The ranging party arrived at Craster's Keep the next day, as promised—and just in time to preserve Caitie's sanity.

The day had started out normal enough. They'd woken at dawn, saddled their horses, and continued without stopping. That was until midday, when Sam started complaining about blisters he'd gotten sitting on his horse. He went on for three hours until Grenn offered him a ride on the Watch's sledge at the front of the procession. But then Sam broke the sledge, and that led to the two of them sniping at each other as they approached the keep.

She and Jon could hear it from their place towards the back of the line. When their friends came into sight, they brought their horses to a halt next to Edd and Sam, watching Grenn try to heave the sledge up. "Having a rough time of it?" Jon asked.

"Nothing's killed me yet," replied Sam.

Grenn grunted. "Your ass killed the sledge."

"You offered me a ride!"

"I just wanted you to shut up about your damn blisters."

After hours and hours of listening to their bickering, Caitie rubbed her temples, trying to ward off the throbbing in her head. If she hadn't been so finished listening to them, she might have offered to help Grenn fix the sledge; not that he needed much of it. He was definitely strong enough on his own, she noticed, based on the way the outline of his muscles showed through his leathers as he lifted.

Caitie shook herself out of her thoughts and followed Jon to the gate. Dismounting her horse, she looked around at the first proper building she'd seen north of the Wall.

"I was born in a keep like this," said Edd. "Later, I fell on hard times."

Caitie wasn't sure what to say to that. Edd rarely ever said anything that wasn't biting humor. He'd certainly never told them anything about his past. Not that it mattered, because Edd obviously wasn't expecting a reply.

She turned away and took a good, long look at her surroundings, only to be disappointed. The Keep was smaller and newer than she'd expected; made of wood instead of stone, and its grounds were nothing like those of Norwood. There were no mountains, no Godswood, and the entirety of Craster's was smaller than her childhood keep's great hall. Caitie probably should have known better, but a small part of her had been hoping for a little taste of home.

Then she noticed the women; there were at least twenty of them. They bustled around the keep grounds in drab clothing, pointedly not making eye contact with any of the men with their shoulders hunched, like they were waiting for something terrible to happen.

Sam noticed them, too, not a moment after Caitie did. "Are those girls?" he asked.

"Craster's daughters," Edd answered.

"I haven't seen a girl in six months." There was no hint of irony in Sam's voice, but he nudged her subtly with his elbow. Caitie had to stifle a laugh.

"I'd keep on not seeing them if I were you."

"What, he don't like people messing with his daughters?" Grenn asked from beside her. He didn't take his eyes off the girls in front of them, and Caitie gritted her teeth. She didn't like the way he was looking at the women—though not necessarily for the right reasons.

"He don't like people messing with his wives."

Edd's comment sufficed to make her forget Grenn. "What?"

Perhaps she'd misheard. Gods, she hoped she had.

But when everyone turned their heads toward him, posing the same question as Caitie, Edd continued, "He marries his daughters, and they give him more daughters. And on and on it goes."

"That's foul," Sam said.

Grenn nodded in agreement. "It's beyond foul."

Caitie would have agreed with him as well, but she was too busy observing the girls with this new information in mind. No wonder they so looked awful—downtrodden and nervous as they carried on with their chores, like their deaths could come at a moment's notice.

"Hundreds of Wildlings have disappeared, and Craster's still here," Edd said. "Must be doing something right."

Caitie had to bite her tongue to keep her from making a scathing retort. If this was what the Wildlings were like, Caitie could understand why the Night's Watch had been at war with them for thousands of years. At the same time, it didn't seem like the Night's Watch was at war with Craster.

So what did that mean?

Before any of them could answer, Edd sighed and left their little group to follow the others into the keep.

"What happens to the boys?" Jon asked.

Caitie furrowed her brows. That was... a very good point. One she hadn't thought to ask.

Sam blinked. "Hmm?"

"He marries his daughters. What does he do with his sons?"

Nothing good, she thought. But before Caitie could say it, Jon led his horse away. She shook off the dread coiling in the pit of her stomach and followed him.

The inside of Craster's Keep was about as small and plain as the outside. There were a few benches set in a circle around a small hearth, where the lord commander was discussing Benjen Stark with the keep's namesake. "He said he planned to stop here on his way to the Frostfangs," Mormont said.

"People make all sorts of plans. I haven't seen Benjen Stark in three years. Haven't missed him. Always treated me like scum." Craster, a portly man with a balding head of white hair, took a drink from his cup. "Haven't had any good wine for a long time. You southerners make good wine; I'll give you that," he said.

