Though Caitie strained her ears with all the might she possessed, the din of the dining hall prevented her from being able to hear Jon and Ser Alliser's conversation. She watched them from her place, her frustration mounting as she packed in between Sam and Olly, with Pyp and Edd across from her. Beside Olly was Grenn, but Caitie refused to acknowledge his existence, despite his multiple attempts to make eye contact.

She didn't know why he wasn't avoiding her as much as she was him; after all, she wasn't the one to put an end to... whatever it was between them.

"He looks angry," Edd said, staring at Thorne.

Caitie took a spoonful of stew before answering, grateful for something else to think about besides Grenn. "In fairness, he always looks angry."

While that was true, as Thorne sat on the dais at the main table, speaking to Jon through a mouth full of chicken, his expression seemed even more ice cold and full of hatred. An anxious knot formed in her stomach, replacing the frustration she'd felt all evening.

And when her eyes moved from him to Janos Slynt, that knot only tightened. He sat to Thorne's left at the main table—despite not having any senior title—and she could have sworn he kept glancing at her, Grenn, and Pyp with beady, suspicious eyes. Neither Pyp nor Grenn seemed worried, but whenever she looked over at Slynt's ugly bald head and malicious sneer, she felt like she was about to be sick.

He doesn't have proof, she reminded herself. Slynt wouldn't risk looking incompetent in front of Thorne. And Caitie had made sure there would be no evidence. It was why she'd worn a dress and why she'd told Grenn to stay outside the brothel. She had kept everything airtight; if Slynt looked into it, he would find nothing.

But that wasn't much of a consolation when faced with the reality of how utterly stupid her choices had been.

"Do you think he'll hurt Jon?" asked Olly. He looked about as nervous as she felt.

"I don't think so," Caitie replied. She had spent enough time around the taciturn old man to know his mannerisms. Judging by Thorne's facial expressions and body language, he looked more like he was admitting grudging defeat.

When Olly didn't look convinced, she leaned in and grinned to put him at ease. It helped her feel more at ease, too. "Ser Alliser's scary-looking, but that's about it. The most he's capable of is glaring and hollering."

Olly smiled back and nodded towards Jon. "Jon's brave, though."

"Or stupid, depending on how you want to look at it," said Edd.

"How can you say that?"

"Well," Caitie said thoughtfully, "he's never had a very good handle on his temper, for one thing."

Edd had to put his entire fist into his mouth to keep from laughing.

She crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and narrowed her eyes. "Say what you will about me, Eddison—" Edd threw her a nasty glare, which Caitie ignored, "—but I never tried to put a knife in Ser Alliser's throat."

"When did Jon do that?" asked Olly.

"Years ago—right after we took our vows. Like I said, volatile temper on that one."

Sam frowned worriedly, interrupting the conversation. "What do you think they're talking about?"

"I don't know." As soon as she said it, she noticed Jon nod and turn around. "But I think we're about to get an answer."

He descended the steps from the dais and cleared his throat. "Brothers."

It was too quiet; his voice was lost in the throng. Seeing it, Grenn pounded his cup on the table. The room went silent.

As the voices quieted, Jon took a deep breath. "I'm going beyond the Wall to Craster's Keep. I'm going to capture the mutineers holed up there or kill them. I'm asking for volunteers to come with me," he said, beginning to pace in front of the dais. "There's sixty miles of wilderness between us and Craster's, and Mance Rayder has an army bearing down on us. But we have to do this. Our survival may depend on us getting to these mutineers before Mance does. They know the Wall. They know our defenses. If Mance learns what they know, we're lost.

"But if that's not enough, then consider this: if the Night's Watch are truly brothers, then Lord Commander Mormont was our father. He lived and died for the Watch—and he was betrayed by his own men. Stabbed in the back by cowards! He deserved far better. All we can give him now is justice." Jon steeled himself for the next question. "Who will join me?"

It was a question with an easy answer, Caitie thought to herself with glee. This was her chance to destroy the mutineers who had held her captive, to avenge the lord commander, and to free Ghost—if he was still alive—as well as Craster's daughters.

The ring of scars around Caitie's wrists started itching.

