Well, 3 more episodes have come out, and I've changed my mind about HotD's prophecy. I think it does a good job of showing how fickle such things are—and how dangerous, especially when being interpreted by a family as narcissistic as the Targaryens.

As for the show itself—it's okay, but I have a feeling if you haven't read Fire and Blood, it's probably pretty confusing. A lot of time jumps and filling in the blanks. And, you know, literally everyone is a terrible person, so if you don't like watching a bunch of assholes trying to destroy each other in the worst ways imaginable, you probably won't like it. Personally, I enjoy the mess, but that's just me.

Weirwood trees had always felt like magic to Caitie, but the one in Winterfell's Godswood was another matter entirely. So old it had stood when Bran the Builder had lain Winterfell's first stone, she'd never felt such raw power in her life; something so indefinable, but intensely primal. The tree itself towered over her, its smooth bone-white branches and leaves of blood red seeming to touch the sky. Carved into the trunk was a long, melancholy face that looked as though it were weeping blood. Of course, it wasn't actually blood—rather, it was sap, the same color as the weirwood's leaves. The pool of water beside the tree had frozen over, but if she looked very closely, she could still see schools of small fish swimming beneath the dark surface. They were likely the beneficiaries of Winterfell's hot spring. If not for that, they might have frozen, too.

Caitie allowed the serenity of the Godswood to soothe her. This was real; the magic of the weirwood lay in her very blood. And here, in the sight of the Gods—the real Gods, not the abominable one Melisandre believed in, or the White Walkers or even the Seven—she felt closer to her lost loved ones. She could almost see them: her mother, Owen, and Cerys; Maester Aemon, Lord Commander Mormont, Pyp, Grenn—well, Caitie tried her best not to see him. But most of all, she saw Wun-Wun and Shireen.

Shireen.

If I had known what had made Jon's revival possible, would I have agreed to it? In truth, Caitie knew the answer, even if she hated herself for it. But Shireen had been long dead by the time of Jon's revival. There was no bringing her back, no undoing the evil that had taken her life. At least, this way, her death would not have been completely in vain.

Does that make me a monster?

There was no answer, and though Caitie knew there wouldn't be, she still felt bitter disappointment welling inside of her. She needed guidance. She needed to know that it would be all right, and that some small part of those she loved was still with her.

"I don't know what to do," she said, though she didn't know whom she was speaking to, whether it was the ghosts of her past or the Old Gods or both. "I don't want to do this anymore—I can't do this anymore. How much more will be lost before this is over?"

"I wish I knew."

It was rare for someone to get the jump on Caitie anymore, but she'd been so lost in thought that she hadn't heard Sansa come up behind her. She spun around and saw her friend only a few feet away. Sansa's hair was down, the front pieces braided away from her face in the same style as Caitie's, only longer. She looked much younger like that. Less the woman who had almost single-handedly taken back the North, and more the girl who had lost most of her family.

Caitie wondered what she must look like, scarred and bruised as she was, to others.

Sansa sighed. "Are you okay?"

"No. Are you?"

She took a deep breath and looked at the layer of snow blanketing the dirt beneath their feet. "No," she said, though it seemed to take all her resolve to admit it.

Caitie was loath to leave the Godswood, but it was Sansa's before it was hers, so she said, "If you want to be alone—"

"This was where we married."

Caitie blinked, her mouth hanging open mid-sentence as she took in Sansa's words.

"There's a part of me that fears I'll never be free of it." Sansa didn't even glance at Caitie, keeping her eyes fixed on the weirwood instead. Her fair face had a waxy quality to it, as if speaking each word drained the life further out of her. "Wherever I look, I'll be reminded of the things he did. I thought killing him would end it, but that poison is still inside of me." Now she looked up. "I'm afraid."

Gathering her bearings, Caitie sighed and sat down in the shadow of the great tree. She patted the ground beside her. Sansa obliged, drawing her knees up to her chest.

"It's normal to be afraid, after the things he did to you," Caitie said gently. "It's not a weakness."

