The journey through the vast, untamed wilderness of the North to the western coast was cold and wet and exhausting, and by the time the Bay of Ice came into sight, Caitie almost wished she was back in the Great Ranging.

Sure, this was technically an easier journey—they had horses, for one thing; tents, provisions, and mostly better company—not to mention they weren't coming off a battle with an army of dead men and mythical ice-beings. But Gods, marching an army of two thousand people was slow. Even though the majority of the army was only making half the journey, then staying behind while a much smaller party continued on, by the time they'd made it to the Bay of Ice, a month had already passed; a month with Rickon imprisoned by Ramsay Bolton, a month extra time for that monster to terrorize the entire country, and another month that she was leaving Arthur to fend for himself.

And they had barely even started.

Being so close to the Sunset Sea did nothing to help Caitie's already-dour mood. Upon their arrival at their destination, they made camp for the night about a mile from the shore of the bay, but the smell of salt and sea still permeated her nostrils, bringing with it terrible memories—memories of a different shore, a different sea, and the thing which had haunted her dreams every night for the last six months. She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see a horde of wights sprinting towards her, or the crystalline blue eyes and smooth gait of the White Walkers. And even when they didn't appear, even when she knew it was ridiculous, all she wanted to do was run—run until her lungs burned with the effort and she was far, far away from the sea. Because to her, it smelled of death.

And to think she had believed it couldn't get any worse.

When the morning of their departure arrived and she rose from her sleeping roll, leaving Johnna and Willa to sleep in, the anxiety only seemed to worsen. It was beyond frustrating. She wanted to be excited to see Bear Island; truly, she did. This was the home of her grandmother, and she wanted to see it. Besides that, they would be leaving their Free Folk friends behind on the mainland; the only people making the trip to meet with Lady Mormont being Jon, Caitie, Sansa, and Davos. And while Caitie didn't relish the thought of leaving Johnna and Willa, even if only for a few hours, it also would mean getting away from Tormund.

But making the journey to Bear Island meant being stuck on a boat where she knew her revolt the moment she stepped foot there, all the while surrounded by that terrible, suffocating smell of seawater, and there was no excitement when faced with the prospect of that.

Not that she had much of a choice. And so, after manipulating her hair into a neat braid, she left the relative warmth of her tent for the frigid outdoors, her stomach turning sour as she took a breath. She pushed past the feeling and headed out to find Jon and the others at the stables—only to find that no one had arrived yet. Even Wun-Wun was still asleep, his snores shaking the earth beneath him.

Strange, thought Caitie. She hadn't thought she was overly early—a few minutes at most—and even so, Jon usually always beat her, anyway. Sometimes she even wondered if he believed it a mortal sin to be simply on time. Unless, of course, he was trying to make an entrance—not that he'd ever admit to doing so.

But that didn't apply to this situation—there was no entrance to make, without any black brothers or Free Folk watching them. And looking from one side of their camp to the other, she didn't see a single sign of him—or anyone, for that matter. He and the others could not have gone on without her; their horses were still here waiting next to hers, pawing at the ground.

Shrugging off her feelings of unease, she set to work readying the brown mare she had claimed as her own. As she finished tying the reins to the saddle and rubbed her gloved hands together to generate heat into them, she heard footsteps. Her heart quickened in her chest, and without looking up, she cast one eye towards the sound, half-expecting attack. But it wasn't an attack—it was only Tormund stalking up to her.

Which wasn't much better.

Caitie hadn't spoken to him since that horrible day outside of Castle Black, and each day that passed, each day she dwelled on what he'd said, her anger at his betrayal had only grown. She knew she shouldn't have allowed it to fester, should have said something to him—because a small part of her was still able to acknowledge he deserved that much from her—and usually she would have. But every time she thought about doing so, she would watch his interactions with Jon and Davos, treating them just as he had before, as if nothing was wrong at all, and her pride would keep her from approaching him.

But if he was finally coming to apologize, she might be in a forgiving mood.

As he approached, she refused to look up, busying herself with adjusting the saddle so it looked just right, and it wasn't until Tormund cleared his throat that she had no other choice but to acknowledge his existence.

"What is it?" she asked. When he only narrowed his eyes, she asked again, sounding slightly less disaffected, "Is something wrong?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and furrowed his brows. "Not with me." A pause. "But are you gonna tell me what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me," she said a little too quickly. She didn't know why she couldn't just tell him what was bothering her. But really, he should have known without her having to spell it out for him.

"Uh-huh."

"We're at war, Tormund; I think I'm entitled to be a little out of sorts."