To that, Jon, apparently, couldn't keep himself from speaking out. "We're not southerners."

Craster turned to smile viciously at him. "Who's this little girl?" He looked Jon up and down. "You're prettier than half my daughters. You got a nice wet twat between your legs?"

Caitie's hands balled into fists, disgusted and outraged. But she also felt oddly vulnerable—highly aware of what lay under her clothes, and what Craster would do if he knew about it.

At least he hadn't noticed her yet—too focused on antagonizing Jon.

"What's your name?" Craster asked.

"Jon Snow."

"Snow, eh? Well, listen here, bastard. All you lot from south of the Wall are southerners. But now you're in the north—the real north."

"The lad meant no harm," Mormont said in an attempt to smooth things over.

Craster was having none of it. "I catch that pretty little bastard talking to my daughters—"

"No one will talk to your daughters. You have my word." The lord commander glared at Jon. "Now, sit down and shut your mouth."

Through the darkness, Caitie could see the silhouettes of heads from the level above her. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she was able to make out faces—terrified, defeated faces, some of which belonged to girls no older than ten.

Caitie had seen facial expressions like those once before, and she had never wanted to see them ever again.

Craster's voice broke her out of her thoughts. "You bring any of that good wine with you?"

Mormont nodded. "We did." Believing he'd sufficiently placated Craster, the lord commander moved on to business. "We passed through six villages on the way here. All six were abandoned. Where have all the Wildlings gone?"

"I could tell ya, but I'm thirsty."

"There's a barrel of Dornish wine on the sledge. Bring it in here," Mormont ordered someone towards the entrance to the keep.

With that settled, Craster answered Mormont's question. "You want to know where they've all gone? North... to join up with Mance Rayder. Your old friend."

Caitie supposed it was better than joining the White Walkers, though not by much.

"He's no friend of mine," said Mormont. "He broke his vows; betrayed his brothers."

"Oh, aye. But once he was just a poor black crow. And now he's King-beyond-the-Wall."

"He's been calling himself King-Beyond-the-Wall for years. What's he king of? A frozen lake somewhere?"

Craster ignored the lord commander. He fixed his gaze on a brother sitting next to Mormont. "That's a good-looking axe," he said, pointing at the one in the brother's hand. "Fresh forged?"

"Give it here," Mormont said, gesturing for it. "You'll have another one made at Castle Black."

Caitie barely suppressed her scream. How dare he—how dare he?

But it worked because, after admiring the axe's steel and embedding it into the wooden stump in front of him, Craster gave the lord commander what he wanted. "You want to know what Mance Rayder's doing? Gathering an army. What I hear, he's already got more men than any of your southern kings."

"And where does he plan on marching this army?"

"When you're all the way north, there's only one direction to go."

All right, so maybe that wasn't better than joining the White Walker's army. From her and her friends' point of view, at least.

"These are bad times to be living alone in the wilds," Mormont said. "Cold winds are rising."

Craster spread his hands. "Let them come. My roots are sunk deep." He grabbed a girl who was behind him—she couldn't have been much older than Caitie, maybe sixteen or so. "Wife," he said, "tell the Lord Crow how content we are."

The girl swallowed. "This is our place. Our husband keeps us safe." She faltered for a moment, then went on. "Better to live free than die a slave."

But she was a slave—a slave to her father or husband or whatever he was. All of these women and girls were slaves, just like she would have been, and for some unfathomable reason, the lord commander found it acceptable.

"Don't it make you jealous, old man," Craster said, "to see me with all these young wives, and you with no one to warm your bed?"

"We chose different paths," was all Mormont had to offer in return.

And in that moment, Caitie hated the lord commander, for a different path was the choice between a blacksmith and a master-at-arms.

This wasn't a different path—this was an atrocity.

"Oh aye," replied Craster, "and you chose the path with no one but boys on it." He chuckled to himself, whilst the lord commander did a remarkable job of remaining stoic. "You'll be wanting to sleep beneath my roof I suppose, and eat me out of pigs."

"A roof would be welcome. It's been hard riding." Lord Commander Mormont stood. "We've brought our own food, and good steel for you."

Craster nodded, accepting Mormont's offering. He turned to look at the black brothers situated around his heart. "Any man lays a hand on one of my wives—he loses the hand." Then he stared directly at Jon, pointing a finger at him. "And I see this one staring too long, I might just gouge his eyes out."

