Few things in Caitriona Norrey's life had ever gone according to plan. First, it was her mother's death; at six years old, she hadn't really understood its full implications for her life—until her father had brutally clarified it for her. Then, eight years later, it was her flight from Norwood to Castle Black, although she had to admit that had turned out relatively better than planned. After that, it was the War of the Five Kings and going north of the Wall, with all the misery those had entailed. Followed by her brother's deaths and then Grenn's—well, it was safe to say that everything always ended up going sideways for her. Sometimes, it even seemed every time she tried to think ahead to the future, the Gods did everything in their power to thwart her.

So really, she should have known better than to think her future could be anything less than full of misery.

She glanced around the table: Sansa's stony expression, which did little to mask her terror; Podrick and Brienne exchanging horrified looks with each other; Edd and Tormund, both of whom were unsure what to say now that their course of action had been established; and Jon, looking so utterly defeated that it shattered her heart into a million pieces. But then her eyes were drawn back to the scroll, and for what felt like an eternity, all Caitie could do was look down at that one line at the bottom.

The terrible eternity somehow ended—though whether it was seconds later or hours, Caitie didn't know—as Jon noticed her stricken expression. "What is it?" he asked, breaking the silence like the cracking of a whip.

She said nothing, for her throat felt so tight it was a wonder she could breathe. Instead, she opted to slide the parchment over to him so that he could see. She heard him take a sharp breath as he read the last two sentences he and Sansa had missed. When he looked up, he locked eyes with Caitie. His were almost unreadable, but she could see the horror in them.

She couldn't look at him, and yet she couldn't look away either.

"I should check on the girls," she murmured, wondering how in fucking hell she would go about explaining this to them. But that didn't matter; what did matter now was getting out of the stifling silence and horror-filled expressions before she broke down—and getting away from Jon before his eyes on her burned her up inside.

"I'll talk to Wun-Wun," said Tormund. He stood as Caitie did and followed her out of the dining hall, into the courtyard, lit golden by the setting sun. "Lady Crow," he said, and though she knew she should have appreciated it, the kindness in his voice was almost unbearable. "You all right?"

Caitie ignored his question, because of course she wasn't all right, and Tormund knew it as well as she did. But she didn't need comforting words; she needed a sense of control, and planning, at least, could give her that. "Talk to Wun-Wun—he'll need to know what's happening. And then we'll need to figure out some way to keep the women and children in the settlement safe, since we're taking all the fighters; maybe we should move them closer to Castle Black—"

"Caitie—"

"Edd will station some of his men to keep them safe, but I'm not sure enough of them are trustworthy—"

"Hey," Tormund said, this time more forcefully. "Stop. Calm down and talk."

"Right, of course, I'm sorry," she said, wondering how she had forgotten how Tormund must be feeling at that moment—and really, focusing on his feelings was much easier than focusing on hers. "Are you all right?"

There was a pause before he answered. "Been expecting something like this for a while. Came earlier than I thought, but..." He sighed, evidently thinking better of continuing with that line of thinking, and squared her up. "But you look like shit. Gonna tell me why?"

"I appreciate your concern," she said, her voice cracking once on the last word before she got control over it once more. "But if I talk about it, then I'll start to cry, and I'd really rather not do that in front of anyone, least of all you."

His face softened. "Your da—"

"I definitely don't want to talk about him." But that didn't stop her from thinking about him, and from there, it didn't take long for her thoughts to spiral out of her control.

He knows where I am.

She felt raw, stripped bare, and wholly exposed, and though she knew it was impossible, she could feel him watching her. I can't do this. I can't, I can't, "I can't—" Her breath caught in her throat. She felt as though she was breaking apart, as if each piece of her soul were shattering with every attempt at catching it. Tormund took a step towards her, and she gasped, "Stop!"

Whether she was speaking to herself or him, she didn't know.

