For a long time, Robb hadn't understood why his mother disliked Jon so much. At some point he'd had some muddled idea that it was because Jon looked like his father instead of like her as he and Sansa did. But then there was Arya, and Arya looked like their father too, and even if sometimes his mother seemed to despair of her she still undeniably loved her.

It was only Jon she hated.

Robb and Jon had always been close; they'd begun working with wooden swords at the same time, learned to walk around the same time, learned the same words. Despite all of his mother's efforts to keep them apart, having a boy his own age was a lure Robb could never have resisted, even if it wasn't Jon – quiet, solemn, occasionally somewhat biting Jon. All Catelyn's efforts ever succeeded in was confusing him. He never asked Jon about it, that he could remember; even that young having an idea that it would be untactful.

He thought it was probably Theon who'd first told him about Jon's being a bastard. Theon and Jon had never liked each other, but Robb liked Theon nearly as much as Jon, even if sometimes the way he talked bothered Robb in a subtle way, like an unscratchable itch. But Theon, who was older and far worldlier, scoffed at Robb's confusion.

"He's called Snow," Theon said, lip curling a little in disdain. "That's the North's version of a bastard name. Jon Snow's a bastard, that's what it is."

He'd known what bastardy was, and known to some degree what it meant, but for a while longer, even after he knew what it was, Robb hadn't been able to understand why it mattered, or how Catelyn could hate him for something that wasn't his fault.

Jon understood before he did. Jon knew the implications long before Robb began to fathom them. That was when he started talking less, and wandering more, though he stayed close to Arya. Perhaps because Jon, looking at Robb, could only see the Heir to Winterfell, and know he would only ever be Eddard Stark's bastard.

He first began to understand when he overheard the argument between his father and mother. "Send him away!" She had cried. "Other men, every other man-"

"I cannot simply abandon him," his father had said, stiffly.

"And I cannot have him here! Is this about his mother?"

His father's voice had gone cold. "Do not, Catelyn."

"Is she still alive somewhere, is that it? Is she beautiful, and you plan for the day when you shall be rid of me and-"

"No," his father had said, flatly, and then his voice went too low and quiet to hear, and Robb, frightened, crept away.

Sometime when they were out together, though, Robb lying on the grass looking up at the blue sky, Jon leaning back against a tree, he made the mistake of bringing it up.

"Who's your mother, Jon?"

"I don't know." Short, simple, but Robb could hear the slight tension in Jon's voice. Like an idiot, he kept on. "Father and mother – well, my mother – were talking about it."

"Arguing," Jon corrected, flatly.

"Arguing," Robb agreed, quite oblivious. "And – well, I wondered if you knew, that's all."

"I don't."

He'd let the silence rest for a few moments, thinking over that, and then asked abruptly, "Is that why my mother hates you so much?"

Jon was quiet; he could hear his half-brother breathing. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because." Jon stood up, abruptly. "I'm going back."

Finally, Robb caught the tension and underlying anger in his voice, and rolled over to look at him. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I should just go back."

Robb frowned. "What'd I say?" This time he saw Jon twitch.

"Nothing."

"You don't think I'm going to believe that."

Jon looked away. "You can stop rubbing my face in it, all right?" Robb blinked.

"I – what?"

"I know she's your mother, not mine. I know she hates me. That doesn't mean I want to hear about it." Jon's voice was tight.

"What do you – what do you mean, what are you talking about?" Robb shoved himself up. "I was just asking…"

"Just asking," Jon snapped, "Because I'm just a bastard, because I'm no one important."

"I never said that-"

"She's your mother, just like this is your castle and your life and your future. I understand, okay? That doesn't mean you have to go and shove my face in it every chance you get-"

"I – what? Jon…"

"Jon Snow," Jon snapped, voice rising, "Jon Snow, and no one's ever going to let me forget it, least of all you. Lord Robb."

He felt a little twinge of hurt. "I wasn't trying to say anything about…"

"You have a mother. You have a family. You have Winterfell. You don't have to try." And he turned and stalked off, in a cloud of anger and bitterness.

Then, he'd understood.

Things had never been the same between them, after that; oh, they tried, and still did things together, but gradually Robb spent more time with Theon and Jon spent more time alone. Robb thought, bitterly, once or twice, that his mother must be pleased, but the thought was unkind and he always pushed it away quickly. Because he understood a bit more, now; understood more than he really wanted to.

Because he was the Heir to Winterfell, and Jon was only a bastard. A bastard without any certain parentage or any certain future: they were worlds and worlds apart.