Caitie went rigid in her seat, barely even breathing as she waited for the worst to happen.

But this seemed the end of the hostilities. "Your roof, your rules," the lord commander said. And with that, he walked out of the keep, the rest of the Night's Watch following him.

There was a young girl watching their group as they spilled out onto the grounds from the inside of the keep. She looked to be about eleven, but the haunted look in her eyes and the hollows of her face spoke of someone who had seen more than anyone that age should. When Caitie's eyes met hers, the little girl jumped and fled.

Caitie's stomach lurched. She had to leave. She couldn't watch what was happening to these girls, then turn around and kiss Craster's feet as if he were some sort of god.

As soon as she was sure no one would notice, she stumbled out of the keep's boundaries, trying to put as much distance between it and her.

Eventually, she found a nice, secluded area and did what she always did when she was upset: she paced. Caitie was so wound up, had so much anger, but she had no way to release it. She wanted to stab Craster. She wanted to punch the lord commander in the nose. What she truly wanted, though, was to live in a world where this didn't happen.

The thought of the little girl's face made her chest constrict, and Caitie barely managed not to kick the tree beside her.

"I thought I'd find you here somewhere."

Caitie turned to face Jon. "It's disgusting," she spat, unable to help the flow of words that were suddenly pouring out of her. "It is absolutely disgusting. Why can't we just kill Craster and take over the keep? Why do we have to appease him?"

"Caitie," he warned.

"What? It's sick, and the Night's Watch could do something about it. We should do something about it."

"You know we can't."

"Yes, we can. In fact, it's what the Watch was created to do. Mormont just doesn't want to, because he's a horrible, self-righteous, piece of useless shit."

"Caitie," he repeated, this time more harshly, but she was too furious to listen.

"But of course, why should Mormont care if he rapes little girls every night? Gods, I should just kill Craster myself—"

"Caitriona," he hissed, eyes darting around the clearing, looking for listeners.

Caitie froze, her fury forgotten as she stared at her friend. She hadn't ever heard Jon call her by her full name—not since her first day at Castle Black. It had the intended effect; she slumped against the tree and lowered her voice. "I'm just so angry, Jon."

He sighed. "I know."

"I hate this whole situation."

"I know."

"You don't." She picked up a small twig nearby and began twirling it between her fingers. Jon hadn't a clue how much Craster's Keep was taxing her. Of course he didn't; he couldn't. But if she told him why, it would mean talking about her betrothed, and she couldn't bring herself to say it all aloud.

Instead, she went with, "Those girls are in there, suffering, and there's nothing I can do about it. I feel so useless!"

"I know. But you can't show it."

"Oh, just fuck off!" She threw the twig at him.

Jon ducked. "Damn it, Caitie, I'm trying to help you stay alive," he snapped. "Just come with me back to the keep."

"No." She crossed her arms, put off by his tone. "I don't want to see it."

"Would you rather be killed by a wight?"

The words were enough to give her pause, but still, she refused to give in.

"Hells," he huffed. "If I can keep my head after that meeting, and the reprimand I got from the lord commander, then so can you."

"You got in trouble with Mormont?" she asked, momentarily distracted. Somehow, she'd forgotten about Jon's misstep back at the keep. "Are you okay?"

Jon sighed, softening slightly. "I'm fine. He wasn't happy with me for speaking, but I'm not dead. Not like you will be if you stay out here."

Caitie looked away from him, hating how right he was. As much as she wished she could sit and sulk until they left, it was too dangerous. And she really did not want to become a wight. "Ugh, fine. But I don't want to be anywhere near Craster."

"Fair enough," Jon said. "Neither do I." He softened his gaze and held his hand out. Caitie accepted grudgingly, and he pulled her to her feet. "Come on. I need a sparring partner after the day I've had."

She thought about it for a moment. While it wouldn't make it go away completely, she had to admit that sparring did sound like the perfect solution to release her pent-up frustrations. Owen would be livid she was sparring in anger, but Owen wasn't there to reprimand her for it. "I suppose I could help with that. I'm not in the mood to go easy on you, though."

"You never go easy on me."

Caitie shrugged. "If you think so."

Jon scoffed. "You're only saying that because I beat you last time."

"Well," she said, forgetting about all her problems for a moment, allowing herself to just enjoy the idea of sparring with her friend. "If you're right, then you have nothing to worry about."

Jon arched a brow, his lips quirking up. "Is that a challenge?"

Caitie couldn't help but smile at him.

"Yes, yes, it is."