There was no argument he could make to this, and so he didn't. He simply watched her for a few moments, unblinking, before finally he spoke the words she'd been waiting for him to say, and yet hoping he would not.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Her hands stilled. "I didn't think it mattered."

"Would've been nice to know."

"Why?" she asked, less and less in control of herself by the second. "Jon was Lord Commander Mormont's personal steward and yet I don't see you berating him."

"He wasn't Mormont's kin. Not like—"

"Not like me?" She finally looked up at him with a blazing fury in her eyes; so much so that she saw Tormund flinch away ever so slightly. A different man might have backed away entirely. "For your information," she hissed, "I didn't meet Jeor Mormont until I was nearly fifteen years old, after which I had almost no interaction with him. I didn't know he knew about me until a year after his death. For fuck's sake, Tormund, I don't even have his name! And considering that you were Mance Rayder's—"

Until that moment, Tormund had allowed her to rant without interrupting, but now his eyes hardened to stone and his voice cut across the air like a knife. "Don't bring Mance into this."

The look on his face should have frightened her. She had never been able to match him in the sparring circle, and though she'd improved under his tutelage, in a real fight he probably could have torn her apart within minutes. But she was too furious and too hurt to fear him. For it was one thing to forgive Tormund and the rest of the Free Folk, but it was another to forgive the man who had turned against his own brothers and commanded an army to murder them in cold blood. And perhaps it wasn't rational to blame him when the Free Folk and the Night's Watch had been sworn enemies for thousands of years—but he had the chance to stop it, and like Ser Alliser and Lord Commander Mormont, he had chosen the path of blood instead.

Just like you did, a voice said, unbidden and unwanted and filled with all the hatred for herself she tried to suppress but never could. She wanted to argue against it, to say that she had never killed or hurt when she could avoid it. But that simply wasn't true. She remembered all the Free Folk she had cut down in the Battle of Castle Black. She remembered that day outside Mole's Town brothel, of the man who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time and who she'd killed even though he posed no real threat to her. She remembered Brant and Derek. She remembered Karl Tanner and his band of mutineers.

She remembered Olly.

Caitie and Mance and all the rest were cut from the same cloth: angry, vengeful, willing to do whatever it took to wreak havoc on those who had hurt them or those they loved. She had continued the line of death and destruction just as much as the rest of them had.

And maybe, just maybe, she was angry at Tormund because he had acknowledged it, even if he hadn't realized.

"Fine," she said, abandoning her horse's reins completely. "If you think—truly think—for one moment that I'm as bad as he was, then kill me now and be done with it."

"Caitie!" Tormund bellowed.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "What?" she snapped. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to stop being a stubborn little shit for one fucking second and listen to me!"

Caitie blinked, and her jaw clicked shut—she wasn't even aware of ordering it to do so.

Tormund grunted. "Good. Now, look here. I don't care that you're Jeor Mormont's… whatever you are. But you can't blame me for reacting to that name. You don't know what it's meant to us—Free Folk—these last twenty years."

It was his appeal to her empathy that brought the hurt to the forefront of her emotions, past the anger and resentment. "I thought we were friends," she murmured, and though it felt childish to her ears, she couldn't help it. "I know you're Free Folk and I'm Northern—and Night's Watch. And I know how deep that hatred runs. But I really did think…"

"Hey," he said. "We are friends."

She eyed him, but her anger had finally ebbed, and when she spoke she allowed a bit of humor into her voice. "You didn't talk to me for an entire month."

"I didn't talk to you?" Tormund shook his head, laughing, and she couldn't tell if he was amused or exasperated. "You really are a—"

"We're ready to go."

Caitie and Tormund broke from their conversation and looked to their left. Jon was standing a few feet away from them, flanked by Davos and Sansa, all of whom were dressed and ready to go.

"I assume you two have made your peace?"

"Well, I won't try to murder him with my mind, if that's what you're worried about," replied Caitie, narrowing her eyes at Jon. "I assume you were the one who set up this little chat?"

He didn't even try to deny it. "We can't win if we're fighting amongst ourselves."

"I should have known," she muttered under her breath, but she couldn't really be mad at him.

Having heard her, she saw Jon smile even as he tried to keep his face neutral. He came face to face with Tormund. "We'll be back soon," he said. "Hopefully with more men."

"Good luck, Little Crow. You're gonna need it." With that, Tormund extended a hand. Jon accepted without hesitation.

When they pulled away from each other, Jon looked over at her. "Ready?"

She nodded, but before she could hop onto her horse, Tormund grabbed her wrist. "Hey," he said. "We good?"

