Welcome to what I like to call Caitie's "Bust Your Windows" era, named after the song by Jazmine Sullivan. Go give it a listen, I think it encapsulates Caitie's feelings for these next few chapters quite well.
Also, fun tidbit: this first scene was the first scene of AGotNW I ever wrote, before I knew what the fic was called, before I knew I would ever post anything, before I even knew how much it would spiral beyond my little 2000-word google doc. The scene has obviously been reworked and updated and edited, but the skeleton is all the way from 2019, so in some ways, I feel like I've come full circle today in posting it.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
Caitie was already half asleep when the door to her chambers banged open, startling everyone in the room awake.
The first thought she had was that Johnna had forgotten to lock the door again. The second was that it shouldn't have mattered, because she had locked the door, anyway, before heading to bed. The third thought she had was that this wasn't true, because she had fallen asleep unexpectedly early, leaving the door unlocked so the three children could enter without issue. And that none of this mattered anymore, because there was an intruder in her room at night.
She rolled over, grabbing Owen and Cerys off her nightstand and squinting at the door as she cursed herself for her carelessness. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she scrambled to stand up and positioned herself in front of Johnna and Willa, grateful still that Arthur's cot lay behind them. Willa shrunk behind her as Arthur swore and Johnna reached for her own weapons on the other nightstand.
The only sliver of light came from the torches in the corridor, illuminating the man who'd broken in. Still muddled from exhaustion, Caitie slogged to catch up with what she was seeing—perhaps because she didn't entirely believe it.
How dare he?
"Jon?" Willa asked, her voice tentative yet hopeful.
The sound spurred Caitie into action. "You three," she said without taking her eyes off of the intruder. "Go to your rooms."
"But—"
"Now."
Caitie could practically hear the silent conversation brewing between the three, but she didn't turn around, unable to look away from Jon. His eyes were wide as saucers, his breaths coming fast and hard, as if he'd run all the way here. They hadn't been this close in months, she realized, before she promptly decided that if he came any closer, she would hit him.
The silence lasted an age before Caitie heard the bed creak. The two girls crawled off the edge, and Arthur followed them out the door. The last thing she heard was Johnna whispering, "Shit, I think Jon's finally about to die," and Arthur's stifled laughter.
But Caitie couldn't bring herself to laugh. She just lowered her daggers, watching Jon watch her and trying not to feel completely exposed, until the door shut behind them. As soon as it closed she spoke. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Jon didn't even seem to hear her. "Did you know?" he growled, his face contorting into a look that spoke of rage and unspeakable, unbearable pain.
Caitie's own anger fell away at the sight; she didn't know how else to respond, except to blink. "What?"
Jon stalked towards her. "Did. You. Know."
"Know what?"
He swore under his breath, and despite her feelings towards him at the moment, she couldn't help but worry, because this was… not like him. With his darting, frantic eyes and his labored breathing—he looked like a deer at the mercy of hunters, and she hadn't seen him so unraveled since the immediate aftermath of his death and subsequent revival.
"Sam would have told you," he said, though it was more to himself than to her, and for a split-second, she thought he might be talking about his liaison with Daenerys. But that didn't make any sense. "I know he would. Is that why you've been avoiding me? Because you knew? And you were just gonna keep it from me like the rest of them?"
"I don't even know what you're talking about!"
At her outburst, Jon froze. He searched her face, and whatever he saw in it must have confirmed that she was telling the truth—though the fact that it took this long for him to believe her rankled—for he closed his eyes and let out a long, low breath, his shoulders deflating as the air left his body. "I'm sorry. I should have known you wouldn't…"
Caitie scoffed. Sorry. He was sorry. And what—did he expect her to just throw herself into his arms, now, and forgive him for all he'd done? Because he had said sorry? And not even for that! He had apologized for breaking and entering, for accusing her of… something—she'd figure out what the something was later. Not for taking up with a Targaryen queen, or letting her threaten his family in their home, or—
"Sam found my mother."
For a moment, Caitie forgot her anger, forgot what she'd even been thinking before Jon had spoken. "What?"
"Him and Bran," he said in a broken sort of voice. "They found out who she was."
"They—but Sam never said—" She shook her head, because of course he hadn't said anything; he never would have told her without first telling Jon. And considering how she'd been refusing to talk about Jon ever since she'd learned of his recent escapades, Caitie doubted she would've listened even if Sam even had told her.
At last, she looked up into Jon's bloodless, horror-filled face, and furrowed her brows. "But that's good, isn't it? You've always wanted to know who your mother was."
He let out a bitter laugh that may have been half a sob, and took two short strides to sit down at the edge of her bed. She followed suit to sit beside him, though she left a good few inches between them. It took all her willpower not to move closer as he filled her senses for the first time in months. She was almost grateful when he opened his mouth.
"Everything my father has ever told me was a lie." He took a deep, shaky breath. "My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father… was Rhaegar Targaryen."
Caitie resisted the instinct to clean out her ears—because she had to have misheard. It was impossible. Jon couldn't be Rhaegar Targaryen's son. He—he couldn't…
"Sam said they were married in secret. That they were in love. When the war started, Aunt—my mother—was moved to the Tower of Joy, where she—" Jon stopped with a ragged breath, but Caitie knew what he had been about to say. She died to give birth to me.
He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, and grasped for something with his other—for my hand, Caitie realized with a jolt. She didn't even think he knew he was doing it, the gesture so instinctual that it came to him without thought—but that went both ways, and before she knew what she was doing, sparks were shooting up her arm as Jon slotted his fingers between hers, as easy and practiced as breathing. Her touch seemed to reinvigorate him, at least enough so that he could speak. "She made Father promise to keep me safe from King Robert. So he told everyone I was his bastard. But… I'm not."
Not a bastard, Caitie thought, almost deliriously. And it didn't change anything, of course; he was still the same Jon she'd always known, and had believed in, and right now was furious with—though she couldn't quite remember why. But bastard had always meant so much in his world, had defined him for so long, and whatever else this meant for him, at least he would never again have to see himself that way ever again.
