'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 MEN WERE SQUIRMING OUTSIDE THE WALLS. Valencia sat beside Bran, Robb on her other side, with Grey Wind and Summer at her feet. She could often feel the direwolves wet noses often graze her shin. Since the Lords of the North had arrived, Winterfell, which always seemed to be calm, quiet and collected, had never been so chaotic. All the Lords who responded to the call - which was mainly all of them - arrived with yards of men in tow, ready to find out exactly what was to be done with the recent capture of Eddard Stark. For a few days now, Robb had held feasts for a group of his Lords and their men. He met each Lord and conversed with them and what their opinion was on the matter. From Lord Rickard Karstark of Karhold, to Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte. As well as Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island, along with her tall, lanky yet elegant daughter Dacey. Valencia especially got along with Maege and her daughter, remembering that they met at her wedding.
Snow had begun to fall around Winterfell, a light sprinkle of ice that had laid thick on the grounds surrounding the ancient castle. It crunched underneath Valencia's boots whenever she and Bran would venture out of the walls to see the large camp outside. The youngest Stark, Rickon, especially liked the snow since he continuously swarmed massive balls and either threw it at Bran or Valencia. Though his sister-by-law seemed to be his more favoured target.
On this night, Valencia sat beside her husband, listening as Lord Greatjon Umber complained about not being in the vanguard.
Valencia looked quite pretty, despite her growing annoyance at the stubborn Lord. Her long, ebony hair had been pulled back into a braid that almost reached her waist. Her dress was a light grey that extended down to her wrists, and thick leather coat rested on her shoulders. She was incredibly warm, though her temper was flaring due to the disrespect of Greatjon towards her husband.
"For thirty years I've been making corpses out of men, boy," Greatjon growled out, his long thick beard grazing the table while his broad-shoulders and enormous height towered over everyone, even when sitting. "I'm the man you want leading the vanguard."
"Galbart Glover will lead the Van," Robb reassured with a calm voice.
Greatjon did not like the sound of that. "The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!" Greatjon sneered, "I will lead the van or I will take my men and march them home." Valencia raised an eyebrow, her features showing emotions of being unimpressed, "you are welcome to do so, Lord Umber. But I fear the consequences you will receive will be quite...drastic. For example, the title of being an 'oathbreaker' isn't a good thing to be remembered by. Especially when your head departs from your body." She brought the goblet to her lips, drinking the last of her wine.
Greatjon scoffed, looking to Robb condescendingly. "Do you let all your whores talk for you."
Robb went to stand, his anger spilling onto his tongue. But before he could spill his poison filled words, Valencia had laid a gentle hand on his, her eyes never leaving Lord Umber's. With a light sigh, she slowly stood and moved around the table, her fingers hooking around the flagon of wine and pouring herself another cup. The hall had grown eerily quiet, waiting for the Southern Princess to snap. Greatjon's words were beginning to sink into himself, and the crowd around them. She took a small sip and began moving back to her seat, her footsteps slow and echoing.
