Uh. Hi. I'm back. Sorry. It's been a… bad few months. I won't go into why, but yeah. On the bright side, I have some good news: I'm almost entirely caught up with all my updates on AO3! This will be my last chapter that isn't also cross-posted over there, so if you've been chained to FFnet in order to read all the latest updates of AGotNW, I am happy to tell you that by the next update you'll be free of the burden (but don't worry if you prefer FFnet, I'll still be continuing to post here, too!)

They got to work right away.

The easiest part was sending the ravens; Arthur to Norwood and its vassals, Caitie to the Night's Watch, Sansa to all the rest, with strict orders to leave no one behind north and east of Winterfell, and to bring any and all Valyrian steel weapons they could find. Waking the castle was harder, for no one was particularly happy to start work in the dead of the night, but it was imperative. There were fortifications they needed to build, camps they needed to organize, and as motivated as Caitie was, she couldn't do it all on her own.

When it came to Winterfell's crypts, she didn't think they could manage it at all, even with help. Thousands of years of architecture went into the underground caverns, and hundreds upon hundreds of bodies lay in its many chambers. The uppermost levels housed the more recent Lords of Winterfell and their families; it was where Sansa and Arya's father, brother, aunt, uncle, and grandparents all lay resting, among a few earlier generations. The lower levels of the crypts seemed less of a danger, at least. The bodies would have decayed too much for the White Walkers to raise them, and the tunnels leading to the lowest levels of all had long ago collapsed.

It was therefore decided, after much debate, that they would seal the tunnels to the lower levels of the crypts as best they could, and burn the bodies of those housed in the upper levels. By morning, smoke from the pyres Sansa's men had built filled Winterfell's courtyard; through the haze, Caitie watched the remains of Eddard Stark burn to ash.

"I'm sorry we have to do this," she said, looking up at her friend.

Sansa didn't take her eyes off her father's pyre. "It was necessary."

"That doesn't make it easier."

"They're dead," Arya said. "And if your description of a wight is true, then I'd rather they stay that way."

Caitie sighed. "I wish it weren't."

"But it is," Sansa said. "At least now our family will stay at rest."

Arya nodded, and the three women fell into silence. When at last the embers died, fading from bright orange to dull ochre and finally to black, they headed back through the ironwood door and down the narrow spiral steps into the crypts.

That Sansa and Arya allowed Caitie to accompany them meant more than words could say, for Winterfell's crypts were a Stark place. Jon had asked her, what felt like a lifetime ago, to join him and Sansa in laying Rickon to rest, but that had been different. He'd needed her there, unable to stomach facing the little brother he'd failed with just Sansa.

But Arya and Sansa didn't need Caitie, and yet they'd invited her, regardless. She did not take such an invitation lightly.

With Ghost in tow, they strode past the tombs they'd already emptied, from Rickon and Eddard, to Lyanna and Brandon, to Rickard and his wife Lyarra. As she followed Sansa and Arya, Caitie stopped to look at the statues properly for the first time; Lyanna Stark's, in particular. It was almost unheard of for anybody but the Lord of Winterfell to receive a statue, but Ned Stark had ordered one carved for his brother and sister. Her likeness towered over Caitie, her stone eyes cold and imposing, dried candle wax dripping off her outstretched hand, and a stone direwolf at her side.

When the live direwolf stopped following Sansa and Arya to return to Caitie, Sansa turned back around. "What is it?" she asked, retracing her steps to join Caitie at Lyanna Stark's statue. Arya followed her sister until the three of them were looking up into the carved face of the wolf maid.

"It's… nothing," Caitie lied, for the truth was, Lyanna, Rickard, and Brandon's statues all had the same effect on her. And she knew it was ridiculous; after all, she wasn't even a Stark, and she hadn't been the one to give up Northern lives to the Targaryens. But she had counseled Jon to meet Daenerys Targaryen. She had counseled him to betray everything his family had died for, and even though she knew the White Walkers were the bigger threat, even though she knew the queen's armies were necessary to defeat them, she still felt as though she'd made it so the Starks' deaths meant nothing.

Caitie clutched at the necklace Jon had given her. I'm sorry.

"I know," Sansa said, squeezing her arm. "I feel it, too, when I look at her. At all of them."

"Feel what?" Caitie asked, needing to hear, in all certainty, that she wasn't alone.

"Guilt."

Arya sighed, staring up at the face of her aunt—the aunt, who, by all accounts, had looked just like her. "Do you think this Daenerys is better than Rhaegar and Aerys?"

