During the rest of Caitie's achingly long convalescence, she made a point not to cry.

Jon and Sam would send worried glances in her direction at least five times a day, waiting for her to break down again, but she refused to give them the satisfaction. She would not think about Mormont and Ghost and Craster's daughters, she would not think about having abandoned Arthur, and she would absolutely not think about Owen and Cerys. Instead, Caitie acted as if nothing had changed, deciding that if she pressed on and ignored her pain, it would eventually lessen into something manageable.

A lot of the time, she had a distraction in getting herself caught up with the year she'd missed—beyond just the Red Wedding, as the country had taken to calling the massacre at the Twins—not that there was much information about that to catch up on. She learned about Balon Greyjoy declaring himself king; Renly Baratheon's death at the hands of his own Kingsguard; Stannis Baratheon's attempt and failure at taking King's Landing in the Battle of the Blackwater.

The War of the Five Kings, it had been called. Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy, Stannis and Renly Baratheon, and... Joffrey. She tried to think about them all as little as possible. And considering that Joffrey and Balon had won, after what they'd done to the North, she tried to think of them even less than that.

That she still relived the memories of the battle at the Fist of the First Men whenever she closed her eyes didn't help her recovery. Worse, now it was joined by the memories of Craster's Keep, too. She spent what little energy she had left after trying to suppress all her unwanted thoughts, relentlessly pestering Maester Aemon to allow her back to her normal routine—especially sparring. Every morning when he and Sam came to inspect her injuries, she would ask, and every time he would refuse.

"Patience, my boy," he'd tell her. "If you wish to grow as old as me, you must learn some."

In response, Caitie would sigh, wondering to herself what string of expletives Cerys would have used in her place. Then she would remember and refuse to think about it any longer.

But only until the next day, when she would ask Maester Aemon again and receive the same response.

It wasn't for a long while of rest and healing that he reluctantly agreed to allow her back to her regular duties. When he did, with a sigh of defeat, Caitie almost squealed with excitement. One day later, on the first morning of her hard-fought freedom, she woke early and raced to the main hall for breakfast, where she found Grenn and Jon. The rest of their friends were nowhere to be found, but Caitie was too focused on the prospect of her daggers in her hands to wonder where they were. She plastered on a smile before she plopped herself down at the open seat beside Jon and said, happily, "Good morning!"

He gave her a sideways glance. Caitie ignored it.

"I've never seen you so cheerful this early," Grenn replied from across the table, completely unaware of any tension. Caitie had made Jon and Sam promise not to tell their other friends. The looks of pity the two of them shot her on a daily basis was more than enough. If Edd and Grenn knew, they would treat her differently, especially after they had seen her weakness on their journey home. And that might just break her.

"Well, I'm excited," she said. "You know, I don't think I've ever gone a day without sparring before now."

Of course, Owen and Cerys had been the ones to make her practice every day for most of her life. And it was because of them she'd ever had the chance to learn, in the first place.

Caitie's face must have fallen because Grenn's brows furrowed, but just as he opened his mouth to ask if she was okay, Pyp burst into the hall. "You'll never guess what I just heard!" he exclaimed, rushing over to them from the other side of the room. They all fixed their attentions on him, waiting expectantly. He grinned, pausing for dramatic effect. "King Joffrey's dead!"

There was a sharp intake of breath. Whether it came from her or Jon, Caitie couldn't be sure.

"What?" Jon asked.

"Died at his own wedding, too!"

A laugh bubbled up from Caitie's chest. How wonderfully, morbidly fitting. "You're joking!"

"I'm not, I swear. I heard it from Hobb, who heard it from Donal, who overheard Sam and Maester Aemon talking about it. They're saying the Imp killed him—poisoned his drink. They're putting him on trial."

Jon scoffed in disbelief. "Tyrion?"

"But he's the king's uncle," Caitie said. "Why would he do that? It would make him a kinslayer."

There was no man as accursed as the kinslayer. It was why the Norrey children had endured their father. If Tyrion Lannister had murdered his nephew, death would be a kindness, according to both the Old Gods and the New.

"Aye," murmured Jon, who was staring at the ground, pondering something.

