There was nothing but pitch black when Caitie stirred some time later.

Her head was thankfully clear as she forced her eyes open and took in her surroundings as best she was able. She didn't remember falling asleep, but she was lying on the cold hard floor with her head on a sack of grain. She could hear the sound of snores coming from a few feet away.

As Caitie became more and more alert, she realized where she had fallen asleep and started to panic. She didn't know how long they had been there. It could have been first light or mid-day or even worse. Jon was supposed to be leading the party north. If he was late...

Caitie bolted up to shake his arm. "Jon, we fell asleep. Wake up."

"Mm," he grunted, waving her off.

"Jon!"

"What?" he muttered.

"We fell asleep, and I don't know what time it is. Wake up!"

Now, he listened. His eyes were open in a flash. "What time is it?"

"I already said I don't know. But we've got to get out of here before—"

Footsteps cut off the rest of her sentence. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the worried look on Jon's face mirroring her own. Technically, there was no rule about being out of bed at night, but with Thorne in charge—and with his vendetta against Jon—they ought to have been more careful.

The door handle turned. Candle-light flooded the pantry.

"There you are!" Sam sighed in relief.

Instead of answering him, Caitie and Jon made sounds of protest to the bright light.

He ignored it. "You both need to get up. It's almost first light."

Jon jumped to his feet. "We're late." He held out a hand, pulled Caitie to her feet, and dragged her out the door.

"Wait!" Caitie exclaimed, halting. "Jon, stop! We have to get our things!"

He swore, but thankfully Sam was right behind them. "Forget something?" he asked. He was holding their packs in his free hand. Their weapons were at his belt.

"How did you—"

"I went by both your quarters."

They both smiled gratefully. Sam handed Jon his sword and Caitie her daggers. She looked down at them—wishing once again she still had her old ones—and hooked them to her belt.

"Gods," she said, trying to distract herself, "you had an entire bottle to yourself last night. How do you hold your liquor so well?"

Sam had no answer beyond a shrug. He looked between the two of them. "Promise me you'll come back—both of you."

Jon's features softened. Sam always was able to get him to show his affectionate side. "We'll try."

"Goodbye, Sam," Caitie said. She threw her arms around him and squeezed tightly. It took everything she had to pull away and follow Jon.

They raced through the castle, too preoccupied with getting to the courtyard to keep their footsteps light and quiet. After what felt like years, they skidded to a stop right outside the gate to the Haunted Forest.

Relief flooded through Caitie that the only two who'd arrived were Grenn and Edd.

"We're here," she said breathlessly. "We're here."

"What happened to you two?"

"Ale," she and Jon chorused.

"Yeah, that'll do it."

"I can't believe I let you convince me to drink the night before we went to leave," Jon said.

Caitie scoffed. She was much too tired to let him accuse her of such things. "Excuse me, did I hold my dagger to your throat and threaten to kill you if you didn't?"

"That's not the point. We should never have had ale, to begin with!"

"Don't be a child. You didn't have to have any."

"A child?" He repeated incredulously. "You—"

"Oi!" Edd interrupted.

They both blinked. "Sorry," Caitie mumbled.

Jon took a deep breath and composed himself. "Right," he said, using his "commander" voice. "The others will be here soon. When they do, we're to leave immediately. Hopefully," he threw Caitie a pointed look, "no one will be too tired to go on until after dark."

"Prick," she muttered.

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

"Caitie…" he warned through gritted teeth.

She only rolled her eyes.

"How many cups?" Grenn whispered. She hadn't even noticed him come up next to her.

"Three—maybe four."

"Seven Hells," he laughed. But then, as if remembering she was at odds with him, he went quiet and looked around the courtyard awkwardly.

Thankfully, before he could say something that would undoubtedly make her want to cry, Bedwyck, Dywen, Locke, and the two others with names she hadn't bothered to learn joined them.

