Streaks Of Silver (Game of Thrones)

Chapter One: To Winterfell...

Winterfell...what a damp, cold shit hole for about 90% of the time, a young woman thought...

And then...when a Bastard's Lord Father sends her off in the middle of the night to meet the King's caravan at the border to the North...? Her day could only get better from there, really...

"I fucking hate this," she mused quaintly as she stood beside her horse who was tethered to one lonely tree in the middle of a vast clearing. Brushing out her stallion's mane while she waited for the procession, "I fuckin' hate being stuck at Winterfell, I hate that Jon didn't have to come with me...I hate that Sansa- all mighty lovely thing that she thinks she is, can't seem to stay the hell out of my room and away from my things even though she's the one with all the silks and jewels..." the girl groaned as she worked with her horse brush.

This young woman, one Litha Snow had woken up that morning to Sansa sneaking about around her vanity table. Going through her jewelry box and even having the gaul to ask if she could borrow and wear her prized possession that day to meet the Prince. This item being the only thing she'd ever had of her mother's which was a silver wolf head pendant on a silver chain.

Then, when Litha dared to say no and demand that she get the hell out, the red-haired girl burst into crocodile tears and ran off...not that Ned Stark would actually be stupid enough to believe his true born daughter when she claimed that Litha "was going to threaten her," but he would be forced to chastise them both...

Sansa would be forbidden to go anywhere near Prince Joffrey without a formal escort...

And Litha would go to the border to await the King and his kin who would surely be a bunch of pretentious pricks, but hey...at least Sansa was as far away from her as she could've ever managed that morning...

Once she was satisfied with her brushing, the girl would fetch her own brush from the bags of her saddle to mend her own hair which was surely mussed from riding hard and fast to arrive before the Baratheons and Lannisters...

Her hair was long and brown, save nearly the entire front half of her head which was a silvery white. As a child, she'd asked her Lord Father why her hair was different than that of her twin brother Jon's and according to the wise Ned Stark "Twins are born to different strengths. Often, one is stronger than the other and at times that may leave a mark from their battle upon the day of their bearing. Such as the marks you wear in your hair or in the color of your eyes," he'd told her for the white hair came with eyes of lavender...

As babies, Litha had been told that Jon was almost always sick. He'd come down with the pox and nearly died, but Litha remained strong. According to Ned, it was her toil and tribulation on the day of her birth that gave her such strength...but if only she knew just to what extent...

After returning her brush to her bag, the girl drew a roll of herbs from her pocket. Green, golden goodness to help calm her nerves. Something she required on a daily basis, according to her maestor. Lest the pains of her literal nerves grow to be too much to bear. Snapping her fingers as soon as she pressed the end of the roll between her lips, the other side would spark to life with flame and Litha began to smoke.

The only one in the world who knew of her little trick was her brother Jon who'd caught her one night, mediating on her pains in her room while the candlelights around her seemed to swell, then quell with every breath she took. Unbeknownst to her, of course which would lead them both to one very awkward conversation after another about whether or not she was a witch, or a magician, or some other sort of magical thing, but the girl truly didn't have an answer.

Litha had learned of it first when she was still just a tiny little thing. No older than six and she'd woken up in the middle of the night to find that her hearth had died. A maid neglecting their duty to look after a Bastard, or perhaps Lady Catelyn had decided to be cruel again, she couldn't possibly know, but little Litha went to the fireplace and tossed on a log without thinking. Coals shooting forth from the rack as the old charred log cracked apart...but when the coals touched her feet, they didn't burn her nor even leave a mark...