The moment their party stopped and dismounted in front of the gates of Deepwood Motte, Caitie sensed danger.

It was subtle, admittedly, but definitely there, and when she looked up, she found the source: archers on the walls of the keep. They didn't have their bows drawn, but she could feel the threat radiating off of them even from high above, and although the motte-and-bailey keep was poorly fortified compared to Winterfell or Norwood or Castle Black, it still unnerved her. She didn't think the Glovers were likely to kill them, but this… this did not bode well.

When the gates of Deepwood Motte opened, they entered through a domed stone archway and entered a small courtyard adorned with House Glover's banners: a single white fist upon a red backdrop. Lord Glover himself was there to greet them, standing at the top of a set of stone steps, barring them from entry into large double doors leading to the interior of the keep. Alongside him was a retinue of soldiers.

Robett Glover was a tall, imposing man of middle age, with a greying beard and balding head of hair to match. His eyes were as sharp as steel. He had not been the intended Lord of Deepwood Motte—the title had first belonged to his brother, Galbart, who'd died in the War of the Five Kings without an heir. Caitie had only ever met Robett and Galbart once, at Robb Stark's nameday celebration, but she definitely didn't remember the younger brother having such disdain and hatred in his countenance.

She and Jon exchanged nervous glances. Their hands itched towards their weapons as Lord Glover stalked up to them and squared Jon up. "What do you want?"

Jon looked a little taken aback by such a discourteous greeting; even Lady Mormont hadn't been quite this cold to them. Still, he took a deep breath and introduced himself and his sister. When he finished, he began explanations as to why they had come, but before he could get very far, Lord Glover cut him off.

"The answer is no."

Well, that was fast, thought Caitie.

"Lord Glover, if you just hear us out—"

"I've heard enough. We've only just taken back this castle from the Ironborn. The Boltons helped us do it. Now you want me to fight against them? I could be skinned for even talking to you."

"The Boltons are traitors. Roose Bolton—"

"Have other Northern houses pledged to fight for you?"

Jon lifted his chin. "House Mormont."

"And?"

"We sent ravens to Houses Manderly—"

"I don't care about ravens," said Glover. "You're asking me to join your army. Who is fighting in this army?"

But he knew—he had to know, for otherwise, he wouldn't look so furious at the mere sight of them. Jon glanced first to Caitie on his left, and when she shrugged helplessly, he glanced at Davos behind him, who kept his eyes downcast and body half-turned away from Lord Glover.

When he realized neither of them was going to be much in the way of help, Jon turned back to face the Lord of Deepwood Motte once more, and said, with defiance, "The bulk of the army is made up of Wildings."

Lord Glover gave him a horrible, twisted smile, and a single cruel laugh. "Then the rumors are true. I didn't dare believe them."

"The Free Folk aren't any different from us—and they're a hell of a lot better than Ramsay Bolton," said Caitie, infuriated at his disrespect and derision towards her friends. She didn't know what else she'd been expecting, to be honest. She just... she couldn't let him get away with speaking of Tormund and Wun-Wun and Dim Dalba, of Johnna and Willa, so rudely.

Lord Glover eyed her with a sneer on his face. "And who are you supposed to be?" Then he noticed the sigil on her chest. His sneer grew. "Oh, I see. Little Caitriona Norrey, all grown up. Come back to the North at last and playing the warrior."

She scowled, but it was undercut by the fact that she only came up to his chest. "I don't play at war."

He snorted, shook his head, and refused to pay her any more mind as her cheeks heated up in fury. Even though she knew how most of the lords would react to a lady at the head of an army, it still infuriated her that he would belittle her in such a way.

"I received you out of respect for your father," he told Jon. "Now I would like you to leave. House Glover will not abandon their ancestral home to fight alongside wildlings."

Caitie wanted to scream at him, to hurl every insult she could think up, to strike, but her fury had gone beyond words, beyond even movement. She was frozen with it, her vision blurry and tinted with a haze of red.

As Robett Glover turned away to walk back up the steps and into his keep, Jon called, "Lord Glover—"

"There's nothing else to say," he replied as he ascended the steps up to the door.

"I would remind you that House Glover is pledged to House Stark." Sansa's voice, cold and sharp as Valyrian steel, stopped Lord Glover in his tracks. He froze on the top step, as she continued. "Sworn to answer when called upon!"

