Then you speak not with the voice of a worthy queen, but a tyrant. A delusional whelp who seeks to bring about peace by instigating more war. Perhaps you find what you seek, but only because everyone is either broken or dead.
You may have people bowing to you out of fear, dear queen, but they turn their backs, and they teach their children to spit upon your name.
If it were not a swift death at the end of a dagger, it would have been poison in your goblet. Or discontent until the peasantry demanded your head ripped from your neck. Or even a long, dreadful life, until your children resolved to spend their entire reign undoing your mistakes.
I would know. I've spent eighteen long years cleaning up after the messes left behind by a wretch like you.
The one we call the Mother of Dragons in my world has a special place all to herself, and it is in the pits of the Nine Hells.
no subject
You may have people bowing to you out of fear, dear queen, but they turn their backs, and they teach their children to spit upon your name.
If it were not a swift death at the end of a dagger, it would have been poison in your goblet. Or discontent until the peasantry demanded your head ripped from your neck. Or even a long, dreadful life, until your children resolved to spend their entire reign undoing your mistakes.
I would know. I've spent eighteen long years cleaning up after the messes left behind by a wretch like you.
The one we call the Mother of Dragons in my world has a special place all to herself, and it is in the pits of the Nine Hells.
I suppose not much changes after all.