Sansa shook her head. "You don't understand; I'm not afraid of him. I'm afraid that I've become just like him. I'm afraid I've become the monster he was."

Caitie had to suppress a smile. How could the two of them be so different, yet so similar? "You aren't."

"You can't possibly know that for certain."

"Well, just think about it: if you were a monster, you wouldn't be sitting here, agonizing over it, would you?" When Sansa didn't reply, Caitie nudged her. "And if that doesn't persuade you, then I'll tell you this: after everything you've been through, the fact that you still show kindness to others—me, and Johnna, and Willa—that says something. If anyone in this Godswood is a monster, it's certainly not you."

"I don't think I've ever heard anything more absurd," Sansa said as Caitie's meaning dawned on her. "For all the horror you've been through, Caitriona, you're a much better person than I am."

Caitie almost burst into a fit of giggles. "As far as I'm aware, you've only killed one person—and one who really, really deserved it, at that. I've killed hundreds, most of whom did not."

"But you didn't kill your father, and I know you must have wanted to, after what he did to you and your brothers."

"Yes, well," she said, looking away into a point in the distance, humor rapidly fading, "that's only because I had the Night's Watch."

Sansa did not look convinced.

"I'm serious. For a place meant to house criminals, I've never met a group of better people than I did there. Owen and Cerys loved me with all their hearts, but they couldn't protect me from all of it. Joining the Watch—getting away from my father—it let me heal, in some twisted way. And I think, now that you're finally safe, you will, too."

"I hope so." Sansa stared down at her hands. At length, she said, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the Knights of the Vale."

Caitie eyed her. "Jon told you off for it, didn't he?"

Sansa shook her head. "He wasn't angry. But he was disappointed that I didn't trust him."

She furrowed her brows. Part of her was surprised at Sansa's admission that she hadn't trusted her brother. But the other part—the part that knew of Sansa's short-lived pregnancy, and how she hadn't told anyone about it, not even Brienne—thought it made sense. "Why didn't you? Tell us, I mean."

Sansa's expression grew severe, and Caitie realized that her question must have sounded a lot more accusatory than she'd meant it to. "If I had, he may have planned the battle around their arrival, and I didn't know for certain if they would come."

Caitie had no doubt Sansa was telling the truth, and neither was there a doubt she'd done the right thing. Caitie didn't even want to consider what might have happened if Sansa had told Jon the truth, letting him incorporate the Vale into his plan of attack—the plan of attack he'd abandoned seconds into the battle. But she also got the feeling there was more to Sansa's reasoning than she'd let on. "And the real reason is…?"

Sansa stiffened beside her. Her lips drew a thin line, and she refused to look Caitie in the eye. "You and Jon never would have forgiven me."

"You saved our lives."

"Perhaps I did. But if I told you I was writing to the man who sold me to the Boltons in the first place, who is one of the most untrustworthy men in the Seven Kingdoms, for an army whose only connection to me comes from my mother—Jon wouldn't have understood, and he would have hated me. I know he still sees it when he looks at me; the stupid little girl who refused to acknowledge him as her brother. Can you blame me for not wanting to lose him over this?"

"You wouldn't have. He loves you."

"Perhaps he shouldn't."

"Sansa—"

"Sometimes, I wonder," she said sharply, cutting Caitie's admonishment short, "if all this was my punishment."

"What?"

Still, Sansa refused to meet her eyes, staring at a point in the distance instead. "However little my father prepared me… it doesn't change what I did." Her voice dripped with disdain. "I chose the Lannisters over the North, over my family, and it led to his death. I hurt the people I loved so badly, so many times. So when Littlefinger told me I could avenge them by marrying Ramsay—I said yes. I agreed to it."

"You can't possibly believe that what happened was your fault. Any of it."

"Wasn't it? Lady died because I sided with Joffrey. My father died because I was stupid enough to believe he'd be shown mercy. Ramsay raped me because I agreed to marry him. All the horror my family and I endured—it was because of me."

