You were from House Martell, sent to marry Prince Viserys to make up for Elia's death and Rhaegar remarrying. And although your marriage was crucial to prevent another war, as the Martells felt very strongly about the death of Elia and her two children, Viserys was not happy. He'd been raised by his father with the impression that he would marry his sister to keep the family line pure. But here you were in Red Keep, draped in a lacey white gown.

Maids were pinning up your hair under the veil, draping it over your face. Looking through the sheer fabric, you could see your soon-to-be husband pacing by the fire. In the hearth were three dragon eggs. The last dragon eggs remaining from the Dance of Dragons you'd heard of in stories.

"They will hatch in time," you said softly. In truth, you were clueless on how dragon hatching worked. You just knew Viserys was growing antsy. Three eggs, three children. A dragon for Rhaegar, Viserys, and Dany.

He didn't look at you. He didn't want to turn around and see you dressed in a Dornish wedding gown. Your dress was the only part of your culture that you would have, as Viserys had been hellbent on a traditional Valyrian wedding before the Old Gods.

"It's been years," he said roughly, growing increasingly upset. "They should be hatched by now." He'd been obsessing over the eggs all week, trying to distract from your presence. The wedding was in an hour.