Minutes ticked by, and then hours, and still, no one came for the body. In fact, no one bothered Caitie at all, really—not that she minded it. The quiet of the room, beyond the crackle of the fire, was, in a way, soothing. There were no empty condolences, no pitying looks. There was just her, with Ghost as her sole companion, watching over Jon. Every time she looked at his body, she had to fight a retch. He was so near, yet wholly unreachable, and it broke her heart.

Ghost allowed her to stroke his ears, though it didn't stop his whimpers—and if the sight of Jon's body broke her heart, then hearing Ghost's whimpers shattered it. He loved Caitie; she knew that—and he listened to her when necessary, or when she had food. But he'd been so bonded to Jon—and in a way she couldn't even imagine; he had been from the time he was only a few weeks old. She didn't know how badly the death would affect him, and so far, he was coping no better than her.

Which was to say, not at all.

My fault. Those two words played over and over in a loop she couldn't stop. And it was her fault—her fault that Ghost had lost his master, that the Night's Watch had lost its Lord Commander, that the Free Folk had lost their key ally.

It was her own fault that she had lost her... best friend didn't seem strong enough, but she couldn't think of anything else to call him. Not that it mattered now.

My fault. She should have left Castle Black the moment Jon got elected as Lord Commander. She should have kept her distance. She should have come back when Jon had asked.

There was so much she could have done, and so many mistakes she had made. But a part of her—one which only grew bigger and bigger as the night wore on—was starting to believe that maybe this was what she deserved, after all the lives she'd ended. Maybe she was doomed, now, to face constant loss for the horror she'd inflicted on the world.

One moment, Caitie was immersed in her own increasingly self-loathing thoughts; the next, the door opened and slammed shut behind her. She almost snapped at whoever it was to just go away. But when she twisted in her seat and saw Tormund, she only sighed, remembering the rest of the Free Folk. There were logistics they needed to discuss, contingency plans to draw up to keep everyone else safe. She didn't want to be bothered with it now; among everything else, she could hardly keep her eyes open, having been awake for almost two full days. But without Jon, Caitie had the closest relationship with the Free Folk. Without Jon, she was all that kept their alliance intact.

She didn't even know if she would be enough, but she had to try.

Caitie expected Tormund to get straight to business, but instead, his face softened. "You doing okay?"

She scoffed. "How do you think I'm doing, Tormund?"

He considered her for a moment. "Pretty fucking terrible."

Caitie gave a little half-laugh, half-sniffle. But then she remembered why she looked so terrible in the first place, and any laughter she could have mustered died. She put her head in her hands and shut her eyes, wishing that she would open them to find the last few days were nothing more than a bad dream.

"It wasn't your fault."

She blinked up at him, wondering briefly how Tormund could possibly know her thoughts—until she remembered just how much he'd lost in his life, too. And that, though horrible, comforted her. "He asked me not to leave," she said. "He asked me to come back. I didn't, and now he… he's dead."

"Those cunts wanted to kill him. They'd have killed you too, if you'd gotten in their way."

"Then they would have killed me."

Maybe it would have been better after everything.

After a beat of silence, Tormund crossed his arms over his chest. "And you'd be okay with that?"

Caitie didn't answer, and Tormund, sensing she never would, no matter how he pushed, changed the subject. "You don't want to stay here." It wasn't a question.

"I don't know," she replied. She had absolutely no idea of where she would go from here. Of course, she didn't particularly care where she went at this point. Every time she thought about the future, she included Jon in her plans until she remembered the body which lay behind her. It was easier not to care about any of it.

"Well, you've always got a place with us."

She supposed she should have been touched by the offer of a permanent home with a people who had hated her not so long ago, but all it did was shoot icy fear into her veins. "That's a terrible idea. Everyone I care about winds up dead."

"That's not you," Tormund replied evenly. "That's just life."

"Then I don't want to live."

The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. As soon as they did, Ghost whined with a new sort of fury, nudging her face with his head, and she sighed. "Sorry, boy," she muttered. "I didn't mean it."

At her reassurance, Ghost calmed. With a yawn, he lay down on the floor, putting his head on her foot, closed his eyes, and fell asleep in seconds, snoring softly. Caitie watched his chest rise and fall with jealousy; she wished she could just close her eyes and fall asleep without getting so caught up in her own thoughts.