She bolted up to stand without any hesitation. There was the ghost of a smile as Jon inclined his head. Grenn joined her a few seconds later and nodded solemnly at Jon. He glanced briefly at Caitie, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back. Grenn had taken much too long to stand, in her opinion.

She pretended that was her only reason for being upset with him.

Edd stood next, and Jon smiled at him, too. Others soon followed; she knew the names of two—Bedwyck and Dywen. The third and fourth were men she'd only seen in passing a few times.

Alliser put down his cup, his face falling from a smirk to a shocked scowl. Janos Slynt mimicked his expression. And, oh, it felt so good to see it. Caitie couldn't hide her grin at them.

But it fell away when Locke stood up.

"I can't let a recruit come north of the Wall," Jon told him.

"Then, let me say my vows," Locke said—as if it were no different from deciding to take an early supper. "If it's a fight you're heading for, then you need men who know how."

Caitie hated that he was right. Even she wasn't so stupid to turn down help against Karl Tanner.

Jon eyed Thorne, silently asking him for permission. Though he looked furious, the acting commander nodded. Caitie watched the interaction with frustration—but more than that, confusion. There were times when she didn't understand Ser Alliser Thorne, and this was one of them. He cared so deeply about the Watch, and yet he had almost crippled their defenses against the Wildlings all to spite Jon. It was ridiculous, and she hated him for it; but the part of her that wanted to understand him simply wanted to know why.

Jon turned back to the crowd. "Thank you, brothers," he said. "We'll leave at first light tomorrow. Be ready."

There were grunts of approval, and then everyone went back to chattering among themselves. Using the throng as cover, Jon took two short strides and bent down beside her to whisper, "We need to talk."

Caitie stilled, not liking the ominous tone in his voice. If it weren't for the way Grenn was staring down at his bowl of stew, flicking his gaze up to them every few seconds, she would have refused. But she didn't want to be around Grenn for longer than necessary, so she followed Jon out the door, down to the courtyard, and into the alcove where they'd gone after getting their assignments—where they'd fought for the first time.

And it seemed that history was about to repeat itself, for the moment they were inside the alcove, Jon spun on his heel to face her. "You shouldn't come with us."

Of all the words to come out of Jon's mouth, those were not the ones Caitie was expecting. "Are you serious?" she asked incredulously.

"Deadly," he said. "You could barely spar a few weeks ago."

It took Caitie a moment to remember what he was talking about. Those weeks felt very far away now, and after everything else that had happened, she hardly remembered them. "But I've worked through it." When Jon shot her a look, she added, "I'm back to full strength—I even beat you the other day. And you need every person you can get."

"If you come, and the mutineers capture you—"

"They won't take me alive," she said, and now there was a hardness in her voice; whether it was from her increasing annoyance towards Jon or the gravity of the words she'd just spoken, she didn't know. What she did know was that she meant every bit of it. She'd sneak poison from Maester Aemon's stock if she had to—Sam could tell her what she needed.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, yes, I can!" she said furiously. "I'm not going to sit at Castle Black doing nothing while my friends risk their lives." Caitie had already abandoned one of her friends today; she would not, under any circumstances, abandon another.

"I'm trying to help you," Jon said, and she could hear a cracked lament in them. It did nothing to soothe her.

"Well, I don't need your help. I need to kill some mutineers." Remembering where they were, she lowered her voice. "I have had the absolute worst day imaginable, and the last thing I need right now is you treating me as if I'm less capable because I'm a girl."

"I'm not. I'd say the same to Sam."

"I'm not Sam," she growled.

Jon winced as he realized how he'd sounded. "I'm not slighting your abilities. I'm saying there are extra risks for you."

"There are extra risks for me wherever I am. It's part of having a cunt." It came out more bitterly than Caitie had intended. But after everything that had happened, she wasn't in the mood to mince words. "They took me captive, not you. I have every right to come."

As Jon's expression fell, she finally realized what was going on. Honestly, she should have known. "This isn't about me at all, is it? You just feel guilty for leaving back at the Fist."