Sansa huffed. "Well, she's not bringing any food to feed her own armies, and I highly doubt she would have helped us fight if Jon hadn't gotten a promise from Cersei, however false it might be."

Arya sighed. "Yeah, as much as I'd like to, I can't defend him on this one." She frowned. "Do you think Aunt Lyanna would understand why he did it?"

"I don't even understand why he did it," Sansa said. "And I know him."

Arya looked past her sister to Caitie. "What do you think?"

"I think…" Caitie shook her head, letting her hand drop to her side. "I think we should move on."

Arya and Sansa exchanged a look—one which was indecipherable to Caitie but irked her to no end. She ignored them, clicking her tongue at Ghost. He followed without complaint, brushing against her side as they walked.

The Stark sisters fell into step with them without another word, and they continued on, passing through multiple other chambers, housing the tombs and statues of Lords Edwyle, Willam, Beron, and a second Brandon Stark, along with all their families, until, at last, Caitie, Sansa, and Arya reached a second spiral stone staircase leading down, half-overrun with moss and lichen. They took the steps one by one, backs to the wall as they tried not to slip.

Eventually, the steps gave way to a wide-open room that much resembled the chambers above them, with tombs separated by granite pillars supporting a domed ceiling. The air was chillier here, and smelled of wet earth. The only light by which to see was their torches, but Sansa quickly lit the braziers closest to them, bringing the room to life and allowing them to search the place to their heart's content.

This level was home to some of the most well-known Starks in history. As Sansa and Arya catalogued their tombs and Ghost sniffed whichever corner took his fancy, Caitie left, drawn away to the very last chamber on this level of the crypts: the one which housed Torrhen Stark, the King who Knelt. Though he'd once been a king, his statue had no crown, and as she stared up at his likeness, Caitie wondered if there was ever a moment when he regretted kneeling to Aegon the Conqueror, or if he'd rested easy, knowing he'd spared the North and all its people from the field of fire that Aegon had promised, should they resist.

She wondered if Jon had faced the same dilemma. But after what Bran had said, she wasn't sure.

Sighing, Caitie looked away, ready to move on from Torrhen Stark and all this… guessing. She wanted to finish her work in the crypts, and spend whatever time she had left with the people she loved.

As her torch shifted with her movements, the light hit a patch of stones behind Torrhen Stark's statue, and that was when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something odd.

The stones that encased Winterfell's crypts were all largely uniform; the same, medium-sized, slightly rounded, grey granite blocks. There was no exception to this in Torrhen Stark's crypt—but for one, directly behind the statue's head. In truth, it was so subtle as to be almost non-existent, but with the bright light of her torch illuminating the wall, she could see the slight shift in color between it and its surrounding brethren.

"Sansa!" Caitie called, not taking her eyes off the stone, afraid that if she looked away it might disappear.

It didn't take long to hear the telltale click of Sansa's heels against the ground. "What is it?" she asked.

Caitie frowned, maneuvering around the statue to get a better look at the stones behind it. "Come look. There's something different about one of the stones on this wall," she said. And sure enough, the closer she got, the stranger it looked, for not only was it a shade darker, it was also smoother, as if it had been sanded down. "I wonder if—" She leaned forward and pressed a hand to the stone.

Nothing happened.

"Let me see," Sansa said, and Caitie backed up to allow her more room. She furrowed her brows as she observed. "You're right, that is different." And after a moment's hesitation, she placed her hand on the stone and pushed.

Again, nothing happened.

They exchanged a glance. Caitie frowned, cocking her head to the side as she stared at the wall, willing it to reveal its secrets to her.

"What do you think?" Sansa asked.

"Well, I suppose I could try prying it off with Owen and Cerys."

"Ah, no. I'd prefer it if you didn't desecrate my ancestral home," Sansa said wryly. She furrowed her brows. "Perhaps it's simply a flaw in the design of the crypts. Even Bran the Builder couldn't build an absolutely perfect castle, and Starks ever since have added onto it with whatever we could find."

Caitie stilled. Bran the Builder…

She rounded on Sansa, eyes wide with excitement, and though she knew, realistically, that this was likely to end in abject failure, she couldn't help herself. Because Bran had given her the clue hours earlier. "Sansa, give me your hand."

Sansa blinked. "What? Why?"

"Because I think—oh, if I try to explain it, I'll only sound ridiculous," Caitie said, grinning like a mad woman. "Trust me!"

Sansa pursed her lips, looking as though she was already regretting her decision. Nevertheless, she extended her hand and allowed Caitie to hold it up as she unsheathed Owen. "What are you—ow!" Sansa exclaimed, pulling her hand away.

