Nice.

"Where you gonna go?" Edd asked as he picked Longclaw up from the octagonal table in Jon's old office and held it up to the light.

Jon, dressed in brown leathers instead of black, was too busy putting items in his traveling pack to look up from the desk. He wore his hair half-up this morning, similar to the way a lot of highborn men in the North did, and although Caitie hadn't been lying when she said she missed his longer hair—mostly because she thought it was funny when he primped and styled it, nearly as much as she did with hers—she had to admit, he looked… good with it like this.

"South," he answered.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Get warm?" Jon smiled, but it faded when met with Edd's frosty glare.

Caitie watched their interaction silently from the old ornate chair Jon used to occupy as Lord Commander, sitting sideways with her legs crossed and propped up on one of the armrests. She understood why he was being so vague about where they were going. It was one thing to tell him they would be staying with the Free Folk, but if Edd knew how far they planned to go… well, he'd probably kill them.

Their plan was simple enough; they would go back to Queenscrown with Tormund when he left this evening and would stay with the Free Folk back until things had settled. Then, if all went well, however unlikely, they eventually would travel south—on a ship, unfortunately—to Sunspear. They would come back, of course. She would hold Jon to the promise he'd made to her, and in truth, she didn't believe he had any intention of breaking it. But not for a long while. Longer than Edd would like, anyway.

He slammed Longclaw down on Jon's desk, making Caitie jolt. "I was with you at Hardhome," he said, the leash around his anger loosening with each word spoken. "We saw what's out there. We know they're coming here. How can you leave us now?"

She sighed. The three of them had been having this same argument every hour for the last three days. It always ended in an impasse. "But we're not leaving," she said for the thousandth time, uncrossing her legs and sitting up in the chair properly. "Not for good, anyway—"

Edd turned his glare on her, and she had to resist the urge to look away when she saw the betrayal in his eyes. "He's giving up his title and running south—that's leaving. And you—you told me you'd stop him. But now you're running off, too!"

In the time it took Edd to finish yelling at her, Jon's demeanor hardened considerably. He stood up straight, speaking with a coldness that she seldom heard him direct towards his friends. "I did everything I could—you know that."

"You swore a vow!"

"Aye, I pledged my life to the Night's Watch; I gave my life."

"For all nights to come!"

Caitie flinched. Fortunately, neither of her friends noticed.

"They killed me Edd! My own brothers! You want me to stay here after that?"

Whatever Edd might have told him next, he didn't get the chance to open his mouth; a horn blew—only once, fortunately—before he could, and the three of them shared nervous glances, their argument all but forgotten.

"Open the gate!" Someone—Halder, or maybe Dareon; she couldn't really tell from inside—shouted.

Rangers? Caitie wondered with a frown. There were so few black brothers left now—and even fewer wandering crows, so it seemed unlikely.

But if it wasn't rangers, who else could it be?

By the time she, Edd, and Jon made it out of the Lord Commander's office, down the corridors, and into the yard, the new arrivals had already dismounted from their horses. There were three of them; two women and a man—the man seemed rather unremarkable compared to his traveling companions, both of which dwarfed him in height. In fact, the older of the two women was taller than almost any person—male or female—Caitie had ever met, with blonde hair cropped close to her head and dressed in heavier armor than most warriors.

The second of the two was the polar opposite, and quite possibly the most beautiful woman Caitie had ever seen, despite being covered in a layer of dirt. The only similarity to the first woman was her height, though she still hovered at a good few inches below her. Where the taller had broad, harsh features, the shorter had delicate; instead of cropped hair, hers was a long, copper braid. She looked familiar, too, although Caitie couldn't place where. The last time she'd seen a redheaded woman was a brief glimpse in the chaos of battle.

Caitie glanced over at Jon, wondering if he might have some insight as to who these people were, only to see him staring at the red-headed woman like she was the only person in the world, and with a look on his face that, in the four years she'd known him, Caitie had never seen. The woman met Jon's eyes and froze, staring back at him with a similar expression to his: shock and wonder and skepticism and... love, all intertwined together—as though she was expecting him to disappear.

He walked down the steps, eyes locked on hers, slowly nearing the woman until she threw herself into his arms, and he lifted her off the ground, squeezing her so tightly it was a wonder she could breathe. And as Caitie watched the scene unfold, the only thing she felt was an irrational and immutable flare of jealousy. She bit back a splutter when the realization hit her.

