The cool air of the north kissed him like a fair maiden as he rode alongside his father. Curly hair of an ebony black fell to his shoulders and piercing green eyes stared out where he sat on his saddle. They gazed upon the gates of Winterfell as they opened to allow the three-hundred strong to flood in. Walls nearly as old as the godswood they were built around frosted in the face of the winter that never abandoned the region even in the long summer. "Winter is coming" was the motto of House Stark, the great house that served as Wardens of the North. Led by Lord Eddard Stark, an old friend of his father King Robert Baratheon who led his knights and bannermen into the village. Every other house boasted or threatened, including the prince's own joint houses of Baratheon and Lannister. But the Starks only warned. The contrast pegged his interest as he beckoned his horse to stop once they made it past the gate.

His father had embraced the Warden of the North with all the strength of a grizzly. He was a round man with a bearded face and the years have not been kind. The young prince could see in the warden's eyes that he came to the same realization. The years have been kinder to Lord Stark, brown hair and gray eyes with white in his beard, as if the snow became one with him. His father boasted of his friend for many years in King's Landing, the Warden of the North with the Valyrian steel. Next to him was his wife and children. Four sons, two daughters and his ward Theon Greyjoy. The Stark children all had hair of fire and eyes as blue as the ocean, all but two. Just two. Lady Arya and the bastard Jon Snow were truly their father's children with brown hair and gray eyes.

Tomas's eyes momentarily met the eldest daughter gaze and her warm smile on their way to Arya. Arya's eyes were fixated on his uncle, Tyrion Lannister, in silent intrigue. Normally people looked at his uncle "The Imp" in shock or horror. He was a dwarf with a head bigger than his body, two different colored eyes and hair of gold and black. A monstrosity to all who lays eyes on him. Not Arya. It made Tomas smile, and the smile on Sansa's face vanished as quickly as it appeared. Jon caught sight of it too and Robb was already staring in his direction since he rode up on his horse. Great! The boy prince thought, scolding himself for his carelessness.

"You have peculiar tastes in girls, Brother," said Joffrey, Tomas's younger brother by two years. His eyes were as bright green as Tomas's and his hair just as curly, but as gold as all the coin beneath the Lannisters feet. He dressed in red, holding the lion on one side and the crown stags on the other as did his other siblings. Tomas wore gold and black and only bore the royal sigil of his father's house much to his mother's contempt.

"That one there," Joffrey nodded his head to Sansa, "that's a beauty."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, dearest brother," replied Tomas.

Joffrey only looked annoyed. Tomas smiled inwardly, learning to hold his true emotions from his face. His eyes looked out to see their mother, Cersei Lannister, had departed the wheelhouse outside the city's gates with Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen. Jaime at her side proudly cloaked in the white of the Kingsguard. Tomas overheard Father mention a crypt and the queen was quick to protest only to be silence by a glare before Jaime took her arm.

"He shouldn't have done that," Tomas frowned, "Mother's pride is easy enough to wound on her best days."

"The king can do what he likes," argued Joffrey.

"I dare you to tell Mother that."

"I have no interest in the wailing of women."

"Of course."

Tomas dismounted his horse and readjusted his robes before making his way to the northerns. Joffrey dismounted as well but remained by his horse's side and Sandor Clegance with his burned face. Joffrey wasn't one for greetings and it wasn't expected of him anyway.

"Lady Stark," greeted Tomas with a smile.

"My prince," replied Catelyn with a lady's courtesy.

Several of them echoed the address and Sansa copied her mother's movement to a tee. Arya was late to the draw and Tomas smiled politely.

"My condolences to your house. Lord Arryn was a good man and served my father well."

"Thank you, my prince," replied Catelyn.

"Your sister was quick to leave with her son. Will you pass my sympathies to her as well if you see her?"

"Of course, my prince."

"Enough of the pleasantries," said Cersei. "Come," she beckoned.

It took all of Tomas's strength not to glare at his mother. Pleasantries? He thought. Jon Arryn is dead and his wife is now a widow. There's nothing pleasant about it! Tomas kept his silence and followed the rest of the Lannisters into the Guest House that was prepared for them. Jaime patted a hand on the boy's shoulder as they made their way inside, Jaime's way of indicating he did good. Tomas noticed his eyes were on his scalp, the lion mane of the Lannisters trying desperately to escape beneath the black the boy had colored his hair with. Deny it as he may, the boy was more Lannister than Baratheon.

As soon as they made it inside Cersei and Jaime escorted the other children to their rooms leaving Tomas behind with Tyrion. The Imp sat down by the window and made himself comfortable with a flask filled with wine that he had brought on the trip. Tyrion never went anywhere without plenty of wine. He was hardly the only family member that drank, though. Tomas had caught his mother drinking plenty and his father was less apologetic about it. The boy approached the table and pulled out a chair to sit across from his uncle.

"She's upset, isn't she?" asked Tomas.

"No more than she normally is," answered Tyrion.

"Father could have at least waited until he was alone with Lord Stark."

"Alas, your father was never a particularly bright man. Add him with my sister and it's a match for the ages."

Tyrion smiled and downed more wine. Tomas looked over to the flask and reached out to grab it before it was taken away.

"You'll have plenty of chance to drink at the feast, beloved nephew," said Tyrion.

"I'm fourteen. Almost a man. I think I can handle my wine."

"There are three things you never try to take from a man," began the Imp, "his wine, his gold, and his women." He held up three of his fingers to emphasis his points before taking another drink from his flask. For such a small man Tyrion certainly had a large appetite.

