I just want to thank everyone who has reviewed/PMed me in the time since posting my last chapter. The outpouring of kindness I've received has been off the charts. I can't begin to describe how thankful for all of you—you've made this awful month bearable for me. Lots of love to every reader, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Although Caitie had always been aware of her delicate situation, she was still disappointed to find that being a girl at Castle Black came with quite a lot of drawbacks. She'd known, of course, from the moment her identity had been discovered, that she would have to be on her guard, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality. Wherever she went, eyes followed her; every so often, one of the men would try to touch her somewhere inappropriate, and she would have to twist their arm to stop it. Usually, this led to them muttering obscenities and insults, of which traitor, cunt, whore, and bitch were the most common. Only a single brother had been creative enough to use the word slattern. Caitie gave him credit for it—she'd had to ask Sam what it meant.

That the only time any of this stopped was when one of her friends was with her was not lost on her, and Gods, she hated it. She hated the looks, hated the whispers, and most of all, hated that the only time anyone ever even pretended to respect her was when she had her male friends beside her.

There were, at least, a few enjoyable incidents which she wouldn't have gotten to witness otherwise, and she kept herself from falling too far into despair by thinking about them; whenever it got too much, she would count the incidences, one by one. Her favorite of the bunch had happened with Ghost; after a brother named Jarod tried to grab her from behind—along with a lovely speech about the wonders of his gigantic cock—the direwolf had leapt in between them before anyone else could react. He'd raised his hackles and narrowed his red eyes as he snarled, and Jarod, the brave black brother that he was, soiled his drawers.

It was one of the best moments she'd had at Castle Black since the battle, and for the first time in a long time after it, she'd thought—hoped—that maybe things would soon start to go back to normal.

But it wasn't meant to be.

On the fateful morning when everything changed, she hadn't bothered with breakfast, deciding she didn't want to chance running into Melisandre, who always sat beside Stannis as he presided over it. Instead, she'd headed directly to the training yard, for Jon had knocked her down the day before while sparring—three times—and, after listening to him gloat for hours, she was determined not to let it happen again. Which meant extra practice. Preferably alone.

So of course, as soon as she made it to the courtyard, her plans were dashed when she crossed paths with the last person she ever wanted to see.

"You," Ser Alliser said. Listening to his voice was like listening to boots on gravel.

So far, Caitie had done her best to avoid him, or if she couldn't, have friends with her. It was usually easy to do, but apparently, she hadn't been the only one looking to get an early start in the training yard this morning by themselves.

Forcing an unpleasant smile onto her face, she tried not to let her nerves show. "Good morning. Is there something I can do for you?"

Thorne didn't return the pleasantries. "Get out of the yard. You're not wanted here."

Well, it seemed the diplomatic solution had ended before it could even begin.

"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear already," she said with a dramatic sigh, because if this was all he had to say, then he really needed to get some new material. "But, unfortunately, it's not up to you, so—"

Caitie didn't get the chance to finish. Thorne lashed out, fingers wrapping around her upper arm and gripping it so tightly she bit back a yelp of pain. "I said, get out."

Her false cheer disappeared immediately, replaced with a burst of sharp, icy fear that shot down her spine. She'd leave; Gods, she'd leave, if only he would release her. His fingers around her arm burned, and she wasn't sure she would be able to keep breathing if they stayed there. She tried to repeat to herself that he couldn't do anything, that he had no power, but it didn't stop the barrage of images in her head of all the ways he could hurt her. "Let go of my arm," she warned in a low voice, hoping that he couldn't hear how it shook.

Caitie heard a growl from the back of Thorne's throat, low and primal, and she didn't know if it was an attempt to intimidate her, or if he was simply that enraged by her mere presence. Both, if she had to guess.

"Just because you whored your way into that bastard's bed—"

She wrenched her arm away from him, using the surprise of the moment to grab Cerys from her belt; the blade was at his inner thigh within a second. Without his hand gripping her, she could think clearly, free from fear, and with that clarity came a roaring fury. For it was one thing to speak about her like that, but it was another to speak about Jon. "That is a very serious crime of which to accuse your lord commander."

Thorne's eyes went to the dagger at his thigh. When they came back up to meet hers, he was smirking. "You're gonna kill me?" he asked. "Do it. Try. No one will be able to protect you, then. Not even the traitor's bastard."

