Born heir to the Scottish throne and inheriting that throne six days later, Mary Queen of Scots never questioned her divine right as queen.
Beautiful, right off the bat.
A gorgeous, leggy little girl.
A gorgeous, coltish teen.
A gorgeous, statuesque adult.
Mary never seemed to hit that awkward stage where one's siblings were frenemies and one's identity is frighteningly changeable.
Instead, Mary had no siblings close enough to bother her, she was called 'Queen' from Day Seven forward, and she never had a moment that she was less than drop-dead gorgeous - until her 'winding down' years, beaten and demoralized by sitting and embroidering for nineteen straight years while under house arrest.
And even then, if she put her mind to it, she could still charm the little birdies right out of the trees.
Lacking just a bit in the 'impulse-control' portion of her personality, Mary Queen of Scots married very young and well - for a very short time.
Her French dauphin-turned-king husband dropped dead howling in pain from the earache that killed him in his teens after the two had been married less than two years.
Mary swept up the 'queen consort' title to go along with her existing 'Queen of Scots' one.
After that, Mary's impulse control went haywire and she made disastrous move after disastrous move, each one turning her fate like the twisting of an iron bar.
She just didn't know it yet.
The short list of her more disastrous moves:
married her first (!) cousin, Lord Darnley, a petulant sorta-cutie with a personality that made everyone want to punch his face -
- Darnley, wildly unpopular, was found dead in his nightie with his (also dead) valet in the orchard adjoining his house; the house had exploded only minutes earlier - the blame for it went to James Hepburn (not James Hetfield, although it's what I always read it as, too - METAL!!)