Two Years Later

While the idea of hiding amongst rapers and murderers put a queasy feeling in Caitriona's stomach, it still seemed better than the alternative.

Owen and Cerys had promised her that once her dark brown hair had been sloppily cut to her shoulders and she changed from her dresses to a plain, shabby, oversized tunic, that no one would look twice at her. So far, they had been correct—no one paid her any attention, save for the black brother escorting the recruits, who shot her pitying glances every so often.

She supposed she must look like a very underfed street urchin—small and scrawny compared to the rest of the men. But he didn't seem to suspect anything, and so Caitriona tried to calm herself, repeating the mantra that she wasn't going to die, at least for the moment.

The ride to Castle Black crept slowly by. Caitriona tried to pass the time by imagining her brothers' comments as they passed certain milestones. If Cerys were there, he would have made a comment about the Mole's Town brothel. Owen would have scoffed at his brother's crass sense of humor and then informed Caitriona about the history of The Gift. Meanwhile, Arthur would chime in with extra, obscure facts he had gleaned from hours of reading every book in Norwood's library.

Damn it, she didn't want to be here. She wanted to be at home, safe, with the people she loved.

But that wasn't an option. Owen and Cerys had sacrificed so much to keep her hidden from their father, and she wouldn't let that be in vain. They loved her; they trusted her to keep herself alive. She couldn't fail them. So she banished the thoughts of her brothers before she burst into tears, and instead looked at her surroundings as they approached the Wall.

Her heart nearly stopped as it came into view.

The Wall was larger than she could have ever pictured. Standing at three hundred feet tall, it reached past the clouds. Horizontally, it was even longer; she couldn't see where it began or ended. Compared to this, the keep where she'd grown up was minuscule. Even Winterfell, the largest castle she had ever seen, looked comparatively tiny to the Wall. The ice gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, giving it the look of a freshly cut diamond, and Caitriona couldn't believe she'd gone fourteen years without knowing how beautiful it truly was. The Night's Watchmen, who had occasionally passed through Norwood—and dealt with her constant pestering—hadn't been able to do it justice.

"Amazing, innit?"

Caitriona jumped, remembering she wasn't alone.

She turned to look at the brother who had spoken and nodded. "It's incredible."

"Just wait until you get up top."

"Recruits can go up?" she asked.

"Aye. I don't think I've seen anyone as excited as you, though. But I guess can't blame 'em, since we throw the mouthy ones off the top." He laughed when he saw her stricken face.

Once she realized he wasn't serious, Caitriona laughed along with him. It was a pretty good joke.

"What's yer name?" he asked.

The laughter stopped as she thought about how to answer. Her brothers had told her not to pick something too different from her given name—she needed to be able to remember and respond to it quickly. And truthfully, Caitriona had no wish to take a boy's name. It wasn't as though she'd wanted to give up everything she was to come here.

But what name could she possibly pick that wasn't feminine but also didn't make her feel entirely stripped of her identity? Caitriona had gone back and forth regarding this question for her entire journey northward, without success.

Until now.

"Caitie," she told him, finally.

The name rolled off her tongue more easily than she would have expected. In fact, it even sounded better than Caitriona. After all, she'd never liked the mouthful that was her given name. And Caitie could be a nickname for a girl as much as it could be for a boy, so even with this new identity, she would get to keep a piece of herself, even if no one else knew it.

The black brother broke her out of her thoughts, giving her a toothless grin. "Welcome to the Night's Watch, Caitie."

Caitriona—Caitie—along with the others who had arrived, were ushered quickly into Castle Black and immediately given a long and boring speech informing them of what it meant to become a man of the Night's Watch. Though she knew she should probably try to pay attention, she only half-listened, as she already knew most of it: once one took their vows, they were sworn for life, and attempting to leave without permission or fathering children both resulted in a beheading.

It struck Caitriona that the lord commander didn't have much of a way to know if his men had fathered children, making the rule seem, to her, at least, rather pointless. She couldn't help but imagine the very serious Lord Commander Mormont annually visiting the nearby brothel to meticulously inspect the place for bastard children resembling his men; an idea which was really quite funny when she thought about it.

Well, it made his boring speech much less tedious to get through, anyhow.

When the lord commander finally wrapped up, he sent her and the other new recruits down to the master-at-arms to spar. A steward led them through a maze of corridors, all the while Caitie pondered what she should do once they reached their destination.

