So a couple of things:

1. No, you're not crazy; yes, I changed my username. I got sick and tired of having numbers in it. Also, shout out to Sevensistersofsussex for suggesting my new one. It's perfect, and I love it.

2. I've turned off anonymous asks on Tumblr for... obvious reasons, so if you want to send me something over there, you'll have to do it publicly or you'll have to PM me. Sorry about that, but uh, the anons have not been good at the moment (thank god for the delete button), and I just can't bring myself to wade through them, even to see your lovely comments. Also, don't go scrolling through my Tumblr unless you want to see me get progressively more and more unhinged with rage and terror. Just fair warning.

It was footsteps that woke her.

Quick and light, they roused Caitie from her dream—and though she was exhausted, a part of her was grateful. Her dreams had been filled with phantoms and three-eyed ravens and Jon's blood on a White Walker's lance, his body a puppet for an icy god. So it was safe to say that she was glad for the interruption, glad to know her dreams hadn't yet come to pass—until she realized that footsteps meant someone was in her room, at night, while she was sleeping, and none of that could mean anything good.

She bolted upright, reaching instinctively for Owen and Cerys from her bedside table—only to curse herself when her hands wrapped around the rough texture of Nightsbane and Dawnbringer, instead. She'd stored her usual daggers away, but she shouldn't have; in hindsight, it was beyond stupid, for dragonglass might work against White Walkers, but she wasn't used to using them against people, and if someone had broken into her room, she would need to.

"Caitie, stop."

"Johnna?" she croaked, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. When she saw that Johnna was alone, her heart rate slowed and she set the daggers back down on the bedside table. "What's going on?"

"You need to get up." Johnna's voice was shaky but firm, and even in darkness, Caitie could see her blue eyes, wide with fright.

She bolted up, tossed her blankets aside, and swung her legs over the side of her bed. "Why? What's wrong?"

"It's—"

The door creaked open. "Johnna?" Willa hissed. "Where are you?"

Johnna squeezed her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath, and Caitie knew her well enough to know it was an attempt to keep her temper in check. "Go back to bed, Willa."

Willa scoffed. "It's Caitie's room, not ours. You can't tell me what to do."

"I can and I will—"

"Girls," Caitie groaned, rubbing her eyes. "It's late, I have an early morning tomorrow, and I'm already exhausted. So if you could please just stop bickering and tell me what's going on, I'd really appreciate it."

Willa hopped up onto the bed and nestled herself into Caitie's side, but Johnna didn't move. Her eyes remained wide and fearful, and now that Caitie could see better, she realized that Johnna was shaking. "Hey," she said gently, "whatever it is, you can tell me."

"It's—I saw—" Johnna choked on a sob, and that was when Caitie realized what must have happened.

Though panic swelled in her chest, she forced it down for the girls' sakes, wrapping her free arm around Johnna, and pulling her close. "You found the Army of the Dead?"

Johnna nodded, sniffling. "I—I—"

"Shh, it's okay. Take your time."

"No. I can't." She took a deep breath, and though her words were choked, she still managed to get them out. "I was flying overhead as an owl, and I saw the army closing in on Eastwatch. I don't know how far away, exactly, but the Wall was in sight. And the Night King… he was riding ahead of them on—on a dragon. Caitie, its eyes were blue."

Willa went still, her eyes glazing over as she stared up at Caitie, waiting for some form of comfort. Yet she had none to offer. Because why in Seven Hells had dragons gone north of the Wall, and how in the fuck had the Night King gotten the better of one of them?

"Shit. All right," she said, compartmentalizing her bone-chilling fear and filing it away for later. "I'm going to light a candle. You two stay here." She climbed off the bed, cursing herself for keeping her extra candles at her desk rather than her bedside table, especially when she took a step forward and her foot made contact with something warm, furry, and breathing. Ghost yelped; she swore under her breath. "Sorry, boy."

Another few quick steps and she was able to reach out and grab hold of her desk. She fumbled in the darkness, searching the drawers until she found a candle and a match. Flames burst to life. Caitie blinked as her eyes adjusted.

As she strode back towards the bed, she took in the state of the two girls. Johnna's face had never been so white, her eyes glazed over with tears. Beside her, Willa was frozen, with a matching expression of terror, and it struck Caitie that in a few weeks, those eyes might never belong to the Johnna and Willa she knew ever again.

