She moved with shameless wonder

a perfect creature rarely seen.

Since some lie I brought the thunder,

when the land was godless and free.

Her eyes look sharp and steady,

into the empty parts of me.

But still my heart is heavy,

with the hate of some other man's beliefs.

-Hozier, "Foreigner's God"

The music was louder than it should've been for an empty dive bar. The bright guitar and thrumming bass verging on headache-inducing as one song after song blurred together into an unrecognizable cluster of sounds. And the neon lights that usually went unnoticed were ostentatiously bright, becoming tackier as the night wore on, in the same way the alcohol became tasteless. The bar was sticky, full of dents and dust poorly disguised under layers of varnish.]

It wasn't the sort of place visitors to the North would expect to encounter members of the royal family. But if they had any suspicions about the gaggle of university-aged youths who looked vaguely familiar, they didn't act on them. And the Stark children preferred it that way.

Despite being the center of their legislative body, the little village of Wintertown remained sleepy for most of the year. Busiest in the fall and winter, when the private school opened and council members returned for the last few sessions. It was near deserted in the summer and without the harassment of cameras or locals, they came out to play like the elusive creatures they were. The Smoking Log, a tavern composed of logs and plaster that favored a lonesome cabin and was as old as the town itself, was their haunt of choice.

The usual outing group was full of complicated heraldry and impressive peerage. His Royal Highness, Crowned Prince Jon; His Highness, Prince Robb; His Grace, Theon Greyjoy, a representative of the Iron Island; and the most recent addition, Her Highness, Princess Sansa. A strange conglomerate of personalities given their family dynamic.

From day one, Robb and Jon were built-in-best friends. They were close enough in age (Jon being three months older than Robb) but different enough in temperament that even if they weren't brothers, Jon liked to think they'd be close. When their father decided to legitimize Jon, therefore changing the line of succession, a rift grew between them. Obviously, Robb wasn't too pleased and it would be a few years before he came to terms with it. The realization that there were fewer eyes on him helped.

Sansa was her mother's child, however, and grew up with an ingrained dislike of Jon. When she started secondary school and it became clear she could never have normal friendships, she started hanging around her brothers. They taught her how to fight and drive and beat every game they played. In return, she kept them in line when they went out and helped out with their pranks, though she was a notoriously bad secret keeper. She was only seventeen (seventeen and three-fourths, she would remind you) but the owner of the Smoking Log didn't care as long as they paid their tab. And she rarely bothered them, preferring to talk to anyone else present, and as she put it, 'vibe'.

Robb's girlfriend Talisa joined the fray when he brought her back from university in Barrowton. She fit right in and held her liquor as well as the Starks. And she liked to hold that above their heads, pushing the men of the group well past their tipping points. A challenge they gladly accepted without much forethought. Wintertown was deserted, who would care.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're tipsy, Snow," she taunted.

Only Ygritte was allowed to call him Snow, a lucky thing since he despised the nickname. As the crowned prince of the North, she should've referred to him as "Your Royal Highness" but they'd known each other for so long, referring to him as anything other than Snow was foreign.

Ygritte wasn't an official member of their entourage but she was their longest-lasting friend. Her father was the ambassador for the wildlings living in the Gift. When he left the position and moved back, Ygritte stayed and started working at the tavern.

"Someday you'll have to stop calling me that," he warned.

"Aye. When we're both dead and in the ground."

The fiery red-head was always giving him a hard time. It was a second job for her.

"I'm good for another glass," he stated, setting his down.

"You're lucky you're pretty." she filled it. "And tell your brother to stop with the PDA, it's grossing everyone out."

Jon looked to the booth in the corner. Sure enough, Talisa and Robb were all over each other. It was drunk and sloppy and Jon felt the urge to vomit.

"Would you like to join them?" Theon Greyjoy, always overconfident and on the sleazier side of it, asked.

Ygritte leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at him, "I thought I told you I didn't like your kind."

"Ironborn?"

"Men," Jon answered and took a sip of his whiskey. It wasn't burning as it had at the beginning of the night.

Ygritte reached over the bar to punch him in the shoulder and Jon spilled a little on himself.

"Shut up, Snow. You know better than anyone I play both fields and I do it damn well."

They both laughed like it was some great joke but Jon had to look away from her. Theon slipped away to terrorize some other single women, grumbling about the slim selection.

Unfortunately for him, the only single woman he hadn't hit on was the owner, who was over the hill though her fierce face and voice were ageless.

The door to the bar opened and a group of men strode in, bringing a gust of fresh air with them. Jon didn't like their demeanor as they swaggered to a table and settled around it, one of them looking his way, forcing Jon to duck his head to postpone recognition.

