In all the time she'd lived at Castle Black, Caitie had never appreciated the window in her quarters.
It was small—more a peephole than a window—with crisscrossing window panes and a stone windowsill to match the walls, and it stood high up, so she had to stand on her tip-toes and strain her neck to see out of it. But the window opened, allowing in some fresh air, and as a prisoner of her tiny room, with Ghost taking up half of it most days, it was her only escape out into the world beyond. As a blessing from the Red God, Caitie liked to say in her more bitter moments, it also overlooked the courtyard.
Really, it was more of a curse.
Life in confinement hadn't been so bad in the beginning. Sam, for one, insisted it was a good thing. She couldn't overwork herself if she couldn't go anywhere. She could rest, relax—as much as one could when they faced execution—and heal. Caitie had a much different opinion. She spent hours simply pacing, every day wondering if it would be her last; if it would be the day Thorne decided to send her down to the dungeons to rot with the Wildlings. By the time her body had fully healed, she spent most of her days distracting herself by enviously watching the new batch of recruits spar with one another as Jon trained them. Keeping her technique honed and her body in shape whilst stuck in her quarters was difficult, to say the least, especially when coupled with the lasting effects of her injuries. Sometimes, she didn't see the point of it, but then Sam would give her that look of his—the sad, puppy-eyed one that even Jon had trouble resisting—and she'd have no choice but to keep working, lest she disappoint him.
In truth, all she wanted was to go down to the courtyard and join in, to move her muscles and savor the flow of a fight. She wanted to return to some semblance of normality before the anxiety of the upcoming choosing combined with the absence of Grenn and destroyed her sanity. Because, while outwardly, things had gotten better, in the last few months, his death had seeped into her dreams. Not even swordplay—or what passed for it in her tiny quarters—could help keep the dreams at bay.
They weren't always about Grenn. In some, Caitie was back as a prisoner of the mutineers, only this time alone, still in chains, waiting for Tanner, Rast, and Dirk to come and rape her. In others, she was back at Norwood, alone with her father and his fury. Arthur made an appearance every now and again—her father taking his rage out on him instead of Caitie. Increasingly, Ser Alliser invaded, staring at her coldly as he forced her to kneel in front of him so he could behead her, as a crowd spanning as far as her eye could see watched on.
"If I could only figure out what I'm so afraid of," she'd joked one evening. Jon hadn't been amused by it. Neither had she, to be honest.
But the worst of Caitie's nightmares were about Grenn. Sometimes, she'd be in the tunnel with him, unable to move, watching as the giant crushed him. Other times she'd dream of running towards him, only for him to slip further and further away. The worst of all was the image of his body on the pyre, surrounded by White Walkers. She would wake up drenched in sweat as the loss washed over her, knocking the wind out of her and refusing to relent.
Caitie refused to speak about her dreams to anyone, except for Jon. There was an understanding—a trust—with him she didn't have with anyone else. Not even Sam; not even Edd. And she didn't know why, really; but whatever the reason, it helped when he would reply to her with descriptions of his own nightmares about Ygritte or his siblings; with his own fears and sorrow and guilt. As the choosing drew closer, the less she wanted to leave him behind, for once she died, Jon's guilt would triple, and she wouldn't be there to tell him none of it was his fault, as she did whenever she saw him.
Not that she saw him all that often—a few times a week, at most. Jon and Sam tried their best to see her while Edd guarded her door, but even that was only every other night, and it was difficult to do without raising Ser Alliser's suspicions. Thorne had severely limited any contact Caitie had with the outside world, making sure his men guarded her day and night. He didn't want her running off before he got the chance to behead her. Not that she would—Caitie didn't have anywhere else to go.
