I made a Tumblr! I have hardly any idea how it works, but it's there, so you should definitely check it out. To be honest, I've mostly been using it to hate on the Netflix Persuasion "adaptation" because it looks awful and I'm pissed.

In all the battles she'd fought, Caitriona Norrey had never been more than a soldier. She'd never been allowed into the officer's meetings or asked for any sort of opinion, nor had anyone taught her tactics and strategies in her childhood. Until Jon had explained it to her, she'd had no idea what the difference between attrition warfare or maneuver warfare even was. And despite her quick temper and bouts of unrelenting, well, rudeness, she had always excelled at figuring out how to avoid a fight—whether it was escaping from Karl Tanner and his mutineers at Craster's Keep or her support for making peace with the Free Folk.

But there was no way to make peace or avoid the upcoming battle, and as she sat in on the war meeting Jon had called immediately upon returning to camp, Caitie quickly realized that she was completely and utterly useless.

Still, she forced herself to listen, even if she had nothing to add. It was easier to focus on the meeting than it was to focus on the words exchanged between her and her father. The ache in her chest, the tears that stung her eyes—the grief and fury and guilt that soured her stomach and made her want to retch—she could keep it all at bay, so long as she didn't have to think.

"If he was smart, he'd stay inside the walls of Winterfell and wait us out," Jon said as he looked over their map.

Lords Hornwood and Mazin, standing on either side of Sansa, had not said one word since the meeting began, though, judging by their faces, they had no complaints with Jon's strategy so far. Indeed, they looked rather impressed.

Sansa, on the other hand, looked as though she'd just swallowed something bitter.

"That's not his way," said Davos. "He knows the North is watching. If the other houses sense weakness on his part, they'll stop fearing him. He can't have that; fear is his power."

"It's his weakness, too. His men don't want to fight for him. They're forced to fight for him. If they feel the tide turning…"

"It's not his men that worry me," Tormund said. "It's his horses. I know what mounted knights can do to us." He looked at Davos. "You and Stannis cut through us like piss through snow."

"We're digging trenches all along our flanks. They won't be able to hit us the way that Stannis hit you—in a double envelopment," Jon said.

Tormund stared blankly at this.

"A pincer move."

When Tormund still said nothing, Jon and Davos exchanged glances. "They won't be able to hit us from the sides."

Tormund nodded. "Good."

Davos quickly moved on. "It's crucial that we let them charge at us. They've got the numbers; we need the patience. If we let him buckle our center, he'll pursue. Then we'll have him surrounded on three sides."

Jon furrowed his brows, walking around the map so he could look at it from a different angle. It took him over to where Caitie and Tormund stood.

"Did you really think that cunt would fight you man-to-man?" Tormund asked.

Jon sighed. "No. But I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt."

Caitie eyed him, speaking for the first time since returning to camp—because an angry Ramsay Bolton was a new kind of terrifying, and something she couldn't ignore. "It's a dangerous game you're playing."

"Aye," replied Jon. "But it's the only one I can."

A pause passed, and yet he did not look away from her. Even as Caitie steadfastly refused to maintain eye contact with him longer than necessary, she could still feel his gaze on her. The worst of it was that she wanted to look back at him. In fact, she wanted much more than that, even as she fought it.

But her father's last words echoed in her mind, and looking at Jon only amplified them. If she had just been willing to go back to Norwood, perhaps the situation might not be so dire. And she couldn't help wondering: would her choices, her selfishness, lead to his death—just as it had led to the deaths of Owen and Cerys?

I'm not worth dying for.

Davos cleared his throat, and Caitie blinked up at him. "We should all get some sleep," he said.

Tormund placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Rest, Jon Snow. We need you sharp tomorrow."

The men exited the tent one by one, Tormund and Davos, followed by Lords Mazin and Hornwood, leaving behind only Caitie and the two Starks.

She quickly made her exit before Jon could call her back, leaving him alone with his sister, and stepped outside. Night had fallen while they'd been in their council, and with it came snowfall; the small, white flakes illuminated by the torches strung throughout their camp. Jon had been right about marching on Winterfell sooner rather than later.

Looking around, Caitie saw Tormund and Davos, deep in conversation a few yards away. She briefly considered catching up to them, but their conversation seemed quite private, and Caitie didn't want to intrude upon it.

