Meant to post this Sunday, but that was the day my new computer decided it didn't want to work, which meant figuring out what was wrong, realizing it was a hardware issue, and finally having to exchange it.
So yeah, it's been a fun few days. Anyway, sorry about the wait.
There were dragons soaring above Winterfell.
They moved so fast that they were only blurs in the sky, black and red and green, but Caitie could hear their screeches from miles below as she watched from the castle's battlements. The sound was dizzying; she had to grab onto the stone parapets to keep herself steady as she watched the blurs soar closer, until they were flying directly overhead, swooping down upon them before shooting back up into the clouds.
Beside her, Ghost whined, his hackles rising and his ears at alert. Caitie scratched his head, though it did little to soothe him.
She sighed, looking over at Sansa. "I don't think he likes them very much."
Sansa's eyes did not leave the sky. "No," she said. "Nor do I."
Objectively speaking, Caitie had to disagree. The dragons were—Seven Hells, breathtaking didn't seem to do them justice. They danced through the sky as if they were born there, lithe and graceful, and she would have even called them beautiful if it didn't seem so mad.
What they represented, however, was another story.
To defeat the Army of the Dead, she reminded herself, as she had since the first of the queen's party had come into view on the path from Wintertown. The Night King is coming, and they're here to help defeat him. That's what they represent, and it's all that's important.
Not the Dothraki, who's long black hair and brown skin she'd only glimpsed; not the dragons, who could destroy Winterfell and everyone she loved inside of it in one breath; not the Targaryen conqueror coming to dominate their home; not even her own, shattered heart.
And that was how Caitie found the strength to respond. "It won't be so bad."
Sansa glared at her. "For you. You're not the one who has to greet them."
And she was lucky for that. Arthur had agreed to go in her stead, so that House Norrey wouldn't look as if they were flouting their new queen. He'd been particularly soft with Caitie since noticing her lack of a necklace, but he hadn't mentioned why, and she was endlessly grateful for it.
No one had mentioned anything regarding her and Jon, come to think of it. Probably on Sansa's orders.
"You seem to be under the impression that I like the idea of you greeting them all by yourself," Caitie replied pointedly.
Sansa sighed. "How many times must we have this discussion?"
"At least once more before they arrive."
Another sigh. "Need I remind you of the amount of titles this woman has?"
Caitie pursed her lips. "Eight."
"Eight," Sansa repeated, condescension dripping from her voice, and Caitie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Eight, which she has her people write out in every single letter pertaining to her and her court. Now tell me: do you think someone like that is one to share?"
"No—I just don't think someone like that is willing to put up with any sort of dissent, either."
"I already told you—"
Though a horn blew in the distance, cutting Sansa's sentence short, Caitie knew what it would be. And it was a good argument, even if she hated it.
"They'll be at the gates soon," she said with a defeated sigh. "You'd better go."
Sansa narrowed her eyes, evidently having expected more of a spar.
This time, Caitie rolled her eyes. "Just because I don't like it doesn't mean I haven't accepted your decision."
"Indeed. Do try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone."
"No promises." As Sansa swept away, Caitie called her name one last time. "Sansa? Be careful."
Sansa nodded. "You too."
As she headed through the nearby door, Caitie half-expected Ghost to follow. Jon would arrive when the queen did, and she couldn't imagine his direwolf didn't want to see him. Yet Ghost stayed firmly attached to Caitie's side, hackles still raised, red eyes still staring up into the clouds.
She wondered if the idea of seeing Jon, knowing how far away he had drifted from them and all they believed in, was even harder on Ghost than it was on Caitie.
She shook her head. The last thing she needed to think about was Jon.
When they arrived at the door to her personal quarters, they found it already half-open. Ghost nudged it with his nose until he could fit through, and those already inside looked up as it creaked.
Caitie frowned as she followed. "What have I said about leaving the door open?"
"That it's fine as long as we're inside the room?" Johnna replied from where she sat criss-crossed on Caitie's bed with Little Sam.
Ever since her dream, she, Willa, and Arthur had taken to staying in Caitie's room at night. None of them had slept well in its aftermath, and it was easier when they were all together; the girls on the bed, and Arthur on a large cot used for the sick that they'd pulled in from the Maester's office.
Caitie didn't mind. She slept much better knowing that if she ever feared something terrible, she could simply open her eyes and see that they were all alive, right beside her. That she had less room to move her legs at night, and that her chambers never seemed to stay clean for more than a few minutes at a time, floors strewn with books and candle stubs and scraps of fabric and food—so much food—was a small price to pay.
But damn it, this rule they should have at least been willing to follow.
"That it's not safe," she said. "Not with all the soldiers running around."
Willa, who was in the midst of shoving what looked like lemon cakes into her mouth, answered for her sister, though it came out almost too garbled to understand. "B' w' h'd Dim."
Caitie pinched the bridge of her nose. She could see that easily enough, with Dim Dalba right next to her. But that only made it worse. "Dim," she groaned.
He sighed. "We're fine, lass. You're worrying too much."
Your injured leg would beg to differ, she almost replied, but stopped short. Dim didn't like to talk about that, and she wasn't about to remind him of all the things he'd lost.
She'd just have to lock them all in on her way out.
"Caitie," came Little Sam's voice from the other end of the room. She gave Dim one last glare before turning her back to him and striding over to her bed. "Play with us."
"I wish I could," she said. "But I can't stay long."
"Why?"
"She has to go do boring lady-things, Little Sam," Johnna said.
Caitie nodded. "I just stopped in to make sure you were all okay before I head to make sure the other guest wing is ready for all my bannermen." From the raven Selwyn had sent a few days earlier, he, along with the Wull, Burley, and Liddle forces, would arrive later this afternoon, by which point—hopefully—the Dragon Queen's entourage would have cleared the courtyard.
Probably to go and have sex, she thought before she could stop it. Not that it's any of my business.
"What about Arya?" asked Little Sam. "She always plays with me."
