'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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A ROUGH HAND GRASPED DAHLIA. She gasped awake at the rude stirring, her brown eyes meeting black ones. At first, she was startled, her eyes growing wide and fear kicking her belly. But once she saw the long dark curls of Edric, her mind and stomach eased. She was still in the cruddy inn room, the smell of human waste rummaged through her senses, blinding her for a moment despite the darkness. She sighed, letting her head drop back onto the pillow. "Is it morning already?" She groaned, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
Edric's grip tightened on her arm, "no, but we need to leave. Get up and get dressed. Now." He leaned away from her sleepy frame. It was then she saw he was no longer just in his tunic and pants, but in his entire freshly cleaned armour.
Fear poked in her like fire, she rolled herself out of bed with a panicked voice. "Is everything alright?"
"There's Lannister guards staying for the rest of the night, I don't trust them, and neither should you," he stated, tossing the blankets he had taken back on the bed.
Dahlia, with wide eyes took her garments into her arms and asked, "how long was I asleep?"
With an annoyed gaze he looked to her. "We don't have time for questions. Change into those, and hurry up." He pointed a long finger at the small table near the corner. A bundle of clothes sat atop, folded neatly into a pile. Noticing that Dahlia wasn't moving, for fear of him seeing her naked he rolled his eyes and grunted, "I'll get the horses ready," he stormed out without another word, slamming the door so hard it made the walls shake and Dahlia flinched.
She didn't understand why he was so angry, and harsh towards her. Was it because I do not wield a sword? She asked herself, or was it because he simply found her annoying. Both conspiracies were suitable, some men viewed women weak whether or not they knew how to use a weapon. And the second reason was reasonable at the basic fact that she was obviously privileged, and not to mention incredibly and admittedly naive.
At least one of those reasons were accurate.
He didn't like her for a reason, and she wanted to know why. Not to just find out and avoid him at all costs, but so she could change herself so her half-brother would actually view her as a sibling, as she did with him.
So she abided his commands, and dressed into the clothing as quickly as she found possible.
They were large, and smelt like sour milk, they itched at her soft skin and made her stomach queasy by the filthy fabric. She wondered where he even got these garments from. It was a white tunic, with grey-brown pants, a maroon over shirt that went down to her knees, and black leather boots. She secured the brown cloak around her shoulders, nestling in it for warmth against the cold breeze that moved through the window. She pulled the hood to hide her neatly curled hair, and tucked her gown and jewellery inside the satchel that was hidden underneath the clothing.
