Soooo people were, like, really shocked and upset after the last chapter, and I'm not gonna lie, I'm kinda living for it. The reaction people had has brought out a sick sort of sadism in me. But hey, I'm not as bad as GRRM, and that's what counts. Right?

During the rest of Caitie's ridiculously long convalescence, she made a point not to cry. Jon and Sam kept glancing at her, waiting for her to break down once again—but she refused to give them the satisfaction of being right.

She would not think about Mormont and Ghost and Craster's daughters, she would not think about having abandoned Arthur, and she would absolutely not think about Owen and Cerys.

Instead, Caitie acted as if nothing had changed. If she pressed on and ignored her pain, it would lessen. The tactic had worked before, and it would work again.

She spent the rest of her energy relentlessly pestering Maester Aemon to allow her to fight again. Every morning when he and Sam came to inspect her injuries, she would ask, and every time he would refuse.

It wasn't for another two months of rest and healing that the maester reluctantly agreed to it. When he did, Caitie almost squealed with excitement.

On the first morning of her freedom, she woke early and found Grenn and Jon eating breakfast in the main hall. The rest of their friends were nowhere to be found. Caitie plastered on a smile before she plopped herself down at the open seat beside Jon and said, happily, "Good morning!"

He gave her a sideways glance. Caitie ignored it.

"I've never seen you so cheerful this early," Grenn replied from across the table, completely unaware of any tension. Caitie had made Jon and Sam promise not to tell their other friends. The looks of pity the two of them shot her on a daily basis was more than enough.

"Well, I'm excited—we get to fight again! I don't think I've ever gone a day without it before now."

Of course, Owen and Cerys had been the ones to make her practice every day for most of her life, but Caitie forced herself not to think about that.

Her face must have fallen because Grenn's brows furrowed, but just as he opened his mouth to ask if she was okay, they were interrupted by Pyp.

"You'll never guess what I just heard!" he exclaimed, rushing over from the other side of the room. They all turned to look at him, waiting expectantly. He grinned, pausing for dramatic effect. "The king's dead!"

There was a sharp intake of breath.

"What?" Jon asked.

Pyp nodded, smiling in earnest. "Died at his own wedding, too!"

A laugh bubbled up from Caitie's chest. How wonderfully, morbidly fitting. "You're joking!"

"I'm not, I swear. I heard it from Hobb, who heard it from Donal, who overheard Sam and Maester Aemon talking about it. They're saying the Imp killed him—poisoned his drink. They're putting him on trial."

Jon scoffed in disbelief. "Tyrion?"

"But he's the king's uncle," Caitie said. "That would make him a kinslayer."

There was no man as accursed as the kinslayer. It was why the Norrey children had endured their father. If Tyrion Lannister had murdered his nephew, death would be a kindness.

"Aye," murmured Jon, who was staring at the ground, pondering something.

Caitie remembered that he knew Tyrion—they'd met when the royal family had come to Winterfell, and Tyrion accompanied Benjen Stark's recruits'—Jon included—to Castle Black. He had left only a few days after Caitie arrived. She had avoided him the whole time, not wanting to risk the cleverest Lannister noticing her.

"Do you think he did it?" she asked.

"Seven Hells, I don't know. But Tyrion was decent to me—he helped me."

Grenn and Pyp both snickered, to which Jon glared.

Furrowing her brows, Caitie observed the three of them. "Have I missed something?"

Her friends exchanged glances. She could've sworn she saw Jon's face darken and Grenn shift in his seat uncomfortably, but neither said a word.

"Nah, nothing important," Pyp answered casually.

Jon shook his head, redirecting the conversation back to the matter at hand. "I can't believe him a kinslayer."

"Could you blame him if he were?"

Jon stared at her in astonishment. Caitie's question was a radical one.

"Forget that!" Grenn gave him a friendly punch on the arm. "Joffrey's dead! Your father's killer."

Grenn was right: if there was ever a cause for celebration, it was this.

The Lannisters were responsible for the Red Wedding—the destruction of the Northern army at the Twins. Joffrey, specifically, was responsible for Ned Stark's beheading. He had caused so much pain and suffering for so many people—including those she loved. Caitie was ecstatic at the thought of him dying—preferably in agony.

But then, a small voice in the back of her head reminded her that the king dying still wouldn't bring her brothers back.

No, no, no.

She clenched her teeth and kept the wave of despair at bay.

Jon turned towards Pyp. "Did you hear anything about my sisters?"

"No. I'm sorry, Jon. But if something happened to them, we'd know, wouldn't we?"