"Stop it," she repeated, this time in a weak, broken voice, and this time she was hardly aware of Tormund's presence, as she attempted to order herself to calm down. But it was a fruitless endeavor. Her breaths came in rapid bursts, but none could get a foothold, and she reached out, trying to find something to hold on to before she collapsed from lack of air. Her vision went blurry as she fought for breath and tears burned her eyes.

And then there was someone there beside her, propping her up, but she was so disoriented she couldn't think who—Tormund, she assumed. Or maybe Jon—although she hoped not. Sansa needed him more than Caitie did, even now.

"I've got her. You go find the giant." The voice didn't belong to Tormund or Jon—it belonged to Edd. It sounded far away, even though she knew he was the only thing keeping her from collapsing into the snow. "Come on." He hauled her towards a stone alcove at the east end of the courtyard—the one where she'd sat with Olly a lifetime ago, but she didn't have the energy to dwell on that for more than a second. At least there was a cart for her to sit on.

When they reached the alcove, Edd sat her down on it, faced her, and uttered a single order. "Breathe."

Caitie wanted to scream at him that she was trying, but she couldn't get enough air to raise her voice. Instead, through her gasping breaths, she choked, "Oh yes—breathing—such riveting advice. How did I never—think of it before?"

Through her blurring vision, she saw as Edd fixed her with a hard look. "Are you gonna make snotty comments or are you gonna listen to me? Now, come on. Breathe. One, two, three—"

She listened this time, trying to focus on the sound of his voice rather than the blood pounding in her ears. Eventually, the tenuous hold on her breath improved. She focused on Edd's counting, timing her breaths to his words. Her body shook as the adrenaline left her, leaving her utterly drained of energy.

"Jon showed me what that Bolton bastard wrote about your father," was how Edd started, and her response was a half-laugh, half-sob, for his speaking it aloud only made it all the more real.

"For a while, I thought… but the last few years—they weren't real, weren't they? I was just pretending to be free, to be more than—than what I was—but I'll always end up back with him." She didn't know if she was even making sense to Edd, but she wasn't really speaking to him, either.

Edd sighed. "No, you won't."

"You don't know that. I can't—I can't do this."

"Yeah, you can. You survived the Fist and Craster's—twice—and Castle Black. Hell, you even survived Hardhome—"

"You don't get it."

"Aye, I do—"

No, you don't! I don't care about survival! I just—I can't go back to him. Edd, I can't."

"Ah. Well then, it's a good thing you're not gonna go back to him. You're gonna ride south, kick those Bolton fuckers out of Winterfell, and then you're gonna toss your father in a cell to rot."

"You make it sound so easy," she whispered. But it wasn't. And if they failed…

I will ride north and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then—

Caitie screwed her eyes shut as she tried to will herself to forget the words written on that piece of parchment before it made her sick.

Lord Norrey is looking forward to his daughter's return.

And suddenly, beyond the crushing fear, fury sparked deep in her chest; it crackled under her fingertips, waiting to be released. For there were many things of which she knew her father was capable, but this… It had been bad enough knowing he'd pledged fealty to Roose Bolton. But to ally so quickly with his monster of a son—a man who killed his own father, who was unstable, uncontrollable, and unpredictable, and who inflicted pain for pain's sake—that was stupid, something she knew her father was not.

Perhaps he was arrogant enough to think Ramsay Bolton controllable; that he could be the Tywin Lannister to Ramsay's Aerys Targaryen. But even Tywin had lost control of his charge in the end.

"Never said it'd be easy," Edd told her, and his voice pulled her back to herself, tempering the anger building inside of her. "You're most likely fucked. But you and Jon have beaten the odds before. If anyone can beat them now, it's the two of you."

Maybe it was the confidence in Edd's voice, or maybe it was just that she wanted to believe he was right. Regardless, his words helped her return from the edge of the abyss. Caitie tested her breath again, feeling her chest expand and contract a few times more deeply than before. When she was sufficiently sure she could talk again without having another attack of some kind, she asked, "How was he, when you left?"

"He's Jon," Edd said, shrugging. "How do you think he is?"

Which meant he was about as well-off as Caitie. "Don't tell him about this," she said. "I don't want him to know that I…" She gestured to herself.

