THE LADY - Jacaerys Velaryon

ix. Widow of Death

WHEN CYRELLE ENTERED her niece's bed chambers and found it empty. She went into a state of panic. Although she didn't show it walking past the hand maidens and squires who were doting around the castle.

She still couldn't help but feel a bubbling pit of worry in her stomach.

Daella had always been a slippery child, ever since she was able to crawl she had been managing to escape the grasps of wet nurses and septas. Even her own father couldn't seem to tame her, when he tried too, of course.

But Cyrelle always had a keen eye. She was always watching Daella. Even as a babe, when she would come to visit her sister at Highgarden before becoming her ward, Cyrelle would watch the babe whilst her sister would prance around with her husband.

Gathering her skirts, Cyrelle ran to the training yard, ignoring the wide eyes she got from passing ladies. When reaching the edge of the stone—the rest being the mud of the training yard—it wasn't until then did her eyes zero on the person she knew would know about her niece's whereabouts.

"Prince Jacaerys!" The Lannister lady yelled, catching the attention of not only the prince but everyone else gathered in the training yard also.

The young prince's head whipped around to meet the sour eyes of Lady Lannister. Jacaerys visibly gulped, ignoring the eyes of his uncles and practically holding himself back from Luke when he watched his brother fight back a laugh.

"Y-yes, My Lady?" He stuttered, frozen in place as the Lannister woman continued to set her steely gaze upon him.

"Come here." Demanded the blonde woman. And he did.

Jacaerys had heard tales from his uncles about the Lannister woman, how she killed all three of her husbands and feasted upon the flesh and blood of anyone who dared disobey her or her niece. They claimed that she was betrothed to Prince Daemon and he left because he found out she was using blood magic to him fall in love with her.

Aegon called her the 'Widow of Death'. So safe to say, Jacaerys was simply terrified of the woman.

Once he stood in front of her, his hands shakily clapped to his side, his armoured tunic a tad to big for him, he looked upon her, not daring to meet her eyes.

He could see where Daella got her glares from. He could tell she once lived up to the nickname 'The Beacon in the West' but he couldn't understand why it left her. Her golden locks were twisted down to her waist, whilst her remainder of hair was left in a braided bun at the back of her head, her features were sharp enough to cut paper. And—although her nose was slightly crooked—there wasn't a flaw about her face, bar the small scar underneath her child. Which was rumoured to be given by Lady Rhae Royce. Her gowns were just a regal as Daella's, he could see where she got her fashion sense from. But instead of the bright, soft colour Daella wore, her aunt stuck to the colours of her house. Red and gold. Her gown was a deep blood red with golden lions embedded through the breast plate of the gown, the bottom of her dress was completely gold, and the sleeves and neck were trimmed with lion fur.

If the Targaryens weren't royal, then he knew who would come second after them.

"Where is she?" She questioned sharply, ignoring the wide eyed stare the boy was giving her.

"Pardon?" Jacaerys asked.

"Daella, where is she?" Cyrelle asked once more. Scoffing inwardly when the boy tilted his head in confusion. This is why she never had children. If they came out as foolish as he did she wouldn't know what to do with them.