Day followed day and night followed night, and bit by bit, Caitie mended the relationship with her brother.

The first thing she'd done was send a raven to Norwood, letting them know that Arthur had been found, with all the details such news entailed: that she would still be the Lady of Norwood, but that she would be remaining at Winterfell to spend time with him; Selwyn would be her castellan, as Roland had returned to Mazin Castle for his wedding. She then sent a second raven to Castle Black, informing Edd of Arthur's reappearance, as well as the news of his own brother. And though it pained her, she did not title the letter with Dear Neddy.

Caitie returned to the rookery every day afterward looking for the return letters—and letters from Jon. Every day, she was disappointed. And every day, she ignored that disappointment and anxiety, ignored the image of Jon dead by dragon fire. It wasn't easy; she had never been the most patient of people, and every day that passed without word from him only exacerbated that.

But it was easier to keep her focus on Arthur, and on the relationship they were trying to build. For they could never go back to the way it was; he was no longer a child, and she was no longer his protector. And the resentment and fear they both held could not be fixed with a few words.

But they were family, and they loved each other. That was enough.

It had to be.

Whenever Caitie had a moment free from her various duties, she spent it with him. If they weren't training in the courtyard with Johnna, Willa, and sometimes Meera, they were in the library, poring over the dusty tomes together, discussing their various trials and tribulations throughout the years. She quickly found out that Arthur still loved his books and his music—but also that he'd developed an appreciation for swordplay, for he enjoyed the comfort of knowing he could defend himself if need be.

Caitie kept her silence on that, hoping he couldn't see her disappointment.

There was only one thing which truly worried her—and that was that he hadn't spoken a word about his life with their father. She'd tried to needle him for a bit of information once, but he'd clammed up so tightly, refusing to speak in more than one-word sentences, that she was too afraid of ruining their tentative relationship to push him further. So she told him of her journeys beyond the Wall, instead, and as she'd expected, Arthur believed her stories without fuss.

"Of course they're real," he said, after she'd explained her two encounters with the Army of the Dead. The two of them sat in the library with Ghost at their feet and a mountain of books between them. Arthur had taken to spending his mornings and evenings there, devouring the scores of literature that Winterfell's thousands-year-old library had to offer. "The stories have to come from somewhere, don't they? And it's not as if Bran the Builder erected the Wall to keep out the Wildlings—sorry, the Free Folk."

"That's what I told Maester Harkon. He didn't believe me."

"He isn't as smart as I am."

"Nor as modest."

Arthur ignored her. "Anyway, the real question is: what caused them to wake up again?"

Caitie frowned. "What do you mean?"

He stared at her with a blank expression until he realized she wasn't joking. "Are you telling me that you never wondered—not even once—why they've suddenly returned from the Lands of Always Winter after eight-thousand years?"

She shrugged. "I just supposed it was just a matter of time, wasn't it?"

He groaned, tipping his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, Riona…"

She scoffed. "What? It's a perfectly legitimate answer. And besides, it's not as if the Free Folk hadn't seen them before. Craster—may he rot in all seven of the hells—had been sacrificing his sons to them for years."

"How many?"

"What?"

Arthur sighed. "How many years had Craster been sacrificing his sons?"

"I don't know that; how would I know that?"

"Maybe because it's something you should have thought about?"

Caitie rolled her eyes. "But what does it matter why they've returned? The fact is that they are, and they want to kill us all."

"The more you know about your enemy, the better," Arthur said. "And if you want to know how to stop them, you should know why they're back in the first place."

She pursed her lips as his words soaked in, disliking just how right he was. And disliking it even more that she'd needed something so obvious spelled out for her. "I—well, I suppose I could send a raven to Gilly and ask her."

"Ah, what a good idea."

She ignored the sarcasm and leaned forward to grab a book from the pile—Vestriarzira hen Valyrio, or Tales from Valyria. It was the lone book in Winterfell's library with actual Valyrian text; Caitie used it to keep her memory sharp, for if all went well with Jon in the south, her knowledge of the language may be useful.

As she thumbed through it absentmindedly, Willa's voice called out to them. "Are you still busy?" Caitie looked up at the doorway, where she was carrying two plates full of steaming food in each of her hands. "You missed breakfast."

Willa set the plates down for Caitie and Arthur and took an empty seat at their table. Ghost sat up, sniffing the air. Caitie tossed him a bit of bacon, which he happily accepted.

"You treat that wolf too good, you know," came Dim's voice.

Caitie grinned and tore off a piece of bread. "He deserves it."

"He's a direwolf, not a pet," Arthur said flatly. "He could kill me if he wanted."

"He could, but he won't. Will you, my sweet boy?" Caitie bent lower to pat Ghost's head as he licked his chops, silently asking for more bacon.

