Melessa Mullendore’s life is monotonous. A dead mother, a heritage many of her Reachmen consider unfortunate, she has resigned herself to a life of duty and boredom.
But a chance encounter with the wife of the Crown Prince opens new doors for her. Caught between duty and her heart’s desires, and thrown into the dangerous world of the court, will she sink or swim ?
Tags : Romance/Mutual Pining/Consensual Infidelity/Emotional Hurt/Comfort/Implied/Referenced Suicide/Angst/Fantasy and Fictional Setting Racism/Smut/Loss of Virginity/First Time/Illnesses/Bisexual Female Character/Bisexuality
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x OC/Jena Dondarrion x OC/Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion
The Red Keep was never truly silent.
Even at this hour, when the torches had burned low and the corridors had emptied of courtiers, there was always some sound to remind Jena that the castle lived around her. The distant tread of boots on stone. The muted scrape of a servant carrying away the last trays from some lord’s private supper. The soft rush of wind against the shutters. Somewhere below, King’s Landing murmured in its sleep, restless and foul and alive.
Jena sat near the window in her night robe, one hand resting idly against the arm of her chair, the other curled loosely in her lap. The moonlight was unkind tonight. It made her hands look too pale. She tucked them beneath the sleeve of her robe and turned her face toward the city instead.
From above, King’s Landing almost had beauty. The lights scattered beneath her like fallen stars, flickering gold and red through the darkness. It was easy, from this height, to forget the stink of the streets, the beggars pressed against the sept steps, the hungry children with their watchful eyes.
The Red Keep was very good at making a person forget what lay beneath them. Jena had never trusted places that made forgetting easy. She drew in a slow breath and held it for a moment. Her chest felt tight tonight. Not enough to frighten her. Not enough to call for a maester. Only a small, irritating pressure beneath her ribs, as though she had laced herself too tightly despite wearing nothing but silk.
It would pass. It always did.
Behind her, the bed remained untouched on Baelor’s side. He was still in council, or perhaps in his solar, reading reports by candlelight until his eyes ached. He had a talent for wearing duty like armor. Without complaint.
Her husband.
The thought brought a softness to her mouth. There had been no great love in their beginning. No stolen glances in gardens, no reckless promises made beneath the moon, no secret meeting of hearts before their wedding. Their marriage had been arranged because it was sensible, and both of them had understood that well enough. A Dondarrion daughter with a useful name and a prince of the blood with burdens already waiting for him.
Duty had brought them together. Duty, and perhaps a little kindness, had kept them there long enough for something gentler to grow. Baelor had never been cruel to her. That alone made him rarer than half the husbands in Westeros. But he was more than merely not cruel. He listened. He asked for her counsel and considered it. He noticed when she was tired, when she was angry, when she had been smiling too long and needed the room emptied before she snapped. He had never made her feel bad for being sharp. He had never asked her to be smaller than she was. Some women might have called that love.
Jena was not always certain.
She knew she liked him. She enjoyed his presence. She liked the feeling of his hand at the base of her spine when they walked into a crowded hall, the warmth of his body beside her in bed, the measured way he answered every crisis.
She trusted him.
That might have been love. Or comfort. Or the best shape duty could take when two decent people were fortunate. She could never quite decide. Her gaze drifted to the small carved dragon Valarr had left on her table earlier that evening. He had been meant to give it to Matarys, but the brothers had argued, as brothers did, over whether the dragon looked more like Vhagar or Meraxes. Valarr had insisted it was Vhagar because it looked fierce. Matarys had declared it Meraxes because he preferred the sound of the name.
Valarr took everything so seriously now. His lessons. His swordplay. The small burdens of being the elder son. He was beginning to move like a boy very aware that men were watching him, and Jena wished she could preserve the child he still was beneath the pride a little longer. He had Baelor’s gravity already. Not his patience, gods save them all, but certainly his seriousness.
Matarys was different. Quick where Valarr was solemn, bright-eyed where his brother brooded, forever collecting scraps of information and mischief with equal enthusiasm. That morning, he had recited High Valyrian poetry with such smug satisfaction that his tutor had looked almost frightened of him. He was more like her, fierce and loud.
Her sweet boys. Her lovely, beloved boys. She hoped they stayed kind. Not perfect. She had no use for perfect children. Perfect children were usually either frightened or dull. But kind. She hoped the Red Keep would not crush that kindness like it had done for so many others.
The door opened softly behind her. Jena did not turn at once.
“You are late,” she said.
“And you are still awake,” Baelor answered. “I suppose we are both guilty.”
His voice was low with fatigue, but warm. It always warmed when he entered her rooms, as though some part of him eased merely by finding her there. That was a dangerous thing to grow accustomed to. She turned as he approached. He had shed his doublet somewhere, leaving him in a white linen shirt and dark breeches. His dark hair was mussed slightly from where he had no doubt dragged a hand through it during council. He looked tired. He also looked at her too carefully.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“I am alright.”
Baelor stopped before her chair.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“You are paler than usual.”
“I am always pale," she pointed out.
“Paler than that.”
She lifted one brow.
“An impressive feat then,” she smiled.
“Jena.”
There it was. That quiet firmness. She softened her smile, because he worried so easily when it came to her. Too easily, perhaps.
“It has been a long day,” she said. “Nothing more.”
He studied her for another moment, and she knew he was debating whether to press. Baelor was honorable, yes, but not foolish. He knew when she evaded him. He simply chose, more often than most men would have, not to turn every evasion into a siege. At last, he held out his hand.
“Come to bed.”
“I was enjoying the view,” she protested.
“You have enjoyed it long enough.”
“How commanding of you.”
“I am the Hand of the King and your husband. Occasionally I must command you.”
She laughed softly and let him draw her to her feet. For one brief, hateful heartbeat, the room seemed to shift beneath her. Not badly. Not enough that she swayed. But enough that she had to tighten her fingers around his. Baelor’s gaze dropped to their joined hands. Jena released him smoothly and moved toward the bed before he could comment.
“I am tired,” she conceded. “There. Does that satisfy you?”
“Almost.”
He smiled faintly. They climbed into bed, and the sheets were cool against her skin. Baelor settled beside her, his body warm beneath the linen. She turned toward him without thinking, resting her head on his chest as he drew an arm around her shoulders. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear. That, too, was something she had become accustomed to. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Baelor’s fingers began to move slowly through her hair.
“Valarr did well in the yard today,” he said.
Jena smiled against him.
“Did he?”
“He managed to disarm one of the knights.”
“Which one?”
“Edric Blackwood.”
“Edric is fifty and slow.”
“Jena," he sighed.
“What? It is true.”
Baelor huffed a quiet laugh.
“Valarr was very pleased with himself.”
“I imagine he was unbearable.”
“Entirely.”
“Good. A little confidence will do him no harm.”
“A little, no. Valarr rarely stops at a little.”
“That is because he is a prince," she smiled.
“That is because he is your son.”
She lifted her head just enough to look at him.
“My son?” She repeated, feigning offense.
“He has your pride.”
“And your seriousness.”
“An unfortunate mix.”
Baelor’s mouth curved, and she settled back against him.
“And Matarys?” she asked.
“His tutor says his High Valyrian has improved greatly.”
Jena brightened.
“Truly?”
“He translated three passages with only a few mistakes.”
“Oh, clever boy,” she whispered, even though she already knew of his progress.
“He also called the tutor a goat.”
“In High Valyrian?”
“Yes.”
She pressed her lips together.
“Jena,” Baelor deadpanned.
“I am not laughing.”
“You are.”
“I am merely admiring his range," she smirked.
“His range of insults?”
"Yes."
Baelor sighed deeply, though the sound trembled with amusement.
“You cannot encourage him.”
“I would never,” she gasped.
“You absolutely would.”
“I would praise his pronunciation first.”
“Gods help me,” he groaned.
She laughed then, softly and fully, until the tightness beneath her ribs pulled enough to make her stop. Baelor’s hand stilled. She closed her eyes before he could see anything in her face.
“I am fine,” she said.
“I did not ask.”
“You were about to.”
He was silent a moment. Then his fingers resumed their gentle path through her hair. Jena waited until the moment passed.
“I was thinking of Lady Mullendore tonight,” she said.
Baelor made a small sound of interest.
“Your newest lady.”
“Yes.”
“An odd choice," he pointed out.
Jena opened her eyes.
“Is it?”
“A little.”
“Because she is not from a great house?” She asked him.
“Because she is not from a major one,” Baelor corrected. “House Mullendore is respectable, but it is hardly Hightower, Tyrell, Lannister or Baratheon.”
“Thank the gods for that.”
He looked down at her.
“You say that as though we do not already have enough enemies.”
“I have more than enough daughters of great houses smiling at me through their teeth. I do not need another one.”
“Still,” Baelor said carefully, “most women in your position would have chosen someone with stronger connections.”
“Women from better families bore me.”
“That does not answer the matter.”
“No,” she admitted. “It does not.”
She turned onto her back, staring up at the canopy above them. The embroidered dragons looked almost black in the candlelight.
“I see potential in her.”
“In Lady Melessa?”
“Mhm.”
“She seems capable,” he admitted.
“She is more than capable.”
Baelor shifted slightly beside her, propping himself on one elbow.
“You barely know her.”
“I know enough,” she said stubbornly.
“That is what worries me.”
Jena looked at him then. He smiled, but only faintly. There was no reproach in his face, merely caution.
“You enjoy finding people no one else has noticed,” he said.
“I enjoy finding people worth noticing.”
“That is not quite the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
Baelor’s thumb brushed absently over the back of her hand.
“Jena, surely Lady Melessa is not a puppy in need of rescue.”
The words should have amused her. Instead, they stilled something in her. She turned her face fully toward him.
“You should have seen it.”
Baelor’s expression changed. He knew, at once, that she no longer jested.
“Seen what?”
“Uplands. The whole place was draped in grief,” Jena said quietly. “Not openly. There was no dramatic mourning banners, no one wailing in corners. It was worse than that. The grief was quiet. The sort that settles into the walls until everyone grows used to it.”
