Chapter Text
Elyse was on her final batch of potatoes for the day. She had been slaving over peeling the potatoes all morning, and her back was sore and angry. With hair slipping out of her servant’s cap and her dirt-smeared apron, she was the picture of a hard-working kitchen girl. But she was boiling inside. Furious as she peeled every potato.
Why? Because only three months ago, she had been living a completely different life. Living in New York City with her doting parents, a group of amazing friends, and the comforts of modern technology. She was a content, well-adjusted fourteen-year-old girl with hopes and dreams for her future. What else could she want?
Everything changed in an instant when she was waiting for the subway after school like she did every day, and a pair of hands pushed her onto the tracks just in time for the incoming train. All Elyse remembered was a bright glare followed by crushing, blinding pain. And the screams from the bystanders as her entire existence faded into oblivion.
She doesn’t even know who pushed her.
There was no warm, glowing light awaiting her. No rest or peace. Instead, her eyes flew open one morning, and she found herself in a red, floor-length dress, broom in hand. Two seconds later, she realized she was standing in the middle of a medieval kitchen and thought she had lost her mind. Because she was sure she’d died. Who doesn’t die after getting squashed like a bug by a subway train? Five minutes later, she was blindly given a stack of dishes to wash, only to realize that there was no dishwasher or even running water. Hours later, she thought that everyone else must have either lost their mind or joined some Dungeons & Dragons cult, because why were they all speaking in old-time English and looked like they had no idea what TikTok was? Two days later, everyone else thought she had lost her mind since she kept insisting that she needed to get back to New York.
No one had a clue what New York was.
But Elyse was always highly adaptable. Even though she still had no idea where she was, or what she was doing, she thought it would be smartest to at least keep up appearances. Just until she could figure out what the hell was going on. So she wore the servant’s uniform, a boat-neck red dress with long sleeves and a white cap, and slaved away in the kitchen from morning till evening.
The first time she heard another maid whisper the word Targaryen, she halted in the middle of the corridor, completely confused. Then she kept hearing it everywhere. In the gossip as they washed the dishes. While the girls shared their evening meals. Then she started seeing it everywhere. Banners, sigils, statues. Dragons, dragons, and more dragons everywhere.
Two weeks later, Elyse realized that somehow, through reincarnation or teleportation or whatever possible method, she had become a scullery maid in the Red Keep, the royal family’s residence in King’s Landing, the capital of Westeros.
It was not a very happy realization.
“Elyse! I need you watching the bread,” Marscha snapped, hands on hips. Elyse shot her a sickly sweet smile that masked her annoyance.
“Yes, Marscha.” Her voice was cordial, but the moment the head cook turned her back, Elyse made sure to stick out her tongue at the older woman to make her frustrations known. She finished peeling the potato in her hand and then headed over to monitor the bread baking in the wood-fired oven.
Anger simmered deep within her gut, fueled by her stomach’s desperate growls of hunger. None of the bread was for her. Or any of the servants. They wouldn’t get to touch a single bite. All this labor, seventy-five people shouting and sweating in the kitchens, countless more serving girls piling decanters of wines into their arms, was all for the royal feast happening a few flights of stairs above them.
The Targaryens , she thought mockingly to herself. Elyse was familiar with Game of Thrones to a certain extent. Her father, an avid reader, was practically a fanatic for the books. He loved the lore behind the Targaryens --- a royal family joined together through their dragons and fiery dispositions. Each family member gorgeous and godly. She’ll admit that she thought they were cool, too. But after spending three months serving them, tending to their every need (at least food-wise), Elyse now found them all insufferable.
“Pompous, entitled, spoiled. All of them,” She grumbled to herself, tossing a fresh-baked bread onto the counter with slightly too much force, causing Marscha to eye her suspiciously. Elyse pretended she didn’t see the dirty look and kept her attention on the bread. The Head Cook hated her, for god knows why. The feeling was mutual.
What’s worse was that she knew exactly which part of the Targaryen dynasty she had so unfortunately landed in. Right smack in the middle of King Viserys I's reign, with the civil war lurking in the future. Famously known as the Dance of Dragons, it was a bloody event in the book that horrified Elyse, especially since so many characters died in the most brutal way possible. During her first month here, Elyse had entertained the notion of trying to change the story for the better, but that fantasy was squashed almost immediately.