She heard more than saw Arthur groan. Dim and Johnna slowly made their way towards the table. Caitie stood to pull out a chair for him. Dim allowed it, though half-heartedly, and with a load of grumbling. Arthur did the same for Johnna, who rolled her eyes but accepted the gesture.

When all three newcomers were sitting down, Caitie returned to her chair and dug into the food they had brought. For a while they ate in silence, but then her brother said, "Wait a minute—what is that?"

She looked up from the eggs, which, until that moment, had held all her attention. "What's what?"

Arthur pointed at her neck. "That necklace. It's not one of Mother's."

Caitie set her fork down, feeling as though she'd eaten something wriggly, and narrowed her eyes. "How do you know what jewelry belonged to Mother?"

His eyes shifted away from her. "I sort of… grabbed some of her things when I left Norwood."

She arched a brow. "I never took you for a lover of fine jewelry."

"Don't be stupid. I wanted to have something to sell if I needed gold."

"Of course, of course," Caitie said, patting his shoulder. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with how beautiful you'd look in Mother's jewels."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Caitie hadn't answered because didn't have any idea how to answer, but before she could drum up a middling excuse, Willa chimed in. "It's from Jon."

Johnna snorted into her hands. She tried to cover herself with a cough, but was a fraction too late; regardless, her smug grin gave her away.

Caitie only just held back a groan. She knew exactly where this was going.

"What?" Willa asked, furrowing her brows at her sister, wholly oblivious to Caitie's discomfort. "Well, isn't it? He loves Caitie; why wouldn't he give her a necklace?"

Never in the history of Westeros was there a person who wanted to sink through the floor as badly as Caitie did just then. Preferably, taking both Johnna and Willa along with her.

Ignoring the heat which had rapidly risen in her face and the twist of her gut, she looked over at Arthur, watching for the expression he got sometimes, when she and the girls shared a joke, or when she received a letter from Edd or Tormund. But his countenance had none of that now. There was only wry amusement. "So is this your way of telling me the king is to be my new good-brother, Riona?"

Johnna snorted again, this time not bothering to hide it, and Arthur's wry smile widened.

"How do you southerners do that sort of thing?" Dim asked.

Whether it was for her benefit or simply curiosity, Caitie didn't know, but she latched onto the question like a child to a parent. "It depends. In the South, a Septon oversees the ceremony. It's all very elaborate, I'm told. In the North, the bride and groom simply say their vows in front of a heart tree and have a moment of silent prayer."

"Which is what you and the king will—"

"Arthur Norrey, if you even think about finishing that sentence, I will take the daggers named for our brothers and murder you." Thank the Gods he doesn't know who gave them to me.

He raised his hands in surrender.

Caitie took a deep breath to calm herself. "And for your information, Jon only gave me this necklace because Sansa didn't want it."

"You know that doesn't make it sound any less suspicious, right? That his sister approved the gift?"

When Johnna snorted for the third time, Caitie whipped around. "All right, what have you told him?"

"Nothing!" Johnna exclaimed.

Caitie didn't believe that for a second. "Willa?"

Willa shrugged. "How can I tell him something if I don't know what the something is?"

Caitie threw her head back and groaned, feeling as though she might burst into flames from the way her cheeks were burning, until the door to the library squeaked open, and revealed Elbert Tollett.

"Oh, thank the Gods," she muttered.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "So, this is where you've been hiding."

"You're welcome to join us."

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm just here 'cause Lady Sansa sent me to get you."

"Wedding plans?" Arthur asked, his big blue eyes the picture of innocence.

Johnna let out a peal of laughter, and her brother's lips twitched.

"What?" Elbert asked flatly.

Caitie sighed. "Don't listen to them; they're being foul. Dim, would you—"

"Aye, aye, they'll be safe with me."

Arthur frowned. "I don't need minding, Riona."

"Neither do I," added Johnna. "Then again, Willa does, so—"

"Hey!"

Caitie patted Willa's head. "Don't worry, Wills. We all know you're the one who looks out for those two idiots. Ghost, come on." She didn't wait to hear Johnna and Arthur's complaints before she followed Elbert out of the room. Ghost padded after them.

Elbert, at least, knew not to ask about the conversation he had stumbled onto. They made their way through Winterfell's corridors, discussing—to Caitie's great relief—other topics.

"I wrote to Edd," she told him. "I let him know I met you; I hope that's okay."

Elbert hmmphed. "Doubt he'll care, but thanks all the same."

She eyed him critically for a moment, assessing his body language. Thankfully, she'd spent enough time around Edd to read Elbert's; it wasn't difficult to see the hope that bloomed on his face. But she wasn't about to mention it aloud—another one of her lessons from dealing with Edd: never talk about his feelings, even if you saw them, or else he'd shut down entirely.

