In the three years she'd lived at Castle Black, Caitie had never appreciated the window in her quarters.

It was small—more a peephole than a window—with crisscrossing window panes and a stone windowsill to match the walls. It stood high up, so she had to stand on her tip-toes and strain her neck to see out of it. But the window opened, allowing in some fresh air, and as a prisoner of her tiny room, with Ghost taking up half of it most days, it was her only escape out into the world beyond.

As a blessing from the Red God, Caitie liked to say in her more bitter moments, it also overlooked the courtyard.

Really, it was more of a curse.

Life in confinement hadn't been so bad in the beginning. Sam, for one, insisted it was a good thing. She couldn't overwork herself if she couldn't go anywhere. She could rest, relax—as much as one could when they faced execution—and heal.

But as the weeks wore on, the imprisonment only increased her frustration and anxiety. By the time Caitie's body fully healed, she spent most of her days jealously watching the new batch of recruits spar with one another as Jon trained them. Keeping her technique honed while stuck in her quarters was a nightmare.

All she wanted was to go down there and join in, to move her muscles and savor the flow of a fight. She wanted to return to some semblance of normality before the anxiety of the upcoming choosing combined with the absence of Grenn and destroyed her sanity.

Because, while outwardly, things had gotten better, in the last few months, his death had seeped into her dreams.

They weren't always about Grenn. In some, Caitie was back as a prisoner of the mutineers, only this time alone, still in chains, waiting for Tanner, Rast, and Dirk to come and rape her. In others, she was back at Norwood, alone with her father and his fury. Arthur made an appearance every now and again—her father taking his rage out on him instead of Caitie.

Increasingly, Ser Alliser invaded, staring at her coldly as he forced her to kneel in front of him so he could behead her.

If she could only figure out what she was so afraid of, she'd joked one evening. Jon hadn't been amused by it. Neither had she, to be honest.

But the worst of Caitie's nightmares were about Grenn. Sometimes, she'd be in the tunnel with him, unable to move, watching as the giant crushed him. Other times she'd dream of running towards him, only for him to get further and further away. The worst was the image of his body on the pyre, surrounded by White Walkers.

She would wake up drenched in sweat as the grief washed over her, knocking the wind out of her and refusing to relent.

Caitie didn't speak about her dreams to anyone, with the exception of Jon. There was an understanding—a... trust—with him she didn't have with anyone else. Not even Sam; not even Edd.

He would reply with descriptions of his own nightmares about Ygritte or his siblings; with his own fears and sorrow and guilt. As the choosing drew closer, the less she wanted to leave him behind.

Once she died, Jon's guilt would triple, and she wouldn't be there to tell him none of it was his fault, as she did whenever she saw him.

Not that she saw him all that often—a few times a week, at most. Jon and Sam tried their best to see her while Edd guarded her door. But even that was only every other night, and it was difficult to do without raising Ser Alliser's suspicions.

Thorne had severely limited any contact Caitie had with the outside world, making sure his men always guarded her door. He didn't want her running off before he got the chance to behead her. Not that she would—Caitie didn't have anywhere else to go.

Because of the constant guard, other than Gilly and Little Sam—who was growing rapidly—her only regular human visitor was the second highest-ranking officer at Castle Black: Maester Aemon.

As his health had declined and Sam took over more of his duties, Maester Aemon was left with enough time to visit Caitie almost every day, at length. His visits began so he could check her wounds, but they didn't stop once she'd healed.

Instead, he'd found other reasons to visit her. More recently, he'd taken to teaching her High Valyrian, insisting it was good for his mind to speak his mother tongue. Caitie had indulged him, as she needed something to take her mind off her situation.

Learning a new language from scratch wasn't as good as sparring might have been, but it did the trick, frustrating as it was.

To say she was terrible at High Valyrian would be an understatement. It took months for her to gain the most rudimentary understanding. Maester Aemon was much too diplomatic to admit it, though.

"It is not an easy language to master for one who is not raised with it," he assured her as they sat across from each other on her bed the day before the choosing. He'd spent nearly all morning and afternoon with her because of it.

Caitie huffed, trying to mask her frustration with the latest string of words she was trying to translate. "Of course the Targaryens had to pick the most difficult language on both the continents combined," she muttered.

Maester Aemon chuckled. "I do not believe it was intentional."

"Gods. Why couldn't they have just taught us all when they conquered Westeros? They already forced us to bend the knee to them. They might as well have taught us something worthwhile in the process. Then I would know how to speak it already instead of failing at conjugations."

"Repeat the question in High Valyrian." His voice stayed calm and steady—that of a teacher with a willfully petulant student.

