I don't own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire and I don't own any of the characters besides the ones I've created (if it wasn't already obvious). I am not making any money from this, nor do I have any desire to. I'm more than happy to remain in perpetual anonymity where my friends can't make fun of me for writing fanfiction.

Extra disclaimer: I don't own the pieces of dialogue that are borrowed from the show and/or books.

I have been editing this and editing this for 3 days. I even rewrote it. This chapter hates me.

The ranging party arrived at Craster's Keep the next day, as promised—and just in time to preserve Caitie's sanity.

Sam had been complaining for three hours about blisters he'd gotten sitting on his horse. He didn't stop until Grenn offered him a ride on the Watch's sledge; but then Sam broke it, and that led to the two of them sniping at each other as they approached.

"You offered me a ride!" Sam said.

Grenn scoffed, annoyedly. "I just wanted you to shut up about your damn blisters."

Listening to the two of them bicker like children annoyed her so much, she didn't even offer to help Grenn fix the sledge; not that he needed much help, she noticed. He was definitely strong enough on his own.

Instead, Caitie only followed Jon to the gate, dismounted her horse, and looked around at the first real building she'd seen north of the wall.

"I was born in a keep like this," a man by the name of Dolorous Edd—quite obviously not his real name—told them.

On the second evening of travel, Edd had plopped himself down at her and her friends' fire and started cracking jokes. They'd enjoyed his company so much, he was invited to sit with them the next night, and then the next. He never ceased to make them laugh. Well, all of them except Jon.

"You were?" She asked.

Edd nodded. "Later, I fell on hard times."

Caitie wasn't sure what to say to that, so she turned away and looked at her surroundings. It was a bleak sight. The Keep was smaller than she'd expected; made of wood instead of stone, and its grounds were nothing like those of Norwood. There was no view of the mountains, no godswood, and the entirety of Craster's was smaller than her childhood keep's main hall. Caitie probably should have known better, but a small part of her had been hoping for a little taste of home.

Then she noticed the women; there were at least twenty of them. They bustled around the keep grounds in drab clothing, pointedly not making eye contact with any of the men.

Sam noticed too, and asked, "Are those girls?"

"Craster's daughters," Edd said.

"I haven't seen a girl in six months." There was no hint of irony in Sam's voice, but he nudged her subtly, and it took all of Caitie's willpower to stifle her laugh.

"I'd keep on not seeing them if I were you."

"What, he don't like people messing with his daughters?" Grenn put in beside her. He didn't take his eyes off them, and Caitie gritted her teeth involuntarily. She didn't like the way he was looking at the women—but not for the right reasons.

"He don't like people messing with his wives."

That was sufficient to make her forget Grenn. "What?"

Perhaps she'd misheard. Gods, she hoped she had.

But then Edd continued, "He marries his daughters, and they give him more daughters. And on and on it goes."

"That's foul," Sam said.

Grenn nodded in agreement. "It's beyond foul."

Caitie would have agreed with him as well, but she was too busy observing the girls. They looked awful—terribly downtrodden and nervous. It was horrifying to see.

"Hundreds of wildlings have disappeared, and Craster's still here," Edd said, "Must be doing something right."

Caitie had to bite her tongue to keep her from making a scathing retort.

Edd sighed and left their little group to follow the others into the keep.

"What happens to the boys?" Jon asked.

Sam blinked. "Hmm?"

"He marries his daughters. What does he do with his sons?"

Nothing good, she thought. But before Caitie could say it, Jon was leading his horse away. She shook off the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and followed him.

Inside, the lord commander was discussing Benjen Stark. "He said he planned to stop here on his way to the Frostfangs."

"People make all sorts of plans. I haven't seen Benjen Stark in three years. Haven't missed him. Always treated me like scum." Craster took a drink from his cup. "Haven't had any good wine for a long time. You southerners make good wine; I'll give you that," he said.

Jon apparently couldn't keep himself from speaking. "We're not southerners."

Craster turned to smile viciously at him. "Who's this little girl?" He looked Jon up and down. "You're prettier than half my daughters. You got a nice wet twat between your legs?"

Caitie's hands balled into fists. She was disgusted and outraged, but she also felt oddly vulnerable—acutely aware of what lay under her clothes, and what Craster would do if he knew about it.

"What's your name?" Craster asked.

"Jon Snow."

"Snow, eh? Well, listen here, bastard. All you lot from south of the wall are southerners. But now you're in the north—the real north."

"The lad meant no harm," Mormont said in an attempt to smooth things over.

"I catch that pretty little bastard talking to my daughters—"

"No one will talk to your daughters. You have my word." The lord commander glared at Jon. "Now, sit down and shut your mouth."

