In some strange way, Caitie had missed Winterfell.

Perhaps it was only because her friends resided there; perhaps it was because she knew she could relax, somewhat, at Winterfell, as she was not its lady. But staring up at the gigantic castle before her, she knew that she had missed it, no matter the reason, and especially after such a long journey.

She'd ridden through the night, yet even after so many sleepless hours, Caitie hardly felt it. Her muscles coiled with nervous energy, her leg bouncing as she approached the gates. All she wanted was to jump off her horse and run to find Jon, but before she had the chance, the two guards stationed in front of the gates noticed her.

The first was short and plump, the second tall and thin, but their expressions were identical, morphing from boredom into excitement at the sight of her. "Who're you?" the first asked, standing from the crate on which he'd been sitting.

"Caitriona of House Norrey, here to see the king."

The guards exchanged skeptical looks. "We didn't hear nothin' about Lady Caitriona comin' back today."

"It wasn't planned."

"Right, right. And how do we know you're not a thief or somethin' pretendin' to be her?"

The question was so unexpected that all Caitie could do in response was stare at the two men in front of her, trying to figure out what in the fuck they were talking about. She wore the riding dress Sansa had made for her, with its fine blue velvet and the sigil of her house stitched onto it. Her hair was neatly braided, her face clean of any dirt or blood. In what world did she come across as suspicious? "If I were a thief, do you think I would announce myself at the gates?"

"Er… well, no. I guess not," he admitted. "But that don't mean you're not a danger."

"Look," she said, wanting nothing more than to throttle the two men in front of her, "I have been riding all night; I'm tired, hungry, and not in the mood to wait for you two to get your heads out of your asses. Let me pass."

"Well…" The second guard began, and turned to his friend. "She don't look much like a thief. And she talks like a highborn. We could let 'er through, Henk."

The guard—evidently named Henk—shook his head. "But if we're wrong, and she—I dunno, robs the vault or somethin', then who'll be blamed?"

"Seven Hells, I'm not a thief!" Caitie cried. "How difficult is it for you two morons to—"

"Let her through, lads." Caitie had never been so happy to hear Davos's voice before. He smiled warmly when he saw her, and she involuntarily smiled back at him. It was strange, but learning the truth of Shireen's death had formed an odd sort of bond between him and Caitie, between mourning her together, and despising the red priestess who'd brought about her death.

"My lady," he said, grinning up at her.

"Ser Davos." She hopped off her horse and led it forward through the gates, only stopping when she came face to face with Henk. As she handed him the reins, she said, in a saccharine voice, "Would you be so kind as to take him to the stables and ask the stableman to give him some hay and water? He's been riding all night."

Henk reddened, looking down at his boots. "Yes, m'lady."

As she and Davos strode away, Caitie said, "We have got to get some better guards."

He chuckled. "A bit above my ranking, but I'm sure you can ask the king."

She grimaced as she remembered why she had jumped on a horse and ridden all through the night. "Has he said anything about the letter?"

Davos knit his brows together. "No. He said he received a raven, but he was waiting for you to arrive before telling the lowly likes of me about it." He gave a small smile, trying to put Caitie at ease, but it did nothing to soothe her.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Winterfell had much changed since her departure. The courtyard had always been full of life, even after the battle, but now it was a whirlwind of activity. Men and women, boys and girls; all of them trained side by side, shooting arrows at targets or sparring with each other. The change was a welcome one, for it drove away the images of a broken and bloody Wun-Wun that always threatened to overwhelm her when she looked upon the place he'd died.

She and Davos walked up the steps up to the balconies, and there she saw Jon observing it all, his knuckles white against the railing. Clutched in his hand, Caitie noticed a small, yellow scroll. She steeled herself; there was no more guilt when she looked at him, but there was still trepidation and fear—terrible fear, even more so, now, than when she had left him a week ago. She could spend an eternity trying to list all the reasons why.

But when he turned his eyes on her, Caitie swallowed her fear, for she knew that she could not afford it.

As she reached the top step, she plastered on a smile, and said, "So. How is it that I leave for a single week, and everything goes to complete hell?"

He broke into a rare wide smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "You didn't announce yourself."

"Well, I would have, but I didn't get the chance before some of your guards accosted me."

The smile turned instantly to a glower. "Did they try to hurt you?" he asked sharply, striding forward to look her over.

Caitie rolled her eyes. "Of course not. They accused me of being a thief, I got a little snappish, and then Davos came to their rescue."

Jon sighed. "Do I want to know what you said to them?"

"Probably not."

He broke into a laugh as he shook his head in disbelief, and opened his arms to embrace her. But even if she could have stood his touch without wanting so much more, they were out in the open where anyone could see. So she merely gave a quick shake of her head and eyed the bustling courtyard.