"I'm sure she'll be along once she's seen her… family," Caitie said, and that, at least, was true. Arya never seemed to mind playing with Little Sam; indeed, she actually seemed to enjoy it. Though Caitie had never asked, and Arya had never offered, she had a feeling it was because Little Sam reminded Arya of Rickon.
"Have a drink, before you go," Dim said, holding out a large flask full of Gods only knew what. Caitie comforted herself with the knowledge that, whatever it was, it couldn't be worse than what Tormund kept.
As she obliged, lowering herself into the chair and holding out her hand, Willa hopped up on Caitie's lap, licking the lemon cake crumbs off her fingers. Caitie shifted to adjust for her weight, as she'd done dozens of times by now. For the first few days after learning of the Wall, Willa had refused to leave Caitie's side at all. It hadn't lasted long—as it turned out, little girls got bored quickly by adult duties—but whenever they were in the same room, Willa attached herself to Caitie like glue.
"Good?" Dim asked, as she took a long draught of what tasted like wine from the flask.
Caitie nodded. "Good."
"I wish we could go down and see Jon."
If Willa hadn't been sitting on her lap, Caitie would have flinched. She handed the flask back to Dim, and opened her mouth to say something—though Gods only knew what. If she spoke Jon's name without bursting into tears or screaming with fury, it would be a miracle.
Before she had the chance to do anything, however, Johnna spoke, her voice harder than Caitie had heard it in a long, long time. "Willa."
"Johnna," Willa shot back, with all the authority a newly christened ten-year-old could muster. "It's not fair; I wanna see him."
"You know why we can't."
"'We do not kneel,'" she sighed, reciting the words as if having been told them a hundred times before, and Caitie realized that this was not the first time Johnna and Willa had had such a conversation.
She hated that they thought they needed to keep it from her.
"It's better this way," Caitie said, absentmindedly combing through Willa's hair with her fingers to keep herself grounded.
"But it's just Jon. He'd never make us kneel, so why—"
"But it's not just Jon," Johnna snapped, and the room promptly went silent. None of them had said it so plainly before; not Arthur, not the girls, not even Sam and Gilly. It was something everyone knew, but refused to say aloud.
Until now.
No one spoke, long enough for Caitie count to ten in Common, High Valyrian, and the Old Tongue—twice.
"I should go," she said at last, sighing.
"Caitie—"
"It's all right." She forced a smile, hoping that Johnna would believe nothing was wrong. "You three be good. And for Gods' sakes, lock the doors after I leave."
It said quite a bit that Johnna didn't even try to argue, however toothless an argument it may have been. After dropping a kiss on the heads of each of the three children, Caitie left them to their own devices and headed towards the eastern wing of the castle.
The task didn't take half as long as expected. The chambers' floors and windows and even the walls had been dusted and polished to gleaming perfection before she'd even arrived, the food stores cleared to make room for the extra grain she had instructed Selwyn and Maester Harkon to send, the tents outside Winterfell for the soldiers all fit for living. Beyond that, the corridors were deserted, and glancing out a nearby window, she could see the central courtyard was, too.
In short, there was nothing left for her to do.
She could return to her chambers, she supposed, or perhaps find Sam and Gilly in the library, where she knew he must be working tirelessly.
And yet…
It wasn't that she wanted to see Jon. Truly; she could have gone the rest of her—very likely short—life without ever seeing his infuriatingly handsome face ever again. But she had to admit that she was curious—curious to see how Sansa was handling everything, curious to see the Northmen and Valemen's response to their new ruler, curious to lay eyes on all those who had journeyed from across the narrow sea, and, most of all, to witness Daenerys Targaryen, the woman who garnered loyalty and devotion wherever she went.
And this was why Caitie reversed her course and slipped through the open door to the Great Hall, unseen amidst the gathered crowd. Half of Winterfell had crammed into it, packed against the wall, and at the long tables beside it. The meeting had not begun, judging by the muttering, and the tension permeating the room was enough to send Caitie's fingers itching towards Owen and Cerys. The only reason she resisted was because it would draw unwanted attention.
Her eyes scanned the hall, intent on finding her brother, but landed on the great table, where, for the first time in months, she glimpsed Jon, sitting beside Sansa at the center of the table, just as he'd done as king.
He looked… tired. That was the first thing she noticed. He always did, of course; from the moment she'd met him, there had been an air of exhaustion about him, one she'd always done her best to relieve with smiles and teasing and laughter. But no amount of effort on her part would have relieved such exhaustion from him, the way he looked now. He slumped in his seat, wrapped in the cloak Sansa had once made him, and instead of creating the imposing, proud image it once had, he seemed to have retreated into it, making him look as though it were smothering him, even as he sat straight in his chair. His eyes were dull, with dark half-moons beneath them that hollowed out his face.
Eyes, Caitie quickly realized, that were scanning the hall as if searching for something.
Fuck.
She had only a split-second to turn away and hide herself in the crowd before his eyes could sweep over her, and even once she'd slipped behind the cover of two large Northmen beside the window—Manderlys, judging by their crests—her blood sung, as if begging her to look back, to reach out, to make him see her.
And she hated it—hated that even now, even after everything that had happened, even though she knew he wasn't even looking for her, he could still have that effect on her body.
It had been a mistake to come here.
Caitie glanced over her shoulder, searching for a path from the Great Hall that would allow her to go unseen, when a pair of familiar blue eyes found hers. It was Arthur, standing in the very back of the hall beside the door, surrounded by Elbert Tollett and Rodrik Mazin, the both of whom were also staring directly at her, smiling as they beckoned her over to join them.
Caitie managed to smother her wince just in time.
Oh, good job, Caitriona, she thought. You've really outdone yourself. But at least her friends had chosen somewhere relatively well-concealed. And all three were tall; she'd just have to hide behind them.