Because of the constant guard, other than Gilly and Little Sam—whom Caitie spent most of her time cuddling and cooing—her only regular human visitor was the second-highest ranking officer at Castle Black: Maester Aemon. As his health had declined and Sam took over more of his duties, he was left with enough time to visit Caitie almost every day, at length. His visits began so he could check her wounds, but they didn't stop once she'd healed. Instead, he'd found other reasons to visit her. More recently, he'd taken to teaching her High Valyrian, insisting it was good for his mind to speak his mother tongue. Caitie had indulged him, as she needed something to take her mind off her situation. Learning a new language from scratch wasn't as good as sparring might have been, but it did the trick, frustrating as it could be, sometimes.
To say she was terrible at High Valyrian would be an understatement. It took months for her to gain the most rudimentary understanding, though Maester Aemon was much too diplomatic to admit it.
"It is not an easy language to master for one who is not raised with it," he assured her as they sat across from each other on her bed the day before the choosing. He'd spent nearly all morning and afternoon with her because of it.
Caitie huffed, trying to mask her frustration with the latest string of words she was trying to translate, but it was a losing battle. "Of course the Targaryens had to pick the most difficult language on both the continents combined," she muttered.
Maester Aemon chuckled. "I do not believe it was intentional."
She barely heard him. "You know, I don't understand why they couldn't have just taught us all when they conquered Westeros. They already forced us to bend the knee to them. They might as well have taught us something worthwhile in the process."
"Mm. Repeat the question in High Valyrian," he said, voice calm and steady, despite her, well, whining.
Not wanting to appear too childish, Caitie took a moment to collect her thoughts and cleared her throat. "Skoro syt gōntan daor—"
"Gōntan se Targaryens daor," Maester Aemon corrected.
"Skoro syt gōntan se Targaryens daor bodmagho…" She paused again. "īlva skori pōnta māzigon… naejot Vesteros?"
"Sȳz," he said, nodding. Caitie recognized it as meaning good. "Though, I believe you know the answer."
He was right; Caitie did know the answer, or at least some of it. After the Doom of Valyria, the language had faded into obscurity until King Jaehaerys Targaryen and Queen Alysanne learned from ancient scrolls they'd hidden—or found, or something—at Dragonstone. Afterward, House Targaryen had generally kept the knowledge to themselves or those they deemed worthy. They certainly wouldn't have wanted a lesser Northern highborn like Caitie learning it, and she had to admit she took a vindictive pleasure in knowing that.
"I suppose it was a rhetorical question," she said. "But you don't agree with your ancestors—otherwise, you wouldn't be here teaching me."
"I am a Maester of the Citadel." He gestured down to the maester's chain he wore. "I, of all people, know that knowledge should not be hidden away. We thought we were gods, but we were not. Why should we have owned knowledge of Valyria?"
"Is that why you gave up the crown?" The words flew out of her mouth before she could hold them back. "I don't mean to pry. I was just—"
"Curious?"
"A bit," she admitted. "I probably learned the history at some point, but I've forgotten."
He smiled, waiting.
Sighing dramatically, Caitie translated the question. "Iskos—"
"Iksos."
"Iksos," she corrected herself, "bona skoro syt ao teptan bē se… Pāletilla?"
"Sȳz. To answer your question: no, that is not why I turned down the crown. I was sent to the Citadel to become a maester as a boy. When my elder brother died, some wanted me released from my oath. I became a brother of the Night's Watch so that there would be no question regarding the throne. I did not want to be used against Egg."
"Egg?" Caitie asked. "Wait—do you mean King Aegon?"
Maester Aemon smiled fondly. "Ah, to the realm, he was Aegon of House Targaryen, Fifth of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. But to me, he was simply Egg."
"You loved him a lot, didn't you?"
"Rūsīr ry issa prūmia."
With all my heart.
Caitie smiled both at the sentiment and because she was proud to realize she understood what he'd said.
But then Maester Aemon continued. "Not unlike your own brothers loved you."
Her smile died, and she went quiet. "Could we talk about something else?" she asked faintly.
"You cannot be angry with them forever."
Caitie scowled. "How am I supposed to feel, then? They lied to me. So did Lord Commander Mormont."