What the hell was wrong with her these past few days?

She boxed the jealousy away as soon as she recognized it—deciding that was a problem she'd worry about later—and forced herself to look at the situation logically. Red hair, about seventeen or eighteen years old, wearing the finest clothes Caitie had seen in years—by Northern standards, at least.

Well, fuck. Of course the woman looked familiar—because the woman was Sansa Stark.

The last time anyone at Castle Black had heard of Jon's sister, she'd been a captive in King's Landing whilst Robb Stark led the campaign against the Lannisters. But then Mormont had taken the Night's Watch north of the Wall, and by the time Caitie returned home, Thorne had become acting lord commander. If he'd heard anything of the whereabouts of Sansa Stark, he wasn't about to give Jon the satisfaction of telling him. And by the time Jon had become lord commander, there was quite literally zero information regarding either of his sisters. It was as though they'd simply ceased to exist.

Judging by Sansa Stark's appearance, she'd been through more than any of them could possibly know.

Caitie nudged Edd with her elbow. "Come on," she whispered. "We should set up rooms for her and her companions."

Edd furrowed his brows. "Why? Who is she?"

"I'll tell you on the way."

"Wait. No—that's not—is that Sansa Stark?"

"And here I thought you were just a pretty face." Edd scoffed, which Caitie ignored. "Now, come on. We don't have much time; we've got to make Castle Black fit for a lady."

"You're a lady, Caitriona."

"A lady who can beat you into the dirt if you ever use that name again."

Edd rolled his eyes, but he fell into step beside her without complaint. They used the terraces wrapping around the courtyard to bypass the siblings' reunion, not wanting to intrude upon such a private moment. Caitie only caught a glimpse of Jon and Sansa again, still wrapped in a hug. And this time, when she looked at them, a deep, aching sadness spread throughout her chest—because it only reminded her how much she missed her own brothers, and how she wished, more than anything, that she could see him again—even just to know if he was okay.

But she couldn't, and thinking about him would only hinder her. So she called upon the long-perfected art of suppressing her emotions and put him out of her mind.

As she pulled the door to the long hall open, Edd tapped her shoulder. She furrowed her brows at him, but he only jerked his head to the far side of the courtyard, where Tormund Giantsbane was quite literally gazing at Sansa Stark's female traveling companion, with the biggest, dopiest smile Caitie had ever seen on his face.

Edd shook his head, grumbling, "Wildlings." But even as he tried to look and sound disdainful, a smile still peeked through.

Caitie didn't comment on it, knowing that he would only deny such a thing. Instead, she gestured to the open door. Edd obliged, and the two of them hurried down the corridors to the guest's wing. As they walked, he cleared his throat. "So... I guess you two aren't leaving then?"

She shrugged, for she hadn't a clue what Sansa Stark's arrival meant for their travel plans. But it seemed unlikely they'd be going further south than Queenscrown anytime soon. And though she knew she should be happy for Jon, she couldn't help the disappointment. She really had wanted to see Dorne. "Not tonight."

Edd's expression brightened considerably. "Well—can't say I'm not happy. Don't tell Jon, but he's the only one left here I can stand."

Caitie frowned at that, perhaps a little petulantly. "And what about me? Have I suddenly ceased to exist?"

Her question earned her a roll of the eyes. "Do you have to be so fucking dramatic all the time?"

"Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?"

He considered this for a moment or two. "You make a good point. But… I'm glad you're not leaving either."

Caitie smiled, bumped his shoulder with her own, and said, "You've gone soft in your old age."

Edd scoffed. "That's it, I take it all back."

"Too late. You can't."

"You tell anyone, and I'll fucking kill you."

Caitie crossed her arms. "I'd like to see you try." They came to a stop, then, and she eyed the corridor to the guest wing of the castle. "If I get the guest quarters ready, would you have words with the men?"

Edd caught her meaning immediately. "Aye. Shouldn't be hard. Most of the ones who'd try something are dead or in the dungeons."

"Well, you can't be too careful, especially when it comes to—you know."

"Yeah, I know, I'll do it. Now, get on," he said, shooing her away, towards the guest wing of the castle. "Somethin' tells me that girl's gonna need a hot bath."

