The beating is not something that not-Melara finds unfamiliar. Being whipped bloody is normal for her.
Because Melara remembers many instances where her Lord Uncle, guardian of a couple of months, has raised a hand against her. However, with the context of older memories in her head-
Melara is quite fucking pissed instead of numb to it.
Like.
Excuse you . Motherfucker, I am a fucking child are you whipping me motherfucker-
The ridding crop comes up again despite her incredulous fury over it, and slides down her Uncle's hand from the amount of blood and sweat on it. The crop is a favored method of hitting her- her Lord Uncle is quite the avid swordsman, strong and sure of his strikes, even in his fury. He knows what not to hit. Never her front. Never her face. Just enough for every movement to be agony, but enough where she can forcibly function. She does it all the time, and two years into a Winter, her dresses conceal all of this quite easily. Her hysterical screams stop. Pitter off into tense, painfully familiar silence. A bit out of her control. Her young body knows better than to scream now that the numbness is setting into her back.
She only breathes through her nose and waits and waits for what is to come.
For it to stop.
She used to think this bravery. A testament to her will. She endured it so many times. But suddenly she understands that no one should have to endure this. That no one should have to suffer this pain for the simple reason being. He had beaten her the morning when she died as well. Not like this. Milder. Aware of the fact that the King is set to arrive to this Tourney at any moment. But she has annoyed him too much this morning. Woken him.
Pissed him off for a harsher beating.
She had learned not to provoke this after the first few harder beatings. But Melara suddenly understands that guardian or not, this fucking man does not have the right to hurt her.
"What is the matter with you girl ?!" spittle flies.
Her Lord Uncle- Not-Uncle?- is a sprayer. Her body flinches. Even as fury bubbles in her throat. Threatens to froth over and seep into the room as her mind whirls.
" Dreams ," her voice is timid and soft.
She hates it.
Was it a dream? A projected prophecy from Maggy-The-Frog? A vision for how Melara Hetherspoon is meant to die now that I am here in it? Aware and breathing through her, my?, lips, feeling her blood drip and drip down her mutilated back?
"Gods, can you be more of an imbecile? Lady Cersei needs not a half-wit as a hand-maid. The King is set to arrive today or tomorrow, and it's best you fucking act well," he growls.
She turns her head up, just a bit, to stare at him. It's the same day then. The day I, Melara Hetherspoon, ends up in the Well. Has time rewound? Am I stuck in the same day to repeat again and again? He is a large man. Broad and golden skin and muscled knight, second in command to the Master of Arms of Casterly Rock. His eyes are sea green, his hair a mop of orange curls. He has her freckles. He was her father, Tybalt Hetherspoon's younger brother, nearly twenty years his junior. He was cruel, and he had never meant to be her guardian. Her mother's sister, the previous Lady Marband, and her husband had been her first guardians when her parents died. They had both perished before she could ever reach Ashemark.
Her cousin Lord Damon had little time in caring for her whilst he organized his own inheritance, and Hether Keep now that it had no lord, and had bid her Lord Uncle to care for her at Casterly Rock instead.
"Uncle," her voice is a whisper, her lips cracked, "Lady Cersei is coming to meet me this morning."
Cersei Lannister is a brother-fucker, the Mad Queen, the baby murderer. My murderer. Is my Uncle's cruelty the reason why Cersei got away with my murder to begin with?
Melara feels hysteria crawl up her throat, another scream building up- She died and no one questioned it- no one thought of little Melara while her Lord Uncle inherited everything her grandparents and parents had built-
A sharp hit to her inner thigh. She keens a shuddering breath at the pain. She sounds like an animal. Her Not-Uncle smiles in cruel amusement, lips curling in a teeth-baring smile. A woman's voice giggles behind her.
"Get your shit together then, you little fool. Jeyne, lovely, get the girl ready for Lady Cersei."
Melara nods, swiftly. Another unplanned action.
"Yes, my Lord."
Oh god, jesus, the Seven and the Old- what the fuck.