Caitie forced the frustration away and began translating. "Skoro syt gōntan daor—"

"Gōntan se Targaryens daor," Maester Aemon corrected.

"Skoro syt gōntan se Targaryens daor bodmagho…" she paused again. "īlva skori pōnta māzigon… naejot Vesteros?"

"Sȳz," he said, nodding. Caitie recognized it as meaning good. "Though, I believe you know the answer."

He was right; Caitie did know the answer—or at least some of it. After the Doom of Valyria, the language had faded into obscurity until King Jaehaerys Targaryen I and Queen Alysanne learned from ancient scrolls at Dragonstone. Afterward, House Targaryen had generally kept the knowledge to themselves or those they deemed worthy. They certainly wouldn't have wanted a lesser Northern highborn like Caitie learning it.

"I suppose it was a rhetorical question," she said. "But you don't agree with your ancestors—otherwise, you wouldn't be here teaching me."

"I am a Maester of the Citadel." He gestured down to the maester's chain he wore. "I, of all people, know that knowledge should not be hidden away. We thought we were gods, but we were not. Why should we have owned knowledge of Valyria?"

"Is that why you gave up the crown?" The words flew out of her mouth before she could hold them back. "I don't mean to pry. I was just—"

"Curious?"

"A bit," she admitted. "I probably learned the history at some point, but I've forgotten."

He smiled, waiting for something.

It took a while, but Caitie translated the question. "Iskos—"

"Iksos."

"Iksos," she corrected herself, "bona skoro syt ao teptan bē se… Pāletilla?"

"Sȳz. To answer your question: no, that is not why I turned down the crown. I was sent to the Citadel to become a maester as a boy. When my elder brother died, some wanted me released from my oath. I became a brother of the Night's Watch so that there would be no question regarding the throne. I did not want to be used against Egg."

"Egg?" Caitie asked. "Wait—do you mean King Aegon?"

Maester Aemon smiled. "Ah, to the realm, he was Aegon of House Targaryen, Fifth of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. But to me, he was simply Egg."

"You loved him a lot, didn't you?"

"Rūsīr ry issa prūmia."

With all my heart.

Caitie smiled both at the sentiment and because she was proud to realize she understood what he'd said.

But then Maester Aemon continued. "Not unlike your own brothers loved you."

Her smile died, and she went quiet. "Could we talk about something else?" she asked faintly.

"You cannot be angry with them forever."

Caitie scowled. Fine—if he wanted to have his conversation, then so be it. "They lied to me. So did Lord Commander Mormont."

"As did I, by your logic," Maester Aemon said. "And yet, here we sit, speaking High Valyrian to each other."

She shook her head. "You didn't raise me—tell me that you believed in me or that you trusted me. You didn't conspire with my brothers behind my back."

"And if they had told you the truth? What would it have changed?"

"It isn't about that. How am I supposed to trust my judgment if I was protected this entire time?"

A treacherous voice in the back of her mind gave her the answer: she shouldn't trust her judgment. It was the only conclusion to which she could come after everything she had done.

Owen and Cerys were right, in the end. She had needed someone to look out for her.

In truth, Caitie wasn't angry at her brothers or even Lord Commander Mormont. She was angry at herself.

Well, she was getting what she wished—Caitie was on her own, now.

"Were you?" Maester Aemon asked, breaking her out of her thoughts. "When the lord commander died, and you escaped Craster's Keep? Your friend, Grenn, was adamant it was you who planned the escape."

Caitie was glad Maester Aemon couldn't see her face. If he had seen it, he would know exactly how she felt about him. He probably knew already, but if he did, he didn't mention it.

"They would have escaped on their own, eventually," she said. "Not that it matters. I ended up getting caught in the end. I've made a wonderful mess of things without protection. And now I'm going to die."

"Valar morghulis."

Caitie took a minute as she deciphered what the words meant in Common. "All men must die?"

Maester Aemon nodded. "It is a very old saying. The response is Valar dohaeris—all men must serve."

"How uplifting," she said. "Serve whom, exactly?"

He patted her hand. "Death is an inevitable fact of life, Caitriona. Some of us face it sooner; some, later."

Caitie couldn't help the retort. "Like you?"

He chuckled. "Yes, like me. But make no mistake; we all face it. Whom else could men possibly serve?"

"Men must serve death?" she asked skeptically.

"Kessa," he said, which meant yes. "When my time comes to serve—soon, I should think—I will be ready."

Caitie was silent for a while, contemplating his words. Then, "How do you do it? Stay so calm, knowing how close death is?"

"Time, practice, and patience. A gift of growing old."

