｡･:*˚:✧｡ 𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑴𝑨𝑰𝑫𝑬𝑵 𝑶𝑭 𝑹𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑵𝒀𝑹𝑨.ᐟ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ #hotdrp ｡･:*˚:✧｡ #gotrp

“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?”

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.

⌗ https://t.co/psWebM1zLG♡°✧‧₊˚ Let me know if anyone wishes to write. ✨💜

forget her Queen’s sorrow. A daughter kissed by death—and a son feasted upon by a vengeful maw, sharpened by senile lunacy. Admiration rests in a heart, painfully beating among war’s cradle. People forget the strength of her monarch, and she must remind them.

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.)

⌗ https://t.co/psWebM1zLG♡°✧‧₊˚ …I am so rusty. But forgive me while I warm up. Consider this a solo, if you will.

to become her guiding star. There is no other path, she thinks, without Rhaenyra. To walk alongside the keeper of scaly beasts, with flames warm in their throats: 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝑮𝒐𝒅.

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.)

longing, and she almost sunk deep into herself with cleverness of her own / another maiden, with little understanding of her obedience all too willing to break her spirit in pursuit of fondness. To be the prey, she denied again and again in sworn purity and virtue. (cont.)

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕. She denies herself radiance of delight, of reverence beyond her Lady Queen and her blood / never mind how she betrayed herself, twice over. Lips swollen from a thief’s clumsy adoration, fingers wandering far too close to slick (cont.)

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.)

She thinks, sometimes, her own creation; though not as big, not as beautiful as pure Targaryen blood in silvery grace, and the threat of lunacy—was made for the fate of haunting the shadows of Rhaenyra. In her flames, she follows. Fire is not without its most loyal: (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.)

is as crimson as the wines of life yet coaxed from between her pale thighs—in a sweet feast of a sight to a carnal gaze of the fortunate begging for seed buried in a cunt / a fate yet embraced, for a lady-in-waiting cherishes the Crown first (the 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆 monarch). (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.)

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.)

⌗ https://t.co/psWebM1zLG♡°✧‧₊˚ 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.”

Flames 𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒆 on wax—white softening, before fleeing from the disgrace of fire. Fingertips tease the heat, cold air whistling. Nerves in flesh shudder; numbness an infection. “It is a blessing to serve,” idle words croon. “I will see Rhaenyra with a throne in this lifetime.”