She didn't think she would be very good company, anyway.

For a moment or two, she simply stood there, taking deep breaths as the snow fell all around her. Instead of floating white flakes, it came down heavy, mixed with rain, and it didn't take long to soak through her layers of clothing and flatten her hair against her face. She didn't mind it, though. This could be the last time she ever got to experience the snow or the rain before…

She sighed. It was going to be a very long night.

When she heard the sound raised voices coming from the tent she had just vacated, Caitie quickly turned round, and realized that neither Jon nor Sansa had followed the others out. She took a few steps back towards the tent, easily able to hear the argument taking place through the flimsy fabric.

"He's overconfident," Jon said, and Caitie knew that the he in question could only be Ramsay Bolton.

"He plays with people!" was Sansa's reply. "He's far better at it than you; he's been doing it all his life."

A chair scraped against the floor. "Aye, and what have I been doing all my life? Playing with broomsticks? I fought beyond the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton. I've defended the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton."

"You don't know him."

Jon sighed. "All right, tell me. What should we do? How do we get Rickon back?"

There was a delay before Sansa answered, and when she did, her voice shook ever so slightly. "We'll never get him back," she said. "Rickon is Ned Stark's trueborn son, which makes him a greater threat to Ramsay than you, a bastard, or me, a girl. As long as he lives Ramsay's claim to Winterfell will be contested, which means… he won't live long."

"We can't give up on our brother," Jon said incredulously.

"Listen to me, please. He wants you to make a mistake!"

"Of course he does! What should I do differently?"

"I don't know! I don't know anything about battles! Just… don't do what he wants you to do." Sansa had never sounded so ineloquent before. Caitie supposed it was a testament to her fear, but it still wasn't exactly the most helpful advice.

Jon gave a bitter laugh. "Aye, that's good advice."

"You think that's obvious?" Sansa asked angrily.

"Well, it is a bit obvious!"

"If you had asked for my advice earlier, I would have told you not to attack Winterfell until we had a larger force—or is that obvious, too?"

"When will we have a larger force?" Jon cried. "We've pleaded with every house that'll have us. The Blackfish can't help us; we're lucky to have this many men!"

"It's not enough!"

"No, it's not enough! It's what we have."

Silence followed Jon's words, and Caitie again wondered how many people she loved were about to die, or worse, because she had refused to do her duty?

She banished the thought as soon as it had come.

"Battles have been won against greater odds," Jon said in a deflated voice.

"If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive," Sansa said at length. "Do you understand me?"

Caitie's heart unclenched, for Sansa's words had reminded her of her conversation with Jon from the moments before Selwyn and Edric had shown up.

She couldn't believe she had forgotten.

"I will never let him touch you again," Jon said. "I'll protect you; I promise."

"No one can protect me," Sansa replied, her voice laced with contempt. "No one can protect anyone."

Caitie heard Sansa's sweeping footsteps; then the tent flap rustled, and she strode out. It took her half of a second to notice Caitie.

"How much did you hear?"

She grimaced. "Enough."

"I see."

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she said, feeling woefully ridiculous. Obviously, she had meant to eavesdrop; otherwise, she would have left rather than stuck around to listen.

Sansa gave a rueful little half-smile. "You're not a very good liar, Caitriona."

Caitie scoffed. "I am a great liar, thank you very much."

"You have a tell."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. You touch your wrist when you lie."

Instinctively, Caitie did just as Sansa had said she'd done, touching the scars on her wrist with her other hand, then immediately stopped as she realized what she was doing.

Sansa smiled, but it quickly turned into a scowl. "You agree with him, don't you?"

Caitie pursed her lips, thinking over her response. The truth of the matter was that Sansa and Jon were both right; but the truths which Sansa had spoken were ones that Jon could not handle, and the truths which Jon had spoken were ones that Sansa could not, leaving them at an impasse.

"No," she said. "I don't really know what to think—other than the fact that we're all fucked." She ignored the voice in her head, telling her that it was all her fault.

Sansa gave her a hard stare. "I meant what I said: I won't go back to him."

"I know."

"Jon doesn't approve."