"I don't even want to believe it," he said miserably, "but it makes sense, doesn't it?"
It did make sense. It made sense of why Ned Stark fathering a bastard made no sense, and of why he'd never told Jon about his mother, and about Lyanna's disappearance. It explained why Jon had been able to ride Daenerys Targaryen's dragon with such ease.
Jon was the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He was the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Gods, everything really was all a lie, wasn't it?
Caitie tried to remember what Maester Aemon had said to her, what Jon and Sam and Edd had all said to her after she'd learned the truth about her Owen and Cerys and Lord Commander Mormont, but it was so long ago now, and she wasn't sure it would help, anyway. Ned Stark's betrayal stretched so much further than her brothers'.
"I wish I knew what to say," she said softly.
He lifted his head to meet her eyes, and the intensity of his stare stole her breath. "You don't have to. Just be with me. Please."
The months apart faded into the distance. It wouldn't last; she knew that. But right now, all she could remember was the pantry at Castle Black, and the library, and all the other places that had become hers and Jon's, just like now. "Okay."
His hand tightened around hers. "Hells, I missed you," he breathed, smiling to himself. "So, so much."
Caitie's throat ran dry as a host of conflicting emotions warred within her. Obviously not enough, the bitter part of her wanted to say, but she was so caught up in being close to Jon—breathing in his scent, feeling the warmth of hand, hearing the timbre of his voice—that she couldn't quite muster enough anger to say it.
At last, he sighed, looking miserable once more. "This information—you know you can't tell anyone. Not the girls, not Sansa, not even your brother."
"I wouldn't."
That earned her another slight smile and the squeeze of his hand, which sent a wave of warmth through her whole body, down to her toes. "I know. But I had to say it." He let out another long, slow exhale. "Sam says I'm the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. He wants me to take it. But I can't, Caitie. I just can't."
"You don't have to," she said. "That's your choice to make, not his."
"I never meant for any of this to happen."
"I know."
"If I'd known what had happened on the Goldroad, if I'd known what she'd done—"
"Wait, what?"
"I—" Jon broke off, all of a sudden refusing to look her in the eye, and it was apparent he'd spoken without thinking, which only left Caitie with more questions. Goldroad? What's that got to do with anything?
"Dany—Daenerys. She… executed Randyll and Dickon after the battle of the Goldroad."
The reason for Caitie's anger came roaring back at these words, and not simply because she caught his use of a pet name for the queen. But she tried—tried—to hang onto a shred of clarity, at least for long enough to get answers, even if she knew there was no justification. "Why?"
Jon flinched. He still wouldn't look at her. "They refused to bend the knee. She defeated their armies, took them prisoner. She gave them a choice. But they refused."
Caitie ripped her hand from his as if it were on fire and shot up from the bed, trying to put as much space between them as she possibly could. Because underneath Jon's methodical, emotionless explanation, was a defense. A defense of a death so horrible and heinous that it surpassed even her lowest expectations.
"Let me… see if I understand you," she said, voice teeming with suppressed rage, for he was still refusing to look her in the eye as he defended this… this bullshit. "Daenerys Targaryen murdered your best friend's father and brother and you think that's acceptable?"
Finally, Jon looked up at her, and it only made her angrier, for he had the audacity to laugh. "You're defending Randyll Tarly now?"
She scowled, drawing herself up to her full height. "So what if I am?"
"He treated Sam like dirt."
"And? He wasn't killed for being a shit father!"
"That isn't—" Jon pushed himself up from her bed so they were standing face-to-face, and took a step towards her. "He committed…" His voice wavered slightly. "He committed treason."
She laughed, because of all the arguments he could make, that had to be the weakest one possible. "It was treason when Robb went up against Joffrey or when we went up against the Boltons. Treason is just a charge invented by winners as an excuse for hanging the losers."
"That's not what you said when I hanged Olly."
"Because he hurt people!" Caitie cried. "And he would have kept on hurting people if you hadn't stopped him! He wanted the Free Folk dead, Jon—children, too. He would've gotten them and us killed in his quest for revenge. All the Tarlys did was refuse to kneel, just like you did. Or have you forgotten what you promised me before you left?"
Jon looked as though she'd slapped him. "That's not fair. I had no choice."
"Oh please! You may be able to get away with that bullshit in front of the others, but don't you dare lie to me." It was too much, it was all just too much—and if she didn't stop now, she would say something she regretted. But even as she tried, the words still slipped out. "After Shireen…" Her voice cracked, betraying her. "Jon, how could you?"
His throat bobbed, and his voice came out a thin rasp. "You don't know—"
"Oh yes, I do! What do you think Aegon the Conqueror did to the men who refused to kneel to him? Invited them to his camp for tea? Gods, she could have at least sent them to the Night's Watch; they wouldn't be able to stand against her that way, and Edd could have used them. But no, of course not, because it's not about stopping those who have hurt people or doing what's best for the realm, it's about her own fucking ego, and if some people end up charred, then that's just the price of getting what she wants."
"She…" he said weakly. "She wants what's best for the Seven Kingdoms."
"Yes, as long as she's ruling them."
Jon froze, unable to speak as memories flooded between them. There was no defense he could mount anymore. He knew it; she knew it. And yet somehow, that made everything worse. Because if he truly knew what this woman was, truly believed that it was acceptable for her to go around burning people, threatening his family, claiming ownership over those to which she had no right, and still was with her anyway, then it meant that he loved Daenerys Targaryen more than he loved his family, and the North, and the Free Folk.
And me.
She stormed over to her wardrobe, pulled open the top drawer where she kept the godsforsaken necklace Jon had given her a lifetime ago, and thrust out her hand. "Here; take it."
Jon's breath hitched as he stared down at the necklace dangling from her clenched fist, swinging like a pendulum. When he looked back up at her, something in his countenance seemed to break. "I gave it to you," he said softly. "I wanted you to have it."
