Jfc guys, we've got 300 followers, and just in time for the 3 year anniversary! That's insane. Thank you to everyone who's followed, you're all the best.

Also, Jon's chapter will be out later this week.

"How is Arya?"

The question was innocent enough, but the careful neutrality in Sansa's tone and her refusal to look up from her latest sewing project gave her away.

Sighing, Caitie set the book she was reading down on the desk in front of her. It wasn't particularly interesting or insightful, and she was secretly glad for a distraction from the monotony of the maester's writing. "Why don't you ask her that?" When Sansa didn't reply, Caitie crossed her arms over her chest. "Look, I know it's none of my business, but it's been a week since she's returned, and you've hardly spent any time with her."

Sansa scowled. "I have duties to attend to; I can't just put them off. Unless you'd prefer the entire North go without resources all winter."

"You have evenings free," Caitie pointed out. "You could invite her to join you after supper."

"As if it's that easy."

"Isn't it?"

Sansa gave a twisted, slightly bitter smile as she shook her head. "You've never had a sister. You don't know what it's like."

Caitie couldn't exactly argue with that, so she merely said, "Then why don't you tell me."

"And what would that accomplish?"

"Well, it might help you figure out how to—I don't know—talk to your sister, instead of asking me about her."

Scowling, Sansa tossed aside the half-finished dress from her lap. "I don't need to talk to her. I—" She shook her head, pressing her lips together as if to force herself to stop.

Caitie sighed. "Then what do you need? What's this really about?"

"I…" Sansa stood, pacing the length of her office and wringing her hands. At last, she said, "Brienne is sworn to me. But she's also sworn to Arya."

Caitie waited for her to continue, but she never did. "And?"

She wrung her hands again, so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Don't you understand? Look how well they get along. Look how well you get along. You've spoken with her more than you have with me this last week."

"Only because I see her in the training yard." They weren't friends; Caitie was under no illusions about that. But she did believe that Arya tolerated her better than most of the other strangers at Winterfell. Or at the very least, enjoyed hearing the stories about Jon.

"That's exactly my point."

Caitie knit her brows together as the pieces of the puzzle slowly came together. "Sansa…" she said softly, knowing that her friend would not like what she had to say. "You're not jealous of Arya, are you?"

As she had expected, Sansa scoffed. "Of course not. But you have to admit you have much more in common with her than you do with me."

"So? I have more in common with Johnna than I do with Willa, but that doesn't mean I love one less than the other."

"Yes, well, neither of them have a list of people they want to kill."

To that, Caitie could only stare, unsure whether she had heard correctly. Seeing the expression on her face, Sansa bowed her head. "I'm just disappointed. We're all so different now; Bran, Arya, and I. But I thought, after everything… Well, it doesn't matter."

"It's going to take time," Caitie said. "Look at me and Arthur. It's taken us weeks to come to terms with each other. What matters is that you have a chance."

"I suppose," Sansa replied, but she didn't look convinced. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm holding a petition in a few days. My workload should decrease once it's over. Perhaps—" But whatever Sansa might have said next, she never got the chance to do so, for a knock on the door interrupted their conversation, and any hint of vulnerability on her face disappeared as she clasped her hands behind her back and lifted her chin. Sansa Stark was gone; the Lady of Winterfell had taken her place. "Come in."

It was Maester Wolkan. "Apologies for the late hour, my ladies. Lord Bran wishes to see you."

Sansa nodded. "Of course. I've finished my duties for the night; I'll go right now."

Maester Wolkan shifted, looking decidedly uncomfortable as his eyes flitted between the two women. "Er… not you, Lady Stark."

It took Sansa a moment to realize the implication. She looked to Caitie for clarification, but in truth, Caitie was just as confused, if not more so. "Me?" she asked, and Maester Wolkan nodded. "Why?"

"I… think it's better if he explains. He awaits you in his chambers, my lady."

Exchanging one last befuddled look with Sansa, Caitie nodded. "All right."