She could still see it. The corridors too hushed. The servants too careful. The lord of the castle sitting half-dead in his own solar, eyes emptied by a loss he had survived in body only.
And Melessa. Bright, clever Melessa.
Standing straight at supper. Giving orders before anyone thought to ask. Knowing the stores, the accounts, the repairs, the tempers of every servant and man-at-arms. Keeping a castle alive while everyone else wandered through the ruin of themselves.
“She was the only one dealing with anything,” Jena continued. “Her father has surrendered to his sorrow. Her elder brother avoided duty as though it might poison him. The household functioned because she was there to keep it all from collapsing.”
Baelor said nothing.
“She was carrying the weight of all of them,” Jena said. “And they had grown so used to it that no one noticed her burden anymore.”
Her voice had sharpened by the end. She heard it and did not care. Baelor watched her quietly.
“She deserves more than that.”
“I believe you.”
“No,” Jena said, softer now. “You believe that I believe it.”
His mouth twitched faintly.
“Perhaps.”
“She has been overlooked all her life. Useful, smart, kind, but overlooked. And looked down upon besides, because her mother was Dornish.”
Baelor’s face shifted almost imperceptibly. Jena saw it anyway. She smiled, but gently.
“You should understand that more than anyone.”
“Indeed. I do understand,” he said.
She knew he did. The court might praise his Targaryen name and dragon blood, but it never let him forget the Dornish blood in his veins. Baelor had learned that young. He had borne it better than most would have, which was not the same as never having felt it. Jena reached up and touched his cheek.
“Then you understand why I could not leave her there to waste away in a place where no one was paying attention to her.”
Baelor turned his face slightly into her touch.
“I understand,” he repeated.
She lay back again, suddenly tired.
“I have high hopes for her.”
“I know.”
“She has a sharp mind. She is discreet. Fierce when pressed. Loyal, I think, though not foolishly so.”
“All admirable qualities.”
“She could secure a far better match at court than she ever would at home. Or she could become truly valuable in my household. More than decorative. More than some pretty Lannister or Tyrell placed beside me for political convenience.”
Baelor’s fingers found hers beneath the sheets.
“You wish to help her.”
“I wish to give her choices,” she admitted.
He was quiet for a while. Then he spoke again.
“Do not be too forceful.”
Jena turned her head sharply.
“I am not forceful.”
His silence was deeply offensive.
“I am not often forceful”, she insisted.
Still nothing.
“Fine, I am forceful only when the situation demands it.”
“Which is often.”
“Only because the world is as obstinate as I am.”
Baelor laughed softly and leaned down to kiss her temple.
“Let her come to her own decisions.”
“I will.”
“Jena.”
“I will,” she repeated, smiling now. “I shall not drag Lady Melessa forcefully toward a better life.”
“That is comforting.”
“Unless she is very stubborn.”
“Jena.”
“I jest," she rolled her eyes.
“Do you?”
“Mostly.”
He gave her a look, and she smiled more sweetly. For several breaths, they simply lay there together, the room warm and quiet around them. The candle near the bed guttered low, turning everything gold at the edges.
“She is very shy. And sad,” she whispered.
Baelor’s eyes narrowed faintly.
“Lady Melessa?”
“Of course Lady Melessa. Do try to keep up.”
“I had not realized we were still discussing her.”
“We are discussing her many promising qualities.”
“Shyness is a promising quality?”
“It can be charming.”
“I see.”
“This other day, she helped me bathe and refused to look at me.”
Baelor blinked.
“My dear,” he said.
“What?”
“You say that as though modesty were a personal failure.”
“It is.”
“Perhaps she was being respectful,” he offered.
“She was.”
“Then what is the crime?”
Jena smiled slowly.
“The crime is that she clearly wanted to look.”
Baelor stared at her.
“That is vain from you, my love.”
“It is observant.”
“It is extremely vain.”
“You were not there.”
“I do not think I needed to be.”
“She blushed so fiercely I thought she might set the bathwater steaming all over again,” Jena chuckled.
“Perhaps because her mistress was tormenting her.”
“I was not tormenting her.”
Baelor gave her a flat look. He knew her too well, damn him.
“I teased her a little,” she admitted.
“A little,” he repeated.
“She almost dropped the jasmine oil.”
“That proves nothing.”
“Twice.”
“That proves she was nervous.”
“Precisely.”
He sighed, but there was laughter hiding in it.
“You are impossible.”
“She is lovely, is she not?”
Baelor’s expression went carefully blank. Jena smiled slowly.
“Come now. You have eyes.”
“I am not certain what answer would please you most.”
“The honest one.”
“That is rarely safe with you.”
“The honest one, Baelor.”
He sighed as though greatly burdened.
“Yes. Lady Melessa is a lovely young woman.”
Jena’s smile turned triumphant.
“There.”
“There what?”
“You admitted it.”
“I admitted she is lovely. As you said, I have eyes. That is hardly treason.”
“No. Just satisfying to hear.”
Baelor studied her more closely then.
"It satifies you that I find another woman lovely?What is your endgame?”
Jena widened her eyes innocently.
“Endgame?”
“Yes.”
“With Lady Melessa?”
“With Lady Melessa.”
She settled back against the pillows, satisfaction curling warmly through her despite the fatigue tugging at her bones.
“How funny that you think I have one.”
“You always have one.”
“Perhaps I am simply fond of competent women with sad eyes.”
“Jena.”
She smiled, slow and unrepentant.
“A lady is allowed to have her secrets.”
Baelor watched her a moment longer, then shook his head with a soft laugh and drew her back down against him. She went willingly, resting her head once more against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear.
Summary : After years of hardship, you finally realise your dream of studying journalism at one of the country’s most prestigious university. Everything would have gone well, if not for your encounter with a tall, handsome man who just happened to be one of your professors.
Chapter 19
Tags : modern au/ age gap : Reader is in her late 20s and Baelor is in his mid 40s/ teacher-student relationship/fluff/anxiety/discussion of civil war
Light pressed against your eyelids. Too bright. Even through the darkness, it burned. There was a sound somewhere near you, a steady, mechanical beeping.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
You tried to open your eyes. The room came into view in streaks of white and grey, shapes bleeding into one another. Something moved above you, but you couldn’t focus on it. Your thoughts were thick and sluggish, slipping away before you could grasp them.
Where am I?
You tried to move. Pain tore through your body. It came from everywhere at once : your chest, your head, your shoulder, your arm. A deep, crushing ache that made it feel as though every bone inside you had been shattered and badly pieced together again. A noise escaped you. Barely more than a whimper. The beeping quickened. A shape appeared beside you. Someone rushed forward, leaning over the bed. Their mouth moved, but the words reached you as though you were underwater.
“...hear me? Can you...”
You couldn’t understand. You didn’t know who they were. You didn’t know where you were. You tried to lift your hand, but something tugged at your skin. Wires. Tubes. Your arm wouldn’t move properly. Your other arm felt impossibly heavy, trapped against your body. Panic surged through you. The beeping became frantic.
“No,” you tried to say.
Only a rasp came out. More people appeared. Blurred faces. Blue fabric. Gloved hands. Someone touched your shoulder.
“...safe. You’re in...Try not to...”
You recoiled instinctively, and the movement sent agony ripping through your ribs. You screamed. Or thought you did. The room tilted. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps. You could not fill your lungs. Something was wrong with your chest. Something was terribly wrong. The machine beside you shrieked in time with your terror. Hands pressed you down, not violently, but firmly enough that you could not escape.
“Please,” you croaked. “Please, don’t...”
A cold sensation spread across the skin of your arm. You felt the pressure of fingers against the line inserted there, then something colder pushing into your vein. The light softened. The voices receded. The beeping slowed. You tried to hold on, desperate now not to be swallowed by the darkness again, but your body betrayed you. The room dissolved. And everything went black.
When you woke again, the darkness was gentler. No bright lights. No crowd of strangers. No hands holding you down. Only the faint glow of a lamp in the corner and the blue flicker of a television screen mounted on the opposite wall. For a while, you simply lay there. You were warm beneath the blankets. Heavy. Groggy. Your mouth felt dry enough that your tongue seemed glued to the roof of it. There was still pain, but it had dulled into something distant and manageable, muffled beneath whatever medication they had given you. The beeping remained but slower. You stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. White tiles. A curtain drawn around one side of the bed. A metal stand with a clear bag hanging from it. A tube running from that bag into your arm. A hospital. The realisation arrived quietly. You were in a hospital. You swallowed, immediately regretting it when your throat burned.
How?
You searched your mind. Nothing came at first. Only darkness. The, it came back to you in flashes. The underground station. The crowded carriage. Your hand curled around the overhead railing. The music in your ears. Your message to Baelor. A bright flash.
Your stomach lurched.
The memories returned not as a continuous sequence but in violent, disjointed images. Light swallowing the carriage. Your body leaving the floor. Glass breaking. Metal screaming as it folded inward. Darkness so complete that you had wondered, dimly, whether you had gone blind. The taste of dust and blood. Someone crying for their mother. Someone else screaming again and again until the sound abruptly stopped. The tunnel had collapsed. You remembered that. Or perhaps you had only heard someone say it. People coughing in the darkness. Choking. Begging for help. The air thick with smoke and concrete dust. Your chest trapped beneath something heavy. The sensation of warm blood running down your cheek. A hand finding yours in the dark. A stranger’s voice telling you not to fall asleep. Then flashes of movement. A torchlight. A yellow helmet. Someone cutting fabric away from your arm. The sickening pull of your body being dragged across broken glass. A mask forced over your mouth. The sky above the station entrance, impossibly blue. Paramedics shouting. Donnel’s face. Or perhaps you had imagined him.
Then nothing.
You shifted slightly, and the pain in your chest sharpened. You stopped breathing for a moment, afraid to provoke it further. The television continued murmuring across the room. A reporter stood outside an underground station surrounded by police barricades, emergency vehicles and wilted flowers. You recognised the entrance immediately. Your station. The one you had run into because you were going to be late. You stared at the screen.
