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The day had started like any other. Melessa Mullendore had woken up before her family. A servant had helped her wash and dress, and she had gone for her daily walk along the battlements of Uplands. This helped clear her head before a long day of looking at reports, accounts and hearing petitions from their tenants and farmers. She had then broken her fast with her siblings, Myles and Matthos, and their uncle, Ser Matthew. Their father had been absent. Some days, Lord Malcolm did not even leave his chambers, burdened by grief and shame. It had been five years since her mother’s passing, and he did not show any sign of getting better. Lady Alleria Qorgyle, a tall, copper-skinned Dornish woman, had been found in the pond two miles East from the castle. Some say she had fell by accident. 

Melessa knew better.

She had taken on the duties of Lady of Uplands, dealing with the paperwork and the running of things. Her father was in no state and, as much as she loved him, Myles was more preoccupied with winning tourneys than bureaucracy. And Matthos was eight, so this was not his burden to bear. She did not mind, truly. If anything, it kept her mind sharp and busy. She only allowed herself to grieve at night, in the privacy of her bedroom. She often dreamed of her mother, of her dark, sad eyes and the smell of jasmine flowers that clung to her. Those nights, she would wake up with dried tears on her cheeks, washing them away with cold water.

She had been in her father’s solar when the messenger arrived, muddy from the road. It had been raining for days now, the skies grey and cold.

“M’lady,” he said, breathless. “I’ve come bearing urgent news. A carriage carrying Lady Jena Dondarrion has been stuck in the road for hours. The mud, you see. Her Grace asks for shelter for tonight.”

Jena Dondarrion. She had heard the name before. Prince Baelor Targaryen’s wife, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She rose at once.

“Of course,” she nodded. “How far are they?”

“About two miles west, m’lady”.

“Go warn my brother and uncle. They’ll escort them here while I get everything ready.”

“At once, m’lady!”

He scampered off. Sighing, she closed the accounts’ book. She had more urgent matters on her hands. She couldn’t help but to feel a tremor of excitement. This would be the first time since the reign of Jaehaerys I that Uplands would have a royal visitor. Lady Jena had married into the royal family, but Melessa was determined to make her visit agreeable. She walked briskly to the kitchens. The cook, Jeyne, a plump, red-faced woman with a mass of greying blond hair, curtsied, wiping the flour off her hands.

“M’lady,” she greeted her. “Was there an issue with the food this mornin’?”

“Not at all, Jeyne. But I hope you’re ready. We have some visitors coming tonight. Lady Jena Dondarrion is going to spend the night here. I trust we can cook her something worthy of Uplands.”

Jeyne’s chest swelled.

“You bet we can! I’ll have some ducks roasted in no time and we have vegetables fresh from Ashford! I’ll make her my raspberries and rhubarb tarts. I know they’re your ladyship’s favourite.”

“They are,” she smiled. “I see no reason why she wouldn’t like them.”

“I’ll best get to work, m’lady.”

It was still odd for Jeyne to see her as anything else than the little girl she had snuck pastries to. But like the other staff, she had learned to respect her. It was no secret that she was the one running things. When she went back upstairs, it was clear that the word of their incoming visitors had already spread, maids running around to prepare rooms. She got a hold of Garth, the castellan.

“Please see that we prepare the eastern wing for her Grace. Open the windows to let some air in and put some fresh lavender and clean sheets.”

“At once, my lady,” he nodded. “Should I ask for more candles in the hall?”

She looked around. It was true that the hall tended to be a bit dark these days, a reflection of the household’s morose mood.

“I think we could do with more light,” she agreed.

She ran around the castle, checking that the tapestries were dusted, that everything was tidy. It wouldn’t do to let a future queen see the ghosts of this place. She crossed the courtyard right as her brother was mounting his bay horse, Dune. Myles was three and twenty, two years her senior, tall and handsome. Like her, he had inherited their mother’s dark colouring, with brown curly hair, olive skin and dark eyes. On him, it gave him a roguish charm, according to some maids. For her, it made her undesirable. At the last ball she had attended in Highgarden, she had heard many whispers.

“No one would want a wife so dark.”