One of the black brothers who'd passed through Norwood when Caitriona was very little had told her that most who joined the Night's Watch didn't know the pommel of a sword to the pointy end. From what she'd seen so far, he had been right.

Caitie wasn't sure what to make of it, though. On the one hand, she was actually quite proficient at weaponry. Owen and Cerys had trained her—without her father or septa's knowledge—from the time she was six years old. Of course, if she were to go up against a seasoned warrior, she'd likely get split in half, but she could probably beat most, if not all, of these recruits easily.

And what a relief it was, too, considering the circumstances.

On the other hand, however, beating her opponents with little to no trouble would most likely bring unwanted attention. Owen and Cerys had given her strict instructions to avoid that at all costs. So, despite the damage to her ego, Caitie fully intended to play down her skills. Lose a few fights. It shouldn't have been too difficult.

When they reached the courtyard, she took note of her surroundings. At the north end, a flight of steps on each side led to a large platform housing a counterweight elevator built into the Wall. Caitie knew from her lessons that the elevator was the only way up to the top. Balconies and walkways covered by awnings wrapped around the rest of the courtyard. She spotted at least ten doors, which she assumed led to various common areas and hallways.

When she finally dragged her attention to the sparring demonstration at the center of the courtyard, Caitriona's eyes landed on a boy of about sixteen with dark curly hair and a brooding, angry look in his eyes. It took her a moment to remember where she had seen him, but when she did, she nearly fainted.

Eddard Stark's bastard son: Jon Snow.

She could scarcely believe her eyes. The last thing Caitie had heard before leaving home was his father's acceptance of King Robert's offer—the prestigious title of Hand of the King—but that was it. If the Bastard of Winterfell were leaving to join the Night's Watch, one would think it'd reach Norwood, especially with his uncle being the First Ranger.

And yet, there Jon Snow stood.

Caitie had not seen him since Robb's fifteenth name day celebration, but he hadn't changed much since then. The only discernible difference was that he had grown a beard. She had thought him to be rather good-looking that first time she'd seen him, but since then, he had become truly handsome.

Or he would have been if he didn't seem so angry.

Caitie wasn't sure she could blame Jon Snow for it, though. The master-at-arms—a man with greying curls, piercing blue eyes, and an ugly scowl, by the name of Ser Alliser Thorne, according to the lord commander—seemed intent on antagonizing him.

Lord Commander Mormont, who now stood above the courtyard, speaking to someone she couldn't see as he watched them all, made no move to stop it.

"Lord Snow here grew up in a Castle, spitting down on the likes of you," Ser Alliser said. Caitie could see the calculating look in his eyes as he searched for someone new for Jon Snow to fight. "Pyp," he said. "Do you think Ned Stark's bastard bleeds like the rest of us?"

The boy named Pyp stepped into the sparring circle, but the fight was over in seconds, leaving him curled in a ball on the ground, coughing.

Even after that display, Caitie felt a tug of sympathy for Jon, watching the way Ser Alliser treated him. She imagined it must be frustrating always to be reminded of his bastard status, especially in a place that was meant to accept all sorts without judgment. Anywhere else, a bastard would be looked down upon by all those around him, especially at Winterfell. Caitie still remembered Cerys boldly proclaiming how much Lady Catelyn hated her husband's bastard. But here it was supposed to be different. It wasn't supposed to matter who you were when you were giving your life for the safety of the realm.

So yes, she felt for Jon Snow—until a vivid memory came to the forefront of her mind of him smirking as she humiliated herself in front of all the Lords and Ladies of the North, and any sympathy she might have had shriveled and died.

One by one, the Bastard of Winterfell defeated the men around him. The other recruits glared daggers at him, and Caitie couldn't blame them. Jon tore each and everyone to shreds with methodical, ruthless precision. One boy in particular caught her eye; older than her, maybe about seventeen, and clutching at a broken nose. Blood gushed everywhere as he tried to staunch the wound, and even with his fingers obscuring half his face, the glare he gave Jon Snow would have sent lesser men running.

His eyes found hers barely a second later, but before either could acknowledge the other, Alliser Thorne spoke again.

"You, boy," he snapped. Caitie looked around before realizing he was addressing her. "You have weapons?"

