So. It's looking like there's a GoT sequel in the works with Jon as the central character, and I can't decide how I feel about it. On the one hand, why do we need a new show about the same characters? If there was more to the story (and to be honest, I don't think there was), then they should have just had more seasons—you know? On the other hand, if it's a low-stakes show about Jon, Tormund, and Ghost getting into shenanigans north of the Wall, I could see that being pretty good. But I doubt that will be the case, and I've seen a lot of theories about the potential storylines that are... not great. So, yeah. I don't know.
And on that note, here's my (terribly late, sorry about that) continuation of Caitie having an existential crisis right before a deadly battle.
All right, I'm attracted to Jon. So what?
Caitie didn't know how many times she'd had this thought since leaving Mazin Castle, but she must have been nearing the thousands at this point, for it was the only thought she seemed capable of having at all. Weeks went by, and still, it persisted, unrelenting, no matter how satisfactory an answer she gave herself. It's not as if I didn't know I was attracted to him, was her latest answer. I have been since I was fourteen. I mean, I doubt there's a woman on the whole continent who wouldn't be.
It made sense, if she really thought about it. Jon Snow was an exceptionally handsome man. Caitie had been aware of that fact all along, every time she looked at him: black soft-looking curls and full lips and dark eyes that always seemed to sear into her. Hell, even as a twelve-year-old, she'd known it—and Owen and Cerys had teased her about him, because they had known it, too.
It was… simply the intensity of her attraction that had caught her off guard, which she could easily write off as the result of too much sea air, the stress of the situation, and the fact that she hadn't had that sort of intimacy in over a year. And even though she hadn't quite realized the intensity of her attraction up until now didn't change the fact that it was only based on lust.
Lust she could deal with; lust she could control until it faded away.
Of course, Caitie couldn't have avoided Jon even if she had wanted to, but she was always careful to keep him at arm's length, both figuratively and literally. No more holding his hand, or hugging him when one or the other needed such comfort. No more whacking his arm when he annoyed her or resting her head on his shoulder when she was tired. It was the hardest thing she'd ever done—but it paid off, for the most part. They had quickly fallen back into their usual routine with each other: friendship and mutual support, if a little more formal than usual, and with a silent agreement to never mention their strange interaction at Mazin Castle.
But sometimes—when she said something that made Jon laugh and the corners of his stupidly beautiful eyes crinkled, or even when he just simply smiled at her—she found her careful control over herself slipping, and the only thing keeping her grounded was the sharp pang of terror that inevitably followed.
Caitie even found herself resenting Jon to a certain extent, for the only difference in his disposition was a bit more brooding than usual—and really, that could be attributed to their situation at large. Sometimes, she wondered if anything had actually changed for him at all. It was entirely possible that no new revelation had occurred for him, that he didn't feel an ounce of attraction towards her, and whatever had happened between them had been a figment of her imagination. And then, after having this thought, she would find herself watching him or thinking back to previous conversations, looking for signs—before promptly reminding herself that it did not matter. And that, if he didn't feel anything towards her beyond friendship, then it was a good thing.
Because it wasn't simply that Jon was her closest friend in the entire world or even that they were at war, which made an attraction to him so very wrong—although those were certainly factors. It was that he loved Ygritte, and Caitie loved Grenn, and just because they were gone, didn't mean the love went away. So to feel anything for—for anyone was the worst sort of betrayal.
It was this thought that firmly grounded her in reality, and by the time the vast ocean of Free Folk tents came into view, Caitie had gotten rather good at avoiding the issue. There were even days when she didn't think of Mazin Castle at all. Their encampment was much the same as when they had left it behind, the only difference being the location, which they had moved southwest, closer to the mountain range—and a little too close for Caitie's comfort, to be perfectly honest. But the location was otherwise well-fortified, so she ignored her discomfort as she, Jon, Sansa, and Davos rode their horses into the camp.
She watched from atop her horse as people bustled around, setting up tents, carrying water to and from the stables, and everything else required to maintain a camp as large as this one. It was easy to see who was Free Folk and who was Northman, as each group avoided the other like the pox. And whenever they did cross paths, glares were exchanged.
"Stannis camped here on his way to Winterfell," Davos said as he looked around.
"And that's a good thing?" asked Sansa, equal parts perplexed and irritated. She'd been in a foul mood ever since leaving Mazin Castle, and nothing seemed to help it—not even the recruitment of House Hornwood, from whom they had received a raven three days after moving on from Castle Mazin. Not that Caitie could blame her; the situation was stressful on all of them, but Sansa especially.