Lord Glover turned, his face alight with rage, and stalked towards Sansa, who raised her chin as she masked her fear.

"Yes, my family served House Stark for centuries. We wept when we heard of your father's death. When my brother was lord of this castle, he answered Robb's call and hailed him King in the North!"

Lord Glover took another step forward, now mere inches away from Sansa, and Caitie readied herself for a fight. She'd been planning for it the moment she'd stepped foot into this place, even if the odds of getting out alive were less than stellar. Four in front of them plus Lord Glover and she'd counted three on the way in as well, guarding their exit; she and Jon had their weapons, and between them the odds were good, but what mattered right now was getting Sansa safe from Glover.

Jon seemed to sense what she was thinking because he wrapped his fingers around Caitie's elbow. She hardly felt it, her focus entirely upon Sansa and Lord Glover.

"And where was King Robb when the Ironborn attacked this castle?" he asked. "When they threw my wife and children in prison, and brutalized and killed my subjects? Taking up with a foreign whore. Getting himself and those who followed him killed."

Caitie winced, and Jon, whose hand was still wrapped around her arm, noticed it. He furrowed his brows as he glanced at her, a silent question in his eyes, but Caitie didn't respond, too busy looking at Robett Glover in a brand new light; because underneath the anger, underneath the contempt and disgust was grief—betrayal. And that… that was something she understood.

"I served House Stark once," he growled. "But House Stark is dead."

The ride back to camp was silent as the grave, and just as somber.

Caitie watched her companions throughout the short journey—Davos, his shoulders slumped with defeat; Sansa, her chin lifted with righteous indignation and pride; and Jon, his face a blank slate as he stared forward into the distance, but his entire body was tense with absolute fury.

Truthfully, Caitie hadn't seen him this angry in quite some time now. He had been, of course, after they'd received Ramsay's letter, but fear had tempered that anger, whereas now, it was all he had. After everything that Robett Glover had said, she certainly understood it, but that didn't make it easier to watch such him go through such pain.

She wanted to speak to him, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the dark look upon his face, or perhaps she just knew him well, but she didn't think he would appreciate it if she tried.

The meeting which followed their return to camp was just as dour, although Davos tried his level best to cheer them all up. He maintained that, while this was a setback, it was by no means the end of the line for them. They still had ravens sent out to other houses—including the Manderlys, the Cerwyns, the Hornwoods, and the Ryswells, to name a few. And they would also be traveling eastward, where they could approach the Mazins for help, too.

Jon listened to all of this silently, and when Davos had finished with his speech, the only thing he said was, "Get some rest, all of you."

The weariness in his voice masked the barely suppressed fury, and to say it worried Caitie would be an understatement. Still, she followed Davos, Melisandre, Sansa, and Tormund towards the exit, deciding she'd seek Jon out later when he was calmer. But then, as Davos held the tent flap open for the rest of them, Jon cleared his throat and said, "Caitie, a moment."

The coldness in his voice startled her. She could feel the eyes of all the others watching, feel the nervous energy radiating from them, but she didn't dare break eye contact with Jon. She stepped away from the flap, back to the table so she was standing across from him, and after a pause, heard the footsteps of the others and the rustle of fabric.

Then she and Jon were alone.

"What Lord Glover said about Robb," he started. "Was it true?"

Caitie's whole body went still, for only now did it occur to her that Jon didn't know the full depth of his brother's mistakes. And all because she hadn't told him. She would have thought Sansa might've—she had told him about Lord Karstark's death, at the very least, but it seemed that the rest never came up between the two of them.

Sansa would be the better one for this, considering it was her brother, too—but Jon hadn't asked Sansa. He had asked Caitie.

When she regained her senses, she gave Jon a single, stiff nod.

"What did he do?"

She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want him to know for the same reason she hadn't wanted him to so many years ago. The truth was terrible and painful and was the point in bringing it up now, so long after Robb's death? But there was no room for her to argue—even from across the table, Jon's eyes bored into her with such intensity she wondered if she would melt under them if he looked at her like that for much longer.

"He personally ordered Theon Greyjoy to sail to the Iron Islands for Balon Greyjoy's fleet," she said tonelessly. "It was the catalyst for the Ironborn invasion."

Jon's eyes widened with horror, and Caitie wanted to stop, to beg him not to make her tell him anything else, but she couldn't, now that she had begun.

