The year is 1464.
The War of the Roses rages on; a great showdown between Lancaster and York.
Yet, asleep in her bed, fiery-haired Melissa Woodville dreams of splintered shields, broken swords, and the resounding screams of wounded men in the Battle...
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IT WAS ODD, the way the coronation passed by in a blur. Years later, when Melissa would try to remember it, all she would recall would be the deafening cheers of the commons, the golden hue of Elizabeth's dress, and the feeling of everyone's eyes piercing into her skin as she carried her sister's train down the aisle. The rest, it seemed, had faded as though it were a dream — even now, only hours after the event had passed.
"Can we not sit with Lizzie?" Catherine — Melissa's youngest sister — demanded as they entered the great hall for the coronation feast.
"No, Cate." The red-head answered her patiently. "Elizabeth will sit with the king, and only the king."
"Then I shall sit with you." Was the imperious concession.
"As is your will, Your Grace." The elder girl mocked a curtsy, taking her hand and leading her to where the rest of their sisters were already sitting.
There was an empty spot on Mary's right, and contrary to her words, Cate dashed for it the moment she saw it. Seeing no remaining seats on the side her siblings were sat at, Melissa huffed and made for the opposite row.
"You all look so very similar, you Rivers girls." George of Clarence was saying, just as she came into earshot. "You look like beautiful fish." Then he saw her, and his countenance brightened up. "Except for you, Little Red. You look more like ... a siren."
Melissa had to visibly restrain herself from snorting at that.
"Yes, indeed," she nodded sarcastically. "You have discovered me, my lord. I am a lady by day, and an enchantress by night."
"Dickon would agree, I am sure." George nodded wholeheartedly, ignoring the glare his little brother sent him from a few seats away.
Before Melissa could ask him what he meant, Isabel Neville walked over, interjecting herself into the conversation