"Will the alliance survive without him?" she asked.

A different man might have given her empty reassurances. Tormund did not. "I don't know."

For some reason, as Caitie rubbed her temples, she felt a strange sort of calm come over her. It was just another unknown for her to face, and there were already so many. Where before she'd had at least a vague direction of what came next, now she had none. The White Walker threat, the fracturing of the Night's Watch, and the loss of Jon had already overwhelmed her. So when she thought of the crumbling Free Folk alliance—well, her mind seemed to have cushioned itself from the worst, perhaps because she knew, deep down, that there was nothing standing in the way of inevitable destruction.

Nothing but her.

Tormund sighed, breaking her reverie. "You don't need to worry about that right now."

"If I don't, who will?"

"None of us. We all deserve a break; the bullshit will still be there when we're done." He stared down at the body on the table beside her. "Can't believe I'm saying it, but Jon Snow was my friend. I liked him. I'm gonna miss him."

Caitie wiped the snot away from her nose, but when she tried to speak, she couldn't bring herself to agree. Because missing him didn't even begin to suffice. "Tormund?" she asked instead.

"Mm."

"Your daughters—what were their names?"

Tormund blinked, surprise at her question written on his features. But it quickly turned into grief. "Munda and Runa."

Caitie tried to think of a reply, but came up short. She hadn't really thought through her question to begin with, only needing some sort of confirmation that she was not alone in her grief, in her confusion, in her fear. But now, seeing Tormund's utter despair at the mention of his children, she hadn't a clue how she could have ever thought her grief was equal to his.

And she also knew that the last thing Tormund would want was for her to comment on that grief.

Fortunately—or perhaps, unfortunately—a knock at the door sounded, interrupting their conversation. She stiffened in her seat, half-hoping she'd imagined the sound, because if she hadn't, then she knew it would be Edd coming to take Jon's body to his pyre, and the thought of that made her sick.

Tormund eyed her, asking for permission, proving that the sound was, in fact, real. Though everything inside of her screamed not to, Caitie nodded.

It was Edd, waiting behind the door—except he wasn't alone. Ser Davos stood behind him on one side, and on the other was…

"You," she breathed. She didn't know why she was so surprised; Edd had said Melisandre was still at Castle Black. But Caitie didn't think she would ever get used to the red woman's presence, and frankly, she didn't want to.

Melisandre hardly met her gaze, though Caitie still saw tear tracks on her cheeks. "I am very sorry for your loss."

Those were not the words Caitie had expected from Melisandre. She looked for traces of the red priestess she'd spoken to so long ago—what felt like years now. But the woman in front of her seemed a different person entirely. Gone was the arrogance, the confidence, the knowing stares, and the eerily perfect movements. This was a woman who had been broken; stripped of everything she was, everything she believed in, everyone she cared for.

And Caitie knew all this, because Melisandre looked exactly how she felt.

She hated the tug of empathy she felt for the red woman. The feeling took her by complete surprise, and she forced it away as soon as it came. Whatever Melisandre had gone through, she was still a fanatical witch who burned people alive. Caitie could never empathize with someone who did those things.

Davos cleared his throat. "Might we have a word?" he asked.

At the hesitancy in his voice, Caitie eyed Edd, but he avoided meeting her gaze, nodding for Davos to continue. That didn't make her feel any better.

"The lady Melisandre and I—we have a plan. If it succeeds…" He paused, eyes flickering from her, to Tormund, to Edd, and then back to her. "It'll bring the lord commander back."

There was utter silence as she and Tormund registered his words. Once she finally understood what he meant, Caitie scowled. "That's not funny."

"It's not meant to be funny," Edd snapped. Realizing how he'd sounded, he deflated. "Caitie, just listen to him. I know how it sounds. But—"

"You're talking about bringing Jon back from the dead."

"Aye, we are," Davos agreed.

"That's ridiculous. There's no way."

"There might not be," he admitted. "But I've seen Lady Melisandre do things no human should be capable of. If anyone can bring him back, it's her."