Jon stopped in his tracks, his smile fading once again to a somber frown, and nodded.

"Well?" Caitie asked. "Where is it?"

"Here," he said softly, handing her the scroll. She took it from him, careful not to brush his fingers with her own, and read. Though she knew what the letter would say, it still didn't prepare her for seeing the words written on the parchment. Her eyes kept returning to the same statement, over and over.

Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

If she hadn't been so shocked, she might have had the wherewithal to be afraid, for the news the raven brought would terrify even the most hardened of warriors. "Has Sansa seen it?"

Jon shook his head. "I wanted to wait for you."

"As much as I appreciate the thought, you probably should have told her first."

"Told me what?"

How Sansa had known they were all there—and how she had picked the exact wrong moment to come upon them—Caitie didn't know. Perhaps she had developed new powers. Perhaps Littlefinger had told her. He did seem like one to sow division between siblings.

Sansa scowled at her brother, who at least had the decency to grimace. "I had a raven from the south, yesterday. I wanted to discuss it with you all together, so I sent for Caitie."

Sansa's expression softened as her eyes moved from her brother to her friend. "Well, I can't say I'm grateful for the secrecy, but it's good to see you. I trust your time at Norwood was fruitful." Caitie smiled and nodded, but Sansa didn't linger for long before returning to her point of contention. "Who was the raven from?"

Jon hesitated. "Tyrion Lannister."

Her scowl returned with a vengeance. She said not a word, merely extending her arm and plucking the scroll from Davos's grip. He allowed it without complaint. As she read, her eyes bulged in their sockets, and Jon turned away to look out into Winterfell's courtyard, deep in thought. Sansa read the letter over twice before she composed herself. "You really think it's Tyrion? It could be someone trying to lure you into a trap."

Jon sighed. "Read the last bit."

"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes," Sansa quoted. She looked over at him. "What does that mean?"

"It's something he said to me the first night we met."

"That's a very strange thing to say to someone you've just met," Caitie said, frowning.

Davos and Sansa ignored the statement, but Jon arched a brow, his expression abnormally mischievous, and opened his mouth.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she groaned, because she knew where he was about to go. "I was twelve!"

"You didn't know that's what I was about to say."

"Yes, I did. It's been years and you've never let me forget it." When Jon's smirk only grew, she crossed her arms and huffed, pretending to be a lot more annoyed than she actually was. "And anyway, you still haven't explained why this means we should trust Tyrion. I know you were friends with him at Castle Black for some unfathomable reason, but a lot has changed since then. And whatever he is, he's still a Lannister."

"You should be more grateful," Jon said. "If it weren't for Tyrion, I'd have been tossed from the top of the Wall with my throat slit open."

Caitie stared at him, her brows knitting together as she tried to parse out his meaning and failed. "Don't be stupid. Not even Thorne would have—"

"Not Thorne," he agreed—and all of a sudden, he looked as if he'd rather have jumped off the balcony than continue the conversation. But he swallowed and said, a little more roughly, "Grenn and Pyp. They were… unhappy when I beat them at sparring—"

"I remember; you broke Grenn's nose."

"Aye," Jon agreed, though he still refused to meet her eyes. "So they got me alone, held a knife to my throat, and threatened to throw me off the top of the Wall."

"They did what?" Grenn—her Grenn—who had laughed with Jon over breakfast, who had helped him train new recruits, who had followed his command over and over without ever wavering, had tried to kill him? She knew Grenn and Pyp had been resentful of Jon's skill at first, but how had she not known this?

"Tyrion scared them off. Then he told me off for thinking myself above them."

"He's the reason we all became friends."

"Aye."

"I—well… shit," Caitie said after a lengthy silence, feeling unsettlingly flustered. "I suppose I owe Tyrion Lannister a debt of gratitude."

Jon furrowed his brows. "You really don't remember him in the courtyard the day we met?"

"I was a bit busy at the time—staying alive, making sure no one knew who I was, beating you at sparring."

"It was a draw."

She grinned. "If that's how you'd like to remember it."

"If I might bring both of your attentions back to the matter at hand," Sansa said irritably, and Caitie realized that she and Davos had been watching them the entire time. Somehow, she had forgotten that either of them had been there to begin with.

Flushing, she muttered, "Sorry."

Jon sighed, and as he sobered, his expression grew grim once more. He caught Sansa's eye. "You know him better than anyone. What do you think?"

Sansa looked back down at the scroll in her hands and shook her head. "Tyrion's not like the other Lannisters. He was always kind to me, but it's too great a risk." She continued to read, but this time, aloud. "The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny."

Davos gestured for the scroll. Sansa obliged. "Sounds like a charmer," he said, scanning the parchment. "Of course, the casual mention of a Dothraki horde, a legion of Unsullied, and three dragons—a bit less charming."

