As the king’s daughter, she has spent a good portion of her childhood learning how to be dignified: in all her mannerisms, and in every word that comes out of her mouth. It was a subject she studied to death; a subject that now clung to her like a second skin. So when she first saw the city’s greatest warrior ride through the streets in all his unrefined splendour, all she could do was sigh, and fall in love.
Looking back on her past, she’s amazed at her own naivety. Why did she insist that her relationship and her feelings towards the warrior would stay the same, even after they got married? His ruggedness was part of his charm, and unrefined as he is, she didn’t mind, because she was the princess while he would be her knight. He wasn’t supposed to have even the slightest of chances to become the king, even if he married her, because she had more than enough brothers. He was supposed to stay as her husband, the one who fights for her, the one who fights for the sake of the whole nation and not the one who rules it…if he had, she would’ve gladly bore with his coarse and unrefined behaviour, because that was part of who he is.
But he’s the king now, in place of her dead father and brothers. And even though he mourned for them along with the rest of the citizens, he doesn’t change. He doesn’t learn to be like a king; a figure to be revered, feared, and respected. He takes the subject that had strangled her childhood and throws it back at her face, and continues to do primal victory chants and dances in the middle of the city – more than half-naked in front of everyone, including slaves, with his body slathered with layers of sweat!
Her face burns from anger or embarrassment, or both.
She watches his prancing figure through the slits in the curtains of her window, and finally understands what it means to hate someone.