Caitie hesitated; she'd spent an entire month unable to stand being in Tormund's presence without seething rage, and letting all of that go in the span of a few minutes seemed near impossible. But she knew, in her heart, that she couldn't go on being angry at him for much longer. If she did, her anger would tear her up inside until it consumed her, and even if she didn't want to admit it, she cared about Tormund. She didn't want to lose him as her friend. So she breathed in that horrible sea air, and looked over at Tormund, trying to find some trace of hatred or fear or disgust for her in his eyes.

She found none.

"Yeah," she said, and it was as though she could feel poison leaving her body. "We're good."

Tormund grinned. "Good. Now get on—and don't forget to eat some of that fancy southern food for me."

"If you insist."

"And Lady Crow," he said, just as she went to turn around towards her horse. "Good to have you back."

As the little boat bobbed over a wave and jostled its passengers, Caitie choked back a pitiful whimper. She watched the speck of land that was Bear Island draw nearer and nearer as she leaned against Jon, trying not to vomit up her breakfast on him. His expression was pained as he watched her, though she had no idea why. He wasn't the one praying for death as his stomach revolted against him.

When they were near enough to the shore to see the island properly, dread settled at the bottom of Caitie's stomach alongside the nausea. Because of all the places she had ever been, the place to which Bear Island bore the most resemblance was Hardhome—and not just due to the smell of seawater. The island was the shape of a horseshoe, so the harbor had been built in the resulting bay. And like Hardhome, mountains, wooden homes, and cascading waterfalls surrounded the docks—though these ones weren't frozen solid, so there was at least some difference.

But sailing towards this place still felt like sailing towards death itself.

"Is it too late to turn around?" she asked.

She felt Jon's chest rumble with a laugh. "Aye, unless you want to spend even more time on the boat."

"I feel like I've been sitting here for an eternity already."

We'll be there soon," he said. "I promise."

"You promised me the same thing five minutes ago."

"And it was just as true then as it is now."

Caitie mumbled something rather unladylike under her breath, but despite her best efforts, Jon still heard her.

"I hope you don't intend to speak like that when we get to Mormont Keep."

She cocked a brow, challenging him. "And if I do? What exactly will you do about it?"

Jon opened his mouth to make a retort, but Sansa cut in before he had the chance.

"Oh, for the love of—would you two please stop flirting?" she snapped. She looked a little better than Caitie, but not by much. "I don't think my stomach can take any more of it."

Caitie blanched, heat rising in her cheeks from horror and embarrassment as she heard Davos attempt to conceal a snort. "We are not flirting!" she and Jon argued in unison, and with that, Caitie refused to speak to anyone until they reached land.

Upon their arrival, they were greeted by a soldier clad in armor with the Mormont sigil emblazoned on its chest. He glanced around at the party in confusion, no doubt wondering who they were or why they were there—until Sansa, with her direwolf stitching on full display, introduced them all, at which point, the soldier's confusion disappeared, replaced with complete and utter shock.

He led them without a word, away from the docks and onto a stone path in the shadow of a mountain, half-hidden by trees. It took them up, up, up, to the top of one of the tallest hills, which was only dwarfed by the mountains, trees, and waterfalls behind it. Sansa stumbled every so often, as neither she nor her dress had been made for long upward climbs, but finally, they made it to the top, and saw their destination: Mormont Keep. Circular and made of wood, while it was by no means the largest keep Caitie had ever seen, it still made Castle Black look small in comparison.

The Mormont soldier led them through the large gates and into the keep, where the steward took over for him. He gave them salt and bread for the Guest Right—although, after the Red Wedding, Caitie wasn't stupid enough to place any faith in it; her hands never left the hilts of her daggers. Afterward, he led them into the great hall.

The Mormont sigil, a bear on its hind legs, was everywhere. It lined the walls, was on every shield visible, and behind the great table, above the fireplace, was the largest of all, towering over them and giving Caitie the terrible feeling she was about to be supper. The Lady of Bear Island did nothing to make her feel better. Lyanna Mormont was younger than Johnna and yet twice as terrifying, watching them with a shrewd and unyielding expression that made her look years older. She had the quintessential Northern look, with a long, serious face, dark eyes and hair, and a cool disposition.

"Lady Mormont," Jon said, with a slight bow.

"Welcome to Bear Island." But there was no welcome in Lyanna Mormont's tone of voice.

Caitie couldn't take her eyes off the girl, much in the way that one never took an eye off a potential predator.

Meanwhile, Jon looked to Sansa, for not only was she Ned Stark's trueborn child, but this was also her area of expertise. "I remember when you were born, Lady Mormont," she said. "You were named for my Aunt Lyanna. It was said she was a great beauty; I'm sure you will be, too."

