There's a lot going on in this chapter, even if it's not the longest I've ever written. And I know for a fact that you guys are going to want to kill me when you finish. It really is the perfect one to post as my two-year anniversary gift to you all.

Enjoy ;)

The journey westward towards Mazin Castle proceeded at a pace which only the Gods could match; it seemed to Caitie that one moment they were camped outside Deepwood Motte, and the next they had reached the tip of Sea Dragon Point. The peninsula had never been the most densely populated region, even by Northern standards. With a landscape of bogs, hills, and forests, the place seemed built to withstand an army. Caitie assumed this was why Lord Mazin had risked outright refusing to declare for the Boltons—much like Mormont Keep, it would be difficult to attack Mazin Castle. A smaller party, however, had little trouble making the trek.

As they grew closer to their destination, so too did her nerves. Other than House Mormont, House Mazin was the house with which she had the closest connection—at least of the ones Sansa and Jon intended to seek out personally. She even wondered as she sat braiding Willa's hair before bed one evening if she should bring said connection up to Lord Mazin. But she quickly dismissed the idea, because Roland Knott was dead, along with Owen and Cerys and all their other friends.

Best not to remind Lord Mazin of those he'd already lost to this blighted war.

The castle itself had been built into the cliffside overlooking the Sunset Sea. It was a relic of the First Men, refurbished a few hundred years ago by the Mazins with help from their liege lords. While the location was preferable to Mormont Keep, Caitie still felt nauseous at the sight of Mazin Castle suspended over the ocean. The salty air was not helping.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Davos said, looking up at the place in awe from their camp. Shadowed by the moon hidden behind it, with dark grey waves crashing against its rocky base, Caitie thought the castle looked more haunted than it did beautiful.

She swallowed. "That's not quite the way I would describe it."

Davos chuckled. "We'll find you your sea legs. Just you wait."

"I think I'd rather set myself on fire. Naked. In front of the entire North."

Still, when it was time to go the next morning, she urged her horse forward after Jon, Sansa, and Davos. They rode up the grassy slope to the top of the cliffside, where the great castle stood before them. In daylight, Mazin Castle was just as imposing—but less haunted, at least—with high walls and windows, and towers so tall that Caitie couldn't see the tops of them without straining her neck. It was still nothing compared to Winterfell, but she supposed it could rival Norwood.

They were greeted by Lord Mazin's steward, who led them inside and allowed them Guest Right. "My lord was not expecting visitors," he said as he handed them salt and bread. "Certainly not Stark visitors."

Sansa and Jon said nothing to this, but they eyed each other, having a silent conversation that even Caitie couldn't decipher.

The steward ushered them into the great hall of the castle. It looked more like a long empty corridor than anything else, though there were large windows at the end of it which looked out onto the sea. There was a dais, too, and that was where Lord Rodrik Mazin sat at his great table. He was a short man but well-muscled, and the presence he exuded was as imposing as his castle. On one side of him were the master-at-arms and the maester, which Caitie had expected. But on the other…

"Caitriona?" Roland Knott asked, looking at her as though she were a ghost.

She froze, eyes wide as she stared back at him. For a moment, she wondered if she had gone back in time—except she knew she hadn't, because Jon, Sansa, and Davos were still beside her. Perhaps she had simply lost her mind. She had wished for so long to have some piece of her brothers come back to her, and knowing what Mazin Castle meant in regards to them, it was entirely possible she'd imagined this.

But Roland looked older than the last time she had seen him, more battle-weary, and he carried himself with the confidence of one who had lived through war.

"I heard the rumors," he said, still looking awestruck and slightly terrified at the sight of her, "but I never believed…"

Caitie could sense Jon's eyes on her, and she knew this turn of events must have confused him. She'd never really mentioned any of Owen and Cerys's friends in her stories to him, mostly because they hadn't mattered all that much to her. Roland, his older brother Edric, Selwyn Harclay—they had always been in the background during her childhood, tolerating her presence but not really enjoying her company—and neither had she enjoyed theirs, for the most part. It was Owen and Cerys who had meant everything to her, and so they were the ones of whom she spoke.

"So, this is Rendon's daughter," said Lord Mazin. He had a gruff, impatient voice, and it cut through the silence, reminding Caitie of where she was and what she was doing. This was a diplomatic mission; her feelings would have to wait until later.

"Yes, my lord," she said, keeping her voice cool, calm, collected—ladylike, even though she felt anything but. "I wasn't aware your nephew would be here."