"Jon thinks of you as his little sister," Caitie said. "He sees the girl he watched grow up in Winterfell, and he thinks he needs to shield her from the world, not realizing that it's a battle he's already lost." She sighed. "But he's wrong. And if you're truly serious about this, then I might be able to help."

Sansa furrowed her brows. "What are you talking about?"

"I meant to speak to you about this before the parley, but—well, you know what happened." Caitie reached into her pack and rummaged through its contents until her fingers closed around a small, cool glass vial. Holding it out for Sansa to see, she said, "It's Essence of Nightshade."

"I thought that Essence of Nightshade was a sleeping draught. You've been giving it to Johnna, haven't you? For her dreams?"

Caitie nodded. "One drop for anxiety, three drops for sleep. But ten drops… I keep it with me at all times, just in case I'm ever in a position where I don't see myself getting out alive."

Sansa had always been rather pale, but she seemed white as fresh snow, now. "And you would give this to me?"

"I think you need it more than I do. I'm more likely to die in battle tomorrow, anyway."

Sansa immediately snatched the vial from Caitie's hand. Once she had it in her grasp, her rigid posture seemed to deflate. "I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," Caitie said. "Just promise me something, all right?"

"What?"

"Don't use it unless you have no other choices; if we lose, but you can escape, then escape." When Sansa nodded, she took a deep breath. "And, if I die, look out for Johnna and Willa for me."

"They will want for nothing, so long as I can provide it. I promise, by the Old Gods and the New."

Caitie blew out a breath, feeling some of her dread fade. Not a lot—but some. "Thank you." She hesitated, then went on. "You were right, you know."

Sansa furrowed her brows. "What?"

"On the day Edric and Selwyn arrived, you told me that I didn't understand how you felt, because I've only ever had to face the prospect of… what Ramsay did. And you were right. I try my best, but it's not something I can truly comprehend."

She shook her head. "I should never have said something so thoughtless."

"It wasn't thoughtless. It was true. I just hope I've given you some comfort that no matter what, you'll never have to go back to him."

Caitie had never seen Sansa look quite so confident as she did just now. "You have." But then the confidence in her eyes sparked out, replaced with hesitancy. She seemed to debate something before she opened her mouth again. "Caitriona, there's something you should know—"

"There you are!"

Caitie and Sansa both looked to the left, whatever Sansa was going to say completely forgotten at the sight of Roland jogging over to them. He came to a stop and gave Sansa a respectful nod. "Lady Stark." When she nodded back, he turned to Caitie. "Selwyn and Edric sent me to find you; they're waiting for you to give them their orders."

Caitie only just withheld a groan. In all the chaos, she'd nearly forgotten her duties to her bannermen, mostly because of how much she hated it. Throughout the march to the parley, she'd merely forced herself through the motions of being a liege lady, attempting to appear composed and in control, rather than the wreck she knew she was—and relying on Sansa to help her, as any deficiencies she had in diplomacy and tact, the Stark made up for tenfold. Honestly, Caitie appreciated the help more than she appreciated the dress.

But she couldn't ask for help tonight, and so, resigned, Caitie followed Roland over to the Norrey tents without complaint. They entered into the largest; adorned with candles, trunks, and other knick-knacks its owners couldn't bring themselves to part with, even on a march to war.

When she arrived, both men stood. Selwyn cleared his throat and gave a respectful bow. "My lady."

Edric followed suit. "My lady."

Caitie's insides squirmed. Why did they have to bow? It was enough that they made her responsible for the lives of them and all their men. They didn't need to remind her of that position with all the acts of deference.

She certainly didn't deserve it.

Roland seemed to pick up on her discomfort, because he began the conversation with a grin. "So, has Lord Stick-Up-His-Ass come up with a plan for tomorrow?"

Caitie almost let out a peal of laughter before she caught herself.

Edric and Selwyn were far less amused, the former reaching over to whack his brother on the back of the head.

"Ow!" Roland exclaimed.

Selwyn scowled in disapproval. "Could you please not refer to Eddard Stark's son so rudely?" he asked. "Bastard or not, Stark blood runs through his veins."

