She's not good enough. She doesn't deserve this crown, doesn't deserve to be king of her country. She doesn't want this, but, at the same time, wants it so badly it hurts. To be king is her birthright, and she has little choice in the matter.

She wishes she had been born into a position more fitting to what she deserves. Or, you know, not being born at all would work too. She frowns. She barely knows what being a king entails.

She starts to pace. Why is she the prince? Why her, and not her younger brother? They are equally suited for the crown, though perhaps he'd enjoy the position more. It was all because she'd been born first, she knew, and so these useless questions had to stop. She'd never know what would have happened.

She turned, and looked at herself in the mirror once more, frowning at the large, feminine dress she had been made to wear for her coronation. It was time, she knew, and so she shook her head to clear her mind, and set the childish thoughts and dreams behind forever, walking out the door with her back straight and her head held high, to the cheers of her people.