While the Night's Watch helped Craster's daughters move all the bodies inside of the keep, Caitie searched every inch of the grounds, to no avail.

She had, at least, found a bottle of Dornish Sour Red in the cellar—which she would be giving to Maester Aemon upon their return to make up for her theft of his stock—but there was no sign of her daggers, and it was with a horrible pang of grief that she realized unless she found them within the next five minutes, they were gone forever. If she had overlooked them and they were still here, they'd burn. Otherwise, she had no clue where they could be.

Caitie had never named them, too angry that she'd had to leave behind Dark and Sister. Now she wished she had. She wished she'd never taken them for granted, just like... Well, it didn't matter.

"Caitie?" Jon called from the doorway.

"Mm?" She didn't take her eyes off the pile of rags she was searching in the back of the room, even though she'd already gone through it three times already, finding nothing but dust and a few dead spiders.

"We're almost finished," he said. A moment of silence passed, though she could sense his eyes on her the entire time. "Are you all right?"

With an inward sigh, Caitie turned to face him and plastered on a smile. But Jon knew her too well. He raised an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for her to speak.

"I was looking for my old daggers," she admitted.

"Ah."

"I didn't expect to be so lucky. I just hoped…" Caitie stared down at the blood-soaked daggers she was holding. "I suppose it could be worse. I'll get used to the weight of these, eventually."

She looked up as he started towards her and swiftly noticed he was limping. "You're hurt."

"Tanner got me in the leg before you showed up. It's fine."

"It needs to be cleaned."

"Caitie," he said tiredly, "it's fine."

She wasn't moved by his assurance. "Sit," she ordered. "They can get on without you for two minutes."

Jon shot her a flat look, but he still did as she told him and sat down on the bench facing the fire pit. It was funny to think that less than a year ago, she had been sitting there, wishing for Craster to die. So much had happened since then.

Caitie bent down to get a better look at the wound. While it wasn't deep, it was still oozing blood, and even a two-year-old would know it needed to be cleaned and bandaged.

She had just started looking around for something she could use when Grenn strode inside. "Everything okay?" he asked as he made his way towards them.

"Of course," Caitie replied, smiling. She returned her attention to Jon. "Do you know if Maester Aemon gave us any antiseptic?"

"It's not that bad."

She shot him a look and pressed lightly against the wound.

"Seven Hells!" he shouted, flinching from the pain she'd caused him. "What was that for?"

"Not that bad, hmm?" She rolled her eyes. "Now, as I was saying—antiseptic?"

"In my pack," he replied grudgingly. "With the horses."

She peered up at Grenn. "Would you mind getting it for me?"

He looked between her and Jon, hesitating, but finally nodded. "Sure."

They watched as he walked back out the same door he'd come in. When the door shut behind him, Jon arched a brow. "I assume you two made up."

"I suppose you could say that."

He smirked, though it faded a moment later as he seemed to debate something. "I don't mean to pry—"

"But you're going to, anyway." Jon glared, but Caitie ignored it. "Go on, ask away. I don't mind."

He cleared his throat. "You two didn't…"

"Of course not. Grenn still has his vows. Besides, I'd tell you if it were otherwise."

Jon looked surprised at that. "You would?"

She shrugged. "You're my best friend. There are few things I wouldn't tell you."

And to that, he smiled softly. "Mine too, much as you drive me mad sometimes."

"Well, I certainly try my best."

Neither said anything more while they waited for Grenn to reappear with the antiseptic. It didn't take long, and judging by his panting, he must have run there and back at top speed.

"Thank you," she said when he returned, letting her hand linger on his for a moment too long as she took the bottle.

Jon rolled his eyes at them, while Ghost laid his head on his master's lap. Smiling fondly at the direwolf, he stroked his head as Caitie applied the antiseptic and used the cloth to bandage his leg.

"When did you learn how to treat wounds?" he asked once she had finished.