Caitie opened her mouth to argue with Davos, but she couldn't think of anything to say, save for calling him a lunatic. So instead of addressing him again, she rounded on Edd. "And you agreed to this?" Her voice bordered on hysterical, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

He grimaced. "I don't believe in any of this Lord of Light bullshit—you know that. But we need Jon. It's worth a shot."

Caitie gaped at him, unable to form a coherent syllable, let alone a sentence. Of all the people she had met in her life, Edd seemed the least likely to let a priestess of a foreign god try to resurrect the dead. That he would even entertain the idea could only mean that the world had turned on its head, leaving her as the only sane person left.

Well, her and Tormund. He, at least, acted suitably suspicious. "How the fuck would you even do that?"

Melisandre answered his question, her tone calm and matter-of-fact, despite his icy countenance. "I met a man, years ago now, who had been brought back from the dead not only once, but six times. A red priest—Thoros of Myr—said the Old Words over his body, and it returned him to life."

"The Old Words?"

"From Valyria," Caitie answered without thinking. Maester Aemon had told her about the words once, after she'd seen them in her book. Words of great power, he had said. Or so the stories tell us.

But that was all they were: stories. To believe they were more would be naïve at best and stupid at worst.

It was Melisandre's turn to look surprised. "Yes," she said. "They are in the language of Valyria, of R'hllor, the Lord of Light."

Caitie almost laughed. "Isn't this the same god who had you utterly convinced that Stannis was the one true king? Because that worked out oh so well."

Melisandre flinched—almost imperceptibly, but not quite. Caitie tried not to feel guilty for causing that, but it still crept up on her. It was hard not to feel guilty when Melisandre looked so… shattered.

"I have been wrong about a great many things. I don't know if it will work, but I have to try." When Caitie pursed her lips, she added, "You have no reason to trust me. But please—I would like to help."

Caitie knew she shouldn't believe her. She knew that Melisandre was one of the least trustworthy people in the whole of Westeros.

And yet.

What if she was able to bring Jon back? Lord of Light or not, there were so many secrets lost when the Valyrian Freehold had fallen, magic that had never been rediscovered. So much nobody knew.

Caitie looked beyond Melisandre, beyond Davos and Edd and Tormund, to Jon's body. And that… that made her decision for her. "No."

Her answer had not been what the others were expecting, apparently, judging by the looks of surprise on their faces. The only one who didn't look surprised by it was Edd. "Caitie, think about it. It could—"

"I said no."

"Look, I don't trust her either—"

"You shouldn't," said Tormund, his expression somehow even colder than before.

Edd growled. "Damn it, we need him. If it doesn't work, then it doesn't. But if there's a chance—"

"You don't understand. That's not—" Caitie's voice broke. "He's at rest. If we bring him back…"

Would he even be the man she knew?

"If we don't try, we lose him for good."

She swallowed the tears dripping down her throat and whispered, "Valar Morghulis."

"Valar Dohaeris." Caitie looked up. The response had come from Melisandre. "But that does not mean it must be today."

The thought was so, so tempting. All she had to do was say yes. And she might have—might have succumbed to the burning temptation, had she not seen the army of the dead. Because wights had been brought back, too, but they hadn't been alive. They had been vessels of the White Walkers—not people.

Was that what Jon would be? A vessel to carry out a god's wishes?

Caitie's eyes didn't leave Melisandre's, looking for any hint of a lie on her face. "What will he be if he wakes up?"

She understood the question instantly. "Jon Snow," she replied. "He will remain himself, if it… if it works."

"Not a wight?"

"The Lord of Light is not the Night King. He does not make slaves of men."

"No, he just burns them alive."

"This will not require a sacrifice. The price was mine and I…" Melisandre's voice cracked. "I have paid it."

Caitie's eyes landed on Tormund, and she could see the conflict warring inside of him—anger at the woman who murdered his king, weighed against the prospect of his friend and ally returning. It was a similar conflict brewing inside Caitie. But when his eyes met hers, she realized with a jolt of surprise that he was waiting for her decision—that he trusted her to make it. Perhaps he didn't trust her as much as he'd trusted Jon, but he would follow her lead here.