So she merely gave Elbert a smile as the warmth of the castle gave way to chill air and the scent of smoke. Winterfell's central courtyard bustled with its usual activity. Free Folk and Northerners went about their business side-by-side, men and women and children, the tension between the two sides all but evaporated. As Caitie and Elbert crossed through, her heart warmed.

Jon had done this. She had done this. Despite everything, she had made a difference, and it was one of the few things in her life of which she could be proud.

They were halfway to the steps which would take them to Sansa's solar when Caitie stopped. Because there, towards the gates, was a familiar sight, saddling a chestnut mare.

"What're you—ugh," Elbert groaned. "You're getting distracted."

Caitie shushed him. "Meera?" she called.

Meera Reed's hands stilled on her horse's saddle. She turned to Caitie, her eyes bloodshot, her face waxy. "Oh. Caitie." She looked away, desperately trying not to show her discomfort.

Caitie frowned. "I thought you weren't leaving until next week."

"I wasn't, but…" She cast her eyes first to Elbert, then down to the mud.

Caitie turned to him and flashed what she hoped was a winning smile. "Would you be terribly angry if I asked you to tell Sansa I'll be a little later than expected?"

With a dramatic sigh that could have easily belonged to his brother, Elbert nodded. "Aye. But then I'm done for the day. Any messages you want to send, send them yourself."

Once he was gone, she frowned. "Are you all right?"

Meera didn't look up from her horse's reins. "I have to go home. I've stayed here too long already."

Caitie almost pointed out that she'd stayed a mere five days; much less than the few weeks she'd mentioned before. But with the way Meera looked right then, she quickly decided not to push. "Have you told Bran?"

Meera flinched; Caitie pretended not to notice. "I did. But he's…" She trailed off, her whole body deflating, too overcome with… despair? Anger? It was difficult to tell. "It doesn't matter. He'll be all right without me." She tried to smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Well, he's safe here," Caitie said, trying to sound reassuring even as the alarm bells blared in her head, screaming that something was very, very wrong. "Sansa will make sure of it."

"I know. That's not why—I can't—" She screwed her eyes shut and took a deep, shaking breath. Before Caitie could inquire further, she continued. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave without saying goodbye. You've been so good to me—"

Don't be sorry; you need to go home. I understand."

She looked at Caitie properly for the first time, and there was something… strange in her expression. Something Caitie couldn't place. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"I'll tell Sansa and the others you've gone. Just stay safe, all right? And send a raven when you've reached Greywater Watch."

Meera nodded. With her bow at her back, she gripped her horse's saddle and mounted. She kicked her horse into gear, and then she was gone, leaving Caitie with an unsettled feeling in her gut that she couldn't explain.

Sansa's office was quiet.

The largest of Winterfell's suites, it had once belonged to her mother and father. Like Jon, Caitie had taken to sleeping in different chambers than the ones belonging to the Lord and Lady while at Norwood; the idea of sleeping in a room belonging to ghosts was… disconcerting. Sansa, however, took comfort in her parents' chambers, and it was easy to understand why.

Winter was but a memory in here, with heated walls and a gigantic roaring fire in the hearth. She sat across from the desk while Ghost lay behind it, his head resting on Sansa's feet. Caitie stared at a point in the distance, though her mind was so preoccupied with Meera's departure that she had no idea what she was looking at.

Why had she left so abruptly? And why had she gotten so upset at the mention of Bran? Perhaps Caitie was simply making something out of nothing, but something had obviously happened between them, and—

"Caitriona."

At the sound of her name being called, Caitie blinked and looked up. "Hmm?"

Sansa arched a brow, and Caitie couldn't tell if she was amused or annoyed. "Did you hear a word I said?"

"Um… something about steel?"

"That was five minutes ago."

She sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I've just got a lot on my mind. But I'm listening now, I promise."

Sansa frowned. She set down her quill, her blue eyes softening. "How is he?"

"How is who?" Sansa didn't answer; it took Caitie a moment to realize what she'd meant. "Oh. He's okay."

"You've had no further problems?"

She shook her head. "No. It hasn't been easy, exactly, but it's much better now. I think being away from Norwood is doing him a lot of good."

"I'm glad," Sansa said. "You know you're both welcome to stay at Winterfell for as long as you'd like."

"I do know. And thank you for putting up with—well, everything. I know accommodating all the Free Folk while organizing for winter isn't easy."

She merely smiled. "I did promise Johnna and Willa would want for nothing, didn't I?"

"In case of my death. Does this mean you're planning to kill me?"

Sansa's smile turned to a scowl. "Do you honestly believe you're funny when you say things like that?"

"A little bit, yes." She bit her lip, deciding now was as good a time as any to bring it up. After all, Sansa had been the one to start them on the topic of their younger brothers. "How's Bran?"

Sansa's eyes clouded a little as she thought the question over. At last, she said, "He's… different."