Caitie's gut churned at the mention of the Dothraki. The reports of them were scant in Westeros, for the Dothraki had never before crossed the Narrow Sea, and most information regarding them came second-hand. But the reports Westeros did have…

Well, few things truly scared Caitie any longer, and she counted the Dothraki as one of them.

As she opened her mouth to voice her reservations, Davos stilled, looking back down at the scroll in his hands. "What?" Jon asked.

Davos looked up at him with an excited gleam in his eye. "Fire kills wights, you told me. What breathes fire?"

Caitie bit back a gasp as she gripped the railing beside her. Dragons. Dragons breathe fire. And what's more… An idea came to her—a ridiculous, far-fetched idea, but if it was true, then it could change everything.

"You're not suggesting Jon meet with her," she heard Sansa cry, but her voice seemed far, far away.

"No, it's too dangerous."

"But?" This came from Jon. His voice drew Caitie back to herself.

"But," Davos said, "if the Army of the Dead makes it past the Wall, do we have enough men to fight them?"

We don't. But welcoming Dothraki, Unsullied, Ironborn, and so many more into the North? Welcoming a Targaryen? All of Caitie's ancestors recoiled at the thought.

She recoiled at the thought.

Jon stared at a point in the distance, likely thinking the same things. Finally, he sighed. "I'll take your advice under consideration."

He started to walk away, only stopping when he realized Caitie had not followed. Without a word, he caught her eye and jerked his head in the direction he intended to go. After half a moment of contemplation, she followed, for there were things they needed to discuss, and it needed to be alone.

"What do you think?" he asked softly as they fell into step together.

Caitie sighed. "Sansa's right. It's a big risk, and you're too important to lose. But Davos is also right; those dragons could make all the difference. We might actually stand a chance with them on our side." She kept the rest to herself. It was conjecture; there was no point in bringing it up.

"I know that look," Jon said as they came to a stop by the door to his chambers. They weren't the Lord's Chambers, for he had given those to Sansa. He had taken one of the other, smaller chambers meant for the lord's family, which came with an office to house his map of Westeros, as well as a sitting area and a desk.

As they entered, Caitie relented. "I have a theory," she said. "But I could be wrong."

"You're never wrong. Didn't you say that once?"

She snorted. "Yes, but if you actually believe it, I may have to take you to Maester Wolkan and have you checked for a head injury. Another head injury."

Jon ignored her quip. "Just tell me. It might be nothing, but if it isn't…"

"Well, all right, if you insist. Do you remember when you killed the White Walker at Hardhome?"

"It's crossed my mind once or twice. What about it?"

"It was Longclaw that killed it. Valyrian steel. And we might not know how Valyrian steel is forged, but we do know one thing: it comes from the same land the Targaryens do. So I have to wonder if maybe… dragon fire is said to have magical properties—and the maesters think Valyrian steel is connected to the dragons, somehow. So if Valyrian steel can kill White Walkers, then maybe dragon fire could, too."

"Seven Hells," he breathed. "It could kill them by the hundreds."

"Assuming I'm right? Yes, it could."

They looked at each other. Shock, excitement, hope passed between them. Caitie had to temper it before it ran away from her. "We shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. I could be wrong; it's not as if I've studied any of this." She chewed on her lower lip. "But even if I am… those dragons are still the best weapons we could ask for against the wights."

She hesitated, for the next suggestion went against everything she believed in, everything her brothers had taught her. The Targaryens had conquered, burned, and terrorized Westeros. They had ruled with fire and blood, fear and death; only Dorne had been spared, and only because they had held out against the dragons during Aegon's Conquest. Time and time again the Targaryens had brought suffering to all Seven Kingdoms, the North included, until finally enough people had risen up and said no more.

And she was about to undo all of that.

"I think we should consider it."

Jon eyed her. "You do?"

Caitie shifted. "I do," she said, only to immediately backtrack because saying it out loud made the possibility feel much too real. And if they were truly going to do this, then they had to make sure it wouldn't get more people killed. Or worse. "But we shouldn't rush into a decision. The Dothraki do scare me. They rape and pillage and take slaves—and if Daenerys Targaryen has brought them here, then what does that say about her?"

"Aye," Jon agreed pensively. "But I don't think Tyrion would serve a queen who would do that to his countrymen."

"Five years is a long time, Jon. And it's been a very long five years."

He frowned. "I thought you just said we should consider it."

"I do. I just—nothing in that letter mentioned anything about bending the knee, and yet, Maester Aemon received a letter about Daenerys Targaryen, once; it said that she was using her dragons to free the slaves in Essos. But now she's brought an army of slaves and slavers. Her actions don't fit with what we've heard, so I'm not sure we should trust the words she's had Tyrion write."