"I much prefer Roland's name for him than yours," Caitie snapped, before she realized how inappropriate it was to speak so rudely. Lady of Norwood, she thought bitterly. Yes, I'm doing such a good job so far, aren't I? "I apologize, Selwyn. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"There's no need for apologies, my lady. You're right; I should not treat Lord Jon with such disrespect."

It was utterly bizarre to hear someone refer to Jon as Lord Jon, and even more so to hear her rudeness rewarded with an immediate apology and agreement. It made her miss the Night's Watch more than ever, because Edd would never have let her get away with such things. He would have snapped right back and told her off until she agreed she was in the wrong. Sam would have just stared at her with disappointment until she felt bad enough to apologize.

Then again, neither would have ever referred to Jon as a bastard in the first place.

Yet another reason she missed them.

"Let's just move on," she said, deciding she didn't particularly want to think about Jon at the moment. She relayed his battle plan, trying to make it succinct: they would bait Ramsay into charging, use archers to take down as many of his men as they could until they engaged the infantry, then use their cavalry to flank Ramsay's forces.

When she finished, she dismissed them all with a tight smile.

"My lady," Selwyn said.

Edric nodded. "My lady."

With that, they left to relay her orders to their soldiers. Every muscle in her body relaxed once they were gone. She fell into the chair she hadn't realized was next to her until now and let out a long breath.

"Are you all right?"

Caitie looked up at Roland. "I'm fine," was her immediate response.

"Right, right, of course," he said dryly. "We're about to go to war with an army twice the size of our own. Why wouldn't you be all right?"

She gave him a rueful smile. "This isn't my first battle against impossible odds. I'm used to it."

"That's not very comforting."

She shrugged. "Sorry. I guess I'm just not in a very comforting mood."

Roland pressed his lips together, eyeing her with a level of shrewdness that she wasn't sure she liked. "You know it's okay not to be okay, right?" he asked. "Especially after what happened at the parley."

Caitie blinked. "How did you—"

"Uncle Rodrik told me."

"Oh." She sighed, rubbing her temples with her forefingers, trying to ward off the headache which had started to throb against her skull. She didn't want to discuss her older brothers with Roland. Cerys had been his best friend in the entire world; what would he do if he found out that Caitie's leavetaking had indirectly caused his death?

She didn't want to find out.

But Roland didn't bring her older brother up at all. Instead, he said, "About Arthur… Do you think it's true what Rendon said? About him being worthy?"

Caitie wasn't sure whether to be glad or despondent at the mention of her younger brother. She screwed her eyes shut, remembering the horrible things her father had told her. "I don't want to. But if he's accepted Arthur as his heir, then there has to be a reason for it." She sighed. "He said that he undid the damage Owen and Cerys had wrought, whatever that means."

But she knew full well what it meant, and she didn't like it one bit.

Roland sighed. "Arthur had Owen and Cerys for brothers and you for a sister. He'll survive; he's strong."

"He's gentle," she said. "Maybe you're right, maybe he'll have survived. But he'll still have lost what made him who he is."

"Well, there's no place for gentleness in Westeros."

"There should be."

"Aye, there should be," Roland agreed. "There are lots of things that should be. Owen and Cerys should be alive. So should my father, and Selwyn's, and my cousins. So should Robb Stark and his wife and child. But we don't get to decide what should be. All we can do is decide how we respond to what is."

Caitie smiled despite herself. "That was very wise. Depressing, but wise."

"Well, I am older than you. It makes sense that I've picked up a few things you haven't." He paused. "Arthur might not be the same, but neither are you. If you could see him again, would any of that matter?"

Her answer was immediate. "No. It wouldn't."

Roland smiled. "Then stop worrying. Worrying won't help you tomorrow."

"Ah yes, if only I had thought of that before. Truly, you are a master of advice."

"Gods, you really are Cerys's sister," he grumbled. But she saw the smile as he did.

They lapsed into silence. "I'm sorry I was so cruel to you," she said at last.

He furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"

"Back at Mazin Castle, I was… accusatory. And I shouldn't have been. It wasn't fair."

Roland chuckled. "No, you weren't—well, you were a bit accusatory. But you weren't cruel. You just miss your brothers. It's understandable; I miss them, too—even if Owen was the dullest bastard in the Seven Kingdoms. Poor Selwyn, though. He doesn't have anyone else to be boring with."