Stop it. You can't do anything about that now.

"Okay," Caitie said, rejoining them on the bed. "Take some deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Follow my lead."

Johnna listened, taking the biggest breath Caitie had ever seen and exhaling shakily, but Willa merely swallowed. "C-Caitie. What does it mean?"

She pursed her lips, for she knew she couldn't voice the truth. It means that defeating the White Walkers just got a hell of a lot harder. And how had that happened? If Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons had gone north of the Wall, it could only have been for Jon's sake—and if that was true, then…

That son of a bitch.

"Everything is going to be okay," she said, careful to keep her voice level so as to not scare Willa further. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, I promise—"

"Caitie," Willa said, and now there was no innocence or fear in her voice, but an anger that made her sound much older than her nine years. "What does it mean?"

Caitie swallowed, exchanging a look with Johnna, for they both knew exactly what it meant. "It means that we have less time to prepare than I initially thought, and that I need to wake Sansa. If I leave you here, will you be okay?"

"No!" Willa shouted, grabbing onto Caitie's hand and clutching it like a lifeline; and it terrified Caitie, for she hadn't seen Willa like this since arriving at Eastwatch after Hardhome. "You can't leave us. What if—what if something happens?"

"Shh, shh, shh," Caitie said, wrapping Willa in her arms as she whimpered. "It's okay. Nothing is going to happen tonight. We're safe."

"B-but you d-don't know that."

"Yes, I do. They're still a long way away. We have time." I hope.

"Caitie's right, Wills," Johnna said, trying to sound calm—though the waver in her voice gave her away. "They can't hurt us tonight."

"And Johnna would know since she's the one who saw them," Caitie said. "But you need to let me go to Sansa so that I can make sure you're safe when they do come."

For half a moment-nothing happened. But then, slowly, Willa extricated herself, her eyes red and puffy as she sniffled. Caitie tucked her hair away from her face and attempted a smile, because really, she had about as much desire to leave Willa as Willa did to leave her. "Oh, baby girl—I know. I'm scared, too. But we're here for each other. That's what matters. And I promise I'll come find you as soon as I finish with Sansa."

Willa wiped her nose with her sleeve. "You promise?"

"I promise."

"O-okay."

"Take Ghost, and stay in your room, all right? I'll see you in a bit."

The two girls nodded. Caitie exchanged one last knowing look with Johnna before they exited the room. She waited until the echoes of their footsteps faded before following suit, for even though she had every intention of waking Sansa, there was another person she needed to speak to, first.

And he had better pray she was in the mood to be merciful.

With each step Caitie took towards Bran's chambers, her fury grew, and by the time she reached her destination, she'd forgotten all sense of propriety or manners; instead of knocking, she burst through the door, grateful that it wasn't locked. She'd expected to have woken him, but she shouldn't have been surprised to see him in his wheelchair, hands clasped in his lap and eyes open, staring at the door with a calm expression that only served to infuriate her further.

"You lied," she hissed, storming into the room. She didn't bother explaining what Johnna had seen, for she could already see that Bran knew about it, and probably had known all along. "You told me that Jon had to go north of the Wall to defeat the White Walkers—and guess what? One of the Targaryen queen's dragons is a wight, which means that you fucking lied—"

"I did not lie," Bran said.

Caitie scoffed. "Oh, please! You knew exactly what would happen when Jon went north. You knew exactly what the Night King would gain. We might have had months to prepare—but now, because of you, the Night King the perfect fucking weapon to make it through the Wall!"

"He would have made it past the Wall regardless of any dragons. The magic keeping him north was broken the moment I came through. It is better to let it happen in a manner of my own making, at the right time to face them—before the Game of Thrones divides the country further."

Caitie's hands curled into fists. He was mad—truly and utterly mad.

Bran extended his right arm and pulled up his sleeve. "Come. Look."

She hated the curiosity that reared its head as she followed his gaze, but when she saw the mark on his forearm, she nearly gasped. It looked as though claws had raked over the skin, leaving four red streaks—not blood, but some sort of… burn. "What is that?"

"The Night King's mark. When I passed back through the Wall into the Seven Kingdoms, it broke the magic Bran the Builder imbued into the ice."