"I don't need to trust her. I trust Tyrion, and I don't think he'd lie to me, whatever his queen says."

"Maybe that's true. But if we are considering this, we have to plan for the worst."

Jon watched her for a moment before stepping forward, his eyes softening as he took her hands in his; Caitie's heart thudded in her chest, for the gesture was too close to intimate for her comfort. "I know. I am. And whatever I choose, whatever I have to do, you know it will always be with the best interest of the North and the Free Folk in mind."

"I do know that. I trust you."

"Thank you," he said, smiling. "I don't have to make a decision today. There'll be time to think how we want to respond…" He trailed off, lost in thought; his thumb brushed over hers before he let go of her hands. He walked over to his map, placed his hands on the table and stared down at it, brow furrowed in concentration.

Caitie followed his gaze, thinking of the North. A war of conflicting interests brewed inside her. Freedom from the Iron Throne, from the brutalization the Targaryens and Lannisters and everyone else had wrought, weighed against the Army of the Dead, and the cold, cruel evil of the White Walkers.

And then Melisandre's words rang in Caitie's head, so vivid it was as if the red priestess were saying them out loud: he is ice; he must unite with fire. Was this what she had meant?

It was as if the Red God had heard her, for no sooner did she have the thought, did a knock on the door sound.

Jon didn't look away from the map, but Caitie watched as Maester Wolkan entered, a scroll in his hand. "A raven, my king. From the Citadel."

For one brief, shining moment, she forgot all about Dragons and White Walkers. All she could think was that there, in Maester Wolkan's hand, was a letter from Sam. Jon seemed to have the same thoughts, for he spun around, and took the scroll from the maester. As he tore off the seal and read, his eyes widened. He handed it to Caitie allowing her to see what Sam had hastily scribbled.

Jon.

This is a map I found in a book. Dragonglass is rare in Westeros, but there is a mine on Dragonstone. This might be the only source left in Westeros.

Sam.

As she read, dread settled in the pit of her stomach, for even though he had not said it, Caitie knew now that Jon had made his choice.

The Great Hall was shrouded in gloom; the rain which beat against the windows was the only sound in the room besides Jon's words as he stood in front of the great table and held up the scroll he'd received.

"This message was sent to me by Samwell Tarly," he said. "He was my brother at the Night's Watch, a man I trust as much as anyone in this world. He's discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of Dragonglass."

The lords of the North watched him, equal parts curious and suspicious as they muttered to one another. Caitie's view of them was blocked by Jon's back, for she sat behind him at the great table, beside Sansa and Davos. After her time at Norwood, she felt marginally more comfortable there, and as she no longer had Roland, Selwyn, or Tormund at Winterfell, she was glad to sit beside friends.

Jon handed the scroll to Lord Glover to read. As his eyes scanned the parchment, his expression grew to mirror the one she had seen him wearing at Deepwood Motte. Jon ignored it, holding up the second scroll. "I received this," he said, "a few days ago, from Dragonstone. It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister." The muttering grew discontented. "He is now Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen."

Caitie didn't know how, but the room seemed to buzz with furious energy, even as everyone fell silent.

Jon ignored it. "She intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister; she has a powerful army at her back, and if this message is to be believed, three dragons." Chatter broke out once more, this time a mixture of anger and fear. Targaryen was a name everyone knew, and one that no one wanted to hear again.

He continued, raising his voice so it could be heard over the noise. "Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys." He turned around; his eyes met Caitie's, then Sansa's. "And I'm going to accept."

Caitie clutched the armrest of her chair. Her nails dug into the wood as her heart beat erratically in her chest, even as she cursed herself for such a reaction. She knew this would be his choice, had known from the moment he had received Sam's raven. He hadn't even needed to say it aloud. And it was the right choice; the necessary choice.

So why did it hurt so much?

All around her, the other lords were shouting their disapproval while Sansa stared at her brother in horror, but Caitie hardly noticed it, for Jon's eyes were on hers, and in them was an apology. She could not look away any more than he could.

Of them, Jon was the first to break, tearing his eyes from hers and addressing his lords. "We need this dragonglass, my lords! We know that dragonglass can destroy both White Walkers and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons. But more importantly, we need allies! The Night King's army grows larger by the day. We can't defeat them on our own. We don't have the numbers. Daenerys has her own army, and she has dragon fire. I need to try and persuade her to fight with us." Jon turned to look at his sister, and his voice softened slightly. "Ser Davos and I will ride for White Harbor tomorrow, and then sail for Dragonstone."

Caitie quickly took note of the lack of her name among those accompanying Jon, but she had no time to dwell on it, for Sansa was arguing back with a ferocity that matched her flaming red hair. "Have you forgotten what happened to our grandfather? The Mad King invited him to King's Landing and roasted him alive!"