"Oh, I didn't. This is about the most I can do, actually. In hindsight, we probably should have taken Sam with us."

She nodded, and with Grenn's help, Jon stood, grimacing as he tested his weight on the wounded leg.

Not a moment too soon, for just then, Edd's voice called, "Jon, you gotta come here. Bedwyck's still breathing."

Jon and Caitie exchanged a glance before they walked briskly out the door to the grounds—or as briskly as Jon could, in any case—with Grenn following. Soon, they saw Bedwyck lying on the ground, deathly pale, with a gash in his side bigger than Caitie's fist. It didn't take much to know that wasn't going to survive.

Yes, they definitely should have brought Sam along.

"Help me," he pleaded in a hoarse voice, raw with pain and fear. Jon knelt beside him and took his hand. "Please, help me."

"I will, brother," Jon replied. He turned, drew Longclaw from its scabbard, and as he did, Caitie's heart lept into her throat.

"Wait, stop," she blurted, removing her vial of poison from her belt and holding it out to him. "Painless."

A pause passed before Jon nodded and took the vial from her. He dripped the poison into Bedwyck's mouth. Bedwyck took one more wheezing breath and went still, his features changing from contorted with pain to peaceful.

"And now his watch is ended," Jon said.

She, Edd, and Grenn echoed his words. "And now his watch is ended."

"Move his body into the keep."

With Grenn's help, Edd picked Bedwyck's body up and carried him away. Ghost padded over soon after, situating himself between Caitie and Jon.

She yawned and rubbed her eyes. The battle focus had worn off, leaving her exhausted, barely able to keep her eyes open. Her legs felt weak and shaky. Sensing this, Ghost leaned against her, so he was propping her up.

"You should hate me, you know," she told the direwolf. "I left you."

"You didn't know," Jon said.

"I suspected."

He had no answer to that. The three of them stared out at the sight of the keep and its blood-covered grounds. It made Caitie's stomach turn unpleasantly. The Night's Watch had lost so much in this horrible place.

But Ghost's warmth reminded her that they hadn't lost everything. No matter the guilt, Caitie was grateful to have him beside her as she watched Edd and Grenn ready Craster's Keep to burn.

The next night, while the others were gathering more wood, Caitie sat in front of the dimming fire, its embers still glowing even as the flames flickered. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess; she kept going back and forth, jumping from one decision to another, and even after an entire day of it, she still didn't know whether she should tell Jon what she'd realized about Locke.

Jon was her best friend in the entire world. Truly, she didn't know what she would ever do without him. But his flaws were... well, much the same as Caitie's, actually: a quick temper and impulsivity, especially when it came to those he loved. She knew from her own experiences that telling him was a risk—and it was up to her to decide whether to take it. To be honest, she wasn't sure what he would do if he knew Locke's true purpose, and she worried, perhaps selfishly, how he would react when learning that she hadn't gone after Locke once she had found out.

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she didn't even notice when Grenn and Ghost joined her. It was stupid, honestly, how low she had let her guard slip, for it wasn't until Ghost stuck his cold, wet nose into her hand that she came back to reality. Knowing what it meant when Ghost did such a thing, she laughed. Having the direwolf around again made Caitie realize just how much she'd missed him.

She still wasn't entirely sure she didn't bear some blame for his imprisonment, but Ghost didn't seem to blame her, and neither did Jon, so she tried not to blame herself.

"Gods," she said, "you'd think him unable to hunt for his own food, the way he begs."

"It's 'cause you spoil him," Grenn replied.

Caitie gasped in mock offense. "I do not! I only started feeding him because I was afraid he'd kill me."

"Jon wouldn't let that happen."

"Well, I know that now. But I didn't know when I first met him. All I saw was a big scary direwolf with red eyes coming towards me."

Ghost barked in protest at her.

She patted his head. "Sorry, boy. But you know you're terrifying."

Looking back up, Caitie saw Grenn staring at her as if she'd gone mad. "Are you talking to him?"