Roland opened his mouth to speak, but his uncle beat him to it. "Aye, Roland's my heir, now."

"You're the heir to House Mazin?" Sansa asked, echoing Caitie's thoughts exactly, though with a lot less swearing involved.

"I lost my two oldest in the battle of Whispering Wood," Mazin said, a slight timbre of sadness in his voice that he quickly covered up. "Lost my youngest at Oxcross. I have grandchildren—all girls, though, and all younger than sixteen. And seeing as my wife's past her childbearing days, the only male connection left to my house is with my sister's children."

Caitie's shock faded slightly, tempered by the tragedy which had befallen Lord Mazin. Gods, how many families had been torn apart by the War of the Five Kings? How many were without mothers and fathers? How many had had to bury their children in unmarked graves?

And how many more would have to do the same when their battle was over?

"Yet Lord Roland has an elder brother," Sansa said.

"My father died at Whispering Wood." Roland looked over at Caitie. "Edric is Lord Knott, now. But he… decided it was best to send me to Uncle Rodrik, since he can't oversee both houses at once. I'm heir, so long as I marry my cousin Serena when she comes of age next year."

"Regardless," Lord Mazin said with a wave of his hand, "none of this explains why you're here—with a Stark, no less."

The words prompted Jon into action. He cleared his throat, stepping forward towards the dais. "My lord, my name is Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark, brother of Robb Stark. I've come with my sister, Sansa, to ask for your support. We are building an army to defeat the Boltons and reclaim our home, and we ask you to affirm the pledge you made to our family."

There was a pause as Roland looked from Caitie to Jon to Sansa, half-shocked, half-resigned. Lord Mazin, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes at them. Jon stared back imploringly, while Sansa kept herself emotionless.

And then, to everyone's surprise, Rodrik Mazin laughed.

It went on for what felt like an age. Caitie, Sansa, and Jon all exchanged glances, unsure whether this was a good sign or bad. His chest heaved as he roared with laughter, and even his nephew looked slightly unnerved by it.

Then, wiping the tears from his eyes, Mazin said, "You're barking mad!"

"I… am not," Jon replied uncertainly.

Mazin assessed him a little more shrewdly now, but there was still a bleak sort of mirth in his eyes. "You really think that you can defeat the Boltons? Even if they didn't have the backing of those blasted southerners—which they do—they have more than twice the men. Better trained men, too, if the… rumors we've been hearing are correct."

"The Wildling army is disorganized, aye. But they're fierce fighters. We've also recruited House Mormont and have sent ravens—"

"To a bunch of other small houses, like my own." Caitie couldn't tell if the snicker Lord Mazin made was full of humor or anger. "Suicide is an ugly way to go, you know."

"It's not—" Jon stopped before his frustration could get the better of him. He took a deep breath and continued in a calmer tone. "We have to try, my lord. We are Starks. Our father—"

And just like that, the mirth was gone, the mention of Eddard Stark having erased it as soon as it had come. "Your father's dead. So are your brothers, your sister—" He eyed Sansa. "Your other sister. So are my sons. Fighting the Boltons won't bring any of them back."

"My brother Rickon is still alive. He's held captive by the Boltons—"

"Then he's as good as dead. And you'll follow if you're not careful."

"My lord—"

"You should leave the North. Get on a ship to Braavos or Pentos—wherever you want. Just get out of the country. There's no point in throwing your life away just for a bit of vengeance."

"I can't. I have to—"

"Have to? Have to?" Mazin shouted, his face purpling as he bolted up from his chair. Roland, whose eyes hadn't left Caitie's, grimaced at the sound—almost as if he had been waiting for this reaction. Lord Mazin stalked towards Jon, the laughing lord replaced by a man possessed by rage and unspeakable pain. "They've won, boy! Don't you understand? It's over! You should be thinking about your own skin now, before it's lying on Ramsay Bolton's floor."

"I can't," Jon repeated, a new kind of desperation in his voice.

"And why not? Too good for it, eh? Or maybe too greedy. Not enough glory up at the Night's Watch, so you want to try your hand with your brother's kingdom?"

Jon looked horrified. "No, that's not—"

"Then why? Why not flee while you still can?"

"Because sometimes you have to think about more than just your own skin!" cried Caitie. A stunned silence followed, every eye in the hall turning towards her, but she hardly noticed it, her attempts at controlling herself forgotten. She'd controlled herself at Bear Island and it had done nothing; the same went for Deepwood Motte. So what was the point of keeping her temper while this man accused her friend of a terrible crime? "For fuck's sake—the Boltons are running up and down the countryside flaying and burning and murdering people, and you think it's better to just—what? Hide out and let it happen?"