"It was not," Caitie said, seething, because whatever Sansa's flaws—and though Caitie liked her, she knew there were many—she didn't deserve any part of what had happened to her. And it certainly wasn't her fault. "You had no power, no defenses, and you never had anyone who cared enough to protect you or teach you about the world. Your actions made sense because you were completely reliant on others. It's not your fault they failed."

"I still had other choices. If I had made them—"

"You might have ended up in an even worse situation."

"And my treatment of Jon? You, of all people, can't excuse that."

"No, I can't. But you were a child, and you're making up for it now." When Sansa looked as though she were about to argue, Caitie sighed. "I know it's easier to think that if you had maybe just made a different choice, things might have turned out better. I've thought the same more times than I'd like to admit. But we can't go back. We can only go forward, learn from our mistakes, and make better choices next time."

"Perhaps. But I'm a slow learner," Sansa said.

"But you still learn. You're not bound by the person you used to be, Sansa. Whoever she was, whatever happened in the past, the person you are now—I like her. And I'm proud to call her my friend."

"I'm not sure I know how to be a friend anymore. If I ever did."

"Well, making dresses for me to wear is a good start."

Sansa gave an entirely uncharacteristic snort, and Caitie pretended not to see her brushing tears off her cheeks. "You really should learn to make them yourself. Johnna could teach you at this point."

"I think I'd die of the indignity."

Shaking her head, Sansa finally smiled. Feeling immensely proud of her achievement, Caitie linked their arms together, and the two women fell into a companionable silence, listening to the rustle of the weirwood's leaves in the wind.

Then Sansa said, "I nearly forgot—there was a raven from the Citadel."

Caitie's heart skipped a beat. "Sam and Gilly?"

"They arrived safely, don't worry; Jon believes they won't leave until—what was it he said? 'Until Sam reads every single book in the Citadel.'"

Caitie laughed. That sounded like something Sam would do. And Gilly would just encourage him. Or more likely, take it as a challenge.

"Unfortunately, that's not all the news the raven brought." Sansa sighed. "Winter is here."

Caitie's laughter died in an instant as cold dread took its place, for she knew it wouldn't be long now. Before winter's end, the White Walkers would discover a way to cross the Wall. Even with the Valemen and the Free Folk, the North didn't have the numbers to face such an army, especially after yesterday's battle. They needed more men, but with whom could they ally? The Lannisters had the Iron Throne, and the Tyrells had already entered into an alliance with them. With the Blackfish most likely dead, the Riverlands were back in the hands of the Freys. The Baratheon line had been entirely extinguished with Shireen gone, and as for the Dornish—well, they were almost as insular and mistrustful as Northmen.

Despondent, she looked up above, to the canopy of red leaves, and said a prayer in her mind to the Old Gods, using the Old Tongue. It was useless to pray, she knew, but it made her feel better all the same. Protect us, please. Don't let anyone else suffer a needless death. And watch over those who already have. She closed her eyes and pictured Wun-Wun. She pictured Shireen.

Caitie felt Sansa stiffen and pull away. She opened her eyes.

"Littlefinger," Sansa whispered, so quietly that her mouth hardly moved, "is watching us."

Caitie lowered her voice, trying to keep it as quiet as her friend's. "What? How do you know?"

She took deep, controlled breaths, her lips still near-closed. "Practice. You need to leave before he approaches me."

"I don't want to leave you alone with him."

"And I don't want you anywhere near him. He won't harm me, but once he realizes what you are to my brother…" Sansa swallowed, still frozen in place. "He'll seek to contain your influence by any means necessary."

Before Caitie could even open her mouth again, the man she presumed was Littlefinger made his move. Sansa's body only seemed to tense further, but she kept her face blank as she stared into the frozen pond beside them. Caitie, not knowing what else to do, followed her example.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him approach. Lithe and short, black of hair with streaks of grey in it, and a sharp beard which accentuated a pointed chin. His face was neutral, but she detected the tiniest hint of a smirk.