"Jon does it too. Ghost understands."

"Right…"

"He does!" she insisted, turning back to the wolf. "You do, don't you?"

Ghost barked happily.

"See?"

Grenn shook his head, laughing. "What is it with you Northerners and your direwolves?"

Mentioning the Northerners forced Caitie to remember the conundrum she was facing. Her smile slipped.

What am I going to tell him?

"What's wrong? You went quiet."

"Sorry," she said, shaking herself out of her thoughts. "I was just thinking. And yes, I'm aware I do that a lot."

He snorted, remembering that conversation as well as she did. "What're you thinking about?"

"It's... complicated."

"Try me."

Caitie frowned, hesitating in her answer. But she wasn't getting anywhere on her own, and who better to trust than Grenn? So, with a sigh, she explained everything.

Grenn nodded along as Caitie told him about Sam meeting Bran at the Nightfort, the conclusion they had drawn about his Northward journey, and the revelation she'd had at the keep regarding Locke. "Once I knew who he was… I don't know. I just can't help feeling like I should have searched the grounds myself instead of asking Edd to find him. Bran may have been there, but Edd wouldn't have known what to look for, whereas I would."

Grenn frowned, silent for a long time. Then, "D'you think Bran even wanted to be found?"

Caitie blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he said slowly, testing the words as he spoke them, "if he told Sam he had to go north, and if he thought we'd try and get him back to Castle Black—maybe he didn't want us findin' him."

Caitie knit her brows together, mulling over Grenn's point. At first, she thought it was far-fetched guesswork, but the more she continued down the line of thinking, the more sense it made. "You know, I didn't think of that." She arched a brow. "Has anyone ever told you that you're much smarter than you let on?"

Grenn grinned, leaned in to kiss her. He smiled against her lips and said, "You'd be the first."

When they pulled away from each other, she bumped his shoulder affectionately, just as Jon and Edd appeared carrying bundles of wood.

"Oh, good—you're back," Caitie said. With one last look at Grenn, who gave an encouraging nod, she made her final decision. She couldn't keep feeling guilty about this. Locke was dead. Bran was safe, if not from the north, then at least from the Boltons. And she had already kept one secret about Jon's brother from him; she couldn't keep another. "Can we talk?"

The two men unloaded their bundles of wood onto the fire, which sparked back to life, and sat across from her. "What is it?" Jon asked, his voice tired but still rather triumphant after their victory.

Caitie took a deep breath. "Listen, I need you to stay calm, all right?"

Jon narrowed his eyes.

"It's about Locke."

His shoulders slumped in relief and when he looked up, there was something like amusement on his face. "This again? Really?"

"Yes, really," Caitie snapped. "Would you just listen to me?"

Jon sighed. "Look, I know you didn't like him. But he died for us."

"No, he didn't." She and Grenn exchanged glances. "You learned all the houses of the North, didn't you?"

Jon gave her a flat look. "Aye, of course I did, but you can't expect me to remember them all. And what's it got to do with Locke?"

"Because Locke was Roose Bolton's man."

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the wind. But then Jon sucked in a breath and asked, "What?"

He sounded apoplectic, and Caitie only just withheld a flinch.

"House Locke is a vassal to the Boltons," she explained calmly. "And if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say the Boltons sent him here to find Bran."

It took him a painfully long time to comprehend what she'd told him, his expression growing more and more horrified as it set in, until at last, he breathed, "Seven Hells."

"I knew somethin' was up with him," Edd said with a wry grin that Caitie did not think was helpful. "Always did love being right."

Jon ignored him, his eyes not leaving Caitie's. "But how would they know that Bran was alive? Theon made everyone believe he killed him and Rickon."

"I don't know. Maybe they just wanted to be sure Theon had done it. I'm sorry. I wish I had a better answer for you."