"Sorry, sorry. Just—put the finger I pricked on the stone."

"I swear, if you've involved me in some strange, blood magic ritual, I'll—"

"Just do it already!"

Sansa glared daggers but did as she was asked, pressing her bloody finger to the stone.

Nothing happened. Caitie's heart sank.

And then, as if to prove her wrong, the crypts shuddered around them, the stone wall behind the statue groaning as it slid aside to reveal a small passageway, cloaked in darkness.

"Seven Hells," Sansa breathed. "Maester Luwin always said there were secret passageways hidden throughout Winterfell. I simply thought we knew them all. What—" She shook her head. "How did you know my blood would do that?"

"It's what Bran told me earlier—Bran the Builder imbued Winterfell with magic, tying it to Stark blood. So I thought, if Bran the Builder could, then maybe Torrhen Stark could, too. You said yourself Starks have been adding onto the castle for thousands of years."

"But that magic was lost, wasn't it?"

"Not until after the Targaryens conquered us."

For once, the mention of Targaryens didn't seem to faze Sansa. She gazed at the passageway, eyes wide with wonder. "Should we…"

Caitie shugged. "It's your castle."

"Where's Arya?"

"Here."

Caitie and Sansa both jumped, spinning around to face Arya, who had somehow managed to place herself right behind them without making a sound.

Sansa scowled. "Must you do that?"

Arya smirked. "Apparently." She stood on her tiptoes and looked over their shoulders. "I see you've found something."

Caitie nodded. "Do you have any idea where it leads?"

"It's hard to tell underground," Arya said. "But… south, I think."

"Wintertown?" Sansa asked.

Arya shrugged, glancing at Caitie. "Let's find out." Sansa nodded in agreement, but as she stepped forward to lead the way, Arya grabbed her arm. "Wait," she said. "I think you should stay here."

Sansa arched a brow. "I highly doubt there are any White Walkers lurking in the crypts."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Funny, but that's not the problem. We don't know where this passage will take us. We could come out anywhere. Even if it's not the dead, it could be bandits or Gold Cloaks—"

"I have two of the best warriors in Winterfell with me. And a fully grown direwolf. I think I'll be all right. Besides, we won't end up anywhere south of the Neck. Even for Bran the Builder it would be too far." When Arya frowned, Sansa's lips curved into a small smile. "Are you worried about me?"

"No!" Arya exclaimed, but when Sansa continued to smile down at her, waiting expectantly, she raised her arms in surrender. "Fine. Your funeral." She edged past Sansa, taking the lead, and held up a hand to keep them in place as she peered into the darkness. When she was sufficiently satisfied, Arya nodded, and started walking. Sansa followed, Caitie and Ghost behind her. It was a tight squeeze with the direwolf, but they made do.

She could see nothing but darkness ahead; the only light came from their torches, yet still they walked, persisting even as the excitement wore off and doubt crept in. After a long while, the passageway sloped downwards, taking them deeper and deeper into the earth below Winterfell.

"In hindsight," Caitie said, "we probably should have told someone that we were leaving."

Arya snorted. "With the guards we have, I doubt any of them will notice."

"We really do need to get better ones, don't we?"

Sansa huffed. "If it truly bothers you two that much, why don't you train them?"

"I'll pass," Arya said. "Caitie can, though. She probably knows loads about sitting around and watching things."

Caitie shook her head. "The only thing I ever watched at the Wall were some trees, and maybe a horse or two." When both Starks furrowed their brows, she shrugged. "Wildlings never snuck over the Wall near Castle Black, so nothing interesting ever happened. Really, whenever we had watch duty as recruits, Grenn and I would just sit around, bored out of our minds the entire time."

"Didn't you talk to each other?"

"No," she said. "I was trying not to get close to anyone besides Sam and Jon, and he—well, honestly, I think I scared him a bit. In more ways than one."

"But weren't you two…" Sansa trailed off, but the unspoken question was clear.

"Not for another few years."

"Oh."

The three of them fell into an awkward silence as they continued their walk. Every step they took, the silence grew more suffocating, until at last Caitie couldn't bear it any longer. She kept jumping at the shadows flickering off the walls from their torchlights, kept hearing phantom footsteps stalking them. She felt like a five-year-old, afraid of the monster beneath her bed, and the only thing which comforted her was Ghost. If he thought there was danger, he would let them know about it, and at the moment, he seemed content to walk by her side. If only he could speak. Then she'd truly feel better.

At last, she said, "Can we please talk about something?"

"Like what?" Arya asked.

"I don't know. I just can't stand this quiet, it's driving me mad."

