Caitriona stared at her reflection in a frozen pond a little ways away from camp and frowned as she took in her appearance.
Somehow, in the weeks since traveling north, her face had gotten even paler than before. The splash of freckles across her nose stood out against the milky complexion, and her blue eyes looked more prominent than ever, though that was more to do with the dark circles underneath them. Her lips were chapped and sore, her cheekbones sharper—proof that traveling beyond the Wall had taken its toll.
Before, when she was still a lady, she would have thought herself to be pretty; not exceptionally beautiful, but by no means ugly. Now she looked like a boy—and a very downtrodden and tired one, at that. She missed looking like a girl. She missed feeling pretty. But more than that, she just missed home and all the comforts that came with it.
The ranging party—called the Great Ranging, when Mormont was feeling especially pretentious—slept outdoors in the cold, and despite Caitie's oversized leathers and warm black cloak, it was chilling to the bone at night. During the day, they were almost always on the move, waking up at dawn and not resting until the last of the light had disappeared, with only one break a day.
It didn't help morale when they came across multiple different Wildling villages, all abandoned. Every time they passed one, the lord commander would become more and more troubled, and the other men would mutter amongst themselves, debating the cause of the disappearances in low, nervous voices. It was all very depressing.
And yet, in some ways, it was freeing to be north of the Wall, even with the lack of amenities and comforts. All the problems back in Westeros felt like a fuzzy dream from which she'd finally woken. There was no chance of her father finding her anymore. While she missed the letters from her brothers and worried about them constantly, the war seemed much further away here. It was so just so... calm. Peaceful, really, even though she knew what was out there, further to the north.
The only thing that was well and truly bothering Caitie stared back at her from the pond. The slight waviness of her hair made it look a little shorter than it was, but not enough that she could let it grow much longer. It was back to being a little below her shoulders, which meant that Caitie needed it cut, and soon.
She had tried—unsuccessfully—to deal with her hair herself a few months earlier, but had only come very close to accidentally slitting her own throat. More importantly, her hair ended up looking even worse than when Cerys hastily cut it. Caitie may have to pose as a boy, but an ugly, uneven chop was more than she could bear—not to mention the accidental near-suicide.
No, she had learned her lesson.
The problem was that Caitie didn't know who to ask for help. She was surrounded by men, none of which had an appreciation for the art, and none whom she could trust with her tresses. The only person she did trust—her septa—was Gods only knew how many leagues away. Caitie had no love for the old bat, but at least the woman knew what she was doing when it came to this sort of thing.
She sighed when she heard boots crunching in the snow, as she was not in the mood to be disturbed. But then a large, white direwolf with red eyes came padding towards her. Ghost licked Caitie's face, making her smile, and then ran back to stand at his master's side.
The sight of Jon gave her an idea. He was always fluffing his hair, looking in the mirror to make sure it was just right whenever he had the chance. Half the time, she was pretty sure he didn't even realize it. Jon was almost as obsessed with his hair as Caitie was with hers. If anyone could cut her hair without messing it up, it was him.
"Good timing," she said, beckoning him over. Jon made his way to her and set down the elk carcass he was carrying. "I need a favor."
He stared at her suspiciously. "A favor?"
"That is what I just said, isn't it? My hair is getting too long, and it'll start looking—" Caitie lowered her voice, "—you know, soon. Could you cut it for me?"
Jon didn't answer.
"Please?"
Jon sighed. "Oh, all right," he said. Caitie held out her dagger, and he took it. "How much do you want off?"
She thought for a moment before answering. "Keep it at my chin." Caitie couldn't bring herself to have it any shorter than that. Even chin-length was pushing the boundaries of her comfort.
Jon nodded and knelt behind her, then took a section of her hair. He pressed the dagger to it.
Caitie would say this for Jon: he appreciated the art of hair. He took his time, frowning and measuring. Every so often he would stop and pull back to observe or fluff it.
"You know," she said after a while because she was starting to get bored, "you're quite good at this." Caitie stared down at their reflection in the pond. The half of her hair that he'd cut looked good. But Jon was so busy focusing that he didn't hear her, and that was not what she wanted. "I have to say, if you ever got tired of the Night's Watch, you would make a brilliant septa."
That got his attention. "What?"
"I'm serious. In fact, I think I could see you as one. Their ugly grey gowns would suit you. Of course, you'd have to learn to sew."
"You're insane, do you know that?" Jon said incredulously.
"My apologies, Septa. I didn't mean to offend."
He paused for a moment. Then, "Do you really want to antagonize the man cutting your hair?"
She rolled her eyes. "Have I ever told you that you have no sense of humor?"
"Once or twice," he said dryly. "Now, would you please hold still?"
"Sorry, sorry." Caitie held up her hands in surrender.
He picked up another section of hair and said, "I should tell Grenn about Robb's fifteenth nameday, just for that comment."
