* 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐀.

『 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗚𝗔𝗥𝗬𝗘𝗡. 』 ❛ 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡, 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝. && she is a daughter, a sister and a mother: tangled in the strings of fate. tags: #HOTDrp, #GOTrp, #MVrp. twitter.com/i/events/15837…

𝑯𝑬𝑳𝑨𝑬𝑵𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑬𝑵. / / dreams claw at her; they terrify in their splitting of a skull. madness takes control in disgrace. #hotdrp ⋆˚✿˖° #gotrp ⋆˚✿˖° #mvrp

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.

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.)

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

devotedgospel.⠀ .ೃ࿐ peeks in.

A nail trail a path across a slim, fleshy neck; a son resting && weeping in writhing nightmares. She hushes, rocking——sleep lost to them. He dreams of beasts beneath beds and she daydreams of nightmares / overgrown rats, beards bushy. They feast on little boys. She sobs && sobs.

She sits upon a chair—fingers 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 as they weave silver strands together—a little boy resting between her thighs, patient as a mother braids adoration in hair. Lips part && then close, as she sings in old tongues, old hymns: gaze faraway.

Her skin 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒍𝒔—dread sinking below epidermis, ants of sorrow digging out veins and tearing at limber flesh. They feast && they feast, gardens no solace to a queen with an empty belly. ❝Another,❞ a gasp. ❝I want another.❞

Dreaded misery 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 below a breast; meat simmering with 𝑴𝑨𝑫𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺. In the marrow of bones, something calls for shadows—tugging them into the shape of little corpses marching into slaughter. So she weeps, && she weeps, red inflaming a face in its painted grief.

Silhouettes bleed into the gloom, with an oath to grief: gentle are spidery fingers, finding a home in a child’s wispy, silver locks. A son, well-loved, slumbers && she cannot deny him of whimsy of the mind among sleep. …Yet, sorrow ever eats her heart, with disgrace.

devotedgospel.⠀ .ೃ࿐ Is it time?

Something 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒔 below her skin; she meets it with clawing nails at her flesh. The night crawls, eating her one love; the sun and its beckoning hand to critters, feasting on its rays. Dusk soars, as crimson drips from her own desperation—nightmares waltzing behind eyes.

Lips trill a hymn; sept’s gospel of divinity. Violet eyes drenched in misery, settle upon fabric as a needle weaves new flesh of green upon white. Her good work bleeds thread, as a dragon shapes itself upon embroidery. ❝It is sacred,❞ she whispers. ❝To bleed.❞

/ 👀

❝The world belongs to the dreamers.❞

There is a 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅 simmering below a tongue drenched in wine; sweet && bitter all the same. His 𝒂𝒃𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 gaze discovers the ( 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑹’𝑺 ) body, dragging up from feet slowly, slowly. He scoffs. ❝Aren’t you going to 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 && get upon knees?❞

Dirt spreads from hands searching for life of the soil of the garden; it 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒔 beneath nails. Her porcelain face lifeless, she is a little doll without delight—red painted upon lips, red upon cheeks—blush of decay.

History will 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 her, as it knows of the moon’s decay with the sun ravaging the sea of the night. She will reach for 𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺 && 𝑷𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑬𝑺 —to demand 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 respect in the beloved wilderness gifted by a father, restless.

When marble speaks, miracles happen