“…now formally being treated as an act of terrorism,” the reporter was saying. “Authorities believe the explosive device was deliberately placed inside the eastbound carriage and detonated shortly after the train entered the tunnel.”
Behind her, the footage changed to photographs of the wreckage. A blackened carriage. Twisted tracks. Rescue workers disappearing into a hole in the ground. our pulse began to climb.
“Although no organisation has officially claimed responsibility, security services have indicated that the attack bears similarities to methods previously used by militant Blackfyre supporters during the civil war. Several known sympathisers have reportedly been detained for questioning.”
Blackfyre.
The word turned your blood cold. You remembered violet eyes. A scarred cheek.
Run before it is too late.
A movement beside you made you turn your head. The pain in your neck protested, but you forced yourself to look. Baelor sat in the armchair beside your bed. He was asleep, though it did not look peaceful. His body was folded awkwardly into the chair, one elbow resting against the armrest and his fist pressed beneath his mouth. He was still wearing a shirt and trousers, though both were badly creased. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, and the shadow of several days’ growth darkened his jaw.
You had never seen him look so tired.
There were dark hollows beneath his eyes. His hair, usually so carefully combed, was disordered, strands falling over his forehead. A discarded jacket lay over the back of the chair, and an untouched cup of coffee sat on the table beside him. Your gaze lingered on him. Relief swelled painfully inside your chest.
“Baelor?”
Your voice was barely audible. Still, he woke immediately. His head snapped up. For a moment, his mismatched eyes were wild and unfocused. Then they found yours. He was out of the chair before you had time to blink.
“Sweetling.”
He leaned over you, one hand hovering near your face without touching it, as though he was afraid you might break beneath his fingers.
“You’re awake.”
His voice cracked slightly. You tried to answer, but your throat scraped painfully.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?”
“Everything feels…” You swallowed. “Heavy.”
“That’s the medication.”
“Water.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He moved quickly, pouring water from a plastic jug into a cup. There was a straw beside it. He brought it to your lips, supporting your head carefully with one hand.
“Slowly,” he murmured. “Just a little.”
The water was lukewarm, but it might have been the most wonderful thing you had ever tasted. You drank greedily until he pulled the cup back.
“Not too much at once.”
You closed your eyes, letting your head sink into the pillow again. His hand remained against your hair. You could feel it trembling. When you opened your eyes, he was watching you with such naked relief that it frightened you.
“What do you remember?” he asked.
You stared past him towards the darkened window.
“Not much.”
“Anything before the explosion?”
“I was on the train.” Your tongue felt slow and clumsy. “I sent you a message.”
“I received it.”
“I was listening to music.” Your brow furrowed as you searched through the broken pieces. “Then there was light. I didn’t hear anything. Just light.”
Baelor’s jaw tightened.
“After that?”
“Flashes.” You closed your eyes again. “It was dark. People were screaming. Someone was coughing. I think part of the tunnel came down.”
“It did.”
“I remember someone holding my hand.” You paused. “And being pulled out. Paramedics. I kept waking up and falling asleep again.”
He stroked your hair away from your forehead, his fingers avoiding something near your temple.
“Did you see anyone unusual on the train? Anyone who appeared suspicious?”
“No.” You opened your eyes. “Nothing. I wasn’t looking. I was listening to music.”
“That’s all right.”
“How bad is it?”
He hesitated. You looked down at yourself properly for the first time. Your left arm was wrapped in a cast and secured against your torso. Bandages covered parts of your hand. Beneath the hospital gown, you could see bruises blooming across the upper part of your chest in sickly shades of purple and yellow.
“What happened to me?”
Baelor sat on the edge of the chair, bringing it closer to the bed.
“You have several cuts on your face,” he said carefully. “Most are superficial. They’ve been stitched, but the doctors don’t expect significant scarring.”
Your free hand rose towards your cheek. He caught it gently before you could touch the dressings.
“Don’t.”
“My face?”
“You’re bruised and swollen. It looks worse than it is.”
You stared at him, waiting. He took a breath.
“Four of your ribs are broken. Your left arm is fractured in two places. You also suffered a mild concussion and some damage to your eardrum, though they believe your hearing will recover fully.”
You listened without quite understanding.
“A piece of the carriage wall shielded you from most of the collapse,” he continued. “The rescue team said the space around you was barely large enough to breathe in. Another section came down less than a metre away.”
His voice faltered. He looked down at your hand, enclosing it between both of his.
“It is a miracle it wasn’t worse.”
“How long?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“How long have I been here?”
“Five days.”
You stared at him. The beeping quickened slightly.
“Five?”
“You were kept sedated for the first two. After that, you drifted in and out. You woke briefly this afternoon, but you became frightened. The doctors thought it best to let you rest.”
Five days. The number felt impossible.
You looked towards the television again. Footage showed crowds gathering in front of the station, holding candles beneath photographs of the missing and dead.
“How many?”
Baelor followed your gaze.
“Sweetling...”
“How many people died?”
He was quiet for too long.
“Forty-three have been confirmed.”
Your stomach twisted.
“And injured?”
“More than a hundred.”
You turned your face away. Someone had died inside that tunnel while you lay there . Perhaps the person whose hand had found yours. Perhaps the one who had been screaming for their mother. You could not remember their faces. You could not remember if you had tried to help. Baelor squeezed your hand.
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“No. But I know you.”
You tried to inhale deeply and pain cut through your side. Your face tightened.
“Easy,” he said immediately. “Small breaths.”
You waited for the pain to recede.
“Do you know anything about Bittersteel?”
Something in Baelor changed. His hand went still around yours. You watched him.
“Baelor.”
“We know he was involved.”
“How?”
He glanced towards the door before looking back at you.
“He sent me a letter.”
“A letter?”
“It was delivered anonymously the morning after the attack.”
“What did it say?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Tell me.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
“Baelor.”
“He gloated about the attack,” he said finally. “He told me that I should have taken better care of my…” His gaze flickered over your face. “My little pet.”
For a moment, you could only stare at him. Then a bitter sound left you. It was supposed to be a scoff, but the movement pulled at your ribs. Pain flared through your chest, sharp enough to steal your breath. You gasped. Baelor stood immediately.
“Don’t move. Here.”
He brought the cup back to your mouth, letting you take another small sip through the straw.
“Little pet,” you rasped when you could breathe again. “That man needs new material.”
“This isn’t amusing.”
“I know.”
His expression softened, though only slightly. It was then that you noticed the man standing beyond the small glass panel in the hospital-room door? wearing a dark suit, with broad shoulders and an earpiece curled around one ear. He was positioned with his back to you, watching the corridor. You frowned.
“There’s a guard outside.”
“Yes.”
“Is that really necessary?”
Baelor’s gaze sharpened.
“You were nearly killed by a man trying to hurt me and the people I love.”
The words landed somewhere deep inside you.
“I am not taking any further risks,” he continued. “There are officers on this floor, and one of our own guards will remain outside your room at all times. When you’re discharged, you’ll have protection at your flat as well.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I have never been more serious.”
You studied him. He would not quite meet your eyes now. His shoulders were rigid. His hand, still resting beside yours on the bed, had curled into a fist. The tenderness from moments before had been replaced by something colder, something deliberately controlled. There was something else. Something he was not saying.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes flicked to yours.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie.”
“You’ve only just woken up. You need to rest.”
“Baelor.”
“We’ll talk about everything later.”
The machine beside you began to beep more quickly. You felt it too, the change in your own body. The sudden pressure in your chest that had nothing to do with the broken ribs. Anxiety crept along your spine, sharpened by the restraint in his voice. Something was coming. Something you were not going to like. His fingers moved towards yours again, but you pulled your hand away.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Sweetling...”
“Stop calling me that and answer me.”
His face tightened. The monitor accelerated. Baelor glanced towards it, then towards the door.
“You need to remain calm.”
“Then stop frightening me.”
“I’m not trying to frighten you.”
“You’re sitting there looking like someone died and refusing to tell me what’s happening. What am I supposed to think?”
“People have died.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He exhaled through his nose. For several seconds, the only sounds were the muted television and the increasingly rapid pulse of the monitor. Then he sat down. Not close to you this time. He placed both hands on his knees, staring at them.
“I spoke to Brynden.”
You knew the name. Brynden Rivers was Baelor’s half-uncle, though he did not look much older than him. He worked for the family in some vague capacity that no one ever fully explained. Intelligence. Security. Espionage, if Baelor was to be believed.
“And?”
“He believes Bittersteel targeted you because of your connection to me.”
“No shit.”
Baelor flinched at your tone but continued.
“Bittersteel knows he cannot easily reach any of us directly. Our security is too extensive. But he can reach those around us.”
“So you give me security. You just said that.”
“It may not be enough.”
“What does that mean?”
He lifted his gaze at last. The grief in his face made your stomach drop.
“Brynden believes it would be safer if there were nothing publicly linking you to the Targaryen family.”
You stared at him. Your mind felt slow from the medication, but you understood enough.
“No.”
He said nothing.
“No,” you repeated.
“This is not a decision I have made lightly.”
“What decision?”
Your voice rose. The monitor answered with a burst of frantic beeping. Baelor leaned forward.
“Please stay calm.”
“What decision, Baelor?”
His expression broke for a fraction of a second. Then he forced the words out.
“It might be better if we stopped seeing each other.”
The room went silent. Not truly silent. The television continued. The machines continued. Footsteps moved along the corridor. But everything inside you stopped. You looked at him, waiting for him to correct himself. To explain that you had misunderstood. He didn’t. Your lips parted.
“How the fuck is that a good idea?”
“It removes you from the family’s immediate circle.”
“You think Bittersteel will believe we’ve simply stopped seeing each other?”
“In time, yes.”
“In time?”
Your voice cracked. Baelor reached for your hand. You pulled it beneath the blanket.
