THE LADY - Jacaerys Velaryon

xi. The Betrothal

CHAPTER ELEVEN
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T H E B E T R O T H A L

           DAELLA TYRELL WAS meant for something greater than becoming a wife. From the bones that held her body to the flesh that bond her skin together. Daella Tyrell was meant for something greater.

           The auburn crown placed upon her head and the ivory skin that stretched up her body. Her Forrest green eyes that looked like the gardens of Highgarden all in one, her pink lips that spoke poetry every time they opened. Her nose, her face, her hands, her finger. Her. She wants meant to be shared, she wasn't meant to be known as the wife of someone. She was meant for something better than life itself.

           She was heir to Highgarden, protector of the west and commander of the largest army in Westeros. She was meant for true greatness.

           But many could seemingly not accept that.

           She was a woman. A girl, something even worse. Her father had squeezed the life out of her mother in hopes for a boy, a son. Because Daella wasn't enough. He couldn't have his whole life dependency on a girl who stuttered over her words and stumbled over her feet.

           He needed—wanted a son.

           But he never received one. Instead he was left with a dead wife, a dead babe, and an inconsolable daughter who he had to deem his heir. He had no brothers, he had not cousins and he fathered no bastards. He just had Daella.

           Caspian Tyrell wanted nothing to do with his daughter. Her loved her because his wife loved her. He loved no one more than his wife.

           To him, she was just there. Like the maidens walking around palaces you do not know the name of. You don't know when or how they got there, their just...there.

           Daella was just there for her father.

           She was nothing to him. Nothing but a disgrace, a disappointment. Unwanted. She was unwanted by the one man she wanted praise from, the one man she did everything for so she could catch a glimpse of proudness in his cold eyes.

           He became distant to everyone, and locked himself in his chambers. Not communicating unless necessary. And to him, Daella wasn't necessary.

           Even though Cyrelle had been her ward for almost four years now, even though she hadn't properly spoke to her father for nearly two years. He was still her father. He was still her dictator. She was still his daughter. She was his puppet.

           Caspian had given Cyrelle one job. Find a suitor. And she succeeded in her own eyes. Not only had she found a suitor for Daella, she found a boy who would praise the ground she walked her. A boy who would console her when crying over her mother or would hush her when she expressed her concerns for marriage and the birthing bed. He was a prince.

           Caspian couldn't possibly turn down a prince, could he?

           Cyrelle wrote to him two days before their departure of the Red Keep, expecting a response in one. She had spoken to Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor. They both seemed ecstatic on the match.

           But someone had gotten to Caspian faster. The writing of the queen but the words of the lord hand.

           Caspian couldn't say no to a prince, but he could say no to a bastard. His daughter, his heir would not marry tainted blood. Instead, he didn't say no to a prince, he said no to a bastard.