Edd huffed and rolled his eyes. "Do you think everyone just goes 'round talking about you all the time?"

"Edd, I'm serious."

He sighed, and the look of sarcasm disappeared from his face. "I know. But you're allowed to feel like shit."

"Gods, you heard what was in that letter. The last thing he needs is for me to fall apart when—"

A shadow fell over her and Edd, cutting off the rest of her sentence. They looked up to see the very man they were discussing standing at the entrance to the alcove. His eyes, hollowed by the shadows and dark circles beneath them, flickered between Caitie and Edd. After a pause, he cleared his throat. "May Caitie and I have a moment?"

Edd nodded. "Aye. I need to gather the rest of our brothers." Even now, he still refused to acknowledge Jon's departure from the Night's Watch. But Caitie supposed he would have no choice in the matter soon enough. He passed by Jon, out into the sunset, and then he was gone. She heard a door opening and shutting in the distance.

For a moment, she and Jon said nothing. They simply stared at one another. She took in his expression, full of fury and sorrow and fear; so much fear he looked as though he were drowning in it.

"Caitie—"

He didn't get to finish before she had thrown herself into him and buried her head into his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his neck as his came around her waist. There was no awkwardness between them now. In fact, she couldn't even remember why there had been any in the first place, nor did she know why she'd ever wanted to hide her fears from him. She was always stronger for him knowing her weaknesses, and this was no exception.

"I'm so, so sorry," she said.

His arms tightened around her. "So am I." For a while after, they didn't speak or move, simply soaking up the support and comfort each other offered. But eventually, Jon pulled away, keeping one hand still on her shoulder, the other tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. "You shouldn't have tried to keep this from me."

Caitie grimaced; he didn't need to explain what he meant. The puffiness of her eyes gave her away, and she would be a fool to think he hadn't heard the end of her conversation with Edd. "I didn't want to. I just..."

"I understand," he said quickly. "I do. But don't shut me out; I can't stand to think of you alone with this."

Her throat was too tight for words, so she merely nodded.

Jon's smile was brittle, but genuine. "Are you all right now?"

"No," she admitted with a shaky laugh, though the single word wasn't nearly enough to encapsulate the true horror of it. Because this wasn't just another battle, and if they lost, she wouldn't simply die.

"He'll never hurt you again."

She laughed mirthlessly. "You can't promise me that."

"No—I can't promise we'll win. But I've seen a lot these past few years; Good men and evil, dead men and living—and out of everything I've seen, if there's one thing I believe in it's—" He stopped abruptly with a cough, swallowed, and then said, "It's that you're strong enough to make it through this."

Caitie opened her mouth to say something—anything at all—but her mind had stalled, only able to replay the words Jon had just said. Moreso, she wondered what he'd been about to say; for even when he said with such conviction that she was strong, there was something more there that he had not given voice to. But whatever it had been, he'd obviously changed his mind—in any case, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

So she lay her head on Jon's shoulder as she tried to forget the unspoken words and asked, "Do you think the Boltons really have Rickon?"

She felt his chest rise and fall as his sigh tickled her forehead. "I want to believe it's a bluff. But Sansa is sure, and I trust her."

"So do I." A pause. "I just wish... I wish there was a way to get him back without war."

"It wouldn't stop Ramsay. Even if he didn't have Rickon, we need to retake the North. It's the only way we'll all survive."

"So what you're saying is this was inevitable," she sighed, feeling a bitter sort of humor at the thought. Because she knew he was right; the Boltons wouldn't turn a blind eye to the Free Folk forever, nor would her presence at the Wall be kept a secret—Hobb had warned her about it ages ago, and he'd been right. It was a wonder she'd gone this long since the battle at Castle Black without her secret spreading south.

"Aye," Jon said. "I knew this day would come. I just wanted more time."

"I know." She swallowed the lump in her throat, and looked up, suddenly wishing beyond all reason that she could do something to ease his burden. But she couldn't, for she was just as powerless as he.