“More Dornish than from the Reach…”

“Their mother…”

She had learned to turn a deaf ear to the gossip. Remaining unmarried suited her just fine. She was more needed at Uplands than anywhere else. And she would rather die than be saddled with a man who would despise her heritage and treat her like an inconvenient duty. She walked towards Myles.

“Mel,” he smiled down. “I heard we’re about to have some illustrious visitors.”

“You heard right. Can I count on you to be on your best behaviour?”

“I promise nothing. Lady Jena is from the Marches,” he smirked.

“Don’t fret, niece. I’ll make sure he doesn’t start another war.”

Their uncle, Ser Matthew was mounted next to her. A knight of one and forty, he was still formidable and competing in tourneys. He was their father’s younger brother and had remained at Uplands to be the captain of his guards. When she had been younger, he used to read stories to her and had taught her how to use a bow, to her father’s chagrin. With a scratch on Dune’s nose, she turned away, letting the men depart. She climbed the stairs to her father’s room. She stopped in front of the oak door, listening for any sign of life behind it. She knocked softly, waiting for a reply. It came after a few seconds.

“Come in.”

Her father’s room were dark, only one curtain open, the dust dancing in the weak light. It was maintained by servants, her father making no efforts to tidy the place. The man himself was reading in his armchair. Malcolm Mullendore had been a rather handsome man in his youth, tall and jovial. But the years and his grief had hollowed him out, ageing him beyond his forty-seven years. His dark brown hair was streaked with grey, and his beard was wild. But it was his eyes that saddened her the most. The blue orbs had once sparkled with mischief, managing to drag a laugh out of her mother during her saddest days. They looked grey now, empty of mirth. He smiled when he saw her.

“My little butterfly. How are you?”

“I’m well, Father.”

“There’s a lot of noise today”, he frowned. “Did something happen?”

She sat on the unmade bed facing him, smoothing her skirts. The place made her uneasy, invisible fingers crawling beneath her skin. Still, she composed herself.

“Yes. Lady Jena Dondarrion’s carriage has been stuck in the mud a few miles away. She’ll stay here for the night.”

“Jena Dondarrion?” He frowned.

“The Prince of Dragonstone’s wife.”

“I know, I know. I better get ready,” he said after a pause. “Wouldn’t do to not greet her.”

She rose, eager to leave the room. She pressed a kiss to his head.

“I’ll see you later.”

She all but ran out, escaping the damp and oppressing smell of a room not ventilated enough. A quick look through the eastern rooms told her that everything was being readied. The staff was discreet and efficient, as always. They would arrive soon. She went back to her chambers. Wylla, her maid, was already there. She was a couple of years younger, and had been in her service for five years now. She was a pretty girl, with golden hair, hazel eyes and a splash of freckles across her nose.

“M’lady,” she curtsied. “Would you like a new dress to greet Her Grace?”

She considered the question. Her current one was plain, but practical, an old green wool garment that was out of fashion and creased by the day’s activities. 

“I think I’ll freshen up”, she nodded. “Can you get the yellow dress out for me, please?”

Wylla presented her with a bowl of fresh rosewater while she went looking for the dress. Melessa splashed her face with it, wiping the dust and sweat away. She let Wylla untie her dress, dabbing a cloth in the water and pressing it under her arms. The yellow dress had been a gift from her mother, the last one before her passing. The silk cut was simple, with tight sleeves and a flared skirt, flowers and butterflies embroidered in golden thread on it. It was modest but pretty enough that Lady Jena would not be insulted by her appearance. She sat at her vanity, letting Wylla untie her messy braid and brush the knots away. In the mirror, she could see a young woman with olive skin, dark curls and brown eyes circled by shadows. She knew she was no beauty. Her skin was too dark for the Reach, her hair too wild, her nose too hooked. She looked older than her years as well, grief having left its imprint on her face. She seldom smiled these days.

I should sleep more, she thought. I look half a corpse.

Wylla braided and twisted her hair, pinning it into an acceptable hairdo. With the addition of a pair of dangling gold earring, she looked every inch the lady she pretended to be. With a thank, she rose, walking towards the courtyard. Her younger brother Matthos was already there, jumping up and down next to his septa. He ran to her, crashing face first into her skirts.

“Mel! Have you heard? A princess is coming!” He shrieked. “Do you think she’ll have silver hair, like in the stories?”