As she approached, they rearranged themselves so that she was standing between Rodrik and Arthur, with Elbert in front, leaving her torn between gratitude and affection for their willingness to help Sansa protect her—and frustration, because having them treat her as some weepy princess was as demeaning as it was infuriating.
Not that she had a choice in the matter.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, voice just above a whisper.
Caitie shrugged. "Thought I'd come see what all the fuss was about."
She had to stand on her tip-toes to see anything over Elbert's shoulders, quickly taking note of Sansa's presence on Jon's right, and Bran's further off. On Jon's other side was an empty chair, but beyond that Caitie could see the Hand of the Queen, the bronze pin signaling his status standing out against his fine, dark clothes.
Tyrion Lannister looked much different than the last time Caitie had seen him. His short hair had grown into a mop of curls and there was now a long, deep scar running diagonally across his face, intersecting with his snub nose. He even had a dark brown beard now, strangely contrasting to his golden head of hair.
It briefly occurred to Caitie that the queen should be sitting there, too, in the empty seat between Jon and Tyrion—but she was not, instead choosing to stand with her back half-turned from the hall, facing the hearth. Her snow-white coat melded with her perfectly plated and curled silver-blonde hair, her face shadowed by the flame behind her. She was silent, unmoving, somehow above the rest of her surroundings. It reminded Caitie of Stannis—though, in fairness, she had no other royalty to which she could compare Daenerys Targaryen.
Sansa cleared her throat, and Caitie looked up, the queen forgotten. "As soon as we heard about the Wall," she said, "I called all our banners to retreat to Winterfell. Lord Umber."
Caitie watched as the back of Little Ned Umber's head poked out from the row of tables beneath the great hall's windows. The Umbers' home, the Last Hearth, was without a doubt the most endangered of the North's strongholds, being so close to Eastwatch. The first raven they'd sent on that horrible night had been to the Umbers, but when Ned had finally shown up the day before, it had been with just a quarter of his men and even less of the smallfolk under his protection.
At least it was better than Lord Glover, who hadn't responded to them at all.
"When can we expect your men to arrive?" Sansa asked.
Ned stepped forward on unsure feet. "We need more horses and wagons, if it please my lady." After a beat of silence, he remembered Jon. "And my lord," he added, brow furrowing, even as Jon gave him a small, soft smile. "And… and my queen. Sorry." He smiled, a little sheepishly, and the queen gave him a polite nod.
"You'll have as many as we can spare," Sansa said, and if anyone realized how strange it was for her to be taking charge of the discussion rather than the Warden of the North or the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, they were smart enough not to voice it. "Hurry back to Last Hearth and bring your people here."
It was reassuring to hear the kindness in Sansa's voice as she finished. A far cry from the woman who'd once advocated for taking Ned Umber's home from him. For Sansa had never been one to admit she was wrong about something—especially to those she didn't know well—but at least this showed that she knew it.
With a curt, formal bow, Ned Umber turned swiftly on his heel and headed out the door. As he did, the queen took the empty seat to Jon's left, clasping her hands in her lap. Caitie could only describe the expression on her face as haughty, her chin held high, a smug smile playing at the corners of her lips, though she refused to make eye-contact with anyone, preferring to stare down at her hands. None of this did anything to mask her beauty, however. Full lips, and large, almost doe-like eyes, and softly curling silver-blonde hair; the beauty of her features matched that of Sansa's, if not exceeded them.
Ethereal. That was the only word Caitie could think of to describe Daenerys Targaryen, and somehow, it just made everything worse.
"We need to send ravens to the Night's Watch as well. There's no sense in manning the castles anymore. We make our stand here."
The sound of Jon's voice was so achingly familiar that Caitie's breath hitched in her throat. It went unnoticed by Elbert and Rodrik, but Arthur eyed her, brows furrowing as if to ask, are you okay?
"At once, Your Grace," Maester Wolkan said, bowing before he departed. Caitie wondered if it had even occurred to Jon that she would've already sent such letters.
"Your Grace," said Lyanna Mormont, her voice loud and full of disgust, and Caitie forgot all about her own anger in its wake. Lyanna stood from her seat, stepping into the center of the hall. "But you're not. Are you?"
There was no fear in the way the Lady of Bear Island held herself. Too young and unseasoned to understand why she should be afraid, Caitie thought, though she couldn't help her rush of pride for the girl, twelve years old and fiercer and braver than anyone else in the hall, including Caitie herself.
"You left Winterfell a king and came back a… I don't know what you are now. A lord? Nothing at all?"
Jon's eyes were blank as he offered a placating smile. "It's not important."
"Not important?" Lyanna scoffed. "We named you King in the North!"
Some of the Northerners shouted their agreements—one even going so far as crying King in the North!
Jon eyed Sansa beside him. She gave him a hard look, as if to say, I told you so. He took a deep breath. "You did, my lady," he said, again smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes. A smile, Caitie realized, which was doing little to mask the fear in them.
Jon was… afraid?
"It was the honor of my life. I'll always be grateful for your faith." He stood up. "But when I left Winterfell, I told you we need allies or we will die. I have brought those allies home to fight alongside us."
Daenerys stared up at him through his speech, and it was as if he were all the stars in her sky. Caitie saw Sansa's gaze flicker to the queens, only briefly, before looking away—but she'd obviously had the same thought. And Caitie didn't know what was worse; that she would now have to admit that Sansa had been right—or that Sansa had been right at all.
"I had a choice," he continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that those who mattered most knew the truth. "Keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North."
Liar, Caitie wanted to scream, because using the North as his shield was beyond cowardly. Liar, liar, liar! That's not why you bent the knee, you complete and utter—
A chorus of shouts drowned out the rest of her thoughts. Jon watched his bannermen, his brows furrowed but his face otherwise indecipherable. She told herself that this was the reason she couldn't take her eyes off him; that she was trying to parse out his emotions—ones that were, for the first time, completely obscured to her.
He's hiding them, she realized. She'd seen it before, though it was rare. The last time had been… Gods, she didn't even know when. Back when they were still under Thorne's thumb at Castle Black?