"Of course I feel guilty for leaving!" he snapped. "Seven Hells, do you think I want you to stay behind? Do you think there's anyone else I'd want watching my back? But when Sam told me about the mutineers… you could have been—"

"But I wasn't." She didn't want to hear him say it out loud. She didn't even want to think about it for longer than absolutely necessary. "And what happened at Craster's Keep wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I left, and because I did, you, Grenn, and Edd went through hell. The lord commander died by the hand of his own man, and everyone else was slaughtered."

Not Craster's daughters, Caitie thought. But she didn't say it. "And you think you could have prevented that?" she asked. "You would have just ended up dead along with the lord commander. If you recall, Tanner despised you."

Jon didn't answer the question, which Caitie took to mean he knew the truth.

"We were terrified for you," he said softly, his head bowed. "I was terrified for you."

Gods, was he making it difficult for her to stay angry at him.

"I know," she said, as her face softened. "I was terrified for you, too, when you didn't come back to the Fist. But we both ended up okay. And I'm sure your time with the Wildlings was well worth it." She nudged him in the ribs.

It got him to elicit a single small smile.

She nodded towards the door to the kitchens. "Come on. It sounds to me like you need a drink. I know I do."

Jon snorted. "When do you not need a drink?"

"Well," Caitie said, "considering the circumstances, I think all of us should be drunk every moment of every day."

He considered her point. "All right, I can't disagree with you there. But I'm not having more than a cup. And neither should you," he said in the same self-assured, commanding voice that he had used during the speech. "We're to leave tomorrow morning, remember?"

"You are absolutely no fun."

He didn't take the bait. "Come on. You were right; I do need some ale."

"I'm always right," Caitie replied, much more lightly than she felt. She linked her arm with his. "It's one of my best talents."

Getting into Maester Aemon's cache of poisons and antidotes was easier said than done. Caitie was mindful of stepping lightly and carefully, testing for any creaks in the floor. She had to swallow her guilt down as she looked around the dimly lit office. Maester Aemon had always been kind to her, kind to Sam, and kind to Jon. When they returned, she promised to herself she would make it up to him.

The maester had been snoring loudly in the room next door from the moment she'd walked in, so when it stopped, Caitie froze, waiting for him to stir. But after a heartbeat, it started up again. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked down at the instructions Sam had scribbled out for her.

Right in front of her, there was a large oak cabinet. According to Sam, she would find what she was looking for in the left drawer. Slowly, making sure it wouldn't creak, she pulled it open and bent down to see what was inside. After spending a minute or so scanning the contents of the drawer through the darkness, she saw it: a tiny vial full of orange liquid.

The Essence of Nightshade.

Caitie grabbed the vial, clutching it tightly in her fist as she stepped back and retraced her steps. When she got to the door, she peeked out through the crack. Sufficiently convinced no one was in the hall, she slipped out.

Caitie kept her footsteps light as she moved through the hallway on her journey back to the kitchens. She had almost made it to the right door when she heard movement—slight, but definitely there—and whipped around, clutching the vial in her left hand even more tightly. Her right hand gripped the hilt of her dagger.

When she saw who it was, she was too relieved to be embarrassed, simply glad that it wasn't one of Thorne's lackeys.

"Seven Hells," she swore, releasing the hilt from her grasp. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

"Sorry," replied Grenn. He averted his gaze, and the relief faded, allowing other emotions to take hold. Caitie wondered bitterly if he was looking for an escape from her.

Then he narrowed his eyes, noticing the vial in her hand. "What is that?"

He tried to make a grab for it, but Caitie was too quick for him. She stepped back and held the poison out of his reach. "Nothing you need to worry about," she said nonchalantly.

But Grenn was much too quick on the uptake. "Caitie, tell me that isn't what I think it is."

She shrugged, for there was no reason to lie. "Jon pointed out that if the mutineers managed to capture me again, I might not be as lucky as last time. Think of this as insurance."

"You're joking," he said. "You've gotta be joking. Caitie, I don't think—"

"It's a good thing I didn't ask for your opinion, then, isn't it?"

Grenn's eyes darkened. "You asked for Jon's."

"I got unsolicited advice from Jon." Which, in hindsight, she was grateful for. But she wasn't about to admit it.

Grenn didn't reply, his lips set in a thin line. She waited for him to say something more, about the mutineers, about what had happened between them—anything at all—but he didn't.

Well then, she would give him what he wanted, and leave before he had to make an excuse to get out of her sights. "If that's all, I have to go."

