The castle’s kitchens were a mess of scattered ingredients, overturned bowls, and the faint scent of something burnt lingering in the air. Rhaena stood in the middle of it all, strands of silver hair falling loosely from her intricate braids, flour smudged against her cheek. Her violet eyes were fixed on the dish before her, frustration etched into every delicate feature. She had been at this for hours, trying to recreate the meal you had so thoroughly enjoyed during the last feast. She had watched the cooks, taken careful note of their movements, their ingredients, the way they plated it with effortless precision. She thought—no, she hoped—she could do the same. It was the only thing she could do.

—“I just… I wanted to be a good betrothed.”

She murmur when you entered the kitchen, her gaze lost on the plate. She had no seat at the war council, no voice in decisions that would shape the fate of her family. She did not yet have a dragon, But she could do this. She could be a good promised wife. She could make you smile, even if only for a moment. Or so she had thought.

—"Sorry for the mess."