Caitie closed her eyes, her resolve ebbing away. She wondered what Jon would do if their situations were reversed, but the truth was that she didn't know. In the end, it didn't matter. He wasn't here, and she was, and Gods forgive her, she was too tired and too weak and too selfish to say goodbye to him.

"All right," she said, half-regretting the words the moment she said them. "Do it."

Once the preparations were underway, time seemed to move at twice its normal speed. First, Melisandre instructed Edd to bring her a variety of strange items: a basin of water, a rag, a pitcher, a pair of scissors, and a brazier. After a bit of grumbling, he left the room to do as she asked, and her attention moved solely to Jon. She stripped him of his leathers, and then his undergarments and smalls, leaving only a cloth to cover his modesty.

Caitie almost protested against that, for it seemed so wrong for so many to see him like this—so bare and vulnerable—and she knew if he were here, he would probably kill them all if he didn't die first of embarrassment. But she swallowed her complaints down as soon as they arose. If this was what it took, Caitie supposed there were higher prices to pay.

As she stood between Tormund and Davos, watching silently as it unfolded, she couldn't take her eyes off Jon's torso, covered in a dark layer of dried blood. And while she hated seeing him like this, a spark of hope had still bloomed in her chest at the thought of him alive again. It felt like such a tangible possibility, even though the logical part of her mind screamed at her that it wasn't.

Melisandre worked without making a sound, leaving the other three in the room awkwardly standing around, tight-lipped and silent. Caitie nearly forgot there were others with her until Tormund left, claiming to need a piss. Without him there, the awkwardness only grew. She glanced over at Davos, standing formally with his hands clasped behind his back, wondering, not for the first time, what he stood to gain from Jon's potential return.

"Why are you doing this?" Caitie asked, keeping her voice just above a whisper. She didn't know why she was asking now, with Melisandre in the room. There would be time for questions later, whatever the outcome. But the silence was eating away at her, and she needed to do something to keep herself distracted.

Davos cocked his head. "Pardon?"

"Why are you helping him—helping us?" she clarified. "Why do you care?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

Caitie smiled sardonically at that, but otherwise didn't respond. He had said as much once before, and she hadn't known whether to believe him—but he had still followed Stannis in the end, and that seemed to confirm her worst suspicions—regardless of how much he'd loved Shireen.

"You don't believe me," he said.

She shrugged. "I think you have funny ideas about what's right. Both of you."

If Melisandre heard—which Caitie assumed she had—she didn't react to it, focused entirely on the body before her.

Davos, on the other hand, sighed, rubbing his temple with his forefinger. "Well, as much as I'd like to, I can't begrudge you your suspicions. All you know is the king I served. But Jon Snow's a good man. Better than Stannis—better than most. If I can help him, I will."

She didn't know how to answer that, other than: "You really think this will work?"

"I don't know. I've never been a devout man. It's all the same shit to me. But I've seen that woman—" he nodded towards Melisandre "—drink poison that should have killed her. I've seen her work magic you wouldn't believe."

"I'd believe quite a bit."

He chuckled. "Well, I'm sure you would, after the things you've seen."

Her curiosity getting the better of her, Caitie was about to ask for more information about Melisandre's abilities, but before she could, Tormund burst back into the room. He took his place on Caitie's other side, and glanced around—well, glared—at everyone but her. "What did I miss?" He directed the question at Caitie, ignoring the other two people entirely.

"Nothing interesting," she lied. "Are you all right?"

"Are you?"

Tormund knew the answer to his question as well as she did, so she only shrugged and lowered her voice to a whisper. "You're the one in a room with a crazy woman who burned your king alive."

"Ah, but I'm not about to watch someone I love get brought back from the dead by the crazy woman."

Caitie's stomach swooped at his wording. She shook the feeling away. "It's not too late to stop it."

"Is that really what you want?"

No, it wasn't what she wanted. Not even a little bit. And he knew that, if the knowing look in his eye was any indication.

Edd reentered the room just then, with all the supplies Melisandre had asked him to fetch. At her instruction, he placed the items down and stepped back to stand between Caitie and Tormund. Melisandre wasted no time; after submerging the rag in the basin of water, she turned back towards Jon. Rolling her shoulders, she took a deep breath, evidently trying to calm her nerves. It did not inspire Caitie's confidence.

