𓂉 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 dedicated her life to concealing her true lineage. She wrapped the trails of her silver-bound hair in silks and cottons,stored away from watchful eyes. Neigh did the purple of her eyes ever see the light of day. No...
Ups! Gambar ini tidak mengikuti Pedoman Konten kami. Untuk melanjutkan publikasi, hapuslah gambar ini atau unggah gambar lain.
25th SUNRISE,TENTH MOON,111 AC, KINGS LANDING
BENEATH THE GRAZE OF the impending nights sky-the scuffled rumours spilling from loquacious mouths concerning the queen and her newly upheld pregnancy;Aluria Benoit danced the very verges of death,teasing and toying at the strangers unweildly restraint with each feigned whimper caressing the frigid air of that fateful winters night.
The blood of her womb,as thick and congealed as it lay,seeped through the fabric of her ivory dress,cascaded across the trails of pure cotton,and left a river of crimson staining the mud-caked flagstones of flea bottoms hamlet corners.
An illustration of her desecration presented for all to see- the evidence of her spoilage—a divinistic punishment of sorts,she pondered,spite plaguing her musings.
The silver of her vigilant eyes,scored between the bustling forms of common folk and hunters mares,their towering builds shadowing the dirt-laden floors,and cramming through the labyrinth of feudal houses and market hogans. Not a single passerby took note of the gushes of blood smearing the floors-neigh did they care to even ask of her ill-health, far too engrossed within the doings of their own lives to care for the ones surrounding them-wether it be a poor beggar,or a birthing pregnant woman. Kings landings common folk passed the needy blindly,uncaring —entirely accustomed to such cruel showings of dire poverty.
And all under the guise of their own gods.
Not unlike the hectic lives of those accompanying the streets-the throws of kings landings nightly charades were blinding-minstrels,adorned in wild fabrics of greens and reds,were entertaining the crowds of onlookers,juggling with balls of pigs bladder,strumming comely tunes with wooden lutes,and acting leerily on stages of wood and twine. Some received crowds of applause,whereas others were chided and pelted with vermin and rocks,their soul purpose of appealing to the masses of men,women and children crushing with ill-spoken jokes and hoarse tunes.
Grouped men,sheathed in paints,wigs of straw and large poofed gowns, flounced across the oak,flaunting the protruding galls of their stuffed chests—a caricature of womanhood,a mockery of the mother and all her creations. They imitated Targaryen royalty,screaming and crying the last fated words of the late Queen Aemma,flashing the coconuts strapped to their haired chests at a jest at Princess Rhaenerya's spoilage. They gripped crowns of holly and mayflower,and wept childishly—a stale imitation of the queen that never was.
"Oh how doth my cunt sing with the tunes of a pretty maiden!" Mused a cross dresser,hollering the mewls of a trapped rodent,and clutching at the dandelion fabric shrouding his legs. He capered upon a small wooden stage,shaking his hips tentatively, and bathing in the laughter caused at his treasonous display of heckling "My uncle shall be the only one to quench this thirst for cock!" He mimicked,and the crowd blew with obstreperous laughter.