"We could play a game."

"Please don't," said Sansa in a pained voice. "The last game you suggested ended with you threatening to cut my face off."

"I wasn't serious. But fine, we'll leave you out of it. So, how many people have you killed?"

"Me?" Caitie asked. "That depends. Do wights count?"

"No."

"Then somewhere between one and two hundred, probably. What about you?"

Arya took a moment to think about it. "More than ten. Less than fifty. Sansa?"

Sansa let out a long, pained sigh before she answered. "Just the two. Although, I'm sure a great many blame Tyrion and I for Joffrey's death."

"Well, the person who killed him is dead, so you might as well take credit for it. But we'll get your count up by winter's end, anyway."

She gave an undignified snort. "I'll leave the killing to you, I think."

Arya looked over her shoulder. "I knew there was a reason you're my favorite sister."

"I'm your only sister."

It was nothing more than a wry comment, and yet Arya laughed—actually laughed—full and loud and completely at odds with the version of herself she displayed to the world. It ended much too soon as her steps halted as she held up an arm to signal them to stop, too. "There's a room ahead."

"What?" asked Sansa. "How do you know?"

"When you're in doubt, trust your nose and your ears," Arya answered, and left it at that.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the small tunnel opened up into a room about the size of Caitie's bedchambers. Cobwebs hung in every corner and divot in the stone—of which there were many, for the place was crumbling. At the opposite end, the passageway continued. But resting beside the opposite wall to them were two statues, made from the same granite as all the ones in the crypts, hands entwined and crowns atop their heads.

"Is that…?"

"Torrhen Stark," Sansa breathed. "And his wife, Queen Caitriona."

They approached the statues, and as the light from the torches brought them into view, Caitie noticed words carved into the granite base. She leaned down, squinting as she tried to make out the letters. "We exist because they allow it and we will end because they demand it. But when that day comes, the people of the North will live." She frowned. "What does that mean? The White Walkers?"

"No," Sansa said. "This is Torrhen Stark's tomb, not Bran the Builder's. It's about the dragons. The Targaryens."

Arya sighed. "I always admired Visenya, you know. But now…"

Caitie swallowed the lump in her throat, for she understood, having also admired Visenya Targaryen as a child. But that was back when the Targaryens were nothing more than a mere memory, their dragons even less than that. It was back when their names had been just names, and their reign of terror a part of the distant past. It was different now, when facing the prospect of subjugation and oppression once more. All the magic and culture they'd lost...

She thought of her old childhood daggers, which she'd found upon her recent visit and packed away in her wardrobe to save, too unused to the weight to wield anymore. A part of her had felt guilty for not using them at the time, but now she was glad for it. The idea of carrying them again, weapons named for the Targaryens, sickened her. It made her feel like she was betraying her ancestors, her people, her culture; everyone who had been brave enough to die for the crime of refusing assimilation.

And then that sickness turned to a rage fiercer than she'd ever known before, taking root in her chest and expanding until she could scarcely breathe. For that was what the Targaryen conquerors did: they burned and tortured, and then pretended that they'd had no choice, as if it was the fault of those who refused to kneel instead of those who rode in on dragons and demanded submission. It disgusted her in a way that only Stannis ever had, and she could only hope that Jon's position had been the same as Torrhen Stark, because if not, she didn't think she could ever forgive him for giving up their freedom; their hope.

Sansa took her by the arm, her face soft and apologetic—and Caitie hated it, hated that Sansa had seen, even for a moment, how betrayed she felt by Jon's decision. How much this hurt. "We can turn back, if you want."

Caitie shook her head. The Targaryens didn't matter so long as the White Walkers still remained at large. That was where her focus needed to be, so she took Jon and Torrhen Stark's words, and locked them away for her to grieve later. "No. We have to see what's at the other end."

Both Starks nodded, faces equally grim. The three of them continued on in silence, but this time Caitie couldn't muster any fear. She was simply… too drained for that, for what could be worse than what waited for them beyond the crypt?

Ghost picked up on her melancholy, as he always did, whining and nudging at her arm. She scratched his ears as they walked, wondering how many minutes—hours, more likely by now—had passed since they first found this place.

Eventually, the passage sloped upwards once more. Following Arya's advice, Caitie sniffed. The faint scent of snow and pine trees and fresh air filled her nostrils.

She opened her mouth to voice her findings, but Arya spoke first. "It's a dead end." She paused to look up. "There."

Caitie followed her gaze and there she saw it: a round, ironwood door set into the ceiling.

Arya stood on her tip-toes to get a better look. "Interesting."

