'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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IN THE YARD BELOW, VALENCIA WATCHED RICKON. He ran with the wolves, Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggydog. The youngest Stark was wailing in delight as they chased him back and forth, Shaggydogs lapping at his heels, snapping and spinning if Grey Wind or Summer ventured to close. Rickon dashed forward, his head turning to see if they were behind him, which they always were. Valencia grinned, her chin resting on her palms, her body hanging over the window pane. Bran was beside her, watching also.
Robb had been busy as of late, which annoyed Valencia greatly since she was truly beginning to enjoy his company as her husband. Since his new role as Lord of Winterfell, new nicknames had risen for the Lord. Robb the Lord they called him, he would wear real steel now, and Valencia wasn't the only one who noticed that he didn't smile as he used to. His days were long and made for exhaustion. He would drill with the guards, train himself and other boys. Sometimes, he would leave for days, going to different towns near Winterfell. And the nights he was home, he was with maester Luwin. Valencia hated how he wasn't around as much, more-so that he never brought her along with him to the meetings, trips and whatnot.
"The raven told me I could fly," Bran announced after minutes of silence.
Valencia's brows furrowed and she turned her head, meeting Bran's steel eyes. "Raven?" She questioned, tilting her head to the side.
Bran nodded, "he has three eyes." He spoke as if he was in a daze, his voice drifting and his eyes trained on nothing but space. Valencia swallowed and sat up, turning around too see his small figure in bed.
"I don't know much about raven's with three eyes, but, what do you mean when he said you could fly?" She asked gently, as gently as a mother would. Valencia saw the tension building up in the boy, more than once he had snapped about his mother not being with him. Valencia could only imagine he would have preferred the presence of his mother rather than his sister-by-law.
"He said, that if I didn't fly. I would hit the ground," he paused for a short moment. "And die."
Valencia pursed her lips, stood from her chair and moved to Bran's beside, sitting at the edge. She shuffled his furs, moved them closer to his chin, noticing a chill growing over the boy. "Perhaps it is the Old Gods way of saying that you were not meant to die," she proposed, pulling her long fingers from his furs and into her lap. "I do not know much about your Gods, but someone once told me that dreams during sicknesses are the purest dreams. They also said that the dreams were created by Gods, sending their messages through whatever you dreamt of."
Bran swallowed, "could I have died?" He asked, his voice turning flat.
Valencia smiled sadly, "I won't hide the truth from you, Bran. Winter is coming and you won't be a summer child much longer. So yes, you could have died."