Jon, on the other hand, stared at his sister, lips parted and eyes wide in surprise at her tone.
But Davos hardly noticed it. "He was the most experienced commander in Westeros. He chose this place for a reason. Those mountains are a natural fortification; there's a stream down there for the horses."
"We're not staying here long," Jon said. "Another storm could hit any day."
"Aye. The snows defeated Stannis as much as the Boltons did."
Their horses came to a stop and the four of them dismounted. "We have to march on Winterfell now, while we still can," Jon said, and Caitie stopped her search to look over at him, her stomach dropping out from under her, because even though she knew he was right, she wasn't ready. She hadn't prepared herself for it. She hadn't even given much thought to the coming battle at all, really. As long as they didn't talk about it, she could ignore their ultimate goal, focusing on the immediate one instead.
"Two thousand Wildlings," said Davos matter-of-factly as they handed the reins to their horses over to the stablemen House Mazin had supplied them. "Two-hundred Hornwoods, one-hundred and forty-three Mazins—"
"Sixty-two Mormonts," Sansa added.
Davos sighed. "It's not what we hoped for."
"Well, we always knew we were fucked," said Caitie with an air of practiced nonchalance. "And who knows, maybe we'll get lucky."
Jon, perhaps for the first time in weeks, showed an emotion other than melancholy. He gave her a wry look. "I'm not sure I'd call us lucky."
"Fair point. Then maybe we'll continue to be unlucky and live long enough to see the White Walkers invade."
"Is this meant to be comforting?" Sansa asked with a scowl.
Caitie shrugged. "Not particularly."
"We still have a chance," said Davos, "if we're careful and smart."
She opened her mouth to reply, but just as she did so, shouting started up behind them. All four turned their heads to see what was causing it: a Free Folk man and a Mazin soldier squaring up to each other, preparing for a fight.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Davos snapped, marching off towards the altercation.
Caitie watched as he left, hesitating on whether to follow him or not.
"So he's your advisor now?" asked Sansa, and the skepticism in her voice made Caitie's decision for her. "Because he secured sixty-two men from a ten-year-old?"
Jon frowned, his face etched with exhaustion at the thought of arguing with his sister yet again. It was the same argument they'd been having for days now. "Ser Davos is the reason I'm standing here talking to you, and he served Stannis for years."
"Stannis," Sansa repeated incredulously, "who lost the Blackwater, who murdered his own brother, who doesn't have a head?"
Jon continued walking without answering, but Sansa stopped, her frustration mixing with her desperation; her fear. "It's not enough. We need more men!"
He spun around to face her. "There's no time."
"If we went down to Castle Cerwyn, I know that Lord—"
Jon stormed up to her, cutting her plea short. "We fight with the army we have."
Caitie flinched, suddenly reminded of a different battle. A hundred thousand of them? And there's what? A hundred and five of us left? Grenn's voice echoed in her head, as it had done constantly since leaving Mazin Castle. It was the one thing she couldn't seem to stop, her conscience always intent on reminding her of the man she loved; the man she felt as though she was betraying with every glance at her best friend.
Sansa had run out of arguments, so she stayed silent, while Jon looked over her shoulder to see the fight between the Free Folk and Northman escalating. With a frustrated grunt, he stalked past his sister to help Davos.
Caitie nearly followed him, but in the end, decided against it. She told herself that it was because if the Free Folk and Northmen were likely to listen to anyone besides Tormund, it would be Jon, and not her. She told herself that it was because the look on Sansa's face as she stared off to a point in the distance was too worrisome to ignore.
She told herself a lot of things these days.
"Are you all right?" she asked gently.
Sansa scowled. "He's going to lose, and he refuses to do anything about it."
"He doesn't have much choice."
"And of course you'd defend him."
Bristling at the implication, Caitie crossed her arms and returned the scowl. "That's not fair. What are we supposed to do?"
"Wait for more men."
"Sansa, there are no more men."
"But you don't know that."
Caitie took a deep breath to steady the anxiety which Sansa was now exacerbating and spoke as calmly as she could. "There's been no word from Brienne; for all we know the Blackfish could be dead by now. The Cerwyns and the Flints are too far south. By the time we get there, the snows will have hit again—and that's assuming they would even be amenable to us. The Tallharts were wiped out in the War of the Five Kings; the Manderlys, the Ryswells, and the Dustins haven't answered our ravens. So unless you have any insight on where we can get more men, then you have to accept that we're stuck."