Caitie flinched, remembering a different king who'd burned alive, up until the moment Jon had put an arrow in his heart. Would he now suffer the same fate?

No. She would not believe that. He was not his grandfather, nor his father. He was not Mance. For all his honor, he would do what was necessary to survive. He had done so before, and he could do so again.

"I know that," Jon said in a small voice.

"She is here to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms. The North is one of those kingdoms. This isn't an invitation; it's a trap."

"It could be," he agreed. "But I don't believe Tyrion would do that. You know him; he's a good man."

A chair scraped against the floor, and Yohn Royce stood. "Your Grace, with respect, I must agree with Lady Sansa. I remember the Mad King all too well. A Targaryen cannot be trusted. Nor can a Lannister."

A chorus of agreements followed.

Lord Glover stood next, anger radiating off him in droves. "Aye. We called your brother a king. And then he rode south and lost his kingdom."

"Winter is here, Your Grace," added Lyanna Mormont. "We need the King in the North, in the North."

"Aye!" cheered the Northern lords.

Caitie had scarcely ever seen Jon look so heartbroken. He didn't want to betray the trust of the men who had so eagerly pledged to him, who believed in him. He had no choice, for the wants of the North could not compare to the needs of the entire continent.

And though she hated it more than words could express, Caitie understood that.

"You all crowned me your king," Jon said. "I never wanted it. I never asked for it. But I accepted, because the North is my home. It's a part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds. But the odds are against us." He paused to exhale a breath. "None of you have seen the Army of the Dead. None of you, except for Lady Caitriona. And I hope… I hope she can understand why I have to do this, because we can never hope to defeat them alone. We need allies; powerful allies." He faced Sansa and Caitie once more, but while his previous words had been for Caitie, these words were meant for his sister alone. "I know it's a risk. But I have to take it."

Sansa shot to her feet. "Then send an emissary; don't go yourself!"

"Daenerys is a queen. Only a king can convince her to help us. It has to be me."

"You're abandoning your people! You're abandoning your home!" Caitie heard the words Sansa had not said aloud: you're abandoning me.

"I'm leaving both in good hands," Jon replied calmly.

"Whose?"

"Yours."

Sansa fell silent.

"You are my sister," he continued. "You're the only Stark in Winterfell. Until I return, the North is yours."

There was no sound in the Great Hall; though a conversation between Sansa and Jon brewed, it was without words. He nodded, and at last, she returned the gesture, subtly blinking away the tears which had sprung to her eyes.

Rodrik Mazin stood, breaking the spell which had fallen over the hall. "Your Grace," he said gruffly, "I respect Lady Stark with all my heart, and I'll follow her until the end of my days. But you're our king. If something happens to you, then the North is weakened."

"The North is already weakened," Caitie said. The entire hall turned to look at her. Before, it would have terrified her, but she had faced this fear at Norwood; she could do so, again.

She pushed herself up from her chair and tried not to focus on the eyes watching her every move—both lords of the North and lords of the Vale. "Even if the king ignored Tyrion Lannister's letter, it wouldn't matter. Daenerys Targaryen has dragons. If she wants the Seven Kingdoms, she'll take it—with fire and blood, if necessary. As much as I hate it, I think it's better to have her as an ally than an enemy; at least that way, we might be able to negotiate terms. But we can't survive the White Walker invasion or a Targaryen invasion, let alone both."

"We can try," growled Lord Hornwood.

Caitie stifled a scream of frustration. "Do you think I like the idea of allying with the Targaryens? Of asking my friend to treat with one?"

Northmen and Valemen all watched her, waiting for her to get to the point. She just hoped the point would sway them. "The North should be independent, and our king should be here with us," she said. "But we don't get to decide what should be. All we can decide is how to respond to what is, and right now, we have a choice to make: the White Walkers or the Targaryens. And when you're faced with the corpses of children—your children—desecrated and made to kill you, leaving you with no choice but to hack off their limbs one by one, set them on fire, and pray they can no longer feel it, or otherwise risk becoming just like them, then you'll know which choice was the right one."

Caitie only hesitated a fraction before knocking.

It was late, and there was nothing appropriate about entering the king's chamber at such a time. The last thing she wanted was for rumors to spread, as it had done during Jon's time as the lord commander. She already felt as though she'd caused his death once, and she had no desire to do so again.

But he was leaving at sunrise, so what did it matter now?

Half a moment later, the door swung open. Jon didn't look at all surprised to see her standing in front of it. "It was a good speech," he said.

Caitie shrugged. "I learned from the best."