Caitie let her mind wander—to something completely, definitively unrelated to Grenn—as Jon gave another little speech to the newcomers.

Before she knew what was happening, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of Grenn's hand through her cloak. "Come on," he said.

Caitie didn't hesitate. She bounded past Jon, who was talking to Locke as they mounted their horses. After she mounted her own horse, she urged him out the gate as fast as she could and grinned at the sight of the north.

It didn't seem much different to the last time she'd been out here. The air was sharp and cold, but it smelled fresh. A thick layer of snow covered the trees. The interior of the Haunted Forest looked dark, but Caitie knew that sunlight peeked through during the day, making patches of snow sparkle.

The north was dangerous, but it was also beautiful.

"Caitie, is it?" a voice from behind asked. The spell fell away. Her stomach clenched, and she dug her nails into her palms as Locke's horse pulled up next to hers.

He had the same insincere charm as before—the same vaguely predatory gleam in his eye. She wanted to run, or hide, or stab him. But she managed to school her features into something like pleasant indifference. "That's my name. Locke, right?"

"Aye," he answered. "We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I wanted to introduce myself—make a better impression."

Oh, she was so sure.

"It's all right. Good to meet you, Locke." Caitie was quite impressed with her ability to lie so fluently. Then again, she'd had practice.

Locke's horse came to a halt, and he held out his hand. Caitie wanted, more than anything, to recoil. But she forced herself to clasp it in her own and smile blandly.

Mercifully, he pulled away a second later. "You're friends with Snow, aren't you?" he asked.

"You could say that."

"Know him well?"

Caitie shrugged noncommittally. She didn't like that Locke had taken an interest in Jon.

Realizing that she wouldn't be forthcoming, Locke switched topics. "So, what do you think we'll find?"

"At Craster's Keep? Other than a bunch of angry mutineers, it'll probably just be Craster's daughters."

"Nothing else we need to worry about?"

She paused. "Well, maybe Jon's direwolf. If you see him, let us know. Ghost's almost my height, with red eyes. He'll probably try to eat you whole, though, so I wouldn't get too close."

Locke's face paled a bit.

Caitie couldn't help feeling a bit of smug satisfaction. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure he wouldn't," she added, laughing. "It's not as if you would try to hurt Jon or one of his men. Direwolves are very protective of their pack, you know."

It was his turn to force out a laugh. "Well, having a direwolf on our side would make things easier, wouldn't it?"

Caitie nodded. Finally, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Edd glancing her way and threw him a desperate look.

He was next to them in an instant. "I need to talk to you about Tanner," he said to her. "Now."

"Okay." She tried to sound cheerful. "See you, Locke."

Once they had led their horses a good twenty feet away, Caitie felt like she could breathe. But as Edd went even further, over towards Grenn, that feeling dissipated. She couldn't ask Edd to stop—not without telling him what had happened—so she had to swallow her feelings and brace herself for the embarrassment.

"Something's off about him," Edd muttered.

"Thank you! You're the only other person to notice it. Jon and Sam have been telling me I'm mad whenever I say so."

"Well, you are mad. But not about this."

Caitie smacked his arm. "I am not mad, you ass."

Edd snorted.

"He's interested in Jon—have you noticed that, too?" she asked after a moment.

"Aye."

She scrunched up her face, thinking. "Locke is the name of a house; I know that much. He said he was from the Stormlands, but that just doesn't sit right with me." She stopped and huffed. "Oh, I don't know. I learned all the houses of Westeros, but—"

"Every single one?" Grenn asked incredulously—possibly impressed, too. Caitie hadn't realized he was listening, and she had to force herself not to smile.

"It's expected—to make a match," she explained, rolling her eyes. "Fat lot of good it did. I've forgotten most of it. Besides the Great Houses and my families', I probably remember one per kingdom—well, and the larger Northern ones."

"So you think Locke's highborn?" asked Grenn.

"Not all members of a house are highborn," Edd said. "I wasn't."

