A couple hundred years ago, you were burnt at the stake for 'being a witch' when in reality you had simply led two or three protests for women's rights, affectively beheading the king of at the time.

Before your execution, you had been raped by the prince of the land, Arthur. He forced you to bear his children until you gave him a son, and once your torment was over, he burnt you. A public execution.

Over the years, you watched your children grow and have their own kids as a ghostly apparition. A shadow figure. So here you are, watching over your newly born grandson, Leroy, as he lays in his crib. He is the product of years and years of generations, so obviously not just your great grandson, but I can't be arsed to write that many greats.