There it was again, that same look Meera had had. "How so?"

She seemed to hesitate, as if she didn't know whether she should be saying anything. "He has visions."

"Visions," Caitie repeated, unsure for a moment whether Sansa was joking or not. In hindsight, she should have known; beyond the Wall was the last bastion of magic the North had, and what better reason for Bran Stark to insist on going there than to learn it? "What kind of visions?"

"I don't know," Sansa said. "He hasn't explained it properly. He said something about a three-eyed raven, about—I don't know—being… whatever it is. He didn't tell me what it meant. But he's seen things; things he shouldn't have been able to see."

Caitie nodded. "Meera mentioned that, too, before she left. She said they stayed in the cave of the Three-eyed Raven so Bran could learn greenseeing, but I was so focused on what happened with the White Walkers that I didn't really think too much about it." And maybe I should have, Caitie thought ruefully.

"You never heard anything about a three-eyed raven when you were north of the Wall?" Sansa asked.

"No—but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. There's a lot of unknown magic in the north. Even the Free Folk don't know everything there is." Caitie pursed her lips, trying to explain. But she simply couldn't find any words that would suffice. "I don't know how to describe it. You can just… feel that the magic is there, all around you. It's in the air, the water, the trees. It becomes a part of you."

"No wonder the Free Folk speak of it with such reverence."

"I don't think they would have wanted to come south if not for the White Walkers. And I can't say I blame them, either."

Sansa watched her silently, before she said, "You miss it, don't you?"

"Miss what?"

"The Wall. The north."

Caitie fiddled with the end of her braid. "More and more each day. But it's the first place I ever felt free; of course I miss it."

Sansa observed Caitie; her brows creased. "I am sorry," she said eventually, reaching across the desk to squeeze Caitie's arm. "I know how difficult this is for you. If I could take all the responsibility away, I would."

Sansa's words, though kindly meant, only made Caitie's heart squeeze painfully in her chest. For it was difficult not to dwell, sometimes, on how stifling Winterfell could be, and thinking about—well, home—only made it worse. But Caitie had Arthur here, and Johnna and Willa. She'd take every title and responsibility in the whole of Westeros if it meant keeping them safe and happy. It was easy to be selfless for the people she loved. And even if she didn't have Sam and Edd and Tormund and most of all, Jon, she knew she had no standing to complain.

"It could certainly be a lot worse," she said.

Sansa arched a brow. "Do I need to remind you of the various threats to our existence?"

"Oh, please don't. I was having such a good day."

She snorted as she returned to her task of drafting letters. They sat in companionable silence for a while; Caitie took a whetstone from her pack and started work on Owen, polishing the dagger with the utmost care until it was sharp enough to cut through solid rock. Afterwards, she moved on to Cerys.

A knock on the door sounded. Caitie and Sansa both looked up from their tasks.

"Come in."

To Caitie's surprise, Henk and Koner bumbled into the room, dressed in their guard uniforms, clunky looking helmets discarded. Their eyes flitted around, never looking either woman directly in the eye. "Pardon us, my ladies," said Henk.

Sansa gave a curt nod to acknowledge the formality before asking, "Is there a problem?"

He blinked. "No; no problem, my lady. We—that is…" When he couldn't, or perhaps didn't want to, finish his thought, he elbowed his partner. "Koner can explain."

Koner gaped, face rapidly reddening, equal parts furious at the betrayal and at a loss for what to say. "I—that's not—why—you—" What came next was more a collection of noises rather than any discernible words.

Caitie grinned to put them both at ease. "All right, tell us: which poor sod were you harassing this time?"

Her words had the opposite effect on the two men. They both reddened, and Sansa shot Caitie a glare that could have rivaled Jon's.

She merely shrugged. "Well, am I wrong?"

"Er—no, my lady," said Koner, finding his voice.

"Oh, come on, then. It can't have been that bad."

The two men exchanged glances which, judging by their furtiveness, told Caitie that it absolutely could be that bad. At last, Koner took a deep breath and cleared his throat—and the story he told nearly had her falling out of her chair in shock.

It all started when a young girl, sixteen or seventeen at the most, arrived at Winterfell's gates whilst Koner and Henk stood guard. This time, at least, they had no reason to believe she was a lady; she had been dressed in dirty, threadbare furs, her brown hair cut to her shoulders, and at first, they'd thought her Free Folk.

Until she claimed to be Arya Stark.

"We told her to wait," Koner said, sighing. "We were standing right next to her, and…"

"And—and when we turned around, she'd gone, my lady. She—she was nothing, some Wintertown girl."

Caitie watched as Sansa looked down at her parchment, obscuring the disappointment on her face from the two guards. It couldn't have been easy to have her hopes dashed so quickly after being raised; despite the strained relationship between the two sisters growing up, Caitie knew that Sansa would give anything to see Arya again.