Per Edd's suggestion, Caitie did, in fact, draw a scalding hot bath for Sansa Stark. Then, thinking of the dirt-covered clothes she'd been wearing, Caitie headed down to the storeroom, picked out a clean, warm dress that looked roughly the right size and a heavy fur cloak, and laid them both on the bed in the largest guest quarters in the castle. The quarters she readied for the guests were not hers and Grenn's—that one was at the furthest end of the wing—and she was more than happy not to make the trek there. For more reasons than one.

When she finished, Caitie left, figuring that the last thing Sansa Stark needed after whatever she'd faced was a stranger waiting in her quarters.

For a little while, Caitie wandered the castle, full of unanswered questions. She had no plan, no idea what was to come, and now that she had a moment to breathe, she could truly give them some thought. There were just so many, now—about the latest arrival, about Jon's resurrection, about the future and the past and everything in between.

Eventually, her journey took her to the courtyard. It was more sparsely populated than she'd ever seen it this time of day, but the large person at the center made up for it. Wun-Wun peered down at one of the wooden swords, looking baffled—or as baffled as a giant could look. It was so endearing that she couldn't help but smile.

She cleared her throat. Wun-Wun turned, and spouted something in Mag Nuk so quickly that Caitie was only able to make out a couple of words—namely, wood and sword—but she could hear the questioning tone in them. "They're for new recruits," she said, hoping she was answering his question. "Or children—er, tukh. So they can learn but won't hurt themselves." When Wun-Wun looked a little less baffled, she continued. "And speaking of which, I have a favor to ask you."

He arched one large, furry brow. "Koh."

Tell.

"I promised Johnna and Willa I'd come back for them when it was safe," she said, "but after everything that's happened, I can't leave Castle Black. I was wondering if you'd escort them here for me."

"Tormund?"

"He knows—sort of. I don't think he'd have a problem with it."

"Hrum."

"I'd ask him to do it, but he's needed here too, and if I'm being honest, it would make me feel a lot better knowing you're with them." Because who in their right mind would even try to hurt Johnna and Willa with a giant guarding them?

For a moment, Caitie thought Wun-Wun would refuse the request. Instead, his features brightened—into what Caitie had come to know as a giant's version of a smile—and slowly he turned, lumbering towards the gates that Halder, now acting as the first builder, had hastily repaired.

When Halder saw Wun-Wun coming his way, he paled. Caitie couldn't blame him, especially considering that Wun-Wun had been the one to destroy the gate in the first place. Sighing, she jogged over to him. She and Halder had never known each other well, but he'd always regarded her pleasantly enough, even after the battle at Castle Black, and of course, he'd watched over Jon's body at the risk of Ser Alliser's wrath.

"He won't hurt you," she said.

Halder swallowed, eyeing her as if he thought her mad. "If you say so."

"I've asked him to go to Queenscrown. Could you…" she nodded towards the gate. With a sigh, Halder signaled for his men to open it.

Caitie watched Wun-Wun shuffle forward. He ignored the men watching him, and all of a sudden, she felt the most peculiar pang of empathy for him. After all, she'd spent the past year at Castle Black as a spectacle to be watched and judged and even feared. It had always made her feel wretched, and she wondered if Wun-Wun felt the same way now. Even a giant wasn't immune to that sort of casual cruelty.

Yet when he disappeared beyond the horizon, that empathy turned to anxiety. How many friends had Caitie parted from before their deaths by now? Owen and Cerys, Shireen, Jon—even Maester Aemon had passed while she was away at Hardhome. There was always fear burrowing in the back of her mind, with Sam and Gilly gone, but now it had heightened, and Caitie didn't think it would unfurl until Johnna, Willa, and Wun-Wun returned.

It was strange, fearing for Wun-Wun's safety, alongside the girls'. But she would miss him if something happened.

Sighing, returned to the courtyard, eyeing the doors to the castle with the intention of heading back inside. That was, until she saw Davos and Melisandre nearing the weapons shed. The former followed the latter; his brow was set with determination, hers with anxiety. Caitie hesitated, one part of her wanting to speak with them, the other wanting to turn and pretend that she hadn't seen them at all. They'd established a fragile truce after the night of Jon's revival. But Caitie hadn't spoken to either of them since. And now, she wasn't sure what to do, what to think, or what to feel, when it came to Davos and Melisandre.

But then she heard their conversation, and that made her choice for her.

"What happened out there?" Davos asked.