“If there is no contact between us,” he continued, painfully measured, “if you are no longer seen at my home or with members of my family, you become less useful to him.”
“Less useful.”
“That isn’t how I meant it.”
“It’s exactly how you meant it.”
“No.” His composure slipped. “I mean that he will have no reason to target you. Hurting you would no longer achieve anything.”
“He already knows who I am.”
“He may lose interest if he believes you mean nothing to me.”
The words cut deeper than any piece of metal. You stared at him, tears burning suddenly behind your eyes.
“And how exactly are you going to convince him of that?”
Baelor did not answer.
“You’re going to let him think I meant nothing?”
“I am going to let him think whatever keeps you alive.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You absolutely fucking don’t.”
Your voice echoed off the walls. The guard outside turned towards the door. Baelor raised a hand in his direction, signalling that everything was under control. It wasn’t. You felt your heartbeat in every bruise, every fracture, every cut.
“Brynden suggested this?” you demanded.
“He did.”
“And you agreed?”
“I resisted at first.”
“At first.”
“I have spent five days sitting beside this bed,” he said, his voice breaking at last. “Five days watching machines breathe for you because you couldn’t. I watched doctors cut your clothes from your body. I watched them wash blood and dust from your face. I watched them take you away from me because they thought there might be bleeding in your brain.”
His eyes shone.
“I thought you were going to die.”
Your anger faltered for a moment. Only a moment.
“But I didn’t.”
“You nearly did.”
“And now I’m here.”
“You may not be so fortunate next time.”
“Next time?”
His gaze dropped. That was answer enough. Your chest contracted.
“So that’s it?”
“No.”
“You’re abandoning me in a hospital bed because some psychotic arsehole sent you a letter?”
“I am trying to protect you.”
“This isn’t protection.”
“It is the only protection I can guarantee.”
“You can’t guarantee anything! You think leaving me will magically erase me from Bittersteel’s memory?”
“No. But it makes you less valuable as leverage.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
He rose, moving closer again.
“I love you.”
The words should have comforted you. Instead, they made something inside you tear open.
“You love me," you scoffed.
“Yes.”
“But you’re leaving.”
“I refuse to put you in danger.”
“You didn’t put me on that train. You didn’t plant the bomb.”
“It was planted because of me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I received a letter confirming it.”
You shook your head, immediately dizzy from the movement. Baelor reached out to steady you. You slapped his hand away with your uninjured arm. The movement dragged against your ribs. You cried out, folding slightly into yourself.
“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t hurt yourself.”
“If not being with me is the price to pay,” you whispered, fighting for breath, “you’re ready to pay it. Is that what you’re saying?”
His silence was unbearable.
“Yes,” he said at last.
Tears spilled down your cheeks. They stung the cuts on your face, but you barely noticed.
“What about me?”
Baelor’s face crumpled.
“What if I’m not ready to pay that price?”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he had rebuilt the wall between you.
“It is for the best.”
A sob tore out of you. The monitor erupted.
“Get out.”
“Sweetling...”
“Get out.”
“Please listen to me.”
“I listened.”
“You’re exhausted and frightened. We should not be having this conversation now.”
“You started it.”
“I know.”
“You waited until I was trapped in a bed and drugged out of my mind to tell me you were leaving me.”
“That was not my intention.”
“Get out!”
The door opened. A nurse stepped inside, her eyes moving quickly from the monitors to you.
“What’s happening?”
“She’s becoming distressed,” Baelor said.
“Don’t speak for me!” you shouted.
The effort sent a bolt of pain through your chest. You gasped, clutching weakly at the blanket. The nurse moved towards you.
“Try to take slow breaths.”
“I want him out !"
Baelor stood beside the bed, helpless.
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
“You already are!”
The words came out as a scream. The monitor shrilled. Another nurse appeared at the door. The guard stepped aside to let her pass.
“Her heart rate is climbing.”
“I’m fine,” you insisted.
You were not fine. You could not breathe. The room had become too small. The air smelled of dust again. The beeping transformed into screams in the tunnel. Your body remembered the weight of concrete, the darkness, the certainty that you were about to die alone. And now Baelor was leaving.
“No,” you sobbed. “No, no, no.”
The nurse put a hand on your shoulder.
“Look at me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
“I want him out.”
Baelor tried to come closer.
“Please, just let me...”
“Don’t touch me!”
You pulled away so violently that pain exploded through your side. A scream left you. The nurse caught your shoulder before you could twist further.
“Hold still. You’re going to aggravate the fractures.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will care tomorrow.”
“Get him out!”
Baelor had gone utterly pale.
“I love you,” he said.
“Fuck you!”
The words struck him. You saw them land. For an instant, you hated yourself. Then he took another step towards you, and terror flooded back in. The nurse turned sharply to him.
“Sir, you need to leave the room.”
“I can calm her.”
“You’re not calming her.”
“I won’t leave.”
“She has four broken ribs and her oxygen levels are dropping. Leave now.”
Baelor’s eyes remained fixed on you.
“Sweetling, please.”
You shook your head, sobbing.
“Go.”
He did not move.
“Go!”
The second nurse caught his arm, guiding him towards the door. He resisted for half a second. Then, staring at you as though he was being torn apart, he allowed himself to be led backwards.
“I’ll be outside.”
“I don’t want you outside!”
The door closed between you. You could still see his shape through the glass. You turned your face away. The nurse was preparing something beside your IV.
“No,” you said, recognising the syringe. “Don’t. I don’t want to sleep.”
“You need to calm down before you injure yourself.”
“I’m calm.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want to go back to sleep.”
Your voice had become small. The nurse’s expression softened.
“You’re safe. We’re only going to help you rest.”
You looked towards the door again. Baelor remained on the other side of the glass. One hand was pressed against it. His face was wet. You hated him for crying. You hated him for looking broken when he was the one breaking you.
“Please,” you whispered.
You were no longer sure whether you were speaking to the nurse or to him. The cold entered your vein. The room softened at the edges. The television blurred. The mechanical beeping slowed as your body surrendered. Baelor’s figure became indistinct behind the glass, his hand still resting against the door as though he could reach you through it. You tried to hold on to your anger. It was easier than the grief. But the medication pulled you down, deep and inexorable. The last thing you saw before the darkness claimed you was Baelor lowering his forehead against the glass. The last thing you thought was that you had survived the explosion.
Melessa Mullendore’s life is monotonous. A dead mother, a heritage many of her Reachmen consider unfortunate, she has resigned herself to a life of duty and boredom.
But a chance encounter with the wife of the Crown Prince opens new doors for her. Caught between duty and her heart’s desires, and thrown into the dangerous world of the court, will she sink or swim ?
Tags : Romance/Mutual Pining/Consensual Infidelity/Emotional Hurt/Comfort/Implied/Referenced Suicide/Angst/Fantasy and Fictional Setting Racism/Smut/Loss of Virginity/First Time/Illnesses/Bisexual Female Character/Bisexuality
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x OC/Jena Dondarrion x OC/Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion
The next two weeks passed in a blur. Her new duties took up most of her days. She would wake up early, get dressed by Larra and walk to Lady Jena’s chambers. Sometimes, she would do this alone, sometimes Myranda would tag along. The girl was a breath of fresh air
among the stiffling atmosphere of court. She had told her about The Eyrie, about the snow-capped mountains and bitter winds, things Melessa had never known.
“I’ll take you someday,” Myranda had smiled.
She had always longed for a sister. She had one, years ago. Millicent was born three years after her and she had died only a few days short of her first nameday. Fluid in her lungs, the maester had said. Melessa had no memories of her, just a small tomb next to their mother’s. In total, Lady Alleria had lost five children. Some young, some at birth, some before they were even born. The last loss, a little boy who only lived a couple of hours, had proven fatal to her mother, grief driving her to the eastern pond one night, heavy stones in the pockets of her coat. So, all she had left were her brothers. Myles, busy with tourneys and knighthood and Matthos, who had been so young when her mother had died that he was more a son than a brother in her mind. She had spent most of her life surrounded by men, always dreaming about a female friend. None of the “proper” Reach girls had tried to befriend her. She knew why. She was happy that Myranda did not seem to share their views. The other ladies mostly ignored her but they were polite enough in Lady Jena’s presence. This morning was particularly bright, the promise of a pleasant and sunny day warming her heart. She entered Lady Jena’s chambers and stopped. They were empty. She took a few
careful steps forward, craning her neck to see if anyone was there.
“Hello?” She called out. “Your Grace?”
“In here.”
Lady Jena’s voice was distant, coming from her bedroom.
Melessa walked slowly. The door was ajar. As she got closer, she could hear water sloshing. She knocked softly.
“Come in.”
Lady Jena’s room was magnificent, yet simple. The furniture was made of oak, with light-coloured fabrics. An intricate Myrish tapestry decorated the walls and fresh flowers were put on her nightstand. She knew by now that Lady Jena had a fondness for lilies and
orchids from the Summer Islands but detested roses. She owned the largest mirror Melessa had ever seen, framed in gold, and an elegant vanity. She looked around, trying to locate her and stopped dead in her tracks. Her red hair unbound and curling in the humidity, Lady Jena
was relaxing in a huge bathtub. Her milky skin was flushed pink and her head was thrown back, relaxed. The water covered her chest and intimate parts but Melessa felt the heat creep up her neck and cheeks. She had never seen a naked woman before, except for her
own body. Lady Jena’s was different. She was leaner, her limbs long and elegant and pale. She cracked one eye open.
“Ah, Lady Melessa,” she greeted her. “You are early.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Sorry, Your Grace. I can come back later if you’d like.”
“Nonsense. Now that you are here, you might as well make yourself useful and help me bathe.”
She flushed even deeper. The privilege of bathing and dressing Lady Jena usually belonged to older ladies, such as Lady Sylvia or Lady Bethany, who had known her the longest. She was the latest addition. She could already see Lady Sylvia’s frown and hear her reproaches
if she heard about it. Still, Lady Jena had asked her to help. Surely, that meant she was not crossing any line. She stepped towards the tub.