His words set a fire within her. Oh, how she wanted to. But…

"No," she said, stepping back. This was a taunt—he'd done the same to Jon once upon a time, hoping for a reaction. It hadn't worked on him, and it wouldn't work on her. If she gave in and responded, Jon may have no other choice than to send her away—at best.

At worst, the others would ask for a more permanent retribution.

Thorne sneered. "I knew it. You're weak. A weak little girl who should never've come here."

"And you're a bitter old man who's angry because that weak little girl made you look like a coward," she said, rapidly losing what little control she'd gained over herself. She didn't even know why; not really. He was trying to bait her into a response, and she was stupid to even consider falling for it. But weak was something whispered in the halls of Castle Black whenever people thought she wasn't listening, and she just couldn't take listening to Ser Alliser Thorne, of all people, saying it to her face. Even if she sometimes felt it was true. "Don't you ever speak about me or the lord commander that way, or so help me, by the Old Gods and the New, I will fucking gut you."

Before Thorne could say anything in reply, the door to the dining hall burst open. "What in Seven Hells is going on?"

Immediately, Caitie came to her senses. She backed away from Thorne, shielding her eyes from the dawning sun, and looked up at Jon, who was striding down the steps towards them, his shoulders stiff with tension.

Thorne spoke before she could, his words crisp, clear, and cold. "Lord Commander, this woman threatened my life. I ask your permission to execute her."

Of course he would ask that.

"Don't you have anything better to do beyond obsessing over killing me?" Caitie snapped.

He sent her a glare full of pure loathing, so she looked to Jon for support, only to find him scowling at her, too.

"Did you threaten Ser Alliser's life?" he asked.

Caitie scoffed. "Only after he insulted me and accused me of—"

"Shut up," Thorne growled. "Lord Commander, this woman disgraced the Watch. She should have been publicly dishonored and executed, not allowed to wander the castle—"

"Oh, yes, you got six good men killed because your ego wouldn't let you seal the tunnel, but I'm the one who should be dishonored and executed. I'm the traitor."

"How dare you—"

"Enough," Jon interrupted. "I don't care who said what. I will not have this infighting from either of you. Apologize to each other. Now."

Caitie's hands tightened around her daggers. Apologize to the man who'd called for her execution, called her weak and a traitor and a whore, insulted both her and Jon, and gotten Grenn killed? How could Jon even begin to ask that of her?

"Never," spat Thorne. His ice-blue eyes didn't leave her, and she'd never seen them filled with such hate before, even towards Jon. "You should be on your fucking knees—no better than the Wildling scum."

The fire within her exploded.

She didn't speak, because words weren't strong enough, and she had lost all control over her limbs, anyhow, dropping Owen into the dirt. Her free fist might have collided with Thorne's face, but sensing her next move, Jon's hand wrapped around her wrist, keeping it from moving.

She was so angry that her skin sparked at his touch.

He stepped between them. "That is enough. I am the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I am ordering you both to apologize. Think long and hard before you refuse."

All argument was over. The lord commander had spoken, and Thorne, no matter how much he hated them both, was not Janos Slynt. He would obey his superior officer.

"I apologize," he ground out.

But Caitie couldn't return the sentiment, for at this point, Jon may as well have asked her to apologize to Roose Bolton. It was simply too much.

"Caitie," he said, low and warning.

Her hands shook, not from the cold or fear, but from a rage so fierce it burned through her body like liquid fire. Yet, when her eyes met his, she took an involuntary step back. Caitie had never seen Jon look at her that way before. His face was cold and impassive; his mouth was set in a hard line. But under all that, she could see the fear—the way his shoulders had tensed, the slight widening of his eyes. Jon was a difficult person to read, but Caitie had known him too long and too well—she could see how terrified he was.

He needed her to do this. But that didn't mean she wouldn't be damned angry about it.

Caitie inhaled deeply and exhaled on the count of three. Her hands balled into fists to keep them steady. "As you say, Lord Commander Snow," she spat. "I apologize, Ser Alliser."

And without another word, before Jon could even try to diffuse her or Thorne could taunt her, she stalked past them both, determined never to speak to the lord commander again.

Standing at the steps which would take her down into the dungeons, Caitie put a foot forward and then retracted it, standing still, staring, thinking—mostly berating herself for considering this next course of action.

She didn't even know why she was here.

After stealing a large bottle of ale from the kitchens, she had meandered through the corridors with no destination in mind—that was, until she found herself walking past the door to the dungeons. All of a sudden, it had occurred to her that she'd never actually met any of the Wildling prisoners before now. Sometimes, she forgot they were even there, rotting away in the bowels of Castle Black.