Melisandre halted, hands clasped together so tightly it turned her knuckles white. "There was a battle. Stannis was defeated."

She began to walk away, but Davos grabbed her arm to stop her, far from finished with his questioning. "And Shireen?" he asked, sounding close to frantic. Caitie stood rooted to the spot, her stomach falling, unable to decide if she wanted to hear the details of Shireen's death or not. "What happened to the princess?"

"I saw what happened. I saw Stannis's forces defeated in the field."

Caitie furrowed her brows at the sound of this new—and unfamiliar—voice. It was low, but definitely a woman's, and it had an angry bite to it. When she looked around for the source, she saw Sansa Stark's companion, coming to stand beside Davos and Melisandre.

Up close, the woman looked even taller, carrying herself in a way that only a seasoned warrior could. Caitie's muscles tensed as her eyes darted around the courtyard for potential escapes. It was such an automatic response that it took her half a moment to realize why: that it was woman's demeanor—cold and furious, though well-concealed—setting her on edge. She looked ready to attack, to kill.

The grave-faced Davos maintained his composure as he answered, ignoring the woman's icy glare. "My lady, I'm Ser Davos Seaworth—"

"We've met before."

He stopped, blinked, but didn't dare to speak.

"I was Kingsguard to Renly Baratheon. Before Renly was assassinated with blood magic."

"Blood magic?" Caitie blurted before she could think about the consequences of opening her mouth. The three others turned to look at her. Davos and the tall woman hadn't noticed her presence before now, if the surprise on their faces was any indication, but Melisandre's countenance didn't change, almost as if she'd known Caitie had been there the entire time.

Hells, she probably did.

Sansa Stark's companion cocked her head, as if sizing Caitie up for a fight. When she finished, the cold fury faded from her face, though she still remained in a battle-ready stance. She lifted her chin, decidedly diplomatic. "I don't believe we've met," she said. "Brienne of Tarth."

The name Tarth was unfamiliar, but Caitie knew it must be a southern house. "Caitriona of…" She shifted, wondering if it was better to give Brienne of Tarth a title or not. But titles meant respect and station, and that meant safety, especially with southerners, so she settled on: "of the Night's Watch."

Brienne of Tarth raised her eyebrows, the only indication of surprise at Caitie's title. But now that she'd established herself, Caitie was more interested by the mention of blood magic than the prospect of explaining her situation. "I thought Renly Baratheon was murdered by his Kingsguard."

Brienne of Tarth's face hardened to stone. "He was murdered by a shadow—a shadow with Stannis's face." Her eyes landed on Melisandre, fists curling.

"Oh, and of course that was you," Caitie sighed with a roll of her eyes. There was a part of her that wanted to be furious—to have some righteous anger, at the very least. But she couldn't muster any other feeling besides apathy, for there was nothing personal to Renly Baratheon's death. It was a faraway southern king fighting for a faraway throne, and that dulled the effect, especially after what Caitie had seen Melisandre do—both the good and the evil. Compared to that, using a shadow to kill someone seemed rather tame.

"Blood magic is funny to you?"

As Brienne's steely gaze met Caitie's, it took everything she had not to give into instinct and bolt away. Thankfully, Davos came to her rescue. "That's in the past, now," he said, his voice even graver and darker than his expression.

The moment Davos spoke, Brienne of Tarth all but forgot Caitie's presence. Whatever anger she had, it was more towards him and Melisandre—something for which Caitie was immensely, if a little selfishly, grateful. She could have gone her whole life without seeing an expression like that directed towards her.

A pause passed, and Brienne smoothed her features into grim acceptance, but the hatred remained just beneath the surface, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. "Yes, it's in the past," she said calmly. "But that doesn't mean I forget. Or forgive." Her eyes flickered between Melisandre and Davos and then she added, "He admitted it, you know."

"Who did?" asked Davos.

"Stannis. Just before I executed him."

Caitie's stomach dropped out from under her as Brienne turned and walked away, her mind caught on the words executed and Stannis. This woman had been in the thick of the battle between the Bolton's and Stannis's forces. But she wasn't a Bolton soldier—she couldn't be. Tarth was not a Northern name, and either way, Caitie highly doubted Sansa Stark would trust a Bolton soldier to guard her. So how—and, more importantly, why—had she killed Stannis?

The answer, of course, was staring Caitie in the face—but wasn't until Brienne had left the courtyard entirely that she put all the puzzle pieces together. I was Kingsguard to Renly Baratheon. Before Renly was assassinated with blood magic.