Caitie frowned. "You know, I could have sworn a Locke came through Norwood, once."

"So, he's Northern? Like you and Jon?"

"Maybe."

"Why wouldn't he tell us that?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out," she said wryly.

Grenn smiled. "Thoughtful of you."

This time, Caitie couldn't resist smiling back at him. "Well, I try."

Caitie didn't seek Jon out until they made camp for the night. She tied her horse's reins to a nearby tree, got some food from Dywen, and finally went over to him as he was sitting all by himself against a tree—brooding, like usual.

"Are you still mad at me?" she asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"I wasn't mad," he said. "Annoyed, maybe—but not mad."

"But you're always annoyed at something. This was more... potent."

Jon glared at her, but it just made Caitie laugh. "Well," she said, sighing dramatically, "you have my deepest apologies for forcing you to drink ale with me late into the night. I am a vile temptress, and you bear no responsibility for your intoxication. Happy now?"

"Very," Jon replied as she sat down next to him. "Is it strange that I missed this place?" he whispered.

Caitie stared up at him in surprise, but then she shook her head. "Not even a little. I have, too. There's something so compelling about the north. I suppose it's the mystery of it," she said, thinking of the Fist of the First Men and the dragonglass daggers they'd found. "Do you ever wonder what's out here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if it weren't for all the danger—the Wildlings and White Walkers and whatever else—we could explore. No one has ever been able to map the Lands of Always Winter—not that it sounds like a particularly pleasant place."

Jon snorted.

"But maybe," she continued, "if the Walkers ceased to exist, it would become the Lands of… Sometimes Winter—and we could chart it."

He was looking at her like she was a bit insane.

She rolled her eyes. Jon had no sense of adventure. "Anyway, it's not only that. There's something freeing about the north. It can be so stifling back home. No matter where we go, we're defined by what we are, not who we are. Our names, our titles, our families, our sex—none of it matters here."

Jon's expression changed to relief. "I feel it, too," he admitted. "Out here, I'm not Jon Snow. I'm not the Bastard of Winterfell or a brother of the Night's Watch. I'm just… Jon."

"Exactly. I don't know what it is, I just feel free, here—awake."

"Maybe it's our Northern blood. We're fit for the cold."

Caitie laughed. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. I always wanted to go to Dorne, you know."

Jon raised an eyebrow and said flatly, "Dorne."

She nodded in sudden excitement. "A year or so before I left, my father was trying to force Owen to marry a Dornish girl—a Jordayne, I think. I don't really remember. Anyway, some envoy came to Norwood for the negotiations, and he told me that it never snows in Dorne, even in winter. It's always sunny—and it's warm. So the dresses are all made of silk or gossamer, and they come in bright colors, like pinks and yellows and bright blues—I always loved how I looked in blue—and—what?" she asked. Jon was staring at her again—this time as if she had grown a second head.

"You know," he said, "I always thought you'd get along well with Arya, but I'm starting to think you'd do well with Sansa, too. She loved pretty things. I don't think I ever saw her without her sewing needles."

Caitie had only seen Sansa once. The most she remembered about the encounter was wishing she were half as beautiful as the oldest Stark girl. They were close to the same age—a little over a year apart—but Sansa hadn't said a word to Caitie when she'd dined with the Starks at Winterfell. And, knowing how she had treated Jon his whole life, it made a lot of sense now. "Didn't you say she only ever referred to you as her half-brother?"

"She was just a child. It wasn't her fault."

"I'm sure," Caitie replied, but she wasn't convinced.

"I didn't make much of an effort with her. I would always stand off to the side brooding while the other children played."

"Now, that, I believe that. You're the King of the Brooders, after all."

Beyond a half-hearted weary look, Jon ignored her. "She was kind to Bran and Rickon, though."

The mention of Jon's two youngest brothers made the atmosphere grow cold and somber.

