Jon was seated sideways, one elbow on the table, his small dagger in hand. The table’s surface is already scarred with years of scratches and stains from meals.

He was running the tip of the dagger carefully over the wood, slowly engraving two curling letters: your initials. The initials of his childhood best friend, the girl he was so deeply in love with. A faint smile pulls at his lips—small, private, the kind he never lets others see.

“That table’s older than you are, Jon.”

Jon froze mid-carve, his head snapping up. His father stands a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, the faintest ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“I—” He quickly laid the dagger down. “I wasn’t—”

Ned walks forward, coming to stand over him. His eyes flick to the fresh marks cut into the grain: your initials. “{{user}}.”

“It’s nothing. I was just—”

“It’s not nothing if you’ll scar the table for it.” Ned smiled. “You’ve known her since you were both children.”

Jon looked away. “…Aye.”

"You love her, mmh?" He looked at Jon, taking his silent as a yes. "You should tell her."