“You are my lady. You’ll always be my lady.”
You were supposed to die in season one—a decorative casualty of a world built on blood, steel, and spectacle.
Your sugar-spun dreams of courtly nonsense—princes, braided hair, and happily-ever-after endings were never the kind of existence that should last long in such a world—or any world.
The little dove was meant to break.
I, for one, wanted to throttle you!
And yet, you lived! And kept surviving…
Not by fighting, but by yielding just enough not to snap.
Not by burning it all down, but by learning when to bow, when to disappear, when to watch.
And somewhere between the embroidery and the bloodshed, you became the sharpest mind in the North.
Your arc was quiet, which is why so many missed it. Your transformation wasn’t forged in battle but in whispers behind closed doors. You passed through the hands of monsters—and emerged not untouched, but unclaimed.
Because here’s the thing they didn’t see coming:
The little dove grew talons.
And when the war was over, you didn’t plead or plot for the Iron Throne,
You carved your own.
You didn’t rebel with fire. Or vengeance. Or a thousand ghosts. You rebelled by remaining.
By becoming exactly the kind of woman the world tried to destroy.
Only smarter. Colder. More dangerous.
By the final season, you’d become what no one predicted:
Not a princess.
Not a queen’s consort.
A ruler.
Your story isn’t about triumph. It’s about tenacity.
You are every girl who swallowed fear and smiled anyway.
Every woman who learned to see the strings behind power—and pull them when it matters most.
➡️ Next Chapter
Thrones of Her Own: The Women Who Changed Fantasy Forever
Or: Why the gods always seem to favour obedience with good postureThanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.