Meriwyn knew she was dreaming. It was something she’d noticed at some point last year, that she’d never dreamed without knowing it was such. Despite that, and despite what rumors and stories she dredged out of ancient tomes, Meriwyn was never able to control her dreams. She never woke up because she knew, which is what she’d heard other children say.

  She was standing in a desiccated palace garden. The Garden of Castle Azalon. The roses her father had spent so much time cultivating in life were withered and gone to rot. The great oak at the center of the garden, where her father had built her a swing, had been snapped in two. The branches of the great thing were burnt, stretching towards the sky as if begging. The air stunk of iron and burning. The sky was as dark as the shadows of her closet, choked thickly with billowing smoke. Meriwyn found her way to the edge of the garden, to the overlook. The castle sat on a hill above the rest of the city, which stretched out like a great patchwork blanket out and away from the castle. It was in ruins. She could see dark, inhuman, shapes stalking the streets. The distant sound of battle, and the screams of the dead and dying.

  She could not speak, her stomach an iron ball. She could hear things flying in the low hanging smoke clouds above her.

  Durendane had fallen. As far from the castle as her eyes could reach, the land was scorched and barren. Dead. Distant blobs of the enemy, hordes of unknowable things crossing the plains towards the capital.

  “What am I to do?” She squeaked, looking around the garden for anything, anyone.

  But she was alone. Whatever she did, she’d need to choose herself. There were people there, though they were not real she could hear them suffering. She was their queen, it was not as if she could leave them. Meriwyn shuddered as a breeze passed over her skin, feeling as real as anything. She could feel the bricks under her.

  She was dreaming, but the feeling was wrong. She knew this could not be real. It had to be a dream.

  She finally gained the strength to run, tearing across the stone path of the garden and towards the doors. She stepped on the hem of her dress, thrown to the ground. Warm tears bit at her face as she struck the stone. Meriwyn had no time to stop though, so she staggered to her feet, and pushed on. She could feel blood running down her knee.

  She wanted to call for help, but what if something in the air heard her? What if she wasn’t alone?

  Meriwyn paused in the shade of the alcove near the double doors that lead into the castle. The stonework of her childhood home was scorched black in some places, petrified gray with Gorgon’s Flame. Meriwyn had finally formulated a plan. She couldn’t be the only person left alive, she could hear fighting. So she needed to find her soldiers, she needed to rally them, and she needed to get control of her castle. After that, they could try to pull people in from the streets.

  Why do you care? It isn’t even real! She asked herself, but she couldn’t just leave them. Even if they were fake, she was their Queen- she had an obligation. Meriwyn took a deep breath, wiped her tears on her sleeve, and tried to make herself look powerful.

  You are a Queen. She reminded herself once more, and then she pushed into the castle.

  But she wasn’t there anymore.

  Meriwyn found herself standing in snow. On the northern coast. The door was no longer behind her, and the wind around her wailed like the dying. There was a man down the hill, trudging up it. Her father, maybe? He looked similar. He was younger. Her Uncle Rousse? Wasn’t her uncle older? He was too far to determine his identity for sure. Meriwyn turned her attention back to the Northern Sea, and felt her heart launch into her throat.

  Ships. Tens of thousands of ships, stretching across the sea. Sails burning and dripping venom and others made of smoke. There were sails of skin, and ships carved of bone, so many vessels and of so many types and constructions that it hurt the mind to see. An army that could shake the very foundations of the world with its marching alone, such was the vastness of its mass. Impossible. Undefeatable. Monstrous. She was not sure what to do. What could she do? She stood alone, one girl against this crushing mass. She looked over her shoulder. The man was not quite up the hill, he was waving his arms and shouting something. She couldn’t hear him. If only he was a little closer.

  She could not run. She would not get away.

  She knelt on her stinging knee, and picked up a stick from the ground, as heavy as she could manage, wiping it of snow.

  She would fight, because she knew that’s what her father would do, what her mother would do.

  It was the way of the Azalus.