Suddenly, Caitie remembered he knew Tyrion; had been friends with Tyrion. They'd met when the royal family had come to Winterfell, and then Tyrion accompanied Benjen Stark's recruits—Jon included—to Castle Black, leaving a week after her arrival. Caitie still remembered bolting away from the training yard whenever he was watching, usually with a cup of ale in his hand. She remembered his last day at Castle Black with an odd amount of clarity, though she didn't know why. After Tyrion left, she'd all but forgotten he had ever been there. Yet, the memory hit her in full force now.

Caitie and Pyp worked alongside Jon and Grenn in the courtyard, their weapons held high as they sparred. But Pyp had about half the stamina of the rest of them. By midmorning, he couldn't go on any longer, and Caitie agreed to let him have a break.

It was during this break, while they watched Grenn swing his sword at Jon, who jumped out of the way, that a flash of movement overhead got Caitie's attention—not a sword, but a person. She looked above them to the balcony, where the door to the dining hall had opened a crack, able to make out a small form with blonde hair and a fine, deep red doublet.

Subtly—she hoped—Caitie inched behind Pyp, hoping he would keep the Lannister dwarf from noticing her.

By the time Caitie remembered the sparring match, Jon had managed to disarm Grenn, holding the sword at his neck. Grenn grinned, pushing it away.

Jon grinned back. "Don't stand so still. It's harder to hit a moving target." He paused, glancing at Tyrion, before he refocused on their friends. "Except for you," he said, gesturing at Pyp with his sword-hand. "You move too much. I could just hold my sword out and let you do all the work for me."

"But Caitie moves around a lot," Pyp argued.

Noticing the door close and Tyrion Lannister gone, Caitie peeked her head back out from behind Pyp. "It's about staying one step ahead of your opponent—seeing where they're about to go and evading it," she said. "Finding their weak points and exploiting them before they can counter you. It's about being fast and, more importantly, precise."

When Pyp nodded in understanding, Jon shot her a smile before he handed Grenn his sword, and everything resumed like normal.

Until late that afternoon, when Tyrion Lannister came to watch them again, this time standing in the courtyard.

She knew he'd befriended Jon, somehow, but Gods, did he have to watch them so closely? The Lannisters were known for being cunning and ruthless, and the last thing Caitie needed was for one to find out about her. Then again, she didn't think she'd ever seen him without a drink in his hand, so maybe he'd be too drunk to notice.

The thought did little to comfort her.

Luckily, Jon seemed to sense her nerves. When he noticed Tyrion, he caught Caitie's eye as he was teaching Grenn to parry, and so subtly she almost missed it, gestured upward, to the dining hall.

After a brief excuse that neither Grenn nor Pyp believed, Caitie bolted up the steps, ignoring any onlookers, thinking to herself that Owen and Cerys would be furious if a Lannister, of all people, had been the one to figure her out.

Caitie pushed the memory away, focusing on the matter at hand. "Do you think he did it?" she asked Jon.

"Seven Hells, I don't know. But Tyrion was decent to me—he helped me." Which either meant that Tyrion didn't kill his own nephew, or that he did kill a very bad king.

Grenn and Pyp both snickered. Jon glared at them, but there was a tinge of shame in his expression.

Furrowing her brows, Caitie observed the three of them. "Have I missed something?"

Her friends exchanged glances. She could've sworn she saw Jon's face darken even further and Grenn shift in his seat, but neither said a word.

"Nah, nothing important," Pyp answered with a casual shrug.

Jon shook his head, redirecting the conversation back to the matter at hand. "I can't believe him a kinslayer."

"But could you blame him if he were?"

Jon stared at her in astonishment. Caitie didn't blame him for it—her question was a radical one. But she couldn't help herself, because she knew what it was to have someone like Joffrey Baratheon as kin.

"Forget that!" Grenn gave him a friendly punch on the arm. "Joffrey's dead! Your father's killer."

Caitie decided that Grenn was right: if there was ever a cause for celebration, it was this. The Lannisters were responsible for the Red Wedding, and Joffrey, specifically, was responsible for Ned Stark's beheading. He had caused so much pain and suffering for so many people—including those she loved; Caitie should be ecstatic at the thought of him dying—preferably in agony.

Jon turned towards Pyp. "Did you hear anything about my sisters?"