So this was Lord Petyr Baelish. Caitie could see why Sansa feared him. Even if she hadn't known who he was, she could have guessed that he was a nasty piece of work, for her instincts told her that this was a very dangerous enemy slinking towards her, and they were very rarely wrong.

She'd have killed him then and there if she could, as a matter of preemptive defense. He'd done more than enough to deserve it, and Caitie doubted Sansa would object, had she a choice in the matter. Unfortunately, he was also the de facto Lord of the Vale, which meant he needed to be left alive. For now.

Littlefinger's eyes first flickered to Caitie before landing on Sansa, and finally she understood why Sansa wanted her gone. One look from him, and Caitie felt as though the man knew every secret she'd ever kept. It took all her willpower not to squirm.

"Forgive me, my ladies." His voice was husky and dripping with false sincerity. Sansa made a show of looking up in surprise, as if she hadn't known he was there at all. "If you're at prayer..."

She shook her head. "I'm done with all that now."

Caitie took this as her queue. She plastered on a mundane smile, pretending she didn't know exactly who he was and the threat he posed. "I think I'll go have another bath," she said. "At this rate, I should be able to get the stench from yesterday off in about a year."

Without sparing either of them a glance, she pushed herself up and strode back towards the castle. There was still some time before the last of the lords arrived at Winterfell, and she wanted to find Johnna and Willa in their shared bedchambers before then.

But as Caitie reached the threshold, she looked back one last time, knowing she'd just left her friend with a monster.

I hope you know what you're doing, Sansa.

The glass gardens of Winterfell were a sprawling greenhouse the size of the Great Hall, and as warm as summer itself. Beads of sweat trickled down Caitie's neck, and her face was flushed with heat as she ran, but she hardly felt it—hardly felt anything at all.

At any other time, she might have found these gardens quite beautiful. The glass walls glimmered as sunlight passed through them. The cobblestone pathway took her past hundreds of flower specimens, all in different colors, from ruby-red to golden-yellow, to bright pink and blue and purple. If she were to go to the other side of the gardens, Caitie knew she would have seen a variety of fruits and vegetables ripe for harvest. But she couldn't bring herself to care about such beauty now.

When she had ascended the steps to Johnna and Willa's bedchamber, she'd been much calmer. A little nervous, perhaps, as she always was when it came to the girls, but she honestly didn't think there was anything to worry about—that was, until she'd found the room empty. There was no note, no indication of where they might have gone, nothing at all. And even though they had Ghost, with Northmen from every noble house trickling into the castle at all hours of the day, and Valemen running around, besides, Caitie could only fear the worst.

Tormund had gone to search the great keep, and Jon the crypts, all the while assuring Caitie that Ghost would never let any harm come to the girls. But it wasn't until she remembered Willa's love of flowers, and winter roses especially, that Caitie realized where they must have run off to.

She came to a skidding halt when she saw Johnna and Willa, exactly where she had expected, right by a patch of winter roses, the delicate petals bluer than the sky on a summer's day. Willa was leaning down to get a better look at them while Johnna watched, her arms crossed and her foot tapping impatiently. Ghost was sniffing the air beside her, but when he spotted Caitie, he abandoned whatever scent he had caught; the horse-sized direwolf barreled toward her at top speed.

Caitie didn't even flinch. She merely stuck out a hand to stop Ghost in his tracks and stalked forward. Both girls looked up. When they saw who it was, they broke into twin smiles.

Seeing them safe and relatively happy should have calmed Caitie, but it only made her anger burn brighter, for all she could picture now was the various ways in which they might have died instead. Burned at the stake by Melisandre, or throats cut by some idiot in the castle who only saw them as Wildlings, or worst of all, raped and mutilated on a battlefield, because they had left their hiding spot before Caitie had sent word that the battle was over.

That last one caught her off guard, but she didn't linger on it for long.

"What the hell do you think you two are doing?"