"After your father's capture, he vowed to marry Walder Frey's daughter, in return for crossing the Twins into the Riverlands. But he broke that vow, so he could marry Talisa Stark. And then, after he beheaded Rickard Karstark and lost Karstark's men, he—"

"Went back to Walder Frey. Who slaughtered him."

A terrible silence followed Jon's words, and Caitie was at a loss for what to do. She didn't know what she should say to him if she didn't know what he was thinking. But then his face contorted with rage, and he pushed off from the table, stalking towards her until suddenly they were inches apart.

"You should have told me."

Caitie blinked. "Excuse me?"

He scowled. "When you learned what he had done—you should have—"

"I did!" she cried, as she realized just what he was accusing her of. "When I found out about Robb, I told you that you didn't want to know the details. And if you recall, you agreed to trust me—just like I trusted you about Craster."

"That was entirely different!"

"Entirely different?" she repeated with an incredulous scoff. "We agreed—"

"Seven Hells—this wasn't some Wildling we hardly knew. This was my brother!"

"Precisely! In what fucking world would it have helped you to know that he was the reason the North lost the War of the Five Kings? That he doomed his own people? When I learned the truth, it almost destroyed me—I didn't want it to destroy you, too!"

"I had the right to know! You, of all people, should understand how that feels."

They were both breathing heavily now, faces inches from each other, and so many confusing emotions flooded through Caitie and so quickly she was hardly able to decipher them. Fury, however, was the one which stood out among the rest. "Do not compare what I did to Owen and Cerys." Her voice was low, hardly audible, but sharp and deadly. "I never lied to you. I told you the truth, and you made the choice to listen to me."

Something—whether it was Caitie's tone or her expression, she couldn't say—seemed to affect Jon. The anger cleared ever so slightly, and he said in a hoarse voice laced with sorrow, "I needed you to tell me—maybe not then, right before…" He didn't need to finish for her to know what he was speaking of: the Battle of Castle Black, and Ygritte's death. "But after that. Before I had to learn it from his own bannermen."

And the moment he finished, Caitie's heart sank. Because Jon was right. She should have told him—the second they knew they would be continuing Robb's war.

But then he added, "Before I made the same mistakes," and she froze.

He couldn't mean… "You're not your brother," she said, her voice shaking slightly now, but with fear rather than anger.

"I was killed by my own men, just like he was." His voice was bitter, full of regret, and even though she knew he hadn't said it to hurt her—even though she could admit readily that allowing her to stay at Castle Black had been a stupid thing to do—she still couldn't help the hurt that he truly believed she was a mistake, just like Talisa Stark had been.

Because there were few mistakes Robb and Jon had in common, but one of them was allowing a woman a place she should not have had.

When she spoke again, she allowed ice and steel into her voice. "Well, unlike Robb, you got a second chance. You can either waste it agonizing over what you should or shouldn't have done, or you can do better this time around."

Jon looked at her, his eyes wide with astonishment, and guilt bloomed in Caitie's chest. Her words had been insensitive—borderline cruel. But if he could dole out foul truths, then so could she.

Without a word, without waiting for him to reply to her, whatever that reply might have been, she stalked past him and out of the tent.

At the center of their camp was a medium-sized clearing where they had set up a large fire, surrounded by logs for people to sit on. This was where Caitie headed, unable to think beyond the pounding of her heart against her rib cage. She stomped her way through the small collection of beige tents, not knowing what else there was to do except to seethe. Her face was flushed and hot, even in the cold, and although she was more hurt than angry at this point, a part of her wanted to turn back around and scream at Jon some more.

Sadly, that wasn't an option. But she supposed she could settle for beating the shit out of Tormund.

As she approached, she saw Wun-Wun, warming his hands by the fire. He didn't dare use one of the logs to sit; it would have splintered under his weight.

"Wun-Wun," Caitie said, her boots squelching in the mud as she marched towards the giant.

He lifted his head as she crossed the clearing.

"Where's Tormund?" she asked. "I want to spar."

Wun-Wun cocked a brow, looking at her with as much concern as his weathered face could show. "Koh."

"There's nothing to tell," Caitie replied shortly, her emotions taking up too much headspace for her to use Mag Nuk at the moment. "Don't look at me like that," she added when his expression didn't change. "I'm perfectly fine. I just need…" I need Jon. I need us to be okay. She couldn't go a month without talking to him like she had done with Tormund.