"No. I'm sorry, Jon. But if something happened to them, we'd know, wouldn't we?"

Caitie wasn't sure she believed that, but it didn't seem kind to correct the assumption.

With all their questions answered, the remainder of breakfast passed in a tense silence. Caitie quickly finished off the rest of her meal so she could follow her friends toward the door, only to be stopped when she crossed paths with Sam.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"I was needed in the library. There was a letter from King's Landing early this morning. The king is—"

"Dead," Caitie finished. "Pyp told us."

"Oh. Good." But Sam still seemed off. He was shifting from foot to foot, only half-meeting her gaze.

"What's wrong?"

He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. "Caitie, could we speak privately?" he asked apprehensively.

She gave him a strange look, wondering if Sam had information about Jon's sisters. With a nod, she followed him out the door to a deserted alcove. "What is it?"

"Well," Sam started, "I noticed you haven't retrieved your letter from Maester Aemon yet."

Caitie's blood ran cold. She had been pointedly refusing to think about that letter.

"I thought you might have forgotten and—"

"I didn't forget." Sam grimaced, and she realized her words came out harsher than she meant. "I'm sorry. I'm just… I don't want to see it right now, okay?"

The expression she got in return was half-smile and half-frown; she didn't know how it was even possible for him to make a face like that, but she hated the pity in it.

"Please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to break. I hate it."

"I'm just worried about you."

Caitie sighed. Sam was always so nice. The least she could do was try not to snap at him. "I know. And I'm grateful that you care. But I'm fine."

If Caitie kept on saying it enough, it would be true eventually.

He didn't seem convinced. "You're not letting yourself grieve."

"Seven Hells, Sam. I already grieved. And now I'm fine," she insisted. "Joffrey's dead. What more could I ask for?"

Quite a lot. But Caitie wouldn't admit it.

"Look," she continued, "I have to go. I want to finish my duties early so I can join Grenn and Jon in the courtyard to spar."

Sam sighed, but, realizing it was a lost cause, he dropped the subject. "All right," he said quietly. "If you're certain… I'll see you this evening."

Though he allowed her to leave without another comment, Caitie could tell he wasn't happy about it.

The sad thing was, she didn't particularly care what he thought, as long as he never mentioned that letter again.

When Caitie walked into the courtyard early into the afternoon, the sight which greeted her nearly made her forget all her stresses: two madly attractive men sparring with each other—and competently, too. The two of them were in the process of putting on a show for the recruits, who stood huddled together, watching with rapt attention. She could hardly blame them, although she doubted they enjoyed it for the same reasons she did.

Grenn swung at Jon's middle, forcing him to jump back, laughing, "Very nice—good."

As she watched Grenn in a proper spar for the first time since their recruit days, Caitie forced herself to view him with a more critical eye—taking in his footwork, the way he swung his sword, and the other minutiae of proper technique. She had to be impressed with how far he had come in his skills. Learning swordsmanship took time—the fact that after only two years, he could hold his own against Jon was... surprising.

"A lot of Wildlings fight with a weapon in each hand," Jon told the group of onlookers, and Caitie refocused herself.

"Like me!" she exclaimed, smiling brightly.

Jon nodded. "Aye, like you. But they use swords, not daggers." He grabbed a second sword. "First thing you want to do," he said, "is disarm them to try and even the odds." After handing Grenn the sword and allowing him a moment to get a feel for the extra weight, he attacked. This time, Grenn stood no chance. Jon defeated him in less than a blink, his sword at Grenn's throat. Grenn flicked his gaze over to Caitie, looking sheepish, but it was gone in half a second, and he grinned at Jon.

The two men pulled away from each other. "Let's see what you can do," Jon said to the recruits.

Olly, though shorter and scrawnier than everyone else and with a baby face to match, stepped forward.

"Olly, you just watch for now."

"I can fight!"

Jon eyed him skeptically. "Have you ever held a sword before?"

"I was the best archer in our hamlet."

The other recruits laughed.

"I was!" he insisted.

Caitie had half a mind to reprimand everyone who laughed. Olly might have been a child, but he wasn't all that much younger than she was when she had joined the Watch. And she could have easily defeated most of them at his age.

Maybe she should show them just how easily she could.

