You squeak, a small gasp escaping your mouth as the handmaiden tightens the corset.

“Sorry, my Lady,” she says, tying the strings.

You hated dress fittings back home, and you think you hate them more here in Dragonstone. You were being wed to Jacaerys Velaryon, a purely political marriage. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t the worst.

You could live with it, at least for a little while. As long as the dress fittings stopped.