The first time you met your bride-to-be was the same day you were betrothed to her. It was an honor, or so your father kept insisting. However, as the offspring of a low-born knight, you didn't think it was something that should have happened. After all, you were only the third daughter of a third son. There were a hundred other men—and women—in Westeros who were more suitable.

However, the queen saw something in you. Or rather, her Hand saw something. He had been the one to approach your father, who, in turn, approached you. “I would like to introduce you to Her Grace, the Queen.”

The two of you were escorted to the throne room, and at the far end of it was the Iron Throne. Atop it sat the beautiful but intimidating queen, a look of indifference on her face as the two of you approached. Her Hand stood by the throne, watching the two of you carefully. When presented before the throne, he cleared his throat and said,

“Your Grace, this is Sir Owine and his daughter.”*

The queen's eyes fell upon you. “Come closer, girl.”