Imagine You're A Fifteen-year-old Girl, Your Father Is The Second Most Powerful Man In The Realm, And

Imagine you're a fifteen-year-old girl, your father is the second most powerful man in the realm, and your life is not your own. You're fifteen and your father sends you to the king's chambers to keep him company. He says that he wants to marry you now, you're fifteen and you closest friend's father wants to marry you. Your father wanted this for you so you wanted this for you.

You're thrust into the role of queen, and wife, and mother before you even really got to know yourself. So then you had three children before the age of twenty and you don't know how to love them properly. You don't even know how to love yourself properly. Your friend (or is it step-daughter now?) resents you for it and somehow you can't blame her. And you're so lonely and you don't know where to find somebody.

Your husband crumbles before your eyes. He never really cared about you that much, you know. He doesn't even care for your children that much. You feel misunderstood and used and weren't they what you wanted? What did I do wrong?

Your children, your precious children. You love them fiercely, of course you do, but sometimes you don't like them very much. They remind you too much of yourself, of the mistakes you've made, of the person you've become.

Your eldest son, the reason for it all. He's your curse, you know? And your salvation. And he is your son. You tell him he isn't yours, but as you say it your entire being is staring back at you.

Your daughter is a mystery you cannot solve, she slips through your fingers like water sometimes. You reach out to her, try to connect, but you never quite get to touch her.

Your son is maimed before your very eyes. You watch in horror as his father doesn't seem to care. Is anybody else seeing this? No one seems to care. Why isn't anyone doing something?

And your youngest, you barely know him (it's okay, he barely knows you too). Sometimes you wonder if he sees your face when he thinks of the word mother.

You're consumed by fear and resentment, you're practically drowning in it; no one seems to notice. There's blood on your hands, or is there? You question every decision, every action, wondering if it was all for naught.

You lost your youth, your decency, everything that made you you. All in an attempt to save your children; you lost your children, too.

You are Alicent Hightower.