As she exited Sansa's solar, an inexplicable sense of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She and Bran had said perhaps two words to each other since his return to Winterfell, for he spent most of his days either in the Godswood or in his chambers, and she didn't want to disturb him with introductions. And after everything Meera and Sansa had told her, she worried what he might have to say to her.

Well, she supposed there was only one way to find out.

When she reached the door to Bran's chambers, she took a deep breath and lifted her fist to knock. Before she even made contact with the wood, a voice rang out from behind it. "Come in."

Caitie stilled. Well, she thought, he is a greenseer.

She entered the room to find Bran, sitting beside the window in the contraption that had been made especially for him—a chair with wheels attached—and bundled up to his neck in furs. He watched her with a blank expression. Caitie shifted. "You asked for me?"

Bran didn't waste time with pleasantries or small-talk. "The Army of the Dead is marching towards Eastwatch-by-the-sea."

The world tilted sideways. Blood rushed to her ears and pounded against her skull. Because it couldn't be. It couldn't. They were supposed to have more time; they weren't prepared yet. "You saw them?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper.

"Yes."

"When? Where? How far away?"

"They will not reach the Wall for some months to come," he replied calmly. How he could be so calm was a mystery to Caitie. She simultaneously wanted to throw up and run screaming off the walls of Winterfell.

"But they are coming?"

"They are," he assented.

Okay, she thought, forcing her heart rate to slow through sheer will. Okay. They haven't crossed the Wall yet. We know where they are and what they're planning. And if Bran can see what we can't… "There has to be a way to keep them from crossing," she said. "The Wall has magic built into it, right?"

"It did."

"Did?" Caitie repeated. "You mean the magic's broken?" He didn't answer, gesturing instead for her to take the chair beside his. She did not. She didn't think she could have sat still if she'd tried.

"Bran," she said, when his silence continued, "what exactly do your visions show you?"

He hesitated before responding. "Many things. The past, the present, the future—"

"The future?" Caitie asked skeptically.

Bran nodded. "Paths that may be taken. Paths that may not. The future shifts. I decipher it."

She eyed him, a new suspicion taking hold and one that she, quite emphatically, did not like. However much she wanted to trust Jon's brother… Well, she wasn't entirely certain that it was Jon's brother any longer. The way he spoke, so detached—it didn't feel human. "That sounds an awful lot like prophecy," she said. "And the last person I met who spouted those liked to burn children alive."

"I am not like Melisandre; she believed she could see all the future had to offer, that her God gifted her such visions. But prophecy is only one side of the future. I see the other."

"I—what does that even mean?"

"I've seen Jon."

It was shameful how easily Bran redirected her attention. "Past, present, or future?" she asked, a little more sarcastically than intended.

"He is on Dragonstone."

"And? Is he okay?"

"He is."

Caitie didn't know why, but her stomach sank. "Then why—"

"He has his reasons for not sending a raven, but he is alive, and is being treated well."

She scoffed. What did that even mean? Was Jon not allowed to communicate with the North? If so, why did Bran think he was being treated well? He was a prisoner; that could very easily take a turn for the worse. "The queen—"

"Will not harm him."

"Right. And you know this how?"

For the second time, he did not answer her. Caitie bit back a groan. All right. Time to try a different tactic. "My lord—"

"I am not a lord." He said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly, without any emotion or conviction whatsoever, that Caitie didn't know what to say in response. Seeing her ineloquence, Bran went on. "I have written to the Citadel and told them of the threat, though I doubt it will do much good. You must write to Jon." His voice had an urgency, now, that hadn't been present before. Caitie realized that this was why he'd sent for her. Not to speak to her about the Army of the Dead, and not to come up with a plan to stop them from crossing south. To ask her to write a letter.

She tried not to let her irritation show. "But didn't you just say—"

"Receiving ravens is not the same as sending them. And he must know about the threat."

"Well, at least we can agree on something," she muttered. When she looked at Bran again, she saw something—though she didn't quite know what—flash across his features. "There's more, isn't there?"