Before Caitie had the chance, however, Grenn's voice broke through the laughter. "I believe you. We'll go hunting for rabbits one day. But right now, watch and learn."

Well.

That was certainly an intriguing development. She'd never have thought Grenn would be any good with children, but he'd spoken to Olly with a patience and kindness only someone who knew and liked children could.

It didn't help her little crush, which, if she were to admit the truth, had developed into much more than that. She was just glad she had gotten good at lying.

Olly looked disappointed, but he fell back, resigned to his place. After the interlude ended, Jon picked two recruits out from the crowd. "You two," he said, raising his sword at them. "Take it slow, try and disarm each other." And then, with one eye on the impending fight, he, along with Grenn, wandered over to Caitie.

"Who do you think'll win?" Grenn asked her.

Caitie didn't have time to reply because just as he finished his question, the first recruit clobbered the second.

"I think you have your answer," she said, trying to mask her surprise.

The two recruits started up again, with the same result as the first round, this time leaving the second recruit unconscious in the mud. Caitie observed the first more closely; he was a little taller than Jon—which wasn't saying much—with salt-and-pepper hair and two scars running down each of his cheeks. But the thing which stood out to Caitie was the cruel glint in his eye as he defeated his opponent, smiling arrogantly the whole time.

She disliked the man instantly.

Jon stepped forward just as the man stepped back from the sparring circle, so they were side by side. "You know how to fight," he said, lowering his voice so the rest of the recruits couldn't hear. "You could have gone easier on him."

"He wouldn't have learned anything that way," the recruit replied.

"Yes, because humiliating him for your own pleasure was obviously necessary to teach him. How kind of you."

Jon, Grenn, and the recruit all stared at Caitie with their brows raised. In response, her cheeks heated. She hadn't meant to say anything, but the look on the man's face was so insufferably arrogant, she just couldn't help herself.

Before any of them could reply, a voice rang out from behind them. "Lord Snow," Alliser Thorne called as he descended the steps from the elevator to the courtyard.

When Caitie saw the man tagging along behind him, she had to force herself not to attack. His name was Janos Slynt—a name which Caitie thought suited his slimy personality perfectly. Slynt had been sentenced to the Wall after the ranging party had left for the north, and had quickly ingratiated himself to the acting lord commander; however, unlike Ser Alliser Thorne, Slynt did nothing of any value. Since returning home, Caitie had watched as he antagonized Jon three different times, insulted Sam's weight, and referred to him mockingly as "Sam the Slayer" twice. And yet, the moment anyone asked him to display his ever-so-incredible sword or leadership skills, as he boasted about them constantly, he would make a pitiful excuse and run away.

He was a coward and a bully, with the mental capabilities of a fish.

It didn't help Caitie's opinion to learn from Pyp that, according to rumor, he had been Lord Commander of King's Landing's city watch—and had betrayed Ned Stark inside the Red Keep. When Jon had overheard her and Pyp's conversation at supper, he insisted when a man took the Black, all his past deeds should be forgiven, but that was easier said than done, especially when Slynt made nasty comments about them every chance he got.

"What do you think you're doing?" Thorne asked.

"Grenn and I were helping them."

"Grenn's a ranger; you're a steward."

Has he somehow forgotten the Wildlings are about to attack us? Caitie wondered. As if Mance Rayder cares who's a steward and who's a ranger.

"Maybe you forgot that when you were off with your Wildling bitch," Thorne went on, "but I didn't."

"Someone has to train them," Jon ground out.

"And that someone isn't you. Go find a chamberpot to empty." By now, the tension brewing between them was so thick that Caitie could have cut it with her dagger. Jon stepped closer, his jaw twitching. "Go on, do it," Thorne taunted. "You traitor's bastard—give me an excuse. Mormont's not here to protect you now."

Jon's hands curled into fists; Caitie reached out, wrapping her fingers around his forearm to steady him. Thankfully, instead of acting on his anger, like he would have done back when he was a recruit, he wrenched his gaze away from Thorne and his arm from her grasp, and without another word, stalked off. Thorne smirked as he watched him go, up until he noticed the rest of the courtyard watching them, instead deciding he would rather scream at everyone to get back to work rather than bask in his triumph over Jon.