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them again, she could see the determination—and she wondered if he was stronger, having her know his weaknesses, too.

"We'll get through it," she said. "Together?"

He nodded, and for the first time since the letter had come, a smile came to his lips. "Together."

Caitie found Sansa, not in her quarters like she had expected, nor in the library, but beneath a starry sky at the top of the Wall. Podrick and Brienne stood a few feet away from her—close enough to stand guard, but far enough away to give her privacy. As Caitie passed them, Brienne threw her a wary glare. She ignored it.

Sansa stared southward, where she could see the rolling hills, towering mountains, and dots of trees, all covered in snow. And yet, Caitie knew she was looking far past them, at a destination that couldn't be seen, even this vantage point. Her boots crunched in the snow, so she knew Sansa had heard the approach, but she didn't turn around. She kept her eyes fixed on the distance as she said in a voice without any emotion, "I wanted to return home."

Caitie said nothing, unsure whether Sansa was even talking to her.

"In King's Landing, after Joffrey took my father's head, I prayed to the Gods to bring me to Winterfell. After the Red Wedding, I gave up prayer—but I dreamed every night about killing every last Bolton and avenging my family." Now she turned, casting her gaze on Caitie. She looked proud and regal, but her eyes were rimmed with red and bright with tears she had refused to shed.

"I wanted to take back my home," she said. "But not like this. Not with Rickon…"

Caitie stepped forward so they were standing side by side. She was calmer now, enough so to think about the situation clearly. But she didn't really know what she could say to help Sansa. A part of her, the part which burned with a sick sort of curiosity, wanted to ask about Ramsay. But she didn't dare to; not now.

"This whole thing's just fucked," she said eventually. "All of it. And there's no way to un-fuck it."

That won Caitie the ghost of a smile, but it was gone as soon as it came. "Are you afraid?" Sansa asked.

Caitie laughed at the ridiculousness of the question. "I think I passed 'afraid' about two hours ago. It was bad enough, with you and Jon and the girls' lives on the line. But going back to my father…" She shivered. Calmer now, though she was, it still didn't stop the thrill of panic rising within her again at the mention of him.

Sansa looked back out at the snowy expanse before them in the direction of Winterfell and mused, "I would give anything to have my father back."

Caitie knew Sansa didn't mean anything by her comment. She knew it wasn't an accusation or an insult; it was a simple statement of fact. But she still bristled at the comment, because Sansa just... didn't get it—and why would she? Her father wasn't Rendon Norrey. Her father was Ned Stark, who had loved her and protected her and given her a childhood without fear or anger.

"Well, I doubt your father ever tried to marry you off to a monster."

As soon as Caitie spoke, she regretted her words—but it was too late, now. "I'm sorry," she added quickly. "That was a horrible thing to say."

Sansa didn't even seem to hear the apology. "He did, actually," she said, so quietly Caitie almost missed it.

Well.

She didn't know what she had been expecting Sansa to say. But whatever it was, it was absolutely not that.

At her flummoxed expression, Sansa elaborated, bitterness in every syllable she spoke. "My father arranged my betrothal to Joffrey after he accepted the position of Hand of the King. He thought he was betrothing me to Robert's son. He tried to break it when he learned the truth, but by then it was too late." Sansa paused. "I suppose I should be grateful—my betrothal to Joffrey was what kept me alive at the start of the war."

"But you're not," Caitie surmised, mildly shocked by this revelation. "You're... angry at him for it."

Sansa screwed her eyes shut. "I shouldn't be. I wanted to marry Joffrey. I begged for it. I was a stupid little girl who believed in tales of knights and princes. I wanted to be queen, and I paid the price."

It was strange—and honestly a little heartbreaking—to hear Sansa speak like this. Because perhaps Sansa had never been the most angelic of children, but the fact that she'd survived for so long was nothing short of incredible—and Caitie couldn't fathom how she could ever blame herself, especially when Sansa had been all alone, without anyone who was truly on her side. And in a lot of ways, Caitie thought Sansa was a much stronger person than she could ever be.