The corners of his lips quirked up, and he moved aside to allow her through the doorway. In the hours since she'd last seen his quarters, the clutter had increased tenfold. Scrolls and books and clothes were scattered all over the place; Ghost lay beside Jon's bed, chewing on a venison bone with gusto, and beside him, Caitie saw a traveling pack, half-filled.

"I see you've been busy."

It was almost unnoticeable, but she still saw the slight wince Jon made when she spoke. "I'm sorry I didn't discuss it with you."

"You didn't need to," she said. "I knew what you were going to do the moment Sam's letter came."

"Oh. Good."

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Don't go south, she wanted to say. It will only get you killed. No amount of dragonglass or dragons is worth your life.

But it was. For what was Jon's life weighed against the entire world?

Finally, she cleared her throat. "This is a risky decision; are you sure it's the right one?" Even as she spoke, she knew the answer to her question.

"Aye. I meant it when I said that only a king could convince her."

Caitie remembered what Sansa had said hours earlier. "Will you pledge fealty to her?"

"Of course not."

Without even thinking about it, she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it was prideful, perhaps it was selfish—but Caitie didn't want him to pledge fealty. For it was one thing to ally with Daenerys Targaryen; it was another to submit.

"Nothing in the letter Tyrion sent mentioned anything about bending the knee," Jon continued. "Even if she expects it eventually, I don't think it'll be immediate. She's more worried about Cersei Lannister. If I can convince her the dead are the more dangerous enemy to her rule, she'll agree to allow us to mine the dragonglass and help us fight the Walkers. Everything else can wait."

"I still don't like it," Caitie said.

"Me neither. But I don't see another choice—unless you'd rather let the Army of the Dead kill us all."

She shrugged. "We could always accept Cersei's offer."

Jon snorted. "Aye, because that's a trustworthy ally to have."

"Not to mention her lack of dragonglass and dragons. And the fact that Sansa actually might snap and kill you for it."

He smiled. "You'd protect me."

"You sound so sure of that, and yet you don't want me to protect you on Dragonstone. In fact, you don't want me to come at all."

Jon's smile fell. "I want you to come with me more than anything."

Caitie almost didn't ask it, but in the end, she couldn't help herself. "But?"

"But if I die, then you're the only person at Winterfell who knows the true threat. Sansa will need you. The Free Folk will need you. Without one of us alive, our alliance will fall apart."

These were all sound reasons, yet Caitie still felt a hollow bitterness at hearing them. She might have even argued with him, as she had done before attacking the mutineers. But now, she knew she could not.

He is ice; he must unite with fire. You have to let him go.

Caitie wanted to deny it all as ridiculous, to curse Melisandre for putting the words in her head. She wanted to spit on the whole thing, and refuse to heed the advice out of pure spite. But Melisandre had spoken true about Jon's ascension as king—and while Caitie didn't believe much of the red priestess, she believed one thing: that Melisandre wanted the White Walkers destroyed as much as she did.

And even if Melisandre was wrong, as she had been many times before, Jon was right. Caitie needed to stay, and he needed to go, for the Free Folk, if nothing else.

"Well," she said, "I suppose I'll just have to make do without traveling on a ship for two weeks."

Jon laughed, but not ten seconds later did it fade, and as they stared at one another the tension grew until she felt as though she were suffocating.

"I'll miss you," Jon said at length. "More than I can say."

"Me too." Caitie's voice came out as a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat. "But you're right. We need the dragonglass. We need the dragons. And as much as I hate it, we need the armies."

"Aye." Again, Jon hesitated. Then, "Before I go… I have something for you."

Caitie blinked, having expected him to say—well, anything else, really. She quickly covered up her surprise with a wry smile. "You already gave me Owen and Cerys. If you give me something else, that puts you up by two. I can't be in more debt to you."

Jon frowned. "I never saw it as a debt."

"Ugh. I was joking, you idiot."

He chuckled. "Aye, all right. I was just making sure. Stay here." He walked over to his wardrobe and opened the top drawer. Whatever it was he meant to give her, it was too small for her to see until he returned to her side and held out his hand, where curled in his palm lay a modest necklace: a delicate silver chain and a small, round, sapphire pendant hanging from it; as deep and dark a blue as the pool in Winterfell's Godswood.

"It was my Aunt Lyanna's," he said. "Sansa and I found it in her old chambers; we don't know where she got it. It's too fine for the North, and Robert Baratheon never seemed like the gift-giving sort." Caitie was too stunned to say anything. The world around her seemed oddly fuzzy. When she didn't answer, Jon cleared his throat. "I thought… maybe you would want it." After a beat of silence, he added, "I know how much you enjoy the stories about her."

Somehow, someway, Caitie found her voice. "I appreciate the thought, but doesn't Sansa want it? It was her aunt's."