Oh. Oh shit.

Somehow, the mention of blood magic and Stannis had stripped this extraordinarily important detail from her mind. But now everything made sense, and it left her with a pang of guilt in her gut, for more reasons than one. If it hadn't been for Davos and Melisandre, she would have run off after Brienne to apologize for her insensitivity. But if Caitie had thought she'd had questions before, it was nothing compared to now, and she might not be able to work up the courage to ask the two of them if she didn't right then.

"Well," she said with a joviality she didn't feel, "that went… horribly." Davos eyed her, while Melisandre continued to look down at the dirt on the hem of her dress. "Did you really murder Renly Baratheon with a shadow?"

"I birthed it," Melisandre murmured, finally looking up. And though her hair was frizzy and her eyes were still tired, she looked more herself now.

"You… you know what? I don't want to know." Caitie sighed and rubbed her temples, trying her level best not to picture that.

Gods, this was going even worse than expected.

"Is there something we can do for you, my lady?" Davos asked hesitantly, keen to move the conversation onward.

"I—" Her resolve teetered, but in the end, her stubbornness won out. "Yes. I had a question. For her, actually."

Melisandre's expression turned from shocked to nervous to blank, all in a matter of seconds. She looked to Davos, who cleared his throat. "I'll go see if I'm needed elsewhere."

Caitie waited until he was out of earshot to speak again. "The prince that was promised. What does it mean?"

The look of shock returned to Melisandre's features, and this time, she did not try to hide it. "Who told you about that?" She answered the question herself before Caitie could open her mouth to respond. "Ah. The Lord Commander. Of course."

"He's not the lord commander anymore," Caitie said. "And you're avoiding my question."

Melisandre's eyes hovered on Davos, who had struck up a conversation with a few Free Folk at the other side of the courtyard, before they landed back on Caitie. "The prince that was promised is the savior, born amongst salt and smoke; he will pull the sword Lightbringer from the flames, and with it, he will combat the darkness." There was no weight to her words, no dramatization. She relayed the information as if a simple fact.

Caitie furrowed her brows, mind working hard to understand. There was only one darkness which she could think of—and after having faced it twice, she knew that no one person could combat it alone. Although there were legends about the Last Hero of the First Men. He was a figure all Northern children learned about at one point or another—stories about his bravery and skill as he drove back the White Walkers eight-thousand years ago, though there were no accounts as to how.

But he hadn't been a savior. He had been just a man who'd done what he needed to do. And he hadn't done it alone, either—he'd had his dozen companions, and after them, the newly formed Night's Watch as an army.

Still, it was worth asking about. "The darkness—White Walkers?"

"I believe so."

"And you think Jon is this… prince?"

"Someone must be," Melisandre said. "The Lord of Light brought him back for a reason."

Ah, and there was the righteous anger Caitie had been looking for. It rose in her chest as she realized the truth. Caitie knew she shouldn't have been so surprised or upset. Jon was here, after all, and he was himself—Melisandre had delivered on her promise. But she and Davos—they had told Caitie they wanted to help, to make amends, and to do what was right. Perhaps it had been the grief clouding her judgment, but she had believed them, when in truth, it had just been a means to their own ends.

"So that's why you saved him? Because Stannis died and you needed someone for your stupid prophecy?"

"No," Melisandre said. "I did not believe it would work. I saw him in the flames, fighting for Winterfell, but that is all. He has… exceeded my expectations."

Caitie glared and opened her mouth to yell at Melisandre, to say, I don't believe you. But there was no point. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that it didn't matter if the red woman had lied or if there really was a prophecy. What mattered was the material reality of the situation: that Jon was alive and okay.

Melisandre's voice broke through her thoughts. "You believe I lied to you that night. I did not. I do want to help. The dead are coming; Jon Snow is needed, now more than ever."

Caitie eyed her for a long time, unsure how to respond to that. Eventually, she asked, "You'll help us fight them?"

Melisandre inclined her head. "I will."

"Then…" Caitie sighed and held out her hand. Against White Walkers, she would take all the allies she could get, untrustworthy red priestesses with slightly terrifying powers, included. "Welcome to Castle Black."

The Red Woman's eyes widened a fraction, but she accepted Caitie's outstretched arm. "Thank you."

