she wants a kingdom,
the high courts with lords and softer ladies,
the blacksmiths and maesters and stable boys,
the wispy peasant children
to gaze so longingly as she passes, and
reach for a touch of her amethyst gown
she wants a heavy crown,
twisted points fastened with winking gemstones,
that weighs too much on her precisely woven
curls of morning light and dragon fire,
that pushes an ache into the bones of her neck but
still sits as a golden reminder of her right to rule
she wants to be cruel,
to curl her reddened lips and turn all the thieves
into beggars, to watch them scour her castle floors
pleading for the mercy she does not have,
to twirl a lazy finger in dismissal of her queensguard,
because she’d like to drop the guillotine herself

she thinks she hates her middle name