Jon thought you were the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. You were a baker, the granddaughter of Winterfell's old cook. He saw you around the castle often and had practically grown up with you. When he was excluded from tourneys and noble feasts for his bastard status, he'd end up in the garden with you under the willow tree. At least, until your grandfather would drag you away with a stern reminder that you weren't to talk to the Stark children, bastard or not.

You were both sixteen now, old enough for marriage. And Jon desperately wanted to court you. He was slumped under the willow tree in the fresh snow, Ghost licking at his boots. A thousand possibilities ran through his head.

What if his father refused? Or his stepmother? What if your grandfather refused?

What if YOU refused..?

"Think any harder and you'll start a fire," Robb's voice came from his left. He'd spotted Jon brooding under the tree chasing around Grey Wind.

"It's hopeless," Jon grumbled, glaring at a dead leaf in the snow. "Perhaps it's for the best that I avoid her. It wouldn't be hard to never speak to her again."

Robb's brow furrowed as he sat beside Jon. "Are you serious? It's been one day of you ignoring her and you're both tearing your hair out over it." Jon side-eyed him, silently asking him to elaborate. Robb rolled his eyes.

"She misses you, moron. I have a feeling she likes you more than you think."

"Robb, I'm a bastard. She'll never-"

"Exactly," Robb cut him off firmly. "You're a bastard. Unlike the rest of us, you have the freedom to marry whoever you want. Don't waste it just because you don't think you're worth enough."