"Speaking of which…" Caitie said tentatively. "I know you're hoping to find Bran at Craster's."

Jon nodded. "I'm going to find him and bring him home."

"Didn't Sam say he insisted he had to go north?"

"He's just a boy—he doesn't know what he's talking about."

"He's a little over a year younger than I was when I came to Castle Black."

"You're not a cripple."

"As far as I've heard, his injuries didn't impair his ability to think." Jon glared, prompting her to sigh. "If he chose to come out here, it has to be for a good reason."

"Good reason?" Jon exclaimed. Everyone else turned to look at them from the fire a few steps away. "He's my brother," he said more quietly, now, bending down close to her. "What do you expect me to do?"

Caitie almost relented, then. She almost told Jon that he should force Bran to come back to the castle with him—whatever it took to keep him safe. But she also knew it would be the wrong answer. "Let him go," she said with a sad sigh. "I know how hard that is—Gods, you know I do. But he's old enough to make his own choice. You have to trust him to make the right ones for himself."

When Jon didn't look convinced, Caitie put her hand on his shoulder and said, softly, "When Owen and Cerys sent me to the Wall—that's what they did. They trusted me to make the right choices—to use the lessons I'd learned from them to keep myself safe. And it meant everything."

She had never said this out loud before, but it was what she loved best about her brothers. They had always wanted her to be able to defend herself. It was why they'd taught her to fight; why they'd taught her so much about the world. They never wanted her to be out of control of her life or be dependent on them for protection.

"The best gift they ever gave me was trusting me," she said, "because it meant I could trust myself."

"Caitie, I can't. He's my brother—I can't leave him behind."

"I know." She had known what his answer would be from the start. "And I'm on your side—I always will be, no matter what stupid thing you do." She winked and nudged his shoulder with her own. "If we find him, I'll help you get him back to the Wall. Just think about what I said, okay?"

Jon didn't say anything for a second. Then he laughed. "When did you get so wise?"

She laughed, too. "Somewhere between my second and third cup of ale last night."

Jon was about to reply, but then he looked over her shoulder to the fire and tilted his head. "Why is Grenn looking at us?"

"Oh," she said nervously. "We, um... kissed. And he—well, I don't really want to talk about it."

When she looked back at him, Jon had a glint in his eye like the one Ghost would get when he was about to attack. "What did he do to you?" he growled.

Caitie rolled her eyes. "He didn't do anything. That was the problem."

"Oh."

"But I'm not upset," she said, crossing her arms and raising her chin. "I don't care—I have more important things to worry about."

His expression changed to wry amusement. "I don't doubt it." But from the way he was looking at her, he obviously did.

Caitie huffed and pushed herself up. "I'm going to sleep. Do try to wipe the smirk off your face before morning. If it's not gone, I'll have to kill you."

"What happened to always being on my side?"

"Jon?" she said sweetly. "Take Longclaw and shove it up your ass."

His only reaction to her comment was to shake his head and say, "Goodnight, Caitie."

She softened, squeezing his shoulder, hoping he knew how sorry she felt about... everything.

"Goodnight, Jon."

Caitie stood on a snow-covered hill overlooking the Haunted Forest. The night was cloudless; the entire hillside bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. To say it was beautiful would be an understatement.

There was a soft breeze—strange, beyond the Wall. It should have been biting, but it was… pleasant; warm, almost.

After a little while—she couldn't tell how long it'd been—she heard footsteps behind her and sighed. Jon, she assumed, coming to tell her they were ready to move out. Or maybe—hopefully—Grenn.

But when Caitie turned to see the person who had come to find her, she was lucky she didn't faint.

He was tall and lean, with dark hair, dark eyes, a long, straight nose like hers, and the same look of exasperated amusement he got whenever she had said something she thought was hilarious but was really probably inappropriate.

It was Owen.

His lips were moving—he was trying to tell her something, but she couldn't make it out. His voice was muffled as if he were trying to speak through a mouthful of food—something Owen would never do.