Sansa continued to scowl, but said nothing.
Caitie softened, for she knew what drove her friend's coldness. "Look, I know you're afraid. I understand that—"
"No, you don't understand," Sansa snapped. "You've only ever had to face the prospect of what I—" She broke off, looking down at her clasped hands. "I apologize," she said, voice quiet. "Thank you for trying to help, Caitriona. But there's nothing you can do."
With that, Sansa walked away before Caitie could get a single word out, leaving her with the terrible feeling that she had failed her friend.
Caitie found Jon in his tent, sitting in a chair with a bottle of Night's Watch ale in his hand, and a brooding expression which somehow outmatched the one he'd been wearing previously. He looked up when she entered, and she took in his appearance with a frown. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have gotten worse in the last few hours, as did his posture.
"What happened?" she asked.
Jon sighed, rubbing his temples with his forefingers. "Tormund and Lord Rodrik stepped in. Last I saw, they were drinking themselves under the table."
Caitie snorted. "I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that the two of them would get along. But at least it's one less thing to worry about."
"Aye."
As silence fell between them, so too did the discomfort. She averted her eyes, paying close attention to the state of her boots, as she realized that this was the first time they'd been alone together since leaving Mazin Castle. Caitie hadn't a single clue what to do; she'd been so good at avoiding being alone with Jon lately. But she hadn't been strong enough to keep herself from going to see him after such a harrowing morning, and now that they were alone, the only thing her mind seemed willing to do was to replay the scene over and over again.
"Did you speak to Sansa?" Jon asked.
The question sobered her. "I did. It went…" Terribly, she wanted to say. But she swallowed the word down and went along a different path. "She's scared, Jon. You can hardly blame her for that."
He sighed, rubbing his temples with his forefingers. "I know."
"But she knows you've done everything you can—deep down, anyway."
"I just hope it's enough." He gave a rueful smile. "Are you all right?"
"I'll live," was Caitie's immediate answer. "It's just… difficult." She didn't know whether she was talking about the war or her other problem directly tied to him.
"I understand," Jon said, oblivious. He paused, looked around his tent, which was lit with candles and filled with trunks of scrolls and books he'd taken from Castle Black's library, with the excuse that he was brushing up on war strategies. "Where do you think we'd be right now, if we'd gone to Dorne?"
"Well, we wouldn't be quite so cold, for one thing." The retort came without thought, and as soon as she said it, Caitie wanted to hit herself. Damn it, she knew she should have shut the conversation down and backed away, because the thought of the two of them, alone, in the heat of Dorne of all places, made her want to... Well, it made her want to do something her old septa would have rinsed her mouth out for mentioning aloud.
But it was too late to back away, so she changed the subject instead. "But you wouldn't have gotten your sister back, either."
Jon sighed, happy enough to oblige the change. "I've half lost her again already."
"That's not true."
Jon shook his head, allowing himself to speak the thoughts he must have been stewing on since they'd left Castle Black. "I don't know how to protect her. And if I can't protect my own sister, then what good am I? How am I supposed to keep Ramsay from hurting her if I lose?"
However much she wished otherwise, Caitie didn't have an answer for him. Still, she opened her mouth to reply—without a shred of a clue what to say—and then promptly closed it again. Because suddenly an idea came to her; one which she knew Jon would not approve of.
But Sansa would. Oh, Sansa definitely would, and Caitie might not be able to do much to help her, but she could at least do this one favor.
"Caitie?" Jon asked, brow furrowed as he saw her expression.
She blinked, having almost forgotten his presence beside her. But before she could make an excuse and leave, someone new rushed inside the tent. It was Styregg, the Free Folk boy, red-faced and panting, eyes wide with shock.
"Banners," he breathed. "Coming towards us."
"Whose banners?" Jon asked sharply.
"I dunno—but there are two of 'em. Coming from the direction of that big road."
Caitie's heart skipped a beat, and it took everything she had not to freeze in fear. Her mind, on the other hand, was whirling, remembering the place she and Ghost had scouted out earlier that morning. "Styregg," she said, "find Johnna and Willa and get them out of camp. Ghost will accompany you; he'll know where to go."
"But—"
"Now."
Styregg gulped, but nodded. He turned on his heel and rushed back out of the tent flap.
Caitie and Jon exchanged a look. "Friend or foe?" she asked shakily.