"There is. When you write to him, you must tell him to go north of the Wall. The prospect of a ceasefire between Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen will not be enough to convince him. You will."

Caitie shook her head, willing herself to wake up. What sort of fucked up dream is this? But it didn't feel like a dream and no matter how hard she tried, she didn't wake. "What are you talking about? What ceasefire? And what does that have to do with Jon needing to go north? Why does he need to go north?"

Bran stared at her for a long moment, as if looking into her very soul. Caitie was too frustrated for it to unnerve her. At last, he said, "Tyrion Lannister will suggest traveling north to capture a wight in an attempt to convince Cersei and Daenerys of the threat. The rest I can't tell you."

Caitie couldn't help but laugh. "Is this some sort of joke? Because that is quite possibly the worst plan I have ever heard, and Sansa always told me that Tyrion was clever."

"He is. He has his reasons for this suggestion. But I can't tell you what they are. Not yet."

Caitie stared at Bran, trying to wrap her mind around what he was telling her. It just didn't seem possible. Can greenseeing cause insanity? she wondered. But what other explanation was there? That it's all true, a voice whispered at the back of her mind.

She really hoped the voice was wrong.

"You think I'm mad," Bran said. "I'm not."

"Then what are you?"

"I'm the Three-eyed Raven."

"Ah yes, because that explains everything."

"I am the last greenseer. And the last warg, save for one."

Caitie blinked. "You're a warg?"

He nodded.

She didn't know why she was surprised—but she had always thought of Johnna as the last warg; it was strange to think otherwise. She chewed on her bottom lip, taking in all the knowledge he had offered her and thinking over her next course of action. "Bran," she said, softly now, hoping that maybe she could make him see sense. "You've been north of the Wall. You know how dangerous it is. If Jon dies, there will be political upset, and I don't need to see the future to know that. The Northmen will force Sansa to go to war with the south again because they'll believe he was killed by the southerners, and we'll never defeat the White Walkers, and I'll—"

"He won't die."

"You can't know that for certain. You said yourself that the future shifts."

"It does. But I know he won't die," he assured her.

"How?"

"I can't tell you. But you must write to him."

Caitie pursed her lips. "Look, if I were to do this—if—you would have to tell me why. I won't send him back north without a reason."

For the first time, an emotion—annoyance—flashed across Bran's face. It was gone as soon as it had come. "Firstly, Daenerys Targaryen will never believe in the threat if he does not go north. Her ambition for the throne is too great. Beyond that, there are… things he must see; events which must occur, that can only occur if he takes this path."

"What events?" Bran didn't respond. She sighed. "You can't tell me. Of course."

"I can tell you that they will decide the fate of Westeros. And that you are the only one who can convince him to do what needs to be done."

"Why? You're his brother—and you're the one who saw the White Walkers. He's more likely to listen to you than me."

"I do not hold his heart. You do."

A sharp pain tore through Caitie's chest. "I—you—promise me he'll survive."

"I promise. He will not be alone in his mission."

She scoffed. Was that meant to comfort her, the complete disregard for their lives? "And what about them? Will they survive? Or do you expect me to send innocent people to their deaths?"

For what felt like the thousandth time, Bran didn't respond.

Caitie shook her head. "I can't do this."

"You have to."

"I don't have to do anything," she snapped. "Going north just to capture a wight for the chance at a ceasefire is ridiculous. And if you can't give me a better reason, then I won't do it. I'm not jeopardizing people's lives for something that may never happen."

Bran frowned. "If you do not do this, you'll be jeopardizing the lives of millions."

His words had their intended effect. Caitie froze. Millions. That was more people than the entire population of the North and the Vale combined. "Are you telling me," she said, her voice little more than a rasp, "that if Jon doesn't do this, the White Walkers win?"

He gave a single nod.

She didn't believe it. She really, truly didn't. Don't I?

"You can love," Bran said. His eyes bored into hers in a way that transcended time and space and made her want to flee. "And you can also realize that there are things more important than just your love. This is one of them."