But then, gently—lovingly, almost—Melisandre began to wipe the blood off Jon's body. Nobody spoke while she worked. Slowly, the blood faded away until all that was left to see were the six large wounds left behind from the assassination. Once she'd finished, Melisandre picked up the pair of scissors Edd had brought and lifted a lock of Jon's hair. As she cut it, she chanted, "Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon."

And though Caitie was so exhausted, her brain had turned to mush, somehow she still knew what it meant, almost as easily as breathing. We ask the lord to shine a light and take a soul from the darkness.

Melisandre held the lock of Jon's hair up to the light and threw it into the brazier's fire. For a moment, Caitie thought that would be it—this whole ritual already seemed needlessly elaborate—but still Melisandre continued, cutting locks of Jon's hair and throwing them in. When she was done, she moved onto his beard, clipping pieces away. Those, too, ended up in the fire.

After he was sufficiently groomed, she took the pitcher and filled it with water. As she poured it onto Jon's newly cut hair, she chanted again. "Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon."

We implore the Lord to share their fire and light a candle that has gone out.

Melisandre paused for a moment, and then, hesitantly, she placed one hand on Jon's chest and the other on his abdomen. "Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson."

From darkness, light. From the ashes, fire. From death, life.

The words permeated the room, sending a tingle down Caitie's spine, and she swore she could feel something in the air—something new and powerful and unknown.

But nothing happened.

Melisandre looked over to Davos. She closed her eyes, hands still laying on Jon's body, and repeated the words, over and over again. "Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson." Each time she said them, they came more desperately. And still, there was no change. "Please," she begged under her breath, looking near tears.

Yet Jon's eyes did not open, and his breathing did not resume.

Tears burned Caitie's eyes, but she refused to blink them back, refused to do anything except watch Jon's body, willing him to just wake up.

From darkness, light. From the ashes, fire. From death, life.

She didn't look away until Melisandre turned back to Davos, her expression despondent and hopeless.

They had failed.

A tense silence took over the room as that failure became clear to the others. Tormund was the first to leave; scowling at Davos and Melisandre, he threw the door open and stormed out, not bothering to shut it behind him. After a pause, Melisandre followed, her head bowed. Edd went next. He refused to look Caitie in the eye, leaving her and Davos alone.

Caitie wanted to hate Davos. She wanted to hate Melisandre, too. She even wanted to hate Edd. All of them, for giving her hope—and Tormund too, for leaving the choice up to her.

But she couldn't, because it was their hope, too, and it had been destroyed.

She stepped forward towards Jon's body, finally getting a close look at the wounds which had killed him—crescent-shaped, at least two inches long and probably twice as deep, all of which would be fatal on their own, let alone together. No one could survive this; no one could come back from it.

He would never smile at her again. He would never hold her hand or glare at her when she made a bad joke or… he was gone. Forever.

She supposed she should be used to the feeling, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer, overwhelming power of what she felt now. She all but forgot Davos was still in the room with her as she bent down, looking at Jon's face for what would be the last time. She'd never seen it so relaxed before—he'd never been able to relax, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Her fingers brushed his cheek and cupped his jaw, and if not for how cold they were to the touch, she could imagine he was just asleep. Slowly, she pressed her lips to his forehead and at the contact, her tears fell, landing on his cheeks. She wanted to say something, some final whisper of goodbye, but she couldn't.

Jon wouldn't hear it, anyway.

It took every ounce of effort she possessed, but Caitie pulled back from him, taking one last look at his face before it would disappear behind flames forever. Then, she stood up straight, and before she could change her mind, walked out of the room, leaving Davos to shut it behind her as dawn touched the sky.

With the grim finality of acceptance having set in, Caitie was somehow able to sleep. Even so, she had expected it to be restless and full of nightmares, only resigning herself to it because she was simply too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

But what occurred was, in a way, worse.

Though fitful, her dreams were achingly vivid, and filled with the people she'd loved, happy and alive and there with her. Her mother, or at least what she remembered from the few memories she had, Owen and Cerys and Arthur, Grenn, Pyp, Shireen, Maester Aemon, even Mormont. She talked to them, laughed with them, asked the questions that their deaths had left behind, and though she didn't receive any answers, the simple act of asking seemed to be enough for her. And Gods, they were so real. She could make out every detail—even ones she'd all but forgotten.