"Let's find out."
They exited the tent together. As she looked southward, she wondered, briefly and with her heart in her throat, if she would be testing out Sansa's dress in actual combat. But all thought of combat left her mind when she saw the sigils on the banners coming towards them. She knew those sigils, and they were not the Boltons—or even her father's.
She gasped with a mixture of shock and excitement, and turned to Jon. "Where's Roland?"
Jon furrowed his brows. "With the Mazin soldiers, I'd assume."
"I need to find him."
"Wait a minute—Caitie, stop." Jon grabbed her arm before she could move away from him. The place he touched felt as though it were scorching, and even though she knew he didn't mean to have such an effect on her, it was still infuriating that he did.
Whether he sensed her trepidation, or whether he also had felt… whatever it was, Caitie didn't know, but—thank the Gods—he released her almost immediately.
"Right," she said. "I have to—" But before she could finish, the man she'd been looking for found them.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he called as he jogged over to join her and Jon. "I didn't want to tell you—didn't want to get your hopes up—but I sent a raven to Edric before we left Mazin Castle. He must've recruited Selwyn, too."
Jon glared at Roland—though he had never really done much besides glare at her poor friend. Caitie spoke before he could, at least sparing Roland the full force of Jon's temper.
"You sent the ravens telling them to… what, exactly?"
"To come and help us. We need as many men as we can get, don't we?"
Jon ground his teeth, growling in a tone that honestly worried Caitie a little, "And what if your raven had fallen into Rendon Norrey's hands?"
Roland rolled his eyes. "I'm not an idiot—Edric and I came up with a cipher before I left." When Jon still didn't look placated by this, he added, "I promise you—I wouldn't ever put Owen and Cerys Norrey's little sister in danger. Neither would Edric or Selwyn."
"It's a bit late for that," Caitie said wryly, crossing her arms over her chest. "But I do appreciate the sentiment."
Assurances or not, she and Jon kept their hands on their weapons. It wasn't until the retinue coming towards them finally stopped and she could see the riders at the head of it that Caitie released hers—and only because she recognized the two leaders. The first to dismount, Edric Knott, was nearly the spitting image of Roland—the same round face, deep-set hazel eyes, and scruffy dark beard. The only difference between the two was that the newcomer had cropped his hair close to his head rather than leaving it hanging to his shoulders.
Selwyn Harclay was just as she remembered him. Much like Owen, he was serious, dutiful—boring, Cerys would always say, as he was much less forgiving of such a personality when it wasn't his brother possessing it. Like Edric, he had a beard, but it was perfectly maintained; his plain, northern armor gleamed, without a single piece of dirt or scuff mark, and his straw-colored hair lay flat, not a strand out of place.
When he laid eyes on Caitie, he gave a deep bow. "Lady Caitriona. It's good to see you."
Edric Knott merely gave a nod and a grunt.
Behind them, she could see at least a hundred men, perhaps more. And she couldn't help hoping that maybe—just maybe—this was the answer to their problems.
"I take it Roland forgot to warn you of our arrival," said Selwyn, with a pointed glare, and Roland averted his eyes. He looked to his brother, who also glared at him.
Sansa appeared from her tent just then, eyes narrowed in suspicion as she made her way towards them with all the grace required of a lady.
"Lady Stark," said Selwyn, descending into another deep bow.
Edric followed suit. "My lady."
"Rise, my lords," replied Sansa coolly. "You are welcome in our camp—however, I'm sure you can understand our hesitancy. If you would tell us your reasons for coming here, we would be grateful."
Selwyn nodded. "Of course." He turned to Caitie. "We've come to honor our pledge to House Norrey, my lady; and to you, the Lady of Norwood."
There was a long silence following this declaration. First, Caitie looked to Jon, whose eyes were blown wide with shock, and then to Sansa, hoping for some help—but Sansa looked as though she were waiting for Caitie to say something.
And that was what did her in. Without even thinking about it, she laughed.
She knew she shouldn't have. In fact, it was the worst possible thing she could have done in the situation. But she just couldn't help it. Every time she tried to stop, the laughter got worse. She could feel the eyes of everyone looking at her, confused, possibly taken aback or affronted, and all she wanted was to crawl into a hole and die of humiliation, even as her chest heaved with her giggles.