Servants had no voice here. No autonomy. Seen as less than human. Overwhelming fear shook her to the bone every time she recalled Aegon II’s slaughter of all the ratcatchers in the city after his son’s murder. The actions of two men condemned hundreds of innocents to death. No. Better to stay silent and eventually try to flee before the war starts. Because if there’s one thing that she’s picked up on in her three months here, it’s that none of the nobles or royals would pause to save the low-born when the world burns.
“Why are all these platters just lying around? Someone carry them up to the feast before they get cold!” Elyse rolled her eyes, tired of the head cook’s continuous bellows. Marscha never did take stress very well.
“There aren’t any serving girls available,” Another cook squeaked, “the summer ailments had bedridden several in the prior week. We’re short-handed!”
“So you’d rather all this food sit, growing cold? Use one of the girls here! You, grab the wine refills and make haste!”
Elyse didn’t need to turn around to know that the object of Marscha’s fury was her. With only a few seconds to swipe a wet towel over her face and neck, she prayed that she didn’t stink of sweat as she grabbed three decanters of wine in each hand and stalked to the feasting hall. Rowdy music and laughter echoed through the halls, an indication of the well-received festivities. Elyse was used to the commotion by now. There was always some sort of banquet, feast, or other celebration every other week.
No wonder the freaking kingdom is failing. All the money was spent partying.
When she neared the half-closed doors, Elyse knew better than to draw attention to herself. She squeezed in, ignoring the ongoing festivities, and approached the wine cart soundlessly. Tonight’s wine bearer was a girl she faintly knew---- Cressa, who, at the current moment, looked pale and clammy as Elyse approached.
“Oh thank goodness it’s you, Elyse. Quick, take this!” Her fellow servant all but shoved her gilded decanter of wine into Elyse’s hands with frantic whispers. “Take over for me, just a moment? I desperately need to relieve myself.”
She gave Elyse no chance to respond before sprinting out the doors, leaving Elyse hissing after her, “Fine but hurry! I need to head back to the kitchen!” But the girl was long gone. She glanced at the room full of boisterous royals and nobles, took a deep sigh, then lowered her head and began to slowly make her way around the room, checking for any goblets that dare be half full.
Her first refill was that of a red-bearded lord who was laughing with his mouth full of food. Elyse tried not to gag when she smoothly poured more wine into his goblet, then hurried along. The second refill of the night belonged to Prince Aegon, whose light violet eyes were already glazed with drunk stupor. That one had a nasty reputation among the female servants, so she made sure to fill his cup far from his wandering hands and backed away before he took notice of her.
The king was nowhere to be found. Elyse has yet to see the elusive monarch in her three months here. Gossip around the castle whispered that the king spent most of his days inebriated with milk of poppy, which she guessed was the medieval version of a sleeping pill. Her heart went out for the poor man. He reminded her of her grandfather, who suffered a painful death from pancreatic cancer. Hopefully, whatever he was sick with, the king had a good support system that would help him through the pain.
His wife, Queen Alicent Hightower, on the other hand, can be seen adorned in green, looking rather pinched while holding a low conversation with one of the other noble ladies. She did not look very pleased, and her hand kept drifting to her pendant, a seven-pointed star as a symbol of her faith. Elyse filled her companion’s cup, but not the queen’s. Devotion to the Seven kept the queen from consuming too much alcohol.
“You there, girl! My cup is empty again!” Aegon Targaryen leered after her, words slurred from the overconsumption of wine. Elyse pursed her lips, returned to the intoxicated prince, and gave him a hefty pour of the glistening red liquid. He didn’t bother to thank her.
Pig.
Princess Helaena’s cup remained full. Her Highness was whispering to some unknown creature in her palms. According to Elys’s roommate, Dyanna, the princess had a fondness for bugs. For her own sake, Elyse hoped the princess wasn’t playing with a spider. Or worse, a cockroach. Surprisingly, whatever she was holding didn’t seem to bother the person beside her, but perhaps it was because Prince Aemond looked as interested in the banquet and his sister’s strange behavior as Elyse was with her chemistry homework.
Out of all the guests present, Elyse was the least comfortable pouring his wine. If Aegon Targaryen was horrifying in his drunken habits, then Aemond Targaryen was terrifying, even without wine. He had a vicious reputation and stalked around the Red Keep like the freaking grim reaper. She didn’t like him. Not one bit. He was arrogant, vicious, and petty. And she hated petty people. No matter the problems he had with his nephews as children, nothing could justify him giving chase to Lucerys Velaryon at Storm’s End later on. Perhaps the only person who could trump Elyse’s distaste for the second prince was his grandsire, Otto Hightower, who was absent tonight. Abhorrent to the core, that one.