The smiles fell. Johnna and Willa exchanged bemused glances. At any other time, Caitie might have checked herself, as neither of her friends had ever seen the full force of her temper before—let alone seen it directed towards them. But she could not, now, even if she had wanted to.

"We came to get some flowers for Wun-Wun's grave," replied Willa. "I asked Sansa yesterday, and she said—"

"I don't care about that!" Caitie cried. "I care that you left your room without telling anyone where you went!"

Now Johnna and Willa merely looked confused. "But we had Ghost—"

If she had been thinking rationally, Caitie might have accepted that answer; after all, they'd never had to report their whereabouts before, so long as Ghost was with them. How were they to know things had changed now that they were in Winterfell until she told them so?

But Caitie was absolutely not thinking rationally, and so she cut Johnna off, moving onto her next point of contention. "I care that you wandered off from the cave while there was a fucking battle taking place and you had no idea whether or not it was over!"

Something seemed to dawn on Johnna at this, because her eyes widened and her lips parted in a silent oh. "Caitie—"

"You could have died."

"But—"

"You could have died! You could have been hurt or killed or Gods only know what! Seven fucking Hells, Johnna. How could you do something so irresponsible?"

Johnna looked down at her feet, her long hair shielding her face from view. Caitie softened, ever so slightly, afraid she might have actually reduced her friend to tears. But no; when Johnna looked back up, her eyes were dry. She seemed a little annoyed, but not upset. "We knew you'd won," she said in a tone meant to reassure rather than to argue.

"You couldn't have. The battle had barely ended when you—"

"Don't you see? She warged, Caitie!" Willa exclaimed.

Caitie had had an answer ready for whatever excuse the girls came up with. But not that.

She gaped at them like a fish. "You—I—What?"

"We were worried about you," she said, as if it explained everything. "And Tormund and Dim—and even Jon. We could hear the fighting from our cave."

"It was really scary," added Willa. "Even Ghost was scared. So I asked Johnna if maybe she could use her warging to see what was going on."

"I didn't think I could, but then I saw a crow sitting in a nest on a tree nearby, so I concentrated really hard."

"And her eyes went white."

"But I thought…" Caitie shook her head, at a loss for words, before she stopped cold, thinking back to the strange omen she'd seen during the battle, for she was starting to get the feeling that it hadn't been an omen at all. "Wait a moment—did you say you warged into a crow?"

Johnna nodded, and though she kept her face passive, Caitie saw mischief twinkling in her eyes.

"That was you?"

"I really did mean to talk to you about it before, but you've been so busy getting ready for all those southerners, and I didn't know how to bring it up."

"You saved my life."

"Yeah, I did." She arched a brow at Caitie. "You're not mad about that, are you?"

Caitie didn't reply in so many words; instead, she jumped forward and gathered both girls in her arms as tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't have yelled. I should have listened to what you had to say first, and trusted you."

"You should've," Johnna agreed. "But it's okay."

"You scared me. I went to your chambers, and you weren't there."

"I wanted to find the gardens, so Wun-Wun could have some flowers with him," said Willa. "He never said so, but I know he liked them."

Caitie's heart felt as though it were made of lead. But she forced a smile and flicked Willa's nose affectionately. "I know. Just tell someone next time you decide to run off, okay?"

Willa giggled, batting the hand away. "Okay."

She pulled away from them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. "Your mother would be so proud of you. Both of you."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I only knew her for the space of a few hours, but the one thing I know for certain was how much she loved you."

Willa sniffled, her blue eyes bright with tears. Johnna was silent, but tears had sprung to her eyes, too. Caitie drew them back to her, kissed both their foreheads, and then said, "Now, come on. Tormund and Jon will be worried sick."

Standing, the three girls started back the way Caitie had come, towards the glass door connecting the gardens to the castle, only to be intercepted by the two men she'd wanted to see. Ghost bounded forward to greet his master, who smiled affectionately and scratched under his chin.