She knew he wouldn't, but Caitie still immediately whipped her head around to face him and scowled. "Don't you dare."
Jon chuckled and forced her to turn back around so he could finish his work.
Well, at least he seemed in better spirits than a week earlier. This was the first time Caitie had seen him show any emotion other than stoicism. Perhaps she wasn't the only one who felt freer out beyond the Wall.
They sat in companionable silence until, after a few more minutes, Jon commanded, "Look up."
Caitie obliged without complaint. She stared up at the bright blue sky, and let her mind wander to whatever took her fancy. But then, something very strange caught her eye. It was a red streak with a bright white head, contrasting against the otherwise clear sky. Caitie had never seen anything like it before; unease settled in her gut.
"What is that?" she asked.
Jon didn't look away from her hair. "What is what?"
"That." She pointed towards the sky.
He sighed, following her gaze, and she felt his body go stiff behind her. "What in the hells..."
"I think... I think it's a comet."
The two of them stared at it, and the unease in Caitie's gut grew to a sort of dread. A comet the color of blood appearing just as war began? She couldn't help but feel as though she were looking at an omen of death.
She shook the thought away as soon as it had come. Comets soared through the sky all the time, and Maester Harkon had always said they were nothing to fear. Who was to say this wasn't simply more of the same? Yes, it was red, but many things were red, weren't they? Weirwood leaves and Ghost's eyes, and... "It's probably nothing," she said, trying to convince herself as much as Jon. "My neck is starting to hurt. Can I look back down?"
"Aye," he replied, but he sounded as unsure and anxious as Caitie felt.
The silence, which had been so companionable before, drew on as they both tried to calm their nerves and convince themselves nothing was amiss. Eventually, Jon cleared his throat. "I'm finished."
Jon's proclaimant wiped all thoughts of red comets from her mind. Caitie peered into the pond and inspected her hair. Apart from the fact that it was too short and made her seem dreadfully boyish, it looked good. Better than good, honestly. If Caitie could convince him, she'd never let anyone else but Jon touch her locks again.
"Thank you," she said. "It looks wonderful—or as wonderful as short hair can, at any rate. I really do owe you for this."
Jon nodded in agreement and nudged her shoulder with his. "Aye, you do."
At the same moment, Ghost lifted his head, staring at a fixed point in the direction of their camp. Caitie and Jon stilled, waiting until they heard another set of boots crunching in the show, and Grenn came into view. A man with stringy, shoulder-length brown hair and a rather pathetic mustache trailed behind him, looking unimpressed with his surroundings.
His name was Dolorous Edd. Caitie had seen him multiple times in passing at Castle Black, mostly in the dining hall, but never had she interacted with him. Truthfully, he'd always seemed a little scary, with the way he glared and snapped at everyone who bothered him. That was, until the ranging party's second evening of travel, when he had plopped himself down at her and her friends' fire and, without so much as an introduction, started cracking wry jokes.
Edd was older than they were, probably near to Caitie's father's age, and much more world-weary than the rest of them, but they'd enjoyed his company so much, they invited him to sit with them the next night, and then the next. He never ceased to make them laugh.
Well, all of them except Jon.
It was surprising what an entertaining addition he had been to their little group, considering Pyp had stayed behind at Castle Black. Caitie missed Pyp, of course—really, she did; though she knew he found her grating at times, he always tried to make her laugh, even when she was so tired she could hardly see straight or in such a bad mood that she snapped at everyone she saw. She thought he might have made it into a challenge for himself, even. But in some ways, she liked Edd more, for his humor was much less focused on Sam's weight.
"There you both are," Edd said by way of greeting. "Hurry up. We're movin' on."
"The lord commander sent us to get you," added Grenn. "He says if we leave now and make good time, we'll be at Craster's Keep tomorrow."
Caitie felt a rush of excitement at the news. She had never heard of Craster's Keep until Lord Commander Mormont mentioned it as their first real stop beyond the Wall, but the idea of resting for a few days, especially if it was inside, at a keep like Norwood, was extremely appealing.
Besides, she'd never met a Wildling before, nor was it lost on her that she might be the first lady ever to get to meet one. Caitie wanted to talk to them, to see what they were really like. The stories her father used to tell made the Wildlings out to be savage monsters, but considering the source of those stories, she couldn't believe that could be true of all Wildlings.
Well, maybe it could—whatever her father was, it didn't change that Wildlings still raided everywhere north of Winterfell. But this was all the more reason she wanted to go to Craster's Keep: to find out.
"We're coming," she and Jon chorused back to Grenn.
Standing, she pulled her cloak tight. Jon echoed the movement a moment later.
"Race you back?" she asked.
He debated it for a moment before his lips curved upward. "You're on."
With one last look at her reflection in the pond, Caitie bolted off after her friend, smiling so widely that her dimples showed for the first time since leaving the Wall, all thought of the red comet forgotten.