He gestured to a point behind her. Slowly, she turned around, waiting in anticipation. She knew, in her bones, who it would be.

Cerys.

It was like seeing a male version of herself because that's what Cerys had been. He had the same oval face, the same dark wavy hair, and almond-shaped, pale blue eyes. He had the same dimples when he smiled, and the same freckles splattered across the nose. He didn't have a beard—he had never been able to grow a beard.

This couldn't be real. She had to be dreaming. Owen and Cerys were dead. They were dead and gone and rotting with the rest of the Northern army. The Boltons and their southern allies had seen to that.

Yet, here they were.

She tried to speak to them, to run, but she couldn't talk or move. She couldn't do anything but look back and forth between the two of them.

Then, the expressions on her brothers' faces changed from happiness to fear.

She whipped her head around again, and her heart seemed to stop beating and start racing at the same time.

Karl Tanner.

Oh, this was bad—worse than bad, because when she looked down, she was wearing a dress; the dress she had worn to the brothel, covered in blood. Which meant he knew the truth, and from the look on his face, he was excited by it.

Owen and Cerys were stuck, unmoving. So was she—without any daggers, without a sword, or even a bow and arrow—although that last one probably wouldn't help her much. She could shoot as well as she could embroider, which was to say, not at all.

Tanner shot over to her as fast as lightning, grabbed her arm like her father used to do, and swung her around. She thrashed against him and screamed—she could do that, at least—but she felt like she was moving through soup. She couldn't make an impact.

Her daggers appeared in her hands a second later. From the feel, she could tell they were her childhood daggers—the ones she had stupidly named Dark and Sister because she was too terrible at naming things to be more creative.

Caitie managed to turn around, but before she could stab Tanner, he backed away, staring in horror at something. She saw him turn on his heel and flee, so she looked back to Owen and Cerys, who were now standing side by side—but they weren't Owen and Cerys anymore.

Or, they were, but they weren't the Owen and Cerys she knew.

Bright blue, crystalline eyes and a sickly grey pallor clued her in. They were wights. Because they were dead, she realized. And that's what happened to the dead.

Caitie started to cry. It was pathetic, but she didn't care. It was bad enough they were dead, but to be a wight… they should have been allowed to be at peace, to rest. They deserved that much.

She realized that's why her daggers had appeared. So she could kill the wights. So she could kill her brothers.

But she wouldn't. She'd let them kill her first. As if the dream could sense her decision, Caitie felt warmth beside her and looked down.

No—not him.

All she could see was the top of his head, but then he looked up at her and smiled, the way he always used to after she agreed to read to him.

Caitie had to choose between saving her baby brother and killing her elder ones.

The wight versions of her brothers advanced as Arthur clung to her leg and stared up at her—his expression fearful, now.

"Stop," she sobbed to the wights. "Please stop—come back."

They didn't respond. They just kept advancing—closer and closer—and she couldn't move.

"Hello, there."

Caitie looked to the side to see Locke.

"Need some help?"

Unwilling to wait for her answer, Locke reached back for his sword and shield—the second of which had a sigil of red man splayed out painted on it. He started towards her brothers with that cold, near-sadistic grin he'd worn the first day she'd seen him.

She didn't want to look, but she couldn't close her eyes. All she could do was watch. In one sweeping movement, Locke removed wight-Owen's head from his body. Caitie cried out in horror as she watched it roll away, down the hillside and out of sight. Then, he turned his gaze towards Cerys, smiling with pleasure as he cut him clean in half.

Arthur was clinging to her leg, crying, screaming that she had let their brothers die. There was a pounding in her head as she watched Locke turn back their way with the same grin, and then…

She was being pulled both upwards and downwards all at the same time, into darkness.

I'm sort of at the point where I don't give a fuck if I edit already-posted chapters into oblivion. FFN is a mess, so why shouldn't I get to be one, too?