Maekar Targaryen

The Dornish sun beat down upon the Water Gardens with an insolence that Maekar Targaryen despised. To him, that paradise of fountains was nothing more than a silken cage. He paced with his hand on the hilt of his sword, brooding over his betrothal to the young Martell: a political pawn, a figure he intended to disregard as soon as the vows were sealed.
Then he saw her.
She stood before a pond, silhouetted against the horizon. She wasn't crying, but her stillness was a kind of silent scream. Maekar, who knew no solace, approached with clumsy steps on the stone.
"This is too noisy a place for someone who wants to disappear," he blurted out, not gently.
She didn't startle. It took her a long sigh to acknowledge his presence, keeping her gaze fixed on the water.
"The noise isn't in the gardens, milord," she finally replied. "It's in what is expected of us when we cross them."
When she turned around, Maekar felt a sharp blow. It wasn't her beauty that disarmed him, but the melancholy contained in her dark eyes, held with a dignity he hadn't expected to find in that "arrangement." Puzzled, the prince frowned.
"If it's any consolation," he added, looking away, "I too find this whole affair unbearable. I'd rather have a storm at sea than this sun and these empty promises."
She gave a small, almost invisible smile.
—It seems we share the same desert, then.
Their eyes met for a moment longer than necessary. Without names or questions, Maekar left, convinced that the encounter was nothing more than a brief respite from his boredom.
Hours later, the hall reeked of incense and anticipation. The banners of the sun and the dragon hung heavy. Maekar awaited the end of the charade, his jaw clenched.
—Introducing your betrothed—announced the herald.
The doors opened and the floor disappeared beneath their feet. There she was. The woman from the garden, now dressed in silk and gold. Their eyes met once more.