Here's another chapter. This is finally going to kick off Nelkir's story, so that's good.

The thanks: To Alex, thanks for your review for Season Unending. Glad you like it. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Cool, I'm pleased that you thought this one was more exciting. I didn't know how popular the talk between Nelkir and Jon would be, though it does seem pretty popular. That's cool. Both families are going to come to a head next Jon chapter. Kodaav is enchanted, but that power wasn't Kodaav. Does that answer your question? Paarthy is speaking to Jon because he absorbed his soul and went to Sovngarde (so he can see those dead he linked with). To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. First off, yes, I love your reviews. Secondly, at the moment I've got more than enough ideas. That's why the POV's are choking me; I'm trying to balance them properly. But if you have ideas, feel free to give them, but like I said, I'm swamped at the moment. The Jarls are like bickering girls, it's true. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Don't you just hate Thongvor? Yep, Skyrim must join, it's true. Jon is to be pitied in the way everything he touches turns to shit. Yep, my character in Skyrim is called 'Jon Dovahkiin'. He was the basis for Jon Stormcloak, with some very minor changes, yeah. (He has the blue/silver eyes, black hair and scars though. If only I could load a picture onto my avatar, but I have no idea how.) - Cool! What do you mean set a story in my world? I think it sounds great but you need an account. If you do, I'll message you to talk about it. Sounds good; what's the story?- (They have the mines.)To Guest for Season Unending; thanks for the review. Glad you liked it.

My new sub-story will be out soon. You've all seen the new Dragonborn DLC right? Well, I'm writing a *much shorter than this I hope) story on it, so check it out when it comes out! Hope this is good.

Also, to HereLies, thank for the amazing review! Why am I crediting this again? Go check out the review for the last chapter (20). It's amazing for my ego, and actually really fun to read.

Nelkir White

Nelkir White's head was still spinning from his conversation with Jarl Stormcloak. 'I'm a bastard too'. He said that? Why would a bastard be allowed to inherit the Throne of Ysgramor? But despite the parts that Nelkir couldn't be sure about that, the tone had been uplifting. The fact that he had even bothered to regard him, and not with the word 'Bastard' playing on his lips was… different to say the least; Nelkir was still trying to decide what the Jarl's ulterior motive had been. It consumed his mind as he stepped out into the sunlight that covered Whiterun. Even as the King's meeting was on, so too was the weekly market. Nelkir's keen eyes could just about pick out the individual stalls from the top of the stairs that led to the palace, and everything just became clearer as he descended.

In a rush of voices, Nelkir was in the market. The sunlight shone off his golden hair, and his eyes roamed the stalls, looking for one in particular. It wasn't hard to spot, and the Bastard quickly trotted over to it, leaning against the makeshift counter, waiting for the Breton to turn around.

