Reines (freewrite)

She stood up, strong and oh so young, though not at the head of the table. It wasn't her place to sit at the head of the table, where only the most powerful woman sat. Lyra didn't think that the woman sitting in that high chair – now old and gray and dozing in between meetings – should be sat there, but there was little she could do, being the youngest of the clan.
Or so she'd thought. For years, she'd looked up at the woman, then with her long, blonde hair, still powerful, still in her prime and she wished upon her. Not a day went by when little Lyra would not go up hill, to the House of the Lost and pray that one day, she would be like their leader. Strong, fearless, beautiful. She would have given away anything, just to be her, just for a day, to sit in that seat of power, to have foreign men, leaders of their own tribes come and look up at her, like they did their queen.

And now, she was ready, she felt it deep, in the soul of her bones, that she was prepared to stand up and lead. This was a sham and although she'd been a remarkable leader, their queen was ready to stand down. She'd lost her grip, she could barely keep her eyes open sometimes. And although nobody said it, she made bad decisions. Only last month, she'd given up a piece of their land to some Northern king. Lyra had been certain then that this was not their once-powerful queen, who would've fought to the death before giving in to that old fool in the north.

'I demand the reins of the castle,' Lyra said, her voice shaking above the painfully clear quiet of the dining hall.
The old woman had never been a queen, not in that sense. And although it had been long before Lyra's time, the story still carried on about how the then-young queen had stood in this very hall and explained to all the women – and men because back then, there still were some men who hadn't fled – that she would not be an unjust ruler and if they ever felt she'd overstepped her power, they had the right to call her down, to retire her if she'd done wrong by them. They just had to say the words. But in over thirty-five years, no one had spoken those words, not even in jest.
And Lyra wouldn't have said them either, hadn't she been forced to do so.

The old woman looked over at her, slowly, assessing this pretty young thing, weighing in her decrepit mind her stature and her shaky voice, while nobody said a word, not quite looking at the old queen, but not at Lyra either. All the women stared around them, at various spots in the ground, vastly important all of a sudden.
Lyra had expected some to grumble at her, particularly the old ones, but no one did. They just sat, in perfect, deafening silence, waiting for whatever came next.

'Very well,' the queen said evenly. 'It is your freedom to do so, it is within your personal power, young – '
'Lyra,' the girl gulped, not quite so sure of herself.
'Young Lyra, it is within your personal power to ask this, to challenge me. I can't tell you not to, nor will I try to convince you otherwise. If you think I am unfit to rule, perhaps it is so. I only ask you this – are you sure, Lyra?'
Lyra said nothing, glancing around the room, begging to meet someone's gaze, but even her mother, sat beside her, was looking into her bowl.
'Because once you do this, you will not be able to go back, I'm afraid. Are you certain this is the course you have envisioned for your life?'
The girl felt the shadow of sweat on her brow, her robe suddenly too tight around her small waist. And she stood, at her side of the table a little smaller, less sure of herself. She gave a most imperceptible nod and wished briefly they would speak no more of it. Alas, that has never been the way of things.
'Very well, then let the Judgment begin.'