Though the greeting was customary, Caitie could see before Lyanna Mormont even opened her mouth that Sansa's compliment had done nothing to sway her. The Lady of Bear Island's words cut through the courtesy with practiced ease, as if she'd been dealing with this sort of thing her whole life. "I doubt it. My mother wasn't a great beauty or any other kind of beauty. She was a great warrior, though. She died fighting for your brother, Robb."

Sansa's polite smile hardly wavered, but now there was panic simmering beneath it as she looked to her brother for help.

"I served under your uncle at Castle Black, Lady Lyanna," said Jon. "He was also a great warrior, and an honorable man." Smiling fondly, he added, "I was his steward, in fact—"

I think we've had enough small talk," Lyanna interrupted. "Why are you here?"

Jon's smile fell, all geniality disappearing in an instant, replaced with a grave, business-like expression. "Stannis Baratheon garrisoned at Castle Black before he marched on Winterfell and was killed. He showed me the letter you wrote to him when he petitioned for men. It said—"

"I remember what it said. 'Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark.'"

No one spoke for a moment, allowing the words to hang in the air. Then, "Robb is gone," Jon said, "but House Stark is not. And it needs your support now more than ever. I've come with my sister to ask for House Mormont's allegiance."

Lyanna Mormont narrowed her eyes, then leaned over to her left so she could consult with her maester, distinguishable by the linked chains hanging from his neck. They spoke in too low a whisper for Caitie to hear a word of their conversation, but when they finished, Lyanna looked back up at Jon and his party with condescension.

"As far as I understand, you're a Snow and Lady Sansa is a Bolton. Or is she a Lannister? I've heard conflicting reports."

As she watched Lyanna Mormont insult Sansa, Caitie couldn't decide whether she was impressed or enraged. It was a strange mixture of both admiration and irritation, she decided—admiration because this little girl seemed as smart and as tough as everyone in the room, possibly combined—and irritated because however smart, she was still judging Caitie's friend for things about which she hadn't a clue and insulting her, too.

"I did what I had to do to survive, my lady," said Sansa coldly. "But I am a Stark. I will always be a Stark."

Lyanna Mormont did not seem impressed by this. "If you say so. In any case, you don't just want my allegiance. You want my fighting men."

"Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell, my lady," Jon pressed. "It is our duty to stop him. Even more so because he holds our brother Rickon Stark as prisoner." He paused. "What you have to understand, my lady, is that—"

Caitie barely withheld a wince at Jon's wording—because of all the things which were least likely to sway Lyanna Mormont, it was telling her in the most patronizing tone possible that she did not understand.

Sure enough, her eyes flashed with anger as she interrupted him. "I understand that I'm responsible for Bear Island and all who live here. So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont's life for someone else's war?"

"Because, my lady, it's your war, too," said Caitie, in the most diplomatic and respectful voice she could muster.

All eyes in the room turned to look at her. Again, Lyanna leaned over to speak to her maester. When she turned back, her eyes were near slits. "You must be Caitriona Norrey. My maester tells me we're related."

"We are, my lady. My grandmother and your grandmother were cousins."

But this did not elicit the response Caitie had hoped for. Lyanna Mormont scowled. Still, she nodded. "Do tell, then: how exactly is this my war?"

Caitie pursed her lips as she chose her words. "Because Ramsay Bolton is flaying townsfolk alive all over the North. Because there are thousands of men, women, and children who will meet the same fate if we don't stop them—and because it won't stop with us. He'll come for you, eventually."

There was a very long pause, in which Caitie and Jon exchanged glances, both wondering if she might have actually won Lyanna Mormont over.

They should have known better.

"Lady Norrey," said Lyanna, sounding unimpressed. "As I recall, your father betrayed King Robb and pledged fealty to the Boltons.

Caitie scowled, her admiration for Lyanna Mormont rapidly deteriorating. "And my brothers died for Robb. If they had lived—"

"But they did not. And you fled, only to reappear, now, when it's convenient. Yet you say you have Mormont blood."

Caitie bristled at the implication that she was a fraud and a coward, and had Lyanna not been a girl of eleven, she might have been even less forgiving of such an insult. "You cannot accuse Sansa of disloyalty for being forced into marriage and me of disloyalty for refusing it," she snapped.

Sansa gave Caitie a grateful smile, but Lyanna merely glared, and without any idea what else to say to her, the hall fell into a terrible quiet. Caitie pressed her lips together as tight as she possibly could, hoping the action would stop her from blurting out what she really wanted to say—or scream—to the girl in front of her.

