'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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VALENCIA DRIFTED FROM THE DREAM. She opened her eyes in her bed, feeling the stinging of tears, and the ache of a lump in her throat. She couldn't be sure if this was real or not, her father couldn't die, he just couldn't...he was all she truly had. Valencia attempted to sit up and stir herself from her deep sleep, only to pulled back into the depths of her own mind.
She was back in her fathers chambers, standing at the bed post with Eddard Stark sitting next to her father's death bed.
Tears pooled in her eyes and she let them fall, her body felt strange. Her stomach felt empty, her throat stocked with sobs, and her heart was hollow. She wanted to call out for someone, but no sound came
"Write down what I say," Robert said, his voice rougher and just over a whisper.
Only Robert, Valencia and Eddard were in the room. Everyone else had cleared out, and she had missed the single most important conversation of her life.
"'In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, first of...." He cut himself off having a fit of coughs, "you know how it goes, fill in the damn titles. 'I hereby command Eddard of House Stark' title, titles. 'To serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my death, to rile in my stead until my son, Joffrey....'" He paused for a moment and Eddard stopped writing hoping Robert would name someone else as his heir. "It should bloody be Valencia to sit on that throne, not that boy," he choked hoarsely, he coughed before continuing. "Until my son Joffrey comes of age' give it over," Robert commanded holding his arms out for the parchment and quill. Eddard pursed his lips hoping that Robert would not see that he had in fact, not named Joffrey the heir.
Robert thankfully signed it without a glance. "Give it to the council after I'm dead. At least they'll say I did this right, this one thing. You'll rule now. You'll hate it more than I did, but you'll do it well. The girl ... Daenerys. You were right. Varys, Littlefinger, my brother... worthless. No one to tell me 'no' but you. Only you. Let her live. Stop it, if it's not too late."
Valencia's eyes went wide. Daenerys? What did she have to do with this?
"I will." Eddard vowed.
"And my son...help him, Ned. Make him better than me," Robert begged his voice becoming more strained and quieter.
"I'll do everything I can to honour your memory."
Robert scoffed. "My memory. King Robert Baratheon, murdered by a pig...." He trailed off as his head rolled to the side, a look of self-disgust in his eyes. "Give me something for the pain," he wheezed, "then let me die."
And so Valencia of the House Baratheon watched with teary eyes, as maester Pycelle ventured into the room, followed by her uncle Renly and witnessed Pycelle give her father Milk of the Poppy, soothing his pain. She watched as her father's ragged breaths eased into slow, painless ones. His younger brother, Renly watching after he dismissed Pycelle. They exchanged no words, except an agonising silence with Valencia sobbing without sound beside them. She observed as her father's dimly lit ocean eyes became as empty as a bottomless pit, turning to grey stones of lifelessness.
