'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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THE HEAT OF KINGS LANDING WAS SMOULDERING. It's air was thick and moist smothering the rat infested capital of Westeros like a blanket spun from wool. The sky was as clear as water, the sea beneath it as black as it's name intended, she could hear the free birds soaring through the air, singing with the freedom only birds could cruelly possess. The young Princess often envied the beauty of birds, how their light wings could carry them off into far off places, how their silky wings could harbour different colourings and textures. As a child she was once considerably interested in the beauty of the small birds that sat at her window, but for now, her mind was preoccupied with the future. Her future, and more importantly, her reign as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. High in the towers of the lavish Red Keep the young princess resided, standing only at seventeen years of age, her beauty already passing that of matured women who had much lovelier curves of her own. But despite her great beauty, came a great rage her bloodline was cursed with.
For King's blood ran through her veins like the startled prance of stags. She was the daughter of King Robert of the House Baratheon, an ungodly man with a taste for finer things he could not always afford. Valencia knew her father to be a drunken harlot, thirsting for the finest drinks, finest foods, and finest women; she had seen the beautiful whores running in and out of his room like flies, all eager to please the king and win his favour. Though it disgusted the young woman to a degree, she knew never to disagree with her father on the matter; for he could not be convinced to change his ways, not even by his only legitimate daughter.
The heat clung to her skin, sweat lathering under her arms, across her chest, and down her back, causing her silky white tunic to cling to her while her armour cinched all around her thin yet nicely curved body. Despite the slight discomfort it brought her, Valencia was a force to be reckoned with, her twin swords flying through her hands in the most natural way it was as if she had been born to wield both.
One foot forward,
One foot back,
Aim high,
Aim low.
STRIKE!
A soft thud ripped through the air, one of the two competitors was forced to the ground, as if the length of their hair had been grabbed and yanked hard. The taller, the fiercer, and the truly competitive twirled one of her blades in her hand and pointed the thickness at the fallen's throat, a small snarl replacing her kind face as she pushed for surrender.
"I yield!" The one on the ground exclaimed, reaching up and grasping her helm, snatching it off and tossing it to the ground exposing black hair that had been ripped from it's braid.
Valencia, the dark haired beauty of the capital grinned taking her sword away, sheathing both at her sides before removing her own helm, exposing her beauteous face. With a smirk of triumph the princess reached out with her left hand, gesturing for the woman on the ground to take it. The other women was Lilith Maerns, Valencia's handmaiden and most trusted friend. Lilith grasped Valencia's hand and was thrusted to her feet, her long dark hair falling from it's braid and tousling down her back.