“I think I’ll have the jasmine oil today,” Jena mused.
Melessa nodded, retrieving the small bottle of oil from the vanity. She poured it in the steaming water, trying her hardest not to stare at her mistress’ naked form. The sweet scent of jasmine immediately filled the room, mingling with the lilies arranged on the nightstand. It
reminded Melessa of warm evenings in the glass garden at Uplands.
"Would you hand me the cloth?" Lady Jena asked.
Melessa did so, careful to keep her eyes respectfully lowered.
"No need to look so frightened, Lady Melessa."
"I am not frightened, Your Grace."
"No?"
Jena's amusement lilted through the warm air.
"You have barely looked at me since entering the room."
Heat climbed into Melessa's cheeks.
"It would be discourteous."
"It's impractical. I have asked you to help me bathe, not to polish the floor with your gaze."
A reluctant smile tugged at Melessa's lips. She dipped the linen cloth into the scented water before offering it to her. Jena accepted it, washing the last traces of oil from her arms before pausing.
"My shoulders, if you would."
Melessa hesitated only briefly before stepping behind the tub. She wrung out another cloth and laid it gently against Lady Jena's shoulder. From this angle she could finally see little beyond her neck, shoulders and upper back, the water preserving both her modesty and Melessa's composure. Jena was finely built, with graceful shoulders and long, elegant limbs that spoke more of riding and daily exercise than idle luxury. Her pale skin had turned rosy from the heat of the bath, and droplets clung to the loose curls of her copper-red hair. Her
breasts were small, but high, with pink nipples. So different than Melessa’s, heavier and tipped in brown rather than pink. She worked quietly, smoothing the warm cloth across her shoulders.
"You have capable hands."
"I have spent years mending torn cloaks and cleaning my brother’s wounds whenever he would get in trouble."
"So you have."
Jena closed her eyes as Melessa carefully worked the tension from the muscles at the base of her neck.
"You carry yourself differently now."
Melessa frowned.
"I do?"
"Yes. Different from when you first arrived."
She continued her work carefully.
"You used to stand as if expecting someone to tell you that you were in the wrong room or to mock you."
"I often wondered if I was,” she admitted.
"And now? How do you feel about the court? Truly."
Melessa smiled faintly.
"Now I know what not to say or do to avoid Lady Sylvia glaring daggers at me."
Jena laughed.
"Oh, poor Sylvia. She means well."
"She has an uncommon way of showing it."
"That she does. She is strict but trust that she only wants you to be the best you can."
Silence settled comfortably between them again. After a few moments, Lady Jena opened her eyes.
"Thank you."
Melessa stepped back at once.
"I shall fetch your towels."
She retrieved the thick linen towels warming beside the window while Jena rose from the bath. Melessa instinctively turned away, offering the towel without looking directly at her.
"How wonderfully proper you are,” Jena purred.
"I am trying to preserve your dignity, Your Grace."
"I had to give birth before an army of midwives and maesters. There is no dignity left to save, believe me."
By the time she turned back, Lady Jena had wrapped herself in a robe of pale ivory silk, tying it loosely at her waist. Relief came far too quickly. Jena noticed.
"There now," she said with a mischievous smile. "You may breathe again."
"I assure you, Your Grace, I had not stopped."
"No? It certainly looked that way."
Melessa busied herself collecting the discarded bottles of scented oils, hoping her mistress would take pity on her. She did not. The gowns had already been laid out upon the bed. Lady Jena examined them thoughtfully.
"The blue, I think."
"The sapphire silk?"
"Mhm."
Melessa lifted the gown carefully while Jena slipped out of her robe and into a fresh linen shift. Once again, Melessa focused entirely on ribbons, fastenings and embroidery with determined concentration.
"You truly never look."
"I look enough to do my duty."
"Nothing more?"
"It would not be appropriate."
Jena watched her in the mirror as Melessa settled the gown over her shoulders, her green eyes glittering like jewels.
"I have noticed," the princess said conversationally, "that you become remarkably eloquent whenever you are discussing estate accounts or your duties."
Melessa fastened the tiny pearl buttons one by one.
"I suppose I do."
"And remarkably quiet whenever anyone pays you a compliment,” she continued.
"There have been fewer opportunities to practice."
"That is a shame."
Melessa reached for the jeweled girdle.
"You have beautiful eyes."
Her fingers stopped.
"They're… brown."
"They're warm," Jena corrected. "Like chestnuts left to warm in the sun."
Melessa's ears burned. No one had ever described her eyes this way. People had compared them to mud, shit, and other unpleasant things.
"I have never heard anyone describe my eyes in quite that fashion."
"They are fools then."
She finished fastening the belt, praying she had not fumbled any of the clasps.
"Your Grace is very generous."
"I am being truthful."
Melessa looked anywhere but at the mirror. Jena caught her reflection.
"There."
"What?"
"You're blushing."
Melessa groaned softly.
"I fear it has become impossible to hide,” she grumbled.
"I do not think you should hide it."
Before Melessa could step away, Lady Jena turned. With surprising gentleness, she reached out and rested two fingers beneath Melessa's chin, lifting it just enough for their eyes to meet.
"Yes," she murmured.
Melessa's breath caught, her heart beating wildly in her chest.
"You flush so easily."
The princess's thumb brushed lightly along the curve of her chin, more affectionate than intimate.
"It is most fetching."
Melessa was certain every trace of composure had deserted her.
"I… Your Grace…"
The words tangled hopelessly somewhere between her mind and her tongue. Jena's smile deepened, not mocking, but undeniably amused.
"I seem to have stolen your gift for speech. Again.”
"I merely…"
She stopped again. The princess released her chin at last.
"You see?" Jena said with a soft laugh. "Not a single complete sentence."
Melessa turned her flushed face away for the briefest moment.
"You are enjoying this far too much, Your Grace."
"I confess," Jena replied, moving back toward her vanity, "that I am."
She picked up a pair of pearl earrings.
"I find it refreshing."
"What is?"
"Someone who is clever enough to speak her mind…" She handed Melessa one of the earrings to fasten. "…yet still blushes when complimented."
Melessa carefully secured the clasp.
"I shall endeavor to become less predictable."
"Oh, I hope not."
Jena caught her eyes once more in the great mirror.
"The court is full of people who hide exactly what they feel."
Her smile softened, losing some of its teasing edge.
"It is rather nice to meet someone whose face still tells the truth."
Melessa looked at their reflections side by side: the future queen poised in sapphire silk, serene and self-assured and herself standing just behind, still feeling every inch the minor lord’s daughter pretending she belonged among royalty. She was interrupted from her
thoughts by a knock.
“Come in,” Lady Jena called out, her face slipping into her usual serene expression.
To Melessa’s surprise, Prince Baelor appeared in the doorframe. She had not seen him since her arrival. And why would she? He was the Hand of the King. He had better things to do than talk to a low-ranking lady of the court. She fell into a deep curtsy, her gaze to the floor. His eyes found Jena, his face warming at the sight of her.
“My dear,” he greeted her. “How are you this morning?”
“I’m well Baelor. Lady Melessa has taken good care of me.”
He turned towards her, as if he had only now noticed her presence. His eyes lit up in recognition.
“Ah yes, Lady Mullendore. I hope your trunk did not cause you further trouble.”
Lady Jena’s eyes travelled between Melessa’s burning face and her husband.
“You've met?” She asked.
“His Grace was kind enough to help me with my luggage,” she replied, finally finding her voice.
“Was he?” Lady Jena raised an elegant eyebrow at her husband. “How kind of him.”
Melessa fumbled with her hands idly, lowering her gaze. She did not want Lady Jena to think she was eyeing the prince. She was not. And he had only helped her out of kindness, as any honourable man would have done.
“Stop teasing the poor girl Jena,” the prince said, not unkindly.
“She can take a bit of teasing. Don't you, Melessa ?”
She stared at her, at the glint in her eyes and the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She realised then she was not cross with her. Not at all.
“I… suppose I can, Your Grace,” Melessa answered, though her voice was not quite as steady as she would have wished.
Lady Jena’s smile widened.
“There. Brave as any knight.”
Prince Baelor looked between them, amusement softening his face.
“Should I be concerned that you have begun frightening your ladies so early in the morning?”
“I do not frighten them,” Jena replied. “I merely test their courage.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“It sounds better than teasing.”
Melessa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. It was strange, seeing them like this. Prince Baelor, the Hand of the King, was meant to be all gravity and duty, yet his whole expression had warmed in Lady Jena’s presence. She seemed to draw the sternness from
him as easily as a hand drawing a curtain aside. Baelor turned back to her.
“I hope my wife has not been too terrible a mistress.”
“Oh no, Your Grace,” Melessa said at once. “She has been very gracious.”
“Gracious,” Jena repeated, amused. “How dull I sound.”
“I did not mean…”
“I know what you meant.” Jena reached for one of her rings on the vanity. “Melessa is very proper, Baelor. It is one of her charms.”
“One of them?” he asked.
Melessa’s face heated again. Lady Jena slipped the ring onto her finger with infuriating calm.
“Indeed. She possesses many.”
Prince Baelor’s eyes flickered with quiet laughter.
“Then I shall leave you both before my presence destroys whatever composure Lady Mullendore has left.”
“That would be wise,” Jena said.
He bowed his head to her, his fondness plain.
“I only came to tell you the council will run late today. I may not join you for luncheon.”
“A tragedy,” Jena said, though her smile remained light. “Try not to let the realm fall apart before supper.”
“I shall do my best.”
His gaze softened one last time before he stepped back toward the door.
“Lady Mullendore,” he nodded towards her.
“Your Grace.”
Melessa curtsied again, a little less deeply this time. When he was gone, silence settled briefly over the chamber. Lady Jena turned back to the mirror, catching Melessa’s reflection in it.
“Well,” she said lightly. “That was not so dreadful, was it?”
Melessa exhaled slowly.
“I think I survived.”