"As did I, by your logic," Maester Aemon said. "And yet, here we sit, speaking High Valyrian to each other."
"You didn't raise me—tell me that you believed in me or that you trusted me. You didn't conspire with my brothers behind my back."
"And if they had told you the truth? What would it have changed?"
"It isn't about that. How am I supposed to trust my judgment if I was protected this entire time?"
A treacherous voice in the back of her mind gave her the answer: she shouldn't trust her judgment, for that was the only conclusion to which she could come after everything she had done. Owen and Cerys were right, in the end. She had needed someone to look out for her. In truth, Caitie wasn't angry at her brothers or even Lord Commander Mormont. She was angry at herself.
And... well, it was easy to dwell on her own shortcomings when stuck all alone in a tiny room. She had never thought of herself as a prideful person. Hot-tempered and impulsive—yes. But prideful? That wasn't like her. Yet, however much she wished otherwise, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—Edd's words had possessed a kernel of truth. A truth which Caitie had buried deep down because, of all the things to feel about the situation, pride was shameful.
"Were you?" Maester Aemon asked, breaking her reverie. "When the lord commander died, and you escaped Craster's Keep? Your friend, Grenn, was adamant it was you who planned the escape."
Caitie was glad Maester Aemon couldn't see her face. If he had seen it, he would know exactly how she felt about him. He probably knew already, but if he did, he didn't mention it, for which she was endlessly grateful.
"They would have escaped on their own, eventually," she said, waving a hand in dismissal. "Not that it matters. I ended up getting caught in the end. I've made a wonderful mess of things without protection. And now I'm going to die."
"Valar morghulis."
Caitie took a minute as she deciphered what the words meant in Common. "All men must die?"
Maester Aemon nodded. "It is a very old saying. The response is Valar dohaeris—all men must serve."
"How uplifting. Serve whom, exactly?"
"Death is an inevitable fact of life, Caitriona. Some of us face it sooner; some, later."
Caitie couldn't help the retort. "Like you?"
He chuckled. "Yes, like me. But make no mistake; we all face it. Whom else could men possibly serve?"
"Men must serve death?" she asked skeptically.
"Kessa," he said, which meant yes. "When my time comes to serve—soon, I should think—I will be ready. The stranger waits outside my door and will not be denied."
Caitie was silent for a while, contemplating his words. Then, "How do you do it? Stay so calm, knowing how close death is?"
"Time, practice, and patience. A gift of growing old."
Which, she thought, she would never have the chance to do.
"Valar morghulis," she said, testing the words on her tongue. Considering the circumstances, she should probably accept the idea.
"Valar dohaeris," Maester Aemon replied. He sighed, gesturing for her to help him stand. "I'm afraid I must leave you for now; I still have some duties I must attend to before tomorrow."
His legs shook as Caitie helped him up and guided him to her door. If she weren't there, he probably wouldn't be able to make the short walk at all. "Thank you for keeping me company, Maester," she said feelingly. She hoped he knew just how much she meant it.
He gave her a smile. "Do not thank me. I have greatly enjoyed myself. By tomorrow, hopefully, you shall be free to join me in the library to continue your studies. We'll begin work on your pronunciation."
She snorted. "Is it that bad?"
"Ah, but what is bad? The ability to improve is not bad, is it?" Which was Maester Aemon's way of saying absolutely fucking terrible.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, cracking a smile she didn't truly feel. It took a moment to remember there was no point because Maester Aemon couldn't see it.
He cleared his throat, waiting for her to repeat the phrase in High Valyrian.
"Nyke jāhor ūndegon ao hemtubis," she said—and flawlessly, too, if she was any judge.
"Yes, I believe you shall." With those parting words, Caitie opened the door for him, where her guard waited. This afternoon, it was a brother named Gareth, whose voice she'd never heard, as he refused to speak a word to her. Per usual, he grunted, nodding to Maester Aemon respectfully, and allowed Caitie to hand him off. Without a word, he turned his back to her. She shut her door, and just like that, Caitie was alone.