"That's why Locke befriended me. Hells, you were right. I should have listened to you." He screwed his eyes shut, looking so thoroughly distraught that Caitie couldn't even bring herself to enjoy him admitting she was right.

When Jon finally opened his eyes, he asked, "And did he find Bran?"

"If he did, he didn't get very far." Jon didn't reply, so she added, "I'm sorry we didn't find him—Bran, I mean. I know I should have looked for him—"

"Aye, you should have. It's what I ordered you to do."

Jon's voice was icy—angry with me, she quickly realized—and Caitie frowned, feeling the sudden need to defend herself. She didn't know why, really, because she'd been feeling guilty about this exact thing for the last day. But now, when faced with Jon's accusatory glare, she couldn't help herself. "Technically, you only ordered me to help him if I saw him, which I never did. And I sent Edd to find Locke the moment I realized what he was up to." When Jon's anger didn't fade, she added with a forced lightness, "Besides, if I had gone searching for him myself, Karl Tanner might have killed you, and where would we be without your sullen charm and perfect hair?"

At the mention of Karl Tanner, his expression softened from that hard, accusatory glare into a grimace. "I'm sorry. I didn't—I know you did what you could."

"He's your brother," Caitie said, instantly calming back down. "I understand. But Jon..." She trailed off, not wanting to rehash their heated conversation from before in front of Edd and Grenn. But she wanted to know, to make absolutely certain, that Jon wouldn't do anything stupid.

He understood the underlying question in her voice. With a little shake of his head, he replied, "I just hope you were right—that his coming here was worth it."

"Well," Edd piped up, "I don't understand why anyone would come out here. But judging by you, Starks don't seem very bright."

"I'm not a Stark."

The words flew so quickly from Jon's mouth that it must have been a reflex. And Caitie hated it—because of all the people who deserved to have the Stark name, it was him. But she swallowed the feeling down as quickly as it came, not wanting to make him to feel worse, and instead, simply raised an eyebrow and grinned. "You certainly brood like one."

"I have a lot to brood about," he sighed. "Like the Wildling army."

Grenn nodded. "You all saw them, didn't you? Up on Osric's Hill?"

"An army that size will take at least a month to make it to Castle Black," Caitie mused.

"Two—maybe longer." Jon looked between the three of them. "But I'm going to tell Ser Alliser that they were closing in on Craster's—that we have until the next full moon."

They exchanged puzzled glances before Caitie asked, "Um, why?"

"We can't defend the northern gate from an army that size. We need to seal the tunnel; if we don't, we're lost. Ser Alliser might allow that if he thinks we have less time."

"You do realize he'll be furious when he finds out you've lied," she said.

"Let him be angry; I don't care. He can't prove it. We'll prepare better if everyone thinks we only have a few weeks, either way."

"And you said I have a death wish."

"You both do," Edd grumbled.

"Y'know what?" Grenn announced. "I don't want to think about the battle right now. We survived Craster's. We've earned the right to celebrate."

"Not much to celebrate with."

He grinned, reaching for his pack and pulling out two bottles of beer. Caitie's eyes lit up at the sight.

"I thought you'd like that," he said. "Figured Craster owed us."

Edd gestured to the bottle. "Go on, then, give it." Grenn handed it to him, and he took a sip. "Nothin' like toasting death with a good drink."

Jon chuckled. "Aye."

"Let's play a game," Grenn said.

Caitie eyed him. "A game?"

"I ask a question; you answer; I take a gulp. And you have to tell the truth."

"That's not a game. That's just a conversation with ale."

He threw her a mock glare.

"Hmm," Edd said. "Well, I'm in. Ask—but nothin' too personal."

Grenn grinned. "Strangest place you've ever had sex?"

Edd sighed, and Caitie could tell he was already regretting his agreement. Still, he answered the question. "A crypt."

"How… morbid," she said, pulling a face. "Tell me it wasn't with one of the inhabitants, at least."

Jon smothered his laughter while Edd blanched, his face turning red.