'This is a surprise, Nelkir,' Poyien said, before taking a quick glance behind him. White followed his eyes but saw nothing but a group of Nords.
'Well, I was getting bored of all the stares up in Dragonsreach,' Nelkir White said sarcastically.
Poyien never picked up on any of his sarcasm though. 'Yes, well the palace can be dull. Now,' he said, quickly moving on, 'what are you here for?'
'I'm just looking around, I suppose,' Nelkir said moodily. 'Any replacement siblings? A new father?' he asked, making a show of looking around at the goods, which had neither.
Poyien nodded sympathetically. 'It's always hardest for the youngest. Or the bastard.'
Nelkir nodded, standing up from Poyien's stall and looking around at Whiterun's market. It was a fine day, with some clouds in the distance, and naturally the square outside the inn was packed with people, shouting and hawking, struggling to get the best deals for their goods.
Poyien was a Breton of some forty years, not the typical friend for someone of Nelkir's age, but he wasn't fussy. His years in Dragonsreach had taught him that. It wasn't that he found it hard to make friends, if they didn't instantly dismiss him as a bastard, he just didn't 'seize' the opportunities, or rather that he never bothered to. In retrospect, it would have been wise to make some close friends at the time, but it was Nelkir's mistake, and now he had to live with it.
'How's business?'
'Fine, I suppose,' Poyien said, his eyes on something else.
Nelkir raised an eyebrow. 'It's packed here.'
'People don't often buy Breton goods. Especially not Nords. They don't like them.'
Suddenly, Poyien's fleeting glances made sense. The coldness of hurt swept over Nelkir, but he didn't show it. Instead, his face became stony. 'Nords don't like bastards either,' Nelkir remarked coldly. He looked around; certainly a few of the people were glancing at him before they moved on, unwilling to shop at the stall with the bastard. In Nordic society bastards were pariahs; no one interacted with them if they could help it. Nelkir seethed with rage at the unfairness. 'I'll leave you alone,' he told Poyien icily.
'It's not you, Nelkir-'
'No, I understand.' That was untrue. Nelkir hated the way he was treated, even by his so-called 'friends', and he made no disguise of his feelings as he strode off, into the crowd.
Whiterun was a massive city, built onto a hill surrounded by vast plains. It had originally been built around Jorvaskar, the mead hall of the Companions, the famous warrior group. Among its ranks were the finest of Skyrim's heroes, Jon Stormcloak had been invited as an honorary member years ago, so Whiterun was always well defended. Jorvaskar, in turn, had been built next to the Skyforge, a huge blacksmiths forge shaped like an eagle and capable of producing the legendary skyforge steel. It burned hot, hot enough to scald those who came too close and the unwary. For centuries Clan Graymane had worked it, producing weapons and maintaining it as they would. Very rarely did they make skyforge steel though, due to its complexity, the time it takes to make it and the prestige attributed to it. If there was any city that represented Nordic culture at its best, it was Whiterun. Simple, and defined by the warrior. And Nelkir hated it.

He wasn't a warrior, he was barely considered a Nord, and the dust of the plains got into his eyes. In truth he has always preferred the snow of the north and east, but he was stuck here. Or was he? Jarl Stormcloak had made some good points, even if Nelkir was unwilling to accept them at the time. He could leave his name behind and be free. The life of an adventurer would be hard, and rough, tougher than now, maybe. Put it from your mind. You have a purpose here. The Whispering Voice was really getting on Nelkir's nerves now, telling him what to do. He wanted to make his own choices. And that was exactly what he was going to do. His mind set, Nelkir wandered off for somewhere to think on how exactly he was going to actually escape his life.

The Battered Mare, the local tavern, was as good a place as any to do his thinking, though he didn't look forward to the stares and mutters he would receive. Nelkir strode over to it, entering into the light and heat. In his loose shirt, brown hose and high leather boots, Nelkir was well dressed for the day. Even so, the inn was hot, uncomfortably so. The fire was on full blaze even though it was undoubtedly one of the hottest days Skyrim had seen in years. Nelkir shook his head at their idiotic tendencies and walked to the bar, seating himself on a stool.

The bartender looked him over and rolled her eyes. 'Okay, what do you want, Bastard?'

'A drink?'

'Ten septims,' she replied curtly, speaking to him as little as possible.

'Ten!' he exclaimed in disbelief.

'New price,' she explained.

Nelkir glared at her, but sighed and pulled out the money. At least Father gave him enough of that, but of course not as much as Frothar got. Or Dagny.

As he paid another Nord came up to the bar and asked for a drink.

'Three septims,' the bartender told him.

Nelkir's sudden anger threatened to overcome him. 'I paid you ten though!' he burst out.

'Yeah? I said it was the new price… for bastards.'

'You can't do that,' he said, trying to stay calm.

'Hey, boy, know your place,' the other Nord said, putting his drink on the bar and turning to face Nelkir.

'But it's not my place. I'm a Nord, just like you.'

'No, you're a Bastard. Doesn't apply.'

'I'm the King's son,' Nelkir threatened.

'Exactly why you pay ten, and I pay three. Now stop talking back and get out.'

'Make me then,' Nelkir challenged, feeling ready to fight against the injustice.

'Gladly.' He looked behind him, as three Nords stepped up, one of them with a dagger. The Bastard glanced at them, fear resurfacing. It was just like with Frothar; hopeless. Nelkir got off his stool and swept past them, trying to preserve what little dignity he had left. Even so, as he stepped out of the inn, the laughter followed him and he burned with shame. Maybe it would have been better to have been stabbed the dagger; he had forgotten his sword, and had no serious unarmed martial skills, so it was the only real outcome. The pain would have been bad, but death couldn't really be that much worse than his life already.

