Rebekah's home was the south, she was born in the long summer and the summer was all that she knew. She welcomed the sun and warmth of summer as old friends, but the cold was a bitter enemy she knew nothing of.
She had been taken from Kings Landing to Winterfell, a captive, and was sure the cold would kill her before any of the men even dare try. She had never even seen snow before, it was foreign to her as she treed through it; her feet slipping on packed down ice and catching on hidden branches. She fell straight down onto the frozen ground once, of the knights grabbed her roughly by the arm and wrenched her to her feet. When he rose his hand to strike her, a voice stopped him. A young man, that must of been a few years older than Rebekah herself, stood forwards, she knew him immediately by sight; she knew how to recognise a Stark, even a bastard one.
"She is my prisoner," Jon Snow told the elder man, he must have been thrice Snow's age and towered of him, but the sound of his voice made him relent. "You do not strike my prisoners." He took a step closer to Rebekah then, she tried not to flinch, not to show any fear. "I'll take watch over her now." He commanded as the men started marching again. Rebekah thought he may have spoken to her, given her a kind word and maybe she could manipulate him to take her back home. But the rest of the journey continued in silence, with Snow's eyes boring deep into her skin as she walked.