I was born far too early. It was on the "Black Day" when kings gathered in the great hall to negotiate a lasting peace. But there was to be no peace. An assassin was sent to kill my mother during the talks. She ran to the great hall, screaming for help. When my father turned his back to help her, he was stabbed in the gut. As my father bled out on to the table and the assassin stalked toward her a funny thing happened. Mercy.
He could not bring himself to kill a pregnant widow.
He fled while my mother cried out in pain. Her water broke. And so I came to be.
I joined this world on the very table my father left it from.
They called me Tara. In Gaelic, the language of my people, it meant "where the kings met." My name was to be a reminder of "Black Day", a day of sadness and treachery. It was to be a reminder of everything my family lost.
Peace was an impossibility. This was a fact I knew quite well.
I'd sooner forget my own name.