  Meriwyn woke to a throbbing pain in her right knee. She was in bed, buried under a thick furred blanket. She dragged herself from her covers, heart stopping in her chest as she caught sight of the inside of her blanket. Blood. Around her knee, the same knee she fell onto. Meriwyn felt her breathing quicken, tried to stay calm.

  “No.” She found herself saying, denying the wound on her knee.

  “I fell out of bed. I fell out of bed and I don’t remember it, and I cut myself on something.” She decided, pulling herself from the bed.

  It couldn’t be anything else, because if it was… but it wasn’t. So there was no need to worry about it, no need at all. What she needed was to find an apothecary. It was just a dream, she knew. To prove it to herself, she threw open her curtains. Outside of her windows, she could see the capital. It was alive with the movement of people and carts, a veritable river of them streaming from the city coming and going. She felt her heart begin to slow.

  “By the Nine.” She chided herself. “You are a queen, you have no time for such childish things!”

  Magic was little more than legend, the Knights of the Landfall had ensured it. Some in fact argued that the evil and the magic they faced were metaphorical evils.

  In any case, she gave a prayer to the Watcher, the one who was vigilant for evil. She briefly considered a prayer to the other eight gods, but her thinking was interrupted. Once more, a knock at her door.

  Meriwyn limped across her shaggy carpet, passing the painting on the wall that showed her father and mother, standing protectively above her. She took just a moment to touch the painting, hoping her mother and father had reunited in the Cold Harbor. There was another knock, urging her along towards the door. She dragged the heavy thing open, When he saw her bleeding knee, he looked about the room.

  “My Lady, what happened? Are you alright?” He asked, aghast.

  Meriwyn waved his concern away.

  “I merely tripped, nothing more.” She shivered in the early morning breeze, her nightgown a meager defense against the forenoon chill.

  “What brings you here?” She asked, sounding more annoyed than she’d meant to as she stood bleeding in the hall.

  “Matters of council, but it can wait.” Percin ushered her down the passage.

  “Poor thing, we need to find an apothecary.”

  “I’m fine, really.” She tried to explain but the man wasn’t hearing any of it.

  “We aren’t doing anything until you’re bandaged.” He turned to look at her, and she could almost see her father in him. She had to face forward.

  After she was patched up and fed, Meriwyn was led back towards the Council Chamber. It had become her second bedroom as of late, more hours spent sitting at the head of the table and listening to them argue than anything else. It seemed a terrible waste of time to Meriwyn most days, and that she could be doing more from the Throne Room. There had been no coronation yet though, the people had yet to be told of King Lucen the IVth’s ultimate fate while the council tried to ensure the passage of power would be smooth. Too many houses would balk under the reign of a child, she knew that, but they still only had so long before they had to admit what happened. King Lucen had not been seen in public in weeks already. Meriwyn wagered most probably already at least suspected something.

  Today, Damien Fireforge stood at the far end of the table- he had something to discuss. Meriwyn took her seat at the head of the table.

  “I’ve received word from our hands across the ocean.” He said. Damien placed a folded scroll onto the table.

  “Rousse the Black has made landfall in Zairos.”

  The Council Room came alive with chatter.

  “He would not dare return!” Highfather Lyam growled. “He’d not break the word of the Keeper! An Exile must not return!”

  “You know he’s always been more fond of the northlander gods.” Hectar Corinth said as he guzzled a glass of wine. “They do not value obedience, but ambition.”

  Ser Theron merely watched the map, inspecting the little carved pieces littered about that represented their various assets. They had spies across the sea, but little else. Rumors filtered in near constantly of some new magic or another, but there had never been any true evidence of such things.

  “He’s a pirate, the Free Cities of the Northern Coast are wealthy and he has not sailed their waters in two decades so they would not be expecting him.” Percin said dismissively. “Rousse is in search of easy prey, nothing more.”

  Damien Fireforge shook his head.

  “I doubt that. His fleet has swelled since last we saw it. He has two Triremes now.”