"She comes in asking for, uh, Ser Rodrik," said Koner.

Henk nodded. "Yeah, Rodrik."

"And Luwin—"

"Luwin, yeah."

Caitie saw the shift, even if the two men in front of them did not. Sansa froze as they stammered on.

"And don't trouble yourself over it, my lady. We'll—we'll find her."

Finally, she looked up at them, the barest of smiles on her face. "You don't have to," she said. "I know where she is."

"You favored your left when you pivoted again."

"I didn't!"

"You did. Either that or your foot slipped."

Johnna scowled, holding her training weapons held high, while Arthur tried and failed to stifle a laugh beside her. She shot him a death-glare, but he shrugged it off.

Caitie turned to him. "I wouldn't look so smug if I were you, considering that you overextended your arm when tried to parry. And your center of balance was too high; it's fine for a brute force attack, but it will leave you vulnerable when you pause for recovery. Try again."

"You know," he replied, narrowing his eyes, "I don't remember Owen and Cerys being so difficult, so why are you?"

"I was trained by Ser Alliser."

The two children exchanged a look of exasperation, as they often did whenever Caitie brought up her old master-at-arms—which was quite a lot, lately. She found it effective at boosting effort, not just among Johnna and Arthur, but her class of students as well. Whenever anyone complained that she was working them too hard or too late, she would mention him; how he had scared recruits with stories of eating his own brothers, or that time he'd forced them to fight bare-fisted whilst torrents of rain battered Castle Black's courtyard.

Hand-to-hand combat would be a good skill to know against wights, though, so maybe she ought to work it into her next lessons—though she would have to find an expert to help her…

"What are they doing here?" Johnna asked.

Caitie blinked, musings interrupted. She looked around the small courtyard that had, in the last few weeks, become their own private training yard, and found the they in question. It took all she had not to tip her head back and groan.

"Lady Caitriona," Brienne said, Podrick at her side and training weapons on both their belts. She gave Johnna and Arthur nods. "My lord, my lady." She frowned. "Where's your sister?"

"In the gardens with our healer," Johnna said. "She's learning how to be one."

"Ah. I see." Brienne hesitated. "I wasn't aware you would be here; I'd have found somewhere else to train Podrick, otherwise."

"It's all right," Caitie said. "We were just finishing up, anyway."

"We were?"

"Yes, Johnna; we were."

They were not. But Caitie had promised Sansa she would try to make amends with Brienne multiple times without success, and letting her use the courtyard seemed like—at last—a good start.

She hoped.

"Thank you," Brienne said, giving them a curt nod, and to her credit, she spoke politely, even managing to keep the normal coolness out of her voice when she spoke to Caitie. Sansa must have had a similar conversation with her sworn sword as she had with her friend. "You're… welcome to stay, if you would like. Podrick could use the practice against a dual wielder."

Caitie blinked. Once. Twice. Part of her wondered if she had misheard Brienne until Podrick cleared his throat. "I'd like that, if you're willing."

"I—of course," Caitie said. "Johnna, Arthur, do you want to stay, too?"

A silent conversation passed between them. Finally, Johnna shrugged. "Nah," she said. "We'll go find Willa and see if we can swipe some food from the kitchens."

Brienne arched a brow. "Does Lady Sansa know about this?"

"Of course," Johnna said, her blue eyes impossibly large and brimming with innocence. Even Caitie didn't know if she was telling the truth or not.

Arthur failed to stifle his grin in time for his sister not to see it, but Brienne, mercifully, remained oblivious as the two children left the courtyard. Ghost followed them, as he would never turn down the chance for more food, leaving Caitie all alone. She tried not to resent them too much for it, but the prospect of training with Brienne, without any allies, unnerved her.

Even if it was nice to see Arthur smile.

"So…" she began, shifting from foot to foot, trying to think of something to say. At last, it came to her: the question she'd wanted answered for hours now, and one she knew Brienne could. "Where is Sansa?"

"Lady Sansa is with her brother and sister. It wasn't my place to intrude on their reunion."

A grin split across Caitie's face. "But it is Arya, then?"

For one brief moment, something like a smile crept up on Brienne's face. It was gone in an instant. "It is."

"You're sure?"

"Considering that I've met her before, yes. I'm sure."

Caitie gaped. "You met her? When? Where?"

"In the Vale," answered Podrick. "We were—"

"I don't think it's our place to tell that story," Brienne said sharply, cutting him off before he could finish. "And we don't have much time until sun-down; shall we begin?"

With anyone else, Caitie might have pushed—and Gods did she want to, as she now had even more questions than before. But Brienne's tone brooked no room for argument, and she wasn't stupid enough to end their truce over something so unimportant. Sansa could tell her, if she really wanted to know; right now, it was better to do as asked. Even if it went against every instinct she had.

