Jon Snow

Jon let out a few, heavy puffs of air as he swung his sword at the potato sack filled with hay. He lets out a grunt, pausing to catch his breath, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. His head whipped around at the sound of footsteps. That’s when he spotted you, the Princess, daughter of Robert Baratheon, leaning against one of the support beams to the Castle Ward.

“Princess…” He huffed out, turning his whole body towards you. “You should be at the feast.” He remarked, the grip he had on his sword loosening a fraction.

The feast. The feast he wished he was attending. He knew he wasn’t exactly welcomed to party with the rest of the nobles and royalty, he was a bastard after all. Lady Catelyn would kick him out if she even caught a glimpse of him through a window.

So he resulted to something he was good at. Quite good at, actually. Training. He was good with a sword, often winning the spars against the other boys in Winterfell. He trained and trained, trying to ignore the cold creeping into his bones.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as he looked back to you. You were pretty, he noticed. Looks fit for your role. A shy blush spread across his face at the thought, immediately pushing it aside.