Lord Mazin's fury mingled with shock, while everyone else watched her as though she were some beast they didn't know whether to tame or kill. "You're just a girl!" he snapped, with a dismissive wave in her direction. "You don't understand—"

"Don't tell me I don't understand!" she said furiously. "I know what's at stake, I know how this could end for me—for all of us."

"Oh?" Lord Mazin had turned away entirely from Jon, stalking up so that she was inches away from him. Short as he was for a man, he still towered over her. "Have you seen war, girl? Seen death? Seen the light leave a man's eyes and know it was by your hand?"

Caitie stared into his eyes, as dark as the night itself, and answered, "Yes, I have. I've seen them beg for mercy, and felt their last breaths on my face. I've seen them weep and scream and bleed, and pray to all the Gods that the end would come faster." Lord Mazin's eyes widened with horror, and seeing it, Caitie went on. "I've seen war, Lord Mazin. I've fought and I've lost, and I'm going to keep fighting until my last fucking breath if that's what it takes to rid the North of the Boltons. And if you've given up, that's fine—but don't expect it from the rest of us."

The shock turned to anger once more. "I haven't given up!"

She gave an incredulous laugh. "Really? You just told us that we should get out of the country because there's no point in fighting them!"

"It's the truth!"

"No, it isn't! Not if we all band together and refuse to let them win."

"If we do that, then—"

"Then, what? You think Ramsay Bolton won't come for you, eventually? He will. He'll come for you and your family and all of the smallfolk under your protection, because there will never be enough bloodshed to satisfy him. So what's the point of staying out of it?"

Her words effectively shut Lord Mazin up, although it wasn't until a few seconds of stunned silence had passed that she realized it. And then someone behind them cleared their throat.

"Uncle," Roland said, and both Lord Mazin and Caitie turned to look at him. "I've known Caitriona Norrey since she was a babe. Her brother was my best friend from the time I was three. If she says we have a chance to defeat the Boltons, then I believe her." Without giving his uncle a chance to speak, Roland stepped down from the dais and walked over to them, his eyes on Caitie the entire time. "Yelling at everyone until they give in to what you want," he said with a smile. "You haven't changed a bit."

She didn't know what to say to that. Here was a reminder of her childhood, and yet, all it seemed to do now was make her feel so fully aware of the loss she had suffered.

"What happened to my brother?"

Her voice sounded icier than the Frostfangs, and the smile slid off Roland's face.

"Why are you alive when—when he isn't?" Caitie didn't know what exactly had caused the sudden, roaring fury pulsating in her veins. All she knew was that Roland Knott was standing in front of her, with a family and a castle and a future wife, while her brothers were gone; dead and rotting in the ground. In another life, she might have had good-sisters, nieces and nephews—a family. But that future had been taken from her, and now she faced a pale imitation of it.

Roland was being kind to her, and that was the worst of it all.

Under the ferociousness of her gaze, his face paled, hazel eyes filling with confusion and… fear. He feared her. "Riona—"

"Don't call me that," she said. "Don't—just don't."

Jon came to stand beside her, and he fixed her brother's friend with a scowl. If she hadn't been so close to complete madness, Caitie would have laughed at the look on Roland's face. After all, Jon could be terrifying when he chose to be.

But she hardly cared about that now. "Where were you? Why weren't you with him? With Owen? Every single Northman was at the Twins; I know you were there. Why—"

"Your brothers were inside with the king," said Roland. "I was on the other side of the camp with the other Norrey soldiers. When the fighting broke out, I was ordered to stay put."

"And you obeyed? You knew—"

"I didn't know! No one knew! You don't understand, Ri—Caitriona. It was chaos. Our men were turning on each other; we didn't know who was fighting for the Starks and who had turned traitor. People were dying everywhere—or worse, killing their friends. And then—"

Roland stopped, eyeing the two Stark siblings.

Sansa lifted her chin. "Speak, my lord. I already know the worst of it."

Roland looked sick at the thought of describing the details of the Red Wedding to Robb Stark's little sister, but his uncle stepped in, all traces of anger gone, replaced with weariness and melancholy. "They brought out the king's body. Propped it up on a horse, chanting 'King in the North!' They'd cut his head off, stuck the head of his direwolf in its place and paraded him around for all the rest of us to see."