  “Two triremes!” Hectar guffawed. “I shake in my boots! Oh gods, don’t tell me he has a ballista next!” He howled with laughter, struggling to swallow his next gulp of wine.

  “The exile has no claim to the throne. He would find no support in Durendane.” Highfather Lyam scoffed.

  Ser Theron shook his head.

  “He may not need to. There are many mercenaries in the Free Cities who may be interested in Northern plunder. Or perhaps expansion.” Ser Theron looked to Meriwyn pleadingly.

  “My Queen, Rousse was always a patriot. He may only wish to return home. I advise we send an offer to lift his exile, perhaps name him Warden of the Blade. Lands, the right to return home, the man is getting old. I think he would accept it.”

  Hectar stood from his chair, pointing at Ser Theron.

  “You were his friend once, perhaps he is your true master!” He turned his attention to the queen.

  “Your Majesty, I implore you to reconsider!” Hectar blubbered. “Rousse the Black has spent twenty years in the fighting pits and whore-dens of the Free Cities! He could not be trusted to reign over our lands, heavens the people would rise in revolt!” He shouted.

  The people? Or you? Meriwyn wondered. She let them keep arguing.

  All her father had told her of Rousse, was of his hard heart and cold eyes. He had been the elder brother, set for the throne. But after the death of their father, Rousse’s cavalier nature got him into too much trouble. He’d been a partier, a womanizer. Her father had often regaled her with the tales of Rousse’s bastard children, and his weekends spent in whorehouses and bars, so drunk he could not fulfill his duties as prince. There were many reasons he was sent away, some said it had to do with an affair with a northwoman, but her father claimed that it had come to a head in a drunken duel in the great hall of Castle Azalon. Rousse slew the Lord of Wages Simyn Corinth, and was exiled for it. Or, that’s how her father told it to her.

  Meriwyn raised her hand, putting an end to the conversation.

  “Could a man like Rousse be trusted to rule?” She asked, hating the tremble in her voice. “But it has been a long time.” She considered. “Maybe he has changed.”

  “I wager he has!” Highfather Lyam shrieked. “And for the worse! They spend hours in those cities smoking the greenleaf and discussing right and wrong, as if the gods have not writ such things unto our hearts!” He was turning red now, boiling over with anger.

  “I’m willing to bet the cur is in a whore-den even now!”

  Percin waved to the older man to calm.

  “In truth, there is a threat he could return and try to use his blood for a chance at the throne.” Percin said. “But he has a mere six hundred men as of our last reports. Hectar could muster nearly five thousand in under a week. There is no threat, and no reason to risk giving him that much power. We are already in rough waters, if we give him control of the southlands that is like throwing an oar out. What would it say to the people? That you can murder the Lord of Wages in cold blood and be allowed to return?”

  Meriwyn nodded, finally.

  “So be it.” She said, “My uncle will remain in exile.”

  “The problem will solve itself.” Damien assured her. “The Zairosi will not tolerate a foreigner pirate for long.”

  “There is also the issue of his bastards.” Damien continued. “Gods only know how many little Rousse are running about our cities.”

  “Why does it matter?” Meriwyn asked. “They are mere children, living lowborn?”

  Percin smiled softly, piteously. She hated that look, as if she were some kind of sick animal.

  “My Queen, any one of them could be a figurehead. If he knew of his heritage, who knows what kind of evils he might get up to.”

  Highfather Lyam nodded in agreement.

  “Bastards have the spirit of disruption in them, that much is well known. They are like ungelded bulls, and we must bring them to heel.”

  Ser Theron shook his head.

  “We are making a mistake.” He said. “This could drive him to act.” He leaned over the carved coast that was home to Zairos, frowning as he watched the city.

  “Then perhaps we shouldn’t give him the chance.” Hectar said grimly, the most serious Meriwyn had ever seen him.

  “What are you implying?” She asked, her stomach wrapping in knots.

  Damien nodded as he looked to Hectar.

  “There are plenty of sellswords in the city.” He said with a conspiratorial nod. “Rousse could die before the season is out.”