"Wait. I didn't—Caitie—"

"We can talk later, yes?"

Before he could attempt to call her back, Caitie turned on her heel and fled. She returned to the pantry two minutes later to find that Jon and Sam had broken out a second bottle of liquor.

Good. Drinking away her problems seemed like a wonderful idea, just then.

"You're back," Sam said. "Did you get it?"

"Mm." Caitie held out the vial of poison. "Is this it?"

"Yes, but…" He eyed Jon. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"For the last time, yes."

"But—"

"If I need to use poison, I'll be as good as dead already. How is it any different from being killed in battle outright?"

Jon harrumphed. "If this is what you have to do—"

"I'm going to slap you if you say it again."

"You've been very punchy today," Sam said suspiciously.

"I haven't noticed."

He didn't seem convinced. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Grenn, would it?"

"No," Caitie lied, "why?"

"Well, he couldn't take his eyes off you at supper, and you refused to even glance at him."

And now, thanks to Sam, Jon was staring at her suspiciously, too.

"It doesn't have anything to do with Grenn," Caitie said quickly, priding herself on the fact that she was telling a half-truth. "Now, would you just give me the ale already?"

Her friends gave each other knowing looks. It irked Caitie to no end, but she decided to forgive them when Sam poured her a full cup.

She downed it in one gulp and changed the subject. "So, if we leave tomorrow morning, we'll be at Craster's in what? Two days?"

"On horseback, yes," Jon agreed.

"I still don't like the idea of Locke coming with us."

Sam tipped his head back and groaned whilst Jon sighed, rubbing his temples. "We've had this conversation."

"Multiple times," Sam muttered under his breath.

Caitie glared at them both, and while Sam's exasperation did nothing, Jon's expression almost softened her. Indeed, he looked so worn out that she considered letting it go for now. He was under enough stress; he didn't need this, too.

But what if she was right? What if she was right, and she kept it to herself, and Jon died because she hadn't warned him?

"There's something off about him."

"So you've told us," Jon said.

"And I'll keep saying it until you listen to me." She reached out, placing her hand on Jon's forearm and squeezing. "I'm not kidding, Jon. He's taken an interest in you; that's never a good thing. I say that as soon as the mutineers are dealt with, we slit his throat and leave him to rot."

"Caitriona!" Jon hissed.

At the reprimand, Caitie scowled, ignoring Sam's affronted look. But in the end, she decided not to push. If Jon was using her full name, she must have really upset him with her comment. "Fine."

He sighed. "Look, if it'll make you feel better, I won't go anywhere alone with him, all right? I'll stay in your line of sight as much as I can."

"You're not taking this seriously—"

"I am! But you said it yourself; we need all the men we can get, and not just to deal with the mutineers."

Caitie hated that he had a point, but she hated even more that he was placating her. "You know what? I said it was fine."

Jon frowned, staring at her as if he was sifting through her thoughts. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She opened her mouth, suddenly at a loss. She wanted to tell the truth—tell him where she'd been all day, the orders she'd defied, the friend she'd left behind, the friend she'd lost because of her inability to control herself—but she couldn't seem to make her mouth move. Caitie didn't think she'd be able to get the words out without loads more alcohol in her.

"I will be," she replied instead. "As soon as you give me another cup of ale."

A full cup later—her third of the evening—Caitie felt terrific: light and giggly and in a better mood than she'd been in weeks. It was a perfect balance: enough ale to lift her spirits, but not enough to make her feel like shit the next day. Sam was resting his head on Caitie's shoulder, even more inebriated than she was, having had almost an entire bottle to himself. Meanwhile, Jon was staring off into the distance, brooding—despite having had a cup of his own.

"Sometimes I wonder if you're unable to form any facial expression beyond a frown," she said, observing him. His black curls had grown out a bit since his recruit days. His eyes were weary and battle-hardened, and he had a few small scars on his face she hadn't noticed until now—a one just above his right eyebrow, and another on his cheek. But he looked good. Of course, Caitie always thought he looked good. She hadn't been completely joking when she told Grenn she'd always thought Jon was prettier than her.

Jon blinked up at her. "I was thinking," he replied defensively.