“Lady Jena is not a Targaryen, sweetling,” she smiled, ruffling his dark curls. “She’s a Dondarrion, with flaming red hair.”

“Oh,” his blue eyes shone with disappointment. “It’s alright. Red hair is pretty too. Do you think she’ll marry me if I ask nicely?”

“You’ll have to beat her husband first. They say he’s the best knight in the Seven Kingdoms.”

He grumbled something unintelligible before going back in line. The staff had assembled now. She took her place in the first rank, hands clasped in front her, forcing her spine into a straight line. Her father joined them, dressed, even if his cloak was dusty and his collar buttoned the wrong way. She could feel the eyes of the staff on the gates, their anticipation. Matthos kicked the mud in front of him, impatient in the way little boys often are.

Then, the gates opened.

“M’lady.”

You turn your head to the side, watching as the maid bows her head.

The hour quite late for her to come to your door, given how you’d already bathed and changed into your nightgown, more than ready to settle for the night, exhausted from a day filled with pleasantries and formalities of court. You’d just finished brushing your hair and applying some balm to your lips, the last details before finally allowing yourself to slip into bed. 

The nervous look on the maid’s face, however, does not promise a good night’s sleep. 

“M’lady… Prince Baelor stands outside the chambers. He requests permission to enter.”

Your eyes widen with both surprise and shock at the announcement. You look down, at your nightgown and then at the mirror. You’re far from presentable. Evening has long settled down, darkness cast in the walls of the Red Keep. What urgent matters could possibly demand your betrothed to come see you in your private chambers at such late hour? 

Your heart races in your chest as insidious thoughts slither in. Has something happened? 

The maid clears out her throat. You turn to her, fingers wrenching in your lap.

“Uh… I’m afraid I’m not dressed properly.”

That’s all that comes out of your mouth as you stare at the girl who doesn’t appear that much older than you, as if somehow she’ll provide you with the appropriate decision. She looks back at you, helpless in the same way you are. 

“Shall I say so to Prince Baelor, m’lady?” 

Your hesitation lasts for a moment, lips parting to confirm. To tell her to provide your betrothed with some sort of excuse that you’ve yet to consider, to assure him that you’ll surely seek his person in the morrow with the company of your ladies-in-waiting and perhaps your father as well, if such necessity arises.

A formal, appropriate meeting where you’ve had the opportunity and the time to fully prepare yourself - and preferably while dressed in a proper gown instead of a sheer nightgown. 

But before any words receive the opportunity to slip past your lips, a gentle knock to the door happens. A moment later, the door opens without awaiting for permission. 

And a face that has progressively grown familiar to your eyes over the past weeks appears. Prince Baelor. Hand of the King. Prince of Dragonstone. Heir to the Iron Throne. And in less than a moon, your husband. 

“My lady.” 

He addresses you with an ease that hardly seems appropriate given the oddities of his visit. 

The maids bows to her prince and you mirror her, although with a much more troubled semblant.

All too aware of your simple state, nightgown and loose hair and the lack of jewelry to  adorn your skin. You search discreetly around the room but cannot find a single robe to cover you up. Had your old septa been here, she’d be harshly scolding you for harboring manners that hardly reflect the dignity of a Lord’s daughter. 

“Your Grace, apologies, I… wasn’t expecting you.”

Baelor smiles, a polite smile that doesn’t truly reach his eyes. His attention strays from you as he looks around, taking in the specificities of your temporary chamber. It feels odd to have a prince of the realm so deeply invested in the scrutiny of your chambers. 

“It is I who apologizes, my lady. I am aware the hour is quite late for such intrusion on my part.” he says, gracefully sauntering inside the room.

You stay where you are, the back of your legs pressed against the vanity desk at the lack of a better place to position yourself. For a moment, you just quietly stand. Eyes following as the heir to the throne carries himself deeper into the room with a security only a man truly confident himself does.

The way Baelor carries himself, chivalrous and humble in equal measure with a confidence that never borders the arrogance, is something you’ve always envied about him. 

You’ve been in his presence many times by now. Spoken to him only a handful of occasions though. Short, amicable encounters full of formalities and pleasantries, the presence of your father and your ladies-in-waiting serving as a helpful buffer in diluting the awkwardness you felt with a man closer to your father’s age rather than your own. 