Caitie wasn't sure she believed that, but it didn't seem kind to correct the assumption.

With all their questions answered, the remainder of breakfast passed by uneventfully. Caitie quickly finished off the rest of her meal and followed her friends toward the door when she crossed paths with Sam.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"I was needed in the library. There was a letter from King's Landing early this morning. The king is—"

"Dead," Caitie finished. "Pyp told us."

"Oh. Good." But Sam still seemed unnerved. He was looking down at the floor, shifting from foot to foot.

"What's wrong?"

He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. "Caitie, could we speak privately?" he asked apprehensively.

She gave him a strange look but nodded and followed him out the door to a deserted alcove.

"What is it?"

Sam took a deep breath and swallowed nervously. "I noticed you haven't retrieved your letter from Maester Aemon yet."

Caitie's blood ran cold. She had been pointedly refusing to think about that letter.

"I just thought you might have forgotten and—"

"I didn't forget," she replied snappishly. Sam grimaced, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. "I'm sorry. I'm just… I don't want to see it right now, okay?"

He smiled pityingly.

"Please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to break. I hate it."

"I'm just worried about you."

She sighed. "I know. And I'm grateful that you care. But I'm fine."

If Caitie kept on saying it enough, it would be true eventually.

Sam didn't seem convinced. "You're not letting yourself grieve."

"Seven Hells, Sam. I already grieved. And now I'm fine," she insisted. "Joffrey's dead. What more could I ask for?"

Quite a lot. But Caitie wouldn't admit it.

"Look," she continued, "I have to go. I want to finish my duties early so I can join Grenn and Jon in the courtyard to spar."

Sam sighed, but, realizing it was a lost cause, he dropped the subject. "All right," he said quietly. "If you're certain… I'll see you this evening."

Though he allowed her to leave without another comment, Caitie could tell he wasn't happy about it.

The sad thing was, she didn't particularly care what he thought.

When Caitie walked into the courtyard late into the afternoon, she was greeted with a sight which nearly made her forget all her stresses: two very attractive men sparring with each other—competently. They were putting on a show for the recruits who stood huddled together, watching with rapt attention.

Grenn swung at Jon's middle, forcing him to jump back, laughing, "Very nice—good."

Caitie was rather impressed with how far Grenn had come. Learning swordsmanship took time—the fact that after only two years, he could hold his own against Jon was surprising. And enjoyable to watch.

"A lot of Wildlings fight with a weapon in each hand," Jon told the group.

She smiled brightly. "Like me!"

Jon nodded. "Aye, like you. But they use swords, not daggers." He grabbed a second sword and gave it to Grenn. Then, he attacked, and this time, Jon defeated him in less than a blink.

Grenn flicked his gaze over to Caitie, looking sheepish, but it was gone in half a second, and he grinned at Jon.

The two men pulled away from each other. "Let's see what you can do," Jon said to the recruits.

Olly stepped forward.

"Olly, you just watch for now."

"I can fight!"

"Have you ever held a sword before?"

"I was the best archer in our hamlet."

The others laughed.

"I was!" he insisted.

Caitie had half a mind to reprimand everyone who'd laughed. Olly might have been a child, but he wasn't all that much younger than she was when she had joined the Watch. And she could have easily defeated most of them at his age.

Before Caitie could, however, Grenn's voice broke through the laughter. "I believe you. We'll go hunting for rabbits one day. But right now, watch and learn," he said.

Well, that was intriguing. She'd never have thought Grenn would be any good with children. It didn't help her little crush.

Olly was disappointed, but he fell back, resigned to his place.

Jon picked two recruits out from the crowd and told them to try and disarm each other. Then, along with Grenn, he wandered over to her while the recruits took position.

"Who do you think'll win?" Grenn asked.

Caitie didn't need to reply because the first recruit clobbered the second the moment after Grenn finished his question.

"I think you have your answer," she said.

The two recruits started up again, with the same result as the first round. This time, Caitie observed the better of them. He was a little taller than Jon—which wasn't saying much—with salt-and-pepper hair and two scars running down each of his cheeks.

But the thing which stood out to Caitie was the cruel glint in his eye as he defeated his opponent, smiling arrogantly. She disliked the man instantly.

"You know how to fight," Jon said, lowering his voice so the rest of the recruits couldn't hear. "You could have gone easier on him."

"He wouldn't have learned anything that way," the recruit replied.

Caitie scoffed. "Yes, because humiliating him for your own pleasure was obviously necessary to teach him. How kind of you."