"What's their deal?" he inquired.

"Those three? They're regulars and they love picking fights. Cops've been here every night to haul 'em off."

"I don't remember them."

"You haven't been here in months, Snow. You'd better keep your head down, they know you're an easy target."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've got a rep for your short temper. Not to mention you're the crowned fucking prince of the North. They'd kill to be able to boast they got under your skin. Better take my advice and stop drinking."

Jon considered it but took another drink from his glass. The reputation she mentioned was one he was still trying to correct. A relic from a time when he was young and angry with the world on his shoulders, indulging in every fight he found lurking in dark corners. Even though he cleaned up his act by graduation and decided on military service instead of university, people had a hard time forgetting the stupid outbursts. And his actions during the first few months back from the Wall weren't helping any.

He surveyed the room again. There was supposed to be another red-head in attendance, but she was missing.

"Where's Sansa?"

Ygritte didn't know either. Then he spotted her, walking past the gang of troublesome boys. His grip tightened around his glass and he could see the lecherous looks in their eyes.

"Sansa can handle herself. Just relax." Ygritte attempted to make him see sense but he was too far gone to heed her advice.

He told Ygritte to close their tab, figuring it was time they headed out anyway, and made his way to his sister's side.

"Hey Princess, sit and stay awhile," one of them called out.

"No," she deflected.

Sansa was loveable and fun and she never wanted to hurt anyone's feelings. She could also be down-right mean when she needed to, leaving bruised egos and knuckles in her wake.

"Why not?" another questioned, his tone suggestive.

"Because I don't want to."

The men laughed, "That doesn't sound like a very good excuse."

"How's this one? I don't want to because you're a bunch of sleazy creeps."

"Only for you baby," one of them winked.

She scoffed and walked away, but one of them got up and stopped her. It was clear she couldn't control the situation anymore, so Jon stepped in.

"Everything alright Sansa?" Jon placed his hand on her shoulder.

She opened her mouth to respond but was cut off.

"Excuse you, we were having a conversation."

"I think that's over."

"I think the lady should decide whether it's over or not."

"It never even started," Sansa spit.

Jon put his arm out to turn her away as the group of agitators whooped and whistled at her aggression.

"Sansa, why don't you go round up the others. I think it's time to leave."

"Jon, I-"

"Sansa," he warned.

She sneered at the men around her but got out of the way.

"Hold up, it's the pretty boy prince they keep locked up in the castle," the one standing in front of Jon noticed.

He was taller than Jon but that never scared him. Jon beat men twice his size while sparring with Ser Rodrik.

"Which one?"

"The bastard," the one in front of Jon leered down at him, "They put a crown on his head and thought we would be fooled."

Jon tried to shrug their comments off but it never did him any good. After all the legal ins and outs, he remained a bastard in public opinion only and he hadn't encountered anyone bold enough to use the word since secondary school. It stirred up dormant feelings that never dulled, the bite and sting renewed.

"Careful, you'll hurt his feelings. Our dear prince is known for lashing out."

Jon tried his best to control his anger. Nothing good ever came from the fights he started.

"Shame he's so protective over his half-sister. We could've had some fun."

The thick sound of his fist colliding with the flesh of the man's cheek was music to his ears. The ache settling through his arm awakened the reflexes he hadn't used in a while. Jon almost forgot about the other two and narrowly avoided suffering a punch to the face. However, the third man in the group was either much sober or had better aim because his hit landed and sent Jon into a table.

The alcohol in his system wasn't helping. His head spinning and the familiar metallic taste in his mouth was no more sobering than the punch that caused it. He saw Sansa coming back from across the bar with Robb draped over Talisa's shoulder. Some help he was going to be.

One of the men got back in front of him. Jon prepared to throw another punch, but someone's leg kicked out the attacker's knees and gave him a solid strike across the face. Jon saw the window of opportunity and threw himself at the other man that was still standing, elbowing his jaw and kneeing him in the groin.

Ygritte came from behind the bar with a bag of ice and a clean rag, "I've already called the police so you'd better get your asses out of here."

The Starks didn't need to be told twice. Jon took the ice and rag while Sansa dragged Theon away from the bar and Talisa helped Robb the rest of the way.

"You should've let me handle it," Sansa reprimanded.

"I'm sorry-"

"Those dumbasses are going to run their mouths-"

"I know."

"And we'll have a whole new wave of critics claiming you're unfit for rule."

"You won't tell Catelyn, right?"

"I won't," she confirmed, "But I'm not helping you with dad, that's your own battle."