"I just need to hit something. Repeatedly."

After a moment of observation, in which Caitie felt like the giant was seeing through her, Wun-Wun gestured over to the tent nearest to them.

She sighed, not wanting to think about what Tormund might be doing alone in his tent at this hour. "So you're telling me he's… too busy to spar with me?"

A nod.

"Lovely. Just what I needed." With a frustrated huff, she plopped herself down on the log beside Wun-Wun and extended her arms towards the fire.

They sat in silence for a very long time, but Caitie made no effort to break it. Wun-Wun didn't like speech unless it was necessary. Even after she'd learned enough Mag Nuk to understand him, more or less, he didn't talk unless he had something important to say, and while he tolerated her inane chatter, he much preferred silence. At first, she'd thought it was a sign that he didn't want her there—or that he didn't understand what she was saying, but she'd quickly learned that this wasn't the case. He simply enjoyed wordless companionship.

This had taken some getting used to on Caitie's part. She had never liked silence; in her experience, silence between two people usually meant that one or both were holding something back. And especially after Hardhome, she'd come to associate silence with death, horror, and tragedy. Even when she was alone, she would fill the void—whether it was with singing or talking to herself or going through her combat exercises. For when she wasn't doing something to act, her mind always ended up so full of thoughts that she thought they might burst out of her head if she didn't say them out loud. But Wun-Wun never rushed things. If there was something to say, then he would say it, and if there wasn't, he would not. If there was something to do, he would do it, and if there wasn't, he would not. He was content to sit and listen to the rustle of the trees and the crackling of the fire. Sometimes, Caitie wondered if he saw beauty—and wisdom—in the quiet of it all.

And as she spent more time with him, the more she found that she could see it, too.

It was strange, really. Caitie had always been told that Giants didn't possess much intellect, but that simply wasn't the case. It was a different intellect than the kind humans valued—but that didn't make it lesser. Giants were all power and raw strength. To temper it, they had to learn passivity, slowness, and quiet, or otherwise be vessels of unfettered and unwanted destruction. That passivity made them seem stupid on a surface level, but there was wisdom in knowing when and how to use such power. There was wisdom in listening and waiting for the right time to speak—or even strike.

As the quiet calm drew on, Caitie's anger ebbed. Wun-Wun, who had kneeled so they were closer to the same height—although he was still a good five or six feet taller than her—gave a contented rumble, and she looked over to see his head drooping onto his shoulder. He wasn't quite asleep, she didn't think—but he was close.

She chuckled under her breath, wondering how she ever could have feared him.

"You and Jon Snow fought."

The cool, regal voice shattered the quiet. It startled Wun-Wun, who flinched so hard it shook the ground—and, subsequently, the log on which Caitie sat. When the dirt had settled again, the two of them looked around. Caitie only just withheld a groan at the sight of Melisandre standing behind them. She had tagged along on their journey, mostly keeping to her tent throughout it. Caitie liked things best that way. Her relationship with the red priestess could best be described as cordial; she didn't want to chuck Melisandre off the top of the Wall any longer—and Melisandre, true to her word, hadn't brought up the prospect of a sacrifice even once. But the incessant mentions of the Lord of Light never failed to grate on Caitie's nerves, and that was the last thing she needed—especially at the moment.

"Didn't anyone teach you not to eavesdrop when you were a child?" she shot back.

Melisandre's lips curved up in an intimation of a smile. "I was raised a slave in Asshai, so I'm afraid I must have missed that lesson." Her voice was light, but there was a steeliness underlying it that made it very clear she was not merely joking.

Caitie blinked, her mouth going slack as she tried to think of the proper response. She wondered if Melisandre was even telling the truth, but then decided not to call her on it, just in case she was. "Oh. Um… sorry."

"Do not apologize. My path was ordained; it led me to my lord. It is not a tragedy."

Without any clue what to say to that, Caitie waited for Melisandre to give a reason as to why she'd approached her this evening.

"You should not fight," she said eventually.

Caitie scoffed. "Why don't you tell him that?"

"I thought you were a woman, not a child," was Melisandre's cool response. "Children do not win wars."

Caitie huffed, but otherwise kept her mouth shut. She knew Melisandre had a point, even if she was loath to admit it. Her face must have betrayed something, though, because once again, the corners of Melisandre's lips quirked up, and she gestured to the empty spot next to Caitie.