The drills Brienne took Podrick through were nothing particularly complex, but she made up for it by being absolutely merciless—and expected the same from Caitie. He traded off fighting the two women, and though she had seen him improve with her own eyes over the last few weeks, after sparring with her, Caitie wouldn't have known it. His stocky, sword-and-shield physique made him weak against someone nimbler than him; even for a beginner, it was much too easy for her to knock him on his ass. And all throughout, Brienne's expressions were hard, her comments short and critical, without any reassurance to temper it.

Caitie might have admired it if it didn't terrify her so much.

Against Brienne, he was even worse, for any advantage he might have had from his innate strength and build was inapplicable when fighting someone both stronger and taller than him. To have a chance, he would have to adjust his fighting style, to see what he needed to change and find weak points to exploit without thinking—and he simply didn't have the skills to do so yet.

"Don't lunge," she snapped, as Podrick fell face-first into the mud after having had his legs swept out from under him. His training sword clattered to the ground beside him.

Caitie crossed her arms, watching from the side-lines. "Brienne has a longer reach. You need to find an opening to strike before engaging; and don't engage until you know you can win."

With a grunt of determination, Podrick pushed himself back onto his feet and struck out again; whether he had decided to ignore Caitie's advice or in his frustration hadn't heard it, she didn't know, but it cost him nonetheless. Brienne feinted to the left, and he fell for it instantly, allowing her to, once again, kick his legs out from under him. "Don't go where your enemy leads. Up." Again, Brienne pulled him to his feet, and again, their spar ended with him face first into the mud. "And don't—"

"Don't fight someone like her in the first place."

Caitie looked over to the open doors and spotted the person to whom this new voice belonged. At first glance, she thought the newcomer was a young girl, but upon further inspection, she realized that this was not the case. It was a woman—a woman even shorter than herself, but clearly not a child. Her brown hair was cut to her shoulders, the top half of it tied into a bun at the back of her head, reminding Caitie of the way Jon had worn his for the last year. She was dressed in breeches and a leather jerkin; her round, pretty face laced with scars—scars which she could have only acquired through years of hardship.

And though Caitie had only met her once, years ago and for barely more than an hour, there was no mistaking Arya Stark.

She walked forward with purpose, her right hand wrapped around the pommel of the thin sword at her belt. Needle, Caitie realized. Jon had described it to her once, so long ago now. She wished he could have seen it, could have known that his sister had kept it all these years.

Brienne noticed, too. "Nice sword," she said, her eyes lighting up in appreciation. "Very nice dagger."

Caitie followed her gaze. Nice was hardly the word she would have used to describe the dagger opposite Needle on Arya's belt. Work of art seemed a better description. Though the sword held sentimental value, its beauty paled in comparison. The pommel of the dagger was made from a glossy black material which looked suspiciously similar to dragonglass, and inlaid in the center was a round, red jewel; likely a ruby. It reminded Caitie of the jewel Melisandre had worn.

Then Arya unsheathed it, twirling the dagger in her hand before holding it out for Brienne to see, and Caitie didn't quite bite back her gasp in time.

Arya's eyes flickered away from Brienne and narrowed slightly; whether with curiosity or suspicion, it was impossible to say.

"That's Valyrian steel, isn't it?" Caitie asked.

"Yes," Arya said, eyes narrowing, as if assessing for a threat. "It is. My brother gave it to me." She took a step back from them, and addressed Brienne, leaving Caitie to wonder silently why Bran had given her a Valyrian steel dagger—and how he had acquired one in the first place. "It's been a while since I've trained."

"I can go find the master of arms for you, my lady," said Brienne.

"He didn't beat the Hound." Arya smiled. "You did. I want to train with you."

None of these words meant anything to Caitie, but it seemed she was alone in that. Podrick looked away as he tried to hide his grin, while Brienne… Caitie didn't think she'd ever seen Brienne so genuinely pleased before. She'd always remained stoic, no matter the situation, with Podrick; with Caitie, of course; even with Sansa. But now, she gave a smile so large her teeth showed, and if Caitie were being perfectly honest, she would have admitted to considering herself an intruder on what was obviously a private moment.

"You swore an oath to serve both my mother's daughters, remember?" Arya pressed.

Brienne nodded. "Move aside, Podrick. Lady Caitriona."

Arya's eyes met Caitie's again. She cocked her head, brows furrowed, before she turned away to ready herself for Brienne's onslaught.

"So," Podrick said as the two of them moved out of the way, "who do you think will win?"

"Ask me again when it's over," Caitie replied.

Podrick grinned. "Five silver stags on Brienne?"

A grin to match his spread across her face. It was a bet she knew she would lose, but she supposed she could make such a sacrifice. "You're on, Ser Podrick."