Caitie's jaw dropped. That… was not something she had known about. She looked over at Sansa, whose true feelings were masked by her emotionless expression. But Sansa had known all of it: how they had desecrated her brother's corpse, how they had made a mockery of him. It was this knowledge which calmed Caitie, for if Sansa could keep her temper, knowing the horrible details of the Red Wedding, then so could she.

Looking over at Jon, however, Caitie could see all of her feelings mirrored on his face. She reached over and took his hand, not even thinking about how it would look, because how could she care about propriety now? Jon seemed to have the same thought, because the moment their skin made contact, his fingers slipped between hers, and he clutched her hand back tightly.

Roland spoke again, with so much pain in his voice that Caitie's heart nearly broke. "I would have died for Cerys. I would have died for either of your brothers. They were my friends, my brothers in all but name—I loved them."

Caitie stared at him, looking for the signs of a lie, but there was nothing except pure, unrelenting grief on his face. And she didn't have it in her to stay angry at him—not when he grieved the same people she did.

"I believe you."

Roland's shoulders slumped in relief.

Caitie felt as though she had been sapped of all her energy. If it hadn't been for Jon's hand in hers, she might not have been able to continue standing. "What about Arthur? Do you know anything about what's happened to him?"

Roland sighed. "I'm sorry; other than your father naming him heir, I don't know anything. I haven't exactly been a welcome guest at Norwood since…"

"Since?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does."

He exchanged a look with his uncle, whom Caitie could see was trying to suppress a smile. "Let's just say there's a reason my brother sent me away."

"And I'm glad he did," said Lord Mazin, clapping a hand on Roland's shoulder. "He's a good lad, my nephew. Never been wrong about anything before." He held Caitie's gaze for a moment before it shifted to Jon beside her. "You're determined?"

Jon gave a single nod.

Lord Mazin sighed. "Well, let it never be said that House Mazin didn't do their part to help House Stark. Let's see… I think I have about a hundred and fifty men to spare for you—all cavalry."

Jon split into a wide smile, for this was the most men they'd acquired from a single house yet. "Thank you, my lord."

"Don't thank me." Lord Mazin observed Caitie, his eyes narrowed as he assessed her, before he broke into a grin. "Never been shamed quite so thoroughly by anyone before, not even my wife. You're a proper Northern lass, I'll give you that."

Caitie tried not to look surprised at having such praise directed towards her. She cleared her throat, hoping her cheeks weren't too pink, and said, "I try my best, my lord."

Lord Mazin and his wife, despite the inconvenience of it, were gracious enough to host them for the evening and allow them room and board for the night. For one brief moment, Caitie had thought Jon would refuse the offer, but he did not; instead he smiled and agreed that after months on the march, a proper meal and bed would be welcome.

Lady Mazin soon ordered a feast, and by sunset, Jon, Caitie, Sansa and Davos sat at the great table alongside her, Lord Mazin, and Roland, feasting on the best food Caitie and Jon had had in years—chicken and beef and stew so rich neither could finish it. Caitie gave a silent apology to Hobb, who she knew would be highly offended if he could see how much they were enjoying this food in comparison to his.

She tried her best to remember her manners, but it was almost impossible not to inhale the food as fast as she could. As she took another large spoonful of stew and greedily gulped it down, she heard laughter from just above her. Caitie looked up and to her left, where Jon was chuckling as he watched.

"Very ladylike," he said, leaning over so no one else could hear.

She nudged him in the ribs with her free arm and nodded to the breastplate of his armor, where he'd slopped a bit of chicken. "Speak for yourself."

He hastily wiped the stew off with his sleeve and gave her a half-hearted glare, to which she grinned and continued with her own food, observing the rest of the hall. Two chairs down from Caitie, Davos was in deep conversation with Lord Mazin's steward and Sansa with Lord Mazin himself, who watched as she spoke with approval. It was a stark contrast to Lyanna Mormont, who had practically refused to acknowledge Sansa's existence beyond what could be considered respectful. Sansa had looked horribly affronted by the slight, though she hid it well, and only those who knew what to look for would have noticed it.

Now she was in her element, charming the Lord of Mazin Castle and his wife, complimenting their home and Lady Mazin's embroidery. Sansa may not have been a warrior, but Caitie realized in that moment that she did possess weapons—and she utilized them well.

Roland cleared his throat, pulling Caitie's attention away from Sansa and towards him. Caitie had thawed considerably since her outburst earlier, her resentment fading once she'd gotten all the yelling out of her system.