After finishing her rounds of wine refills, Elyse returned to the wine cart, grabbed another decanter, and began walking the room again. Glimpses of conversations revealed topics such as the upcoming tourneys or weather in the Riverlands. For the men, Elyse internally sighed as they discussed their mistresses with gusto and not a drop of shame. An hour had passed before Cressa returned with whispered thanks while reclaiming the wine decanters. Elyse was finally able to escape the stuffy banquet hall with the nagging sensation that Marscha would be waiting to chew her out.
“You took too long!” Marscha snapped, temper flaring.
Just as I predicted. You old bat.
“Cressa needed to relieve herself,” Elyse defended herself calmly, trying to quell the oncoming irritation. “She asked me to take over until she could return.”
“You are needed in the kitchen,” A sharp glare was thrown her way by the older woman, which Elyse ignored, returning to her bread station, “and until you can figure out how to deliver wine refills without disappearing for half the night, you’ll be on night shifts.” Elyse stiffened. She battled the strong desire to spin around and glare back at the smug old bat.
One day. One day she will get her revenge. But for now, Elyse remained silent and focused on the bread.
All the food was delivered to the banquet hall within the next few hours. With no more cooking left to do, the rest of the kitchen cooks were ready to retire for the night. All but Elyse. Oh no, Elyse still had a long night of cleaning and prepping ahead of her. Many of the cooks offered hushed apologies and sympathies as they left, but the only one who lingered was Dyanna.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay behind?” Her roommate rubbed her shoulders comfortingly.
“No,” Elyse shook her head with dismay, “it’s fine. Marscha would chew me out if she found out I had help. This will have to be all me.”
Dyanna hesitated. Her sweet, freckled face scrunched as she said, “She’s not that bad, you know. She just likes to be harder on the newer maids. You know, toughen you up. The Red Keep is not a very forgiving place for servants who make mistakes.”
Elyse snorted, devoid of humor. No, she was almost certain that the head cook’s disdain for her had nothing to do with hazing and had everything to do with the two weeks she spent insisting that she did not belong here. It wasn’t her intention to announce that she didn’t want to be a scullery maid, as she was just trying to say she belonged in New York, snuggled on the couch with her chubby cat and a good book. But the head cook took it personally nonetheless.
“Well, I’ll be going then.”
“Don’t wait up for me.”
Her roommate patted her back gently before heading to their shared room, leaving Elyse alone with a wreck of a kitchen. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes scanned the carnage with a sad sigh, then got to work. Scrubbing, scouring, and cleaning every pot and pan. All while steam was hissing through her ears like an overboiled tea kettle.
“It’s not my fault I got held up at the feast,” Elyse hissed, wiping the counters furiously. “This is a travesty to workers’ rights. What happened to fair hours, fair wages?” But even she knew that there was no such thing as fair hours, fair wages here. Only indentured servitude.
It was past midnight when she finally finished cleaning and nothing would feel better than collapsing onto her bed with a sigh before drifting into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Unfortunately, her night was just beginning. Night shift servants work through the night, in case the royals wanted a meal or snack past dinner. That means if Prince Aegon suddenly found himself in a raging headache from the copious amounts of wine he downed that night, there must be someone present to swiftly make his honeyed milk, per his demands. Other than the occasional bratty request from their masters, the night shift also spent their time preparing ingredients and stoking the fire. Queen Alicent, for one, takes her breakfast at the brink of dawn. And heavens forbid the Queen’s fresh fruits and strong tea are not ready in time.
These royals were more pampered than literal newborns. Seriously the worst bosses of all time. Elyse grumbled internally while she began her first task, loading the stock pot, grumpier than ever when her stomach let out a large, whiny gurgle. Frowning, it occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten since the morning. Her eyes drifted to the banquet leftovers sitting on the counter with a knowing smirk.
“A girl’s gotta eat, right?” Technically, servants weren’t allowed to eat the leftovers either as they were saved for the night, in case one of the Targaryens were hungry, then thrown out to the hounds. Even the dogs ate better than her. But who was here to stop her? “Let’s see,” Elyse took a scan of the available food, “What am I feeling tonight? Perhaps a sandwich?” She pursed her lips as she contemplated, then nodded. Sandwiches sounded good.