Which, she thought, she would never have the chance to do.

"Valar morghulis," she said. Considering the circumstances, she should probably accept the idea.

"Valar dohaeris," Maester Aemon replied. He sighed, gesturing for her to help him stand. "I'm afraid I still have some duties I must attend to before tomorrow."

His legs shook as Caitie helped him up and guided him to her door. If she weren't there, he probably wouldn't be able to make the short walk at all.

It didn't take a genius to see that Maester Aemon's body was slowly deteriorating.

"Thank you for keeping me company, Maester," she said feelingly. She hoped he knew just how much she meant it.

He squeezed her hand. "Do not thank me. I have greatly enjoyed myself. By tomorrow, hopefully, you shall be free to join me in the library to continue your studies. We'll begin work on your pronunciation."

She snorted. "Is it that bad?"

"Ah, but what is bad? The ability to improve is not bad, is it?" Which was Maester Aemon's way of saying absolutely fucking terrible.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, cracking a smile she didn't truly feel.

He cleared his throat, waiting for her to repeat the phrase in High Valyrian.

"Nyke jāhor ūndegon ao hemtubis," she said—flawlessly, too, if she was any judge.

"Yes, I believe you shall."

Caitie opened the door for him, where her guard waited. It was a brother named Gareth this afternoon. He didn't speak a word to her.

Then again, she didn't think she'd ever heard him speak before Thorne had assigned him to her door, either.

Gareth grunted, nodding to Maester Aemon respectfully, and allowed Caitie to hand him off. Without a word, he turned his back to her. She shut her door.

And just like that, Caitie was alone.

Sometimes, she didn't mind it. She liked the quiet—the ability to hear her own thoughts without having to drown out the sea of men yelling at each other from across the room. Other times, it was a nightmare of self-loathing, grief, and fear with no one to pull her out of it.

Being the day before the choosing, this was one of the other times.

It didn't help her feelings of loneliness to look outside her peephole of a window to the courtyard and see all her friends there.

Ghost lay on the ground chewing a large bone, while Jon trained the new batch of recruits. Edd stood off to the side with his sword while Jon barked out instructions. Sam and Gilly sat at a table nearby with the baby, watching, but not participating.

Unlike Caitie, Gilly was allowed outside—though not without her fair share of dirty looks. Ser Alliser would toss her out as soon as he became the new Lord Commander, but he wouldn't kill her—not like he would kill Caitie.

The acting commander had a special hatred for her, Sam had said, mostly because she was a political nightmare.

Caitie had embarrassed him. Surviving multiple conflicts north of the Wall, willingly going back out there to deal with the mutineers, nearly dying for the Night's Watch in the battle of Castle Black—and all as a woman.

Thinking about Ser Alliser sent waves of nausea she would rather avoid dealing with, so Caitie focused her gaze back onto Jon and the new recruits. At least ten stood in a circle, boots caked with mud from the melted snow, watching the sparring demonstration.

Olly was front and center with a large black shield in one hand and a practice sword in the other. He struggled to keep the shield up as Jon beat at it with his own practice sword.

The boy lowered his shield and went on the offense, trying to shift the flow of battle in his favor, but Jon was far too advanced. The fight ended with a sword at Olly's neck.

"Get your shield up," Jon snapped.

"It's too heavy."

"If it wasn't heavy, it wouldn't stop a sword. Now, get it up."

Caitie frowned as she watched Jon attack Olly over and over again until he fell backwards into the mud. It was cold, ruthless, efficient—and nothing like her friend.

This wasn't a new observation. Ever since Olly's official induction as a Night's Watch recruit not long after the battle, Jon had gotten much harsher. At first, Caitie thought it was an acknowledgment of Olly's new status. But no, he wasn't half so cold to the other recruits.

He reserved it only for Olly, and it worried her.

She'd have to discuss it with Jon before tomorrow, otherwise, she might never get the chance again. Perhaps when he came by later that evening while Edd guarded her door.

Thorne and Slynt caught her attention as they took a turn around the courtyard. They spoke loudly—enough so Caitie could hear the conversation. She listened for anything which could be useful.

She supposed she should have been used to the disappointment by now.

"These men need a firm hand—always have. They're poachers and thieves," Thorne said. He stopped walking to stare over to where Sam and Gilly sat. After a pause, he added, "Not soldiers."

After one last hate-filled glare towards Gilly, Ser Alliser and Slynt moved on, walking up the steps to the walkways and out of Caitie's ear-shot.

"That one hates me," Gilly said as she watched them.

Sam followed her gaze. "If Ser Alliser is chosen as the new lord commander… he hates the Wildlings—all the Wildlings."