Why he'd called on her instead of any of the other men, she didn't know, and it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, because the last thing she wanted was to be the center of attention. But then she remembered that this wasn't Norwood, and these men weren't her brothers. No one was going to help or protect her, so she had to at least try to fall in line. So she merely nodded and pulled out her daggers. They weren't half as nice as her old ones: Dark and Sister, jokingly named for Visenya Targaryen's sword, because she'd thought it was funny. But Owen had insisted the finery of her childhood daggers would stand out too much. So instead, he and Cerys commissioned some plain ones from Gods only knew where—Caitie could only assume it was the same place they'd gotten her originals, which had also always been a mystery—and sent them with her, leaving Dark and Sister behind in their care.

She tried not to think about it too much.

Thorne smiled as she revealed the daggers, though it wasn't a smile Caitie would have considered to be kind. It reminded her of the Norwood Blacksmith's apprentice—the one who enjoyed torturing small animals until Cerys had put a very permanent stop to it. "Let us see how you fare against Lord Snow."

His small smile turned into a malicious grin, and he stepped out of the way.

Jon circled Caitie as she readied herself, praying to the Gods that he wouldn't realize who he was fighting. The... incident she had caused at Winterfell was memorable to be sure, but she hoped the fact that she looked completely different now would protect her.

Maybe she'd get lucky.

Until Caitie noticed Jon's expression, and all her worry disappeared like smoke, for he wore the same one from when he took down the other recruits: determination to make sure she would lose, combined with the certainty that she wouldn't pose a challenge.

As if he knew for a fact that he was better than her.

Now, Caitriona had always been competitive. She hated the idea of someone believing they were superior to her, and she hated the idea that they were right about it even more. Deep down, she knew it was shameful—and stupidly risky—how quickly all thoughts of playing down her skills left her mind. But she would be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of winning.

The two of them continued to circle each other, watching each other's movements, waiting for the other to strike first. As they did, Caitie noted Jon's stance, looking for weak points to exploit. It was something her brothers had ingrained during her first lessons, back when she still used wooden weapons: you don't attack until you've found a way to win. They had always proclaimed she could tear a man apart if she wanted, so long as she remembered this. In the years since, she'd learned how to find such weaknesses in the space of a blink; slight balance shifts, dropped guards, even changes in breath.

But Jon's stance was perfect.

He attacked, his sword flashing silver as Caitie parried with her daggers. They danced around the courtyard, each trying to get the better of the other—and each failing. Every time she thought she had him, his sword blocked her. And every time he seemed to overpower her, she slipped out of his grasp. The fight ended with the two of them holding their weapons at each other's throats. Jon's eyes were wide with frustration, surprise, and exhaustion. But underneath it all, Caitie saw something else: recognition.

Caitie pulled away immediately, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

"It appears you're the two least useless people here," Thorne growled. "Go, clean yourselves up. There's only so much I can stomach in a day."

They all stalked off. Jon forced his way through the crowd, his shoulders set with tension.

Beyond exchanging a small, oddly pleasant smile with the boy who had the broken nose, Caitie ignored the other recruits. She'd never wanted solitude more than she did now. After a while, she found a nice secluded spot far away from the courtyard. She watched from a distance as the men went in and out of Castle Black for at least an hour, taking deep breaths and trying to calm her anxiety.

She was safe. No one suspected her, and her father would never think to look here. Just because Jon Snow had recognized her didn't mean he knew why.

"You're good."

Caitie looked up to see the boy in question standing in front of her. The first thing she noticed was that he was even more handsome up close, though it did nothing to soothe her. She didn't trust people who were as pretty as Jon Snow.

At least, not anymore.

She opened her mouth and nearly snapped at him to leave her alone, but before she had even made a sound, she stopped short. There was no reason to offend him, and every reason not to. So instead, she merely shrugged. "Had to survive somehow."

Jon looked uncomfortable at the comment, but he shook it off quickly. "Aye." He cleared his throat. "Name's Jon."

She narrowly avoided answering with, I know.

"Caitie."

Jon stuck a hand out and Caitriona accepted. The earnest look on his face softened her, a little. Something had changed in the time since she'd sparred with him. She didn't know what, but he seemed... humbler, somehow.

She was about to speak again, but then she noticed he was watching her, his dark eyes flickering across her face as if searching for something.

"I know you," he said at last.