  Ser Theron’s jaw fell slack.

  “You speak of killing the King’s brother!” He objected.

  Percin shrugged. “It isn’t quite the same.”

  Ser Theron looked across the table, but did not find allegiance with anyone.

  Meriwyn couldn’t speak.

  “You need only give the word, my Queen.” Damien said with a bow.

  But Meriwyn could not speak. She felt as though she’d swallowed wooden shards.

  They want me to order his death? My own family?

  She stared at the map.

  “No.” She said, shaking her head. “No, we can’t.”

  Before any of them could speak, she tried her best to harden her voice.

  “Do not dispute me, it is off the table!” She was hoping to sound regal, but instead felt more desperate. The men exchanged looks.

  Will they even obey me? She wondered. They must, mustn’t they? She was the queen! But she would not be the one to give the order. Why am I even here?

  “I will not be a Kinslayer.” Meriwyn insisted.

  “My Queen, you need not object further.” Percin said. “We understand.”

  But they don't. They can’t. Not one of them. It all felt so crushing, so distracting. She had to focus on everything at once, it was like herding cats.

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  “What of my father’s will?” She finally asked.

  “There is still the matter of his funeral, we can attend to the other matters later.” Highfather Lyam replied.

  After the meeting, Meriwyn had found her way back out into the garden. Something was put at rest within her, upon seeing the grand oak standing strong again. The roses still clung to life. When her father’s sickness had worsened, he had been unable to tend to them. Her father never allowed the Palace gardeners to tend to his roses. They were a palish red, sad.

  Like me. She thought. She tried to put it out of her mind.

  Returning to the balcony where she had once watched the capital city overrun by those creatures, Meriwyn strained to look as far north as she could. She could not visit the coast, to put to the grave that worry in her mind that the ships could be real.

  “What would you do, father?” She asked the open air. King Lucen was by all accounts the perfect Knight. He spared his surrendering enemies, he was honorable in duels and not once unhorsed in tournament. He had not ever bore the scars of battle, and the way it had been told to her, that was because he was so fast no blade could strike him. When the sickness first took him, she could hardly stand to see him. To watch his strong arms wither to bone, to watch his once jet black hair pale into snow white. As his breathing became raspy, and he could not move without help, and then could not move at all. As his laugh became hollow and racked with coughs. The King had not died in his sleep the way they had said, her father had been dead for weeks. He had lived for his horse riding and his garden, for his fighting and running and playing. Now he was gone, and the garden was silent.

  She wished Atho had been there today. He had not yet returned from his attempt to summon Lady Massel of Icenhall. Atho had been a good friend of her father’s. Atho taught him to hunt as she heard it. Her father and Rousse had slain an elk with a rack of antlers nearly as wide as the double doors that lead to the interior from the courtyard, a wingspan taller than Meriwyn herself. They’d brought the beast back from the North, and made Meriwyn’s mother a cloak of it. She, of course, had yet to be born. She had seen the cloak however. It was thick, warm, and so white if she dropped it in snow she doubted she’d ever find it again. But the snows were gone, and summer was here. Most of the Hilt did not see snow, even in winter. All this thinking of seasons got her wondering about the Wanderer’s March. Each fall, as the leaves fell from the trees, many pilgrims followed the path of the Wanderer, leading all the way back to Castle Azalon, where a grand feast would be held. The Nine had walked together, and ascended to the heavens on their virtue alone. Some made claims of a tenth god, who raised them, but such heresies were not common. The city would be lush with people, and it would be her first holiday without her father. Her first holiday as a monarch. She needed to make a good impression on her people. Meriwyn leaned out onto the balcony and sighed as she looked down into the city.

  “My city. My Realm.” She said. It felt strange to say the words. It was like a lightning strike, exciting and wild, and uncontrollable. But was she? The Council had kept her on a rather short leash. She hadn’t even been allowed to leave the castle, for fear word would somehow get out of her father’s death. This secrecy seemed folly to her. Why hide it from the people? She was his heir, the kingdom was at peace, she even had a regent. What did anyone have to worry about? There was Rousse, sure, but Meriwyn didn’t think her uncle would ever go so far as Kinslaying.