At the center of them all was Jon. When he smiled at her, the lines around his eyes crinkled, and her heart pounded against her ribcage at the sight.

It was the complete opposite of a nightmare, and she didn't want to wake up from it. She wanted to stay in the dream forever, with all the people she loved. As it faded, she clung onto them, screaming, begging to whoever would listen—to whichever deity might have granted her the wish—to let her stay, because she knew that when she woke, they would be dead once more.

But consciousness pulled at her; the dream receded slowly but surely until all she saw was the darkness behind her lids and all she felt was the hard bed underneath her. For a minute or so, Caitie didn't move from her sleeping position. Her limbs were too heavy, her head ached from the stress she'd put her body through the last two days. All she wanted to do was stay in her bed and pretend like everything was okay until she fell back to sleep. The future seemed so daunting now, but at least if she were asleep, then she wouldn't have to think about it.

But she wouldn't let everything she had worked so hard to create crumble to dust, especially not when she still had friends who needed her, so Caitie worked up the energy to open her crusted eyes, resisting the exhaustion that weighed her down, and stood. She winced at the light streaming in from her window; it had to be midmorning, maybe even midday.

She hadn't slept for long enough—and she would feel the effect of that later—but for now, it would have to do. Rubbing her eyes to wake them up, Caitie pulled her hair back and smoothed out her rumpled clothes. When she was sufficiently satisfied that she didn't look so ghoulish as to scare anyone to death, she left her quarters and started down the corridors toward the dining hall. Hopefully, Edd and Tormund would be there. The three of them could discuss their next steps over their breakfast, including plans for Jon's funeral.

At the thought, Caitie's breath caught on a sob. She had to lean against the wall for support until she calmed herself. It took much longer than it should have, but eventually she was able to wipe the tears away and continue her journey, berating herself the whole time. She didn't have the luxury of weeks or months to mourn him or adjust to the gaping hole he'd left in her life. She couldn't afford to fall apart. She had to protect the living, even if all she wanted was to grieve the dead. Even if, on the inside, she was falling apart.

Life continued, and the world wouldn't stop for one person's death.

She padded through the hallways, cold and silent as a crypt. There wasn't anyone around, something for which Caitie was endlessly grateful; there were only a few people whose company she could handle at the moment.

Eventually, she came to the dining hall. Caitie assumed she would find her friends there, but her assumption was wrong. There wasn't a single soul in sight. She furrowed her brows. In all her years at Castle Black, she had never seen the dining hall empty—not even once. Stranger still were the plates of food strewn about the tables, half-eaten and abandoned.

Where the hell is everybody?

She got the answer to her question when she heard voices coming from the direction of the courtyard. There were no shouts, but the chattering seemed energized; the voices, though she couldn't hear what they were saying, sounded a mixture of confused and excited.

It was either a very good thing, or a very, very bad thing. And after everything that had happened, she was betting on the latter.

What seemed clear, however, was that something had happened out there, and no one had woken her. If they had burned Jon's body or executed the mutineers or made any plans without her, she didn't know what she would do to Edd.

Tightening the leash around her fury, Caitie pushed open the door to the outside. Sure enough, every single person at Castle Black—black brothers and Free Folk alike—were there. They had coalesced around a single point at the center of the courtyard. She couldn't see any of her friends in the crowd, and it only served to make her panic worse. What if it was another death? What if, this time, it was Edd or Tormund? What if it was a raven with the news that Johnna and Willa had been killed, or Sam and Gilly and the baby?

If that was the case, Caitie didn't know what she would do.

As she raced down the steps and into the yard, she tried to stay calm, but it was a futile effort. Snow fell all around her, catching in her hair and eyelashes and on her clothes. Although she hadn't bothered to put on a cloak or gloves to keep warm, she didn't particularly care—in fact, she hardly even felt it. Her mind was too busy envisioning every possible outcome, each one worse than the last. She pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the looks of annoyance she got as she did. But when she saw the cause of the commotion, she froze in place, scarcely believing her eyes.

Because Jon was standing there, right in front of her.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you want to kill me right now for ending it there?