Against her better judgment, Caitie nodded. Melisandre swept around the side of the log and took her place. As she did, Wun-Wun turned to look at them, discomfort written on his features. Caitie couldn't blame him; this was the first time he'd been within ten feet of Melisandre.

She touched Wun-Wun's arm, hoping to calm him. "Rukh ikh hoys bar."

She will not hurt you.

Wun-Wun settled at Caitie's reassurance, though he still cast wary a glance at the red priestess.

"You speak the language of the giants?" asked Melisandre, brows raised in surprise.

"A little," said Caitie. "Enough to communicate, anyway."

"And Valyrian, too. You have a talent for language."

"Er, thank you." She shifted, feeling more than a little uncomfortable receiving praise from the red woman. But then something occurred to her and she all but forgot her discomfort. "Wait a moment—how do you know I speak High Valyrian?"

Caitie thought Melisandre would credit the Lord of Light for her knowledge, but to Caitie's surprise, she did not.

"You knew the term 'Valar morghulis,'" she said. "You knew what it meant. All—"

"All men must die," Caitie finished, not quite believing Melisandre's explanation. "But anyone can learn a phrase."

"You also translated the Old Words when I used them to bring back Jon Snow."

She blinked. "How—"

"You were muttering them under your breath," answered Melisandre, and Caitie could have sworn she was amused by it. "Who taught you?"

"Maester Aemon."

"Ah. The Targaryen prince."

Caitie lifted her chin in defiance. "He wasn't a Targaryen prince. He was a man of the Night's Watch."

"He gave up his title," said Melisandre, looking off into the distance, "but he never gave up himself."

Caitie's stomach did a horrible little flip at this, and she recalled the last time Melisandre expressed knowledge of information that should have been impossible. For this night and all nights to come. Caitie had been too horror-struck to say anything in return to her at the time, but that conversation felt like a million years away, and now she had seen too much to be surprised anymore. So she merely muttered, "I really hate it when you do that."

Melisandre gave a single chuckle. "As do many others. But it is useful at times."

Unsure how to reply to that, Caitie fell silent. Then, out of nowhere, an idea formed in her mind—a terrible, stupid, ridiculous idea, which she would never have entertained before now. But she was desperate; she had been for years, and… if there was even a chance, she had to ask.

"What else can you see?" she asked in a very small voice, half-hoping that Melisandre wouldn't hear the question.

But of course she did. She blinked, and when her eyes found Caitie's, there was a wariness in them. "I see what the Lord of Light wishes me to see."

"But… you can direct it, can't you? It's how you knew the things Grenn and Maester Aemon said to me. Couldn't you just—I don't know—ask for a vision?" Caitie felt silly even asking because truthfully, she believed in the Lord of Light about as much as she believed in the giant Macumber.

The wariness had faded from Melisandre's face, but it had been replaced with something worse: pity. "Who?" she asked softly, kindly.

"My brother," Caitie admitted, swallowing, not knowing why she was trusting the red woman with this information. "Arthur. He's—I haven't seen him in years. I don't know where he is or what he's been through or—anything. And I just thought…" She shook her head. "Never mind. It was stupid."

"It was not stupid," said Melisandre. "I understand your pain. But I have no power of my own. All I have is my lord, and of late, there has been nothing he wishes me to see."

"You mean you haven't had any visions at all?"

"No. Not since…" Melisandre trailed off, and she looked away from Caitie, eyes seeing something in the distance that was not truly there. "Not since Stannis's death." She pursed her lips and looked back over at Caitie with a small, sad smile. "I am sorry I cannot help you."

Caitie didn't know what to say to that. She felt as though she were being smothered by disappointment, and she hated herself for believing—even for a moment that Arthur was in reach. She hated herself even more for considering using Melisandre and her abominable God to find him.

"I shouldn't have asked."

"There is no crime in asking," said Melisandre. "And if I may make an offer…"

Caitie waited, feeling uneasy.

"If you are interested in pursuing your studies in Valyrian further, I would be willing to help you."

It took her a moment to realize she hadn't misheard Melisandre, and when she did, she didn't know what to make of such an offer. After Maester Aemon's death, her skill with High Valyrian had deteriorated, as books could only help so much. Instead, she'd focused more on learning the Old Tongue and Mag Nuk—but as much as she enjoyed learning them, nothing was as beautiful to speak as High Valyrian.