Caitie stared, unsure whether to be amazed or horrified that Bran knew what she'd said to Maester Aemon all those years ago. She wanted to tell herself that he was just like Melisandre. She wanted not to trust him. And yet, Caitie didn't know how or why, but he was different to the red woman. He didn't make her skin crawl, the way she always had, and the knowledge he seemed to possess—it didn't feel the way hers had: dark and unnatural and evil.

Bran's knowledge felt like something ancient and powerful, yes, but not evil.

"I'll… send him a raven," Caitie said at last, feeling utterly defeated. "I don't like it, but I'll do it."

"Thank you," he said. "I wish there was another option. But to defeat evil, sacrifices must be made."

"So I've noticed," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "Of course, I don't know how you expect me to put all this information in a letter that will most likely be intercepted and read by the queen's people before it even reaches Jon."

"The only two who will read it besides Jon are… trustworthy. Mostly. But I would suggest keeping your identity and the details vague. Using your Night's Watch name should be acceptable."

Caitie hadn't the first clue how to respond to that, and in all honesty, she was too exhausted to argue any longer. "Fine." Sighing, she made to leave, but something stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to Bran. "But if I do this, then you have to do something for me. You say you're a warg?"

"I am."

"Good. I'll be sending Johnna to you after supper from now on. You're going to train her."

Bran nodded. "A reasonable request." Turning his head, he looked towards the window, his expression taking on that same blank quality as it had before. Caitie waited for him to say something more, but he did not. He didn't even seem aware of her presence any longer. She took that as a dismissal.

This is a terrible idea, she thought as she exited his chambers and walked down the halls to her own. The thought repeated itself over and over the whole way there. Even as she unscrolled a blank piece of parchment, picked up her quill, and began to write, her mind was blank of anything else but those five words. Even as the words came to her with ease.

To the King in the North, Jon Snow,

Jon. This is going to sound strange. I can't believe I'm even writing it.

Firstly, you should know that Bran and Arya are alive and at Winterfell. Before you get too upset, they're all right. I can't explain everything that's happened, but Arya is pretty much exactly how you described her and Bran… well, it's complicated. He says he's something called the Three-eyed Raven, and I don't really know what it means, but it's got something to do with greenseeing and warging. That's what he's been doing north of the Wall.

I wish I could say it's all good news, but, well, he's seen the White Walkers, and the entire Army of the Dead. They're marching south towards Eastwatch. And it gets worse because—Gods, I'm going to sound mad—but Bran believes there's something beyond the wall you need to see or do or… I'm really not sure. He won't tell me any of the details; he just insisted you had to go north. He seems to believe if you don't, the White Walkers will win.

Now, if you want my opinion, I think going back there would be your most idiotic idea to date—and yes, that includes your brilliant plan to sneak around and spy on Craster in the middle of the night—but… I don't know. Bran was adamant that going north would help us and I don't think he's a liar. It's your brother, so I suppose it's up to you to believe him or not.

Anyway, I doubt you'd be allowed to just leave. But if you somehow manage it, Seven Hells, tell me before you head to Eastwatch. Ghost and I will join you—and don't even think of telling us no. You may be king, but you're not the boss of me.

Try not to die. Your siblings would kill you for it, and so would I.

Caitie

Sealing the letter with the sigil of House Stark instead of her own, Caitie threw down the parchment onto her desk and ran a hand through her hair, with the terrible feeling that this was the worst mistake she had ever made.

"You're not going," Sansa said in a voice which echoed through the empty great hall, sharp and clear and altogether infuriating. While Brienne stood with her back to them for privacy's sake, Bran sat at her side. He stayed quiet, however, as he had since delivering the news of Jon's plans to sail to Eastwatch.

Even now, Caitie wasn't sure she had done the right thing in writing to him, so the least she could do was make sure he survived his mission. And while she didn't exactly enjoy the idea of returning to White Walker's domain, she'd gladly accept the risks if it meant she would get to see her friends—even if it was through one of the most unfortunate circumstances possible.

If only Sansa wasn't set on making it so damn difficult.