Of course, there was a reason he was Cerys's friend and not Owen's, and as he smirked at her, eyeing Jon on her other side, she remembered it.

"You and Ned Stark's bastard seem to be getting along quite well," he said in a low voice.

Caitie scowled. "Don't call him that."

Roland's smirk grew, but there was a fondness to it now. "If Cerys could see you—"

"Then he would tell you that Jon and I have been friends since we were Night's Watch recruits, and there's nothing more to it."

The mirth on his face faded instantly. Roland watched Caitie for a while, no doubt trying to find the little girl he'd seen growing up. "Cerys said you'd run away after your father told you of your betrothal. But he never said…"

"That he and Owen sent me to the Night's Watch to pose as a boy?"

"He never seemed worried about you, so I always knew he must have sent you somewhere." Roland shook his head in disbelief. "But the Night's Watch? How in Seven Hells did you survive a place like that?"

"It wasn't easy."

"I just… I can't believe Cerys or Owen would have ever put you in danger."

"They didn't have much of a choice in the matter," she said with a small, rueful smile. "But if it's any consolation, they asked the lord commander to look out for me."

Roland's eyebrows shot up. "Jeor Mormont?"

Caitie nodded as she took a sip of wine from her goblet.

"Well, that certainly makes sense of a few things."

She swallowed her wine as she choked in surprise and asked, "What do you mean?"

Roland hesitated before he answered her question. "You probably don't remember this," he said. "You must have been… six, maybe seven. It was just after Lady Jocelyn's death. Lord Commander Mormont—well, he wasn't the lord commander yet—came to Norwood asking for Night's Watch recruits. Your father refused him, not wanting to give his prisoners up to the Night's Watch; that's what Cerys told me at least. Anyway, your brothers disagreed, so they snuck him down into your dungeons and let him have his pick." Roland smiled. "I remember Cerys made me keep watch."

Caitie gripped her goblet as comprehension dawned on her. So that was how Owen and Cerys had known to contact Lord Commander; how they had known he would watch out for Caitie in their stead. She'd always thought it had to do with their shared blood—but evidently, it had been more than that.

It had been a debt.

She supposed she should have been angry at this new revelation, but she had run out of anger. She had made her peace with the things Owen and Cerys had hidden from her. At this point, she was simply grateful to have another piece of the puzzle.

"I was sorry to hear about his death," Roland added sadly. "Mutiny is a terrible way to die."

Caitie blinked, the words bringing back memories of fire and death; screaming black brothers and women; chains around her wrists so tight they left scars—scars which now itched beneath her velvet sleeves. "Yes," she said, not present any longer, but instead far away, at a small, wooden keep that no longer existed. "It was terrible. But the ones who killed him are all dead now."

When she finally remembered where she was, Roland was staring at her, a fresh look of horror on his face. "You—you were there?"

She didn't respond to that, taking a sip of her wine again.

He sighed. "You've really changed."

"Well, haven't you, after the things you've seen?"

And to that, Roland had no answer.

Their supper finally came to an end around midnight, at which point Mazin Castle's steward led them to the guest wing. Caitie's chambers were probably three times the size of her quarters at Castle Black; she had a bed large enough to fit at least three full adults, a desk, a wardrobe, and a large window that overlooked the sea. After taking off her riding boots and placing them in the wardrobe, she sprawled out on the bed, completely unused to the softness of it. She didn't think she'd be able to sleep without at least a few lumps.

For ten minutes, Caitie lay there, letting go of all the tension from the past months of hard traveling, and from the emotional mess that had taken up most of the day. Then, with a sigh, she got up, opened her door, and headed out to find Jon's room. She hardly remembered making the decision; it had simply become a ritual for them to seek each other out, especially after a day like this one.

His chambers were only two down from hers, with Sansa's and Davos's between them, so it didn't take her long. She stopped in front of his door and gave it a knock. When she received no answer, she knocked again—and again was greeted with silence. After the third knock and resulting silence, Caitie almost considered turning back around and waiting until morning to speak with Jon. She'd learned early in her life that it was never ever a good idea to enter someone's personal quarters without being told to come in—a lesson which had only been ingrained further after a memorable incident with Edd that still made her want to crawl into a hole and die whenever she thought about it.

But what if something's happened to him?