She shook her head. "Then why didn't you just stay north?"

"I could not. Even if I had wanted to."

"So what do you want, then? For the Night King to win? Because it seems like everything you've done ensures that he will."

"That is unfair."

"Unfair?" Caitie scoffed. "You gave him a dragon. We hardly had any chance of defeating him before. Now it might as well be impossible. Were you even going to tell us? Or were you going to wait until—"

"I intended to tell you tomorrow, which would have given you time enough to prepare. The dragon Viserion's death was an unfortunate sacrifice, but one which had to be made. If I believed it would allow the Night King to win, however, then Viserion would still belong to Daenerys Targaryen."

She shook her head. "So that's it? Never mind all the people whose lives will be cut short for no other reason than because you gave the Night King a dragon. They're all just—what? Unfortunate sacrifices?"

"The Night King is not the only threat to the world of men. And it is my purpose to protect that world, by whatever means necessary. As it is yours; as it is Jon's."

"Don't you dare compare us to you. What you've done—"

"You're quick to place blame upon me," Bran said, "but I am not the one who refused to help fight the dead without seeing the truth of their powers. I am not the one who brought fire and blood to Westeros to the detriment of everyone else."

Caitie pursed her lips. "The Dragon Queen." When he nodded, all she wanted was to scream. "Damn it, then why did Jon bend the knee to her? You refused to tell me, but—"

"I refused to tell you because it's a question you should ask him."

"Well, I would, except he's not here. You are."

"And I can't tell you. I know it's not what you want to hear, but some things men must learn for themselves. This is one of them." When she gave him the most menacing look she could possibly muster, he sighed. "It would be easy to give you all the knowledge you ask for; to maneuver you into the right place, and receive the outcomes I need to preserve humanity. But I can't. I am man's memory, not its destiny. Though I can see the future's paths, I am not supposed to interfere with them."

"You didn't seem to mind interfering when you bullied me into writing Jon."

"I had no choice," Bran said, and though his voice remained level, there was an edge to it that betrayed his frustration. "Jon needed to see the truth. He needed to see what happens to wights when the White Walker who created them was killed. He needed to see what Daenerys Targaryen's dragons could do to the Army of the Dead. He needed to learn the truth about his uncle."

"His—Benjen?"

Bran nodded. "I did not tell you at the time, but he saved Jon from certain death north of the Wall. And Jon must remember that—remember those who saved him and loved him—when he makes his final choice."

"Final choice?" Caitie asked.

Bran said nothing, and she knew by now that she was never going to get an answer.

She huffed. "What do you mean 'he needed to see what happens to wights?'"

"When a White Walker is killed, the wights and White Walkers they've created die with them."

"I…" Caitie shook her head, remembering a conversation she'd had with Arthur that now felt like a lifetime ago, but one she should have remembered far earlier than now. "What are they? Where did they come from?"

Bran frowned. "They were men, once. Men with dragonglass driven into their hearts, twisted and corrupted by it. They were created to be a tool—to destroy and kill all in their path."

"Created by whom?"

"The Children of the Forest," he said. "When the First Men came to Westeros, they attempted genocide against the Children. They cut down the Children's trees and slaughtered them. The Children believed the only way to avoid their destruction was with a weapon that would turn the First Men against themselves."

Caitie legs seemed to go numb; she had to lean against the nearby wall to stay standing. No. It… no. "So it was us all along," she murmured, more to herself than to Bran. "The First Men. We're the reason the White Walkers exist. I always believed… the Andals and the Targaryens, they conquered and subjugated us, but we were no better. All the horror the White Walkers have inflicted—it was because of us. Because we tried to destroy the Children of the Forest." She shook her head, a broken laugh falling from her lips. "Maybe the world of men does deserve to die."

Bran was quiet for a while, as Caitie stared down at the floor. At last, he said, "There is great evil in men. But there is great good, too. It is worth preserving."

She sighed. "But how do you know? All it takes is one person, one time, and the world bleeds."

"Every time a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin," Bran said. "But that is true of everyone, not only Targaryens. You have met good Targaryens—you love a Targaryen—just as you have met and loved good Starks, good Tarlys, good Norreys, good Free Folk. But you also know that evil ones exist. Every house, every kingdom, every family has both, and it is not worth destroying all that is good simply to rid the world of evil."

