Fools and poets. 'Ned' raked fingers through her shorn hair, and marvelled at how light a head could feel when all its spare parts were cast off onto the floor. Only now did she notice that the breezes, which invaded from the inn's poorly constructed walls, were cold on the back of her neck. The skin on her arms turned to gooseflesh. What would the folks back home say about this? Buffy Anne Summers, cross-dressing. It felt like a betrayal, although she knew it shouldn't do. Because she had read the diaries and she'd learned just how many Slayers had been forced into breeches just to pursue their profession. And others, she thought, were burned at the stake for their cause.

"Thanks," she spoke gently to Podrick when he provided her with spares. They were nicer than what the boy already wore, and she suspected he'd foolishly given her the Westerosi equivalent of his Sunday Best. Sweet boy.

Buffy didn't rush to change. The room was small, with little cover. And the three needed one same page to be on, if they were going to pull this off. "Question the first: what's the Night's Watch?"