given. Our jewels, our gold, our silver. They are gone. Melted down. Spent on the garden, on the wells, on the homes. We have nothing left to give.”
“You have grain. You have meat. You have wool. You have coal.”
“Our stores are for our families, our servants, our soldiers.”
“Your families are fed. Your servants are fed. Your soldiers are fed. My people are starving.”
The lords exchanged glances.
Arryn’s face was hard.
“Your Grace, with respect, we are not the enemy. The winter is the enemy. The hunger is the enemy. The Withering is the enemy.”
“The Withering is not the enemy. The hunger is not the enemy. Fear is the enemy. Despair is the enemy. Hopelessness is the enemy. And you are feeding them.”
She walked toward them.
They stepped back.
“I did not ask for this crown. I did not ask for this throne. I did not ask for this kingdom. But I am here. And I will not watch my people die while you hoard your grain.”
Lord Arryn’s face went pale.
“Your Grace, what would you have us do?”
“I would have you open your stores. I would have you share your food. I would have you save my people.”
“And if we refuse?”
She looked at him.
Her eyes were cold.
“Then I will take it.”
The great hall was silent.
The torches flickered.
The shadows danced.
Lord Arryn bowed his head.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”