"And what about the White Walkers?" she found herself asking.

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"They're intelligent; I've seen it. So isn't there a way to reason with them? To… I don't know. Make peace?" It sounded ridiculous as soon as she said it, for she knew there was no making peace with creatures who twisted and desecrated the dead. But she couldn't shake the feeling that destroying an entire race of intelligent beings was… well, evil.

"No," Bran said firmly. "They have gone beyond men; they know death and destruction and nothing more. The only option is to kill each and every one of them; there is no other."

"Why?"

"Because when they broke free, the impulse to destroy the world of men did not go away. They are a corruption of life. There is no reasoning with them and they will show you no mercy; neither should you."

She looked away.

"You're conflicted."

Caitie huffed an incredulous laugh. How could he know so much and yet not understand her at all? "Of course I'm conflicted! I don't want everything I've done to end in—in genocide. That isn't what I've fought for all these years."

"They aren't people any longer, Lady Caitriona. Anymore than I am."

She blinked. Though she knew, somewhere deep down, that the boy Jon had told her about didn't exist any longer, it was strange to hear Bran say it out loud. "What are you, then?"

"Does it matter?" he asked.

"It does to me."

He paused. "I am the memory of man, the vessel of the Old Ways, a protector of the realm."

Caitie scoffed. "Of course you are. You're such a protector that you're willing to let people die as unfortunate sacrifices to the greater cause."

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few—or the one. If you had to choose between a thousand lives in one city, and tens of thousands in another, what would you pick?"

She pursed her lips, for she knew he had a point, even if she hated it. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I hope it's a choice I'll never have to make."

"I hope so too, for your sake," he said. "It is a burden no person should have to bear, the ruthless calculus of war."

Caitie looked down at her hands, unsure what else she could say. I'm sorry, perhaps, for Bran's burden did feel like a terrible one. And however much he professed to no longer being a person, there was a sadness behind the vacant look in his eyes that had her softening her tone when next she spoke.

"How did we defeat them last time? The White Walkers, I mean."

"The Starks," Bran said. "They are tied to the White Walkers, and to the Old Gods. The Night King was a Stark ancestor, as was the Last Hero; even the first Three-eyed Raven had Stark blood, though it was distant, and through his mother's Blackwood ancestry. The most infamous of all was Bran the Builder. He used magic of old to trap the White Walkers beyond the Wall. For a time, it worked. Until the Tourney at Harrenhal. Every Stark attended, and none were left at Winterfell."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Have you never heard the phrase 'there must always be a Stark in Winterfell?' The Young Wolf told that to Bran Stark the night he left to fight in the War of the Five Kings. He believed it an old saying and nothing more. But it is a warning. The magic Bran the Builder used to put the White Walkers to sleep is tied to their shared blood—Stark blood. He imbued Winterfell with his own, so that as long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, the White Walkers remained asleep."

Caitie froze. She gripped the pommel of her dagger. "Blood magic?"

"Not as you would picture it," Bran said, and though she didn't know why, it settled her anxiety. "The White Walkers were made from Stark blood. Only Stark blood could keep them at bay, and Winterfell is the conduit for that. But once the tie was broken—even if only for a short time—they woke up. They grew their numbers using Craster's sons, until the War of the Five Kings, when the Starks were all but decimated. The magic weakened further, and the White Walkers grew in strength. Once the last of the Starks are dead, the Night King will be at full power, and then there will be no stopping him. That is why he will head for Winterfell first, and that is why he will not rest until every person with Stark blood is dead. He will not rest until I am dead, for I am the greatest threat to him."

"Why?"

"Because I am man's memory, and only I have the knowledge that will destroy him."

Caitie shook her head. "But how? Obviously Bran the Builder's magic wasn't sustainable."

"Jon believes that if he can kill the Night King with Longclaw, it will destroy the rest of his army," Bran said. "He was the first, after all, and Valyrian steel is the White Walker's bane."

"Is Jon right?"

Bran pursed his lips. "In a way. But it is more complicated than that."

"Of course it is. Because Gods forbid anything should be simple."

He ignored her. "Man has always battled death. It is the final enemy we face, but also the most merciful enemy, for it grants peace. The White Walkers corrupt that. They take such peace and twist it to their own ends. The person who defeats the Night King—they must understand the true meaning of death. They must walk with it, befriend it, master it."