In a few swift motions, Elyse snatched a loaf of stale bread, sliced it, and tossed it into the oven with a sprinkle of water, which she hopes will bring life back into the dry bread. Tonight’s choices of roasted meats were venison and chicken. She wasn’t that into venison. The chicken, however, Elyse sliced evenly and set aside while she perused for other fillings. She would kill for some pesto, she realized with a groan. But alas, Westeros's culinary options were…lacking, to say the least.
The leftover cheeses caught her eye. An idea glimmered in her head, and with a grin, she ran and fetched the apricot preserves and plucked some vibrant greens from the garden. Some, not much, because her hands would probably be sliced clean off if it was discovered that she was stealing from the Crown. Or burned alive, since they were, you know, dragons.
Elyse fetched the toasted bread from the oven, squealing as she tossed it into the air like a hot potato before setting it on the counter, filling it with layers of chicken, greens, a soft cheese that reminded her of brie, and apricot preserves. Finished with a little salt (they don’t have pepper, how very unfortunate) and some herbs, and voila! A roast chicken sandwich. Hunger surged like an insatiable monster as she sliced the sandwich in half with a dreamy sigh.
“This would go so well with some mint tea,” She murmured, admiring her work. Too lazy to wash another plate, Elyse placed her handiwork on a piece of linen while she searched the pantries for dried mint, completely unaware of the silhouette that stood by the doorway. When she finally turned around, mint tea in hand, Elyse shrieked when she saw a man with an eye patch watching her silently.
“P-Prince Aemond, Your Highness, did you need something?” Deeply bowing so the prince wouldn’t see her catch her breath. What was he doing here? Even if the prince was feeling hungry, usually it’s their chambermaids or guards that send the request, not themselves! Just for a second, Elyse dared herself to peek up at the prince and found, with a sinking heart, that he was frowning at her.
Aemond Targaryen opened his mouth, and said with a low, cold voice, “Something simple to eat.”
Elyse snapped upright instantly, “R-right, Your Highness. I will prepare something for you, right away.” Without a second look his way, she started rummaging through all the options, “Would you prefer something sweet or savory, Prince Aemond?”
“Savory.”
Palms and forehead slick with cold sweat from the jumpscare, she rummaged through the kitchen for something appropriate. There were several currant cakes left from the afternoon, but those were sweet. Venison stew did not seem very appealing to her as a midnight snack, so she concluded that the prince might share the same opinion.
I guess I could just select some of the meats and cheeses from the banquet. Hurried thoughts ran through her mind at lightning speed. From her recollection, however, the prince had barely touched his plate at dinner. If he didn’t eat it at dinner, would he eat it now? Oh who cares, just give him something before he gets annoyed and runs a sword through you!
“What’s this?” The same low voice questioned behind her. Elyse twirled around and found Aemond inspecting her sandwich with a narrowed eye.
Crap.
“That’s uh…uh… it’s uh, a new recipe I was developing, Your Highness,” Elyse fibbed. Nervously adjusting her apron, eyes darting everywhere. Liar, liar, pants on fire , “Just some meat and vegetables between bread.”
“Hm.”
Elyse tried to steer the conversation away from the sandwich that may land her in the dungeons, “Would you prefer venison stew or roast meats and cheeses, my prince?” But the darn prince was still staring at her sandwich, intrigued. Long, tense seconds passed without a word from Aemond Targaryen until finally, Elyse mentally cursed the prince using every word in the book, then hesitantly said, “Would you like to try some, Your Highness?”
He lifted his one violet eye and tersely replied, “Yes, let’s do that.”
Seven hells. Forcing a bright smile, Elyse responded with gritted teeth, “I will steep some tea for you as well, Your Highness,” A raging, dark storm brewed within her while she snatched the kettle and filled it with water before placing it on the fire. As Elyse violently shook some mint tea into a delicate porcelain teacup, she pondered why the prince was up in the wee hours of the night. More importantly, why he decided to grace her with his presence and make her life harder instead of just sending a freaking maid like the rest of his family. Exhaustion and hunger fueled a near-delusional level of hatred for the young prince at that very moment. Maybe she should be thankful that he didn’t suspect her lies and send her to the dungeons for stealing food, but she was hangry, and mourning her sandwich. All she wanted was a moment of peace to indulge in a meal before working for another many hours, and apparently, she was not allowed that either.