"You found them," said Tormund. He hardly spared Caitie a glance before he placed his hands on his hips and scowled down at Johnna and Willa. "You're just lucky the rest of those southern cunts are here. Otherwise—"

"Wait what?"

Tormund sent Caitie sent a glare for her interruption, but she hardly noticed as she looked over at Jon.

"House Manderly arrived five minutes ago," he said. "They were the last. Everyone is gathering in the great hall; Sansa's already there."

An odd tingling sensation erupted on her skin as a spell of nerves came over her. For every Northmen, you would find at least three opinions. Two Northmen in a meeting together would inevitably end in some sort of argument; three, a proper fight; and four, a death—if not more. Every single Northern and Vale lord left in the country, all together in the same room after years and years of division? And the Free Folk?

Gods, they were doomed.

Tormund opened his mouth to resume his scolding of the girls, but Jon stopped him before he could start. "There'll be time to yell at Johnna and Willa later. For now, they should return to their chambers with Ghost." When Tormund gave him a reluctant grunt of acceptance, Jon looked at Caitie. "Are you ready?"

She shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be."

The chaos which engulfed Winterfell's Great Hall exceeded Caitie's expectations. Lords of the North argued with knights of the Vale, who argued with Free Folk, who in turn argued with lords of the North. It was a vicious cycle that refused to end, and all the while, she watched from her place at one of the lower tables, flanked on each side by her vassals, and Lord Rodrik across from her, wishing that she could say or do something—anything—to stop it.

But she didn't know these lords. Even the Northern ones might as well have been strangers to her, and Caitie doubted she would be able to keep her temper if she spoke to those who had denied them aid, nearly allowing the Boltons to win. It was why she had declined Jon's offer to sit at the great table with him and Sansa. Better she stay in anonymity, lest she show every lord that Jon and Sansa needed to sway her true feelings.

"You can't expect the Knights of the Vale to side with Wildling invaders," a Vale lord was saying; Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, Sansa had called him earlier. Caitie supposed she should have known from the runes etched into his armor's breastplate.

"We didn't invade," Tormund replied, much more calmly than Caitie would have done. "We were invited."

"Not by me."

She balled her hands into fists, containing the urge to punch this Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, in his stupid, pompous face—even if he was taller than Brienne, with hands the size of Caitie's head.

As Royce sat, Jon stood. "The Free Folk, the Northerners, and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won. My father used to say we find our true friends on the battlefield."

"The Boltons are defeated," said Cley Cerwyn, addressing the room with an air of confidence. "The war is over. Winter has come. If the maesters are right, it'll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms."

Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you? Caitie thought, her eyes narrowing. Small and scrawny with a hook for a nose, Cley Cerwyn reminded her more of Pyp than anyone else—but it seemed he had even less courage than her old friend, and twice the arrogance. He spoke of defeating the Boltons as if he'd played a part in it; as if he hadn't ignored their ravens, leaving them to die. And now he wanted to scamper away, again. She couldn't believe the man was her cousin by blood.

"The war is not over," Jon said gravely. "And I promise you, friend, the true enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm."

A slew of muttering broke out amongst everyone in the hall. There was confusion and skepticism from both the Northmen and the Valemen, but grave acceptance from the Free Folk.

"What is he talking about?" Selwyn asked quietly.

Caitie briefly looked away from the great table as she answered, "The Army of the Dead."

His mouth went slack, as did Roland's and Lord Rodrik, who sat beside him, but if any of them asked something else, she didn't hear it. Jon's eyes found hers, and she could not focus on anything except him. Never mind the chaos in the Great Hall; they stared unabashedly at each other, for they were the only two Northerners in the room who knew—who truly knew—what horrors awaited their kingdom.

Until Lyanna Mormont stood. She was so short that Caitie wouldn't have noticed, had they not been sitting only a few feet away from each other. Jon noticed it, too; his eyes moved away from Caitie to the young girl's, and when she nodded, he sat back down.