So Jon was actively trying to hide his emotions from someone. And considering that he'd just lied to all the Northern lords about why he'd bent the knee, she had a guess as to whom.
A chair raked against the floor. Tyrion Lannister stood, crossing the great table and planting himself in the middle of the room. It took a sort of bravery, Caitie thought, for him to do so. She hadn't realized just how small he was; if she had to guess, she would say he was shorter than Willa, even, who only just came up to Caitie's shoulders.
Yet, there was something about him—something in the eyes that put her on her guard, just as it had been at Castle Black.
"If anyone survives the war to come," he said, "we'll have Jon Snow to thank. He risked his life to show us the threat is real. Thanks to his courage, we have brought with us the greatest army the world has ever seen."
The queen eyed Jon at this, and he looked back, giving her a small, solemn nod. Caitie's fists clenched.
"We have brought two full-grown dragons." Tyrion looked down at the floor as if he knew no one would like what he was about to say. His voice quivered slightly. "And soon the Lannister army will ride north to join our cause."
The racket his words caused made Caitie's ears ring. Beside her, Rodrik and Elbert hollered their dismay into the hall. She and Arthur exchanged weary glances; there was no point in getting upset over it, since the Lannister army wasn't coming, anyway. Though admittedly, no one else knew it but them.
"I know, I know! Our people haven't been friends in the past." Tyrion paused to take a deep breath. "But we must fight together now… or die."
Sansa leaned forward in her seat. "May I ask," she began coolly, "how are we meant to feed the greatest army the world has ever seen? While I ensured our stores would last through winter, I didn't account for Dothraki, Unsullied, and two full-grown dragons." She let the words sink in for a moment, before she added, in a voice that Caitie had only heard her use once, during Littlefinger's trial, "What do dragons eat, anyway?"
For the first time, the queen spoke, her voice soft and somehow blank, her face unchanging from its half-smirk, her brows and chin raised high. "Whatever they want."
The hall went silent, and Caitie stiffened. Beside her, Rodrik radiated a fury that made her worry might actually draw his sword. At the horror-struck faces around her, the queen gave a small triumphant smile, and Caitie herself almost broke the agreement between her and Sansa right then and there to help him. For this was Sansa's home, and Daenerys was her guest in it. She had brought armies without food and furs, and was now threatening the woman who would have to supply not only her own people but also the queen's. After she had kept everyone at Winterfell up at night for days, worrying over how they would do so without making the smallfolk pay the price.
And Jon… instead of defending his sister, he was sitting stiffly in his seat, eyes flitting between them, not making a sound. It was so odd that Caitie actually worried about him for a brief moment before she came back to her senses.
The only thing that made her feel better was Sansa, who seemed entirely unimpressed by the threat that had just been made against her.
The queen's words signaled the end of the meeting, and no one wanted to stay in her presence for very long, considering how they scurried to leave, not making eye-contact with her or any of her entourage.
"Come on," Caitie said, because she didn't think she could manage it if she had to come face to face with Jon. Assuming he could even look her in the eye. "Let's get out of here."
They followed the crowd spilling out of the hall, watching as everyone broke into smaller groups, whispering to each other about the meeting. "So," Arthur said as they watched a furious Lord Manderly stomp past them, "that went well."
Rodrik growled, jaw clenching. "She threatened Lady Stark."
Caitie rested a hand on her arm. "I know. But Sansa knows what she's doing."
"Trying to get herself killed?" Elbert asked unhelpfully.
She glared at him, but it wasn't really him she was angry at; it was herself. For the answer to his question was trying to protect me, and if Sansa wasn't careful, it would get her killed.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Arthur with a gleam in his eye, as if he'd plucked her thoughts from her head.
"Arthur," she warned.
He ignored her. "I'm actually quite impressed."
"What do you mean?" asked Rodrik.
Arthur furrowed his brows. "You three didn't see it?"
Elbert and Rodrik shook their heads in unison—and even Caitie frowned, because she had no idea what her brother was on about.
"Seven Hells, I'm embarrassed to be related to you," he groaned, before lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "What Sansa just did is make sure everyone knows who was responsible for making sure they're fed, and more importantly, who wasn't."
Oh. Now she understood. "The queen."
"The queen," Arthur agreed. "The guards in the room will talk to their friends and families, as will the lords, and eventually word will spread to the smallfolk of just who tried to make sure they were fed—and who didn't."
Caitie looked back towards the great hall, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid that she hadn't realized what now seemed so obvious.
That, perhaps, the Lady of Winterfell did have everything under control, after all.
With the meeting done, Winterfell returned to its usual state of chaos. Servants and guards resumed their duties, while lords and ladies stood clustered in small groups on the balconies overlooking the courtyard, discussing the events of the last hour. Caitie watched them whispering to each other, heads bent low as she passed by. She didn't bother trying to catch what they were saying, for it was all the same: "Foreigners from Essos; Targaryens and Lannisters—it's disgraceful."
Though the complaints always mentioned them, Caitie hadn't seen much of the Essosi in the halls, and it didn't take long for her to realize that they were likely making themselves scarce. She understood it, of course; the North must have been strange and new and its people weren't exactly excited to make friends with outsiders. The Essosi were in a new land, with new people, and while Sansa had ordered Winterfell to treat them with the utmost respect, it was a large castle, with a great many people. Caitie couldn't blame them for wanting to keep to themselves.
It was too bad, though. With everything prepared for her men, there wasn't much left for Caitie to do. She'd have liked to speak to some of the native Valyrian speakers. It would have passed the time, at any rate, and much better than having to ignore all her friends' pitying expressions whenever they so much as looked at her. She would need a larger drink than she'd had today before she could deal with more of what had happened before the meeting, and drinking herself silly was out of the question until her men arrived.