"Master death," she said skeptically, not even touching on the idea of someone befriending death.

"Yes. Master death, and you will be blind to the Night King and his all-seeing eye."

"His…" She swallowed, remembering what she'd feared after Hardhome. "He can see everything, can't he? Just like you."

"Not quite like me," Bran said. "Winterfell's magic makes his vision… fuzzy. But, yes. And he's been searching for the one who will kill him, just as I have."

"A Stark."

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Every Stark alive has a part to play in the defeat of the White Walkers, no matter how small. But yes, it must be a Stark who delivers the final blow. And that Stark must—"

"Have mastered death," Caitie finished. It must be Jon; he had died, after all, only to be resurrected. If that wasn't mastering death, then what the hell was? He was the Prince who was Promised, according to Melisandre; the ice to Daenerys Targaryen's fire, the subject of so many prophecies she couldn't keep track of them all at this point. Of course it was Jon.

She opened her mouth to voice her theory, but if Bran wasn't answering her questions now, he wasn't going to confirm any theories she might have. And there was something about his expression… "There's more, isn't there?"

"There is."

When he didn't elaborate, she sighed. "You can't tell me, can you?"

"I can tell you this," he said. "There are conditions that must be met when the Valyrian steel is plunged into the Night King's heart."

"And if they're not?" Caitie asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Then he lives on, and the world of men dies."

Caitie had fully expected Sansa to be asleep when she arrived at the door to her bed chambers and knocked. It was still the middle of the night, the sky pitch black and the whole of Winterfell silent, save for the guards on watch duty patrolling the castle's walls. So it was quite the surprise when the door swung open mere seconds after Caitie had knocked, and she was greeted by a very angry-looking red-haired woman.

"Whatever you've come to bother me about, it will have to wait," Sansa snapped. She was still dressed in her sleeping gown, her hair braided messily and thrown to one side. If not for the gravity of the situation, Caitie might have laughed.

As it went, her stomach sank; she didn't think she could take more bad news tonight. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Sansa pursed her lips and stuck out her hand, which, Caitie realized with rising trepidation, was clutching a small scroll. "I received this an hour ago. A list of what to expect upon our new queen's arrival. Read it," she hissed, when Caitie merely stared.

Silently, she took the scroll, terrified of what she would find when she read. The list itself was not too long; two dragons, ninety-thousand Dothraki, eight-thousand Unsullied. No mention of Ironborn or Dornish forces, however—and no mention of the Reach, either. The first two were to be expected; Winterfell had received word about the capture of Daenerys's Ironborn and Dornish allies weeks ago.

But what really stood out were the supplies. Or the lack thereof.

"There's no food," Caitie said, furrowing her brows as she read over the words twice, trying to see if she'd somehow missed something, but there was nothing; no grain, no dried meats, and almost no livestock. "I don't understand, is there another scroll?"

Sansa laughed a bitter, hollow laugh. "What do you think?"

Caitie shook her head. "But… she had the Reach. I know the harvest season is over but they should still have reserves, shouldn't they?"

"The Lannisters sacked Highgarden. Olenna Tyrell is dead, as is most of her army. I received word about it after you retired for the evening; the storm delayed it."

"So the queen lost all the resources?"

Sansa closed her eyes. "She lost their armies, but… Dothraki forces attacked the Lannister's loot train on the Goldroad." Sansa shook her head. "Daenerys won the battle."

"Then why doesn't she have their food stores?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Caitie took a deep breath, once again wondering how Jon could do this to them. And once again not liking the answer that came to mind. They were seen being friendly in King's Landing, and he had a choice to bend the knee—a real one.

No, she thought furiously. Deal with the crisis now, give into suffocating hurt later.

"Okay," she said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "Can you do something?"

"How am I supposed to do something?" Sansa cried, and it was then that Caitie realized she'd said precisely the wrong thing. "I can't magically make food appear!" She ran her fingers through her hair, voice rising with every word spoken until they were coming out so fast that Caitie could barely decipher them. "I thought I could do this. I'm trying to be the Lady of Winterfell, but now there's going to be a riot, just like there was before, and—"

"Sansa, stop," Caitie said. "This is not your fault. And there's not going to be a riot."