"Mother won't let me have more than a cup, half if I'm lucky," said Tomas.

"You won't have to worry," Tyrion reassured. "Today is to be a joyous occasion. King Robert will ask Eddard Stark to be his hand and wed you off to his daughter. He'll let you have as much wine as you like."

"You really think Lord Stark will accept?"

"Hard to say. Eddard Stark is a man of honor and Robert is his friend. I suppose if he was to refuse Robert would have him brought to King's Landing by the edge of his beard."

Tomas laughed at the thought. It was easy to picture how his father would react in that situation and the harsh unyielding wolf of Winterfell standing his ground. He looked out the window by the table to the eight thousand year old castle that stood outside restlessly as he hated being cooped up inside the Guest House. Tyrion smiled at his eagerness and only didn't relented so that the young prince would learn patience. That was one thing his mother lacked and he needed to learn if he was to be king one day. The floor of the Guest House creaked and Tomas turned his head to see Jaime Lannister looking at him and with one exchanged glance he already knew what he was going to say.

"Your mother wishes to see you," stated Jaime, confirming the young prince's suspicions.

Tomas looked over to Tyrion who slid the flask across the table to his nephew's side, "This one is on me." Tomas took the flask and held it in his hand as he walked past Jaime and headed to answer his mother's call.

The guest bedrooms upstairs were lined up to the left and the right of the hall, many of the beds being singles for the little princes and princess while the king and queen's were the largest, leaving plenty of room for them to share a bed. If they wanted to share it. Tomas wouldn't have put it past either to sleep in separate beds. By the time he entered his parents room Cersei was already drinking; her hair braided and glowing green eyes like daggers settling on the young prince as soon as he came in. Primarily the black hair that replaced the natural gold-blond that Tomas was born with.

Her eyes went from the hair to the flask in his hands and in an instant Cersei stood up and marched towards the boy. Tomas ignored his instincts to run. Kings did not run. He held his ground as his mother snatched the flask out of his hand and shook it to check its contents before pouring it into her goblet and tossing it out the nearby window. She drank and turned her back on the boy allowing the silence to sink into the room before finally breaking it, "Do you know where your father is right now?"

"In the crypts where the kings and lords of Winterfell are buried," answered Tomas.

"He would rather spend his time with the dead than us. Is that the kind of man you want to be?"

Tomas said nothing. He knew there was no right answer either way. If he said yes Cersei would more than likely strike him, if he said no he'd be labeled a liar. All he could do was bow his head down in silence and weather the storm.

"When you tried lifting up your father's axe and he intended to punish you, who stayed his hand?" asked Cersei.

"You did," Tomas answered.

"And who took care of you while your father ate, and drank, and fucked whores in his bed?"

"You did."

Tomas kept his head down and refused to make further eye-contact with his mother. He didn't have to. He could feel the burning sensation of the Lannisters eyes so intensely it was like his face was that of the Hound being scarred for life. Cersei's footsteps creaked along the floor and once again he wanted to run, run far away and never look back as the next thing he felt was her hands yanking at his scalp.

"You slight me," she said.

"Mother, no."

"You slight me." She yanked at his scalp again. "Everyday." Grabbing a fist full of the ebony black hair that sat atop his head threatening to purge it. "With your presence."

"I'm not!"

"You slight me."

"Please stop!"

Cersei grabbed his robes and ripped them until his chest was bare. The crown prince covered up with all the modesty of a young maiden while trying his damnedest not to cry. Kings don't cry. He told himself. Don't you dare let her see you cry.

"You need another cloak," said Cersei after a long silence. "I'll have Jaime bring you one."

Cersei took her leave and Tomas sat down on the bed, his arms still clutched to his chest as his sorrow turned to rage. I hate her. Tomas's robes were still brand new, having been stitched together by the handmaidens back home at his request. He was so proud when he tried it on. The gold glistening in the light more than his hair ever did. For the first time in his life he felt like a Baratheon, black hair and all. And the way his father looked at him? He couldn't have been more proud to see his son wearing his house colors. Then it was all taken away in one fair swoop by a scorned queen. I HATE HER!

He was still holding back tears when Jaime came up, robes of red and gold with the lion sigil on the right breast, folded in his hands. Jaime laid it down by the bed and looked the boy over with half pity, "Let me see." Tomas lowered his arms and Jaime looked over where his twin sister had ripped the cloak, a finger softly brushing against the silk as he looked at the boy, "It's hardly torn. A couple of stitches should do the trick." Tomas kept his silence.

"You could do well to make peace with your mother," Jaime continued. "You'll live longer and drink less. You're a lion and you will always be a lion no matter what color your mane is."

Tomas said nothing until Jaime was halfway out the door, "I won't wear it." It made the Kingslayer stop in his tracks and turned his head to the boy.

"You will or next time it will be me," the Kingslayer warned. "And you won't want that."

The young prince kept his head down and allowed Jaime to take his leave. Tomas stood up from the bed and closed the door not wanting to be disturbed. With his chest still bare he looked at the clothes Cersei had her brother bring up for him; his eyes narrowing over the lion sigil. Tomas drew a knife from underneath the pants leg of his robes and in a single strike proved to be as rash as his uncle Jaime, and as reckless as his mother, plunging the knife into the sigil and stabbing the lion repeatedly in defiance before pealing it off the cloak and throwing it away like garbage. He was no lion.

He was a stag.