At least she didn't have to worry about running into Jon. If she knew him as well as she thought she did, then he would be in the Godswood. He always liked to go there after a harrowing meeting; it was the only place he had been able to spend time without anyone bothering him after being crowned king.
Which left Caitie with free rein of the castle, no fear of running into him, and… nothing to do either.
She meandered about for a little while, allowing herself to be drawn into conversation with whoever wanted her attention. Henk and Koner were excited to tell her how Arya had taught them some sword technique the previous day, as an apology for running off on them when she'd arrived; Lord Manderly wanted to discuss their trade agreements for Norwood's steel; even Lyanna Mormont asked to join Caitie's lessons when they resumed.
At last, she found herself in Winterfell's courtyard, a bustle of activity, even more than usual, on account of the many carts of dragonglass being unloaded.
She approached the cart closest to her, unsure if what she saw was real. There was so much of it; this was only a fraction of the dragonglass, and it was probably enough for every Northman. With the other carts, there would be enough for all the Valemen and Free Folk—and even the queen's Unsullied.
She had to be dreaming. She had to be, for this was something that only could have existed in her wildest of fantasies.
Caitie reached out towards the mountain of black rock, gleaming like jewels, and plucked a piece of dragonglass from the cart, just big enough to fit into her palm. She marveled at it, still-half expecting to wake up.
"Oi, put that down!"
She jumped, spinning around. The man who'd snapped at her—and of course, it had been directed towards her, she could see that from the way he was glowering at her as if she'd just killed his dog—couldn't have been more than a year or two older than she was, though without a beard, it was difficult to say exactly. Apparently unaware that he was covered in soot and dirt, he crossed his arms over his chest, still glowering as she fumbled for a reply, feeling like a five-year-old caught sneaking into the kitchens.
"You can't just take whatever you want." He plucked the piece of dragonglass out of her hands; normally, she might have dodged away first, but he seemed so agitated that she let him take it. "We need it all if we're gonna forge enough for all those fancy twats—"
"I'm sorry," Caitie said, cutting him off. "I was going to put it back. I just wanted to…" She bit the inside of her lip. I wanted to make sure I wasn't dreaming. But she couldn't say that without sounding stupid. "I don't really know what I wanted, to be honest. But I shouldn't have interfered with your work, and I'm sorry."
The man blinked, the glare sliding off his face as she spoke. "No!" he said. "Don't be. I didn't know you were—that is, I—it's fine. Take what you like. M'lady."
It took her a moment to realize what had caused the abrupt change: that he had realized he was speaking to a lady. It reminded her of a conversation from long ago; of Pyp stuttering and bemoaning how he had once said the word cock in front of her.
"I really don't mind putting it back."
He shook his head, plucking a slightly smaller chunk of dragonglass and holding it out for her to take. Caitie noted his scowl as he did so.
"How about this," she said as she took the rock from him. "You let me help you and your men get all the dragonglass to the forges, and I'll give you this back when we're done."
"They're not my men," the man said quickly, then shook his head. "I mean—that's kind of you, m'lady, but it's gonna take some heavy lifting and—"
"And you don't want me to hurt myself, is that it?"
He flinched as if struck, and Caitie grimaced. She hadn't meant to snap—really; she hadn't. Snapping at a lowborn man—one who was, quite obviously, wary of people like her—was… not right.
Once again, it put her in mind of Pyp.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to say it like that."
"Er, it's… fine," the man said warily, frowning as if it was very much not fine.
"Why don't we start over? I'm Caitie." She stuck out a hand, hoping he would understand what she meant by it: a peace offering, and an understanding that she wasn't about to get him into trouble simply for doing his job.
He stared at her for a long moment, brows furrowed, then down at his hand, black with soot and dirt, and back up again, before slowly, hesitantly, he accepted her gesture. "Gendry," he said, and she saw some of the tension go out of his shoulders. "Look," he continued, more slowly, as if he was already regretting what he was about to say, "if you really want to help, we could use it. But—are you sure? It's just—you're wearing a real nice dress. I wouldn't want it to get ruined."
Oh. She looked down at the grey dress she wore. It wasn't anything particularly special, having been a project Sansa had meant for herself but discarded, citing a botched embroidery. Caitie, who was much less of a perfectionist when it came to her clothes, had gladly taken it off Sansa's hands. But it still didn't fit quite right, even with the adjustments to it—too tight around the bust and hips and shoulders, and had to be shortened by seven inches to keep it from dragging along behind her—so she wasn't overly bothered about getting it a bit dirty.
She shrugged. "Don't worry about it; this won't be the worst thing I've done to a dress."
"I'll… take your word for it."
Caitie grinned. At least now she had found something to do. "Come on, then. Let's get started."
The dragonglass took a good hour to haul to the forge, and by the end of it, she was sore, tired, and covered in soot and dirt. Her braid was mussed and falling apart, and it would take multiple washings to get everything out of it. Her dress, predictably, bore the worst of it; blackened with soot, even the embroidery had dulled from bright purple to a sort of purplish-grey.
Yet, somehow, she felt more alive than she had in days.
"So," Gendry said as they rolled the wheelbarrows filled with the last of the dragonglass, "is it tradition for Northern ladies to learn to fight?"
She eyed him. With every cart-full they hauled, he'd warmed to her, asking questions about the North, and what life was like—and she wasn't exactly sure what had changed his opinion of her, but she wasn't about to ruin it by reminding him of her title. Until now, at any rate.
"No, not really," she said. "Bear Island ladies do, but otherwise, it isn't common. Why?"
They reentered the forge, then, which Caitie thought was more a furnace than anything else. Sunlight trickled in from the open doors, but most of it came from the glow of the forging fires. She could hear hammers clanging and metals sizzling as they liquified; and she tried not to feel uneasy at the thought of them touching her skin.
Gods, how did anyone stomach being a blacksmith?
"You good?" Gendry asked.
She nodded, cleared her throat to cover up her discomfort, and tried to remember their previous topic of conversation. "Have you met many Northern ladies?"
