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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FOUR MONTHS AGO —March 21st, 1471: The chambers were deathly quiet, even as Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick paced restlessly up and down their length. Eyes closed, he made quick work of the route between his desk and the window, intimately familiar — as he was — with the layout of the room. He had, after all, been housed in these very quarters from the first day he rode into Westminster — all those years ago, in 1461. His allies had been different, then; so had his beliefs. He had been extremely confident in his good fortunes, reveling in the privilege and the power of being the new king's closest confidante. In Edward of York, he had placed all of his hopes, only for it all to come to nought. Only for him to end up here, in this position: a dog to Lancaster, fallen to his knees, and on the very verge of pulling the last and final trump card he had left.
Sighing in frustration, Warwick pulled the chair behind his desk back and fell into it. Deep down, he knew that there was no going back for him. No matter who won, he had lost. The Yorks doubtless had orders to kill him on sight, and the Lancastrians would never fully trust him — Warwick didn't know if he even wanted them to trust him. Bowing and groveling at mad old Henry's feet was galling enough; the last thing he wanted to do was to defer to the likes of the Duke of Somerset (or, even worse, Margaret of Anjou and her deluded spawn). There was something about it that left a wretched taste in his mouth; that, and a tinge of regret for marrying his Anne off to the last Lancastrian heir, who was said to be quite cruel, if not entirely insane. Yes, that definitely had not been one of his finer moments...
But, regardless, Warwick knew that he was fully at the point of no return. He had just received news that the sons of York had landed at Hull some days ago, and were marching towards the capital to reclaim it, adding to their forces with each city and duchy they crossed. Their numbers would not be few; Warwick could admit that to himself, even with the dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Gathering soldiers was a thing that the Yorks had always been good at, with their charisma and endless charm. Unfortunately, those were two things that Edward had in abundance, and with the alarming news coming out of the north (men arming themselves and gathering at castles in the boundaries of Gloucestershire), Lancaster's prospects didn't look too good.