Because this was simply ridiculous. Lady of Norwood, they'd called her, but she wasn't the lady of anything. She certainly wasn't the leader of House Norrey—she couldn't be, even if she wanted to, for she had both a father and brother still alive. And even if she didn't… she wasn't fit for leading or ruling. She could command a small team, if necessary, but she wasn't a leader.
"That can't be right," said Sansa with a deathly glare towards Caitie for her discourtesy.
It was Edric who spoke this time. "Our allegiance is to House Norrey and House Stark. We mean to honor our vows to you both."
"Aye," agreed Selwyn.
Finally, Caitie got a handle on herself, her morbid curiosity winning out against the terror and incredulity gripping her heart. "Why in the world would you pledge yourself to me when I have a father and brother who are still alive?"
Both Edric and Selwyn went quiet before comprehension dawned on their features and they both scowled at Roland. "You didn't tell her?"
Roland winced at the reprimand in his brother's voice. "It never came up."
The laughter was gone. Caitie balled her hands into fists so that no one would see them shaking as she turned to him and snapped, "What never came up?"
Roland swallowed. "I didn't mean to keep this from you—I promise. I just…" He sighed miserably. "Do you remember when I said that Owen and Cerys were inside the Twins?"
She nodded, but even as she did, a part of her wanted to run from before he could finish. She didn't want to hear the details of her brothers' deaths. It was bad enough knowing what she knew already.
Roland looked to his brother for help, but both Edric and Selwyn fixed him with icy glares before they looked back at Caitie, and the glares were replaced with a pitying sort of kindness. "Your father didn't simply pledge fealty to Roose Bolton, Lady Caitriona," Edric said. "He conspired with him. There was a reason most of us were spared from the massacre."
She frowned. "But my brothers weren't."
"Aye," said Selwyn. "Two days before we arrived at the Twins, Owen told me your father had been speaking privately to Roose Bolton. Owen believed they were discussing contingencies, in case Walder Frey proved untrustworthy, but when he and Cerys asked, your father refused to confide in them. It was odd, but the relationship between your father and brothers had always been… strained, especially once you disappeared. They thought he simply didn't trust them with the information. So they decided they would be on their guard, keep a close eye on King Robb and Queen Talisa during the wedding."
"No," Caitie said firmly, for even though she could feel the horrible truth dawning on her, she refused to believe it. "My father wouldn't. He's capable of a great many things, but not—not that."
Not kinslaying, was what she refused to speak.
The three men exchanged glances before Roland spoke. "He was inside the Twins, Riona, along with Roose Bolton. He may not have delivered the final blow—in fact, I'm sure he didn't—but…" He trailed off, unable to say the words.
Selwyn took over, his voice grave. "But he killed Owen and Cerys."
At the base of a grassy hill below Winterfell, Jon, Sansa, and Caitie waited with a party of their allies behind them. Snow dusted the ground and the sky was a cool grey, but those accustomed to the North knew the heavy fall wouldn't come for days more. Winterfell stood high in the backdrop of rolling hills, as tall and formidable as Caitie remembered, with its circular towers and massive walls of dark granite. Even from afar, she could make out the hint of red leaves just above Winterfell's walls from the weirwood tree that lived in its Godswood.
Everything about these surroundings was serene. A cool breeze caressed her face; the only noise came from the rustling of the trees, the gentle thumping of her horse's hooves on the grass. And yet it felt so wrong, for everything inside her warned of danger as she stared up at the castle looming above them. Caitie remembered the last time she had seen Winterfell, as a little lady with a family that was whole and happy—well, mostly, anyway. At the time, she'd thought nothing could be worse than supping with the Starks.
Gods, she wished she could go back to having such innocence.
She thought she had lost it after the announcement of her betrothal, and then again when she'd gone north of the Wall. After Owen's and Cerys's deaths, after Grenn's, after her family had been ripped apart over and over, she had thought there was nothing left for her to lose. But she should have known by now that there was always something.
Yet, as horrified as she was, she refused to believe what her father's vassals—my vassals, she constantly reminded herself—had told her. Whatever Caitie thought of her father, she simply didn't believe that he would orchestrate the deaths of his own children. He was a Northman. He would never forsake Old Gods by becoming a kinslayer. And even as she told herself that it made sense, that Edric and Selwyn and Roland were all trustworthy informants, she didn't believe it. She couldn't—not until she confronted her father, looked him in the eye, and saw the truth.
At least she would have that chance soon enough.