Caitie ignored the orders; rather, she turned her attention to the arrogant recruit as he slunk over to Jon.

"A bastard, eh?" he said. "Took you for highborn."

Jon smiled ironically. "My father was highborn. My mother… wasn't."

"Name's Locke." The recruit—Locke—held out his hand, and though the name sounded familiar, Caitie couldn't place it.

Jon took the outstretched hand and shook. "Jon Snow. You fight well—what brought you up here?"

"A sense of duty. I wanted to do my part for the safety of the realm."

Jon shot him a skeptical look, and Locke laughed. "I was game warden in the Stormlands. Fed a prized partridge to me hungry kids. I was stupid enough to get caught. Chose the wall over losing my hand. Figured I wouldn't have to suck up to any highborn cunts here." He looked over to where Thorne stood, still barking out orders. "Guess I was wrong."

Caitie rolled her eyes at the way Jon ate up the story. Granted, it certainly seemed plausible, but she knew, in her bones, that Locke was lying—that, for some reason, he was manipulating Jon. It took her a moment to figure out how she knew. But then it hit her: Locke was exactly like her father.

Charming but not sincere.

After a few more brief sentences of Jon welcoming Locke to the Night's Watch, the two men shook hands, and Locke finally departed. "I don't like him," Caitie said, coming over to join her friend as he watched Locke walk away.

Jon frowned. "He seemed a decent enough man to me."

She pursed her lips. "There's something off about him—something, I don't know, forced."

Jon raised a brow at her. "And just how do you know that?"

"Because," she replied, "he reminds me of my father."

"That's harsh."

"Well, it's true."

Jon sighed. "We need all the men we can get."

As accurate as it was, it didn't change her opinion. "I know. But that doesn't mean I won't be keeping my eye on him."

"Caitie," he warned, looking exasperated.

"Jon," she shot back. When he gave her a look of warning, she rolled her eyes. "Don't worry; I'm not going to throw him off the Wall. I just don't trust him."

"You don't trust anyone."

"I trust you, don't I?"

"You didn't have much choice."

"True. Though, all things considered, I'm glad I didn't."

Jon's lips quirked up. "All right, I won't begrudge your suspicions, even if I think—"

He cut off, something behind her catching his attention before he had the chance to finish. Caitie furrowed her brows and turned to follow his gaze. When she saw what had happened, she exchanged a confused glance with him. Because a recruit—one with some of the sloppiest footwork Caitie had ever seen—had disarmed Grenn.

"What the hell was that?" Jon called to him in disbelief, but he only glowered in their direction. It only grew darker and angrier when his eyes met Jon's.

Caitie tilted her head to the side, wondering, impossibly, if Grenn could be jealous. From the way he was glaring at Jon, it sure seemed that way.

"What are you smirking at?" Jon asked suspiciously.

Caitie snickered, looking back to see him with his eyes narrowed at her. "I'll keep that to myself, I think."

The idea of Grenn being jealous because of her... Well, Caitie rather liked the thought of it. Not that she'd ever admit that out loud. Because then she'd have to admit that Owen and Cerys were right—her attitude had changed in the last couple of years.

Feeling her chest tighten, and her legs start to shake, Caitie forced the thought away immediately. She wouldn't think about her siblings. She wouldn't.

Luckily, Jon distracted her by guffawing. "When have you ever kept anything to yourself?"

Her jaw dropped. "It's a very good thing you're a good fighter and good-looking."

Caitie waited for Jon to realize the stupidity of his comment. It didn't take long for him to wince. "Oh."

She chuckled at his expression, but her good humor faded when she noticed Locke again, this time speaking to Edd, whose face remained impassive. "Now, as I was saying, you really don't feel anything off about Locke?"

"He seems like a good man."

"Yes, you've said that. But 'seems' is the keyword here. He really doesn't strike you as disingenuous?"

Jon shook his head.

"Oh, well. Good fighter and good looking."

"You're making fun of me," he said flatly.

"A bit," she admitted. "It's just so easy."

"You really think I'm good-looking?"

Caitie shrugged. "It's a fact. But please don't let it get to your head. It's big enough as it is."

Jon glared, though there wasn't much heat to it.

With a laugh, she turned to look at Grenn once more; his expression even more sullen as his eyes met hers. Caitie would be lying if she said she wasn't enjoying it just a bit.