The prince did not say another word while the pair waited for the water to boil. When the kettle started screeching, Elyse pulled it off and poured the hot water onto the tea. Half of the sandwich had been placed onto a plate, along with a crisp apple that Elyse had sliced. She stared with deep sadness at the meal she had lost and slid the plate to the waiting prince.
“Your Highness, I apologize for the wait.”
Aemond scrutinized the sandwich once more. Prodding the bread with his finger in a manner that made Elyse want to roll her eyes. Finally, after a copious amount of suspicion that nearly prompted her to snatch her beloved sandwich back, the prince raised his face and asked, “You did not give me cutlery.”
“It’s finger food, Your Highness, you can eat it with your hands.”
He frowned, confusion apparent on his adolescent face. Elyse swallowed a sigh, “Like this, you just grab it and bite. Like so,” using her half of the sandwich to demonstrate, she took a big bite, “See?”
Following her motions, the prince hesitantly plucked his sandwich up with both hands and took a bite. Elyse watched him as he chewed, slow and thoughtful, almost anxious for feedback. But the boy gave none. Instead, he silently took another bigger bite. Then another. Within five minutes, his half of the sandwich was gone, save a few crumbs that were stuck to the Targaryen prince’s face that made Elyse want to giggle. She didn’t. She knew better.
After his plate was cleared, Aemond turned his gaze towards the unfinished half beside Elyse. While he did not say a word, his stare was so intense that Elyse placed her half onto his plate as well. She watched as the prince ravenously inhaled the other half without so much as a thank you.
What good are princes if they cannot mind basic manners? She thought while picking her nails. What, so because I’m a servant, I can’t be afforded even a thanks?
When both the plate and teacup were empty, the prince wiped his mouth clean with linen, turned on his heel, and left the kitchen without a second glance to the servant who had gifted him her dinner. Elyse’s mouth fell open as she watched his shadow disappear around the corner.
“W-what a--- he’s so---- jerk !” Disbelief at the second prince’s lack of manners left her in sputters. Anger blurred her vision as she cleaned the dishes left behind by the boy. There would be no sandwich for her tonight since she did not dare steal more ingredients. Instead, Elyse pushed a bowl of plain porridge around, her appetite long gone.
By daybreak, she had been left to stew in her negative emotions for hours, and one thing was for certain. She hoped that she would never have to encounter the Targaryen prince again, or else she wasn’t sure if she could contain her contempt.
*****
But of course, the gods of this strange world loved to toy with her, and Elyse found herself staring at Aemond Targaryen again the next night.
Irritation dangerously simmered beneath the surface as he entered the kitchen, stoic and cold, and bluntly said, “I am hungry. Make me the same thing.”
She had to clench her jaw shut to keep her mouth from dropping to the floor. Elyse took a sweeping glance at the mountain of chores behind her that Marscha had demanded to be done by dawn and felt one small tear threaten to escape as she replied with a sigh, “Right away, Your Highness.”
And so, Elyse labored over another sandwich with a sour look on her face. There was no chicken tonight, so she took inspiration from the roast beef instead. Slices of roast beef and cheese layered heavily onto thick bread then toasted until golden and bubbly and slid onto a plate, accompanied with gravy and pickled onions on the side. Elyse poured some water into a goblet and added a small slice of lemon before presenting the prince with his meal.
Suspicions clouded Aemond’s face as he, once again, poked and prodded his food, and even went in for a delicate sniff before casting a glare onto his servant, “This is not the same one as yesterday.”
“That’s correct, Your Highness ,” At this point, ‘Your Highness’ rolled off Elyse’s tongue more as an insult than anything else, “Sandwiches can have many different fillings.”
“Sandwich? Is that what these things are called?” The word sounded so foreign on his tongue.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Hmm.”
Seriously, she was at the end of her wits. Elyse took no time to watch the prince eat as she had done previously, choosing to tackle the large bowl of peas she had been tasked to de-shell instead. In the corner of her eye, however, she sensed the prince taking a hesitant first bite, then continuing to devour his meal without another word. Only a few moments later, the Targaryen prince had pushed his plate forward with a satisfied grunt and disappeared. Without a word of thanks, of course.
And so this pattern continued for the rest of her week. Prince Aemond would appear past midnight, stomach growling, and Elyse would fix him a sandwich with whatever she could scavenge. He ate in silence as she worked, and left immediately once he was finished, leaving her with extra dishes and a gradually building anger. By the end of the week, Elyse was so exhausted she could barely walk. Never in her previous life had she experienced exhaustion to this level. Where she wept nearly every morning at daybreak as she dragged her worn self to bed for a few hours of restless sleep. Where her body was pushed to the brink of exhaustion and her bones ached. But at least her punishment was over. No more night shifts, for now. No more stolen sandwiches. No more rude Targaryen princes demanding food in the middle of the night.