The three men stared at her with their brows raised, but before they could reprimand Caitie for the comment, they were interrupted.

"Lord Snow," Alliser Thorne called as he descended the steps to the courtyard.

Janos Slynt tagged along behind him, and Caitie had to force herself not to put her blade in his belly. Sentenced to the Wall after the ranging party had left for the north, Slynt had quickly ingratiated himself to the acting lord commander. However, unlike Thorne, Slynt did nothing of use. He was a coward and a bully, with the mental capabilities of a fish. He disgusted her more than anyone at Castle Black.

It didn't help that, according to rumor, he had been Lord Commander of King's Landing's city watch—and had betrayed Ned Stark.

"What do you think you're doing?" Thorne asked.

"Grenn and I were helping them."

"Grenn's a ranger; you're a steward."

Had he somehow forgotten the Wildlings were about to attack them? As if Mance Rayder cared who was a steward and who was a ranger.

"Maybe you forgot that when you were off with your Wildling bitch," Thorne went on, "but I didn't."

"Someone has to train them," Jon ground out.

"And that someone isn't you." Thorne sneered. "Go find a chamberpot to empty."

The tension was so palpable that one could cut it with a knife as Jon stepped closer, his jaw twitching.

"Go on, do it," Thorne taunted. "You traitor's bastard—give me an excuse. Mormont's not here to protect you now."

Jon's hands curled into fists. He was ready for a fight, and Caitie couldn't blame him. She wanted to run Thorne through on his behalf. But if Jon attacked, he would get killed, and Caitie refused to lose him a second time.

It was lucky, then, that he had become less impulsive in the last few years. With a significant amount of willpower, Jon wrenched his gaze away and walked off stiffly.

Thorne smirked as he watched him go but was soon distracted, screaming at everyone to get back to work. It allowed Caitie to turn her attention to the arrogant recruit as he slunk over to Jon.

"A bastard, eh?" he said. "Took you for highborn."

Jon smiled ironically. "My father was highborn. My mother… wasn't."

"Name's Locke." The recruit—Locke—held out his hand.

The name sounded familiar, but Caitie couldn't place it.

Jon took the outstretched hand and shook. "Jon Snow. You fight well—what brought you up here?"

"A sense of duty. I wanted to do my part for the safety of the realm."

A lie. Of that, Caitie was certain.

Jon shot him a skeptical look, and Locke laughed. "I was game warden in the Stormlands. Fed a prized partridge to me hungry kids. I was stupid enough to get caught. Chose the wall over losing my hand. Figured I wouldn't have to suck up to any highborn cunts here." He looked over to where Thorne stood, still barking out orders. "Guess I was wrong."

Caitie rolled her eyes at the way Jon ate up the story. Granted, it seemed plausible, but she was confident Locke was lying—manipulating Jon for some reason. It took her a moment to figure out how she knew—but then it hit her: Locke was exactly like her father. Charming but insincere at the same time.

After a few more brief sentences, the two men shook hands, and Locke finally departed.

"I don't like him," Caitie said, coming over to join her friend as he watched Locke walk away.

Jon frowned. "He seemed a decent enough man to me."

She pursed her lips. "There's something off about him. He's lying; I can tell."

Jon raised a brow at her. "How do you know?"

"Because," she replied, "he reminds me of my father."

"That's harsh."

"Well, it's true."

Jon sighed. "We need all the men we can get."

As accurate as it was, it didn't change her opinion. "I know. But that doesn't mean I won't be keeping my eye on him."

"Caitie," he warned exasperatedly.

"Jon," she shot back, mimicking his tone. "Don't worry; I'm not going to throw him off the Wall. I just don't trust him."

He was about to argue when something behind her caught his attention.

Caitie furrowed her brows and turned to see what Jon was looking at. A recruit—one who wasn't very good—had disarmed Grenn.

"What the hell was that?" Jon called to him in disbelief, but he only glowered at them.

Caitie tilted her head to the side. Could Grenn be jealous? From the way he was glaring at Jon, it sure seemed that way.

Well, this was certainly an interesting development.

"What are you smirking at?" Jon asked suspiciously.

Caitie snickered. "I'll keep that to myself, I think."

The idea of Grenn being jealous because of her made Caitie suddenly wanted to do something decidedly unladylike, but she'd never admit that out loud. Because then she'd have to admit that Owen and Cerys were right—her attitude had changed in the last couple of years.

Feeling her chest tighten and her legs become shaky, Caitie forced the thought away immediately. She wouldn't think about her siblings. She wouldn't.