The Lady of Bear Island always had much to say and spoke with an authority beyond her years; nothing would change that, not even the prospect of facing down every lord in the room. "Your son was butchered during the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly," she said, her voice sharp, clear, and reprimanding. "But you refused the call."

Lord Wyman Manderly, a stocky man with a massive belly and shoulder-length white hair, shifted in his seat, looking away from her in shame.

She turned to Robett Glover beside her. "You swore your allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover. But in their greatest hour of need, you refused the call." The room was completely silent now, save for Lyanna. "And you, Lord Cerwyn—your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refused the call. But House Mormont remembers! The North remembers! We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark."

Casting a glance up at the great table, Caitie saw Sansa smiling softly.

"I don't care that he's a bastard," Lyanna continued. "Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He's my king, from this day until his last day."

In seconds, the atmosphere of the room changed. Each moment that passed, the sound of voices increased. But Caitie froze, her eyes wide and her lips parted. She looked over at Jon and saw the same expression—one of shock and incomprehension—mirrored on his face. Even when Lyanna gave him a rare smile and nod as she returned to her seat, he could only gape.

Briefly, Caitie wondered if the young Mormont would be so amenable to Jon, had it not been for fifty out the sixty-two Mormont men miraculously surviving the battle, but she before she could give it another moment's thought, Lord Manderly stood and turned to face the great table.

"Lady Mormont speaks harshly. And truly. My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn't think we'd find another king in my lifetime. I didn't commit my men to your cause, 'cause I didn't want more Manderlys dying for nothing. But I was wrong." He paused, letting his words sink in, and then pointed at Jon, saying, "Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding! He is the White Wolf!" He drew his sword, held it high, and then kneeled. "The King in the North!"

Caitie could hardly decipher the flood of emotions that overtook her as the shock finally gave way to comprehension; they flowed from one to the next without giving her pause. They were making Jon king. Despite his failure during the battle, despite his bastard status, they were making him their king.

Lord Glover stood, too. "I did not fight beside you on the field, and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong and ask forgiveness."

Jon kept his face and voice carefully controlled as he answered. "There's nothing to forgive, my lord."

Lord Glover swallowed and addressed his brethren. "There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand beside House Stark, as we have for a thousand years! And I will stand behind Jon Snow," he added, more quietly, but with equal intensity. He drew his sword. "The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!" A Dustin soldier cried from the back of the room.

And then every single Northman and Valeman was jumping to their feet, their swords drawn and held up into the air as they chanted, "The King in the North!" Even Davos joined in.

And what else could Caitie do, but stand and lend her voice to the crowd? For it wasn't about any single person—not Caitie, nor Sansa, nor even Jon. Who had done what during the battle was long forgotten, and now, it was simply about the future of the North. It was about their people, their freedom, and all the good they could do, all the people they could protect, with the power of an entire country.

As the chants continued, the energy in the room grew, excited and insistent. Jon stood from his seat and looked down at his sister, who smiled back up at him in encouragement. And even though his face was full of shock, Caitie could see what this meant to him, to have his father's lords hail him as their king.

He would never be the Bastard of Winterfell again. He would never be scorned and shunned, told over and over again that he wasn't worthy of his family. And there was no one who deserved such recognition, such acceptance, more than Jon.

It was only when she recalled the words spoken to her a day earlier, words she'd refused to believe and tried to forget, that her smile faded, that her voice shriveled and died, that every muscle in her body froze as terror replaced elation. The death of a princess for the life of a king, Melisandre had said. And now…

Now Jon was the King in the North.

You know, if I had a nickel for every time I hated a chapter, I'd have... a lot of fucking nickels. But at least we've finished with season 6. Chapters will be a little longer on average from now on (pacing? Never heard of it) as I'm trying to get through the events of season 7 in as few as possible. Because GOD, I hate that fucking season (well, most of it). It's easily my least favorite—in fact, I actually prefer season 8, but that's a whole different story.

PS: Yes, I did give Yohn Royce back his rune armor. He deserved it.