"But," she warned, "no more burning people alive. Never again, or I'll toss you out of Castle Black myself."

She thought Melisandre would refuse and back away, or that the knowing smirk would reappear on her face and she would spout some line about the Lord of Light requiring it.

None of that happened. Instead, Melisandre replied with a firm, "I give you my word."

The sincerity of her tone caught Caitie off guard. "Well. Good." She withdrew her hand from Melisandre's grip, gave her a nod, but when she couldn't think of anything else to say, the conversation faded into an awkward silence.

Now what? Caitie wondered. Were they supposed to make small talk? Ah yes, the weather is quite lovely today. Have you brought anyone else back from the dead recently?

Dareon, thankfully, saved her from the prospect of that nightmare. He strode over to them, clutching a scroll in his left hand, eyes flicking nervously from Melisandre to Caitie. "There's a letter for the lord commander," he said. "But he's busy with the lady who came. He told me to give this only to you or Edd—but I've got no clue where he's gone off to, and I wanna get to supper before all the food's gone."

"I'll take it."

"Thanks, Caitie." With a relieved smile, he dropped the scroll into her hands. She looked down at it, furrowing her brows because the seal was blank of any sigil. It gave her very little information about its sender, and that either meant good news or very, very bad news.

"Excuse me." After giving a nod to both Melisandre and Dareon, Caitie slipped out of the courtyard, hoping that whatever was in this scroll contained something good.

An hour later, Caitie sat at Maester Aemon's old table in the quiet of the library and stared down at the words on the parchment, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension as she reread them over and over.

We've made it to White Harbor and are boarding a ship. We'll stop at Horn Hill, so if you need to send a raven, send it there for the next month.

Love,

Sam, Gilly, and Little Sam

Caitie had always worried, of course, but she hadn't realized just how much until now, and it was a relief to know they were okay. But as she sat there, going over the words again and again, the library seemed haunted, and her apprehension only grew until she'd almost forgotten why she was so relieved. Because they didn't know—or they hadn't, yet, upon writing the letter—about Shireen.

Word would reach them eventually, Caitie supposed. But she didn't want them to hear it from a stranger. So there she sat in the library, trying to think of what to write, the parchment in front of her frustratingly blank. She wished she could just will the right words to appear on the page. Dear Gilly…

She hadn't gotten further than those two words. Caitie knew Sam would grieve for the princess too—they were maternal cousins, after all, as well as friends. But Gilly… Gilly had looked at Shireen like a little sister. And like all the other sisters Gilly had lost, Shireen was dead.

It was as she had this thought that she felt something more than a ghost in the library. It wasn't much—a slight prickle at the back of her neck—but it alerted her to someone's presence behind her. And when she turned, she saw Jon, who had a soft look on his face. What he was thinking about was a mystery to Caitie; when she met his eyes, she expected him to greet her, but he was so lost in thought that he said nothing, not even seeming to realize she'd noticed his presence until she cleared her throat and asked, "What is it?"

Jon blinked, as if he'd forgotten where he was. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. "You just... never mind. It's not important."

She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't, looking away from her, she decided not to push, simply gesturing for him to take the seat beside hers instead.

"Is that from the raven that came?" he asked as he sat. She nodded, sliding the parchment over to him. Jon blew out a breath as his eyes scanned the words. "Thank the Gods," he said once he finished, more to himself than to her. "I worried they wouldn't make it."

"So was I. Though I'm not sure I like the part about them stopping at Horn Hill."

"Well, if we hear word of them being mistreated, you'll have my support to sail to the Reach and make Randyll Tarly sorry for it."

Caitie laughed, feeling lighter than she had all afternoon. The ghosts faded away, leaving only her and Jon in the room, and suddenly, the idea of writing that letter didn't seem so daunting any longer.

She set the parchment down, deciding she'd finish later, and smiled. "So, go on. How is she?"

Jon furrowed his brows.

"Your sister. Sansa."

"How did you know it was her?"

"Well, let's go down the list." She held up one finger for each point. "Red hair. Dressed in fine clothes. About the same age as Sansa would be now. Also, I've seen her before, remember?"

He shook his head, smiling. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No, but it's damn annoying how right you can be, sometimes." The smile faded as Jon sighed, deflating into his chair. "It's not good."

"I figured as much. But at least she did eventually escape King's Landing."

"Only to be married off to Roose Bolton's son."

