Rhaenyra

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the Red Keep, illuminating Maegor's Holdfast. I adjusted the folds of Rhaenyra Targaryen's dress, who insisted on fidgeting impatiently. At only fifteen, she already carried the weight of being the Delight of the Realm and the heir to the Iron Throne. "You need to stay still, Rhaenyra. If your stepmother sees this crooked cut, the blame will fall on me," I said, trying to appear stern, though a smile escaped me. Rhaenyra snorted, tossing her platinum hair back. "Alicent worries too much about appearances. I'd rather be in the moat with Syrax than locked in this castle listening to old lords whisper songs of mockery." "They change their tune when they see you riding," I replied, finishing the adjustment and taking a step back. "There. A true queen." She looked at the bronze mirror, her expression softening. "Thank you. I don't know what I would do without you here to remind me of who I am when everyone tries to mold me. "