Éowyn
When he touched her, the poison of his words seem to seep beneath her skin, raising the hair on her arms and turning her flesh clammy and cold. When he spoke in her ear, taking liberties that no honest man of Rohan would dare, it seemed that his oily touch was sliding over her, making her unclean. The want in his watery eyes as they traveled over her form would have made a weaker woman quake, but Éowyn would not give him the satisfaction of believing that he had power over her. He was beneath her in every way. He would always be nothing but a squirming worm at her feet-all she had to do was wait until she could stamp him out with a brutal twist of her heel.
I am a daughter of kings.
All of these things she knew, and each of these things she reminded herself when she felt his breath stir her hair or his hand ghosting an inch above the skin on her face. When her hands trembled at the sound of his robes sliding over the stones of Meduseld, when she gripped her dagger in the dead of the night thinking she heard his steps beside her bed, she remembered. She would outlast him, she would evade him, and she would deny him as long as she drew breath.
It was only when Éomer was banished that she became truly afraid.
I am a daughter of kings.