"Don't let them send us away," Gilly said.

"It's not a sure thing. Ser Denys Mallister has commanded the Shadow Tower for twenty years. And people say he's a good man."

Caitie sighed. Sam knew as well as she did that Denys Mallister couldn't win. Not only was he almost as old as Maester Aemon, nor particularly charismatic, but he had been in command of the Shadow Tower when the Wildlings hit Castle Black. He hadn't brought his men over in time to help them. It wouldn't go over well with the rest of the Night's Watch.

Sam wasn't necessarily wrong that Mallister was a good man—but goodness didn't make a man politically viable. Even with Jon backing him, Ser Denys Mallister was going to lose.

Either way, just because he was a supposedly good man didn't mean he wanted women or Wildlings at the Wall.

It didn't stop Sam from trying to reassure Gilly. "He's running against Ser Alliser—"

"Sam," she interrupted, her voice forceful. She hadn't fallen for his shallow reassurances. "Don't let them send us away."

"I told you," he replied, "wherever you go, I go, too."

"You can't leave. They'll execute you."

Sam had no argument for her, there.

Caitie decided to focus back on Jon and Olly, feeling like an intruder on her friends' personal moment.

"Good, good, pivot—don't forget to pivot," Jon said as Olly swung at him. "Shield up!" he snapped.

Olly stopped moving as he looked at something behind Jon.

It was Stannis's Red Priestess, Lady Melisandre. Still eerily beautiful, still terrifying with that awful, arrogant smirk. Just looking at Melisandre put Caitie on alert for threats.

"The king would like a word," Melisandre said, smiling blandly at Jon. She didn't wait for a reply before she turned around and headed back towards the elevator.

Caitie hoped Jon would wait and take the elevator up by himself, but no, he followed Melisandre and stepped in after her. Caitie's stomach twisted, her hands clenched into fists as she waited as she tried not to pace.

Edd poked his head in after a while to let her know he had taken over for Gareth, but otherwise, she was left alone to stew. She busied herself rearranging the contents of her nightstand: a burnt-out candle, a cup of ale smuggled in a few nights earlier, her brothers' scroll, and her daggers.

Luckily, Ser Alliser hadn't thought to remove them from her. She was rusty, but she still wagered she could beat at least half the men at Castle Black with ease.

Caitie wished she wanted to rename her daggers, burn the scroll, erase all memory of her elder brothers for what they'd done, but she didn't, and she couldn't. However betrayed she felt, she loved them too much to pretend they didn't exist.

After she'd fussed over the exact angle of her daggers in relation to her cup of ale, she went back to sitting on her bed and tapping her foot.

An hour later, the door to her quarters burst open.

Caitie quickly grabbed Owen and Cerys and raised them, just in case.

"Seven Hells, Jon," she said when she saw it was only him. She lowered her weapons.

"Sorry." He didn't sound all that sorry. Instead of explaining anything, he growled something unintelligible and started to pace.

"I'm assuming your discussion with the king went well?" she asked, crossing her arms.

Jon paused mid-step. "You were watching the courtyard? Again?"

"What else do I have to do?"

He grimaced as he took a seat at the edge of her bed. "He wanted to make an offer to the Free Folk."

Caitie eyed him warily. "What kind of offer?"

"He was willing to make them citizens of the realm."

Her jaw dropped. "Wow, that's… wow."

Jon closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

"I'm sensing an 'if," she said.

"If," he agreed, "they bend the knee and help Stannis retake Winterfell."

Caitie finally understood why Jon looked so upset. "He sent you to convince Mance, didn't he? And Mance refused."

Fury flashed in Jon's dark eyes. "But he should have agreed. It will save his people, and he's just too stubborn—"

"I don't understand," Caitie said, interrupting his tirade. "Isn't this what Mance Rayder wants? For his people to live south of the Wall as citizens of Westeros?"

"Free Folk do not kneel," Jon sighed, calming slightly. "It's not in their nature."

She snorted. "You mean that Mance just wanted to kill us, and he's mad because if he bends the knee, he won't get to."

Jon gave her a hard look. "He's proud. He doesn't want to kneel to a southern king."

Caitie didn't reply because a part of her understood the sentiment. She didn't particularly want to bend the knee to a southerner, either—and certainly not one who expected her to worship the Red God in the way Stannis did.

Caitie might not like the Old Gods, but they were hers, and she'd die before she gave up the practices of her ancestors.

There was a difference between her and Mance Rayder, however. "He's responsible for the lives of thousands of Wildlings," she said. "He'd let them die? He'd give the White Walkers hundreds of thousands of more soldiers just because he's proud?"