Through the darkness, Caitie could see the silhouettes of heads from the level above her. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she was able to make out faces—terrified, defeated faces, some of which belonged to girls no older than ten.

Caitie had seen facial expressions like those once before, and she had never wanted to see them ever again.

There was one good thing that did come from Craster, however. He gave them answers regarding the abandoned villages—they'd all joined Mance Rayder's army.

Caitie supposed it was better than joining the white walkers, though not by much. Craster told them with great certainty that the "King Beyond the Wall" was marching his army south. It was a worrisome thought.

"These are bad times to be living alone in the wilds," Mormont said. "Cold winds are rising."

Craster spread his hands. "Let them come. My roots are sunk deep." He grabbed a girl who was behind him—she couldn't have been much older than Caitie, maybe sixteen or so—and ordered her to tell the "crows" how content she and her sisters were.

The girl swallowed. "This is our place. Our husband keeps us safe." She faltered for a moment, then went on. "Better to live free than die a slave."

But she was a slave—a slave to her father or husband or whatever he was. All of these women and girls were slaves, and for some unfathomable reason, the lord commander found it acceptable.

"Don't it make you jealous, old man," Craster said, "To see me with all these young wives, and you with no one to warm your bed?"

"We chose different paths."

In that moment, Caitie hated the lord commander. She was disgusted that he would allow Craster to rape and torture his daughters when she was confident he could do something about it.

The meeting finally dispersed after Craster threatened to take the hand of any man who looked at his "wives." As soon as they were allowed to go, Caitie knew she had to escape the keep for a while. She couldn't bear to look at Craster's daughters any longer, especially knowing a similar fate could have befallen her.

As soon as she was sure no one would notice, Caitie stumbled out of the keep's boundaries, trying to put as much distance between it and her.

Eventually, she found a nice, secluded area and began to pace. Caitie was so wound up, had so much anger, but she had no way to release it. She wanted to stab Craster. She wanted to punch the lord commander in the nose. She wanted—she didn't know what she wanted. She supposed she wanted to live in a world where this didn't happen.

The thought of those little girls' faces made her chest constrict, and Caitie barely managed not to kick the tree beside her.

"I thought I'd find you here somewhere."

Caitie turned to face Jon. "It's disgusting," she said, and somehow she found herself losing control over her words. "Why can't we just kill Craster and take over the keep? Why do we have to appease him?"

"Caitie," he warned.

"What? It's sick, and the Night's Watch could do something about it. We should do something about it."

"You know we can't."

"Yes, we can. Mormont doesn't want to."

"Caitie," he said again, this time more harshly, but she was too furious to listen.

"But of course, why should Mormont care if he rapes little girls every night. Gods, I should just kill Craster myself—"

"Caitriona," he hissed, looking around for listeners.

Caitie stopped and stared, taken aback. She hadn't ever heard Jon call her by her full name—not since her first day at Castle Black. It had the intended effect. She slumped against the tree and lowered her voice. "I'm just so angry, Jon."

He sighed. "I know."

"I hate this whole situation."

"I know."

"You don't." She picked up a small twig nearby and began twirling it between her fingers. "Those girls are in there suffering, and there's nothing I can do about it. I feel so useless."

"You can't show it," Jon said.

"Oh, fuck off."

"Damn it, Caitie, I'm trying to help you stay alive," he snapped. "Just come with me back to the keep."

"No." She crossed her arms, put off by his tone. "I don't want to see it."

"Would you rather be killed by a wight?"

The words were enough to give her pause, but still, she refused to give in.

"If I can keep my head after that meeting, and the reprimand I got from the lord commander, then so can you," he said.

Caitie hated it, but deep down, she knew Jon was right. As much as she wished she could sit and sulk until they left, it was too dangerous. "Fine." She threw down the twig. "But I don't want to be anywhere near Craster."

"Fair enough," Jon said. He softened his gaze and held his hand out. Caitie accepted grudgingly, and he pulled her to her feet. "Come on. I need a sparring partner."

She thought for a moment. While it wouldn't make it go away completely, she had to admit that sparring did sound like the perfect solution to release her pent up frustrations. "I suppose I could help with that. I'm not in the mood to go easy on you, though."

"You never go easy on me."

Caitie shrugged noncommittally. "If you think so."

Jon scoffed indignantly and said, "You're only saying that because I beat you last time."

"Well," she said, forgetting about all her problems for a moment, "If you're right, then you have nothing to worry about."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

Caitie couldn't help but smile at him.

"Yes, yes, it is."

Can we all just take a moment to appreciate how messed up Craster is? Because he's fucking awful. Honestly, that "nice wet twat" comment makes me feel gross every time I watch the episode.