"I need you here," she continued. "Jon needs you here."

"Jon needs me north of the Wall," Caitie insisted, clutching the traveling pack she'd hastily thrown together with one hand and placing her other on Ghost's neck. "He's going to face the Army of the Dead, and I have more experience than he does with wights. So unless Tormund agrees to go with him, he'll need me."

"But I'm sure Tormund will agree, so there's no reason for you to go, too."

"There's every reason!" Caitie cried, and Ghost reacted, pawing at the ground in agitation. She took a deep breath to calm her temper, hoping it would keep him calm, too. "Sansa, you don't understand. I'm the one who told him to do this. How can you expect me to abandon him now?"

"You're not abandoning him; he needs you here, alive. And what you're suggesting now is unnecessary and dangerous—"

"So what? How come it's okay for me to throw myself into the line of fire when it helps you take back Winterfell from Ramsay—"

Sansa scowled. "Don't pretend that wasn't for your benefit, too."

She was right—it had benefited Caitie—but Caitie refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing that when she was being so frustrating. "This is my fight, Sansa. I won't stay behind. I can't."

"Caitriona," Sansa said in an infuriatingly patronizing voice, "do you have any idea what we're facing here at home? I want to let you go; I do. But I can't."

"Let me?" Caitie scoffed. "I don't recall asking for your permission."

Sansa's blue eyes flashed with anger, but Bran spoke before she could act on it. "Sansa is right," he said. "You may die if you go north, and you have to live."

"I don't care if I die," Caitie snapped. "If the White Walkers make it past the Wall, I'll probably die, anyway. I care about Jon. Don't you?"

"Of course I care!" Sansa cried, shooting up from her chair with such force that the great table rattled, black and silver skirts swirling around her. "Why do you think I'm doing any of this? Preparing the castle for siege, trying to keep the other lords from abandoning us! They're already questioning his leadership; maybe if you had been at the petition this morning instead of attacking training dummies in the courtyard, you would have known that."

"And what would I have been able to do about it? Nothing, because you insist on placating them, just like you insist on placating Littlefinger—"

"Because if I don't, then Jon loses his army! Gods, you are exactly like Arya. You have no concept of diplomacy—"

"So then why am I still here?"

"Because I need you."

The words were calculated to affect Caitie, but she refused to let them. Because it wasn't true; if anything she was a hindrance to Sansa's ability to play the diplomat. Her place wasn't at Winterfell, but the north, the real north, fighting the White Walkers with Jon and Tormund. She hated it here, where she had to sit around and pretend the people who were wrong weren't because their feelings were more important than the truth. She could bite her tongue, put her head down, and do what needed to be done—but it wasn't her. And only now, when faced with the opportunity to leave it all behind, did she realize how stifled she'd truly felt these past months.

"You don't need me," Caitie said. "You don't. And I don't see a reason to stay when my friends are throwing themselves at the Army of the Dead."

"So that's it? You're just going to go?"

"Yes."

It was that singular affirmation which seemed to reinvigorate Sansa. She lifted her chin and clasped her hands behind her back. "Fine. If that's how you'd like it to be, then as the Lady of Winterfell, and your liege lady, I am ordering you to stay."

Caitie froze in place, white-hot fury surging through her veins, obliterating any rational thought. She stormed forward, and it was lucky the great table was separating them, because if not for that, she might have throttled Sansa. It didn't matter that they were supposed to be friends—because right now, they weren't friends. Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell and Caitie was her subject. And she could believe they were equals all she wanted, but it was clear to her now that Sansa had never seen it that way.

I'm not sure I know how to be a friend anymore, she had once said. Caitie should have listened to her.

"I'd like to see you try and stop me."

Sansa's eyes went wide, whether with shock or fear it was impossible to tell, and it was only then that Caitie realized she'd placed a hand on Cerys.

Brienne pushed Sansa out of the way, eyes burning with rage on her lady's behalf. "I will not allow anyone to threaten Lady Sansa, least of all you," she growled, her sword-hand twitching towards her weapon.