"You don't know that—"

"Yes, I do, because we're not going to let that happen. Now, how much do we have?"

The question sobered her, calming the fear and rage that Caitie saw rising. She had gotten good at planning and problem-solving over the course of Jon's absence. And that's all this was—another problem to solve. "I… I suppose I can request more grain from the Vale in exchange for some of our heavy furs, and with Uncle Edmure back in control of Riverrun, I can likely secure some from him as well." She took a shaky breath. "If we ration that properly, and with the grain from the North's other keeps, we may—may—have enough for everyone. Perhaps Arya would be willing to inventory it all with Maester Wolkan; she's better with numbers than I am. But it's not the queen's armies that give me pause—not in regards to food, at least. It's her dragons."

"Gods," Caitie said, "I don't want to think about how much livestock they require." But she should have. It had been stupid not to think about it.

Sansa sighed. "I don't understand how Jon could do this. Giving away our independence was enough, but forcing us to accommodate an army of this size without expecting her to provide any supplies? It's madness."

Caitie swallowed, because there was no defense she could mount against Sansa's claims. It was madness. The White Walkers were the biggest threat, and she knew it as well as Jon did, but none of that mattered if they couldn't feed everyone long enough to fight.

A jolt of terror zipped up her spine as she remembered why she'd come here in the first place.

Seeing Caitie's expression, Sansa furrowed her brows. "What?"

"Fuck. You need to call the banners. Tonight."

She gaped, at a loss for words. At last, she said, slowly, deliberately, furiously, "I just told you that our food is scarce, and your answer is to tell me to call all our banners—tonight?"

"Sansa, listen to me," Caitie said, grabbing her friend by the shoulders and hoping that it would make her understand just how dire their situation was. "I just came from Bran's chambers—the Night King is coming, and he's gotten his hands on one of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons. That's why there are only two mentioned in that letter, not three. You understand what that means, I know you do."

Sansa's face drained of color. "No," she insisted, shaking her head as if the action could make the truth disappear. "The entire reason Jon went north of the Wall again was to convince her the threat was real, and you mean to tell me that she gave the Night King…"

"In fairness, I doubt it was on purpose. I don't even know how the Night King could have killed a dragon. But he did, and I'm sorry, but we don't have much time. You have to call the banners now, and you have to make sure they take every last person with them when they come to Winterfell."

"I can't just ask people to abandon their homes without warning—"

"Please. You have to trust me. If we wait until they've crossed the Wall, it will be too late."

The Wall, she thought, a new horror taking form in her mind. Edd and Tormund—and Tormund was stationed at Eastwatch. She'd send a raven as soon as she finished with Sansa, but would it get there in time? Or had Bran sealed Tormund's death warrant by waiting to tell them what had happened?

Sansa closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "Okay. I'll send the ravens now."

Caitie tried for a smile—though it was more a grimace. "Thank you—"

The door creaked open, and the two women went silent. Caitie readied her daggers as they turned.

Arthur's head poked through the open doorway. His eyes were bleary and his sandy blond hair stuck up in odd places, as he croaked "Riona?"

She breathed a sigh of relief, resisting the urge to tackle him in a hug. "Arthur. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a bit tired." He eyed Sansa, who nodded her assent for him to enter her chambers. "Johnna told me what happened. Is there anything I can do?"

Caitie didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry. He wasn't even fourteen, yet here he was, asking if there was something he could do to help prepare for the end of the world. And he shouldn't have had to worry about this; he shouldn't have had to worry about anything but what to eat for supper and what book to take from the library and which girls he thought were the prettiest. He should have had the chance to be a child, without the weight of the world on his shoulders. "You don't need to worry about it. Everything is under control. Try and get some sleep."

"If you think I could possibly sleep right now—"

"Then I'm sure Johnna and Willa could use the company—"

"Riona," Arthur said, his voice firm. "I know you want to protect me, and I appreciate it, but I want to help. So what can I do?"

Caitie pursed her lips, as she remembered what Johnna had said: You don't get to make that choice; I do. Arthur had asked to help. Caitie owed him too much not to let him. She took a deep breath. "You can write to Norwood for me."

Arthur nodded. "I can do that. Do you want me to write to Castle Black as well?"