You were never ingenuous enough to believe that your husband would be a choice of yours. That was a fantasy that never lasted much for the daughters of high-birth Lords and you were no different. For Ladies, marriage was nothing more than a political alliance, the solidification of power and wealth and honor all while trading their father’s name and protection for their husband’s.

Love was rarely involved in such power disputes but that didn’t mean that the possibility hadn’t crossed your mind. Your older sister too went on marrying a man of your father’s choosing - the first son to a Dornish house, a man that only surpassed her age in two years - and she’d grown to love him quite dearly.

But your father’s ambition ran high with you and soon he was rewarded with a marriage offer that no Lord in his right state of mind would refuse. A prince. But not just any prince, but the heir to the throne. 

You vividly remember your father’s furor when such a match was offered, how his chest puffed with pride and honor. 

… and you also vividly recall the extensive warnings you received before arriving in King’s Landing - to behave like a lady, to not disgrace the family’s name, to act accordingly to your status. And the most important: to not displease the prince. 

And so you have been trying. 

Your soon-to-be-husband finds a place near the window, the candles casting a warm lightening over his face, smoothing down the deep lines on his face and the grey in his beard. He turns to the maid with a small nod. 

“You may leave us now.” 

Surprise has your eyes widening. Your lips part as you nearly ask the girl to stay and act as chaperone before catching yourself at the last moment, knowing better than to contradict a prince in the presence of others. Soon he’ll be your husband and he might take it as an offense. 

You resort to anxiously wringing your fingers together, watching as the maid leaves, door gently closing behind her. 

“I… My lady-in-waiting has retired to her own chambers, I believe.” you say with a small voice. 

“Yes, one would expect so.”

You try not to dwell on the implication of his words. Baelor watches you with an impassive expression on his face as he calmly swirls the ring on his left hand. His eyes never leave you, almost as if you are but an open book that he can easily read. 

And while it could’ve very well been an optical illusion from the unstable candlelight, you could’ve sworn that his eyes drop to the neckline of the nightgown for a fleeting moment before they return to your face. 

“I trust the wedding preparations are following well?”

There’s some confusion in your face as you look at him. Has he come all the way to your chamber to question you about … the wedding preparations? Somehow you don’t believe so. 

But regardless, you push out a diplomatic smile, straightening your shoulders. 

“Yes, my prince. Everything is moving accordingly. Queen Myriah and my mother have been relentlessly working on the preparations.” 

You leave out the part where your mother has been obsessively studying each and every detail with a hawk eye, driving everyone - most particularly you - to the point of madness.

You doubt the heir to the throne wishes to know how your mother has been successful in detecting the most insignificant details that could lead to a disastrous wedding ceremony such as the smallest speck of dust hidden in a corner of the Great Hall or the tiniest defect on the necklace you are to wear for the big day. 

Baelor merely nods, a small movement. He takes a step towards your direction and then another, until he’s positioned at the opposite edge of the vanity desk. You stop your hands from writhing, forcing them to still.

His figure grows taller in such imposing proximity and you try not to let yourself stare too openly, even if your eyes keep repeatedly catching the grey in his beard and hair. You try not to dwell on how your own father doesn’t own that much greyness to his appearance despite their close ages. 

“Less than a week now, I do believe.”

Five days, to be precise. Five days until you are wed to a man you know nothing about and become a princess of the realm. 

“Yes, your grace.”

“Husband.” he gently corrects you. “Baelor, if so you prefer.”

You look at him and nod. “As you wish, yo- Baelor.”

The moment of silence prolongs itself. You shift your weight from one foot to another, unsure under the pressure of his gaze. The longer he stares, the more tension gathers in your mind. 

When at last Baelor speaks, it’s not at all what you expected. 

“Many knights seem to admire you.” 

The lightness with which he spoke just moments ago seems to be gone, replaced with something heavier. It sounds like a veiled accusation. Of what, you are unsure. 

“Your presence seemed to evoke more vigor in their jousting.” he coldly remarks. “A commendable effect, I suppose.”

He speaks of today’s tourney. One of the many celebrations prepared in the honor of your wedding. The knights jousted well enough, as they always did, eager for the type of honor and glory that can only be achieved by unnecessary violence. 

Baelor tilts his chin up, one of his hands tracing along the dressing table. 

