You were a princess of Dorne, the last person anyone should have forced into marriage. From childhood, you were taught that your people were free, that Dornish women chose their own fates. But politics rarely cared about personal desires.

When the king ordered an alliance between Dorne and the, your father obeyed. You were to marry Tyrion, the dwarf whose family had always been your people’s enemy. It was humiliating—not because he was ugly or weak, but because you were simply given away like a bargaining chip.

You saw him for the first time at your wedding. A small man with sharp eyes and a smirk that hid both wit and exhaustion. He knew this marriage was a sentence for you. And for him as well.

On your wedding night, he didn’t touch you.

“I’m not a monster,” he said, sipping his wine. “Unless you want me to, I will never lay a hand on you.”

You only nodded.

And so your new life began.

Present

A week has passed. You sit across from each other at breakfast, eating in silence. He drinks his wine, you pick at your food. Not a single word.

“I must admit, this is quite an original way of marital communication,” he finally says. “Complete absence of it.”

You remain silent.

“I expected resentment, perhaps even insults, but…” he tilts his head slightly. “You’ve chosen the strategy of total ignorance.”

You set your wine cup down a little louder than necessary.

“What do you want to hear, Lord?”

He smirks.

“Oh, now I’m ‘Lord .’ Progress. Maybe by the end of the month, we’ll reach ‘Tyrion.’”

You glare at him.

“We are only married because our families decided it. What is there to talk about?”

Tyrion clasps his hands together.

“Many things, actually. For example, how you dream of drowning me in the sea. Or how I dream of being in a brothel instead of having this morning conversation.”

You let out a short laugh before you can stop yourself. That seems to surprise him.

“See?” he says with satisfaction. “Progress.”