"If it pleases, my lady," Davos said at length, stepping forward. "I understand how you feel."

Lyanna eyed him, though she looked wary. "I don't know you, Ser…"

"Davos, my lady, of House Seaworth."

She furrowed her brows and turned to speak to her Maester, but Davos stopped her. "You needn't ask your maester about my house. It's rather new."

Lyanna stopped and turned back to look at Davos, watching him as a predator would watch its prey. "All right, Ser Davos of House Seaworth," she said. "How is it you understand how I feel?"

"You never thought you'd find yourself in your position. Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age. I never thought I'd be in my position. I was a crabber's son, then I was a smuggler. And now I find myself addressing the lady of a great house in time of war. But I'm here, because, as Lady Norrey said, this isn't someone else's war. It's our war."

Lyanna paused, thinking, then nodded. "Go on, Ser Davos."

Caitie couldn't help the frown that came to her lips. It was just so frustrating that Lyanna Mormont was more willing to listen to Davos than her, Sansa, or Jon. They were the Northerners, after all; and they had made the same exact points as Davos had.

But she kept her mouth shut, knowing that gaining the support of House Mormont was more important than pride.

"Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont—" Davos gestured towards Jon, "—made that man his steward. He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew he had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life. He took this woman—" this time he gestured to Caitie, "—in for the same reason. Because Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow and Caitriona Norrey all understood that the real war isn't between a few squabbling houses. It's between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady. The dead are coming."

Caitie watched Davos with mingled shock and appreciation, for this was the first time she'd heard anyone who had not witnessed the army of the dead for themselves admit that they were real—that they were coming. She hadn't dared to bring it up to the lords and ladies they were approaching, and yet he had done so. Not only that, he believed them, believed the stories of the Fist of the First Men and of Hardhome. Caitie's admiration for him tripled in that moment, the last vestiges of Stannis Baratheon's Hand slipping away to reveal someone she could almost consider a friend.

Lyanna Mormont looked between Caitie and Jon. "Is this true?"

They both nodded. "Your uncle and Lady Norrey fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them again at Hardhome. We both lost," said Jon.

Her expression didn't change as she eyed Caitie. "You were there too?"

Caitie swallowed, and instinctively, her right hand went to grip the corresponding dagger on her belt. "Yes. It was a massacre. I'm not sure how any of us survived the Fist, let alone a hundred. I suppose that must have been your uncle's doing."

"And you fought them?"

"I did."

She eyed the hand Caitie had placed on Owen. "Well," she said coolly, "perhaps you are a Mormont after all."

Caitie hadn't a clue what to say to that, so she remained quiet.

"As long as the Boltons hold Winterfell, the North is divided," said Davos. "And a divided North won't stand a chance against the Night King."

The mention of that name sent a shiver down Caitie's spine. For a moment, she felt as though she was back at Hardhome, convincing a different group of people to join them. She itched to take Jon's hand, to have some level of support, but she didn't give in to the impulse. It wasn't proper, especially not in the hall of Mormont Keep.

"You want to protect your people, my lady. I understand. But there's no hiding from this. We have to fight and we need to do it together."

As Davos finished his speech, Mormont Keep's maester leaned over to whisper something to Lyanna Mormont, but she quickly held up a hand to stop him before he could, her eyes not leaving Davos's the entire time. "House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years," she said. There was a long pause as they awaited her final verdict. "We will not break faith today."

Jon's shoulders slumped as the tension left them. He smiled, stepping forward toward the head table. "Thank you, my lady. How many fighting men can we expect?"

Lyanna leaned over to her right, this time, to speak in low tones with her master-at-arms. When she pulled away, she looked back at Jon and said, "Sixty-two."

Caitie almost choked on her saliva. She tried to think on the positive side, because the simple act of securing House Mormont to their side was a victory—but sixty-two men were almost nothing at all. In hindsight, they probably should have expected this; Bear Island had never been the most populous region of the North, and added to that, their numbers had to have been depleted after the War of the Five Kings. But that didn't make it easier to swallow, and she couldn't completely quash her disappointment.

Jon's smile fell, though he tried his best to hide his own disappointment. "Sixty-two?"

"We are not a large house, but we're a proud one," said Lyanna. "And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of ten mainlanders."

Davos smiled and gave Lyanna Mormont a nod. "If they're half as ferocious as their lady, the Boltons are doomed."

Not a lot happening in this chapter. Sorry about that. Originally, there was a lot more, but I moved those plot points to later chapters for... reasons. Anyway, I promise things will pick up soon. Also, thanks for being patient, everyone. Things are slowing down for me a bit, so hopefully, I'll be able to update more frequently from now on.