Caitie couldn't help laughing—because of course the honorable Brienne of Tarth would believe her capable of such a thing. But it wasn't Brienne who had saved Sansa by fighting in the Battle of the Bastards, and it wasn't her who had saved thousands of lives at Hardhome lives before that. "Brienne, if I was threatening her, you'd know it. Come on, Ghost. Let's go."

Without waiting for an answer, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the great hall. Ghost hesitated for a fraction, before he followed; Caitie ignored the churn in her gut at the feeling that he disapproved of her. But as they traversed Winterfell's halls, her mind was oddly clear. Whatever Sansa's orders were, she could shove them somewhere anatomically impossible for all Caitie cared. It wasn't going to stop her.

She would take a horse from the stables and ride north, and if Sansa wanted to execute her for it, she was free to try once the mission beyond the Wall was complete.

The weather outside the great keep matched Caitie's mood. Thunder bellowed overhead; ice-cold rain battered Winterfell's walls in torrents and drenched the courtyard. It plastered her hair against her skin and soaked her clothes as she ran through it, boots splashing in the mud. Though it was midday, the courtyard was almost empty, for no one wanted to work outside in such conditions. Even snow would have been preferable.

Caitie held her daggers over her head as she and Ghost bolted into the stables, though it did little to keep the rain off her. Inside, horses whinnied and bucked, trying to escape from their slots. She moved past them, looking for the calmest to saddle. Only one, in the shadows, and at the very back of the stables, seemed not to have reacted to the storm. She approached slowly so as not to spook the horse, only to find the reason for its complete disregard to the thunder waiting.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You should be inside."

Arthur didn't look at her as he stroked the horse's nose. His voice was blank of emotion, which set her on edge, for it was something she hadn't heard since his return weeks ago. "You're leaving."

Caitie swallowed, and as she looked at her brother, she was unsure, for the first time, that she was making the right choice. Because the thought of saying goodbye to Arthur again was almost worse than the idea of abandoning Jon.

Somehow, she hadn't given her brother much thought at all. It had made it easier, she supposed. "I… I have to," she said, but it sounded feeble. "I don't want to but—"

Now Arthur looked up. His face was as dark and stormy as the sky outside. "But you are."

"It's too important for me not to go." She shook her head. " Look, it's difficult to explain—"

"Try. Because the way I see it, you're leaving me to run up north. Again. After you promised not to."

He's right, a voice whispered. She shook it away. He would understand; she just had to get him to listen so that she could explain it. "I know. But if I don't go, and the mission fails—wait a moment." She furrowed her brows. "How did you know I was leaving to go north?"

Arthur's jaw twitched as he looked away, muttering, "Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. The mission beyond the Wall was supposed to be a secret; only a few of us knew about it. If someone else at Winterfell, someone untrustworthy, has heard—"

"Fine," Arthur snapped, pulling away from the stallion and clenching his fists as he glared. "Johnna told me. She was with Bran when he had his vision, remember? Or have you forgotten about her, too?"

"I didn't realize she had been studying with him this morning," Caitie said, ignoring his needling. "But she shouldn't have told you."

"Don't make this about her; she's not at fault for any of it! This is about you! You're afraid something might happen to the king, even though Johnna says that Bran is sure he'll be fine, so you're leaving because he matters more to you than we do—than I do."

"That's not—that's not true, Arthur. It's more complicated than—"

"Gods, Riona. I hate you, do you know that?"

Her heart stopped. "What?"

"I hate you. I hate you!" he bellowed, and Caitie could see the tears overflowing from his eyes. "I hate that you left and I hate that you came back and I hate that you lied, because you still don't care about me like you do about your real family! And I care about you, even though I wish I didn't! I wish I could just leave you like you left me, but I can't and I hate you for it!"

Tears to match his poured down her cheeks. She stepped forward and drew him into a hug. Arthur tried to fight her, but it was feeble; he sank to his knees with the force of his sobs, pulling her down to the hay-strewn ground with him. For how long they sat, she didn't know, as she rubbed his back in circles the way she used to when he was a child. "You are my real family," she said. "And you're right. You're my first priority. So… I'll stay."