"What?" Sansa asked.

"This locks from the inside."

Caitie frowned; that didn't seem particularly unusual for a door leading to a secret passage. "So?"

"It means that no matter where this ends up, no one can get into the tunnel from the outside." Without waiting for an answer, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and pulled herself up and through, disappearing from view. After a moment, her disembodied hand reappeared, grasping Sansa's, then Caitie's—and for someone so small, she was surprisingly strong, able to pull them both up and out of the tunnel with little effort.

Bright light washed over them; Caitie blinked as her eyes adjusted. Beyond the light, she could make out green, brown, and white blurs that stretched up to the sky. Well, that would explain the smell.

"Ghost, stay," Arya said, peering into the hole in the ground where red eyes were staring up at them. The direwolf whined, but did as ordered, stretching out on the stone floor. As he rested his head on his paws, the three women turned away and surveyed their surroundings. The door they'd emerged from was lodged halfway underneath a large boulder, unable to open fully. But the top of it matched the surrounding foliage, making it indistinguishable from the forest floor.

"Where are we?" Caitie asked, looking around for some hint of their location. They were in the Wolfswood—that, at least, was obvious—and she doubted they could be more than a league from Winterfell, judging from the length of their walk.

Arya licked her forefinger and held it up. "The wind is blowing in from the north, which means we're south of Winterfell."

"We're in the Wolfswood," Sansa said. "Are you sure we're not west?"

"Not unless the wind direction has changed since we left Winterfell. But this part of the forest looks familiar; I think we're just south of Wintertown."

Sansa froze, lips parting as she looked between them, and eyes lighting up with something like glee. "Are you certain?" she asked.

Arya arched a brow. "You doubt me?"

"No, I don't." Sansa rounded on Caitie. "You realize what this means, don't you? If this passageway leads out of the crypts and takes us south of Wintertown, and if we need to evacuate Winterfell at some point during the battle with the Army of the Dead…"

Caitie shook her head. "I don't know; we'd have to put all of our non-combatants in the crypts to begin with, and considering what the White Walkers do, that seems like an unnecessary risk."

"But we're already sealing off everything below Torrhen's tomb. The dead won't be able to get through, if they're even able to rise. I can give Johnna some of my blood, and if the worst comes to pass, then she can lead everyone out of Winterfell."

Caitie chewed on her lip as she gave it some thought, for she knew what Bran had said—that if Winterfell was lost, then the White Walkers would have all but won, but there still might be a point where the non-fighters needed to evacuate regardless of whether the battle still raged. And seeing Sansa's hope…

Well, Caitie thought, perhaps Torrhen Stark wasn't able to save anyone from the Targaryens, but he might just have saved a lot of innocent people from the White Walkers.

They arrived back at Winterfell a few hours after they'd left, sweaty, exhausted, covered in dirt and dust from the crypts, and in Caitie's case, more than ready for a hot bath and a soft bed. She hadn't realized how close to nightfall it was, nor how long she'd been awake, but now it was impossible to avoid; her eyes itched and her legs felt too light to support her weight, yet she followed Sansa and Arya out the door from the crypts, trying to hide the fact that she could hardly put one foot in front of the other, even with Ghost helping to prop her up.

Unfortunately for her, Arya was too perceptive. "You look like you're about to drop dead."

Caitie waved her off. "I'll manage. I still have to coordinate the arrival of my men with your guards—"

"Arthur said he would deal with all of that," Sansa said. "You should get some rest; you've been awake even longer than I have."

"No, if there's no more work left, then I should find the girls. I promised Johnna and Willa I'd join them once I fin—" She broke off to yawn for the second time in two minutes. "Fuck."

Arya rolled her eyes. "If you go to bed, tomorrow I can start teaching you archery. But I'm not letting you touch a bow and arrow if you can't keep your eyes open."

Caitie groaned. On their way back to Winterfell, and due to some sort of madness brought on by sleep-deprivation, she'd asked Arya to give her archery lessons—as it was, after all, the best way to fight the dead without getting swarmed.

She was already regretting that decision.

"You can't be that bad," Arya said.

"You'd be surprised."

As they emerged into the courtyard, a guard approached. "Lady Stark. Lady Arya. Lady Caitriona. We've finished digging out paths in the snow; we can begin work on the trenches outside the castle at your command."

Sansa nodded her assent, and the guard departed.

"I hate it when they call me that," Arya muttered.

"We could find you a new title," Sansa suggested. "If you want."

"Such as?"

"I don't know, let me think about it."