"Well, I don't want it anymore," she snapped.
"Caitie—"
"Take it. Give it to your new queen. I'm sure she'd appreciate a necklace from your… your mother as a betrothal gift."
Something about her words seemed to affect Jon; he stared at her, mouth agape, eyes widening as he came to some conclusion—though what that conclusion was, Caitie had no idea. "I'm not going to marry her," he said at last, and she scoffed.
Jon shifted closer. "Caitie," he rasped, her name a cracked lament on his lips. He reached out a hand—and for a moment she thought he would take the necklace from her. But then she realized that no, he was trying to comfort her, the way he might have done before, taking one of her hands in his and brushing away the tears that had sprung to her eyes with the other.
But she didn't want nor need his pity, and it only incensed her further that he would think so low of her. "Gods, you really don't get it, do you?" She laughed, a high, bitter thing, as she batted his hand away. "You honestly believe that after you gave up the North's freedom because you wanted to fuck her, you can still just come back without explanation and everyone will support you—"
Jon's hands curled into fists. "How could you possibly think that of me?"
"And what else am I supposed to think!"
"You were supposed to have faith in me! Of all people, you were the one I thought I could count on for that."
"Well maybe you should have done a better job of instilling faith instead of shacking up with a Targaryen queen!"
Jon flinched, hurt clouding his eyes. It took Caitie a second to realize why: because he was also a Targaryen, and she had just spat the name with enough venom to kill a hundred men. "Damn it," he growled, "you know me! You know I would never—"
"I thought I knew you," Caitie retorted. "Better than anyone else. But guess what? I was wrong."
It was only then that she realized how close they were—inches apart, if that. Their breaths were heavy and labored, their cheeks both flushed with the heat of the words they'd exchanged. And it was ridiculous, and infuriating, but as they stared at one another, the space between them crackling with tension, a part of her wondered, desperately, what it would be like to close the gap, to feel the hands she knew so well on her body, to run her own through his hair.
And when his gaze broke from hers to glance down at her lips, then even lower to her body, covered only by her thin shift, for a brief, insane moment, she wondered if he was considering doing the same thing.
Until she remembered what he had done.
Caitie pulled away, averting her eyes, and muttered, "Get out of my room."
Jon's face fell as he reached towards her again. "Caitie, please—"
"I said," she ground out, louder now, "get out of my room."
For a moment Jon only stared at her. Then he screwed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw, and strode away, slamming the door behind him.
As she stood there, still with that stupid necklace in her hand, she almost thought about tossing it out her bedroom window—but she just couldn't do it. So she let out a frustrated cry as she stormed back over to her dresser and threw it inside, with the knowledge that she would never, ever open it again.
Caitie spent the next morning in a state of constant paranoia. As she moved about the castle, she expected to find Jon waiting around a corner; and whether it was her imagination, or simply because they were so attuned to each other's patterns that it was simply instinct for her to expect him, Caitie didn't know, but it was making her life a living hell.
It was strange, really. She'd never had a fight with Jon last for this long. The absolute longest they had ever spent angry with each other was a few hours, so she'd never needed to work so hard to avoid him. But now she couldn't seem to go anywhere without thinking to herself: will Jon be there, too? It only took a few hours for her to get entirely too fed up with the whole thing, and so she canceled her plans for the day, putting off the meeting she was supposed to have with her men until tomorrow and retreating to the library to hole up with Sam, a place no one else ever went these days besides Arthur—and especially not Jon.
Sam was… better than Caitie would have expected. His face darkened whenever anyone mentioned the queen, and when Caitie tried to bring up his brother, he went misty-eyed and allowed her to pull him into a long, bone-crushing hug, but all-in-all, he seemed like himself: drowning in a sea of reading, and doing his very best to guilt her into forgiving Jon.
"I don't know why you don't just talk to him," he said, not bothering to look up from his book as she finished putting back the ones he'd already scoured on their proper shelves. He never seemed to remember to do it himself, but she didn't mind. Sitting all day just made her restless.
Caitie scoffed, turning to face him as she slipped the book back in its proper spot. "What's there to talk about?"
"A lot of things!" Sam shook his head. "You can't go on like this forever."
"It's not forever; just until the White Walkers show up and kill us all. And why are you so quick to defend him? After what happened—"
"He didn't know about it until I told him. It's not his fault."
"Oh, I'm so sure." She huffed as she stomped over to the seat beside Sam's, plopped down, and crossed her arms over her chest. It made her feel slightly petulant, but she wasn't sure she cared.
"Kitty," Sam said slowly, the way he always did when he knew she wasn't going to like what he had to say and was bracing himself for her reaction. "Is there something else going on between the two of you?"
"Of course not—damn it, how many times do I have to tell you—"
"Until I believe it." When Caitie only scowled, Sam sighed, reaching out until he was touching her arm. "If this were just about his bending the knee to end the war with the White Walkers, you wouldn't be so upset."
"Except you know very well that isn't why he bent the knee."
Sam furrowed his brow. "Do I?"
"Yes, because you and Bran saw them together! Seven Hells, you're the one who told me so in the first place, and you don't think that maybe—just maybe—that might be affecting his decision-making?"
"I'm just… I'm not sure it's that simple."
"He defended her, Sam. To my face."
"I know that, but—oh, Caitie," he sighed. "I just think your own personal hurt may be clouding your judgment of him."
She froze; that was just a little too close to the truth for comfort. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sam snorted. "You forget that I've known both of you for years now. You don't think I picked up on your feelings for each other?"
Caitie blanched. Okay, yes, she could admit to herself now that perhaps there had always been a… latent attraction between her and Jon, maybe from the moment they'd met at Castle Black, or even before. But it had never been anything beyond that—and Sam had left before Jon's death, before their long march to war on the Boltons, and long before Caitie had ever considered her feelings for Jon as anything other than friendship.