Just like Ser Alliser wanted for her.

Maybe he was right, she thought to herself as she stared down into the black hole before her. Maybe she belonged in the dungeons, too—an enemy of the Night's Watch, just as much as the Wildlings. What a fool she had been to think she still belonged at Castle Black. To think she would ever have a place.

Well then, if she belonged in the dungeons, that's where she would go. And if Jon would disapprove of it—well, let him. She didn't care.

As she descended the steps to the dungeon, Caitie realized she had never actually been to this part of Castle Black. The ceiling was dome-shaped, made of stone, with torches lighting the hallway, so no one would trip on the stairs. Down and down it went, getting colder with each step she took. The scuff of her feet on the steps echoed through the stairway.

When the steps came to an end, the hall continued straight and narrow. Caitie walked by rows of cells carved into the stone walls, each containing a single Wildling prisoner, making certain they were all isolated from one another.

If Caitie ever spoke to Jon again—which she still was steadfastly refusing to think about—she would have to tell him to change that. She couldn't imagine how much worse her imprisonment would have been at Craster's Keep had she been alone.

Then again, not being alone had allowed her to cook up an escape plan, so maybe keeping them isolated wasn't the worst idea in the world.

The prisoners refused to even look at her, and she knew she wouldn't be getting any conversation out of them. It wasn't until she rounded the corner, where a ginger man with a matching beard was staring at her, in the cell immediately to her left, eyes narrowed with disgust, that she found someone who acknowledged her existence.

Tormund Giantsbane.

Jon had told her about him—though it mostly had to do with his weaknesses in combat—and, at one point, a very strange story about sex advice involving baby seals that he refused to repeat once sober.

The one thing Caitie had noted about those conversations was this: whenever Jon spoke of Tormund, he did so with respect—even admiration.

So she looked back at him, and after realizing he was the only one who seemed willing to even glance in her direction, decided to talk. He couldn't be any worse than Ser Alliser.

"So," she said casually, as if she were speaking to a stranger in a tavern. "You're Tormund Giantsbane."

He didn't respond, other than his eyes narrowing further. She supposed he meant to intimidate her, but there was only so much a man in rags, imprisoned in a cell could do.

"Well, it's lovely to meet you. I'm Caitie."

Still no response.

Remembering the bottle of ale in her hand, Caitie sat down in front of his cell and held it out to him as a gesture of goodwill. "I wasn't allowed ale in my quarters when I was imprisoned there, and it was hellish," she said. "I don't think I'd have survived if my friends hadn't snuck it to me."

Tormund Giantsbane eyed the ale with a spark of excitement, but it faded in less than a second as his eyes clouded with distrust.

"It's not poisoned," she promised, pulling out the cork and taking a drink for herself. "See?"

This time, when Caitie outstretched her arm, Tormund accepted the bottle, maneuvering it through the bars. It just barely fit through, and he had trouble with his hands being bound in chains, but he still drank half the bottle, letting the other half dribble down his beard.

After he finished, he spoke. It was gruff and brief. "You're a girl."

"Yes," Caitie said.

"A crow?"

She considered the question. "Sort of."

"Never met a girl crow before. Thought the Night's Watch didn't take cunts."

Caitie sighed. "And you'd be right. I'm… the exception, I suppose." She glanced at their surroundings. "Though, most of the men would undoubtedly prefer me in here, with you."

Tormund snorted, ignoring her answer. "A highborn cunt. Should've known."

As much as Caitie disliked being called a cunt, she was so used to it by now that it hardly registered. Really, she was more interested in how he knew she was highborn. "Have you met many Westerosi ladies north of the Wall?"

He shook his head. "You talk like the little crow."

"Ah," she said, with a bitter taste in her mouth. "Jon."

Tormund's face grew even more hostile at the mention of the name. "Know him?"

"You could say that," replied Caitie. "He's the new lord commander. I don't know if the news made it down here."

Tormund's smile was twisted and angry. "Movin' on up in the world. Fucking traitor." He spat on the ground beside him.

Caitie pursed her lips. However angry she was with Jon, no one was going to call him a traitor in front of her—not a black brother, and absolutely not a Wildling.

Her feelings must have been visible, because recognition flashed on Tormund's face. But all he asked was, "Did he send you?"

"No," Caitie said. "He'd probably kill me if he knew I was here."