There was no choice about it. She had abandoned Arthur before. Over and over, she'd had to make a choice between him and others; over and over, she had chosen others. But now… she had her brother back. And she could not throw that away. Not even for Jon.

She could feel his necklace burning into her skin. I'm sorry.

Arthur sniffled into her riding dress. "If this is just because you feel guilty and now you think you owe it to me or—"

"It's not that. I want to stay. I don't want to have to say goodbye to you again. I love you."

"It doesn't feel like it."

Caitie couldn't blame him. "I know."

"Why did you want to go?" he asked. "Did you even think about me? What would happen to me if you died?"

"I think it was easier not to." She pulled away from him so that she could see his face, though it was so red and puffy she hardly recognized him. "I'm sorry; I'm so sorry. I thought—I've spent so long wanting you to be safe, thinking that you would be all right as long as you were. I guess I'm just still getting used to the idea that you want me around."

"That's really stupid," Arthur choked, wiping snot from his nose.

She laughed through her tears. "Yeah, it really is. But I want to stay, always. I promise." And Caitie might have hated that she was leaving Jon to go north on his own, might have despised herself for not being there with him, for that was what he had always done for her. But this, at least, was the truth. For Arthur, and for Johnna and Willa, because they needed her, too, she would always stay.

It was hours later by the time she returned to her room. Arthur had finally nodded off to sleep in his chair, eyes still a little puffy from the hours of crying. Caitie had hauled him to his bed, smothered him with blankets, left a note that she would be in her chambers should he need her, and left him to his snores.

Outside, the sun had set; the rain had turned to snow and ice. She didn't need to look to know that those who'd sheltered away during the thunderstorm were now trickling back outside for faster access to the great keep. Supper would start soon, where Sansa would preside. Caitie might have gone under normal circumstances, or at the very least to bring Arthur back some soup for when he woke, but she didn't think she could face Sansa just yet.

And if she'd tried, Brienne would probably have run her through on sight, anyway.

Once Ghost was inside, too, Caitie shut her door and sagged against it, sighing as the weight of the day settled upon her. Please, she begged whichever deity might listen, let Jon be okay. Let Tormund have gone with him. Let them both live.

"You threatened my sister."

Caitie nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, eyes scanning the dimly lit room, and quickly found what she was looking for: Arya Stark, watching her with a passive expression by the bed, one hand stroking Ghost, who had padded over to her whilst Caitie had been distracted, and both her dagger and Needle on her belt.

"How did you get in here?"

Arya shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

At any other time, Caitie might have been angry, for she knew she had locked her door—she hadn't thought she would be returning for weeks, if at all, the last time she had left it—and the only way Arya could have gotten in was by picking the lock.

Right now, though? She didn't particularly care. "Does everyone know?"

"Not yet."

"So you were spying on us."

"I was."

Caitie eyed Needle, shifting, ever-so-slightly into a defensive position. If Arya noticed, she didn't show it; she seemed focused to a fault on… something else, though it was unclear what that something was. "Well then, are you here to kill me for it? I'm armed, but from what I've seen, you'd probably still win."

Arya's lips twitched. "Not today. Ghost wouldn't let me, and at any rate, I don't think Jon would forgive me if I killed you."

Caitie flinched. She didn't want to think about Jon. If she thought about Jon then she would remember where he was headed right now. Without me. "He'd forgive you just about anything," she said weakly.

"But not killing you. See, I asked around after I met you," Arya said. "It didn't take long for me to realize what you mean to him. And after hearing your argument with my sister, it's clear he means the same to you."

Caitie scowled. This was not a conversation she wanted to have right now. And she didn't appreciate Arya cornering like prey and forcing her to—especially when she'd broken into her room. "What do you want, Arya?"

"You love him," was the answer she gave, and so matter-of-factly that it stunned Caitie into silence. "You'll do anything to protect him, so I want you to help me. Do you think Sansa would betray him?"