"I'm not saying you always knew it," Sam amended, as if he had read her thoughts. "Really, I'm not. But… you've always loved him, just like he's always loved you. And I know it hurts, but—"
Caitie snorted, strangely glad that Sam had gotten it so wrong. "Well now I know you're talking out your ass," she said. His face fell at the derision in her voice, and she grimaced. "Sorry. I just meant… you're wrong, Sam. Which I know is rare, but it was bound to happen at some point. He doesn't love me; that is probably the only thing I can say with absolute certainty." He cared about her, certainly, the way he cared about all his friends. He may have even been attracted to her. But he didn't love her; not the way she loved him.
"Right," Sam said, "that's why he stayed up all night to help you give Danny Flint a funeral at Castle Black."
Caitie choked on her saliva. "How did you even—that was completely—it was only because he understood that what happened to her was wrong."
"He did it because you asked him."
She crossed her arms back over her chest, because for the life of her, she couldn't think up a proper counterargument. "I don't like you. Where's Gilly? She's much better."
Sam sighed. "I did miss these little moods of yours," he said. "And as you're well aware, Gilly is in the central courtyard—where a certain someone goes to get his food—which is why you haven't already gone to see her. Besides, she would say the same as me."
"Oh, she would not."
"Yes, she would. I don't know if you've noticed, but we're very attuned."
Caitie didn't know why it was those words that triggered a painful surge of familiarity, but they did, conjuring vivid memories of a different, smaller library, and how she had watched Sam and Gilly together, thinking to herself that they had been made for each other.
Now she realized how stupid the thought had been. People weren't made for each other; she and Jon certainly hadn't been. He had grown up a bastard, and she a minor Northern lady—and now he was the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, future husband to Daenerys, however much he denied it. He had been right, so many years ago, when he'd told her by all the laws they should never have been friends. And yet, in spite of the Gods' design, in spite of men, in spite of everything, they had grown together, loved together, lost together, and become stronger together than they could ever have been alone. There was no one she'd trusted more; no one she'd loved more.
But it had all come to nothing. They were strangers, now—worse than strangers, for they could never become friends again after what transpired between them. And it broke her heart.
Something must have shown on her face, because Sam's fell. "I'm sorry," he said. "Maybe… maybe I shouldn't have told him."
"About your family?" Caitie asked. "He needed to know, and you deserved to confront him about it."
"Not that. The—" His eyes searched the room for any listeners, but they'd closed all the doors and thoroughly checked the library before getting to work. "The other thing. Bran told me I should, and I stand by what I said. But… it could have waited, and now you two are fighting—"
"We would have fought anyway. Trust me, that had nothing to do with it."
"Maybe, but I didn't expect him to wake you in the middle of the night the moment he learned about it."
She sighed, the question: can you blame him? on the tip of her tongue. But she wasn't going to defend Jon about anything right now, not even that.
"Well," she said wryly, "at least we've finally found a secret more dangerous than mine was. I didn't think it was possible."
"That's not funny," Sam said, though he smiled, voice catching as he attempted to hold back a laugh. It didn't last long as he rubbed his temples and lowered his voice further. "You're right though, and that's what scares me. Him riding the queen's dragon was suspicious enough—people are already whispering that he's a dragonseed. If certain… persons were to find out he was more than that—"
Caitie heard the door squeaking before Sam did. "Shh!" she hissed as she looked over her shoulder.
Fortunately, they'd shut up in time, but Caitie still made a mental note never to speak about Jon's secret in a public space ever again.
The person who'd entered the room was an older man; probably even older than Edd, if Caitie had to guess. Tall, thin, with hair that toed the line between grey and blonde, and tanned, leathery skin—though this man was Westerosi, he had obviously spent time in either Dorne or Essos, and considering the circumstances, she would have bet on the latter. Caitie gripped Owen's hilt, eyes narrowing as she watched him walk towards them.
When Sam saw her expression, he laughed, placing a hand on her arm. "Relax, Kitty. It's a friend." He pushed himself up and walked towards the man to greet him with a firm, friendly handshake.
"I'm sorry about last night," the man said. His voice had a certain quality to it—warm but gruff—that reminded Caitie of someone, though she couldn't quite put her finger on who. "I didn't know."
"It wasn't your fault," Sam replied, the slightest waver in his tone. No one but those who knew him would have picked up on it.
Caitie cleared her throat, and the two men both turned, the unknown one arching a brow at her.
"Oh, where are my manners!" Sam exclaimed. "Caitriona Norrey, meet Ser Jorah Mormont."
Her stomach dropped out from under her. No wonder his voice sounds familiar.
Ser Jorah Mormont's blue eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah. So you're Jocelyn's—"
"Yes," she said, though she was so shocked she barely registered that she had spoken.
"I should have known." He turned to Sam. "You never told me you were friend's with Jocelyn Kellington's daughter."
Caitie blinked, for she'd never heard anyone use her mother's maiden name before.
Sam furrowed his brows. "Should I have?"
"I… suppose not," said Ser Jorah. He turned to her. "I'm glad I came to speak to Sam today; I've been wanting to meet you for a while now."
Caitie eyed Sam, who shrugged, looking as bemused as she felt. He hadn't told Ser Jorah Mormont about her, so… who had?
"How—"
"The Warden of the North," Jorah finished for her, as if this were the obvious answer.
Caitie merely stared dumbly, mouth hanging open like a simpleton.
Sam hid a laugh behind a cough, and that brought her back to herself, if only to keep from slapping him. Whatever he might say, she didn't trust Ser Jorah as far as she could throw him. The man was a slaver, for gods' sakes. Selfish at best and intentionally cruel at worst. The last thing she needed was for him to put two-and-two together about her and Jon.
But Ser Jorah didn't even seem to notice Sam, his eyes intent on Caitie. "He told me you were with my father at the end," he said. "I've wanted to meet you ever since."
"Oh," she said quietly, picking at her cuticles and feeling betrayed all over again. "So… Jon told you everything, then."