Grenn laughed, too. He gulped down some of the beer and said to Edd, "Your turn to ask."

"All right. This one's for Caitie. Revenge for her smart comment. What's your most embarrassing story?"

Jon smirked. "Oh, I know this one."

Her blood ran cold. It was one thing to talk about that day with Jon, and even Sam. But it was just... too much right now. So she gave him the iciest glare she could muster. "Say it, and you die in agony."

"How do you know her most embarrassing story?" asked Grenn.

"I was there," Jon replied. "I saw the whole thing."

"It's how he knew who I was. I made a stir during a feast at Winterfell. And that's all I'm saying on the subject."

"You're breaking the rules of the game," said Edd.

"No, I'm not, because that isn't my most embarrassing story. It's up there, mind you, but it's not the worst. I try to block out the worst."

"What the hell could be worse?" Jon asked.

"You're going to regret asking."

Edd scoffed. "And you're not getting off that easy."

"Okay, fine," she snapped, crossing her arms. At least this story was only embarrassing, rather than infuriating. And it would teach Edd a lesson, which Caitie thought he rather deserved. "I was thirteen. My father was hosting a feast for his vassals, and all his children had to be there. I was wearing the most beautiful dress—it was made of a pale blue satin with the most beautiful silver detailing on the neckline and sleeves, and—"

"Get on with it."

She huffed. "The point is, it was my favorite. So, of course, there was dancing at the feast, and of course, my father forced me to participate."

"Why is it that all your embarrassing stories have to do with dancing?" asked Jon.

"Be quiet, or I'm not finishing."

He rolled his eyes but stayed silent.

"I must have been dancing for at least an hour when my septa took me aside and told me I had blood on my dress." All three men's faces paled. "That was my reaction, too. It was awful. Owen and Cerys were terrified because I refused to tell them what had happened." She could feel her eyes becoming cloudy with tears, so she moved on. "Now you know—the first time I bled, and all my father's vassals saw."

For a long moment, she was met with only silence.

"Fuck, Caitie," Edd swore, shuddering. "I don't want to think about your…"

She gave an incredulous snort and rolled her eyes. "You can hack off a man's head without a second glance, but a woman mentions her moon's blood and that's where you draw the line?"

"It's different."

"Oh, it is not. You're just being a baby."

"I am not a baby."

"Yes, you are. And a very cute one, at that." Edd scowled, his face turning beet red, and realizing that he'd reached his limit, Caitie decided not to push him any further. "Anyway, just be grateful something like that won't ever happen to you." She could almost hear her father's vassals muttering while their children giggled behind her back. "Gods, it was humiliating."

Grenn shrugged. "No worse than mine."

Caitie eyed him, wondering what in Seven Hells could be worse than flowering for an entire roomful of lords and ladies to see. "I am terrified and intrigued at the same time."

"My parents—well, the people who raised me—found me in a bad state of…" He scratched his neck, "undress. As I was—uh—finishing."

Jon's eyes went wide. "Alone?"

He grimaced and shook his head. "Took Violet weeks to come back to the farm."

As the others chuckled, Caitie frowned. She had tried not to think about the fact that Grenn had been with someone else before they'd met. She'd been jealous before, but it hadn't really mattered, back then. Now… he had known this Violet since he'd been a child. Maybe he'd loved her. What if he was comparing Caitie—

Okay, no, she needed to stop thinking about it. Immediately.

"Well," she said lightly, "it doesn't win against your parents seeing you while you're…" She cleared her throat. "But Jon was punched in the nose by a seven-year-old girl. I'd say that's rather humiliating for such a great warrior."

"You didn't know Arya," he muttered. "She was a terror."

"The worst part is you deserved it. In what world did you think it would be a good idea to dress as a ghost to scare her?"

"Are you telling me you never tried to play a practical joke on Arthur?"

"Nope."

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie."

"I'm not. Arthur was too sensitive for that sort of thing. Cerys, though... I'll admit he and I did some truly horrifying things to each other."

