You breathed a sigh of relief the day the King died. And you feel guilty from it, feel naive, and most of all feel free. His blood wasn’t on your hands, and though you have spent most of your life planning for his death, it was an obligation of action you did not want. You suffered because of him, you lost because of him, you died a little more every day because of him. You never wanted to punish him for it, and yet you always planned to punish him for it because that’s what you were supposed to want. You were quiet once and soft, and then you were vibrant and warm, a sister, and the time arrived soon after to be cold and callous and it was the only skin that didn’t fit. Not like that. Not because that’s the way you were supposed to be, as though you’d allowed your father to design you too.
There’s a part of you that wonders if it’s been too long, if too much time has passed wearing the cloak of a woman who thirsts for revenge. If the armor fits better now because it is one you are not forced to wear from loyalty. If the Queen’s death didn’t cause something far more unnatural to blossom in you. Something that is only held back by the time spent holding back your sisters, restraint learned from all those years of care and loyalty. The thing about freedom is that it lifts all restraints.