"Not everything; but enough." He hesitated, before adding, "Your mother would be proud of you."
Caitie's breath caught. She stared up at Ser Jorah Mormont, barely about to choke out words. "You knew her?"
"Of course," he said, and again, he stated it as if it were obvious. "Her family used to visit us at Bear Island when she and her brother were children. Not often, mostly during summer, when travel was easier, but I still have fond memories of her."
If Sam hadn't placed a hand on her arm to steady her, Caitie's legs might have given way. There was no one else alive who had known her mother besides Maester Harkon. And Maester Harkon had only known her as Rendon Norrey's wife.
She wasn't even sure she believed Jorah Mormont, but she wanted to—Gods did she want to.
"Did you…" She trailed off, unsure what she even wanted to ask when presented with such a wealth of knowledge. "Did you know her well?"
"Well enough, though they lived too far away for us to meet often."
"I've always wondered how my grandmother ended up marrying someone from the Stormlands," she said, more to herself than to him. "I know it was during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and I know the Stormlands and the North fought together, but I always thought it was strange. Usually we don't like to marry out of the Old Ways unless we have to."
"I don't know all of it," said Jorah slowly. "I was still young at the time, but I know your grandmother fought alongside the rest of our house in the war. She met your grandfather there, and they married before it ended; by all accounts, it was a love match. Your mother was born less than a year later. They visited Bear Island to keep up the friendship between the houses, until her marriage."
Caitie furrowed her brows. "My mother's marriage? Why?"
Jorah shifted, looking around as if he suddenly wanted to bolt. "I… don't want to speak ill of your family—"
Sam snorted, and both Jorah and Caitie turned, eyebrows raised. He shrugged. "What? I'll bet she's said worse about them."
Caitie glared at him. "Funny." Then she thought about it. "But you're not wrong."
Jorah's mouth twitched. "All right, then. Your father became Lord of Norwood without having married, and Jocelyn's father—your grandfather—saw it as an opportunity to further bind the North and the Stormlands together. Your mother was a good match for him, since she was raised with Northern customs, but still retained most ties to the south. But Cousin Arrana… disagreed with the marriage."
"Why?"
"House Mormont and House Norrey have never gotten along very well. And your mother was only thirteen when she married; I don't know for certain, but I would wager your grandmother didn't want her so far away so young."
Caitie almost laughed—when had that ever stopped men from marrying their daughters off?—but curiosity kept her from it. "So what happened?"
"Your grandfather had final say over your mother's marriage, so your grandmother returned home to Bear Island until her passing a few years later. After that, came Robert's Rebellion, and we fell further out of contact; I don't know what happened afterwards."
Well, Caitie thought as she silently absorbed the information Jorah had given her. That explains a lot about why I never met my mother's family.
"What was she like?" Caitie asked. "Before she married my father."
"She was… fierce. She never said much—" Sam snorted again; this time Caitie merely elbowed him, "—she preferred to let her daggers do most of the talking for her, when I knew her."
Caitie froze, time slowing until it was fixed to this single point, anchored to the words Jorah Mormont had spoken. Because that… that couldn't be possible. Jocelyn Norrey had been raised in the south, among followers of the Seven; whatever Arrana Mormont had been before, there was simply no way—
When he noticed her expression, Ser Jorah furrowed his brows. "Are you all right?"
She couldn't reply; her throat was too tight to make a sound, and so she was endlessly grateful when Sam squeezed her arm and answered for her. "Caitie didn't know her mother could fight."
Not just fight, Caitie thought. She used daggers. Like me. That was how Owen and Cerys knew to train me. Because of her.
So much of her childhood made sense now, the puzzle pieces falling together in perfect alignment. She remembered back to the day Owen had presented her with her childhood daggers. She'd always wondered how Owen and Cerys had gotten them. The blacksmith would have told Father had they commissioned him to make some for her, but the daggers were fine enough that taking them to Castle Black would have drawn attention to her. They'd had the look of a weapon well-loved and well-worn, too, now that she really thought about it. She'd asked Owen, once, where he had gotten them, but he'd merely smiled and told her he would tell her later.
It hadn't occurred to her that he would never get the chance, so she'd never thought to push after those first few days.
Now it all made sense. Owen and Cerys had simply given her the daggers which had belonged to their mother. They'd known how to train her properly, because they had learned it from Jocelyn Norrey herself. And they'd never told Caitie any of it.
"I just—I need a minute," she choked out, legs finally giving way. Caitie fell into her chair; Sam kneeled beside her, squeezing her hand.
"I'm sorry. I thought you knew," Ser Jorah said, gesturing to Owen and Cerys on her belt.
When she could finally speak, Caitie said, "My brothers… They knew—they must have known—but they…" She shook her head. Secrets upon secrets—Jocelyn's had become her sons', and now they were Caitie's.
No they aren't. This ends here and now, with me. My father is dead; we don't have to keep secrets anymore.
That she was keeping one of the biggest secrets in the entire Seven Kingdoms crossed her mind, but only for a moment, because at least that secret wasn't hers to share.
Caitie looked up at Ser Jorah Mormont, glad, for the first time, to have met him. Devoted to Daenerys Targaryen or not—former slaver or not—he had offered her a window into her and Arthur's pasts, and she would be grateful for that for the rest of her short, sorry life.
"Ser Jorah," she found herself saying, "my brother and I usually break for a meal around this time, and I know he'd want to hear about this, too. Would you like to join us?"
Sam's brows shot up, but he gave her a wide, pleased smile.
Ser Jorah hesitated, evidently weighing his words before he spoke them. "I have my duties to my queen, but…" He shook his head, smiling. "Aye, I would."
Sansa and Arya didn't like it when people brought food into the library, the latter once going so far as to sneak up on Caitie and scare her off from it, and so she and Arthur had taken to eating in her chambers. With Willa having lessons in the glass gardens and Johnna using the hour to check in on the other Free Folk, it was a time just meant for her and her brother—:and no matter what duties they both had, they always made sure to carve the time into the day's schedule.