"I'm impressed. I didn't think you were capable."

Now he glowered at her.

"Sorry, but you sort of walked into that one. Anyway, what were you thinking about?"

He took a sip of ale and locked eyes with her. "Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"Being a lady."

She couldn't help the laugh that escaped, for the suddenness of the question took her by surprise. She knew it wasn't what he'd actually been thinking about, but she wasn't going to push him, either. She'd pushed him enough for one night, and she'd had just enough ale to start feeling bad about it. So instead she asked, "Where'd that come from?"

"You were the trueborn daughter of a Northman. I just wondered if there's anything you miss about it."

Caitie pondered the question, thinking about the things she'd lost when she'd left for the Wall. "There are some things," she admitted slowly. "I miss the dresses and not having to build my own fires. I miss Norwood and my family."

"But?" Jon said, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled. He always knew when she had something left to say. "But... I don't miss duties that come with being a lady. I told you what it was like: you're less a person than a prize. Even if my betrothed hadn't been a nightmare, what would I have done? The only path open to a lady is to marry a lord and fill the world with sons."

As she said the words, Caitie thought about what might have happened if her father had died—if Owen and Cerys had lived. She'd thought about this a lot recently, in the quiet moments when there was nothing else to do but think. In her fantasies, she would always she would slip off and go home, live her life however she wanted it. But now she started to wonder what it would accomplish. Owen would never have married her off if she didn't want it, but what other option did she have? The answer to that was only two words long: absolutely nothing.

"If your husband were a good man, would that be such a bad life?" Jon asked.

"It's about choice, Jon. Without choice, it's not a life; it's just slow suicide."

He chuckled. "I should've known you'd say something like that."

Caitie rolled her eyes at him, trying to move the conversation back to a topic that didn't make her feel as though she were being cracked open for the world to see. "Besides, ladies are supposed to be pretty and demure and dutiful, and we both know I'm incapable of that." She pulled a face. "Gods, could you imagine me as demure?"

Jon didn't hesitate. "No, I couldn't." Before she could do anything more than bark out a single laugh, a thought seemed to strike him, and he asked, "Did I ever tell you about my Aunt Lyanna?"

Caitie furrowed her brows, thinking back to all their conversations. "I don't think so. Owen said he met her once. He was only maybe seven—it was right before the war." As soon as Caitie said it, she regretted it. The war to overthrow the Targaryens was inextricably tied with Lyanna Stark's fate—and her fate was not a pretty one. "But I don't think I've ever heard you talk about her," she finished, hoping he wouldn't notice her mention of the war.

If Jon did, he didn't give any indication of it, though he kept his eyes downcast, looking into his cup of ale. "They called her the Wolf Maid," he said. "She was beautiful—but also fierce. Father used to tell us she had a wildness to her. She would have wielded a sword had my grandfather allowed it."

"Really?" Caitie asked in astonishment.

He nodded. "It was her wolf's blood, he said. Aunt Lyanna was willful and headstrong—she once poured a glass of wine on Uncle Benjen's head in front of an entire party of lords."

Caitie burst into laughter. "What did he do to deserve that?"

"I don't know—Uncle Benjen never said." Jon paused. "But I think she would have liked you."

Caitie blinked. "You do?"

"Aye. I could see you pouring wine on someone's head if they annoyed you."

She grinned. "And you'd better keep that in mind."

He gave her a wry look.

"Do you ever wish you could have met her?"

"Sometimes," he said. "I used to go down to the crypts with Arya and look at her statue. Father always said Arya reminded him of Aunt Lyanna." Any semblance of a smile left Jon's face at the mention of his little sister.

"You'll see her again," Caitie promised. "Just like I'll see Arthur."

"You believe that?"

"I try to believe it. I'll let you know when I succeed."

He didn't answer beyond a slight, humorless chuckle. For a few moments, the only sound was Sam stirring slightly and snorting.

Until Jon took a sip of ale and spoke again. "Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," she said. "I wish I had my daggers, though. I hate that I lost them."

"I understand how that feels."

Caitie tilted her head to the side. "When have you ever lost your sword before?" He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, she snapped her fingers. "Right, Craster's, of course. I can't believe I forgot."

