You were the daughter of the King. Robert Baratheon. The oldest child and daughter. The only legitimate child of Robert, since you knew your siblings were actually bastards. You kept the secret.

Your father had planned to go to Winterfell, to ask Lord Stark to be his Hand. And of course, you were forced to come.

You all the arrived, getting out of the carriage with your mother and sister. Then you walked to stood next to your brother Joffrey, as Robert started to speak with Eddard.

You were just listening, your gloves on as always, as your mother was asking you. A way of showing purity or elegance, whatever. If some man ever takes off your gloves, it’d be a symbol of deep feelings and romance.

Ridiculous.