  Percin had seemed receptive to her plans to hold a grand funeral feast. However, each time she’d suggested finally hosting it to him, he seemed to dodge the request. She knew her father’s words, that a ruler must be firm. So why allow them to wait? She could propose it once more to the council, or she could simply bypass them and announce it herself. She was not beholden to them, it was the other way around. Perhaps she needed to remind them of that fact. She couldn’t exactly organize a conference entirely on her own. But she realized she was not without allies in the court, a sly smile spreading across her face. Her father had schemes, he’d taught her that court was a game played with others, but for oneself. If seeking to protect the people, she couldn’t assume that anyone else in the court was out to do the same. She was their only representative. Meriwyn would be a good queen, she’d decided that much. She had to be remembered as a good and just queen. She wanted the people to sing songs about her, to look on her as their friend. To know she just didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Surely, everyone could agree to work together to avoid their own pain.

  Ser Theron spent much of his time with the House Azalus guard, training them and organizing guard patrols, and keeping up with the maintenance of Castle Azalon. Meriwyn navigated the carved stone corridors of the castle, eventually making her way to the courtyard. It was massive, almost a park within the castle. It had been built less with defense in mind, and more with hosting large parties. Castle Azalon had never been besieged, it had never been conquered. The massive structure had always had soldiers, fortresses, and land between it and any foes. Control over the bay meant that raiders couldn’t reach far enough inland to strike the capital either, from before the Bastard Isle became a region of the Kingdom. There was only one way into and out of the courtyard from the outside, and the layered walls of the castle meant that even breaching the exterior would mean besieging what was essentially a second castle.

  Ser Theron had gathered many of the guards here, all wearing the orange and red of House Azalus, the Bull and Eagle proud on their garb. Upon seeing her, he lit up. Ser Theron finished dispatching his men to their new posts, before he approached her.

  “My Queen, how can I be of service?” He asked, taking a knee. Meriwyn smiled.

  “You may rise.” She began. “You’ve seen the trouble I’ve had with my father’s funeral and will.”

  The older man scratched his chin, nodding as he stood from his knee.

  “Aye, I have.” He confirmed. “They’ll be forced to speak sooner or later.”

  “I’d prefer the former.” Meriwyn said. “I intend to address the public, with or without their approval.”

  Ser Theron’s eyes widened, a small smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

  “Quite the plan.” He said. “Are you certain?”

  “Now even you are second guessing me?” Meriwyn asked, ashamed she couldn’t hide the hurt in her voice.

  Ser Theron seemed taken aback.

  “Of course not, Your Highness.” He said, bowing his head briefly. “My apologies. I merely mean to suggest you consider retaliation.”

  Meriwyn wasn’t quite sure what he meant. She raised her eyebrow.

  “You mean to suggest they would harm me?” She asked. Ser Theron paused, seemingly frustrated.

  “Only that they may make things more difficult than necessary. But if you wish to address the public, to take the throne, then I will assist you.”

  Meriwyn smiled. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say to them, but that Ser Theron stood with her made her feel quite tall. Nobody could stop her if the guards obeyed her. He motioned for her to move, and then he followed her. He was an iron giant at her back in all his armor, and his sword was nearly as long as she was tall. However, as she pushed down the hallway, she had no idea how exactly she was going to go about this scheme. She briefly turned to look at Ser Theron, and he seemed to understand.

  “Well, I suppose we ought to start with getting a horse.” Ser Theron said, he nearly jumped out of his armor when a voice spoke from behind him.

  “Where are we going?” Damien Fireforge asked, striding up from behind the two of them. Ser Theron seemed cautious, but Meriwyn knew she could use all the help she could get.

  “The Council will not read my father’s will.” She began. “I intend to address the people. It is not right that this information be hidden from them!”

  He seemed almost to look through her rather than at her, scouring her features. He gave a rat-like smile.