She said none of this, however, though it was mostly because Sansa spoke again before she could. She pursed her lips, as if trying desperately to keep the words inside herself, but it was no use; she had bottled these feelings up for years, never giving voice to them, and Caitie didn't know why she was the one whom Sansa trusted with this information, but she wouldn't take that for granted. "But Father could have prepared me. He could have made sure I knew what the world was. He could have told me the truth. But he didn't, because he wanted to protect me. You can see how that worked out: I'm going to war to reclaim the home my brother lost to a man who raped and tortured me." A bitter smile twisted her features. "At least I've fared better than my aunt. Not that it's saying much."

Silence between the two women stretched on as Caitie searched for the right thing to say. Sansa was even more trapped in this mess than she, and Caitie didn't really know what would help make that feeling ebb, other than time away from it—which wasn't likely to happen anytime soon. "I don't think anyone could fault you for being angry," she began quietly. "I'd be angry, too."

Sansa arched a brow, and her expression was so blank, Caitie couldn't tell what she was thinking. "Would you?"

"Of course I would be. In fact…" she trailed off, then sighed, tapping her fingers on the icy parapet beside her, unsure whether it would be a good idea to finish her thought.

But Starks were never ones to let things go easily. "In fact, what?"

After a moment's hesitation, Caitie shook her head, deciding that it definitely wasn't a good idea to finish. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. What were you going to say?"

Shifting, Caitie looked over at Sansa and quickly saw that there was no getting out of this. "I just thought—and it's not exact, but, well—I thought I might know how you feel."

Sansa snorted. "I somehow doubt that."

"Which is why I wasn't going to say anything."

As the sound of their voices faded, in that moment, Caitie felt more inadequate than ever. Because this was how she helped people: by trying to understand where they were coming from and trying to relate to it. It usually worked, too—but now it wasn't, and she didn't know what to do or say instead.

Maybe there was nothing she could say. Because even though she understood the feelings of anger towards those she loved, even though she knew what it felt like to stew on the mistakes she'd made until she hated herself for them—the fact remained that what Sansa had gone through was not something which Caitie could ever understand.

"I'm sorry," said Sansa at length, and to Caitie's surprise, there was a note of genuine remorse in it. "I know more than I'd like about Rendon Norrey. It must have been very difficult to have him as a father."

The mention of Rendon Norrey jolted Caitie back to reality. "Don't be sorry. My father was..." she trailed off, trying to think of the best way to describe him to Sansa, but talking about him was even more painful than usual, so she did what she always did when it came to him: she deflected. "It doesn't matter. But Owen and Cerys protected me from him as best they could. They were my real parents."

"I'm sure they loved you very much."

Caitie gave a smile. "Well, they loved me enough to ask the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to keep an eye on me for them—without telling me, of course, because Gods forbid they trust me with such information. But I suppose you can't have everything."

Sansa stared for a moment, at a loss for words. "I wasn't aware of that."

"It's not exactly common knowledge, although most everyone at Castle Black knows about it."

She pursed her lips, thinking. Then, "That's what you meant when you said you knew how I felt, wasn't it? Because they never told you?"

"Mm."

"What happened?"

The story came more easily than it would have a year ago, and that was a surprise in itself. Caitie told Sansa all of it: how Owen and Cerys had neglected to mention their relationship with Mormont to her, instead telling her that she was capable of taking care of herself. How she had been stupid enough to believe it, not realizing how incapable she truly was until it was too late. "I only found out the truth after the battle at Castle Black, and only because its maester had known about it, too." She gave a little laugh. "Three years, and no one ever told me until they had to. I might never have found out at all, if it hadn't been for him."

Sansa watched Caitie for a while with narrowed eyes, before she asked, "But you're not angry at them for it, now, are you?"

"No," Caitie said. "Not anymore. But it took much longer than I'd care to admit for me to stop feeling so…" She shifted, searching for the right word, and eventually settled on: "Betrayed. And I'm not saying it's in any way comparable to what you've been through. But I do know what it's like to be so angry at the people you love that you can hardly think about them without wanting to throw something. And I know what it's like to lose them before you get the closure you need."