She was free!
Life fell back into her normal rhythm, consisting mainly of kitchen chores from dawn till nightfall. Elyse hardly saw any of the royals for the next few weeks, staying in the confines of the kitchen and her room. Dyanna and her grew closer after finding a shared love for cats. Whenever they had a spare moment, they would sneak morsels to the Keep’s cats, giggling and whispering from a distance as wary kittens would snatch up the food and dart away. It’s not that she was happy, or content with her current situation. But Elyse had learned to cope with it.
Sometimes, her chores would take her outside the four walls of the kitchen. Mainly when she was tasked with carrying back the food trays or gathering the kitchen linens from the laundry girls. Elyse appreciated those small moments away from the kitchen as they were the rare chances she had to see more of the castle. Not everyone can boast that they live in a medieval-style castle, and it’s a shame not to explore every nook and cranny. On that day, it was exactly one of those chores that had Elyse deep in Maegor’s Holdfast when she came face to face with a Targaryen prince in the corridors. One with an angry sneer on his one-eyed face and arms crossed as he blocked her path.
“Your Highness,” she bowed immediately, “is there something you need of me?” Elyse inquired, her face scrunched in confusion.
Aemond was silent as always. But he stared. Emotional turmoil swirled behind his violet eye as his teeth gnashed. Elyse didn’t know what to say. Did he need something? Was he upset at her? Impatience seeped into her stance as she was held captive by the prince, who was keeping her from several chores yet refused to say why.
Finally, “You haven’t been in the kitchens.” He spat.
Elyse tilted her head, “I'm not sure what you mean, Your Highness,” She had been in the kitchens all day, every day. Every waking moment was spent in the kitchens.
“No, you haven’t been past nightfall.” Aemond’s voice was accusatory as he spoke down to her.
“Ohhh, is that what you meant, Your Highness? Then yes, you are right. I had been relieved of night shifts.”
“Well, put yourself back on the night shifts. I need you to make me that..that sandwich.”
It was the tone in which the prince said it. And his facial expression. Annoyed. Haughty. Like he was saying, how dare she inconvenience him by not working day and night like a dog, doing double the work, just so he might have a midnight snack when he so pleases. That was what sent Elyse over the edge, as she felt a taunt string in her brain snap.
Slap him. Punch him. Grab him by his annoyingly perfect hair.
No, stop it, Elyse. You like your head. Do you want to keep your head?
Fine, just an insult?
No, avoid being burnt to a crisp, please.
“Did you hear me?” The prince’s exasperated sigh brought her back to reality. She lowered her head, clenching her teeth to repel the delicious images of violence she would love to enforce upon the royal pain in her butt. Stomping on his foot. Slapping him across his smug face. Screw it, sumo throw him over her shoulder?
But she didn’t do any of those. Instead, she heard herself saying over the roars of anger surging through her veins, “I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, Your Highness. Marscha, the head cook, is in charge of assigning the night shifts. I will be sure to ask her for more night shifts so that I will be available whenever you need me. Now, if that is all, excuse me, Your Highness.” Vision hazy with rage, Elys managed to side-step the prince and stalk down the corridor. Whether or not the prince was finished with the confrontation was none of her business. She needed to escape. Any more time spent in the presence of this pompous, self-important jerk, and she’ll definitely land herself in the Dark Cells.
Elyse ran through the castle, trays in hand, and returned to the kitchens in a whirlwind of rage, slamming the trays down against the counter as she seethed. A couple of the cooks eyed her warily before scooting away as she breathed heavily, gripping the trays tightly. Black dots swam in her eyes from sheer frustration. God, she needed to scream into a pillow. Or listen to some screamo.
Dyanna wandered over, arms full of linens. “Everything alright?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Probably not the best idea either.”
Dyanna hummed and floated away. Elyse’s eyes fluttered shut, taking a deep breath to calm her anger. Obviously, there was no way she was going to talk to Marscha and ask to work herself into an early grave, as the royal jerk had so confidently demanded. She’ll just have to avoid him instead. How hard could it be? She'll live like a mouse if she had to, and in a few weeks, he'll forget all about her.
He has to, right?