Jena laughed then, bright and pleased.
“Oh, Melessa,” she said, clasping her on the shoulder. “You will do very well here.”
When a woman asks if you've been having an affair and says she is ready to look past it and forgive you if you are honest about it, she already knows. Don't lie in her face.
frodo getting criticized for decades for not doing much / not being a hero compared to sam is fitting when you consider mental health and strength is often trivialized. frodo carried the most dangerous and insidious item in middle earth for YEARS. ancient beings (elves, gandalf, etc) were taunted and tempted by it. boromir was corrupted within weeks without even touching it. men and hobbits turned against their brethren for it. killed for it. and frodo, with a wound from a morgul knife, bore it’s weight when no one else could. had it been anyone else, middle earth would have fallen.
no, he couldn’t have done it without his samwise. but isn’t that a lesson in itself?
Melessa Mullendore’s life is monotonous. A dead mother, a heritage many of her Reachmen consider unfortunate, she has resigned herself to a life of duty and boredom.
But a chance encounter with the wife of the Crown Prince opens new doors for her. Caught between duty and her heart’s desires, and thrown into the dangerous world of the court, will she sink or swim ?
Tags : Romance/Mutual Pining/Consensual Infidelity/Emotional Hurt/Comfort/Implied/Referenced Suicide/Angst/Fantasy and Fictional Setting Racism/Smut/Loss of Virginity/First Time/Illnesses/Bisexual Female Character/Bisexuality
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x OC/Jena Dondarrion x OC/Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion
Dawn came earlier than she had expected. She had barely slept. Not that she slept a lot anyway. But she had tossed and turned forever the previous night, a mixture of excitement and fear twisting her stomach. So when someone knocked on her door and woke her up, it seemed she had just closed her eyes moments before. Rubbing the sleep off her eyes, she sat up.
“Yes?” She called out.
The door opened to a young, plump handmaiden clad in red. She had pale blond hair and hazel eyes, and a pleasant, cheerful face. She looked younger than Melessa, perhaps around sixteen. She beamed at her.
“Good morning, m’lady. I’m here to help you get ready.”
Melessa rose, drapping herself in her old robe. The girl entered, closing the door behind her. She let the girl undress her quickly. Melessa had washed the road away the previous night, so she settled for just a quick wash with a hand towel and fresh rosewater.
“What’s your name?” she asked the girl.
“Larra, m’lady. If it pleases you, m’lady.”
“You can relax, I won’t bite,” she smiled at the younger girl.
“It’s just…it’s my first time serving a lady like yourself. I used to clean up but one of the handmaidens got married and so I…”
She stopped herself, her pale cheeks blotched with red.
“Sorry, m’lady. My Ma tells me I speak too much.”
“No need to apologise,” Melessa smiled. “I suspect your days must be lonely.”
“I-I can’t complain, m’lady. I’m glad I get to work here.”
A twinge of sympathy twisted her heart. As tiring as being a servant was, working for the royal family was still a better employment than in the streets. Larra gave her a new shift, helping her putting it on. She then picked the two dresses Melessa had laid out the previous evening. One was a coppery brocard one, with golden butterflies stitched on the sleeves and bodice. It was one of her fanciest dresses. She had packed it in case of an event but was considering wearing it, given Lady Sylvia’s comments about her appearance the day before. The other one was simpler, with less ornaments. It was a deep, rich brown colour, with tight sleeves hemmed with golden and orange thread. It was good but she wondered if it was enough. Larra’s hands hovered over the fabric.
‘You’ve got such pretty dresses, m’lady,” she breathed.
“Which one should I pick?”
“Oh…I-I wouldn’t know, m’lady. Both would look good on you.”
“But which one would be best for a good first impression?”
Larra seemed to consider her answer carefully, biting her lips. Finally, she pointed at the brown dress.
“I think the brown is best, m’lady. The orange is…a bit much for the day.”
Melessa nodded, holding her arms up for Larra. The dress was soft against her skin, and once adjusted, showed the barest hint of shoulders. Larra tied a jewelled belt around her waist and her scorpion locket around her neck. She grazed it absently. It contained a lock of her mother’s hair, dark and curly like hers. One of the few things she had left of her. She sat at the vanity, letting Larra brush her hair and braid it.
“You’ve got lovely hair, m’lady,” she observed.
“I’ve been told it’s too coarse and has a will of its own,” she grimaced.
“I wish mine curled like that.”
She dabbed orange blossom perfume on her neck. Smoothing her dress one last time, she rose, her arms extended.
“How do I look?” She asked her handmaiden.
“Ready,” the girl smiled.
She could work with that. A knock made her jump. Larra opened the door, revealing a young page clad in Targaryen black and red.
“My Lady,” he greeted her. “I have come to escort you to Her Grace’s chambers to break your fast.”
The page could not have been older than twelve, but he walked through the Red Keep as if he had been born knowing every corridor, every staircase, every hidden turn. Melessa followed him in silence, one hand resting lightly against the scorpion locket at her throat.
Her stomach had tightened again.
It was absurd. She had faced angry tenants demanding lower taxes, merchants trying to cheat her father’s household, knights twice her size who thought shouting made them right, and Myles at his most stubborn. She had managed Uplands for years. She had kept accounts balanced, stores filled, servants paid, and peace maintained between men who believed themselves too important to listen to a young woman.
And yet the thought of breaking her fast with Lady Jena’s household made her palms damp.
The corridors seemed even larger this morning. Servants moved briskly around her, carrying linens, trays, letters, baskets of flowers. Guards in black and red stood at doorways like statues. Somewhere beyond the walls, the city was waking, all bells and voices and cartwheels against stone. It was too much after the quiet of Uplands. Too loud. Too crowded. Too alive.
She suddenly missed the battlements of Uplands.
She missed the damp morning air, the sight of the fields in the distance, Matthos running after moths in the courtyard, Wylla’s hands in her hair. She even missed Myles complaining about ledgers.
What if Lady Jena had been mistaken? What if whatever she had seen in Melessa at Uplands had been nothing more than decent hospitality and a few sharp answers over supper? What if she arrived at the table and everyone saw at once what others had always seen? Too dark. Too Dornish. Too provincial. Too stiff. Too plain.
The page stopped before a carved door guarded by two men in Targaryen colours. One of them knocked, waited for permission, then opened it.
“My lady,” the page said, bowing. “Her Grace awaits you.”
Melessa inclined her head, smoothing her skirts one last time. The brown dress had been a good choice, she decided, or at least she hoped it had. Rich but not ostentatious. Fine but not desperate. The golden and orange thread at her sleeves caught the morning light when she moved. Larra had pinned her curls in a thick braid coiled at the back of her head, though several had already escaped around her temples.
She took a breath. Then she entered.
Lady Jena’s apartments were much warmer than the corridors outside. Sunlight spilled through tall arched windows, softened by sheer curtains of pale gold. The room smelled of lemon cakes, fresh bread, and roses. A fire crackled in the hearth despite the fair weather, more for comfort than warmth. The furniture was elegant without being stiff, carved dark wood softened with cushions of purple and cream.
Several women were already gathered around the table.
Melessa noticed them before she noticed anything else. There were six of them, not including Lady Jena. Most were older than her, some by a decade, some by more. Their gowns were fine, their hair arranged with the sort of careless perfection that required skilled hands and far too much time. Rings rings glittered on several fingers. They glanced at her when she entered.
Then they looked away.
Not all at once. That would have been kinder. It happened in small, deliberate motions. A flick of the eyes over her face, her hair, her skin. A pause at the scorpion locket. A faint tightening of the lips. The quiet judgement of women who had already decided the shape of her before she had spoken a word.
Lady Sylvia stood near the table, tall and severe in pale blue silk. Her blond hair was bound beneath a net of silver thread. Her expression did not soften when Melessa entered, though she performed a small, correct nod.
Melessa lowered herself into a curtsy.
“Your Grace.”
Lady Jena rose from her seat at the head of the table. She wore deep green that morning, embroidered with tiny golden leaves along the sleeves. Her red hair was pinned beneath a veil so fine it seemed made of mist. When she smiled, it reached her eyes.
“Lady Melessa,” she said warmly. “Come in. I hope your journey was not too dreadful.”
“It was quite manageable, Your Grace.”
“A generous answer. The road to King’s Landing is rarely manageable.”
Jena came forward and took both her hands briefly, as though they were old friends rather than a princess and the nervous daughter of a minor Reach lord.
“And were you welcomed properly yesterday?”
Melessa’s gaze moved before she could stop it. Only for a heartbeat. Lady Sylvia stood perfectly still, pale eyes fixed on her. It would have been so easy. A few carefully chosen words. A small complaint. Lady Sylvia had been cold. She had mistaken her for a maid. She had called her bold in a tone that made it clear she meant Dornish. Melessa had known women like her all her life. Perhaps Jena already knew. Perhaps that was why she was asking. But Melessa had not come all this way to begin her first morning by causing trouble. She smiled.
“Yes, Your Grace. Everyone has been most helpful.”
Something passed through Jena’s eyes. Not belief, precisely. Amusement, perhaps. Or approval.
“I am glad,” Jena replied. “I must apologise for not greeting you personally. I had hoped to, truly, but yesterday proved rather determined to make me fail in every intention I had set for it.”
“There is no need to apologise,” Melessa said at once. “You are a busy woman, Your Grace. I would never expect you to abandon your duties for my sake.”
“Careful,” Jena said, her mouth curving. “If you prove too understanding, people at court will make a habit of inconveniencing you.”
“I shall endeavour to be understanding only when it is deserved.”
That earned a soft laugh from Lady Jena.
“There she is,” she murmured.
Melessa felt heat rise faintly to her cheeks. Jena gestured toward the table.
“Come. Sit beside me this morning. I would like you to meet everyone properly.”
The chair at Lady Jena’s right had been left empty. Melessa was acutely aware of several eyes following her as she crossed the room. She sat carefully, keeping her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap.
Lady Jena named the women one by one.