Caitie didn't realize she had laughed until she'd already finished. Suddenly, she felt entirely odd, like she'd been removed from her own skin, rearranged, and then stuck back into it. Since leaving Norwood, she hadn't been able to reminisce with someone who had known her as a child, nor someone who had known her brothers—who had loved them, even, just as she did. It was an out-of-body experience, but she didn't think she minded it, either.

She wasn't that little girl anymore, and she never would be again. But it was nice to have someone to remember with her.

"Look," Roland said, as if he could sense her thoughts, "I know you don't need a big brother anymore. But Cerys would kill me if I didn't try. So…"

"I'm not sitting out the battle."

"Yeah, I figured that would be your answer." Roland sighed and held out a hand for her to take. "Well, let me just say it's been an honor. There's no one else alive that I'd rather die with than the sister of Cerys Norrey."

And Caitie, though she took his hand and forced a smile, wondered if Roland would still feel honored to fight beside her, had he known the truth.

"You've been avoiding me."

The zing! of Caitie's dagger against the whetstone stopped abruptly as she looked up. From the small, uncomfortable chair next to her sleeping roll in which she sat, she saw Jon standing at the entrance to her tent, looking around with trepidation. She couldn't blame him. She had lit enough candles for the whole of Castle Black, trying to ward off the darkness in her heart. It wasn't enough; even with the smoke stinging her eyes, she wondered if she ought to light another.

"I didn't know what to say," she answered semi-truthfully.

"That's not like you."

Caitie shot him a sharp look, but it quickly softened as she saw the exhaustion on his face, eyes haunted for fear of the morrow.

Then she glanced away, unable to stand it for more than a moment.

Jon sighed. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"If it were nothing, you'd tell me."

She pursed her lips, answering with the first excuse that came to mind. "I heard you and Sansa fighting."

Jon stared at her. When he realized she didn't have anything else to say, he added, "All right. And?"

"And what?"

"You heard Sansa and me fighting. That doesn't explain why you look like a sheep about to be slaughtered."

"Oh, very funny."

Jon ignored her. "You think Sansa's right?"

"I never said that."

"You didn't need to."

"I think that you're both right," she said, giving him the truth she had kept from Sansa. "But there are some harsh truths you've accepted that she hasn't. And the same goes the other way around."

Jon scoffed. "What truths haven't I accepted? What haven't I already accounted for?"

"You know what." When Jon looked away, she pressed on, because she knew it was something he needed to hear, even if he didn't want to. "You have to prepare yourself for the worst. Ramsay knows you have more experience than he does. He knows you're a better fighter and a better leader and a better tactician. He knows you'll have a plan to defeat him, so he's going to do everything in his power to make sure that it does not matter. He's going to bait you and taunt you and use Rickon to do it. You have to be prepared for that."

Jon said nothing, looking at her as if his whole world were being wrenched out from under him. It broke her heart in two.

"Maybe I should have just gone back with my father."

Caitie didn't know where that had come from, because she had been utterly determined not to think about it.

The instant it left her lips Jon's eyes widened, his expression matching her own shock. "What?"

"I—" she cut off, refusing to meet his eyes. She didn't want to say it. So long as she didn't, she could pretend that nothing had changed.

But it had changed.

"He was willing to pledge fealty to you in exchange for me," she said. "He might have been able to give us Rickon. And his men… If we lose, and you and Sansa and Rickon and Johnna and Willa all die—it will be my fault. Just like Owen and Cerys."

Her voice cracked as she spoke her brothers' names. It felt as though a nearly healed wound had been pried open again with blundering fingers. The numbness had left, and now all she had was raw grief—grief and fury and guilt, all mixed up together. And she'd kept it bottled up, so now, with Jon, it overflowed.

"What in Seven Hells are you talking about?" he asked incredulously.

"You heard what he said! If I had done what I was told and married, then he wouldn't have… Owen and Cerys died because of me," she said, voice cracking once again. "Arthur is in pain because of me. All because I wasn't willing to do what needed to be done. And now it's happening again. We should have taken his offer. I'm not worth dying for. I'm not—"

And then there were arms wrapping around her, holding her close.

She sobbed into Jon's chest. All the feelings she had bottled up spilled out of her like a dam bursting. She could no longer keep herself afloat; she could only drown.

