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ROSEVA BARATHEON had spent her days living in Westeros alongside the Targaryen's. Her father — Boremund Baratheon had sent her to be the Princesses handmaiden and greatest friend since her fifteenth name day. And since Rhaenyra was eight, she had looked up to Lady Rose and often wondered if she could be like her one day.
Roseva had felt completely isolated when she first arrived before becoming significantly close to the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdom's — King Viserys I and Queen Aemma Arryn as her own mother died giving birth to Roseva, leaving her as the only living heir of the Baratheon house beside her cousin, Steffon who would much rather take a knight's oath than become a Lord.
Hence why Boremund sent her away so she could become accustomed to finding a good husband to bear children with to carry out the Baratheon legacy. Roseva felt nothing but a prize to be won and she did not settle for anyone's praise and hands for marriage which left her father worried though he could never be angry at his daughter, more so frustrated.
By the time Roseva was twenty two, Rhaenyra has reached her fifteenth name day — herself, Alicent and Roseva spent the day running around the castle and picking flowers, sitting in Godswoods and reading old tales of their families old ventures. It had been the perfect day. But not all perfect days last forever.
Roseva's heels clicked against the marble floor, the bottom of her dress held in her hands as she practically ran through the halls of the castle. She had been late getting to Rhaenyra and once she had gotten to her room — the Princess was gone to which Roseva began sprinting to find young Rhaenyra, worried for her safety.
Of course she had never expected to run into a hard chest — her body stopped completely before she was pushed back a little, stumbling on her feet. Her eyes widened before spluttering apologies to the unknown person but when her eyes roamed up she locked onto violet eyes that filled her with utmost dread. Roseva knew of those eyes. She had once loved those eyes.
Since her arrival in Westeros she had watched the Prince from afar — he was older than her but he was beautiful. His Targaryen hair and the tight dimples that spread across his pale cheeks when he smiled made her heart flutter. Though Daemon Targaryen never took notice of her — or so she thought.