Lady Sylvia Caron, of course, her senior lady. Lady Bethany Frey came next, newly widowed and with sharp, glinting black eyes and hair streaked with grey, and sapphires glinting around her small neck. Lady Helicent Reyne, who was tall and voluptuous, with long red hair and who was married to a knight in Prince Baelor’s service. Lady Laenora Velaryon, younger but solemn with pearls at her throat. She had smooth amber skin and a mane of wild silver curls. Her eyes were a stunning shade of turquoise. She was one of the most beautiful women Melessa had ever seen. She granted her a small smile that the younger woman returned. Lady Ellyn Rosby, short and frail, had a narrow smile that looked practised before a mirror. Lady Ravella Swann was tall and willowy, lovely in the manner of women who knew exactly how lovely they were. And then, at the far end of the table, there was a younger woman who leaned forward so eagerly that she almost knocked over her cup.
“Lady Myranda Arryn,” Jena finished, and the girl beamed as though being introduced were an honour she had not yet grown used to.
Myranda Arryn was perhaps seventeen, and there was still something girlish in the softness of her face. She was a bit shorter than Melessa, with light brown hair braided loosely over one shoulder, blue eyes bright as a spring sky, and freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. She wore pale grey-blue silk, airy and delicate, with little embroidered falcons at the cuffs.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” Myranda said, before anyone else could speak. “I have never met anyone from Uplands before.”
Lady Ellyn’s mouth twitched.
“How deprived you must have been.”
Myranda did not seem to notice the mockery. Or, perhaps, she noticed and chose not to care.
“I know,” she said brightly. “It is always good to meet people from places one has not visited.”
Melessa blinked. Then she smiled despite herself.
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Myranda.”
Servants began pouring tea and placing dishes on the table. There were boiled eggs, honeyed porridge, soft cheeses, oatcakes, sliced pears, little lemon cakes, smoked fish, and bread still warm enough that steam curled from it when broken open. At Uplands, breakfast had always been a practical thing. Here, even eating seemed arranged for display. For a few moments, conversation drifted around her without touching her. Lady Bethany spoke to Lady Sylvia about some singer who had performed badly at supper. Lady Ravella murmured something about the queen’s new jewels. Lady Ellyn complained that the bread was too dark. Melessa reached for the pears.
“Is it true they eat snakes in Dorne?” Lady Helicent asked suddenly.
The table quieted by the smallest measure. Melessa set a slice of pear on her plate.
“I would not know, my lady. My mother was Dornish, but I was raised in the Reach.”
“How strange,” Lady Ellyn said. “You look so very much like one of them.”
“One of whom?”
The question left Melessa’s mouth calmly. Too calmly perhaps. Lady Ellyn’s smile sharpened.
“The Dornish.”
Melessa lifted her cup.
“My mother was Dornish. It would be strange for me not to look like her.”
Lady Jena buttered a piece of bread in silence. Lady Sylvia watched from behind her cup.
“Lady Alleria Qorgyle, was it not?” Lady Bethany asked. “An unusual match for a Mullendore.”
“My parents’ marriage helped ease border tensions,” Melessa replied. “Or so I have been told.”
“How dutiful of them.”
There was nothing kind in the remark. Melessa met Lady Bethany’s gaze.
“Many marriages begin with duty. Some are fortunate enough to find affection after. That’s a blessing, wouldn’t you say, my lady?”
That settled over the table with surprising force. Lady Bethany’s eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps unsure whether she had been insulted. Lady Jena took a sip of tea, her expression smooth.
“A wise observation,” she said. “Especially for one so young.”
The conversation resumed, though not quite as freely as before. Myranda waited all of three heartbeats before leaning forward again.
“Have you truly lived in a castle full of butterflies?”
Melessa turned to her, grateful for the change.
“Not full of them. Only in the glass garden.”
“But they fly freely?”
“Yes.”
“That is marvellous.” Myranda looked delighted. “At the Eyrie, everything is stone and wind. Beautiful, of course, but rather cold. Sometimes I think even the flowers are frightened to grow too high.”
“You are from the Vale, then?”
“Yes. Though I have spent much of this last year here.” She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret, though everyone at the table could hear her. “I am cousin to Lady Alys, Prince Rhaegel’s wife. That is how I got the position.”
“Myranda,” Lady Sylvia said in a warning tone.
“What? It is true.” Myranda took a bite of bread. “I do not see why I should pretend otherwise. Lady Alys thought it would be good for me to spend time at court, and Father agreed, mostly because my septa said I was becoming impossible.”
Melessa’s mouth curved.
“Were you?”
“Oh, absolutely. But only because everyone insisted that I can’t sit still for too long.”
Lady Jena hid a smile behind her cup.
“Lady Myranda believes patience is wasted on her.”
“I can be patient,” Myranda protested. “When there is a reason to be.”
Lady Ravella sighed.
“There is always a reason for patience.”
“That is what dull people say when they want you to be quiet.”
A startled laugh escaped Melessa before she could stop it. Several women looked at her. She lowered her gaze to her plate, but Myranda looked pleased.
“You see?” Myranda said. “Lady Melessa agrees with me.”
“Do I?”
“You laughed. That counts.”
Lady Jena’s eyes danced with quiet amusement. Myranda then proceeded to ask every question that came into her head. Was Uplands very warm? Did Melessa hunt? Had she ever seen a sand steed? Did people in the Reach truly care so much about flowers? Was it true Dornish women carried daggers in their sleeves? Did she miss her brothers? Did she have a favourite book? Could she play cyvasse? Did butterflies ever land in people’s hair?
Melessa answered as best she could, sometimes amused, sometimes surprised. The girl had no restraint at all. Yet there was no malice in her curiosity. She asked about her steadily, eager to know her. She asked about Uplands as if it mattered. She asked about Melessa as if Melessa were interesting. It was disarming.
“My mother was from House Qorgyle,” Melessa explained when Myranda asked about her locket. “The scorpion was hers.”
Myranda’s eyes widened.
“That is far more exciting than a falcon. Falcons are noble, I suppose, but they mostly look cross and haughty.”
“Perhaps they are.”
“I would be too, if everyone expected me to perch on cliffs.”
Melessa laughed again, softer this time. Across the table, Lady Ellyn exchanged a look with Lady Ravella. Lady Sylvia noticed. So did Jena. When breakfast ended, Lady Jena rose.
“The weather is too fair to waste indoors,” she declared. “We shall walk in the gardens.”
The ladies stood with a rustle of silk. Melessa followed their lead, though she waited half a breath to make certain she was not stepping where she should not. The rules here were invisible and everywhere. Who walked beside whom. Who spoke first. Who held back. Who was important enough to be noticed and who should know better than to try.
Lady Jena took Lady Sylvia’s arm first, speaking quietly to her as they left the apartments. The others followed in pairs. Melessa found herself at the back, not entirely by accident. Then Myranda appeared beside her.
“You may walk with me,” she said cheerfully.
“How kind of you.”
“I thought so too.”
Melessa bit back a smile.
The gardens of the Red Keep were not like the glass garden at Uplands. They were grander, certainly. Wider paths, carved fountains, neatly trimmed hedges, beds of roses, lilies, lavender, and herbs. Orange trees grew in large painted pots, their blossoms perfuming the air. The sea glittered in the distance beyond the walls, bright beneath the morning sun. Birds chattered overhead, bold and careless.
It was beautiful.
Melessa wished she were alone to enjoy it properly. As they strolled, she felt the quiet pressure of the other women around her. They did not ignore her completely. That would have been too obvious beneath Lady Jena’s gaze. Instead, they spoke around her, over her, through her, in the subtle way well-bred women had of making someone feel like a chair inconveniently placed in the room.
“You must find King’s Landing overwhelming,” Lady Ravella said at last, glancing at her. “Coming from such a small holding.”
“Uplands is arge enough to keep one occupied,” Melessa replied.
Lady Helicent smiled.
“Occupied with what? Counting butterflies?”
Myranda frowned, but Melessa answered before she could.
“Grain, mostly. Livestock. Repairs. Wages. Disputes between tenants. Butterflies would be less demanding.”
Lady Jena, a few steps ahead, turned her head slightly.
“How fortunate for Uplands that someone counted what mattered,” she said.
Lady Helicent’s smile thinned. They walked on. Near a fountain shaped like a maiden pouring water from an urn, Lady Bethany slowed her steps until Melessa was forced to walk beside her.
“I knew a Qorgyle once,” she said. “A lady at court during King Aegon’s reign. Very spirited woman.”
The way she said spirited made it sound like diseased. Melessa folded her hands before her.
“The Qorgyles often are. The ones I’ve met, at least.”
“How difficult it must have been for your father,” Lady Bethany continued, “raising children with such mixed influences.”
The words landed precisely where they were meant to.
Melessa thought of her father’s dark room. His untrimmed beard. His hollow eyes. She thought of her mother’s tomb beneath Uplands, cold and silent. She thought of every whisper she had endured. Her anger rose. She let it pass through her without moving her face.
“My father raised us to honour both sides of our blood,” she said. “I have always considered that a strength.”
Lady Bethany gave a small hum.
“How tolerant of him.”
“I agree with your father then,” Myranda said suddenly. “He sounds smart and kind.”
Lady Bethany looked at her. Myranda smiled back, bright and unbothered. Melessa glanced at the younger girl, startled. Myranda leaned closer and whispered.
“She does that to everyone she thinks will make an easy target.”
“Does she?”
“Oh yes. Last month she asked whether my mother feared I would never marry if I kept talking so much.”
“What did you say?”
“I said any man frightened by conversation could hardly be expected to survive marriage.”
This time, Melessa managed not to laugh aloud, but only barely. The gardens opened into a wider terrace overlooking the Blackwater. The bay gleamed under the sun, crowded with ships. Melessa had never seen so many sails in one place. White, brown, red, striped, patched. The world seemed to gather below the walls of the Red Keep, noisy and restless.
Lady Jena paused beside the balustrade.