Jon almost forgot about the small council meeting the next morning. He would have preferred to miss it but his father expected him there, always stressing that it was important to watch as well as participate. But he arrived late and received too many disdainful looks.

He sat to the side of the room, deflecting to his old habit of fading into the background and watching, wishing he was invisible. If he remained still with his head down they wouldn't notice his swollen eye. The lords of the great houses all sat along the table, sneaking looks. Roose Bolton, Duke of the Weeping Water and Lord of the Dreadfort, didn't try to hide his distaste.

It was known the Boltons held an ancient grudge against the Starks. Ever since Jon's ancestor, Brandon Stark, defeated them in battle and forced them to stop flaying their enemies. Jon, and most other people in the North, held the suspicion they never stopped the practice. It was rumored that Ramsey, Bolton's bastard son, had a taste for flaying small animals and Roose condoned the behavior. For once, the stigma around children born out of wedlock proved justified as it kept the sadist away from court.

"I think that's all for today," King Eddard stated, rising from his stately chair at the head of the table.

He thanked the lords of attending and they bowed and left.

"You're being awfully sullen, Jon."

He arranged the papers in front of him. Jon ran a hand through his messy curls, exhaling loudly.

"Long night out?"

"You could call it that," he grumbled.

"Do you mind telling me why you were late this morning?"

Jon stayed silent and tried to avoid eye contact.

Ned looked at his son and sighed, "Gods Jon, look at your eye. What happened?"

"I got into a fight,"

"Over what?"

Jon wanted to hold his tongue but Ned taught him to always be honest and do the right thing. And lying at that moment seemed like a bad idea.

"I was protecting Sansa,"

"You took Sansa drinking with you?"

"She's almost eighteen."

"Her age doesn't matter, I know Sansa can handle herself. But you … this is the third fight this month. It's a good thing Ygritte watches out for you otherwise we'd have an even bigger mess to clean up,"

"I'm sorry,"

"What goes on inside that head of yours?"

"It's not easy being your bastard son who got lucky,"

"Sit down," Ned commanded and Jon did as told, "When I chose to legitimize you it wasn't because I thought you were lucky. I knew you were going to make a great leader."

Jon huffed. Ned started the legitimization process when Jon was thirteen years old, there was no way he showed promise as a leader then. He was following around in Robb's footsteps like a lost puppy and avoiding Catelyn like the pox.

"The North is heading towards a new age and she needs someone who will guide her through the confusion."

His father's words were idealistic, as they usually were. The North hadn't changed in the past 100 years as far as tradition was concerned. Technologically, sure, but the people were still set in their ways. The Old Gods and the old holidays were honored as they always had been, each one ingrained in their way of life.

"You don't believe me now but you'll understand,"

It sounded like Ned wanted to put a 'soon' at the end of the phrase but Jon didn't question it. He wanted to get out of that room, whose walls seemed to be getting closer the longer he sat there. If he didn't know any better he would be convinced they had eyes as well.

"Jon, your mother wouldn't like the way you've been acting either."

Ned rarely mentioned Jon's mother. With all the information Jon knew about her one would think she never existed and he was born by some miracle. He didn't even know her name and he didn't think the castle staff would appreciate him running around, interrogating them for information on the King's old flame. Especially Her Majesty, Catelyn.

Catelyn despised Jon, though his only crime was being born. He supposed cheating her precious Robb out of the title he was meant to inherit could be added to his list of offenses. In her mind, a child was a more acceptable target for her aggression than her husband, whose actions were the reason they were in that mess. It was worse when he was younger. She would spit names at him as he passed by, exclude him from her children's lessons, and sit him furthest away during dinners. As he got older and showed more responsibility and leadership, she relaxed. Mostly because Robb was still galavanting around Barrowton at university and Jon was serving time in the military. There was still the matter of her evil looks for no reason but some things couldn't be changed.

"Why is it that you use my mother to condemn me but you'll never speak about her otherwise?"

"Your mother … oh, you know I don't like talking about her," Ned remarked.

"I know," Jon began, "but I would like to know more."

Most people could at least form a picture in their minds when they thought of their mothers. The most Jon could do was a blank silhouette.

Ned smiled, "One day."

He stood and began to leave the room. He paused in the doorway, "Oh, and Jon?"

"Yeah, dad?"

"Next time you start a fight over a girl, don't let her finish it for you."

He shared a smile with his father before finally escaping the council room.

They had an emergency family meeting later that day. Robb was sure it was about the scuffle at the bar last night but Sansa disagreed. Part of Jon wished it was so he could know what to expect.