He shook his head. "She's got jewels from her mother; she said she'd rather have those."

"That doesn't mean she wants me to have it."

"I already asked her."

"And what did she say?"

"Nothing. She raised a brow at me and smiled. I took it as a yes."

Caitie laughed. "That does sound like her." She stared back down at the necklace in Jon's hands. It was strange; she had never owned jewelry before. Her mother must have had some pieces, but if they were still at Norwood, she'd overlooked them upon her visit there. Nor was the North known for its jewelry; highborn ladies usually used embroidery in place of any jewels, as the price far outweighed the practical benefits—of which there were none. But this necklace… Well, she found herself wanting it, for more reasons than simple beauty. "I suppose I will take it, then."

"Good," Jon said, smiling softly. "Turn around."

Caitie obliged, pulling her hair over her shoulder. His fingers brushed her neck; where they touched, her skin sparked, and a shiver ran down her spine as warmth spread throughout her belly. She heard his breath hitch in his throat as he secured the clasp and then withdrew. Her body screamed in protest at the distance; she ached with the wanting. The sapphire pendant was cool against her chest as she forced herself to face him again, yet she'd never felt warmer.

Jon stared at her, so close that she could count each eyelash, smell the faint scents of metal and earth on his skin. And Caitie stared back, drinking him in—his face, his voice, his scent—as if she were dying of thirst, the conflict in her mind dizzying. She didn't know if she wanted to throw herself into his arms and never let go, to let herself drown in him, or if she wanted to run as far away as she possibly could.

"There," he whispered. "Perfect." His eyes, dark and somehow fathomless, bored into hers. "Caitie, if something happens to me…"

She shook her head, chest constricting. "It won't."

"But if it does—"

"It won't," she insisted, trying to will the words to be true, even though she knew it was impossible.

He groaned. "Seven Hells, Caitriona Norrey, will you let me speak?"

Caitie couldn't help the twitch of her lips. "Sorry. Go on."

Jon tried his best to send her an exasperated glare, but his lips twitched upwards. And as he looked at her, lips parting and throat bobbing, all the exasperation in his eyes faded, giving way to softness and warmth and… love. Pure, unadulterated love, written on every inch of his face. And Caitie had faced White Walkers and Free Folk, Northmen and Night's Watch mutineers, but no fear had ever pierced her heart as it did at such a sight.

Images forced their way into her mind, unbidden and unwanted and so vivid it knocked the wind out of her: Grenn as he lay lifeless on a pyre waiting to burn. The last letter her brothers had sent her. Wun-Wun's body, embedded with arrow after arrow. Shireen's smile as she taught Gilly to read in the library. And finally, Jon's body as it lay on the table in Maester Aemon's old solar; so at odds with the man now in front of her. Yet she couldn't get the memory of his lifeless face or his grey-tinted skin or the dark, deep stab wounds lacing his chest and torso.

And she knew, then, that she didn't want him to go on. Perhaps it made her a craven; she did not care. This was a leap she was too afraid to take.

Jon straightened, then, the spark—the love—in his eyes that Caitie had thought she'd seen suddenly gone. He stepped back from her and said the one thing she had not expected: "Take care of Ghost for me."

Caitie blinked. Though the fear dissipated, a bitter disappointment took its place. It frustrated her as much as it confused her. Isn't this what I want? She thought it was. She had been so sure only a moment ago.

She dug her nails into her palms, trying not to let her anguish show on her face. "I did last time, didn't I? As much as I could, at least."

"Aye," Jon agreed, smiling, though it looked forced. "You did."

She took a deep breath, casting her eyes around the room for something else to say. "Well, I'll let you pack, then. I should try to get some sleep if I'm to see you off at dawn."

Jon nodded, and said, so softly she had to strain to hear it, "Goodnight, Caitie."

She hardly remembered returning the sentiment before she fled without another word. Her heart beat erratically in her chest, and when she finally reached her bedchambers, she tried to remember why this was a good thing. We can't offer each other a future. We've already faced it without those we loved, once, and it only caused us pain. So what's the point in admitting feelings, now? Especially when we have to separate. He could die. I could die. It's better this way.

They were poor excuses, all of them, and perhaps a part of her knew it deep down, but Caitie still repeated them over and over until sleep finally claimed her, her dreams half-formed visions of death and destruction, of the same ash and snow and fire that had consumed them on her way to Norwood.

By the time the sun finally dawned, gloomy and overcast, it was nearly midmorning. Caitie yawned, crusty-eyed and exhausted, but still she dressed, brushed her hair, and tried to make herself look presentable before flying down to the courtyard. Jon was nowhere in sight when she arrived, but stablemen and boys ran every which way, hurrying to ready the horses for their king and his retinue.