Sometimes, she didn't mind it. She liked the quiet—the ability to hear her own thoughts without having to drown out the sea of men yelling at each other from across the room. Other times, it was a nightmare of self-loathing, grief, and fear with no one to pull her out of it.
Being the day before the choosing, this was one of the other times.
It didn't help her feelings of loneliness to look outside her peephole of a window to the courtyard and see all her friends there. Ghost lay on the ground chewing a large bone while Jon trained the new batch of recruits. Edd stood off to the side with his sword while Jon barked out instructions. Sam and Gilly sat at a table almost directly beneath her window with the baby, watching, but not participating.
Gilly, unlike Caitie, was at least allowed outside—though not without her fair share of dirty looks. Ser Alliser would toss her out as soon as he became the new lord commander, but he wouldn't kill her. What was the point? He already had Caitie to humiliate and murder; he'd do more damage to Gilly by throwing her out into the snow and letting her fend for herself and her son.
No. No. She couldn't think about that. Whatever her fate had in store for her, she would deal with it; she deserved to have to deal with it. But the thought of facing death was easy when compared to thinking about the fates of Gilly, Sam, and the baby. So she focused her gaze back onto Jon and the new recruits and forced herself to pay attention.
They stood in a circle, boots caked with mud from the melted snow, watching the sparring demonstration in exaltation. Olly was front and center, with a large black shield in one hand and a practice sword in the other. He struggled to keep the shield up as Jon beat at it with his own weapon. Energy flagging, Olly lowered his shield and went on the offensive, trying to shift the flow of battle in his favor. But Jon was far too advanced, and the fight ended in mere moments, with a sword at Olly's neck.
"Get your shield up," Jon snapped.
"It's too heavy."
"If it wasn't heavy, it wouldn't stop a sword. Now, get it up."
Caitie frowned as she watched Jon continue his attack on Olly with brutal, relentless force, over and over again until he fell backward into the mud. His expression was cold, ruthless, efficient—and nothing like her friend. This wasn't a new observation, of course. Ever since Olly's official induction as a Night's Watch recruit, Jon had been much... colder towards him. At first, Caitie thought it was an acknowledgment of Olly's new status, but the more she watched them, the less convinced she was of that when Jon treated all the other recruits with warmth and friendliness
No, his coldness was reserved only for Olly, and it worried her.
Caitie sighed. She'd have to discuss it with Jon before tomorrow, otherwise, she might never get the chance again. When he comes by later this evening, I'll bring it up.
Jon extended a hand and pulled Olly to his feet; he leaned in close to say something, but Gilly spoke at the same time, and it overshadowed any other noise in the courtyard. "Shouldn't you be training, too?" she asked, looking up from her work.
"Well, I'm hardly a new recruit," Sam replied as he watched the others. Gilly shot him a look, and he added in a voice laced with excitement, "How many brothers can say that they've killed a White Walker and a Thenn? I might be the first in history."
Whatever Gilly's response might have been, she never had a chance to voice it, for that was the moment Thorne and Slynt stepped into the courtyard. They spoke loudly enough so that everyone within twenty feet of them could hear the conversation. "These men need a firm hand—always have. They're poachers and thieves," Thorne said. His steps halted as he noticed Sam and Gilly, and his lips curled in disgust. "Not soldiers." After one last hate-filled scowl towards Gilly, he and Slynt moved on, walking up the steps to the walkways and out of Caitie's earshot.
"That one hates me," Gilly said as she watched them go.
Sam followed her gaze. "If Ser Alliser is chosen as the new lord commander… he hates the Wildlings—all the Wildlings."
"Don't let them send us away."
"It's not a sure thing," he assured her. "Ser Denys Mallister has commanded the Shadow Tower for twenty years. And people say he's a good man."
