Hear Me Roar!

There was never any doubt, just a little internal reluctance to commit myself entirely, but as of yesterday, I’ve thrown in completely with House Lannister.

A charming family, as you can see by the write up accompanying my latest acquisition. A Vancouver jeweler called Pyrrha got permission to create a line of sigil bling for the Game of Thrones houses and, well, I just had to scoop the Lannister lion.

Declaring for the Dark Side a) takes more courage than you’d think, and b) prompted me to ponder precisely what has attracted me to this particular family. It started with the Kingslayer, and in truth, after five books and three TV seasons, he and his literally little brother remain the sole objects of my, er, admiration. The rest of the family live by a code that directly opposes my own. If moral values count for anything, I should have signed with Team Stark—they’re the heroes of the piece, but the direwolf in their sigil just doesn’t do it for me. So after much thought, I’ve deduced that the Lannisters have called to me from a previous life. Or lives.

Seriously. It’s not a stretch for someone whose current clan sigil is also a lion, with a motto stating “Royal is My Race”, to accept that, some other place at some other time, I was, or was closely associated with, royalty. Ter razzes me about it all the time. For as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined that I was stolen from the royal nursery to be raised by a lovely middle-class Scottish family, which was to my benefit because I’d not have it any other way.

While wealth alone means little to me, the trappings of royalty seem distantly familiar—crimsons and golds, cavernous halls and luxurious coaches, rich food and fizzy wine, aimless socializing and a stream of servants fussing with hair and clothes and domestic maintenance. Some of these things I’ve replicated in this life, though I resent having to do some of the domestic maintenance myself, and I recognize now, from my middle-class point of view, that wealthy ruling families become wealthy ruling families by being ruthless rat bastards. That’s how kings were made. That’s why the MacGregors ruled the Scottish Highlands until Robert the Bruce listened to our arch rivals and made us into outlaws. Proof that being royal is not the same as being rich, sniff sniff.

I was not spoiled as a child, so my attitude of entitlement must have come from somewhere. And when I reclaim my former majesterial status, I will remember where I came from and try harder to alleviate the common man’s plight. In the meantime, I will wear my lion with pride.

Just don’t call me “princess”.