"When's pride ever been rational?"

Caitie thought about it. Then she raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, in my experience, never."

"You're talking about me, aren't you?"

"Does 'Stewards are nothing but maids,' ring any bells?"

Jon bowed his head, embarrassed. "I can't believe you remembered that."

"Hard to forget." She sat down next to him on the bed and rested her head on her hand. "Is Stannis going to behead him?"

"No," Jon said. "He's going to burn him alive."

"Burn him alive," Caitie repeated as her expression morphed into one of horror. "Seven Hells; why would he do that?"

"It's a sacrifice to the Lord of Light."

She should have known. Her opinion of Stannis and Lady Melisandre plummeted further. It seemed the king was more Targaryen than Baratheon, after all.

Jon fidgeted ever so slightly, giving Caitie the distinct feeling he had a plan of some kind.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied. "But I can't let him die like that."

Caitie nodded. Whatever she thought of Mance Rayder, no one deserved to die so horribly. "So don't."

"Defy a king?"

"You're a man of the Night's Watch. You don't answer to any king."

Jon smiled at her. "I don't think Stannis would see it that way."

She couldn't argue with him, so she averted her gaze and asked, "He didn't say anything about me, did he?"

"No," Jon replied. "Nothing."

Caitie allowed herself to relax at the assurance. She'd rather not have a crazy king with an even crazier red priestess take notice of her.

In fact, a beheading sounded more and more appealing as she quickly peeked out the window to see Stannis's men building a pyre in the courtyard outside her window.

Caitie turned back to Jon and changed the subject before she could dwell on her death. It was the only way not to go mad.

"Before I forget," she said, "I wanted to talk to you about Olly."

"Why?"

"Well, you've been rather hard on him these last few months, don't you think?"

Jon glowered at her. Which meant she was on the right track.

"He won't learn if I coddle him—"

"Oh, don't even try that with me." She crossed her arms and refused to break eye contact, despite the intensity of his glare. "You've always been patient with the new recruits, especially the younger ones. There's something else going on. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to—I just thought you should be aware."

Jon shut his eyes, breathing deeply. "I like Olly. You know I do," he said eventually.

"I didn't mean to imply—"

"He killed Ygritte."

Her jaw dropped. "The arrow through her chest…" Olly was the best archer in his hamlet. She blinked once, twice, three times, before she found her words again. "Why haven't you let someone else oversee his training?"

"Who else is there? Ser Alliser is too busy building his support for the choosing, and no one else has the experience to train."

He didn't state the obvious: that Caitie did have the experience. But she was stuck in her quarters until tomorrow, at which point, she'd be dead.

"Olly looks up to me," Jon continued. "He wants to be a brother of the Night's Watch. I can't avoid him forever." He sighed. "It isn't his fault. He thought he was saving my life. You can't blame him."

"I don't blame him. But, Jon, that doesn't mean you're wrong for feeling the way you feel, either."

"After what the Wildlings did to his home…"

"You can't punish yourself for something you couldn't control. What happened to Olly was not your fault."

Jon couldn't have stopped the Wildlings from attacking Olly's village, just like he couldn't have stopped any of the other horrors to come from the war with the Wildlings. Neither of them had that kind of power. All they could do was make the best choices available to them. Despite everything, Caitie thought they probably had.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, sighing.

"I'll be all right," he replied. "Once tomorrow is over, things will be better."

"So optimistic. Who are you and what have you done with my friend?"

"Funny."

"I usually am." As the shouts of Stannis's men grew louder, Caitie looked out the window to see it was getting dark. "You'd better go," she said.

"You don't think I could stay here until it's over?"

"Gods, I wish. But you and I both know Ser Alliser will have a shit-fit if you're not there."

Jon eyed her. "Shit-fit?"

"It seemed like the most fitting term to use. And it rolls off the tongue, don't you think?"

Jon looked so disappointed in her, right then.

"I have been stuck in this room for months," she said. "I'm allowed to be creative with my use of language."

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes, but I can tell when you're thinking something judgmental. You get this look." She tried to imitate it, but she didn't think she captured it well. "But don't worry," she added, "I like you anyway."

"Good to hear," Jon said wryly. He put a hand on her shoulder. "You'll be all right on your own?"

"I always am," she lied.

She wouldn't. The idea of watching someone burn alive made her stomach churn. But however awful she felt, she knew it was ten times worse for her friend. So, Caitie put on a brave face and gave him a smile and a little wave as he left. When the door closed behind her, she went back to her window and waited, cold dread seeping through her as the sky dimmed.

Valar Morghulis. And Mance Rayder was next.