Luckily, Jon distracted her by guffawing. "When have you ever kept anything to yourself?"

Her jaw dropped. "It's a very good thing you're a good fighter and good looking."

Caitie waited for Jon to realize the stupidity of his comment. It didn't take long for him to wince. "Oh."

She shook her head in amusement and stared back over at Locke. "Now, as I was saying, you really don't feel anything off about him?"

"He seems like a good man."

"Yes, you've said that. But 'seems' is the keyword here. He doesn't strike you as disingenuous?"

Jon shook his head.

"Oh, well. Good fighter and good looking."

"You're making fun of me," he said flatly.

"A bit," she admitted. "It's just so easy."

He snorted in disbelief. "You really think I'm good looking?"

Caitie shrugged. "It's just a fact. But please don't let it get to your head. It's big enough as it is."

Jon glared, though there wasn't much heat to it.

She turned to look at Grenn once more; his expression even more sullen. Caitie would be lying if she said she wasn't enjoying it just a bit.

"I'll see you later," she told Jon, chuckling.

And with that, she walked over to Grenn. "Everything all right?"

"You and Jon looked cozy," he replied shortly.

"That isn't exactly how I'd describe it." She crossed her arms, trying very hard not to grin.

"It's how it looked to me."

"You were watching?"

Grenn couldn't think up a response to the question.

Caitie picked up some daggers from the nearby weapons rack and tested the weight, frowning. It felt wrong—unbalanced, and unfamiliar. Fury rose in her chest when she remembered the mutineers had stolen her old daggers—her brother's last gift to her, even if they had been shabby—but she pushed it out of her mind, per usual.

"Spar with me," she said breezily.

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "I haven't started speaking Valyrian, have I?"

"But Ser Alliser—"

"He's gone now. And I don't care what Ser Alliser says. If I have to fight Wildlings, I'm not doing it without practicing first." She took a fighting stance.

"Why don't you ask Jon?"

"Because I want you."

If Caitie's heart could have stopped without killing her, it would have. She wished the ground would swallow her whole. Why had she said it like that? What was wrong with her?

"To fight, I mean," she added hurriedly.

Grenn was staring at her, fighting a grin. "Well, if you insist."

He tried to strike. Caitie parried, but she froze at the movement, an unbidden memory clawing its way through to the forefront of her mind.

"All right, Riona," Owen said. "I'm going to teach you a crucial technique: parrying."

"Parrying," a seven-year-old Caitriona repeated. "What does that mean?"

"You've mastered blocking, haven't you? Cerys said you managed it while I was at Winterfell with Father."

She nodded.

"Right, well, blocking is the first step, but it's only a defensive move. Parrying, on the other hand, not only deflects an attack entirely but also turns the attack on your opponent."

Caitriona's eyes widened in excitement. "How do I do it?" she asked eagerly.

Owen smiled. "I'll show you. Strike at me."

The two siblings took their stances, and before long, she did as he asked, striking in an arc—one dagger and then the other.

Owen's blade met them at an angle, and he pushed her back. Quick as lightning, he had his sword at her neck.

"How did you…?"

"I parried."

Caitriona pouted. "But you're stronger than I am. I could never—"

"You'll learn to rely on speed and smarts rather than strength," he interrupted, his voice patient. "It won't be as easy, but I know you can do it."

"I'll try."

It took her two months of grueling practice, frustration, and tears before Caitriona successfully managed to parry Owen—by far the most challenging maneuver in her first year of training. But when she did, her brothers threw her a little celebration while their father was away—with a cake and everything.

"To my little sister," Cerys toasted. "She's going to be the greatest woman warrior since Visenya Targaryen!"

"Ooh, I could name my daggers Dark and Sister!" Caitriona exclaimed jokingly.

"I think that's a brilliant idea," replied Owen.

Arthur made a squealing noise as he shoved cake into his mouth at the speed of lightning. Her older brothers laughed heartily at the toddler.

This was her family. Her father could bully her, ignore her, hate her even, but he couldn't take that away.

Caitie dropped her arms, letting her daggers fall out of her hands, and stood unmoving.

Grenn's voice called out to her, but it sounded far away, as if through a tunnel. "Caitie?"

Tears were prickling the back of her eyes. "I… I have to go," she choked out.

And before he could utter a word more, she fled.

Holy crap, this chapter was a pain in my ass. I feel like it was mocking me, laughing as I rewrote the same paragraph five times. Seriously, fuck this chapter.