'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 ENTIRE CAMP HAD ERUPTED IN CHAOS. The brother and sister Tyrell's had confined themselves to Renly's tent with his decaying body inside, before eventually fleeing with their army behind them. Valencia made a note to visit every few hours to act like she was grieving, but she needed to further on her plan, she needed to take Renly's army.
In the times she had been in the pavilion that smelt of death and lost dreams, Valencia would look down upon her uncle, seeing the handsome curve of his face and the thick stubble he had adorned himself with. The crown he had forged was rested on his chest, and his sword held tightly in his hands, never had it been stained with blood, and it wouldn't be...unless.
As she stood over his body now, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword and dragged it free from his hands. "You have no use of this weapon," she spoke, taking his sheath and dragging it across her hips. "Someone would be better suited than you."
Valencia was greatly annoyed that the Tyrell's had abandoned them, mostly because of their usefulness, but she was glad that they did, especially Margaery. For if Valencia stood her claim, she was sure that the Tyrell's would deface it.
Stannis was coming for the last of Renly's army, she had seen them down at the docks waving for mercy. Dacey had pleaded for Valencia to escape and return to Robb; Valencia refused.
Moving into her tent, a piece of her dead, split-end ridden hair waved in front of her face, she hastily smacked it away and looked down at the warm bath awaiting her. Valencia couldn't have been more happy as she sunk into the water, rinsing off the tension tenderly. She had to be prepared for when she met with her Lords.
Though her actions seemed unsympathetic, Valencia had no real reason to mourn Renly. She was well aware he'd die eventually, and it wasn't like he raised her. She cared about him, but she didn't love him, he was just another family member that was put to the sword.
The rustling of the tent flap behind a seated Valencia spun her around. There stood a extremely pretty servant, her head bowed shying her tan skin and brown eyes away from Valencia. "My Queen," she curtsied.
"Approach," Valencia spoke softly, the servant girl looked up and moved over.
She was tall, with flawless copper skin and a round face. Long locks of brown cascading down her back in thick curls, her eyes were blacker than night. Valencia wouldn't admit she was envious of the girls natural beauty, while Valencia's withered away. The one thing that truly stuck out about her was the dark tear drop tattoo beneath her right eye. "I've never seen you before, who are you?" Valencia asked as the servant awaited for orders.
"My name is, Astraea," she bowed, the Queen picked up a twang of accent. Valencia frowned at the foreign name and strange vocals.