It was, therefore, with some hesitancy that she led Ser Jorah down the corridors. But as this concerned their mother, Caitie was reasonably sure Arthur wouldn't mind having a guest. Nor did she think Arthur would mind what she was already planning for their mother's daggers, but that was… a conversation for a different time. She'd speak to him about it later.
As they journeyed to their destination, she and Ser Jorah talked, the topic of conversation mostly about Caitie's years in the Night's Watch—or well, the years in the Night's Watch she had spent with Jeor Mormont. She had just started telling him about the battle at the Fist of the First Men, when they arrived at the corridor leading to her chambers, and that was when Jorah decided to bring up the one person she'd been steadfastly avoiding.
"And what about Jon?" he asked. "He said he'd been taken prisoner by the time the White Walkers came for the Fist, but he never told me what happened. How did he end up a prisoner of the Wildlings?"
Caitie couldn't help the way she stiffened at his name. It was one thing to mention him in passing, it was another to speak about him so intimately; their journeys, their friendship—everything that had once been theirs, together, but now were nothing but distant, bitter memories.
Jorah cleared his throat, and she realized she'd stopped walking. "Is there a… problem between the two of you?" he asked.
Caitie almost laughed, but if she started to laugh she'd probably end up crying, so she merely shook her head. "We had a small disagreement; that's all."
"I see," Jorah said, lip twitching. "It wouldn't have anything to do with Daenerys Stormborn, would it?"
Her insides squirmed. What is he getting at?
Seeing her expression, he chuckled. "You're close to the Lady of Winterfell, I'm told. Don't let her sway your opinion. Daenerys is…" Something in his eyes softened, and now Caitie saw it: the devotion Sam had spoken of. And maybe under different circumstances it might have moved her, but not now, not when he'd implied her opinion could be so easily manipulated. "She gave me something to believe in, when I was at my lowest."
"I see," Caitie replied, ice creeping into her voice—because besides the implications he'd made about her, Ser Jorah's lowest was being a slaver. And he might have grown from it, but that was little consolation to those in chains because of his actions.
Perhaps he believed himself redeemed, but that wasn't enough for Caitie. Redemption wasn't about making him feel better. It was about the people he'd hurt, and what he'd done to make the world a better place for them in the meantime. So far, she hadn't seen any proof of that.
He gave her a smile, now. "You can judge me; I deserve it. The things I did—I will spend my life atoning for them."
"Words are easy," Caitie said, thinking of the army of Unsullied outside. What were they, if not slaves? It was easy to say this was no longer the case, but they were still here, an ocean away from home, fighting a war for a country they'd probably never even thought of until now.
Then again, she was taking their help to fight the White Walkers. So maybe she was just a hypocrite.
"They are," Ser Jorah agreed. "I did many things I regret. I broke my father's heart; no words can make that better. But I'm here to fight for our home. Even if it doesn't atone for my sins, if nothing else, I hope it can give them—give him—peace."
"Well… he'd be proud of you, I guess," Caitie said, a little unconvincingly. But she saw the olive branch for what it was, and she wanted to return the gesture. What was the point in arguing now, anyway? "All he ever wanted was to protect the realms of men. And now you're here, doing what he couldn't."
"Aye," Jorah said, thankfully not noticing her hesitancy. "Thank you, Lady Caitriona."
"It's just Caitie."
"Caitie," he repeated. "That was the name you used at the Night's Watch?"
She nodded. "But I've gotten used to it since then, and now it feels like… me. Not that Caitriona doesn't, but most of my friends call me Caitie. And it was what your father called me, too."
Jorah smiled. "I'm honored to have the privilege."
Caitie wasn't sure why she smiled back; why she trusted Ser Jorah's proclamation at all. But she did, somehow. Perhaps because underneath his devotion to Daenerys Targaryen was a man who regretted his past actions; who wanted to fight for his homeland to make up for the things he had done. She believed it of him, and she respected it. The people he hurt, it wasn't her place to forgive him for it—but it wasn't her place to be angry, either.
Besides, he was technically her family. And she didn't have much left in the way of family.
"It was the queen who gave me the chance, you know," Jorah said. "If not for her…"
And just like that, Caitie's goodwill shattered. "I'm sure she's very inspiring," she said, defaulting to the cold, polite tone drilled into her as a child.
He chuckled. "I don't think I've ever heard someone sound less convinced of something. But Daenerys is here to fight for the North. If that doesn't warrant her rule, then what does?"
Caitie scoffed, her righteous indignation flooding over every ounce of caution she had. Because this wasn't some petty squabble between houses; it wasn't even a war between kingdoms. This was a fight between the lives of every single person in Westeros—possibly in the world—and death itself. "I'm here, fighting too," she said. "So are my friends and my family. And none of us are asking to be given an ugly chair in compensation."
Jorah coughed—a spluttering noise that sounded rather painful—but when he recovered, he was smiling.
She ignored it. "I have no problem with a mutually beneficial arrangement. But why does kneeling to her have to be a part of it?"
"Is submission not preferable to extinction?"
Those terms, laid out so plainly, were everything Caitie had feared. She thought, once again, of the statues they'd found in the secret passages of Winterfell's crypts. We exist because they allow it and will end because they demand it, Torrhen's statue had read.
If the alternative to her rule is extinction, she wanted to say now, then how is she any better than the White Walkers?
But she couldn't. Jorah might be her kin, but she was under no illusions to whom he owed his loyalty, and if it came down to Caitie and Daenerys, he would pick his queen every time.
Just like Jon.
So she merely sighed. "I'd like to believe you, but submission or death doesn't exactly inspire confidence."
Jorah opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He stared at her for a long moment, and there was something in his eyes—something that she only placed because she had seen it in her own: fear.
But was he afraid of her? Or for her?