"Like what?" asked Grenn.

"Hmm. Well, I think the worst I ever did was spread a rumor at the whorehouse in Wood's Town that he had contracted the pox. I didn't really understand what it meant, at the time; I just knew it would make the whores refuse him. It was the only time he came close to exploding at me—said I had gone too far, and Owen forced me to apologize. But eventually, the whores figured it out. No harm done."

"I thought you said you'd never been to a brothel before," Grenn said.

"Oh, I hadn't. But servants talk just as much as whores do. Sometimes, they even talk to each other."

Jon shook his head. "Gods, you were a terror, too. As bad as Arya, if not worse. What is wrong with you?"

Caitie flicked some snow at him, which he brushed off with a glare. "Cerys deserved it."

"What in Seven Hells could he have done to deserve that?"

"He put a spider the size of your fist on my pillow while I was sleeping. I woke up, and it was less than an inch away from my face. I screamed so loud people thought I was dying. And then, when I came running to him for help, he had the audacity to laugh at me."

As she finished the story, smiling and laughing with her friends, she realized something she never would have expected: it felt good to talk about her brothers this way. It didn't feel like pouring salt on a wound any longer; it felt like a salve. And in that moment, Caitie decided she wanted to enjoy the memories she had of them. She didn't want to feel immense pain any longer. She didn't want to deal with their deaths so poorly that she put her and her friends' lives in danger.

She didn't want to poison everyone she cared about with her grief.

And she knew, then, that even though she might not have healed from the loss, she wouldn't allow it to control her again.

"Can I ask you something?"

Caitie and Grenn were sitting side by side by the warmth of the fire hours later, with her head resting on his shoulder, as far as they could get from their snoring friends—Ghost, unsurprisingly, snored the loudest as he lay cuddled up next to his master—when she asked the question she'd been wanting to ask all night.

"Anything."

"Did you want to be a brother of the Night's Watch? I've always wondered."

Grenn didn't answer her immediately; she listened to the sound of his breathing, and felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as she waited. "No," he said at length. "I mean, sometimes I thought it'd be nice to have an adventure, but... no. Not really. I only went north 'cause the farmers who raised me couldn't keep feeding me anymore, and I had nowhere else to go."

"If you could change it, what would you do instead?" she asked.

"I dunno. I never thought about it much. I'd stay a farmer, I guess. Didn't know much else before coming here." He paused. "I used to wonder what I'd be like if my parents had kept me, though. I like to think they owned a tavern. Then I'd get free beer my whole life."

"Do you remember anything about them at all?"

Grenn shook his head. "I was three when my father left me. I barely remember him, and I remember even less about my mother. Always wondered what I'd say if I found them again," he said, but it was mostly to himself. He seemed to realize and changed course. "What about you? Do you remember much about your mother?"

"A little," she said carefully, because her mother was a complicated subject. "She was the perfect lady. She never raised her voice or did something she wasn't supposed to—"

"And you're sure she was your mother?"

Caitie went to whack his arm, but he caught it, using it to pull her closer to him and kiss her. "Go on," he said when he finished.

She pursed her lips. "One moment. I have to remember what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted." She ignored Grenn's laughter. "To give you an answer: yes, Jocelyn Norrey was definitely my mother. My oppositional side comes from my grandmother. It's a trait of House Mormont to be exceedingly argumentative."

Grenn's jaw dropped. "You and the lord commander were family?"

"Not closely. He and my grandmother were cousins, and I think they knew each other. But he didn't know my mother, or my brothers, or me. And my mother was about as far from a Mormont as anyone could get." When Grenn gestured for her to elaborate, she said, "She grew up in the south. Southerners learn how to keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves. Knowing what I know about my father, she probably had to most of the time."

"You think she was unhappy?"

