'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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DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE THE RIOT, AND DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE DAHLIA'S AWAKENING. She had spent countless days in her room, blocking herself from others. She had pleaded for Sandor not to leave her side, for she didn't feel truly safe unless he was around. But Dahlia sensed he was becoming agitated by standing around doing nothing but listening to her cry, or curse in anger, so she had let him go a few times. Though a great anxiety took over her mind every time the wind blew. Apart of her feared that those men would return for her, to do as Sandor said. But every time she overthought the idea of the men creeping into her room, latching their fingers around her neck and squeezing, she remembered they all died.
She had killed them.
And Valencia was there, though Dahlia blamed it on hitting her head to hard on the stones, for she needed someone in that moment. And somehow, in the pits of her stressed mind, her sister came to view and saved her from certain death.
Dahlia sat alone in her room, in front of the mirror, gracing her body in a long, pink gown with white lace. For far to long she had confined herself to the room, and she missed the fresh air, despite how much it stunk outside her room. But she was also sure Sandor wouldn't want to be isolated in her room any much longer.
She had become so dependent on him, she had grown distasteful of it whenever he was not around, but the moment she came back, she was immediately at his heels. She felt so much safer with him at her side, even so that in the night, she had him sit beside her so she wouldn't feel so alone and terrified. But the nights when he wasn't with her, Dahlia didn't sleep a wink.
She had dismissed Sandor for the morning so she could ready herself for the day. Holding her chin high, she bathed herself, feed and dressed herself in the pink gown before allowing her hair to hang loosely down her back. Now that she was finished, she was sitting on her bed waiting for Sandor to return to her.
Already, she was longing for his protection.
It felt like hours she was on her bed, chewing away at her nails before a gentle knock at the door came. Practically sprinting to the door, she hesitantly opened it, peering through meeting Sandor's black chest plate. She immediately exhaled in relief, opening even further. "Thank the Gods," she hummed, "I was worried Joffrey had ordered you else where." She turned around and moved back into the room, wrapping her arms around herself. She noted that he smelt much better, with a touch of soap, but he still had the iron smell. He must have bathed.
"Aye, I thought he would," he responded in his usual raspy voice.
Dahlia turned around with warm eyes. "I'd like to visit the cellar today, can you come with me?"
Why the cellars you may ask? Simple, the dragon skulls. When Dahlia was a little girl, and she and Valencia had found themselves lost in the the cellars and had played in wonder and fear amongst the forgotten skulls of the dragons. Their favourite was Balerion's due to his enormous size. Each time Dahlia had thought of the dragons, she felt an immense vitality rule over her body, swarming her with the thought of being more powerful than many believed, including herself.