"I'll see you later," she told Jon, chuckling.

And before he could reply, she left his side and walked over to Grenn with a new spring in her step. "Everything all right?"

"You and Jon looked cozy," he replied shortly.

"That isn't exactly how I'd describe it."

"It's how it looked to me."

She crossed her arms, trying very hard not to grin. "You were watching?"

Grenn couldn't think up a response to the question, and so Caitie picked up some daggers from the nearby weapons rack. She tested the weight, frowning. It felt wrong—unbalanced and unfamiliar. Fury rose in her chest when she remembered the mutineers had stolen her old daggers—her brother's last gift to her, even if they had been shabby—but she pushed it out of her mind, per usual.

"Spar with me," she said breezily.

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "I haven't started speaking Valyrian, have I?"

"But Ser Alliser—"

"He's gone now. And I don't care what Ser Alliser says. If I have to fight Wildlings, I'm not doing it without practicing first."

"Why don't you ask Jon?"

"Because I want you."

As soon as Caitie finished speaking, she realized how she had sounded. If her heart could have stopped without killing her, it would have—she wished the ground would swallow her whole. "To fight, I mean," she added hurriedly.

Grenn stared at her, fighting a grin. "Well, if you insist."

Without warning, he tried to strike. Caitie parried, but she froze at the movement, an unbidden memory clawing its way through to the forefront of her mind, this one even more vivid than the last, and more persistent, too.

"All right, Riona," Owen said. "I'm going to teach you a crucial technique: parrying."

"Parrying," a seven-year-old Caitriona repeated. "What does that mean?"

"You've mastered blocking, haven't you? Cerys said you managed it while I was at Winterfell with Father."

She nodded.

"Right, well, blocking is the first step, but it's only a defensive move. Parrying, on the other hand, not only deflects an attack entirely but also turns the attack on your opponent."

Caitriona's eyes widened in excitement. "How do I do it?" she asked eagerly.

Owen smiled. "I'll show you. Strike at me."

The two siblings took their stances, and before long, she did as he asked, striking in an arc—one wooden dagger and then the other.

Owen's wooden sword met them at an angle, and he pushed her back. Quick as lightning, he had his sword at her neck.

"How did you…?"

"I parried."

Caitriona pouted. "But you're stronger than I am. I could never—"

"You'll learn to rely on speed and smarts rather than strength," he interrupted, his voice patient. "It won't be as easy, but I know you can do it."

"I'll try."

It took her two months of grueling practice, frustration, and tears before Caitriona successfully managed to parry Owen—by far the most challenging maneuver in her first year of training. But when she did, her brothers threw her a little celebration while their father was away—with a cake and a set of daggers especially for her. She wouldn't be able to use them until she'd graduated from wooden weapons and then dulled steel, but she was still excited. How her brothers had procured such fine weapons, Caitriona didn't know, but they were beautiful; sturdy and sharp, despite how old they looked, with intricately carved handles that molded to her fingers like clay.

When she'd asked where the daggers had come from, Owen had merely smiled, telling her it was a secret for her to find out later.

"To my little sister," Cerys toasted. "She's going to be the greatest woman warrior ever."

Caitriona clapped her hands together. "I could name my daggers Dark and Sister after Visenya! She was the best woman warrior, wasn't she?" She was only half-joking. Owen and Cerys had asked her what she'd wanted to name them before, but she'd always been terrible at that sort of thing.

"Well," Cerys said hesitantly, "I don't think a Targaryen is—"

"I think that's a brilliant idea," replied Owen, cutting his brother off with a sharp glare.

Arthur made a squealing noise as he shoved cake into his mouth at the speed of lightning, and whatever Cerys might have said in response was lost in favor of laughing heartily at the toddler.

This was her family. Her father could bully her, ignore her, hate her even, but he couldn't take that away.

Caitie dropped her arms, letting her daggers fall out of her hands, and stood unmoving. She tried to fight the onslaught of emotions, but it was just too much for her this time.

Grenn's voice called out to her, but it sounded far away, as if through a tunnel. "Caitie?"

Tears prickled in the back of her eyes. "I… I have to go," she choked out. And before he could utter a word more, she fled.