She snatched her hand away from him, feeling as if her blood had turned to ice. "I don't think so."

"No…" He paused, thinking, before his eyes widened with horror. "You're Rendon Norrey's daughter—Caitriona!"

"You must be mistaken." Caitie tried to pitch her voice even lower than she had before, though she knew it was over. She wanted to kill herself. It hadn't even been a single day—a single hour—and someone had already found her out. How had she failed so terribly in so little time? And what would happen now that she had? It was bad enough that Jon knew she wasn't a boy, but his knowing her true identity put not just her at risk, but those she loved, too, and that was unacceptable.

"I'm not," Jon insisted. "I think I'd remember the lady who told my brother she'd rather step in horse shit than dance with him."

Caitie winced. She'd tried very hard over the last two years to forget what she had said that horrible evening. The eyes of every Northern lord and lady on her, cold and judgmental, and her father's look of fury. But it was the pain he'd inflicted on her that had been the worst. First he'd screamed at her, for an entire hour, before giving her ten lashes. And though they'd never left a permanent mark, she could sometimes still feel the fire on her back—especially when someone brought it up.

If she hadn't been so terrified of what Jon might do in response, she likely would have snapped at him to just shut up about it already before everything just got worse, and she stopped being able to breathe.

Some of her feelings must have shown on her face, because his expression shifted. There was still amusement, but no cruelty, or even judgment. He looked almost... impressed. At the very least, he didn't seem to completely condemn her for her actions. And that was something she'd only ever seen from her brothers.

It made her feel a little guilty as she briefly wondered what would happen if she attempted to kill him. Caitie could try, she supposed, but she doubted his uncle—the first ranger—would let it go unpunished. She'd probably be hanged or worse: found out and sent back to Norwood. Death was a better alternative to that.

Even if she did try, Jon was her equal in combat, perhaps even better—much as she loathed to admit it. The likelihood of her actually managing to kill him was slim, at best. She was out of options, out of time, but she needed to do something. And if he was willing not to judge her harshly for her outburst in his family's hall, then she owed it to him to give him that same chance.

And if the chance was wasted... well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

"You can't tell anyone," she said, trying to impress upon him the urgency of her situation.

"What in Seven Hells are you doing pretending to be a Night's Watch recruit?"

"I'm not pretending. I am a Night's Watch recruit."

"You can't be," he said. "You're a girl."

"Nobody was supposed to know that. And besides," Caitie huffed in annoyance, "why shouldn't girls be allowed to protect their families from the Wildlings? Because of some stupid tradition?"

Yes, she decided, that sounded sufficiently convincing.

Jon had no good answer, so he said nothing, only staring at her with a bewildered expression.

Caitie sighed, taking a different approach. "I have to be here. It's for my safety."

"Safety? Up here? With rapers?"

"Well, they all think I'm a boy, so there's little danger there."

"But—"

"And need I remind you," she argued, cutting Jon off, "that I nearly beat you in combat? I can take care of myself better than most of the men here."

"My lady—"

"Don't call me that!" she hissed. "Please, I can't be found out. If I were, then I'd be returned to my father, and that's… I would rather die." A small part of Caitie considered telling him the truth of why she had left Norwood. But as soon as the thought came, she decided against it. Some things were better left unsaid. And unthought, too, if she could help it.

Jon didn't move, didn't speak. He only stared at her with his brow furrowed. In return, she gave him a desperate look, trying to convey that there was no place for her anywhere else—even if he didn't understand why that was.

"I'll keep your secret," he finally said.

Caitie almost sobbed with relief. "Thank you." For a brief moment, she wondered if he was lying, but she didn't think so. Jon had Stark blood, and Starks were known for being straightforward.

Neither seemed to have anything else to say. She was about to walk off to find something to eat when he opened his mouth again. "I meant what I said. You're good."

Caitie blinked, answering with the first thing that came to mind. "So are you."

Jon's lips quirked up, and he inclined his head. That was when she realized—complimenting her swordsmanship was his peace offering. It was up to her to accept it.

And surprisingly, she found she wanted to.

So, smiling, Caitie held out a hand. "Friends?"

Jon nodded and accepted her gesture. He even smiled back.

"Friends."

Well. I think we're off to a decent, if slow, start. But that's Game of Thrones Season 1 for you. Anyway, if you're at all inclined, reviews are always appreciated :)