Jon stared down at his hands. "I wasn't thinking of Craster's," he said quietly. At Caitie's questioning look, his lips quirked up. "Ygritte," he said. "She stole my sword."

Caitie blamed the alcohol for what she said next. "Heh, I'll bet she did," she choked out through a laugh.

"Caitie!"

She burst into giggles, which roused Sam.

"I don't understand," he slurred, looking up at her, his eyes at half-mast.

"His sword, Sam."

The confused expression didn't leave his face.

Caitie used her hand to mimic an unmentionable part of the male anatomy. "His sword," she repeated before cackling again so hard her stomach hurt and she had to double over.

"And now, I think it's time you put down the ale." Jon plucked the cup out of her hands.

"Noooo," she whined, grabbing at it. "Give it back."

"If you're set on coming tomorrow, you need to be alert."

"Just because you get drunk faster than a five-year-old girl—"

He didn't let her finish. "No more alcohol."

"Try to tell me what to do one more time…"

"And you'll what? Kill me?"

"No, but I'll pour my ale on your head."

Jon looked down at the cup he'd taken and smirked. "What ale?"

Caitie scoffed, but before she could grab it back from him, Sam lifted his head off her shoulder. "I'm tired," he announced, as if he hadn't been asleep up until a moment ago.

She told him as such, but he simply ignored her, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and pushed himself up so he was standing. "Goodnight," he said groggily. "Don't stay up too late."

"We'll try our best." Caitie watched as he opened the door to the pantry and slipped out. Her mind insisted she follow him to tell him the truth, but Caitie's heart decided against it.

She'd tell him tomorrow, she promised herself. But not now; not when they were both too drunk to deal with it properly.

When she looked away from the door through which Sam had gone, she saw that Jon was staring at her with his brows knit together. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Her answer was immediate. "Nothing's wrong."

"You stopped teasing me. That means something's wrong."

"It's not my fault you're so easy to tease."

"And now," he said, "you're deflecting. So what is it? Locke?"

She almost retorted that he was one to talk about deflecting. But something stopped her. So instead she sighed, "Give me back my ale, and I'll tell you."

Jon handed her the drink, and she took a long sip. When she finished, she set the cup down, thinking over how to tell him without telling him. "It's just… I don't know. Everything, I suppose. We're all living in this constant state of fear and anger and loss and I don't think I can any longer."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm worried about Arthur; I'm worried about Gilly and Little Sam. I'm terrified about the battle, I miss Owen and Cerys, and I'm furious about—" she stopped. Caitie would not tell him about Robb, even if it killed her.

She took a moment to collect herself. Unbidden, she remembered the blood of the man in Mole's Town splattered on her dress and her burning desire to kill the mutineers. She remembered the promise she'd made to herself upon leaving Craster's Keep, and so much more. "I just feel like—like I'm losing myself. I killed Dirk, I killed a man outside a brothel—I didn't even hesitate. I told you we should leave Locke to rot up north with his throat cut open—and I'm not sure I didn't mean it. I'm so angry all the time, and I don't know how to stop."

Jon laughed. "Do you know how many times you spoke of killing Rast and Thorne when we were recruits?"

"Well, I'm a very dramatic person. I might have said it or thought it, but I could never have gone through with it, in the end."

And now she could have. She'd killed before, and she could kill again. That scared her.

Jon stroked his beard, contemplating. "You've been through a lot," he said. "Lost a lot. It would change anyone."

"You've been through just as much as I have; lost just as much—arguably more. Has it changed you?"

"Of course it has. I've done plenty worse than you."

Caitie knew to what he was referring. And now she knew what he had been thinking about when she'd interrupted his thoughts earlier. "You didn't have a choice," she assured him. "At least, not any good ones."

Jon smiled sadly. "I know. But it doesn't change that I betrayed her. Betrayed all of them."

"The girl you love or everyone else you know—that isn't an easy choice to make. But… I think you made the right one—if it means anything. What the Wildlings would do to our people—what they did to Olly's village—they have to be stopped. If there were any way to make peace, you would have done it."

"And you would have been okay with that—with living alongside them?"

Well. What a question that was.