“It was an entertaining tourney.” you reluctantly reply, not sure of what answer he is looking for. 

He sends you a look you can't decipher.

“It most certainly was.” Baelor casually agrees. “You must’ve found great pleasure with a horde of men begging for your favor.” 

Your eyes widen at that. Baelor does not look at you, instead tracing the edges of your small jewelry chest with a finger. The casual tone contrasting heavily with the tension in his face. 

“You must’ve been quite delighted to be asked for so many favors. That certainly established a new record in court.”

His dry chuckle has goosebumps erupting in your skin. This change in his personality isn’t pleasant. Suddenly, you feel cold. 

“They craved your attention and you willingly gave it to them. Generously so.” he continues, glancing at you. “I watched you smile and laugh and whisper with your ladies as you made eyes at them. Thriving under all the attention that was given to you.”

“I did only what duty required of me.”

Baelor glares at you in a way that has your heart racing. 

“Did duty also required you to whisper with your ladies about those men, to discuss the most handsome knights jousting while your soon-to-be husband stands to the side?” 

Frustration seeps into his voice, but his volume never rises. There’s a certain fire to his eyes, one that screams of jealousy and madness. He couldn’t be more wrong though, for you did not act in such unbecoming ways.

You gave your favor when asked for it. You smiled when necessary. You talked when the occasion demanded so. You acted like a lady. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet your intentions are being misjudged by the man you are to spend the rest of your life wit. 

“... my prince, I-”

“Did it make you happy to have such attention upon you? Or perhaps you were picking out a lover for the future? It would appear half of the realm's knights would gladly take on that offer.” 

“My prince! Baelor. Please, you are mistaken.” you plead, the lump in your throat growing. 

His eyebrows rise skeptically. 

“Am I?” 

“I meant none of those things. Please.” Your voice does not come as steady as you wish it had, small and faltering. “I did not. You.. You must believe me.”

Baelor takes another step closer, disregarding the concept of appropriate distance. Your skin sizzles not just from the proximity, but from the cruel remarks directed to you. He, however, does not appear bothered in the slightest with the distress he’s causing you. 

“I believe in what my eyes show me. And what they showed today was a lady behaving in an unbecoming way. What I saw was the future princess flushing and giggling whenever a knight addressed her.” he says, voice deepening. 

“I did not think you to have such a greedy appetite for masculine attention.”

He looks at you, something like disappointment and anger in his eyes. 

“Though I suppose even a pretty face must hide some sort of deficiency.”

You lower your head, unable to meet his eyes anymore. Tears prickle your eyes and you furiously blink, though some of the wetness slips between your lashes. This is perhaps the most humiliating moment in your life. 

A shiver runs down your spine when he reaches out to you, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your heart thrums in your chest. 

“Look at me.” he instructs you. You obey him, albeit reluctantly. 

“I will not have my wife behaving like a lowborn girl every time a man displays the smallest of attention towards her. You are to be a princess of the realm. A queen, one day. A wife.” he calmly says. His eyes flit to your covered middle. “And soon enough, the mother of my children.”

“As such, you are to correct your behavior. If need be, I can gladly ensure some septas to accompany and instruct you on an honorable code of conduct.”

Shame and mortification settle on your face. You can only imagine the court’s gossip if that ever were to happen. To have septas publicly correcting you to smile with less sympathy towards knights or to not indulge in the ladies' gossip. Your mother would surely have a heart stroke with such dishonor. 

Baelor looks at you, something in the hard-edges of his expression softening. 

“But….that surely won’t be necessary. Correct?” he asks, with the same tone of a teacher willing to give a student a second chance to prove themselves. 

You don’t hesitate, nodding your head. 

“Yes… I mean, no.” you gulp, “No, it won’t be necessary.”

Baelor nods slowly, pleased.   

“Good.” he says with an intonation that declares the end of the conversation. 

“It’s quite late. You must go to sleep now.” 

You weakly nod, only to wince when Baelor ends the distance between you.  

His lips press against your forehead, his beard tickling at your skin. Something you would easily consider a sweet, gentle gesture if only he hadn’t slaughtered your character with cruel words even before you are wed.

His hand presses to the back of your head, smoothing down your hair even when he parts a moment later. 

“Good night.”