"You are not to blame if we lose," Jon said into her hair. "You know that."

She pulled away from him, scowling at his naivety, but it was undercut by her swollen, red eyes. "But I—"

"No. No buts. The offer he made me wasn't about a potential alliance. He more than likely would have betrayed me, just as he betrayed Robb. It was about making me doubt you—and, more importantly, making you believe that by not bending to him, you would be responsible for our loss."

Caitie stilled, trying to make sense of what Jon had just said through the haze of her emotions. She thought back, replaying the events of the parley from a logical perspective. And it made sense. Because that was what her father did, what he had always done. He twisted and manipulated until she second-guessed everything she knew and everything she was. She had spent all her childhood dealing with it, and she had thought she was immune by now. But she had been wrong.

That he could have such control over her, so many years later… That was as terrifying as it was infuriating.

"I always wondered," Jon said at length, "what kind of man could scare you enough that you would want to run off to the Night's Watch. But now I understand."

"You didn't believe me before?"

"I always believed you. Always," he promised. "But it's different to see it. I didn't realize he was so—"

"Bloody-fucking evil?"

Jon gave her the ghost of a laugh. "Aye, that's not the worst description."

Caitie sighed miserably. "For years, I was able to endure it. I had Owen and Cerys and Arthur—" She swallowed. "But then he went and betrothed me to that man."

"You never told me anything about him," Jon said. He was merely making an observation, but it sparked something within Caitie.

"I'll tell you now, if you want." She had no idea what possessed her to say it. It had been years, and she hadn't spoken of the details to a single soul. She hadn't even told Grenn. But she'd told Jon things she had told no other, for she trusted him like no other. And she realized that she wanted him to know.

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. I think you should have the full truth, after everything that's happened."

Jon frowned. But he didn't stop her from taking a deep breath and beginning her story. "The man my father intended for me to marry was the heir to House Hightower, Garrett. Well," she amended quickly, "he wasn't heir yet. The actual heir, Baelor, and his wife had been married for years, without any children. Father believed that once I gave Garrett Hightower a son, his father would remove Baelor from the line of succession.

"Anyway, Garrett had four daughters from his first wife, and after giving birth to the fourth, she'd died—just a few hours too late for it to be from childbirth. Not that anything could be proven," she added bitterly as an afterthought. "That's the justification Father used in order to agree to the marriage, in spite of the suspicious circumstances and over my brothers' objections. I don't think he even believed it would be an issue, since obviously, I would produce an heir."

Jon stared at her, mouth agape. "That's… how could anyone have gotten away with something like that? Murdering his wife for bearing only girls should have caused conflict with her house, shouldn't it?"

"The maester ruled it as a death related to childbirth," Caitie said, shrugging. "It was gossip among servants, who were quickly and decisively punished if caught. And anyway, the rumors of his wife's demise weren't half as horrid as the rumors of his daughters."

"His daughters?"

She smiled a twisted, bitter smile. "I only met them once, when their father brought them with him for the betrothal negotiations and announcement at Norwood. The oldest of them was three years younger than me—but her eyes were just… dead. I didn't think I would see anything like it again until we went to Craster's Keep."

Jon looked horror-struck, mouth agape. "No. You don't mean—"

"He denied the rumors. Of course he did. But my father wasn't an idiot. He knew. And he didn't care."

Caitie's rage burned her from the inside out. He had always had power over her; she could maneuver her way through it, try to avoid it, but in the end, their positions were absolute. She'd thought once she went to the Night's Watch, she would be free of it, but that was a lie. He was a person, while she was merely a pawn—and she hated that even after everything she had gone through, all her time away from him, he could twist her whichever way he wanted, without her even knowing.

She had never faced such intense emotion in her life. She wanted to rip the power away from him, to kill, to make him feel all the hurt he had caused her. It was the feeling she had felt when going after Tanner and Rast, and Brant and Derek after them, but multiplied by the hundreds. It was all-consuming, unrelenting. And if killing him made her a kinslayer, then so be it. She didn't care, for there was no one who deserved death more than Rendon Norrey.

Jon must have seen something of her feelings on her face, because he took a step back from her. "You don't have to fight tomorrow," he said. "Not if you don't want to."