When he replied, she got her answer, and it confused her, because she didn't think she'd said anything that bad. "You need to be careful to whom you say such things, Caitie. If the wrong person were to hear—"
But Jorah never had the chance to finish, because that was when they heard the sound of boots pounding on stone. She turned and saw Arthur, speeding towards them, eyes wide with shock. He skidded to a stop and tried to catch his breath, taking three great gulps before he finally was able to speak.
"Who's this?" Before Caitie could answer, he shook his head. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. Riona, you will never guess who's just arrived at Winterfell."
"When I was a child," Daenerys Targaryen said as she presided over the Great Hall, her voice cold and radiating fury, "my brother would tell me a bedtime story… about the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back, and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor."
Jaime Lannister's eyes flitted down to his feet, while Caitie watched in fascination. When Arthur had first told her about him, she honestly hadn't believed it, and that was the only reason she'd agreed to go with him to see the trial Daenerys Targaryen had set up, despite the fact that it would mean being in the same room with both her and Jon.
The guards stationed around the perimeter—mostly Unsullied, but a few Northmen as well—keeping anyone from leaving had nearly scared her off, but curiosity had won out in the end. So now she sat between Arthur and Lyanna Mormont, with Davos, Brienne, Yohn Royce, and Alys Karstark rounding out their table, perpendicular to the queen's.
At the table across from them sat Daenerys's people; her spymaster, Ser Jorah, and an extremely pretty woman with tightly curled black hair and dark skin. Her Hand stood beside them, grim-faced.
Caitie wondered what it must be like for Tyrion Lannister, to have to defend his brother from his queen. She tried to imagine defending Arthur from Sansa for the crime of killing Ned Stark, and the idea of it was too horrible to put into words. But then, Caitie didn't think Sansa would defend the actions of a man who'd burned a father and son alive before ordering all the deaths of those around them and commanding their families to die as well, father or not.
"He told me other stories as well," Daenerys continued coldly. "About all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp."
Caitie stiffened in her seat and sat up bone-straight, for that sounded perilously close to torture. And as she watched Jaime Lannister, Caitie saw it: the fear. It flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. He feared Daenerys.
Jon was the only one who noticed Caitie's change in posture—she could sense his eyes move from the prisoner to her, no matter how much she tried not to—so she forced herself to relax. It was absolutely imperative that she not lose her temper with the queen here. This was court, now—royal court—and while Sansa might let Caitie insult or yell at her whenever she liked, Daenerys Targaryen wouldn't.
"Your sister pledged to send her army north."
For the first time, Kingslayer spoke. "She did."
"I don't see an army. I see one man, with one hand. It appears your sister lied to me."
Jaime Lannister bowed his head. "She lied to me as well. She never had any intention of sending her army north." The queen shot daggers at Tyrion as Jaime continued. "She has Euron Greyjoy's fleet and twenty-thousand fresh troops. The Golden Company from Essos, bought and paid for."
Caitie's eyes drifted to Sansa, who met her gaze with a steely expression that unmistakably said I told you. And she couldn't deny that—but she wasn't going to give Sansa the satisfaction of knowing, either.
Like metal to a magnet, Caitie's eyes found Jon's next, infuriating as it was, for he sat too near his sister to avoid. His back was straight, his shoulders tensed, and yet… It has to be my imagination. But she knew Jon. And she knew the look of relief that had crossed his features at the Lannister's news.
Caitie looked away before he could catch her eye. She didn't care why he was relieved. She didn't. All she cared about was the news Jaime Lannister had brought with him.
"Even if we defeat the dead, she'll have more than enough to destroy the survivors."
Caitie blinked at this, sitting up in her seat, wondering: is this why Jaime Lannister's here?
"We," Daenerys repeated, as if it were a bad joke, and Caitie wasn't entirely sure she could blame her.
He lifted his chin. "I promised to fight for the living. I intend to keep that promise."
Well. That's… unexpected. But she could tell that he meant it, the same way she could tell that Meera had seen the Army of the Dead. There was an expression all those who had seen it shared—and the only one who didn't have it just now was Daenerys Targaryen.
Though, in fairness, she did have other things to worry about at the moment.
Tyrion stepped forward, urgency radiating from every inch of him. "Your Grace, I know my brother—"
"Like you knew your sister?"
He shook his head. "He came here alone, knowing full-well how he'd be received. Why would he do that if he weren't telling the truth?"
The queen narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him, right up to the moment he slits my throat."
"You're right; we can't trust him."
It was strange to hear Sansa agreeing with Daenerys Targaryen about something—but Caitie had also seen that expression of Sansa's before. It was hatred, deep-rooted and beyond everything else, personal. She'd only worn it once, during Littlefinger's trial, right before Arya had slit his throat. "He attacked my father in the streets; he tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours."
Jaime Lannister gritted his teeth. "You want me to apologize? I won't. We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house, and my family. I'd do it all again."
"The things we do for love."
This came from Bran, his voice as serene as his face. But the words meant something to Jaime Lannister—she could see it in the way his eyes widened, his expression morphing from righteous indignation to horror.
Caitie's mouth moved of its own accord. "And how have your actions worked out for your family and your house? Your children are all dead, your sister and brother are now on opposite sides of a war. Seems to me like your actions have hurt you just as much as they've hurt the rest of us."
The Kingslayer turned to stare at her as though she'd just run him through. Yet Caitie couldn't bring herself to regret what she'd said. It was the truth, and if she was going to fight alongside him, then he needed to understand the costs of what his house had done—the pain they had caused everyone, including him.
It was the rest of the hall that gave her pause. All of them, staring at her as if she were some strange new species, and Caitie shrunk back in her seat, wishing she could sink through the floor. Arthur caught her eye, arching a brow as if to sigh, You couldn't just keep your mouth shut for two seconds, could you?
Sansa, meanwhile, was scowling as if she were trying to murder Caitie with a thought—and truthfully, it was hard to blame her for that. After all, it was Sansa who had put her life on the line for Caitie, Sansa who was doing everything in order to protect her. And she just had to go running her mouth and ruin that.