"How did you get that closure, then, if they...?"

If they died before you even knew the truth, was the unspoken ending to the question. But Caitie didn't need Sansa to finish to know how to answer her. "It was a lot of little things, really. Part of it was simply accepting that I was angrier with myself than I was with them—which took months, mind you." Caitie frowned, thinking. "But I think meeting Johnna and Willa was what finally helped me get past it for good."

"Johnna and Willa?" Sansa asked. "Why?"

Caitie shuddered, but she still answered the question even as visions of dead and dismembered children trying to kill her scorched her mind. "The last time I saw their mother, we were surrounded by hundreds of thousands of dead men who were about to kill us. She knew she was going to die—she was willing to die—so that as many of her people could live. But even in all that chaos, even when she should have been catatonic with fear like I was, all she could think about were her daughters. So she asked me—or well, made me promise—to protect them. And I guess that was when I understood why Owen and Cerys did what they did. Parents will do anything to protect their children. Sometimes those things are stupid and misguided. But they're usually from a place of love."

Even through the lack of light, Caitie could see the tears glazing Sansa's eyes. "I know. But that doesn't change what happened."

"No," Caitie agreed with a sad sigh. "No, it doesn't."

They fell back into silence, watching as the last of the sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, until Sansa furrowed her brows. "You have a younger brother, too."

A wave of shame washed over Caitie and settled in her gut as she realized that not once had she thought of Arthur in all the chaos. "I do—or I did. I haven't heard anything about him in years. Not since Owen and Cerys died."

"He's alive," said Sansa, and as the words set in, Caitie's heart hammered against her chest—whether from hope or dread, she didn't know. "Ramsay received a raven from your father—Arthur was mentioned as his heir." Sansa pressed her lips together, and Caitie got the feeling she was holding back, but she couldn't figure out what it was. Eventually, Sansa settled on, "If we succeed, you'll see him again."

Caitie shook her head, leaning against the ramparts to keep herself steady. She felt woozy at the possibility of seeing her little brother again; it should have seemed closer than ever, but instead, it only felt further away. "I haven't seen him in years. I guess I always thought just he was as unreachable as Owen and Cerys. It was easier that way."

"Do you think he's loyal to the Boltons?" Sansa asked, and there was a hard edge to her voice that put Caitie on the defensive.

"I think he's a twelve-year-old boy who's powerless, alone, and afraid." And who I abandoned, she thought bitterly. She'd been a better sister to Johnna and Willa than she had been to Arthur. Two years since Owen and Cerys had died, and what had she been doing? Fucking around in the Night's Watch, all while her baby brother endured their father alone. "I should have done something to help him. It's what Owen and Cerys would have done, consequences be damned."

Sansa's face softened around the edges as she said, "You couldn't then. You can now."

"I hope so," replied Caitie ruefully. "I'm just afraid it might be too late."

With that, there was nothing more either of them could say; no words that would return what had been lost or repair what had been broken.

For a while, Caitie kept Sansa company in silence. But soon enough, she felt the air between them shift. Sansa had used up all her reserves, and now she wanted—needed—to be alone. So, without hesitation, Caitie bid her goodnight and headed back down the elevator and into Castle Black.

And as she lay down on her bed next to Johnna and Willa, swallowing her sobs, she reminded herself that, at least for tonight, they were safe.

If you haven't noticed, Sansa has a lot of resentment towards her father—almost as much resentment as she has towards herself. It's very subtle, and to be honest, I didn't even notice it until I was rewatching Seasons 6 and 7 for this story. But there are some conversations she has with Jon in both seasons where it's really apparent to me that to an extent she blames Ned for her naivety and subsequent abuse because of it.

And I know you might be confused as to why Sansa opens up about this with Caitie, considering how distrustful Sansa is of other people at this point—but when you help someone abort their rapist's demonspawn, I think that creates a bond.