She blinked. "What?"

Arya drew closer, murder in her dark eyes, and despite her assurance that she wasn't going to kill, Caitie still took a step back and placed a palm on her Owen's hilt. "Would. Sansa. Betray. Him?"

"Of course not."

Arya scoffed. "She says Jon is our king, but that's a lie. She's always wanted to be a queen. Always cared about herself and her pretty things more than her family. Why should now be any different?"

"That was years ago. She's not the same person she was back then, any more than you or I are."

Arya arched a brow. "You're still loyal to her? Even after today?"

Caitie opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She didn't know why she hesitated; what transpired between her and Sansa today didn't change what they'd been through together. Even if they weren't friends, she was still Jon's sister, still the best hope for the North in his absence, and still someone Caitie cared about.

But she couldn't bring herself to say yes.

"I don't know."

Arya gave a resolute nod. "This will help you make up your mind." Before Caitie could ask what she meant, Arya took a scroll from inside her sleeve and held it out. "Read it."

It was an order, not a request. And while the stubborn, willful part of Caitie refused to be bullied by someone who had broken into her bedroom, and was now ordering her around as if they had any right to do so, the part of her that wanted to understand why Arya was so insistent about her sister's duplicity seemed more important. And so she accepted the scroll without arguing, quickly taking note of Sansa's perfectly delicate handwriting as she read.

Robb, I write to you with a heavy heart. Our good king Robert is dead, killed from wounds he took in a boar hunt. Father has been charged with treason. He conspired with Robert's brothers against my beloved Joffrey and tried to steal his throne. The Lannisters are treating me very well and provide me with every comfort. I beg you: come to King's Landing, swear fealty to King Joffrey and prevent any strife between the great houses of Lannister and Stark.

Your faithful sister, Sansa

Caitie supposed that Arya expected her to be incensed upon reading the words Sansa had written to Robb so many years ago; betrayed on behalf of Jon and the North and even herself. Instead, it had the opposite effect. For Sansa might have never mentioned this letter in particular, but she'd spoken about enough of her regrets for Caitie to know, without a doubt, that the person who'd written these words was long dead. And it was difficult to stay angry when met with the remnant of a terrified young girl who didn't know just how much she would lose in the years to come; who had been lied to, and manipulated, and was now unfairly paying a thousandfold for it.

Most of all, it made Caitie truly understand, for the first time, why Sansa had stopped her from leaving. I need you, she had said, and Caitie had thought it was because she needed help in managing the other Northern lords, but now she realized that wasn't the case at all; Sansa had won them over already, and she was more than capable of handling them without help. No, it was because she had lost her father and mother and brothers—and the only brother she'd found had left her again. She was terrified of losing Caitie, too.

Shit. I need to talk to her. But first… Caitie looked up. "I don't understand. Where did you get this?"

"Littlefinger," Arya said. "He planted it for me to find."

"And you took the bait? Why?"

"I wanted to see what was so important to him."

"Have you spoken to Sansa about this?"

There was no response to her question. Hells, what was it about the Starks and refusing to answer her questions?

"I'll take that as a no," she said. "So, why are you showing it to me?"

"I already told you," Arya snapped.

"No, you really didn't. You said you wanted my help, but with what? What do you want me to do with the information you're giving me?"

To this, she merely crossed her arms over her chest, scowling once more—and it was only then that Caitie realized the truth: Arya had no plan. "You should ask Sansa about this letter," she said. "If you want to know why she wrote it and what she thinks of it now, then she's the one to talk to, not me."

If looks could kill, Caitie would have been a dead woman. "Fine," Arya growled. And before Caitie could react, she had grabbed the letter and slammed the door behind her.

Okay look, I know keeping the wight hunt is going to be controversial. But without the wight hunt, Jon, Tormund, Jorah, Gendry, and the Hound don't get to have their orgy up north (Beric and Thoros weren't invited because no one wanted to hear them crying the Lord of Light's name whilst coming), and that has to happen. For plot reasons.