Fortunately, the queen didn't look displeased by the interruption, too focused on the prisoner to care about some minor lady talking out of turn. Behind, Caitie could see Jon, staring unabashedly at her, and if she didn't know better, she would have sworn he warring with himself the way he always did when she did something like this: unable to decide whether to give in and laugh or keep a straight face and tell her off.
Time stopped as their eyes met for the first time since their fight. The torches in the hall, the light streaming in from the windows—all of it dimmed. She couldn't look away from him, and he made no move to look away from her either, brown eyes boring into hers from across the room. And she knew—she knew—she needed to stop before someone noticed, but she simply couldn't. She could barely even breathe, pulse quickening, unsure whether her feelings in that moment were fury or something else. Or both.
Sansa cleared her throat a little too forcefully, and Caitie ripped her eyes away from Jon once again. "Apologies, Your Grace," she said, refusing to look at the queen as she spoke. "My people's hatred of the Lannisters runs deep."
The queen waved Sansa off, returning to the matter of their prisoner, while Caitie tried not to feel like an admonished child, even as she silently thanked Sansa for her quick thinking. "So why have you abandoned your house and family now?"
Jaime bowed his head, and Caitie saw him exchange a glance with Brienne of all people, before he answered. "Because this goes beyond loyalty. This is about survival."
There was a slight pause, and then Brienne was pushing herself up and striding into the center of the room to stand beside Jaime Lannister. "You don't know me well, Your Grace," she said, "but I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honor. I was his captor once, but when we were both taken prisoner, and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And lost his hand because of it." Caitie watched Brienne speak, desperation in her voice—and it was apparent that this went beyond a debt; that she and Jaime Lannister were friends.
It had Caitie reevaluating everything she knew about the Kingslayer—a man who had lost his sword hand to defend a woman not of his family—not even on the same side of the war as him. Someone who had once been his captor. She still didn't trust him, of course—hell, she didn't think she even liked him—but she did trust Brienne's judgment, oddly enough.
The queen's rage, however, did not quiet upon hearing the plea. She looked positively furious, as if she wanted to run Brienne through for daring to defend Jaime Lannister.
Brienne looked to Sansa for support. "Without him, my lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home, because he'd sworn an oath to your mother."
Sansa looked down to hide the way her face had crumpled. She swallowed, face softening as she raised her head. "You vouch for him?"
"I do."
There was a pause. "You would fight beside him?"
Brienne lifted her chin. "I would."
Caitie could see that Sansa had relented before she even spoke. "I trust you with my life. If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay."
Daenerys's head whipped to the side so fast, Caitie wondered if she had hurt her neck. But it was difficult to care about the queen, now—not when she'd realized something: Sansa had trusted Brienne, despite everything—her fear, her anger, all of it. She had listened, and trusted, and the fact that she could do that… Caitie couldn't have been more proud of her.
When the queen spoke, her voice was like winter itself. "What does the Warden of the North have to say about it?"
As subtly as she possibly could, Caitie glared a hole into Jon's head. If he undid all the progress Sansa had made, just to please his queen, she might well and truly kill him. But Jon surprised her; taking a breath, his eyes flickered to Jaime before he forced himself to speak. "We need all the men we can get."
Caitie's mouth twitched at his discomfort before she could help it. But then Jon noticed, a flicker of a smile turning up the corners of his lips and his eyes lighting up to match—and hers fell as she looked away. And it wasn't just because of how it would look to the rest of the court. Jon had gone against Daenerys's wishes out of necessity; Caitie doubted he would have done so otherwise—not after what he'd defended last night.
Not that intention mattered to the queen; Caitie swore she could see a vein pulsing in her forehead. "Very well," she bit out, eyeing her Unsullied general. He grabbed the sword beside him, and as he approached Jaime Lannister, Caitie exchanged a glance with Arthur.
You could try to be a bit more careful, he seemed to say.
She grimaced. Would it help if I said I was sorry?
Arthur snorted under his breath.
With his sword in his possession, Jaime Lannister bowed. "Thank you, Your Grace." Though he'd said it without inflection, Caitie could hear the notes of sarcasm in his voice, and it sparked in her a level of respect for the Lannister.
Whether Daenerys heard them too, Caitie didn't know, but she shot up from her seat, face wrought with rage. And it was about more than just Jaime Lannister, Caitie knew. For Daenerys might have been a queen, but Winterfell was the Stark's domain, and their rule had just won out.
As Sansa stood and walked from the great hall and into its offices, the queen turned to Jon, who refused to meet her eyes before walking past to follow his sister.
At any other time, Caitie would have applauded Jon's utter disregard for entitled royalty—and more than anything, she wanted to believe that was his motive for such disrespect. But she also knew the truth: Jon was only avoiding Daenerys due to what Sam had told him. Caitie refused to be proud of him for it. Not when he'd all but admitted his great love for Daenerys Targaryen the night before.
Instead, as she stood, she studied the Kingslayer—though it felt wrong to call him that all of a sudden. The Mad King had been a blight on the Seven Kingdoms—and Jaime Lannister had possessed the power to end that. Perhaps he'd betrayed his vows, but what did vows matter? The Night's Watch vows would have prevented Jon from saving the Free Folk, and Caitie would never, ever regret that. So what right did she have to judge Jaime Lannister?
He'd done the right thing. Of all the atrocities that Robert's Rebellion had wrought, this… this wasn't one of them.
And even with all the horrible things he'd been a part of since then, even with the War of the Five Kings, Jaime Lannister had still come to Winterfell to help them fight against the dead. He hadn't commanded them to kneel to Cersei, or tried to force them to make concessions. He had just come, despite the risks, because it was the right thing to do. Because he knew if he didn't it would be the end for all of them, not just the North.
So even though they would probably be enemies in the future, if he could put that aside for now, then so could Caitie.
:)