A collection of black dots emerged over the hill from Winterfell, moving towards them at an alarming rate. Caitie stiffened in her saddle as she watched them draw nearer. She quickly saw banners emblazoned with the flayed man, but she did not see the white sunburst on black or four silver chains linked by a central ring on red—the sigils of Houses Karstark and Umber, respectively. Nor did she see the six green thistles encased by a shield on yellow that represented her own house.
The message was clear: Bolton against Stark. No other houses mattered.
Swallowing hard, Caitie cast an eye on Jon and Sansa to her right. Both were rigid in their saddles. As the Bolton party approached, Jon looked at his sister. Everything about her was poised, cool grace, but sharp steel beneath it.
"You don't have to be here," he said.
Sansa didn't take her eyes off the Bolton banners. "Yes, I do."
The horses galloped closer. At the head of the party, sitting on a black courser, was a man with steely grey eyes, wormy lips, and a head of messy brown hair. It could only be Ramsay. On his right were Smalljon Umber and Harald Karstark. And on his left…
All her breath left her. Ice-blue eyes met dark brown. Rendon Norrey looked older than the last time she'd seen him. There were grey streaks in his brown hair and perfectly trimmed beard, and a few more wrinkles around the eyes and forehead. Caitie gripped her horse's reins tighter as she looked at him for the first time in so long; looked at the man who made her life a living hell for the first fourteen years of it; the man who had abused the people she loved and worse. But even as she reminded herself of this fact, it wasn't anger that consumed her heart and mind; it was fear.
She'd always known how much good it had done her to get away from her father, but up until this very moment, she hadn't realized just how free she'd felt once she had left home, like she could finally breathe. Now…
She'd never felt so much like that little girl who had had no power as she did now.
She took a deep breath to calm herself. Do not show weakness. Do not show fear. That had been Sansa's advice. Ramsay feeds off of it.
The Bolton bastard didn't even notice Caitie, however, as he only had eyes for Sansa. The moment he saw her, a thin, unconvincing smile erupted on his face.
Everything about Ramsay Bolton put Caitie on her guard. Physically, there wasn't much to fear. He was quite short for a man. Even from atop his horse, she could tell he would be no taller than Jon, and smaller-boned to boot. But there was something about that smile—a promise of pain and cruelty, and it made her blood curdle. It reminded her of Locke, to be honest. Perhaps they had known each other.
"My beloved wife. I've missed you terribly," he said, before turning to Jon, still with that false smile on his face. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Now dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house."
When no one said a word, Ramsay continued.
"Come, bastard. You don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter?" He shook his head slowly, talking down to Jon like one spoke to a naughty child, and as he did, any false cheer disappeared from his voice. His pale eyes widened with anger. "There's no need for a battle. Now get off your horse and kneel." The smile reappeared, more twisted and cruel than ever. "I'm a man of mercy."
Mercy, Caitie thought furiously. Was it mercy when you tortured Theon Greyjoy until there was almost nothing of him left? Was it mercy when you raped and mutilated your wife? No, this man didn't know the meaning of mercy.
"You're right," said Jon at length with a twisted smile of his own. "There's no need for battle."
Umber and Karstark's brows shot up in surprise, but it was gone on both within half of a second. Ramsay's face did not change at all. Her father merely arched a brow at Jon, assessing him.
"Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us. Let's end this the old way. You," Jon said, "against me."
Ramsay laughed, a cold, cruel laugh that seemed to go on for ages and cut through Caitie like a knife. She had to fight a shiver.
"I keep hearing stories about you, bastard," he said. "The way people in the North talk about you, you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good." Ramsay shrugged. "Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you, but I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have—what? Half that? Not even?"
"Aye, you have the numbers," Jon agreed. "Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?"
As Ramsay and Jon glared at one another, Caitie saw her father's lips twitch out of the corner of her eye. It was so slight that she wouldn't have noticed it had she not been so aware of his presence. And she realized with a jolt of surprise that her father approved of Jon.
He knew. He knew they had a shot at winning.
Ramsay laughed again, teeth gritted with suppressed rage, and pointed his finger at Jon. "He's good. Very good. Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"
"How do we know you have him?" asked Sansa.
Ramsay looked at her, his eyes shining with delight, and nodded to Smalljon Umber, who reached into the satchel on his belt and pulled something out. He tossed it onto the ground between them. It rolled to a stop, and as it did, so too did Caitie's heart.