Though she knew Melisandre spoke the language, it had never occurred to Caitie to ask for help. And even if it had, the idea of being indebted to a disciple of the Lord of Light, however small that debt might be, unnerved Caitie.

Then again, she'd just asked for much more than some linguistic lessons.

"There is no price for my help," Melisandre said, sensing the trepidation. "Knowledge should be shared, not hidden away."

Caitie crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow. "This isn't some ploy to convert me?"

Melisandre clasped her hands together and placed them on her lap. "I promise, by the one true God, that I will not mention Him unless you do."

Well, Caitie thought with a sigh, I suppose that's good enough.

She nodded. "All right then. When do we start?"

As it turned out, Melisandre contained a wealth of information—in fact, she probably knew more about the Valyrian language than Maester Aemon. There wasn't simply High Valyrian; there was also Low Valyrian, which had tens of different dialects: Astapori Valyrian, Meereenese Valyrian, Braavosi Valyrian were only a few examples—and Melisandre knew them all. Caitie drank up her knowledge, wanting to know everything there was to know about not just the languages, but the places from which they came. She wanted to hear about the great pyramids of Meereen, the House of Black and White in Braavos, which housed the deadly assassins known as Faceless Men. She wanted to hear about Asshai and of Old Valyria; of dragons and magic so ancient and foreign no one else in Westeros had ever even heard of it.

Melisandre had indulged Caitie's curiosity, telling her of these places while they spoke in Valyrian. They didn't stop until late into the evening, long after the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. When they did finally part for the night, it was with the promise of more tomorrow evening, after they stopped for camp again.

Caitie still didn't trust Melisandre. She didn't think she ever would. But she hoped, at least, that the stories the red priestess told were true, even if everything else about her was not, because they were truly incredible.

Alone once more, Caitie walked back towards the tent she shared with Johnna and Willa. She knew she needed to speak with Jon—and she would. Her temper had calmed in the hours since their fight. But first she wanted to see the girls, to ask them about their day and see for herself that they had made it back to the tent safely. Of course, someone always accompanied them, whether it was her or Wun-Wun or Tormund or Jon. Most importantly, they had Ghost, and he was quite possibly the best protector anyone could ask for. But Caitie still worried about them, and in all honesty, she didn't think she would ever stop.

As she approached her tent, she could hear voices floating up from inside it—well, a voice, at least. Willa was chattering away, presumably to her sister, but Caitie couldn't make out what she was saying.

She entered the tent, lit with a few candles. Willa sat on her sleeping roll with her legs crossed, her sister behind her, brushing out her long brown hair. This, in itself, was rather ordinary—what was not ordinary was the third person in the room, standing, listening as Willa animatedly described her day.

"What are you doing here?" Caitie asked.

It came out harsher than intended. Everyone turned to look at her. She pursed her lips, waiting for Jon to answer.

He cleared his throat. "I was waiting for you."

"Well, here I am."

He eyed Johnna and Willa. "Girls," he said, "could we have a moment?"

"This is our tent, too," Johnna shot back. "You wanna talk, then go somewhere else."

Jon looked over at Johnna in surprise, and then to Caitie, who gestured towards the flap. "You heard her."

After a pause, Jon chuckled, ruffled Johnna's hair, to which she gave a half-hearted protest as she batted his hand away. He strode out of the tent, into the night. Caitie followed him, but not before she threw a wink at the girls, who grinned back at her.

Once outside, Caitie and Jon faced each other, the only light to see by coming from the torch in his hand. Neither spoke at first, waiting for the other to begin.

"I'm—"

"—Sorry."

For a moment after they'd both spoken, Jon and Caitie froze, watching each other.

And then they broke into laughter. For a good minute, it was all they did. The stress, the fear, the anger—all of it disappeared, and when their laughs finally died down, it was like it had never been there at all.

"I should have told you," Caitie said when she caught her breath. "When we decided to go to war with the Boltons, I should have told you."

Jon shook his head. "I shouldn't have expected you to think of it."

"But I should have thought of it—I should have known you would find out, eventually. And better it had come from me than Lord Glover."

He couldn't deny her point, for it was the same one he'd made hours earlier. Instead, he fixed her with a piercing stare, as though he was seeing into her soul.

And maybe he was; he had always been able to read her better than anyone else.