They gathered in the library, the most private place in the whole keep. A maze of shelves and tomes, none of which had been touched in decades, and the classic stuffy library smell. Despite the lack of use, the space remained dust free and sometimes a maester roaming the aisles. Sansa, Robb, and Jon all arrived together. Although they had close proximity to the Stark family, Talisa and Theon weren't allowed to attend the family meetings. They were for blood-related members of the family only, excluding Catelyn. As mother to the royal children, it was her right to be there.

The library was ancient and still warmed by giant hearths that provided a sense of weight and distinction. The place where the old Kings of Winter would consult the maesters in times of turmoil, gathered around tables and considering maps and scrolls. Jon couldn't help the feeling that a tumultuous time was upon them, why else meet in a place that carried such a reputation.

Sansa situated herself on the leather wingback chair, leaving Robb and Jon to stand beside it. Catelyn and Ned stood with their backs to the hearth which hosted a roaring fire. The North was never warm. It was still early summer so the snows were frequent and the temperatures were just above freezing every day.

Above them loomed two great portraits of Rickard and Lyarra Stark, the grandparents of the current Stark children, whom they never met. Rickard and his eldest son, Brandon, died in a plane crash over the mountains. Lyarra passed shortly after. Jon imagined they would be as frigid as Catelyn was toward him, at least, that was the emotion conveyed in the paintings. The stoic, steadfastness of the North that ran through the Stark blood.

"Where are Arya and Bran?" Catelyn asked.

The twins, as they were more commonly known, were always causing trouble. It was their nature, infamously riddled with pranks and uncontrollable volume. And now they both had driver's licenses. Catelyn tried to regulate their time allowed outside of the keep but they never listened. They were at the age of rebellion and experimentation, treating the rules like guidelines and seeing just how far you could bend them.

Jon remembered what happened when he defied one of Catelyn's rules when he was a teen. Even though he avoided trouble-making when he could, he was accused of being a bad influence on Robb and Theon. Though it had been Theon and Robb's idea to go running off into the Wolfswood without a security escort. They paid the price in extra lessons on Northern history, complete with one of the longest essays Jon ever wrote.

The door swung open and in Arya came, running a hand through her short dark hair. A hack-job she'd done herself, much to the dismay of the traditional ladies around her. Out of all the Stark children, Jon and the twins favored their father the most with dark hair and grey eyes, the signature look of the North. Robb and Sansa got the bright blue and auburn red of the Tullys from which Catelyn came.

"Sorry we're late," Arya gushed, "Micha stopped us on the way in from the garage."

Bran came bounding in after Arya. He was always slower than his sister but he kept up just fine. The two settled on the floor beside the chair. They made a pretty picture, he was sure, all the King's children posed for a regal portrait, donning the same blank looks as the relatives leering down at them.

"It's fine, Arya. But now that we're all here we can get started. The King of the United Kingdoms of Westeros extended an invitation to their annual charity gala," Ned stated.

If his father expected gasps of excitement, they didn't come. Instead, his children looked at him in confusion and question.

"Why would they do that? We haven't mingled with the south in a century," Robb quipped.

"The cause they've decided to support this year is environmental conservation. Seeing as it's a cause we support greatly, we've decided to attend."

Sansa sat up straighter, he had her undivided attention. She was obsessed with the southern nobility and considered them much more interesting than the Northerners. They never went a day without some southern scandal being recounted at the dinner table. Everyone had learned to listen with half an ear or tune her out completely.

"I will travel south with Jon, Robb, and Sansa. Catelyn will stay here with Arya and Bran. We should only be gone a week at most."

There weren't any complaints. Jon and Robb knew it was their duty to represent the North alongside their father. Sansa wanted to see the south, Arya and Bran couldn't care less, and Catelyn knew she needed to stay and hold down the keep. She hated traveling anyway and Jon couldn't blame her, it was the one thing they could agree on. Hours cooped up in a car with minimal stops only to end up in a foreign land. He avoided it when he could.

"We leave tomorrow morning so I expect you packed tonight," Ned addressed his eldest three then turned to his youngest, "And I expect you to behave while I'm gone."

"It's not like we've got the whole castle to ourselves, you're leaving mom," Bran pointed out.

"And some expectations for behavior while we're south. No fighting, no running away from your security officers, and as always, lots of smiling. We are their guests and we want to leave a good impression. Now go pack."

"That wasn't what I was expecting," Sansa confessed as they descended the stairs.

"How are we supposed to entertain ourselves if we're the only ones our age in the castle? The Prince and Princess are kids." Robb asked.

"There is the King's sister but she lives in Essos for most of the year. I doubt she'll come home for a charity gala. You know, I read the craziest thing about her this morning!"