It was a decaying direwolf's head; black instead of white and caked in dried mud. Its eyes had been carved out of their sockets—and at the sight, a rage so fierce it almost consumed her other senses burned inside her. But Caitie's rage was nothing to Jon and Sansa's as they stared down at Shaggydog's head. She could see it on their faces, clear as day.
And Ramsay watched them all with glee, savoring their horror, their anger, their grief. "Now," he said, "if you want to save—"
"You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton," Sansa said coldly. "Sleep well."
She did not give him the opportunity to reply. Without a second glance, she ordered her horse to a gallop, turned around, and set off back towards their encampment.
This did nothing to temper Ramsay, however. In fact, he looked positively elated by Sansa's response. "She's a fine woman, your sister," he told Jon. "I look forward to having her back in my bed. And you're all fine-looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you." He grinned at the rest of them, laughing madly. "I haven't fed them in seven days. They're ravenous. I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes? Your balls? We'll find out soon enough."
And then his eyes found Caitie beside Jon, and her gut churned; the instinct to leap forward and attack was overwhelming, for everything inside of her screamed threat. But she stayed silent and still, watching him as one watched a dangerous animal.
"But not this one; oh no," Ramsay said with a smile. "I have a special punishment in mind for this one."
Jon's face twisted further, his lip curling and his entire body shaking with the effort to contain his fury. He was close to losing control, and Caitie had to bite back a flinch, for she could see that this was exactly what Ramsay wanted.
But before he could continue describing the punishment he had in mind for her, her father intervened. "My lord," he said, "might I have a word with my daughter?"
Caitie couldn't discern Ramsay's expression. He might have been angry at the interruption, but he also seemed to know how important the Norrey forces would be in the coming battle, even with the defections of Knott and Harclay. Threatening the daughter of his bannerman with anything that could damage her ability to marry was not a good idea.
And so he nodded, eyeing Jon once more. "In the morning, then. Bastard."
No one spoke as they watched Ramsay and the other lords gallop back towards Winterfell. All that remained of the enemy was Rendon and his vassals: Cregan Wull, Torrhen Liddle, and Jon Burley, although they all kept a respectful distance from their liege.
Caitie's eyes didn't leave her father's. He stared back, equally as quiet. And then, quite suddenly, there was such emotion on his face that she had to blink twice before she realized she wasn't imagining it. "Caitriona," he breathed. "I can scarcely believe… I am so glad to see you alive." He looked her up and down. "You've grown into a beautiful young woman; your mother would be proud."
Caitie flinched at the mention of her mother. She didn't think she had ever heard him do so in all the years after her death. "We're here to discuss terms of battle," she said, trying to sound calmer than she felt. "If you have nothing to add in regards to that, then we have nothing more to say to each other."
Her father blanched as hurt flashed across his features. "I haven't seen you in years, Caitriona, and this is how you greet me?"
She refused to dignify that with a response.
"Come; I know you're angry about that business with the Hightowers, and about my allying with the Boltons, but—"
"Oh, I've moved far past angry, Father."
He pursed his lips. "Everything I did, I did for you—to help you. You must know that."
"Help me?" Caitie yelped.
"Yes, help you. You are my daughter. I love you. I only want what's best for you." He paused, then, knowing he should stop there. But he couldn't seem to help himself. "You ought to be grateful for it. Look what's happened to you, following your brothers' path—"
"Don't you dare speak of them."
"Caitriona!" he exclaimed, eyes widening, and she honestly couldn't tell if this was a performance or not. But then he sighed, shaking his head with disappointment, and addressed Jon—and Caitie had her answer. "My lord, I do not know what my daughter has told you about me. But she has always been prone to exaggeration, even as a little girl." He allowed himself a small smile, as if reliving a fond memory. "Please, return her to my care and authority, as is my right as her lord father. If you do, I would be more than willing to discuss a potential alliance between our two houses."
"No."
It said a lot that Jon didn't even hesitate, and Caitie was more grateful to him than she could begin to put into words. Her father sounded so amiable, so genuine. He could have convinced the world of whatever he wished. And yet, Jon still believed her.
Rendon blinked. "All I want—all I've ever wanted—is to see my daughter safe."
"Safe," Caitie repeated, the word falling from her lips without warrant. "Is that what you call it when you marry your daughter off to a monster? Or is it when you murder your sons?"
For half a second, fear flashed across Rendon Norrey's face. It was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced with disappointment. "I see Edric and Selwyn have been busy since breaking their oaths. Tell me, what have those traitor bannermen of mine put into your head?"