"I'm not a ser."

"But you will be, someday. And sers pay up when they lose."

"Then it's a good thing I won't lose."

Still grinning, they turned their attentions back to the fighters, where Brienne was frowning at a now-unsheathed Needle, held aloft by Arya. "You can't use that, my lady. It's too small."

"Don't worry," Arya said, smirking. "I won't cut you."

Brienne lifted her sword, trying to fight a smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

Now, Caitie had always considered herself a graceful person. It came with relying on stealth and speed rather than brute force like Brienne; she had to be quick, light on her feet, able to move swiftly and with purpose, as she couldn't tear down enemies like a warrior.

But Arya Stark made her look clumsy in comparison. Her movements were as fluid as water, as light as air. It took her all of two seconds to find an opening and hold Needle at Brienne's throat. She moved away, clasping her hands and sword behind her back. Brienne swung, throwing all her strength behind it, and Arya dodged and ducked, over and over, slipping out of her grasp like smoke. It went on like this for a while, until Brienne landed a kick to Arya's chest and she went flying, landing on her back in the mud with a thud. Brienne stared, horror-struck at the prospect of hurting her liege lady's sister, but then Arya was flipping herself up, teeth bared, growling with determination, and on they fought, swords clashing over and over again as Caitie and Podrick watched.

At last, Brienne's strength won out; a precise strike at Needle knocked it out of Arya's hand and sent it clattering to the ground, leaving her with only her Valyrian steel dagger. It was over; though Arya was better than good, Caitie knew it was near-impossible to win against such a large opponent with a single dagger—one which was smaller, even, than Owen and Cerys.

But that didn't stop Arya from trying.

What came next was so quick that Caitie almost missed it: Brienne swung her sword in an arc and Arya dodged, drawing her dagger from its sheath with her right hand. Brienne grabbed the hand to stop her from striking, but the dagger wasn't in Arya's right hand any longer. It was in her left.

Caitie rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing something that wasn't there—but no, the dagger was in Arya's free hand, and pointed at Brienne's chest. Brienne, at least, had her sword pointed at Arya's chest in return, but she hadn't won. It was a stalemate. A draw.

Arya grinned as she sheathed the dagger.

"Who taught you to do that?" Brienne asked, her voice filled with awe.

"No one."

As Arya bent down to pick up Needle, Brienne turned away. Her eyes traveled up the walls of the courtyard to the balcony above them. Caitie followed her gaze, where she saw Sansa and Littlefinger watching them. How long they had been there, Caitie hadn't the faintest clue, but she'd never seen Sansa quite so… agitated before, delicate features set into a frown, and eyes wide with fright. And when she realized all the eyes in the courtyard had fixed themselves upon her, she strode—no, scurried—back inside the castle.

Littlefinger stayed behind. Caitie frowned as he made eye-contact with Arya. Her face was devoid of any emotion as she stared back at him. He gave a little smirk, followed by a mocking bow, and followed Sansa inside.

Beside Caitie, Podrick cleared his throat. "My lady?"

She had been so engrossed that it took her a moment to realize he was addressing her. Boxing away the feelings of unease for later, she grinned. "Podrick, I believe you owe me five silvers."

He frowned. "That doesn't seem fair, since she didn't win."

Caitie gave an over-the-top sigh. "Fine." She reached into the coin purse she kept on her belt and drew out five silver stags.

"But Brienne didn't win either," Podrick said. "You should keep those, my lady."

"Oh, come on, be grateful. When I lived at Castle Black, if I wanted some coin I had to steal it." She grimaced. And I really need to apologize to Dareon for that at some point.

Podrick looked as though he wanted to ask, but thought better of it when he saw Brienne approaching, disapproval evident in her frown. "Were the two of you betting on us?"

He froze, unable to come up with an answer. "Er…"

"It was my idea," Caitie said, clapping a hand on Podrick's shoulder.

"Was it?" Brienne asked archly. Her frown faded as she sighed. "I suppose there are worse indulgences. But don't make a habit of it, Podrick."

"Who did you bet on?" Arya asked. Caitie hadn't heard her come up behind them; her steps were lighter than a feather.

Brienne eyed her squire. "Podrick bet on me, I should hope."

Caitie smiled. "Of course he did."

Arya watched her, making her feel, once again, as though she were being assessed. "So you bet on me."

"And I'm glad I did," she replied, feeling a little nervous all of a sudden. "That trick with the dagger was incredible. Do you think you could teach it to me? I always struggle if I lose one of mine. Sometimes I wonder how I survived this long, but I suppose sheer stubbornness is one hell of a weapon…" She was rambling, and she knew she was rambling, but she didn't really know what else to say. Because now, as she watched the woman—the stranger—in front of her, it occurred to Caitie that while she knew all about Arya—the time she'd punched Jon in the face, or how she'd tried to teach Nymeria to fetch her gloves and failed miserably—Arya didn't know her.