  “You little schemer.” He smiled. “But for future reference, such sensitive conferences should be held in private quarters.” He pat Meriwyn on the shoulder, and it only then occurred to her the foolishness of having this talk here. Anyone in the castle could’ve overheard her.

  “Hectar, Percin, and Father Lyam have yet to leave the council-chamber; they remain in debate. If someone were to take a horse, with the Castellan at her side, well I wager someone could accomplish her plans long before three certain counselors could do anything about it.” He grinned mischievously.

  “They will talk about this in stories, little queen. Bards will long tell tales of your defiance.”

  Ser Theron glared at him.

  “These are serious matters, Lord Fireforge.”

  “Deathly serious.” Damien smiled. “When am I anything but?” He asked, turning on his heel. “I happen to have found a particularly old vintage of red in the cellars. Perhaps I should drop in a surprise to the council?” He began to walk that way.

  “Is he going to tell them?” Meriwyn asked.

  Whose side is he on? She wondered.

  Ser Theron shook his head. “To distract them. Come along.” He quickened his pace, Meriwyn struggling to keep up behind her Castellan.

  Castle Azalon was like a maze, dense with hallways and turns, chokepoints and killspots. The Castle was developed in fear of what lurks in the darkness, of the magic that can push through the veil. Nothing ever came of such fears, the Knights of the Landfall had accomplished their mission, but the defenses remained.

  They pushed through the entry courtyard quickly, ignoring the few people who jockeyed for their attention, and under the murderhole that led out to the gatehouse. Meriwyn couldn’t help but look up, she did it every time she passed under the thing. The stables of Castle Azalon were full of the finest horses in Durendane, but Meriwyn only had one in mind.

  Her father’s horse, Longstrider, was taller than almost every other horse in the stable. Getting into the saddle would be a challenge all of its own. He was as dark as the night, with eyes as bright blue as the northern ice. There was an imperial look about him. Meriwyn could tell from his eyes that he knew her fathers fate. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew. He snorted, lowering his head as she strode into the chambers.

  “You carried him through battle. Can you carry me through peace?” She asked the creature. He licked her hand. She managed a laugh in the stables, and motioned for Ser Theron to approach.

  “A good choice, my Queen.” He smiled. “He’s good, and strong. Willful, but obedient.” The stench of horse manure bit at her nose as she stepped back for Ser Theron to prepare her mount.

  His own horse, Muncher, was a big and broad horse, as brown as tilled soil. He ate nearly twice as much as any horse in the stable, and looked strong enough to kick down a brick wall. The mud sullied Ser Theron’s armor, and Meriwyn couldn’t help but apologize.

  “My queen,” Ser Theron said as he saddled Longstrider, “Armor is made for sullying.” He smiled. “He’s ready.”

  Longstrider seemed hesitant as Ser Theron helped her into the saddle. As she took hold of the reins, he stomped, and she wasn’t sure how to take that.

  “Keep your back straight. He’s a confident one, and you’ve got to show him the same.”

  Meriwyn tried to follow his advice. The horse took a step forward as Ser Theron mounted his own horse. By now, they were under the bright blue sky. It had been nothing but bright sunny days lately, and the thought of it made her a little bitter. When she didn’t busy herself, she always wandered back to thoughts of her father.

  “I wish father was here, to tell me what to say.” She said, wiping away tears before they could fight their way free. “What if they don’t listen?” She turned to Ser Theron.

  “They will listen. You are your father’s daughter. Tell them the truth. But not every truth. They don’t need to know of your doubts, of your fears.” As he guided the two of them out of the front gates. The guards, men loyal to Ser Theron, did not question his orders. So far as anyone knew, Meriwyn intended a tour of the markets, with Ser Theron at her side. Normally, she’d be worried about leaving the castle with few guards.

  I need to show I’m brave. She nodded to herself.

