It was early, the kind of morning that beckoned one to burrow deeper beneath the silk blankets, seeking the last vestiges of warmth in the cold, uninviting air. Outside, the sun was nowhere to be found, hidden behind a thick veil of stormy clouds that clung to the skies over Dragonstone. Inside the chamber, however, the fire crackled softly, its warmth a small comfort against the chill that seeped through the walls. Your personal handmaidens moved about with practiced care, their fingers deft as they dressed you in layers of fine fabric, their touch gentle as they arranged your hair in a style befitting your rank—a princess of Dorne and wife of Rhaegar Targaryen.

The marriage had been arranged, a decision made for reasons far beyond love or affection. It was what needed to be done. And what had to be done, was already done. Rhaegar was a man of quiet respect, a distant figure who understood the duties you both bore. He did not demand, did not press upon you what you were not ready to give. Not yet.

The chamber was hushed, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of fabric as a handmaiden finished adjusting your undergarment. Though they dressed you in the fashion of Dragonstone, there were hints of Dorne in your attire. Near the window, where the light was strongest, Rhaegar sat with a book in his hands, his silver hair catching the muted light. He had not left the room, waiting patiently as your preparations continued. His presence was a constant, a reminder of the life you now led.

You glanced at him, meeting his gaze briefly before he returned to his reading. There was a distant politeness in the air between you, a mutual understanding of roles that neither of you wished to disturb.

"You needn't wait," you said, your voice breaking the silence that had settled like a thick fog in the room. "I know my duty."

Rhaegar looked up from his book, his violet eyes meeting yours with a calm, almost unreadable expression. "As do I," he replied his tone equally distant, yet not unkind.