The Crowning
The ceremony was small.
No lords in silks and velvets. No ladies in jewels and crowns. No priests in gold and incense. Just the people. The people who had survived the winter. The people who had planted the garden. The people who had hoped.
They gathered in the courtyard, standing in a circle around the simple stone altar that had been built from the ruins of the old throne. The altar was plain, unadorned, unremarkable. But it was theirs.
Rhaena stood before the altar, the crown in her hands.
Not the iron crown of her father. Not the golden crown of the usurper. A new crown. A crown woven from the branches of the first tree that had bloomed in the garden, its leaves still green, its flowers still bright.
The people watched.
They did not kneel.
They did not bow.
They simply watched.
Corin stepped forward.
“Your Grace, the crown is ready.”
“The crown is ready.”
“The people are ready.”
“The people are ready.”
“Are you ready?”
She looked at the crown.
At the branches.
At the leaves.
At the flowers.
“I am ready.”
She placed the crown on her head.
The branches were light, the leaves were soft, the flowers were fragrant. The crown did not weigh her down. It lifted her up.
The people cheered.
Not the polite applause of courtiers. Not the forced enthusiasm of nobles. Real cheers. Loud and raw and full of joy.
Rhaena smiled.
It was a real smile, warm and bright and full of love.
“Thank you,” she said.
The people cheered again.
Theron stood at the edge of the crowd.
His burned hands were hidden in his cloak, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace.”
“Theron.”
“The Withering is still quiet.”
“The Withering is still sleeping.”
“The hunger is still.”
“The hunger is still waiting.”
“How long?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“I do not know. But we will be ready.”
“Will we?”
She looked at the people. At their faces. At their hope.
“We will.”
Elara approached.
Her red hair was bright, her green eyes were clear, her hands were warm.
“The children are asking for you.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“What do they want?”
“The same thing they always want. A story. A song. A promise.”
“Then give them a story. Give them a song. Give them a promise.”
“They want them from you.”
Rhaena walked to the children.
They gathered at her feet, their faces uplifted, their eyes bright.
“Tell us a story,” they said.
“Tell us about the queen.”
“Tell us about the crown.”
“Tell us about the hope.”
She knelt.
She touched their faces.
“The queen was a servant,” she said. “She kneaded bread. She scrubbed floors. She emptied chamber pots. She was not born to rule. She was born to survive.”
“Then how did she become queen?”
She looked at the crown on her head.
“She hoped.”