Caitie sighed. Sam knew as well as she did that Denys Mallister couldn't win. Not only was he almost as old as Maester Aemon, nor particularly charismatic, but he had been in command of the Shadow Tower when the Wildlings hit Castle Black. He hadn't brought his men over in time to help them. It wouldn't go over well with the rest of the Night's Watch. And while Sam wasn't necessarily wrong that Mallister was a good man—but goodness didn't make a man politically viable. Even with Jon backing him, Ser Denys Mallister was going to lose.
Either way, just because he was a supposedly good man didn't mean he wanted women or Wildlings at the Wall.
It didn't stop Sam from trying to reassure Gilly. "He's running against Ser Alliser—"
"Sam," she interrupted, voice forceful. "Don't let them send us away."
"I told you," he replied, "wherever you go, I go, too."
"You can't leave. They'll execute you."
Sam had no argument for her, there.
Feeling like an unwanted intruder on her friends' personal moment, Caitie looked away, back to the sparring circle and Jon and Olly. "Good, good, pivot—don't forget to pivot," Jon said as Olly swung at him. "Shield up!" he snapped.
Usually, Olly scrambled to do as Jon commanded, but now, he stopped moving, staring at a point behind Jon.
Caitie bit back a groan, for the point was Stannis's Red Priestess, Lady Melisandre. Still eerily beautiful, still terrifying with that awful, arrogant smirk. Just looking at her put Caitie on alert for threats.
"The king would like a word," Melisandre said, smiling blandly at Jon. She didn't wait for a reply before she turned around and headed back toward the elevator.
Caitie hoped Jon would wait and take the elevator up by himself, but no, he followed Melisandre and took a step in after her. Caitie's stomach twisted, her hands clenched into fists as she watched the elevator jolt upward until it was out of sight.
Back and forth she paced; half-bored, half-worried. Edd poked his head in at one point to let her know he had taken over for Gareth, but otherwise, she was left alone to stew. She busied herself rearranging the contents of her nightstand: a burnt-out candle, a cup of ale smuggled in a few nights earlier, her brothers' scroll, and her daggers. Sam had taken and hidden them whilst Ser Alliser had searched her quarters, quickly smuggling them back to her the moment it was safe to do so. Caitie had never been more grateful—or more frustrated—than when he placed them back in her arms.
She wished she wanted to rename her daggers, burn the scroll, erase all memory of her elder brothers for what they'd done, but she didn't, and she couldn't. However betrayed she felt, she loved them too much to pretend they didn't exist.
After she'd fussed over the exact angle of her daggers in relation to her cup of ale, she finally ceded defeat to her boredom; perching herself on her bed and tapping her foot. It could have been minutes or hours later—time flowed strangely whilst imprisoned—when the door to her quarters burst open. Caitie reached for Owen and Cerys and raised them instinctually, only to sigh and lower them half a second later. "Seven Hells, Jon," she breathed. "Knock next time."
"Sorry." He didn't sound all that sorry, and instead of explaining anything, he just growled something unintelligible and started to pace the length of her room.
"I'm assuming your discussion with the king went well?" she asked, setting her daggers down on her nightstand and crossing her arms.
Jon paused mid-step, arching a brow at her. "You were watching the courtyard? Again?"
"What else do I have to do?"
He grimaced as he took a seat at the edge of her bed. "Aye, I'm sorry. The king wanted to make an offer to the Free Folk."
Well. That was certainly unusual. And she wasn't sure how she felt about it. "I see. What kind of offer?"
"He was willing to make them citizens of the realm."
Her jaw dropped. No king had ever suggested an alliance with the Wildlings, let alone making them citizens of the Seven Kingdoms. She tried to think of something to say, to even feel, but ineloquence triumphed, and all she could do was breathe, "Wow, that's… wow."
Jon shut his eyes, rubbing at his temples as if to ward off a stress-induced headache; and that only confused Caitie even more, as Stannis's offer seemed like the best outcome Jon could have hoped for.
"I'm sensing an 'if,'" she said.
"If they bend the knee and help Stannis retake Winterfell."