She took it upon herself to help them, and though she received grateful smiles for the effort, she had a more selfish reason for helping. Grooming the horses reminded her of simpler times, back when she was a newly christened brother of the Night's Watch. It was easy to clear her mind and pretend as though nothing had changed when she did such labor; she didn't feel so much like a lady, with the weight of an entire keep on her shoulders; she felt as though she could be just Caitie.

Beside her, Davos saddled his own horse. He left her to her own devices, but she could feel his eyes on her, and not particularly in the mood to beat around the bush, said after only a few minutes of silence, "I take it you're not excited to return to Dragonstone?"

Davos grimaced. "Not exactly, no. Too many memories I'm not so keen on remembering."

Caitie could understand what that meant well enough without him voicing it.

"But I'll take care of him. I'll get him back to you and Lady Sansa alive. You have my word."

She didn't say what she really wanted to say; that Davos couldn't make such promises to her or anyone. But she couldn't bring herself to make him feel worse. So she merely forced a smile and a nod, and went back to grooming her horse, somehow feeling even less at ease than she had before.

At last, Jon came huffing out of Winterfell's crypts. When he approached her, Davos angled himself away to give them privacy. Caitie furrowed her brows, any awkwardness from the previous night forgotten at the expression on his face. "You look angry."

"I'm always angry," was Jon's short reply. She shot him a look indicating that she was absolutely not in the mood for deflection, and he sighed. "Look out for Sansa, all right?"

Her annoyance evaporated, replaced with concern. "You know I will, but why? What's wrong?"

"Littlefinger approached me in the crypts. That bastard—" He cut off with a growl.

Caitie gaped, for she had never, ever heard Jon call someone a bastard before. "What did he say?" she asked gently.

"A few taunts and veiled threats and… I don't want to go. I don't want to leave—" He cleared his throat. "Her."

Finally, Jon looked at her, and his expression shifted from anger to dread. "I know," Caitie said. "But Sansa can take care of herself. And you know I'd never let anything happen to her." She frowned. "Don't tell her I said that. If she knew I was working with you to protect her, she'd probably have me drawn and quartered."

Jon laughed; it came as a surprise to Caitie for it was such a sudden and complete change in demeanor, but soon she couldn't help laughing along with him. But then he eyed the black courser beside them and the laughter died. "I'll see you soon," he said. "I promise."

Caitie took a deep breath. "I hope so. Just… be careful, all right? Don't lose your temper if you can help it, or do anything that might antagonize the queen; keep your calm, and don't give her any information that she could use against you."

"You've been speaking to Sansa."

"Well, believe it or not, she actually gives good advice when it comes to dealing with power-hungry queens."

"Aye, she does," Jon admitted, before frowning. "Don't ever tell her I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"And yours is with me. Always," he said, a soft smile on his face. But then his gaze trailed down to the chain around her neck, and he swallowed. Tearing his eyes away from her, and without another word, pulled himself up and over his horse.

"Remember," she said, "you've faced worse than queens, dragons or no."

He gave Caitie a final smile, which wasn't really a smile at all, but a sad attempt at one that bordered more on despairing and made her heart clench painfully in her chest. After what felt like an eternity, he twisted around to take a last look at his sister. The siblings gave each other the intimation of a wave, and as Jon turned back around, he looked down at Caitie one last time. For a moment, it was almost as if he wanted to say something more, but then he seemed to think better of it. He flicked his reins, and just like that, Jon, Davos, and all their soldiers were riding out the gate, leaving Caitie alone in the courtyard, save for the stablemen.

As the gates closed, she traipsed back up the steps to the balconies where Sansa stood, Ghost at her side, staring absentmindedly at the place her brother had previously occupied, not looking away until she heard Caitie approaching.

"I see he gave you Aunt Lyanna's necklace," she said, arching a brow.

Caitie raised her hands in surrender. "Don't blame me; I told him to ask you first. He said you didn't want it so—what?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at her friend's smirk.

Sansa shook her head. "I was just thinking that it looks very pretty on you; that's all."

Somehow, Caitie didn't believe her in the slightest, but she quickly decided to let it go, lest Sansa try to broach a subject she absolutely did not want to have, and certainly not with Jon's sister. "Are you all right?"

Any hint of amusement disappeared on Sansa's face. "No," she sighed. "I worry about him. I do believe Tyrion will try to keep him safe, but…"

"He'll come back," Caitie said, staring out into the vacant courtyard, and already feeling a monumental sense of loss. "He has to."

Yes, okay, I stole the necklace scene from House of the Dragon. What can I say? It's a great scene, and I wanted to see it with a non-fucked up couple.

PS: Can you tell that I really don't like the Targaryens? Sorry if you love them (though I doubt anyone who does has made it this far), but yeah. I do not.