"You were angry with him, weren't you?"

Caitie blinked. "What?"

"With Robb, when you found out what he'd done."

Her chest felt like a full-grown direwolf was sitting on it. This was why she'd never told Jon the truth: because he would know the truth of her emotions the moment she did, and she couldn't bear letting him see it. But she'd avoided the conversation for two years now; perhaps that had been a mistake.

"I was angry," she said. "But I was wrong."

"That's why you didn't want to tell me. You didn't want me to know."

"I hated him," she murmured, looking down at her boots in shame. But now that she'd started, she couldn't stop. "I don't think I ever forgave him for what happened between us at Winterfell, if I'm being entirely honest. And then he lost the war—and when I found out why, it was just so easy to blame him for it. And I thought—I thought if you ever knew how much I hated him, how much I blamed him, you would hate him, too. Worse, you would hate me."

Jon looked surprised at her admission. Then the expression turned from surprised to appalled and Caitie's heart sank, because even though that was the reaction she'd expected, it still hurt to see. "You believed I would hate you?"

"He was your brother, and you were almost as close to him as you were to Arya. Of course I thought you would hate me."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Caitie waited for him to yell at her, but when he exhaled a breath and looked back up, to her surprise, he actually seemed amused. "You really think I don't know your feelings about my brother? It's not as if you made a secret of them, even before he died."

"I tried!" Caitie argued. "And there's a difference between petty childhood arguments and—Jon, stop laughing!" she exclaimed when she saw his shoulders shaking and his lips pressed tightly together, trying and failing not to make a sound.

She scowled as he let out all his laughter, with her hands on her hips.

"I'm sorry," he said, once he'd composed himself. "But Caitie… I've always known my brother's faults. I loved him, but I wasn't blind."

"That's up for debate."

Jon shot her a look, but otherwise ignored her quip. "Besides which, there is nothing you could do that would ever make me hate you."

"Really," Caitie said flatly.

"Aye. Really."

She crossed her arms, feeling suddenly light as air. "What if I… stole all your clothes and strung them up somewhere, so you had to run through the camp to retrieve them?"

"You wouldn't."

Caitie said nothing.

Jon glowered. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, a grin spreading across her face. "It would be quite the morale booster for the women—and likely some of the men, too."

He shook his head. "You'll be the death of me. Do you know that?"

"Please—you find death well enough without my help."

Jon chuckled again, despite himself. But then the sound died, and he looked at her. She could see it all in his eyes—see the fear and the reticence and the guilt, though she hadn't a clue what he had to be guilty for.

He mastered himself with a deep breath. When he looked at her again, he gave a small smile and placed a hand on her shoulder. "But I want you to know," he said, "that you weren't a mistake. Not ever. Letting you stay at Castle Black—if I did one right thing as lord commander, it was that."

Caitie opened her mouth to thank him, but no sound came out. Her heart felt as though it were about to burst apart, and she couldn't for the life of her understand why.

In years to come, she would look back on this moment—along with a great many others—and realize that she simply didn't want to understand, because some part of her knew, deep down, that she had gotten too close to realizing a truth she wasn't ready to face yet. And for now, at least, she didn't have to.

Boxing away her feelings so quickly that she hardly even noticed she was doing it, Caitie smiled. "Well, it certainly made things more interesting."

Jon laughed. "Aye, that's one way of putting it."

Voices drifted out of her tent, getting louder and louder as what seemed to be an argument between Johnna and Willa escalated. From what they could hear outside, it sounded like Johnna had pulled Willa's hair a little too hard, and the debate was over whether she had done so on purpose.

"I guess we're not the only ones fighting today," Caitie said.

Jon smiled and glanced towards her tent flap. "Should we see what it's about?"

She nodded, and together, they entered back inside, their argument entirely forgotten.

I am very, very excited about the next chapter. Pray that I finish editing it soon so I can post it.

As for this chapter—I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but Melisandre is one of my favorite characters in the show. Don't get me wrong, she's a terrible person, and pre-season 6, she's basically just a one-dimensional villain. But once Stannis dies, and she has to reevaluate everything she's ever believed—and everything that she's done—she becomes a person rather than a caricature, with real flaws and regrets and doubts. Combined with the knowledge and power she has, I think it makes her a really fascinating character.

When Caitie finds out what she did, though—ooh boy, it's not gonna be pretty.