Ah, and now Caitie finally understood why he looked so upset. "He sent you to convince Mance, didn't he? And Mance refused."
Fury flashed in Jon's eyes as he opened them. "But he should have agreed. It will save his people, and he's just too stubborn—"
"I don't understand," Caitie said, interrupting his tirade, because she really, truly didn't. "Isn't this what Mance Rayder wants? For his people to live south of the Wall as citizens of Westeros?"
"Free Folk do not kneel," Jon sighed, calming slightly. "It's not in their nature."
She snorted, derision filling her voice. "You mean that Mance just wanted to kill us, and he's mad because if he bends the knee, he won't get to."
Jon gave her a hard look. "He's proud. He doesn't want to kneel to a southern king."
Caitie hated to admit it—but a part of her understood the sentiment. She didn't particularly want to bend the knee to a southerner, either, and certainly not one who expected her to worship the Red God in the way Stannis did. She might not have liked the Old Gods all the time, but they were hers, and she'd die before she gave up the practices of her ancestors.
The Andals had tried to force that, and failed. This was no different.
There was, however, a difference between her and Mance Rayder. "He's responsible for the lives of thousands of Wildlings," she said. "He'd let them die? He'd give the White Walkers hundreds of thousands of more soldiers just because he's proud?"
"When's pride ever been rational?"
Caitie flinched at these words, for if pride was never rational, then what did that say about her? "Well," she sighed miserably, "you have a point, there."
"You're talking about me, aren't you?"
She laughed, because of course Jon would think she was talking about him. "I wasn't. But if you have to ask..."
Jon bowed his head, glaring at the floor the way he did whenever he was embarrassed, and said nothing.
"You're no worse than I am. I promise," she said, trying to keep the note of bitterness out of her voice. Because she didn't want to be proud. She didn't want to be like Mance—dooming his people and himself because of his pride.
Jon chuckled. "I suppose I can live with that."
Sighing, Caitie sat down next to him on the bed and rested her head on her hand. "Is Stannis going to behead him?"
Jon shut his eyes so tightly she thought his eyelids might fuse together. His breaths came in ragged bursts, and Caitie didn't know what to do other than to take his hand and hope he knew that she was there for him, whatever might come.
"No," he finally said, rasping the words as though he could barely bring himself to speak them out loud. "He's going to burn him alive."
It took a moment for the words to register. "Burn him alive," she repeated as her expression morphed into one of stunned horror. "Seven Hells; why would he do that?"
"It's a sacrifice to the Lord of Light."
Caitie gave a bitter laugh. She should have known. It seemed the king was more Targaryen than Baratheon, after all.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, because if there was one thing she knew about Jon, it was that he would never allow a man he respected to have such a torturous death.
"I don't know," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But I can't let him die like that."
There was a part of Caitie—a horrible, cruel part of her that she hated, yet couldn't stomp down—that disagreed; that thought, Good. He deserves it. A moment later, she shook it off and nodded. Because whatever she thought of Mance Rayder, no one deserved to die so horribly. "So don't."
"Defy a king?" he asked skeptically.
"You're a man of the Night's Watch. You don't answer to any king."
Jon smiled at her. "I don't think Stannis would see it that way."
Well, I can't really argue with that, she thought. But I'm not sure it should matter what Stannis thinks. Sighing, Caitie banished these thoughts as quick as they had come, for they were drifting well into treasonous territory and Jon didn't need her to make his choice even more difficult. "He didn't say anything about me, did he?"
"No," Jon said. "Nothing."
Caitie allowed herself to relax at the assurance. With everyone else at Castle Black screaming for her head, she'd rather not have a crazy king with an even crazier red priestess take notice of her. In fact, a beheading sounded more and more appealing as she quickly crossed the room and peeked out the window to see Stannis's men already building a pyre in the courtyard outside her window.
Caitie sat back down on the bed beside Jon, and knowing that he would have to leave soon, changed the subject. "Before I forget," she said, "I wanted to talk to you about Olly."
"Why?"