Caitie rubbed her eyes, stifling yet another yawn, and watched as a covered cart pulled by a single horse drove through Winterfell's gates. Likely it was a family from north of Winterfell looking for shelter. Usually she would have helped settle them inside the castle, but Gods, she was just too tired to do anything more today.

"Well, while you two are busy coming up with Arya's new title," she said, "I think I'm going to take your advice and go to—" She stopped mid sentence as the cart grew closer, for she could make out the two people sitting upon it, and—

It can't be.

"Caitriona?" Sansa asked, but Caitie could hardly hear, let alone respond, her heart beating through her chest as if trying to escape. She didn't want to hope. She didn't want to be disappointed, yet her legs still rushed forward, all her exhaustion forgotten in the wake of…

She reached the cart and, Gods; it wasn't a product of her exhaustion playing tricks on her mind. It was real. She hurled herself at the man driving, a broken sob falling from her lips, tears of relief and giddiness streaming down her cheeks.

A pair of familiar large arms wrapped around her and pulled her tight. "It's good to see you, Kitty," Sam murmured. Behind him, Caitie could hear Gilly's soft laugh as she placed a hand on her shoulder.

"But—I—you—how—" The rest was an incoherent, blubbering mess.

Sam chuckled. "I think it's safe to say that she missed us."

"I think so," agreed Gilly.

She pulled away to look at them properly for the first time in years. Sam's hair had grown since the last time she'd seen him; he wore it slicked back, now, instead of letting it lay however it liked, and the change made him look so much more distinguished than he had as a steward in the Night's Watch. Gilly's hair was covered by a shawl, but her cheeks had filled out, her eyes were bright and alert, and she looked—well, happy. Sitting in her lap, asleep, was Little Sam, who had changed the most of all. He was almost too big for her to pick up, now, with sturdy legs and arms, and he looked more like a child than a baby, with a mop of thick blonde hair.

"Gods be good, Kitty, you look beautiful!"

She snorted. "Careful, Sam, or Gilly might get the wrong idea."

"Oh, you know what I meant. You look like—well, a lady."

"And you do look really beautiful," Gilly added.

She shook her head, her heart too full for her chest. "I don't understand. What are you doing here? You should still be at the Citadel, shouldn't you?"

Sam and Gilly exchanged heavy looks. "Things got… complicated at the Citadel," he said. "But I know the White Walkers are coming, and—"

"And we want to be here," Gilly finished. "With our family—with you."

Sam nodded. "I brought books."

"Books," Caitie repeated, half-laughing, because it was just so very Sam to bring her books after so long apart. "I never would have guessed." Her smile fell as she remembered their last conversation before separating. "What happened to becoming a maester?"

Sam grimaced. "It's a long story."

She snorted, because if her last few years were any indication, a long story would be an understatement. "I'll bet. But I can't complain; I missed you all so, so much."

Sam smiled, and she nearly burst into tears again. "We missed you, too."

"More than anything," Gilly added. "And so did Little Sam."

A throat cleared behind them, and Caitie spun around. Sansa was waiting with her hands clasped behind her back and a smile on her face. Beside her, Ghost sat patiently.

"Ghost!" Sam exclaimed with a grin. "There's my favorite direwolf. C'mere, boy!" The direwolf padded over to join them, allowing Sam to lavish him with affection.

Sansa smiled at them. "Am I to assume that this is the Sam and Gilly I've heard so much about?"

Caitie nodded. "Sam, Gilly, this is Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell."

Sam tried to bow, but it was difficult while sitting. "An honor to meet you, my lady."

Sansa waved him down. "Any friend of Caitriona is a friend of mine. She's told me quite a lot about you—as has Jon."

"He's not here, is he?" All of a sudden, Caitie's smile was strained; Sam knew her well enough to pick up on it immediately, but he was also kind enough not to say anything. "Well, that's all right. But you have to tell me everything."

He exchanged another look with Gilly, and though it was indecipherable to Caitie, she seemed to understand. "I should get Little Sam to bed."

"If you like," Sansa said, "I'll escort you to your chambers, and have some supper sent up." She looked between them. "Will you be sharing?"

Sam and Gilly exchanged a glance before Gilly nodded.

"I'll put you in our finest guest chambers—Caitriona, you know which one I mean?"

"The free one next to Arthur's?" she asked. It was the one of the largest of Winterfell's guest chambers, meant for high lords, and certainly big enough for a family of three.

Sansa nodded. "You can direct Sam there when you've finished." With that, she smiled at Gilly and led her away. The last thing Caitie heard before they disappeared inside the castle was Gilly inquiring about Winterfell's library.

"Well," Sam said, "she's nothing like I was expecting."