Caitie's temper flared at that. "And why shouldn't I? I have as much at stake in this as you do."

"That's not—you know what I meant."

"No, I don't, actually. We need every single person we can get, and if I have the chance to face my father, then all the better."

"Caitie… are you sure?"

She gave a mirthless laugh. "What, are you going to hang me for being a kinslayer?"

Jon scowled. "That's not funny."

"I wasn't joking."

"It's not about being a kinslayer," he snapped, suddenly inches from her. "You would have the right to kill him yourself, and I couldn't deny you. But is that what you want? To kill your father?"

She opened her mouth to say yes, but to her utter frustration, no sound came out.

Seeing his advantage, Jon pressed on. "I know you. If you kill him, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

To that, at least, she had an answer. "People die all the time. Men, women, children, the innocent, the guilty. So why shouldn't I? He deserves death more than my brothers did, more than Grenn or Pyp or Robb or Shireen."

"Aye, he does. But I don't care about what he deserves or what he doesn't. I don't care about him at all. I don't care about what the Gods think, or what the other lords think. I only care about you."

The instant he finished, her breath caught in her throat; the world spun, and there was a warmth in her chest that spread throughout her body, replacing the anger with a feeling she couldn't quite define.

Jon's eyes held hers for a moment longer before he tore them away. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you. And if this is what you need... I just don't want you to regret this. I don't want him to control you, because you deserve better than that."

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to think, for she could scarcely believe her ears. Because this was the most honorable man she'd ever met, and yet, here he was, freely admitting that he cared more about her than he cared about honor.

The prospect of battle—of her father—might well have disappeared. All she could focus on was Jon, and the way he looked at her, as if no one and nothing else mattered, or even existed, beyond. Her heart broke into a frantic scatter of beats as she stared back, and she realized that nothing else mattered to her, either. Only him, only Jon.

And then, quite suddenly, it all fell into place, that indefinable feeling crystallizing into perfect clarity. It knocked the wind out of her lungs, numbed her whole body.

She loved him.

The strange thing was—there was a part of Caitie that had known for months; every time they'd flirted—literally—too close with the truth and backed away from it. And if she truly thought about their interactions over the years, the feelings had been creeping up on her for… Well, in all honesty, she didn't know for how long. And she should have realized, for the proof was everywhere: the way his presence in a room constantly pulled at hers; the way she'd been so hurt and lost when she thought he would leave her behind to go south; the way all she ever wanted was to be in his arms, simply because she liked the way it felt—and so many more little things she had never given conscious thought to, but now pierced her soul with their intensity.

He was the first person she thought of when she woke or when she had a problem she needed help solving; he was the person she went to when she was angry or upset and the person who made her laugh and smile in spite of it. He was the person who always made her happy in a world that only ever caused despair, and the person who understood her like no one else ever had.

It wasn't just an attraction. It never had been. Caitie loved Jon as she had never loved anyone in her life.

And she hated herself for it.

The first thought she had following this epiphany was that she couldn't let Jon know. Nothing good would come of her being in love with him, nor him being in love with her—if that was even the case—for so many reasons it would take her hours to list them all.

The second thought was that she needed him to leave before she did something foolish. Something dangerous to even think of so close to a battle, when they and their friends faced near-certain doom.

Jon furrowed his brows as he watched her staring vacantly at him, and she realized she must have been quiet for longer than she'd thought. "I… I need to think," she said feebly. It wasn't a lie, at any rate.

He didn't look disappointed with her answer. In fact, he smiled, a brilliant, beautiful smile that made her heart feel as though it were bursting, because she realized, now, that he'd never bestowed it upon anyone but her. "All right," he said. "I need to speak with Melisandre. I'll see you when it's time."

She watched as he turned around and started towards the exit. But as he lifted the flap, he stopped and looked at her. "Whatever happens," he said. "Whatever you decide, I want you to know that it doesn't change who you are. And for what it's worth... You are worth dying for. To me, at least."

All Caitie could do was nod, for she could scarcely decipher his words, her mind too muddled. When he was finally gone, she took a deep breath and collapsed onto her sleeping roll, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she would be able to get some rest before the battle without thinking of Jon Snow.