"Well, you've been rather hard on him these last few months, don't you think?"
Jon glowered at her, but it did nothing to dissuade her; indeed, his glowering meant she was on the right track. "He won't learn if I coddle him—"
"Oh, don't even try that with me." She crossed her arms and refused to break eye contact, despite the increasing intensity of his glare. "You've always been patient with the new recruits, especially the younger ones. There's something else going on. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to—I just thought you should be aware."
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I like Olly. You know I do," he said at length.
"I didn't mean to imply—"
"He killed Ygritte."
She stilled, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together. "The arrow through her chest…" Olly was the best archer in his hamlet. She blinked once, twice, three times, before she somehow stumbled upon the right words. "Why haven't you let someone else oversee his training?"
"Who else is there? Ser Alliser is too busy building his support for the choosing, and no one else has the experience to train." He didn't state the obvious: that Caitie did have the experience. But she was stuck in her quarters until tomorrow, at which point, she'd be dead. "Olly looks up to me; he wants to be a brother of the Night's Watch. I can't avoid him forever." Jon sighed. "It isn't his fault. He thought he was saving my life. You can't blame him."
"I don't blame him. But that doesn't mean you're wrong for feeling the way you feel, either."
He shook his head. "After what the Wildlings did to his home…"
"You can't punish yourself for something you couldn't control. What happened to Olly was not your fault." Jon couldn't have stopped the Wildlings from attacking Olly's village, just like he couldn't have stopped any of the other horrors to come from the war with the Wildlings. Neither of them had that kind of power. All they could do was make the best choices available to them. Despite everything, Caitie thought they probably had. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked, sighing.
"You already have," he replied, giving her forearm a squeeze. "Once tomorrow is over, things will be better."
"So optimistic. Who are you and what have you done with my friend?"
"Funny."
"I usually am." As the shouts of Stannis's men grew louder, Caitie looked back out the window to see darkness encroaching on the courtyard. "You'd better go," she said.
"You don't think I could stay here until it's over?"
"Gods, I wish. But you and I both know Ser Alliser will have a shit-fit if you're not there."
Jon eyed her. "Shit-fit?"
"It seemed like the most fitting term to use. And it rolls off the tongue, don't you think?"
He looked so completely disappointed in her, right then, that she very nearly apologized. But Caitie was nothing if not stubborn. "I have been stuck in this room for months," she said. "I'm allowed to be creative with my use of language."
"I didn't say anything."
"Yes, but I can tell when you're thinking something judgmental. You get this look." She tried to imitate it, but she didn't think she captured it well. Jon, apparently, agreed, giving her that singular glower of his; the one she always enjoyed trying to break.
"I don't look like that."
"Yes, you do. Luckily, I like you anyway, despite all your... judginess. Sometimes."
"I should hope so," Jon said wryly as he stood from her bed and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You'll be all right on your own?"
"I always am." The lie rolled off her tongue with ease, for it was the same one she told to each of her friends whenever they asked.
But Jon was not her other friends, and despite her best efforts, he knew it was a lie. Before she could react, he had pulled her in for a hug, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing her as close as was humanly possible, as though he could make it all go away, if only he tried hard enough. "I'm sorry," he said.
"So am I," she whispered, the facade she had worked so hard to cultivate crumbling down around her.
Reluctantly, Jon pulled away. He gave her one last look of despair before he swept out of the room. When the door closed behind her, Caitie went back to her window and waited, cold dread seeping through her as the sky dimmed.
Valar Morghulis.
Now, I know that Valyrian is a difficult language to learn, so I ran it by a friend who's a translation major (admittedly her focus of study is Spanish, which is comparatively easy), as I'm not well-versed in linguistics at all. Tldr; after about 6ish months of rigorous study and practice with a native-born instructor, Caitie would be able to translate intermediate to complex-ish sentences, but it would take a considerable amount of brain power to do so, and she'd likely have a thick accent. So comprehension with some effort, but not fluency.