Now that he had been thrown out Nelkir scanned the market for something to do, trying to turn his mind away, before glaring up at Dragonsreach vehemently. Father claimed to have a free kingdom, but he was a hypocrite. They were all hypocrites! Even Jon Stormcloak. He had been lying about that bastard stuff, Nelkir was sure. After all, how could one of the greatest heroes of Nordic lore actually be a bastard? He was lying.

But even as Nelkir trudged through the market, doubts started picking at his mind. Even if the Dragonborn was lying, why would he even talk to a bastard in the first place? He hadn't been rude, or derogative. He had been… understanding. Nelkir thrust the thoughts from his mind; he had no need for pity, and he didn't want to have been played. He had seen through Stormcloak's stories. They were all lies. It was stupid to even think otherwise.

When he snapped out of his musing, he found himself in front of Poyien's stall again. The Breton was watching him guiltily.

'I'm sorry for before,' he began.

Nelkir didn't say anything. He didn't have time for this. The Bastard started walking off, as Poyien called out to him. Suddenly, the Breton fell silent, which was quite unlike him and White stopped, listening behind himself without looking.

'Don't worry about the bastard, Breton. He's not even worth his name.' It was Frothar Wind-Shifter, Nelkir's brother. Nelkir had no time for him now, and he started walking away, but then Poyien began to talk.

'He's still a person, Sire. It's not fair how he's treated.'

Nelkir turned to see Frothar looking unsure, standing in front of Poyien's stall, a sword and dagger at his side, wearing a white shirt with billowy sleeves. 'He's just a bastard, Breton. There's no need to worry about him.'

'You're his brother, Sire? You should be protecting him, not hunting him.'

Frothar looked angry now. 'You want to tell me how to handle my brother? Is that it?' he asked, raising his eyebrows threatenly. He wasn't normally so aggressive, but mention of his brother always got him riled up.

'Well, Sire-'

Frothar put his hands violently on the stall. 'Then why did you say it?'

Nelkir couldn't take anymore, even if Poyien had just betrayed him. He fumed with rage to see Frothar bullying his way around those who disagreed with him. 'Hey, Brother!' he shouted, stepping forward.

The crowd quickly caught onto the smell of a fight and started stepping back, anxious to see the confrontation.

'Bastard? What are you doing?' Frothar asked, wonderingly.

'Just get away from him, Frothar. Is it not enough that everyone else hates me?'

His brother considered this, but then looked back at Nelkir. He hated being told what to do. 'Since when do I listen to you?'

'Since now.' Shit, he hadn't meant to say that. It had just come out. Frothar smiled darkly, and stepped forward, drawing his sword.

'It is about time I got to kick your arse into oblivion and back. I was waiting for the right time.' He looked around. 'No Dagny to save you this time.'

Nelkir knew he should be scared, but he wasn't. He was feeling brave, and ready. 'Come on, then. I'm sick of your shit.' He was going to lose; he couldn't beat Frothar.

His brother stepped forward and thrust forward his sword. The blade caught Nelkir's chest and red blood fell to the ground. He let out a gasp of pain and Frothar grabbed him, throwing the Bastard into Poyien's stall. Nelkir's wind was driven from his body as he slammed against the counter, but his mind quickly cleared as he heard the whistle of a sword. Launching off his right foot, Nelkir dodged to the left, lashing out with his right hand to catch Frothar's jaw. The bastard barely had time to register the lethal intent of the sword, or the fact that he had just hit his brother, when the sword swept round at his head. He ducked, and without thinking rushed forward.

With a strange sense of detachment Nelkir realised that he was about the same height as Frothar, and almost as large. With a sudden roar, he threw his brother over, into the stall. It collapsed under Wind-Shifter's weight, and fell onto of him. He let out a cry as he was buried by cloth and poles, and in a flash of instinct Nelkir kicked away his sword and pulled Frothar's dagger from his belt, pulling aside the mass of cloth before pressing the weapon to his brother's throat.

They looked at each other, both as shocked. Nelkir was surprised, and wondering what had just happened, cold fear pumping through him, as a pair of hands grabbed him and the guards took him away.

Cool, Selina next. Please review. Keep your eye out for the new story!