Tormund observed her for a moment, eyes narrowed, trying to figure her out. Then, "He fucked another, you know," he said, so abruptly that Caitie almost flinched. "One of my kind. She loved him. Bet he didn't tell you that."

She tilted her head to the side before she realized what Tormund was insinuating, and then promptly decided to ignore it.

"Ygritte, you mean," she said. "He loved her, too."

Tormund's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed again, inspecting her. "Just how would you know that?"

She chose her words carefully. "I know what love looks like."

"Well, he had a funny way of showing it."

Caitie scowled and crossed her arms. "And what was he supposed to do, exactly? We were his friends, his brothers, his family. He had to make a choice: the woman he loved, or everyone else he knew."

"He should have stayed loyal to his woman like she did to him."

"The woman he loved against his brothers and sisters who you would rape and torture. That isn't as easy a choice as you think."

"Don't judge us, Lady Crow. We just wanted to be free."

Caitie snorted, ignoring the name Tormund had given her. She supposed he meant it as a taunt, but very little could impact her as much as Thorne's words had. "You wanted to conquer Northern lands, you mean."

"Southern lands. All you lot down south are southerners."

"Whichever." Caitie waved a hand dismissively. She wasn't going to argue semantics with him. "You wanted to live in the Seven Kingdoms, but you refused to be a part of it. You wanted to kill us, instead of living with us. So don't sit there and judge me. And don't even begin to tell me the only thing you wanted was to live free when what you really wanted was revenge."

"Don't pretend you would've lived with us."

"I might have," Caitie said. "But your people still raped women and murdered children in their homes. You killed good people—people I cared about."

"That's war."

"That doesn't make it right."

Tormund glared, but he didn't argue with her. She wondered if it was because he knew she was right, or because he didn't think she was worth it.

The latter, if she had to guess.

But when she looked back at the Wildling's face, she got the feeling her guess was wrong. Because there was guilt on his face, in his eyes, in the way he refused to meet hers. He was trying to hide it, she realized, but she saw whether he wanted her to or not.

Because it was an expression she saw herself, every day in the mirror.

Gods, Caitie almost wanted to laugh. Even with her vivid imagination, this was not the conversation she'd expected to have with the Wildling prisoners. Really, she didn't know what she'd been expecting at all.

But the conversation was going nowhere, and the longer she stayed, the more likely she'd be caught. Which meant it was time for her to leave.

Standing, Caitie brushed the dirt off her cloak. "Keep the ale. Or whatever's left of it."

It wasn't much. She had to be impressed by the amount he'd drunk in such little time. Ale beyond the Wall must have been atrocious if he could gulp down that much of Castle Black's. Either that, or he was just desperate for a drink.

She turned away from the cell and took a step towards the stairs up to the ground level before Tormund spoke again.

"Why?"

He didn't need to elaborate; Caitie knew what he was asking. But she didn't know how to respond—or even what her answer to his question was or should be.

She supposed it was an amalgamation of many things: her anger at Jon and Thorne, a morbid curiosity to meet the men who'd helped kill Grenn, and… a need to understand them; to understand why.

But these were complicated, private reasons, and she had gotten her answers, so Caitie just shrugged. "Well, two of my best friends fell in love with Wildlings, and one of my best friends is a Wildling. So I figure you can't be all bad."

Tormund didn't speak, and when Caitie realized he wouldn't, she went on. "And even if you are, I still think you deserve to get plastered, stuck in here. That's just common decency."

He broke into a sudden laugh and raised his bottle towards her. "It's too bad you're a crow, Lady Crow. We might've been friends, otherwise."

Caitie didn't quite know what to say to that, but she found she didn't have to say anything at all, because Tormund Giantsbane had had enough.

Without any acknowledgment towards her, he shut his mouth, looked away, and said nothing more.

Caitie's conversation with Tormund left her so exhausted that by the time she made it back to her quarters, she couldn't keep her eyes open without them burning in protest. She didn't try to fight the feeling. After letting her hair down and taking off her boots, Caitie fell into her bed.

She was asleep before her head even hit the pillow.

When she woke up again after a thankfully dreamless sleep, the sky was a pretty combination of purple and orange.

Wondering groggily if she'd missed supper, Caitie forced her body to move, even though all she wanted was to curl back up in her bed and pretend the day had never happened. But before she even managed to make it over to her window, a loud knock sounded at her door.

It could have been anybody. But Caitie knew it wasn't.