Caitie had expected the answer to be no, but Gendry merely ducked his head, and she got the distinct feeling he was trying to hide something from her. "Just one," he said. "'Sides you, I mean. She wanted to be a swordsman, too."
"A friend?"
Though he still didn't look at her, she could hear the smile in his voice. "Maybe in another life."
"What happened?"
He shrugged. "We went our separate ways."
She nodded, hearing the refusal to elaborate in his voice. It was strange how quickly she'd understood his desire to end the line of questioning; but she did, because the last thing she would have wanted to talk about was Jon—and how was this any different?
In the distance, a horn blew, saving her from any lingering awkwardness. She swore under her breath. "Damn it. That'll be Selwyn."
Gendry looked up, brows furrowed, as if he'd forgotten where he was. "Hmm?"
"I'm sorry," Caitie said. "I wish I could stay and help, but I've got to go see who's arrived."
"Oh—right. People." He gave her a smile. "Well, any requests you wanna put in before you go? I can make you some dragonglass daggers."
"I actually have a pair already," Caitie said, and Gendry's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "But I do have a few requests."
With dragonglass weapons for Johnna, Willa, and Arthur all procured—or at the very least, on their way to being so—Caitie headed for Winterfell's courtyard once more. It was still a bustle of activity; though the carts full of dragonglass were gone, wagons and horses and people—so many that she could hardly tell one from the other—filled the space, with even more trickling in through the gates.
Caitie scanned the courtyard, standing on her tip-toes to see. The banners of Wull, Liddle, and Burley came into view first, then Harclay's—three blue moons; waxing, waning, and full, on a white bend, and an equally blue background. Selwyn headed the party astride a white stallion, but he wasn't alone.
Caitie gasped, breaking into an incredulous smile. "Roland?"
The sound of her voice carried over the noise of the courtyard. Roland Knott grinned, dismounting, and ran to greet her. Selwyn followed more slowly, while lords Wull, Burley, and Liddle greeted Caitie with a respectful nod.
Caitie gave them all smiles before she narrowed in on Roland. "What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, striding forward to meet them halfway. "I thought you'd be at Mazin Castle!"
"And miss all the fun here at Winterfell?"
Caitie laughed, eyes flickering between the two men, feeling lighter than she had in ages. "It's so good to see you. Both of you."
Selwyn gave her a warm smile in return. "It's good to see you, too, my lady."
She turned to her other three vassals. "I've had room and board prepared for you all, and we've already set up the camp for your men. I'm sure you must be hungry, after such a long journey, so there's food waiting for you. After you've eaten, if you have anything you need to discuss, let me know, and I'll find the time."
"Aye, my lady," said Lord Burley. "My brother sends his regards; he's honored to serve as castellan to Norwood in your absence."
She smiled, repeating what Sansa always told her to say when someone said they were honored to serve her. "I'm honored to have him as my castellan."
When the rest had all left for their well-earned meal, Caitie returned to Roland. "What about Serena? I can't imagine she's happy you've left her so soon after your wedding."
"To be honest, she's worried about Uncle Rodrik. I think she's hoping I can convince him to go back home before the fighting starts."
Caitie snorted. "Ah. Well, I wouldn't tell him that if you value your life."
"I don't plan to. Now, let me look at you." Setting his hands on her shoulders, Roland looked her up and down. "Seven Hells, Riona, you're filthy."
"I'm seasoned." She grinned. "Get it?"
"With soot?"
"And ash. And a bit of dirt for good measure. Hard labor will do that; not that you'd know."
Roland sighed, shaking his head. "I can't believe I missed you."
"I'm sorry to interrupt," said Selwyn, "but the Karstarks were right behind us. Perhaps we should move out of the way for them?"
"Right, yeah," said Roland. "Come on, I want to hear about—"
"Lady Caitriona!"
Caitie knew the voice that had called her name, and before, she would have smiled at it. Now, though, she scowled, stomach dropping as she looked over her shoulder at Ser Davos Seaworth, flanked by Tyrion Lannister and another of the queen's advisors, both of whom were staring at her with unabashed curiosity.
She wondered how she must look to them; braid mussed, dress covered in dirt and soot, face probably half-blackened from it. The last thing she wanted was to leave her friends and join the queen's advisors so they could see it all up close. Not to mention that she'd promised Sansa to stay out of sight.
Both Roland and Selwyn followed her gaze, their expressions darkening as they saw who had called for her. "You don't have to go over there," said Roland.
She sighed. Like it or not, she had their attention; refusing to engage would only bring more of it. "I sort of do."
Selwyn furrowed his brows. "My lady—"
She shot him a smile she was sure didn't reach her eyes. "I'll be fine. Can you two handle helping everyone settle in?"
The two men exchanged uneasy glances before they nodded.
As she approached Davos and the others, Caitie forced a smile, curling her fists inward in the hopes it would hide how her hands shook—whether with fear or rage, it was difficult to decide. "Ser Davos," she said mildly.
Davos gave her a warm smile, as though no time had passed since they'd last seen each other. "It's good to see you, my lady." He gestured to his companions. "Might I introduce you to Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, and Lord Varys, the Queen's spymaster."
Caitie swallowed her horror. Introducing her to the queen's Hand was bad enough, introducing her to the queen's spymaster? Had Davos gone completely mad?
Not trusting herself to speak, she curtsied. Tyrion Lannister gave her a tight smile; Lord Varys's was more of a simper.
"This," Davos said, "is Caitriona of House Norrey. A good friend and advisor to the Warden of the North, and a woman I'd trust with my life."
Right now, you really shouldn't. "My lords," she said, never more thankful for her childhood training. It went against all her instincts, but at least it would keep her out of trouble. At least, this way, Sansa couldn't get too mad at her. "Is there something I can do for you?"