Caitie hugged her arms to herself. "I don't know. Father loved her, but that doesn't mean he treated her well. He didn't treat anyone well. Either way, if she was unhappy, she never showed it, at least not to me. And Owen and Cerys never really spoke about her once she died." She sighed, staring down at the snow beneath her.

When she met Grenn's eyes again, Caitie realized he was observing her. "Do you wish they had?" he asked.

"What?"

"Spoken about her."

She furrowed her brows. "I—no. I mean, I wondered about her. I would have liked to know if she hated it as much as I did: hated my father, hated the life she was forced into—but it's stupid. She's gone, and Owen and Cerys are gone, too. There's no one left to tell me anything. I've accepted it." She took a deep breath to keep her chest from constricting.

She didn't want to talk about her mother anymore.

"I get it," Grenn said. But then he hesitated, and seeing that he was gathering his thoughts, Caitie waited patiently for him to continue. "There was no one in my life growing up who could tell me about my parents. I just wish I could talk to them—get some answers—you know?"

She nodded, for she knew all too well.

"Some childhoods we've had," he added, chuckling ironically.

She almost made a pointed comment that at least his adoptive parents didn't take every opportunity to make his life miserable. But it would be unkind, and there was no point. In any case, she understood his sentiment, so she went with, "I think all childhoods are shit. And then you spend the rest of your life trying to move past it."

"Yeah, that's about right." He swallowed. "But shit childhood or not, I'm glad I'm here now—with you."

She nodded because she didn't trust herself to do more than that. Her heart had begun to hammer so loudly she knew Grenn must be able to hear it. She didn't know why she was so nervous, as it wasn't like they hadn't kissed before. But those last times, she hadn't had time to think. Now she did, and her brain was going into overdrive, keeping her frozen in place. What if she leaned in and he pulled away? What if he didn't enjoy himself?

Fortunately, one of them was at least able to think coherently. Grenn leaned in to kiss her. It was soft and undemanding—and for a while, it was enough. But then something snapped within Caitie. She wanted more. To be closer, to go further, to sate the hunger building inside of her. Either because he sensed it, or because he felt the same, Grenn deepened the kiss. He coaxed her lips apart slightly to slip his tongue inside, and before she could stop herself, she gave the smallest of moans. One of his hands found her waist, while the other roamed northward into her hair.

She wasn't sure who pulled whom to the ground, but suddenly, he was lying on top of her, his weight settled against her, kissing her with such ferocity that it felt like she was going to melt into the ground beneath her. She wanted to melt, for there was an ache in her core, low and deep and urging her further, intensifying when he kissed the skin just beneath her jaw. She hooked her leg around his waist and heard a sigh escape. Whether it was from him or her, Caitie didn't know; she could barely even think.

Still, she had enough sense to know that allowing this to lead to something more would have been a terrible idea, for a great many reasons. Grenn seemed to have the same thought, because he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. With great effort, she swallowed back her own desire and said, "We should go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

"Yeah," he agreed hoarsely.

They kept their sleeping rolls apart to avoid Edd's suspicion. Caitie was almost sure he wouldn't take it well; he was much too practical, and he believed in the vows too much for that. Even so, their hands found each other in the dark as they drifted off to sleep—and while what had transpired between them was new and strange and probably the worst idea in the world, tonight, Caitie couldn't bring herself to care.

And I reiterate: nothing about the fucking timeline makes any sense. For the Night's Watch storyline to match up with the rest of Westeros in the coming seasons, there would have to be more time between dealing with the mutineers and the battle with the Wildlings. Based on lines of dialogue and other context clues (although they're not overly reliable, because they contradict each other constantly), the vanilla time span of the NW story from S1 to S6 is about 2 1/2 years—and I just don't buy that. You're telling me that the Battle of the Bastards happens less than three years after the pilot episode? Nope.

Anyway, I didn't want to change the dialogue because that wouldn't be in the spirit of the challenge I created for myself, so this was the explanation I came up with for Jon's "we only have until the next full moon" comment.