“They do not know loyalty,” a click of the tongue, needle violating fabric: Targaryen colours bleeding black. “My Lady Queen has been usurped. There is horror in that, a horrid injustice. What do you believe?”
elinda massey. retweeted
The halls are 𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒍—wind curling its grief in its glacial kiss. Gooseflesh violates skin, greeting paleness with bumps, no matter her attempts to find summertime. The sun does not infect the belly of Dragonstone, it cannot dig into its innermost walls with its rapture (cont.)
Like any mortal child she 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒔 on her Queen’s recognition—divinity found in a violet gaze settling on mundane hands, mundane faces. There is ritual slaughter in love for a Targaryen; in wanted chains of duty. Where rightful draconic rage soars, is where her eyes follow.
She still 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 a Queen’s agony, tides of labor crashing down on a body, unforgiving and cruel. Sands of time slow, ladies-in-waiting awaiting the newborn wail. 𝑽𝑰𝑺𝑬𝑵𝒀𝑨—was the girl’s name, all 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒆 before her pyre burnt.
She does not (cont.)
⌗hermostdevoted.xn--6ii/♡°✧‧₊˚
…I am so rusty. But forgive me while I warm up.
Consider this a solo, if you will.
shadows ready to eat and protect in its wake.
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕.
She is not a maiden destined for a belly so full, so, so full of her sorrow and regret: child with ten fingers, ten toes, ready to feast on a mother’s fragile body as they grow. (cont.)
𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒓𝒂 𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈.
There is no Elinda without the 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄 grace of her Queen travelling the soil and dancing with the gales raging among the clouds.
She does not regret the path of honour—to be good, for duty (cont.)
Duty is a gift given to a child of House Massey. To be given the offering of silver locks, ready to be woven into a state of dress: is one she shan’t deny.
𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒓𝒂 𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈.
There is no Elinda without her—devotion carved into her veins. (cont.)
The halls are 𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒍—wind curling its grief in its glacial kiss. Gooseflesh violates skin, greeting paleness with bumps, no matter her attempts to find summertime. The sun does not infect the belly of Dragonstone, it cannot dig into its innermost walls with its rapture (cont.)
of blazing warmth.
A click of the tongue and Elinda pulls her shawl tight around shoulders. Fingertips twist the wool, wrinkles carving itself into her forehead briefly as a frown blights the pretty canvas of her face—plain, plain and so delightful.
The woollen fabric (cont.)
⌗hermostdevoted.xn--6ii/♡°✧‧₊˚
Do let me know if anyone wishes to partake in long form writing; that is my passion though I am awfully rusty. What more, I am excited to give Elinda my flair.
My DMs are open to the casual chit chat, should anyone have the fancy. ♡
“My Lady Queen,” the title rolls off a tongue with burning delight, syllables lovely as it finds its way past the curve of her lips—twitching upwards. “Is most generous. If I may speak out of turn, in company, the seven kingdoms will most bloom underneath her loving touch.”