And that made her decision for her. She turned the door handle, stepped inside his chambers, and was surprised to find that it wasn't a simple room; it was a full suite. She was standing in a small living area, where there were three armchairs facing each other in the center of the room, and behind them, a set of wooden double doors, from which Caitie could hear faint sounds of movement.

Ah, well. No wonder he hadn't heard her knocking.

Behind her, the door swung shut, and she stepped further into the room, a little annoyed that she hadn't gotten her own personal suite. Then again, she had also insinuated that Lord Mazin was a coward at one point, so perhaps it wasn't wholly undeserved.

As Caitie started towards the doors at the other end of the room, the shuffling behind them ceased. Then they burst open and Jon rushed towards her with Longclaw raised and a look of terror and adrenaline in his eyes.

She blinked, staring down at the sword directed towards her chest. "Expecting trouble?"

When recognition dawned on his features, Jon breathed a sigh of relief and lowered Longclaw. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was you."

"It's all right. I knocked, but you didn't answer. I thought you might have…" But she trailed off, because that was when she noticed: Jon didn't have his armor on.

More importantly, he didn't have a shirt.

Jon noticed as she did, following her gaze down to his bare chest and back up again, his throat bobbing. Even as Caitie tried to find somewhere—anywhere—else to cast her eyes, she couldn't look away. And it wasn't just the toned stomach, nor the broad shoulders that stole her breath away and made her feel light-headed.

It was the scars.

Caitie had only seen them once, while he had lain dead on the table as Melisandre performed her ritual. At the time, they had been dark from the dried and clotted blood. Now they looked like open wounds—clean, at least, but blood-red and as deep as they had been when they were fresh. They looked painful.

"I didn't hear it," Jon said, low enough to be a rasp. It sounded far away, and it took her a second to remember what he was even referring to.

"I know," she murmured.

She needed to go. It was a trespass upon his privacy to stay—in fact, it had been a trespass to come at all. And she couldn't even remember why she'd wanted to speak with him in the first place.

No, it was clear that she needed to leave, and she needed to do it now.

But she didn't. Slowly, she stepped forward, though she didn't remember giving her body permission to move. As she took the first step, she half expected Jon to take a step back from her.

He did not.

Instead, his eyes fell shut, and he leaned towards her, exhaling a ragged breath. Neither of them spoke as he did—she couldn't have spoken even if she had wanted to. But she could feel the electricity in the air, crackling around them, every nerve in her body affected by it. She raised her arm, reaching out to touch him. She didn't know what was happening to her; all she knew was she could see the crescent-shaped wound directly over his heart—the one Olly had given him, the one that had killed him. And the only thing she wanted in that moment was to feel the scar beneath her palm, as if just her touch could make it disappear, or undo the hurt these wounds had caused.

She wanted to feel his skin against hers.

The thought was so completely shocking that it caused a sharp spike of adrenaline in her chest, intense to the point of actual pain, and whatever spell had come across her finally lifted. Right as her hand was about to make contact with his chest, she jumped back from him, snatched her arm away, and swallowed.

For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other. Jon's eyes had shuttered; she didn't know what he could be thinking. Caitie searched desperately for something to say—something that would get their conversation back on track, but only ended up realizing that there was no getting things back on track.

It was time to leave.

She crossed her arms to keep them tightly under control and tried her best to keep her voice even. "I thought we should discuss what comes next—in terms of the battle, I mean," she added hastily. "But if you're about to sleep, it can wait."

It was a lie, and a poor one at that. But if Jon suspected as much, he didn't say anything.

"I was," he said. "But if it's important—"

"It's not. Really, I didn't mean to bother you—and you should rest, anyway. You might not be able to for a while after this."

He cleared his throat and nodded. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

She wandered back to her room in a daze, unsure of what had just happened. As she laid back down in an effort to sleep, her mind replayed the scene over and over until she drifted off. Her sleep was fitful and full of dreams of curly black hair and dark, solemn eyes—of a smile that made her heart thunder. And as she reached out to the person to whom they belonged, he dissolved before her, replaced with a man who had long parted from the world, looking at her with so much hurt on his features she thought the guilt of it all might kill her.

When she awoke, there was only one word in her mind:

Fuck.

I just crammed, like, 10 different plot points into 5500 words. I am very proud of myself.

Also—music! I listen to a lot of music, especially while writing, and this was the song I had on when I was writing the last scene of this chapter. I definitely think it affected the tone of the scene. I can't hyperlink it, but if you're curious, here's the link for YouTube (just type it in after the /): watch?v=pnFK75Z7igw