For a moment, she debated not answering as she hovered between her door and her window. But then Caitie decided she would rather yell at Jon than ignore him. So, sighing, strode over to her door, and swung it open with a scowl plastered on her face.

It softened when she took in the man in front of her. Jon stood in the doorway, hunched over, trying to make himself seem unimposing and remorseful. In his hand was a large chocolate chip cookie.

"I had Hobb find the ingredients," he said.

She blinked, off-balance. "You remembered."

"I did."

Caitie couldn't believe her eyes. She tried to remember when she'd even told Jon her favorite dessert. It must have been before they took their vows.

That he had remembered... But not even a cookie could smooth things over so easily.

"You made me apologize to Thorne."

The air grew tense between them.

"I had no choice."

She ignored him. "He tried to have me killed, called me a traitor, compared me to the Night's Watch's enemy, and you made me apologize."

"Caitie—"

"He accused me of whoring my way into your bed, you know. Called you a traitor's bastard, too. You're the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, for fuck's sake, and you let him get away with it!"

Jon flinched, but he didn't back down. "What was I supposed to do? I can't show such blatant favoritism, especially not to you. I've already shown you enough."

"He accused you of breaking your vows!"

"And did anyone hear him?"

Caitie pursed her lips. "No."

Jon shot her that look of his. "I can't execute Ser Alliser for something only you heard. He's got a lot of loyal followers. Seven Hells, he almost won—or have you forgotten already?"

Caitie closed her eyes as she accepted the truth: he was right. One vote; that was all it would have taken. Jon might be the lord commander, but it didn't change how thin a victory it had been.

All the guilt she'd been bottling up since the choosing spilled out. Caitie had always known she was making his political life that much harder, and it was the last thing she wanted to do.

"Then maybe you should send me away."

Jon stilled. "What?"

She sighed, feeling utterly exhausted, even though she'd slept for hours already. "You're right," she said. "And as long as I'm here, it'll only get worse. So maybe it's better if I leave."

"Where would you go?"

Caitie refused to look him in the eye because as soon as he did, he would know she still had no answer to his question.

In two short strides, Jon was standing less than an inch away from her. "Look at me," he said, voice soft and rough at the same time.

She did.

"Do you want to leave?"

"No," she admitted. "But it isn't up to me."

Jon shook his head. "I've lost too many people I care about already. I don't want you to leave, and you don't want to go. You're staying."

And when he sounded that stubborn, Caitie knew there was no arguing against it.

Of course, it was also possible she just didn't want to argue. She didn't want to leave her home, her friends.

"All right." Her voice was quiet. "I suppose it was partly my fault, what happened." When Jon looked much too pleased with himself, she added, "Partly, Jon—only partly. I should have left as soon as I saw Thorne."

"I'm tempted to send him away."

"But you can't," replied Caitie with grim acceptance. They would be without a first ranger otherwise, and Thorne was still the best candidate for the job.

"For what it's worth," she said, "I am sorry for what happened today. And for everything else."

Jon's lips curved up, just slightly, into the barest hint of a smile. "Caitie," he said. "Take the cookie."

Caitie smiled back, without even really thinking about it. She supposed it was a reflex at this point. After taking a bite, she said, "Not bad, considering the ingredients we've got here."

"Hobb says he had to make some substitutions."

"And somehow, I don't think I want to know what they were." She wolfed down the rest of her cookie, deciding she didn't care about savoring it, and after she'd finished, remembered her other adventure today.

Well, she supposed this was as good a time as any to let Jon know about it, even if admitting it made her feel like a child all over again. It was a childishly petty thing she'd done, after all. "I should probably, um, tell you I spoke with one of the Wildling prisoners."

Jon's smile fell. "Who?"

"Tormund Giantsbane."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why?"

"I don't know," Caitie said honestly. "I was so angry at Thorne for comparing me to the Wildlings—I guess I just thought I belonged down in the dungeons, too."

Jon grimaced, but she could see the warring emotions, too. They were written all over his face, no matter how hard he tried to hide them.

"Did he say anything?" he eventually asked.

Caitie nodded. "He was quite the conversationalist, actually."

"Really?"

"Really. He wasn't what I thought he'd be, either."

Jon knit his brows together. "What did you think he'd be?"

She tried to put it into words, but found it difficult. "I thought… I'm not sure what I thought, to be honest. But he didn't threaten me or try to hurt me or anything else I would have expected. He talked to me."

"About?"

"Well. You."

Jon blinked. "Me?"