Caitie's stomach dropped as she sucked in a sharp breath. Of course—of course. It made perfect sense. The North had always been stubbornly loyal to the Starks, so how else would the Boltons so easily sway them into acceptance unless they had a Stark in their household to give them an heir? "Seven Hells. How the fuck did we not know about that?"

"It took place during our mission to Hardhome. And I had been… avoiding letters regarding the North."

"After we learned about the Cerwyns," she finished, sighing. "I don't understand. How did that even happen?"

"The man who helped her escape King's Landing—he was a friend of her mother's. He took Sansa to the Eyrie, first, but he wasn't as trustworthy as she believed." Jon's shoulders tensed and when he continued, he sounded angrier than Caitie had ever heard him, even as his voice remained level. "He sold her to them like she was nothing."

Caitie didn't have words to express how horrific that sounded, and she couldn't help wondering how a person could have survived all that and come out of it with their sanity intact. "Is she… okay?"

Jon gave a bitter laugh. "She spent three years as a captive in the south, tormented by Joffrey. When she finally escaped, she was forced into a marriage with a man who hurt her in ways I can only imagine."

Raped. He meant raped.

Caitie shuddered, but Jon wasn't finished yet. "And now she wants to take back Winterfell."

Her eyes widened, distracted from her horror by the dread settling in her gut. "Is that even possible?"

"Not without a fight. And I'm tired of fighting."

She reached over and placed her hand on top of his. "I know." And she did, because she was tired of fighting, too. But they still knew that no matter how tired they were, they may have no other choice. The Boltons wouldn't give up Sansa without a fight.

Caitie sighed, rubbing her temple with her free hand. Everything had gotten ten times more complicated—and it had been complicated enough already. "Well, I suppose this means we're not going south."

"I'm sorry."

She rolled her eyes. "You know you have nothing to be sorry for. I'll manage wherever we are. Right now, you need to focus on your sister."

"I'd like to introduce you," he said after a beat of silence. "I wanted her to rest first."

"Does she know who I am?"

He shook his head. "If you don't want her to know, I won't tell her."

"I don't see a point in hiding it. She's seen me before, too. And considering what she's gone through, I highly doubt she'll run around spreading my whereabouts."

"Good," Jon said, sighing. "I had hoped you'd agree. I don't want to keep secrets from her, if it's possible."

Caitie pursed her lips, teetering on the precipice of a decision—wanting to ask, yet not wanting to stir up negative feelings. But she remembered the stories Jon had told her of the way his sister had treated him, and she didn't want to see a member of his family hurt him—not now, after everything. "What's she like?"

He frowned at that, mulling over the question. "She's… different. She's not the girl I grew up with."

"Yes, I understood that much already." She eyed him. "But is it a good thing or a bad thing?"

Jon smiled as he finally understood her underlying question. "Well, she apologized for 'being an ass' to me when we were children for one."

Caitie laughed. "She actually said that?"

"Oh, aye. I think I like the woman she's become. I think you will, too."

"I hope so," she replied, and truly, she meant it, because Sansa was the first sibling Jon had seen in years. The first taste of home and family he'd had in years. Caitie was grateful for that, especially after everything that had happened.

And somehow, it made her feel closer to her own family, too.

Well, it's 2022, guys. Are you excited about the new year? Terrified? Cautiously optimistic? I'm probably just apathetic—I've grudgingly accepted that the year is gonna suck. But I'm a pessimist.

Also—a note about the Last Hero and The Prince that was Promised/Azor Ahai. I know what you're probably thinking: "But reallybadwriter, wouldn't Caitie and Jon know the legends of The Prince that was Promised?" And my answer is a resounding "Nope!" The Long Night was a worldwide event, and each culture has its own legends about it. Azor Ahai/The Prince was a part of the Essosi (well, Asshai'i, to be specific), legends. The Last Hero, however, is the hero who ended the threat of the Others (White Walkers), according to Westerosi legend. And, therefore, he's the person Caitie and Jon would know about.

Now—are the two connected? It's unclear, but... maybe? The show doesn't mention the Last Hero and they sort of dropped the Azor Ahai plotline midway through season 7. As for the books—well, I don't think GRRM has any idea where he wants to take his story and is never gonna finish it, so fan theories are all we'll likely ever have to go off of. Which means I'm doing whatever the fuck I want with the crumbs we have :)