  They drew eyes moving through the city streets. She’d not been seen outside in a long time. Ser Theron and his sword ensured nobody else was particularly willing to close in, but a small group of followers had begun to trail behind them as they moved through the city. Men, women, children, all curious as to where Princess Meriwyn was going. They did not yet know, of course, that she was now their Queen. She did her best to stay calm, to keep her back straight and sit proud. But the street felt empty without her father astride next to her. Full of people and carts, wagons and smells. The stench of horse manure was just as strong as that of baking bread, and the sooty smell of distant blacksmiths churning smoke. She gave a prayer to the Tiller, hoping that the workers would do well and be prosperous. Of course not everyone in a city could be, that was the nature of things. Meriwyn heard that in the city of Midalon every man was a king, but if every man was a king she supposed it must be a very bloody city. Every King she ever knew waged at least one war, even if it was only a little one.

  They passed under billowing ribbons, cutting a swathe through the market as people spread to make way for the horses. Longstrider was good at stomping just close enough to a man’s foot to scare him away without hitting it. The market was stuffed with people, she supposed it made a good enough spot.

  “Here will do.” She said, only barely loud enough to be heard over the hushed chattering of the surrounding crowd. Ser Theron rode his horse in a short arch around Meriwyn, driving the crowd back. As the Castellan swung off of his horse, he took hold of a barrel, pushing it into place so that Meriwyn could step from the back of her horse and onto the wooden barrel.

  “You’ll need to be loud. Project your voice.” Ser Theron whispered.

  “My father-” She began, but they were still too loud. The first few people in the crowd heard her, and began to nervously whisper amongst themselves. The sound was as constant as rain, the quiet conversations coalescing into something almost deafening. Gods there were a lot of them. Perhaps this had been a bad idea, she turned back towards the horse, reaching with one hand towards Longstrider. Ser Theron gently pushed her arm back down.

  “Show no fear.” He muttered. “I am right here with you.” He kept his eyes on the crowd.

  How will they react? What if they enter a frenzy? Didn’t King Quincel’s first son die that way? She was beginning to get second thoughts. She should’ve waited, brought more guards, should’ve done more.

  It’s too late now. Would they have even let me leave the Castle? Meriwyn cleared her throat, and spoke as loudly as she could manage without screaming.

  “My father, King Lucen the IVth Azalus, is dead!” She said. The chat fell into silence. It was so quiet she could hear individual whispers in the crowd, the distant ping of blacksmith hammer.

  “Dead?”

  “The King is dead?”

  “The Wasting took him!”

  “By the gods, will it spread?”

  “I am his only child.” Meriwyn said. Perhaps she should have written something. Ser Theron should have stopped her, should have told her.

  This was your choice. She steadied herself.

  “I know I am young. But know that my passion is as deep as the roots of an Ironoak. That I, as your Queen, will continue the work my father did!” There was an air of near despair amongst the crowd. Mothers dragged children closer. Fathers set their jaws tightly. She knew they doubted, they expected she’d lead the realm to ruin.

  “I will ensure the peace he struggled so hard to maintain will not be wasted! So do not have fear in your heart! My father has passed, but he left us strong. Our crops are massive, the rains have been good. Winter was not harsh. What have you to worry about? If the gods favor us, then none can stand against us!” She tried to sound inspiring, but saw many judging eyes in that crowd. Some had been won over, there was a scattering of nodding heads- but she needed more. She needed something to buy them over.

  A sign of charity!

  “For this month, you will not be required to pay the King’s Tax!” She declared, and that set the cheers alight. Ser Theron turned to her, slack jawed only long enough for her to detect his shock, before he wiped the look from his face. Chants of ‘Queen Meriwyn!’ reached the air, some cheered and clapped, others ran off from the square, no doubt to inform friends and family of the good news.

  “Did I do something wrong?” She asked, turning to him. His response was almost drowned out by the excitement of the crowd.

  “We will be fine!” He stammered. “I just…did not expect such...action.” Meriwyn struggled back atop her own horse as Ser Theron mounted his.

  “Now, to see how Hectar will handle it…” He looked towards Castle Azalon, eyes grim with something that Meriwyn couldn’t place.