Again, she nodded. "And why you left the Wildlings. About what's right, and what they really wanted when they marched south. It was a strange conversation."

To that, he couldn't help making a wry comment. "To be fair to Tormund, every conversation with you is a strange conversation."

She narrowed her eyes. "Rude."

"But true."

Maybe so, Caitie thought, but she wasn't about to admit it.

"As I was saying," she said pointedly, while he smirked, "he treated me like a person. I wasn't sure he would."

Jon sobered. "He was born on the wrong side of the Wall—"

"But that doesn't make him evil," she finished, thinking of the look of guilt on Tormund's face.

Jon stared at her blankly. It took him a few seconds to recover. "Aye."

Their eyes locked, and she searched his face only to find… relief?

"You want to talk to him, don't you?" she asked. "To make a deal with him, so that the Wildlings can come south."

Jon didn't answer, but his face twisted in agony. Then, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You know what."

Caitie swallowed, knowing exactly what and simply not wanting to address it. But Grenn was a gaping chasm in the space between them, and she knew they had no choice.

In truth, she wanted to feel betrayed. She wanted to feel angry and hurt and horrified by the notion of allying with those who had killed Grenn. And yet, she felt none of those things.

Yes, the Wildlings had killed him, and it wasn't something she would ever forget. But how many Wildlings died at her hand?

Had Caitie killed someone's Grenn?

The thought sickened her—that she had caused suffering and grief just as much as they had. And what was it all for, in the end? What had it accomplished? All the Wildlings wanted was to escape the White Walkers, and if that was the case, then Grenn's death, Pyp's death, everyone's death had been for nothing.

Because no one deserved to become a wight.

"Sometimes," she said, without realizing she'd even started speaking, "when I close my eyes, I can see them—the army of the dead. It doesn't happen as often as it used to, but I still can picture the black brothers they turned into wights, the children—with their skin falling off their bodies and the dried blood on their clothes. I remember them crawling all over each other to get to me. If it hadn't been for Ghost, I would have died back at the Fist. I would have become one of them."

Jon's face morphed from agony to horror. "I didn't know that."

"I try to avoid thinking about it as much as I can—it's easier that way. Half the time it feels like I imagined the whole thing, even though I know I didn't." She shook her head. "But I had a point. You and I saw Lord Commander Mormont allow Craster to murder his own children to appease the White Walkers, and Gods only know what other horrors, all in the name of keeping the Wildlings trapped north. But becoming a wight isn't something that should happen to anyone, regardless of where they were born.

"We let our hatred of them blind us to the fact that they're people, trying to escape the same thing as us. We let horrible things happen because of it—did horrible things. But now you have the power to make the Watch into something better."

Caitie paused to take in Jon's expression. It was almost inscrutable, but there were flickers of surprise, and continued relief, and something else she couldn't quite define.

"I guess," she said, "what I'm trying to say is I'd support you if you spoke with Tormund and tried to negotiate a truce. Not that you need my permission, but—"

"Even though they killed Grenn?"

Caitie ignored the pang of uncertainty, wondering how Grenn would feel—if he would feel like she'd betrayed him, or if he would understand. In the end, it didn't matter. He wasn't here, and she was. She had to do what she thought was right.

Grenn might not have understood the rest, but he would have understood that.

"So did Ser Alliser," she said with a shrug. "And so far, I like Tormund better than I like him."

Jon went silent as he processed everything she'd just told him. "I have been thinking about it," he said eventually. "I want… I want to do it. But it would divide the Night's Watch even further. I'd need to discuss it with Maester Aemon. And I still don't know if it's the right thing to do."

That was the question, wasn't it?

But right and wrong were more complicated than people thought, and the right thing was rarely the easy thing. If the last few years had taught her anything, it was that.

Caitie stood on her tip-toes so her face was level with his. "Tell me the truth," she said. "Is this what Ygritte would want for her people?"

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind beating against her window. Until finally, Jon closed his eyes and breathed, "Yes."

When he opened them, Caitie spoke, not quite a whisper, but soft enough that he had to lean in to hear her. "Then I think you know the answer to your question."

Well, I certainly hope you liked this chapter as much as I did. The talk with Tormund and the talk with Jon is some of my best work, if I do say so myself. I can't tell you how much I enjoy delving into the philosophy of ethics regarding the NW/FF conflict. The show tried, but they just didn't dedicate enough time to the storyline to do it justice. Such a missed opportunity.