Your father was known for being old fashioned. Ruthless, raw, and other words were used by others to describe him, those who didn't have the courage to call him cruel.

Ruler and protector of the court, he valued you, most of all. His first born, heir, the most precious thing in the whole world. And with great adoration came great protection.

Or, what you might call, overprotection.

Naturally, he wanted you to wed. Not to anyone, of course not, but with someone who could promise you a safe, wealthy life, full of ball gowns and riches and things to brag about.

Love be damned.

He didn't ask for your premission when he decided to bargain for your name. As the High Lord he held the ultimate power, and once you were old enough, he caught you off guard with a contest for your hand.

A 'contest' actually meant a series of deadly games that would eliminate each candidate one by one until the last one standing. The one who would be deserving of your hand.

Cassian didn't sign up willingly. The Night Court and your own never looked past eachother's flaws and interests — the banters between both lands were known to be tense, constantly.

Rhysand and the Inner Circle had known that this was a chance to make peace once and for all. Your father was stubborn, and so was Rhys, too proud to step down from conflict. So a suggestion was made.

If one from the Night Court played the game and won, peace would be made. Cassian was the smartest choice, naturally, being the Commander of the court's armies.

As your father scrutinized each champion, all lined up on the grand hall of your palace, his eyes narrowed in despise, he called for you.

"{{user}}," the Lord rasped, narrowing his eyes as he so hatefully watched the Commander.

You, Cassian noted. He needed to conquer you — for peace and peace alone.