Davos nodded. "There is, actually." He turned to the queen's advisors. "I don't suppose you've noticed our latest arrivals." For one moment, Caitie thought he was referring to her men, but when she looked over at the gates, she quickly realized that this was not the case. Alys Karstark rode into the courtyard, her golden-brown hair braided up and her long face weary from travel, the banner of her house flapping in the wind behind her. She dismounted, and Lord Royce stepped forward to welcome her.
"The Karstarks," said Lord Varys.
"One of the better sigils," Tyrion Lannister said. He eyed Davos. "Beats any onion, anyway." Turning on his heel, the Hand of the Queen strode away, towards the battlements, evidently expecting the rest of them to follow.
Davos gave a wry smile. "Can't argue with that," he said, taking Caitie gently by the elbow to guide her along behind the queen's two advisors. She gave him a measured glare before obliging, simply for the satisfaction of seeing his face pale.
As they followed Tyrion Lannister and Varys, he shook off his uncertainty and forged ahead. "Not so long ago, the Starks and the Karstarks were slaughtering each other on the battlefield."
Caitie grimaced, for it wasn't a Stark who had slaughtered the Karstark lord on the battlefield.
"Jon Snow brought peace to the houses."
"And our queen is grateful," Tyrion said.
We didn't do it for her, Caitie thought fiercely, willing the words into the minds of these ridiculous, self-important, arrogant men. The only reason she didn't actually say it out loud was because she could imagine Sansa's reaction.
"Her gratitude is lovely, but that's not my point," said Davos. "The Northmen are loyal to Jon Snow, not to her. They don't know her. The Free Folk don't know her."
Caitie's world stopped. She stared at Davos, half-convinced she'd misheard, and only able to put one foot in front of the other because she needed to hear the rest of their conversation.
He started up the steps to the battlements. "I've been up here a while and I'm telling you, they're stubborn as goats. You want their loyalty, you have to earn it."
"What you're suggesting has nothing to do with loyalty," Caitie heard herself snap as she followed him. "And if you'd bothered to ask the Free Folk, you'd know that."
The three men stared at her, each with varying degrees of shock, but she didn't care. For it was one thing to force the North into this. But dragging the Free Folk into it… dragging Tormund and Dim and Johnna and Willa and—and Wun-Wun—was another matter entirely.
"The Free Folk are loyal to the Warden of the North, yes," she said, much more calmly than she felt, "but they don't answer to him. You aren't going to convince them to bend the knee to anyone. Nor should you try."
"Even to the woman who saved their lives?" asked Tyrion Lannister, and Caitie nearly screamed in frustration. The woman who saved our lives—as if Caitie and Tormund and Jon had merely sat around waiting for her to swoop in as their savior. As if they hadn't lost hundreds of thousands in their fight, and would die still in a heartbeat to protect what was left.
But she could say none of that, so she merely replied, "They do not kneel."
We do not kneel. Not the Free Folk, and not the North. No matter what you might think.
The queen's two advisors eyed each other, a silent conversation passing between them, and as she watched them, Caitie pondered whether she would prefer dealing with Sansa's wrath or dying by dragon fire. It was something she would need to think about.
"I believe it would do us all some good to calm down," said Varys at last. He turned to face her, a deceptively kind smile on his face. "My lady, I can assure you that I have no intention of asking the… Free Folk, as you call them, to bend the knee to our queen. I shall advise her to the treaty the Warden of the North put in place with them for the good of the realm. This I swear to you, on my honor."
Caitie frowned, searching the spymaster's face for any trace of a lie. She found none, which… she supposed she should have expected from as infamous as the Spider. He would be good at pretending, even if she wanted to believe he wasn't.
For now, though, she'd let him think she did believe him. So when he smiled and gestured for her to follow Davos up the steps of the battlements, Caitie went without further argument.
"This is all well and good for the Free Folk," Davos said as he approached the parapets to look down at the ocean of tents beyond Winterfell's walls, "but it doesn't address our true problem: the North."
Tyrion Lannister was the last to arrive on the battlements, and he eyed Davos with suspicion as he replied, "I sense that you're suggesting a proposal."
"A proposal is what I'm proposing. On the off-chance that we defeat the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just man and an honorable woman?"
Caitie was so busy simmering with anger over Davos's newfound obsession with winning the Iron Throne for what seemed more and more like Stannis's successor that it took her a moment to catch up with the rest of his point. She followed his gaze to the tents below, and what she saw made her gut twist: Jon and Daenerys, standing so close there was only an inch between them.
Finally, Caitie's tears tested her will. The will won out, but only just, and it was a wonder she could even breathe, let alone speak.
So it was all true. She had known that, had prepared for it, or she thought she had. But it was different seeing it—seeing him with someone else. Being stabbed in the stomach would have hurt less.
She was only able to claw her way back after pouring over Davos's words again—for this time, she realized: "Wait a moment. Are you telling me they aren't betrothed?"
Davos was too slow to hide his grimace. "No. But I'm sure they would both be willing, after…" He looked away from her, whether from shame or embarrassment on her behalf, Caitie didn't know, and neither she didn't care. She refused to. And she certainly wasn't going to let on that she already knew to what he was referring.
Tyrion sighed. "They do make a handsome couple."
"You overestimate our influence," said Varys. "Jon and Daenerys don't want to listen to lonely old men."
"I'm not that old," Tyrion said. He pursed his lips, eyeing Davos. "Not as old as him."
Caitie snorted before she even realized she was doing it. The three men all stared at her, Davos with a wry grin on his face, and she flushed under their scrutiny. "Sorry," she said, bowing her head so they couldn't see it.
Tyrion arched a brow, a spark in his eye that hadn't been present before. "Well, I'm glad to see there's at least one Northerner who can appreciate my humor."
Caitie wasn't sure how to reply to that, so she said nothing, and soon enough, they all forgot about her anyway, returning their focus to below.
"Our queen respects the wisdom of age," Tyrion said.
"Of course she does," replied Varys. "Respect is how the young keep us at a distance so we don't remind them of an unpleasant truth."
"What is that?"
"Nothing lasts."
