'When you play the Game of Thrones,
You win.
Or you die.
There is no middle ground.'
In which the Princess of the Storm is spun into a whirlwind of chaotic events, all beginning with a single choice to choose Lord Eddard Stark as the new Hang to the...
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IF LOOKS COULD KILL, JOFFREY WOULD HAVE DIED MANY YEARS AGO. Valencia with darkened slits for eyes narrowed down at her half-brother, Joffrey. His voice smugly high, snivelling about not being the heir as he usually did whenever their father or his mother weren't around. He shovelled food into his mouth, sitting across from Valencia, his scrunched up nose of disgust never fading. They sat in the Great Hall of Winterfell, it was just the royal children breaking their fast, since their parents were no where to be found. Though Valencia suspected that her father was out whoring, as he usually did at all times of the day. The young princess sat beside her youngest half-sibling, Myrcella who elegantly ate at a plate of berries, bacon, and roasted fish, her eyes alive and green, an angelic smile gracing her lips. Myrcella was by the far the most innocent of all the Baratheon children, but there was something in her eyes that proved one day she would be just as mischievous as the others.
"I don't understand why you have to be the heir, you are a woman. Women don't rule," he sneered, Valencia held her tongue, but her glare didn't waver. "If I was King, I wouldn't stand for it. I've heard about those Mormont's, a Lady as the head of their House. How ridiculous," he spat cutting his pork sausage more. Valencia swallowed thickly, and moved her eyes down to her food, ignoring Joffrey. "What do you think about this, dear sister." His voice set her teeth on edge.
Gripping her fork and knife tightly she looked up. "What I think-"
Joffrey held up his finger, cutting her off, "oh, wait. I don't care what you have to say. You're a woman, and therefore not only are you physically incapable of pulling, but also mentally. Women are too emotional, too rash." He smirked in triumph. "Unlike us men."
Valencia felt her anger begin to rise, her black eyes glaring darkly at Joffrey's green ones. "Men are far more rash than women, you blind fool. Their tempers are quick and idiotic," she leaned forward, her voice slick with venom the way oil would slick skin. "And if you wanted someone to hate you, all you'd have to do, is step outside."
"You can't talk to me like that," he snapped back.
Valencia chuckled with dry humour. "And what gives you the right to talk to me the way you do, if I wanted, I could have your head on a spike," her threat made his ears turn pink.
Joffrey scoffed, "I'd like to see you try," he challenged, glancing to his other two siblings, a cocky smirk on his face.
Valencia laughed without humour before suddenly taking her knife lunging across the table and slapping it across Joffrey's knuckles, breaking the skin in a clean cut. Joffrey yelped as the blood seeped from his hand, he nearly fell from his seat from the startle, his unharmed hand cradling the other. "How dare you!" He raged. "You bastard! Hound!" He screeched as his loyal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane or the 'Hound' moved closer, doing as commanded. His hand on his sword, Valencia looked up to the Hound and then to Joffrey.