"No, I'll take care of The Night's Watch. Edd and Tormund won't believe anyone but me."

"Just Norwood, then. Got it. I'll tell them to bring everyone—"

"Not everyone," Sansa interrupted, eyeing Caitie. "Not unless you believe the Night King will go there first."

"Bran said he would take the fastest route to Winterfell, but—"

"Then you should tell the women and children to stay at Norwood, and leave an auxiliary force there to guard them."

"We need everyone we can get," Caitie said. "If it's about the food, we'll bring whatever's left of our own; thanks to Johnna, there should be enough time—"

"It's not just about that!"

She furrowed her brows at the outburst, now thoroughly confused. But Arthur wasn't; in fact, he seemed to catch on immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. "You want to make sure we still have men once the fighting is done," he said.

Sansa nodded. "Everyone south and west of Winterfell should keep a small force at their castles to guard their women and children. It will allow us to keep the armies away from as much of our vulnerable population as possible, and it also ensures that if we win against the Army of the Dead, we will have a guaranteed force left standing."

Caitie's fists clenched, and she had to grit her teeth to keep her voice level. "Do you not understand that we need every man we can get? The White Walkers are near-unstoppable at this point, and—"

"Contrary to what you believe, I do listen to you and Jon," Sansa snapped. "But if we win—and yes, I know the two of you are convinced nothing else besides that matters—but if we win, then what? Our armies will have been depleted, leaving us completely vulnerable to Cersei."

The way Sansa spoke about everyone, including their own men—none of it sat well with Caitie. For they were all people, with daughters and sons, mothers and fathers. It felt so… wrong to view them as nameless, faceless numbers, only good to die for war. And she knew there was no choice—that she too was just a number in the end—but it still made her sick to disregard human lives so easily. The ruthless calculus of war, Bran had said. She hated that the Gods were already proving him right.

As such, it took her a moment to comprehend the larger implications of Sansa's point. "You don't believe Cersei is coming?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Of course she isn't coming—and I don't need to be a greenseer to tell you that."

Well, if anyone knows Cersei Lannister… Caitie chewed on her bottom lip as she thought it over. "If we defeat the White Walkers, we could just keep everyone at Winterfell and let her self-implode trying to get to us in the middle of winter."

"That would have been my first choice. Unfortunately, Jon has made it impossible by agreeing to fight for Daenerys."

And that was a betrayal in and of itself—to involve their people in yet another war in the south, between two southerners, after so many years of losing loved ones to it. And all to place a queen they didn't want on the throne.

Damn it.

She took a deep breath. The White Walkers would be her fight until her dying day—but the south was Sansa's, and Caitie had to trust her on it, just as she had trusted Caitie. "Arthur," she said, "when you write to Norwood, tell them to order all our people into the castle and station a quarter of our forces there to guard them." She turned to Sansa. "That leaves you with about three hundred men. Is it enough?"

Sansa nodded. "I think so. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Caitie sighed, but it quickly turned to a yawn as the ache of exhaustion set in her bones. And though she wished more than anything that she could go back to sleep, she also knew that she could not, because this was not the end.

It was just the beginning.

Poor Bran, no wonder he's so emotionless, he's traumatized by having to replay everyone's sex tapes in his head at all times. And Jon and Dany's? God, it's the medieval equivalent of being forced to watch sex scenes from Fifty Shades of Grey all day, every day. Also, my crack theory is that he can see things from other universes, and became a huge Spock and Garrus fanboy, hence the two references.

Oh, and I know I'm playing a bit fast and loose with who was at Harrenhal. I actually went and checked both A World of Ice and Fire, as well as the ASOIAF and GoT wikis, and while it is implied that Rickard Stark didn't attend, it's never explicitly confirmed. He's not mentioned at all in the passages about the tourney, which is odd to me, because AWOIAF specifically draws attention to Tywin not personally attending (yes, I know that would be more notable since he was Hand at the time, but still). Not to mention that Rickard was the most politically ambitious Stark in centuries; if he was going to leave someone behind, why not Brandon? That way Rickard could have used the tourney to make a betrothal pact for Ned and/or Benjen, or made other alliances. So yeah. I think it's canon-compliant to say that Rickard went to the tourney along with his children, and he just didn't do anything noteworthy enough to be mentioned.