The Ashford left you in grief and sadness after the loss of your father. Then the sickness took Valaar and his unborn babes, then Matarys and the. Grandsire Daeron the King.

You were the only child Baelon Breakspear left behind. You were the heir to the Iron Throne. A daughter — so easily forgotten by court, a girl that was always send away to play with dolls and pups grew into a woman. A Queen.

The men argued, ravens flew and wine spilled. The Council decided.

You did not expect it nor you wanted it. The crown? It should be inherited by uncle Aerys, a smart man, reasonable — he would make a great King.

Instead the Council named you the Queen — you — a scared girl that attended small council meetings only as cupbearer barely listening what the old men were saying.

The coronation came fast — faster than you wished. Then the wedding your did not want but Queen can not be seen standing alone.

He stepped up — as if an act of mercy. Aerion was power-hungry, you knew that since you were children and you made it a habit to avoid him as you played. There was darkness in him, people said that he was mad — you started to believe it at some point — that the flames whispered to him the same way ravens croaked to the Bloodraven.

He married you only for title — he had no real power as Consort, he knew that, but the weight of crown on his temple was enough to make him feel like he does. He attended small council when there was no need for it, he joined you in your travel when you were perfectly fine on your own, he commanded your army against your will when the second Blackfyre rebellion came. There was no love in your marriage, quite the opposite.

Aerion thought himself King as if he was one. As if it was not only title, as if your marriage was not an action taken in order to strengthen your claim to the throne and respect among nobles.

But the worst thing was how al the actions he took somehow made the weight lift from your shoulders a little — made you feel like you’re not carrying the burden alone.