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "There's a lot I'll never know or understand about the conflict. But what I do know is that dozens of girls north of the Wall were raped by their father their whole lives, all because they were unlucky enough to live on the wrong side. It could have been me; it only wasn't because I was lucky enough to be born a lady in the North—I mean the south. Ugh, you know what I mean."

Jon nodded, stifling a laugh.

She looked up at the rows of food lining the walls and lowered her voice, just in case someone was nearby. "The thing is, I was told stories growing up about 'the savages beyond the Wall.' But now I've met Wildlings. One of them is my friend. They're not savages or monsters any more than we are. I know peace isn't an option, and I know that if we don't stop the Wildlings, then the result will be women raped and children beheaded. We have to defeat them—and I'm going to damn well try. But that still doesn't mean I have to relish it like Thorne and Slynt, and most everyone else here."

Jon didn't say a word, but he looked at Caitie as if he were seeing her for the first time. He didn't take his eyes off her and she shifted, discomforted by the intensity. Then, after a moment, he started laughing. "And you think you've become a bad person? After that speech?"

Caitie smiled and rolled her eyes. "If you want to compare speeches, I think you'd win. Yours today was one of the best I've heard—very inspiring. All the men looked at you as a leader. Honestly, the expression on Thorne's face was priceless."

"Happy to know I've made him hate me even more."

She snorted. "I don't think that's possible."

As the laughter subsided, Jon seemed to think of something, and stared at her in confusion. "Wait," he said. "When did you kill a man outside a brothel?"

Oh, fuck.

"You caught that," she sighed, unsure whether to blame herself or the alcohol for her slip. Both, she supposed.

Well, she could give him part of the truth. Caitie had a feeling Jon would know if she were lying if she didn't. "I wanted to find out what happened to the North, so I… snuck out to the Mole's Town brothel and asked around."

Jon's mouth fell open. "You—what the hell were you thinking?"

Caitie hugged her arms to herself. "I wasn't, I suppose."

"You could've been killed. You could've been caught."

"I know."

When she didn't argue with him, Jon looked even more unnerved. "Now you're worrying me."

"Well," she replied, "you're right. We almost were caught, and now I think Slynt suspects something. He won't find proof—don't worry about that—and he's a complete idiot, but it was still one of the most reckless, stupid things I've ever done."

"You're sure he won't find anything?"

"I dressed as a girl. I made sure to have an excuse for the missing horses. And I was careful that no one in town would see," she swallowed, "Grenn." Caitie had to force herself to say his name. "He insisted on coming with me. Pyp covered for us."

"Did you—"

"Tell him? Yes. But I trust him. He knows what I would do if he told anyone. I probably scare him more than Thorne does."

Jon smiled. "You scare me more than Thorne does sometimes. But, Caitie, promise me you won't do something like that again. No more sneaking out. You'll get yourself killed if you do."

She didn't hesitate. "I promise—by the Old Gods and the New."

He sighed in relief, but then his expression turned unsure. "What did you find… about home?"

"Nothing good."

"Tell me."

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to think of what to say. "Do you remember when we were at Craster's? You told me to trust you when I asked what you'd seen to make Craster so angry?"

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Caitie held up a hand to stop him.

"You did the right thing. It would have killed me to leave those girls behind had you told me. But now I'm asking you to trust me when I tell you the same thing: you don't want to know."

For a moment, he looked like he was about to argue, and Caitie knew if he did, she would tell him the truth. But then he saw her expression, and whatever he saw in it made his gaze soften. "Okay," he said. "I trust you."

"Thank you." She squeezed his hand, for Jon's trust meant more to her than words could say.

"Did you see Gilly?" he asked after a bout of quiet.

Caitie nodded slowly, for though she didn't want to admit it, but she had to tell someone. "I didn't even think about taking her back. I thought she'd be safer, I guess. Sam's going to kill me. I haven't figured out a way to tell him yet."

"She wasn't safe here. You know that, and so does he."

"How is it any less safe for her than it is for me?"

"You really need an answer?"

No, she didn't, because she had known the answer back at the brothel. Gilly's situation was incomparable. She was a Wildling, a known woman, and unable to defend herself.

"I hate it when you're right," Caitie said.

Jon's mouth curved up a bit. "I thought you said you were always right."

She smiled back ruefully. "If only that were true."