“A fair morning,” she said.
“It is, Your Grace,” Lady Laenora replied.
“It would be a shame to spend it all discussing court marriages and singers who cannot hold a note.” Jena turned, her eyes moving across her ladies before settling on Melessa. “Lady Melessa, your dress is lovely.”
Melessa stilled. The compliment was simple. Perhaps harmless. Yet she understood at once what Jena was doing.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“The colour suits you very well,” Jena continued. “And the embroidery is beautiful. Butterflies, are they not?”
“Yes. My house’s sigil.”
“How charming.” Jena’s gaze moved to the others, pleasant but unmistakably pointed. “Do you not think so, ladies?”
There was a pause just long enough to be noticed. Myranda spoke first.
“I think it is very pretty,” she said. “And clever too. The thread shines when you move.”
Melessa’s throat tightened unexpectedly. Lady Ravella smiled a little too late.
“Yes. Quite pretty.”
“Very fine work,” Lady Helicent added.
“Unusual,” Lady Bethany said.
Lady Jena’s smile did not change.
“That was not the word I would have chosen.”
Lady Bethany lowered her gaze.
“Lovely, Your Grace.”
“Much better.”
Melessa looked toward the river before anyone could see the blush plainly on her face. She was not used to being defended. Not openly. Not by someone powerful enough to make others obey with a single soft correction.
In the Reach, she had learned to endure. To turn insults aside. To make herself useful enough that people forgot to question her place. But Lady Jena had not asked her to become invisible. She had placed her beside her at breakfast. She had praised her dress. She had made the others look at her.
It was a kindness. It was also a lesson.
The rest of the walk passed more easily, or perhaps Melessa simply steadied herself. She said little unless spoken to. She listened. She noticed. Lady Sylvia corrected Myranda’s posture twice. Lady Ellyn tried to flatter Jena too eagerly whenever Prince Baelor was mentioned. Lady Ravella seemed bored by everything except herself. Lady Bethany disliked being contradicted. Lady Helicent watched more than she spoke. Lady Laenora, quiet as a shadow, smiled once when Myranda complimented her brocade dress. By the time they returned indoors, Melessa’s nerves had settled into something sharper. She was still afraid, but fear was familiar. It could be held. Used, even. It kept the senses awake.
The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of duties she did not yet fully understand. There were letters to be sorted, petitions to be read aloud, gifts to be acknowledged, invitations to accept or decline. Lady Jena’s household ran with precision, though beneath that precision lay currents Melessa could not yet name. A glance from Sylvia could send a maid hurrying from the room. A lifted brow from Jena could silence a debate. Every word seemed to have a second meaning folded beneath it.
Melessa watched carefully.
She made one mistake with a visiting lady’s title and corrected herself before Lady Sylvia could do it for her. She nearly entered a room before Lady Ravella, then stepped back in time. She spilled no ink, mislaid no letter, and remembered the names of three minor lords Jena mentioned only once.
Myranda whispered encouragement whenever she could.
“You are doing very well,” she said after Melessa successfully located a letter concerning Stormlands tolls.
“I am folding papers, not winning a tourney.”
But despite herself, Melessa smiled.
By late afternoon, her feet ached and her cheeks hurt from keeping her expression composed. Lady Jena dismissed the household after receiving a final messenger from the Tower of the Hand. The other women curtsied and began to drift away in small clusters. Myranda squeezed Melessa’s hand before leaving.
“You survived,” she whispered.
“Barely.”
“That counts.”
Melessa watched her go, feeling oddly bereft. She had not expected friendship. Certainly not on the first day. Perhaps it was too soon to call it that. But Myranda’s warmth had been like a candle in an unfamiliar room.
“Lady Melessa,” Jena called softly.
Melessa turned at once.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Walk with me a moment.”
The request was gentle, but not one to refuse. Melessa followed her toward the windows overlooking the gardens. The room had emptied now, leaving only the faint scent of parchment, beeswax, and rosewater behind. Outside, the sun had begun to lower, turning the stone walls gold. For a moment, Jena said nothing. Melessa waited. At last, the princess looked at her.
“You did well today.”
The words struck harder than they should have. Melessa clasped her hands before her, afraid they might betray her.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I mean it,” Jena said. “For a first day at court, surrounded by women determined to measure every breath you took, you did very well.”
Melessa glanced down.
“I said little.”
“Good. Too many people believe speaking often makes them interesting.”
That drew a faint smile from her.
“I worried I seemed dull.”
“You were careful.” Jena’s voice softened. “There is a difference.”
Melessa looked back up. Lady Jena studied her with that same unsettling attention she had shown at Uplands. It no longer frightened Melessa quite as much. Or perhaps she was beginning to understand that being seen by this woman was not the same as being judged by the others.
“Some of them were unkind,” Jena said.
Melessa chose her words carefully.
“They do not know me yet.”
“No. But some people dislike what they think they know before truth has any chance to intrude.”
Melessa felt the old tightness in her chest.
“I am used to it.”
“I know.” Jena’s expression sharpened slightly. “That does not make it acceptable.”
The words were not loud. They did not need to be. Melessa swallowed.
“I did not wish to cause trouble on my first day.”
“You did not. You kept your composure. You answered without grovelling and without losing your temper.” Jena’s mouth curved. “Though I suspect there is a temper somewhere.”
“My uncle would say so.”
“Your uncle sounds wise.”
“He is.”
Jena looked back toward the gardens, where the last light glimmered on the fountains.
“Lady Myranda likes you.”
“She is very kind.”
“She is,” Jena agreed. “And far bolder than anyone expects. Do not underestimate her simply because she is sweet.”
“I would not.”
“No,” Jena said, as though pleased. “I did not think you would.”
A brief silence settled between them. Melessa could hear distant footsteps beyond the door, the murmur of servants, the low call of a guard changing post. The Red Keep no longer felt quite as monstrous as it had that morning. Still enormous. Still dangerous. But perhaps not impossible. Lady Jena turned back to her.
“I was right to choose you.”
Melessa’s breath caught quietly.
No one had ever said such a thing to her before. Not like that. Not as if she were not merely useful, not merely dutiful, not merely the daughter who stayed behind because everyone else had stepped away from responsibility. Chosen. The word settled somewhere deep.
“I hope to prove worthy of your trust, Your Grace.”
“You already began today.” Jena reached out and touched her arm lightly. “Rest now. Tomorrow will be easier in some ways and harder in others.”
“Your laugh,” Jena said. “Court has a way of stealing such things if one is careless.”
Melessa thought of her mother then, of jasmine scent and sad eyes, of all the laughter that had faded from Uplands until only duty and grief remained. She touched her locket.
“I shall try.”
“Good.”
Lady Jena released her arm and moved toward her desk, already reaching for another letter. The moment of softness had passed, tucked away beneath duty as all things seemed to be here. Melessa curtsied.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Good evening, Lady Melessa.”
She left the apartments with tired feet, an aching back, and a strange warmth beneath her ribs. The day had not been easy. It had not been welcoming, not truly. There would be whispers. There would be questions. There would be women like Lady Helicent and Lady Ellyn, with their polished cruelty and pretty smiles.
But there were kinder people, like Myranda and Lady Jena. Perhaps that would be enough.
No, I love your response! It's really interesting to read. I'm glad you're following what speaks to you, why not. Beats wondering down the line what could have happened if you had only taken the first step forward. Do you prefer stage or screen?
I was in a couple of plays during primary school and I found myself really enjoying it all. Then in high school it became this weird clicky environment (probably didn't help I was classified as a jock-- albeit lowkey weird too) (what's up troy bolton) (also thought about doing stunt work as a mix) so I never got to be part of it again. I'm from a small country across the world, which makes opportunities/breaking out of the archetypes a lil harder. Enter Peter Claffey I guess?? If big sporty boi can delve into it?? There may be hope???
Learning too, Henry Ashton went to drama school a bit older is also refreshing in the sense so many of us hit career shifts/general changes when we hit our late twentiess and early thirties. What a mix of backgrounds the cast of akotsk had. (Sorry for the tangent, that show chained my soul for real eugh. Storytelling rules I guess.)
Anywaaay, love that you're attending a course!! Excited for you! Will you post about it? Also you in the countryside is adorable ❤️ thanks for allowing the big chat 😂🙆♀️✨️
I've only done stage at this point so it's all I know but I'm very intrigued by screen acting as well. Although I would probably be one of those people who always look at the wrong camera haha.
I also read that Henry Ashton started "late" and those stories are so motivating. I'm a firm believer that it is never too late and that what is right for you will come to you at the right time ✨And as you say, the diversity of this cast in terms of experience and background is amazing, with people like Henry or Peter, who are still pretty fresh and veterans like Bertie and Sam, who've been around for 2 decades. And I mean, even Bertie was in his late 20s when he got started so, who knows ?
Maybe I will post about it hehe, though I doubt people would be really interested in that 😅
Not the only one who wants to take up acting lessons because of bertie 👀 a complete change of everything if I did, I always wanted to do it but unfortunately I was deterred at a young age (closed shop, racism, classism. Same old). Insane how influential this man is 😵 also love the post!!
I've always been drawn to acting, and I never could when I was a kid/teenager for pretty much the same reasons as you. Also because I lived in the countryside and there wasn't as many opportunities as in the city. The bright side is that I could get lost in the woods or the fields and pretend I was on a quest. While not LARPing, it's quite similar to what Bertie was doing and it just spoke to me on a personal level ✨️
I did some acting training when I was living in Scotland and it just felt right, you know ? I had a few auditions lined up for Drama School but Covid happened and I had to go home and focus on something else 😅
It's always been in the back of my mind since, and the more I've watched Bertie's work and the way he speaks about acting, how passionate and thoughtful he is about it, the more I felt that ot was right for me. So I booked a short summer course in London for August because you only have one life, you know ? 😅 Maybe nothing will come out of it but at least, I will have fun and explore this.
I wouldn't say it's all him, but his passion about acting is one of the things that pushed me towards that step.
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