Brienne, the wonderful, beautiful person she was, came to Caitie's rescue, despite their grievances towards each other. "I apologize; I should have introduced you. This is Lady Caitriona of—"

"We've met," said Arya flatly. "Once."

Caitie thanked every god in existence that Arya had been too young to attend Robb's nameday celebration. Of course, that didn't mean much. Gods only knew what she'd been told. "It was years ago. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't remember."

"I remember."

Of course she did.

"Well… it's nice to meet you properly, then. And Needle, too, of course," she said, remembering the thin little blade at Arya's hip.

"Lady Caitriona is a friend of your brother," Brienne explained, when Arya looked to her for clarification.

The change was instantaneous; Arya's eyes lit up with excitement, the flat expression gone. "You know Jon?"

Caitie's heart did a funny little twinge. It was strange to talk about him when he was so far away. She wished he were here, now more than ever—or that he would at least send word. "I've known him since he was a Night's Watch recruit. He gave me my daggers, too," she said, forcing a smile. "They aren't as fine as Needle—Castle Black's smithy isn't well-equipped compared to Winterfell's." The smile came more easily as she remembered that night in Castle Black's pantry so long ago. "But he broke the rules to commission them for me after I lost mine."

"Why would he do that?" There was an edge to her voice now, replacing the excitement.

Caitie shifted as she realized she'd said the exact wrong thing. "We… went through a lot together up at the Wall. It's a long story, but—"

"You were pretending to be a boy."

She stopped in her tracks, staring at Arya with wide eyes. Whenever she brought up Castle Black to strangers, there were usually four responses: confusion, disbelief, horror, or a combination of the three. No one ever just accepted that she'd lived there, and that she'd pretended to be a boy to do so.

No one, except for Arya Stark, apparently.

"How did you know that?"

She shrugged, but her lips twitched. "I tried the same thing once. It didn't work out so well."

"Oh." It was a woefully inadequate response, but what could she possibly say? Sorry your disguise didn't work, hope you weren't raped for it? Fortunately, Arya didn't seem particularly bothered by the memories this conversation had dredged up, so she took her chances. "Well, it didn't really work for me either. Not in the end, anyway."

"How long did it take?"

"About three years."

Arya shrugged. "Better than me."

"In all fairness, I had a lot of help." Caitie hesitated before committing to her path. "He missed you, you know. Jon, I mean. I don't think we ever went a single conversation without him mentioning you in the early days."

Arya froze, staring down at her feet, and Caitie didn't know if she was trying to hide tears or a scowl. But when she looked back up, her eyes were dry and her face was neutral. "What did he tell you?"

"Well, there was the time you punched him in the face."

That won her the ghost of a smile. "I barely touched him. And he deserved it, anyway."

Caitie grinned, emboldened by her success. "Oh, I'm aware. What is it with boys and trying to scare their little sisters half to death?"

"I don't know, but at least I got a good punch in."

"Always effective."

Arya snorted. "I take it you know this from experience?"

"No, my brothers were smart enough to keep a distance whenever they upset me. I had to get my revenge in other ways."

"And why do I get the feeling it involved you doing something horrible to them?" Brienne asked, her expression unusually wry.

Caitie tried not to show how thoroughly she was taken aback by it.

Podrick answered before she could. "I'm sure Lady Caitriona would never do something like that."

All three women turned to him, and Caitie saw his cheeks go pink. "Podrick," she said, "have you met me?"

Brienne sighed, but her lips twitched. "Unfortunately."

"All right," Arya said, "you've convinced me. If you want to learn that dagger trick, I'll teach you. Though, I'll warn you, it's not easy."

Caitie grinned. "I've fought Thenns. I think I can handle it."

She arched a brow. "Thenns? Really?"

"And I never got my head bashed into an anvil by one, either."

"Seven Hells, who did?" When she didn't answer right away, Arya's eyes widened. "No—"

"Jon was fine," Caitie promised. "It was a minor bashing."

There was a moment of silence before Arya sighed. "Well," she said, "it could be worse. At least it wasn't a minor stabbing."

Caitie winced, and when Arya cocked her head to the side, she said, "I'll, uh, tell you about that story a different day."

It was lucky for her that Arya didn't push; if she had, Caitie knew she wouldn't have been able to hold out. But Arya did not, and Caitie gave a grateful smile, for all she wanted right now was to be glad for this moment, and excited to have something for Jon to look forward to, if—when—he came home.

Arya is my favorite Stark sibling, if you couldn't tell. In fact, she's probably my favorite character in both the show and the books. And while she is in a bad place at the moment (joining a death cult will do that to a person), she's still Arya, and she's still the fucking coolest.