Caitie sighed. "Me neither. But she's actually really lovely. Most of the time."

He smiled and offered up his arm, which she took instantly. As she led him away from the courtyard, he asked, "Arthur?"

"Arthur," she agreed. "It's been… I don't even know where to start. There's so much to tell you."

He leaned the side of his head against hers. "Well, we have all the time in the world."

And so she did, first as they walked, then once they'd reached her bedchambers, in the same plush chairs she'd once occupied with Arthur. It was easiest to start from the beginning; her time with the Free Folk in Queenscrown, then Jon's death and subsequent resurrection. Sansa's arrival at Castle Black, their quest to retake the North, and finally everything that had happened after the end of the Battle of the Bastards, omitting only the strangest parts, for those could wait until later. By the time she'd finished, what little light had seeped through her window was gone, and only the fire in her hearth allowed her to see Sam's expression as she spoke.

When she finished, he stared at her for a long moment, unable to find the right words. She couldn't blame him. "Well," he said at length, "you've certainly had quite the adventure while we've been away."

She laughed. "That's one way to put it."

They retreated into their own thoughts, then, and Caitie was content with that, at least for now.

Sam, however, had other ideas. He shifted in his seat, not quite looking at her as he asked, "Melisandre—she really did bring him back from the dead?"

"She did."

"Gods be good," he breathed. "Oh, Kitty, I'm so sorry. It must have been terrible."

"I certainly wouldn't rank it among my favorite memories," she replied with a grim chuckle.

"I should have been there for you—for both of you."

She shook her head. "No, I'm glad you weren't there. If you had been, Ser Alliser would have killed you, too, and then where would we be?"

"Much worse off, that's for sure."

"Exactly."

Sam hesitated before voicing his next question. "But she really used…"

Caitie closed her eyes and nodded, grateful that Sam hadn't said the words out loud.

He sighed. "I'll tell Gilly. She's going to hear about it anyway, and I think it should come from me."

"How was she after…"

"She cried every night for a week."

Caitie had been afraid of that. For Gilly, it must have been like losing her sisters all over again.

For a moment, Caitie considered arguing against Sam telling Gilly, for Shireen had been her friend, and she'd been there to witness the truth revealed. But she also remembered the horror-struck expression on Gilly's face as she watched Mance burn alive, remembered the way Gilly had tucked her head into Sam's shoulder and cried for a man she'd never even known. And Caitie just… couldn't bring herself to face that. Not after what she'd seen in the crypts. "Thank you."

"Of course."

They lapsed into silence once more. "So…" she began, a little hesitant to broach the subject. Whatever Sam's reasons for leaving, the answer could not be good. "Are you going to tell me what happened at the Citadel?"

He stared down at his hands, and she could see redness blooming in his cheeks—shame, she realized belatedly, for before she could assure him that she respected his choice no matter what, he spoke. "I just—I got so angry. I kept telling them and telling them what was happening in the north—about White Walkers and wights and all of it—and they didn't even care! They set me to the tasks of recording bowel movements and annulments and I couldn't take it anymore. I mean, do you know what the archmaester said to me when I told him about the threat?"

All Caitie could do was shake her head; completely taken aback by his outburst.

"He told me that because the Wall has stood for millennia, it won't fall, and because we've always survived before, we'll survive now; never mind the fact that the only reason we survived before is because people fought to end the threat! And on top of it all, he refused to give me access to the restricted section of the Citadel's library! I stole his key and snuck in, anyway, but that's beside the point."

"Is that how you found the map of Dragonstone?"

He nodded. "And then Bran's raven came, and they didn't even take it seriously! I told Archmaester Ebrose that they were coming, and what does he do? He starts making jokes with the other archmaesters about how ridiculous it is! I just couldn't do it anymore, Caitie. I know how much you believed in me, but I couldn't sit there and listen to those… those pompous shits talk like that. So I snuck back into the restricted section, grabbed as many books about the Long Night as I could carry, and Gilly and I set course for Winterfell."

A beat of silence passed before Caitie burst into laughter. Sam blinked, and his astonished expression pulled her back to herself enough to say, "Seven Hells, I am so proud of you," through her fit of giggles. "Of course, you're probably going to need a royal pardon to get out of trouble for it, but at this rate, we'll all probably die before it even matters."

"I thought you'd be disappointed."

She squeezed his hand. "How could I ever be disappointed? You went, and you learned and you tried to make them listen. And then when they wouldn't, you told them to go fuck themselves by stealing a bunch of books right out from under their noses. I couldn't be any less disappointed if I tried."