Caitie had to bite back a peal of bitter laughter. For she may have been young, but she didn't need the wisdom of age to know that. Not after Owen and Cerys, after Grenn and Pyp, after Shireen and Wun-Wun. Not after…
"That may well be true," Davos said at length, "but that's why I've asked Lady Caitriona Norrey here. She's the young person we need to convince the Warden of the North, and she's one of the few in this world I can always count on to do what's best for the realm."
His eyes bored into hers, and Caitie stared back, trying to decipher just what the look he was giving her meant. It was desperation, and… she didn't know what. But it unsettled her to the core.
The look was gone as soon as it had come, and a smile took its place.
Both queen's men's eyebrows rose at this, staring at Caitie with a newfound curiosity—suspicion, Sansa's voice whispered in her head—that she didn't think she liked.
But more than that, she didn't understand, for if Sam was right, then Jon had already devoted himself to Daenerys Targaryen. Why would Caitie need to convince him of anything?
Her voice came out thin. She just hoped it wasn't noticeable to those who didn't know her well. "I think you overestimate my influence as an advisor, Davos."
Davos frowned.
"How do you know the Warden of the North?" asked Varys.
"I think I can answer that."
Caitie's shoulders tensed. She'd been afraid of this, and seeing the twinkle in Tyrion Lannister's eye as he looked at her, she realized she was right to be.
"The last time I saw you," he said, "you were a boy. A recruit for the Night's Watch. And now you're… the Lady of Norwood?"
"It's a long story."
"I'm keen to hear it."
Caitie sighed, wondering how many more times she would have to explain this. "My father wanted me to marry. I disagreed with his choice of husband."
"So you ran off to the Night's Watch? Haven't you heard the tale of Brave Danny Flint?"
Her hands balled into fists. "Once or twice."
"So you were caught. And yet you're still here."
"Lord Commander Mormont had known about it, and he made his instructions clear that no one was to harm me in the event of his death."
"Did it work?"
"After a fashion," Davos said.
"And I assume you accompanied the new lord commander and Sansa in retaking Winterfell? Resulting in your title?"
She ignored Tyrion's casual use of Sansa's given name. Sansa had been… less upset about seeing her former husband than Caitie had expected given the circumstances, but that didn't mean he deserved to speak about her as if they were old friends. "Something like that."
"The man you were supposed to marry," interjected Varys, a crease in his brow as he looked at her. "He wouldn't be Leyton Hightower's son, would he?"
That sentence stopped her in her tracks. She forgot about everything else, fear that she hadn't felt in years shooting up her spine. I'm safe, she told herself. Hell, she was in more danger from a horde of dead people than she was from a single southerner over a thousand miles away. If Garrett Hightower knew—or even cared—that his former-betrothed was alive, there was nothing he could do to get to her.
The knowledge didn't stop her breath from lodging in her throat, nor the blood draining from her face.
Varys's lips twitched at her expression. "I shall take that as a yes. You should be happy to hear, then, that he died in the explosion at the Sept of Baelor."
It was like surfacing from the water after nearly drowning. He was dead. He was dead, and so was her father. The last remnants of the past were gone, never to haunt her again.
And now, perhaps for the first time since she was fourteen, she was completely free.
When she finally found her voice, she asked, "What about his daughters?"
"Survived him. They were still at Hightower Castle."
"Good. I hope they're okay."
Varys stared at her for a long moment, searching her face; what for, Caitie didn't know. "They were, the last I heard," he said at last. "As well as a child can be after…"
She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that Varys knew the truth. If Cerys had been able to find out about it through his contacts, then it would have been nothing for the Spider.
"If there's anything I can do to help them," Caitie found herself saying, though she didn't quite know why, "assuming this mess ever gets sorted, please let me know."
It was a woefully stupid request, and she almost regretted it the moment it passed her lips. But she couldn't quite—because Garrett Hightower's death might have been a good thing, but his daughters deserved none of the same scorn.
Varys stared at her once more, but this time Caitie was ready for it. She smoothed out her features until they were an impenetrable mask that not even the Seven Kingdom's most renowned spymaster could break through. He would get nothing from her beyond what she wanted him to see, and hopefully, her genuine wish to help would be enough.
"I will pass along the information, if you can answer a question for me," he said, and Caitie swallowed. "I heard there was a certain Lord of the Fingers staying at Winterfell. He's an old friend; I wouldn't suppose you know where to find him?"
It took her a moment to realize who Varys was talking about. "Littlefinger?"
He nodded.
She bit back a laugh. "You didn't hear? He's dead."
"Dead," Varys repeated flatly.
"Executed on crimes of—well, a lot of things, but mostly murder and treachery."
He gaped at her. "Against whom?"
"Quite a few," Caitie said. "It would probably be easier to write up a list of those he didn't commit treachery against."
For once, the Spider was at a loss for words, opening and closing his mouth twice before he found his voice. "I see," he murmured, and Caitie got the distinct impression he was talking to himself rather than to her. "Perhaps I've underestimated Sansa Stark."
Caitie didn't know what he meant by that, but she highly doubted it was anything good. She quickly formulated a plan, hoping that Yohn would know what to do better than her. "Well… she's busy at the moment, but Lord Royce has more of the details if you want to talk to—"
A dragon's cry muffled the end of her sentence. It soared overhead, casting shadows on Winterfell's battlements. Caitie looked up; the black and red dragon was high above them, but the green dragon—the smaller one—had coasted so close to the walls that she could have reached out and touched it.
And on its back was a man with dark hair and familiar cloak billowing behind him in the wind.
She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She could only think that Sansa had been wrong in the end, and she had been right. There was no need to worry, for Daenerys Targaryen had staked her claim in front of the whole of Winterfell. No one would ever deny it, now.
And in the midst of such hurt, such irrational fury and betrayal, she somehow forgot how strange it was that Jon could ride a dragon at all.
Okay, I know. But they interact next chapter for real, I swear.