Cersei Lannister is just like Melara's memories.
She's so beautiful. A girl that was so damn pretty it was ridiculous, with glorious curls of gold, and sharp feline emerald eyes. Her lips, rosy and full, were wide in a smile, her cheeks flush with excitement. Before the Well, Melara worshipped Cersei Lannister. Before the Well, Melara had only ever wanted to be her sister.
Before the Well, Melara thought Cersei would be good to her.
Melara feels blood seep into her shitty small clothes. She feels her wounds pull as she turns, all dainty-like to the daughter of her liege lord, and gives a respectable if shallow nod in greeting.
She feels no worship.
She feels none of the love this girl would throw away with the words of a woodswitch. And in sudden, dark, viscous part of her relishes the fact that Cersei's life will never be what she wishes. She will never marry Rheagar, she will lose Jaime eventually to Sansa Stark and his honor, and if the show was any way for it to go, she would die childless, her House in ruins for her own greed.
"Good morning, Cersei," an automatic smile, a sweet, boisterous voice escapes Melara, even as she stares at her murder.
Cersei smirks at her. Her eyes shine with genuine warmth, and Melara remembers nights curled in her bed, feeling safe from her Lord Uncle beatings as Cersei wove tales of her future queen-dom, hands laced in Melara's red hair, of Melara being her handmaiden in the glory of the capital. She remembers giggling as they learned the steps in a dance, as they played in the golden sands of the Sunset Sea as it snowed around them, fat- young Jeyne Jesus dang memories with its fat-phobia rhetoric, Jeyne struggling to catch up to them-
Remembers golden hair in the fading sun as she cried.
Welp, that's a fucking trip.
"You're here early, My Lady," snaps the maid.
Cersei turns a glare at the woman.
"And who are you , to question a Lady of Casterly Rock?" she snapped, she drew herself tall, "I will have you on the streets of Lannisport begging within the hour, girl ."
The maid pales. Turns a demanding look to Melara. The welt she pinched burns.
"Cersei, she's horrid," she says simply, her voice flat and without much emotion, "Let's get rid of her now. Properly. She helps my Uncle beat me."
Cersei's glare turns to pure fury. Melara turns with an eerie calmness, to bare her back. She rips at her fine velvet dress and shows Cersei Lannister the wounds left on her back.
Cersei shrieks.
Loud and properly furious.
And unlike with Melara, the screams of this girl send the red cloaks thundering into the room. Because Cersei is always cared for, is always protected, and always followed by at least two men, even within the Keep. Melara allows Cersei to cling to her as she begins to scream for her.
"HELP MY FRIEND," Cersei cries with horrified and furious shrikes, "HER MAID IS HURTING HER!"