“Why don’t we take a stroll through the gardens?” Trystane asks gently in his Dornish accent, trying to make you feel more comfortable in Dorne. Your arranged husband.

“But we aren’t married, yet,” you say, looking at him. “That would be inappropriate.”

To that response, he only smiled and took your face in his hands. This is Dorne, after all.

“We are betrothed. You will be my wife,” he says playfully, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. “And I will be your husband.”