"Do you deny you were inside the Twins with your eldest sons?" asked Davos calmly. Caitie had almost forgotten him behind her.
Rendon refused to acknowledge Davos's question; his eyes narrowed, never leaving his daughter. "You would believe Edric Knott and Selwyn Harclay over your own father?"
"Answer Ser Davos's question," she replied, teeth gritted.
He sighed. "Aye, I was inside the Twins—but I did not murder Owen and Cerys. The crossbows Walder Frey hired saw to that."
The image of Owen and Cerys lying dead with crossbows embedded in their torsos flashed through Caitie's mind. She swallowed the urge to be sick. "And yet you survived, as did most of your vassals. So tell me, Father: why didn't the crossbows spare my brothers when they spared you?"
Rendon went very still, and Caitie could see his mind working out an answer. Then, "What was I to do?" he asked, his voice only just audible. "Even if I had wanted to follow that arrogant little boy who called himself king, Roose Bolton would have killed me—"
"Then you should have died!"
For once, her father was stunned into silence.
Caitie hardly noticed it. She went on, allowing every thought she'd bottled up throughout their journey to flow out of her and settle into the void between them. "That's what Owen and Cerys did! But instead of doing what was right, you conspired to end the Stark line, and allowed your sons to be murdered when they refused to join your treachery."
In an instant, Rendon Norrey's face changed. Gone was the plea, the false kindness, the supposed worry and love for her. His eyes flashed with anger, for he had gotten the measure of them, and he knew, now, that there was no convincing them of his side, nor was there any chance of an alliance without relinquishing his control of his daughter. And he couldn't do that. Control was all he had. "They only had themselves to blame for their fates. They had been against me for too long; they hurt our family for too long. Spoiling you with whatever you wished, sending you off to the Wall—of all places—instead of helping to secure the alliance with House Hightower. They ruined you, turned you against me, and they would have done the same to your brother had I not intervened."
Caitie felt all the blood drain from her face at the mention of her younger brother. Edric and Selwyn had admitted that they'd seen very little of Arthur in the last few years. Rendon preferred to keep his heir close, only allowing him into polite company during feasts, and Arthur rarely spoke to anyone beyond what was expected of him. It scared Caitie as much as it infuriated her, and the only solace she had was that her father had left Arthur at Norwood with a retinue of soldiers to guard him rather than forcing him to fight in the coming battle. "What have you done to him?"
Her father scoffed. "Absolutely nothing! I gave him a firm hand and the discipline he needed; that's all. I undid the damage your elder brothers wrought, and now I have an heir worthy of House Norrey."
"Arthur's not some broken toy for you to fix."
His face darkened. "I will not allow you to bully me, Caitriona. That was your brothers' mistake."
"You don't command me."
"Ah, but that is where you're mistaken. I am your father, and no matter how much you wish otherwise, you are my daughter. You'll obey me, whether you like it or not." For a moment, Rendon merely stared at her, waiting. When it became clear she wouldn't answer, he spoke again, and this time, she felt as though he had seen right into her thoughts, for he always did know how to hurt her. "Think on it, Caitriona. You disobeyed me before—and look how it ended. Perhaps if you hadn't, if you had done right by our family, things would have turned out differently for you, and for your brothers as well."
Caitie's heart grew as cold as a White Walker's, but she said nothing in reply. No words were strong enough. She wanted to kill, to rip him apart piece by piece, as he had just done to her.
"There's nothing left for you here, my lord. Leave now," Jon said coldly, placing his hand on Longclaw's hilt, but it was a mistake, for it drew her father's attention away from her, and to her friend.
Rendon arched a brow. "I expected more from you, bastard, but it seems I was wrong. My daughter has her hooks in deep." A smirk crept onto his features. "I certainly hope she's worth dying for."
And with those parting words, he galloped away, back to Winterfell.
Answering some guest reviews, because questions.
C.M.H: It's a definite maybe. That being said, I'll probably make it a separate story, and write a bunch of scenes from Jon's perspective after I've finished the main work, to keep the suspense that I'm trying to build intact. I know it's probably not the answer you wanted—but I hope that it will all be worth it later for the payoff.
Guest: Yes, it is Mandarin! The song is from a C-drama called You Are My Glory, which is both one of my absolute favorite tv shows of all time and also happens to have a really good soundtrack (as do most C-dramas, to be honest). I listened to it non-stop while I was in the middle of writing the last chapter, so now my brain associates the two.