"Well, when you put it that way…" He grinned. "Have I mentioned how much I missed you?"

"You could stand to mention it again."

"I missed you, and so did Gilly. I think even more than I did. There wasn't much for her to do all day while I was busy tending to all of my duties at the Citadel—oh!" He snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot to tell you who I met!"

Caitie furrowed her brows. "Who?"

"Lord Commander Mormont's son."

She gaped. "Ser Jorah Mormont? The slaver?"

"The very same. Although he's not a slaver anymore. He's… quite the devoted man, actually."

Well. That didn't sound good. The last devoted man she'd met burned his daughter alive. "Devoted to whom?"

"Daenerys Targaryen. He spoke very highly of her."

Caitie scoffed. Has everyone lost their minds for this woman? Or is she truly that awe-inspiring?

"Ah," said Sam. "I take it you're not happy with Jon's decision."

Not happy was the understatement of about three centuries. But she willed away her frustration and fear as soon as it had come, simply because she couldn't bear for Sam to know the truth of—well, everything. He'd learn it from those ridiculous rumors eventually, but for now, she just wanted to have her friend back without bringing Jon and the submission of the North into the equation. "It doesn't matter. It's done and there's nothing I can do about it. Although I'm not sure what it says about her that she's employing former slavers."

"You shouldn't judge him too harshly, Kitty. He was… kind. And brave. I think you'd like him. Besides which, he is technically your family."

"Don't remind me." She snorted. "Gods, I can't wait to see Lyanna Mormont's reaction when he turns up at Winterfell in service to a Targaryen. What was he doing at the Citadel, anyway?"

"He was looking for a cure to the advanced greyscale he'd contracted in Old Valyria."

"Oh. So he's dead?" she asked, because as far as she knew, no one had ever managed to cure greyscale once the advanced stages set in.

Sam shook his head, and she detected a note of pride in his voice when next he spoke. "No. The maesters refused to treat him, because it was too advanced, but then I found a book by Archmaester Pylos about curing rare diseases, and it turns out that he cured two cases of advanced greyscale! Of course, he did end up dying of greyscale, so the procedure was ruled too dangerous and banned, but I sort of… performed it anyway," he finished, his tone growing meeker and meeker as he went on. "I just—I followed the instructions."

Caitie fought a smile. "So what you're telling me is that you successfully performed a procedure so dangerous the maesters banned its practice?"

Sam looked away. "Yes, but… I had to. Lord Commander Mormont saved me so many times, and I couldn't save him. But I could try to save Ser Jorah. And it was successful, so—"

"Sam," she said, unable to hide her smile any longer. "Have I mentioned how proud I am of you?"

He laughed, repeating back to her, "You could stand to mention it again. And you can help me, too, by going over all the books and scrolls I brought with me. I'm hoping they'll give us some insight into defeating the Army of the Dead."

Caitie nodded. "I'll help, obviously. Although from what Bran tells me, it's—"

"Bran!" Sam exclaimed. "Oh, I can't believe I forgot to ask! He's here?"

"He's here. But Sam—"

"Can I see him?"

Caitie sighed. She should have known this was coming. "I'll take you to his chambers. But just be warned; he's different from what you're probably expecting."

Sam eyed her. "Different how?"

"I…" She trailed off, because how in the world was she supposed to explain Bran? "I think it's easier if you see for yourself. Come on."

She stood; Sam followed her example. Arm in arm, she led him back the way they'd come, pointing out the chambers Sansa had set aside for him and Gilly as they passed them by. The Stark wing of the castle wasn't too far, so it wasn't long before she faced a familiar door. To think the last time she'd been in this room was less than a day ago. It felt so much longer than that.

Sam knocked.

"Come in."

Opening the door just a sliver, he peeked his head through.

"Samwell Tarly," Bran said, and for the first time ever, Caitie heard a smile in his voice.

She could only assume Sam was smiling back as he replied, "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."

"I remember everything." A pause. "Caitriona, I'd like to speak to Samwell alone."

Sam turned around to face her, frowning as if hesitant to leave her behind. "It's fine," she said. "I should probably get some sleep, anyway. You… have fun."

He gave her one last smile before he slipped around the door and shut it behind him. Yawning as she began the walk back to her bedchambers, Caitie decided that tomorrow, White Walkers or not, she was absolutely sleeping in.

Secret tunnel, secret tunnel, through the mountains, secret secret secret secret tunnelllllll!

Anyway.

Yes, the Torrhen Stark quote is also partially a Mass Effect reference, blame the edit I found on Tumblr mashing the quote with Dany and the NK.